Rising Inferno [CYOA]

We're a lucky little lad named Ictos Inspiratione.

I kinda like the idea of an intuitive detective type character but perhaps not a young boy. And his name... Falco Spaccarelli!

Honestly, with the world having "ended", people just don't call on Duncan as often as before. He could count the number of people who've asked him for help the past dozen weeks on one hand.

Well, just those who asked him to solve a mystery. He's helped rebuild some fallen down buildings some times and while that's good an all it's just not the SAME. He fears he might be getting rusty. What's more, the other day some nobody on the side of the road called him "kid". He thought he'd built up his reputation as a detective enough that such derogatory nicknames would cease.

He wants to put his talent back to use and figures the rebellion be the best and most just place to do it.

---

You nervously explain to Ms. Pond that, well, you don’t look like one because you’re not really a fighter at all. You’re Duncan Spacone, a pretty alright detective (you hope), and you were actually hoping that you could do something useful outside of combat? S-See, you rush to add before she has a chance to answer, you usually like to help people out by solving mysteries because you’re really good at putting things together. But, well… After Bristow attacked and turned everything topsy-turvy, there’s not much call for a neighborhood detective so much as a normal helping hand. And, sure, you’re plenty happy to help where you can when it comes to rebuilding things or helping people move to safety, it feels like you could be doing more. Something that puts your particular mental acumen to the test.

Oddly enough, by the time you finish with your small monologue, you feel, if not calmer, more in control. As though getting all of that out of your mind and into words has helped ease your fear of rejection. But it seems the tension still left in your unsteady hands and the fearful expression playing on your face hasn’t been unnoticed by the commander, as she frowns and asks, her tone almost worried, “Are you sure that’s the only reason you’re here?”


The truth is, while you don’t want to admit it aloud, there’s a far more concrete reason you’re here. About two months before Bristow’s initial transmission, and not long at all before the enigma known as Inferno introduced himself to the world, your childhood best friend went missing. The events aren’t connected, they can’t be, but even before Kleinsen fell into chaos you knew that you had to find out what had happened to him. Right now with things the way they are, being a part of the Rebellion might be your only chance to ask around and gather information.

You don’t tell Ms. Pond any of this. Instead, not finding the confidence to meet her eyes, you just ask a question.

“Do you know anything about a mercenary named Zero Renato?”

The woman in front of doesn’t answer for a heavy set of seconds, confirming your fears that she would be a dead-end in that particular case. At length she changes the topic with a technique as old as time: closing her eyes, sighing gently, and then providing a serious gaze and a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m going to be blunt with you, Spacone, most of the people in this base don’t think we have a prayer. We’re understaffed, overworked, low on recruits able or willing to fight a war. And with Maurice-- you’d know him as ‘the Lancer’ --trapped who knows where, if not gone for good…”

“Morale is dropping rapidly,” you finish for her.

“Exactly. A lot of people are scared to put themselves on the line for this cause when they don’t know if they’ll see it through to the other side. And I have to be honest with you, because you seem like a kid who appreciates honesty.” (She doesn’t notice you bristle up at the word "kid") “If you join us, you might need to take up a weapon and fight. And no matter how many people are by your side, or how much training we can give you, I can’t guarantee that either of us will make it through that battle. But we’re the only chance this planet has against Bristow.”

Rosetta Pond doubles down on her already somber tone, turning your other shoulder so that you’re looking at each other right in the eyes. It’s honestly rather intimidating, and kind of uncomfortable???

“If you want to join this rebellion, you need to be brave. Can you do that?”

Of course you can be brave! What does she think you are, a dead mouse with a strangely elaborate parasol?

Something snaps loose inside you for a moment, your eyes almost flashing as you wrest yourself from the grip of Ms. Rosetta Pond and stride towards the stone table in the center of the room. As you approach it, you unsheathe your grandfather’s ceremonial dagger a switchblade pocket knife from its habitual hiding place on your person (you never know when you might need a knife), and prepare to do the UNTHINKABLE.

Slamming one hand down on the table with enough force to make a noise that causes ms. Pond to start, you grasp the pocket knife firmly in the other hand and begin a dance [https://youtu.be/fI-2VZoxYnQ] that has been practiced among your people for years.

For you have all your fingers, and the knife goes chop, chop, chop. If you miss the spaces in between, your fingers will come off…

Ms. Pond looks understandably worried about this, taking a step and a half towards you, but ultimately recognizes that interrupting you now would only cause you to be even more of a danger to yourself. And so you continue, picking up the speed, knowing that if you hit your fingers then your hands will start to bleed. That’s how the song goes, anyways.

And… You’re doing well! You get up to a blazing fast tempo, the clicking of the rapidly-dulling knife point against the table blurring into a rhythmic and constant tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. And then you mess up. Your aim is off, or the knife slips, or something of that nature. It’s hard to tell, but whatever the cause, you end up hitting the side of your ring finger with the sharp side of the blade and staining the table red as it moves right through it.

We’ve decided to remove the resulting expletives to maintain a friendly reading experience, as foul language of this caliber has been outlawed in fifteen countries across the globe by the International Confederation of Blushing Sailors.

Rosetta, of course, immediately recovers a med kit hanging on the nearby wall and rushes to your side, hoping that bandages will prove more effective at sealing up the wound than your other hand.
“What were you thinking?”

“...That it would look cool?

“Well, I can’t fault you on that one…” Her half amused, half maternally concerned voice is little more than a whisper, but you can still make it out.

The two of you are silent until after the bandages have been applied, the fresh gash in your finger requiring a butterfly just to secure it closed and a bit of gauze tape to make sure it stays secure. In less med-nerdy terms, you messed yourself up real bad. After putting the kit back on the wall, Rosetta Pond turns and looks you over top to bottom one more time, although she appears to see you differently this time. You’re not just some wimp detective--you’re a wimp detective who isn’t afraid to be a little crazy.

“Well, I think you answered my question about being brave.”

“Thanks?”

She shakes her head subtly, a silent indication that no, that was not a compliment. But, regardless, she procures a small paper from the army vest she’s totally been wearing this whole time and passes it to you.

“Directions to your new quarters. You’ll need to set yourself up with the gatekeepers, and you’ll be rooming with another recruit. Get out of my sight before I change my mind, you absolute madman.”

Suppressing an internal cheer, you take the paper in both hands with a nod and slip out the same door you came in back to the waiting room. As you do, the ticker above it changes to read “17” and someone stands up to move past you and enter. That simple fact solidifies the reality of the situation for you: despite your recent nerves, and your misgivings about coming here in the first place, you’ve made it. You were accepted. You are officially a rebel.

And you realize that now that you’re officially a rebel, you have no idea what to do with yourself.

Hopefully the roommate won't eat all your pringles.

Oh hey, speaking of Roommates..... Do you notice any Goblin Kings or men in halfmasks anywhere?

You decide to take a look at the slip of paper Ms. Pond gave you, not quite surprised to learn that it's actually a small pamphlet titled "So You're A Member of the Resistance." Classy.

Flipping through, you see a lot of what you'd expect from the title: Welcome to the party, this is who we are, this is what you need to know. Most of it isn't terribly useful, but the back of the pamphlet has a basic map of the compound printed on it, and it seems Rosetta slipped a note in the middle listing your room number. That's good, at least you can pretend to know where you're going.

Deciding to cut to the chase for now and just head straight to your room, you go ahead and follow the map over to the living quarters, adorably nicknamed the Campus, and check in on the listed number. You notice a card over the door with enough space for two names to be written in, and a pen chained to the wall nearby, so after double checking that you're at the right number you go ahead and fill the first line in with your name. This is your room after all, and there's no reason not to mark it as such.

Weirdly enough, the door isn't locked like you expected it to be. In fact, it doesn't seem to have any sort of keycard, scanner, or any other sort of traditional id system. It simply swings open when you turn the handle and push, which seems weirdly low-tech for a place like this. And, on taking a look around the room the door belongs to, you realize you'll need to adjust your expectations slightly.


The room itself is small, but not cramped, perhaps the size of a reasonably functional hotel room or a very small single-room apartment, an assumption doubled up by the set of housekeys hanging up on the wall next to the door. Two single person beds sit to one side under florescent lighting, almost central against an unpainted wall that exposes the original stonework and plaster of this place in spots, the example of which the rest of the room seems to have followed, and the rest of it is decorated sparsely. Each bed has a small locker at the foot for you to store your belongings, and a pair of double-drawers separate them to safeguard the wardrobes of the occupants and act as bedside tables. In the back you can see a small kitchenette with what you presume to be a gas stove, a table to eat on, and a small desk sits where you'd normally expect a TV to go with an ancient box of a databox sat on it. You don't have a lot of experience with old technology, but you're pretty sure this model was abandoned a couple decades ago with the advent of Global Runic Networking, so you can only assume that the compound has a self-contained ADT Field set up for messaging or the like.

But that's neither here nor there. For now, it's time to sit down on one of these very basic beds and think about something more important than outdated tech.

Like butter.

Specifically, you wonder how you're possibly going to make proper toast without your favorite brand of butter if Bristow manages to take down the local corner shop you usually buy it from. It's a completely mundane and pointless thought, but it helps to keep you calm.


And then, long enough later for you to have lost track of time, someone else walks through the door.

He's a tall guy, about your age, with messy cropped hair, ski goggles and fingerless leather gloves, and above all a clear laid-back personality, holding a pamphlet in his hands identical to yours. He seems familiar but you can't quite place where you've seen him before, until it hits you: he was in the line directly after you. Ticket No. 17.

You stare at each other for what feels like long minutes, before No. 17 finally cuts off the tense atmosphere by shutting the door behind him and holding out a hand to shake.
"Name's Corvin. Corvin Reno."

We're an investigator, right? Scrutinize the heck out of this guy before doing anything social towards him. Make sure you both like the same kinds of movies, but try to ascertain your answer just by looking at him.
Also try to guess his favorite color.
And his spirit animal.
THEN introduce yourself.