Our Designated Judas. Fiction by Cassandra Khaw
about 4 years ago – Sat, Feb 15, 2020 at 05:47:29 AM

May 7th, 2016, at approximately 7:30 p.m., we made contact on Tinder with an individual named Michael S. In his profile, he appears to be a Caucasian male, blonde with strong bone structure, somewhere between his late 30s and early 40s. During our brief conversation, he divulged he was a professor of medieval literature at the University of Oxford, an Akira Kurosawa aficionado, and a mediocre cook. The aforementioned data matches our reports and several verified testimonies.

We — or more specifically, Lesley, our designated Judas — have set up a date for next weekend.

• • •

May 14th, 2016. It was always going to have to be Lesley. She was precisely his type. Young, with an Eastern-European cast to her features and something coquettish about the crooked line of her mouth. We dressed her for innocence: knee-length skirt and cardigan, opaque tights and sensible flats — attire reminiscent of a college student. No weapons were provided. Instead, I, Bishop, and Saraswati would function as back-up.

At approximately 8:20 p.m., Lesley convened with Michael S. for their scheduled encounter. He appeared exactly as he did in his photos; at worst, slighter paler, as though the winter had blanched his skin. Michael S. brought flowers for Lesley. Red carnations, with a sheaf of baby’s breath. She accepted them genially, threading her arm through his proffered elbow, before they meandered into a side street.

Through the microphone we’d taped to the inside of Lesley’s collar, we heard their conversation:

LESLEY: “Thanks for coming out on, well, such relatively long notice.”

MICHAEL: “The pleasure’s mine. Tinder moves too quickly for an old man like me, so I appreciate this opportunity to savor a courtship.”

LESLEY: “Why go on Tinder, then?”

MICHAEL: *hesitation* “Because I am told that it is the only way to meet people.”

LESLEY: “I suppose. There are other dating sites, too.”

MICHAEL: “None with the same immediacy of contact. Too much stalking. Too much circling profiles, like a wolf out of time. I suppose I’m just hopelessly complicated.

LESLEY: “I can get behind that. Anyway, I was thinking — do you want to do Chilango, or a bar, or – have you eaten yet?”

MICHAEL: “I have. But there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to eat.”

LESLEY: “Oh! I’m sorry! In that case—”

MICHAEL: “No. Please. If you haven’t had dinner yet, I’d be more than happy to accompany you. I like watching people eat.”

We followed the pair to the local Chilango without incident. Michael S., despite rumor, behaved in an exemplary fashion, and the meal concluded without event. The two did not extend their encounter past dinner. Instead, they exchanged chaste kisses on the cheek before separating, Michael S. citing the need to attend family obligations.

• • •

May 16th, 2016. Two more incidents were reported on campus. Michael S. made contact again, this time through Telegram. Since the initial encounter, we have maintained close communications with the man, building a rapport and exchanging anecdotes. Throughout these conversations, Michael S. made no overtures towards a second encounter.

So we did it for him.

• • •

May 21st, 2016. We spent the afternoon rigging a rental coupe for this evening’s encounter. IEDs beneath the seats, inside the headboard, and in the trunk. Anywhere they’d go. Whatever space remained we then lined with pressurized canisters of kerosene.

Once prepared, we had Lesley drive to the gates of the university, where Michael S. waited. The latter evidenced mild surprise at the manifestation of the vehicle, but Lesley was able to convince him of its innocuousness. Said it was easier than walking. Satiated, Michael S. entered the car. Together, they proceed through the motions of early courtship: small talk, an uninteresting movie, drinks in a bar.

At the end of the night, Michael S. acted as we’d predicted. He asked to see her again. Here, Lesley escalated with a direct proposition, which her counterpart laughingly accepted. Because of course, he fucking would.

The two agreed to make their way back to Michael S.’ accommodations, although not before first picking up essentials from Lesley’s apartment. Michael S. exhibited neither interest nor suspicion as Lesley exited the car.

Then, I hit the button.

For the purpose of minimizing collateral damage, we chose a site slightly outside the center of Oxford. We’d scouted the location beforehand. The few people who lived in the wide cul-de-sac worked nights; the worst they’d come home to was property damage.

Which was a pity, I think, because the resultant bonfire was beautiful.

The explosion sent the car geysering upward into flames and black twists of ruined metal. It spun over itself to land on its roof with a brittle shriek of broken glass. It took our target two long minutes to writhe from the wreckage, skin boiled away in places, yet somehow still impossibly, horrifically alive.

Or at least whatever passed for alive with his kind.

Lesley and I didn’t waste any time. I came out of my car, swinging a bag of bullets on one shoulder, a shotgun over the other. Lesley emerged with an axe. There was nothing supernatural about what we did next. It was old-fashioned human brutality: hosannas of lead, heavy steel through the point. Michael S. didn’t go down easy. But between our weapons and another canister of gasoline, we succeeded.

Don’t know if you knew, but old bones burn bright.

The public nature of our assault, however, required us to evacuate sleepy Oxford as quickly as humanly possible. As of the time of writing, our cell is fine. No one is injured or at risk of discovery. We have temporarily relocated to [REDACTED], but we have every intention of coming back.

In the meantime, should you wish to continue the fight for us, included is an inventory of everything we’ve learned: names, social-media accounts, peekyou reports, whatever other dirt we could dig up.

To our knowledge, there are over 100 members of the undead living on the campus. Let’s not talk about the rest of Oxford.

Be careful.

It is easy to assume that your proximity to London puts you in the aegis of the local compacts. But London is subsumed by its own problems and frankly, that city doesn’t give a rat’s arse about anyone else.

You’re on your own out here.

But you already knew that.

#HTV2E

#HunterTheVigil

BACKERS ONLY - Compact & Conspiracy Preview D -Null Mysteriis & The Lucifuge
about 4 years ago – Fri, Feb 14, 2020 at 02:59:28 AM

This post is for backers only. Please visit Kickstarter.com and log in to read.

T-SHIRTS and TILTS
about 4 years ago – Thu, Feb 13, 2020 at 01:23:11 PM

Hello Hunters!

Two quick notes for you on this Thursday the 13th! (aww, so close! Would have been perfect to talk about the Slasher Chronicle if this was Friday!)

First up, we've slain another Stretch Goal!

ACHIEVED! - At $63,000 in funding - Kickstarter Backer T-Shirt — Hosted on the Redbubble store for a limited time, a Hunter: The Vigil-themed shirt will be priced at a discount. All backers will be notified when the shirt becomes available.

Excellent work, everyone! And we haven't even seen the Tactics and Teamwork rules! Now, let's keep those candles burning and light some more as we hunt our next target:

At $66,000 in funding - New Add-On Reward: Malleus Maleficarum's Scrolls — We’ll create a PDF bundle of first-edition titles that can be added to any reward tier for only $3. This PDF bundle will include:

• Spirit Slayers [Hunter: The Vigil 1E] PDF
• Bad Night at Blackmoon Farm [Hunter: The Vigil 1E] PDF
• Under the Skin [Hunter: The Vigil 1E] PDF

From T-Shirts to Tilts...

Hunter: The Vigil Second Edition developer Monica Valentinelli has posted another of her in-depth conversations with the writing team for this new edition. Today, Monica chats with Vera Vartanian who worked on Endowments and possesses a wealth of knowledge about Tilts and Conditions, two new rules in Hunter 2E.

<LINK> Click here to read [HTV2E] Deep Dive into Tilts and Conditions with Vera Vartanian

I'll be back tomorrow morning with another Compacts & Conspiracy preview for backers! Remember, campaign backers will have access to the complete manuscript before the kickstarter runs it's course! So join in and check it out! And keep the Vigil!

#HunterTheVigil

#HTV2E

Not a People Person. Fiction by Cassandra Khaw
about 4 years ago – Thu, Feb 13, 2020 at 04:52:30 AM

Everyone has a story about how they became a hunter. Most of these stories end on a sentence fragment, with an exit wound of a full stop. Dead fathers, dead mothers, dead spouses, an ocean of lost children. Every hunter has a story that starts in blood.

But only some of us get to see that joke to the punchline.

Before the world went to black, I was just another college student trying to get by, trying to fit their biracial self into the jigsaw of Tokyo’s cultural landscape. Because of circumstances, I shared a dorm with another kid, Akira Sakamoto. Engineering enthusiast but artsy, despite that. He had a thing for creepypasta, too. SCP foundation, those Korean webcomics that came with a nasty GIF, r/nosleep — if it had anything to do with urban legends, he’d be on it.

I remember when he did a fan film of the Red Room.

I wasn’t okay with that.

But overall, Sakamato was a great dude. We bonded over takoyaki, McDonald’s specials, and too many crates of cheap beer. Life eventually happened, though. The months wound by. Examinations took center stage. We drifted. Sakamoto did his thing and I did mine. Then, graduation came and it was time to move on.

Except —

Three weeks before we graduated, Sakamato took up with a girl. At least, that’s what he told me. He didn’t actually say much. Men don’t do that. We don’t talk to each other. But from what I saw, it was love. Whoever she was, Sakamoto was absolutely smitten. They’d talk for hours into the night. I’d hear him whispering to her. Giggling. A foreigner, I thought, given that they’d only talk at unreasonable hours.

The human mind is funny that way. Confronted with the unknown, it cozies up with excuses. I’d known something was wrong. I’d seen the truth. But I hid from myself because a lie’s always the easier fit.

I knew he was lying when he told me she was local. When I asked if we could meet, he’d paused and told me she was not a people person. “Sorry, I don’t think she wants to meet you,” Sakamoto mumbled, staring into the gloom. I didn’t push.

I wish I had.

Sakamoto’s relationship ate him up. By graduation, he’d transformed into a full-time recluse. I suspect he’d flunked out of college at some point, but no one showed up at the dormitories to kick him out. And throughout that time, I did nothing at all.

I remember the evening I left. I remember looking back into the room and catching sight of something between the slats of the cupboard. A dart of motion. Hair. I didn’t think too much about it. I left, quickly, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, eyes blinked back at me. Dark and thoughtful. Staring from between the cupboards, a half-smile suspended between the gap.

Years later, I’d regret walking away like that.

• • •

The Girl from the Subway. That’s what the internet called her. There were myths, mixed stories of how someone would not leave their house because she was watching, because she was waiting for them through the crack in the door, because she was hiding under their beds. The accounts get confused.

She played games with people, sometimes. Hide and go seek.

We met her a few times, my cell and I. Always too late. Always ending with someone folded through a slit between the doors, pleated, mashed-up, broken to component parts. She’d never confront us head on. She always ran away. Each and every goddamned time.

Until one day, she said my name. She said my name exactly the way that Sakamoto used to say it, complete with the messed-up umlaut, and that was when I knew.

• • •

I couldn’t find Sakamoto online. No trace of him. No relatives on Facebook. No one from our year knew his whereabouts, either. As far as anyone could tell, he never left.

So I went back on a hunch.

Sakamoto was still there. Still alive. Still talking to the girl of his dreams. Still whispering to her, their fingertips touching, through the slats in the cupboard.

How she’d kept him alive like that, I’d never know. But she did. He was — there wasn’t much left of him. Sprawled on his side; you could count the descent of his vertebrae, his ribs against his skin. His skin hung in flaps, puddled between the crevices of his bone.

He stank.

Of piss, bedsores, his own excrement. A crusting of cockroach eggs sleeved his legs. I was surprised that they hadn’t eaten him. But I guess that had to something to do with the Girl from the Subway. See, I think she loved him back in her own way.

He didn’t notice us until she did. The Girl from the Subway hissed and Sakamoto rolled his eyes up so he could look at us, and he smiled, and his lips cracked and bled from the effort. And at that point, it was all I could do not to throw up.

“We see you,” I told the Girl from the Subway. “Let’s play a game.”

• • •

Usually, this is where the narrator says they lost.

But not this time.

We won. With hook and no small amount of research-powered crook. And Sakamoto screamed as the Girl from the Subway evaporated into curls of smoke and the reek of burned meat. He scraped his fingers raw against the tatami as we dragged him back out into the sun. Sakamoto screamed for her. Eight years is a commitment, I guess.

Shockingly, Sakamoto didn’t die from sepsis. He’s in the ICU right now, to be fair, and the doctors aren’t particularly happy with our unwillingness to explain how he ended up in this condition. But he should come out in one piece.

When he does, I’ll give him the talk. It’s time to light our candles. It’s time to fight.

#HTV2E

#HunterTheVigil

#KeepTheVigil

BACKERS ONLY - Compact & Conspiracy Preview C - Network Zero & The Council of Bones
about 4 years ago – Wed, Feb 12, 2020 at 04:33:58 AM

This post is for backers only. Please visit Kickstarter.com and log in to read.