Bath Imaginable

Our story begins in Bastion, in the shadowy parking lot beneath the offices of the People’s Paperworks…

“Paper is serious business. I don’t blame Anna for running away, but it’s time for me to name my successor. No doubt she’s staying with her dear friend in Hendenburgh, Valerie. Start there.”
– Arthur People

The Cast
Collectively, they owe £10,000 to the People’s Paperworks.

Red Ghost stopped making carriages in ’25. They tried tires for a while, but the market was already owned. In ’42, the executives made a choice that changed the borough: they built a machine designed to outrun the city.

Starting in ’42 they made a series of automobiles with combustion engines that would last longer and drive further than the modern electric car. Their flagship model, the Banshee, was manufactured in Bastion from ’44 to ’57 until the allegedly-toxic fumes of the colloquially-and-pejoratively-named Deep Country Machinery turned the city against the entire borough. Still, curiosity compilers and machine whisperers alike hold the RG Banshees produced in that time in high regard as a safe and reliable way of travelling outside of Bastion. But who would ever do that?

BASTION, ’73
The lift doors open to reveal a long corridor into darkness. Our characters step out, they look disheveled and broken-down under the crushing weight of debt. A hawk flies out first, surveying the corridor. It smells like paint and rain.

Under an amber spotlight is the ’47 RG Banshee; Numeron tosses Flinch the keys. The eight-ball-keychain feels heavy in his hand. Denser than it should. The Banshee is warm to the touch, while the surrounding cars remain cold, dusty, and untouched.

When the headlights turn on, a figure moves behind a concrete pillar, just out of view.

“Let’s go.”

The characters drive toward the light, but they’re blocked by an aluminum barrier arm and an intense parking attendant. He holds a clipboard in his hand, and demands the stub.

The characters open the glove compartment, Nika reaches in and feels the weight of the parking stub’s premium paper.

“How old is that?” Flinch asks.

“Nine years… eight months.” Nika reads. Wow, the paper retains its high gloss finish, even after all these years.

“Parking costs £7 per week,” the attendant says, “that’s £3,192. Unauthorized vehicles will be towed at your expense.”

“No way,” Numeron says, leaning forward from the backseat. Hamish ruffles his feathers, “call Arthur, we’re not paying for this. This is his car, we work for him.”

The parking attendant slides the glass window closed. He picks up the phone: “yeah, uh-huh, ok, I’ll tell them,” he opens the window. “He says maybe you aren’t the right people for the job, if you can’t figure this out.”

Flinch turns to the others, “what do we do?”

“If you can’t afford to pay,” the attendant says excitedly, “you can always fill out a Form 27-B.”

“What’s that?”

“A declaration of financial hardship.”

Numeron lifts a coin from his pocket. A substantially lucky coin. He offers to wager: “Flip the coin, call it. If we win, you let us out. If we lose, we fill out the form.”

The parking attendant scans the group. He sees a pistol concealed beneath Nika’s vest. He sees the predatory gaze of a hawk. He sees a desperate pettiness in Numeron’s eyes as he holds the coin. A simmering lust for violence.

“Fine.”

The coin is flipped, the arm lifts, and as the group drives away, they see the parking attendant is crying.

THE FORGOTTEN COAST
The characters drive for hours through the humming tunnel lit by yellow sodium-vapor. The white mist is blinding when they emerge on the Forgotten Coast. A cracked asphalt highway cuts through a misty, mountain forest ahead.

A strange smell occurs on the road. Familiar, but indescribable. There’s nothing but static on the radio.

It’s late evening when the Banshee turns off the highway onto a muddy road with deep tracks. On the mountainside is a lumber mill surrounded by a sheet metal gate. The owner, Ibley, is contractually obligated to shelter the characters.

They ask around about a specialist to look at their car. The dead-eyed, broke-back mill workers point them toward a garage and the light spills out from the open door. Inside is the machinist, Bale. He inspects the car.

“I can’t find anything wrong with the car,” he says, running a gangly, grease-covered arm through his thick dark hair, “these old RG models are built to last, that’s for sure.” He runs his hand across the hood tenderly.

“Tell you what though, you look in on my cousin Winnie in Orlane–it’s on your way to Hendenburgh, and I’ll fix any future issues that come up,” he pats the car, “it’s a damn fine machine.”

Winnie owns the Foaming Mug in Orlane, “I’m sure she’s fine,” the machinist keeps saying, but he looks like his worries are eating him alive. He’s a man in mid-disappearance, his reflection not even visible in the dark windows behind him.

Flinch reaches a hand and places it on Bale’s shoulder, just to check–he’s there, in the flesh, warm and damp with sweat.

“We’ll look in on Winnie, don’t worry,” Flinch says.

ROAD TO ORLANE
The characters wake up in a cottage overcrowded with reams of paper–ultra high gloss, heavyweight. The good stuff. They leave for Orlane, turning off of HWY 1 and onto the dirt road, Ferry Dr.

ORLANE
The first sign they see says MOTEL. A smaller, ornate wooden sign hanging below it reads the Golden Grain Inn. Flinch and Nika wait in the car, Numeron runs inside. The bartender smiles, wiping a rag across the polished wooden bar. The bumpkins within turn in unison. He feels out of place in his office wear, but approaches the bar.

The bartender smiles warmly. Like it’s a long-awaited homecoming.

“I’m looking for Winnie,” Numeron says.

“Don’t know her,” the man turns his head, “would you like a drink?”

“No thanks,” Numeron looks around the room. The bumpkins only stare. He rattles his fingers on the bar, “where’s the Foaming Mug?”

“Foaming Mug…” the bartender leans his head back, like he’s trying to swallow the words but they’re too big and too sharp to get down, “never heard of it.”

“Fucking liar,” Numeron spits as he slams the Banshee door behind him, “he just wants us to stay at his inn. Let’s keep driving.”

Flinch rolls the Banshee forward, Nika scans the streets. Numeron wipes a small white spot on his trousers, smearing Hawk poop deeper into the wool.

The group sees a small, industrial farming town. Broken down farming equipment, overgrown yards, numerous boarded up shops. They see a young man cutting wood, they roll down the window and wave him over.

“Foaming Mug? Never heard of it,” he says, sticking his head in the car to get a good look at each of them.

The group drives until the find a grove of stately elms and a long path rising into the trees. It’s getting dark now, and they have no idea where the Foaming Mug is.

At the end of the trail is a hermit’s cottage. Drapes pulled tightly closed. The group parks the Banshee and knocks on the door.

“Go away,” they hear from within.

“We’re looking for Winnie,” Flinch announces. “Bale sent us,” he adds, hopeful Winnie is in there and the feeling that his guts are sinking into the surrounding swamp will end.

The door opens slightly, an old man peeks through and takes a look at them, and then he sticks the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun in their face.

“I’ll let you in, but you need to submit to this.” He pulls a piece of silver from the pocket of his work jacket, it looks like an otoscope but it’s decorated with ornate filigree that flashes in the buzzing porchlight.

“What is that?”

“Mind probe,” the old man says, his lips so tight they barely seem to move.

“Ok,” Numeron says, volunteering to go first.

“Don’t resist,” the old man warns, shaking the shotgun a little bit.

Numeron feels his mind invaded, a splinter in the back of his skull widening, burrowing in and looking for his truest self.

Flinch and Nika watch as the old man’s face lights up with insight; he sees Numeron’s pain, his preoccupation with petty jealousies, and the rage he holds for the traders who sold him out.

Flinch goes next: he’s a well of guilt, a blackhole of shame–he can’t stand the gravity of what he did, all the people he sent to prison and the extra money he took to tip the scales. Finding Anna–this, now; looking for Winnie–it’s redemption.

Nika feels the steely hot focus of the probe worming its way through her skull, poking around her head meat and looking for her secrets.

Stop!

The old man steps back, he feels Nika resist the probe.

“I said don’t resist!” He raises the gun, “you’re with them aren’t you!”

“Who?” Nika asks, raising her voice.

Numeron steps between them, “she’s with us,” he says.

“We’ve known her for a decade,” Flinch adds.

The man starts to relax, he finally lets down his guard, blinks for the first time. “Come in, and close the door.”

He sets the shotgun down on the kitchen table. The place is filthy. He puts his arcana back in his pocket and pours a glass of whiskey.

“What’s going on around here?” Flinch asks.

“I don’t know,” Roman grits his teeth and pours another drink, “the whole town’s gone funny. People disappear, then they come back changed. I don’t know who to trust.”

“We’re looking for Winnie, do you know her?” Nika asks.

“Yeah, I know Winnie,” he begins. He used to drink at the Foaming Mug regularly, but a few weeks ago there was a fire, it’s been boarded up and Winnie has been missing ever since.

They borrow Roman’s phone to call Bale. Let him know his cousin’s missing, but they’re “on it.”

Bale’s drunk, he slurs he knew that he ought to be worried, “no one trusts me since the accident…” he mutters.

“What accident?”

He raises his voice, there’s static over the line, “it had a faulty safety mechanism! No one could have seen it coming. Yeah, he lost his arm… but I lost all respect around here. It wasn’t my fault!”

They hang up. Roman lets the group stay in his yard, but one night only: “You’ll draw too much attention…”

As they leave Roman’s cottage, and prepare for a rough night’s rest in the Banshee, they decide to check out the burned-down Foaming Mug under the cover of night. They find a scorched, overturned sign, and start to walk up the stairs when they hear the racking of a shotgun from behind them.

“Don’t tell me you’re trespassing,” the man says stone-faced. He wears a star-shaped badge on his modern body armour and casually rests his weapon on his shoulder. “Constable Grover,” he says, “it’s dangerous in there, come on down.”

Flinch steps forward, raises his book of laws, “it’s ok, Constable, I’m a judge. From Bastion. I’m here to inspect the fire damage.”

Grover spits. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The group breaks through the boards and steps inside. Hamish perches on the roof to keep watch. Inside, there’s clear signs of arson.

“Fire bombs,” Flinch says, pointing at the dots of blackened, scorched wood from a chemical accelerant.

There’s a rotten smell coming from below, a set of stairs behind the bar leads down into a dark, cramped basement. The group grabs their electric lantern from the back of the Banshee and prepares to delve below.

Between the shelves stocked with pickles and dry staples, they can hear the crunching and snapping of breaking bones.

“It’s probably just a pig,” Flinch says, “from the hog farm around the corner.”

The group moves closer. First their lantern reflects in the glossy, dripping blood from the creature’s jaws. Then it steps closer, a hulking man-sized crocodile on two legs. It’s feasting on a pig it dragged down here through the basement window.

It drops the pig, lunges for Nika and pulls her back into the darkness. Flinch sets down the lantern and reaches for his heavy gavel. Numeron runs upstairs.

There’s a bulky musket hanging behind the bar, Numeron climbs the shelves to reach it.

Downstairs, Nika reaches into her vest and grabs her pistol. A flash of light, a percussive blast echoes off the stone walls, and a tiny bullet is stuck, smoking in the scales of the crocodile man’s chest. It retaliates with a devastating gash across Nika’s arm. Flinch ineffectively hammers at the monster’s back.

“Get back!” Numeron shouts, raising the musket with both hands. Flinch presses himself into the shelves, pickle jars splash on the floor. Nika closes her eyes.

The gunshot vibrates Numeron’s teeth as he’s thrust backward by the musket. Sparks fly out of the barrel and sizzle on the wet floor. Numeron is blinded by smoke, the crocodile man is thrown to its side, his scales blackened by the birdshot.

The thing hisses and retreats, slithering out through the basement window.

“What the fuck,” Nika spits, inspecting the wound on her shoulder.

TEMPLE OF THE STARS
A search of the basement yields a history book about the Temple of the Stars, and the village’s two-generation history of superstitious worship of the temple’s artefacts. The next morning, the group approaches.

The temple is the only stone building in the village, surrounded by granite walls. They pound on the wooden doors. A monk in ceremonial robes opens the gate, says the temple is closed for renovations.

The group barges in, led by Nika, “out of the way,” she says as she steps past the monk.

The groundskeeper looks up from his task; he’s cutting the hedges with a noisy, smoking chainsaw.

“If you insist,” the monk says coldly.

Inside the temple where the domed ceiling is adorned with golden constellations, a heavy tarp obscures more than half the room. A strong-looking, middle aged man with thin hair turns to greet the Bastionites. He’s dressed like a priest.

“I’m sorry, Father Abramo,” the monk says standing in the doorway, “they just barged in here.”

“It’s ok,” Father Abramo raises his hand, nods reassuringly, “it’s more than ok… the temple is under construction–it might not be safe at the moment–but we welcome any visitor. It’s your choice. Do you want to see?”

Nika barges forward, peeling back the tarp. She nearly slips on a layer of dust covering the floor.

Before her is a mass of granite, wood and steel scaffolding; a partially finished statue depicting a snake with the face of a beautiful, angelic woman.”What is this?” Nika asks.

“The Reptile God,” Father Abramo says, “anyone who looks upon her is compelled to worship.”

“Ah shit,” Numeron notices that the monk is blocking the exit.

“Where’s Winnie?” Flinch demands, dropping all pretenses.

“She is with Her, our new god,” Abramo says softly, “Would you like me to take you there?”

“Yes.” Nika growls.

The monks take a step forward, “but first, a drink.” Abramo says, a second monk steps into the room from an archway beyond the tarp. He carries a bottle of wine and a platter with three silver goblets.

“Please, have some wine, then we will go,” Abramo says.

The monk pours from the unlabeled bottle into the silver goblets. He passes one to each of the three Bastionites. They exchange glances. Flinch smells the wine. It’s obviously poisoned. He motions for Hamish to create a distraction. The hawk screeches and flies from Flinch’s shoulder to the top of the statue.

“My word,” Abramo gasps, watching as its shadow moves across the temple floor. The hawk lands on the statue’s head.

Numeron grabs Abramo and puts his letter opener to his throat: “Tell us where she is or I’ll do it!”

“Then do it.” Father Abramo says coldly.

Numeron tries to press the blade against the priest’s throat, but a flash of light between them forces him back, knocking him off his feet. Father Abramo brandishes a shard of light in the shape of a shield: “amazing, aren’t they? Arcana–gifts from the stars.”

Hamish swoops down to try and grab the light from Abramo’s hand, the monks lift hatchets from beneath their robes and a quick, bloody battle ensues.

Nika raises her pistol, shoots at the cultists and sends one spinning to the floor. But the other one rushes at her. She raises her pistol and fires again, but the bullet ricochets off his skull, sending blood into his eyes. He sinks his axe into her chest.

Flinch runs to close the door, still hearing the roar of the chainsaw outside. He slides the iron crossbar closed. He turns to see Nika collapsing on the floor. He sprints for the monk, bringing down his gavel and bludgeoning him to a pulp.

Sparks fly as the groundskeeper starts cutting through the iron holding closed the doors.

Father Abramo shakes off the hawk struggling for his arcana, then he draws a ceremonial dagger from its sheath and starts walking toward Numeron.

From the floor, Numeron fires his musket. The birdshot breaks against the shield of light, scattering particulates into the air. Abramo casts the dimming arcana aside and steps through the smoke, closing the distance. He leans down and rips the musket from Numeron’s hands.

Numeron raises his hand to protect his face and watches the ceremonial dagger slide through the back of his palm. Abramo stops before pressing the dagger into Numeron’s chest.

“There is still time for you,” the priest says, unblinking, “for all of you.”

He pulls the dagger from Numeron’s hand.

The chainsaw revs, the door swings open, the groundskeeper steps into the temple.

“Stop!” Abramo shouts to the groundskeeper, now raising his chainsaw over his head. “Let them go… Let them go to Her. They will see for themselves.”

Numeron crawls back, away from the zealot, and climbs to his feet.

Abramo gestures toward the dark, “follow the Farm Trail… you will see.”

Flinch picks Nika up from the floor, helps her walk to the car and places her in the backseat. Her wound is deep.

The groundskeeper watches Numeron step past, his chainsaw still humming and spewing bluish gas. Hamish swoops into the car ahead of Flinch and Numeron. As they wearily climb in and close the Banshee’s doors, they see Father Abramo smiling as they reverse from the temple and turn toward the Farm Trail.