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sylphidine · 6 months ago

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[Fic] Call Signs, Chapter 38

Fandom: Deltarune

‘Verse: Human AU

Pairings: Swatch/Spamton [Swatchton]; Spamton/T.M. [Spamager], GiGi/Leroux [QueenKaard]

Characters: Spamton Addison, Eos Addison, Swatch Paletta, Indigo Dyer, Catechu Dyer, Julius Dyer, Endora the Third, Desiree Dyer, T.M. Tinker, GiGi McCray, Leroux Kaard, Lance O'Toole, Kirov Rouvin

Rating: Mature

Chapter title: Scooby-Dooby Doors

Chapter summary: The days leading up to the Seeds of Peace Festival, as seen through varying points of view.

Author notes: Content warning for discussion of alcohol consumption, plus a [possible] hallucinatory experience.

Special thanks to @cozylittleartblog for permission to reference her QueenKaard comics. They've shaped a lot of the way I write GiGi, Leroux, and Lance.

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FRIDAY NIGHT, THE FIRST OF APRIL

Spamton had never seen a DVD hiccup like this one. Steve Sharples’ “Bolero” played out over the closing credits of MOULIN ROUGE!, and then kept looping back to play again. He’d seen audio tracks looped like this on YouTube, but a DVD doing it was new to him.

One heck of a coincidental scratch , he thought after the fourth time, and pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes.

The music stopped in mid-chord, and the word “truth” was frozen in pixels on the screen

Huh?

And then it resumed with the orchestral flourish and the unfurling of the remaining words ”beauty, freedom, but above all, love.”

Definitely unsettled now, not knowing whether or not this was the first hallucination he’d had in months, he leaned over to poke a sleepy Eos. “M-movie’s over.”

His eldest brother came back to attention at Spamton’s words and reached for the remote, turning the 85-inch flat screen TV off. “So what did you think this time, seeing it as an adult rather than as a kid?”

“Hmmmm.” Spamton wanted to give a serious answer, since this was obviously one of his sibling’s favorite movies. “C-can I be honest? I think the f-fact of Zidler and the Diamond D-Dogs losing their - their livelihood and their home is a LOT m-more tragic than Satine dying.”

He didn’t bother to explain that losing one’s livelihood and home might be just a touch relatable. No need to ruin an evening of family bonding.

Eos nodded in response to his statement. “Same here. I like the IDEA of love as much as anyone, but that big romance between Christian and Satine? That was mutual obsession, not love. Satine was street-savvy, she knew the risks of stringing the Duke along and not delivering, but she let Christian’s infatuation blind her. The pair of them were oblivious. THAT’S not love.”

Warming to his topic, Eos continued, “When I’ve seen people in love, truly in love, they’re MORE aware of everyone around them, not less.” He leaned over and poked Spamton back. “I think you might know a little more about that now than you did a few years ago.”

“G-Guilty as charged.” And Spamton did actually feel guilty for what felt like hours of rhapsodizing over his partners and monopolizing the conversation. He could blame the booze for that.

Digging out the special vanilla bean ice cream for dessert had turned into making a pitcherful of frozen Brandy Alexanders, the drinking of which had definitely loosened Spamton’s tongue and had made both Eos and him quite sentimental. An over-the-top lushly romantic movie had seemed the perfect thing two hours ago, but he was starting to feel he didn’t know his eldest brother any better now than he did before he’d gotten off the train.

Spamton got up from the couch and sighed. “G-Guess it’s time to call it a n-night.” It was coming up on midnight, too late to text Trez. He could probably get away with shooting a quick note to Swatch, but figured it would be better to wait until morning.

Eos got up too and wagged his finger at his baby brother. “You’ll come talk to me if you can’t sleep, right? I’m here to listen, you know. It means a lot to me that you WANT to talk to me.”

“I will. And I’ll c-c-come running if I have a n-nightmare.”

“See that you do.”

SATURDAY NIGHT, THE SECOND OF APRIL

Swatch woke up abruptly when a small heat-seeking missile unerringly found its target. worming its way under their outstretched arm.

They had been lying spread-eagled on their front, taking up as much of the bed as possible, and hadn’t heard the bedroom door open. They rolled back onto their side and pulled Spamton into a hug, sleepily kissing his cheeks, his nose, and finally his mouth.

“Welcome home,” they rasped. “Your nose is cold.”

“And you’re w-warm. Too warm. Like - like ‘running a f-f-fever’ too warm. Are you alright?”

“Eh, I’ll live. I went on a wilderness walk today and might have gotten a little bit soaked through.”

“M-might have?”

“Okay, I definitely got soaked. I fell into a marshy bit.”

“Swatch.” It was completely dark in the room, and Spamton’s voice was firm now. “Why were you in - in a marshy bit?”

“Looking for pussy willows?”

“Pussy willows.” The small man sighed. “Well, that - that explains the v-v-vases all over the living room.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Swatch leaned in for another kiss. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“I’d say it was because I m-missed you, but really it was b-b-b-because it’s supposed t-to rain tomorrow and Eos didn’t - didn’t want me to - to risk his precious record albums on the tr-train, so he drove me b-back here..” Spamton anticipated Swatch’s next question.”And n-no, he didn’t just round-trip it back to - to Purchase. The f-family has a c-condo on the Upper East Side.”

“Indeed. Why am I not surprised.” They yawned, their hands wandering over their partner’s body. They commented groggily, “You poor thing. You seem to have lost your clothes somewhere between here and the front door. Let me warm you up.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Mmmmmm.”

MONDAY NIGHT, THE FOURTH OF APRIL

Julius Dyer opened the apartment door with one hand before either Catechu or Indigo could dig out their keys. With the other hand, he clasped a fat black cat to his chest and shoulder.

“Conquered without a fight, huh? It’s good of you to have taken Endora in until I get settled.” T.M. grinned at the twins’ dad from where she stood just behind them, a pastry box in her hands. The tall man moved back from the doorway so he could let his sons and adopted niece in.

“Girl, this kitty is keener on sports than half the folks I work with. She’s my ESPN buddy, isn’t that right, Endy?”

The cat nuzzled Julius at the sound of her nickname, and Catto smirked at the sight. “You gonna get her a little Knicks bandanna, Dad?”

“Sure thing I am. And maybe a Mets blanket.” Julius led everyone into the living room and let Endora the Third hop out of his hold onto the couch. “Soon as she learns not to paw at the scrolly thing on the television.”

“It’s called a ticker, Dad.” Indo wrapped an arm over his father’s shoulder and steered him towards the kitchen, saying, “When’s dinner, what’s for dinner, and can I help?”

“Desiree’s home in an hour, dinner is chicken and rice casserole, and I don’t gotta be asked twice to have you do some of the chopping.”

T.M. put the box on the kitchen island, rubbed her stomach happily, and then grabbed Catto's hand. “C’mon, big fella. Let’s see how much of my stuff is downstairs in storage so I know what I have to deal with next month when I move, wherever I move.”

Catto followed her to the elevator, mock-groaning. “And I’ll bet you’re betting on me and my bro carrying it all, six flights of stairs in some walkup.”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmaybe.”

“Good thing you’re my sis.”

Later, as dinner was winding down, Desiree was the first to bring up rental possibilities for T.M. Ticking the points off on her fingers, she said, “There’s co-living sites, furnished rooms, and there’s apartments. I can do a referral for you for Cohabs up in Harlem, if you want.”

“Ugh Sure, I’d have a private room and I wouldn’t have to worry about furniture, but it would be like living in a cage unless I wanted to socialize with twenty-three roommates. I did enough of that in the dorms with GiGi and her entourage. And isn’t Cohabs just for short-term remote work dweebs?”

“I think the acceptable term nowadays is ‘digital nomad’, honey. At least that’s what our office calls them. You’re right though, I can’t see it as a long-term solution for you.”

“Where does that leave me, though?”

An unspoken conversation had apparently taken place behind T.M.’s back, because Catto and Indo swooped in to grab everyone’s empty plates, and Julius, an apron wrapped around his middle, was making shooing motions. “Go talk shop, Dez, we’ve got this.”

His wife laughed as she got up from the table. “C’mon, Tab- I mean, Therese, we can finish this in the den.”

T.M. followed her, waggling her fingers at the three men and tossing the words, “Don’t eat all the crumb cake I brought, save some for us when we’re done” over her shoulder.

After half an hour of discussing the salary that T.M. would be getting at WNYC, her expected expenses for commuting on the subway, clothing, and food, Desiree went over some of the current listings her agency had for furnished and unfurnished apartments they had on file. The results were grim, to say the least.

They both reluctantly agreed that the only real choices that fit T.M.’s budget were either studios in Kingsbridge near the college, which would be a long commute at the best of times, or a shared apartment in downtown Manhattan, with all the risks involved in living with strangers.

“Swatch isn’t going to have it any easier, you know,” Desiree pointed out.

“I do know, even with their higher pay. And Swatch isn’t as, shall we say, gregarious, as your boys are. I don’t see Swatch wanting roommates.”

“Not even the man Swatch is dating?”

T.M. flinched, and hoped against hope that Desiree hadn’t seen her flinch.

No such luck. The older woman sighed, then seemed to make up her mind as to what to say.

“I know I have no real right to butt in, but I think of you as being one of my kids, especially with how useless your mama is. And a little bird told me that you’re seeing Swatch’s boyfriend on the side—”

“It’s not on the side! Swatch knows all about it. And they’re alright with it.”

To her credit, Desiree visibly was giving some thought to the implications of that remark and didn’t just rush in with a condemning reply. She did draw in a few deep breaths, and then softly asked, “Honey, are you being safe?”

T.M. knew exactly what was being asked, and something in her chest ached. This was the mother she should have had. This was the kind of talk she should have been able to have with her own mother. Sitting in an apartment right above the one where she used to live, it felt like miles and decades between here and now and her old pre-college life.

She couldn’t help the waver in her voice when she answered, “Yes, Desiree, I’m being safe. I’ve been on birth control for years, and I’m not having what you’d think of as sex right now anyway.” Her attempt at her usual grin faltered as she added, “Gave it up for Lent.”

She was reassured when the other woman gave a snort and snarked back at her, “That isn’t what I asked, Dr. Ruth.”

“Really.” T.M. looked her adopted aunt straight in the eyes. “We’re just having fun. No strings.”

Desiree closed her laptop and turned in her chair, holding her arms out to T.M. “C’mere. If I can’t stop you from breaking your own heart by pretending you don't have one, I can at least give you a hug.”

WEDNESDAY NIGHT, THE SIXTH OF APRIL

Timing is everything , Spamton thought to himself as he blew his nose for what felt like the thousandth time.

Swatch’s “wilderness trek” and wet feet had resulted in Swatch having one - ONE! - day of sniffles, and then they were as right as rain, whereas Spamton was still completely congested and wheezing. He figured that navigating trains and subways had given his system enough of a petri dish that Swatch’s cold had knocked him out harder than it had Swatch. He’d missed three days of classes, had called out of his radio show last night, and had reluctantly canceled the “dancing” part of the upcoming dance marathon on Saturday, although he fully intended to make up the amount of the monetary pledges he’d gathered out of his own pocket.

There was no way Spamton was missing out on the DJing part of the marathon, though. He’d laid his hands on a Daft Punk cosplay helmet; the visor was big enough that he could wear eyewear under it. Between the helmet, his pink and yellow shades behind the tinted charcoal glass visor, and the vocoder, DJ Dreamweaver’s identity could stay a secret.

He sighed, thinking of the lost opportunities to cut a metaphorical rug with either Trez or Swatch. Much to Spamton's surprise, Swatch had signed up for two separate hours of dancing, times to be determined. Unlike the fierce competition for pledges that had been flaring for weeks between Trez and Leroux as they hit all the local businesses in Kingsbridge, Swatch was being quietly sanguine by raising money in their old Queens neighborhood through the members of their aunt and uncle’s church parish.

And speaking of church, Spamton had to talk to his siblings about the verbal invitation for Easter weekend that he had gotten from Indigo yesterday, passed along from Indo's parents. Apparently the Easter morning sunrise service at Rockaway Beach was an annual thing for all the Dyers and their extended family.

For the Addisons, Easter as an ecclesiastical thing had gotten less and less important over the years since their parents' death; they really only went to church as a family on Christmas Eve. But Spamton could still remember some of the High Masses and midnight Easter Vigil services from when he was very, very young. The organ music, the chanting in Latin, the candlelight had all stuck in his head as something dreamy and marvelous, but had faded with time.

Indo had mentioned that Catto's girlfriend Kendra had also been invited, so this probably wasn't a setup for Spamton to be getting the shovel talk.

Maybe not.

Probably not.

His nose started running again, and with a sigh, he reached for another tissue.

THURSDAY NIGHT, THE SEVENTH OF APRIL

He finished decanting the liquid into the final two mason jars. Once the boiled fruit cooled, the jars could be refrigerated until Saturday morning.

Kirov had put two of his roommates to work to help him cut up cherries, plums, and peaches. He had wheedled his floor’s RA into letting him use the kitchen in the RA suite to make kompot for the Seeds of Peace festival.

His study group for Doctor Hashimoto's history class were going to be manning a stall there. The chilled fruit drink, a reminder of his childhood, was going to be his contribution to solicit donations. He'd also gone down by subway last weekend and had splurged on twelve bottles of Monastery Kvass with Black Currant from a Ukrainian grocery store in the East Village.

There was one more ingredient, of course. He had handled processing the berries himself, and would add their juice later, at the event itself.

The finishing touch. A taste of home.

This was turning into an expensive exercise, if the cost of the mason jars he’d ordered from Amazon were added in.

But it was for a good cause.

Supposedly.

Kirov had very complicated feelings about the political situation in Eastern Europe, but they all came down to the firm belief that he no longer could claim Russia or Chechnya as his home. He wanted to be American.

American men could love other American men, after all.

And so what if he'd been unlucky in love so far? He was going to find someone to love, no matter who he had to push aside to do it.

In the meantime, he was going to do the American thing and help raise money for the oppressed.

FRIDAY NIGHT, THE EIGHTH OF APRIL

"It is time for sleep, mine prince, and time to giveth the MP3 player a rest. We will all listen to some lovely music tomorrow." "Are you gonna dance?"

"Yes, but thou willst not get to watch unless you sleepeth."

"Okay." Lance was more than half asleep by this point, and let Leroux pull the covers up to his chin without any further protest. "This is going to be the best birthday ever. Night, lesser dad. Love you."

"I love you too, my son. When thou wakest, thou wilt be..."

"Five!"

GiGi leaned over and kissed Lance on top of the head with a loud "Mwah!" sound. She said in a singsong voice, "Sleep Tight, Do Not Let The Computer Bus Bite!"

Lance giggled and slipped into dreamland as the grownups tiptoed from the room.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, THE TENTH OF APRIL

FOOD POISONING INCIDENT AT LOCAL FESTIVAL

Four Hospitalized, Dozens Sickened During Fundraiser For Ukraine; Norovirus Suspected

Youngest Victim, Aged 5, In Fair Condition

#deltarune #deltarune fanfiction #swatchton #sylph writes #fic: call signs

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geek-patient-zero · 5 years ago

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Part 1, Chapter 6

Or: Phantomas of Notre Dame

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Trilogy Volume 1

Paris—March 12, 1994

The official smile of Paris is the sneer. The rich sneer at the middle class. The middle class sneer at the poor. And they all sneer at the hordes of tourists who flood their city each year.

I’ve actually remembered these lines since I first read them as a kid. I don’t know why, beyond it being Baby’s First French Stereotype Joke, but I did. I forgot what book they were from though, so when I reread Blood War and found them again, it was a nice surprise.

Their mockery, according to the guidebooks, is part of the charm of Paris. The city, with it’s great restaurants, fabulous museums, superb monuments, and long history, breeds contempt for the lesser achievements surrounding it. The average Parisian citizen considers himself far superior to anyone from outside the city.

It’s only Paris being singled out here, but still, I want to apologize to any French readers. It isn’t going to get much better for you guys in this book. But hey, at least your capital city isn’t a gang warzone.

That attitude explains, at least in theory, the joy the natives get from telling tales of the Phantom of the Paris Opera.

Not only are Parisians assholes, but they bug you into reading their Phantom of the Opera fanfics.

There’s some cliffnotes about the story (written by Gaston Leroux, demented genius living under the Paris Opera, hideously scarred, etc.), then we learn the titular Phantom is the French equivalent of Australia’s drop bears: a made up monster they tell gullible American tourists about to fuck with them.

Parisians loved to elaborate on the fantasy for gullible tourists, saying how, though he had reportedly been destroyed, the body of Eric, the Phantom, had never been found. And that every year, a few unwary tourists to the Opera House disappeared without a trace.

It was typical malicious Parisian humor. Often, the story was accompanied with a breathless attempt to sell bootleg souvenirs such as an authentic map of the catacombs or a page from the score of the Phantom’s infamous lost opera.

Or those little Mickey Mouse paper dolls that supposedly dance to music but are just attached to a motor by an invisible string. My ma fell for that one.

I don’t know if Parisians in real life actually do this, but it wouldn’t surprise me. I hear the Louvre used to give The Da Vinci Code themed tours. This sounds more fun than that, and less soul-crushing.

I admit that I’ve never read The Phantom of the Opera. I saw the play on an elementary school field trip to Broadway, but I barely remember it. I know the book begins with an intro where Leroux claims it’s a true story, but I figured it’s a true story the way The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a true story. I looked it up anyway, just so I don’t look like an uncultured moron if I dismissed it and was wrong. Turns out, the story was inspired by a real incident at the Paris Opera where a chandelier counterweight (not the chandelier itself) fell down and killed someone. There was a crackpot theory at the time that the accident was actually an assassination attempt. That’s something I didn’t know. Guess I owe Weinberg one for getting me to learn something.

Back to the story. Parisians like to use the Phantom to fuck with tourists, but there are other stories they don’t tell them. Stories that poor shopkeepers tell each other behind closed doors like the superstitious European peasant stereotypes they pretend they aren’t. Stories that were handed down from generation to generation about unexplained disappearances plaguing the Île de la Cité (aka the place where the Notre Dame cathedral is).

Common to every narrative was the same name. A title that when said aloud could cause the most elegant Parisian to blanch in terror.

What, Quasimodo’s some kind of French cryptid too? I know the original book character wasn’t as nice as the Disney version, and he’d be an obvious candidate for a Nosferatu (or a Ravnos if you wanna be a dick) but he was hardly-

Phantomas.

Oh. Alright, yeah, different literary character, but I can go along with it.

Officially, the French Sûreté (cops, pigs, po-po, babylon) dismiss such rumors as the insane ramblings of demented poets living on the West Bank. No mention is made of a file, five inches thick, hidden deep in the files of police headquarters. Contained in it are hundreds of reports, dating back a hundred and fifty years to the time of Chief Inspector Vidocq, detailing the circumstances surrounding hundreds of disappearances in the vicinity of the famous cathedral of Notre Dame.

I bet at least one report blames Quasimodo.

One actual report is a six page article, never made public, by a historical commission about the hundreds of myths and legends surrounding the church, all connected by a ghostly figure seen in the Cathedral at night. I’ll give you one guess at what it actually is.

Though he is called by a dozen different names in the tales, he is always described as incredibly ugly. And a drinker of human blood.

Yep. A goddamn mage.

In turn-of-the-century France, the vampire’s name had gained such notoriety that a series of mystery thrillers featuring an arch-fiend called Fantomas became best-sellers. None of the stories explained the origin of the mastermind. Or why he preyed on the citizens of Paris. They were works of fiction, not fact.

In case old French pulp isn’t your thing, Fantomas, spelled with an F, was a character created in 1911 by Marcel Allain and Pierre Souvestre. He’s a master criminal like Arsène Lupin, except instead of a gentleman thief he was a sadistic murderer and Grade-A pure evil bastard. There’s nothing supernatural about Fantomas. He’s just a regular human who’s really good at murder, framing innocent people for said murder, and getting away with it. Apparently, thanks to the 1960′s film trilogy, he’s usually remembered in French pop culture wearing a blue mask that covers his entire head.

You can see how that guy would inspire a Nosferatu character. Also Destro from G.I. Joe.

But as just explained, in this setting it’s the other way around. And despite being portrayed as what the French call “a homicidal piece of shit”, the “real-life” Phantomas is a big fan of the stories.

The subject of these various novels, reports, and studies found them all vastly amusing. He had enjoyed the Fantomas novels immensely and had even sent the author several anonymous letters suggesting future ideas for plots. To his intense disappointment, none of his ideas had ever been used. Once or twice he had mentally debated visiting the novelist to plead his case. But Phantomas suspected his physical appearance might do his cause more harm than good.

That... is goddamn fucking adorable. He’s just been introduced and I already hope he survives the trilogy and discovers online fanfiction.

The vampire readily acknowledged his ugliness. Standing exactly five feet tall, with skin wrinkled as a prune, eyes like raisins, and a nose the size and shape of a sweet potato, he had caused more than one drunken Parisian to swear off red wine forever. A gaping mouthful of yellow teeth and bulging red eyes propelled his face out of the realm of the bizarre into the domain of the grotesque.

Eh. Someone in this fandom would still bang him.

Wait, eyes that were both “like raisins” and “bulging”? How does that work?

Phantomas is the Nosferatu on the cover of the second book of this trilogy, if you want a visual reference.

See, he’s even still got some hair. He’s not that bad looking.

Phantomas might enjoy the fiction he inspired about a murderer, but he’s not happy about being blamed for real murders of innocent people, regarding it as “cheap slander”. The centuries of recorded disappearances were the results of more natural and obvious crimes.

While he occasionally satisfied his thirst on some poor unfortunate, Phantomas rarely killed innocents if it could be avoided. A quiet, gentle soul, all he wanted was to be left alone in his underground lair, pursuing his research.

Over the years a host of villains had used his presence on the Île de la Cité as an alibi for their murders. Their victims ended, not in his hideaway, but dumped in the Seine. Most had escaped the guillotine. However, Phantomas was less forgiving. And his justice was as sharp and final as any blade.

So other than a few accidents, the only people Phantomas “disappeared” were the criminals responsible for the rest of them.

Phantomas isn’t thinking about that dark business right now. He’s feeling great because he’s on his way to a party. The Prince of Paris, one Francois Villon, holds court once a month, and today’s such a day. Villon’s both a Toreador elder and French, so obviously he holds court in the Louvre.

Dozens of Kindred, along with several hundred of the Prince’s favorite ghouls and kine, attended the festivities. This evening the Prince entertained an important Tremere wizard visiting from Vienna. Phantomas loved such events. Though never invited, he never missed one.

There goes my heart, breaking for poor old Phantomas again...

But this time the snub isn’t a case of a Toreador being a snob to a Nosferatu. Villon just doesn’t know Phantomas exists.

The Prince was under the mistaken impression that he was the oldest, most powerful vampire in the City of Lights. He was neither. Phantomas had come to the Île de la Cité with the invading legions of Julius Caesar in 53 B.C.

I should apologize to the French again. Turns out Phantomas isn’t one of you guys. He’s a nice Italian man.

From here we’re launched into Phantomas’ pre-Phantomas backstory. In life he was Varro Dominus (Strong Ruler or Master), a young noble and soldier who worked under Caesar himself, and was in charge of recording his military campaigns. Ceasar’s legions arrived in the Île de la Cité, then called Lutetia, using it as a stepping stone across the Seine. Unfortunately for Varro, living among the easily conquered native tribesmen, pretending to be a forest god, was a fifth-generation Nosferatu named Urgahalt. The invading legions fascinated Urgahalt, what with their military strength, impressive latin names, and neat centurion helmets, and he Embraced Varro so he could introduce him into Roman society.

There’s an obvious flaw in this plan, since it’s difficult for a guy to introduce you to his culture when you’ve just made him an outcast from that culture, turning him into a shriveled prune monster with a sweet potato nose. And Varro knew it too. The Romans, or at least Varro, knew more about Kindred (or lemures, as they called vampires) than Urgahalt realized, including how to kill them. Pissed that bumping into this guy cost him his life and career, Varro staked him in the heart and turned him into a bonfire.

Convincing the legions to take him back would be a hard sell now, so Varro stayed behind on the island, pretty much never leaving during the millennia as modern Paris rose up around the guy.

He was as much a part of the city as the Eiffel Tower.

Which undersells Phantomas quite a bit since the Eiffel Tower’s only been around since 1889, but you get the point.

Turning into an ugly son of a bitch also turned Phantomas into the ultimate introvert, aside from those parties he likes attending. He stays hidden from everyone, including other vampires. Even other Nosferatu.

More than two hundred Kindred inhabited Paris and its suburbs. The Toreador Clan held control of the central city, but several other bloodlines roamed the streets, including rebel bands of Brujah, Gangrel, and Malkavians. Rumors spoke of a Sabbat pack anxious to spread dissension and revolt, with headquarters in the slums. At least a half-dozen Nosferatu lived in lairs beneath major museums and churches [sic] Yet even among the Kindred Phantomas was a legend, an unseen presence with no basis in reality. He was a phantom to the living and the undead.

Good call. If Parisians are like how the opening paragraphs describe them, I wouldn’t want to talk to them either.

In order to stay hidden, Phantomas lives in a huge underground lair hundreds of feet under Notre Dame, connected by a network of tunnels that stretched across Paris. He’s also a master of Obfuscate, the discipline that allows vampires, especially Nosferatu, to go around unnoticed, commonly by turning invisible. Right now, in order to get into the party, Phantomas is using the Mask of a Thousand Faces, the third-tier Obfuscate power that disguises a vampire as a random nobody human or an unimportant vampire, depending on whose looking at him. Looks like it also lets you pretend to hold an invitation and get away with it.

Shortly after midnight, he strolled past the two Assamites guarding the glass pyramid that served as entrance to the Louvre. They nodded without interest as he displayed an imaginary invitation and walked into the main hall.

That pyramid pissed a lot of older Parisians off when it was first built. Yeah, they complain about everything, but since the artsy-fartsy Toreador control the city, you’d think they would’ve prevented its construction. Unless the pyramid’s a Toreador idea, in which case no wonder everyone hated it.

(Parisians are over hating the pyramid these days, so don’t mention it unless you want them to think you’re in their city for one of those Da Vinci Code tours.)

Phantomas muttered a word of thanks to his Roman gods that Villon considered electronic monitoring devices provincial. His psychic camouflage worked flawlessly with humans and vampires. It was useless against cameras or television monitors.

The Louvre doesn’t have any security cameras? None at all?

In Phantomas’ opinion, the Prince was a pompous dandy who wouldn’t recognize true art if it hit him in the face.

Looks like Phantomas agrees with me about Toreador tastes in art.

Master of the Louvre, the finest art collection in history, Villon ignored the treasures of the past for the ephemeral pleasures of the moment.

Alright, In Villon’s defense, I think grandpa here might have some bias.

His mercurial tastes dominated the Parisian fashion scene. He surrounded himself with the most beautiful models in Paris, blood dolls who sipped on blood and dreamed of immortality. Like too many of the Kindred, Villon had never come to terms with his undeath.

I like Phantomas and all, but it’s not Villon sneaking into one of his parties, so what right does he have being judgmental?

But I think I get what Phantomas is thinking. Villon owns one of the most famous historical art museums in the world, but he only cares about celebrity shit and making beautiful but angry-looking women wear weird shit nobody else will actually wear.

The party was being held in the glass-roofed Cour Marley, but Phantomas was in no hurry to go there. Though he had visited the Louvre many times, he never skipped the opportunity to visit the galleries housing the Greek, Roman, and Egyptian antiquities. The museum housed perhaps the finest such collection in the world and, though Phantomas had the face and body of a monster, he possessed the soul of a poet.

This is the real reason he loves these parties so much, isn’t it. Grandpa just wants an excuse to visit the museum for like the billionth time.

Ten minutes he spent staring at the Venus de Milo.

Art appreciation, or the closest he gets to seeing boobs?

He walks around admiring other things, like “Winged Victory of Samothrace”, “Winged Bull”, and the statue of Queen Nefertiti.

The bust of Agrippa drew him to the Roman section. The famous general, the hero of Actium, had served Octavius, the grandnephew of his mentor, Julius Caesar. Staring at the statue made him feel old. Two thousand years separated him from his heritage.

I feel the same way whenever I meet someone born after Spongebob Squarepants first aired.

If not for a chance encounter in Gaul, his children might have fought against Mark Anthony. Or served in the Senate with Cicero.

Not if you stared at potential mothers the way you stared at the Venus de Milo and Agrippa’s bust.

He finishes his tour and finally heads to the party. If you’ve been paying attention to the plot, you know what’s about to happen.

As he drew closer to the courtyard, he frowned. There was no music. Villon’s parties always featured a loud rock band playing the latest hits. Tonight, the corridors were strangely silent.

Nirvana was supposed to play “About a Girl” but Villon kicked them out when Cobain let his turtles wander around and shit everywhere.

A tall, young man slender [sic], with blond hair and bright blue eyes, stood in front of the door leading to the Cour Marley. Dressed in a white suit with an open-necked white shirt, he nodded in greeting as Phantomas approached. It was almost as if he had been waiting for [sic] there for him.

Weinberg’s editor must’ve quit before getting to this chapter, after reading the part about Flavia’s rock hard leather-penetrating nipples. Also, ‘sup Reuben? What’ve you been doing the past two years?

Reuben doesn’t introduce himself. He just warns Phantomas not to go in. Phantomas is shocked that a human is talking to him at all. Mask of a Thousand Faces is supposed to disguise him as someone so boring not even Kindred are interested starting a conversation with him

“The Final Death waits inside,” continued the stranger, evidently not troubled by Phantomas’ concerns. “If you enter, you may never leave.”

“I am no coward,” stated the vampire simply. “After twenty centuries, I fear very little.”

Let’s see if that lasts longer than a page.

The young man smiled. “I suspected you would say that.” He stepped to the side. “Beware the Red Death, Phantomas.”

“Who are you?” asked Phantomas, startled. “How do you know my name?”

But the stranger had vanished. It was as if he had never been there.

Good old Reuben, scaring an old man, the trolling bastard.

Successfully freaked out, Phantomas opens the courtyard doors. To no one’s surprise, everyone’s dead. Even the regular non-ghoul humans.

The smell of charred and blackened human flesh assaulted his nostrils. A horrified glance around the courtyard revealed a dozen bodies of Villon’s favorites, their beautiful features burned beyond recognition. The fashion runways of Paris would be missing a number of familiar faces tomorrow. Mixed among the dead were the remains of twice as many ghouls. Nowhere was there life.

How he’s able to tell the models and ghouls apart, I don’t know.

Villon was gone. As were all other Kindred. However, dark shadows on the ground indicated to Phantomas that more than one had departed the Louvre permanently.

Can the French art and fashion worlds finally recover from the dark and untalented reign of the Toreador?

As if in answer to Phantomas’ unasked question, a gruesome figure stepped from behind the Marly Horses. Tall and lean, he wore a rotted shroud of funeral cloth held together by strips of moldering bandage [sic]. His face was

-that of a long-dead corpse, chalk-white skin, blah blah blah it’s the Red Death.

Slowly, the monster smiled.

“The meddling record keeper,” said the Red Death. He stretched out a skeletal arm. Phantomas could feel the heat thirty feet away. “Your termination will be a fitting conclusion to the celebration.”

Confronted by this horrifying fire monster who just massacred an entire party of vampires, ghouls, and humans, what does the famous Phantomas do? Something that both proves him a hypocrite and the smartest person in this goddamn book.

He hauls ass out of there.

Hundreds of years hiding beneath the streets of Paris had taught Phantomas an important lesson. When threatened, flee. Immediately. Don’t search for alternative solutions, don’t negotiate, don’t look back. Run as fast as possible until you reach safety. It was a basic survival technique that worked in the past. It served him tonight.

Phantomas ran. He burst through the doors of the Cour Marley, raced down the halls leading to the glass pyramid, and sprinted out into the night air without turning his head once to see if he was followed. Short and misshapen, he ran astonishingly fast.

Phantomas doesn’t stop running until he’s safely hundreds of feet underground in one of his tunnels. He escaped the Red Death.

He had escaped for the moment. But Phantomas felt certain he had not seen the last of the monster.

It had named him the record keeper. Somehow it knew of his great project. And the Red Death obviously disapproved.

We’ll find out more about Phantomas’ hobby the next time we catch up with him. For now, Chapter 6 ends on that mystery.

#vampire the masquerade #vampire: the masquerade #vtm #vtmb #world of darkness #blood war

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changechest3-blog · 5 years ago

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Dunc'd on Podcast suggest possible landing spots for Bulls' Jabari Parker

Dunc'd on Podcast suggest possible landing spots for Bulls' Jabari Parker originally appeared on nbcsportschicago.com

On Wednesday's episode of the Dunc'd on Podcast, hosts Nate Duncan and Danny Leroux wento over the current state of the Bulls and discussed potential teams that could be interested in Jabari Parker.

Duncan and Leroux are two of the more reasonable basketball minds, and they quickly came to the conclusion that it would be tough to find a team that necessarily needs Parker. But they nonetheless went through a couple of teams that could possibly make good use of the 23-year old forward.

Orlando Magic:

Duncan and Leroux weren't that into the idea of Parker on Orlando but acknowledged that they certainly could use some help in the scoring department.

The Magic are currently 26th in the league in PPG (103.5) but are hovering around a .500 record due to their strong defense and slow pace of the play-the same style of play that has improved the Bulls D while torpedoing their offensive efficiency.

But the Magic do have skilled offensive players like DJ Augustin, Terrence Ross and Nikola Vucevic. All three players have managed to be efficient scorers this season, but only Vucevic and Ross have been able to do it while also shouldering a big offensive workload. Outside of Ross, Jonathon Simmons is the only other Magic bench player who carries a decent usage rate. Parker-for all of his shortcomings-offers more size and upside than Simmons.

On top of that, the Magic are one of the more pass-happy teams in the league, averaging just over 25 assists per game. It would be a solid team to compensate for Parker's occasional penchant to develop tunnel vision when looking to score.

Parker's terrible assist-to-turnover ratio wouldn't hurt Orlando too much either, as they currently sit inside the top 10 in team AST/TO ratio.

Atlanta Hawks:

The Hawks are very short on quality forwards. And that is exactly what Leroux stated when trying to picture Parker on the Hawks:

"[Atlanta] needs depth basically everywhere on the forward line, especially with Taurean Prince out."

At full strength they place John Collins-a very solid young talent-at the four next to Dewayne Dedmon or Alex Len, with the latter being the much stronger tandem. But with Atlanta rebuilding at the moment, having functional lineups is much more important than having effective ones. And that is where Parker helps them.

According to Basketball-Reference play-by-play information, 41-year old Vince Carter is playing 61 percent of his minutes at power forward. So it is no shocker that he is posting one of the five worst individual defensive ratings on the team.

After Collins and Carter, rookie Omari Spellman and Taurean Prince play the most minutes at PF. Spellman is more of a center and Prince is good enough at guarding small forwards and wings to make it unnecessary for him to play the PF.

Slotting Parker into their rotation allows all the aforementioned players to return to their natural positions more often. At his natural PF position, Parker would be free to slide into a role as a (moderately) high usage player. Trae Young, Collins and Jeremy Lin could actually form quite a potent offensive combination with despite how bad that lineup would be.

But being bad at defense is another key to Parker's possible success with Atlanta. Out of all the likely NBA lottery teams, perhaps only the Hawks, Knicks and Cavaliers had less expectations than the Bulls, who some (not many) pegged as a possible dark-horse No. 8 seed in the playoffs.

New Orleans Pelicans:

The Pelicans are in the same situation as the Bulls in terms of needing a quality small forward and struggling to attract star free agents. Parker doesn't help with either of those issues and that is why Duncan suggested he could essentially be a nice depth piece for New Orleans, stating that Parker could help just by being on their roster as "a forward for when [Julius] Randle and [Nikola] Mirotic are inevitably hurt.

Though Pelicans general manager Dell Demps has had his fair share of misses, it is unlikely he would be looking to back up his oft-injured forwards with another injury-prone player. But if the New Orleans front office truly thinks Parker can improve from his current level of play, it would be worth it to part ways with Solomon Hill and salary filler for Parker. Whatever draft compensation Chicago wants would make or break this deal.

Story continues

But with fellow Chicago-native Anthony Davis drawing tons of attention on his dives to the rim, it isn't impossible to imagine a world in which Parker scores effectively as a pick-and-roll ball-handler with Jrue Holiday providing some floor spacing.

Philadelphia 76ers:

We'll keep this one short. Nate Duncan had perhaps the best line of the episode when he stated flatly "they don't need more usage on this team."

But while the Sixers certainly don't need more player who want the ball in their hands, Duncan himself brought up the fact that they need more quality players in general. Parker has glaring holes in his game but that doesn't mean he couldn't be good in a complementary role.

After the recently acquired Jimmy Butler and Wilson Chandler, the Sixers don't have many players who can hold down the forward spots. Ben Simmons can obviously play in the frontcourt in a pinch, but the point of Simmons' uniqueness is that you can keep him at the one and surround him with big, two-way guards and forwards.

So Parker would actually fill somewhat of a need for the Sixers. Again, for all of his shortcomings, I don't think anyone is going to strongly argue that Mike Muscala is clearly a better backup option at power forward than Parker. Muscala fits better because he is a great 3-point shooter, whereas Parker would cramp the floor spacing in Philly. But Muscala is a terrible rebounder for his position, averaging 4 rebounds per game compared to Parker's 6 boards a game, which actually leads the rebound-deficient Bulls.

And in a best case scenario where Parker is engaged on defense, he and Simmons could have some great success as a duo in transition.

They both possess the coveted "grab-and-go" ability that allows them to turn quick shots by an opponent into an easy bucket. Parker was around the 60th percentile as a transition scorer in his last year in Milwaukee (which is good) but has fallen off this year on an injury-riddled Bulls team.

A big reason for Parker's transition offense falling off is his high turnover rate. But the hope would be that Simmons-who also turns the ball over a lot-Butler and Embiid would have the ball in their hands so much that Parker's turnovers would decrease dramatically.

As far as the framework for this deal? Markelle Fultz, Muscala and Jonah Bolden would be enough to make the trade work. This trade wouldn't really weaken the Sixers in any way on the court. And off the court, Parker's expiring deal would be interesting for a Sixers team that will be trying to re-sign Butler while adding depth around the margins.

Source: https://sports.yahoo.com/duncd-podcast-suggest-possible-landing-212156236.html?src=rss

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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