2018-04-30: That Wasn't A Request

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  • Cutscene: That Wasn't A Request
  • Cast: Cameron Bridges (NPC), Scythe Riebaure
  • Where: Guild Galad
  • Date: March 14th, 2018
  • Summary: A disgraced academic gets an unexpected visitor in his study. Things do not go remotely as planned for him.


Dr. Cameron Bridges sat in his study, drinking his second snifter of brandy and staring at a blank piece of paper. He'd promised himself that he would write a letter of recommendation for a promising young man who wanted to work in War Antiquities, but the words felt hollow and wrong before he even got them on paper. The problem wasn't his lengthy leave of absence, or the fact that he'd barely managed to keep up with his colleagues since his return to Guild Galad. The more Cameron thought about it, the more certain he became--if he wrote this letter, he would be sending a young man down the very path that had marked him as a target for the Metal Demons. How could he do that when he was still suffering from what they'd done? Even now, a year later, the nightmares still haunted him, all blood and smoke and surreal desert heat. He could still hear the Demons' voices, sometimes--bits and pieces of conversation he couldn't remember clearly. Not quite two days ago, he'd been startled out of his sleep by the sound of a motorcoach backfiring, and spent the better part of an hour coming down from it. He'd never thought of himself as weak of nerve, and the last thing he wanted was for his colleagues to see it.

No. The last thing he wanted was to inflict this on someone else.

Someone knocked at the door. Cameron looked up, scowling at the interruption. He'd told Jefferies he wasn't in any mood for visitors, and everyone worth talking to knew to respect Cameron's space when he was working. Was it Jefferies? If it was, it could wait, and Jefferies knew to give up if he went long enough without an answer. Cameron set the pen down, rested his elbows on the desk, and pressed his hands to his temples. The knocking returned. Cameron stared down at the blank sheet of paper, let out a hiss of breath, and hauled himself out of his chair. He stalked across the study, reached out, and gripped the doorknob as though he could throttle it if he tried hard enough.

"For Granas' sake," Cameron growled, as he wrenched the door open, "who is--"

No one was there. Cameron blinked, glanced down the hallway in both directions, and saw no sign of whomever had been knocking at his door less than ten seconds ago. He couldn't even hear footsteps.

"Ahem," said a voice from inside the study.

Cameron bit his tongue to keep himself from screaming. Even then, his heart leapt against his ribs, and cold sweat broke out on his brow--he whirled around to face the voice's source, half-certain he was hearing things now, on top of the shakes.

No. He wasn't hearing things. Or perhaps he was, and seeing things, on top of that.

There, floating in the air above Cameron's desk, was a man. He sat as if in the middle of a conversation with an intimate friend--slouched and cross-legged, with one elbow resting on his knee, and his chin cupped in his palm. A red jacket hung loose around his otherwise-bare chest, and pale, shaggy hair draped roguishly across one of his eyes. The other one, the color of molten gold, fixed on Cameron with undisguised amusement. Cameron bolted for the door. He'd barely gotten two steps before the strange man appeared in front of it with no more fanfare than a soft pop of displaced air. Cameron stumbled to a stop, and pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm himself. There had to be an explanation.

"Who are you?" he said, as soon as he could breathe enough to speak. "What do you want?"

"Settle down, old man!" said the intruder, smiling wide enough to put fang-like canines on full display. He reached out, and gripped Cameron's shoulder. "I'm just here to talk. If I wanted you dead, I would've killed you before you realized anyone else was in here with you." His hand tightened. Cameron could feel the strength in that grip, as powerful and impersonal as an industrial press. "Why don't we have a seat and discuss this matter like civilized gentlemen?" The scientist nodded, and felt the crushing grip abate ever-so-slightly as the intruder escorted him back to his chair. Cameron's legs gave out the moment the seat was beneath him, and he all but collapsed into his chair. The intruder let go, nodded, and took a seat on Cameron's desk once more--this time, on the desk itself. "Much better. There's no reason we can't be a bit more genteel about this, is there? After all, my employer has interest in your services."

"Your employer," Cameron said. His thoughts raced. He'd bought several ARMs, and one of them was still in his desk drawer. Could he reach it in time? "All right. You have my attention."

"Oh, I think I've had that for a long while," said the intruder. He reached for an inkwell on the corner of Cameron's desk, and swatted it with the back of his hand. The jar flew off the desk, tracing out a graceful arc before shattering on the immaculately-polished floor. Cameron flinched at the sound, his jaw tightening, his pulse quickening. The intruder laughed. "But at any rate, we have need for your particular skillset. I can't divulge the particulars, of course, but let me reassure you that my employer intends to consign the Metal Demons to the ash heap of history." The man smiled, putting those fangs on full display. "For good, this time."

Cameron tried to breathe. What could he possibly say to that?

"I do have the right Doctor Cameron Bridges, hm?" The stranger put a hand to his chin again. Cameron noticed a patch on the sleeve of his jacket--a spear or lance, done up in a heraldic style. A military crest? "Eastbridge University, Master's College, Department Chair of War Antiquities, foremost authority on Metal Dragon physiology in Guild Galad?" The man smiled, putting those fangs on full display. "The first human to survive captivity at the Demons' hands in a thousand years? Must've left quite an impression on you."

Cameron swallowed. His throat suddenly felt dry. "How--?" His right hand inched forwards, towards the half-open drawer. "Did she tell you?" If he could just get to the ARM...

"She?" said the intruder, furrowing his brow and thought. "How remarkably vague. But if you want me to go down the list, your secretary didn't tell me, nor did your mother, or your sister, or..." The intruder trailed off, and smiled like a razor. "Or that girl, your ex-best-friend's daughter, the one who wanted to get in good with you because you're the Department Chair. What was her name? Ida?" Bridges flinched. His hand stopped atop the drawer, ready to dart inside and grab the gun. The intruder didn't seem to notice. "She's been quite the busy bee out in the Badlands, though regrettably, we haven't seen much from her in some time. Are you still mad at her? You did have an ugly, humiliating falling-out."

"ENOUGH!" Cameron roared. His hand moved, reaching for the grip of the revolver. He felt solid wood brushing against his fingers--

And then nothing. The intruder grinned like the the cat that ate the canary, and leveled his own ARM at him. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," the man said. Cameron sank back into his chair, defeated, trembling, remembering an all-too-humanlike man with green hair and inexplicable mannerisms. "After all, crude violence is not the way of a proper Crimson Noble. You seem to have misunderstood me, Dr. Bridges. My employer does not make requests." The intruder reached out, and his hand closed around Cameron's shoulder once again.

Everything went white.