[DonathinFrye]

A new story is posted below to show another hint at the mystery of Atonement RPI's Universe. Along with that, we would like to officially announce the launch of our Website, In-Game Guest Lounge and the opening of Staff applications to join us in our mission to deliver a next-generation, glass ceiling-breaking Roleplaying Game! Come join us and take place in our community's discussions to help shape our much-hyped RPI.

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Disclaimer: The story below was written by Hulk, our Documentation Team Leader. It includes strong language and adult situations, as did the previous installment written by me. Just thought that I would give anyone reading a friendly heads up.



Atonement, Chapter Two: Changing Stations


”And quietly remembering her brother Ivan, shot in the back in Afghanistan - the Stalinist purges the snowy white grave that claimed Boris, Dimitri and Igor”.


The low, slurred voice of the singer filled the room, accompanied by guitars and violins. A slow, steady song filled the room; there were no changes in pace - no highs, no lows - merely music in its rawest form. It came from the large radio that had been fastened high above the reach of drunken patrons onto the wooden wall. The entire room was packed with people, every single one of the simple chairs occupied and surrounding the many small, round wooden tables. It was late and the smell of cigarettes and booze filled the bar. It would linger on even when the drinking-hole was empty - that smell that told everyone that this was a real bar, a popular bar.

The walls were covered in old flags, signs and a few paintings. Supposedly they were all from before the war, and they held very little true meaning to the patrons. Most of the signs had once been colourful statements that one beer was better than its competitor, or that one burger was bigger than the next. But now the signs were dull, their colour scraped off or faded long ago. They were clear statements of how fantastic Budweiser had become nothing more than a few white letters on a rusty background, no longer holding any meaning. Opposite of the arched exit stood a solid oak bar, stained darkly. There were marks at the bottom, towards the floor, showing that once upon a time there had been a brass rail attached to it, though not now. Everything about the bar felt old and used.

This place - this was the Wicker Basket.


“She remembered how proud she cheered with the crowd, when Youri Gagarin sailed over the clouds. Nadia and Ivan shouted aloud, we put the first man in Space.”



It was also called the Black Hand Inn, if you knew the right people. And Silver knew all of the right people (and all of the wrong ones too). That’s how you stayed alive here in the Outer Town. Granted, he didn’t spend much time in O-town, it wasn’t where he worked. But he made the trip when he could manage the minutes; it made his life a lot easier keeping in contact with John Xenir - the owner of the Wicker Basket. Of the Black Hand Inn. Xenir was enigmatic, to put it mildly. He was an infected man, a deviant, an undesirable, a ****up, a weirdo, a harbinger. John Xenir had three eyes, though most folks didn’t know it since Xenir hide the third.

But Silver knew, Silver knew that Xenir had real power. His third eye gave him the ability to see into the future, to see into a man’s heart. It’s true, he had done it to Silver himself, had told him what was going to happen to him (to his family); it all came true, every creepy word of it. And others that knew the name Black Hand Inn also knew that Xenir had a third eye and that he knew things that no man could claim to know. Hell, even some of the Enforcers knew about Old Xenir; it didn't matter. No one dared shut Xenir down. He had become so popular that all of goddamned O-Town would declare war if the Enforcers laid a hand on him ever again.

Xenir didn’t talk about it, but everyone believed the rumors; torture had caused his left hand to turn pitch black, and that’s why he secretly re-aliased the Wicker Basket to the Black Hand Inn. That’s why he let criminals in the back, why he let anyone say whateverthey wanted to - that’s why he protected people. John Xenir was a hero in his own right. A silent hero. Silver wasn’t though. Silver was a deviant as well, but he couldn’t see the future. He could see opportunity, though, and that is what he lived for.


“But that was before the feared KGB put a question-mark on her own loyalty. To keep an eye on her comrades one, two and three, Irina, Catharina and Olga”.


Silver finished off another glass of Five-Hour whisky, drawing a wheezing breath as he set the empty container down upon the table once again. Absently, his one hand slipped up to his cheek, fingertips running along a deep, ugly scar going straight across one side of his face. John Silver, the self-proclaimed greatest ****ing tracker and scavenger in the whole city. John Silver - a good name, a solid name. His brother always said he got the name from an old paper box from before the war. But his mother said it was because he had a silver heart, even if he never knew what she meant by it.


“And poor uncle Vlad whom the doctor declared mad for refusing to leave his beloved Leningrad. She stood in the doorway tearful and sad when they frog-marched him of to the Gulag”.


Now, Silver wasn’t the best because he always found the way at the first try - no no, he was the best because he didn’t die. Although those beasties did their best to put an end to his living streak. But he got out of it, survived, led the Firebreathers right, got his gold and headed back home. He heard they had found their gold in the end too; they found twenty-five bars of purest red gold, and all he got was a small bag with pebble gold. Dickheads. He hated the corperations. Maybe it was time to retire.


“He took a last look at his own native hills where grew the red dogwoods and wild daffodils. The look on his face was haunting her still, Comrade Nadja Rastropovic”.


Yeah, retire; find himself a good whore to settle down with. That would be the life. Whores made a pretty good living too - he could let her work and bring him the gold. What a sweet life that would be. He had always been popular with whores too; it was one of the skills that he took pride in. Women not on the clock never liked him though, but the whores always had. Maybe he could settle down with Sally, she liked him. She was easy on the eyes too, got a lot of business.


“Sometimes alone she’d think of the west, ladies with opals adorning their breast. Park Avenue poseurs acting like the Tzar, with silver coke spoons for their caviar."


Silver put away another glass of whiskeyand diidn’t even bother to look up and see who was serving him, or more importantly, who was paying. He was too deep in his own thoughts, and inside the Wicker Park he always let down his guard. He had been doing some minor work for the crime rings a while back, and he didn’t like it much. But if he was put in charge of the Black Hand, he could probably get some other deals and do some side jobs for a few of the other undesirables who weren’t part of the crime rings. Plus, he’d get to drink as much whisky as he wanted, he’d get to sleep in a real bed, have a roof over his head, gold in his pocket; life would be good. John Silver the Barkeep. Had a nice ring to it.


“She’d reflect back to when she was just ten and faithfully subscribing to fair play for all men. But seventy odd years of Bolsjevik dreams had worn down her pride and left her no means to cope with her own disillusions”.


The patronage of the Wicker Basket kept a low tone. Another glass of whisky was set down before the brooding man at the bar. Silver absently reached out to take it, not giving the matter much more thought than he had its predecessors. But this time his hand didn’t get as far as the glass; instead, he was snapped out of his daydreaming by a neon-green cube, no larger then two matchboxes, falling from above to land on his hand. He instinctively pushed his chair back and craned his neck to look upward. Looming above him was a figure, casting a masculine shadow over Silver where he sat. The figure was clad in a dark Kevlar coat, seemingly in perfect condition and buttoned up tight. Silver restrained his first instinct, which was to cut the man open. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he looked at this man and he wanted to kill him. Or woman, maybe it was a woman. A tall ****ing woman if so, and it changed nothing. But Silver didn’t kill anybody; he pushed his chair a little to the side and tried to catch a glimpse of the shadowy figure's features. A dark felt hat was pushed down low over the figure’s face and the shadows seemed to have swallowed whatever skin the figure should logically show, leaving only the hints of a nose, eyes and a smirking pair of lips.

“Sorry mate, you seemed to have dropped your veggies, assuming you’re not here to start a ****ing food fight?” Silver tried to keep his voice low, calm, succeeding only somewhat. He could see the lips of the figure twitch, as if the smirk were growing before he responded in a smooth, composed baritone.

“Stardust, Mister Silver. That is a disk with directions to a warehouse filled with it. Go there, secure the cargo, lock the place down, return here with proof that the warehouse and the goods exist, John. Your payment will be one quarter of a bar.”


“If Trotsky and Engels saw Dachas and Zils, the Politburo boys with their hands in the till. The bear was long dead before he got ill, was it the cure or was it the fever?”