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 Jul 14, 2009 16:55:23 GMT -8
((Holy crap I’m sorry I took so long!))
“you got a favorite book?” Brody asked as they headed up the stairs. Chet considered, then laughed.
“When you ask a loaded question..I can’t say as I have a definite favorite. I’m too much of a softie to favor one over all the others when I’ve got so many good ones to read. I’ve seen some bad books, though. Mostly chick lit, romance- all the stuff the girls come in for after school.” Chet rolled his eyes as they made it to the top of the stairs. “You stock what you’ve got to, but I’m never sorry to see it go. Gotta admit, though- special place in my heart for Rip Van Winkle. Hawthorne wrote up a good yarn.”
It was easy to sympathize with poor Winkle.
They stood in the center of the upper floor. There was slightly more room here than downstairs; the long carpets were covered in abstract Indian mandalas and floral designs that looked like they were from the thirties (and some of them were; Chet was a firm believer in the fact that sometimes, older was better.) The couch was in the corner, on the same wall as the non-descript door that bore a nice, shiny padlock and several other nasty surprises for anyone who thought they could sneak up on Chester Farley. In front of it was a long, low coffee table that was scratched and faded from use.
“That’s the sleeping place,” Chet said, pointing to the overstuffed dark-red couch and its many pillows. “Sometimes people come in and use it for reading, but more than likely you’ll have it to yourself.” He pointed to the door. “touch it and die.”
"Rip Van Winkle?" Brody repeated, rolling the title around in his mind as he thoughtfully scratched at his scruffy beard. It was hard not to find such an odd name memorable, but it was more the fact he'd read it in a jail cell that explained why he remembered it. It had been left, tucked under the meagre matress in the tiny room by whomever it was that had been the previous occupant. They had probably hated the whole experience, but to Brody, it was the closest he came these days to a vacation in a five star hotel. There was a roof, a bed and a little bit of peace. So what if he'd been arrested for stealing a pair of boots from a thift store? It had been worth it.
"Ain't that the guy that got drunk and slept for like, twenty years of something?" He finally said, unsure if he had the right book in mind. "Sounds kinda farfetched if you ask me. Mind you, I like Dr.Seuss."
Now that they were upstairs, Brody's attention drifted away from Chet, towards the couch that looked like it had given a lot of people a good night's sleep over the years. The corner of his mouth curled up into a tiny half smile at the prospect that the next night it would be his. Of course it was also hard not to notice the door with the huge, gleaming padlock on it too. He had opened his mouth to ask what lay behind it, but was beaten to it by Chet's rather ominous warning of, "“touch it and die.” One eyebrows raised up, curiousity even more peaked now.
"Why? What you got in there?" Then, half joking he added on, "It's not the bodies of all the other strays you let sleep on your couch is it?"
Post by holeinthewall on Jul 20, 2009 20:12:50 GMT -8
((Chet:...you suck at posting this month.
A/N: SHUT AAPPP ;_;))
“Ain’t that the guy that got drunk and slept for like, twenty years or something? Sounds kinda farfetched if you ask me. Mind you, I like Dr. Suess.”
“And a fine and upstanding man of literature the fine Doctor is,” Chet replied.
When he commented about the padlocked door, he could practically hear Brody’s eyebrows snap up. “Why? What you got in there? It’s not the bodies of all the other strays you let sleep on your couch, is it?”
Chet shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that.” He explained. “I put those in the dumpster out back. Above this floor there’s one more- it’s where I sleep. I don’t sleep much, but I don’t like things disturbed. Bit of a pack-rat, if you hadn’t guessed already. Lord knows if someone actually cleaned this place top to bottom I wouldn’t be able to find anything.”
Assuming they would survive cleaning it from top to bottom, first.
Brody chuckled at the dumpster joke, but for a fleeting moment he wasn't entirely sure it was meant to be funny. Knowing his luck, he really had stumbled into the lair of a mass murderer who liked to lure in the homeless so he could feed them and befriend them until they dozed off on his couch. Then, in the middle of the night when they were fast asleep and blissfully unaware, he snuck down through the overly secure door and bludgeoned them to death with a copy of the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. Still, Brody supposed that was a better way to go than freezing to death on the street. One night of relative comfort and warmth might even be worth it.
He shifted his attention back to the door again, sniffing and wiping his nose on the blanket once more, imagining what kind of pack rat stuff Chet kept in his own personal space if the more open areas looked like this. Sidestepping a few piles of neatly un-organised books, he went to give the couch a test out, plonking down on it like a sack of loose bones.
"This ain't bad." He admitted, bouncing up and down a couple of times to gauge springiness. Without thinking, he leant back and stretched out, putting his bare feet up on the coffee table which exposed the soles and the stigmata scars in the centre of each foot.
Post by holeinthewall on Jul 22, 2009 18:08:55 GMT -8
"I can only imagine." Chet replied, watching Brody test out the couch. "I've never had the pleasure of using cardboard as a sleeping aid, however, so I suppose my opinion isn't of much use."
Chet sat down on the couch beside Brody, surveying the room. "Brody," he asked, "Out of sheer curiosity, do those wounds of yours ever get infected?"
Brody thought deeply for a few minutes, staring at his feet on the table before lifting them off it and tucking them under instead.
"No. Never."
Letting go of the blanket that was draped over his shoulders, he moved his hands up and stared at the gloves he was wearing, debating whether or not to take them off and show Chet his wounds up close.
"They'll bleed for hours then just stop for no reason but they've never been infected. I can't explain why not, I mean, with my lifestyle it's a miracle they haven't. Not exactly clean living next door to a dumpster."
Brody attempted a laugh, then threw caution to the wind, pulled off his gloves and dropped them in his lap. He took a second to look over the perfectly round scars adorning both palms - ignoring the dirt clogging his unkempt fingernails - turning each hand over to see the mirror image on the backs too, almost as if he hadn't seen them for a long time. Then he held one hand out to Chet, palm up so he could see too.
"They never change. Never fade or heal over completely."
Last Edit: Jul 24, 2009 11:55:04 GMT -8 by Deleted
Post by holeinthewall on Jul 25, 2009 19:28:54 GMT -8
“No. Never.” Brody answered Chet’s question and gazed at his gloved hands. “They’ll bleed for hours then just stop for no reason but they’ve never been infected. I can’t explain why not. I mean, with my lifestyle it’s a miracle they haven’t. Not exactly clean living next door to dumpster.” Brody gave a clearly uncomfortable laugh.
Seemingly coming to a decision, he removed his gloves and dropped them in his lap. Chet watched Brody observe his hands for a moment, looking at the perfectly round scars that pierced both palms. Brody held one hand out palm up, and Chet leaned forward as he explained, “they never change. Never fade or heal over completely.”
Chet nodded, a million things bouncing through his brain. Did the wounds ever bleed in a sort of pattern, like a woman’s period? If nature commanded something as powerful and terrifying as the women Chet had met in his lifetime, he wouldn’t put it past the great circle of life to cause a sort of christ-like PMS. Did the bleeding get heavier in the spring? Was the blood always the same color? Did both hands and feet bleed at the same time, or alternately? Which bled more? Hundreds of questions that could potentially lead to hundreds more, and Brody wouldn’t be in the mood for any of them.
Chet decided he would write all the questions down.
“Well, this concludes our tour of Chester Farley’s Wonderland of Fire Code Violation,” he said, looking around. “I mean, there’s the basement, but it’s just a basement- you know, leaky pipes, old cardboard boxes, requisite evil beastie under the stairs. Although I swear as long as I’ve been here I’ve never met the sonofabitch, so you should be fine.”
He squinted at Brody’s face, which still looked a little banged up. “We should find you a first aid kit or something.”
The bruises on his face and the split lip, from his run in with a small gang of people who clearly had nothing better to do than rough up someone less fortunate than themselves, had drifted to the back of his mind since he'd walked in the front door. The blood that had dried on his skin had been washed off by the rain but the cuts and scrapes were still visible. Now that Chet had reminded him again his swollen cheek seemed to throb a little more than before. Rather absently he brushed his fingers against the side of his face, gauging whether or not it was his imagination or if his cheek really was three times its normal size.
"What this? It's nothing really. I've had worse." And unfortunately that was true, though he knew there was no need to qualify that since Chet had seen a vast majority of his life thanks to the magic finger whammy he did.
"It'll be fine in a day or two." He added dismissively, dropping his hand away from his face to snatch up the falling corner of his blanket so he could tug it back over his shoulder. Feeling awkward again, Brody turned his attention back to the new room he was in, scanning the numerous books adorning the shelves before it dawned on him what Chet had just said.
"Hang on a sec....your name's Chester?" It was a cross between astonishment and amusement that settled on Brody's face when he looked at the older guy and the urge to laugh began to gnaw away at his insides.
Post by holeinthewall on Jul 29, 2009 19:32:12 GMT -8
“What this? It’s nothing really. I’ve had worse. I’ll be fine in a day or two.” Brody let his hand fall away from his face, where he had been prodding sophomorically at his wounds. Then his face shifted suddenly, a metephorical light bulb going on over his head as he said, “Hang on a sec..your name’s Chester?”
Chet grimaced. “Yes. Chester. And believe me, you’re only allowed to repeat it once. Chet, sir, Son of a Bitch, doesn’t matter what you call me so long as it’s not Chester.” He sighed. “I had cruel parents.”
Not entirely true; Chet’s parents had been loving and compassionate people, for the 1880s. Granted, his father had been a bit vigorous with an oak branch every now and again, but hey, a good tanning could help a kid. And besides, after a hundred or so years, names grew on you. Chet figured he could do a lot worse than Chester.
“You need a first aid kit,” Chet continued, “because if one of those gets infected bad enough that you have to go to the hospital, you’d have to explain those.” Chet motioned towards Brody’s hands. “And I’m pretty good at explaining things away to people who don’t really want to know, but if it involves blood? Most doctors just have to know. It’s that damn Hippocratic oath of theirs.”
Chet recalled telling Brody that the first aid kit was upstairs, and as he thought of it the kit itself jumped out at him under a pile of books. “There it is,” he said, motioning towards the olive green metal box.
Ha ha ha...and I thought I'd been given a raw deal out of life! Okay he doesn't like his name, so whatever you do, don't call him Chester....
Chet went on to insist that Brody needed a little first aid and really, who was Brody to deny the offer. It couldn't do any harm to clean out the scrapes and stick a couple of butterfly band aids over his cuts. It was just tough to break out of the habit of only being able to rely on himself to take care of stuff like this.
Now he wasn't entirely sure he didn't have some kind of delayed head trauma, but Brody could have sworn he'd just seen a green metal box move on its own out from under a pile of books. His reaction was to blink, then open his mouth as though he was going to say something.
"Umm.....?"
Unable to put his thoughts into a sentance that made sense, Brody shut his mouth again and scratched the side of his head, trying to figure out how a box could move on its own.
"That just happened right? I didn't hit my head too hard or anything did I?"
Post by holeinthewall on Jul 31, 2009 19:21:04 GMT -8
“No, you didn’t imagine it. Promise.” Chet replied, kneeling down and retrieving the box. “Sometimes stuff in here moves, and most of the time I’m the one moving it. Remember when you left the other day? And I locked the door so no one would walk in on the conversation?”
Any other day of the week, that would have sounded like the mad delusions of a crazy person, but considering this was the man with the magical aura reading fingers, to Brody it actually didn't sound so odd. Then again, the more he thought about it...
"You do realise how that sounds right? I mean, if the guys in white coats hear you, you might be lucky to get a lovely view from your padded cell." Skeptical as ever, Brody listened as Chet reminded him of the first day he'd been to the bookstore, the first time he'd realised he'd found a very rare individual in the man before him.
"Remember when you left the other day? And I locked the door so no one would walk in on the conversation?”
Brody cast his mind back, recalling that he'd let his pride get to him and had left in a little bit of a hurry. He certainly remembered Chet locking the door, because it had worried him to be trapped in an unfamiliar place, but he couldn't remember Chet ever going to unlock it again. No, he definately hadn't because Brody had remained between Chet and the door the whole time, so how then had he been able to just walk out without unbolting the door? The lightbulb ticked on behind his eyes again, putting the mis-shapen pieces together and coming up with the most unlikely explanation ever.
"You unlocked the door with your mind?!" Unable to fathom how anybody could do such a thing made Brody sit upright on the couch, frowning slightly as Chet picked up the first aid kit.
"You've got telekentic powers? Like the bald guy from X-Men?" He paused, scratched his beard and spoke again.
"So you can read minds with your fingers and move things with your mind?Is there anything else freaky you can do that I should know about? Can you defrost a chicken with your lazerbeam eyes or something?"
Post by holeinthewall on Aug 7, 2009 15:52:47 GMT -8
“You unlocked the door with your mind?!” despite his earlier comment about men in white coats, Brody didn’t seem surprised so much as confused. “You’ve got telekinetic powers? Like the bald guy from X-Men?” Brody scratched his beard. “So you can read minds with your fingers and move things with your mind? Is there anything else freaky you can do that I should know about? Can you defrost a chicken with your lazer beam eyes or something?”
Chet paused, about to shake his head, then said, in as serious a tone as he could muster, “I can wiggle my ears.” He motioned towards the box. “I’m nothing like Charles Xavier. For one thing, he’s fictional. For another, trying to lift anything heavier than five or so pounds gives me a headache, so no tossing of cars or dramatic flinging of iron crowbars. But it comes in handy when I’m too lazy to reach for my toothbrush.”
"Well that's just great then." Brody huffed, feeling a little twinge of envy over Chet's rather impressive abilities in comparison to his own. Maybe not the ear wiggling one, but the others for sure.
"Why'd you get the cool and useful freaky talents and I get this?" He said, holding up his hands to show indicate his stigmatic scars before dropping them forlornly back in his lap again. It just wasn't fair. Some guys got the good looks, some the brains and a handful got the superhero skills like telekenisis and mind reading. He wouldn't be surprised if there was someone out there who could set things on fire with their mind, or turn invisible just by wishing it so.
And what did Brody get? Holes. That's what. Random holes in the most inconvenient places that randomly bled like rivers to screw up his life at the most unforgiving times. Not just holes though, oh no. He also got - probably as a luxury free gift - a big long scar on his torso too, just under his ribs, that did exactly the same thing as the holes, only in a different shape. Holes and a line. Yep, that's what the universe decided would enrich his life. How thoughtful of it.
"I swear, if I'd have known there was a line where they dealt out this stuff, I was at the back of it distracted by something shiny." Brody said glumly, watching Chet with the first aid kit as though he were about to open a prized treasure chest full of chocolate coins.
Post by holeinthewall on Aug 14, 2009 18:43:33 GMT -8
“Well that’s just great then.” Brody said in response to Chet’s short explanation. “Why’d you get the cool and useful freaky talents and I get this?” he held up his hands in a clear indication of his scars before dropping them back down to his lap. “I swear, if I’d have known there was a line when they dealt out this stuff, Iw as at the back of it distracted by something shiny.”
Chet clicked open the first aid kit and began pulling out supplies. “I don’t think there was a line,” he said mildly, putting some hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls on the coffee table, “and if there was, none of us chose to be in it.” He thought for a moment. There was a way to ease Brody’s feelings, but he’d have to go about it carefully.
“My abilities..didn’t manifest until later in my life.” He started. “When I was about your age, I got occasional flashes- you know, a premonition here, a piece of someone else’s memory there. Every once in a while I would get angry and things would move or spark, but the incidents were few and far between.” He took out a cold chemical compress and broke the crystals, triggering the reaction. “I never connected them until I got older.”
Got older and stopped aging. For a hundred years.
“There are some psychics- a handful out of a thousand, say, if there are a thousand of us- who view their abilities as gifts. They use them for personal gain or for good Samaritan purposes. Most of us just think they’re a curse.” Chet grinned wryly. “I don’t like knowing things, sometimes. Think about it. Before I had full control, I could brush against someone on the street and know their life story. Damn near lost my mind. I think it was as bad, in its own way, as your scars.”
He took out a roll of gauze. “Let’s get to work, here.”