Willard Buss: Re-Training

Willard exchanged greetings with his psychologist, Mrs. Marian Lopez-Floria. Today he decided to forgo the comfort of the sofa and instead chose one of the chairs that let him sit upright.

After getting settled, Marian asked, "How have you been, Willard?"

He took a moment to consider his answer, then he said, "Getting used to the new normal, I guess. How about yourself?"

"Fine. Thank you for asking." The psychologist paused to assess Mr. Buss. "The new normal? You've told me a little about the past few months but has something else happen since our last session?"

"Actually, yes.” He paused and offered the courtesy, “If you don't mind?"

 "Please."

"I was boarding a train with someone close to me."

The psychologist interrupted, "Sorry. Are you comfortable telling me who?"

"I...I honestly can’t say."

"It’s all right, Mr. Buss. Please, continue."

"Of course. We sat down together. Against my better judgment offered to take the aisle seat..."

—


Trains are one of the things that I have not got accustomed to staying in a large city. There a never-ending flow of people getting on and off them, and people pack themselves tightly into small spaces that already appears ready to burst. Then the train moves on only to stop once more and slide open its doors for even more people to press themselves in. I try to remind myself that I am not someone to so easily succumb to phobias. With the research I have been working on in the lab the past few months, one would think being surrounded by people would be the last of my worries. I had to admit that the crush of people around me had given me an uneasy feeling.  The feeling made me progressively less settled, yet more people crowded aboard from the subway platform.

Of course, my companion did not seem to give the first thought to the mass of people. At least, there was no outward display of concern. They sat and stared out through the paneled glass of the train car at nothing in particular. Having the familiar face beside me brought a little bit of needed comfort. If only I could be so divorced from the situation as they. At that moment I wished I'd taken Berg's advice about going to see a psychologist. He said on occasion if the work bothered me so damn much maybe I should see a shrink. Despite the unpleasant delivery of his counsel, it was, after all, sound advice. Instead, I have to resort to practicing guided meditation delivered to me by a recorded Australian voice on a subscription-based phone app. I'd feasibly be better off if I canceled the premium service, but it offered a distraction.


Just thinking about the ridiculous app offered its own distraction, but the uneasy feeling returned as the moment passed. It had been several minutes, but people were still boarding the train. The damn thing should have been full and moving by now. I looked out onto the platform. It was as crowded now as it was before we first stopped. People continued to board even though I could not understand how. The train was full, and no one had gotten off. To mollify my curiosity, I stood up to look. That is when I discover that the source of my uneasiness was not claustrophobia. It was something else entirely.  I can not describe it any better than it was darkness. I could only see the edges of the shadows forming beyond the mash of people. It sat barely outside of my vision, but I could perceive it moved closer and closer towards the two of us. The train's passengers simply meandered forward into its enveloping shadow. I tried to grab a nearby passenger, but they slipped through my grasp and continued steadily forward. I looked again at the front of the train; the darkness had moved closer. A notion began to tug at my mind to join the other passengers. I was able to compose myself enough to ignore the urge. Fighting the urge I sat down instead, but it did nothing to ease my panic. I could not stay here when it was all I could do to sit here and not run headlong to my fate. Doing so would certainly put an end to the pain of my fear.


I looked over to my companion who had joined me on the train. The man continued to stare off through the glass panel of the train oblivious to the danger. I reached out and shook his arm doing anything I could think of to get his attention. I was desperate because I knew that he had to leave before it was too late.

—


Willard winced from a headache he hadn’t noticed before.

The Psychologist cut in with a concern expression and said, "I can understand why you would find this upsetting. Are you okay to continue telling me about your dream?”

Willard took a moment to regain his composure as the pain passed. He said, “Sorry, where was I. Oh, right. I sat down and in the window seat...”

—


The thing that I have grown to love about living in New York is the train. For some odd reason, I find the lights of the subway relaxing. Watching the lights fell almost hypnotic in a way. I know I can send for a car and it'd probably be safer. Since I joined the Contingent, something like a robbery seems trivial. I guess I have become more adventures. There was only one other passenger on the train this morning anyway. And, there were the lights.

On queue with that though, my phone rang.

I answered and said hello. There was a lot of static, but I was surprised I had a signal at all. It was hard to understand what they were trying to say. It made sense with the train being underground. I tried to cope with the static in case it was important. I struggled to understand and responded, "No. I'm not Steve." The caller sounded persistent. I tried to explain that I couldn't understand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. Not the corner of my eye; words were scrawled all over the inside of the train. They were unintelligible and the harder I focus on them less sense they made. I was starting to panic because I was seeing ghosts. We've been having these sessions regularly which helped, and I’ve been practicing my meditation at the behest of Gabrielle. I closed my eyes and started my breathing technique.

No sooner than I got them closed someone or some grabbed hold of my arm. It startled me something serious considering the only other person onboard was sound asleep at the opposite end of the compartment. Then I remembered I hadn’t boarded the train alone. I opened my eyes and saw a face etched with panic sitting. I saw my face. It was only then that I recognized the voice on the phone was mine. The person wearing my face started speaking in the same panicked voice from my phone.

"Listen. The Silver Ibis project was created to keep me...you safe." the voice pause, "You need to stand up. You need to head to the nearest exit. You have to leave this place. You have to forget." Their voice broke as they said, "You have to forget what happened here and never look back." They recovered their composure and finished, "Willard Buss, you have an appointment to keep."

—


A puzzled look crossed the Psychologist's face. The expression replaced her usual pleasant blandly expression. She waited a moment to give Willard a chance to continue before finally saying, "That, uh, there is a lot to unpack. Let us start with how you felt after having the dream?"

Willard stood suddenly. He said, "I have to go. I'm sorry.” In a very mechanical sounding voice, he said, “I have an appointment to keep."

Despite his psychologist's protests Willard got up from his seat and left her office.

CofD:Willard Buss—"In the Spirit of Learning"

Willard Buss, Recorded Notes

With my continued research in the Contingent's R&D Laboratory, I have come up with a working theory, though, it will require additional data to confirm. I first thought of it when Junior was repairing that old car that had pinned Rebecca’s not so recently deceased spirit to a tree for 50+ years. The corsage that had anchored her to that place looked almost freshly picked. That made me think about the ghost flask which in turn led me to consider the Promethean arm. They were all remarkably well preserved; honestly, far better then they had any right to be. The arm could be somehow different, but the way it twitches so unnaturally of its own accord, I have yet to come up with another workable explanation. If what I hypothesize is true, then the small fragments of spirit imbued in, anchored to, these objects could be responsible for sustaining them.

Now if this theory of mine turns out to be true that brings me to a series of questions. Is death required for an anchor to exist? Could an anchor ever be reliably reproduced? Could this spiritual imbuement offer an explanation for why even the most compatible transplant organs get rejected? Could this lead to a solution?

The recent investigation in Eagle Bay, unfortunately, didn’t turn up any practical data. What it has done is demonstrate that materials of supernatural origin are not rejected as readily as tissue from other humans. More research is required, but potentially supernatural tissue may bypass rejection completely. More importantly, the introduction of supernatural elements to transplanted organs could have similar results.

[End of Recording]

CofD:Marshall Barsoom—"Tough Call"

Marshall picked up his phone. He recognized the number; answered it anyway.

(on phone)
Hello, This is Marshall with…(sigh.) Hi, Maya…No, I can talk now…Yeah, I took a few weeks leave…Yeah, Paris. I know I’m not in the Airforce anymore. You spoke to Matt..? I know he is your son-in-law too, that’s not the point…He didn’t need to tell you…I know he isn’t one of my airmen…What command voice?! (deep breath.)…Do you mind if I put you on speaker..?

Marshall tapped an icon on his phone. “Okay. I’m sure you didn’t call to have this argument again, so why did you call..?”

Maya answered, “No I didn’t. Matt sounded concern when he talked to you a few days ago. He said you were planning to go to Saudi Arabia after you left France.”

“That’s right,” he said crisply.

“Our son-in-law thought you sounded like you didn’t plan on coming back.” She spoke as if he’d already confirmed the notion. It was one of the things the aggravated him when they were married.

Marshall offered an explanation in a guileless voice, “I’ve taken a few language courses online, and I figured this would be an excellent opportunity to immerse myself.” He could sense his ex’s expression tighten after his lame attempt at levity. The corner of his lip uncurled from its smirk as his voice took on a serious tone, “I’m just looking for closure.”

In disbelief, Maya returned, “Closure? We lost our daughter, Marshall. Now you’re intent on wallowing in self-pity and wandering into the desert to die.” He couldn’t dispute what her words; Maya was right. She had a habit of being right more often than was absolutely necessary.

He spoke in a somber tone, “You don’t understand. That night, I lost everything. I saw…I did something terrible and haven’t been able to move on from that night in Khafji. I grasped a few of the crumbling pieces for a while, but everything else, everyone else…” he paused, “continued on without me.”

“You’re right,” the frustration evident in her voice. “I can’t understand. You wouldn’t tell me, remember? You just put on a brave face and tortured yourself for the last twenty-five years because of a lapse in judgment that got you a medal.”

“And, I still can’t tell you.” Marshall knew she would take it the wrong way, she always had, but he preferred her anger over whatever potential reaction she’d have to the truth. “I need to confront my demons, and I need closure.”

After a long silence, Maya replied in a flat voice, “Fine. Don’t talk to me, but think about our foundation, Whatever you think you did or didn’t do, there are others that have gone through what you have.” After a brief silence she added, “Marshall, talk to someone.”

“Yeah. I will. Say hello to Bill for me,” he said sounding exhausted.

—

He sat thinking about the last thing his ex-wife said; he’d met people who had also survived a similar experience. Unfortunately, He helped destroy a book they were after and was sure he had burned that bridge. The image of Shandi pop into his mind; he cringed visibly at the dark thought.

Marshall tapped the red hang up button on his cell then uncocked his sidearm before placing it on the desk in his hotel room. He looked down at the gun which now lay between the phone, his passport and the one-way ticket to Saudi Arabia. He thought, “Maybe I should iron the shirt for the flight in the morning.”

—

Marshall was halfway through ironing his clothes when his cell started buzzing. Unknown number; answered it anyway.

(on phone)
Hello, this is Marshall Barsoom with the Homefront Foundation…Oh! Hi,Natalie. No, I can talk now. I’m just doing a little ironing…

Chronicles of Darkness—Marshall Barsoom

Poor Brandon didn't last long in the Contingent. He died after foolishly trying to help someone get out of a cursed iron maiden. It wasn't a particularly satisfy death, but it was probably an appropriate one since he had alienated himself from both hunter teams he had joined. 

After two sessions Chronicle of Darkness, I have a better feel for the system. Still got hung up on the breaking point questions. They should be answered first but is awkward to me. I prefer just start writing and let the character form as I write. Fortunately, the one of the GMs took the time to help with it all.

Breaking Points

What is the worst thing your character has ever done?

He killed a fellow soldier under his command in self-defense. He then claimed the man died from wounds sustained hours before when their aircraft crashed.

What is the worst thing your character can imagine himself doing?

Murdering someone in cold blood.

What is the worst thing your character can imagine someone else doing?

He finds torture aberrant but understands that success sometimes places the decisive action ahead of the best action.

What has your character forgotten? 

He has forgotten many of the details of what happened that evening Khafji. Marshall doesn't recall the creature that had attacked, that it was responsible for the death of the enlisted man or that the soldier had been dead for hours before rising to attack Marshall.

What is the most traumatic thing that has ever happened to your character?

The recent death of his daughter aboard a FedEx airplane. She was captain of the doomed Flight 508.Marshall’s most prized—and cursed—possession is his purple heart. He’d earned it while piloting a Spectre, the Lockheed AC-130. His aircraft had been shot down in Khafji during the Gulf war. Of the thirteen member aircrew, only he and one of his airman survived the crash; he was the only one to survive until rescued.

Background Story

The Spectre went down after a SAM exploded into the aircraft. Two men managed to escape the mangled wreckage, narrowly avoid Iraqi infantry. They located shelter against the cold desert night and attempted to patch up themselves while await rescue.

Though they elude enemy combatants, they’d gain the attention of something else. A creature came out of the Arabian night and attacked the two men huddled in an improvised shelter. The bipedal creature’s sharp teeth tore chunks out of the already enlisted man’ soldier before it could be driven back into the darkness.

The officer did his level best to keep his remaining crewmen alive, but the soldier had lost a lot of blood. He could only offer the comfort of kind words to the dying man as they waited for him to succumb to his numerous broken bones and lacerations. The pilot marked the soldier’s death late that evening.

Before dawn, the enlisted man’s eyes had snapped open suddenly. He seemed not only alive but completely mad. The soldier groaned violently and lunged at second his captain. Had it not been for dying soldiers assortment of injuries the officer would not have been able to fend the man off. As it were, a jagged piece of the Spectre’s fuselage had landed near their shelter. The airman saved himself at the cost of his subordinates life, dead, impaled on the sharp piece of metal. It would be the last and most unfortunate of the vessel’s..his vessel’s, list of confirmed kills.

—

Chronicles of Darkness—Brandon Smith

Created a character for the Contingent. I wasn't excited about my character concept going into the first week of season 3. However by the end session, I am surprisingly pleased with him.

Background Story

Hello,

You can call me Brandon Smith. Is it my real name? No. Though it was the name on my passport, and it serves its purpose. Lost the real one the day I lost everything.

I work for the Cloverleaf Corporation as a private accountant. Well, I use to anyway. I committed a dozen white collar crimes and helped keep crooks on the street. One day, those same crooks thought I was too much of a loose end. You know, when you worked for criminals then doing a good job is a clear sign of a lack of integrity.

They tried to kill me, no surprise; but they ended up getting my wife and my father instead; that one hurt. I had expected Cloverleaf to come after me, Maggie and Dad were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fortunately, I got off the grid with the kids before they could finish the job. Already had money stashed away, burner phones, birth certificates, and passports; the whole works. Nothing to trace me and the kids. I could have been home free. I should have been home free.

Then I met Samantha Dahl. How I met her, your guess is as good as mine just another thing that I seemed to have lost along the way. One minute, I was getting the youngest out of the car seat, the next, I was mid-lecture at Starbucks in the BWI airport. She explained that Cloverleaf wouldn’t be looking for me, as long as I avoid drawing too much attention, that my two girls would be safe, and now I worked for her. That was the deal. 

Why I’d trust a woman I just met is one for the ages, so I protested; as you do. 

Sam said my kids would be safest with her, and she couldn’t just give two little girls to a man that doesn’t even know their names. I knew she was crazy because what kind of father doesn’t remember their kid's name. Right. This guy. 

I had those passports made and even been saying those names to get comfortable with them. No matter how hard I tried to remember, the names eluded me. I’m good at finding things that wanted to stay hidden. Excellent in fact. But the two most precious people left in this world were gone, fake passports and all. Like they never existed. I know they existed. I have to believe they existed. There are too many fragmented memories of my girls; too much pain from losing them. 

The saddest part of this whole deal? At this point, I’m not sure that I work for Samantha because that’s the only way to keep my daughters safe, or because it lets me continue to believe they existed in the first place.

—Brandon

• Character Sheet
• The Contingent
• Chronicles of Darkness

Note

I decide to write this character's background in the first person. I love to read stories with unreliable narration, but I'm not good at that sort of thing. This year, I want to make a concerted effort to write more. In the past, I let my desire to avoid the perception of being incompetent to overwhelm my desire to get better at writing.