[ Cal's hands immediately reach out to grab the ropes that stretch out on either side of him. He looks from side to side around the edges of the black hood that obscures his face. The lightning cracks in the distance, and he is reminded of the rolling thunderstorms as a kid.
How am I not crazy? It is a thought that rumbles back and forth in his head. A war between secret societies somehow made more sense than where he is now.
He slowly starts trying to make his way further on the bridge. ]
[After one more step, his hand on the rope encounters another hand - gaunt, skeletal, chilled - and the flash of lightning reveals the figure it belongs to, a seven-foot tall cloaked being, almost impossibly slender, every feature except its pallid forearm concealed in its enveloping black robe.]
Greetings.
[The voice seems to come from somewhere around its chest, rather than from within the hood, and carries over the noise of the storm. There is a windy quality to it, as if it is being shouted from a further distance away.]
[ It takes something fairly intimidating to scare Cal. The first time he almost died, the way the Animus moved him around like a paper doll, and now the hooded figure that quite literally towered over him. The hand is the first thing he notices. Then the lightning does little to ease the feeling that shoots up through his spine. It is a feeling he knows instantly: powerlessness.
Instincts kick in. He takes a step back and his wrist flicks. The silver blade shoots out from his wrist. Not that he thinks he can take on the hooded figure. ]
[ He almost turns to look behind them as the voice echoes past. Not that there is any point to it. He can't really see until the lightning cracks. The blade remains unsheathed. His own flight or fight always tells him to fight, and the always lingering presence of his ancestor just adds to it. ]
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How am I not crazy? It is a thought that rumbles back and forth in his head. A war between secret societies somehow made more sense than where he is now.
He slowly starts trying to make his way further on the bridge. ]
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Greetings.
[The voice seems to come from somewhere around its chest, rather than from within the hood, and carries over the noise of the storm. There is a windy quality to it, as if it is being shouted from a further distance away.]
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Instincts kick in. He takes a step back and his wrist flicks. The silver blade shoots out from his wrist. Not that he thinks he can take on the hooded figure. ]
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[The voice seems to fall past them as it speaks, dwindling into the distance.
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Where the hell am I?
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Then it's a hallucination, and I have nothing to worry about.
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SOMETHING TO Drink. Somewhere to stand.
CONVERsation.
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What system?
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[The figure sounds grateful that he understands.]
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People don't really translate those two things well when you're trying to get something out of them. Other than trying to fight back.
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