Eta examines the rather tiny room, especially paying attention to the sarcophagus. It's an opaque thing, black as night, shiny enough for Eta to see her reflection in it reasonably well. Somewhat fancy, given that these are the poorest people in hell. The room itself is a bit like a short hallway - it extends for some distance inward, but not to the sides. The sarcophagus appears to be built specifically as the end of a routine - screen-desk-sarcophagus, from the door to the end of the room. In fact, maybe describing it as half the size of a studio apartment was a bit charitable. It's really somewhere around eight square meters - the room is two meters on one side, four on the other.
"Wait, you said there were 5 shades living here. So the unoccupied room should be empty, correct? In fact, since it is early, every room should be empty right now, correct?" she says as she examines the ominous sarcophagus, waiting for it to open and a lumbering long-dead king to step out, arms outstretched and bandages dragging behind him.
"Correct," says the shade. Eta steps away from the room and takes a walk along the hallway, which itself is about eight meters in length.
"I do not see why these shades need rooms of their own. Pods would be much more efficient. Less space wasted."Eta says nothing in reply to this sterling insight and walks six or so steps to the end of the hallway, pressing up to the far wall, then turning around and opening it sharply! A wild "aha!" would be perfectly appropriate, but Eta restrains herself. This is Hell, after all. Restraint is the norm.
Inside, there is an identical room to the one she examined moments ago, though the sarcophagus looks a tad grubbier and the desk is folded out. There's some form of paper on it. In fact, it does seem to be a form. Probably tedious, this being Hell and all, but perhaps informative as well. A closer look tells Eta that it seems to be unfilled apart from the name and occupation slot, the contents of both of which are crossed out - not very well, as it's still quite apparent that the name in question is Gef Rachin or some variation of that, and that the occupation is Executive Chief Harmony Officer.
* * * * *
With the crisis averted and the origin of
Halesey's new Scouser accent elaborated upon,
THE DUNKER feels safe in heading up to the top floor. Halesey follows, naturally, although with a determined expression that may or may not evoke presidential assassins of old. Halesey thinks hard on the idea of the potato and the vortex, readying himself for the indiscriminate application of divine glory and the harnessing of great and powerful tubery secrets to make the world bow to... he can't think of an epithet. And by the time he does, the prepositional object evades him entirely. Soon enough he can barely even remember what he was thinking about.
"Is that...?"Is what? Who? Halesey jumps, startled.
"It is!"Is it? Huh? Halesey looks around and sees the Arch-Magus, still as corpulent and largely useless as he left him. And Jo, who looks pretty decent. And a lawyer lady. Plus this weird-looking guy he doesn't like the look of. Seems like there's a troupe of them here.
"Who is he? Another of your ilk?" the weird guy with a shiny dome and spidery fingers sneers.
"Is he ever! I thought you were dead, dude!" says the guy, walking up to Halesey in a friendly fashion.
"Got the money, maybe? Probably not, but hey, a man's gotta dream. You look different, dude. Magic's changed ya, huh? Happens, right?"* * * * *
John, dissatisfied but not about to fight about the issue, offers Tracey some advice.
"Looks like we're splitting up. You've got my number right? Call when something bad happens. And, uh, I'm not exactly sure how this works myself to be honest. Don't make any shifty deals, be polite and try not to get eaten, I guess? You can always go back to the bistro early if you get unsure," he says with not so much as an ounce of a reassuring tone. Tracey gulps.
"Yeah, I've got your number. And I... I'll try, yeah," she says, then looks away.
"Good luck," she adds meekly, and starts to walk off with a burst of resoluteness, though that font of emotion peters out rather quickly, and she defaults to a bit of a slouch.
"She'll do great. I can feel the potential!" Pilton says, and John's not sure if he's being sarcastic. He's not about to find out, either, as he sets off in a random direction. In this case, toward the forest outside of town. That ought to make for exciting adventure.
Two hours later, he finds himself utterly lost. Damn woods, looking so enticing at the very first moment.
Another hour passes, and by now John just tries to brute-force the issue, trudging through the woods at a steady pace and refusing to stop or turn. Unexpectedly, this proves somewhat rewarding, as in no time at all John finds himself out in front of a gas station. It's abandoned, and the road leading past it is in very poor repair, but it's definitely a start! Plus, there's an old man out front, decrepit and bent, with a long white beard and a walking stick that seems to have been crudely fashioned from a tree branch. Very unfashionably dressed, too. Must be at least eighty years old - he's got that shrunken, withered look.
* * * * *
Larry maintains an atmosphere of enthusiasm - it is important to make the weird outsider guy feel welcome in this dinghy den of divine narcotics.
"The last batch was pretty crazy. Looks like this is even better. Worth the trip, eh?" he says, sitting down next to Phinny and relaxing. Tom does the same, though with reservations.
"Comas don't sound fun, to be honest. But hey - trusting you here, man. This shit better be the craziest," says Tom, looking suspicious.
"I SEE" Phinny slowly hisses out, blinking exactly once really slowly, then exhaling. Then she goes entirely quiet and still again.
"Huh. Well, I do see your point. But-" he begins, but is interrupted when suddenly a thing appears in the corner. It looks... well, hellish. A tall, broad humanoid, wearing only a pair of beltless, slightly slipping jeans and some flip flops. Its flesh appears to be made of people - densely-packed, feverish-looking individuals with dark eyes and grubby, tattooed skin, many faces grinning with mouths full of black teeth. Thick arms outstretched as wide as possible, the creature presents itself.
"MHC in the house!" it bellows, then turns its head (three heads, really, but awkwardly molded together into one as if the flesh were putty) to something standing behind it - a young, well-dressed woman with glasses and a deeply worried look on her face.
"This is the Oldthinker's house. He's got some good shit in here! The best I've ever had, that's for sure. Look!" it points at Phinny.
"I'm talking shit of the 'change-your-life' variety, get it? Once you do his shit, I'll guarantee you ain't ever gonna wanna go back to anything else.""Did not invite you!" the Oldthinker remarks snippily from the kitchen.
"Came anyway! Think I can't smell what you're cooking a trillion miles away, old man? Make sure to get some for me and Mrs. Lady over here!"[glow] the creature, who you presume to be MHC from the introduction, shouts back, then looks at Larry and Tom on the ground.
"And who are you two fiiiiine gentlemen?" it draws out, and you suspect no small amount of mockery.
"Old man's been holding out on me! I do other shit for a week and he's already got a whole new circle of friends! Can you believe that?" it, or rather he, judging from the voice, continues to speak as he's sitting down right next to Tom. The woman in the meantime carefully walks over to Larry and sits down as well after brushing some dust off the ground.
"I'm... hello, I'm-" she begins, but MHC cuts her off.
"She doesn't talk much, I'll tell you what! But I like her anyway! Her name's, like, I forget, but I call her Mrs. Lady. Picked her up off the street - she's a treasure, that's what she is!"Unofficial hiatus is over! Sorry, people. Will update faster in the near future!
Author
Topic: The Forgotten Art: Approaching the Nexus (Read 272165 times)