Cold Opens: In A Red Valley

The latest TTRPG that I've been working on is the third in a series of games I've been working on that I'm calling The Blight Trilogy. The gist: A trio of horror genre flips, all taking place in a setting (already full of supernatural creatures) that has been upended by a cosmic horror descending on Earth. They are:

1. In A Red Valley (Cortex Prime) - The catalyst. The Blight—a malevolent entity from beyond the stars—touches down in the Mojave Desert and declares itself king of the hill among the denizens of the supernatural here on earth in an event that's been dubbed The Crash. Inspired by Doom metal, desert rock, horror films like Near Dark, the Evil Dead franchise, and Mandy, the Coast to Coast AM radio show, the Mad Max franchise, marathons of Forged In Fire.
2. Comrade: The Allegiance (Lumen) - What happens on the East Coast as a result of In A Red Valley. Supernatural kingpins and ne'er-do-wells deposed from their thrones in the desert invade cities in the rust belt, looking for new places to rule. The only thing that can stop them: Your coterie of enemies-turned-allies, united by their shared love for their city. Inspired by beat-em-up video games (Streets of Rage, Capcom's Alien vs. Predator, Knights of the Round), DIY Hip Hop and Hardcore scenes, and collective action.
3. Flyover (Year Zero Engine) - The aforementioned third game in the trilogy. Agents in a government organization tasked with investigating the paranormal deal with the fallout from supernatural beings that are intercepted in the American Midwest while attempting to flee The Crash. Inspired by The X-Files, Chainsaw Man, the video game Control, Broken Monsters by Lauren Beukes, the Hellboy and BPRD comics, and inexplicably Motherland: Fort Salem.

The Quick Start for Flyover is basically done, but I had the bright idea to write a pre-made adventure for it, and the process is currently beating my ass. I described it to a friend like a cross between writing a LARP, and one of those interactive dinner theater murder mystery things. Anyhow, because it has hands, I've been getting down in the dumps about my ability to write. So I decided to haul out some of the writing I've used to set off games to remind myself that I can pull off a cold open every now and again. First up, the intro fiction to In A Red Valley. It was originally created as an Ultimate-ized version of Frank Drake for an online Marvel RPG game I was player in, and was eventually adapted to fit into the world of The Blight. Enjoy. Up next I'll share the intro blurb for the second game in the blight trilogy, Comrade: The Allegiance.

Update: Gonna add in the In A Red Valley playlist that I made a while back for ambiance. The game itself has a day/night cycle mechanic, and the mood music changes a bit for either, from the book:

The playlist is a bit of a capsule of both.

If you don't have Tidal, I got you. This playlist has a few changes that I can't remember why I made, but the vibes are the same.

Abdiel Jones. Day 762. Highway 15, Outside Nogales

Broken ribs. Maybe a punctured lung. Probably a bit concussed—last time I thought to spell my name, I was positive there was a Q in there somewhere. Of course, I’ve been up for three days straight, so mental acuity on my part is a dicey prospect. To say nothing of the murmuring in my ears.

Remember me….

“Hrm…?”

“I said, good work, old man.” The punctuation of a kick to the ribs snapped me back to reality. “Really, it’s impressive.” I think that’s Klaus Kinski talking and kicking me around. Not the real one, far as I know—he’s a vampire, so it’s possible—but that’s what he goes by. Leads, or led more accurately, a pack of vampires that named themselves after pop culture icons. They were going with 80’s film stars when they killed my fiance and family.

Insult to injury, right? Not that I was around for it. I was off with the government’s Black Box division. The spooks who fight spooks, unofficially. They always needed someone to show up and build big fuck-off guns that could spit in magic’s face or blow up a god. That’s what I was good at, and I always came through for them. Of course, when my family was splayed across my palatial estate, counting on Uncle Sam to pay back that goodwill was a serious misjudgment on my part.
Who knows why they didn’t budge? Maybe there were political reasons not to go after this particular pack of leeches. Maybe they decided they’d given me so much money and resources over the years that I didn’t need any extra help.

Whatever the case, I went out on my own to find vengeance, and it got me here. Sure there were a lot of detours along the way. False leads led to vampires who weren’t involved but needed killing all the same. Which led to injuries and subsequent recovery time. Recovery time turned into research, which turned into development of new weapons and methods of dispatching things that should not be. Then right back out into the field. It’s a cycle that got me closer and closer to facing my family’s killers— and to death itself.

Truth be told, this little spat with Klaus isn’t even the worst I’ve had. Years back, I found out I was the last living relative of an ancient, and very nasty vampire that a coven of cultists was attempting to revive. Since he was a family problem, I figured I’d handle it on my own. Went about as well as you’d expect. Still, survived. That atrophied branch of my family tree had plenty of enemies, and one of them, a storied collective of monster hunters elected to pull my ass out the fire.

Much like the government, they wanted something from me, but unlike the government, they understood the concept of give and take. One for them. One for me. They recognized my need for revenge and though they used it for their own ends, they fed that need all the same. Equipped me with weapons I couldn’t dream of. Protection woven into my very skin and soul. Rather than telling me no, or keeping me from something, they made sure I had something else to do. Kept me from the mission long enough to get their work done, then kept me alive through my own. And all that was before Hell let us know that it wasn’t under our feet, but somewhere beyond the stars.

Not so long ago, the war being waged against supernatural threats all around us was a secret. Government entities like Black Box “didn’t exist” and collectives like the one who saved my ass were dismissed as kooks or conspiracy theorists. When things went bad, we died nameless or worse. Then two years ago, a meteoroid violently touched down in the Mojave, and covered most of the Southwest in a thick red haze.

Creatures that people like me spent their entire lives hunting were suddenly unearthed from their hiding places. All manner of fiends were given an entirely new playground in the blink of an eye...and in another blink, these fiends discovered they were no longer the biggest kids on the yard. The meteoroid wasn’t a cosmic happenstance, or a random occurrence. Someone had sent it to us, with purpose, and heralds. That purpose? To claim dominion. The message of its heralds? A demand of fealty. Either willingly, or in death.

The first ones to receive the message were the more sentient denizens of the underworld. Vampires, shapeshifters, stranded demons and the like. The egos of the undead being what they are, a decent number had enough spine to tell the heralds to pound sand. Unfortunately, many more sipped the Kool-Aid and joined together with the new horrors from above in a violent purge of anything that didn’t fall in line. Those that managed to survive scattered out of the desert like roaches when the lights turn on. Some attempted to make themselves scarce and go back to unlife as normal, finding places to rule as far away from the reach of their successors as possible.

The handful that remained revealed themselves, and warned of the coming threat to anyone who would listen. They didn’t have to do much convincing, since there was a crater where Joshua Tree used to be, and plenty of viral footage of unholy beasts crawling from out the hole. The traitors to their own kind became uneasy co-workers with people like me. Our collective work stopped being the subject of conspiracy theories, and became the only matter of national security. So important and so dangerous that people who are good at it are given the freedom to take on whatever extracurricular activities they so choose.

Which leads me back to Mr. Kinski, who’s currently throwing me around his lair. He’s covered in a fine white dust that kicks up every time he clobbers me. That dust happens to be the ashes of his buddies. I developed a special incendiary for the occasion. A nightmare of white phosphorus, napalm, and a few extra herbs and spices. Once I found their hiding spot, a satchel charge of the stuff found its way inside. Coated all the grunts immediately. Lee Van Cleef, Frank Nero, Charles Bronson…if Kinski needed to breathe, his lungs would be full of his old friends. Once he cut off all the air to his lair to kill the flames, he waded through them to get to me and drag me back inside. Shoulda been quicker on the draw, but well, I’m only human.

“How long did it take you to get to us? Five years? Timing’s impeccable, mate.” Getting thrown through a wall now. Kinski’s pretty angry. Normally? Very cool customer, from what I’ve seen in tracking him. He’d already had a good thing going here in the U.S., even before the stars fell.

Thanks to the state of the border, his crew had been able to have their run of Nogales. Made ample usage of smuggling tunnels that lead to Sonora where they were free to pillage and prey upon locals. Accepting whatever arcane offer that came from Beyond simply expanded their scope. They speed along the spread of their new taskmasters’ influence, claiming its territory as their own. If they felt invincible before, they had to feel nearly godlike now. So his ire for me is fully understandable. Of course, I’m almost certain I trump his. He’s probably had tons of attempts made on his life and livelihood, more than I could count. I’d figure after enough times you get used to the feeling of the world imploding on you. Not me. Just the once.

“Awful long time and a lot of effort just to die, i’nn’t?” He’s picking me up out of the rubble now. Funny that he thinks I didn’t come here to die. Thought that much would’ve been obvious. No backup, hours from sunlight, and the gas tank’s on E. No, dearest Klaus, I didn’t just come here to die. I came here to make sure I had some company for the trip.

Remember me…

There goes that voice again. Calling out to me. At first I couldn’t place it. Fading in and out of consciousness, it just mixed in with Kinski’s words. Now though, it’s as clear as day.

Remember me…make them pay….

“…I’m tryin’…” Kinski socks me in the gut as I reach this epiphany. Not quite as hard as before. Either the adrenaline and endorphins (and other chemicals introduced earlier in the evening) are really doing their job, or he’s getting tired.

“Trying? What’re you tryin’, Abe ol’ bo-” He coughs and lurches a bit, dropping me. Bet he’s wondering what that was. It’s the aforementioned herbs and spices. See, all that R&D up ’til now led to a bit of a discovery. Being of a scientific mind, when cultists try to resurrect your great-times-whatever grandpappy using your blood, you wonder exactly what else it’s potentially capable of. So you experiment. Never had the talent for magic, and I’d be the last person to tell you that it’s just a science we don’t fully understand. Doesn’t mean that science can’t help me get a handle on things.

Nano-technology showed me how to break my blood down to the component parts. My compatriots helped me to understand what it was I was looking for. Long story short, if I make the magical qualities of my own blood inert…what d’ya think that means for a being who owes its life to it? Or unlife, so to speak.

“Sorry Klaus…” Grunting as I strain to sit up. “…was talkin’ to my fiancée. Barbara says hi, by the way.” He tries to swing on me, but he starts to convulse. It’s the dust of his friends. The fun thing about the cocktail I cooked up? The affected flesh breaks down and the leftover matter replicates what destroyed it. So those ashes are just more fuel for the fire. While I fumble in my pockets, he drops to his knees, still making a concerted effort to reach me.

“She wanted me to give you somethin’.” Finally found it. With a flick of the wrist, a lit matchbook is flung into his chest and like that, all the powder ignites. His body had already been deteriorating, so the fire expedites the process. Not too long before he’s just the same dust as all his friends, and I’m alone with flames as they spread. I did what you asked, baby. Not too long now….

I’m roused awake by the growling of a Hemi engine and the insistent prattling of a Mexican radio DJ. Pretty sure this ain’t Heaven or Hell, unless I’ve been mistaken. I open my eyes to see one of the collective’s initiates, sitting in my driver’s seat, playing havoc with my poor car’s transmission.

“Sorry Mr. Jones sir, sorry!” I manage to hear him yelp over the grinding of the gearbox.

So it looks like I’ll be a while yet, baby doll. Failed you again. For what it’s worth, you shouldn’t have too long to wait.