Secret Lives

San Francisco has been plagued with a horrible run of bad luck. First the mystery of the black out that ran from the Bay to Arizona and down the coast toward Mexico. The blackout brought on a spill over of raw sewage that contaminated the Bay and spilled into the ocean. And the waves, those rolling 10 foot high monsters that threatened to break and devour anything that stood in their path, seemed to pound the coastline non-stop for 48 hours straight.

The more banal of society, the ones who are far too jaded to care at all, shrugged a tired shoulder and went on with their 9-5 lives. But others maybe stood up and took notice, waiting with anxious breath for what might come next.

Because surely something was coming next.

Sunday would begin as normal, maybe even end as normal. But it wouldn’t stay that way. At 3:00 am the sons and daughters of Gaia’s chosen who bleed almost effortlessly between worlds would find themselves waking as if from a horrible dream – startled and uneasy, in the Umbra having slipped sideways without realising it. The only thing memorable from their dream was the sharply angled beautiful face of a man on a throne.

Those that suffer nearly nightly from Nightmares so real that they steal their breath would find themselves lost in a world of war and violence – of viscous monsters so tall they seem giants even to their Crinos forms. They would be plagued by the images of a woman with stunning features and weary eyes and hair that is long and dark. The fight is viscous and each time they wake it is with the woman being run through with a shimmering sword at the behest of a self-proclaimed king on a throne.

The Telepathic of the nation are picking up random frequency’s without even trying. Whispers of dread and hopelessness, of a plea for help from the faceless. It’s never ending and seems to get worst as day bleeds to night, bringing on unforgiving headaches and irritation.

The others with a knack for Sensing Danger would feel it all around them, keeping their mind constantly alert and their attention ever focused on every thing around them.

Echoes are all around others, conversations centuries old or maybe from another plane breach this world and touch the preternatural hearing of those blessed with the gift [curse] to hear such things.

And the vagabonds of the Nation, the Striders, would find themselves plagued by the spirits of the dead …begging for help from an unseen enemy that they can’t quite explain.

This continues …from 3am each morning and lessening only around 10pm. It all starts up again though ….night after night, never-ending or so it would seem.

OOC:
This is obviously a story hook for a SL. Those that would directly suffer this situation would be: Hunter, Montgomery, Owen, Nessa, Carter, Izzy, Marina, Kyle, Lu and Vikki.

There are 4 other players / characters who will be receiving FPM’s from me today so that I don’t have to list their private information here.

Any questions FPM me or IM me

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Izzy:

The thing about it is this – no one knows she can do it. Well, one person knows, and the last thing he’d do is tell her secret. So when she sits up, jolted from sleep at 3am, with echoes of the past streaming through her mind like one of those old radio shows – without end, jumbled together, and older than they’ve ever been before…

She knows something is wrong. And when it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t let up, it doesn’t let her sleep, it doesn’t end, she knows something is drastically wrong. She gives up on sleep, and discovers that the last thing she ever wants to do again is listen to the events of the past in the rooms of a goddamn police precinct.

By the end of her work day, she’s exhausted. She’s refused to let anyone see anything, to relinquish even the slightest thread of control, and by the end of the day her eyes is haunted, her hands tend to tremble, and she will do anything for relief…

Including going home to Anderson’s place to get her sleeping pills. Maybe if she self-medicates enough, she’ll get some sleep…

~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t a long visit – or a necessarily pleasant one. He’s the only one who knows – and to see that she’s hearing so much, to much, without end… he was worried. But the last place she wanted to be was in the home they were to have together, in the bed that was theirs, hearing echoes of not only their past, but conversations of those long before they arrived.

It’s just… too much.

She took a dose of the sleeping pills before she left. And a beer, and some whiskey. So he took her back to her shoebox apartment. He took her home.

~~~~~~~~~~~

10pm: She can’t tell if the pills are finally working, if it’s the whiskey, or if the assault on her hearing has finally faded to a dull murmur in the background. All she knows is that she can finally sleep. Exhausted, she does exactly that, near instantly.

…only to have it begin anew at 3am.

A text, to Carter. “Need 2 talk. Soon, please.”
She never says please…