Zombiedude101

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@FernStoneAnya, Luca, Linqian@Atrophy Sully @NoriWasHere Lila @Shin Ghost Note Britney
No Man's Land, aka Kari Wilson's (Wrecked) Yard

---

Things snapped back to an equilibrium. Someone - a girl - had made Sullysnap out of the stupor that seemed to have infected them all. The man had in turn come to his senses, intervened and taken responsibility for the half-digested Sloane as Clancy pried her away from the corrosive embrace, then shared that responsibility with Drake once she was in a better state...

Clancy took Sully's letterman without complaint, having barely made eye contact with the man save to offer a silent nod of appreciation when he refrained from touching him.

The truth was that the cold didn't bother him - in his world, it was always cold - but he suspected the others would not have wanted to see him in the state that he was. Body and clothing alike were tattered in every respect, with deep, bloodless gouges in his flesh that concealed a black, skeletal void beneath the surface, a constant reminder that he was less than what he once was.

Looking on as Sully passed around the chalice to share its 'heal juice', a certain longing tugged at him. Salt in the physical wounds he'd suffered, although the pain was was not of the body. It won't work, he knew, without having to ask.

Not that it was needed.

Slowly, he could see the damage knitting back together, like paint slowly spreading out from a flat canvas. The shadows bedded beneath the surface appeared to recede as pale flesh seemed to reform over the gaps. His torso was in the worst state, where the burst had torn an exit wound wide open from, with a gouge that ran through from navel to the small of his back.

That would take a little longer than the rest of him, so to spare the others staring he pulled the letterman on over his shoulders like a cloak. It was a little too big for him to wear without taking back the sleeves, and he doubted Sully would've appreciated such modifications to his favourite jacket.

Besides, he didn't look the part of a varsity athlete.

Clancy paced over towards where he'd taken the barrage from the two 8th Street assholes, or where he thought he'd taken them, as he could only measur by distance from the imprint in the ground where the mound of animated meat had been during the chaos. If anyone had bled here, he could've only guessed by that coppery tang hitting his senses. The storm had washed any viscera away, and not a single shred of evidence that either of the four assailants he'd seen there remained.

Nor did the other thing he was looking for. Not there, he noted, and paced off again, impatient, not here, either.

Eventually, after minutes of searching, it dawned on him.

The axe was gone. Stolen, most likely.

It shouldn't have bothered him. Nothing in his life had lasted, but he'd found a cerrtain permanence with its presence. Something about the weapon's unique properties, not unlike his own circumstances, had been strangely comforting.

The subtle hint of frustration and loss caused the hunger pang to gnaw at his consciousness again, accentuated by the coppery tang in the air. The meat here was worthless, moldering flesh and rotting bones which were so brittle that they broke like twigs.

Later, he reminded himself.

Focus.

It was difficult to shake those thoughts away, but this wasn't the time or place to lose that self-control. The others wouldn't have understood it, and they had enough to worry about without other things spooking them.

He saw the odd girl, Lila. Except it wasn't just Lila. The feathers and talons that bristled through her body, refusing to be willed away. The agonised expression she offered them as she asked for help, fo be fixed.

There was some small comfort to be found in the shared suffering of the others. To know they understood what it was to be fundamentally weighed down by something beyond their cintrol.

Her and the skinny boy with the Rot eating him away from within, along with anything else that came into contact with him. It made sense now - was this what Britney had done to them? Luca had all but confirmed what Ashley had suggested during their conversations.

For a moment, Clancy shot Britney a withering glare, although he was doubtful she'd noticed. They were all too busy trying to make a headcount and figure out what would happen next.

Linqian caught his eye next, stripped down at every level, he could tell she was grieving even now. A lingering sentiment of sympathy tugged at him as she speculated being alone. She'd been... decent to him, and he understood her loss better than some.

"I can-.. keep an eye out. If you want." Clancy offered, It's obvious.." he paused, gaze sweeping across them like a big cat sizing up a pack of hyenas trying to gnaw at the wilderbeast it just , ".. that Father Wolf can't hurt me."

As if to emphasise the point, the black opening across his gut remained on display, only barely concealed by the jacket.

"I just need to deal with something on the way back," he added, doing his best to cover up the guttural resonance barely echoing through the gouge in his throat, "Would be easier if you know where that Prom Queen or any of her pets live."

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GNGeorge@AtomicEmperorEdict@FernStoneLuca@BlizzStormy@AtrophySloane
No Man's Land, aka Kari Wilson's (Wrecked) Yard

---

Clancy felt his fingers tear through the man's abdomen, leaving a few inches of small intestine exposed to the elements. He could smell it. Blood, meat, death. A gut wound was a nasty way to go, and he could see the panic setting into the man's eyss as his gaze turned downwards.

Before Clancy could make an end of it, there was a distant pop. A round punched through his sleeve and burst, tearing open his arm from wrist to elbow. A second later, he felt another round puncture through his back, and then-

Pop.

A hole ruptured through both sides of his midsection, back and belly both torn outwards into gaping wounds with a black void where blood and viscera should've been. The axe slipped from his fingers as he pivoted, looking for the shooter, ignoring the bolts that bedded into his flank like feathers, experiencing a certain hyperawareness, as though the world had turned its gaze on him.

Clancy didn't see the big man charging him, but he felt the weight of a boot slamming into him like a freight train, and he arced across the sodden yard like a ragdoll, into the range of the green sun.

For a single moment, that burning green light seared at him mid-air, worse than the real fire that had torn through the upper floor of the cabin, an agony which only ended once he skidded in the ground, tumbling into a deep, waterlogged crater formed by the fighting. Immersed in water, raging, he lashed out as what felt like a dozen arms tugged at his limbs, threatening to drag him to the dark depths beneath the earth.

Cold viscera squished between his finger tips, brittle bones caved under his feet. A head, blindly pulled from the mouldering neck which anchored it, worthless meat that served no purpose but to be crushed. More came at him, a dozen silent foes clamouring for whatever they could blindly grasp. He rolled and wrestled with bodies that held no warmth, that broke upon him like waves on a castle, useless flesh that tasted like mud as he kicked, smashed, gnawed his way through an agitated swarm of animate corpses that had piled into the gap.

He raged in the darkness.

---

Clancy finally emerged from the flooded crater, surrounded by the formerly reanimated carcasses of the finally dead, torn apart in a moment of instinct and rage.

8th Street were gone, or leaving. The others seemed in shock and awe, idly flailing about as a pink fog rolled over them like a noxious veil. It dispersed over him as he passed through, barely lingering in his peripheral vision.

For a moment, he caught the outline of two interlocked figures. One masculine, the other feminine and a little shorter.

They looked familiar.

Judy,, the name came forth unbidden, followed by another.

Frank?

"No."

They were hugging. That in itself was a little hard to believe.

Clancy blinked, and the silhouettes remained. But it wasn't either sibling. Not his big brother, or his sister. It was Sloane and Luca, and he was still in no man's land, surrounded by a landscape littered with mudholes and broken bodies. And he could see Sloane was in Lucas's arms, even as the skinny latino boy flailed away, trying to break away from her.

She was dying. The smell of rot emanating from the two with a potenacy beyond the formerly animate dead around him was telling enough. She was being eaten away fron the inside.

He looked half a corpse himself, a tattered child in charred rags, pockmarked with deep gouges in the flesh that should've killed the strongest men, a mortal abdominal wound that punched through his body, a dark emptiness where blood and innards should've been, more of the pink fog uselessly swirling at his feet as the storm scattered it far and wide.

It was now or never. Chase down 8th Street before they got away, and let her die.

His eyes harboured a feral expression, pale skin flecked with mud and viscera that clearly didn't belong to him. Ashley wouldn't want this. One foot lifted from the mud and traipsed forward, followed by the other.

Idiots or not. Assholes or not.

He didn't want to watch her die.

Clancy trudged through the sodden yard, pacing towards them. Sloane was barely on her feet at this point, half-slumped into the boy's legs, clutching at his calves..Kneeling over her, palms clasping around her wrists with an uncharacteristic gentleness, he felt it now, the corrosive presence, the Rot eating away at whatever it could.

If she was still conscious, she might've felt the cold iron grip prying her away. For.him, the Rot found another target. Patches of his damaged form further receded like burning paper, a dark, angular shadow outlining wherever flesh melted away. That feral expression in his gaze scowled back st the thing that hid within Luca.

It wouldn't find sustenance, not with him. There was no meal for this Rot, he'd denied it that. The feral child pulled the girl free, arms looped under her shoulders, fully cogniscient that she was still in a bad way, her flesh and innards equally eroded by the poison that infected the boy.

And the others were still stationary, drowning in fantasies of their own.

"What are you looking at?!" Clancy growled, an inhuman, guttural resonance overlapping his voice, "Help her!"

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN Aaron & Flora @Atrophy Sully @NoriWasHere Jasper
No Man's Land, aka Kari Wilson's (Wrecked) Yard

---

“Kid..”

"..SHOOT HIM!"

A cacophany of voices were upon him from all sides.

“...kid!”

"That thing's not a kid! TRUST ME!"

Clancy felt the ground giving way beneath him before he felt the impacts, one foot sinking further into the mud than he'd expected. Someone with a beard closed in his periphery, skidding in the mud too late - Sully.

Was the man trying to save him? His thoughts shifted back to the yard.

It was for all intents and purposes a No Man's Land. The descriptions of pockmarked, waterlogged muddy fields portrayed to him by history books and old neighbours who spoke of the war.

This wasn't a yard anymore; it was a war zone. And he was another casualty, it seemed. Half a magazine dumped into him, most punching through his mid-section if they didn't miss. One bolt caught him in the mid-section, bedded where his heart should've been. A second through his throat - like a medieval tracheotomy. The third lodged itself just below his cheekbone, and sank deep, the fletching just edging out in his peripheral vision.

something to fear

"Idiots," Clancy growled, his one free hand touching at his face as he crunched down on something with his teeth - and another round punching through the back of his wrist like a crucifixial as Aaron continued to dump the remaining contents of their magazine, "It. Doesn't. Work!"

The word was emphasised by an inhuman, guttural echo that overlapped his own voice.

Sully had been too late to stop either shooting, and truthfully, he was glad for it, because Ashley had referred to him as an old friend. Clancy stepped over the man, and his fingers tightened around the shaft of the bolt lodged in his face, twisted and broke most of it away with the fletching. A moment later, he spat out the remaining length of the bolt, the mangled tip sinking into into a growing puddle beneath him.

Overhead, the invoked cloud formations had caused the sky to darken enough that it was loathe to relinquish any form of light, natural or otherwise. The punctures to his smouldering hoodie were all too clear, but no blood stained his clothes, nor did he double over like he had that night at the club.

There was no need to put on the show anymore, because they knew. They'd see, soon enough.

"She's using you," Clancy warned, a guttural intonation in his voice. His attention had briefly shifted on the girl with the bat and hockey mask, the only one of the three who hadn't attacked him, "Leave-" he was interrupted by a crack sounding off behind them, followed by a second as he forced himself forward. It took a moment, to see the girl in the mask crumple, that he realised that it waasn't intended for him.

Truthfully, he didn't know the girl or her capabilites, but of the three, she was the only one who hadn't attacked him. Yet. And she was out of focus for now.

But the other two...

Fingernails parted, then the tips themselves peeled back, like a reptile shedding a portion of its dead skin. Sharper digits pushed through the gaps,thin stalactites formed of oily, black shadows in a third-dimensional representation, inches-long. Clancy's eyes were two flinty chips of ice, locked on Aaron as his claws snapped away the remaining two bolts lodged in his windpipe and torso like dead twigs.

The bolts hadn't hurt him, harmless splinters to be pulled out. Bullets were an annoyance, but far from the worst he'd taken. But the man who pulled the trigger had known he was a threat without having met him before.

Bypassing Sully, who was a few feet behind him at this point, Clancy lunged towards Aaron, slashing outwardly with those long black digits.

"Now you're just meat." The depth of his consciousness spoke outwardly, with a voice that wasn't entirely his own.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@NoriWasHere@everyone
Kari Wilson's Yard

---

The gaunt latino was out of sight and mind for now, the rotting influence disconnected; Clancy barely noticed that the sleeve of his hoodie had withered for the moment he'd grabbed Luca.

The stench of smoke, rain, charred wood and rotting meat continued to wash over him like waves against rocks. The smoke was almost worse than the heat at this point, although neither bothered him. Like with the tear gas, the only effect it had on him was ruining his clothes and blinding them to - the torrential downpour had only amplified it by half-smothering the fire.

Overhead, he caught a glimpse of a familiar purple light, spearing through the flesh-beast's 'leg' and out the other side into the ground like an oversized magic bullet. The creature, for its part, seemed unbothered by the chunk of meat that had been removed apart from some loss of mass and balance, and remained steadfast.

Somehow, that didn't surprise him either. It wasn't as though the cane Shayton pushed through his eye socket and out the back of is skull had made any lasting damage, apart from drawing unnecessary attention at the festival.

Then, accentuating htis was the feminine silhouete overhead with an almost iridescent glow. The voice calling out confirmed his suspicions about the other girl, the one that had struck him as odd.

Everyone had their secrets, he recalled.

Pacing towards Lila, at a distance beyond his reach, was one of the 8th Street assholes - Vashti, enshrouded by a distorted weather-effect that he could only describe as harder rain than the torrent raging over them, barely obscuring her form.

A few paces behind her was Linqian's red-hot silhouette, sprawled nude in a literal mud-bath as steam rose from wherever the water made contact with her skin. Was she dead? Not yet, there was still warmth - too much of it for him, Much as he didn't want to see her hurt any further, she was beyond his ability help at this stage, and his focus was on the greater threat.

Assholes. The word sprung to mind, a phrase he'd inherited from his brother reading

Clancy had dropped down from the burning patio at this point, maneuvering apart from the others. Each footstep more waterlogged than the last; the wind and rain tugging at his senses like a swarm of insects buzzing in on ear.

His shoes were going to be ruined at this- no, his clothes were already ruined at this stage, he knew. The Donald Duck knock-off mascot now a distorted, faceless abomination from where the heat had destroyed the transfer on the hoodie, and his denim pants were more like uneven summer shorts at this stage, not unlike the fashion of the '80s.

Even the dufflebag had seen better days with the plastic clips twisted and shrunken by the heat, and halfway across the yard he was forced to withdraw its contents before it fell apart on him and dumped it into the mud.

In his hand was the Baldur Axe that had been the possession of the tattooed Victor Villarian of the Wolfpack, an unrepentant asshole through-and-through, who wielded it like an ogre with a club.

In the hands of most, it made them stronger, dangerous, but its last owner had learned the hard way that idealogical purity and performance enhancers meant nothing in the face of someone with common sense.

In his hands? A useful tool. He didn't need strength.

In front of him and partially obscured from the others by the flesh beast, he saw the greater collective of 8th Street clustering around and behind it. Their self-styled boss clung to the 'shoulder' of the now-hobbled flesh-beast as it pawed at a jacket like a cat with a toy.

Truth be told, he was tired of the facade. A part of him below the surface waiting to push beyond the self-imposed barriers he'd set for himself, kept in check only by estalished rules of self-control and sheer will.

These people? 8th Street? They fell outside those rules. They were the worst example of it, he knew. Ashley had told him. The vision had showed it too.

They were fair game.

His smouldering, hooded silhouette approached clutching the axe in one hand by the mid-section of its handle, maneuvering past the beast's flank.

"Not too old to be acting like high school assholes?" His voice was close enough it didn't matter that he'd been downwind of them, and only just managed to carry across in the cacophony of the brawl. "Are you so weak you need this fucking prom-queen to matter?"

There were three close enough for him to reach. Of them; the strawberry blonde wielding an ornate crossbow, the short-haired girl who was older than she looked, wielding a bat and hockey mask, and the lean, dark-haired man, it was the latter of the three was close enough for him to strike at.

To his credit, he was completely unaware this was Aaron Sawyer he was dealing with. And no doubt, Aaron could look back into the abyss at who and what he was.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@NoriWasHere@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Pretending that to understand everything that Kenshiro mentioned had also made sense to the rest of the group, let alone himself, was likely a waste of time. Or so Clancy guessed.

That Britney had earned her share of scorn made full sense to him now.

Of course.

If it had been her that played a part in turning him into what he was, he'd no doubts that he would've broken her in half. If she had made him...

”Is that a thr-”Britney cut herself off...

Britney

Britney had been ready to kick back, but the other girl had beat her to it.

”... Wait, what the fuck do you mean you were there?!” Adora seethed, one hand on her chest, the other on the wall. As she took deep breaths, it was probably evident that she was trying to hide that she was coming down from a full-on anxiety attack, but, again, she was just too arrogant to let anyone here think she was showing weakness. As she looked at the kid, something clicked in her head, and she got mad... It was enough to distract her from her trauma for just a moment. ”... I think I saw you at the grocery store the other day, too! Have you been following me?” She took a few deep breaths and couldn't hold it in any longer. Before, she continued. ”Kid... that is not fucking cute at all!” Adora said, ”That is sick. You're fucking sick. Stay the fuck away from me.”

Adora

The truth was, he had been watching her. And it wasn't entirely for selfless reasons - she was bait. Not that he needed to phrase it like that, but it was the honest rationale behind why he'd spent days following her boring routine, on the off chance that Father Wolf went after lone stragglers of Ashley's old circle.

"You're welcome. Are you done now?" was all Clancy had to say, sardonically tilting his head to one side.

He wanted to say more, like how if anyone was going to have been a target, it would've heen her. Or that she wouldn't have been screaming at him if he'd stopped her from catching a knife in the back. And that he'd clearly wasted time on some wheezy, weepy little girl while Ashley's killer still walked around this stupid town.

Gratitude wouldn't have killed her, if she'd known the truth of it. Father Wolf would've, though.

But it would've been a waste of time trying to explain, and that train of bitter thought was interrupted when yet another assault on what senses were left to him came in the form.of another waking vision - instantaneous as the last, but revealing.

It proved the point that 8th Street had been here. That they were sniffing around. That they knew something at the least, if they weren't already involved. That they were assholes who had stepped onto his internal measuring scale of people that needed to be dealt with.

And then, as if to accentuate that point;

”... Lynn is almost certain we are about to be attacked by the 8th Street Coven. Be prepared, in case she is right.”

Jack

The speaker had appeared and disappeared before Clancy had any chance to ask him question, but the dull thud running beneath their feet told him the about to be was actually right now. Exiting the basement at a pace, Clancy felt for the dufflebag clung to his back. Maybe later. Through a window, he caught a glimpse of what was waiting for them. A group of faces, vaguely familiar from their shared vision but not to him. Towering over them was a mass of... he could have described it as a cross between a venus flytrap, a skinned bear, and carrion thar had been smeared across the road by a convoy of truckers.

It was meat, animate and leaking fluids. Strangely familiar, in a twisted sense.

Finally, he could make out what they were saying; the voice wasn't dampened, strangely enough.

"... It's been a while, hasn't it, sluts!?" Emily shouted, her voice loud enough to be heard all over the property. "Missed the reunion... Well, I wasn't invited! Well, I wouldn't have come either way - that unfair treatment I received at the Halloween Festival told me I made the right choice, anyway!"

She looked around, grinning like a fool. As she threw the hood up, the rain fell on her hair. "So, I'm going to be quick and to the point; we're not here to fight you sluts. I'm here for one person, and one person only, Lila Blackwood..."

"... AND FUCKING BRITNEY! I'M GOING TO RIP HER FUCKING INTESTINES OUT, FEED 'IM TO CYNTHIA, FIX HER, JUST TO DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN!"

Carol screamed, stepping from behind the undead monster's leg. Emily just rolled her eyes.

"... And Britney," Emily began, putting a hand on her hip. "So, just hand those two over, and we'll leave you sluts to rob a dead retard's house - do you sluts have any shame or dignity at all?"

girlswhopeakedinhighschool

The girl who'd screamed for Britney's guts - literally - seemed young. Not much older than he had been, if that. She stood out like a sore thumb, almost as much as he did. Why was she with them? Clancy thought back to what Kenshiro had said, something he'd only peripherally noted as the wheezy girl had lost her cool with him.

"She's a Pactmaker! And the whole reason Emily G. Reed is a bitter, wretched fucking cunt today? Is because of you, Britney Williams."

Right, the girl was probably another nightmare of her own creation.

Momentarily, he considered whether it was worth giving Britney to them. He couldn't say he felt any approval at what she'd done, and given his own situation had been inflicted upon him, some wilderness nightmare a long way from home, he felt he probably shared more background with these assholes than he would

But they were assholes, and they were in the way. Either they had a hand in the murders, or they were going to be a blocker to finding whoever did. And he was hungry.

Besides, he considered, what would Ashley have done?

The other girl, Lila? Something odd struck him about her, but he couldn't figure it out. He couldn't say she deserved to die, and he knew enough of Emily and 8th Street to know that they were unlikely to be moved by invoking the milk of human kindness.

Emily had mercilessly badgered Ashley. Asbley wouldn't have wanted him to let her friends die like this.

Britney got off, for now - but he wouldn't be shedding tears for her if anything happened.

Not that he could

The others were mobilising, rushing outside without regard. Given how well that had worked last time, Clancy reconsidered.

Looking to the stairs, Clancy paced up to find a better vantage, tugging his hood upwards over his head. Behind him, Luca's voice was in one ear, telling Britney to run and-

burning ambience

A wave of heat erupted over him, and the rest of the upper stairwell. A blinding light that struck him like a kick to the gut. Clancy staggered backwards, tumbled, and hit the ground floor on his hands and knees, needing a moment's pause to regain his composure as his now-burning clothes blackened under hellfire rained from above.

Luca was stood there in the doorway still, flames licking outwards from above and below. The memory of charred flesh in a condemned apartment block sprung to mind. Of panicked homeless and addicts pounding on the interior of boarded-up doors and windows, begging to be let out before the smoke inhalation got them.

It wasn't a kind way to die.

Ashley wouldn't want this.

Forcing himself to his feet, Clancy paced towards Luca, seized him by the lower half of his shirt, and then hesitated as though something corrosive had slapped him in the face, the boy's expression crinkling as icy-cold fingers twisted at the fabric and skin beneath.

"Run," he echoed, before shoving Luca out the quieter side of the porch, away from the burning timbers of the balcony above as the weight of the building threatened to give way under the additional pressure.

Leaving him stood there at the porch, in full view of whatever remained of 8th Street, charred clothes still smouldering.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@NoriWasHere@everyone

ambience

Kari Wilson's House

---

So, 8th Street were squatting in a mansion? Compared to the abandoned factories, warehouses and run-down projects he'd clambered through in the northern half of the Rust Belt, that didn't sound too bad.

Harder to miss, Clancy guessed.

Sloane denied any real knowledge of the book, but she'd mentioned the mansion. Before he could probe further on that point, Luca had mentioned contacting one of 8th Street - someone called Jacqueline, but he still wanted to know about the mansion.

"Who says I can't?" Clancy asked, floating the question bluntly, "You think this is the first time I've got into places they don't want people? How'd you think I got in here? Be easier if someone could just tell me where to go." His tone wasn't hostile; just direct as he thumbed back in Luca's direction. "Y'know... just in case things don't work out."

But it was too late for that, and she was already distracted with something else. The asian man - Ken - was trudging down the steps of the basement with them to show them what he'd known. The space was familiar, and held a dull warmth that he couldn't quite feel anymore, but could've pictured someone else enjoying. It was the kind of place that he'd imagine his old man or his brother would've enjoyed, a long time ago.

He had no clue what the Murasaki or their Dark Drops were, but he could only guess it was another form of the magic lux he'd slowly come to understand, probably with some Jap twist that his Uncle Gerry would've scrunched at with a queer suspicion. Purple Light projected characters of an alien language across the surface of the wall, scrolling like a holographic displauy.

And the space opened. A space that didn't seem as though it belonged to the wall, but was more like a window to somewhere else. It felt different, fundamentally.

An array of belongings. Boxes. Containing treasures or junk, depending on who you asked. They meant nothing to Clancy, but he suspected his sister might have appreciated them. She liked colour, and there was plenty of it here. In the feathers. In the stones - in those that glowed in a spectrum that he couldn't have plausibly believed if not for other things he already knew about the world.

The man was crying. Grieving might've been a better word for it, because tears were just the surface level pain - something he couldn't have shared in even if he wanted to. Clancy didn't judge Kenshiro for this one, considering what he was probably going through. He seemed to be one of the few members of Ashley's old friend circle that seemed to actually give a shit, and apply some measure of organisation and common sense. He could appreciate that, and with the news that the notebooks were missing, and the argument that followed around 8th street and whether or not they were involved, and what they may or may not know, something came to mind.

"I'm sorry about your friend." Clancy said, directing an outwardly cold -but genuine - condolence to Kenshiro, "It's shitty. But-.. only Kari would've known how to unlock this thing, right? And you-" he shifted his gaze towards Britney, "You said the one who died wasn't your Kari."

He suspected this wouldn't make him popular, but he had to make the argument. It was so obvious that he felt stupid for not giving it more consideration.

"I'm not saying it's her. Your other friend - Lionel? At the graveyard, I heard him call Father Wolf a 'he'." He shot Britney and Adora another look, "Yes, I was there when she told you where to go, too, but I don't care about that right now. So far, everyone who's been killed by this asshole has been part of your old group. Unless you still have enemies that aren't dead or gone, that makes it possible that it could be someone who was one of you. Or that someone of you is caught up in this too. Is that Kari? I don't know. But she's part of this now, and if she isn't dead it's obvious she's hiding or being hidden."

He shrugged. "Back to my point. How many of you are left now? How many of you do you know that are still alive? That isn't to say this rules out any one of you, either-... but I've heard about 8th Street, and Emily and her group of assholes - they've come up too many times not to be involved, or have some part in this."

This time, he pivoted fully to face Britney.

"I don't know what you did to people, to make them something they're not, but I know what it's like to be on the other side of that." Cold condemnation sat in his gaze. "If you had done that to me, you'd be dead already. But I'm not her. I don't know what's going through their heads."

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@NoriWasHere@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Of all of them to answer his question, it was the scruffy latino that reeked of a decay that wasn't entirely represented by appearance, outside of their abnormally tattered clothing. Luca. He was slowly cataloguing their names, both because he was getting tired of using vague descriptors to match to faces, and because it was the courteous thing that he'd been raised to do, once upon a time.

The boy seemed benign enough, but that rot was needling at Clancy's senses as he spoke. He couldn't figrue out why.

”... yeah, she is an asshole. She was an asshole then too. But someone here forcefully adjoined her to an apparition, so you could say there’s more bad blood because of that.”

Something gave him pause, distracting from the assault on his senses. A moment ago, he'd been ready to consider dealing with the girl and her friends in a coven that sounded more like some of the gangbanger crews he'd ran into back in Detroit. That was an option still on the cards, but he considered whether she was acting of her own accord or because other motives were at the wheel. That they wanted to fix some of the curses that had been inflicted upon them was itself a goal he could understood, but it invoked another thought - who here had forcefuly 'adjoined' her?

He had heard the term before, alongside others, and while the exact meaning seemed vague, he could make an educated guess on what it meant. He thought back to what Ashley had told him. How 'Britney' had crossed a line, done what was necessary - and finally made the connection.

We're all monsters, he recalled.

For a moment, his eyes fixated on Britney and crinkled, the few flakes of broken plaster in his hand crunched further into dust as fingers clenched and released. It wasn't his grudge to hold, but that did nothing to improve his view of the girl.

Focus. Luca had mentioned a book. He was thinking back to the waking dream, "Where is the book now?"

If this book had the answers, his line of thinking was that they would take the book, whether or not that meant fighting for it. Maybe it could answer other questions too, such as-

He paused that thought for a moment; over Luca's shoulder, he could see some others approaching. One of them was another familiar face - 'Lynn', was it? He recognised her as the one who'd said she was glad Linqian's brother had been murdered. It had been a vile thing to say, one that had briefly disturbed the mental equilibrium within him as he'd watched from afar - it was too close to home when Clancy was the last one standing out of his own siblings.

And now, here she was again, almost scowling at the same woman she'd needled with the brother comment.

"Mention anything about a brother..." he muttered - barely loud enough that only those stood closest might have heard, 'and I'll remove your jaw' is what he almost wanted to say, but he didn't bother trying to continue the point. It would've been wasted anyway, even if he had been heard; she'd walked past them into another room, and the taller, leaner speaker, Jasper, introduced himsef and the other girl - Lila - before returning to painting something he coudn't make out from this angle.

Outside, a commotion was breaking out - or a drunken display, it wasn't clear. A few had droped in, then moved back onto the lawn. Linqian and Sloane were at each other's throats, talking about the latter's supposed business with Eighth Street, and what he could only assume was bad blood between them. "Idiots," he growled, barely loud enough to be heard, "You can kill each other later."

Luckily, Britney had interceded to nip it in the bud - yet again mentioning this 'Vashti' - and they were back on track. For now.
She tilted her head to look back over her shoulder at Britney, still speaking quietly. The plan, it seeemed, was to look for whatever this Kari had left in the basement - clues to who Father Wolf was, hopefully.

He considered whether it was worth bringing the other things he knew to the table. The encounter with Shayton at the Halloween Festival. The business with Dollhouse. The fact that they claimed to be just as interested in dealing with Father Wolf.

Later. They were too distracted to focus beyond a select few workstreams, and had shown little interest when he'd first told them at the Church.

"The book Luca mentioned, have you seen it? Do you know where it is?" He directed the question towards Sloane, and then - thinking back to something Linqian had said to Britney - closed the gap so he was but a few paces away.

"She won't say anything, again- his voice was barely above a whisper, spoken in a hushed tone for what could've only been privacy's sake, "-about your brother." Neither smile nor scowl creased his features as they approached the basement.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Clancy gave Layla a queer look, thinking back on what she'd said. Blood on his hands...

She was the girl who'd taken Alizee's place, if what little he understood about them was correct. What was she talking about? Blood on his hands.

The mess, left by the nazi asshole at the club?

Friend?

The parasite. He realised now, the shadow wasn't there - not that he would miss it. The entropic wound it formed wherever it stood was absent, though he thought it was a shame that the French girl had needed to die first. "It wasn't your friend. One dead host was never going to be enough. Believe me, you're better off without-"

Something interrupted his train of thought. Lingering further from the doorway, a rotting presence was the best way he could describe it. One of the others, stood outside, a skinny latino with darker, almost-tatty clothes that put his own garb to shame. He wasn't sure why, but he got the impression there was more than a skin-deep deterioration to him. Maybe he'd find out later.

Everyone here had their secrets, it seemed.

Clancy understood that especially.

Britney had questioned him before, and he'd addressed most of her questions as far as he was willing to, but there was one outstanding point. That he'd taken a bullet in front of about half of their number was a point he'd dodged so far.

"Got better," he answered in response to her and Stormy's continued interrogation, "No, don't let me stop you from getting wasted, I'm just here for-"

---

The recollection hit him with no less force then the rest of them, like a waking dream being observed through a filter. A memory slipped into his consciousness, through the eyes of another person. Senses he'd not experienced for a long time. And then it was over - and he was back in the real world, or the closest thing that could pass for it to him.

The sound of something crackling capped off the recollection as they returned back to their senses.

Of the group of them, Clancy was among those that had expressed the most discomfort - for lack of a better word. Not a physical pain, no, but the crinkled expression and fight-or-flight posture were an indicator that the memory had broken some of the mental walls he'd set up for himself.

And, as if to emphasise the point, there was another section of the cabin's plaster wall damaged when they regained full cogniscence, a gouge about the size of a hand, as though someone had pressed their palm to the wall and dug their fingers into the plaster.

White dust coated his sleeve and fingertips, the most incriminating factor. It was the most emotion he'd expressed in the presence of others for a long time, and it was no doubt they could probably see that.

"You're seeing them too, right?" he asked, breaking the silence to draw attention away from the damage. They had to have seen it, otherwise why had they all stopped at the same time?

None of the faces in the memory were familiar to him. The names were, somewhat - albeit in fragments. Names he'd heard in passing. And Kari herself. There was one that gnawed at him, though.

Emily.

He'd heard that name before, several times, from different places. Around St. Portwell - mentions of the Eighth Street Coven, and before that, when-

When the name had been brought up by Ashley. During their internet chats, they'd gotten to a point of trust that she felt capable of sharing snippets of herself with him, as he had the same. About family, and loss. Other things too.

Ashley hadn't spoken of her like it was a good thing, he recalled.

Come to think of it, there seemed to be a pattern to this. And 8th Street were a player in this town he knew, and a relentless one at that.

"I don't recognise them." Clancy said, wiping the plaster fragments off on his jeans, "But this Emily-... she sounds like an asshole."

The truth was that he was wondering whether she was the kind of asshole that needed dealing with. That was his first instinct. The second instinct was the question the first, because instinct was a component he couldn't rely on without losing himself.

It was difficult to say. The vision had kicked at his senses, unbalanced him. Maybe it was the same for the others, but his sense of north and south had pivoted in light of the sudden alteration to the established rules of his existence. He didn't dream. Couldn't sleep, even. Had no need for either. And yet here he was, in a waking dream, with strangers.

"Like I said, I don't know most of you, barely have names for faces, but Emily.... she knows who you are, right?" he continued, "You've got history. Is she part of this?"

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Sloane had shot him a dispassionate expression that he met with one of his own, unrelenting. He was familiar with the unhappy gaze of strangers, the other side of the nuisance-friendly-do-gooer spectrum, the kind of people who were more like to shoo their own kids away from him and whisper thngs to their spouses.

"Finally, some honesty." he acknowledged Linqian - the girl who'd lost a brother, if he recalled from that argument at the church correctly, and she at least didn't entertain this 'facade' they were anything but associates by necessity at this stage. And unlike the rest, she'd suffered personal loss in this. A sibling was something he could understand. He'd had a brother once, lost some seven thousand miles away in a foreign country he'd barely heard of. And the thought of Judy's withered face before had crossed his mind before he dispelled it.

She was asking about his situation? Not something h wanted to broach, in light of the RV. This place ]would have been a half-decent waiting spot, if for nothing else then because it was somewhat close enough to St. Portwell while being isolated enough that he was unlikely to be disturbed by anything but wild game to whet his appetite, "Not on the streets,", he deflected, before shifting onto his next point as the other one, "But respect or not, dead people don't care about what you do with their stuff believe me. Just don't want Smokey Bear-" Clancy gestured to the encroaching suburban wilderness outside by lazily jabbing one sleeve outwards, "-or any of the other neighbours calling the cops because you broke down the door, before..

"No! No, no, I won't stand for this now! Who... What... Why!? Can't we ever get fucking organized? It's just like making plans! Just like it, I make sure I come back for a certain date, I syncronize my cronometer between the two dimensions, I get home on time to texts telling me that things are canceled like Verizon exists in the Kingdom of Molaran?"

The stranger with peculiarly eastern features and a dour expression cut off his train of thought. "Kingdom of what?" He wasn't sure if it was a metaphor, a joke, or something outright tangible. But he was right - the planning department in this group was lacking, and he felt exasperated at having to be the one to tell them - and get no results. Was this why Ashley had decided she was done with them, dead or alive? From the internat chats they'd shared, he was getting the impression this was almost certainly the case.

And he couldn't help but notice that some of the others were looking at him queerly. The bearded man with the chalice - was that the same chalice as the one from the dream? And the other bearded guy, the one who'd dispelled the blinding light that night at the strip club. He wasn't close enough to make out what was being said, but he suspected it would lead to some difficult questions - he'd deal with those later.

The plan to drink a round of sacky or whatever it was called seemed sound enough, for the rest of them. At least they had a better lead than just look through the dead girl's things for clues. He was starting to grow tired of thinking of these people as the bearded man and the grieving eastern man - and decided to be blunt about it.

"You're Sloane. I think I recognise the 'Britney' and 'Adora', but I'm struggling to follow who you are," he recited, "There's a lot of names carved in that tree, and Ashley didn't say much except how some people were assholes. She was family to me. I want Father Wolf. He wants you dead. Does that answer your questions?"

He wondered if he'd regret that in just a few minutes.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Dreaming

---

The same girl again. Imitations of a human face, a human expression. An oily black fluid. Snakes, writhing in the ooze. When the creature climbed atop the girl, that entropic pit of despair gnawed at the memories deep within his consciousness, and he felt a pang of familiarity that brought no warmth. And then the ooze burst forth from the humanoid creature's constrictor-like maw.

"No," he wanted to scream, but the word gave no voice, "Leave her alone!"

He had no mouth, and could not scream. Forced to watch, he thrashed non-existant limbs against equally non-existant walls, raging against the immaterial. Helpless, in a way that cut at his core, unable to intervene or break this creature that forced its poison upon another. To rip, tear, bite, devour-

And then it ended, and the girl had dusted herself and moved on, undeterred - that was more than he would've admitted to doing, where their places swapped. A temple ruin of some sorts, like the comics he used to read. A book of symbols that he didn't understand, save that they meant some form of power

Automaton suits of armour, with sections that precluded a human occupant, following the orders of a 'King' that made little sense to him. The girl seemed done for, once again, as they levelled arms against her - only to be crushed by the arms of a giant sprouting from the ground, a creation of the older woman's blood magic - if such a thing were as it seemed.

Their joy was short-lived. The girl had doubled over, serpentine shapes writhing beneath her skin; the black ooze. Phantom fingers tightened into a fist, but as before, Clancy was an observer and nothing more. He had no control here. Instead, the other creature's words to the girl's "mother" cycled through his mind.

"How can you kill what doesn't live?"

It was a good question.

---

Junkyard

---

Deja vu.

Thoughts of the hunted girl, the chalice and the book were soon pushed to one side.

Morning light spilled into his vision, and he realised he was awake and in the real world. The second dreaming. And not just from the skylight; in the thrashing before his waking - as he had watched the ooze forced upon the girl - Clancy realised his phantom limbs had, in fact, raged against something. The interior of the cabin was in further disarray than when he'd left it, cabinets torn from their fittings on the wall, the windows hatttered and where there had been a finished plywood wall beside the doorframe, there was now a jagged hole the size of his arm where even more light spilled through.

And he recognised the shadowy digits emerging from the hand closest to that entrypoint, long and thin as stalactites, threatening to burst through his fingertips and subsume the rest of his self in the throes of a paralytic rage. He shook the arm, and when that seemed to be insufficient, held it out into the light until those black digits receded.

His next question: had anyone seem him? To his annoyance, he acknowledged that the RV was no longer an option for him now. If the sound of his unconscious-self tossing the place in a frenzy hadn't drawn attention, the sight of the wrecked motor home would. That meant finding somewhere else to settle down his few possessions, and draw together his thoughts - a question he would settle later in the day, or night if required. It was a frustration that he could contain, at the least, but it brought to mind another problem that had emerged since he arrived in town, looking for the one who killed Ashley.

In the days since the island, he felt as though another set of eyes and ears trailed close behind him - perhaps it was just paranoia, but the standoff with Shayton had left an impression that had more permanence than the cane lodged through his eye socket. He was not wanting for 'enemies', if there were. The biker-nazi assholes would have no love for him or the gradually increasing dent he'd made in their numbers. The PRA believed that something had killed Judas, and the real killer - Shayton and his employers, assuming they were Dollhouse - were yet another set of assholes with an agenda that involved dealing with him.

And for all intents and purposes, if Shayton had been telling any shade of truth, which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, neither of the three had anything to do with Father Wolf.

It changed nothing, he recognised, and he felt that pang of frustration at being no closer to understanding any of it. The dreaming that invaded his consciousness, the messages that trailed them. There were only a handful of artifacts he knew of; one was a blade that served as a means to an end, and the other was the axe in his possession, a sharp and sturdy weapon. The Book was beyond his reckoning. The Chalice, he vaguely recalled having seen it somewhere, but not so well as to know or understand its purpose.

Raven Jones - the girl in the dreams - the monster as the voice had dubbed her, was a stranger to him. When this happened, he didn't know. Days, months, weeks, or maybe years ago? Centuries, even.

Was it a trick, a lie?

Clancy shook the thought away. His only lead involved the group of people being targeted by Father Wolf. The Sycamore Coven. A group that seemed bigger by the day whenever he dropped by, and judging by the initials carved into the tree, it seemed as though they once numbered enough to fill out a school year.

There would be time to find a new place of respite later, he affirmed himself, then tugged at the strap of his dufflebag, sloughing off the fragments of shattered plywood sprinkled across the top, then slung it over his shoulder, feeling for the weight of the axe within.

---

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Estylwen@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

He was early.

And, as far as he knew, alone. The others hadn't quite arrived yet, and he wasn't aware that a third party was watching from afar - although the paranoia of being followed had never quite gone away.

When he'd first approached, the cabin had invoked memories of stalking through forest hiking trails and national parks. It almost seemed too good to be true; where was the moss and overgrowth? He could give their landscraper credit, he supposed.

Getting inside ahead of the others had required a little finnesse, but he'd had plenty practice of quietly slipping inside buildings that offered no warm welcome.

Assessing the wasn't too hard; Clancy had briefly contemplated using the chimney until he realised he was neither jolly nor fat - and realised there was an open balcony that would've just as easily led inside. Scaling the pillar and the railing wasn't a great effort, and prying open the door required just a touch of finesse. That got him inside, although by the time he'd done so, other figures were starting to appear on the horizon, and so he closed that door behind him.

Making sure this wasn't going to be another disaster seemed sensible enough. Why let more of Ashley's idiot 'friends' get themselves killed before they could get results, if such a thing were possible.

The night at the island, he'd left with a wretched outlook, stewing in his failure and surrounded by a crowd of people to stoke that fire - the toga party had stirred some conflicted feelings at the back of his mind, which clashed with the expectations and subsequent behaviour he'd seen from them. For a group of supposed friends, it was clear the only consistent factor between them were the ties to the coven and the entity they fought, and these days it seemed as though that friendship was at its limits.

Ashley's response from beyond the grave was telling enough, although he wondered if he wouldn't have said the same in her place among the dead, whether or not he'd known them. Her answer was enough to suggest she didn't want to be disturbed, and he could respect that to some degree.

The other two, however..

Lionel Hunter - he'd named the killer as a 'he', although he never got specific, but the 'club' angle made something of a difference for him. Problem was, there were clubs all over what qualified as 'downtown', and he'd drawn enough trouble at the first club he'd gatecrashed on his way into town. Despite this, Clancy had tried to find something of use, only to run into dead ends.

Kari Wilson - an outlier in that she seemed to have no memories of their friend group - only heavy footsteps before she died. So maybe Father Wolf was a he, unless . They'd talked about her not being 'their' Kari that night, and from what he'd overheard from following the others, they seemed interested in her. That's why he was here tonight.

The other victims had shown up dead too late to be of any use. In the case of Kali Mahendra - the one that seemed to be tied up with the federals and had supposedly died in a public place - he'd tried to get his hands on the security footage from the place he'd supposedly died, but it had been a dead end. The footage had already been taken by the authorities, or was conveniently absent when he'd gone poking through the back offices of a couple of local stores. Whether that was by design or negligence he didn't know, and he realised in poking around he'd exposed himself to more attention than he'd wanted.

Which brought him back to Kari Wilson.

He'd watched, listened, tracked and waited. The surviving 'coven' had been planning a trip here anyway, and given Ashley's things had been tossed over, and the others had died aware they were on the block with no real leads to offer in their dying, he rationalised that visiting Kari's place wasn't unreasonable. A clue at what she'd been doing, what had happened maybe.

That aside, he was tired of blindly fumbling for answers alone - as a stranger to St. Portwell and the history behind it. Back on track. The upper floor had been cleared, for now. He didn't have the context or the background to know what else he might be looking for.

Voices outside. They were close enough now that he could hear them more clearly. Another one of their number had died. Lyss. Clancy made his way downstairs, one eye on the front door, and the other taking in his surroundings.

“.. let’s all huddle up, focus, and give Auri our undivided attention, okay? But first let’s take a moment to pay respects to Lyss. She was a good egg. A lot of us are standing here today thanks to her,”

A pause. Then, in the dark - a fire that resembled gaslight, blue and orange. Were they trying to pick the lock?

He realised it was probably easier to unlock the door from the inside and let them in, but-

“I dunno, maybe we can just give her a moment of si—”

BANG!

It burst open hard enough to dent the interior plaster and rebound back in the doorway, only for someone to catch it. Sloane - he remembered her from the church, although she hadn't noticed him yet - he was stood off to one side, in a blind spot.

“Door’s open. What are you waiting for? Let’s go accomplish fucking nothing again.”

It was clear she wasn't making any friends, judging by the reaction of the others.

”I know because you think Kari is dead; it doesn't matter what we do to her house, but I'm not going to sit here and let you, or anyone else, trash her home. I don't want to be here, and I don't think we should be breaking into her house in the first place, but we need to show her - and her possessions - some respect.”

Good friends indeed.

”She was one of us - the most vital in fact - and you should leave your little world for a second and remember that.”

"You could've knocked," Clancy answered, announcing his presence.

As before, he wore the same green and yellow sports hoodie and awkwardly cut-to-length jeans, now bearing a few extra dark spots from almost two weeks of exposure to dirt, grime and other detritus in the elements.

"At least your friend's kinda onto a point, but you really are a shitty bunch of friends, to Ashley and the rest, d'you know that?" His expression was a cold condemndation, almost glowering, but he shook it off. "If you can remember not to fight like a bunch of high school kids, maybe you'll get something done this time."

As he stepped into view, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder, along the length of his body, came into view.