Visitant: Mistaken Identity

Observant readers may notice that, for someone trying to approximate a White Wolf game in a sci-fi setting, I have some major omissions.

Looking closely, almost everything published for Visitant so far is rules, of all things, while the rest is setting material. Where, oh where, is the terrible game fiction?

As mentioned, the six chapters of Prologue: We walk amongst them are only available to premium subscribers. I wouldn't breach their trust by betraying that. But that doesn't mean you get off scot-free you have to go without entirely.

Here, for your delectation and nausea, is the first ever piece of Visitant gamefic.

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Mistaken Identity

Almost before the body had hit the ground, they were searching. Furniture was heaved aside, sealed boxes ripped open with military blades. They were so intent on the search that they didn’t notice the figure in the doorway until she spoke.

“What..?”

Hart span around, but didn’t bother pulling his weapon. Hell. The old woman was supposed to be out of town. The beast had been dealt with, but now what was he supposed to do? Their cover was in danger. Whatever Lanark might think, killing innocent bystanders wasn’t something Hart wanted any part of. She looked frantic, staring around until her eyes lit on the blood.

“It’s not how it looks.” He hated himself immediately. That line never worked, even in the movies.

“Ben, what… what’s happened to him? What’s going on?” She stumbled into the room, staring at the bullet-ridden body of her lodger. The others paused for a moment, figured he could handle it, and hurried on with their search.

Maybe she’d buy a story that they were after his killers? He had papers, pretty convincing ones. They needed to confiscate whatever the creature had stowed away here. But that would only raise more questions. She was bound to talk, unless he could scare her into silence. They were supposed to have all night! He mentally damned Yeovil for screwing up the intel.

Mrs. Lund stared down at the body.

“Oh, my poor Ben. He was just a boy. You’ve killed him.” She was in a daze, more upset than frightened. “What have you done?”

“He wasn’t a boy. He was a monster.” Brutal honesty was the best way. Maybe they could convince her. If she realised the truth, she could hardly call the police on them. It was no crime to kill what wasn’t human.

“Just a boy who ran away from home.” Mrs. Lund sounded close to tears now, rounding on him. “He ran my errands. He looked after me. You killed him!”

Yeovil was excavating the cupboards, and suddenly called out. A board at the back of the cupboard had given way, and behind it… gagging, he ripped the rest of the wood aside and hauled the thing out. It must have been human, once. The skin lay tight across the bones, deep brown eyes stared blankly. Long blonde hair spilled from the head. Curious how it hadn’t deteriorated. This wasn’t the work of time; the creature must have drained the blood from this poor girl and crammed her into this hidey-hole. Perhaps even this week. If they’d only come sooner…

Hart set his jaw. “No, Mrs. Lund. Just take a look at that. I’m sorry. He was a monster.”

To his surprise, the old lady barely spared it a glance. She stared around at the four of them instead, as though measuring them. One hand rose to stroke her neck.

“No. He was a simple, harmless boy who ran away. You’ve killed him for nothing.”

“Nothing! What do you call this?” Yeovil brandished the shrivelled corpse-thing at her. “Harmless fun? How long has that thing been preying on-”

“Mine.”

“…what?”

“I call it – mine.”

Her hand fell, revealing a slit in the neck that grew, and grew, and like something from nightmares they spilled from the old woman’s body, shimmering things that buzzed and seethed through the air in scintillating waves, washing over the hunters.

It burned like fire, but it didn’t take long.

Mrs. Lund carefully gathered up her spare skin, and sealed it away inside another of her secret compartments. The men’s clothes and remains would have to be disposed of, but it would be best to call the police to report poor Ben’s murder. Shekt didn’t weep, but a heavy sadness clouded her mind. He had been a good friend. An accomplice, the only human who knew what she really was, and helped her nonetheless. Now that helping had killed him. He deserved a burial, at least. It was important to humans.

As she worked, she wondered who the men had been. Too well-prepared to be vigilantes, too ill-informed to be agents for the Dominion or some other bloc. It seemed the humans were learning, and that meant someone was teaching them. She shuddered to think what. They were not yet ready. Her party had been working for decades to help prepare them; knowing what she did of human society, a sudden revelation of the interstellar community could spell worldwide catastrophe.

Time to call in some favours. These hunters had to be investigated, and fast. Her colleagues were not going to like this.