Welcome to SU: Legacy, a next-gen Supernatural RP that takes place in the year 2040. The Men of Letters has expanded to include three base locations across the continental US. Angels and demons have gone mostly dormant but there are still supernatural evils lurking in the shadows. The legacies could use your help. Are you in?
Giving credit where credit is due. A big thank you to all the coders at PBS and various resource sites for any codes, plug-ins and templates.
Thanks to Nick @ Fidelius for the fabulous mini-profile. Everything else was created by our own staff. If we missed someone please let us know.
We don't own Supernatural, we just enjoy it's awesomeness. Thanks Eric Kripke for creating it, all the writers/producers for putting out a great show and the CW for keeping it on the air for almost 10 years now!
Post by holeinthewall on Apr 21, 2009 17:20:57 GMT -8
“You’re not out to murder me? Well that’s new and exciting. Everyone else I met this last week seemed to be of the opposite opinion.” Brody began pacing the small space, pulling on the loose threads of his gloves. Chet moved back a few inches to give him more room, watching him with calm and level eyes.
“So..so I pick up a book,” Brody grabbed a random paperback and held it up, “I touch it, then you touch it and magically you’re able to know everything about me, because you’ve used your precognitive mojo on my fingerprints? You must have had other people in here that touched that book, how the hell do you know which fingerprints are which?”
Chet was pleasantly surprised. This was the first time in a long time that he’d had a patron who asked intelligent questions- and while in emotional distress, too. He was skeptical, of course- most of them were, but he was asking anyway. Chet had to hand it to Mr. Cale, the guy knew how to take a hit and keep on coming.
“It’s not a fingerprint, exactly.” Chet explained. “It’s- well, to use the generally accepted term, your aura. The energy that surrounds you as a person. It’s as unique as a fingerprint, but it won’t show up on any test or dusting. And you’re right, you’re not the first person to touch that book.”
Chet gestured around. “The prints aren’t permanent, unless the same person was in contact with an object for a very long time. For example, say I had a book that belonged to an older woman. It was her favorite book, and she read it every day. She dies, and the book comes into my possession. Now she loved this book- loved it so much that she was rarely without it. No matter how many times I touch the book, she would be the most powerful imprint, despite how many hands the book had passed through to get to me.”
Chet gestured towards the door. “The door is another example. People come through that door all the time- it would be useless for me to try and lift anything off of it. But another person with my abilities could touch the door and see me, because I’ve been opening and closing that sucker for years.” Although I’ve got my ways of discouraging that sort of thing…
“As for what you’re holding,” Chet said, looking at the ancient first-edition copy of Catcher in the Rye, “I’m expecting it to be gone as soon as the new school term starts. Not really one of my favorites. Had a couple people look at it. It'll make its way out, soon enough.”
Brody frowned and looked at the cover of the paperback in his hand, seeing what exactly he'd picked up for the first time.
"I never read it." He mumbled, tossing it back on top of the pile he'd picked it up from, his eyes going wide at the last second when it landed and threatened to topple the entire stack. Acting quickly, he threw his arms around the whole lot to catch them before they did a good impression of the leaning tower of Pisa. Thankfully, he was able to right them again before they scattered all over the floor, but the distraction had thrown him from his line of questioning and when he turned back to Chet, he found himself just blindly staring at him, his mind replaying the conversation from a moment previous to get himself back up to speed.
"I thought aura's told you what a person felt, not their life history?" He said, remembering what they had been talking about before he'd tried to trash the store.
"And what do you mean, 'another person with your abilities'? There's more people like you out there? Why do I get the feeling that I haven't got a clue what's going on anymore?" Brody sighed, rubbing his temple with his fingers as though the whole subject was making his head hurt.
Post by holeinthewall on Apr 28, 2009 15:50:46 GMT -8
The creases around Chet’s mouth deepened in simultaneous concern and amusement as Brody admitted to never reading Catcher in the Rye- then dove to save a stack of books from almost certain doom. He managed to right them (albeit unsteadily) and turned to continue what was quickly becoming one of the most in-depth conversations Chet had ever had.
“I thought auras told you what a person felt, not their life story? And what do you mean, ‘another person with your abilities’? There’s more people like you out there? Why do I get the feeling that I haven’t got a clue what’s going on anymore?”
Because you don’t.
Chet moved carefully around the stack of books Brody had disturbed and took a seat at his desk. “Aura is more than just someone’s intentions.” He said. “You can tell what a person wants, yeah- whether they’re nervous or excited or scared, an aura can tell you that. Mostly aura is just your personal field of energy. It has its tiffs and twitches just like people, and because it’s a part of you, it leaves something behind.”
Really, Chet knew there were hundreds of different definitions of aura; depending on the person one was talking to, the explanation would vary intensely. But best not to break Brody’s head before he’d accepted the idea of auras as actual phenomena as opposed to something T.V. psychics spouted about before flashing their 1-800 numbers.
“As for other people like me…yeah, they’re out and about. Psychics, mediums, necromancers..whatever you feel like calling them.” Chet had never really held with the universal term ‘us’ for psychics, seeing as he only knew a few others and greatly disliked feeling as though he was a private in God’s Last Stand Republican Army.
“Their powers all vary, too. You’ve got your weak psychics and your strong ones, your elemental-charged ones and your industrial ones. Most of the time the ones I get are the talking-to-dead-things-that-don’t-like-to-converse kind. As for not having a clue?”
Chet spread his arms out with a sardonic smile. “Welcome to the jungle, Mr. Cale. It’s a dangerous world out there. Aren’t you glad you know it?”
"Not really. I was doing just fine as I was before I stepped in all this crap." Brody huffed from where he was, choosing not to follow Chet over to his desk just yet. He was still debating whether or not to just cut and run after what he considered a slight invasion of privacy over the whole aura reading deal. However he didn't sense any immediate threat so he stayed where he was, his eyes drifting to the front and back exits every now and then just to make sure he knew where they were should he suddenly need them.
"Lemme ask you another question." He took a moment to step around a stack of books, his arms folding again in front of him as he spoke.
"I'm guessing you've been doing this whole aura reading party trick a while, yeah? You ever read anyone who was like me?" Brody meant a stigmatic like himself, he'd never met anyone else with the same affliction that he had, wasn't sure he'd know what to say to that person if he did.
Oh hey there, nice to meet you. So you got screwed too with the whole Jesus holes, huh? Small world. Wanna grab a hotdog and swap hospital stories? Nope, not exactly going to be an icebreaker in a conversation on the bus.
Last Edit: Apr 29, 2009 13:12:35 GMT -8 by Deleted
Post by holeinthewall on May 4, 2009 9:42:14 GMT -8
"Not really. I was doing just fine as I was before I stepped in all this crap."
Sure you were, kid. Chet thought, watching Brody seemingly come to a decision about something. Suurree you were.
"Lemme ask you another question. I'm guessing you've been doing this whole aura reading party trick a while, yeah? You ever read anyone who was like me?"
Chet set his feet firmly on the floor, into the two grooves he had worn there over a period of long years and habit.
"An actual stigmatic? Blood and all? No. You're the first one I've met personally, Mr. Cale. Rumors, half-truths- I get those all the time, but you're the first one to walk through my door."
And a strange and intriguing thing it was turning out to be. Chet hadn't had a chance to research something like this for a while. On his laundry list of things-to-watch-out-for, stigmatics had never even registered a blip on the screen, yet it was clear that this had effected Brody badly.
Where would he be, Chet wondered, if he hadn't developed stigmata? The thought was sobering. Brody looked young and healthy, in the prime of his life- a time that should be spent chasing after girls and climbing the social ladder, not ducking into back alleys and constantly buying replacement gloves.
Why did things like this happen to the most undeserving people? Brody Cale had done nothing wrong- not that he could tell, from his brief interaction with Brody's aura. So what had incited stigmata?
"An actual stigmatic? Blood and all? No. You're the first one I've met personally, Mr. Cale. Rumors, half-truths- I get those all the time, but you're the first one to walk through my door."
"Huh. I get a prize for that?" He asked, a sarcastic smirk tugging up one corner of his mouth.
"Lifetime subscription to 'Freak Chic' monthly perhaps?" It was a joke but the smile turned into a bitter grimace, his hatred of his affliction shining through the more happy-go-lucky surface. He hadn't realised how desperately he'd been clinging to the hope that this man could offer him some answers until Chet admitted he'd never met anyone like Brody.
In Brody's mind, if he knew someone else with the same set of scars, the same history of undeserved pain, then that could at the very least give him a clue as to why he'd been the one in a million to have to live this life. Someone to compare himself to that wasn't just a name in an old history book that may or may not have been fabricated by the church to get more people to have faith in Jesus.
There could have been a common link, or a physiological explanation for such strange symptoms, he just knew there had to be some rational way of explaining stigmata. Something, anything that would prove that Brody wasn't being punished by a God he didn't even believe in.
Maybe that was it though. He had no faith in religion. Never had, didn't expect he ever would. Not if God was the kind of guy to allow a decent man fall so far and so hard without reason. What he knew of blind faith was that it seemed to be the cause of all the major conflicts the world had ever seen, so why would any rational person want to devote their life to it? Wasn't it just a bunch of made up ideals anyway? No. Brody was an atheist, plain and simple. God didn't exist in his world and even if he did, he was an asshole as far as Brody was concerned.
Post by holeinthewall on May 5, 2009 12:36:53 GMT -8
"Huh. I get a prize for that? Lifetime subscription to 'Freak Chic' monthly perhaps?" Brody was smirking, but Chet knew enough to see the pain behind his face. Brody Cale had been through a lot, and he was hoping Chet had the answers. But he didn’t.
Yet.
Chet took a breath. “Far as I know, I don’t get that magazine.” He said evenly. “and just because I’ve never met a stigmatic- current company excluded, of course- doesn’t mean I can’t find some stuff out.” He waved an arm around. “You see this place. It’s practically a rat warren of information. And I don’t leave much. Haven’t had something to do in a good long time.” Perhaps calling Brody’s affliction ‘something to do’ would only put him more on edge, but to Chet it was solemn pledge to find out what he could.
Brody’s stigmata reminded Chet, in some small way, of his own city-specific agoraphobia. Brody was trapped and so was he, one by wounds and the other by sheer psychological force. Chet had yet to find an answer to his agoraphobia, but maybe he’d find an answer to the stigmata. After all, it was true that he didn’t have much to do.
And wounds paralleling Jesus Christ himself?
Hell, that schizophrenic bastard took up almost half the shelves on the second floor.
((insert typical 'not meaning to insult anyone' commentary here.))
Brody found himself looking around the store again as Chet waved his arm out, explaning to him how much information lay at his fingertips. That and the fact he didn't leave much, which made Brody mentally pull a face. Perhaps he'd lived outside too long, or had spent too many nights in jail cells over the years but he couldn't imagine being cooped up in this place for long periods of time. Yes, it was a nice repreive from the cold weather to actually have a roof over his head and some heat, but this store, what he could see of it anyway, was far too cramped and cluttered to actually live in comfortably. Brody could see himself getting a little claustrophobic if he had to spend every day in here, no matter how much he liked books, but then maybe it was different upstairs, more spacious and airy. Whatever, it wasn't as though he would ever find out anyway.
"You're looking for something to do?" Brody repeated, unsure if he liked the casual way Chet made it sound like he was some sort of pet project. Something to figure out, like the crossword puzzle in the sunday paper.
Post by holeinthewall on May 6, 2009 9:27:48 GMT -8
"You're looking for something to do?" Brody didn't sound thrilled. Chet didn't blame him.
"You know the kind of people I get in here, Mr. Cale?" he said. "There's two types, mostly. I get the normal people and the hunters. The normal people are the ones who are completely ignorant to every goddamned thing that lurks beyond their front door. They come for coffee and conversation and then they leave."
Chet opened the master drawer just beneath his middle, glancing down into it at a dark blue leather-bound volume, with 'Guest Book' written across the front in innocuous gold lettering.
"The second kind of person- the hunter," he continued, shutting the drawer again, "bursts in, demands something of me I'm not sure I want to give, and wrecks my place while bitching about something like the fate of the world. It's rare I like them and most of them leave not liking me, though I can think of a few exceptions."
Chet steepled his fingers. "But sometimes there's option number three. And that's you. You're not out to save the world, hell, you're not out for anything in particular. You've got a problem and once it's solved you'd be out of my hair. You're honest enough for a homeless person and you're not asking for much. In short, you're my favorite kind of customer."
Chet stretched his arms. "Take or leave it, Cale, but you've got me interested. And as I told you, I stick close to home. I've got to wait for the miniature tragedies to come to me. So do you want my help, or don't you?"
Now that Brody did take offence to. It was one thing to say that Chet was bored and that he craved a little mystery to pass his time, but to come right out and call him a 'miniature tragedy' just rubbed Brody up the wrong way. Of course he might not have intended it to come out like that at all. Hell, he was even offering to help him figure out what was going on with his stigmata, something that very few people had done before, but Brody had spent a large part of his life being pitied and regarded as pathetic, or worthless because he lived on the street, calling him a tragedy was probably the worst thing Chet could have done this side of slapping him in the face. Brody guessed he hadn't read too deeply into his aura, else he would have known that he still had his pride.
For the longest time, Brody just looked at Chet, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth and held back the litany of exclamations he could have used. His stubbly beard bristled with the action until finally he could open his mouth without shouting, swearing or getting upset.
"I think I'll leave it." He said cooly, hating himself for turning his back on a possible break because his pride demanded it.
"I'll look somewhere else."
Without any explanation he turned to leave, knocking over the stack of books he'd so valiantly rescued earlier. As they clattered to the floor, he hesitated, almost ready to rush to pick them up again but forcing himself to leave them scattered on the floor. He didn't want to give Chet another oppertunity to 'read' him by imprinting his aura on anything else in there. In fact all he wanted to do right now was run away as fast as he could.
He settled for storming out, taking a second to pull his shirt down over his hand before opening the door. A final, probably pointless gesture to show he hadn't enjoyed having his life laid open for a complete stranger to see without his permission. He was gone before the door had even shut behind him.
I don't need to be pitied....I don't need anything from anyone...I'm just fine as I am...
Post by holeinthewall on May 8, 2009 15:07:28 GMT -8
The look on Brody’s face at the words ‘miniature tragedies’ told Chet exactly what he expected from the aura reading. Brody Cale was a proud man, and a stubborn one. The word ‘tragedy’ might as well be synonymous with ‘pity’ to him.
Come on, kid. Chet thought. I’m giving you a window. Take it.
After all, if Brody didn’t realize how serious this was, then he wouldn’t want to delve deeper into his wounds. And he wouldn’t like whatever it was Chet might find. The younger man stared at him for a little bit, his jaw working like he wanted to say something but couldn’t pick the right thing to say.
He turned to leave and knocked over a stack of books. He hesitated, for half a second, and Chet could see the warring emotions on his face. As Brody debated with himself, Chet looked at the door and squinted hard, concentrating.
The deadbolt eased its way out of its latch and the door unlocked as Brody made up his mind and continued on. As he reached the door, the stigmatic pulled his shirt down over his hand before reaching for the knob. Chet didn’t bother wasting breath telling Brody the doorknob was just as useless as the door when it came to readings. Then Brody Cale was gone, blending into the street with an ease Chet could admire.
“Check.” Chet announced to the now empty store.
Brody would be back. Chet had no doubt about that. How long it would take, now that was the real question. Days? Months? He would suspect years, if not for the fact that a man like Brody, as proud as he was and with his affliction wouldn’t last very much longer. That he’d survived this long without drawing the attention of anything evil or deranged was a miracle.
Chet stood up, stretched, cracked his back. It didn’t matter how long Brody took. He was willing to wait. He was patient.
“Guess I’ve got reading to do.” He said to himself. “Damn, I need some coffee..”
Chet went digging for his coffee pot, deciding that he would start with the early days of Christ. After all, best to begin at the beginning.
And maybe he should ‘forget’ some groceries at the back door. Just in case. Didn't want the kid dying of starvation before he came around.
"Young idiot." Chester Farley muttered to himself, and made a cup of coffee.
The next day Brody found himself standing on the street corner, staring at the front of the bookstore he'd practically run away from yesterday. Leaving in such a hurry he didn't expect to ever go back again, too embarassed or too scared to face whatever answers the man behind the desk had offered to help him find. In all his searching over the years, this felt like the closest he might come to some semblance of truth, so why then was he afraid to face it? Surely, he should be eager to learn shouldn't he? Or was he just too proud to ask for real help?
So instead of going straight over and apologising for being rude, Brody was - for want of a better word - lurking on the street corner, just watching the bookstore, waiting to see if Chet really didn't leave. He stayed there almost the entire day, earning him strange looks from passers by and a little loose change from the few more generous members of society. Not that he'd been begging, that was something he never did, but he must have looked so pathetic sitting, huddled up on the ground that they took it upon themselves to drop money in front of him. The third time it happened, he made himself leave.
Chet hadn't come out of the front door all day anyway. Maybe he really didn't get out that much. Or maybe he used a back door instead. Whatever he did, Brody wasn't going to find out today. He gave up when it got dark, deciding that he really needed to go find something to eat and somewhere safe to sleep for the night.
The second day he had been aimlessly wandering the streets, thinking about what his next move should be when he found himself once again, outside the Hole In The Wall bookstore. He hadn't even realised he'd walked right up to the door, too caught up in his thoughts until he saw his reflection in the window and stopped himself. Inside he could just about make out Chet, sitting behind his desk looking like he was part of the furniture, knee deep in books and for some reason, Brody just turned around and walked away again.
He didn't go far though, taking a detour down the side alley that lead to the rear of the stores on the street. Now he knew Chet was in, he would wait around back and see whether or not he'd come out that way instead. Maybe he could sneak inside while he was out and steal the books that he needed without having to face the man again. But deep down he knew that wouldn't really help him. The answers he was looking for he was fairly sure he'd need Chet to find for him. So once again he was left with waiting, watching and thinking tucked in an out of the way spot between a dumpster and a stack of damp, rotting wooden palates in the alley. It wasn't ideal, but it gave him a good vantage point to see what he assumed was the back door to the bookstore without being easily seen should Chet actually come out.
Post by holeinthewall on Jun 9, 2009 13:27:09 GMT -8
((A/N: IGUANAS!
Chet: ..what the hell?
A/N: ...Puerto Rico, dude?
Chet: ..whatever *keeps reading*))
Chet did his grocery shopping once or twice a week at the nearest large supermarket, which he could get to by using the Manchester inner-city bus. The bus stop was a short walk from his store, and the day after Brody Cale came into his store and then stormed out again he locked up and headed out. He didn’t look down the alleyway that snaked behind the long line of buildings, though he could picture Brody crouched there like a stray animal.
As he meandered through the aisles, muttering to himself and glaring at anyone who decided to get too close, Chet considered what other people might actually eat. He was a simple kind of guy- he liked his vegetables in a salad and the occasional meaty bit mixed with potato. However, actually cooking the food he was planning to leave on the steps would defeat the purpose of making it look like he’d forgotten a grocery bag, and Brody Cale had proven to have pride too big for his body.
Heading past the refrigerated section, Chet was about to throw up his hands and fill a bag with apples when he saw the small plastic containers on a sidetable, full of pastries.
“Brilliant.” He muttered to himself, swiping a sixpack of cinnamon rolls. This and a twelve liter bottle of coke and the kid would be wired, but at least he’d have the energy to keep spying. Maybe he’d toss in a carrot or something to even things out nutritionally…
Chet went through the self service kiosk, placing his purchases in the large canvas bags he’d been using for longer than any hipster or granola out to save the planet. On the bus ride back past Veteran’s Park he wondered whether or not the couch on the second floor could be freed from its prison of novellas and biographies. Sleeping on pallets and propped against dumpsters couldn’t be comfortable.
He headed for his back door up the alley, pointedly ignored by the few ill-reputed fellows who saw him meander by. Superstition was alive and well, and Chet was just quiet enough that he naturally made all around him suspicious. He pulled the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, fumbling a bit with his bags and cursing under his breath for show. He allowed one bag to slip down next to the stoop and lay there, seemingly forgotten, as he let out a small ‘aha!’ and opened the door, slipping comfortably into the darkness of his store.
About an hour and a half into his stakeout, Brody finally heard the back door of the bookstore open and he reflexively pushed himself a little further into the shadows, peaking through the gaps in the pallets to see Chet casually shutting the door behind himself before wandering off towards the main street with what appeared to be couple of large canvas bags tucked under his arm. Brody's first thought was he was going to do some shopping and the temptation to follow him was pretty big, but then he wondered how many oppertunities he might have to try and get a look inside the bookstore while Chet wasn't around and figured that staying put was a better option. Besides, watching someone shop, especially if it was food shopping, was just plain depressing when you couldn't even scrape enough together for one decent meal.
He gave it five minutes before he moved to go and inspect the back door, time enough to make sure that Chet wouldn't return having forgotten something by mistake. However when he found himself standing there in front of it, he had no idea how he was going to get inside. Picking locks wasn't a forte by any stretch, in fact he'd only tried it once or twice and had failed massively every time. But then, if he didn't at least try, then what was the point of hanging around outside all day in the first place?
Because you had so many other things to be doing with your day didn't you Brody.....
He sighed and shook his head at himself while he dug into his pockets and pulled out anything he thought might prove useful. The pickings were slim and consisted of stuff he'd found or had been in pockets of clothing he'd 'borrowed' from time to time.
There were two torn and crumpled up dollar bills, two quarters and six pennies he had been saving for desperate times; a broken head of a toothbrush, because even Brody believed in good oral hygiene; a length of string which had once proved useful as a replacement shoelace; a (now somewhat tarnished) silver tea spoon he'd swiped from Murdstone Mansion in the hopes that he could pawn it for a little cash; way too much lint; a dirty sock that was missing it's counterpart and a folded up old photograph of someone he didn't know that had been in a bloodied and slightly torn jacket he'd found in a dumpster one time.
The jacket which, to the casual observer, might have appeared beyond salvation, was good enough for keeping Brody warm in the winter a few years back. Sure, it looked as though whoever had been wearing it had been attacked by a wild animal with very large claws, but to Brody it was one of the better finds he'd made. Whoever had dumped it must have been in some kind of hurry, because they hadn't emptied all the pockets very well and, judging by the shotgun cartridges he'd discovered in it, there might have been a good reason for that. Perhaps the previous owner had been on the run or something.
Anyway, aside from the ammo and an inexplicable quantity of salt, there had been a very nice lighter (which made making fires to keep warm so much easier), a small bundle of cash that just needed the blood washing off it and a photograph of a heavily pregnant woman hugging a small boy. On the back of it, someone had written a note:
Mary, Dean and soon to be another little Winchester. My whole world.
Brody couldn't explain why he'd kept hold of that picture. He'd come across many like it in stolen wallets over the years, but had always left them neatly inside the little plastic windows they hid behind. But this picture, with it's faded colours and missing corners, he sensed that whoever had owned it had taken it out and held it in their hands many times. It was worn around the edges, creased and folded but most definately cherished. That, together with the unashamed looks of love and happiness on both the faces of the people in it, well it made Brody smile. Maybe one day he'd bump into that woman and would be able to return the picture, but until then, he'd just take it out and look at it on cold, lonely nights and remember what it was like to have loved ones around him.
Of course, none of that was going to be of use trying to pick a lock and out of sheer hopefulness, he pulled out the tea spoon and attempted to push the obviously too large handle into the lock. Then he tried using it as a mini pry bar, jamming it as best he could into the slim gap between the door and the frame, cursing when it got stuck and he couldn't pull it out again. After a good ten minutes of swearing and yanking on it, it came free and landed Brody on his ass with a heavy ommph.
Give it up already, ya moron. A five year old would be better at this than you.
Picking himself up and not bothering to dust himself off, Brody did indeed give up, wandering a little further back down the alley to take a leak in a quiet corner, before returning to his original spot to sit it out and wait and see what Chet did when he came back. While he waited, he sat on the ground with his hands resting on bent knees, idly fiddling with the (now even more tarnished) silver spoon, wondering if anyone would buy it from him now he'd scratched and dented the end of it in the door.
Eventually Chet returned, arms full of heavy looking bags, filled to the brim with food as though the guy was stocking up for a long duration.
He really doesn't like to leave that much does he.... Brody thought as he silently got back to his feet and watched from afar. There was a lot of key jangling and huffing, clearly Chet was having difficulty getting in with so much in his hands and Brody wondered if perhaps he'd done something to the door when he'd been failing at cat burglary. He noticed one bag got dropped, though Chet didn't seem to have registered it, too busy swearing at his key before a triumphant "aha!" sounded and the man slipped inside, the fallen bag abandoned for the moment.
He's gonna come back for that in a minute.
A minute passed. Then two, then five and Brody began to think that Chet really didn't know he'd dropped something. A cautious glance up and down the alleyway and Brody peeked his head out, straining to see what was inside it. There was definately a large bottle of something and that alone urged him into dashing forward to grab the canvas bag himself before either Chet realised he was missing a few items, or some other lucky idiot wandered by and found it.
Taking his new found stash back to his not so cosy little hiding spot, Brody peered inside and almost died of happiness. The fresh smell of pastries wafted up to greet him, making his stomach growl loudly at the reminder he hadn't eaten since the day before. In a hunger driven frenzy he dived in, ripping the plastic packaging apart in order to get to the food. He didn't even stop to see what exactly it was, not caring as he shoved half a cinnamon roll into his mouth all at once. It tasted fantastic and as he chewed, he closed his eyes and leant his head back against the brick wall behind him, a few small happy eating noises rumbling in his throat as he swallowed and devoured the rest.
The pack contained six such treats and he took out another to eat while he rummaged through the rest of the bag to see what else there was. The huge bottle of coke got opened next, the fizz barely dying down before the neck of it went to his lips and he drank like a thirsty man who'd just made his way out of the desert. After stopping only to hiccup and catch his breath, he set that down beside him and continued on his mini-treasure hunt, frowning in confusion at the single carrot that had oddly made it's way into the bag. With a little shrug and a smile, he jammed that into the corner of his mouth like a cigar, chomping distractedly on it as he took stock of a few apples at the bottom of the bag too.
All in all, this day had turned out to be fantastic for Brody. He hadn't eaten food this fresh for weeks and it kind of made him want to go striding right inside the bookstore to thank Chet for being clumsy and forgetful enough to have left his shopping at the back door. Of course, he didn't do that, but he was kind enough to return the empty shopping bag to the place he'd found it once he'd eaten his fill and had stashed what was left in a safe place so he would have food for the next day too. Perhaps he would stick around here a little longer and see what else Chet might carelessly leave lying around, maybe he'd eventually gather up the courage to go back inside the front door of the place and ask for the help he needed. One step at a time though.
Post by holeinthewall on Jun 10, 2009 19:37:16 GMT -8
Chet got his requisite three hours of fitful sleep. He woke up at four, looked at himself in the mirror, rolled his eyes and got back to work. He was halfway through the aramaic texts when he glanced at the ancient cuckoo clock and saw that it was six AM, the hour sounding in sweet chimes as the small doors slid open, revealing a wooden milkmaid being chased by Death, playing a violin.
Chet stood up and headed down to the bottom floor, carefully opening the back door. Out of the corner of his eye he could see what looked like a pile of rags- or one very stubborn stigmatic.
“THERE you are, you bastard!” he said to the canvas bag he picked up after a few well planned worried glances. “Stupid…damn, Farley, you’re getting senile.”
He brought the empty bag in and shut the door with just enough of a slam to inform the world at large that he was awake and possibly shake Brody out of his comatose state just before anyone showed up to nudge him onto the road.
He’d pretended not to hear the tearing of cheap plastic that night. Brody must not have eaten since before he came into the store. Chet was willing to bet that underneath that sweatshirt of his he looked like a wendigo, or worse.
Vegetables next time, he thought to himself as he folded the bag up. Definitely more vegetables. Maybe a pop-can of tuna. And a milk carton.
He hoped Brody could hold out that long, considering that he only went shopping a few times a week. The fact that Brody’d managed to survive this long, however, was promising. It meant he knew how to take care of himself. The key was to keep things simple and not drop food every time. That would be way too suspicious.
A new pot of coffee was set to brew while Chet took the bag upstairs and got his shower. Two hours later, the ‘open’ sign was flipped, Manchester was stirring, and Chet Farley was ready for business.