# Sub Rosa : a d20 Dark*Matter Campaign (UPDATED: Friday, May 14)



## Watus (May 3, 2004)

*Prelude*

Deep within the shadow, Balak stirred.  Irritation gripped him.  He had thought that by finally destroying their impudent master he had cowed the fools.  He had thought they would not dare to annoy him again.  He was wrong.  From across the formless and ancient void an unfamiliar voice called out.

“It has been stolen.”

He sensed the words were true, and did not need to ask what “it” was.  The device contained a part of his very essence.  That it existed was an affront.  That these fools had allowed it to be stolen was an insult the likes of which he had never suffered.  And Balak was very old indeed.

“I come,” he replied, vexed.  And for the first time in many years Balak passed through his former master’s eccentric portal and translated to the reality of Man.  With him, he brought the storm.

He would put a stop to this once and for all.



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## Broccli_Head (May 4, 2004)

Hah! Found it. Glad you're writing it Watus.


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## Watus (May 4, 2004)

Thanks.  I should have the first proper update ready tomorrow.


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## Tellerve (May 5, 2004)

Ohh, i'm all about some Modern d20 lovin!

Bring it on, lots and soon 

Tellerve


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## Watus (May 5, 2004)

What follows is an interpretation of a new occasional campaign my group and I are undertaking: d20 Modern in Alternity’s Dark*Matter setting.  

In the first session, we ran through Exit 23, the introductory adventure in the Dark*Matter campaign setting.  This should be familiar ground to Story Hour regulars, and if you haven’t read the inestimable JonRog’s telling of his group’s Dark*Matter adventures, then you should do so immediately.  Our group’s handling of this scenario, however, was somewhat different.

I should also mention that I encouraged the group to dream up eccentric characters for themselves: more Lone Gunmen than Millennium Group, if you follow my drift.  That may have colored what happened later.

*Dramatis Personae* (in order of appearance):
Mary Katherine O'Connor, Catholic High School Girl [Charismatic Hero] 
Fr. Michael Ryan, SJ, PhD [Smart Hero/Dedicated Hero] 
James O’Connel, Network Security Specialist/Conspiracy Theory Enthusiast [Smart Hero]
Andi Oki, American Sumo [Tough Hero]
Jubal Song, Aging Folksinger/Burnout [Charismatic Hero]



*Exit 23, or "Hawaiian Heavy is Hostess Hero"*

It was a cold night and an empty interstate.  In the median, a too young girl stood with her thumb extended.  After a time, a black Suburban slowed to a stop and through the open window leaned a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a roman collar.  Words were exchanged.  A ride was offered and accepted.  Mutual suspicions were temporarily suppressed.

Fifteen minutes of silence and it had begun to snow.  Twenty minutes later and the wipers could no longer keep up: the headlights illuminated nothing but a blank sheet of whiteness and the wind was threatening to blow the truck off the road.  It was a tense hour at a claustrophobic crawl through the worst snowstorm either had ever seen before they crossed the first exit.  They had said almost nothing to one another.

*8:33 pm, Sunday, November 21st, 2004
Angola Rest Stop
Angola, New York*

The Suburban carefully nosed through the drifting snow, up the exit and into the illuminated parking lot.  The dome light came on and the heat of the cabin was instantly lost to the wind.  Wrapping themselves as tightly as possible, the two of them ran through the stinging snow and exploded into the vestibule, wiping their faces and stomping their feet.

The floor in the lobby was wet and almost blue under the fluorescent lights.  Brochures, scattered by the wind and ground into the grime, littered the floor.  Casino Niagara, the falls, and all of the many wonders of Western New York and Southern Ontario had been trod under foot, ignored.  A boy in a red apron looked up from his mop in the fast food restaurant.  He nodded and pointed to the donut shop.  “Everyone else is in there,” he said, going back to his work. 

Inside awaited a disparate group of unhappy strangers, drinking bad coffee and watching the weatherman stammer his confusion on the local news.  He didn’t have anything good to say.  Parkas and mittens and heavy boots were scattered everywhere.  Several people had blankets and sleeping bags and were obviously settling in for the night.  A matronly waitress glided toward them, smelling of AquaNet and Juicy Fruit.  “I wasn’t expecting any more tonight,” she said, with not much kindness.  She pointed them toward an empty booth and, smacking her gum, disappeared into a back room.

Taking a seat, Father Ryan turned to consider his young charge: out in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the highway in her school uniform with no jacket.  She had not offered an explanation.  Nor did she.

***

When you’re trapped for an extended time in a small space with people not of your choosing, you take your entertainment where you can, and James was enjoying watching the fat man eat.  He’d been peering over the top his laptop for nearly half an hour, and had become less furtive about it as time passed.  The man clearly wasn’t going to notice.  Or didn’t care.  Or maybe he was just used to the stares of strangers.  Donut after donut disappeared down that gaping maw, leaving a dusting of powdered sugar down his pronounced stomach and across the counter in front of him.  He was Hawaiian or Samoan or something and he was huge in every way it is possible for a human being to be huge.  His fingers were like rolls of quarters.  James wondered what could possibly lead a person to eat like that, and without shame.  Whatever else there was to say, it must take some real discipline.  And James was a fan of discipline.

***

Jubal stared off into space as his coffee got cold, fingering the chords to a half-remembered song on his pants leg under the table.  “I can’t believe she never heard of ‘Pack up your Sorrows’,” he said, shaking his head. “Some people got no taste.  No taste at all.  Anyway, it was just a question - no need to get all bent out of shape.”  He froze for a moment, wondering if he’d just said that out loud.  

No one reacted.  

He peered across the room at her slumping form, a surly woman with a broad back and thick lips, busily trying to forget he existed.  Screw her, anyway.  He’d find another ride.  He went back to trying to remember that progression.  

Brushing a matted lock of frayed and graying hair out of his eyes, it occurred to him that he’d forgotten more songs than he could remember.  Absent-mindedly, he reached out and touched the neck of his guitar.  He had a lot of catching up to do.

***

Time passed and nerves grew thin.  Donuts were eaten.  Coffee was drunk.  Some time after midnight, a young state trooper arrived and announced that the interstate had been closed.  It most likely wouldn’t be opened again until morning. Everyone groaned.  She ordered a cup of coffee and took a stool at the counter.  

More time passed.  Strangers struck up conversations.  Some tried to sleep.   Claustrophobic, others wandered around the rest stop, peering out into the storm, unable even to see their own snow covered cars.

***


Some time afterwards, the lights went out.



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## ledded (May 5, 2004)

Oh joy, another Dark*Matter / d20 Modern story hour, and one that is shaping up quite well I might say.


Keep up the good work, Watus, I really like what I see so far.


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## Damon Griffin (May 5, 2004)

Watus said:
			
		

> Some time afterwards, the lights went out.
> .





Gasp!  And then?!?!


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## Watus (May 5, 2004)

Now, now.  Don't spoil it for the others.  They didn't have the good fortune to be in your dining room at the time.


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## MaxKaladin (May 5, 2004)

Watus said:
			
		

> Now, now.  Don't spoil it for the others.  They didn't have the good fortune to be in your dining room at the time.



 He didn't actually give anything away.  He just poked and prodded the author a bit.  {Poke, Poke}  I won't give anything away either.  I'll just sit back and watch things go horribly awry in ways nobody -- not even the DM -- expected.  Consider that a teaser to get folks curious.


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## Mark Causey (May 5, 2004)

Why is it that I never get tired of Exit 23 no matter how many times I hear it? Or how many permutations therein?

Keep it going ...

AtR


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## Broccli_Head (May 5, 2004)

Let the craziness begin! Watus ran a really good introductory adventure....and despite...oh well, you'll see. BTW I play *Jubal * *Song*


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## Watus (May 6, 2004)

*Update no.2, wherein our intrepid heroes receive a nasty shock.  Er… several nasty shocks.*

James groaned as the lights, and his laptop, flickered and then died.  “Awwwww crap,” he moaned, flopping back into his chair.  The prospect of a long and cold night in the pitch black and stranger-filled donut shop held little appeal.  “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

He was reaching into his bag for a battery he knew wasn’t there when he was startled by a tremendous crash from the direction of the lobby – loud – the sound of shattering glass and shrieking metal.  The wind thew open the doors of the little donut shop, filling the room with bitter cold and stinging snow.  For a moment, James thought someone must have driven into the building.  But then came a feeling in the pit of his stomach, unfamiliar and unpleasant, as though someone had pinched his navel and was attempting to pull it violently backwards through his spine.  There were whispers in the wind in a thousand languages, alien or dead, full of grief and fear and foreboding.  Something nearby was out of place.  Something was very, very wrong.

As quietly as possible, James slipped under the table.

***

*BANG* *BANG* *BANG*

She recognized it immediately as gunfire.  There was a woman somewhere out in the darkness yelling in an authoritative voice, but the words were lost to the wind.  “Must be that cop,” Mary Katherine thought.  She couldn’t ever remember having been grateful to have one around before.  She was on her hands and knees under her table, wrapped in the blanket she’d been trying to sleep in and fighting off waves of nausea and terror.  At least someone seemed to be handling this.

She could feel the quiet priest beside her on the ground, but couldn’t see anything – wouldn’t have even known that her eyes were open, but for the wind stinging them.  She was shivering uncontrollably and didn’t know if it was from the sudden cold or that horrible feeling in her stomach.

More crashing from outside, and more yelling: a man this time.  She closed her eyes and slipped her hand into her pocket, squeezing the swithblade she’d carried since forever.  Not much good in a gunfight, let alone against whatever was out there, but the feel of it in her hand was familiar, comforting.  She squeezed, and came as close to prayer as she had in years.

Yesterday she’d understood her life, and then today, everything – _everything_ – was upside down.

***

And then silence.

Andy hadn’t had time to move, and was still frozen on his stool.  He carefully placed his half-eaten donut back onto the plate he knew was in front of him and exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes.  The feeling was dissipating.

Ahead of him, in the darkness, he could hear the waitress quietly weeping on the other side of the door to the back room.  Under her breath, she was uttering words he wouldn’t have guessed she even knew.

A minute passed in near absolute silence, and in the back of the restaurant, a flashlight snapped on.  The wind had died down, but it was still cold in here.  Not that the cold bothered him.  It didn’t.  It was that vagrant that had the flashlight – the old guy with the guitar.  He’d set it down beside his bag on the table and seemed to be packing up his stuff like he was getting ready to leave.  Where he thought he was going on a night like this, Andy didn’t have the feintest idea.

He swiveled slowly on his stool, peering behind him in the flashlight’s half-light.  Terrified faces peered out from underneath nearly every table.  Quietly, the others began to crawl out.  Another flashlight snapped on – the little guy who’d been staring at him all night.  Andy did a quick head count as everyone got their bearings.  Everywhere, frightened eyes were meeting briefly and asking each other the same silent question:

“What in the hell just happened?”

Andy came up three short.



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## Watus (May 11, 2004)

*Update no.3: More shocks…*

Where the hell was she?  

The seconds ticked by and James grew more and more tense.  He reached into his bag, and carefully tucked the Glock into his jacket.  Getting up from his seat, he moved slowly toward the door, fervently wishing for the trooper to walk through it and tell them everything was alright.  He’d heard her yelling, and he’d heard the shots.  That had been minutes ago now.

His father had been a cop.  Hell, his whole family was blue: uncles, brothers, cousins.  You couldn’t spit at an O’Connel family picnic without hitting a trooper or a special agent or a patrolman.  He’d be one himself if the academy hadn’d dropped him.  There wasn’t anything more horrifying to James than the idea of a dead cop, not even whatever the hell it was outside.  And now he couldn’t get the sound of bagpipes out of his head.

He turned back to look at the quietly milling group of strangers.  The priest was standing right behind him, his collar practically glowing in the dark.  They locked eyes for a moment, and James pushed open the door.

Glass was everywhere – little shards of it, glittering in the darkness.  He could barely make out what was left of the vestibule at the other end of the lobby.  The steel structure of it had been ripped apart: it almost looked like something had torn it _down_.  Snow was drifting across the white tiles, and everything, even the ceiling, was covered in a thin layer of frost.  But there was no sign of the trooper.

James noticed that the door to the hallway leading to the restrooms was lying, crumpled, several feet from the jamb on which it had hung.  He took a tentative step out into the lobby, half expecting something to charge him from out of the shadows.  When nothing did, he took another step.  And then another.

As he neared the door to the hallway, James realized the priest was headed outside into the wind through the shattered vestibule.  “Jesus Christ,” he swore.  “Where does he think he’s going?  Guy’s tryin’ to get himself killed.”  Suddenly alone, he flicked the flashlight from corner to corner, double and triple checking.  Somewhat comforted to find the lobby more or less horror-free, he turned back to the hallway.

That’s when he saw her.

She was lying in a crumpled heap just in front of the restrooms, and James could see, even in this light and even from a dozen feet away, that she was dead.  He called out to the priest, but wasn’t sure if he’d heard him through the wind.  

The amount of blood on the floor was substantial: it was splattered on the walls, even the ceiling.  The pool on the ground around her was already clotting and starting to freeze at the edges.  It looked like she’d been mauled.  Mauled by something big.  

Nausea nearly overwhelmed him.  It was hard to believe this was the same woman he’d seen only minutes ago drinking coffee and reading the paper in the donut shop.  It was almost impossible to believe.  This lifeless, gruesome thing - it just couldn’t be the same.  He dropped to his knees and tentatively pulled the collar of her jacket away from her ruined face, looking for the nametag.  Sgt. McDermott, it said.  He wouldn’t forget it.

He reached over and forced himself to pull the service weapon from her lifeless hand, apologizing to her in his mind.  Whatever had done this was still out there.  There were other people in the building – lots of others.  He was going to need the gun.  As he was retrieving the extra clips from her belt, he heard a sound behind him.  Spinning, he raised the pistol.

It was the fat man.  He barely seemed to register the gun.  He was staring past James at the trooper, open mouthed.  	

“She’s dead,” James said, lowering the pistol.

He looked up, and met James’s eyes.  “What the hell?”

“I don’t know,” James said, handing him the trooper’s flashlight.  He half-turned and looked back down the hallway.  “You hear that?”

The fat man looked down toward the men’s room.  “Sounds like running water.” 

James  made sure the safety was off and took a few more steps toward the bathroom.  There was definitely water running in there.  It sounded like a lot of it.  A few more steps and he could see a little ways inside – he could see the porcelain sink had been snapped right off.  It was nowhere to be seen, and there was water pouring out of the exposed plumbing and onto the floor.

“Oh, crap,” he said.  “I think it went into the bathroom.”

They paused a beat, and then James stepped forward and swung his flashlight and pistol into the room, police-style.  What he saw was a disaster area of shattered mirrors, broken porcelain and running water.  The stalls had been thrown aside, collapsing on top of one another in a heap, like so many playing cards.  Sinks and toilets had been snapped off their moorings, and the water on the floor was several inches deep.  Frost covered every surface that wasn’t already covered in standing water and a thick mist hung in the air.  Whatever had done this must have been huge.  James quietly thanked God it wasn’t still in there.  

From under the collapsed partitions, James heard a soft moan.



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## fenzer (May 11, 2004)

Alright!  More Dark*Matter and another Exit 23, wonderful!  

I love reading this little ditty.  It's fun to get different takes on the same situation.  

Watus, I like your writing style.  It is clear, fluid and descriptive.  Thanks.  

I have to say, we have a great group of writers at ENWorld.   Nicely done Watus, keep the updates coming.


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## Tellerve (May 12, 2004)

I second the "yeahs!" for more modernd20, DarkMatter, and this adventure.  I'm thinking I might just have to run my own campaign and start it off with this one as well.  I dunno about writing it up as well as you though, but the adventure is great every time I read it.

cheers,

Tellerve


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## Broccli_Head (May 12, 2004)

fenzer said:
			
		

> Alright!  More Dark*Matter and another Exit 23, wonderful!
> 
> I love reading this little ditty.  It's fun to get different takes on the same situation.
> 
> .




Fenzer...you're everywhere!   Glad to see you reading our little adventure.


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## fenzer (May 12, 2004)

Hey, I like good stories and there is no better place to find them than here.  Who needs Barnes & Noble or a library?    

Thanks for the fun story hour and keep the updates coming.


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## Watus (May 14, 2004)

*Update 4: Uh… still more shocks.*

Andy reached down and grabbed the icy partition, carefully peeling it back from the crumpled pile and tossing it behind him, making sure not to block the drain in the center of the floor.  He was standing in several inches of frigid water, and his feet were freezing.  Whoever was under this mess was lying in this water, probably freezing to death, and the a faint pinkish hue suggested they might have even bigger problems.  He worked quickly, but carefully, encouraged by the occasional faint moan.

The little guy behind him couldn’t seem to hold the light still.  A bundle of jangling nerves, he kept jerking it back to the door.  Andy’s heart jumped every time, thinking he’d heard something, but he kept his head down.  He kept working.

Gently lifting the last twisted sheet of steel and pressboard, Andy finally got a look at the man he’d been digging for.  He recognized him from the donut shop: that bookish looking executive type.  Only he wasn’t looking so bookish any more.  His nose was obviously broken, and probably his shoulder and some ribs too.  He was bleeding pretty badly from a nasty looking wound on his side.  He was barely conscious, and Andy worried he might be bleeding to death.  

First things first.  He had to get him out of the water.  Andy and the little guy lifted him off of the floor and, using a more-or-less intact stall door as a stretcher, started maneuvering him out of the bathroom.  Moving through the shattered bathroom with something as big as a stall door would have been difficult under the best of circumstances, but the only light being the flashlight awkwardly clutched under the little guys arm, it was slow going.  Dropping this guy clearly wouldn’t do him any favors.

Suddenly, half-visible in the bobbing light, a figure appeared in the doorway.  Andy’s heart leapt into his throat before he realized it was the priest.  His hair was covered in snow and he held a big box in his arms: a roadside emergency kit.  He must have gone out to his car.  Going outside in this weather with whatever was out there was, frankly, more than Andy would have been willing to do, but he was grateful as he and the little guy gently lowered the makeshift stretcher in the doorway to let the priest take a look at their burden.  Thank god someone here seemed to know a little first aid.  And the last rites, he admitted to himself.  That wound looked pretty nasty.

***

The boy was clearly in a state.  Even as he struggled for a better grip, Father Ryan whispered soothing words.  Promising everything was going to be alright.  That there was nothing to worry about.  He shifted his grip on the struggling boy yet again, and wished there was someone around to say those things to _him_.

He’d barely managed to catch the kid as he streaked by.  The other two were having some trouble getting their makeshift stretcher through the bathroom’s doorway without dumping its contents on the floor.  Father Ryan had been able to stabilize the man and was busy supervising the transfer when he’d seen movement out of the corner of his eye.  The boy in the red apron – his name tag said Danny – had come running from the direction of the video games, past the bathrooms, and was obviously on his way, frantic and irrational, out the front door and into the storm.  And most likely into the arms of whatever was waiting outside.

As he was struggling to keep the boy from rushing to his death, Father Ryan noticed a certain wetness on his leg.  He shifted his grip again and closed his eyes.  Admittedly, it was some time ago, but he was pretty sure that no one had warned him about this when he was preparing to take his orders.

With the kid tucked under an arm as best as possible, Father Ryan followed the others back to the donut shop, kicking the box of emergency supplies in front of him.

***

The suicide patrol was back, and no one new seemed to be dead.  That, at least, was good news, Mary Katherine supposed.  They’d found some towels and blankets for the suit, and had made him as comfortable as was possible.  At least he was breathing evenly now.

Danny, on the other hand, seemed to be getting worse.  The priest had been talking to him for around fifteen minutes, and, if anything, his shivering actually seemed to be intensifying.  She stepped up behind Fr. Ryan and placed her hands gently on his shoulder.

“Could you get us some cocoa?” she asked.

Resigned, he nodded and rose.  She slipped into his seat, and gently covered Danny’s trembling hands with her own.

“It must have been horrible,” she said, sympathy oozing from her very pores.  Or, at least, she hoped so.  “I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, pulling away from her, his voice rising, tremulous.  “You can’t possibly.”

He pulled the blanket up over his head, his eyes peering out like two glittering jewels.

“_It. looked. at. me._”

***

After several cups of cocoa and a great deal of hand-holding, Danny finally spilled the beans.  There weren’t many of them.

It had looked at him.  That much was clear.  Very clear, in fact: he repeated it often.  It had been tall, though he wasn’t quite sure how tall.  He hadn’t seen it that well.  Honestly, it had all been a bit of a blur.  But the eyes.  Those he remembered.

Father Ryan suspected the poor boy wouldn’t be able to forget.

***

*Next time…*

It had been his idea, but that didn’t really matter now.  He’d thought maybe the radio in the police cruiser would work, and even if it didn’t, there was bound to be a shotgun and some emergency supplies in it.  And it wasn’t very far from the front door.  Hell, it was practically right there.  She’d invented a spot right in front: typical cop behavior.  His father did that all the time.

So things hadn’t gone exactly as planned.  That wasn’t his fault, right?  I mean, no one could blame him.  They’d all been there.  They’d agreed.  

They’d _volunteered_, for crying out loud.



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## ledded (May 14, 2004)

fenzer said:
			
		

> Hey, I like good stories and there is no better place to find them than here. Who needs Barnes & Noble or a library?
> 
> Thanks for the fun story hour and keep the updates coming.



Hey, Fenzer *always* shows up to all the good parties...  good to see ya Fenz.

Great update Watus, I'm liking your style more and more, I'm sure this would be a really fun group to be in, you have a nice eclectic mix of character types going.


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## fenzer (May 14, 2004)

Hey Ledded.  Good to see you.

Watus, well done.  I love how you've written Danny, a fun read.


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