@branded-tm called
Hands hold a notebook tightly in their hands, long since written out notes translated into scripts lay scrawled out on these pages. Though they’d always had a certain finnese for EverymanHybrid, one wouldn’t call a channel something like Slenderverse Explained without diving into TribeTwelve. Once they’d gone well into liking the story of Slenderman, they’d watched Marble Hornets when it had first come out, lost interest and then revisited a few years later, someone had told them to watch TribeTwelve first. They’d ignored the advice, and watched EverymanHybrid first.
They supposed, now, it didn’t matter, but the memory came flooding back all the same as they look at the messy script and then back to the Chaotic Time ______ standing before them. Many labeled Firebrand a god, but Sass had been insistent on calling him an entity. Habit had been remiss to call Slenderman/The Operator/The Administrator/etc a god, so why would it make parts of itself more powerful? Why would it make them gods?
Again, they supposed, it didn’t matter, really, the semantics of what he was, or really why he had come to be. What mattered now was why he was here. Here being the church they’d holed up in. Western Pennsylvania, (a hop, skip and a jump from the Ohio line, about an hour and a half drive away from the remains of Fairmount’s Children Home, they’d checked,) didn’t have much, but it did have woods and it did have more than it’s fair share of abandoned churches as people moved from one dead name town to another, and left the remains behind.
The remains here were an old church that didn’t seem to have an exact denomination, there was a faded sign out front that read Oakboro Church of God with a sign below it that probably once read the times for Mass and for Sunday school but the letters had been stolen. There was a graveyard out back and to the left. The church itself was stone, which is why it was still standing at all, probably, as the road that led up to it was nothing more than an old trail, and it laid claim to a small steeple (no bell, though, it appeared to have been stolen) and a few panes of stained glass. Outside was nothing to look at, it was covered in ivy and the old wooden door had dozens of nails sticking out it it.
The inside was nothing more special aside from the fact that somehow, some way, some Divine Joke, perhaps, the lights and the heat worked. And the plumbing, Sass had, in fact, sent a prayer up for the fact that the plumbing worked. There were two rows of pews, the pulpit, a few hallways that seemed to lead behind the pulpit and into the back.
And there was Sass, sitting, leaning against the altar, a small portable stereo with a handful of CD’s sitting atop the actual altar playing Jet Airliner by the Steve Miller Band. And now there was another, in here, with them, for some reason.
Sass sits forward, quirking a brow to at least feign interest, (and they are interested, their heart and mind racing, but they feel a need to play it cool for the time being), and they speak, tone is kept quit, bland.
“You know, it’s awfully rude to just barge right in when there’s a perfectly good door to knock on.”
