Contested Ground Studios

[Kammerice]

Okay, so we started our Cold City game last night. Same group as played The City Beneath.

Before I put up the first session, I've got several points to make (things that might not make sense if I don't mention them at all).

First of all, for the purposes of this game, I've changed the way that the RPA works - when you are assigned to Berlin by your superiors, you are given a choice; do you want your name put in a hat? If yes, and you are asked to serve as part of the RPA, then you'll get bonuses (extra leave, more money etc.). You may never be selected - the selection process is random, but is conducted ahead of time - the Powers That Be may have randomly chosen your group weeks or months ago, but you were all still just picked at random. If you disappear or die whilst working for the RPA, then your family will receive any bonus money that you procured during your time; it will be written off as "Public Service".

The second major point is you'll all note the lack of Draw scenes. I know that this is one of the main things that helps Cold City stand out from other games, but I've got an idea...with a/state I allowed each player the chance to give their characters an epilogue, a way to end their particular story the way they wanted. With Cold City, I'm going to keep this idea, but I'm going to have them play the Draw scenes after the epilogues, if that makes sense. This way, we as readers and GM, can see how the characters develop over the course of the game, and where the end up, before being taken back and shown exactly where they came from. And rather than have the Draw being the reason that they're in the RPA, I may ask them to make the scene just a defining moment in the character's life. Okay, so they lose the chance to get a positive or negative trait based upon the Draw scene, but I feel for my group this approach would be more appreciated and more worthwhile.

Third. You'll note when you read the Dramatis Personae that I haven't stuck to the one Brit, one American, one French and one Russian. My group has a Brit, a Russian, a Norwegian, a Pole and a Czechoslovakian. There is a reason for this; it was what the players wanted. I asked them what nationalities they would like to play, and these were what was given back. I see no real problem with any of them; we'll still have the lack of trust between everyone - the Pole and the Czechoslovakian will mistrust the Russian who will mistrust the Brit who will share in this mistrust. It'll work. I hope...

If anyone has any comments or questions, then as per usual, feel free to state them.

Anyways, on with the show.



Cold City – Doomed Youth

Dramatis Personae

Mikhail Kristoff (Val) – A former Russian soldier now working as an ambassador to the allies in Berlin.

Christopher Miller (Al) – A former British soldier, currently employed as a translator at the British embassy in Berlin.

Karla Potempkin (Janet) – A Czechoslovakian intelligence operative stationed in Berlin.

Erik Treberg (Dave) – A former Norwegian resistance fighter turned engineer, brought over to Berlin to help rebuild the city after the war.

Jakub Wozniak (John) – A Polish soldier working for the exiled Polish government, nominally working as part of the British forces in Berlin.




Stanza One – Passing Bells

01:04, 15th January, 1950

Each received the same telephone call, waking them. A Frenchman, speaking in accented German, said two words before hanging up: “You’re up.” Outside, a car idled in the snow, ready to take them to wherever the Reserve Police Agency required them.

Getting dressed, each new agent entered the car waiting for them. Beside them in the back sat a plain black briefcase. Inside were four nondescript brown folders. Each of the folders held a file on an individual. Leafing through the material as the car sped along the deserted streets of Berlin, each agent got a feel for their new colleagues.

A sound came drifting through the night to reach the five cars as they congregated in an old market square; a bell was ringing somewhere close by. As the cars stopped beside one another, the flashing lights of two police cars and an ambulance illuminated the scene. Each agent took a deep breath, steeling themselves against the cold and against whatever they had been sent to deal with. They stepped out of their vehicles.

Before them sat the ruins of Saint Hedwig’s Cathedral. The old building, fashioned after the Pantheon in Rome, had been bombed in 1943 and was still awaiting the rebuilding process to reach this area. Two policemen stood at the top of a wide set of steps, near the ruined doors. Somewhere high above, the bell belonging to the cathedral rang.

Karla Potempkin adjusted her beret, fixed her RPA pin to her lapel, and walked up the steps to greet the constables. She glanced inside the cathedral, seeing on shadow. “Good evening gentlemen,” she said to them, nodding to each.
“Ma’am,” one responded, noting the pin. “We were told to make sure that no one went inside. The ambulance was already here, with the man that radioed for help in the back.”
“Who told you to remain outside?”
“The captain. When Officer Weber radioed for assistance, we were told not to go inside: RPA orders.”
“Very good,” Potempkin said, nodding her thanks to the man. She turned and descended the steps towards the ambulance, passing the other four agents as they moved up towards the two policemen. Erik Treberg turned and followed her, curious.

Chris Miller leant against one of the pillars beside the two cops. “You boys got anything to drink?” The two police shared a look, before the one that had spoken to Potempkin offered a hip flask. Miller thanked the man, took a drink and handed it to the quiet officer.
“Jakub Wozniak,” the Pole introduced himself to Miller, extending his hand. Miller shook and then nodded back toward the ambulance.
“Is it bad?” he asked the two cops. The quiet one put a hand to his mouth, the colour draining from his face.
“It is, sir,” the other cop answered.
“You mind if I go on in?” Mikhail Kristoff asked.
“You’ve got jurisdiction here, sir,” the cop told him. Kristoff smiled his thanks and ducked his large frame inside. Miller followed. Wozniak looked after them, and then turned back and approached the ambulance.

“I’d like to see the body,” Potempkin said as she neared the open back doors of the ambulance. Both paramedics sat on the foot rest at the back of the vehicle, smoking cigarettes. “Go ahead, ma’am,” one said, flicking the butt of his cigarette away. Potempkin noted the blood the stained the man’s hands and forearms. She fished a packet from one of her coat pockets and offered it to the man. The paramedic took the cigarette and immediately put it to his lips and lit it. She stepped past him and inside.

Treberg moved inside beside her. The body lying on a stretcher had the tattered remains of a German police officer. Two large, ragged cuts ran across the man’s chest and abdomen. A clean cut ran from the base of the man’s throat to his belly button; the scalpel used sat to one side discarded. “Emergency surgery?” Treberg asked. Potempkin nodded. She pointed, not touching the body: “Look at that.”

Treberg noted the cuts in the rib cage where whatever had ripped the man’s flesh had reached the bone. “Defensive wounds on the hands,” he informed the Czech woman. She lifted the dead man’s left hand up and examined it.
“Two puncture marks on the back of the hand, here,” she announced. She bent down to the hand and sniffed deeply. Cutting through the stench of death and emptied bowels, Potempkin could smell something else, something distinct. “Poison?” she muttered.
“Why poison someone when you’ve already done that to them?” Wozniak asked from the door of the ambulance.
“Good question. Where did the other two go?”
“Inside.”
“Shall we?” Potempkin asked Treberg. He nodded.

“You smell that?” Kristoff asked Miller. Miller sniffed the air.
“Cordite?”
“Gun smoke, yeah.” Kristoff led the way into the cathedral. Above them, gallery seating formed a horseshoe with the open end facing away from the main doors. At the opposite end of the ground floor a large altar stood, a buckled cross stained with soot sitting atop. A hole in the roof of the cathedral off to the right hand side let in the snow. A corresponding hole in the floor before the altar spoke of a bomb exploding, uncovering the lower levels and crypt. Large windows around the church did little to dispel the deep shadows around the building. The bell still rang out, but the noise was slowing down as the bell came to rest once more.

“Got him,” Miller said, pointing toward a body lying awkwardly in the pews. Kristoff ignored the Englishman and walked towards the hole in the floor. Miller shook his head and looked at the dead cop. The man lay face down in a puddle of his blood, which had once just started to dry. A gun sat untouched in the holster. Miller drew the weapon and checked the ammunition. “He never even fired a shot,” he muttered to himself. It appeared as if the man had been impaled four or five times in the abdomen.

“Look at this,” Kristoff called to Miller in English.
“What?” Miller replied in German.
“I wonder where this hole leads.”
“Down, one would imagine,” Potempkin answered as she and the other two approached. “Dead man?” Miller pointed over to the cop.

Treberg and Potempkin stood looking at the man. “I’d like to take a blood sample,” she said. “Could you run back to the ambulance and get me a vial, please?” she asked Wozniak. The Pole nodded and disappeared back out at a jog.

“What’s this?” Treberg asked, crouching down next to the body. He picked up a long, thin needle-like object.
“Is that…hair?” Potempkin asked, doing her best to study it in the gloom.
“Looks like.”

“A hair?” Miller asked, looking back to them. He stopped mid-turn. He tapped Kristoff on the elbow. The Russian looked at him, then, realising Miller wasn’t looking at him, followed the other’s gaze. In the gallery above them, a silhouette was visible. Kristoff coughed pointedly, attracting the attention of Treberg and Potempkin. Both stood under the gallery, unable to see the silhouette. Kristoff nodded upwards. Treberg arched his eyebrows questioningly. Miller pointed with his head. Treberg glanced at Potempkin. She looked at the body, pointed to herself and then at the floor, indicating that she’d stay by the body. Treberg nodded and looked at Miller. They shared a look. The Englishman moved away from the hole in the floor and moved toward the stairs leading to the gallery. Treberg followed.

Kristoff moved so the he had an almost unobstructed view of the silhouette. He put a hand on his gun, but didn’t draw yet.

Wozniak came back into the church in time to see Miller and Treberg disappear up the stairs. He moved toward Potempkin, handing her a small glass vial. She took a blood sample from the body. “What’s happening?” Wozniak asked.
“Upstairs,” Potempkin said cryptically. Wozniak looked at Kristoff, noted the man was staring into the gallery, and moved to get a clearer view of what was up there.

Miller stood at a wooden door at the top of the steps. He looked back to Treberg, who had already drawn his gun. Miller drew his own weapon and opened the door. Both men snuck onto the gallery, moving as quietly as possible. Miller moved further in, with Treberg watching after him. The Norwegian knelt, looking around. He could see the silhouette, a woman, standing ramrod straight, staring down into the main body of the church. She wore a heavy winter jacket, and her long white hair fell down her back. He put a hand on the floor to steady himself, feeling notches and scrapes in the wood. He glanced down. The notches appeared smooth, as if fashioned over time by someone rhythmically hitting the same spot over and over.

Miller snapped his fingers in Treberg’s direction. He pointed upward, toward the rafters. Treberg followed Miller’s finger and gaze, noting that near the hole in the roof was a darker patch on the wall. He looked at Miller and shrugged. Miller reciprocated and brought his gun up to aim at the shape. Treberg trained his gun on the woman.

Miller fired. The bullet flew, striking the shape roughly in the middle. A loud, high-pitched screech filled the room. The shape fell towards the gallery. The woman jerked in the same direction. “Freeze!” Treberg shouted at her, standing up to keep his aim. She ignored him, falling onto the floor and rolling down the small flight of steps.

Wozniak heard the thing hit the balcony above his head. Whatever Miller had shot, it was certainly large. The Pole ran toward the stairs, ready to help. “I’ll get back up,” Potempkin said to Kristoff. The Russian nodded, finally drawing his gun. The Czech woman rushed out of the cathedral.

“What the hell was that?” Treberg asked Miller. The other shrugged, keeping his gun trained on the area the thing had disappeared from his view behind some pews. Treberg, trusting that Miller would watch his back, approached the woman.

Her unseeing eyes stared back at him as he came down the steps. Her lower body and arms were cocooned in some type of silk-like substance. Given the angle she now lay at, Treberg could clearly see a strand of the silk running away from the woman’s body towards wherever the thing had fallen. “She dead?” Miller asked, still watching for the thing’s return. Both men could hear it moving around, a sound of something large scraping along the floor, but were unable to see it. “Worse,” Treberg answered, feeling his mouth go dry, “I think she’s bait.”

Alone in the main body of the church, Kristoff heard Treberg’s words. He calmed himself, regulating his breathing. He was once a soldier in the Red Army; nothing could faze him. He allowed himself a slight smile, realising that the bell had stopped ringing.

Behind him, he heard a noise that chilled him to the bone despite his best efforts. He glanced unbelieving into the hole. Somewhere, under the cathedral, came the echoing laughter of children.

End

So the Trust mechanic was used exactly once; when Al was shooting at the thing on the wall, he added his trust in Dave to his dicepool - after all Dave was watching his back. This seemed to go down quite well, and already a couple of the players (who shall remain nameless...) are thinking of ways to turn this whole mechanic to their advantage...

This was the first time that my group have made characters together; usually its a one on one affair with the GM. It seemed to work okay, I guess, except they decided they'd prefer not to know each other to begin with. Had they decided they were all known to one another, this may have been more worthwhile. As it was, I decided that the levels of trust they had in each other should be based upon what was in the briefcase at the start of the game. As each player described their character, I asked them what their official file said on them, and from that information, the initial trust levels were assigned. It seemed to work well.

The character creation also took most of the night, which is why, when you compare the length of the write-up to one of the a/state sessions, it's considerably smaller.

Anyways, any thoughts, comments or questions are welcome as always.

Cheers.
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Kammerice]

Stanza One – Passing Bells
Part Two

Potempkin ducked through the door and caught the attention of the two police officers. “I need you to set up a cordon; get several more units and organise a perimeter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” One of the policemen ran towards his car. Potempkin watched him go for a few seconds. She noted that only one of the RPA cars was left. She headed back into the cathedral.

Kristoff turned, gun in hand, to face the hole. Below, the giggling intensified. The Russian looked up to the other men, trying to attract their attention. All three were focussed on whatever it was that Miller had shot at. Kristoff set his jaw, took a breath, and stepped into the hole. Rubble creaked under his foot. He drew his torch, holding it in his left hand, using the wrist to brace his gun hand. The electric light bounced off thousands of intertwined silk threads. He found himself standing in a tunnel made of what appeared to be spider silk. He gulped. Below him, he could hear the faint trickle of water; the stench indicated the hole went all the way to the sewer. The laughter turned to a high pitched, almost hysterical giggling.

Wozniak stepped onto the gallery. He moved towards Treberg, who had approached the dead woman. Miller still held his gun ready, walking slowly around to where the creature had hit the wooden floor. Treberg knelt beside the woman; her lower body and forearms were wrapped in some sort of cocoon. Her face was covered in bruises and cuts. Treberg rifled her inside pockets, finding her identity papers. “Ursula Spinner,” he read softly. He found her address, memorised it, and put the papers back. Wozniak placed a hand on Treberg’s shoulder and nodded towards Miller, bringing the Englishman to the Norwegian’s attention.

Miller crept around the gallery, trying to remain as quiet as possible. He arrived at the place where the creature had hit the floor; black fluid lay in a small impact splatter. From there, he followed a trail of, he assumed, blood. The trail turned into the pews, heading for the edge of the gallery. However, in the moonlight spilling in from the hole above and behind him, Miller could make out that the trail turned into the fifth or sixth row from the front. He brought his gun up and cast a glance to the other two. Using hand signals, he told them he had an idea where the creature was. He asked them to circle around as best they could to see it. The Pole and Norwegian split up; Wozniak hugged the back wall, walking behind Miller; Treberg crept through the pews, almost level with where he thought the creature was.

Kristoff stopped. He had walked down into the crypt of the cathedral. Around him, covered in web, lay the coffins of forgotten saints and other holy people. Some of the webbing appeared to jump from one coffin to the next, almost as if it had been created in a game. He noticed that some of the laughter was coming to him from deeper inside the crypt, whilst more was coming from below in the sewers. He shone his torch into the depths of the crypt, the light playing off yet more spider silk. The giggling grew more frantic.

Potempkin stopped at the edge of the hole. She could see Kristoff about fifteen feet below, peering over his torch. She looked up into the gallery, spotting Miller and Wozniak. Both men had guns in their hands; Treberg, she noted, was creeping along the pews. She stepped back from the hole.

From his position, Treberg caught sight of…something. He could see a silhouette sitting low in one of the pews. He looked to the other two men, pointed at his eyes and then indicated the seating. He climbed over one of the pews, drew his torch and flashed the back of the seat where the creature was. Miller raised his gun, aiming at the point Treberg had indicated. Below them, they could now hear the haunting laughter of children echoing back up. Treberg watched as two of the creature’s legs began to rasp together, in a grasshopper-like fashion. The hairs on the legs rubbed, rasping loudly in the silence. Slowly, as if joining with the giggling below, the rasping changed in pitch, evolving into a noise akin to a child’s laugh.

Miller fired.

The bullet blew apart the back of the pew, striking the creature. It flew into the air, blood streaming behind it. It tumbled over the edge of the gallery. The three men rushed to see where it went.

Potempkin watched as a spider, larger than most dogs she had seen, sailed from the balcony above. The creature spun in the air, turning over so that it would land on its feet. It plummeted into the hole.

Kristoff heard the gunshot. He turned around to look back out the hole. The light from outside was blotted out by a large spider-like creature. He raised his gun and opened fire, every shot missing by some distance. He began to leap out of the creature’s way, but was too slow. It hit him hard, catapulting both further into the hole. It kicked at him with its many legs, scratching him. Its face appeared in front of his. Kristoff started to scream as he recognised the features of a young boy merged with the mouth parts of a spider. The wind was knocked from his lungs as he landed heavily in four inches of water. The spider-child leapt from him and limped into the darkness, moving north. Kristoff realised two things simultaneously; he had lost both his gun and torch, and the laughing had ceased, replaced by a steady clicking sound.

Miller, Treberg and Wozniak rushed down the stairs, skidding to a halt next to Potempkin. The Czech woman nodded towards the hole. “Kristoff went in there. One of you fired at something. It went into the hole.”
“Shit,” Wozniak muttered. He stepped forward, holding both his gun and torch. Peering over the edge of the hole with his torch, he illuminated Kristoff lying nearly thirty feet below in slow moving water. The Russian shielded his eyes against the light of the torch. Wozniak looked back to the others: “He’s okay. I’ll go help him.” The Pole stepped into the hole. The others crowded around the lip, guns at the ready.

Kristoff stood shakily, his sodden coat weighing him down. He stopped moving, listening. The tunnel he was in ran north to south; a little distance in both directions he could hear scraping noises. He bent down and drew his spare gun from his ankle holster. He steadied his nerves; there was no way to now if the gun would even work. Something began to run at him, no longer scraping along the walls but splashing through the water.

“Torch!” he yelled. Wozniak dropped his flashlight. Kristoff twisted, grabbed it with his free hand, and spun back.

The light lanced out. The spider rushing at him threw its front legs in front of its eyes, screaming in an almost child-like voice. It shrank back into the darkness, moaning quietly. More noises behind him, to the south. Kristoff turned back, holding the torch before him. A larger spider advanced on him. He could make out the features of an older girl, nowhere near as young as the boy that had fallen from the gallery. “Wait!” he commanded it.

Wozniak had no idea what had made the noise below him, but that was not what concerned him. As soon as Kristoff had caused the creature to scream in pain, the Pole had heard movement around him in the crypt. Two shapes, both larger than the creature from the gallery, pulled themselves onto coffins and began to crawl along webs towards him. He gulped and raised his gun. “Wait!” the Russian shouted. Wozniak held his aim, but didn’t fire.

The spider-girl stopped, regarding him with human-like questioning. “Can you speak?” Kristoff asked? The spider-girl tapped her front foot against the wall rapidly.
“Are you getting anything from it?” Miller called down.
“Shut up just now,” Kristoff called back. He listened to the drumming of the leg. Suddenly, the drumming ceased to be drumming. He could hear dots and dashes. “Morse code,” he asked her quietly. The drumming changed to “Yes”. “They know Morse code,” he cried up.

Wozniak watched the two in front of him. They had stopped four feet from him, just watching. He lowered his gun.

Pause

Sorry about the delay posting this up. I've been off on holiday and haven't been motivated to type up my notes. Now that I'm back at uni, I have work to be putting off, so the write up takes precidence. Anyways, there's still more to come from last session.

Also, there won't be a session this Thursday as John and I are getting sent on some course somewhere. Which should be fun...
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Kammerice]

“Ask if it killed the woman,” Treberg shouted. Kristoff relayed the question. The spider-girl tapped her answer.
“She says ‘No. It was the scary man.’”
“Who is the ‘scary man’?” Kristoff asked.
Tap-tap-tap.
“The scary man is the scary man, she says.”
“Where’s he from?” Miller asked.
Tap-tap-tap.
“‘St. Michael’s’, she says.”
“Do any of you know a ‘St. Michael’s’?” Potempkin asked.
“There’s a church,” Kristoff replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the spider-girl.
“There’s an old orphanage,” Miller answered at the same time. “Tell her that if she and the rest of her brood stay down in the sewers, we’ll leave them alone and get this ‘scary man’ for them. If they come back to the surface, we’ll have to kill them.” Treberg looked at Miller, shaking his head.

Kristoff looked to the spider-girl. “Did you hear that?”
Tap-tap-tap.
“Ignore him. Where will you go now?”
Tap-tap-tap. Kristoff nodded.
“What’s she saying?” Miller called down.
“Nothing much,” the Russian answered. To the spider-girl: “Do you have a name?” Tap-tap-tap.
“Well, Sabrina, I suggest you and your friends head for wherever you call home.” The spider-girl shuddered slightly; Kristoff guessed that she had nodded. She moved past him, walking slowly northward.

The two spiders near Wozniak began to creep further along the web toward the hole into the sewers. The Pole watched them; they returned his interest. He realised that the closest one had at one time been a little boy, the baby fat still evident on his cheeks. The spider-boy dropped into the hole, landing with a splash beside Kristoff. The other spider appeared to be walking on alternate legs, almost dancing along the web. Wozniak tried to figure out what she was doing, cocking his head to the side quizzically. As the spider-child prepared to jump after her companions, she turned to look at Wozniak. She smiled, large mandibles unfolding from inside her cheeks. Wozniak stared at her, noting that although she was terrifying to behold, her smile reached her eyes; he doubted she was intentionally scaring him. She dropped into the hole and scampered after the others.

“A little help?” Kristoff called up. Wozniak reached into the sewer and lifted the Russian out.
“So now what?” Miller asked as the two emerged from under the church.
“We’ve got the dead woman’s house to look at,” Treberg said.
“Could be she was a random victim,” Potempkin offered.
“Could be,” agreed Treberg, “but all the same, that spider could have been trying to bury a friend. I say we run her name through the files and see what jumps out.” Potempkin nodded her agreement.
“We’ve also got Saint Michael’s to look at,” Kristoff said.
“The church or the orphanage?” Miller asked.
“I vote the orphanage,” the Russian answered, “they were children, those things. Maybe they lived at the orphanage once upon a time.”
“Maybe,” Miller allowed.
“First order of business, though, is to get the bodies out of here.”
“We should get them back to the RPA headquarters; have the lab run some tests on them,” Potempkin said. The others nodded.
“We should also get that briefing we were promised in our letters,” Treberg said as they started to move toward the exit.


03:39, 15th January, 1950

The five operatives sat in a small room with rows of school desks. Kristoff had found some drier clothes to change into; he now resembled some type of assassin, dressed as he was in black combat fatigues.

They had been sitting for nearly ten minutes before the only door into the room opened. Led by two armed American soldiers, three men entered. The first, and largest, was dressed in an American uniform, the rank on his sleeve announcing him as a Captain. Behind him walked a French lieutenant. At the rear, excluding another two soldiers, came a German Sergeant. The Frenchman sat behind a desk facing the room; the other six men remained standing.

“I am Lieutenant Dapeneau,” he told them, “these gentlemen are Sergeant Scheler and Captain Murphy.” He waited until the group had nodded to the men; he was encouraged to see that they were already understanding the ‘no rank’ rule the RPA operated under. Orders came from above as normal, but within the organisation itself, no one held any rank. This made reduced the number of arguments between the different armed forces. “I apologise for the way that I assigned this job to you; it was unfair to throw you into a situation when you, and we, were unaware of the full facts. I assume that you now have at least a small amount of understanding with regards to what happened in the church.”
“Spider-children,” Kristoff said. Between them, they related the events of the early morning.

“And so you now wish to investigate this woman and the orphanage, correct?” Dapeneau asked.
“I’d like a team standing by in case of an outbreak of…anything,” Treberg mentioned. The lieutenant nodded.
“I’d also like said team to be armed with flamethrowers,” Wozniak said. The others turned to stare at him. He ignored them resolutely, maintaining eye contact with Dapeneau. The Frenchman leaned toward Murphy, who leant down. They conversed in French.

Miller cleared his throat: “I thought we were to speak in German when we were working for the RPA.” The Frenchman and the American looked up at him. “Now, all you did was asked the good Captain to ensure that Mister Wozniak’s suggestions were met, which you certainly didn’t need to do in French. This all points to something else going on, where you don’t want certain people,” Miller’s gaze flicked to Scheler, “to know exactly what the occupying forces are up to.”
“Indeed,” Dapeneau inclined his head, “my sincerest apologies. To all,” he added, looking sideways at Scheler. “In any case, I believe that you know how you wish to proceed, and can see now reason that this investigation should not continue in that manner. You are dismissed.” He stood.
“Can we get some weapons?” Kristoff asked. Dapeneau looked at him.
“I thought you were a diplomat now.”
“I am. I would still like to be armed with something more than a pistol. I don’t find the thought of ‘investigating’ genetic experiments without proper protecting all that thrilling.”
“Then you may see what you can find in the armoury.”
“Thanks.”

The officers and their retinue filed out. Scheler paused at the door to look at Miller. “I speak French.”

Pause

Okay, so I've still got the search of the woman's house to go, but then that should be us caught up, ready to go next week. I should post the remainder of the second session either tomorrow or Friday.
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Kammerice]

04:31, 15th January, 1950

Booted feet ran swiftly up stairs. Given the time, they tried to remain as quiet as possible. They stopped at the door marked “U. Spinner”. Treberg knocked gently. No sound of anyone inside, nobody rushing to answer at the ungodly hour.
“We got a set of keys?” Kristoff asked.
“Better than that,” Miller said, stepping towards the door. He knelt by the lock, withdrawing a piece of folded from his pocket. He took out two long metal instruments and set to work picking the lock.

Several minutes later the door clicked open. Potempkin and Wozniak shone their torches above Miller’s head, illuminating the hallway. They stepped past him, and moved into the flat proper.

Potempkin moved down the hallway, casting glances at the photographs mounted on the wall. Children standing in front of a large stone building, with the dead woman standing beside them. A small plaque under each photograph indicated the year. As she walked down the hall, Potempkin noted that the photograph stopped in 1943, but with no image from 1942. There wasn’t even a space on the wall for such an image. She moved towards a door, and opened it into the bedroom.

Treberg and Miller opened the first door before them, entering the living room area. Bookshelves lined the walls, with a small bureau and chair at the window. Two arm chairs sat before the fireplace. Treberg walked to the desk whilst Miller scanned the books. The Norwegian opened the desk, finding writing implements and a half-written letter sitting in place. The letter was addressed to someone named Hans, and assured him that Sabrina was alright. Treberg put the letter back in place and started to open the drawers. Something about the way the bottom drawer was positioned didn’t sit well with Treberg; he pulled the drawer out entirely and flipped it, spilling its contents onto the floor. He drew a small knife and cut the bottom of the drawer away, revealing a hidden compartment.

“Hey, look at this,” Miller called. Treberg looked up from the letters and photographs he had found. The Englishman held a book in his hand. “‘Morse Code: A Guide for Novices’,” he read.
“She taught them Morse code?” Treberg asked.
“That sounds about right,” Miller agreed. “What’ve you got there?”
“Letters,” Treberg answered, scanning through the mail, “From somebody called Hans. He keeps asking after Sabrina. I think whoever this guy is, he knew her. Is writing changes too, but it’s the same guy.”
“When do the letters start?” Wozniak asked, stepping into the room.
“Uh…summer of ’43,” Treberg skipped to the oldest letter. “There’s a picture here, too.” He held up a photograph of children standing in front of a building, with Ursula Spinner next to them. Several of the children were in rudimentary wheelchairs or crutches.
“I know those two,” Wozniak said, examining the picture closely. He pointed at a boy and girl on crutches, with braces on their knees.
“From where?” Treberg asked.
“They look a lot like the two spiders that I met in the crypt getting Kristoff out.”

Kristoff followed Potempkin into the bedroom. As the Czech woman began to go through the wardrobe, the Russian dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. He reached under and pulled out a box. “What do we have here?” he muttered to himself. Potempkin turned her light on the box as Kristoff opened it. Pictures and newspaper cuttings fluttered out. Spinner beside a man in uniform laughing and smiling. Spinner a little older, the man a little more wrinkled, still both smiling. A small section of newspaper announcing the betrothal of Captain Lukas Schmidt to Ms Ursula Spinner. Another photo, in front of the same stone building as the photos in the hallway. One final newspaper article about an aircraft being shot down over the English Channel. Kristoff and Potempkin shared a look.

Treberg spun the picture around to look at the back. The names of the children were written in the script he had come to identify as Spinner’s. “Does anyone else think that we’re going to the orphanage then?”
“What’s that?” Miller asked, indicating a leather journal at Treberg’s feet. The Norwegian picked it up, placing the photograph on the desk. He began to flick through the pages.
“It’s a diary. First date is February ’41. Just basic stuff...” he trailed off as he continued to scan the pages.
“What?” Potempkin asked as she and Kristoff entered.
“1942, March. German soldiers and officials took over the upper floors of the orphanage. Apparently they took the children, the physically disabled ones, and never brought them down again. Spinner says that in, let’s see, the June several of the soldiers went up and never came back down.”
“They used the children as test subjects,” Miller spat.
“In November ’42, one of the children, Felix, managed to escape. After this, she and the other staff began to hatch some plan to try to get as many of the children away as they could.” Treberg skipped several pages detailing the plan, including a map of the orphanage. “Here we are. They broke into the upper floors, snatched as many of the children as they could, and disappeared into the night. This is ’43, now. Spinner says she lost sight of the other staff members; she directed the children with her to Saint Hedwig’s. The cathedral had just been bombed; nobody was about to see her lead a bunch of giant spiders.”
“God,” Wozniak muttered.
“And so, since then, she visited the children pretty much weekly, bringing them mail and news of the other children that hadn’t been abused. She says that eventually they began to lose themselves to what they became; only Sabrina managed to retain her personality. ‘She’s the eldest. They respond to her in the way they used to listen to me. I fear that if something should befall Sabrina, the others will forget who I am and who they were, becoming the monsters they were forced to resemble’. She also talks about someone following her, but that’s only been in recent months. She never caught sight of who it was or anything, but she says that she feared for her life.”
“Maybe whatever the children were scared of when we saw them had been hunting her,” Miller offered.
“Sounds credible,” Potempkin agreed.
“So…” Kristoff said into the descending silence. “We head to the orphanage and find out if there’s anything still there?”
“I think that makes sense,” Wozniak said.
“I’ll drive,” Miller said.

End of Stanza One

I am absolutely shocking at keeping this AP updated. I apologise for that. We played last week, and I'm about halfway through that write-up. I'm sure that if anything is amiss, then John or Dave will point it out.

Hope that folks are enjoying this; things are about to get a little bit messed up (I'll say no more, the players have already experienced the next part, but I don't know if they've clocked what I've put in there for them).
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Paul]

This is great stuff, and yet again, I'm amazed you remember all the details!!

thanks for keeping us updated.

Paul

[Kammerice]

Stanza Two – Monstrous Anger

05:08, 15th January, 1950

The car stopped outside the wrought iron fencing, the snow crunching under the wheels. They got out, and looked at the building. Saint Michael’s Home for Children stood dark and silent before them. Three floors, windows high and black. The falling snow did little to make the building appear friendly. “No tracks,” Treberg commented, looking at the snow in the playground in front of the orphanage.
“Just means anyone in there didn’t come in this way,” Wozniak said. The Pole straightened to his full height; “Anyone wish to accompany me on a walk?”
“Let’s go,” Potempkin said, lighting a cigarette.
“I’ll stay by the car,” Miller said.
“Me too,” Kristoff said.
“I’ll come with you,” Treberg said as he jogged to catch up with the Pole and Czech.

The trio trudged through the snow, circling the orphanage in a clockwise direction. They passed one of the front entrances, noting the rusted chain and padlock around the handles. Moving past the internal gate, they noted similar furnishings on the side entrance. Another internal fence and gate system. Wozniak led the way, Potempkin behind him looking around, drawing deeply on her cigarette. Treberg stepped through the gate and stopped. He looked back at the fence and saw the hand print on the railing. In the pre-dawn gloom, he could only tell that the print was dark in colour. The fear starting to creep up his spine whispered “Blood”. He tried to ignore it.

They came to the back of the building. One of the rear doors, a single door unlike the double doors at the front and side, had been forcibly opened. The door hung on its upper hinge, swinging listlessly; splinters from the door frame and the bolt on the door were lost under the snow that had fallen. The snow lay on the carpet inside the door too. “So…” Wozniak said, “Do we get the others and go in?”
“I can’t argue with that,” Potempkin said.
“I’ll go get them,” Treberg offered, already moving off.

He completed the circuit of the building, assuring himself that both the second side and front doors were locked in a manner similar to the others. As he crossed the yard to the car, Miller and Kristoff stood a little straighter. “We’ve found an open door around the back,” he told them as he approached.
“Good; that’ll save me from having to open any of those doors,” Miller nodded at the front doors. Kristoff remained silent, simply checking his weaponry was within easy reach.

They gathered together at the broken door. Kristoff drew a pistol and a torch. Miller shook his head and pointed at the torch. “If there’s anyone in there,” he whispered, “we don’t want to alert them to us until we have to.” The Russian sniffed, keeping the torch in his hand. He stepped forward, Wozniak following behind. Treberg went in next. Miller and Potempkin looked at each other; she sighed, dropped her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. She entered. Miller gazed around the playground one last time, taking a breath before turning to walk into the orphanage.

Kristoff scanned his surroundings quickly. The ground floor of the orphanage appeared to be an assembly hall with rooms leading off. The first and second floors formed galleries that looked down onto the hall from above. As Kristoff looked up he realised that there was something that prevented him from seeing the second floor, as if something was covering the gap. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what the make-shift second floor was. “Is that moving?” he asked in hushed tones.
“Looks like,” Treberg agreed.
“What is it?”
“Webbing, I’d guess.”
“Shit.”

Treberg glanced to his right. Stairs led up from the hall to a mezzanine floor before turning around and leading up to the first floor. But it was not the stairs that caught his eye; on the tiling was a single hand print, similar in size and colour to the one outside. He turned his attention to upstairs. He crept to the foot of the stairs and began to ascend.

Wozniak patted Kristoff on the shoulder, pointed at the bottom left corner of the hall and nodded. The Russian nodded and jogged as quietly as possible to the corner. Wozniak crept along the other wall, finishing in the bottom right corner. Both men turned to look back toward the top of the hall, allowing them to see the first floor directly above where the other three remained.

Miller began to follow Treberg, who turned and pointed at the second set of stairs. Miller rolled his eyes and continued up. The Norwegian muttered something under his breath before starting back up the stairs. Something under his foot made the floor unsteady. He looked down. Bullet casings, tens of them. Rifle shots by the look of them. He drew Miller’s attention to them. The Englishman looked from the casings to the window at the top of the stairs. “No holes in the window,” he pointed out.
“They must have been firing back into the building,” Treberg assumed. Miller nodded.

Wozniak opened the door he was pressed against. Potempkin appeared behind him, drawing her own gun. Kristoff moved across the hall to bring up the rear. They edged through the door, finding another set of stairs in front of them. To either side of these stairs, corridors ran. Wozniak was sure that the right-most corridor would bring them back to one of the side entrances; the left corridor led to one of the front entrances, but had doors leading off to other rooms as well. He looked back at the other two and nodded towards the door on the left of the corridor. Slowly, Wozniak opened the door.

Miller and Treberg stopped at the top of the stairs. “You hear that?” Miller whispered. Treberg listened intently. Silence. No, wait. There was a soft humming sound coming from somewhere…above them? He looked up, relaxing slightly when he saw nothing hanging from the ceiling. He looked to Miller and nodded: “Somebody’s humming a tune.”
“Upstairs, yeah?”
“Sounds like.” Both men moved along the gallery, through the double doors a floor above where the other three were and ascended the stairs there.

As they came to the top of these stairs, they noted that one of the walls had been hastily fitted with a window looking out over the staircase and the landing. The tiles and paint around the long section of glass was cracked and splintered; nobody had taken the time to fix the damage. A door marked “Guardroom” led inside. Treberg opened this whilst Miller pressed his ear to the doors leading to the second floor gallery.

From behind Wozniak, Potempkin let her torch shine into the darkened room. Single desks and chairs, arranged in rows, sat empty for a class that would never arrive. Kristoff ducked into the room, his footsteps sounding loud in the silence. Small clouds of dust billowed as his feet touched the floor. Wozniak entered, allowing his own torch to shine on the walls. As the trio approached the rear of the room, noting a set of double doors leading into another room, Wozniak saw something that caused him to stop dead. He coughed pointedly, getting Potempkin’s attention, and nodded toward the wall and ceiling above the double doors. A handprint in blood, as well as a few footprints, stood out against the white paint. “Not too fresh,” Wozniak commented, looking at the colour of the blood.
“Fresh enough to have been in the past week,” Potempkin corrected.
“You should see this,” Kristoff said, looking through the small window in one of the doors. Wozniak moved to see through the other window; Kristoff stood aside to let Potempkin see.

A man sat behind one of the desks, head slumped forward as if in a deep sleep. “That can’t be good,” Wozniak said. He began to push the door open. After several inches, a scraping noise started, coming from immediately behind the door. He stopped pushing. Kristoff opened the door Potempkin was in front of and levelled his gun in the direction of the noise. “Shit,” he cursed. He bent over, grabbed something that the other two couldn’t see and stood up with something in his hand. He opened it in Wozniak’s torch light – a buckled RPA badge. They looked at each other, and then turned slowly to look at the man behind the desk.

“Definitely someone in there,” Miller told Treberg. The Norwegian popped his head back out of the guardroom.
“I’ve got some weapons in here,” he told the Englishman.
“I thought this place was supposed to be an orphanage,” Miller muttered. He tried to open the door, which just rattled in its frame, locked.
“A register too,” Treberg said, leafing through a dusty book sitting on a hastily installed counter. The early entries included names he recognised in association with the running of the orphanage, but gradually over time, the names began to become predominantly military in nature, until the final months before the orphanage’s closure no-one except military personnel were admitted to the upper floors. He noted that several names were only signed in, there was no record of nearly a dozen men being signed back out of the upper floor again.

“Hey!” Miller called through the crack between the doors.
“Hey yourself,” a voice responded, almost directly on the opposite side of the door. Miller took a step back, startled. Treberg emerged from the guardroom.
“Who are you?” Miller asked.
“Surely, I should ask you that first, given that you are trespassing, no?”
“We have the right to be here; I don’t think you do.”
“‘Right to be here’, is it? That can mean one thing; you are members of the Reserve Police Agency. Is this correct?”
“It is,” Miller answered, looking at Treberg.
“By your accent, I would imagine you to be English, yes?”
“Correct,” Miller allowed. Treberg began to shake his head in warning.
“Do I know you, I wonder?”
“Are you RPA?”
“No, but I know of you, so that must say something, must it not?”
“Who are you?”
“Your name, my English friend, what is it?”
“Who are you?” Miller repeated.
“Your name.”
“Miller. Now who the hell are you?”
“Miller? Miller?” the voice repeated the Englishman’s name, as if trying to get a taste for it.
“Answer the damned question.”
“Christopher Miller?”
Miller opened his mouth, struggled for words, and closed it again. “Yes,” he replied tentatively.
“Do you know William?” the voice asked in English. The smile was evident in the man’s words.
“I do,” Miller answered in kind, completely taken aback.
“Interesting,” the voice said.
“So who are you?” Miller asked again, using German again. Silence answered him.

Wozniak and Potempkin studied the man in the torchlight. Kristoff kept his eyes on the door leading through to the room they had just left as well as the single door leading from the room they were now in. The corpse had a hole punched through his chest as well as a slash across his throat. “Any signs of a struggle?” Wozniak asked Potempkin. The Czech lifted her head and nodded towards the wall; a knife stuck out, buried to the hilt.
“Damn,” Wozniak muttered.
“Who was he?” Kristoff asked. Potempkin rifled through the man’s pockets, finding his identification papers.
“Franklin King; American military,” she quickly summarised.
“He was hardly going to be Russian with a name like that,” Kristoff commented, trying to make light of the situation. The others ignored him.
“So the RPA already had folk here,” Wozniak said.
“And they failed to tell us,” Potempkin finished the thought.
“I don’t like that,” the Pole agreed.
“Why don’t we…” Potempkin stopped, turning sharply as something rattled back in the direction they had come. Wozniak turned and began to move quietly toward where he thought the noise had come from. Potempkin followed, motioning for Kristoff to stay by the dead man. The Russian nodded, hunkering down in a corner, gun in hand.

The pair exited the room into the corridor. The noise had stopped, but both were positive that it had come from the door across the hall from them. Wozniak opened it quickly, movement to his left catching his eye. He swung around, gun ready. A teddy bear continued to slip off the shelf it had been placed on and land in a cloud of dust on the floor. He moved inside, Potempkin standing just inside the door. There were numerous children’s toys dotted around the room; two mannequins stood, dressed in only a manner children could have found appealing. Everything about the room, the alphabet along the wall, the paintings of happy faces and bright summer days, indicated that the room was nursery, or at least a space for younger children. Silence hung thick in the air.

“So, who’s William?” Treberg asked Miller, bringing the Englishman back from his thoughts.
“Huh?”
“William. Who is he?” Miller looked at Treberg as if he had only just realised that the Norwegian was there. “I speak English too, you know.” Miller blinked at him, shook his head and started to move toward the guardroom.

Treberg caught his arm and glared at him: “That’s the second time you’ve ignored me since we came in here. What the hell is your problem?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Miller spat, pulling his arm forcibly from Treberg’s grasp. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. I don’t think we need to get into each other’s life histories, do you?”
“Who is William?” Treberg asked once again, the anger starting to rise to the fore.
“I want in there,” Miller said, ignoring the question once again, pointing at the locked door where the voice had spoken from.

Treberg cursed in Norwegian.

Miller drew his gun.

Wozniak looked up, noting that the grating for the ventilation system was missing. He caught Potempkin’s eye and drew her attention to the ceiling. She nodded in the direction of the floor directly below the open vent; Wozniak saw the grating lying under a layer of dust. A gunshot rang out from upstairs. Both spun and ran from the room. Something behind them fell with a thud. They turned back; one of the mannequins had fallen over, rocking gently on its face. Wozniak threw his torchlight at the vent; some flakes of paint fluttered towards the floor from around the hole in the ceiling. More gunshots sounded, this time back towards where they had left Kristoff. Potempkin ran through the classroom in that direction, Wozniak close behind.

“A man,” Kristoff shouted as they burst into the room. “Came from up there,” he pointed with his free hand at the vent in the ceiling; the grating had been knocked down with enough force to shatter the desk below. “He ran that way,” Kristoff pointed at the single door leading out of the room. Wozniak tore out, running into the corridor. He felt a cold breeze on his face. He turned to look down the corridor; one of the front doors had been broken open. He ran outside, and seeing no tracks in the snow, looked up. A man, dressed in what appeared to be civilian clothes, had just reached the roof and disappeared over the edge. “Shit,” the Pole muttered. He ran back inside and took the stairs two at a time, trailing both Potempkin and Kristoff who rushed after him.

Treberg patted himself down, looking for the bullet hole. He blinked blankly at Miller. The Englishman pushed past him towards the double doors, kicking them open after the lock had been destroyed by his gunshot. Treberg turned slowly, following Miller through. Inside the doors, where the should have been a gallery walkway around the central hall, was nothing but spider web. Tunnels had been formed, maybe four feet in height, but nothing could be seen through the thick, cloudy web. “What the hell?” Miller asked, unaware he still had his gun in his hand. “Where are you?” he called out, walking through the web, brushing it away from his face and disregarding the tunnels. Treberg glanced over his shoulder at the open door they had entered through, steeled himself, and followed after Miller.

“There’s got to be roof access,” Wozniak said as he reached the top of the stairs.
“Through there?” Kristoff pointed to a closed door marked ‘Cloakroom’. The Pole shrugged and entered. He looked toward the ceiling, seeing a hatch set into the roof. Kristoff cupped his hands to make a foot stool for Wozniak and boosted him up. Potempkin tried the double doors at the top of the stairs; they rattled in place, locked. She drew her cigarettes and lit one.

Wozniak lifted the hatch and cam face to face with a skull hanging from a web cocoon. He yelped, grabbing the edge of the hole for balance. “You okay?” Kristoff asked.
“Fine,” Wozniak muttered, trying to slow his heart rate. He pulled himself into the crawl space next to the desiccated corpse. Judging by the clothes worn by the body, in life the man had been a homeless person, a vagrant of some kind. He turned around, extending a hand to the Russian below him. Kristoff grabbed and Wozniak pulled him up. “Thanks,” Kristoff said. Between them, they found a door leading onto the roof in a matter of minutes. Wozniak pushed it open; the upper portion of a snow drift that had accumulated in the trough between the sloping roofs of the building fell in. Ahead and above, on the slope of the second steeple in the roof, Wozniak saw a large skylight window. He pointed it out for Kristoff and began to scramble up the slate roof towards the window. The Russian stood back, keeping the door back inside open.

Wozniak pounded on the window. “Hey, anyone in there?”
“Wozniak, that you?” Treberg’s voice came back from somewhere below him.
“Yeah; you guys okay in there?”
“We’ve found someone,” Treberg called back.
“Us too. I’ve followed him up…” Wozniak’s voice trailed off as a face appeared on the other side of the glass. A man, his features stereotypically French, was climbing up the glass, watching Wozniak. Dumbfounded, the Pole blinked twice; in his confusion, the man’s lack of footwear seemed to jump at him.
“Who are you?” he asked the man. The man jumped backward, landing against the other skylight window on the opposite side of the roof slope. His arms and legs began to tense. “No, don’t,” Wozniak warned, reaching for his gun.

The spider man leapt at him. Wozniak managed to get his gun free and fired a single shot, shattering the window before the man hit it. The man crashed through the spider-webbing glass and grabbed Wozniak by the lapels. Kristoff spat something in Russian, bringing his gun to bear from below them. He fired a couple of shots, both going wild. The man let Wozniak go, the Pole hitting the snow drift between the slopes hard. The man somersaulted over him, and disappeared down the other side of the roof. “Inside,” Wozniak breathed. Kristoff picked Wozniak up and both went back into orphanage.

The gunshots caused Miller and Treberg to stop in their tracks. They shared a look, and turned back the way they came, running through the webbing. In front of them, a shape dropped from above the door they had entered through. Miller shouted: “Stop!” A man in a German war uniform looked over his shoulder and smiled, stepping through the door. It slammed shut. Miller battered against it. “Get back here!” Footsteps pounded the stairs, running away.
“There’s another door on the other side of this walkway,” Treberg told him.
“Hey,” Miller said as Treberg turned away. The Norwegian looked at him. “I just wanted to say that William was an informant of mine; I turned him from working with the Germans to help with British Intel.” He extended a hand to Treberg.

Treberg looked at Miller, looked at his hand, and walked away. He led Miller back through the webbing, and stopped at an almost identical door. Beyond it, they could hear voices they recognised.

“Hey!” Miller shouted.
“Miller?” Potempkin answered.
“Any chance you can let us out?” Miller asked.
“Stand back,” Potempkin warned. Miller and Treberg backed off. A gun spoke once more destroying the silence of the orphanage.

The doors swung open slowly, revealing Kristoff standing holding a smoking gun. Wozniak stood to the side, small cuts on his face leaking blood. Potempkin looked bored, smoking a cigarette: “Have fun?”

Pause

Okay, so that's us completely up to date with where the game has gotten to. I apologise for my inability to write quicker; lots of fun stuff at uni have sort of meant that I've not had as much time to write up as I used to have. But anyways...

So we had our first proper inter-party mistrusting. Dave and Al played it really well; Treberg had been nothing but civil to Miller, but when Al said for the second time that session that he was just ignoring Treberg, Dave picked up the rubber and, I assume, changed his trust in Miller. I haven't checked the sheets since we played, so I don't know, but it was really well done; the argument afterward between the characters led to some great tension. I'm wondering how it will affect things as the story takes off and progresses further.

Thoughts and such still welcome as always.
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Kammerice]

I am currently writing up the last two sessions (don't think I'v forgotten). However, I am also aware that I should upload a map or something for he orphanage, given that I don't think my descriptions are too hot.

Here's the building that I've based the orphanage on (it's the building in the back). Sorry it's not a good picture; it seems to be the only photo that exists of this building online...

More to follow.
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Paul]

Bizarrely, that building looks like my old primary school!! Yes, I went to school on the 1850s.

Paul

[Kammerice]

You didn't go to school at Golfhill Primary in Glasgow, did you? 'cause that's my old school, and that's where I've based the orphanage on...
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Paul]

No, I went to school in Falkirk, but I guess there won't be that much of a difference in the architecture.

Paul

[Kammerice]

Rapidly, each group told of what they had witnessed. Miller found his eyes kept moving to the stairwell leading down. Treberg sensed the Englishman’s desire to chase after the German they had spoken to. “Okay,” he said to the assembled group, “we stay in the groups we’re in, and carry on with the search. Miller and I will go down stairs; you guys start up here.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Wozniak agreed. “We’ll search room by room and make our way down to you.” With that, Miller and Treberg took off down the stairs, the Englishman almost at a run.

The trio entered into the web filled walkway, going around to the first door. Wozniak tried the handle. “Locked,” he told the other two.
“Look up,” Kristoff said, indicating an open window above the door.
“Are you volunteering?” Potempkin asked, taking another draw on her cigarette.
“Might as well,” the Russian said. He took a step back from the door, and jumped up, grabbing the lintel. He pulled himself up and through the window, trying not to choke in the dust and web he encountered. He slid through, turned around and dropped feet first to the floor. Beneath him, something crunched. Kristoff looked down; he had landed on the skeletal remains of a man in a German uniform. Disgusted, he kicked the man away from the door and wrenched the handle. The lock broke with a dry crack and the door swung inward. Potempkin and Wozniak entered, the former throwing away her cigarette butt after a final drag.
“What the hell happened in here?” Wozniak asked nobody, taking the scene in.
“We have a body here,” Kristoff nudged the dead soldier with his foot.
“More over there,” Potempkin nodded towards the far end of the room.

Beyond the rows of bunk beds, against the far wall, lay a pile of bodies. Most wore German uniforms, although several wore nightwear. As the trio made their way down the room, Wozniak kicked something. He looked down; an assault rifle lay in front of him, spent shells sitting in the dust around the gun. “What, did the man by the door kill everyone in here?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Kristoff answered, moving past the bodies to the wall. He peeled back a section of wall paper, revealing a hastily installed brick wall. Tapping the bricks with his foot caused the wall to cave. “According to the blueprints,” he commentated, “there was a door here.” He ducked through the hole he had made into the room beyond. Wozniak gave the bodies one last glance before following the Russian. Potempkin paused by the line of dead, noting to herself that some of the men had extra limbs.

Miller stopped on the ground floor and pulled his collar around his throat against the biting wind blowing in from the open front door. He looked to his left, out into the playground and the street beyond. Treberg came to a standstill beside him, following his gaze. “Look there,” he said, pointing at the handrail outside. Miller walked towards the open door, seeing what Treberg was meaning: the snow atop the handrail had been knocked off, as if someone had used the rail to jump over. In the playground the snow had formed an impact mark where whoever had leapt out had landed. From there, tracks led towards the car they had arrived in. Both men looked at each other and drew their weapons. They ran across to their car, stopping short.

Miller began a slow circuit of the car. Treberg noted a dent in the bonnet. He whistled softly, catching Miller’s attention. He nodded at the dent. Miller nodded, and looked to the cars parked across the street. One had a similar dent. Both men looked upward; a few lights were on in the apartments, but these were not what interested them. The missing tiles and impressions in the snow on the roof were what they noticed. Treberg looked away first. “Think he’s gone over the back?”
“Looks that way,” Miller agreed. They started towards the door of the close, entered and cut through to the back yard. Standing barefoot beside a snow man, as if waiting on them, was a man dressed in tattered clothing. He smiled.

“Huh,” Kristoff muttered, looking around the long abandoned meeting room. A large table stood in the middle of the room, a dozen chairs sitting empty around it. In one corner stood a flipchart presentation; the image that had been left was the Vitruvian Man, but with the additional limbs coming from separate locations, not sharing joints with the straight limbs. Kristoff made his way over to the poster and began to look at the other posters beneath the current one. Wozniak walked around the table towards a small filing cabinet at the rear of the room. Beside it was a pile of ash. He knelt down, sifting through it, finding a single piece of paper that had survived inside the remains of a folder. He drew it out, blew the soot off and looked over the words. Names leapt out at him: Dr. P. Baumer; Lt. H. Dapeneau. “Check this out,” he said to the others, reading the names out.
“Dapeneau?” Potempkin repeated as she entered from the barrack room. “As in the French man that activated us?”
“The spelling looks the same,” Wozniak admitted.
“What else does it say?” she prompted.
“I don’t read German very well,” the Pole said.
“Give it here,” Kristoff said sharply, snatching the paper. “Something about prisoner transfer. According to this, it seems that some people got mixed up deliberately when the Germans were transporting prisoners from France. People, innocent people, were sent here on purpose.”
“God…” Wozniak whispered.
“If you liked that,” Kristoff said, sliding the paper into a pocket on his combat suit, “then you’ll love this.” He brought their attention over to the flipchart. He threw back the first few sheets, and stopped at the fourth. Attached to the poster was a picture of the class of 1942 with several of the children’s faces ringed in black. Under that sheet, Kristoff revealed, was another with several phrases bullet-pointed. “It would appear they were trying to work out how to speed up battlefield injuries.”
“By turning children into spiders?” Potempkin asked sceptically.
“I never said it was a good plan,” Kristoff retorted.

“Hello,” Treberg said slowly. The man looked at him quizzically.
“I don’t speak German,” the man replied in French. Miller translated for Treberg.
“Do you speak English?” Treberg tried again. The man shook his head. “You speak French?” Treberg asked Miller.
“Yes,” the Englishman said, lighting a cigarette. He turned to the man. In French: “Who are you?”
“I am Pierre Boucher.”
“Where’re you from?”
“France. Evidently, no?” the man smiled.
“Of course,” Miller smiled back, “Do you know what’s been happening in the orphanage?”
“I do.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“And why would I do that, when I don’t even have your name?”
“I’m Miller; this is Treberg,” Miller introduced the pair.
“Miller? Miller? Miller,” Boucher repeated the name, as if trying it out. “Miller?”
“Why does he keep repeating your name?” Treberg asked Miller quietly.
“I have no idea.” To Boucher: “Does my name interest you?”
“Not until recently. A man came by the orphanage with the same name. He and a group of armed men.”
“A guy name Miller brought a bunch of RPA guys,” Miller translated.
“The dead man that the others found?” Treberg asked.
“That’d be my guess. What happened?” he asked Boucher.
“Baumer dealt with him,” the Frenchman said flatly.
“How?”
“He had the children kill the men; they lost Miller.”
“The children killed the men? Why?” Miller asked, stunned. As Boucher answered, Miller translated for Treberg.
“The children, all of them, have been under Baumer’s influence since the started showing signs of…well…I assume that you’ve seen them.”
“Yeah, we’ve seen them,” Miller answered in mild disgust, flicking the cigarette butt away.

Pause

I figured that I should post what I've manage to write up, just so that y'all don't think that this post has died or anything. I've got a little left to write on the session before last, and then I've got that one to write up too. I apologise for letting this slide for so long; I intend to have at least the rest of the current session and some of the next one written up by the end of the week. Hold me to that, if you will.
_________________
I do not aim with my hand; I aim with my eye.
I do not shoot with my hand; I shoot with my mind.
I do not kill with my gun; I kill with my heart. Hile, Gunslinger.

[Malcolm]

Great stuff, thanks for taking the time to write it up. However, I'd be really interested in knowing what's happening around the table as well: what do you feel is working well about the game; are the mechanical elements driving any particular parts of, or themes in, the story; how are the players reacting to what is going and how do they feel about their roles, for example in gaining narrative authority?

Cheers
Malcolm
_________________
The worn sprocket on the singlespeed hub of CGS

"If the concrete and the clay beneath your feet
Don't get you son
The avenues and alleyways are gonna do it
Just for fun"

[Kammerice]