James Hutchins (0roborus) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2020-07-30 14:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | james hutchins, npc |
The Cure is Worse Than the Disease
Who: James and NPC Sam
What: Talking
When: Sunrise, Morning After the Explosion
Where: Searchlight, Outside James’ Trailer
James sat on the tailgate of his pick-up truck. A fine cloud of dust hung suspended around him, thick as mist, a dust that shifted with the breeze but didn’t settle or clear the town limits, as though it had been captured in a snow globe: a freeze frame one could step inside and examine from within. The world was yellow-orange in the morning sun.
Breakfast was a cold can of beer. Condensation dripped off the spellcaster’s palm as he tipped his head back, downing half the contents in one woozy go.
Sam approached the fender. He wiped at his eyes. Sniffed. “This dirt is playing hell with my allergies,” he said. “I don’t know how you can stand it out here.”
James shifted round to take in his surroundings. Little traffic dared to pass down this stretch of highway today. It all looked barren and abandoned. Every object had been layered in dirt. Even the cicadas were silent. “Seems like the town’s finally got a look to match how it feels.”
“Ah.” Sam smiled. “Well, it looks like Mars to me.” The old man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He slapped dust from the tailgate of his son’s truck before joining him on it, a maneuver that got harder to execute with each passing year. His left hip screamed for mercy. Once seated, he studied the younger man’s profile. “You look terrible.”
‘Cheers to you, old man.’ James smiled. He put the can of beer between his knees. “I may look it, but I don’t feel it.”
“Oh I know,” Sam said, nodding. He folded his handkerchief into a square. “I imagine on some level, you’re pleased with all of it. Especially the part where you’re being sucked dry by a spiritual leech, because you think it distinguishes you from all the rest of us… witches,” he emphasized the word.
James’ head tweaked to one side. "That ain't it."
There it was, a crack in the temporary calm. Any opportunity for conversation was an opportunity for a dressing-down; it was only a matter of time. James pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I didn't call you to get in another argument about why I don't cherish the fellowship of a coven that lives off the grid in cruelty-free tunics, worshiping an earth goddess while the rest of the world burns."
"Hmph!" Sam stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. “When you were young,” he said, “I used to marvel at how different you were from your mother. You looked just like her, but that was the end of it. Your mother, she has talent,” he leaned closer to chuckle, “You’ve got more, but she never had ambition of her own. So! She offered it to anyone that would take it.” He gestured widely. “And, y’know, that’s fine, but she’s got no sense of people, James.”
Sam set trembling hands on his thighs. “You, on the other hand, you had all the ambition in the world, but now... You take your talent and you squander it. I ask you to take over the shop, you decide to fix cars for a living. You sow seeds of chaos, from left to right, from black to white. And now with blood magic! And when I come to your home, what do I find? A bottle of wine and you, half-dead on your feet, are wearing a smile. So perhaps you’re a lot like her.”
He eased off the truck bed and headed for the trailer. “Now let’s get inside and pry this thing loose before you croak.”