Dec 21, 2012

Aztec, New Mexico

She tracked the two ronin to Aztec, New Mexico . She used the Japanese term for a wandering samurai without a lord but of course they were not Japanese warriors. They were reborn Aztecs. The older dressed as a Jaguar Warrior and the younger as an Eagle Warrior. These two were special however as they had a connection to the divine that Joanne did not understand. She had crossed paths with them before when they were with a different group. Now they lead this current group of unfortunates.

She didn’t care about the rest of the group but the two dead at her feet at the communications trailer had allied with the Aztecs and had to die. They had not even made a sound. The only sound was static on the ham radio. In the distance was Aztec Ruins National Monument where the rest of the people were located. There appeared to be a meeting between leaders of the different groups taking place in the reconstructed kiva. She loped into the darkness.

At the ruins she vaulted the low ruined wall and sprinted to the kiva. There was a guard at each entrance. The one at the rear had just lit a stale cigarette. Her wakizashi left their scabbards. The cigarette fell out of the surprised guard’s mouth and he raised a hand in defense but her blade cut him in two.

Joanne descended the stairs into the kiva. There was a fire and several people talking. The Aztecs were there. Three Native Americans sat across from them on a stone trough. Standing beyond the five was a man dressed in the black of a priest and next to him was a short Italian man in a mesh shirt. “Everyone but these two leave if you want to live” she growled.

Shots rang out amid cries of surprise. The eagle warrior fired his 10mm handgun and backed away. The three Native Americans backed away. The armed brave in particular was freaked out and led the way. The short Italian, Guido probably, froze and shook while the priest held up the crucifix around his neck.

Joanne with a fresh bullet hole in her chest closed the distance and her sword flashed in the firelight. The jaguar warrior dropped to the ground with glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. She flicked the sword back but it’s deadly arc was stopped by the mystical shield summoned by the junior warrior. The priest called down heavenly fire on the wrathful undead. Joanne burst into flames but that did not stop her.

Her blades drank deeply of the two Inspired that defied her. They both sprawled lifeless on the floor within moments of each other. The other people rushed up the stairs as the remaining guard entered and level his shotgun. Joanne intimidated him into leaving with the rest. Her mission was complete.

Joanne, God Slayer, Vampire of San Jose, Commandant General of the Tonton Macoute, Fellowship of Judas
Whatever is coming, she is ready.

The ancient samurai from the Fellowship of Judas would not take no for an answer, Joanne thought irritably. Even through the dense mountain fog, she recognized his rounded shoulders and slow gait. She had followed scattered groups of modern Aztecs into Arizona and Sensai Hiroshii had followed her. She plunged her swords into the icy lake, washing the black viscera off the blades. Nearby on the shore lay the disemboweled corpse of what the humans called the hungry dead.

“My answer is unchanged,” she said as Hiroshii stumped up over the uneven ground. She could feel the fire reignite in her limbs, the familiar pain that only receded while she was tracking her next quarry. She slid her swords into the crossed sheaths on her back and turned to leave. She blinked, an old human habit she had not yet lost. Hiroshii was in front of her. She had never seen the old man move faster than a hobble.

She moved to walk around him, and yet he was in front of her again, faster than even her heightened senses could track. Her temper flared and her swords sang as she drew them from their sheaths, bringing the blades down on the old man’s neck.

She never touched him. Instead, she felt a brief pressure, something she would have once called pain, and her right arm was on the rocky ground next to her, her wakizashi clattering beside it. Hiroshii was several steps away, katana drawn and held lightly at his side.

The old man had first approached her weeks ago, asking her to join him as his student. “A war is coming,” he had told her. Coming? Joanne’s war was here and now. The agony of rage she suffered whenever she paused in her grim mission for even a moment made sure of that. Then, as now, it had driven her to refuse him.

She picked up the arm. Her undead powers of regeneration would restore it to her in a matter of hours, yet she was troubled. Never had she felt like such a child before a foe. She considered the man for a long moment. “I will train with you,” she said.

Hiroshii was a tireless instructor, and tireless is not a word to be tossed around lightly when it comes to undead. He put her through exercise after exercise, stamping his cane on the ground and yelling, “You are the string, I am the needle!” When she lashed out at him, insisting that she was ready, he parried her blades or her fists almost lazily, retorting “You are a frog in a well that would drown itself in the sea!” Weeks turned into months, and the samurai tempered Joanne’s rage like a blacksmith tempers brittle iron into steel.

She learned to use not just her blades but her body as a weapon. She learned to sweep an opponent’s legs from underneath them, to counter an attack with an attack of her own, and even the exact angle and force needed to break an enemy’s neck. Nor did Hiroshii did focus on the physical alone: he assigned her tome after tome of reading between her routines and her exercises, books about the death realms and the occult. Then one day, Hiroshii presented her with a traditional Japanese tanto. Unlike the American tanto this looked like a mini sword and was popular with the Samurai for close quarter fighting, as it could be used to penetrate body armor. It was a modern blade but one made by a master. Her tanto had been left behind somewhere in Felicity, California. Perhaps one of her former companions was carrying it or perhaps it was lost in the desert. She took it from his unliving hands and felt a spark of something that may have been gratitude. Whatever was coming, she would be ready.

Da House on Da Bayou Done Gone Sour

Boudreaux told an interesting story. The good old boy finished his beer and opened another. “Yep. Da House on da Bayou done gone sour.”

The man had told Marcel his remarkable story of the family’s abandoned plantation house. During the Zombie Apocalypse the extended family all retreated to the family home. It was “in the sticks” and they survived there living off the bounty of the bayou in relative peace. When the apocalypse mysteriously ended and the dead (mostly) returned to the Great Beyond the family largely remained there in seclusion except for hunting and foraging or trading trips.

LIfe was not without trials however. The family had deep roots in the area but had fallen on hard times generations past. The fields had reverted to a wild state and the home was rundown and haunted. The water level had risen also. Now the home was only accessible via boat. The matriarch of the family, one of a line of “witchy” women, was also increasingly angry and miserable to be around. Marie Toussaint called Meemaw by her numerous descendants was a large domineering woman that ran the household with an iron fist until she disappeared. It was assumed that a gator had gotten her during a nighttime visit to the latrine.

The following month Boudreaux and his cousin returned from town to find the place deserted. There was blood to be sure, and the house, always known to be haunted, now felt evil. They fled.

That was the bulk of the story told to Marcel. The houngan thought that there were restless spirits there that might need help moving on. He resolved to visit with Milhouse and investigate the plantation to see what they could do. Milhouse had his own power.

Boudreaux guided the small steel boat to the dilapidated dock. It had once been longer but the farthest point was now sunk beneath the water. “Keep an eye out for the General” he warned them of the king of the gators. MIlhouse swished his foot in the water and Marcel squinted. He did not discern any ghostly presences.

Their guide refused to go any further. He pointed to the overgrown path to the house and opened another beer. Marcel and Milhouse got out and quickly spotted the submerged gator stalking them. The former circus man had a knack with animals. Marcel didn’t understand it but he felt the release of essence and Milhouse began to grunt and hiss in alligator speak. The gator swam over and let Milhouse pet him.

“He’s hungry. I told him please don’t eat us. He said that people aren’t here any more.”

The gator swam away brushing the underside of the hull. Boudreaux clutched his hunting rifle. “That ain’t natural” he thought.

Marcel and Milhouse now fixated on the collapsed boathouse at the edge of the water. It was rotten and the roof had fallen in. They pushed inside and Milhouse lit the building with his flashlight. There was a single boat inside that appeared to have been undergoing repairs. There was debris and junk and lots of animal sign. My god the spiders. A few swamp rats fled the focused light.

They poked around and discussed how to ward the structure from ghosts. Then with sudden inspiration they realized that this old boathouse wasn’t why they were there. They left and followed the overgrown path to what had once been an opulent plantation home but was now just sad. Several windows were broken. The front door was ajar and the roof sagged. It was dirty gray and one side was covered in vines.

Marcel saw an apparition in the center upstairs window. It looked like the upper torso of a women. She turned away and disappeared when he hailed her.

They crossed the creaking porch and pushed the front door the rest of the way open. A large room with a fireplace greeted them. Beyond was an open spiral staircase behind four pillars. A baby grand piano sat in the center of the spiral and a frightened racoon jumped out and escaped through the grand foyer in the rear.

They moved through the room. To the left was the kitchen and dining room with perhaps a den beyond. To the right was a hall leading to other rooms. Past the staircase was the foyer with a door to the outside and a hallway.

Marcel called out to any spirits present and a noise drew there attention to the staircase. And old porcelain doll with a cracked face flopped down the steps. It came to rest staring in their direction. He thanked them for the gift and climbed the stairs. When he reached down for his present, it flew at him. He was struck by a much greater force that the doll alone. Had he not sidestepped in time he would have tumbled over the railing.

The doll landed on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and Milhouse who had been examining the racoon nest inside the piano went over and stepped on it. He ground the doll into the tile.

Marcel heard a baby softly crying upstairs now and Milhouse saw a large crow fly into the kitchen. It landed on the counter and cocked it’s head at him. They decided to stick together and get a better look at the crow.

Milhouse spoke with the animal. It screamed “Dead! Dead!” and “I eat the dead” and “yes I will stand on your arm and let you pet me”.

With the bird on his shoulder, Milhouse led the way through the kitchen to the den. There was nothing interesting. The three of them now returned to the staircase and began ascending.

Up and around, up and around. There was strangeness. The stairs seemed to stretch. Milhouse was somehow farther ahead and now out of sight. Marcel reached the second floor but he was alone. It was a room with a TV and entertainment center opposite a moldy couch. A door directly ahead opened to the veranda. On his left and right were bedrooms. A tiny narrow door to perhaps a closet was on the wall near the entertainment center. He called out for Milhouse but there was no answer. Then he called out to the spirits of the house. Unsatisfied he began drawing a circle on the floor.

Meanwhile Milhouse realized that somehow Marcel had gotten lost. Milhouse was in the attic now. It was small and filled with generations of stuff in storage. And cobwebs. So many cobwebs. There were three windowed dormers. The center had a rocking chair positioned in front of it. Not far away was an antique wooded rocking horse. He tried to see with his other sight. His vision refocused. There was a woman in an old fashioned dress sitting in the chair and a little girl sitting on the rocking horse. She was looking at him.

“Hi” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Meanwhile Marcel hear Milhouse coming up the stairs, or at least someone big and heavy. The sound preceded the pungent smell of decay. What had once been a woman of large carriage paused a step or two below the landing. Her skin was black and swollen and she dripped fetid water. Her sunken eyes glared at Marcel. She gurgled and Marcel tried not to retch. “What are you doing in my house?” she screamed.

Marcel gathered and released his power. His attempt to command her failed miserably. She left the stairs and crossed the room unbelievably fast. She almost clotheslined him. When that failed she reached for his head with her turgid black sausage fingers. He pushed those aside with his baby head stick too. She stripped that away from him.

Milhouse’s question seemed to anger the woman. “This is our place. We live here. You are tresspassing! You do not belong here!” she shouted. The little girl scrunched her face up into something inhuman and ugly.

Marcel gathered his power but Meemaw was too fast. She attacked with a face rake but he pulled back. She tried an eye gouge but he avoided that too. Then a kick but that didn’t connect either. That only made her angrier. He again tried to command her but his necromancy was countered by her wrath.

Gentle Milhouse began to cry. He tried again to talk to the lady but she was not interested. She told him that she wanted what he had. His life. She would feed the crows with his body. The little girl began rocking impossibly fast on the rocking horse. “Feed the crows! Feed the crows!” she screamed in a gravely voice. Milhouse didn’t like that one bit. His fear called down unearthly fire on the lady ghost but the flames were so feeble as to be barely present.

Marcel backed up and Meemaw began swinging his own baby headed stick against him scoring a hit. His necromancy failed him again and he drew the lead pipe that he had carried for five years.

The ghost screeched but Milhouse remained in control. He escaped down the stairs. “Feed the crows! Feed the crows!” the little one shouted.

Marcel heard the screech and he yelled in response. He and Meemaw were clubbing at each other but he was managing to hit while avoiding her attacks. He knew that a regular person or even a watcher would have been at least crippled with a broken leg by now. She was not as good with a club than her rassling moves. She discarded the weapon to the side and kicked him square in the nuts. Marcel didn’t let the pain overwhelm him. Then she body slammed him. He looked up and her in her slimy mumu. Her injuries were severe but she also appeared to be healing slowly.

Milhouse felt a strong push from behind but he kept his balance and ran down the stairs busting through the mysteriously held door. Marcel! He was in the same room with Marcel and a horrible rotting corpse. He almost gagged. The smell was almost too much to bear. He drew his sword as a rush of cold air descended the stairs.

Marcel told another fat joke and the creature looked back at him. She had been distracted by Milhouse’s arrival. She attempted to stomp on him but he rolled to the side. Then she rushed Milhouse and launched a badly aimed kick that connected with the entertainment center and held her in place. Milhouse disembowled her and a steaming pile of black rotten entrails dropped at his feet. The house shuddered and doors began banging open and closed. Then he was enveloped in cold. The attic ghost wrapped herself around him draining his life force.

Milhouse staggered away and stabbed at the rotten creature on the ground again. He beheaded it. Then Marcel got up. The ghost flew at him and sapped his life force too They couldn’t keep this up. Milhouse picked up the head and ran toward the door to the balcony.

Milhouse and Marcel ran out of the room. Milhouse leapt and Marcel flew into him taking them both over the balcony and they landed gracelessly on the drive below. Above them the haunt stayed on the balconey. Marcel rolled over and attempted to drive the spirit out of the rotten head. This time it worked and the head fell apart and formed a steaming puddle on the ground. Milhouse was left holding a soggy mass of hair. Marcel watched a wispy spirit return to the house.

The two of them returned to the boathouse where Marcel found some matches and old motor oil. They went back to burn that muther down while debating whether they would now have a revenant hunting them.

XP 3

The Ghost of Christmas Past
Ho! Ho! Ho!

Tired of study, Dr Graves decided to flex his magical muscle at a supposedly haunted house. The story goes that a family was trapped in a burning house in some Christmas past. Perhaps it was even the night of the Apocalypse. The people that have come back to the area to live claim to have heard strange things and have seen lights and movement.

The car rolled to a stop near the intersection. Two homes were burned down and clearly abandoned for years. Graves got out and slid the car keys into his pocket while Jedd watched nervously. “Keep an eye out” he said before walking off with his tactical light showing the way. The best ghost hunting is at night.

He peaked into a window and the walked around the ruin with the light in his off hand and his revolver in the other. He didn’t see or hear anything unusual. It was quiet too quiet.

He entered and explored the small home. It had been two stories once but the upper level had collapsed and he walked in the rubble on the ground level. It looked untouched for years. It also looked completely uninteresting. He moved to what must have been the bathroom. There amid the charred scraps was part of a broken mirror. In it he saw the face of a horribly burned Santa Claus.

He whirled around with his grip tightening on the revolver. Nothing.

Then he felt cold. Something screamed “Ho ho ho!” in his ear but he didn’t panic. He holstered the Ruger realizing it would be no help.

Again the cold embraced him. He shivered and recognized that a little of his life force was sucked away.

He magicked up an Essence Shield but it was weak and again he felt his life force sapped.

He moved to the other side of the building and tried again. Graves threw up a second Essence Shield. This one was stronger and protected him from the spirit’s life drain but he could not figure out how to attack a supernatural creature that he could not see. Then he remembered the mirror. He returned to the bathroom and picked up the remains of the mirror.

The angry ghost mustered enough energy to physically push him and he fell backward into the rubble. He channeled and unleashed the magic. It was a weak strike and the ghost responded with a banshee howl. Once again the doctor stood his ground and resisted.

His second soul fire blast tore the ghost of Christmas past apart.

He breathed a sign of relief and walked back to the car. Was the ghost destroyed? He did not know. It was probably anchored here. He channeled essence again and shaped it’s matrix into a spirit mastery invocation. He tried to drive the ghost out but failed. He still sensed it’s presence.

Well that’s enough for one night, he thought. “Let’s go Rod, we’re done here.”

Dr Graves 3 XP
Jedd 1 XP


“The Rosicrucians sure don’t have the same pull” though Alex. He had just finished thumbing 5 shells into the tube of the 20 gauge Mossberg Persuader. He racked the pump to place one round in the chamber then inserted a replacement in the tube. The safety went on with a snick.
He had just traded up for this shotgun. It wasn’t the 12 gauge that he had been looking for but it was an improvement. He missed the familiar lines and buttery smooth action of his old sawed off Winchester. He wondered for the millionth time what had become of it? Was it rusting in the desert? Had it been traded? Did Mayor Frenchy LeFuckface swoop in after everything was over and put it next to his bed? Did one of his friends take it with them out of sentimental attachment? It had served well since the beginning of the apocalypse.

Before the Rise, the Rosicrucians were awash in money and influence. Even during the apocalypse they were able to scramble helicopters to take them to Crater Lake. Now they couldn’t even provide him with one of the most common guns in America, the 12 gauge shotgun. Well there was that beautiful silver engraved LBH over/under but he couldn’t be reloading every 2 rounds. He shook his head, “that beut ejected spent shells into next week”, he remembered.

He held out hope for another .45 also. His empty leather holster was in a cardboard box next to the dresser. A small Ruger revolver had been given to him. It was a concealable model that he kept in his cargo pocket. Ruger LCR .38 Spl +P was engraved on the side. It only held five shots which was less than the vintage warhorse M1911, another early Tehachapi pick up, left back in the pyramid. Or perhaps it had traveled with him to the Reservation and lay among the sagebrush, he mused.

He put the remaining shotgun shells in the side pocket of his go bag. “The best guns go to the shooters” he had been told. He supposed that he could not fault the logic. He had not really been going “outside the wire”. That bothered him. He might be an academic but he did love the field work.

Lonnie was feeling pretty good yessiree. Yep yep yep. He looked again at all the cans. He must have 8 days of food there. He had found a hidden cache of cans while setting rat traps. It was probably years old but the cans didn’t show any signs of bloat that would indicate poisonous spoilage. And he had caught a rat later! He felt like a rich man. Certainly he was satisfied.

hp25a.jpgRemembering something he fished in his pocket pulling out a small satin nickel pistol. It was one he had since before things went to shit. One side was scratched all to hell. It had probably been ditched after a crime and slid along the concrete. He probably should not have picked it up but Uncle Lonnie didn’t often turn down free shit. And he knew how to shoot a pistol even if he wasn’t an expert. In fact, he had learned how to shoot with a Phoenix Arms .22 and this was the same gun in .25 caliber. That’s 3 more caliber!

He sucked on his dead tooth and smiled. The power of life and death. “This is how Almighty God must feel when he is holding a gun” thought the man.

He pressed the button and ejected the magazine. Another pocket produced a few loose cartridges. He inserted one and then another topping off the narrow magazine. He wiped some lint off the brass and pushed it into the pistol until he heard the click. He had needed to shoot the gun today and so had been down two rounds.

Normally with a little gun like this, the news liked to call them “Saturday Night Specials”, you just punch the fuck with it and pull the trigger. That usually worked pretty good to make the SOB reconsider his life choices. This time though he had fired at to group to cover his retreat. A couple quick shots, and they dive for cover while he takes off. Uncle Lonnie is a fast mother fucker.

He counted out his rounds. 24 total. The same ragged, beat up box. “PMC Bronze 50 gr FMJ” and “750 FPS”. He wasn’t sure what that meant but the box was almost 20 dollars before the end of the world so they must be good. And he still had half left.

“I’m doing fine. Yep yep yep. Doing fine.”

Uncle Lonnie

Uncle Lonnie had spent the last few months hiding out from the street gangs that patrolled these streets. Before them, he dodged the dead. And before the dead, he hid from the cops and predators that roamed the back alleys and dark places. For Uncle Lonnie, not that much had changed when the undead started walking, and even less changed when they went away. For Lonnie was alone. Always alone.

It wasn’t that Uncle Lonnie wasn’t sociable. No, siree, Bob. He loved (L-O-V-E-D!) to talk to people, Hell, he didn’t even care if they listened to him or not. In fact, most people didn’t listen to good ole Lonnie. Most people were stuck up snobs. Just because they had fancy things like jobs, cars, nice clothes, and teeth. Shit, most of them were dead now. But not Uncle Lonnie. No, siree, Bob! Uncle motherfuckin’ Lonnie was still alive and kicking.

He spotted a pile of garbage move about 10 feet away. He leapt and thrust his hand into the pile of refuse and pulled out a squirming, gnashing rat. He snapped it’s neck with a quick twist. Later that night, he thought back on the many skills he honed while living on the street, while the rat cooked over a small fire. So what if the voices in his head sometimes told him to do certain things, sometimes things that were unpleasant? As long as he had a bottle of whiskey at hand, the voices could be kept quiet.

A few weeks later, the same red pick up truck that Lonnie had seen around before parked in front of an old burnt out storefront down the street, the occupants moving into the building. A supply run, most likely. He’d always stayed far away and out of sight of strangers, but the voices had been telling him for quite a while that it was time to come out of the alleys. Uncle Lonnie carefully approached the truck from the rear, making sure to keep out of sight of anyone who might be watching. He slid into the bed of the truck and pulled a dirty tarp over him. No more hiding for good ole Uncle Lonnie. No siree, Bob! Let’s see where this mutherfuckin’ truck is going!

Equestrian Alex Graves, PhD, Brotherhood of the Rose Cross
Harnessing arcane power

“So Dr. Graves, can you tell us again whether the vortex of power was spinning clockwise or counter-clockwise?”

It was everything that Dr. Graves could do to refrain from punching the man in that overly-large nose of his.

Ever since returning to the Rosicrucians, Dr. Graves had been peppered with all sorts of inquiries, right down to trivial minutiae like this. He patiently tried to explain to his fellow Rosicrucians everything that he remembered, but there where many more questions than he had answers for, and it was beginning to test his patience, even after all of this time. "No, Dr. Samuel. I was too busy trying to focus on the ritual to save the world,” Graves said through clenched teeth, walking out of the room.

At least it was better than those members who treated him like he was some sort of hero. Those people made him really irritated.

“Oh…uh…OK, Doctor. Maybe I’ll talk to you later!” the man called through the closed door.

Graves sighed, looking around the room. He walked over to his wooden desk and pulled out another manuscript. He’d been studying these ancient writings for the past week and had learned much. In fact, he had done what came most naturally to him, and that was to throw himself into his studies and as a result, his understanding of magical theory and harnessing arcane power had grown tremendously.

Suddenly there was an urgent knock on his door. Now what?!?, Dr Graves wondered, opening the door. Standing there was a young Rosicrucian, flush with excitement.

“Dr. Graves, sir, we have a situation! Greg, John and I, well, we had talked about doing some more exploring in the west wing of the old city library. John didn’t want to, but Greg and I talked him into it, and-“

Dr Graves cut the young man off with a wave. What was his name, again? Adam? Andy? Man, he was so bad with names.

“Calm down, son. Just tell me what happened?”

“Well, we were in the west wing, you now, the one with the collapsed roof? We came across a small room at the end of the hall. Inside we found a small cache of occult documents. Some of them looked very promising!” Dr. Graves waited for the man to continue. “Anyway, we were just about ready to gather them up and leave…and then…there some this…something in the hall, outside the door. I have no idea what it was but…I could feel it, you know? The door shattered, it just splintered in. We got out of that room through the back door – I barely remember running down the back stairs. I wasn’t even sure that John and Greg made it out, until we were all out of the building.” The man swallowed hard and looked at Graves.

“What do you think it was?”

Dr Graves’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know…but we’re going to find out.”

Magus Maria Magdalena Margarita Vargas de Arroyo Rodriguez, Mazdayasna
Knowledge is the Road to Power

Maria immerses herself in her education, both holy and secular. Her mornings and evenings are spent in prayer and reading about Zoroastrian rituals and legends and the occult. Her evenings are her own, and she spends them with a gun in her hands. As Zoroaster himself once said, “War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your sympathy, but your bravery has saved the unfortunate.”

However, the most important lesson Maria learns is not Zoroastrian theology or how to shoot a rifle or even how to speak English. She learns the value of a silver tongue, of coating her words in honey. She learns how best to approach an individual to get what she wants – whether through intimidation, smooth-talking, coercion, or force. She learns how to raise a crowd to a fury.

She had forgotten how much she enjoyed the mindfulness of prayer and the quiet simplicity of life as an initiate. At the colegio, too much of the nuns’ time was spent listening for the whisper of a joke, watching for the surreptitious passing of a note. She finds once she can return to her studies, she devours knowledge as voraciously as she did all those years ago. Now, as then, she knows, knowledge is her only road to power.

Unwitting vessel of Bastet

hamsterinbed.jpgMilhouse enjoys his life in New Orleans. He likes paddling in the lake and dancing in Marcel’s hooligan rituals. Most of all, he likes seeing the kitty god and Deborah. The kitty god comes to Milhouse in his dreams. She wears robes and sits in a golden chair, and Deborah purrs in her lap. The kitty god talks a lot; Milhouse doesn’t understand a lot of what she says and usually forgets the rest, but he remembers some of it. He remembers when she told him how to call on animals in his need. She tells him to how to borrow some of her strength if he needs to protect people; Milhouse thinks of Marcel’s missing arm and leg, Joanne’s beating heart, the disappearance of Dr. Graves, and he remembers this lesson well. She counsels him to practice with his sword and his knives and his gun, and he does this, too. He doesn’t know what he needs to remember all these things for, but he repeats them to himself everyday. He hopes the kitty god will tell him what’s going on soon.


Paranormal Special Agent Trevor Sanderson, CIA Special Activities Division
Reckless, show off, woman obsessed wild man from before, but now it’s backed with government training and ESP

cia-shield.jpgThe teen looked back on all he’d seen and done leading up to the end of the zombie apocalypse and thought “Wow! That was a crazy ride and I’m a total badass!” His reckless nature, youth and natural charm left him with plenty of options. At first he just wanted to see the new world and bang as many baes as he could. He sold his services as an expert driver, the more dangerous the mission the better. Word quickly spread about the young driver with good looks and luck to spare. People sought him out for a variety of tasks. He had training well beyond his years and made for an unsuspecting front man with charm for days. Those days seemed a blur now, rolling from one to the next. But, it wasn’t until a sexy older babe in a black suit propositioned him that his new life really shaped up. She took a liking to him and their fling developed into much much more. She was actually a government agent and turns out he was her assignment! Craziness! Stories of this incredibly lucky kid reached the ears of the big wigs. After her thorough investigation he was hired on to join their team and even entered into a special training program. They tried to offer him dead gene splicing and other stupid crap, but he opted to develop what they called his “latent ESP” probably why he was so lucky. It’s been five years since the day they saved the world, and Trevor has aged if not matured. He may still be the same reckless, show off, woman obsessed wild man from before, but now it’s backed with government training and ESP. “#WINNING!”


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