This Has Nothing to Do with Beat Drops

Hello! Being relatively new to submitting stories, I was going to attempt to publish most of them soon while also adding illustrations and comic pages, but until then I'm filling this sandbox with WIPs and notes.

The top section is a (large) collection of stories I've been part of for over ten years. It is based on a TTRPG we started in late 2014, with history dating back even farther thanks to Thysle's player. It loosely overlaps with the SCP/Libraryverse in quite a few sessions, even to the point of a prominent character being illegally created from an SCP, an all-out battle with a platoon of the GOC, and suspicious activity in Three Portlands. Under normal circumstances, this would be considered a LitRPG, but due to removing the fourth wall and game stats from the main narrative, this universe is merely using the game's rules about supernatural powers, while forming stories on its own.

There is no "main character" of this series; co-authors (colored "player" names) are contributing to their roles in the universe just as I am writing a lot about Faux and holding the centralized story in place. In fact, it is highly encouraged to add your own takes on characters you think are interesting, or make some of your own. The game is still going as it takes place in realtime, so I invite anyone interested in adding to the primary canon that they contact me on Discord for a run-down of current events and possibly a session or two for immersion.

Your friend,
~San

This Has Nothing to Do with Beat Drops

by Faux Flintlock

With what's been happening over the past few years—as well as a gruesome experience in an alternate timeline of what could have happened had I not agreed—I felt it was in everyone's best interest that I should start logging everything, especially after my mentor's discovery of the Library through apparently illegal means. I begrudgingly apologize on its behalf for being so intrusive, and I appreciate the deals made so our mutual goals remain unaffected. In return, I am going to begin accounts of the various places I've visited, and the incarnations I have attained.

In my world, I am what you call a mage—a Death mage, specifically. I can deteriorate an entire building without breaking a sweat. I can puke ghosts, or summon an army of zombies made from the dirt at my feet and the memories of Dave from Accounting. I can even fake my own death, if I needed to—and have, on more than one occasion.

But I am still commanded by someone who can hop timelines and universes like a squirrel on power lines. It's infuriating. "Who is this person?" you're probably thinking. I guess that counts as a good portion of how I got in this mess to begin with. This person, if you can call it that by now, is Thysle Flintlock—formerly a Fate mage, now referring to itself as "Multiverse Mommy". It's ascended into a higher plane of existence years ago by now, fighting a bigger fight; but still meddles enough to shove me toward things it finds "interesting" without my consent. Fucking bitch.

Below are the accounts of my journeys, as well as those of my friends. Anything considered "prime universe" will be titled as "This Has Nothing to Do with Beat Drops" (THNtDWBD for short) followed by the actual name of the story, though some overlapping or one-shots might be titled "Beat Drops" without the full title if a significant portion happens here. No, there is too much history behind the ridiculously long title to change it at this point.

+ Here are a few things you should know about my incarnations that remain consistent, should you spot me.

THNtDwBD: Thread

An account of my time under the tutelage of Thysle, circa 2014ish.

THNtDwBD: Fray

My struggles as a leader, and dealing with a rival rookie group.

Side Stories

Encounters that are separate from the main narrative or one-and-done experiences.

Beat Drops: Black Water
A strange divergence in which I totally don't lose my cool.

Beat Drops: Death Rumble
The final moments of my closest brother.

Below is a relatively thorough list of individuals I have met on my journey. Perhaps you have met some of them. I would love to hear about it. Status of characters will be in the dropdowns.

† = Deceased. Month and year of confirmed death next to their name.
^? = Unknown Status. Missing or assumed dead.
* = Ascended. Concepts extend beyond human comprehension.

If the character has a player that helped contribute to the story, they will be annotated as well. Frequent appearances and influences include:
Neon Mechanist for Thysle – main Storyteller for the Thread timeline
SanchaySquirrel for Faux, Bob, Sage, and Sun Tris – main Storyteller for the Fray timeline
ZanderFireheart for Zander, Victor, Adarian, and Lugo

~The Family~

+ Adarian van Blackwell-Flintlock

~The Friends~

~The Enemies~

+ McAllister

+ Elwood

~The Unknowns~

+ Christophorus Pi Hatchenson

+ Alexander Gromov

{recreate Tumblr prologue}
Thysle Flintlock, October Twentieth, Twenty Fourteen.

Almiya is gone.

Recent incidents have shown his mental and emotional stability to be decaying at a rapid rate, forcing me to negotiate for some tyme off in his favor.

We've recently begun recruiting humans with unusually potent destinies.

Those most likely to be drawn deep, deep into our world… and those to die before their tyme.

For some, this has gone well. Though their lives have changed, they've survived.

Others were not so fortunate.

The Family is in my hands now. There will be changes, but, before that…

I've broken the Family members living in the Compound down to myself and the Giant.

…I can feel myself slipping…

I can't become my father.

{image of Thysle on the phone}
The room was dark, save for a figure's face illuminated by a smartphone screen. Their already-brilliant green eyes seemed to absorb the light further, radiating an almost neon glow, and the shadows grew darker in response. They flicked their finger as if beckoning; a barely-perceivable, impossibly small thread pulled in response, the tension reflecting in a green light not unlike their eyes. As if on cue, five vehicles emerged from a cavernous garage underneath them, and they grinned, their teeth stark against the darkness.

This was going to be interesting.
{image of Thysle grinning, the Thread streaking the background}

{image of Aika stretching?}
Aika Yukiteru leaned back to stretch on the front lawn of a large suburban house. Her spine popped loudly in response. The car ride there was smooth, but took forever; on top of that, she was crammed into the back seat with the largest of her fellow recruits. For once, she was thankful for her small stature. It could have been way worse.

Two other cars, just as cramped, pulled up with the rest; as the drivers sped off and the dust cleared, ten individuals with varying levels of confusion on their faces stared up at the building.
{image of the group staring with different levels of stupid dumb looks on their faces}

{image of Justin}
"They just want us to apprehend a guy?" a teenage boy asked. His oversized backpack looked fit to burst, but it didn't seem to hinder him in any way. "Are all of us really that necessary?"

{image of Lucas}
"Yeah, if this is an initiation, shouldn't all of us get a chance with a target?" One of the guys Aika arrived with piped up. She didn't catch his name.

{image of Chester}
"Not if this is a teamwork exercise," his brother, clearly older, replied. "But we still have…" He hesitated as he scanned the group. "A lot."

{image of Amber}
"Maybe they expected some of us to be cannon fodder," a woman speculated. She was of a height with Aika, though thicker with broader shoulders. She was the only one to carry an unorthodox weapon: a longbow. Aika wondered how well that would work indoors.

{image of Roland}
A ponytailed man freed a rifle from its holster. "Is there more than one target in there?"

{image of Mcallister}
Suddenly, a short, stout man with a curly red beard and broadaxe at his hip shouted, "Oi, thir's still a jab tae dae. 'n' we ain't daein' ony favours tae a'body by standin' aroond oot 'ere. Let's gang!"

A small pause drifted through the ambient conversation after his outburst, Aika leaned over to another recruit. "Did… did you catch that?" she whispered.

{image of Cyrus and Aika leaning over to each other}
"Sister, English may be my second language, but I know for a fact that wasn't it."

{image of Vrae}
"Whatever he said, it doesn't matter." another person said. "I'm going in." They looked like they were plucked directly from a fighting anime, complete with handwraps and jeans of questionable integrity. Probably a poser. They strode confidently up the stairs and opened the door, pausing at the entrance to take a look inside. The others soon followed.

As expected, the lights were off. Beyond the landing, the hallway led straight back to a generous kitchen, and a patio behind it. There were two rooms immediately to their left and right, with a stairway leading up to the second floor.

Ponytail spoke up again as he loaded his weapon. "We can split into three parties, and clear the first floor before heading up." There were no disagreements, and soon the respective groups were formed. The first, led by the Scotsman, was assigned to the room near the stairs. A second team was taken up by the brothers to cover the kitchen and beyond. The last—Aika had joined this one—covered the remaining section, led by the archer. They began their respective sweeps. The first incident did not wait long.

{image of bloody separation?}
"LUCAAAAS!!"

Aika was caught in the sea of people from her group forcing their way back into the common area, merged with the first, and flowed directly toward the dam that was the remainder crowded around the kitchen door. She was nearly crushed in the middle, but managed to wriggle free to the back. Cursing her height for the millionth time that morning, she crouched to peer beneath everyone.

A deep, wet red greeted her. Merely a few feet from the entrance, a drenched figure cradled the upper half of another, rhythmically rocking back and forth. There was too much ambient commotion to hear, but his trembling shoulders and slumped form could only be weeping.

"Alright, everyone get back!" Ponytail urged. "We don't know what else could spring from—"

Click.

His eyes grew wide, and used every ounce of his strength to pull the closest people from the doorway. Time slowed down as the soaked man lifted his head for an especially passionate wail.

Head and scream were abruptly cut short as the clockwork blade's catch released for a second time, straight across his mouth. Shocked silence filled the space in between the time it took for the top of his head to separate and hit the floor, but as soon as it made contact, the spell was broken.

Aika wondered how she survived unscathed from the stampede that occurred. Everyone reconvened on the lawn outside the house.

{image of Zander}
"Can we assume everything has traps like that?" A towering man in a black trenchcoat gasped as he caught his breath.

The archer nodded, satisfied. "Cannon fodder, it is."

"That doesn't change the fact that there's still someone in there that has to be taken down," Anime Pants gestured back inside. "At least the traps mean they're probably not trying to make a run for it. Maybe they can't."

"Or maybe they just set this up to watch us act like morons while they escape," Tower retorted.

Ponytail pinched the sides of his nose. "Alright, we have to go back in if we're going to mean anything to these people. How do we want to approach it?" He glared pointedly at Anime. "Without making the same mistakes those two did." Anime avoided eye contact and shrugged with feigned indifference.

Aika waited quietly as those with tactical inputs discussed sweeping the rest of the house, with their new knowledge. She skimmed across everyone, trying to get a bead on their personalities during this downtime.

Wait.

"Hey," she interjected, tapping Ponytail on the shoulder. "Where's that Scottish guy?"

Moments earlier…

The short, red-haired man gaped, as if in a trance, at the woman sitting cross-legged at the top of the stairs. His eyes glossed over as infinite emotions crossed in succession. It felt like an eternity before he finally showed any sign of cognitive capability. He slowly unslung the haft of his axe from his belt.

Sensing the movement, the girl stood. Disjointed, unnatural movements; watching the weapon with strange intent. Even when she finished raising herself, she held a stooping stance that leaned heavily to one side.

The man's brow furrowed, his eyes finally clearing momentarily to genuinely see who was in front of him. A tear escaped as softly, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Katriona?"

Seconds slowed for the second time that morning. The girl's gaze shifted away from the weapon, peering instead into his eyes. The remaining light within them fizzled out and time resumed as they roared in unison.
{image of moments before the clash}

Aika drew her swords and rushed back to the house. The anime person sped past and leapt up the stairs before she realized anyone was following her.

A flash of slick steel made its way toward Anime's torso. Contact. Follow-through.
{image of Vrae getting mangled}

Their body collapsed on the porch as the Scotsman emerged. His face, angry and tough before, now carried no emotion. He held his axe confidently as he scanned the group. Aika held her swords out in front of her protectively—if she charged him, she didn't stand a chance. She began slowly backing up.

Luckily, the others were preparing their own measures. The Backpack Kid dropped his satchel and drew a somewhat large cylinder from it. The tall man had drawn a heavy revolver from his coat, and quickly spun the chamber. Ponytail handed off his 9mm pistol to the only unarmed fighter left standing. The archer nocked an arrow, waiting for the perfect window to draw.

"Disable him," Ponytail commanded.

Backpack pulled the tab off his concussion grenade and let it fly. Aika quickly braced as it landed squarely at the Scotsman's feet.

BOOOOM!!

The assorted party rushed forward.

The blast knocked the Scotsman back inside, and Anime's body onto the lawn close to Aika. She heard a ragged breath as blood pooled from their torso. Now at least she had something to do.

She stopped the satchel boy as he passed. "Kid! They're still alive! Do you have meds in that thing?"

He mentally inventoried for a moment, and nodded, reaching into a side pocket and tossing her an abdominal bandage. "That's all I have time for. I gotta support!"

"Thank you!" she called, as he caught up with the vanguard. She hoped it was enough to stabilize them. So much for looking like a badass on the first day. But this would probably have its own reward in the end.

Roland hadn't felt a rush like this since he graduated from the academy. After years spent behind a desk doing investigative work, it felt amazing. The satchel kid was showing himself to be a fantastic asset simply in utility, and the ladies had good heads on their shoulders. They were able to apprehend the Scotsman quickly thanks to the concussion grenade, disarming him and restraining his hands and feet.

He offered the axe to the fistfighter, who returned his 9-mil. "This might be more your style than a gun."

"Hell freakin' yeah, it is. Thanks homes!"

Roland assessed the immediate area. Something got to the guy, but what was it?

His answer came in the form of bloody footprints headed up the stairs. The satchel kid joined him, and peered at the top. It was far darker than it should have been, given how sunlight was still more than sufficient to leak through most blinds by now.

"This… isn't right…" he murmured.

As if in agreement, a form shot from the darkness, leapt the full flight of stairs, and landed on the boy.
{Kat on Justin}

As Roland's head cleared from the shock, he quickly assessed the aggressor. A small, stout woman, her head full of long, curly hair, limp from blood, clawed at her target. Her jaw was hanging by a thread, sliced nearly clean in half, but she still attempted to clamp down on the youth's neck. And she was winning.

Luckily, the boy was able to roll on top of her and pin her to the floor, but she was strong. She bucked wildly trying to gain an advantage, and his skinny limbs already showing signs of failure. Roland didn't have anything that could give a clean shot, but he drew his pistol just the same.

"Try to stay still for thirty seconds!" he instructed, trying to home in mentally. Out of the corner of his eye, the archer and gunslinger readied their weapons, as well. The boy's eyes widened as he realized what could happen if they missed. He faltered just enough for the woman to free one hand and slash him across the face with her cracked fingernails, leaving red trails where they met flesh. Despite his shock, he regained his grip and pulled her hand back down.

A pair of dark hands emerged from the floor, grabbing both of them and slamming them down. The boy had the wind knocked out of him as he was crushed against the target.

"Wh—" Roland sputtered. The other two flinched in shock.

The woman made motions of biting at the boy's face. Her jaw was too mangled to break skin. That didn't keep him from screaming. There was no longer any room to shoot without hitting the wrong person.

More hands shot from the shadows up the stairs, and made their way down to the group. Roland and the taller man dodged their advances, but one grabbed the archer, and she pulled back her bow to aim at the source. They wrapped around her arm, and her fingers rotted off the string, loosing the arrow into the darkness. Her scream mingled with the boy's as the remainder of her arm fell to the floor, crumbling into dust as if it was mummified for thousands of years. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed.

A lone man trudged along a night-darkened pathway, his left eye emitting a beam to illuminate his route. The light strayed from the path only briefly as he checked his surroundings; a shuffling noise, something he thought he saw in his periphery. Nothing out of the ordinary when he scanned.

The walkway forked to accommodate for the stone wall that now sat in front of him. His eye cast stark shadows on the rocks. They smelled… different. His skin prickled with a very physical sharpness in the air, thorns brushing his skin on the very edge of reality. This was why he was chosen to track this place. He was more perceptive of this phenomenon because it was home.

Let’s see what the hound can dig up from this place, he mused, as he picked up a stone that seemed to be embedded in the wall. It came loose quickly, as if it wasn’t actually connected to it in the first place, and dissolved in his hand. A shift in the rocks and a barely-perceivable ripple accommodated for the stone’s removal. He grinned.

{image of Trent touching the wall}
Bingo.

{image of Arty flopped on the floor}
Elsewhere, in a near-empty mansion, a wolf mused about his past. When the place was livelier with friends and adventures. He had barely joined in on the fun when everyone effectively disappeared. Either killed off on a more dangerous mission, or simply took up another location where they were most needed. Now, there were only a few left. The owner, the current head of the household, himself, and… the butler. He did not care much for the butler. He was obtuse. But he was a good kid, he supposed. The boss would set him right pretty soon. Especially after the third time appearing behind them unannounced. He was lucky there was a chair next to him, or it would have been his legs that rotted into ash instead. He huffed in amusement, then heaved himself up.

His claws clacked on the hardwood floor as he made his way toward the kitchen. The fourfold clacking soon gave way to two soft footfalls. Taco Tuesday? I think we’ll like Taco Tuesday. A lean, silver-haired man replaced the space where only moments before, a lean, silver-coated wolf had been.

A sheaf of papers fluttered around the room as a scrappy individual landed heavily in the only intact chair within twenty yards. The white streaks in their deep burgundy hair did not necessarily indicate age, but the bags under their eyes indicated stress. It had been years since they had seen those kids, and they just blue-bolted themselves out of existence since their chance encounter. For not the first time that day, they cursed Thysle for not hinting that maybe there was valuable information to be gleaned. As soon as that thought passed through, a splinter fell from the ceiling and landed squarely on their nose point-down.

“Fuck. Off,” they muttered. It wasn’t enough to break the skin, but annoying. A shift in the mansion’s foundation sounded like distant laughter. That bastard just had to have ascended when shit conveniently hit the fan. They knew they weren’t as smart or tactical as Thysle—it liked to very much make this fact known—but that didn’t change the fact that as its protégé, they would naturally have had a unanimous vote as its successor, despite loathing responsibility. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to keep track of at the moment. Just the dog, really. And he was a good boy. The only other one was—

“Tea, maestro?” An obnoxious voice from behind made them jump up and punch toward a wall ten feet away. It briefly shattered as if hit by a projectile, then quickly mended itself. They wheeled on an individual holding a tray of confections, grabbing his throat and slamming him into the picture window.

{image of Faux holding Faragar}
Instead of shattering, the glass bubbled as if under heat, leaving the imprint of a small man gripped by slender fingers. Their eyes flashed like polished gold for an instant, and translucent snapshots of the now-wrecked furniture momentarily manifested as pristine and intact before fading back to normal. The tray had remained motionless as soon as it left the butler’s hands, and they gripped the handles to place it on their desk.

“If you ever do that again, that glass will break, and the earth will swallow you whole. Do I make myself clear.” This was not a question. They never asked questions, and certainly didn’t wait for answers. As the butler slid down the window, the bubbled glass returned to its normal configuration. “Take my coffee cup and tell the dog to clean it. Also, I’m expecting a call soon, so make yourself presentable. I don’t need someone with piss pants to welcome new recruits.”

Gregory shifted his weight on the bus stop bench across from a worn-down looking house. He’d been staking this place out for hours, now. No movement, no vehicles except a few buses, but that didn’t mean anything. He needed more information before just walking up like he wasn’t intending to steal something from it. He didn’t even care what it was. He just wanted a single success to brag about.

Something to back up his claims as a master thief.

Granted, he was praised for his skill and knowledge base on the subject. Everyone in the family acknowledged his potential. But they still wanted some sort of initiation. A trophy, anything.

A bald, overweight man strolled down the sidewalk. He was carrying several grocery bags in each arm. It was still pretty early in the day, but seeing the bags reminded Gregory that he had not eaten anything since last night’s pizza. His stomach growled loudly at the prospect of what the man might be holding.

Dammit!

The bald man stopped right across from Gregory’s stakeout.

Double dammit!

He rifled in his jeans for a moment before procuring a key ring and opened the door to his house. The worn-down house that had been abandoned for several hours, up to and including Gregory’s arrival.

Son of a fucking whore!

He didn’t care at this point. He was going to march right up there and play off something that would get him inside. Fuck subtlety. He strode across the street and knocked sternly on the door.

A few moments later, hurried thumping of feet on hardwood approached the door, and the man peeked out to check.

“Hello, I’m from the Agency of—”

The door opened wider and the man motioned for him to enter. “Come on in, don’t just stand there!” His beckoning became slightly more urgent as Gregory tried to process what was happening. Finally, he stepped through the threshold.

The man exhaled heavily. “Whew! Thank goodness ya got in when you did!” His accent was distinctly from the Bronx.

“Wh… why?” Gregory’s heart rate jumped a little. Was someone watching him outside? He instinctively glanced behind him.

The large laugh matched the large man perfectly. “Hahahaha! You woulda been two legs shorter, and I woulda had to set my concrete step for the third time this month!” He patted Gregory on the shoulder. “Friends call me Bob, so I guess you can, too. You got a name, scrawnyboy?”

Realization hit Gregory like a truck. He had a timed pressure bomb on his doorstep! Just because?! “I’m uhh, it’s Gre—” his words caught in his throat for a moment as he continued to process. “Gregory. Nice to meet you.”

Bob clapped him on the shoulder with a beefy hand. “Attaboy! Ya want some lunch? I was just about to make some of my signature coffee while I waited, but I can probably spare a bit more if ya want some.”

Gregory didn’t really drink coffee, but curiosity had him riveted. “Um, sure. I’ll try some.”

Five minutes later, a mug of what could only be described as sludge landed on the table in front of him. They had moved into the kitchen, and a giant stein of the same stuff appeared not too long afterward. Gregory picked up the mug and swirled it a bit. More “coffee” was left on the edges than returned to the morass inside. He sniffed it. The smell contradicted the concoction in front of him. It was actually quite pleasant.

Bob chuckled as he heaved himself into his own chair. “Heh, family secret, that. Looks like shit and kicks ya in the nuts if you’re not used to it, but coffee shops would line up every day if they knew this stuff existed.” He took a giant chug of his drink before setting the stein down.

Another precursory sniff, and Gregory attempted to imbibe normally. The thickness was expected, but the smoothness was not. He coughed a little bit at the half-sip. But it was delicious. He siphoned a little bit more out of the cup.

Another five minutes of small talk, and Bob finally approached the fridge. “Ya like casserole, bud? I’m a master baker, you know. Pastries and cakes specifically. Even had my own shop for a while, but folks didn’t think what I made was ah. Let’s call it visually appealing.” He shuffled through some of the contents and emerged with ground beef, peppers, and onions. “It’s Tuesday. Taco style?”

Gregory nodded, dumbfounded. When was he gonna have time to dupe this guy?

“So, is it your preference to be naked all the time, or do you just do it so you don’t wreck your clothes?” the butler, Sebastian, had chatted the entire plane ride. Artemis rolled his eyes. He was a wolf again, but in a hybrid form that gave him slightly opposable thumbs in order to fly. It looked kind of silly, but it was better than packing a ton of clothes for the outing. His only other equipment was the satchel next to him and the sniper rifle nestled on top.

“Arty! Arty, can you hear me? Is the speaker on?” Sebastian tapped him on the head.

Artemis instinctively snarled at the unannounced contact and swore at him in a garbled version of the First Tongue before he even knew what he was doing. At least it quieted the kid down for a while. He sighed. He wasn’t cut out for this life, but it would have to do. He whispered a silent plea, and within moments, a snake imperceptible to most slithered through the air to rest loosely around Sebastian's neck. He visibly calmed, as the focus spirit removed excess thoughts that spiked during an adrenaline rush.

"<Just a little longer,>" Artemis muttered, pricking his eye with a claw as penance for his request. “<Brun, I wish you could still help me…>”

A thoughtless creature paces in his concrete cell, occasionally ramming into its sides forcefully. No light makes it through—he cannot find reason in its physical properties. He doesn't care. Smell and sound are enough.

His legs give out. No thought as he pauses, waiting for a surge to continue his rampage.

In the silence between, something—it smells human—emerges from the concrete restraint. His strength returns as he reacts to the intrusion. The scent fades as the intruder retreats. He slows yet again, biding his time.

A new scent emerges—that of the recently deceased. A small tap of feet on the floor of his cage. He strikes at the sound with a massive clawed hand, hits flesh. It buckles, hits the opposite wall; but does not bleed.

"Necromancer, bud. You forget that too?" Bones pop as they rearrange. The intruder will not fall easily. Good.

"The world's gone to shit; I really coulda used your help, you know." They dodge one of his lunges, their vision utilizing the complete darkness for accuracy far better than even his superior sense of smell would allow. "But I'm losing everyone. Boss says that's how it's supposed to go."

He roars in response. The man who was their friend is gone. He holds no loyalty to this creature. He swipes at the wall, his claws leaving deep gouges in the material. His adversary runs along its corner and expertly kicks him in the back of the head. It is painful, but inconsequential.

"At least try to listen when I talk to you, man. It's rude." They land with barely a sound; the concrete gives way like a sponge against their feet.

They lunge. The floor changes texture for maximum purchase. Space itself condenses to reach him in a single stride. Their arm winds back and they connect with his shoulder.

They both shatter.

His howl reverberates through the cage; his adversary's ears rupture, but they are overall unaffected by it despite the destructive volume. He rips his ruined arm off and hurls it at them. They whip their injured hand back into a workable configuration, raising it as if to catch the projections. It rots into dust as it brushes past their rapidly healing fingers. They use this opportunity to rush him. He returns fire with his own surge. Sliding, they sweep underneath him, aging his legs to a geriatric mess as he trips. He skids across the concrete and collides with the opposite wall. Blood is pooling from his wound. Panting, he struggles to get up. His remaining arm buckles under him. He growls in the dark, challenging his opponent to come closer.

They walk up to him with the cool confidence of a victor. He smells them again as they allow life back inside. Does he… know them? They kneel in front of his face. All he can do is bare his teeth. He is tired, sluggish. He realizes too late that they've been sapping his life force with each point of contact. He no longer cares.

They shush him quietly. "You've done enough," they whisper, placing a hand on his cheek. There is no malice in the gesture.

He feels his vitality siphoning from his body; quicker, now. His eyes are heavy. It is taking all his willpower to keep them open. They are shushing him as everything slows down. He can only watch as the last of his life enters theirs. For once, he is completely helpless.

"See you on the other side, big guy."

He acquiesces.

Faux shuts the clay jar gently, a tiny pair of ethereal orange hands pulling it into a pocket dimension. They won't be able to bring him back to life; at least not alone. It wasn't fully within their abilities. They'd need at least two other people's help. Mr. Green would be the most difficult to find, at first, but he isn't needed until the end; and the search for a runaway spirit was going to take a long time.

"You ready, you good-for-nothing dog?" they ask, the harshness of their words juxtaposing with the way they gently embrace a silver-haired man.

He returns the gesture. "Do I have a choice?"

This next section is an attempt at a sort of "Charlie's Angels Meets Magical Girl" theme, based entirely off my brain slipping on the term "maid café". I'm still figuring out a plot conflict, but I would like to start establishing the slice of life aspect at the very least.

"Your coffee, sir."

The mug clattered in front of a nondescript old man reading a paper. Mr. A, as everyone took to calling him at his own insistence, let out a sigh as he turned back to the kitchen. Maybe times were changing more than he'd liked. No one appreciated the calming effects of good coffee anymore, except the geezers. Nowadays, cafés needed some sort of fancy trademark to be noticed. He shook his head remembering that stupid mermaid from that one place. He went there once, ordered a simple cup, and nearly gagged at the stench that emerged from it. A few choice words later, and he was not allowed within 20 feet of that particular establishment. Their loss; he was only trying to educate them. Instead he was a "menace" and "bad for business". Pah.

Still, he wondered what he lacked that made places like that so successful, despite clear differences in craftsmanship. It had to be some degree of showmanship; there was no way the ingredients warranted any sort of mention. He remembered there was quite a long list of "coffee" variants in his visit. From what he could surmise, it was imperative to add what he considered "extra" ingredients—milk, chocolate, and caramel were common favorites, he noticed. Another sigh escaped as he oversaw his scant clientele. It really was only a handful of older individuals attending. Young people had a way of making mountains out of molehills, which was exactly what this place needed… strictly in the positive direction. He quietly began to brew another fresh pot, focused on his dilemma.

He was so focused, he did not notice the girl planted on the other side of the counter. She waited patiently, scanning the area's ambiance. A few minutes passed, and she checked her watch, nodded five times in rhythm with the second hand, and promptly rang the desk bell.

Mr. A had just finished placing the new pot on the warmer, so his startled flinch didn't send it careening across the shop, but it was so precise he imagined what would have happened if it happened just a millisecond earlier. He swiftly directed his gaze to the counter.

"May I help you?" he asked in utter bafflement. Not only was he off guard from the sudden noise, but she was so vastly opposite his usual customers that he had trouble piecing together why she could be here at all.

"I heard you were hiring," she said, as calmly as if it was obvious. Her German accent poked through slightly, but it was clear she was used to speaking English. "Or rather, going to hire. I figured I'd get a head start on helping you round up the gang, so to speak." She paused to extend her hand across the counter. "I'm Sunday, by the way. I specialize in ice cream and fruit. My sweet palette will probably clash with your bitter one at least for a while, but once we have—"

Her smiling expression didn't change as he interrupted her, almost like she was expecting it. "What are you even going on about? Who said anything about hiring? What for?"

"Why don't we ask those types of questions after shaking on it?" she asked in return. Her hand hadn't moved.

He hesitantly grasped it.

And suddenly, he knew why she had come. Her nimbus manifested as her face came into sharp focus, and everything around the two of them blurred out and slowed, especially on the edge of his vision. He smelled something slightly metallic. She leaned in close, and he noticed he was crouching to meet her. "Another specialization of mine is I am particularly in tune with Fate and Time. And I see you have some affinity, as well. Don't you?"

He swallowed hard. While not exactly shocked to find another mage in the area, not many noticed or cared enough to have a conversation related to his affinity for the arcane—and when they did, it usually trended toward "not good".

"What do you want?" he asked, bringing his guard up. It would be futile shielding from her specialty. He could sense her superiority, despite the experience gap.

The girl smiled cheerfully. "I want to see you succeed."

It was after hours. The two of them were sharing a table, studying each other. Sunday's cheerfulness hadn't wavered.

"So, what's your goal? Clearly, you didn't come to a stranger's store solely to assist with success." Mr. A steepled his hands in front of his face.

"You're right, of course," she replied. "It's for our mutual accomplishments. I need access to someone much more… experienced than myself, with knowledge extending past mine. You need someone 'young and hip' to change your shop around, and I'm sure you're bored not being able to speak with anyone regarding your talents, yes?"

Mr. A sank deeper into his chair and grimaced. "You're… not wrong. But how are my regulars going to react to someone my age hiring you? I don't want to start any rumors."

Sunday scoffed. "Your age? From where I'm standing, you look like someone no less than thirty. Am I warm?" She cocked an eyebrow and smirked.

Of course she suspected as much. Of course being a Matter mage would undoubtedly bring about the other side of the coin. He had hoped the subject of necromancy was not going to come up. He exhaled a breath he did not realize he was holding. "Not even above freezing, I'm afraid. I love my coffee shop, but I've definitely been sustaining myself in other ways." He drilled his eyes into hers. "I assume you don't care."

She shook her head. "Not really. You just seemed a bit lonely." She stared back at him briefly before bursting into a fit of laughter. When she could breathe again, she explained, "I really was bored. I often give myself time to contemplate, and I would like to showcase my desserts. That's all, I promise."

It was two weeks after their conversation. Sunday arrived before opening time with a rather large rolling suitcase. Mr. A couldn't help but be curious.

"It's a small espresso maker. We're going to have to give people the option for sweet things to go with their treats, after all. Also…" She flourished and opened the case. "I brought my own uniform!"

The dress had the basic design of what he recalled of Victorian maids—black with a white frilled apron—but blushed at the fact that it was way higher up the leg and lower on the bodice than anything he could imagine real maid of the time wearing. It was well past the knee, and ruffled up with visible petticoats.

"Are… Is this legal?" he wondered, dumbfounded.

"Trust me, this is what I'm expected to wear. Read up on some pop culture." She grinned and winked.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the back. She also sported a set of white stockings that seemed to intentionally have exactly an inch and a half of skin showing between sock and skirt, and black heels. Her hands sported small lacy gloves. And a frilled headband topped her head between a set of curly pigtails. She struck a pose. "How do I look, sir?"

He was astonished. All he could do was nod.

"Do you have the ingredients I asked for?"

He snapped back to reality and ran off his mental catalogue. "Flavored creamers, caramel and chocolate syrup, the entire list of fruits, the three primary ice cream flavors… I had to buy a separate freezer for them, but you should have everything."

"Good. The creamers are mainly for your coffee. While I enjoyed my sample with a touch of milk, a lot more people will be interested now that there are other options."

Mr. A cringed—not for the last time that day, he was certain. That seemed to be the only certainty he could rely on. He was even considering how his maroon dress shirt was under-dressed for how she was representing the shop. He would have to ask her about that later.

Below are one-shots I get from various inspirations, usually dreams. They will probably only encompass a single moment, but may continue in the future.

Skywhales (WIP)

It was the storm that woke me up first, blustering wind knocking the tree branch against my window. Dad still hadn't pruned it after I told him I can't sleep through its noise. I raised the shutter slats so the gaps allowed me to see through. It was dark, but the lamps were out like they are every night, allowing a decent amount of color back onto the streets.

Numerous enormous shapes passed just outside the lamplight, gliding through the air as if if was an ocean. I pulled on the shutter cord to retract them, and pushed my window open. One such shape, smaller than the rest, broke from its fellows and gave an old, dim lamp a playful nudge.

I gasped as it came into full view. It was a greater skywhale! Why were they coming this far down from the cliffs? At this altitude, they were at risk of becoming crushed by rogue landmasses. Even a pod this large didn't ever venture too close to civilization. They were not afraid of us, but they had a level of respect for where we chose to settle. I wanted to run to my parents' room, or even wake my sister, but I was riveted. A sight so rare, I might be the only one to witness it.

More shapes crept closer to the lamps, which were starting to get visibly agitated; I could see the wise faces of mature skywhales as they drifted above our homes in relative silence to the storm.

The storm. My view finally shifted to the yellow glow of the core and the maelstrom of clouds surrounding it. Lightning flashed erratically from it, and I thought, for a moment, that something was silhouetted against the center.

My heart skipped. That was all it took.

A serpent shot from the storm's core, sending clouds and lightning in its wake and ravaging one of the shadowed creatures. A jumble of blood and viscera and bones fell onto a section of houses, crushing a number of lamps in the area and causing the rest nearby to scatter. Another downpour in another section. And another. I couldn't move. Couldn't call for help—I was petrified; I should be alerting my family.

The sirens broke my trance. Someone else must have been awake and signaled the night watch. I rushed to my sister's room, shaking her even though she was yelling at me to get off and she was already awake. The sirens were starting near us now. We ran down the hall to our parents' room, clattering their door open. They were already out of bed, checking the shutters for the cause of the commotion. A shadow fell over us.

Wanderers' Sandbox 2

This Has Nothing to Do with Beat Drops

by Faux Flintlock

Known Incarnations

THNtDwBD: Thread

THNtDwBD: Fray

Side Stories

~The Family~

~Thysle Flintlock~*

Moniker: The Elf

Favor: Arrowhead

~Crystal~

~Bloom~

~Brunard Flintlock~† (October 2016)

Moniker: The Giant

Favor: Crossed swords

~Grimm Flintlock~† (February 2018)

Moniker: The Reaper

Favor: Hourglass

~Kyle Flintlock~† (February 2018)

Moniker: The Stoner

Favor: Snowflake

~Chorchau Flintlock~† (August 2016)

Moniker: The Hacker

Favor: Thumb drive

~Ender Flintlock~† (February 2018)

Moniker: The Nature

Favor: Beast fang

~Westley Flintlock~† (February 2018)

Moniker: The Nurture

Favor: Stud earring

~Kindred Flintlock~?

Moniker: The Deadeye

Favor: 9mm bullet

~Faux Flintlock~

Moniker: The Flaming Fist Douche

Favor: Disk

~Sasa and Toto~?

~Adarian van Blackwell-Flintlock~?

Moniker: The Black Pyre

Favor: Square mirrored glass

~Alexander Blackstone, aka Zander Fireheart~† (December 2015)

~Victor Forrester~† (December 2015)

~The Friends~

~Aika Yukiteru~?

~Cyrus~?

~Roland Redfield~?

~Shinka~?

~Yuri~?

~Yoshi the Sasquatch~?

~Dr. Bees~

~Gregory~

~Sebastian~

~Artemis Logan~

~Trenton King~

~The Enemies~

~Raghnall McAllister~† (December 2014)

~Elwood~?

~The Unknowns~

~Bob Vincent~

~Sage Rosenfeld~

~Nero~?

~Tristan "Tris" Erlich~

~Lugo~

~Sunshine "Sun" Erlich~† (December 2024)

~Matthewson~*

~Zee Mayor~

~Amber Snippy~

~Christophorus Pi Hatchenson~

~Dr. Alexander Gromov~

~Kindred Flintlock~^?

~Sasa and Toto~^?

~Adarian van Blackwell-Flintlock~^?

~Aika Yukiteru~^?

~Cyrus~^?

~Roland Redfield~^?

~Shinka~^?

~Yuri~^?

~Yoshi the Sasquatch~^?

~Elwood~^?

~Nero~^?