Description
Walter looks somewhat anachronistic at first glance. He wears a tan fedora and a matching balmacaan, reminiscent of a 1920′s detective movie or Indiana Jones. His appearance is otherwise very professional, including a dress shirt, tie, and dark slacks. On closer observation, Walter has the disturbing tendency to react to things that aren’t really there. Whether he’s crazy or simply seeing ghosts as he claims is anyone’s guess.
Backstory
So you wanna hear the story of my life, huh? What is it, curiosity? You lookin’ to figure out if I’m really as crazy as they say or just some misunderstood drunk? Well, pull up a seat. I’ll talk if you’re buyin’. Hope you don’t have a weak stomach, though. My life’s not exactly PG-13.
Where do I begin? Well, I suppose we might as well cover the basics. I was born right here in Newark to two deadbeat parents. My father died like the crook he was, shot in the back by some rival crack dealer. My mother was on the other end of the market. I don’t imagine there’s much genuine love in a marriage between a dealer and a user. Oh well, I wasn’t old enough to remember them anyway. Social services deprived me of my mother’s tender loving care when I was only a month or two old. As far as I know, she’s long dead.
What’d you say? Hey, don’t apologize. Shit’s gotta happen to someone. Besides, the story gets even better. Now, where was I?
Oh yeah, my childhood. I’ll say this much. I was better off where the system sent me, but not by much. An orphanage isn’t exactly the best place to be a kid. Too bad that’s exactly where kids like me ended up. If you’ve never been in one, here’s a preview. Imagine being an unwanted tenant rather than a child in need of care, just another mouth to feed. I can tell by the look in your eye that you grew up in a halfway decent home with at least one parent who gave a damn about you. Good for you; I wish all kids had at least that much growing up. Whatever the case, reality is a bitch for some of us.
To say that I was a miracle growing up is an understatement. I went through some lousy foster homes, cycling in and out of the orphanage every few years. I remember laying awake at night dreaming of the day I turned 18. Then, I’d always say, I’d escape and make something of myself. It didn’t much matter that not a soul cared about me. I guess that’s what happens after you live a few years without love; you learn to be self-reliant. I think my psychiatrist calls that resilience. Yeah, that’s it. I was a resilient youth, a flower that blooms in the dessert or some self-empowering shit like that.
Anyway, it’s a pretty boring story until my dream came true. I was packed and ready to go the morning of my 18th birthday. I’d spent so much time thinking about it that I knew exactly where I was going, too. That day I walked up into the Newark Police Department and asked for a job.
Why’d I want to be a cop? I’m not quite sure, to tell you the truth. Maybe it was all the time I’d spent with my head buried in mystery novels. Maybe I just wanted to live down my parents’ legacy. You know, prove to myself that I wasn’t just another sad ghetto story. Whatever it was, I was determined enough to get the job and stick with it.
And I was good, too. Yeah, the Sergeant was always saying how I’d be outranking him in a year or two. I was a real go-to kinda cop. I wasn’t afraid to get in the thick of it with assignments nobody else wanted to take. It was those first few years that I really cut my teeth on drug crackdowns. I must’ve put away a dozen or so dealers personally. All part of the vendetta against my parents, I suppose. It definitely made me an important man on the streets. Not necessarily a well-liked man, mind you; I made just about as many enemies as I did friends. But at least everyone knew my name.
By my seventh year on the job I was promoted to detective. They put me on some homicide cases and kept me in the loop with the drug trade. Of course, drugs and murder tend to mix a lot anyway, so I got more than my fair share of action. It might surprise you to hear that advertising yourself as the scourge of the illegal drug market tends to make the wrong people nervous, especially if you start following through with it. By the time my promotion was well in effect, I had earned a special spot on some major hit lists.
My luck finally turned sour around August of 2003. I was doing a pretty routine follow-up on a case when this car screeches out of nowhere and knocks me to the pavement. You ever had one of those moment when your life flashes before your eyes? Well, when the punk who hit me stepped out of the car and pointed a gun in my face, that’s pretty much what I got. While he was bidding me a fond farewell and squeezing the trigger, all I could think was how this was an appropriate end to a pretty screwed-up life. I don’t remember feeling the bullet penetrate my chest. I just remember a bright muzzle-flash, and then I was dead.
Hm? Obviously, I didn’t die? Well of course I died. What did I just say? Sure, I’m sitting here talking to you now, breathing and drinking like any living person, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get to experience death first-hand. No, for a minute there I was as stone cold as a corpse. I’m sure I would’ve stayed that way if my partner hadn’t been there.
As far as I’m concerned, though, he was still too late. That was the day my life changed. It wasn’t the bullet or the punk that put it in me. I can’t even remember dying. No, it wasn’t all that. I was dead. That bullet was supposed to kill me. I remember being dead as vividly as I remember my first day on the Force. Everyone else on Earth can go on with their lives, blissfully uncertain or deluded about what awaits them. I know the truth, and it scares me to… well, you know.
Oh, there’s the look. I know that look. Every time I tell someone that they always want to ask me the same thing. You want to know what it’s like to be dead, right? Well, go ahead and order up another round. You’re going to need a good stiff drink when you hear this.
Death isn’t easy to explain. Imagine being colder than you’ve ever felt and never warming up. Imagine the emptiness of having your insides torn out without any of the pain. Imagine taking the shallowest of breaths and not being able to speak even in a whisper. Got all that? Now imagine that you’re surrounded by living people. You reach out to them, but you can’t feel their warmth or substance. You speak, but they don’t hear. It’s like you’re not a part of the world anymore, and the isolation drives you mad.
Wasn’t what you were expecting? What, did you want stories of angels and heaven and white lights at the end of long tunnels? It’s a bunch of crap if you ask me, made up by living people who can’t possibly know what it’s like. No, the truth is that death isn’t the end, but it’d be better if it was. Don’t believe me? Why not ask that fellow in the corner? Yeah, he’s been eyeing our drinks all night. Poor soul probably died a drunk and would strangle his mother for a drop of shitty beer.
Of course you can’t see him. There aren’t many people that can see ghosts. I couldn’t explain it to you. There’s something about “near-death experiences” that’s supposed to expand your awareness. At least that’s what the parapsychological bozos say. Whatever it is, I see them all the time ever since I died.
It’s a sad story, really. I got rushed to a hospital, made a miraculous recovery, and got all sorts of commendations. Then, when I went back to work a few months later, I started noticing things. It started out small. I’d catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn my head to see nothing there. I’d see figures in shadows and mirrors that disappeared if I blinked twice. Have you ever felt what you thought was someone breathing on the back of your neck and turn around only to find out you’re alone? Well, you’re not, and when your mind gets opened up like mine you start to realize that.
To say seeing ghosts is distracting is the understatement of the century. I didn’t say anything to anyone about it. After all, what would you tell someone who says they see and hear things that nobody else does? That’s right, you’d say they were crazy. I almost thought that I was, and the Sergeant had known me long enough to realize something was up. He asked, I wrote it off as too much coffee, and he put me on probation pending determination of psychological fitness. I don’t really blame him; as far as he knew, I had been off my rocker since the shooting.
You might’ve already guessed that I don’t like shrinks. I don’t need someone else to tell me how screwed up I am. Besides, I just wanted to get back to work. But the damned quack just kept pushing and pushing until I finally let him in on my little secret. Man do I wish I never told him that. Before I knew it I had a diagnosis of schizophrenia and a prescription for antipsychotic medication.
That was the last time I ever saw active duty. I took the medications they gave me but nothing helped. If anything, my “hallucinations” started getting worse. I even woke up one night to see the ghost of a little girl sitting at the end of my bed staring at me. Trust me, the reality is creepier than any horror movie; I damn near shit my pants. I guess at that point I thought to myself, “You know what, screw it! If I’m crazy, I’m crazy.” So I struck up a conversation.
I’ll tell you this much. Ghosts can be very talkative when they realize you’re alive and can see them. It didn’t take much checking to convince myself that I wasn’t really hallucinating. I’d ask them to prove that they were real, and then they’d give me information on some unsolved or unreported homicide that would turn out to be on the news the next day. You’d think that I would’ve been relieved.
Well, I wasn’t relieved, but I did deal with it. Like any sane person, I went out and got good and drunk. Everything I thought I knew about life and death was a lie, and now there were these ghosts bugging me for favors at every turn. It was too much. I put in my resignation and tried my best to block everything out, ghosts and all.
Of course, when I got drunk I got loose enough to talk about my problem, often a bit too openly. After enough nights in the bar, I started having a recurring drinking partner. Man, was he a weirdo. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devout goth, and I’ve been around. He had tattoos, piercings, black clothing, bone-shaped jewelry, the works. He bought me drinks, though, and so I was happy to tell him anything he wanted to know.
It wasn’t until I was sobering up one night that he started talking back. The conversation didn’t phase me at first. “Reality isn’t what most people think it is,” he said, and all I could think was, “Already got that one down, chief.” Then he started explaining to me how everything really worked, all in terms of death and fate and something about a karmic cycle. Now, I’m not religious or anything, but the way he laid things out seemed to make a sort of twisted sense.
We talked a few more times after that and I tried to stay a bit more sober so I could keep up. It started occurring to me that he might be crazier than I was. He kept saying there was some kind of big government conspiracy that all these freaky people were trying to expose. Then he welcomed me to the ranks and said he’d be in touch.
I haven’t heard from him in awhile, but what he said really helped me come to grips with my problem. Ghosts are still depressing and scary as hell, but it’s getting better. I’ve even figured out a few tricks to deal with them. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay with this life of mine, but at least I’m better off than I was before.
Well, it looks like the bar will be closing soon. I’ll let you decide for yourself whether I’m crazy or not. If you’re up for ordering another round, though, get an extra for the guy in the corner. He looks like he could really use it.
Connections
Contacts
In more than a decade of police work, Walter has come across a few trustworthy sources of information. These are his most reliable.
- “Mitch” – In life, Mitch was a homeless addict. As a ghost, he keeps an eye on the local spook activity. He provides Walter with all the information he needs, as long as Walter feeds his addictions.
- Murphy Gauge – Murphy owns a shady pawn shop in a back alley of downtown Newark. He has an ear to the ground for organized crime and knows the who, what, and when of fenced goods. Walter and Murphy have been friends for years.
- Tyrone “T-Bone” Washington – T-Bone is a man on the streets with intimate knowledge of gang activities. Ever since Walter helped his family years ago, they’ve had a relationship of mutual respect that borders of professionalism.
Police Ties – Newark Police Department
For years, Walter was the star detective of the NPD. And while he may have lost his job after the shooting, Walter is still well-known and respected for the peculiar role he now plays in Newark law enforcement. The Sergeant often brings him in as a civilian consultant on cases with a supernatural element. In return, he enjoys many of the perks and resources available to a full-time police officer, and frequently makes use of privileged information.
Magick
Walter’s Paradigm – Death
Death frees us from the shackles of mundane perception. To the eyes of the unliving, the world is stripped of its veils and illusions. What remains is a dark landscape of perpetual decay, in which the vagaries of fate are laid plain. The continuity of all things is at last made clear in all its horrible glory. Those that return are forever changed, alive in a world where death is no longer an end, where the echoes of the past mingle with the currents the inevitable future, where chaos is the greatest of teachers.
Style
Walter was never schooled in a well-structured magickal system. His brief contact with another Euthanatos has given some theoretical context to his effects, but his style is haphazard and based on what seems to work for him. The only common theme between many of his foci is their basis on “getting in touch with death,” which he believes can help free his perceptions.
Walter’s main vice, alcohol, is also his primary focus for Entropy magick. The intoxicating effect helps free his mundane perceptions so that he can “feel out” the courses of fate. Beside that, alcohol is a poison, and drinking poison is a symbolic act that helps him reestablish his connection to death.
Walter is a detective first and foremost; it’s what he’s good at and what he loves to do. This investigative ability is his primary focus for Mind magick. By scrutinizing scenes and people with his trained eyes and expanded perceptions, he can uncover secrets that no ordinary detective ever could.
Death and all its trappings are Walter’s primary focus for Spirit magick. He is known to frequent graveyards, morgues, funeral homes, and scenes of past murder cases. He is especially fond of visiting his own tombstone at a prepaid burial plot in a cemetary in southern Newark. He keeps a few old case files handy if he’s pressed for time, often laying them out in an almost ritualistic manner to perform his effects.
Walter wears a broken analog watch that he uses as his primary focus for Time magick. It has been known to stop, tick backwards, or even jump to different times contrary to its mechanism. Despite this fact, it still tells the correct time whenever Walter needs it and helps him determine the course of the past and future.
Rotes
Auspicious Timing (Entropy 1, Time 1) – Being in the right place at the right time is all a matter of paying attention to the seemingly random cues of fate. Walter wears a broken watch that offers him such insights.
Light of the Living World (Mind 2, Spirit 2) – Walter has found through experience that ghosts are uncomfortable in the light. With this rote and a sufficient light source, he can drive spirits away from an area and make it more difficult for them to manifest.
Lucky Shot (Entropy 1) – When you’ve been in enough gun fights, you start to acknowledge that luck plays a major role. Walter has learned that, by taking a quick draught from his hip flask, he can dull his normal perceptions just enough to “feel out” his shots.
Profiling (Entropy 1, Mind 2) – By gathering scant evidence and eye-witness descriptions, Walter is able to piece together an accurate mental representation of an individual.
Siren (Entropy 2, Mind 2) – Getting around is much simpler with a blaring siren. This rote amplifies the urge for other drivers to get out of Walter’s way and ensures that stop lights and traffic patterns shift in his favor.
Spirit Scanner (Entropy 1, Mind 2, Spirit 2) – Walter has found that the spiritual plane often leaks into reality through random phenomena. By switching his police scanner to an unused frequency, Walter can often discern messages from beyond within the static.
The Holmes Effect (Entropy 1, Mind 1, Time 2) – By scrutinizing an area for clues, Walter can gain profound insights into recent events. These insights come as reasonable but remarkably accurate hunches. The name of the effect comes from observers, who are often astounded by Walter’s skills as a detective.
The Third Degree (Entropy 1, Mind 2) – As an experienced investigator, Walter has done his fair share of interrogation. By placing the subject in a submissive and uncomfortable state, Walter can cut through lies and bring the truth to the surface in short order.
Equipment
Since his days in the Force, Walter has been a major handgun enthusiast. He is rarely without his favorite Glock 22C, and often wears a Heckler & Koch P7M13 “Detective Special” in a concealed holster behind his back, especially when he’s on a case. In case of real trouble, he keeps a Smith & Wesson M29, otherwise known as a “Dirty Harry Magnum,” in a lock box in the trunk of his car. The game stats for each of these guns are summarized below.
| Weapon |
Difficulty |
Damage |
Rate |
Clip |
Concealment |
Range |
| Heckler & Koch P7M13 “Detective Special” |
6 |
4 |
4 |
13 |
P |
25 |
| Glock 22C |
6 |
5 |
5 |
10/15/17 |
J |
30 |
| Smith & Wesson M29 “Dirty Harry Magnum” |
7 |
6 |
2 |
6 |
T |
45 |
Naturally, Walter keeps a few extra 9mm and high-capacity 40-caliber magazines on hand, and additional magazines and 44 magnum rounds in his lock box.
In addition to his guns, Walter generally carries around a variety of police equipment, including a pair of handcuffs, an official-looking badge, pepper spray, and a good flashlight. He also keeps a police scanner, a roll of police tape, and a portable siren in his car.
Of course, Walter also keeps other generic equipment on hand, such as a cell phone and a swiss army knife. His is never without his hip flask or his broken watch to act as foci for his effects, and keeps a few old cases files in his car for the same purpose. Lastly, he keeps some miscellaneous equipment on hand to aid his investigations, including a good camera, a fingerprint kit, evidence bags, and latex gloves.
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, May 25th, 2004 at 11:09 am and is filed under Tabletop RPGs.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
