Such a cruel fate! But it's okay, I don't know squat about accounting. Probably would have ended up throwing the typewriter across the room. ;P
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The color drains from Willard's face, along with any desire he had for that soda water he ordered. If he felt any relief from not being pumped full of lead right away, his face certainly did not show it. " I knew it was strange that he invited me here. I never get invited to anything."
Willard lowers his report, uncertain of who he had been reading it off to to begin with. Tony certainly seemed too distracted to pay him any mind, and the rest of fellows present did not seem very interested in business. And, as a glance at Corbyn and Jeremy indicates, at least two of them were insane. He scratches the bridge of his nose, contemplating their strangeness. Huh. They must be European. "Oh, bartender?" the accountant calls out to Jimmy, finally finding that he was indeed parched. "Some soda water, if you would."
Like any real typist, Willard does not need to look down at his work to know that it is coming out right. Even as he continues to mumbles figures, he is able to spare Harold a raised eyebrow. He did not exactly get out of the office much, but even he had a little more tact than that. A sudden ding informs the accountant that he has just reached the end of the last line on his sheet. Only now does he pull the paper out and check it over. Not for mathematical errors (any of which were purely intentional), but for neatness. "From the looks of it, the property tax for this establishment has not been paid for the past decade," he reports to no one in particular, adjusting his eyeglasses. "Which has done wonders for our profits, I might add."
The sound of Willard's portable typewriter was just low enough to leave the musical ambience untarnished. Sitting at a table all by his lonesome, anyone closeby could hear himself murmuring to himself as he works, typing line after line of dollar amounts, a catalog of various transactions and other money transfers. Keeping The Tiger's books checked, as always; with a little fudging here and there, the boss would find himself with some extra money in his pockets. And nobody would be any the wiser. Under ordinary circumstances, the accountant would be doing this work in the relative privacy of his own office, away from prying eyes. There was never much cause for him to interact with any of the boss' other men. Likewise, he usually was not invited to these sorts of occasions. But tonight was different; Willard would have loved to just wrap things up and head home for the night, but one did not refuse an invitation from The Tiger. Still, ever the dedicated worker, Willard made sure to bring the books and typewriter with him. He was never one for leisure anyway.
With the guards gone, Willard pulls himself off the ground, still a little shaken by the assault. As he dusts off his coat, he takes a deep breath before laying out his proposition. "I have a place I need to be. A bar, The Drowned Rat. I have a friend there that could help people like us... and I could really use a drink right about now."
Pretty sure the streets are still empty and the fog is still around; nothing's happened to remove those aspects.
Scrambling along the ground, Willard's eyes suddenly fall once more to the Manhole, but not as a means of escape. The idea that occurred to him felt rather silly, all things considered. Even as a (former) Mariner, he was not even particularly good at water channeling - that fog had been the biggest trick he'd ever pulled with the art. So then, why was it that now, he felt capable of doing more? He had heard the rumors of what they were capable of, but was it true? Something like desperation was enough to convince him to give it a shot...
I think I'm starting to get a hang of the rules, though it might take another scene or so to fully drive them into my skull. In regards to the letter Willard got, was the location given in writing, or is it one he is already presumed to know?
Otherwise focused on trying to get the manhole open, the writer shouts out in surprise when guards emerge from the thick fog. Willard scrambles about, staying close to the manhole and trying his best to dodge the assailing truncheons. ;
Eh, a few things. For starters, Willard's attempt to be quiet was more of a roleplay thing than anything. I didn't make a Stealth roll or anything of the sort, so it's not like I was creating another aspect to take advantage of. On top of that, the guards already found where Willard was in Ryuko's previous post; they just didn't catch him until now. Since the guards already successfully cleared the streets and created the Empty Streets aspect, from a roleplay perspective, they already know that we're the only ones left in the area. And then on top of all of that, the fog doesn't really have any mechanical advantage beyond being something to tag... which I'll have to do now if I don't want the snot beaten out of me.
As the Corporal flees, Willard moves into the alleyway, fleeing from the approaching guards. He grinds to a halt before Rengo, panting profusely. "We need to find that other fellow and get out of here!" he hisses through his teeth, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The guards, he was sure, would be upon them at any moment. His eyes then dart side to side, searching for an escape route.
Ryuko: Hm. Would Disorganized work as a disadvantage? Like they've found Willard, but they're cut off from their leadership.
Willard slinks through the thick fog, keeping his eyes open for any approaching silhouettes. He had half a mind to flee to the place the note mentioned, but abandoning his now fellow Strangers would just be hypocrisy. Still, he had to be discreet about it. He comes across an alleyway, where he sees Rengo struggling against the Corporal. "'Ey, Corporal!" he calls out from around the mouth of the alleyway, hoping to grab the man's attention without being seen. ;
Aye, I had intended to adjust my post to better reflect my intentions (I keep forgetting about the four main types of action in Fate), but it had slipped my mind. I had intended to Create an Advantage of Hidden (or Unseen), hoping to later use the free tag to either help Willard get away, or lend one of the others a hand. How would a Disengage work? Is that just an attempt to leave the zone? Couldn't find it in the rulebook.
Willard smiles crookedly, satisfied with his manifestation. His complacency vanishes however when the sound of a nearby gunshot practically makes him leap out of his skin. Not wasting any more time, he steps into the fog, attempting to get away in the confusion. ;
Willard wastes no time scrambling out of the paddy wagon through the hole they made, all the while wondering just what he has gotten himself into. Making it to solid ground, he glances about, trying to find something, anything that might help him - or them, he supposed - get away. He just needed to get far away enough from the blackglass to do something stupid. "Come on!" he hisses back at Rengo and Chance, implicitly beckoning them to follow him. Eyeing the already-present fog, Willard squints, trying to dredge up knowledge of the few tricks he learned from his father before giving up any prospects of carrying on the family business. He was not capable of anything especially dramatic, but a little parlor trick might be all that is needed. Dusting off his channeling chops, the novelist summons up his willpower and attempts to give them all some cover by thickening the fog. There is plenty of ambient moisture that isn't in the fog - it is just a matter of condensing that extra water. Easy... right?
Hm. I'm thinking that Willard will be a former Mariner - his father was a trader, so being a skilled seafarer with a good grasp of other people's feelings fits. It also translates well to his ability to put the plight of the Strangers into words that might have well influenced people. That being said, I'm thinking he has at least some experience channeling that power. I'm thinking that I'll put Empathy at +4 and Channeling at +2. I'll also use They Call Me Ben as an aspect, if it seems appropriate. All of that being said, I'm not really sure if we should be channeling just yet, but how would the rules go as far as Willard trying to say, thicken the fog mentioned in the Foggy aspect (after getting away from the paddywagon)?
; Willard is far from being "strong," but even he is able to exploit the flawed cuffs. It just took the right amount of leverage. Frankly, he wasn't sure how to proceed from there, but fortunately, Rengo seemed to have something in mind. At Rengo's beckoning, he grabs a hold of the chain on the man's manacle and pulls. ;
Whoops, hadn't even occurred to me to check if there was a discussion thread. My bad, guys. Current tally is 5 FP. I'll try to get a post up later today.
The familiar, coarse texture of paper is welcome to Willard's hands, which stop shaking almost immediately. His eyes widen ever so slightly when he hears the courtesan's words, comprehension dawning on him. He hastily reads the note once, twice, and then a third time. A knowing smile creeps its way onto his face as he crumples the note into a small ball, before shoving it into his mouth and swallowing it. A shameful waste of perfectly good paper, but he did not want to take any chances. What he was about to try to do, after all, was quite foolish. Catching onto Chance's words, the novelist makes his own attempt to break out of his cuffs.
Willard had not spoken once since being shoved into the wagon, or rather, since realizing what he had become. Being a writer, the irony of the entire situation was not lost on him. Surely, the Stranger was a comedian, choosing to Mark him at the worst possible time. If his experience as an author had not made him so genre-savvy, he might have passed it off as an honest mistake. The writer mostly kept to himself, huddling in the corner with a weary expression on his face. The ink-stained fingers of his right hand twitched consistently; if he just had a quill and some paper handy, he would be able to write all about this. Turn it into a story, even. Perhaps then he would not feel so utterly helpless.
The Arrest:
"W-wait! What are you doing?!" Willard shouted out, as the guards grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out of his doorway. In his panic, the excuses he had carefully rehearsed were all but completely forgotten. "It wasn't me! I haven't done anything wrong!" The guards paid him no mind, dragging him off with stoic expressions on their faces. Willard watched helplessly as two more of them entered his dwelling, no doubt to ransack it for evidence. At least with that, there was a glimmer of hope. He was always careful to leave nothing incriminating within his home. Surely, when nothing of the sort turned up, they would pass it all off as a simple misunderstanding. At the very least, it would give him an opportunity to speak in his defense! But no such opportunity presented itself. With his pleas growing increasingly desperate, one of the guards at last stepped forward and struck him right across the face. The writer cried out, the blow shutting him up immediately. The blow had certainly hurt, but it was the fact that it had happened at all that truly shocked him. Seeming pleased with himself, the guard finally spoke up. "Stop spewing that nonsense," he said hoarsely, grabbing Willard by the forearm and pulling up his sleeve, "This is all the evidence we need." "W-what are you...?" Willard started, before turning to look at his arm. His eyes widened in terror. Oh, no.
With an indifferent shrug, the writer empties his pockets. Numerous fountain pens clatter onto the tabletop, several of which are rather expensive looking. They are followed shortly by five small jars of high quality ink, two of them all but empty. He takes more care with these, gently placing the glass vessels down one at a time. A white handkerchief embroidered with WW flutters down, a couple of ink spots blotting its otherwise clean surface. The lot is joined by a silver pocket watch, attached to a length of slender chain. Reaching into his pack, he finally pulls out a large stack of paper, setting it down next to the rest of his belongings.
"On the contrary, Miss. There is no better lie than the Truth."
The author ponders Coraline's words, humming under his breath, "Yes, perhaps that might work..."
The majority of it is just RP. Any bold text in the thread is written down by default as well. The annotations are made up on the fly, and Willard has been keeping track of the vote tallies. Of course, any character could just memorize all this stuff and relay it off the top of their head.
After scribbling a few more things down, Willard sets his pen down and sighs. "Well ladies and gentlemen, the end of the hour is rapidly approaching. I do believe we have another decision to make," he says in an unfortunate tone, "Might anyone have any ideas that do not amount to nothing more than inane conspiracy?"
"More than I'd care to know," he admits with a sigh, nodding his head, "In that respect, the War gave me plenty to write about. But apparently that kind of thing does not sell..."
"It was daddy's... I just use it to keep from poking my fingers when I stitch the leather. I didn't know it could hurt anybody." "Oh dear," the writer mumbles, realizing that he had upset the woman. This was why he did not go out of his way to talk to people. He was virtually unmatched as a listener, but when it came to talking, he always managed to screw up somehow. Writing is so much easier! I suppose I had better say something to cheer her up... "I'm terribly sorry Miss Wolfswift, I did not mean to implicate you. I mean, any of one of those things could make for a functional murder weapon - it was wrong of me to single out the thimble." Willard mentally pats himself on the back, semi-positive that he had said the right thing.
"Sometimes silence speaks loudest," Willard says with a shrug, scrawling lazily on a clean sheet. "I'm sure none of you would have listened anyway." He looks to Jin, frowning. "As for what is in my pockets, I can assure you that you will find little more than ink bottles and pens. Not that that particularly matters. Any killer worth their salt could take a life with a rusty thimble if they wanted to. True story. Hardly worth writing a novel over, unfortunately."
Pushing back his hair, Willard sighs woefully. "Well, I suppose we now have a list of people who are not his sworn brother," the writer says in an unapologetic tone, his eyes shifting to those that voted for the German. He scribbles some check marks down in his notebook, whilst muttering, "Such a shame..."
"Ooh, xenophobia. Makes for a good dramatic device."
Willard's pen stops. "Me? A detective?" he says with a frown, looking up from his notebook again, "Perhaps you're mistaking me for the protagonist from one of my earlier novels, The Storm Peace Betrayal, William Gainsborough. He was a detective. I suppose I can understand why you might be confused, though. It was in first person, and my name was on the cover in rather large letters... perhaps you mistook it for my autobiography?"
"The tragic martyr, murdered by the insidious mafia... a daring detective, horribly scarred during a case... a pair of mysterious vigilantes, hiding in the shadows... Friend or foe?" Willard mumbles excitedly as he transcribes his words. He takes a second to read over what he just wrote, to see if it looks as good on paper as it sounded. "Yes, this would be perfect!" The writer's excitement suddenly fades, the man returning to his reserved state. "Hm. But it's still missing something. There has to be a twist."
It takes a few moments for Willard to realize that he has been spoken to. "Huh oh wha? Ah, paper. Yes, I have plenty to spare. I am only taking notes after all - cannot very well start writing a novel with all this going on." The writer pulls out a few clean sheets of paper, holding them out to Dan.
Absorbed in his writing, Willard does not take any special precautions to hide his notes from prying eyes. He doesn't seem to even notice that Dan has taken a peek. The Notebook: In addition to the notes he's been allegedly jotting down, Willard has been transcribing every last word that the people around them have been saying since they've been trapped in the town hall, accompanied by annotations indicating any particularly "cool" lines.
*scritch scritch scritch* "Would you... like some... cheese with that wine? Ha ha! Perfect dialogue!"
"So the wine is a metaphor..." Willard murmurs, scrawling some more notes down on his page. "Yeah... good stuff, good stuff. There could be this philosophical scene where they are drinking wine together. The wine means..." He looks up from his notebook at the Duke. His pen doesn't stop moving. "Well?"
"Badgerman and Chicken, eh?" Willard murmurs, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the end of his pen. The writer had mostly been keeping to himself, huddled in a corner seat of the town hall. With a scritch scritch scritch of his fountain pen, he transcribes every last detail he could gather about the peppy pair. It was perfect. "Yes, yes that will do nicely. But something is missing..." Peeking up from his notes, Willard stands and saunters over to the other townsfolk, listening in on their conversation. He needed more! Hearing Dan's question, he clears his throat before speaking. "Surely this 'Badgerman' would have to be someone rather wealthy, no?" he suggests plaintively, "How else would he afford all of those wonderful toys? I mean, assuming he has some."
*scritch scritch scritch* Things happening before they are written... before the writer is born... and before what was to be written has already passed... a time paradox!
Ditto.
*scritch scritch scritch* The man graciously accepts the woman's irresistible morsel, a delectable dish of flaming cheese, served on to_______________... "Bah! Damn this pen!"
Willard has an astounding amount of difficulty living up to the astounding success of his first novel... perhaps a life threatening situation will provide just the inspiration he needs to get back to the top. |