-- Tyler Mill ------------------------------------------------------------------

DISCLAIMER: Some information may be altered or omitted to protect player
privacy. In the event of correctional emotes I have removed the correction,
integrating it into the original emote.

  (Player entry and exits in parentheses.)
  [Private emotes/messages in square brackets.]
  --> Relevant SR commands preceded by arrows.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Booker has accepted the encounter.
Your target is abducted by humans who believe that the target can help make them supernatural. They
need to either get out of the situation themselves, or stall for long enough for their allies to 
come save them.

[In The Sunshine Florist - A Crowded Checkout Counter]
It has cheap decor.

  A smooth oak trunk has been carved into a counter here, the eyes of the wood
polished to a sheen and not a single splinter to be found. The counter itself
is covered in various plant parts and floral supplies, clearly used as a
workspace when no customers are present. Framing the counter are two stands,
one full of various small plants, and the other with postcards of scenic views.


A half-door blocks the way to the east, a small workshop visible through the
open space. 

There's a small sign on the counter. It reads: If you have a special request,
please call Leah. 712-8537


It is afternoon, about 78F(25C) degrees, 


[                                                       ]
[                                                 down  ]

Booker is standing here.

You tell Booker 'Hi, thanks for accepting! If you could please let me know if there is anyone you
want to include in the encounter - and also if you could please write up an emote establishing what 
Booker's doing, and where he is.'

Booker tells you 'No one else! And one moment, please'

You tell Booker 'Take your time.'

Booker shoulders his way back into the room, placing down a few potted
plants behind the counter. He takes care not to damage them, and proceeds to
lean against the counter from his spot behind it, shirt stained with sweat and
dirt, and his fingers marked with green. 

The front door swings open, and in walks a girl, who couldn't be older than
twelve or thirteen. She wears ratty-looking jeans and a pastel-hued t-shirt,
her Converse sneakers painted in Easter egg colors. Coming to the counter, she
asks Booker, "Sir, do you have any, uhh, geraniums?" 

Booker blinks, head tilting as he accompanies the girl's approach, to stare
down. "Uuuh." He starts, brow furrowed, "Yeah. Let me..." He begins to crouch
behind the counter, to search through, "You want a little pot with some? You
like any color best?" 

"Uh-huh. I like green the most," says the girl. The instant Booker crouches,
she calmly rounds the counter, aims a strange-looking gun at him, and lets
fire. A syringe abruptly buries itself in his neck. 

Booker doesn't really react to the sound of tiny feet around the store,
though when the girl comes by, there's that instinctive sense, trained into him
so many years ago. It's too late, he barely has time to look at her before the
sting of a needle in his neck. He reaches for it, patting around the syringe.
"What..." 

It's poison. Some kind of fast-acting narcotic agent. Even if Booker pulls
it out, he can already feel himself growing sluggish, can see his vision
dimming. The girl scrambles out of the store as fast as she can, and the last
thing he hears before he goes lights out are the clapping of boots... 

Booker takes it out of his neck with an angry snarl, but that's the last of
his strength. His vision grows dark, his muscles give, and he collapses to the
floor. 





[In a cluttered warehouse in God knows where]
This area seems well populated.
  This tremendous warehouse is dark, save for a number of spotlights aimed at
the center of the ground floor, converging to one painfully bright focus. All
around you are freight containers, crates, and barrels. The front doors are
slid shut, but there's the briny smell of saltwater in the air - it must be
somewhere on the waterfront.


It is night, and about 70F(21C) degrees.  There is a waning gibbous moon.  


[                                                       ]
[                                                       ]

There ensues a long and eventless period of sleep, with no dreams. When
Booker comes to, it's slowly and with an incredible headache. It's impossible
to reckon how much time has passed, for he appears to be in some kind of
warehouse, speared in place by six appallingly bright lances of light -
spotlights from catwalks on the upper levels. He can't see anyone around, but
he can -feel- them, their presence as obvious to his heightened, bestial senses
as the sound of water outside. 

Booker groans as his senses crawl back to him, drool against his lower lip.
Before he can open his eyes, the bright lights seem to catch him, and he lowers
his head instead with something close to a whine, deeper instinct than any
training done before. Still, it kicks in, just as before, that resilience to
discomfort that prompts him to stiffen and brace himself, try to move, while
keeping his head down and his ears attuned to his surroundings. The rise of the
near-fur along his back and the back of his neck enough to let him know that
there are people here. He doesn't speak, not yet, just listens. 

"He's coming to, look, look..."  

"... I knew it didn't I tell you? No one comes off Silverleaf that fast, he's
an animal..."  

"We did it, we finally found him, finally got him..."  

All around Booker, excited men and women converse amongst themselves. Booker's
auditory processing feels syrupy, somehow slow - like he's not hearing their
words, but recalling an instant memory of them, instead. Now that the numbness
is bleeding from his body, his senses are beginning to come back online. Should
he try to move, he'll soon find he's been tied to a chair with ropes. He
appears to be sitting upright, hostage-style. 

One person steps forward, emerging from the blackness. A woman in ratty
clothing and rattier hair, presenting to Booker a cup of water, pointing it
toward his lips, as if to ask if he'd like some. 

Booker blinks slowly, cautiously opening his eyes, vision protected by his
own shadow. His first movement is to test his ropes, the creak of them against
his seat enough to tell him that he's not quite awake enough yet to break them,
and by the amount of voices, that is certainly not the only safeguard they have
for him. The man licks his lips, swallows to try and get his throat back into
order. The vision of the woman is fuzzy at the edges, but water sounds like a
good idea, though he tries to sniff at it, to ensure it is indeed just water
before nodding at her, opening his mouth. Inside are wicked teeth, too sharp. 

The woman is clearly frightened. Goosebumps march along her arms, and her
eyes are wide, never blinking. When Booker indicates he'll drink, she slowly
tilts the cup into his lips, spilling a bit, but offering him a few gulps. She
speaks in a trembling voice. "Are you really a wolf?" she asks. 

Booker swallows as much water as he's given, the spill staining his shirt.
He breathes heavily when she pulls it back, staring down at her, "Where are
your friends?" He asks, voice rough, more a snarl than a proper tone. Again, he
tries his rope, and his chair shakes, just a bit with the motion. "Who are
you?" 

Truth be told, the ropes aren't that tight - there's a tiny bit of a give to
them. In his Army days, Booker could have likely done better knotwork with his
eyes closed. In regards to his struggle, and the harsh edge of his voice, the
woman skitters backward, as if fearful he might bite her. She's soon joined by
many others - derelicts, all of them, the human detritus of wherever this place
is. The men wear scraggly beards; the women often sport messy dreadlocks from
not washing their hair. There are children, wearing oversized, tatterdemalion
clothing patched together. The group seems to be nineteen, maybe twenty-strong.

On the fringes is the young girl from the flower shop. Next to her is a man
that must be her father or some other guardian, clutching the dart gun that got
Booker into this predicament. Further analysis shows one or two of the people
in the crowd are carrying pistols that look much more conventional, though
there is not a single one of them that doesn't look afraid of the tied-up man.

The next person to speak is a man from the crowd, who says, "Answer her. Are
you a wolf?" 

Booker's eyes squint, and the man tries to lean forward some, to see as his
senses slowly come back, the fuzzy edges disappearing to form proper people,
shapes, the warehouse. He distractedly glances around for a moment, the give in
the ropes signaling some odd, small measure of safety to him, as if his
instincts were saying 'okay, this isn't the worst thing', and so, he breathes.
Booker adjusts, glances around them, "Do I look like a dog to you?" He asks,
low, "What do you all want? Money?" 

At no point does anyone step forth, proclaiming themselves leader, or simply
behaving in a way that would behoove one. They murmur amongst themselves in
seeming confusion, with choice phrases like "we fucked up?" or "lying, I'd lie
too" filtering through the chorus. An especially large man, one who looks like
he must have worked as a lumberjack and hadn't taken off his work clothes in a
decade, does eventually push through the crowd. He's one of the gun-bearers,
and reeks of sweat, trash, and alcohol, though he seems to be sober.  

This man puts his gun to Booker's forehead. This proves to be an incredibly
unpopular move - several people shout at him, and one woman even rushes forward
to try to stop him, though an accomplice quickly grabs her to keep her at bay.
"I really hope you're a dog," he drawls, pegging himself instantly as from the
southern US, "Because otherwise these here silver bullets are gonna go to
waste. If you'd be so kind as to answer Nancy's question - truthfully, brother."

Booker peers up at the hulking man, pressing his forehead against the gun.
If he's scared, it doesn't show, not a shake to his form, though his tone does
ease - he swallows away the harshness in his throat. "What do you want?" He
asks, quietly, "You all clearly did your research. What do you want?" The ropes
creak again as he tries to move, looking around the place, at the faces staring
back at him. 

The big southerner falters. Maybe he waas hoping Booker would piss himself,
or at least have the decency to act cowed. He clearly didn't have much of a
plan B. There's a tension in his gun-toting fist, a bit of tightness, before he
pulls the firearm away. Several people shout at him to back the fuck off, to
'let the guy breathe'. Another man decides to take charge - and this one
doesn't bother playing games, he circles around Booker to untie the ropes. The
redneck's methods earned derision and controversy; this one evokes quiet, and a
palpable, electric fear, almost overwhelming to Booker's senses. 

"We... want you to turn us," the man explains. He's dark-skinned, likely
either Hispanic or Middle Eastern, but with a neutral American accent, not at
all exempt from the rugged state of the bystanders. 

Booker watches the approach, a small breath leaving him as the gun-toting
one retreats. He tries to turn his head, to watch as his ropes come undone, and
even when they do, he doesn't make to stand, instead slowly bringing his hands
forward to rub at his wrists. When the man speaks, he blinks, brow furrowing,
"Uh." He starts, looking around the group, head turning to look, face to face,
ragged men and women, "Why? This isn't-- What I have isn't fun." 

As the Hispanic man gets all the knots undone, the ropes collapse around
Booker. The effect this has on the derelict crowd is instant and dramatic -
they all back off, half-drenched in darkness, and several of them gasp. Even
the guy behind him scrambles backward now that he's let free. The only one left
there is the southerner, gun limp in his hand. "We ain't askin'," he explains.
"We're tellin'. We planned for this. We -been- plannin' for this. We're gonna
get back at those sum-bitches that ruined our town. If you ain't gonna help,
you better tell us plain and simple, right now." 

"You're all terrified of me." Booker says, quietly yet, as he straightens in
his seat. He still doesn't make to get up, too aware of the one man holding a
gun, and the possibility of more, not to mention the tranquilizers. "Who ruined
your town? Are we still in Haven?" He asks, brow furrowed yet, "Do you mean
folk like me?" 

It's true, even the coarse, bold man can't deny the fear - all Booker has to
do is adjust his posture, and he rears back, the gun raised partway, not a
threat, but the threat of a threat. This time a woman steps forth, a young one,
leaving behind a child who was next to her. If not for her ragged appearance,
she'd be any of a thousand soccer moms living in Haven. "Don't you get it, you
asshole? This isn't about you! This is about the people of Tyler Mill! Thanks
to their cracking--"  

"Fracking," someone corrects,  

"Their fracking, we've got nowhere to live! So let's get one thing clear -
you're turning us, today!" 

A chorus of encouraged voices; "Yeah!" "Let's fuckin' do this!" "Quit bein'
selfish, man!" None of them sound entirely sure. 

Booker slowly raises his hands, as if to show he's harmless, his frown
deepening as he listens, "Hey." He starts, and when the people start talking
louder, he barks out, "Hey!" Without moving yet, without getting up, "This
isn't what you all think it is. Do you know what happens to me? During a full
moon? Do you know what the government -does- to people like me?" 

In this case, the communal structure of the group works. Each of them shout
out an answer in turn - it's like speaking to a gathered crowd as a single
organism. "You go mad!" "You lose control, you turn violent!" "You kill and eat
everything in your path!"  

Young soccer mom and the redneck, the only ones with the guts to speak to
Booker up close, nod along. "You think we don't know what we're gettin' into,
brother? Each and every one of us knows the price. You ain't looking at a bunch
of bums, no--" 

He squats down up close, in Booker's face, his breath rancid. "We're murder
spirits, brother. They want Tyler Mill gone... we're gonna make sure it's
-gone- gone." 

Booker bares teeth at the approach, some smaller, primal part of him finally
rearing its ugly head. He snarls, loud, far louder than even his huge frame
would allow, "They'll kill you before you can turn!" It comes out over the
mess, "It takes a month, two to turn fully, and they'll know, and you'll all be
dead, and nothing will change!" Still, his hands remain by his sides, a
leashed, well-trained one. 

"We're ready to take that chance," is all he says, and this time, there's no
complaint when the man points his gun to Booker's head - a bold move,
considering Booker's free to move, now. "You gonna do this, or are we gonna
have to bury -another- goddamn wolf?" 

Booker's instincts kick in, finally, the rising tempers setting the wolf
off. He snarls, and finally, he moves to stand, one hand rising to slam the
man's wrist up, move the gun away from his head before he makes to stand. As he
rises, he tries to grab the man's forearm, to grab the gun, "Enough!" 

		Stat Report:Booker
	he has Fast Reflexes stat at [redacted].

The redneck keeps a death grip on his pistol, but suddenly he's not so
brave, uttering something between a gasp and a gulp. The crowd backs away even
further, vanishing out of the range of the spotlight, creating the disorienting
illusion that they've all vanished - but of course they're still there, Booker
can smell them. This man wasn't the only one armed - another steps forward,
then another, their guns trained on him. "What you got to say!" shouts one.
"You're expendable, man, don't fuck with us!" says another. 

Booker turns the man in his grip. If he won't release the gun, Booker will
use him as a shield, and he does, turning him to wrap an arm around his neck
and keep him still, keep the gun aimed down. "Stop." He demands, glancing
around, sharply aware, "You think people don't track me? If you kill me,
nothing will stop them from coming in and exterminating you." The man breathes,
a snarl still bleeding into his voice, "I can't turn you. You'll just die
through it. Neither of us wants that, yeah?" 

		Stat Report:Booker
	he has Strength stat at [redacted].

It's not entirely clear how prepared these people really were - how much of
this was a lie. Maybe they could try to ambush Booker from behind; maybe they
could simply open fire anyway, considering their buddy a sacrifice. No one
takes chances. It's a stand-off, with the burly southerner croaking and
shouting out meaningless, guttural things from fright, his gun arm pinioned to
his side. No one says a word, multiple derelicts making false starts and
pointed glances - everyone seems to be thinking about how to get to Booker.  

There seem to be two ways out - the front doors, with a simple droppable bar
latching them shut, and a ladder leading to the catwalks, which in turn have
another ladder with rooftop access. 

Booker glances at his escape routes, his left leg aching already, from both
the adrenaline and the weight he puts on it. He breathes, unsteady, and tries
to talk again, slowly moving with the man in his grip, towards the door.
Slowly. "I need you to listen." He calls, again, "This isn't the right plan to
go about this, alright? I'm not some free wolf, people are looking for me - and
they'll kill you if they find me here, dead or alive." 

"Oh god-- Greg, I told you, this was fucked from the start--"  

"-- chill, everyone just chill--"  

"I'm gonna fuckin' pop him, man!"  

"-- the fuck is hunting him? Who'd we kidnap? Is this guy a fed!?" 

The crowd's collective consciousness trends toward fear and uncertainty, and
in this case, means none of them are too eager to chase after Booker. The
spotlights move for the first time, tracking the man's every step - people up
on the catwalks, operating them. Booker's victim tries to struggle free from
his grip, but he can't even hope to outmatch the old wolf in a test of
strength. 

Booker breathes, watching, listening for the reactions. He looks around, "If
I'm alive, I can leave, and call them off." Booker says, loud still, though the
snarl has left his tone. He adjusts his grip, jostling the man some, hoping
that'll stop him from struggling too much more, "That's what I'm trying to tell
you. If you turn, they'll do this to you - I'm not a fed, I -belong- to the
damn feds. I'm leashed. You'll either be dead, or watched! You don't want
this!" 

A man and woman, both armed, slink through the darkness, waiting by the door
- but much as no one seemed to want the southerner to threaten Booker, there
are people calling for them to back off, willing them to listen to public
opinion. If they mean to stop him, they look incredibly uncertain, and neither
one raises a gun. The stalemate is broken when Booker's captive speaks,
shouting in a strained, choked-off voice. "Fuck this, fuck this-- just let the
sum'bitch go, we'll find someone else!" 

"Lemme go, brother, fuck's sake!" he groans. 

"Open the door first." Booker commands, loud and firm and so unlike him. He
stares ahead. 

The command is as good as mental compulsion - the armed pair move
immediately into action, the woman throwing up the latch, which goes clattering
loudly on the floor, the man pulling the door open, sliding back on its track.
The smelly, briny stretch of the Old Harbor lays out before Booker's eyes. He
never left Haven. 

Booker breathes out a sigh of relief at what he sees. ".. Look." He says,
quietly, as he continues to move towards the door in slow, easy steps, holding
the man still, "There are better ways, okay? If you-- if you look for me, in
Haven, without guns. I can help some of you find jobs or somethin'." He says,
slowly turning so the man faces the crowd as he steps out. "But this won't help
you." 

Though the big guy had been coerced by force into no longer fighting, when
Booker begins to drag him toward the warehouse's exit, he puts up a fuss again,
thrashing his meaty arms and legs as much as the old wolf will allow. The
derelicts glare at their hostage as he escapes, and should he look, all he'd
see are dark silhouettes, and perhaps four or five guns trained on him at all
times.  

"You're an asshole," someone shouts, female, but not the one who'd spoken
before. "A selfish prick, just like all the others. We needed you!" 

Booker winces, and tightens his grip, cutting off the man's air supply for a
moment in warning. "Close the door." He commands, sharply, holding still, "I'll
set your friend loose when you do. Go on." 

Out in the daylight, Booker and his captive are bathed in broad daylight. No
one moves to stop them; no one's brave enough to try anything, not with his
meat shield. The shipyard is the same as always: run-down, smelly, a veritable
maze of shipping containers and cars that have been parked since the Clinton
administration. Once he's cleared the warehouse, the corrugated steel door
begins to squeal closed. The last Booker sees of them are a few dark, baleful
faces, full of frustration, full of resentment. 

"A'ight, you can lemme go now, brother, there's-- there ain't no need to act
hasty, brother," the southerner says. Booker can -taste- his terror - he must
think it was a plan to score the wolf a murder victim. 

Booker breathes, in and out, then says to the man still in his grip, "Drop
your gun." It's almost a murmur, his eyes remain on the door, "'m not going to
hurt you, sir. Just drop the gun, I'll let you go." 

With not a word of protest, the guy lets go of his firearm, the weapon
clattering on the pitted and cracked pavement of the shipyard. The safety was
still on. The sweaty undertones of his odor have now overtaken the rest of it.
He's practically pouring. 

Booker releases the man as promised, shoving him ahead so he won't make for
the gun. He kicks the gun away for good measure, and turns to leave without
another word. He can't quite run, leg pulsing in pain to be sure. 

As soon as he's released, the southerner doesn't even try to go for his
weapon - he's fearful, he's angry, but he isn't stupid. The man scurries back
to his warehouse hideaway as fast as he can, banging on the door, shouting for
them to let him back inside.  

Booker hardly has to run... no one comes after him, though for most of the way
out, the sense that he's being watched like a hawk is unmistakable. He's come
away from the encounter with faint, already-fading rope marks, and the pinprick
of the syringe in his neck.