# The Brotherhood of St Thomas -- A D20 Modern Adventure



## Prince Atom (Jan 21, 2003)

Lyakovetsky never slept deeply.  In all his training with the armies of Mother Russia, he was the first up at reveille and the last down after lights-out.  And after the army, when he was in the KGB training, he was always the one who woke up in time to catch the intruders.

So the phone didn't have to ring very long before he grabbed it out of the pocket of the fatigue jacket hanging on the back of the chair beside the bed, and hit the Answer button.

"Yeah?"  No sound of sleep in his voice, despite the hour (the clock on the table burned brightly with red figures:  3:00).

"If you want to know what's going on, be at Ned's Diner, off the overpass on Exit 34 on I-101, in one hour.  Take a seat at the middle booth below the window facing the street.  Don't mind if the booth's already occupied, just sit down.  Don't be late."

"Who -- ?"  But the phone clicked off.

Lyakovetsky sat on the edge of the bed and turned the cell phone over in his hands.  He was used to getting mysterious, abrupt phone calls in the middle of the night, but he hadn't had one now for close to ten years.  He didn't think this came from the Kremlin; not least among his clues being that there were none of the code words, and the message was not ciphered.

Besides, the Kremlin he knew hadn't dealt in mysterious, midnight phone calls.  They were just too suspicious.

Lyakovetsky looked at the alarm clock again.  He had just enough time to get there, if he started immediately.  Good thing this motel let you pay in cash, up front.

He grabbed the fatigue jacket, stuffed the phone back in the pocket, and laced up his boots.  Then he left the key to the room on top of the broken television, left the door unlocked, and got on his bike, headed south.


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## Prince Atom (Jan 21, 2003)

Ned's Diner was a greasy spoon, with two big gravel parking lots on either side.  It looked like the sort of place that all-night truckers would shun.

Lyakovetsky did not linger outside.  Once he parked his Harley in the gravel lot, he entered through one of the glass doors.  The weight of his flat little pistol under his left armpit was reassuring, because the denizens did not look friendly.

He found the middle booth under the windows facing the street to be occupied already.  There was a slender blonde woman with a vaguely familiar face sitting by the window, staring out into the predawn street.  She looked up as he eclipsed the closest lights.

"Excuse me -- may I sit here?"

"Go ahead."  She turned back to her study of the street.  Lyakovetsky sat, and was silent.  Her face was hauntingly familiar, a ghost trying to force its way out of the back of his mind.

"Excuse me -- aren't you on _Baywatch_?" he hazarded.

"Hmm?  No, not that show.  I'm not built for it, thank God."  Her eyes never left the street.

Lyakovetsky, his knowledge of current television shows exhausted, said no more.  His watch read five to four.

There was a screech behind him, and a sound he recognized as gravel pelting the windows and walls of the diner.  Then the door behind him opened, letting in a blast of cool October air.  Lyakovetsky, a good secret agent, never looked around.  He didn't even watch the big guy in flannel and jeans, clutching a domestic beer, as he passed by the table on his way to talk to someone out of the Russian's view.  He didn't look, because he didn't need to.  The big fellow needed a shave.  And the man with the limp and the cane who just entered was wearing far too much aftershave to be subtle.

The newcomer stopped by their table, and asked with a faint burr, "Is this seat taken?"

"No," said the distracted girl, who never even looked around.

"Be my guest," said Lyakovetsky, and the man slid into the seat beside the girl.  His cane was sturdy and metal, and its head was nothing special.

"Hey there -- my name's MacDonald."  He proferred his hand.

Lyakovetsky shook, briefly.  "Call me Rocky."

The girl looked around just long enough to press MacDonald's big, beefy hand in one of her small, white ones.  "I'm Cherie.  Cherie Amellaghas."

MacDonald's face lit up.  "What a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amellaghas.  I'm a fan.  But don't let that fool you -- I'm really an okay guy."

She rolled her eyes and smiled slightly.  "Nice to meet you too, Mr. MacDonald."

But the light was again eclipsed, and someone said, "I expect you're wondering why you're here."


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## Prince Atom (Jan 21, 2003)

This new man had a lined face and a priest's collar.  He slid into the one free seat, beside Lyakovetsky.  He wore dark clothes, and on one lapel had a small pin, merely a dot of red lacquer surrounded by a thin silver band.  It wasn't very far apart.  Once he was comfortable, he began to speak.  Lyakovetsky could hardly hear him over the loud conversation going on between the man in the flannel and jeans and another couple of people who obviously wished he'd go away.

"Simply put, you are here because you have all had inexplicable experiences, and I offer you a chance to get to the bottom of them.  But I must start with a brief history.

"There is a force in this world that is mean, deceitful, hurtful, and revels in the pain of others.  It is hidden from most everybody in the world, but sometimes the disguise slips.  When this happens, usually the few witnesses don't live to tell anybody what they saw.  You are four of the few who did.

"I represent the rest of these... well, I can hardly call them _fortunates_; _survivors_ will do.  We stand in opposition to this cruel force, for if we did not, the world would suffer."

Lyakovetsky managed a dour grin.  "Yeah, I know the feeling.  Listen, Padre, I've been here before, doing secret and illegal things.  I'm used to not getting the glory for it, but I got burned once and I'm not going into it again."  He made to rise.

"I understand your feelings, Piotr, but you must believe me when I say, politics may have a place in the Kremlin, but the organization I represent is above politics.  We don't negotiate, and we don't back down.  That can be a dangerous thing, but it also means we don't abandon some of our brightest agents, no matter what the trouble."

Lyakovetsky subsided, and sat down again.  "I don't know what you're talking about.  What does the Kremlin have to do with anything?  And it's not Piotr, it's Rocky."

"Suit yourself.  MacDonald, you are at a loose end like Rocky, here, and you have also had a run-in with the Shadow.  What do you say?  Are you interested?"

"I might be.  What's this organization called?"  MacDonald toyed with his silver stick, and looked doubtful.

"It's called many things, but I prefer to call it the _Brotherhood of Saint Thomas_, for Thomas doubted until he saw proof, and then he was certain."

"So you no longer doubt?"  MacDonald now looked incredulous.  The old man leaned in, and dropped his voice even further; Lyakovetsky strained to hear him over the rowdy man in flannel.

"I do not doubt that there is an evil in the world, and that we can stop it.  Call it remnants of another faith, if you will."  He quirked a grin at the Scot.  The other door opened, and someone tall, in a raincoat and hat, stepped through.

"And what of you, Miss Amellaghas?  Are you interested in getting to the bottom of what happened to you?"

Cherie opened her mouth to speak, but got no further, for suddenly the old man sat up straight, his eyes wide, and hissed "_Get out of here, all of you, right now!_"


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## Prince Atom (Jan 22, 2003)

Lyakovetsky said, "What -- ?" and the old man grabbed his forearm.

"Look!" he hissed, and pointed at the newcomer in the trenchcoat and hat.

And Lyakovetsky _saw_.

It wasn't a stranger in a trenchcoat and hat.  It was an abomination, replete with scars, fully seven feet tall and very mismatched.  It did not hesitate, but shambled towards their table with the air of one not about to stop.

Lyakovetsky wrenched his arm away from the old man's grasp -- he would have to grab his gun arm -- and plunged his hand under his coat.   He pulled his flat little pistol out of its holster and jabbed it in the monster's direction, yelling "Duck!" at MacDonald.

MacDonald threw himself sideways as Lyakovetsky pulled the trigger.  His aim was good -- he knew it was good -- but the slug glanced off some bony projection under the trenchcoat and whined away into a dark corner.  The monster roared, raised its two horny fists, and took another step forward.

Lyakovetsky was vaguely aware of MacDonald rolling to his feet and the old man pushing himself out of the booth.  When Cherie started to move before he could fire again, Lyakovetsky jumped onto his seat.  MacDonald produced a pair of silver pistols, and his bullets actually got through whatever misbegotten skin the creature had.

Another gun coughed, much deeper than either Lyakovetsky's Walther or MacDonald's showy pieces, but whoever was shooting had less luck than Lyakovetsky, and the monster wasn't even distracted.

"What is it?" yelled MacDonald over the sound of the gunfire.

"I don't know, but don't go near it.  It looks like it could tear you apart!"  Lyakovetsky fired again, and this time his little 7mm round found a weak spot and dove home.

Then Cherie ran up and kicked the beast in the shin.


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## Prince Atom (Jan 22, 2003)

Cherie, undissuaded by the monster's flailing fists, punched it in the solar plexis -- it did not mind.

Another gun joined the fracas, and Lyakovetsky had just enough time to see a woman he'd taken for a barfly pull her trigger again before a brilliant burst of white light from behind him made him squint up and give all his attention to the monster.  Two of the men at the counter crumpled into dust in the light, but the monster did not mind and nobody else looked hurt.

Lyakovetsky spent another fruitless round, and then the monster, disregarding the stinging bullets from the bigger guns, picked Cherie up in one hand and flung her into him.  They both went down, hard, breaking the table in the next booth, and Lyakovetsky's gun spun out of his hand.  He did not see where it landed.

They had to spend several seconds sorting out limbs, and by that time Lyakovetsky had no idea where his gun was.  "I guess it's fist time."

"After you," said Cherie, and Lyakovetsky was not inclined to insist on ladies first.

He charged into boxing range, noting in passing that MacDonald had discarded his two silver toys and was laying about the beast with his cane, which had grown in length threefold.

Lyakovetsky ducked a flailing arm and tried a jab into the armpit, hoping to injure the monster.  He only barked his knuckles on whatever the thing had for skin there.  He noticed Cherie and the man in flannel and jeans wading into range of the beast from the corners of his eyes, and resolved only to kick the beast until he found a softer spot.

Then the light flared up behind him, and he glanced back long enough to see the old man, alight with white fire, burst into incandescent flames that seriously stunned portions of his retinas.


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## Velenne (Jan 22, 2003)

*MORE D20 MODERN STORY HOURS!* Woohoo!!!  I love this!


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## Prince Atom (Jan 22, 2003)

This white fire, as bright as some very dangerous things in the world could be, seemed to stagger the monster, and Lyakovetsky pressed his attack.  The next moment, the monster rallied, and the ex-spy had to dance back out of reach.  The man in the jeans was not so quick, and the monster caught him a fearful blow.  The man flew over Cherie's head and crashed through the window above the booth where they had been sitting.

MacDonald was next; the monster caught his metal baton, and before the Scot could release it, the monster punched him square in the stomach.  MacDonald collapsed, gagging.

Lyakovetsky backed away from the monster and tried to find a weakness.  What he saw was the man in jeans flinging himself back through the window and onto the monster.  The beast caught him a grand two-fisted blow to the torso, and he flew down the aisle between counter and booths.  When he hit the ground, he did not stir.

Then the beast charged.  Lyakovetsky took two steps back, tripped over MacDonald's prone body, and fell.  He lay on his back, unable to rise before the monster was upon him.


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## Prince Atom (Jan 22, 2003)

> *MORE D20 MODERN STORY HOURS!* Woohoo!!! I love this!




Well, unfortunately, this was only one session that the DM winged on the fly when our regularly-scheduled D&D game got cancelled due to snow.  I'm afraid I don't have too much here, and I don't know when I'll have more, because this little campaign is very much like Capellan's *Company of the Random Encounter* -- it advances only when there's nothing else to do.

But, by all means, enjoy it.  That's why I'm doing it!

TWK


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## Horacio (Jan 22, 2003)

Oh, this little story slippid under my radar, I must be getting old...

Wonderful story! I want MORE


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## Prince Atom (Jan 22, 2003)

The monster put its head down and charged forward, lumbering its way along the aisle.  Lyakovetsky chose to forgo catching his breath for a chance to evade the monster's bone-crushing feet.  He flung his legs up and rolled to his right, with only inches to spare; the linoleum tiles cracked and splintered where he'd lain.

MacDonald had not been so slow to his feet.  Apparently, by the sound of it, he'd recovered at least one of his guns, for he was plugging away merrily at the creature.

For his part, Lyakovetsky found himself jammed in between a pair of barstools.  He noted in passing that their feet were set into the concrete below the linoleum; but he was less interested in that than in the fact that he'd bonked his head against something.  He reached his hand behind him, and came up with his little PPK.

He rolled to his feet, in time to see the man in flannel and jeans, now with a big silver axe in his hands, interpose himself between the monster and the old priest.  The big man stopped the thing's charge with a meaty smack of his axe.

Then Lyakovetsky raised his gun in both hands, took aim, and pulled the trigger.  He had four bullets left.

The first bullet passed through the thing's neck without effect.  The second whined off the thing's incredible hide.  The third sank deep into its skull, but it did not seem to notice.  The fourth time he pulled the trigger, he discovered it had locked in place with the slide cocked back.  The reason was that the magazine follower had caught the slide.

He was out of bullets!  He cast around for a spare gun, but there was none.  Resolutely, he reversed his grip on the gun and stepped forward to get back into hand-to-hand.

Before he took two steps, the monster gave a tremendous groan, and crashed to the ground through a booth and the wall behind it.  The old priest and his burly protector only just skipped out of its way.  The monster did not move again.


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## Horacio (Jan 23, 2003)

Good fight!


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## Prince Atom (Jan 24, 2003)

The man in flannel stepped in and gave the unmoving thing a hefty whack with his axe, and then kicked its severed head into a corner.  "Ain't gettin' up any time soon, Father," he said.

MacDonald was massaging his chin; his guns were nowhere to be seen.  "What was that thing, anyway?"

The old priest snorted.  "An amalgamation; a construct.  It was formerly several people, but they died, and then their bodies were defiled for parts to this thing."

"Wha', you mean like Frankenstein?" MacDonald bent to pick up his staff; with a click, it telescoped to the length of a cane again.

The old man quirked a smile.  "Sort of.  More like his monster.  Quite tough to put down.  In fact, you didn't even kill it -- "

"You mean it's gonna get up again?"  Lyakovetsky took a step away from the corpse(s).

"No, I mean it wasn't even alive; just animate, and given some specific orders.  Now, who's injured?"

Lyakovetsky pushed the magazine follower back down into the clip of his gun and let the slide return to its normal position as he watched most of these brave people line up to be tended to by the old man.  All the priest did was lay his hands upon their heads, each in turn, and mutter something; and then there were bright flashes, and they turned out pretty sprightly once more.

The former secret agent man stripped the empty magazine out of his gun and replaced it with a fresh one as the short-order cook dragged a large piece of plywood out of the back.  It turned out to be cut to the right size for the broken window, and it had bolts and washers set into it already.  The cook and his two waitresses set it up against the broken pane, and screwed it into place.

"I take it you've had to do this before?" he said to a pretty, smudged waitress.

"Hazard of the job," she said, in a broad Bronx accent, and Lyakovetsky could see a circular pin now on her collar, like the old man's but less flashy.

"So you're all in this together?"

"Yeah, but keep it on the q.t.  Not that it'd work; Ned's is sort of the worst kept secret in New York."

"Except for Spider-Man's identity -- " he began, but the big man in flannel tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey there, m'name's Barry," he said.  "C'mon, help me move this big galoot out the back before someone comes in."

The big beast was heavy, and bulky, and Lyakovetsky was feeling his age by the time they'd hidden it under the spare plywood squares beside the dumpster.

Back inside, they found the waitresses mopping up the floor with ammonia and other strong cleansers; and it looked like everyone was getting set to move out.

The old man came up to Lyakovetsky, with his leather jacket slung over his shoulder.  "We're about to get going, Rocky.  What do you say -- are you in or out?"

Lyakovetsky didn't hesitate.  "I'm in.  Let's go."  The old man turned away, and Lyakovestky thought of something --

"Hey, what's your name, anyway?  You never told me that."

The old man quirked that smile again.  "No, I didn't, did I?"  And the door chimed behind him as he stepped into the cold night air.


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## Prince Atom (Jan 24, 2003)

> Good fight!




Thanks!  It went pretty much like that; but I did take some liberties.  No one was actually thrown through the window; but the man in flannel did jump through it on his way to get his axe out of his truck.  I thought it worked better, in the heat of the moment, the way I wrote it.

TWK


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## Horacio (Jan 24, 2003)

hmmm, another good update 

I want more...


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## Prince Atom (Jan 29, 2003)

Lyakovetsky was flabbergasted.

"Does he always do that?" he asked of the man in flannel.

"What, walk out without explaining himself?  Only when he's feeling his oats.  He does that a lot, for an old guy."  The man in flannel gave Lyakovetsky a smile, and he and the woman followed the old man out the door.  Nonplussed, Lyakovetsky followed them.  He was just in time to see them all get into the cab of a battered old truck with a camper on the back.

The woman was the last to climb in.  Before she closed the door, she tossed something small and glittering in his direction.  "Here -- catch!"  He caught it one-handed, and by the time he looked up again, the truck was driving off.

He looked down at the thing in his hand.  It was a key, just a bit of metal with teeth projecting from a plastic drum with a note attached on a bit of wire.  The note read, simply, "5/29/17-11/22/63."

Lyakovetsky looked around, but there was no one else nearby; behind him he could hear Ned's diner locking its doors.  Neither MacDonald nor Cherie were in sight.  So he pocketed the key, swung his leg over his big Harley, and kicked it into life.

**************************************************

He had to wait four hours for the libraries to open, and all through that time he puzzled over the key.  Aside from the note, there was a string of letters and numbers etched into the plastic of the drum.  They were probably some sort of matching numbers; no doubt the thing it was meant to unlock had the same string of figures on it.  He'd seen countless others in transit stations -- bus stations and airports had rentable lockers that used keys like this one.  

The mystery did not leave him be.  The last date in particular kept tickling his mind.  He knew he'd seen it somewhere before....

The libraries finally opened, and he was the first on the computers.  A brief web search for "November 22, 1963" turned up several websites about a former US president who'd been assassinated on that day; when a biographical site gave that president's birthday as May 28 1917, Lyakovetsky was convinced he'd found his man.

But what did John F. Kennedy have to do with a battered old key?


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## Horacio (Jan 29, 2003)

How is a d20 Modern game as Kennedy as plot hook? Even better!!! Conspiracy, Secret Services, Marilyn's ghost, everything can happen now... 

I want MORE


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## fenzer (Jan 29, 2003)

Hey Winter Knight, nice write up.  Like I have time for yet another story hour.  But don't worry, I'll make the time.  Keep them coming.


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