Hellborn Quest 1

    Your name is Blood, and you run with the East Side Cobras. Okay, so your name isn’t actually Blood, but that’s what your blood brothas call you. You think it’s a pretty cool nickname so you don’t argue. Not to mention, using your real name might lead the cops to you.

    Being a seventeen year old white girl doesn’t lend itself to blending into a gang of mostly black guys, but after stealing a couple of cars and coming out on top of a couple fights with crips, you’ve got respect. In fact, you’re on the cusp of becoming a full-blown crip-killing Cobra.

    It doesn’t hurt your chances that you also have scary weird powers nobody must ever know about.

    And thus it is as you find yourself in Cobra Manor, the gang’s hideout on Pacific Boulevard. You’re in the living room playing five-finger fillet with Pit Bull and Little Red. Red has just finished doing some fancy tricks with his big bowie knife, and sets to sticking the table between his fingers. He puts down a respectable show, but you notice several flaws in his technique.

    He finishes with a flourish, slams his unwieldy knife into the table, and laughs. “Today yous got outshined, Blood,” says Little Red. His jabs always rub you the wrong way – probably because of his annoying laugh.

    Pit Bull is not convinced. “Naw bro, you just ain’t never seen Blood dice before,” he says, rubbing his face.

    >Be a sport. Little Red just doesn’t know he’s dirt compared to you. Match his show with one slightly more impressive.
    >Not worth your time to change speed. Do what you usually do, that should educate your brotha.
    >Ain’t nobody better than Blood. Show off. Make him cry.



    >Not worth your time to change speed. Do what you usually do, that should educate your brotha.

    You snap up the knife from where Little Red put it into the table You twirl it a couple of times to get a feel for the weight. It’s not as balanced as the switchblade in your back pocket, but you only get that out when you mean business.

    You spread your hand on the table and, after testing the point of the blade by your thumb, start stabbing between your fingers. You work up speed until you’re going at a good clip. Your ‘good clip’ is much quicker than Little Red’s display, and that’s before you start mixing up the order in which fingers you put the knife between, choosing where the blade should go while it’s in the air.

    Little Red’s smug expression melts into one of dismay as he realizes he’s out of his league.

    Monster and Reaper come in half way through, along with Shanna – that’s Reaper’s girl. Reaper is Lead Cobra, while Monster is his second. The two are talking business. Monster has a big duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

    “—too much. We need ballers on the street, moving merchandise,” says Reaper. The ferryman must have brought in more drugs.

    “Hey Blood,” says Shanna, with a little wave. She had a couple new gold rings.

    “Hey,” you reply. You get along pretty well with her, but you’re real tight with Monster – he’s the reason the Cobras treat you well. If you had a big brother, you’d want it to be him. “What’s up, Monster?”



    Monster sets the duffle down on your table, cutting your game short, and zips open the bag. It’s full of nondescript paper bags. “Business,” he says, taking note of your knife game. “I see you ain’t playing around with Little Red – c’mon man, you know better than to mess with Blood.”

    “Sorry, Big M,” Little Red says. Yet, his attention was focused on the duffel bag. There was a hunger in his eyes.

    Monster picked up a bag up and tossing it into Pit Bull’s lap. “Get sellin.” He didn’t give any to Red, which was new – Red was one of the Cobras’ best dealers. Monster shook his head at the man. “We all know you ain’t making money, yous getting’ high, brother.”

    Little Red didn’t take the news well. “C’mon man! You know I’m real!”

    Reaper shut him up with a glare. “A baller’s gotta have trust,” he said. “Hey, Shannah. You see anybody who can sell hanging our around here?”

    Shannah started listing names.

    Your primary responsibility in the Cobras is to tag territory. Drug dealing is a notable step up in prestige. With Little Red out of the way, this could be your chance to rank up.

    >Draw attention to yourself. Remind Reaper that he can trust you.
    >Give Monster the hint. He’ll speak for you.
    >Tell Reaper you’ll sell his drugs. Take a bag and head out, make the decision for him.



    >Tell Reaper you’ll sell his drugs. Take a bag and head out, make the decision for him.

    While Shannah is listing every Cobra that could feasibly take Little Red’s place, you stand up and grab one of the bags. “I can handle it,” you say, walking toward the door without waiting for a word from Reaper.

    The Cobra does not the surprise. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asks, making to come after you.

    “Slow down, bro, she’s handling it,” Monster says, getting in his way.

    You don’t hear the rest of their discussion, because you’re already out the front door. The sun’s already beginning to go down – it’s nearly the perfect time for dealing. The shady types that buy start coming out when the sun goes down. Now there’s only the question of location – you need to make sure this goes over great. If you can’t sell, or you get into trouble, nobody’s ever going to let you try something like this again.

    >Stick to the shadows; it’ll be harder to get customers, but you’ll be able to avoid anyone trying to nab your stuff.
    >Go to that place on Freedom Street. The regulars will know where to find you.
    >Take a chance. Get to a visible location. If you can sell out fast, that’s less time you have to get into trouble.
    >Other (write in)




    >Take a chance. Get to a visible location. If you can sell out fast, that’s less time you have to get into trouble.

    You decide to play it risky. No cop is going to suspect a white girl of dealing anyway. You walk over to the commercial district, where there’s lots of people on the street. You shove a red hankerchief in your pocket so that it hangs out slightly – the sign that you’ve got something to sell. With so many people walking by in such a seedy neighborhood, it doesn’t take long before you start getting customers.

    Luckily for you, you’ve watched enough deals go down that you’re able to mimic the process yourself, and even get a good price while you’re at it. In a couple hours, you’re down to half the bag and up a few hundred dollars – and that’s when the trouble you didn’t want finds you.

    You close your last deal with a desperate looking woman and stuff the money into your back pocket when you see him.

    He’s down the street aways, sitting on a bench – some upper class white guy, out of place here in Hunter’s Point. He’s wearing a dusty overcoat. You don’t think he’s a cop, but you’re sure you caught him looking at you the wrong way. Before you can think too much of this suspicious character, more pressing concerns catch your attention.

    While you’re Cobra territory, there is a man approaching you who is definitely not a Cobra. He’s wearing an oversized blue shirt, and his arms are marked with tattoos that brand him as a Crip. You do a once over – you’re certain he doesn’t have a gun. Crips walk different when they’re packing heat.

    >Stand your ground. He’s on Cobra turf, and it would mean war if he tried anything.
    >Retreat, try to ditch him and get back to business.
    >Other (?)




    > Stand your ground. He’s on Cobra turf, and it would mean war if he tried anything.

    You recognize the Crip when he gets closer – Ian, you think his name is. You stand exactly where you are as he comes up to you.

    “You lost, little girl?” the young man asks. He gave a sharp smile.

    “You’re on the wrong side of town, crab,” you say, not impressed.

    The derogatory term wipes the smile off of the Ian’s face. “You talk big for someone so small,” he says. “Give me what you got, lady snake, and I’ll think about letting you walk.”

    Oddly, the crip isn’t afraid of the prospect of being in your territory. While anyone else in your situation might be a little fearful of Ian, you’re more afraid of yourself.

    A few of those powers that nobody can ever know about can make this situation go bad for Ian, real quick, if you decide to use them. You’d rather not resort to that kind of thing, though – but if you get in too deep, you won’t have choice. You have a way of lapsing into psychopathic episodes when under stress, and you’ve had a stressful day so far. This situation isn’t helping.

    +20 stress
    Stress: 30/100

    >Talk this out. This could cause a lot of trouble for both of you.
    >Run. Lose him in the shadows.
    >Try to intimidate him. You do have a knife in your back pocket.
    >Other(?)




You whip out your switchblade. “I could cut you bad before you got that shiv out of the back of your pants,” you say, keeping your voice smooth. “Why don’t you turn around and jump back down the hole you crawled out of?”

Ian doesn’t take well to sleight against his pride. He takes a step back – you can tell he’s going for the knife. Seeing that he might wind up dying if you don’t cut this off, you resort to using aforementioned powers.

You narrow your eyes at him, compress your frustration with the situation into a ball, and imagine shoving the negative energy into his chest.

-3 power, Sap Will
Power: 7/10
+5 stress
Stress: 35/100

Ian staggers backward, clutching his chest – his shiv slips through his fingers and clatters to the ground. “Oh god,” he says, dropping to a knee. His expression contorts into one of anguish, and he starts crying. You kind of like it when they cry.

>He’s not a problem anymore. Finish up your business and head back in.
>Rub it in. No one messes with Blood.
>Ask a question (write in) – he’s in no state to resist.
>Other (?)



“You know I’m in my rights to kill for trespassing,” you say, angry that he would do something so stupid. You press your knife against his ear. “Who’d you piss off to get sent to me?”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re all gonna be dead by tomorrow,” he says, still crying. “Trevon’s going to kill every last one of you bloods!”

Trevon is one of the lower officers in the Crips. That’s kind of a bold move for someone in his position to make.

Still, you have other things to worry about besides a blubbering crab, no matter how crazy his news is – like the weird guy keeping eyes on you, and the drugs in your other hand. You stow the blade and slip off. You’ve got money to make.

Another hour is all it takes to clean out. You’re careful to keep a lookout for the out of place bench guy – you see him one more time, but after that you manage to lose him. Soon you have about five hundred dollars that prove you’re just as good of a baller as Little Red was supposed to be. You head back to Cobra Manor, triumphant.



It’s completely dark outside as you walk up to the front door, passing a couple fellow bloods who’re chilling with their girls. There are some kids with them that have nowhere better to be, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

You walk in to the house. Now there’s the question of accounting for the night’s activities.

>Find Reaper or Monster. Report success without issue.
>(ALSO) In addition, report your run in with Ian, and the threat.
>Chill. You’ve earned it. They’ll find you.
>Pocket some of the cash for yourself - you made good sales, so they wouldn’t notice the excess missing.




Looking around Cobra Manor, you calm down a bit from your previous encounter. You tend to freak out a lot in the heat of the moment.

-10 Stress
Stress: 25/100

You find Monster upstairs, showing a younger Cobra how to disassemble a handgun. He excuses himself to come out into the hall with you, doing a poor job of hiding his excitement. “Didn’t think you’d be back for another couple hours – so how’d it go, Blood?”

You show him a fan of twenties and tens in response. “Five fifty.” That’s a good deal of money for the amount of crap you dealt out.

He smiles and gives your shoulder a friendly shake. “Man, this is a big deal, sister. You’re an ace!”

You can’t help but grin at his praise. (-5 stress. Stress: 20/100) Still, there are other things you need to talk about. “But I ran into this Crip on the street – Ian, you know the guy,” you say.

“What was he doing on our turf?” Monster asks, furrowing his brow.

“Crying, mostly, once I flashed my blade,” you say jokingly. “Real mental crab – decided not to off him. Y’know, weird thing, he told me we’d all be dead by tomorrow. Said Trevon’s planning a move tonight. You know anything about that?”
Monster darkens at the news. “You’d better talk to Reaper.”

The two of you go to Reaper. While he counts the cash you brought in, you tell him your story, omitting the coolest parts.




“What the fuck do the Crips think they can do tonight, violating our territory?” Reaper says, laughing. He threw the cash onto the table. “And then they up and tell us what’s up? This is crazy talk. We can take them in our sleep. We’ll hit them tomorrow morning, hard – good work, by the way, Blood.”

You simply nod. Reaper doesn’t dole out thanks often. (-5 stress. Stress: 15/100)

Monster frowns. “What if the Crips are really planning something big?”

The two think about that for a moment.

>Advocate caution.
>Let them worry about it. Monster’s got good judgment.
>Other (?)



“Whatever their deal is,” you say, “it’s pretty fucking weird that Ian of all people isn’t afraid of fighting on Cobra ground. Couldn’t hurt to send the brats home for the night.”

Normally, Reaper would probably tell you to shut up, but tonight’s different. You’ve proven yourself, and you know things he doesn’t. He thinks about what you said for a moment.

“Wouldn’t hurt to sleep on our guns tonight,” Monster suggested.

An idea occurs to you. You can be pretty stealthy when the occasion calls for it. Maybe this is the time to utilize that particular skill. “I could drop in at the Stop, see what’s up for sure,” you suggest. The Stop is a mechanics shop where lots of the Crips hang out.

Monster doesn’t like the sound of that. “Blood, you crazy, but that’s crazy even for you.”

“Nobody’d see me.”

Reaper brings a hand down on the table. “No. We need all hands here tonight. If they’re moving against us, then I want to be ready to crack down. Not every day we have a crab shoot on our hands. Big M, spread the word. Call in the guys. Blood, go get a piece. You’re not bad with a knife, but knife ain’t nothing to lead.”

>Assist with defense preparations with Monster.
>Sneak off and go scout out the Stop anyway.
>Make sure those kids go home.
>Other (?)



    You’re a little miffed that your proposition to scout out the Shop was brushed off, but you guess Reaper knows what he’s doing.

    Monster leads the way out of Reaper’s ‘office’. “C’mon Blood, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

    You follow. He takes you to the room he was in before when he was showing the other Crip how to use a gun. There are lots of weapons lying around in the makeshift armory. He offers you a handgun from the table, but you eye it critically as you take it. It’s surprisingly heavy – you don’t use guns often. “Don’t we have anything like… bigger than this?”

    Monster laughs. “Seriously Blood? One bullet’s good enough for Crip Killer to kill a Crip.”

    “One bullet’s not good enough to kill a dozen Crips,” you reply. “I’m not talking about me, but if there’s any time to unpack the firepower, I think it’s tonight.”

    Monster rolls his eyes and cracks open a crate at the far side of the room. He pulls out a contorted little gun almost the size of the handgun you now hold, but the size of its magazine gives it away.

    “I didn’t think we had SMGs,” you say, a tad envious.

    Monster checks the magazine and keeps the gun. “It’s for special occasions and drive-bys. I’m going to get the boys moving. And don’t think you have anything to prove – you’re a good Cobra, getting shot ain’t gonna help with your membership. Go do something useful”

    >Go do something useful.
    >Send out noncombatants (girlfriends, kids)
    >Other (write in)



You decide to do as Monster says and go around Cobra Manor and its (not) extensive grounds doing something useful. You send home all the people that aren’t going to do anything useful if there’s a fight. Part of you views them with suspicion. What if the Crips have a spy in your ranks?

You spread the word about the possible attack while Monster stays on the phone, calling in backup. A couple more bloods arrive before the hour’s out. You have fifteen gunmen at the ready by midnight. The atmosphere around Cobra Manor is tense enough that you can almost taste it. It’s not a calming effect. (+5 Stress: 20/100)

Some of your blood brothers chat idly, talking big about how many Crips they’re going to kill tonight. Others sit in silence, smoking or drinking.



You sit in your regular spot on a beat up couch before the knife-pockmarked table, trying to get used to the feel of the gun in your hands. As ratty as Cobra Manor is, you feel a sense of ownership. You even actually like a lot of the Cobras, despite their rough demeanor.

Reaper kicks back and takes a drag from his joint, a gold-plated desert eagle ready by his side. “You want a puff?” he asks jokingly, as he notices your gaze. You generally try not to use the drugs the gang deals with, but tonight, maybe it would calm your nerves. You don't say anything for the time being.

“Not too late for you to head home too, Blood,” Monster suggests, turning from the window he’s been keeping watch from.

>And let you have all the fun?
>This is my home.
>Not too late for you to head home either.
>Other (?) [You can write your own suggestions, whether they be a mix of these or your own invention.]


    “I’m already here,” you say, trying to play off the comment as a joke. “No way I’m letting a bunch of crabs muck up the place.”

    There’s nowhere else for you to go, really. The East Side Cobras are the only people who accept you for who (or what) you are. Even so, you would probably have moved on if Monster didn’t seem to have a chip on his shoulder for looking out for you. He’s way nice, and not for the obvious reason of sleeping with you. You don’t quite understand him, and it bothers you.

    “Someone’s coming!” yells one the other Cobras. Everyone rushes to the windows – you included. A pair of cars pull up in front of Cobra Manor, stopping in the middle of the street. Their occupants get out – ten or so in total, Crips, all of them. You recognize Trevon among them. Ian’s off in the back, but this time he’s got a gun. They’re all armed, now that you look.



Trevon, a broad shouldered Hispanic guy, steps up the curb, but is careful not to step over it. Doing so would have marked him for death. “Anybody home, East Side?!” he yells, spreading his hands. “Come out, I got somethin’ to tell ya!”

Reaper scowls. “I’ll handle this,” he says, heading for the door. He draws his gun. All of the other Crips still have their weapons lowered, eyes on their leader.

Everyone watches through a sheet of pure adrenaline, as if the events in motion cannot be stopped. (+3 Stress: 23/100)

>Tell Reaper not to leave.
>Get Monster to stop Reaper.
>Shoot Trevon, he’s up to something.
>Other (?)
-Include dice.



“Hey, we can’t just go out there,” you say to Monster, unsure. “Can we?”

Monster is a wall of seriousness. “Reaper knows what he’s doing.”

The big man knows what he’s talking about, so you try to leave it at that. “Don’t get shot,” you say flatly, loud enough for the Cobra leader to hear.

Reaper pauses at the door, flashes you an amused smile, and flips you off. He grinds his joint under foot before opening the door and proceeding outside.

He approaches Trevon with gun aimed at his chest, even as you keep your weapon trained on the man as well. Besides you, Monster and another Cobra are using this window as their firing port.

“You know you die tonight, right crab? Or they really make you that fucking stupid?” says Reaper, putting on all of his trademark swagger. He walks all the way up to Trevon until his gun is hovering just an inch away from his chest. Some of the Crips waver at his charms, but they remain focused on Trevon’s reaction.

Trevon’s manic smile grows wider as he steps forward into Reaper’s desert eagle. “Just pull that fucking trigger, hombre. You be dead before a bullet leaves the barrel.”

Reaper is very still for a second, and then smiles as broadly as Trevon. “Big words from a dead man,” he says. He pulls the trigger.

You see a flash, but the noise sounds oddly distant. Trevon has a bemused expression on his face as he staggers back, a smear of red on his blue hoodie. This doesn't feel real.

>What are you doing here again?



While some of the voices in your head are startled at this development, more than enough of them aren’t to get you to start shooting at everything wearing blue. Something about the adrenaline in your system makes your senses hone in on your marksmanship.

You shoot twice before anyone else has thought to pull a trigger, each trigger pull rewarding you with a loud BANG. You hit one of the Crips in the knee, and screaming, he topples over. Not bad for your first time using a gun against a living person.

Monster opens fire right above you – the gunfire is deafening, and the automatic fire from the SMG sends all of the healthy crips scrambling for cover.

Then something really weird happens with Trevon. Instead of falling over and dying, he walks up and stabs Reaper in the throat with a shiv. Reaper collapses, vainly attempting to keep blood from pumping out of his gaping neck wound. The smell of blood his you a second later – it’s sickeningly familiar. ,

Everyone else begins shooting a second after. Bullets break windows, snap against wood, and make a racket. Gunfights, you realize, are way loud. Trevon takes multiple hits, but he merely jerks backward with the impacts.

“He’s got Kevlar! Go for the head!” you hear Pitt Bull shout from the window beside yours.

Then you spot a light flashing from behind one of the cars. A Crip pops up, a lit Molotov cocktail in hand. He's partially obscured by the car.

>Stop molotov (HARD)
>Headshot Trevon (HARD)


    You deem the biggest threat to be the incoming Molotov. You take careful aim at the Crip prepping his throwing arm, and shoot him. He takes a bullet in the side and in a spasm of pain, lets go of the ghetto grenade a second too soon. It flips end over end and explodes onto the lawn, catching the front fence and weeds on fire. Much better than having it explode on Cobra Manor.

    “Nice shot, Blood!” Monster yells. He opens fire again, suppressing most of the crips with a couple bursts. You hear a bullet whizz past your head. The scent of his blood thick in the air, Monster topples backward and bounces off the old easy chair and slams to the floor. (+50 Stress: 73/100) Bright red blood pours out from his chest in surprising quantities onto the beat up tiger rug on the living room floor.

    >It’s getting too hot, take cover.
    >Keep firing.
    >Freak out.
    >Tend to Monster.
    > Take Monster’s SMG.
    >Other (?)
    Include dem dices if you're attacking.


HP: 10/10
PP: 9/10 (Slow regeneration)
Stress: 73/100

Torn between killing more Crips for what they’ve done and helping Monster, you compromise, figuring you’ll help a brotha out and switch weapons while you’re at it.

You recoil from the window and leap down to Monster’s side. You can’t see the wound, given it’s obscured by his shirt. You do what they do in movies and rip it open using your knife. Blood pulses out of the wound – not a good sign. You shrug off your hoodie and jam it over the wound, applying as much pressure as you can. His eyes are unfocused.

>Panic.
>Oh god there’s so much blood in people.
>What do you do what do you -

“Benjamin,” Monster croaks, looking at you in a sudden moment of clarity. It takes a great effort for him to speak. “Name’s Ben.”

>You’re going to be fine.
>I’d go by monster too if my name was Ben.
>Tell him your name.
>Other (?)



Too much blood. Was there that much blood in you? You’re on the verge of panic. (+3 Stress: 76/100)

“I’m – my name’s Sierra,” you say, doing a poor job at keeping a level head. The bullets slamming into the wall behind you and the fact another Cobra just took a bullet to the head isn’t helping matters. “You’re gonna be fine Monster, it’s okay, we’ll take you to the doctor and everything.” You know he doesn’t buy any of that, but you can’t stop it from bumbling out of your mouth.

“It’s a nice name,” he says in a normal tone, eyes turning as if looking at something faraway. He says your name experimentally, as if testing its acoustics. “Sierra.”

His eyes don’t refocus. He goes still a second afterward.

(+25 Stress: 101/100)

>Remain calm.
>Lose control.
>Other (?)


You can't take it. It's too much to fit inside. You feel a retaining wall inside your mind break.

RAGE MODE

Lightning courses through your veins, like adrenaline on crack, if that's even possible. You have no idea what you look like when you're like this, and you couldn't care less. The smell of blood delights your senses at every turn, and its everywhere on your person.

Delight has nothing to do with your mood right now, though. One thing suffuses every limb and every fiber of your being. BLOOD BOILING RAGE! BONES WILL SNAP. FLESH WILL REND. AND YOU'RE THE ONE TO DO IT!

>BURN
>MAIM
>KILL
>Other (?)
Dice rolls. Also, please try to nudge her in the correct direction.


    HP: 20/20 (RAGE BONUS)
    PP: 18/20 (RAGE BONUSSS)
    Stress: RAAAAGEEE

    The cacophony of voices in your head scream to do horrible things to everything. The concensus being, however, is that everything that needs to be torn apart is outside. You let out a scream and take a running dive out the window.

    What happens after that, you’re not quite sure, but you remember it being violent.

    Eventually, you come round, the smell of smoke is heavy in the air, as is blood. You can hear screaming from nearby, somewhere. You feel sore – every muscle aches, and your head is pounding. Your clothes are singed bloodied, and sport numerous tears. Your sleeves have burned off below the elbow, and your hands have distorted into blackened, bone-like razor edged claws.

    You’re on your knees in an alley pretty close to Cobra Manor. Blood drips from your nose onto the ground.



HP: 6/10
PP: 5/10
Stress: Exhausted

“You loco girl, you got the crazy!” says a familiar voice from behind you. Trevon. He should be dead.

You turn around, and see the man approaching you from the other end of the alley, firelight putting him in silhouette. His shirt is mangled and bloody, one of his eyes is swollen shut, and his nose is broken and bleeding. What shocks you the most, however, is that his hands have distorted into claws similar to yours, though the flesh around them is crimson, whereas yours are black. However, unlike you, he has a crowbar in hand.

“But you look all tuckered out after that show you gave, eh, chica?” he says, smiling evilly and walking slowly toward you.

>How the hell are you alive?
>Why the hell do you have claws?
>Say nothing, wait for him to near, and try to surprise him him.
>Pull in shadows from the alley, try to blind him (4PP)
>Attack with flaming claws. (5PP)
>Sap his will. (5 PP)
>Other (?)


Seeing that you've never answered the age old riddle of why you can do the things you do, and seeing this guy is (apparently) in the same boat as you, you ask the age old question, "Why the hell do you have claws?"

"'Cause we're the same, blood," he says with a laugh. "Didn't think you were the only one, did you?"

>(I'm still looking at your previous suggestions as to what to do tactically)


You pretend to be too tired to move from where you are as Trevon stalks toward you. “You know,” you say, feigning being out of breath, “I was one hundred percent sure until today that it was only me.”

“Shame, chica, that it ends with your brains on the pavement,” he says, pulling up short. His eyes flash with an idea. He smiles broadly. “Say. Your bloods are dead, but I need people to fill in for the Crips you kill. Maybe I can show you just how crazy this world really is.”

>Burn in hell, crab. (Proceed with original flame-claw strike)
>You fucking got Benjamin killed. How do I forgive that?
>Sucker-punch attack and flee.
No dice, except if you try to run.


"You got Benjamin fucking killed. How do I forgive that?" you ask, tired.

"How about I show you?" he asks, reaching a hand down to help you up.

You take his claws in your own, and then scowl. "How about you burn in hell, crab!"

You yank downward to put him off balance, fire up your claws, and rake him over the face with fiery fury. You reveal parts of his skull and set his flesh on fire with the attack.

He yells in pain and anger and side-swipes you with the crowbar right in the ribs. Something gives an audible crack. (-2 HP: 4/10) You go down, stunned, giving him a second to get on top of you. He prepares to take another half-blind swing.

HP: 4/10
PP: 0/10

>What do you do?
Dice, please.


    Desperate times call for desperate measures. You go for the groin. Trevon, being the man he is, flinches backward out of your reach, but also gives you a chance to dodge the crowbar – it hits the ground right next to your head.

    He goes to swing again, but is interrupted by an iron bolt being shot into his back. He flinches, and goes to pull the thing out, but it suddenly bursts ignites into a shower of golden light. He screams in pain and falls off of you, spasming uncontrollably.

    You sit up to see what’s going on. At the end of the alley is the man who’d been watching you earlier when you were out dealing, the older white guy. He’s holding a flipping crossbow, and is currently winding it back to load another bolt.

    You can hear sirens in the not-so-distant distance.

    >Okay, you’re done. Get the heck out of dodge.
    >Thanks for the assist, guy.
    >Other (write in)


You don't want to know who that second bolt is for, so you push off the ground and book it in the opposite direction.

To your dismay, you can hear rapid footfalls of pursuit behind you.

You take a couple turns, but he's still hot on your heels when you see the open road ahead - no way he'd pursue you with other people around. Even if it is past midnight, anybody - literally, anybody could scare this guy off, you just need to find someone.

You run out of the alley and onto the road, pumping your limbs as fast as they'll carry you. There's a screech of tires, next thing you know you're bouncing off the front of a white sedan. You sprawl out on the asphalt, temporarily stunned. (-1 HP 3/10)

You shake it off and look up. It's not just a white sedan, it's a flipping police cruiser. Both doors open and cops step out. You look back, and see the crazy crossbow toting maniac freeze in his tracks at the sight of the police.

>Keep running, you're not getting booked tonight.
>Stick with the cops, the psychopath behind you can't touch you if you're with the cops.
>Take your chances with the crazy guy. Anything's better than going in.
>Other (?)


You scream bloody murder, pointing at the offending psycho at your back. The cops look at each other. One peeks down the alley, but the man's already running in the opposite direction. "Stop!" the officer yells, running in pursuit.

You make to run as well, but the other cop grabs your arm and stops your escape - his attention is still focused on his partner, and your general crazy apperance, so there's a chance he hasn't noticed the claw thing yet. "Slow down, you're safe now," he says forcefully.

>Quick, hide the claws!
>The switchblade, shank him while he's distracted! No wait, that's a really stupid idea.
>Resist arrest.
>Slow down, apparently you're safe now.
Dice.


You force your hands back to normal through sheer application of willpower, and yet there is still the question of what to do about your current predicament.


Despite your fight or flight instinct yelling at you to take flight, you're tired out. You give up.

The officer looks at you and lets go once he sees you're done running. He looks horrified at your appearance. "You're banged up pretty bad," he says. He makes you sit down as he pulls a first aid kit out of the car. "Can you tell me what happened? What's your name"

You're sure the cops are here in response the the shootout. You can tell he suspects your involvement to the degree that you're not going anywhere except with him in that cop car to the police station.

>Tell the truth. Omit the interesting parts.
>Say nothing. You don't like cops.
>Try to lighten the mood through humor.
>Break down. You're done.
>Other (?)
Finishing up soon.


    The man’s completely normal emotional state and annoying aura of authority pulls you the wrong way. When he asks you what happened, you stare off into space. You can still smell blood on you. You can smell Monster’s blood on your hands. You look down. You’re literally dripping with blood. Most of it isn’t yours. You can’t recognize any of the smells but Benjamin’s. You go to wipe it off, but it’s everywhere. You can’t get away from it. Images of Ben bleeding out and Reaper getting his throat cut out keep replaying before your eyes, flanked by a menacing figure with a gold-fire spewing crossbow.

    The cop senses something’s off. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

    You say nothing. You’re done. You’re done with everything.

    You start sobbing.

    -END PART 1-

    So, kind of a rocky start, but I hope you guys enjoyed yourselves as much as I did. So, what went wrong, what went right? I realize the premise could have been explained better so there weren’t so many misconceptions. I was antsy to get through, so that’s my bad.

    I may be starting a new job tomorrow, but if not, I’ll probably be up at the same time in the morning. I’ll post up on twitter tonight as soon as I know my plans.

    https://twitter.com/HellbornQuest