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The Hollow Men - Episode 2

• Iain Wilson • Season 1 • Episode 80

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Welcome to the Hollow Men - a dramatised Hunter: The Reckoning solo actual play.  

Courtney deals with the fall out from the fight at the Depot, and the fact that the police officer helping her appears wrong to her Second Sight.

All music and sound effects from Epidemic Sound.

Thanks to our voice actors Karen Pope, Heather Haneman, Havilah Coady, Melissa Andres, Jon Cohen and Anna Chapman. 

Contact us at:

EMAIL: roll.to.save.pod@gmail.com
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/rolltosavepod
WEBSITE: https://rolltosave.blog

HOSTS: Iain Wilson, Steve McGarrity, Jason Downey
BACKGROUND MUSIC: David Renada (Find him at: davidrendamusic@gmail.com or on his web page).
TITLE, BREAK & CLOSEOUT MUSIC: Xylo-Ziko (Find them on their web page).

Iain:

Welcome to the Hollow Men, a dramatized actual play of Hunter the Reckoning. What you're about to hear is the story of ordinary people who discover that monsters are real yet choose to bravely stand against the darkness. This is a solo game played using dice and the roles of Hunter the Reckoning first edition. Every role is real, every decision matters. Nothing is scripted. This show contains mature themes including violence, profanity, body horror, paranoia, moral ambiguity, and psychological distress. Listener discretion is advised. The story unfolds as a dice dictate. Sometimes the heroes triumph, sometimes they fail, sometimes they die. The only certainty is that once you've seen the truth, they're forever changed. It's the eve of the millennium. Monsters walk amongst us wearing human faces. Anyone could be compromised. This is the Hollow Men. Previously on the Hollow Men. Courtney Webster thought she was meeting a whistleblower. Ed, a worker from Colestone Concrete, wanted to talk about irregularities at the plant, but before he could speak, everything went wrong. A gunman screaming. Then a voice commanded her. Open your eyes. Then she saw the truth. The man with the gun wasn't a man anymore. He was a corpse, animated by something wrong. When he shot Ed, Courtney acted. Visions flooded her mind, glimpses of futures that hadn't happened yet. Two strangers appeared out of nowhere, and together they brought the creature down. The strangers couldn't stay, but they left her a symbol that she somehow understood meant ally, along with a phone number to get in touch. Then the police arrived. One officer immediately rushed to help her, concern written across his face. That's when Courtney felt it again. The same wrongness. The cop wasn't human either. Calvary Bluffs, Missouri, downtown, May 22, 1999, 8 41 pm. The sense of wrongness was almost dizzying. But the worst part? He had kind eyes.

Officer Mitchell:

Hey, hey, you're okay. You're safe now.

Iain:

His hand hovered near her shoulder, careful not to touch without permission. His name tag read Mitchell, and the lines around his eyes told the story of a man in his late forties who smiled often. The concern on his face seemed genuine. Nothing about this felt right. Courtney's frazzled mind struggled to articulate what she was seeing. Officer Mitchell looked perfectly normal, brown hair going grey at the temples, a wedding band on his left hand, a small coffee stain on his uniform shirt just below the badge. Everything about him seemed ordinary, decent, and human. Except she knew he wasn't. The wrongness radiated from him like heat from an August pavement. Not the sick, waterlogged corruption of the thing that had shot Ed. Something else. Something that wore kindness, like a well-tailored suit. If anything, that was scarier.

Officer Mitchell:

Can you tell me your name?

Iain:

Mitchell's voice was patient and gentle. Courtney.

Officer Mitchell:

Okay, Courtney. I'm Sergeant Mitchell. That's my partner, Officer Reese, by the door.

Iain:

He nodded to the other cop who was still barking into his radio.

Officer Mitchell:

Listen, you've had a hell of a shock. I need you to take some slow breaths from me, alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth.

Iain:

She did. The shaking in her legs didn't stop, gnawed at her racing mind. Behind Mitchell, his partner finished with the radio and strode over. Officer Reese was younger, maybe late twenties, with the rigid posture of someone who took the uniform and his calling very seriously. She knew cops like this. They talked about blue like it was a skin color. His eyes swept the scene methodically, landing on Courtney with an expression that was more calculating than concerned.

Reese:

We need to get her downtown. This is a homicide scene. She's in shock, Dan. All the more reason to get her statement before her memory gets fuzzy.

Iain:

Reese crouched down on Courtney's other side, and she was suddenly very aware of being flanked. Ma'am, I need you to tell me what happened here. Courtney's eyes darted to the body. No, it was just a man. Just an ordinary man in cornerstone overalls lying in a spreading pool of blood. No black eyes, no water spilling from his mouth. No wrongness at all. Had she imagined everything? I She waved a hand as she tried to compose herself.

Courtney:

He had a gun. He shot.

Iain:

She turned to the booth where Ed had been sitting. Paramedics had arrived at some point. She hadn't even heard them. They were working on him, but their movements had the practised efficiency of people going through the motions that they knew were pointless. Fresh tears came. These ones felt very real and almost burnt as he trailed down their cheeks. Reese jabbed a finger at the body on the floor beside Courtney. The deceased.

Courtney:

Yes. He shot the man I was sitting with.

Iain:

Courtney's mind raced. The woman's advice echoed in her head. I got scared and confused. This wasn't hard. She was terrified beyond reason, and nothing made sense anymore.

Courtney:

Then people were screaming, and I I just She looked down at her shaking hands.

Iain:

There was something dark under her fingernails. Not quite blood, not quite anything she could name.

Courtney:

I tried to stop him.

Iain:

I grabbed his stool and She stopped and her stomach lurched. Was she confessing to murder? The body in the floor looks so normal now. Mitchell shifted slightly, putting himself between Courtney and his partner's more aggressive questioning.

Officer Mitchell:

Sounds like self-defense to me. Or defense of others, at the very least. That's for the DA to determine.

Iain:

Mitchell shook his head and ignored him.

Officer Mitchell:

Courtney, I know this is hard, but I need you to focus. For me.

Iain:

He smiled kindly.

Officer Mitchell:

The man that you fought off? Did you know that he had a gun?

Iain:

She nodded.

Officer Mitchell:

Had you ever seen him before tonight?

Iain:

Silent shake of the head.

Officer Mitchell:

What about the other two people who were here?

Iain:

Courtney's breath caught. Suddenly, the scrap of paper with the phone number in their pocket felt as heavy as a brick.

Officer Mitchell:

The man and woman who left before we arrived. Multiple witnesses mentioned them.

Courtney:

I I don't know them. They just. They were just trying to help.

Reese:

Well, they fled the scene of a homicide.

Officer Mitchell:

She said she didn't know them, Dan.

Iain:

He turned back to Courtney, and again she saw that kindness in his eyes, that patience. But most of all, that wrongness underneath it all.

Officer Mitchell:

Did they take anything? Touch the body?

Courtney:

No. They just. They just helped stop him and then they left. I think they were as scared as me.

Iain:

Mitchell nodded, as if this confirmed something that he already knew. Okay, that's good.

Officer Mitchell:

That's really helpful.

Iain:

Reese stood up abruptly and snorted.

Reese:

This needs to be done properly at the station.

Officer Mitchell:

We need a full statement before we And she'll give one. After the EMTs check her out and she's had a chance to catch her breath. She's not under arrest, Dan. She's a victim.

Iain:

The two officers stared at each other. Some unspoken tension passed between them, the kind Courtney recognized from years of reading people, of understanding the small hierarchies and power dynamics that defined all human relationships. Reese was younger, more by the book, obviously keen to prove himself. But Mitchell spoke with seniority, and more importantly, he had empathy.

Officer Mitchell:

I'll take your statement here. You process the scene. Radio for more units to Canvas witnesses. God knows enough of them have appeared out of the woodwork.

Iain:

He gestured to the crowd of patrons that were clustered around the doorway. Greasy's jaw tightened, but after a moment, he nodded curtly and turned away. Mitchell let out a small breath and offered Courtney what might have been an apologetic smile.

Officer Mitchell:

My partner's not wrong. We do need your statement. But I promise I'll make it as quick and painless as possible, okay?

Iain:

Courtney nodded, not trusting her voice. She wanted to scream, but she felt like her world might explode if she opened her mouth. As Mitchell pulled out his own notepad, she found her mind racing again, trying to understand what she was seeing, trying to reconcile the kindness in his voice with the crawling sensation that told us something about this man was fundamentally wrong. And behind it all echoed that voice that came from everywhere and nowhere earlier. So poor Courtney is in a bit of a jam. She's got a body next to her that she technically was involved in killing, even if she believed it was already dead. She's got an antagonistic cop that wants to take her downtown, where in her current state she might end up blabbing about everything, and no amount of but he had black eyes and looked like a dead guy is going to help convince the police she's anything other than a lunatic. She's also been questioned by a cop who, although he appears nice, also appears very, very wrong to her second sight. Now, I know what those of you familiar with Hunter are thinking, why doesn't she use her discern edge to find out more about him? Simply put, she's in shock. Yes, she used an edge during her imbuing, and the keen eyed amongst you will have noticed that I also had her discern edge activate then, but at this stage, Courtney isn't really aware that she can do these things consciously. As far as she's concerned, she might be going crazy. So, it sounds like the one thing that she could do with at the moment is a friend. And thankfully, she's got one. Those of you who listened to, endured, the entire character creation episode will know that she's a point in the background allies. Whenever I run a World of Darkness game and a character ends up with a background like this, I never make them define it at the beginning. After all, you might end up generating someone that never makes a story. Instead, I let the players use the points as and when they think it might be relevant, usually for the most dramatic effect. So, Courtney's going to cash in her point of allies right now for a little bit of help. Courtney was halfway through recounting the moment the gun went off when she heard a new voice cut through the chaos.

Miranda:

What have we got, Mitchell?

Iain:

The woman who approached had the steady competence of someone who was used to crime scenes. Mid-30s, dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, wearing jeans and a red blazer over a simple white blouse. A detective shield hung from her belt next to her holstered weapon. She took in the scene with practised efficiency. The body, the blood, the shattered bar stool, the booth where paramedics were kneeling by Ed. Her eyes landed in Courtney, and her expression shifted immediately.

Miranda:

Jesus Christ, Courtney?

Iain:

Courtney looked up, her vision blurry with tears.

Miranda:

Miranda!

Iain:

Detective Miranda Clements crossed the distance between them in three quick strides, crouching down beside her.

Courtney:

Are you hurt? Nor I I don't think so.

Iain:

Miranda's hand found Courtney's shoulder, the touch warm, solid, and blessedly completely normal. The relief Courtney felt at that simple human contact caused the tears to start to flow again.

Officer Mitchell:

She hasn't been checked out yet. I wanted to get her initial statement first.

Miranda:

Where are we at with that?

Officer Mitchell:

Got the basics. Miss Webster was conducting an interview with the deceased over there when the shooter entered and fired. Miss Webster acted in defense of herself and others. Two other individuals assisted but fled before we arrived.

Iain:

Reese materialized from somewhere near the bar. His expression like that of a child who wanted Mummy to tell him he'd done a good job. But before he could speak, Miranda held up a hand.

Miranda:

I'll handle it from here.

Iain:

Her voice was not unkind, but it had a finality that was absolute.

Miranda:

Mitchell, good work. Why don't you and Reese help the uniforms outside processing the other patrons? I'll finish up with Miss Webster here.

Iain:

Reese went to object, but the stare that Miranda gave him told him that it wasn't up for discussion. After a moment he nodded stiffly and moved away towards a cluster of shaken bar patrons being corralled by uniformed officers. Miranda waited until both officers were out of earshot before she spoke again, this time her voice lower.

Miranda:

Talk to me. What were you working on? I know you. This wasn't a random meetup.

Courtney:

I was meeting a source. He was from Cornerstone. The guy in the booth? Yes. Is he?

Iain:

She let the sentence trail off, not wanting to finish it. Miranda didn't speak, but her expression spoke volumes. When she saw Courtney was about to speak again, she raised a hand quickly.

Miranda:

Hey, look at me. Don't blame yourself. You can't allow yourself to think like that, Court. That way lies madness, trust me.

Iain:

That nickname, that familiar contraction Miranda only used over wine after a long day, almost broke her. Courtney nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.

Miranda:

Here's what's going to happen. I'm taking you home. You'll give your statement tomorrow after a good night's sleep. As far as I'm concerned, you're not a suspect and you're certainly not a flight risk.

Iain:

Courtney nodded mutely, and Miranda pointed at the body.

Miranda:

What about the people who helped?

Iain:

Miranda's expression didn't change, but Courtney caught something in her eyes. That detective's instinct that knew there was something more to her story.

Miranda:

What about them? Did you know them or why they helped you?

Iain:

Courtney isn't a bind. While she doesn't know the two strangers, she is carrying a phone number on her that presumably belongs to one of them. And she also had the weird experience of the woman telling her she was one of them. The question is, would she tell Miranda? I don't think she would. Identifying strange symbols and saying that her would-be saviours could see monsters too is a good way to be labelled a crazy woman. Therefore, she's going to try to lie to Miranda. Will it work though? I'm going to rule that she'll have to make a manipulation and subterfuge check to manage this. Because Miranda is a hard-bitten detective, I'm going to make the difficulty seven. However, I'm going to reduce the difficulty by one for Courtney being Miranda's ally and another two for Courtney's fame background. That brings it to four. Rolling. Two sixes, a four, a two, and a three. That's three successes. Seems that even under pressure, Courtney is able to keep it together and lie to her friend. The lie came easier than Courtney expected, and she hated herself a little for this.

Courtney:

No, I've never seen them before.

Miranda:

But you say they helped you.

Courtney:

Yes. Why?

Iain:

The question hung in the air. Courtney could see the woman's face in her mind. Things are going to get very weird very quickly for you.

Courtney:

I don't know. I guess I guess they saw what was happening and stepped in. Good Samaritans. And before you ask, I have no idea why they fled. Lots of people have lots of reasons they don't want to be around the place. You should know that.

Iain:

Miranda studied her for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.

Miranda:

Okay, that's fair. We'll talk about it more tomorrow.

Iain:

Courtney took her outstretched hand and stood on legs that felt like water.

Miranda:

Miranda, I don't apologize. Don't explain. Don't do anything except come with me. We'll figure the rest out tomorrow.

Iain:

They walked toward the exit together, past the body that no longer looked monstrous, past the booth where Ed had been so nervous about being seen. Past the television that was still showing the Cardinals losing to the Dodgers. At the door, Miranda paused and turned to face her fully.

Miranda:

Courtney, I need you to hear this. Whatever story you were chasing with that cornerstone source, it feels to me that it just became a lot more dangerous. You understand that, right? I know. Do you? Because I've given you tips before, fed you leads on small-time crooks and corporate assholes who needed exposing. But this feels different. This feels bigger. And I know you, but I need you to promise me that you'll be careful, that you'll call me if anything feels wrong because I She stopped and seemed to catch herself. We need people like you asking hard questions, but not at the expense of your health. Do you get me?

Iain:

Courtney felt the gratitude well up inside of her. And she wanted to tell Miranda everything about the wrongness that had irradiated from the gunman and from Mitchell too, despite his apparent kindness, about the symbol and the voice that had spoken in her head, about the phrase that still echoed inside her mind. Open your eyes. But she couldn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Courtney:

I'll be careful.

Iain:

The words felt worthless and hollow. Miranda did not look entirely convinced, but she nodded anyway.

Miranda:

Good. Now come on, let's get you home. We'll swing by and grab your car tomorrow.

Courtney:

My keys.

Miranda:

Are you seriously telling me you're in any condition to drive right now? Your hands are shaking, girl. You're in shock, and I'm not letting you get behind the wheel.

Iain:

She was right, of course. Courtney's hands were trembling madly, and the thought of navigating the dark streets alone suddenly seemed impossible. Especially if there were more of those wrong things out there. She didn't know what she'd do if she saw another one. She smiled weakly and nodded, and Miranda's hand found the small of her back, steadying her as he walked out into the night. The street was a kaleidoscope of flashing lights. Police cars, ambulances, a firetruck that someone had called as a precaution. Neighbours stood in their porches, drawn by the commotion. Somewhere a dog was barking. Miranda's unmarked sedan was parked near the corner, and as she opened the passenger door, Courtney caught sight of her reflection in the window. She looked like hell. Her hair was wild, face pale, makeup there was a blood mess, and which accentuated the redness of her eyes, and which lined her cheeks in black rivulence from her crying. It took her a couple of attempts to fasten her seatbelt.

Courtney:

You okay?

Iain:

The detective was starting the car.

Courtney:

No, but I will be.

Iain:

Somewhere beneath Calvary bluffs, date unknown, time unknown. Slowly, but oh so slowly, its senses started to return. Then came the sensations, the first of which it had not felt for countless eons. A reaction to the cold and the darkness that surrounded it, perhaps? What was this strange feeling? Fear. The memory of the portal sealing shut, and of the all-encompassing nothingness that surrounded it. Its only company, the myriad disembodied spirits that flitted aimlessly around this cold, windy, featureless void, and who howled at an uncaring sky they could no longer see. All the while the sensations of regret, despair, and impotent fury were built like a rising head of steam with nowhere to vent. Regret for its failures, despair at the eternity of cold nothingness that was its punishment for failure, fury at the creatures that had abandoned it and deprived it of its power and glory, and he had left it to rot. But all these feelings, potent as they were, were nothing but a distraction compared to the paralyzing icy barbs of fear that kept it anchored to this place, and which constantly scourged its formless mind in an unceasing cavalcade of torment, fear of its jailer's intentions, fear for its creations, fear of the eternal madness that this void would bring. Seconds passed, and with them the dawning realization that the fear was unwarranted, nothing more than an old memory, a reaction to its past imprisonment. It was still free from its jailer. It'd simply been sleeping. Time had moved on, that was all. What had happened? The vision surfaced like a swollen corpse bobbing on sea of memory. Fires turn night into hazy twilight. The camp is ablaze, and the air is alive with a rhapsody of pain. Its creatures scream and lie dying, the last remnants that survived the pestilence that flew before the invaders like a Storm Crow. All is crumbling, but its most faithful have seen that it will endure. They take it to the sacred place, the place where the door was first opened and light flooded back into its world. The place where the cold emptiness was replaced with warmth, heat, and the sticky sweet scent of blood and iron. The place where the words were first spoken. One of their number places it tenderly and reverently on the cool polished plinth that was the focal point of the sacred place. The floor, once rough stone, has been worn smooth by generations of pilgrims' feet and knees. Torches line the walls, but the creature that remains extinguishes all but one. It is commanding its fellows to roll a massive stone in front of the entrance to rejoin their brethren in battle. As the rock snuffs out the light from the tunnel, the creature now sits huddled in the corner, mouthing mantras that will do nothing but bring it the loosest of comfort. Soon it will learn that the power these words once held died in the fires above. A tiny sliver of concern momentarily distracts it. Is this it? While its new tomb is nothing compared to the unending oblivion of its former prison, the comparison is enough to give it pause. Then a thought occurs to it. The stone being rolled in front of the tomb. Weren't the invaders followers of the Nazarene? It wonders for a second before extending its senses to observe the carnage unfolding above it. The last of its creatures have fled or are dying, and the interlopers are picking through the ruins of the camp. One of them kneels near where the sacred texts are hidden. Tall, gaunt, its soul fire flaming brightly, but the others are mere embers. Anchoring onto the mortal's flaming face, it reaches out to draw the invader's attention. Yes, the cache of text has been noticed. Kneeling, the creature unclasps the lock of the chest, throwing back the lid to reveal neatly arrayed scrolls of animal height. It can almost taste the invader's curiosity, for the invader knows that those it has defeated don't typically keep written records. However, it can sense the creature's ire rising, its rigid adherence to the Nazarene's dogma, threatening to overwhelm its natural thirst for knowledge with fire and petty acts of retribution. Prince of Peace indeed. With the last of its will fading, it reaches out with its voice to the invader.

The Messengers:

Open your eyes.

Iain:

It feels as much of an instruction to itself as a memory, for things are becoming clearer now. It is still in the tomb, but the torch has long been extinguished, and its creature is nothing more than a pile of bones scattered in the corner. Frustratingly, it is still too weak to do much more than observe its surroundings. But it knows that something has caused it to awaken, so it reaches out along those chains of blood and faith, sticky ephemeral bonds created by those who spoke the words of power, most hang limply, their ends long since severed. But one still exists that feels heavy and taut, made strong by generations of devotion. The lynx are mostly desiccated corpse flesh, but at the end it finds a mind bright and vibrant. Another sensation flares, one it has not felt since the gateway first opened and drew it back to the land of light and heat, away from its internal prison. Hope it reaches out across the strand of faith, the links bundling like cold fire, touches the mind, and begins to whisper. Open your eyes Calvary Bluffs, Missouri. Courtney Webster's apartment, May 23rd, 1999, 2.03 a.m. Courtney sat bull upright in her bed, sweat plastering her hair to her brow, and causing her night dress to cling to her skin. The words she'd heard in the bar echoing in her head. Alone in the darkness, she placed her head into her hands and started to cry. Thank you for listening to this episode of The Hollow Men in gratitude to our wonderful cast of voice actors for adding their talents and making this possible. If you enjoyed what you heard, we'd love to hear from you. Drop us a line at roll.2.save.ollet.gmail.com or find us on Instagram and Facebook by searching for Way2Save. If you want to support the show, you can do so by leaving us five stars in your podcast app of choice or by sharing our episode announcements on social media. Every review and share helps us reach more listeners and it validates our imaginability egos and makes us need to make more episodes. If you're new to World to Save, welcome. We've got a whole black catalogue filled with other actual plays like this one, plus history episodes exploring classic RPGs, roundtable discussions, often interviews, and product reviews. If you're a fan of Gaming's Golden Age, you'll find something there for you. Until next time, stay vigilant and beware the Holomena.

Contributor

Iain Wilson

Host
Contributor

Jason Downey

Co-host
Contributor

Steve McGarrity

Co-host

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