This is a placeholder message for Misty's newest thread, GMed by Tadeusz.  :)

In reply to Tadeusz (msg # 1):

You're in an English parlour room, tied to a chair.  Sherlock Holmes in his deerstalker hat, Hercules Poirrot, Mike Hammer with a cold smile and a gun, Miss Marple, Rick Castle in his 'Writer' kevlar vest, Robocop, and Batman are all there, studying you.

"Who thinks she's guilty?" Hands begin to raise...

And you realize you are slumped in a chair.  An odd staccato of noise goes away from you. You look up, and out of an apartment window you can see a brightly patterned cowboy boot outside an apartment window, as it leaves.

A thick coppery stench in the air turns your stomach.  Looking down, you see an attractive blonde woman in a dress, with a sai stuck through her chest, pinning her to the carpetted floor.

   I snapped out of the jump fog much more quickly this time.  Maybe the smell of blood triggered some ancient fight or flight response to blow away the cobwebs my brain seems to accumulate when I verse out.  I don't need to know how it worked, just that it did.

   I grabbed my backpack and placed the weapons harness and its weapons in it.  I kept my constant traveling companion in her shoulder holster, shrugging into my denim jacket to conceal the rig.  Until I find out what the rules are, walking around with a visible weapon might be against the law.  There's also probably a law against the leaving pretty blondes with melee weapons embedded in their chests laying around, too.  I shrugged into my backpack and checked outside the front door to see if anyone was paying attention.

To the right, you see a long hallway with an ugly faded yellow runner and a couple of doors off to each side with a stairs down at the end. one of the doors has what looks like an 'ankh' hanging on it. To the left you see two uniformed cops quick-walking, hands near their guns, led by a mustached man in a suit, and a shaven-headed, very large man in a trenchcoat.

The large man looks at you with quick surmise, then fear, then a controlled fury.  you can tell he's a hunter of men.

He is reaching for a weapon, shouting something.  The cool, night air from the open window hits you in the back.  The scents of the apartment swirl around you, and mix with the stale cigarrette smells of the hallway.

   Most of the time, I can tell when I'm not wanted.  This time, I can tell that I am, but I'm not really thrilled about the concept.  I boosted to snap the doorknobs off of the door, then closed the door.  With any luck, the lack of a quick way to open the door might buy me a few moments to get out of here.  I pushed what was probably a heavy couch against the door for the same reason.

   The police seemed as happy to see me as I was to see them.  That wasn't good.  The open window, however, was calling my name and I decided to answer.  I took a quick look out the window to see if any other officers were hanging around.

grrntrnnnnnnnggg! The door handle snaps off.

"Stop police!" For a whimsical quarter second you wonder why the police are telling themselves to stop, as the door seems to drift shut.  Two hands on the couch, and it more flies than is dragged over to in front.

The pounding of footsteps.

You're at the window when you hear Smackcrack! As a large shoe kicks the door.  You've got at best thirty seconds and probably less before the room will be filled with cops.  Outside, you see a police car and another car parked near it, haphazardly along with other more normally parked cars.  But no attendants.

Its four stories down and six stories up on the black iron fire escape.  Cowboy Boots is not in sight.

Another massive thwack at the door, and the couch moves a little.

   I guess it's time to go.  I never understood why people in cop shows and movies usually fled upward.  Unless you have an escape route already in place, going upward seems like a sure way to trap yourself.  I don't have an escape route planned.  I don't even know where I am, let alone where I'm going.  I killed the boost, not wanting to stand out by doing anything else to draw attention to myself, then started moving downward in what I hoped was a quick but casual manor.

You're down to the second floor when you hear some shouts above you.  You're clearly eyeballed from the few comments, and then its decided you're not the sought after target.

A couple minutes later, and you're down to the road.

Another minute, and you turn onto Memphis Street.

Despite the late hour, there are dozens of people about.  Some are clearly dressed in work uniforms, and others have very fancy clothing.  A few are dressed what you would consider normally.

Most of the cars are three-wheeler, and make a fluting sound as they pass you.

You see a vending machine selling energy drinks, and fortune cookies, and temprary tattoos in front of an acupuncture shop.

In the far distance, past many streets of multi-story buildings, you see well-lit nuclear cooling towers.

   First things first.  I need to figure out where I am.  Given the surroundings, it looks like the people here are technologically equal to my Earth's late twentieth or early twenty first century.  My mind wandered a second at the treasures this city could provide...  Beauty salons...  Day spas...  Shampoo that smelled of exotic places that actually smelled as good as exotic places should smell...  Chocolate...

   My momentary fantasies fell apart as I realized that there was nothing  I could do about it tonight.  Once again, I'm both wealthy and broke at the same time.  I have food in my pack and water in my canteen.  But I need some kind of a roof over my head for tonight.  What I really needed was a phone book.  I dug the wedding rings on the heavy silver chain I had picked up during my disastrous stay in the early 1900's out of a side pocket of my pack and placed the chain around my neck, tucked under my shirt.  I then set off in search of someplace still open, like a diner or a bar.

At the end of the block you see The Lucky Clover.  It has a sign with a tipsy leprechaun that hangs out over the sidewalk.  You hear someone that sounds like Enya from the inside as a door opens and a giggling woman leaves with an attentive man.

Inside, you see a dimly lit bar.  And on the thick TV set over the counter is an MTV video of Enya singing a song you've never heard of.

Three guys to your left are tossing darts over their shoulders at a dart board with the picture of some balding man with a smile on his face taped to the dart board.

To your right you see a long-haired man at a small square table chalking up a wheel shaped design on a complex outline on a coloring sheet.  Its vibrant with color.

Five guys and three girls are chatting at the bar.  The bartender looks up and gives you a quick scan as if to check if you're trouble.  Then he smiles welcome.

The rest of the room buzzes with chatter, clinking bottles.  A waitress passes you with a tray full of baskets of chili fries, bbq chicken? stuffed in tomatoes, and ankh shaped giant pretzels, and bottles of dark beer.

   The aroma of the food reminds me of just how long it's been since my last meal.  I wonder if versing drains your metabolism and that's why I always land with an empty stomach.  Maybe I should start versing right after I eat.  Or, should I wait an hour after eating to verse, like with going swimming?  Why yes, thank you for asking.  I am definitely suffering from low blood sugar.

   This place looks like the type of bar I used to frequent as a second office because the food was better than at my first office.  I'm a little curious about the pretzels, but I don't want to rat myself out as a total outsider just yet.  I set my pack on the floor beside me as I picked out a bar stool and sat down.

The bartender slips up to you with a single push on the bar.  He puts down a piece of paper to write on.

"Welcome, Lass. My name's Bill. Guinness? Terrible Colonial beer? Margharita? We also got stuffed clamshell tomatoes, hot pretzels, spiced egg rolls, sherbert, chips, beanie fritters, and if you're real daring and have a mouth of armor, we have fried firefingers. Also water."

The curly haired guy next to you looks your way. He gives a brief smile.  He seems laidback.

"Get the lass a stout on me, Bill why don'tchya?"  He's dressed in a working uniform like many of those here.

   "A stout would be wonderful, thank you."  It was time to be honest, sort of...  "I'd love to buy you one back, but I have this not so small problem.  I was riding with some people I didn't know very well.  They dropped me here and took off.  I'm in a strange city with no money and no identification.  The only thing they left me was my pack and this."  I pulled the wedding ring set on the heavy silver chain from under my t-shirt, lifted it over my head, and placed it on the bar.  "These belonged to my great grandmother.  Do you know anyplace where I can pawn these for food and rent money until I get back on my feet?"

"No need. Just my way of introducing myself. I'm Aidan. I work QA at the Winston HVAC factory." The curly haired guy says.

"Ach. Now that's downright rude." Aidan says.
"I'm pretty sure that Lisa or Dominique wouldn't mind a friend for a few days." Bill says.

You place the chain on the bar. Aidanand Bill both stare open-mouthed at the chain. Then Bill quickly starts to sweep it over, but then tosses instead the bar towel on top of the chain.

"Your Ladyship, its ....difficult for commoners to possess that much silver." Bill says.

"Aye. I mean the Commonwealth Contract says we can, I guess, but the High Court says 'the right of all free men to own precious metals is undisputed.' doesn't mean what we think it means." Aidan says a bit sourly.

   This is sooooo not good.  I generally finance my stops with valuables from my previous stops, those rare times when I manage to stick around long enough to get paid.  Fortunately, my sporadic paydays tend to be big enough to allow me to do some pro bono work on other stops.  This was starting to look like a pro bono stop.

   I slid my hand under the bar towel to get my rings and chain back.  "My name is Misty and I'm sorry about this misunderstanding.  I don't want to cause anyone any trouble.  How much in precious metals are we allowed to possess?  I'm asking because I don't know.  I really am not from around here."