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Dark Passenger

A World of Darkness

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a part of Dark Passenger, by Crooked Thoughts.

Welcome to Earth: the world is corrupt, its people are spiritually bankrupt, and escapism often replaces hope.

Crooked Thoughts holds sovereignty over A World of Darkness, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

338 readers have been here.

Setting


A World of Darkness
Image
Superficially, a world of darkness is like the “real” world we all inhabit. The same bands are popular, violence still plagues the inner city, graft and corruption infest the same governments, and society still looks to the same cities for its culture. A world of darkness has a Statue of Liberty, an Eiffel Tower and a CBGB’s. More present than in our world, though, is the undercurrent of horror - our world’s ills are all the more pronounced in a world of darkness. Our fears are more real. Our governments are more degenerate. Our ecosystem dies a bit more each night. And monsters exist.
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A World of Darkness

Welcome to Earth: the world is corrupt, its people are spiritually bankrupt, and escapism often replaces hope.

Minimap

A World of Darkness is a part of Dark Passenger.

1 Places in A World of Darkness:

2 Characters Here

Murtagh MacCaddoch [4] The worst kind of coward.
Andromeda Snow [4] "I know you better than you do, kitten."

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cheshire Character Portrait: Andromeda Snow Character Portrait: Murtagh MacCaddoch Character Portrait: Maximilien Robespierre Character Portrait: Gallius Dives
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Gallius Dives
Book 1: Darkness Rising - Chapter 1: Rarely, They Meet


Gallius picked at his fingernails, scrutinizing the immaculately-snipped edges. The unhinged cuticles smoothed down like fleshy ridges, scuffled with bite-marks. It kept his attention away from their ever-changing faces, moving around like Rorschach cards, slowly shifting into frog's legs, butterfly wings and the bottom half of a clown's face. Some of them looked more frightening than the others, but only when they were accompanied by harsh, edgy voices. Hoarse and dangerous—some of them looked less like monsters, and more what he imagined normal people looked like. In his minds eyes, Gallius pictured proper noses fitting along with proper eyes and proper ears, but whenever he chanced a glance in their direction, he shyly averted his gaze, staring back down at his hands as if they held the answers he sought. They looked like monsters, gnarled and raw. Their faces were unfamiliar, but their voices rung out with months of cognition. Each one was unique to its owner, and each one Gallius was able identify before they even begun their sentences.

He hadn't even been entirely sure why he'd come along with them. The mental asylum posed as the only safe place he'd been in for a long time—and it was the only place where they actually understood why he hid away, deflecting eye-contact like a cornered animal who'd been snapped on the muzzle far too many times. The nurses coddled him more than his mother had, toying fingers through his thick hair and braiding them whenever he could sit still enough. It was fine, as long as they faced away from him. It was acceptable as long as there wasn't a mirror in front of him. Too bothered to face what he looked like, and too frightened to wonder if he, too, was a monster, Gallius lived the majority of his adolescence facing the ground, grudgingly lifting his chin when he was told to. The letters his mother used to send him had stopped shortly after this little escapade, this escape into the night following a bunch of strangers who seemed as equally confused or lost as he was. Honestly, the only one with any semblance of direction was Cheshire. Guiding them along like this was planned from the start, completely nonplussed by the fact that they were on the run.

Anxiety coursed through his veins like a battering ram, threatening to spill out his frenetic thoughts into a whirlpool of dread. Sweet meats—the voice sounded jolly enough, almost like he was an overly happy tour-guide sweeping his hand out towards the horizon. Promising to show them only the best sights, because he wouldn't do it for no other group, nosiree. He still felt off. The entire situation felt off. Like they'd suddenly step onto a makeshift sidewalk, fall through a trapdoor and end up in the institutions office to be punished for their misbehaviour. He imagined being snapped on the wrist and coolly subjected to another diatribe of you're not getting any better because you're not trying hard enough. Everyone must have heard it at least once. They wouldn't be here if they hadn't. Even if he felt like he wasn't sure why he was out here, huffing quietly to quell the chills scritch-scratching down his spine, Gallius understood that he wanted freedom as badly as he wanted to colour their faces in, stencil in all the pieces of the human anatomy.

He passed through the open door, held by Cheshire and squeezed himself closer to one of the corners. Right, right—he'd helped knock out some of the guardsmen, but it hadn't been all that difficult. From his point of view, they didn't look human. They looked like roaring monsters, mouths yawning across where he thought their foreheads might have been. It took him a moment to tear his eyes away from his fingers, settling them resolutely to his sides to keep him from instinctively picking. He picked a spot above Cheshire's shoulder, staring like a blind man at the arrangement of boxes lining the shelves. Some of the tape was peeling down like clear orange peels. He mumbled something about map plans, but it came out as an incoherent squeak. Breathe, calm down, try again. Louder this time. The Outsider, as always, stood vigilant as a gargoyle, perched under his chin. “Is there a map somewhere, in these boxes? We can't keep stumbling around. You're right. They'll catch us.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cheshire Character Portrait: Andromeda Snow Character Portrait: Murtagh MacCaddoch Character Portrait: Maximilien Robespierre Character Portrait: Gallius Dives
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#, as written by Arke

Monday MAR 13 2006 1:43:11
Murtagh MacCaddoch



This was a bad idea. This was a supremely bad idea. The young Murtagh MacCaddoch knew for a fact that this was a bad idea. Kicking himself the entire time, he continued allowed himself to be lead through the halls of of the strange Asylum by Chester. This did not stop him from flinching at every shadow or stifling a scream at every unusual noise. He recoiled at every body they left behind, fearful that they would wake up. While his mind was hardwired for the present, he cursed himself for being so weak to allow himself to be brought up to this point.

He hated everyone there. The only ones they kind of liked were those that kept to themselves, and left him alone. Every night as he went to sleep, Murtagh feared he would never wake up. People like Chester constantly kept him on edge, wondering if he was going to slip a knife between his ribs. He found no comfort in this enclosed hell, and with every growing day he felt more and more like he was going to explode. Not only this, by the voice that was "Myron" whispered to him constantly, demanding more and more vehemently to kill something. The babble about filling a void made no sense to Murtagh, and only sought to confuse him even further. Sometimes he was clear-minded enough to observe and maybe pick a few out that would likely kill him in his sleep, but most of the time Murtagh remained curled up in his bed trying not to sob uncontrollably. He failed occasionally. The nurses were of no help. No matter how nice they tried to be, Murtagh knew it was just a trick. They were fed up with that job they held of taking care of the crazy. He knew it, and refused to let them calm or comfort him. They set up a routine instead where they left necessary food at the foot of his bed and would take it once he cleaned the plate. No further contact was necessary, and Murtagh wouldn't have had it any other way.

Perhaps if he had stayed in the ward room instead of following Chester, he would be given his own little room. A place where he could finally relax. Those ideas were far gone now. He had reached his limit in staying in that room with his wardmates, and made one of his rare blind decisions instead of thinking things through. Now they were in a small storage room, awaiting their doom as they failed to properly path an escape route. Maximilien's words did not comfort Murtagh, who was beside himself with fear.

"We're going to die. We're going to die. I don't want to die. I won't die. We're going to die though. Oh we're going to die die die die die die die..." He trailed off, sinking into a fetal position as he felt the hairs raise on his back. Somebody was going to break even worse news, he knew it. The situation practically called for it. Then Andromeda, in her infuriatingly calm manner, announced the presence of incoming guards. Murtagh felt his stomach sink, feeling quite nauseous at the idea of being shot or beaten to death by guards. "Die die die going we're die to die die die going die guards die coming.." Murtagh whimpered, so shocked with fear that all rational thought flew out the window.

There was a sharp mental slap that brought him back to a poor semblance of clarity. The dark voice in his head demanding that he not give up now. It used a lot of words that Murtagh didn't understand, but it helped him stomp cowering just as the footsteps became audible. A new wave of fear washed over Murtagh, but even in this tense time he remembered his brothers words and slowly got to his feet, quickly shuffling to the back of the room and grabbing a couple boxes and pulling them to the floor to reveal their contents. Most of them contained hardware supplies- PVC pipes and the likes. Murtagh quickly snagged a pipe and braced himself.




Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cheshire Character Portrait: Andromeda Snow Character Portrait: Murtagh MacCaddoch Character Portrait: Maximilien Robespierre Character Portrait: Gallius Dives
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Gallius Dives
Book 1: Darkness Rising - Chapter 1: Rarely, They Meet



None of their responses did anything to stifle the blossoming burden of fear growling and snarling in the deepest pit of his stomach, threatening to heave its contents over his squeaky-clean shoes, which were freshly scrubbed and double-knotted to keep himself from tripping on his face in their maddening run, fleeing from everything that held any semblance of safety. He felt like a yellow-tipped bird teetering on a telephone pole, seconds away from being fried into a pile of melodramatic dust—and maybe he wasn't exaggeration, because if they were caught, they'd all go to jail. Everyone's hands were dirty and red with something they'd committed tonight, however literal it actually was. His own were busy threading through his pale locks, knuckling and clumping handfuls, smearing sanguine gore like flaky highlights. If pulling out his roots would make him feel any stabler, any calmer, then he would have done it long ago. But now, Gallius could only contend with picking and preening and distracting himself with anything else, other than these monsters.

Chester with his chiming carousel-voice, churning around brightly coloured balloons and cotton candy stalls. It was hoarse and musical all at the same time, revealing a man who killed optimistically. There was a breezy quality to his tone. He was guided by something. Some sort of drive, or perhaps, not. It was hard to tell without looking at him. There was Andromeda, as well. Coolly collected and firmly planted. Brisk in her manner, and seemingly all-knowing. Hers was the most pleasant to hear, even if her indifference sent disagreeable shivers down his spine, crippling his sensitive emotions. Maximilien's voice spoke volumes of his true nature—calculated and eccentric, spontaneous and devoid of verity. It was he who Gallius sidled away from, as he hunkered over corpses, painting pictures he did not want to see. Murtagh's fevered words, tumbling out like furious maracas, felt as if he were throwing wet blankets across them. Insistent and uncomfortable. All of them put together formed something entirely different. Not quite a family. Not quite strangers, either.

Monsters. That's what they were. That's what he was. Butchering guardsmen (he hadn't really meant to, but there were fine lines between putting someone to sleep and swelling their brains to disproportionate levels) only to reach an impasse. An old, chemical-scented closet with useless cardboard boxes and stacks of unwanted furniture. Gallius fidgeted in his corner, strenuously avoiding Andromeda's withering gaze. He could see the outline of her small face sweeping in his direction, accompanied by her steady, dispassionate riposte. If he were a small crustacean, he would've scurried away long ago. But, like a barnacle or a clam, Gallius was rooted in place, slightly trembling and folding in on himself. He felt like he was becoming smaller and smaller. Mouth promptly clamped, whittling itself into another small noise that barely sifted out from his lips. This was a mistake, he'd agree. Murtagh seemed to understand the dangers most of all, crouching low in the opposite corner and repeatedly mumbling something about dying.

Gallius did not fear death. He feared ridiculous things. He was afraid of getting into trouble. He was afraid of being alone, as well as being in the same room as people. He was afraid of saying something stupid. He was afraid of physical contact, of looking people in the face, of being coined incompetent. Bullets penetrating the fleshy lobes of his skull would have been a calming retreat—far out of his control, and at least he wouldn't have to make any burdensome decisions. Leadership did not sit on his shoulders, but simply slipped off like an ill-fitting dress. He wet his dry lips, and tried to swallow past the cottony lump in his throat. Maximilien was rambling about designs and feeling the architecture of the building and artistry and scoffing about a certain blandness that flew straight over his head. Gallius creaked in his general direction, wooden and stiff. He lowered his voice to a hoarse-whisper when he said, “Get us out of here, then.”

It was Andromeda's unhurried words that caught his attention, announcing that they'd have guests very soon. There were men headed in their direction. He strained his ears like a dog trying to figure out where the sounds were coming from. But, his abilities were trained for the unconscious. For rendering people unconscious, drooling and very brain-dead. Gallius didn't scramble over to the boxes like Murtagh had, because he'd never needed weapons before. His bare hands were dangerous enough. He held them aloft as the footsteps drew nearer, accompanied by brief spurts of boisterous laughter. Something about panties and stupid whore. Something else about pills. The timbre of their voices were shriveled and ugly; monstrous, even. Gallius braced himself against the wall, closer to Cheshire and on the other side of the door. It was only when the door swung open, stupidly kicked inwards, revealing three guardsmen, that Gallius budged from his hiding place, slamming into the nearest man. Sharp pain blossomed in the back of his head—batons, of course. His death-grip on the guardsman's collar forced them both to the group, where he fumbled his palm across the man's face, in the midst of a chortled shout.

No time for that, though. Blood leaked from the guard's ears in thin rivulets, tainting his red-rimmed eyes. Gallius desperately released his grip and covered his head to keep the blows from rattling his head like a drum.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Andromeda Snow Character Portrait: Murtagh MacCaddoch
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#, as written by Arke

Monday MAR 13 2006 1:47:31
Murtagh MacCaddoch



As the guard's head soaked Murtagh's leg with gore, the small skirmish was winding down all around Murtagh. Once again, as a man's life left him by Murtagh's hands (or legs), Murtagh felt his body grow hot. Both the corpse and Murtagh glowed a faint blue, and the being in Murtagh's head exuded a gleeful aura that only made Murtagh more angry and confused than he already was. The pounding in his ears eventually ceased, and Murtagh stumbled away from the mutilated corpse. Sitting down, he struggled to regain his breath while coping with the fact that his murder spree had taken off to an explosive start. He was just lucid enough to be aware that everyone else was considering methods of escaping after such a loud fight, but chances were slim outside of a miracle-- Murtagh didn't trust Maximilien and his sense of direction at all, and Murtagh had a feeling it would just lead to more fights that they might not win. He briefly looked at Cheshire, and wasn't too eager to start listening to the guard and whatever the insane boy managed to get out of his interrogation. The guard was a civilian, so the straight way out would likely be through more guards and checkpoints. Not to mention the innate fear that Cheshire instilled had probably left the poor man irrational and incoherent.

However, Andromeda pulled a miracle out of her ass, though escape wasn't guaranteed. He would take it though, it seemed more likely that this hidden doorway that she felt out in the darkness would lead to a safer escape. If it lead to doom, well, it was better than the alternative. Murtagh was the first to jump at this prospective escape, ignoring the cuts on his hand and grabbing at the wallpaper and tearing at it with feral intent. It revealed a door, but not a door of the conventional kind. The wallpaper easily covering it up suggested that. It didn't look like an obvious sliding door, and Murtagh didn't want to believe it a push-door due to how easily it would have been discovered. Murtagh wasn't the brightest, nor was he an expert on doors. If he were to be completely honest, his vision was still tinged red from his berserk fighting and it was too dark for him to identify much aside from the fact that his hands felt like they were on fire right now.

"H-How do we open this damn thing?!" He stuttered sharply, turning so his eyes briefly making contact with Andromeda's, before her cold, sharp gaze caused him to flinch away.