EPT+ Show Spoiler +
I kinda feel like this is supposed to go into the blog section, but I'll let the powers that be decide, I suppose. It's just that this is essentially done for (and by?) us at the subforum and TL as a whole may not get some of it.
So I was inspired by my earlier spur-of-the-moment derailment of the Curse Fanclub so I've chosen to write a series of maybe-related-but-maybe-not very short stories about our little subforum. The other inspiration for this is the amazing and very well written TL Noir blog series by vGI-CoW. Definitely check that out, too. Also it's Neo's birthday.
TL LoL Noir 1 - Philosophy of a Lunatic
The hallways are cool, pristine, sterile. He flashes his badge to a nearby attendant who nods in favor and returns to his work. Detective John Bright is very clear about one thing, and one thing only: he really doesn't want to be here.
He'd had nothing to go on; only a name whispered to him by the few plants and drug addicts he had left in the urine-soaked cesspool that was the heart of the city. They spoke his name with mixed emotions, an odd reverence followed by relief mixed with fear, as though they were glad that someone was after the guy, but afraid for what he might do. He had an odd feeling about this one, to be sure, but since it was the only lead he'd had in weeks and he wasn't any closer to solving the case, he had to follow up.
His footsteps echo loudly at a constant pace, slowing to a stop as he arrives at his destination.
Room 6136.
One of the odd tales John was told was that the staff at the hospital had allowed him to choose his own room and upon seeing it, he whispered "I'm home," calmly entered and hadn't left since. Another was that he was assigned to it but unbeknownst to them it was the exact same number of personalities he was said to harbor in his jigsaw puzzle of a brain.
He beckons to one of the orderlies who begrudgingly walks over with a large set of keys. "You sure about this, buddy?"
John says nothing, hoping his stoic exterior would say all that it needed to, but truth be told, he is rattled. He knows that the staff on this ward have seen some shit, but have they seen what he has? He doubts it.
He is jarred from his thoughts by the sound of the large metal door creaking open. "If you need anything just hit the intercom button on the wall."
Noticing the large red button under it, he asks, "What's that one for?"
The orderly laughs and nonchalantly tosses his head, "You don't need to worry about that. We prepared him for your arrival."
"I really think I'd rather know."
"It's the emergency alarm. I take it that its use was never explained to you as part of your debriefing?"
"Not that I remember."
The orderly laughs again, a cynical, harsher sound than his earlier one.
"Yeah, that's because 6136 is a special case. No need to use the red one in there, because if you did need to use it, it'd already be too late. Have fun you two!"
He shuts the door, locking John in with a madman.
He peers around the room, warily and at first doesn't notice anything. A toilet in one corner, a small nondescript shelving unit, bolted to the wall, of course. A pile of sheets in another corner, a bed, a night-table, a buzzing fluorescent light overhead. The window to the far left along the back wall has some kind of mesh sheeting over it with iron bars easily visible behind it. He looks back to the bookshelf and notices it full of literature. Hemingway, Ovid, Tolkien, Bradbury, Irving, Dickinson. A mixed bag of genres and authors.
He notices one book in particular and, wary of not being able to see the author in question, selects a book scribbled all over in red marker entitled 'Musings.' Having seen this sort of thing before, he opens it and looks inside and is not disappointed. Pages full of disjointed thoughts, scribbles on other pages so dark and etched in John is surprised the pages aren't ripped. Other pages with what appear to be themed drawings: eyeballs of all shapes and sizes. A dinosaur playing the guitar. A page dedicated entirely to bears. John is amused to see one of them wearing what appears to be a suit of armour. A page wherein the author has intricately outlined the various phases of the moon. One page has only the word 'Troika' written and is underlined what appears to be well over a hundred times.
John is thinking this last revelation over when he hears a soft small voice: "Do you like it?"
Startled, he drops the book and backs against the bookshelf. "Who said that?" he calls out, in a voice shakier than he intended. Out of the corner of his eye what he thought was a pile of sheets begins to move and he hears a giggle.
Amidst a sea of white...linen? He can't tell. A man's face appears.
The man appears surprisingly well-kept, a stark contrast to John's scruffy 5-day old growth, bad haircut and pockmarked face.
"I asked you a question, John. Do you like it?"
"I...I'm not sure what to make of it. I see you know my name already, is there something I can call you?"
John inches closer to the man in the corner. As he approaches he can see what he mistook for a pile of sheets appears to be a custom-made sort of pillow suit. It is rife with ripped edges all over, notably at the arms and legs but hastily sewn into the suit there are rigid pads, forcing the wearer into a starfish position. The only visible part of his body is his face, which is reasonably attractive, as far as insane asylum patients go.
"Oh, that won't matter in a minute or so. I am terribly interested in what you think, however, for you see I have prepared some of my musings especially for you. Come now, I only ask your opinion. For example, Chiharu thoroughly enjoyed the bears page, though I imagine she enjoyed the tentacle monster page considerably less."
"Who?"
"Chiharu. She spoke of you often, you know. Harbored some belief that you were going to rescue her...this was years ago, of course. Or was it days? You never really can tell in here. In any case, she soon realized otherwise."
John immediately glances at his pocket. No. Fucking. Way. Could it be that easy?"Tell me more about this...Chiharu."
John notices then that the man's face has changed somewhat; he can't quite place it. He almost looks...scared?
"Chris P. said not to, he said not to, I don't know anything." What the hell, John thinks, His voice is deeper now?
"Who is Chris P.?"
"He's been around for a while, they all have, Utahime, Steve...Chiharu said not to get involved and I didn't, I didn't! Steve is so fake...Why...why..."
John is about to fish the photograph out of his pocket when without warning a blind rage creeps into the man's face and he literally snaps at John, attempting to bite him in the face.John backs away slowly and watches, disturbed but intrigued as the immobilized man continues this episode for maybe 5 minutes. Then calm once again.
He laughs. "I can see by the look on your face you've just borne witness to one of my...turns. They're quite uncontrollable, sadly. I hope Bly didn't scare you?"
But it's John's turn to snap. He pulls out the photograph of the victim he carries around with him as a reminder of the atrocities scum like the man in front of him are able to carry out.
"Do you know this girl? Is she Chiahru?" John has all but lost patience with this game.
"I'm not sure what you're referring to, John. That picture is very nice though. A bit gory for my tastes yet somehow comforting. Familiar handiwork at the very least, if you know what I mean."
And then the man grins and winks at him.
"CHIHARU! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HER, DAMN IT?!"
The patient known only by his initials M.B beckons the detective to come closer. Knowing better but inwardly deciding
To hell with it. He leans in.
M.B whispers in his ear: "I killed her." His face changes and then he begins to giggle like a small child. "You wanna play too? It'll be fun!"
John presses the intercom button.
The doctor greets him outside the door after it is shut and bolted. "Any luck?"
John shows the doctor the picture of the girl. Or what was left of her. The doctor appears immediately horrified. "And you think....you think 6136 did this?"
"Well he admitted to something, and now we finally have a name for our victim. I'm going to head back to HQ to run it through our database---"
"I'm sorry, but detective, what did our friend say that this girl's name was?"
"Chiharu, why?"
The colour drains from the doctor's face.
"I'm afraid your lead may very well be a dead end. We've had this sort of thing before with 6136. He's what some of the, um, less tactful employees refer to as 'The Mixed Bag.' We don't have a name for him and have no idea where he came from so those initials are all we have. I can't remember if the initials came first or the nickname did, he's been here so long. Anyway, the reason he is a 'mixed bag' is because he has been diagnosed with just about every major category and spectrum disorder there is."
"Okay..."
"Manic episodes? Check. Narcissism? Check. Schizophrenia? You've seen his, um, writing I assume?"
"Yeah."
"Psychotic and sociopathic? Check. And of course, DID.:
"DID?"
"Dissociative Identity Disorder."
"I'm not sure where you're going with this."
The doctor takes a deep breath. "Did his voice happen to change at all during the time you were interviewing him?"
"Yes, but---"
"And I'm willing to bet he mentioned other names as well, correct?"
"Yes." All of a sudden, John's eyes grow wide. Understanding dawns on him in that instant, right before the doctor explains it himself.
"You see, detective, the girl Chiharu you mentioned? She's a name we've heard before. We assume it to be one of his many fragmented personalities. I'm not sure where his mind got the idea to formulate a teenaged Japanese girl, but then again these disorders are often so poorly understood---"
John grows frantic. "But---but he said he killed her! He admitted to killing her! How can you kill a personality inside your own damn head?!"
The doctor put a thick, cold hand on his shoulder. "The human brain is a powerful thing, detective." He pauses. "Did you know that the term 'lunatic' is derived from ancient peoples believing that the cycles of the moon induced madness in people? Perhaps despite all of our advances in modern medicine there is yet something to this theory?"
John takes a deep breath and thinks back to some of the drawings he observed back in the room.
He lets out a resigned sigh. "Damned if I know."
As John leaves the hospital it is raining. Of course it is, he thinks. "Why should this suburb of TL be any different from the rest of this miserable damn city?" he yells, to no one in particular. He shivers and takes one look back at the mental hospital. He has decided he is still going to head back to HQ just to see if he can learn something from the jumbled mess of thoughts and ideas spoken at him by the madman, but he's not getting his hopes up.
From the mind of one raving psychopath to another, he thinks.
A killer is still on the loose in the streets of TL LoL and he feels helpless to stop it. He knows that night is coming, and once that darkness strikes, the killer will himself. He hated the papers for giving the serial killer a name, of course, it just sensationalizes the murders, allows the victims and their families no peace and worst of all, gives that killer asshole the fame and glory he wants.
Damn 'Read it!' Even for a publication that only cares about its own self-image, it's going too far! he thinks.
Those attention whores are going to have a field day with the next one, I'm sure about it.
But he knows in his heart that he has not, and will not give up. There are citizens to keep safe: honest, hardworking people. He rattles different groups off in his head: researchers for TL R&D, the Moderators, the city planners and strategists...each of them trying to make these suburbs their own carved-out little place in the city, trying to make it better for the people who, through very little choice of their own, have chosen to take up residence here. Because honestly, where else can they go?
As John begins the long drive back to TL HQ he thinks to himself, Maybe I'll do another exposé, another writeup summarizing the case. That'll surely bring it the notice it needs from the other communities, hell, maybe even the stupid paper will get on board. He thinks this, but doesn't entirely believe it. Because there is no moon in the sky tonight, and as he drives away from the TL LoL suburbs, the 'Darkness Killer' has claimed another victim under the cover of his namesake.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Story one, COMPLETE!
Any praises, criticisms, corrections or anything you have at all to say about me/the story, feel free to post in here. I haven't done any creative writing in a VERY long time, so go easy on me, I guess? Just felt like having a little fun at everyone's expense.
You're more than welcome to add your own entries to the series in the thread any time you wish, so if you have the inspiration, please feel free to take part! It's a lot of fun. (Do you best to stay true to the story/characters I've set up so far though.
)TL LoL Noir 2 - Drafted
by: AsmodeusXI
A few hours later.
No one lived in the Strats by choice. The most haggard longbeards, the ones that spend the evenings scrounging through the dumpsters, still remember when TL LoL was one neighborhood. If you can stand the smell or parse the inane babble, they'll speak of the days when they were the most active suburb in the city. When everyone knew the others' names, when the old community pioneers were still alive and possessed their wits. Neighbors were close then, willing to lend a build to the tenants next door or stand as two in the factory queues, waiting for work. "The good days," they say, as old men do. That was before the area was overburdened with newcomers, immigrants from far-off Red Hit or itinerant travelers with naught in their heads but theories and aspirations to respect and glory. When the suburb's population could no longer be contained to the original blocks, the good men and women of city hall erected the housing projects, monoliths designed to provide shelter for the burgeoning populace and divert them away from the city proper. The paint quickly chipped off the poorly-constructed edifices, and now the only way to distinguish the Tournies from the Strats were the gang colors: turquoise, saffron, and mustard in the Tournies and crimson, lavender, and green in the Strats.
But here I am, mused Wei Xia-Dao, extinguishing the shriveled remains of his cigarette, home sweet home. He flicked the butt out the cracked window and let it fall with the rain. After all, what was the harm in adding just a bit more trash to the streets? No one would notice. I'm starting to sound like an old man myself, Wei grumbled, lifting himself from his chair as quietly as he could. Luckily, the missus was a heavy sleeper, so the creaking of the old wooden seat went unnoticed. Wei stretched out with a groan and grinned, recalling that, in spite of everything, he was happy. Yeah, the apartment was miniscule, his landlords were penny-pinching dirtbags, and his job barely paid him enough for his family to survive, but at least they were together. Now if only he could get rid of this damn insomnia, everything would be perfect. Wei tiptoed across the tiny bedroom, doing his best not to disturb the 4 A.M. serenity of his home. He grabbed a new pack of cigarettes and was turning back towards his spot by the window when the phone rang with a shrill scream.
Wei swiftly crossed the room, snagging it from its cradle before the second ring sounded.
"Do you have any fucking idea what time it is right now?" Wei whispered, trying to sound as intimidating as possible.
"I do Wei, and I'm sorry, but it really couldn't wait."
"John?" Shit, this couldn't be good. "Hold on a second." Wei cocked his head briefly, listening for any sound of movement in the house, any confused mutterings or cries.
...nothing. "Jesus John, you scared the shit outta me. What's it been, two years? And now you're calling me?"
"You know I wouldn't if it weren't an emergency."
I know. "Sure, but it's been a damn long time. How have you been man?"
"Oh, you know… same old same old. Chasing the same criminals, bringing home the same paycheck. Even got a promotion, for all the no money that's worth."
"No shit? Well congratulations. Now you can bring down that hammer of justice and have the title to boot." This small talk is nerve-racking, Wei thought. No one calls this late to talk about the weather. Especially not John.
"I imagine you're wondering why I'm calling at this hour," John muttered, as if he didn't want to get to the point.
"Yeah, that crossed my mind," Wei whispered, feeling a chill and suddenly remembering how late it was. How dark.
"I've talked this over with the rest of the mod squad <oh no> and, well… we're in over our heads <of course you are>. There's a man out there. A man that we can't find. The kind of terrible man that makes nightmares real <i've read about it in the papers i know I KNOW>. The Darkness Killer, heard of him?"
"Yeah," Wei gulped, knowing what was coming next.
John could tell he was worried… even frightened. "We need your help Wei."
"Fuck John you can't ask me to do this. You know why I'm got out."
"I also know you were one of the best detectives TL HQ has ever seen, Wei. The things you did wearing the badge… shit. You were practically a legend. You could've had your name spoken for ages like Southlight or Shikyo. You remember the AHGL Prize, right <how could i forget>? You had normal citizens hanging off your every move, your every word! And that last case was…"
Of course, the last case. The case that made the badge too heavy to wear. The case that stole away his best friend. The case that kept him awake at night. It seemed so straightforward at the time: some wackjob with delusions of grandeur spouting off shit ideas and killing anyone who tried to disagree. Pretty normal for Liquid City, sad as that is. He even declared himself to be some kind of Prince. Prince… X...? Fuck, I can't even remember his name anymore, Wei thought with regret. Carlson and I got a beat on where he was hiding out, raided the place just like we had done a million times before. But the fucker was ready. Somehow he'd got word that the force was coming, and such was his mania that he was completely prepared. I barely leapt out of the way before the trap was sprung… but Carlson was too slow. He had always been a big guy: never quick on his feet but damn did he pack a punch. Long as you were in the middle of his sights, he'd take you down faster than you could say "glorious revolu…" Now I'm just getting sentimental. This was the one brush with death he couldn't escape. He fell in a flash, bleeding and bellowing like a bear. Moments later, he was dead… my partner. The one person I thought I didn't have to protect. And to make matters worse, the "Prince" guy got away. Now and then, the paper still had reports of a man with the same M.O. terrorizing some other part of the city. Whatever. He was their problem now. Let some other poor sap lose a friend chasing after him.
"I'm not talking about the case John. And I'm not coming out of retirement for this shit. I've got a kid, I've got a job. I'm happy." Even Wei was surprised at how hollow that sounded.
"…an accident, Wei." He sighed, hearing the finality in Wei's tone. "Look, this man's a monster. He's no average Joe with a pistol and a marriage gone wrong. This is a killing spree. Now, I don't know what we need to shut him down, but I'm calling in everything we've got."
"Everything?" Wei wondered, sounding slightly intrigued for the first time.
"Yeah, everything. Every good man I've every worked with, every one who's ever done a damn bit of good for this city. I'm pulling Yango and Craton out of retirement because we could use some geniuses, even if they're barely rational half the time. Everyone who's transferred out of Homicide is getting special reassignment for this: Alaric, Coolman, Req, and Smash are all back on the team. I even managed to find Shake and Scip doing mercenary work and paid out their contracts just to get them working for me again. And, shockingly, we've got some new blood. There's some wonder boy who just graduated from the academy and a mystery man named Galt who came into the precinct with copious knowledge of the Tourney gangs. If I can't find a way to catch this guy with a team like this… well… Liquid City's a lot more fucked than even I realized."
Wei was silent, his thoughts preventing him from forming words. John understood. "Listen, I know it's late. Just… think it over, will ya? We're at our wit's end here, and I could sure use a Golem on my side." Wei heard a dull click from the other end of the line, then placed the receiver back in it's cradle. He stumbled into the next room, dazed from the news he'd just heard, the use of his old nickname, and the sudden onset of exhaustion that came with it all.
The mobile danced over the crib, its spangled bananas, oranges, and cupcakes rotating above the sleeping child's curled body. The late-night call (somehow) didn't disturb him... he looked almost angelic in his slumber as Wei stood by his bedside, thinking about what John was asking of him. This is impossible. There's no way I can do this. I have responsibilities. I have goddamn kid to take care of! How can he expect me to drop everything and pick up a badge?! Yet as he stared at the dreaming infant below, Wei realized he had no choice. How could he be sure that this Darkness Killer wouldn't come after his son next? Or his wife? Or his surly neighbors? Or his dirtbag landlord? Or someone else he spoke with or worked with or drank with? The people of TL LoL still needed him, so he couldn't do anything else.
Damn it John, Wei thought to himself as he watched the rain dry up and the sun rise over the Liquid City limits.
TL LoL Noir 0.5
On February 17 2013 16:54 WaveofShadow wrote:
Yango is too jaded from his years of BW.
These days he sits alone in an office, calculating...
Every once in a while he sees someone walk by: "Numbers?" he asks them, "Can I interest you in some calculations? I have DPS spreadsheets, efficiency charts, postgame analysis..." But people give him a look of pity and continue on, hurriedly.
His home is a clutter of posters from years gone by, BW, WC3, DotA...he has seen them all come and go; each proscene a bright but brief flicker and a reminder of his tenure at Team Liquid. His reddened eyes and coarse stubble frame his haggard complexion; he appears exhausted beyond his years. Behind those features lies the knowledge of a gaming genius, though you wouldn't know it these days. He was once a man of regard; people would come to him for answers and advice and he would reward them or strike them down as was his fancy, but much like a people following an ancient deity, he soon fell out favor. No longer do the populace seek out his intelligence and good will, no longer do they ask him to bestow upon them but a brief glimpse of his timeless wisdom. Nay, with each passing day more and more visitors do not recognize his name and icon, more and more often are the oft-posed questions asked: "How do I build Riki?" or "AD or ArPen runes?" And when he does speak up, his withered voice is but an echo, a shadow of its former self and no one cocks an ear to listen.
Yango is too jaded from his years of BW.
These days he sits alone in an office, calculating...
Every once in a while he sees someone walk by: "Numbers?" he asks them, "Can I interest you in some calculations? I have DPS spreadsheets, efficiency charts, postgame analysis..." But people give him a look of pity and continue on, hurriedly.
His home is a clutter of posters from years gone by, BW, WC3, DotA...he has seen them all come and go; each proscene a bright but brief flicker and a reminder of his tenure at Team Liquid. His reddened eyes and coarse stubble frame his haggard complexion; he appears exhausted beyond his years. Behind those features lies the knowledge of a gaming genius, though you wouldn't know it these days. He was once a man of regard; people would come to him for answers and advice and he would reward them or strike them down as was his fancy, but much like a people following an ancient deity, he soon fell out favor. No longer do the populace seek out his intelligence and good will, no longer do they ask him to bestow upon them but a brief glimpse of his timeless wisdom. Nay, with each passing day more and more visitors do not recognize his name and icon, more and more often are the oft-posed questions asked: "How do I build Riki?" or "AD or ArPen runes?" And when he does speak up, his withered voice is but an echo, a shadow of its former self and no one cocks an ear to listen.
History of the LoL Subforum, Pt 1
by Two_DoWn
+ Show Spoiler +
*Author's note: This story is intended to be read in black and white. Adjust your internet accordingly*
Cold and dark. The shades on the window are all drawn. Every so often a flash of lightning illuminates the office, the only source of light . Papers are strewn about, dust collecting on books that have obviously never been touched. I sit alone, head in my hands, a half finished glass of whiskey on my desk. Another flash illuminates the nameplate on the desk.
"Detective"
I scoff to myself. Detective. I don't deserve to be called that. Not after what happened. Not after HE appeared. Not after I failed to catch him time and again. Not after HE started taking away Liquid City's finest. Three files sit on my desk, their contents smudged and edges worn from numerous readings. I reach down to examine the first, hoping that this time, something would change. Something would be different. Somehow, there would be the proof I needed to bring him down.
Phr0st, the name emblazoned on the first file. The first victim. Poor bastard went to work one October morning, only to find himself killed while he was gone. Choked to death eating his french fries. Wasn't such a happy meal after all. Worst part of it was we couldn't convince him he was dead. Poor guy went about his daily life, pretending nothing had happened. Apparently the dead lose the ability to smell rotting flesh.
Next to go was 5hitcombo, or Shitcombo as his friends affectionately knew him. No one had heard from him for a couple of weeks, so they sent us over to check up on him. Found him frozen to death, curled up in a grill cover for warmth. From the evidenced we gathered, at first appeared just to be a tragic accident. He was wandering around outside, only to discover he had lost the key to his house. Froze to death in less than 2 hours, according to the autopsy. His friends hope that once Spring comes around he'll defrost and he'll be able to go about his daily life like Phr0st, albeit dead.
The last case was the most confusing of all. DickSuckChan simply disappeared one night. He turned up later the next day, but he was different, he had changed. He had died. He started to insist people call him WhatsUpChan. He started every sentence with "what's up?" DickSuckChan was gone. And no one knew what had happened.
At least, no one could prove anything. But I knew. I knew all to well. I knew that the 3 were not victims of tragic accidents. I knew what had happened. I just didn't have enough proof. HE was too good for that.
CALLER. The mastermind. The man behind everything. The greatest criminal Liquid City had seen since the passing of Tdot Krazy, the legendary gangster. He invincible, and he knows it. The bastard is crazy enough to actually live up to his motto. "Always kill, never die. Always win, never lose."
Worst of all, he knows he is untouchable. He flaunts it. After we arrived at Phr0st's house, I saw him across the street, hands across his throat, pantomiming choking. He then held up a small vial for me to see, the skull and crossbones visible even from a distance. He smiled, turned and walked away.
The day after 5hitcombo was found, I received an envelope unmarked envelope. It contained 5hits house key, and a small piece of paper with "HUEHUEHUE" written in green, yellow, and black. Caller's calling card. On the back, "What's Up?" was written. Unfortunatly, I couldn't put the peices together. DickSuckChan could have been saved. I failed.
Anonymous envelopes and gestures aren't enough to build a case. I can talk, no one listens.
There have been no incidents since DickSuckChan's "change." At least, none that anyone not looking would notice. But just last week, Tiamats were allowed back in the city for the first time. The weapon had been banned because of Caller's skill at wielding them. But now, they're back. And for no reason. At least, no reason that anyone not looking could see. But I know the truth. Caller is at it again. He no doubt has taken control of Riot Imports and the City council. I just need to figure out how.
And once I do, HE is going down. There will be no more victims. Liquid City will be safe once more. And I might be able to look at my face in the mirror once again.
