Whisper

  Martin was staring, open-mouthed, at Fiona's back. Perfect health ? Agelessness ? Regeneration ? As he was struggling to comprehend - much less accept - that casual revelation of, well, their immortality, Jane slipped right back into her suicide-plan mentality. The Swiss shot her a look, mostly in an attempt to determine whether she was serious or joke- - no, she was serious. Martin shook his head and pushed the whole matter into a corner of his mind labelled 'later' where it could keep company with 'shadows', 'magic', 'court of amber' and other topics Fiona had touched upon but not fully explained. He hadn't realized the shifting of his clothing - or rather, he noted the others' having changed and only then examined his own attire, surprised at finding sturdy leather boots and trousers of the same material on his lower body. One hand reflexively went to look for his pocket knife (and lighter and box of cigarettes) in the leathern garment as the other lifted first the hem of the loose, midnight blue linen tunic and then an edge of the long overcoat of similar but even darker color hanging down to the top of his boots. A wide leather belt over the tunic tried to give the garment a bit more shape than that of a loosely hanging sack but was only partially effective on account of Martin's paunch. The Swiss mentally shrugged; the clothing was loose and comfy enough and even though he wasn't too thrilled about the belt, he saw the necessity of it as he found several small leather drawstring bags attached to it. They felt empty - except for one that gave a faint clinking sound when touched. The boots' heaviness was no problem; he was used to military boots of about equal weight. He wasn't sure where the colour scheme had come from though; blue - even one as dark as this - wasn't his usual preference. But... the small silver trim along the tunic's neck and hem and the cloak's edges went well with the dark blue and he could live with it.   > “If you want to face the demon you’ll need some kind of weapon, pick what you want just remember anything to big will draw to much attention.”   Fiona's words shifted Martin's attention away from considering his wardrobe and back to their surroundings. His eyes slowly travelled over the weapon market. As an avid reader of fantasy books, he found it easy enough to name the majority of the displayed weapons - far easier than trying to imagine actually using one of them himself. He'd learned the hard way that actually using a gun was way more difficult than movies made it out to be - and using a handgun was bound to be much simpler than wielding a medieval melee weapons.    His eyes travelled over a massive two-hander and he wondered whether he'd actually be able to lift that thing before giving a tiny, rueful shake of his head and moving on. Martin gently touched a foil, remembering the well-intended but ultimately futile attempts to get teenage-him into sports by sending him to a fencing class... he had, initially, been interested - but gave up after eight weeks or so; the setting and regulations were too formal for him - and he'd lacked the speed and dexterity. Nevertheless, the sender weapon had a certain appeal - but much less than the blades on display next to it. Martin shuffled in front of the rapiers and glanced at the vendor for permission to lift one of them.  It was much heavier than the foil and modern day rapiers, with a broader blade and - Martin carefully touched the edges - sharpened on both sides. Half-memories made him automatically shift his feet into something that, with a lot of imagination, could be recognized as a fencing stance... assumed by someone who'd watched youtube fencing tutorials. Despite feeling somewhat silly, Martin lifted the blade, then slowly extended his arm in a slow-motion stab, taking care to 'aim' at an empty area. He was pleasantly surprised at the reach the rapier, coupled with his size, gave him. And its weight was low enough that keeping the weapon extended in such a way (and moving it quickly, he imagined) should be possible. Lowering the rapier again, Martin examined its hilt and nodded to himself.   In the end, the Swiss bought both the rapier and, inspired by a half-remembered short story in an anthology he'd read years ago, a dagger with an oversized cross-guard that, with some practice, might serve as parrying dagger.    Attaching the dagger to the belt was easy enough but Martin struggled with his new rapier; either it was uncomfortable and dragging the belt down on one side or the sheath hung too low and dragged on the ground. After several futile attempts, a nearby vendor - trying to hide a grin - waved him over and showed him a shoulder-strap. Finding this method way easier and comfortable, Martin bought that, too.    Checking the progress of his fellows, he was surprised at the various weapons that had been bought; there was Jane with a flail - fitting choice for miss suicide-plan he thought and suppressed a grin - Tim with a short-hafted war hammer, Telly with a machete and Akhtar with a... Martin frowned. He knew the Egyptian sickle-sword had a specific name but couldn't remember it.  

  Martin considered the backpack being offered for a moment. After patting his pocket to make sure he still had his pocket knife - not the disappointing one he'd been issued by the Swiss army with two blades, a can and a bottle opener and an awl but his more comprehensive, private one - he declined the offer with a shake of his head. He had his knife and his lighter - and their newfound ability to 'find' whatever they needed at short notice. And he'd never particularly liked lugging around backpacks with 'necessities', even when he had had to.    <<..>>   Fiona inviting questions came as a bit of a surprise. Martin would have liked to sit down with a pen and a notepad - he was more of a methodical thinker - and the impromptu nature of the discussion didn't play to his strength. But even so, he came up with a number of inquiries but not before the two women had thrown their own at their... saviour-guide-teacher. While waiting for those questions to be answered, he went over his own, unvoiced ones, refining some, dismissing others, coming up with new ones.    "What are the limits ? The 'cannots' and 'must nots' ?" He could think of a few for the former as well as the latter but... assumptions. "Also, you spoke of what we can do, what we might do, what we are - in short, the powers and privileges we suddenly enjoy. You have, however, only barely brushed against the costs and obligations that come with these benefits... have we just been drafted into some kind of conflict ? Are we, as 'children of Amber', now bound to obey some king or queen ruling over Amber ?"   Martin had more questions but those were going into specifics and details - and might be obsolete, depending on how the general ones were answered.

Tapping into a shadow of himself ? Gaining insight into... what, alternate lives he might have lived ? And the skills of those... reflections ? Martin pondered Fiona's instruction and explanation - bare-bones as both were - while first studying, then peeling and eating the manifested pistachios. His doubts had taken a back-seat, faced with impossibilities that had become reality - but Martin wasn't yet ready to fully believe everything. As such, he wondered what reflection or shadow he might tap into and draw a skill from that was... testable, here and now. At the fifth pistachio, Martin had come up with something. With a whisper of remorse, he dropped the shells on the ground and closed his eyes, focusing, thinking off, seeking some version, some shadow of himself that didn't have that particular flaw...   There was no sudden rush of knowledge, no flood of memories or sudden sense of... anything - only a faint shifting of some memories, almost like no longer being quite sure that what he remembered was what really had happened. Well, only one way to test it.  Keeping his eyes closed, Martin took a slow breath before extending his arms sideways and lifting his left foot. Without visual cues or at least two points of contact, Martin's sense of balance was... terrible; after a few seconds, he'd start to wobble, instinctively try to compensate and in so doing, exacerbate the issue. Counting under his breath, Martin slowly lowered his arms which, ordinarily, would increase the wavering. When, by the time he'd reach the count of 25, he still stood stable, he opened his eyes and nodded to himself.  Again, Fiona's claim had proven true.   > "You of all people should know a good performer never reveals there tricks!"   Fiona's reply to some question he'd missed brought Martin's attention back to their rescuer. There was a faint whiff of something out of place and suddenly, the light in the room changed. Martin's gaze flickered to the ceiling before, not finding any lightbulb that might have been turned off, shifting to the windows. The harsh light that had flown in through broken or comparatively clean section had changed to the softer, more silvery light of the moon.   With a mental shrug, Martin followed Fiona outside, studying the unremarkable small town street. Well, except for the plant growth that looked somewhat out of place.   "Uh-huh." he muttered in agreement to Jane's mumbled comment - before dipping a hand in his pocket and fishing out the packet of nuts and offering it "Pistachio ?"  

Still around (or rather, back); got swamped by RL - and then had a spontaneous short trip to a electricity-less location.

Miss Suicide-Plan - or Jane, as she named herself later - retrieving an energy drink from the fridge only barely registered; Martin was too occupied with his own drink - and the fact that they stepped through a mirror into an... alternate earth. The second woman's pick of beverage - Jolt Cola - did tickle something in Martin's conscious, though, and he looked at the distinctive bottle, his brows lowering. He might have missed Jane's energy drink while retrieving his own beverage - but both ? AND the lager now being opened by Tim. Martin's brows had lowered into a full frown by now and his gaze wandered back to the meditating woman, causing him to miss Telly's retrieval of an iced coffee. Recalling Miss Wizard - Wizardess ? She-wizard ? - exact wording <imagine what you wish to find in there>, Martin slowly nodded to himself and turned his attention back to the fridge in time to see a cup of hot tea being taken from it. Nodding once more to himself, Martin glanced back at the seated woman, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took a mental note to listen very carefully to the exact wording that woman was going to use.   <<...>>   Listening carefully was exactly what Martin did as Fiona explained.   Dualism. Polar opposite formed by the Court of Chaos and... Amber, presumably - - which, in turn, would be the representation or embodiment of Order. Reality - existence - as the manifestation of Order and Chaos clashing and mingling. Understanding the concept wasn't difficult for Martin; he'd read a small library worth of fantasy literature, from slim novellas to monstrous cycles spanning 10k+ pages, and dualism was common and understandable enough. Accepting the concept as 'real' - well, that was something different.   He was about to ask about 'walking the pattern' since the expression stood out, sounding 'Important' and didn't make the same kind of sense as the rest of Fiona's explanation. However, Jane surged ahead and even if she stumbled at her third 'also' and petered out, Swiss politeness kept him from interjecting. He remained silent, waiting for Fiona's reply, and instead decided to test one of the... Amberite's claims.  A suitably liminal space, she said. A fridge is, apparently, suitably liminal - at least, for drinks... Is that probable possibility ? Like... the possibility that I've got a bag of pistachios in my pocket ? Not too improbable and certainly has been true in the past so it could be true now... so if I reach into it... Putting his hand into his pocket, Martin half-expected to find nothing but some lint and a some cough drop wrapping and half-expected to find exactly that, a bag of pistachios.

Martin slowly took a few step further into the mirror-storeroom - more to make way for the others to follow through the mirror than anything else - while his gaze slowly swept through the room. More and more made the step from... there to here until everyone had gone through the mirror. Which the woman promptly waved away, leaving only an charcoal sketch of what was reality. Like a chalk outline at a crime scene. Martin thought unconsciously, falling victim to what was a media stylistic device rather than actual investigative practice. Prompted by the woman moving to the other, larger room, Martin followed and listened.   The Swiss had questions. A lot of them. Problem was, he could neither decide with which to start, nor how to phrase them. And the woman then forestalled them by first giving some answers then withdrawing onto a carpet and... Meditation ? Really ?  Looking at the woman, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, rapier in easy reach, Martin didn't pose any of his questions and instead grumbled to himself. Softly and under his breath, for disturbing the woman would be... impolite.  Ungrateful too - probably, assuming that she did really save them - and possibly dangerous, given the pointy weapon, but it was indeed the incivility of any such attempt that stopped the Swiss. Instead, he looked at the others then at the out-of-place looking fridge and made his way there. Something - anything - to drink would indeed be very welcome; the elementary prosaicness a reaffirmation of... real and mundane.    Opening the fridge, Martin didn't really know what to expect. Or what he wanted, at least not consciously. What he saw in the fridge, though, was an utter surprise. Slowly, he reached inside the fridge, his fingers closing hesitantly, almost as if fearing whatever he saw might just vanish upon being touched, around one of the PET bottle inside. Studying the brown plastic container*, he closed the fridge and move several steps away before slowly unscrewing the lid of his prize and taking a tiny sip. Finding the taste matching that of his memory, he takes a bigger sip before sighing contentedly. He had no idea whatsoever how bottles of not only Rivella - which, to his knowledge, wasn't sold in any noticeable quantity outside of Switzerland, its direct neighbouring countries and either Denmark or Netherlands, he couldn't remember - but Rivella Grün, which was hard to find even in Switzerland, ended up in that fridge. But for the moment, he was content to postpone that question.   After another sip or two, he asked in his slow, British-drawling accent "Sooo... introduction time ?" He unconsciously straightened his posture and shifted his stance to feet shoulder width apart. "I'm Martin. Martin LüthiMAR-teen LY-tee (the 'ee' are short, the 'y' as in French "tu" IPA: ˈmartiːn ˈlyːti. Or TinuDeenoo ('ee' short, 'oo' long), if that's easier." Having experience with the inability of most native English speakers to pronounce umlaute (and their propensity of anglicising proper names), he chose to provide easier-to-pronounce regional nickname along with his name. "And I'm a tourist -" he glanced around at the twisted reflection of the DMV and added "- doubly so."   * The Bottle  

Happy trip, jabberwock.   (I'll continue hiding in the basement where it's only "bearably warm" instead of sweltering hot)

The visual search for an impromptu weapon yielded nothing useable, unfortunately. Not that Martin was particularly adept with any kind of melee weapon - whether improvised or professional - unless they were controllable by keyboard, mouse or controller but having something solid in hand would at least have given him an illusion of control and self-efficacy. Time and again, his eyes touched upon the mirror - and each time, he had the impression of missing something. The hall outside seemed quite enough, at least. Though... the demon could be quiet enough that the sound of its approach didn't penetrate the door. Rubbing a hand over his face, Martin pushed down the threatening panic; he'd deal with that when - if ! - it happened. Somehow.   The appearance of a foreign woman in the reflection made him blink, then point at the mirror with a croaked "Uhm..." to bring the others' attention to it. Not exactly articulate but... unnecessary, apparently, as the 'reflection' spoke.   While he was still trying to process apology, explanation and invitation, Miss Suicide-plan was true to her apparent self and jumped at the mirror. Through the mirror.   Portals, gates, teleportation, dimensional rifts, mirror-realms - Martin was 'familiar' with those and similar concepts from TV shows, books and games - but incorporating such into his understanding of reality was more difficult, even in face of Miss Suicide-plan's apparent successful transition to... mirror-land.    Martin considered. On one hand, there was a mirror he could go through into somewhere else with a person that seemed to be helpful (might even already have helped - could this woman be Mr. Wiry's 'wizard' ?). On the other hand, there was a demon whose touch turned people into mud... things under its control. Would the police arrive before its return - and if yes, would they be able to hurt, kill or drive it off ? Martin's decision was the rational one. Mostly. Well, nine tenths rationality and one tenth curiosity. Abandoning his post next to the door, he studied the not-reflection in the mirror for a long moment before slowly climbing through.  

Martin watched with a touch of bewilderment how the somewhat stiffly-dressed gentleman put away his phone, remembering him standing just outside the door and taking pictures with it. Actions might speak louder than words - but that didn't mean Mr. Stiffly's were bad. Quite the contrary, in fact; Martin found himself nodding softly in reply to them. As another man spoke - bland and... average in just about every aspect, easy to miss and dismiss - Martin finished his smoke and bent down to place the stub on the floor and carefully ground it under his shoe to extinguish every last shred of glowing tobacco. He looked around for some place to dispose of the flattened stub but not finding anything suitable, shrugged, picked it up and deposited it back into the mostly empty packet. Though he didn't think it likely that there was anyone - anyone human that was - still outside (and it was likely too soon to be expecting help to be arriving), he nevertheless stepped back next to the door.  Taking care to position himself handle-side but not actually in front of the door but in the reassuring firm cover of the wall. Focusing his attention on whatever sound might be on the door's other side, his eyes swept through the storeroom in search of anything that might make a suitable weapon. A SIG P220 would just about be perfect; he might not be a noteworthy marksman but he did have the training to use a semi-automatic 9mm gun - and given the short distances, accuracy wasn't too important. Given their location, though, he'd settle for a long-handled broom....

Marting wasn't in the habit of letting his jaw drop or look utterly flabbergasted but the athletic woman managed to provoke both wit the suggestion of her 'plan'. Too disbelieving - and still rattled from what he'd just witnessed outside - he only managed a small but vigorous shake of his head in response. Mr. Wiry's shaky-voiced portrayal washed over Martin but he focused his attention on his cigarette, taking another deep pull and then watching the thin line of smoke from the glowing tip curl up to avoid reimagining the horrible scene outside. Except, the way his hand was shaking, there was no lazily upwards-curling trail but a smudgy little cloud. Then, something Mr. Wiry said penetrate Martin's mental avoidance and his head jerk to look at the speaker.    <<There is a wizard on our side, helping us. The wizard could only help some of us.>>    The Swiss' eyed widened and his face was suddenly home to way more expressions and emotion than a single face should ever trying to express at any point in time, chiefly among them surprise, disbelief, hope and... wishfulness  ? He kept looking at Mr. Wiry as one of the first to have fled into this staff storeroom - Mr. Tousled, Martin labelled on him on account of his hairdo - first stated the obvious then picked up on Miss Sport's 'plan' and expanded it into an only slightly misconceived one.    Were they trying to get killed... turned into mud-effigies or... whatever ?   Training and drill exercises stirred in the depth of Martin's memory, dislodged metaphorical layers of dust and rust and vied for attention. "She - it - is fast." Martin interposed. "Fast enough to catch most if not all of us." Now that he was speaking more than single word utterances, Martin's accent made it obvious that he wasn't a native speaker. He had the diction and pronunciation of someone who'd learned English as a foreign language and spoke it with the cadence and accentuation of his native tongue. If not for the clear British English tone, one might mistake it as some kind of Southern US dialect due to the slow and drawling rhythm and the over-emphasized vowels. "Besides, it was leaving, almost as if it'd forgotten about us." At this point, Martin paused, looked around, then shrugged and lowered his hand to tap the ash from his cigarette on the ground before looking at Mr. Wiry. "Didn't it ?"  Even if the notion that there was some kind of wizard helping them was alluring, Martin wasn't going down that road. "And with other people fleeing, someone's bound to call the police. Staying right here and keeping this door firmly shut until help arrives is what we will be doing." Martin didn't realize that somewhere between his brain and his tongue, 'should' had not only morphed into 'will' but also been infused with the tone of command, making it no longer a suggestion but not quite yet an order.   

Pesky RL, always getting in the way of gaming 😋

The she-demon moved with surprising - and alarming ! - speed and was suddenly not only within arms' reach of him but also smiling maliciously at them, exposing her sharp teeth that seemed designed specifically to rip and tear into flesh. Too many... adults have around 30 teeth... The tangential thought was as intrusive as it was useless - but at least, it was more sensible than the fleeting, half-formed, preconscious idea of jumping up and trying to grapple the she-demon. The demoness extended an arm and Martin instinctively released the guard's belt and half-jumped, half-scooted backwards, eyes widening in growing horror as the effect of the incarnate nightmare's touch become obvious. Slack-jawed, he watched the guard dissolve or... transform into... a mass of roughly guard-shaped... mud ? With the she-demon looking down at him and posing her - rhetoric - question even as her arm began to extend again, Martin realized that he might die. Not at some point 50 years in the future, not one day when crossing a street and - unluckily - chancing upon a phone-distracted driver, not anytime but... now. Martin closed his eyes.   <<“Hurry and join the others, before she realizes that someone was influencing heerrr...”>>   Opening his eyes with an emotion too complex and multilayered to understand, Martin saw the she-demon walking away without sparring him or the guard-shaped mud - which seemed not only to be the source of that comment but also use the lady-clerk's voice - any attention. When the mud-shape pushed itself to its... feet and began to lumber after the demoness like a clumsy puppy, a small, strangled sound escaped from his throat. He didn't know what that sound aspired to be - a groan? a whimper? a stifled laugh? - nor did he pause and try to find out. Instead, he pushed with hands and feet, sliding on his backside over the DMVs floor in direction of the 'Employees Only'.    A sound at his side made him turn his head in alarm but instead of some new horror, it was only Mr. Wiry. Martin sought the other's gaze, desperate for the normality of another human in all this nightmarish chaos. Eyes meeting eyes, Martin nodded vaguely in direction of the door they'd been told to go through. He made another push-and-skid before some part of his brain still (or again) capable of rational thought told him that it would be faster to stand and walk. And stand and run would be even faster. After a split-second deliberation, Martin pushed himself to his feet and tried to turn towards the door and do exactly that only to find himself unwilling - unable - to turn his back on the retreating demoness and the guard-shaped mud lumbering after her. He compromised and walked - fast - backwards towards the door while keeping the two nightmare-spawned things in his sight.   <<...>>   Once through the doorway, Martin immediately takes a step to the side before slowly turning and half-falling, half-leaning against the wall. He wanted to scream - but instead, he closed his eyes and slowly and very, very deliberately exhaled. Then inhaled. Held the breath. And exhaled. Eyes still closed, Martin reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Those familiar with tobaccos may recognize it as brand not being sold in the US. He fumbled out one of the few remaining cigarettes - four left - and put it between his lips before opening his eyes and trying to light it. With his hands shaking, it takes five attempts before the lighter sparks into a flame and a several long seconds before Martin managed to light his smoke. Not caring one whit that he was a) in a federal building and b) in a room full of paper, Martin took a long if somewhat shaky pull on the cigarette before slowly releasing the smoke from mouth and nostrils. He didn't smoke much - a single packet can easily last him a week or more - so the effect was immediate; Martin's perception wobbled and he felt a momentary light-headedness. Familiar feeling, that. Welcome - and grounding.  After a second long pull-and-release, he looked at the others that fled into this... form-storage... room. "Was, verflucht nonemou, isch DAS gsü ?" That he posed the question in his native tongue escaped him.

Awfully quiet in here... everything (and everyone) alright ?

Mr. Wiry's nod - and even more the subsequent obedience - sparked a touch of relief; he wouldn't have to pull the guard alone or, even worse, both guard and Mr.Wiry clinging to it in some well-intended but misplaced attempt of first aid. Two versus one and a reasonably slick floor meant quick progress. Though Martin tried not to drag the downed guard into obstacles or over pieces of broken glass, those were secondary considerations; 'remove from immediate danger' was the first objective. Well, second, actually, after 'self- and patient-preservation', but still - and cosmetic or minor injuries sustained while being rescued was preferable to serious injury from not being rescued. It wasn't as if someone would rather loose a limb for being left in danger than get a bruise from being dragged to safety, right ? After all, all attempts from victims to sue their rescuer for damage sustained while being rescued had been put down quite decisively. Both in Switzerland and all of Europe. And even if this wasn't either place, any such lawsuit would surely be rejected, right ? Realising that his thoughts had scattered into various directions, dragging out memories and experiences, recollections of rescue and first aid drills - from the point of view from both the intstructee and the instructor - and lots of other, tangentially related stuff, Martin made a mental effort to push all of that aside and refocus on the now and here.   "Good." he complemented Mr. Wiry with a nod before turning his head to look over his shoulder towards their goal. "MAKE WAY !" he barked at some young woman blocking their path before, when she failed to move, simply continuing to pull and shuffle-walk backwards and croaking "SHOO !" which, possibly because of the pure absurdity, did get her moving.

Stuff that would put me out of my comfort zone would would already be violating MW's content rules, so no problems there (for me).