OK, the stage is set and the main actors are waiting for their cue. The opening act is about to start - but what should it be?
The first act should set up the rest of the show, and you can't have a tragedy without a little victory beforehand. Macbeth has his glorious moment in battle before his meeting with the weird women, Romeo his romance with Juliet. That taste of victory makes the tragedy to come all the more bitter.
There's lots of options, but for my money there are two big moments that define the early years of Blair, one of which is right in the heart of London and couldn't be more iconic.
The first is the Good Friday Agreement which put an end to the Troubles and brought about demilitarization and peace in Ireland; great for those players who really enjoy political negotiations, with potential for some high-tension moments.
The other is the Millennium Dome project. So iconic it features (briefly) in Ultraviolet, defines the early years of the Blair premiership, and has as its capstone an honest-to-God jewel robbery complete with a high speed boat chase on the Thames.
I know which one I'd pick.
The Dome's one of those moments of overweening pride that, in hindsight, looks ridiculous but at the time seemed iconic. The original, relatively small-scale project conceived under the Tories as a kind of celebration of British ingenuity becomes an over-baked extravaganza as Blair pours money and optimism into the thing.
The video keeps nattering about how it's in Greenwich, and technically it's not wrong. Speaking as someone who lived near there, it is in Greenwich. The awful, neglected bit of Greenwich. The dumpster fire end. The Greenwich everyone wants to see is further south, with the Market, the Cutty Sark, Brunel's under-river tunnel, the Meridian, the Observatory, the National Maritime Museum. The Dome is huddled on the Peninsula, like a boil on Greenwich's rump.
The Peninsula is where the old gasworks used to be, and a whole bunch of other high-pollution industries, most of which were dead by the later 20th century. The kind of place they used as background for cop shows like the Sweeny, all empty factories and deserted streets, great for shootings and car chases. Imagine the toxic wasteland you'd find left over from a century or more of heavy industry. That's where they put the Dome. Also, some relatively cheap housing - at least, cheap by London standards.
You couldn't even get there easily, not until the North Greenwich Jubilee station opened, and that was a late arrival. These days there are new roads, a Thames Clipper Shuttle stop, new bus routes, even a cable car over the river. Before the tube station opened in 1999 it was shank's mare or bust.
There are all kinds of stories to be told, culminating most likely in Operation Magician to catch the jewel thieves intent on ram-raiding the DeBeers display in November 2000 - no doubt backed heavily by the Conspiracy.
It's all new build, so something along the lines of 'we found this odd thing while digging the foundations for' [whatever it may be - the Jubilee Station seems an obvious pick] is an excellent starter. All very Quatermass, which fits any setting from Alien to Damned.
Then there's the displays, inside and out. You've got all the main events, Who We Are, What We Do, Where We Live, plus the art installations and other showpieces being set up outside the Dome ready for the big opening in 2000. Any of them could hide some Conspiracy plot, mind control device, peculiar necromantic summoning, or whatever-you-like. An Alien Stone hidden inside the Night Rain contemplation area, an over-complicated plot by Linea Dracula assigns to manipulate the Where We Live exhibit so as to effectively remove the Block that prevents vampires from entering a space if they haven't been invited, an attempt to spread the Vukodlak Plague via the many commemorative tchotchkes on sale - you can get away with almost anything inside a space designed to evoke wonder and awe by playing with what you see and hear.
If you're wondering how far you can go, remember that we live in a world where this happened, and I defy you to invent a notion half as nutty:
So that's the start. What should the opening chapters be like?
Successful, for the most part. This is a tragedy. For a tragedy to have any impact there has to be a downfall, and you can't have a downfall without some initial, visible success. Romeo falls in love, Othello defeats all comers in court as well as on the battlefield, Macbeth is made Thane of Cawdor and Glamis, and is emboldened to murder Duncan and become King.
So from a game perspective the agents are probably facing off against anything up to a Level 4 Node, and winning, for the most part. Not necessarily easy victories, and if some friends or allies get dusted along the way that's the cost of doing business. Still, they've yet to really come face-to-face with the Vampires at the heart of the Conspiracy.
These are the Good Times.
You can set the stage for the Bad Times to come with the opening shots in the Kosovo War. Blair's heavily involved in the planning and wins the 1999 Charlemagne Prize for his work. How appropriate would it be if, while Blair is taking center stage in the ceremony at Aachen, the agents are busy fending off Conspiracy plotters behind the scenes? Perhaps they're trying to steal some scientific wonder, or trying to suborn members of Blair's government or family. Skulking around the Town Hall on the day of ceremony trying not to get spotted sounds like something every NBA character ought to attempt at least once in their career.
Shortly after that comes the General Election in June 2001, and in November planes fly into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.
There's a reason why this story starts with a fight in the marketplace. It elevates the action immediately. This is no political intrigue, no intricate cat-and-mouse duel of wits. It's a straight-up stabfest, and it's there to demonstrate the stakes, just in case anyone was asleep when the narrator told us two star-crossed lovers were about to bite it.
Pelgrane's Resource Guide has a useful section in the opening chapters: Initiation. Agents who have already had a close encounter with the undead conspiracy describe how that came about, and what consequences arose. Each segment looks something like this:
Afflicted
You were attacked – mentally or physically – by a supernatural threat, a horror you had no words to describe.
Changes: Gain Vampirology +1 and Sense Trouble +2. Either reduce Health by 2 or gain PTSD (Night’s Black Agents, p. 84).
Unanswered Questions:
What scars do you still bear from the encounter?
Do you recall the encounter clearly, or only in fragmented nightmares?
Did the affliction heal naturally, or does it still trouble you?
Resolution: Kill the creature that injured you. (Alternatively – if the wound is unnaturally hard to heal, find a cure.)
It arises from a fairly basic premise: whatever happened left its mark, and now you, the one affected, have to deal with the consequences. It's a version of what has been called blue-booking, where players describe what happened to their characters in rules-lite terms. Often it's used to flesh out backstory, play out moments when X first meets Y, or how Z came to be. It usually takes place between games, so as not to interrupt play in formal sessions.
Often this is a solo experience but it doesn't have to be. I first encountered the term in Cyberpunk's Listen Up, You Primitive Screwheads! where Blue Booking was described as roleplay between GM and player. In the example, Media Emile faces down some of Arasaka's Executive VPs at gunpoint in a meeting room on the 47th floor of Night City Tower. There's gunplay as well as roleplay but no random element, no checks, no dice; it's an extended yes-and improv moment in which the player gains information and is presumed to survive but not necessarily escape unscathed.
In fiction you're encouraged to start with action. Whatever the most interesting moment in the character's life-to-date is, that's where the opening chapter finds the character. Nobody cares about Bilbo's many years of more or less blissful stuffing-his-face-in-Hobbiton life. What we care about is the moment when Gandalf the wizard pays him a visit, and inscribes a fateful rune upon his otherwise pristine painted green door.
In RPGs you're also encouraged to start with action. If there isn't a swordfight in the marketplace within two minutes of the opening, start one. Bite your thumb at someone, or just bite your thumb, but whatever you do make sure blades are flashing.
In this particular campaign there are questions that need answering, chief among them being how the agents first meet the King. I've already discussed how you should design the King; but what was that first fateful encounter that bound the agents to the King?
I'm going to propose to you now that the opening chapter should be a Session Zero Blue Book, borrowing elements from the Resource Guide's Initiation chapter. In that Session Zero there shall be no dice, no random element, but neither shall it be a solo act. All the players will be at the table. The Director will be the Director.
Traditionally a Session Zero is a pre-campaign meeting and is often dealt with in a kind of checklist format, where players reel off the things they want to see and don't want to see, going forward. That's not what I'm proposing. This is more in line with the Initiation format, which tries to describe how the characters first became involved with the Conspiracy.
So start with action.
The Initiation section starts each moment with a brief, short descriptive header: Afflicted, Betrayed, Collateral Damage, Criminal Traces, Head-On Collision, Impossible Analysis, Old Files, the Trade. As a group decide which descriptive header best suits, either from that list or create one yourself. It can be a mixture. Ultraviolet uses Betrayal with a mix of the Trade, and opens with the sudden disappearance of a Met Detective Sergeant shortly after one of the DS's contacts tries to spill the beans on a criminal conspiracy, only to be brutally murdered. Action, action all the way.
Develop the scene from there.
Let's say that your opening scene is a version of Head-On Collision in which some of the soon-to-be agents are breaking into [BLANK] in order to [BLANK] and some are part of the protection detail. It doesn't really matter what BLANK is, but for this example let's say that the job's an assassination to take place in a fancy London high-rise, either an office or an apartment block.
It doesn't have to be a London high-rise, of course. It could as easily be a pre-handover Hong Kong. Greg Rucka got good mileage out of that in Queen and Country (v4 Definitive Edition). Anywhere in the Commonwealth will probably do, but for the minute let's stick with London.
Let's set some ground rules:
Every character comes out of this changed in some way, and each player gets to decide how their character is permanently altered. Other players can offer suggestions, but it's the player's call as to what happens to their character.
Every positive change (+1 to Vampirology, say), is balanced by an equal penalty to a pool or some kind of permanent affliction (eg. PTSD, chemical dependency).
No more than +3 benefit total, and therefore a -3 penalty (or equivalent).
If using Trust, assign Trust points based on the events of this scene.
The individual player gets to decide what the Resolution should be for their agent, and that's the character's long-term goal in the campaign.
The players get to resolve the scene, as a group - that is, they decide how the Head-On Collision ends. In the example, was the target killed? Did the target turn out to be something damned/supernatural/alien/mutant?
Those permanent changes can be anything you want; be creative. Not everyone has to have an addiction or mania. It might be something more mundane, like a +1 or 2 to Heat whenever operating in [wherever it might be] because your reputation precedes you. Or Difficulty for Stability tests increase by 1 under certain specific stressors (whenever encountering Bhuta, say).
Either during, or as a result of, this scene, the King comes into the agents' lives. Thanks to their actions the King now wants to be their patron. In much the same way, Philip Quast's character in Ultraviolet decides to bring Jack Davenport's DS Colefield onto the team as a consequence of his relationship with the policeman-turned-vampire Jack Beresford.
Anyone who dies in this scene, dies. This can be a way to permanently alter a character, by taking up to -3 Network and describing how their comrade in arms was [burnt alive / crushed to death / taken by Them]. Someone who dies can be encountered in future scenes or scenarios, of course. That's what ghosts (and vampires, for that matter) are all about. This is also a good excuse for taking the Revenge drive.
At the end of this Blue Book Session Zero the players should have decided how their agents first encountered the Conspiracy, and what the result was. They have a relationship with the King, which in turn will lead to future scenarios. They have a goal to shoot for - their Resolution.
Last time I introduced the concept: a Night's Black Agents game set in Blair's Britain. The next step is to establish the terms of this tragedy. Who's on stage? What do they want?
In tragedy we start with hamartia - the fatal flaw. Often this is hubris, or overweening self-confidence. The essence of hamartia is to miss the mark, to fall short in some way, and in Greek tragedy the one who falls short is often also the one with all the gifts. The hero, the prince, the semi-divine, the one whose fall from grace is all the more poignant because they started so well.
From hamartia the peripeteia results - the reversal of fortune. Somehow the protagonists' falling short causes, inspires or otherwise brings about the tragedy that irreversibly dooms them. Not just them; in a Shakespearean context a tragedy usually brings about the destruction of any number of hapless bystanders, like Ophelia in Hamlet, or Mercutio in Romeo & Juliet.
Though in this instance the better text might be Marlowe's Faustus, in which the hero with many gifts sells his soul for material gain.
1967 film adaptation with Richard Burton and Andreas Teuber
Before I talk about who's on stage, it would be better to set the stage.
Cool Britannia is a 1990s phenomenon that began before Blair's premiership, but Blair made it his own. It's a youth culture movement, Britpop, Four Weddings, Tracy Emin's bed and half a shark all mixed up in an over-sugared trifle. It's all the pent-up optimism that had been smothered in the 1980s, suddenly bursting free. The generation that might have been born in the 1970s but has no memory of strikes or Harold Wilson comes of age.
It's also, incidentally, the early budding of Brexit. If you're 20 in 1997, you're mid-40s, rapidly approaching your 50s in 2021. All those ambitious dreams, fading away, optimism replaced by bile, ready to be persuaded that it's all someone else's fault. After all, it can't be your fault that something which began so well ended so drably. Boris Johnson's a political columnist in the 1990s, dripping his poison. Domenic Cummings is in Russia, trying to build a Sanara-Vienna airline. UKIP's political journey begins in 1993. Nigel Farage is floating adrift, politically, after leaving the Conservatives in 1992, and is trading commodities in the City. David Cameron's an ambitious young wannabe, flitting from the Treasury to the Home Office to the private sector; at the time of Blair's first victories he's working for Carlton Television.
So you've got an early burst of overweening optimism, of pop culture and youthful exuberance - a colorful repudiation of the grey and stodgy Conservativism John Major came to represent. Ultimately the Tories get swept aside by Labour in 1997, as Cool Britannia crests.
That's the stage. Who are the players?
Blair's the Sun King in this narrative, but having the UK PM as an actual person the characters can interact with, and by extension manipulate, is probably counter-productive. This story doesn't need a Sun King; it needs a Gary King.
The World's End opening scene, sourced from SceneScreen
The one with all the gifts, the natural leader of the group - the one who'll become the biggest disappointment. If this is a straight Edom Files game then this is probably one of the Dukes, but let's say it's not. What then?
Whoever this is, it has to be a patron figure, potentially an Icon if we're using 13th Age concepts. Someone who provides not just money but also motivation, a walking, talking inciting incident. The one with a big enough mouth and personality to get the gang together. and back together again after the inevitable bust-up.
This isn't someone who takes attention from the PCs. Whoever this King is, their job is to alert the agents to danger, to uncover hot spots, and ultimately fail. Again, if the Icon rules are being used then this Icon will ultimately be dethroned - and whoever replaces them may not be inclined to help the agents in any way.
Finally, this King needs to fit whichever concept the campaign is designed around, and for a reminder those concepts are:
Mutant:Their markers are medical symptoms; their emphasis is infection.
Supernatural:Their markers are strange superstitions, their emphasis hunger.
Damned:Their markers are holy symbols and spiritualism, their emphasis is seduction.
Alien:Their markers are various uncanny effects; their emphasis is invasion.
Since we have four concepts let's have four potential Kings: the Politician, the Media Mogul (alternately the Financial Mogul), the Tech Guru, and the Priest.
The Politician's a fairly obvious pick: a Blairite, someone who might be on the Cabinet someday but for now is holding down a senior post in the government.
The Media or Financial Mogul is a bit different. An Alan Sugar type, pre-Apprentice, best known for being best known. Sugar himself is busy making computers at this point in his career, but if people know his name at all it's because he part-owns Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. Alternatively the Media type is someone high up in the DGMT which owns, among other things, the Daily Mail, the London Evening Standard and the Metro. This is useful because the DGMT is founded by the Viscount Northcliffe and owned by another Viscount, his descendant the Viscount Rothermere who, as fortune would have it, is a very recent appointment in game terms; Jonathan Harold Esmond Vere Harmsworth, to give him his complete name, takes over in 1998 when his father unexpectedly dies. So you've got an entrée to the nobility as well as a media mogul in one handy package.
The Tech Guru is probably building one of the many Dot-Bombs in 1997 - though of course nobody knows that yet. Awash with cash and charisma, famous and adored, the Tech Guru flits from Big Moment to Big Moment, and never misses a First Tuesday. Nobody questions anything they say or do. It wouldn't be proper. Their genius means they're always right, a quality they share with Doctor Who - tho Christopher Eccleston won't revive that character till 2005.
The Priest might be an Ultraviolet-type quasi-bureaucrat, (first aired 1998); it's never very clear who Philp Quast's ex-religious is meant to be working for, though there's a strong Catholic vibe to his character.
There is another way to go. Phil Rickman's Merrily Watkins, a female priest turned Deliverance exorcist, gets her start in 1998. Women have been able to be ordained as priests from 1992 but none are ordained until 1994, and women as bishops is a contentious issue right up to the first appointed female Bishop, in 2015. Merrily's a useful example because not only does she represent the very new, she also finds herself entangled in the ancient. She'd fit well into a Supernatural or Damned game, where a Philip Quast type is more generic.
Midwinter of the Spirit trailer, sourced from Acorn Media US.
With all that in mind, let's create some Garys.
Mutant:Their markers are medical symptoms; their emphasis is infection.
Politician: Malcolm / Nicola Fleming, a spin doctor with the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. Fleming's authority is murky at best; at times Fleming appears to have the PM's ear, while at other times Fleming's in temporary exile to some forgettable post within the Department. Fleming's a political troubleshooter who deals with some of the government's messier problems. A firm proponent of the Third Way, Fleming's no old-school socialist nor yet a union sympathizer. Fleming didn't get to where Fleming is today by ignoring friends; their Network is legendary. A Cambridge graduate (Trinity), Fleming has friends at the Science Park to help Fleming with any science-related crusades.
Fleming's current obsession is BSE and infected beef, which Fleming believes is linked to something far more sinister. Fleming suspects this is the first in a series of attempts to weaken the country through artificial manipulation of infectious diseases - to what end?
In Play: abrasive, confrontational and aggressive when pursuing an agenda, all charm and smiles when dealing with anyone outside the Department, particularly the Media.
Hamartia: insatiable curiosity. Fleming has to know, and doesn't care about the cost of knowing.
Supernatural:Their markers are strange superstitions, their emphasis hunger.
Financial Mogul: Bruno / Teressa Montgomery. born Melnyk to Ukraine immigrant father who left after the war and married late. Montgomery changed their name in the 1980s to Anglicize it. A financial genius who got his start in Thatcher's Britain, Montgomery is a staunch Labour supporter thanks both to his father and his mother, a coal miner's daughter with family ties to Neil Kinnock. These days he's moved from fund manager to guardian angel, providing start-up cash to some of Dot Com's most promising tech startups. Montgomery is as likely to be seen at First Tuesday events as they are in the board room. Montgomery is no grey little gnome; Montogomery is a petrol head with a penchant for classic cars, and owns at least two 1920s Bentleys formerly toys belonging to Woolf Baranato. Rumor has it Montgomery has tried to match it against France's Blue Train, in a recreation of the famous 1930s races.
Montgomery's eldest child, Martin, suffered a tragic accident that left the boy in a coma. That's when Montgomery was first approached by a group Montgomery calls the Syndicate, which made them a proposition: do as we ask, and you can have your son back. Montgomery, a lapsed Catholic, went back to the Church instead. Since then Montgomery has made it their mission to find out all they can about the Syndicate; Montgomery hates losing, to anyone or anything.
In Play: urbane, talkative, more British than the British and very fond of traditional hunting/shooting/fishing pursuits. Enjoys being the smartest person in the room.
Hamartia: overwhelming ambition. It isn't enough to have money; Montgomery must have the fame and power that goes with it.
Alien:Their markers are various uncanny effects; their emphasis is invasion.
Tech Guru: Alan / Elaine Augustin, founder and CEO of MilesToGo, an online retailer dealing in luxury travel and leisure. Augustin's a poetry geek and a tech geek, and is fond of quoting Robert Frost at business meetings. Augustin, a former model turned tech wizard who can dress the part as well as talk it, is as well known in Paris couture as they are in London's tech scene. Less well known is Augustin's addiction to Madame JoJos, a seedy Soho nightclub, but if you want Augustin's attention that's where you must go to get it. Make a splash there, and you've a fan for life.
Which is how (and where) Augustin first met what Augustin calls The Queen. Terrified and intrigued in equal measure, Augustin has been tracking The Queen ever since. Augustin won't rest until their curiosity is satisfied, though whether this is about knowledge or domination is anyone's guess.
In Play: Bumptious to the point of arrogance, with broad gestures and wild flights of fancy. Everyone expects a tech genius to be eccentric, even flamboyant, and the burden of living up to those expectations is exhausting.
Hamartia: tragic error. Augustin fundamentally misunderstands The Queen, though in what way has yet to be determined.
Damned:Their markers are holy symbols and spiritualism, their emphasis is seduction.
Priest: Emelia / Arthur Prentice-Jones, a new recruit to the Church of England's Deliverance ministry. Prentice-Jones is a former psychiatrist who suffered a crisis of conscience when a patient committed suicide. This traumatic event persuaded Prentice-Jones that there was more that could be done to help people, and that faith was the beacon that lit the way forward. An overachiever, Prentice-Jones soon won plaudits for their work and it's thought that one day they might ascend to a Bishopric; for now, their latest challenge is to reform the Deliverance ministry and bring it into the modern era. This they do with a will, travelling across the country to discuss spiritual and Deliverance issues with priests and people around the UK.
This peripatetic life led to an unexpected encounter in Suffolk, at the University, where what at first seemed to be a nervous breakdown proved to be what Prentice-Jones now knows is Renfielding. When Prentice-Jones sought to bring this to his superiors' attention he was rebuked, and now they wonder whether the rot is actually within the Church itself.
In Play: Calm, collected, very nearly bloodless - some call them the Cardinal, as they seem to be addicted to power and to ritual in equal measure. A deep well of compassion for the afflicted hides under that austere demeanor; Prentice-Jones got into this to help the desperate, and will do anything towards that end.
Hamartia: intense drive and passion for advancement. Prentice-Jones knows that they are right and the world is wrong; they brook no obstacles, no delay. If it must be done, it must be done immediately.
That's it for this week. Next time out, the first steps.
It's remarkable to me how all these events are happening at broadly the same time. As First Recon marines charge into Iraq in fall 2003 with a nervous Rolling Stone reporter hanging out of a humvee like a golden retriever on a road trip, the fallout from Enron's collapse in 2001 is ongoing; Skilling and Lay won't see the inside of a courtroom until 2006, and their former employees and investors are bankrupted. Meanwhile the major players in the 2008 financial collapse are galloping towards the finish line. By the time 2008 hits the Iraqi conflict is very much ongoing, and the marines Wright wrote about and Fick led have, in many cases, gone on to multiple tours, some of them suffering grievous injuries in that conflict.
There's a common through line: the willing complicity of those put in power, to guide institutions and countries, in their own destruction, for reasons that don't hold up intellectually or philosophically. Hubris, and pride. From Dick Cheney massaging intel until the White House could swallow it, and Colin Powell standing up in front of decision makers and spouting a lot of what proved to be nonsense designed specifically to bamboozle his listeners, to Enron's financial wizards and, later, the major banking institutions' accountants, auditors and risk analyzers willfully manipulating data to make the onlooker believe the risk was minimal or, at best, appropriately managed, we've been living through twenty years at least in which the facts on the ground never mattered, funded in part by the economic machine that is the United States running full tilt until it couldn't run any more.
A significant portion of the US electorate has now been conditioned to believe in bullshit and elect bullshitters, and there are times when I wonder whether this modern variant of a much older story can be traced, ultimately, to the politicians who cooked up the Iraqi conflict all those decades ago, and the businessmen who fleeced their investors and employees; the ones who abandoned any semblance of truth when truth didn't achieve their goal.
This has been the age of lunacy.
In the United Kingdom, this was the age of Tony Blair, prime minister from 1997 to 2007. He's there for Enron and Royal Bank of Scotland, there for Kosovo, Afghanistan, for Iraq, and bows out just as the economic disaster he helped create is about to explode. I lived in the UK more or less from his earliest days as PM almost to the end of his run; I was still a uni student in the 1990s. Personally I would have preferred his predecessor John Smith, but when Smith died of a heart attack Blair was the logical candidate.
Blair has extraordinary talent, and his premiership ought to have been glorious - were it not for his many wars. Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, and the one that broke him - Iraq. His willingness to follow George W. Bush's government into an unpopular and deeply divisive conflict cost Blair all the political goodwill he'd gained up to that point. Labour's majority shrank, and by the time Gordon Brown took office the writing was on the wall. It would have taken a much better leader than Brown to save the party from defeat, and in 2010 a hung parliament eventually gave David Cameron his shot at the brass ring - a chance Cameron dismally mismanaged.
Blair's UK is also the UK of Greg Rucka's Queen and Country, one of the ur-texts of Night's Black Agents. Rucka's Tara Chase is very much a creature of Blair's government, cooperating closely with the US' war on terror, and Blairs' wars are her wars, from Kosovo (the scene of her first adventure) through to an abortive attempt to remove Zimbabwe's Mugabe.
It occurs to me that Night's Black Agents, and its offshoot the Dracula Dossier, suits Blair's UK more, perhaps, than any other timeline. It's fresh enough that most people can remember the details, albeit through the fuzziest of lenses. The technology's not completely foreign to today's gamer; the internet now isn't the internet then, but it's not as if they were still using 3.5 inch floppies back in 2000. The first generation iPhone hasn't turned up yet nor yet the iPad, but that's the only major difference most gamers are going to notice. That, and the strange freedom air travelers enjoyed, before the towers came down.
Most importantly, the big relationship is already established and very familiar to everyone: Poodle-ism, the willingness of Blair's government to do pretty much whatever Bush wants it to do. UK business leaders aren't much different; just as Enron's destroying California's electricity supply and Lehman's racing towards a cliff, Royal Bank of Scotland is headed for a fall, Northern Rock is about to drown in sub-prime, and Rupert Murdoch, the éminence grise of journalism, is solidifying his grip on the UK's political landscape.
It's the age of lunacy - and who better to take over the asylum than the pre-eminent lunatic, Dracula?
So for the next few sessions that's what I'm going to talk about. A Dracula Dossier / Night's Black Agents game set in the early 2000s, during Blair's premiership. What would change? What would stay the same?
These men have several articles which they sell singly, such as tea-trays, copper kettles, fire-irons, guns, whips, to all of which they have some preamble; but their most attractive lot is a heap of miscellaneous articles: 'I have here a pair of scissors; I only want half-a-crown for them. What? You won't give me 1 shilling? Well, I'll add something else. Here's a most useful article, a knife with eight blades, and there's not a blade among you all that's more highly polished. This knife's a case of instruments in addition to the blades; here's a corkscrew, a button-hook, a file, and a picker. For this capital knife and a first-rate pair of scissors I want 1 shilling. Well, well, you've no more conscience than a lawyer; here's something else - a pocket book ...
Very nearly two years ago to the day I talked about campaign design, and how designing from the ground up is the best way to put together a memorable scene, or even a longer story arc. I said then:
The basic layer is simply this: the things the characters encounter all the time, whether they want to or not. The characters will always want to eat, to sleep, to move around. They'll buy clothing, toys, game consoles. They will have needs and they'll want to fill them. At the same time there will be events happening around them regardless of whether or not the players are directly involved, because everyone else in the game world has needs to satisfy too. This is at the heart of every system, regardless of setting or mechanics, and you can play with this layer in many different ways - so long as you establish it first.
What more basic than a Cheap-John?
Magnifique Hooky Street, after all.
A Cheap-John has three characteristics. First, they have a main line of business. It's the up-front stuff which might have fallen off the back of a lorry, but it's what catches the customer's eye and brings them to the Cheap-John in the first place. It might be the tea-trays, whips or guns, it might be something else. In a Cyberpunk setting, it might be clothes - racks of Leisurewear, say. Or guns. Or kibble.
Second, they have their sideline - all the other stuff they're selling in a job-lot. A Cheap-John will sell almost anything, and make the most outrageous promises if it means making the sale. A half-dozen spoons, nothing inferior to silver, and that do not require half the usual quantity of sugar to sweeten your tea ... a splendid pocket-book, which must add to the respectability and consequence of any man who wears it ... a pocket-comb which possesses the peculiar property of making the hair curl ...
Notice the phrasing. 'Nothing inferior to silver' does not mean it's silver. 'Do not require half the usual quantity of sugar to sweeten your tea' means ... something, but probably not what the buyer thinks it means. The buyer hears 'I will use less sugar,' but that's not what the Cheap-John said.
Third, a Cheap-John is a transitory business. Here one week, gone the next. On the move. Trotter's Independent Traders has its 1972 Reliant Regal Supervan III, knackered yet sturdy; symbols of British eccentricity, Wikipedia calls 'em. Comedic yet dangerous; you could drive those on a motorcycle license, and they tipped over and crashed at the slightest provocation. Point being, it's cheap. Ubiquitous, at least in its day, and it will get you and your goods where you need to be, more or less in one piece.
A Cheap-John is someone the characters will encounter all the time. They are the base level of the market, whatever the market is. More expensive traders sell more reliable, authentic merchandise, but the Cheap-John sells whatever the Cheap-John can lay his hands on, and the lure is you just might find an actual bargain. Of course you rarely do; if that was at all likely, the Cheap-John would go out of business. The whole point is to sell cheap tat for more than you paid for it.
Legal? Of course it's not legal. Do you think someone selling cheap tat at the lowest possible price is going to pay whatever the local authority wants for a trader's license?
With all that in mind, let's talk about three versions of the Cheap-John, with plot ideas for each.
Bookhounds of London
Morris Farraday
Age: indeterminate, but definitely over 40. Fat and wheezy. Works with an associate, 'Ribs' Macavoy, whose job it is to stand watch for the peelers and give warning if the stall's about to be raided.
Main Line: tea sets and china.
Sideline: almost anything, but the characters are going to be interested in his collection of pocket books. These aren't for note-taking; they're small paperback versions of popular novels, printed in the tens of thousands. They're useful for bulking up a struggling bookhound's stock. Morris' collection isn't exactly what you'd call mint, pristine or even complete; pages might be missing, the cover torn. That doesn't matter to the bookhounds - much. Besides, these have colorful covers that attract the eye.
Plot Hook: Morris acquires a suitcase from God alone knows where, and the contents are a bit literary for him so he offers it to the Hounds at a knock-down price. Papers found inside suggest that this is the very suitcase lost by Hemingway in the Gare de Lyon, Paris. Legendarily, it once contained Hemingway's entire literary output up to that point plus a large chunk of an unpublished World War One novel. It's anyone's guess where those papers are now; a large hole, chewed by a rat, in the bottom of the case may provide a clue. Oddly, once the Hounds get the case they find themselves plagued by rats of all kinds, including Rat Things ... but Rat Things are intelligent. They might remember what the papers said, if they don't still have the originals. The group's forger may be very interested in talking to these knowledgeable rodents.
Swords of the Serpentine
Pasqualin the Contrary
Age: no more than 20, at least biologically, and no matter what he does those moustache hairs aren't getting any thicker. Thin and aggressive. Is on the outs with half-a-dozen different criminal gangs as he refuses to pay dues, tribute or any other fealty. Fancies himself a ladies' man.
Main Line: blades, mostly knives.
Sideline: oddments, particularly foreign oddments. If it came from somewhere other than Eversink and is cracked and damaged now, you can bet it will find a place on Pasqualin's stall. He doesn't discriminate; that peculiar game set with half the pieces missing is just as important as the tooled leather belt he got from a barbarian, or the colorful blown glass bottles with the odd green sheen.
Plot Hook: Everyone knows foreigners have strange ideas about how to treat their dead. Those born and bred in Eversink know you have to put up some kind of statue, but these horsemen from the Flatlands have odd notions. One of Pasqualin's cheaper items is a mask about right-sized for a child, which Pasqualin thinks is a death mask. Unbeknown to him it has magical properties, in that someone used it to channel Corruption into a blood relative by means of the mask. The child is long dead, and the sorcerer wants her mask back, for ... sentimental reasons. That's before the heroes realize that the dead child also wants it back, for ... sentimental reasons.
Cyberpunk
Perfect Trung
Age: probably 40s, they/them, loves Asia Pop, particularly Hot Monster brand accessories and glasses. Drives around in a bright yellow modified groundcar, the Forbidden Palace (cargo upgrade, counts as seating upgrade for spend purposes, housing upgrade, malfunctioning biolock upgrade - as in, doesn't always let Perfect in). Works with Nomad pack, Coronado Pagans, who help them with their vehicle. Sometimes Perfect has one or two Pagans with them on a run, usually Pixie Dust, seven foot tall shotgun-toting bruiser. Younger Pagans also travel along with Perfect as technical support; the Pagans see it as a good way of testing out wannabees and hangers-on.
Main Line: Asia Pop fashionware, also light tattoos if Pixie Dust is with Perfect.
Sideline: Perfect rummages around in all the forgotten or broken-down parts of Rancho Coronado, particularly abandoned strip malls, so they often come up with software and braindance chips, pre-Red. Not all of them work as intended and some of them are so retrograde they won't work with current technology, at least not without Tech modification. Perfect fancies themselves a braindance artist and connoisseur, and frequently splices in old dance material to their latest creation for extra buzz.
Plot Hook: Perfect needs a place to lie low after a braindance chip sale went bad. Perfect's not sure what the customer's beef is, but the customer has weight with the Happy Daze Posers and as Perfect's allergic to multiple Fonzies beating the snot out of them, Perfect's calling in favors. Anyone who can offer Perfect a quiet place to sleep at night gets whatever they want from stock, plus a tip on where to look for some sweet salvage.
Generally speaking people know what they're getting into when they play a particular system. A James Bond game is all about being Bond and therefore can be expected to fulfil Bond tropes - the quips, the car chases, exotic locations and world-shattering evil masterminds. A Trail game is about Cthulhoid horror and can be expected to be moist and squamous, with a heavy dose of American gothic, possibly a hint of film noir. A Cyberpunk game is about dystopia, people lost in a futuristic landscape looking for meaning in all the wrong places.
You rarely see mixed genres in RPG settings, but it can be very interesting. The old Cyberpunk had a quasi-horror setting, the Night's Edge books, that worked remarkably well. In that setting you might encounter vampires, ghosts, Voodoo acolytes and terrifying dreamscapes. It had its faults; it leaned a little too heavily on serial killer tropes. But when it worked, it sang.
Body horror is a storytelling method where the narrative attempts to invoke intense feelings of physical and psychological disgust, or squick, and plays upon anxieties of physical vulnerability. One of the most effective versions of this I've ever seen on screen is the 1999 Takashi Miike movie Audition, in which a lovelorn businessman attempts to spark romance by auditioning women to 'be in his movie' - but things go badly wrong when he meets Asami, a fascinating woman with a past. And a few extra feet. There is a moment with a sack ... but I've said too much, and the trailers I can find online are a bit too spoilery, so I'll stop there.
The essence of body horror is making the human form do things we consider unnatural, though what we consider unnatural can be very revealing about our own prejudices. Stephen King once pointed out that, in the 1950s, you could freak American kids out just by having characters with a relatively mild physical issue. Even a bad case of the zits and shaggy hair was a major taboo, at a time when good hygiene, medical advances and three square meals a day had sorted out most of a generation's physical issues. Cleft palates, goiters, and many other ailments once relatively common, vanished almost entirely from the landscape. Bones lengthened, teeth straightened, complexions cleared. People forgot the old normal and replaced it with the new.
Clive Barker treads similar ground in Hellraiser, in which physical punishment - nails through the head, being skinned alive - masquerades as spiritual punishment. The spirit and the body are, apparently, one - mutilate the body, torture the soul.
Or Cronenberg, in films like Rabid, implying that a once-normal, healthy body can be tainted by, in this instance, a medical procedure, becoming a necrotic, corruptive influence.
There's no suggestion that a person's spirit and corpus is somehow separate; no immortal essence hidden behind a mortal façade. In body horror the two are one, and you can tell corruption at a glance because they don't look or behave like us. Often this is a buckets-of-blood genre, where guts and slick essences are spilt all over the screen and, by implication, your own home, since the whole point is to make the audience think this might happen anywhere at all, but especially where you feel safest. There's a reason why Hellraiser takes place in an ordinary house, why Rabid is set in semi-rural suburbia. 'This looks like where I live,' you're meant to think. 'This could happen here.' Of course, the logical tagline is 'it could happen to me,' which as you'll recall was Edwardian ghost story master M.R. James' famous bit of horror writing advice.
It doesn't have to be awash with gore. Invasion of the Body Snatchers achieves a very similar goal without the slightest drop of blood, by creating invaders that look like us but aren't quite like us. All flesh, no soul. Whatever immortal shred resides within that flesh is annihilated when the Body Snatchers take over.
In my practice, I've seen how people have allowed their humanity to drain away. Only it happened slowly instead of all at once. They didn't seem to mind... All of us — a little bit — we harden our hearts, grow callous. Only when we have to fight to stay human do we realize how precious it is to us, how dear ...
If body horror is the subversion of the natural - exploding guts and all - then cyberpunk is the conversion of the natural. We think we know what normal is, and then our expectations are upended. The only difference is, in conversion we willingly accept the change, where in subversion change is forced upon us.
Manga and movies like Ghost in the Shell explicitly play with this concept, going on and on about the Ghost without ever really exploring the concept beyond muttering 'The Ghost!' as if they were all ravens programmed to say Nevermore every few minutes. Paying lip service to the spirit without really confronting the concept, yet taking every possible opportunity to show off fantastic new body conversions. At times you wonder whether there are any downsides to becoming a cyborg, beyond a compulsion to mutter 'The Ghost!' every other episode. Nobody changes; the Major is always the Major, Batou always Batou. Even when changes seemingly occur, the series reverts back to the status quo ASAP in the next episode. For all the characters talk about the Ghost, it rarely impacts the narrative.
Cyberpunk the RPG setting does something similar with Empathy/Humanity.
Empathy: Your ability to relate to and care for others, and take others into consideration. Particularly important as it offsets the effects of cyberpsychosis, a dangerous mental illness common in the Dark Future ... For every point of Empathy the Character has, they gain 10 points of Humanity (HUM) ... Cyberpsychosis Humanity Loss is defined (for this purpose) as a loss of empathy for others and a corresponding loss of self-regard or sense of self preservation. Subjects with low Humanity have trouble emphasizing with themselves or others as "real."
All of this should sound very familiar to CoC and Trail players since this is basically the SAN/Stability mechanic, except where in CoC or Trail SAN is permanently lost by exposure to Mythos sources and temporarily lost by exposure to any number of frightening circumstances, Empathy and by extension Humanity is lost by grafting on technical adjuncts to the flesh. There's a side mechanic where Humanity can also be lost by exposure to terrifying circumstances, but it's encapsulated in a small chart on p. 231 and I wonder how many GMs run with the idea. Sanity is a major concept in CoC and Trail; Humanity doesn't seem as important in Cyberpunk.
It's difficult to make those numbers mean something without engaging the players' imaginations, and it's difficult to engage imagination though numbers alone. Particularly when those numbers have a mechanical consequence - in this instance, loss of the character. To cyberpsychosis, but really loss of the character to anything, whether it's cyberpsychosis or the Spaghetti Monster, is just as frustrating to the player.
Exactly the same conversation's been going on in CoC for decades. At first SAN and loss of same meant a roll on the Temporary (or Permanent) Insanity table, which meant that in some or all future scenes the player had to behave as though their character suffered from, say, a fear of insects, or a fear of crossing bridges. From that relatively simple (at times cruel, unintentionally or otherwise) beginning, systems became more complicated, until now we have setups like Delta Green's relationships, bonds and disorders system, actively engaging the players in their own spiritual demise. Because if they don't tend to those Bonds, in-game, the characters lose out big time.
I'm going to suggest to you now that body horror is indispensable to Cyberpunk because body horror gets the players to engage in what it means to be Cyber, in ways other than crunching HUM numbers. Those implants and modifications they desire come at a cost, and it's not just in Eurobucks. Further, that body horror doesn't have to be guts and gore; it has to be a subversion of the norm.
White Zombie isn't a particularly interesting film. It's historic, as it's the first zombie movie ever, based in part on William Seabrook's book The Magic Island. However everyone who's ever seen that film remembers this early scene if they remember nothing else, because it's the most chilling moment in the movie. Nature can be cruel, but only man can be so pointlessly cruel as to set up a system like this. The dead toil to grind cane into sugar, and it doesn't matter if one falls into the mix and is ground up with the cane.
It has a lot in common with the Moloch scene from Fritz Lang's Metropolis:
Both scenes are dehumanizing people in service of a mechanized, semi-supernatural overseer, for a goal that might be pointless. Both turn people into things. Both destroy people to achieve their objective. The workers of Metropolis march to their doom just as unthinkingly as White Zombie's dead men tend the sugar mill. Both are made in an age when socialism and worker's rights were hot topics, vigorously debated in the halls of power and on the factory floor.
Body horror - the subversion of body and soul.
Going back to Cyberpunk's player guidance:
1: Style over Substance: It doesn't matter how well you do something, as long as you look good doing it. Why should it matter if you look good? Because everything else doesn't. Imagine what decades of poor hygiene, lack of medical care and poor diet is going to do to people. Then add in radiation poisoning. Sure, if you're a corporate beaver, that's not a problem. Most people aren't corporates. Why do people cyber up if they can afford it? For the same reason people get plastic surgery. Not everyone needs a gun arm, but everyone needs to fit in.
2: Attitude is Everything. It's truth. Think dangerous; be dangerous. Think weak; be weak. Remember the sugar mill, and Moloch. The average primitive screwhead is going to end up sacrificed on that altar because they have no other choice. The average booster is going to die for some corporate's big power play because they don't know any better. That's what grunts are for. Are you a grunt?
3: Live on the Edge. The Edge is that nebulous zone where risk-takers and high rollers go. On the Edge, you'll risk your cash, your rep, even your life on something as vague as a principle or a big score. Why? Because the alternative is worse. Your principles are your soul, and you're trying to keep that as pure as possible in a world where people trade their souls in every day for a better butt or a new pair of eyes.
As GM you need to be banging away at body horror as often as possible, and you need to be making much greater use of that handy-dandy Humanity chart on p. 231. You should also encourage your players to go to Therapy (p 230) as often as possible, and maybe consider small Humanity rewards for interesting roleplay moments, much as CoC or Trail rewards heroic moments with a little SAN or Stability boost. After all, Humanity is ultimately about being human; there should be a reward for engaging with your Humanity.
As a final what-if, consider these potential body horror moments:
You enter the ripperdoc's dimly-lit den and notice, among the jars and storage tanks lining the walls, a new-harvested face floating in preservatives. You know that face. It belongs to the bartender at the Mad Hatter; you recognize that cute little mole on his cheek. He's been talking about selling his face for months, but until now you've always persuaded him otherwise. Guess he needed the money more than you thought. Wonder what he looks like these days ...
Womb rental - it's the latest thing. Some prefer vat-grown, but a healthy female with no significant black marks in her genetic history can command a substantial fee. They just put you into the factory for nine months, fill you full of sedatives to keep you compliant, and pop goes the baby. Of course, there are rumors that some of these women aren't exactly what you'd call volunteers, but hey - corp beavers need kids ...
You hear about the new factory they're building out by Jesus Street and Memory Lane? Remember about five years ago when they were going to renovate the old St. Simon Building, but the job stalled out? How they lost a cleanup crew? Well, turns out they didn't precisely lose that cleanup crew. I guess someone forgot to unlock a door when shift ended, and they've been down there ever since. Pretty airtight in those vaults, so they didn't decay so much as, well, became liquid. Anyway, there's good cheddar on offer for anyone who, you know, wants to scoop up the slurry and dump it somewhere legal. Or at least somewhere out of sight and mind ...
You see that group over there? Garbage pickers. They work the mounds out by Hooker Loop. How can I tell? Well, look at the fingers, choomb. See, on the one hand you get those who've been able to buy new hands, or at least good second-hand digits. See how the metal gets pitted and cruddy-looking? On the other, well, there's this kind of ulcer you get from that work, it eats fingers ...
You want to sign up for the Hustle Truck? Comes by every morning, picks up folks who want to earn a little extra by doing odd jobs. It's not a lot of money, and the work ain't much, but it's legal; it'll cover your coffin costs, choomb. One thing, tho; you got to get the Hustle Truck chip if you want in. It's nothing serious. The people who run it, they want to keep tabs on you - how you spend your time. Just when you're working. The chip doesn't monitor you when you're not on the job ...
Remember how Nixon used to tell those tall tales about Japanese ghosts? The what-was-it, the nupper-something, that was the one that really stuck with me. How it could just wipe its face away, leaving nothing behind but a blank. Well, they say that the braindance viewers over in the Night Market that sometimes pops up in Bitters has this problem. You go into the dance, and everything's slick. You come out, and sometimes you see faceless people. Now, are these real faceless people? Or is this some hot-shit rewired brain bull you get from the Dance? This one chica, she swears that after she did the Dance she went to, you know, freshen up, and there was this woman in the same stall, red hair, and the woman turns around ... nothing there, man. Nothing. Blank, from forehead to chin ...
I begin this way because it is the proper, orthodox, respectable way to begin, and I have been brought up in a proper, orthodox, respectable way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox, respectable thing; and the habit clings to me.
Of course, as a mere matter of information it is quite unnecessary to mention the date at all. The experienced reader knows it was Christmas Eve, without my telling him. It always is Christmas Eve, in a ghost story ... Jerome K. Jerome, Told After Supper
I've been reading a lot of ghost stories over Christmas. I've a small collection of Ash-Tree Press books, any of which I'd recommend to a reader interested in older, more obscure ghastly tales. I'm not saying they're all winners - far from it. But when they work, they are brilliant.
Christmas is a troubling holiday. In the early days of the Church the date varied; it might be celebrated in January, March, or December. However in pagan traditions, and in particular the Roman Saturnalia or observance of the birth of the Sun in Mithraic tradition, the proper celebration was in mid to late December (17th to 24th). Since the early Church depended on converting pagans it was felt prudent to shift the Christmas celebration to its current date.
This, mind, is also the season of the Lord of Misrule. The dead return; in fact, in some traditions that's the whole point. In former days the entire house would be swept clean, the meal prepared, everything laid on - and then the family would go to church, leaving the house empty so the ghosts could visit, and feast.
It's traditions like these which give birth to the old habit of telling ghost stories at Christmas.
One of the collections I've been reading is by David G. Rowlands: The Executor. Rowlands is a ghost story nut; he picked up the bug by reading M.R. James' work many years ago, and couldn't shake it. His style is similar to the Jamesian Circle, authors like Swain, Munby and Wakefield - in fact Rowlands is so fond of Swain's work he wrote several stories about Swain's clerical the Rev. Mr. Batchel and his Stoneground parish. I very much admire Rowlands' work, though he does have a habit I find annoying. He refers back to the old classics explicitly, by name, having his characters say things like "why, this is just like the events in Charles Dickens' The Signalman!" Do that once and you're forgiven; after the third or fourth repetition it becomes annoying.
For this post I want to develop an idea Rowlands uses in his very short piece, The Previous Train. I can't discuss this without spoilers, so be warned - but The Previous Train is only one small piece among many others, so I hope you'll forgive me for spoiling this one.
His long-running protagonist, Catholic priest Father O'Connor, is trying to catch a train. As with many of Rowlands' works the exact date is unclear, but judging by the circumstances it's probably 1930s-adjacent. He's in the Suffolk countryside, it's late at night, and there's nobody but O'Connor at the station. Even the station master has gone home, and there's little light; O'Connor has to read the train timetable by the glimmer of his bicycle lamp.
O'Connor hears an approaching train. It's not on the schedule, so he assumes it's not stopping and is probably a goods train, so he moves back from the track. However it is a passenger train and it does stop at the station. Thanking his lucky stars, he tries to put his bicycle in the goods wagon, after which he intends to board.
By the dim light within I saw the Guard. He was standing at the hand-break in the center of the floor. The feeble interior light came not from the lamp overhead, but seemed to emanate as cold phosphorescence from the very fabric of the compartment.
The Guard had not moved, and I was about to put my questions to him when I saw the cobwebs over his uniform, from his arms to the brake pillar; from the clutter of packages on the floor to his legs; across his face ...
Fortunately O'Connor escapes, by luck more than judgment. It transpires that this ghost train isn't a relic from the past but a warning of things to come, for one year later exactly there is a wreck on that line and all aboard are killed.
Forerunners are supernatural warnings of approaching events says folklorist Helen Creighton, and are usually connected with impending death. They come in many forms, and are startling, as though the important thing is to get the hearer's attention.
They share many characteristics with the German Doppelganger in that both phenomena can appear as warnings of tragedy soon to come. Or of tragedies just this minute playing out; Poe's William Wilson and the later short The Student of Prague play on this theme. An evil twin separates from the original - literally the protagonists' reflection, in Student - and goes off to create chaos.
Forerunners don't have to appear as a person; they can be an event, a sound, a recurring phenomena. A similar trick is often used in science fiction narratives, where the forerunner effect is often played off as some kind of time loop.
In The Previous Train the forerunner is a train, but it's not clear why it appears to O'Connor. After all, there's nothing the priest can do to stop the tragedy, even supposing he knew what the forerunner was trying to say. Nor is there any suggestion that this is a personal warning; there's no risk O'Connor will catch the train on the fatal day.
Moreover the forerunner in Previous Train is malevolent, potentially fatal.
The jolt swung the figure of the Guard around like an awkward puppet and I looked into his dead face. I am convinced that my heart stopped for that instant, then I felt it pound away again. The skin was seamed and gray, blotched with decay and softly luminous. The last straw was to see a dim spark of light deep down in the eyes, behind the cobwebs. It was not the light of intelligence, but some infernal animation building up ... building up from the emotion and vitality that were draining out of me!
Using this in an RPG is a little tricky, in that the whole point of a forerunner is that it happens before the action happens. So where in your average scenario all the really gruesome, action-packed stuff happens towards the end of the narrative, in a forerunner story the supernatural unpleasantness happens in the first few moments of the narrative, and the players spend the rest of the session unravelling it.
For that reason I don't think a forerunner suits a one-shot session. A one-shot demands action in the final scenes, as a kind of pay-off or reward for a shorter narrative span. However it could be a really effective device in a long-running campaign, where there's a big event coming in the final chapter and you want to give the characters some advance warning. It has real potential as the inciting incident of a longer narrative, in which the characters' ordinary lives are violently interrupted by a blatantly supernatural warning, which they spend the rest of the story trying to understand.
It could be a very interesting trick if the forerunner creates duplicate versions of the characters, as with The Student of Prague. Then the GM has ready-made antagonists for the campaign, enemies who will advance in power as the characters advance and will oppose the characters at every opportunity. Always one step ahead, the doppelgangers ruin the characters' reputations, upend their triumphs, undermine their successes. No matter where they go, they can't escape.
In any kind of horror setting the forerunner springs from the same source as magic. If magic happens because of demons, then the forerunner is demonic. If magic is the result of super-science beings meddling with the fundamental building blocks of the universe at the dawn of time, then dopplegangers are an after-effect of those same experiments; the universe's version of a bad acid flashback. If, as with Bookhounds, the energies of the city itself power magical effects, then those same energies can create forerunners.
A megapolisomantic working uses the city as a sorcerous engine to accomplish magical effects. Whether the city generates magical energies, or merely focuses pre-existing forces (astrological, geomantic, divine, Mythos, etc) is a metaphysical matter left up to the Keeper. Are all cities megapolisomantically significant? Bookhounds of London, p 76.
Let's say for the sake of this discussion that this is a Bookhounds game and you, the GM, want to use a forerunner event to set up a later, Mythos-relevant disaster. Let's also include Megapolisomancy, with the presumption that it's the innate power of the city that causes the event.
From that we get:
Shadow Train
This seed presumes the characters' book store is somewhere near an Underground Station. That's not difficult; there are plenty to choose from, including a long list of fictional stations. I'm going to call this station Hobb's End, after the station which plays a major role in Quatermass and the Pit.
One or more of the characters are waiting for their train. It is the end of a long day, and they are exhausted. It is close to midnight, and there aren't many other people with them, down there in the dark.
It gets darker. The station lights flicker and dim, and characters with magical or megapolisomantic ability sense a disturbance, as if something powerful is gathering strength. There comes a pulsing of energy from the tube line, perhaps heralding an approaching train - but as the whatever-it-is emerges from the tunnel the station lights fail altogether, plunging the platform into darkness.
The characters can still see. Whatever-it-is coming out from the tunnel sheds its own ghastly light.
It's not a tube train, at least not as they know it. It is black, and its livery doesn't match any train line they're familiar with. It grinds to a stop but its doors do not open.
Sitting in the train, so close the characters could touch them, are the characters. At least, in every possible way these creatures with their dead, luminous eyes resemble the characters. They gaze with indifference at their living counterparts. Try as they might, the characters won't be able to get on board the train or communicate with their doubles.
There's something else on the train. Large, motile, a mass that flows and bubbles.
With a sudden start the train begins to move again, and soon it eases down the tunnel. Once it's gone, the station lights come on again.
If the characters ask, the other people on the platform saw this happen but none of them know what it means. Station staff, if asked, disclaim all knowledge, though one or two of them might privately admit that 'odd things' have happened over the last few nights. Nothing on this scale, and as it never happens again station staff and other witnesses are all too keen to forget it ever happened.
Two things result from this experience.
First, any character who did not already have a Megapolisomancy pool has one dot now. They're attuned to the inner workings of the city, for good or ill.
Second, any character present feels a persistent sense of impending doom. They don't know what it is. They don't know what it presages. They only know that it is comingand that right soon.
The rest of the campaign arc will be spent unravelling this sense of impending doom and discovering what it means. Exactly what it does mean is up to the players and Keeper. It could be a very personal event, like a disaster on the line. It could be a citywide event, or something of planetary significance, like England being destroyed by the awakening of an Old One. Whatever it is, is up to you.
Though the characters will not appreciate this at first, there is a third result. Their twins are busy. They, like the Student's reflection, are as like the characters as it is possible to be, down to mannerisms and dress - yet they are opposed to the characters in every way. They dog the characters' actions. If the character asks for a book to be reserved at the British Library, their opposite arrives and claims it before they do. If the character attends an auction, their double is there and bids for the prize.
These creatures are creations of pure Megapolisomancy. They cannot exist outside the city, and it's not clear whose bidding they follow - if they follow any creature's bidding at all. It may be they are figments of the city's imagination, as a dreamer populates her dream - but if so, does that mean the city is an entity unto itself? Is it dreaming?
