The Devil's Doorknob BBS Capture (1996-2003)/devilsdoorknobbbscapture1996-2003.iso/Dloads/TEXTFILE/MAGE.ZIP/TRENCHCT.TXT

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TRENCHCOATERS

   By Timothy Toner

   "So then what happened?"

   "Well, Janice told me that Jeff wanted to go back to his room, and she
   wasn't so sure, since he was supposed to be going out with Mary later
   on that night..."

   "You mean nothing happened? Jeff has been telling everyone he scored
   on her!"

   "Well, that's what she told me. You know how she is..."

   A slim woman walked into the classroom, pushing a tv cart before her.
   She set it up hastily, and turned to the class.

   "Tonight we're going to begin our discussion of horror and the
   postmodern; horror that knows it's horror. The easier manifestation of
   this self-reflexivity is found in satire. We'll be discussing the Evil
   Dead movies in this regard. This evening, however, I want to show you
   Lair of the White Worm, by Ken Russel, an intriguing transition from
   the original to the copied, from the real to the surreal..."

   Karen rolled her eyes to heaven. She took this course because it was
   supposed to be fun, not to have her think. Watch movies, pass in a few
   trite pages. Then she could get the hell out of this school, and into
   the real world.

   She stared at her friend Patty, who smiled back at some stupid joke
   she was composing on her notebook. 'Play the game, Karen,' she warned
   herself. Gah, if only college was more like high school.

   "You're blocking my view."

   Unaware that someone was sitting behind her, Karen turned to glare at
   the moron. He was faux chic, one of the wannabes that just weren't
   cutting it. He wore his sunglasses defiantly, and yet to her they were
   absurd, unnatural. A razor hadn't scratched his face in a week, and
   the odor that drifted from him suggested that perhaps water was alien
   as well.

   She muttered, "burnout," and shifted a tad to the left. At least she
   was farther from Patty.

   Her friend poked her in the arm, and gestured at the pad. "Isn't he
   creepy?" Creepy? Was Patty on drugs? Could she possibly be falling for
   the attitude? Please! 'Play the game!' She smiled and nodded. Creepy.
   Heh. Her boyfriend coming back home after last call was creepy. This
   guy was stupid.

   Funny. This stranger wasn't in any of her previous classes. She then
   recalled the upcoming exam, and realized he was just putting life off
   until the last minute. 'Why the hell am I even thinking about this
   loser?' Turning to watch the show, she tried to push him, Patty,
   reality, everything out of her mind. She hoped the movie wouldn't
   suck...

   It was an hour into it, and Karen couldn't take it any more. Something
   was bubbling over in her mind, some grand inconsistency that nagged at
   her brain. 'What's wrong with this picture?' she repeated over and
   over. It got so bothersome that the worry seemed to bleed into her
   physicality. 'Maybe a trip to the washroom...'

   She stood and left, despite an admonishing glare from the teacher. A
   lot of students who did this never came back. Karen reassured her with
   a smile, and stepped out the door.

   Here, in one of the most antiseptic areas of the University, a fear
   borne of silence and sterility stained the walls with white. It was a
   night class, so she didn't expect the halls to be bustling with
   people, but there seemed to be something absent altogether.

   'No...' Mer mind, suddenly distant, couldn't grasp it. She hastened to
   the washroom, splashed water in her face, and sighed at the
   reflection. Brad was supposed to be waiting for her when she returned.
   Now she'd have to reapply the makeup and fix her hair. 'Why did I have
   to splash my face with water? Why don't I think?'

   A shape passed before the mirror. No. 'Behind the mirror.' She took a
   step back, and stared, stared at the too familiar face reflecting
   back.

   It was like a flutter of movement, and then it was gone.

   Karen began to walk back to the room, water still slowly dripping from
   her fingers. SHe was numb, and her mind seemed to be on autopilot.
   'I'll get my bag and go...'

   What had she seen? It was as if her mind wouldn't grasp it, for fear
   of accepting the impossible. It was movement without cause, motion
   without explaination. THe most puzzling aspect was that she wasn't
   scared at the least. She just desired to go, to leave this place.

   She found herself at the door, and turned the cool knob slowly,
   waiting for the click. The movie played on within the room, but what
   else waited for her on the other side? THe mirror couldn't open. This
   could. Would it be there?

   No. Nothing. The bored class continued to stare on at the flickering
   box, and the stranger continued to stare blankly at the door. He
   frowned at her entrance, and slowly shook his head. 'That's what's
   been bugging me. I wasn't blocking his view of the tv; I was blocking
   his view of the door!'

   This knowledge didn't settle her at all. Despite her mounting concerns
   ('not fears...concerns') she took her seat, and watched on, slowly
   sliding her chair to the left, to give him whatever he desired.

   Minutes anguished and suffered, transforming into hours by the strain
   of waiting. Waiting. 'Waiting for what?'

   A knock. The teacher, annoyed, moved to get the door, her eyes still
   glued on the action. Karen wanted to warn. She also wanted to hide,
   but neither emotion won out. She remained... seated.

   Opening the door revealed a monster beyond the meagre dimensions of
   the civilized human brain. It was primitive and primeval, savage and
   bestial, yet walking on two legs. It snarled, and the teacher fainted
   away.

   The beast smiled at this, a room full of frozen children, and finally
   selected one. From deep within its throat, it rumbled, "Patty." And
   moved to take her.

   'Not take. Kill." This she knew, even though she did not understand.
   If she did nothing, her friend would die, and die horribly.

   'You don't even like her! She's not your friend. She's not...'

   "And Karen, who hung up the phone on her best friend who was
   distraught over the loss of a boyfriend, who didn't see the point of
   weeping at a funeral of a sorority sister who had OD'ed on
   amphetamines, Karen cared...

   'IF YOU DO CARE, STAY DOWN...'

   This was an alien voice in her head, male, masculine, reassuring. SHe
   should have been angered by the invasive nature, mystified by its
   unknown suddeness, but she was neither. 'NOW YOU SIT AND LEARN...'

   'Now I sit and learn.'

   All this took mere seconds, but it was enough. Karen could move, could
   act. The paralysis was gone, as was something esle she couldn't quite
   place.

   "Come Patty...your father has made carrion of my children, and now I
   return the honor." Patty slowly stood, too scared to disobey.

   A shot rang out, next to Karen, scorching her ears with its blast. It
   smalled into the creature, with no noticible effect.

   "Back off, Horul. She's innocent. She knows nothing of her father's
   sins. Take your war to him. Don't repeat his crime, his raping of the
   future."

   Its vocal cords were not made to speak complex sentences, and yet it
   tried. "I thought I smelled a Wyrm in here. I guessed it was the girl.
   No matter. Two abominations will be slaughtered tonight. Too bad you
   didn't use silver." It reached into the oozing wound, plucked out a
   pellet, then flicked it aside.

   "I deal with many of your kind, Horul. I am honorable. My first shot
   is always a warning." A sudden flurry of movement, and more deafening
   explosions. At last, the creature slumped to the floor, twitching.

   The stranger grabbed Karen, and hauled her to her feet. "You wanted to
   help, right?"

   She nodded gravely. He pressed a silver knife, exquisitiely sharp,
   into her hands. "help me with Chucklehead, here."

   While the class began to stir, as if out of a terrible nightmare, they
   dragged the slowly shrinking corpse out into the hall.

   It was now a wolf, but larger than any of the ones in Janice's nature
   magazines. He propped the corpse against the door, effectively
   blocking anyone trying to leave.

   With a sudden, terrifying motion, he plunged a knife he had extracted
   from his pocket into one of the many bullet wounds. "C'MON! We don't
   have much time!"

   And slowly, she inserted her blade into the creature, and began to dig
   and scoop, searching for hidden bullets. She was not told what to
   retrieve, but suddenly it all made sense why she had to do this. As
   soon as the silvery round was extracted, he shoved another pellet into
   the hole.

   In a moment they were done. The stranger, more sinister now than she
   ever imagined, took the bullets from her blood soaked hands. He pecked
   her on the cheek, and whispered, "You did great, kid."

   Fists began to pound on the door, and the press against it made the
   carcass slowly slide forward, streaking the white floor crimson.

   He grabbed her again, and led her toward the bathroom. "Get in there,
   and wash up. Get all this off you...quick!"

   "My dress..." In her mind, it was a minor thing; her dress was now
   sticky and saturated with the blood of the monster. She would never
   make it home unmolested, but somehow the horror of the situation, the
   improbability of it all didn't affect her. Blood on her dress was no
   worse than wine: a bitch to get out.

   The stranger shook his head, finally seeing the pathetic sight she had
   become. He removed his trenchcoat, amazingly free of the gore of the
   battle, and draped it around her. "Now clean up. Say you weren't
   feeling well, and you went in there to puke or something. When you
   heard shots, you hid, okay?"

   "Sure. What about..."

   "Those guys? They won't be able to remember a damn thing."

   "What about you?"

   "Me? I'll probably get a new coat. Keep that one. Something tells me
   you'll be needing it.

   "I know this is all really confusing to you right now, but don't
   worry. It gets easier. Just look for other like you, wearing the coat.
   You'll know who's real and who isn't. They'll help you out."

   With that, he dashed toward the exit.

   She slowly soaked her hands in the cool water of the sink, ignoring
   the screams that echoed in the halls, the sobbing of classmates
   horrified by the discovery. When she was done, she opened the drain,
   and let it all wash away. She slipped on the coat, and walked to where
   they were waiting for her. The weight of the gun, still in a pocket,
   pressed against her hip.

   She wasn't worried. 'They won't ask me to open the coat. They won't
   see what's in my pocket.'

   And they didn't. She spent the entire interview somberly staring
   forward. The police took it for shock. It was, in fact, revelation.
   All her hopes were confirmed. The secret world she always dreamed
   about, as a little girl, talked about in high school, was out there.
   At last the magick flowed through her, quietly. Her midnight wishes
   finally had come true.

   And she was scared as hell...

   History: World War I was a conflict difficult to understand, and not
   easy to forget. Its horrors stretched beyond the scope of any war the
   world had ever seen. It seemed, above all, to personify just how
   brutal mankind could become, given sufficient provocation.

   What is not well known, however, is that the vast trenches, ankle-deep
   with mud, blood, and men, was actually a vast laboratory conceived of
   and created by the Enclave of Technomancers once known as Kindercolt,
   the Children of Colt. There the latest technomancer toys were tested
   on a level never before seen. Needleguns, capable of spewing death at
   an incredible rate. Mustard gas, which seemed to creep along the
   ground with inhuman intelligence, seeking out the trenches filled with
   life. Tanks, grenades, flamethrowers, all saw their start in the
   fields of France. Those that showed promise were later refined and
   enhanced. Those deemed too brutal were universally banned as
   "unsporting."

   When it was done, the Technomancers should have rejoiced. After all,
   mankind was forced to look deep within the heart of its intellect, and
   rather than reviling technology, as they had done in the time of the
   Luddites, they instead blamed their flawed nature on a dispassionate
   or absent god, and drank themselves to Sleep. With a few rare
   exceptions, weapons would nevermore be reviled as "wrongful tools,"
   and the Kindercolt could at last claim great control over war.

   Indeed, World War I was the last of the wars that actively employed
   Magick. Soldiers spoke of legions of spirits rising up in anguish at
   the suffering caused by both sides. In reality, Euthanatos mages were
   using such spirits to war on the other side. The entire contingent was
   wiped out by paradox when, on the next day, a psychiatrist proclaimed
   the effect "shell shock," and the event a sort of mass hallucination.
   The soldiers were heartened by the fact that there was a rational
   explaination, and The next time the Euthanatos tried it, they were
   doomed.

   However, despite the fact that the Technomancers won a war both sides
   lost, the Kindercolt, with their leader Krupp, were singularly reviled
   after the war. It would seem the other Technomancers feared their
   growing power, and subsequently overthrew them, exiling them to a
   section of the deep Umbra, where they could never escape from.

   For indeed the Kindercolt were not entirely successful in their
   endeavors. Their machines of death and iron had effects far beyond the
   mere physical manifestations. The pain and suffering wrought there
   cohesed, and stalked the trenches, searching for more fresh blood. To
   all but a few, they were invisible, striking at random, and leaving
   carnage in their wake. There are those that say these spirits still
   walk, now far from home, drawn to places of slaughter, where they kill
   rapturously, and leave only a possessed human to take the fall.

   But these creatures were not the greatest mistake of the Kinder. They
   were, however, the catalyst for what would happen next.

   Those who fought on the side of the English were a motley bunch. The
   rise of the middle class meant that there now was much blurring in
   rank and state. Once, the lower classes swelled the trenches, lead
   mindlessly by the indifferent aristocrats, who were more concerned
   with hills on little pieces of paper than actual human lives.

   Now the sons of the middle class filled the trenches. Well educated,
   they came not out of compulsion, but instead high minded ideals.
   Democracy. Honor. Duty. Every man had their part in this grand
   glorious game. For too many, it was to die of dysentary far from home.

   What, however, was happening was that vast groups of these educated
   men were seeing the horrors of war firsthand. Their dreams they had
   conjured were ripped, and the reality of a safe haven in this horrid
   place was blown to atoms with the first bomb blast. Psychological
   warfare played a critical role in the demoralization of the troops,
   but rather than cowing the masses, as it happened in the past in other
   dirty little wars, it Changed not a few.

   Stories abound of bizarre acts of suicidal bravery that pay off. A
   lieutenant spotted a man trapped in No Man's Land. His commanding
   officer deemed him too risky to save. The lieutenant dashed across the
   field, grabbed the man, and ducked into the trench. After the man was
   turned over to the medics, the officer examined himself, the coat he
   was wearing was riddled with bullets. He was unharmed. At his
   courtmartial--he had defied orders to remain at his post--the
   lieutenant claimed, "I would not let another man die."

   When the war ended, these children of the battlefields, Awakened in
   the most horrible ways imaginable, sought each other out trying to
   find solutions. They formed informal societies, and discovered that
   despite the fact that they were all from various socioeconomic strata,
   they had one thing in common: at one point, all expressed an interest
   in the occult. They also discovered that their trauma there had
   affected them in unknown ways. Things would go their way one minute,
   then their lives would shatter the next. People would often blindly
   follow them, and mere thoughts and intents of other people were laid
   open. What was worse was the increasing reports the members would tell
   of gaunt pale men following the aristocracy and celebrities, and
   bestial creatures that walked the streets, while normal men merely
   looked away. These men were scared and confused by the world they had
   discovered, and were determined to take it back, no matter what the
   cost.

   They had one more thing in common: the only memento of the war that
   they felt compelled to keep was the trenchcoat. This, then, was the
   sign of their Awakening, and the symbol of their struggle.

   Now knowing you are not alone in the world is a very powerful thing.
   These poor souls who could not find meaning to existence after the war
   now found the strength to go on. The clear majority found jobs to
   support those few whose abilities had truly manifested in spectacular
   ways. Anyone who heard of the presence of supernatural forces sent in
   the details to a respected few, who disseminated the information, and
   turned it over to the most qualified agent. Of course, it never worked
   as simple as that, but to them it was enough.

   Tangents were made almost immediately with the Arcanum, and both
   groups decided to work together, sharing resources and data, to aid
   the other in their respective quests. By and large, the Trenchcoaters,
   as they came to be known, did not divulge the true extent of their
   powers to anyone, lest the Arcanum change their mind and hunt them
   down. Also, the Trenchcoaters became very aware of the deliberate
   attempt to shroud the existence of the supernatural from humanity.
   They decided, for the benefit of all, to also remain in the shadows.

   And so it went for many years. Inroads were made with the rest of the
   Traditions, but to the Trenchcoaters, their application of magic was
   making it all worse, and not better. It became an unspoken policy to
   use and abuse mages and other supernatural creatures whenever
   necessary, to make them realize what it was like to be human, with no
   power at all.

   This shouldn't have lasted, however. The horrors of the War were
   fading into memory, and the Trenchcoaters, once young and defiant,
   were now old and wanted to give it all up. They would have, if not for
   Victor Rogers, son of Gregory Rogers, one of the founders of the
   Trenchcoaters.

   Victor showed up at one meeting (the gatherings, once conducted under
   the veil of "a social club" had degenerated to just that) wearing his
   father's tattered trenchcoat, tears streaming down his eyes. He
   explained that his father was expecting a visitor, and asked Victor to
   fetch something at the store.

   When Victor returned, his father was dead, his throat slashed and
   oozing blood. He dashed outside into the night, recalling he had heard
   footprints when he was arriving. Blind to all but anger, he met up
   with the monster which had killed his father. With an inhuman fury, he
   beat it down, until it moved no more.

   Rising, and still consumed with fury and sadness, he suddenly seemed
   to black out. When he recovered, he was sitting in his father's chair,
   wearing his coat. Further, his father was laying sprawled before him,
   his throat uncut. For a moment, a mere second, he thought the beast a
   dream, but then why were his hands still spattered with its blood?

   Urges beyond his understanding compelled him to come here, to the
   meeting, and tell his tale. Saying this, he collapsed from exhaustion.
   A doctor in the crowd examined him, and found a horrid wound delivered
   by the beast, and, until now, ignored.

   After healing his wounds, they gathered together, and talked in a
   manner like they never had talked before. Many confessed now that
   their children, or their children's friends, had that same haunted
   look they once saw in their own eyes. When asked what was wrong, they
   hedged, claiming the world Depression and the spectre of a second
   world war hung heavily in their minds. But the Trenchcoaters could not
   be fooled.

   Was it happening all over again? After all, another war was on the
   horizon. History seemed apt to repeat itself. Furthermore, the occult
   world they had been battling over the past twenty years seemed to
   parallel the real one. Despite their best efforts, the creatures of
   magick were spilling over into this world, licking their talons at the
   prospect of another bloody war. Worse, the attempts of some of the
   Trenchcoaters to expose more of the world to the occult and its hidden
   dangers, through pulp stories, instead had caused more young people to
   be seduced by the dark forces about them. It was the friends of these
   unfortunates who would be the next generation of Trenchcoaters.

   Faced with this outlook, the Trenchcoaters had but two options:
   surrender, or continue in what seemed to be a no-win situation. The
   vote was unanimous.

   The Society disbanded, and placed all its holdings in strategic
   interests. It knew that to fight the establishment, it could not
   become part of the establishment. The greatest of the Trenchcoaters,
   Nigel Binford, then prepared the Bar, a concept he was working on
   since stepping into his first node.

   The Bar was a miraculous weapon, which would make the need to gather
   all but pointless. Based on the highest principles of the Spheres of
   all but Entropy and Life, it would act as a battering ram, riding the
   ley lines in the near Umbra, orbiting the planet, and shattering
   Quintessence dams created by greedy mages. What it also would do would
   be to act as a receiver, a stable point by which the Trenchcoaters
   could direct their powers and draw on for reference, information, and
   assistance. The Bar would act on a subconscious level, to send
   information to those Trenchcoaters unaware of its existence.

   The point of all this was to provide Trenchcoaters with resources
   outside the realm of standard Magick. Mundane means of hunting
   Trenchcoaters through each other was impossible, since the only
   tangible link was the ever moving, never detectable Rod. Further, the
   Bar proved to be the central focus of the Trenchcoater movement,
   symbolizing their interconnectedness to others of their kind, and to
   all things.

   The battle continues to this day. Defying others to call them a
   Tradition, the Coaters extend the honor of membership to all Awakened
   species, having several Kindred, Garou, Spirits, and even one mummy,
   as allies. They tend not to seek each other out, and when two or three
   do meet, by "accident," there is usually a reason.

   The Trenchcoaters by nature are loners. However, recognizing the need
   of allies, they often mingle with supernatural beings. Often, it would
   seem that the Coaters, too weak to play with the "big boys," are often
   either hiding behind their more powerful allies, or using them to
   fight their battles. Their peculiar relationship with focuses also
   leads many mages to distrust their Orphan brethren.

   For the Coaters, the mages, Technomancers and Traditionists alike, are
   the ones making it worse. They despise those who abuse power and
   reality, to fight their petty war, and don't think twice about messing
   with their focuses, and disrupting rituals with Sleeper pizza boys
   paying a visit. Because they distrust the Traditions, they don't buy
   into the anti-Technomancer rhetoric spouted by these groups.
   Uneducated in the nuances of reality, they see nothing wrong with the
   not-so gentle ministrations of the 'Mancers (as they refer to them)
   unless it comes to some of their really excessive powers, such as Mark
   IV's and cloning. (Basically, play the Trenchcoater as a Sleeper. If
   the Technomancer shows off something very futuristic and dangerous,
   the Coater is apt to get pissed).

   Philosophy: Trenchcoaters are those who are Awakened by exposure to
   magick dark and violent. Subsequently, they are against those who
   abuse the power that they have been granted. They seek to prevent
   others from sharing their fate, and to help those who, like them, were
   Awakened against their will. Punishment against those who piss off a
   Trenchcoater is usually slowly and carefully planned out, seeming
   minor at first, until suddenly the victim's world disintegrates.
   Trenchcoaters seldom pull punches, unless the victim really relents.
   Trenchcoaters actively seek to repulse demons, spirits, and other
   extradimensional forces from the earth, trying to make the earth as
   "normal" as possible. Whatever normal means is, of course, up to the
   individual mage. Some are content to let non-threatening demons
   remain, while others seek to repulse even the most friendly forces as
   detrimental to reality.

   There are those who believe that there were always Trenchcoaters. As
   the theory goes, Trenchcoaters are those who were awakened in the
   presence of one of the celestial spheres. The reason most seem to
   manifest on battlefields, or as a result of war is due to the fact
   that large groups mass during war, and subsequently there is a greater
   chance for a larger number of people to become Awakened when exposed
   to Mars, Force of War. The fact that more and more Trenchcoaters are
   awakened when exposed to Terror, which has no direct planetary
   correspondance, may mean there is indeed an unknown sphere out there,
   undetectable to even the Void Engineers.

   Finally, Trenchcoaters passively control their power most of the time.
   Subsequently, they feel magic must be coaxed, and not shoved down
   anyone's throat, as it was done to them. They feel the concept of
   patterns are too complex for normal magi to understand. Strangely,
   this belief empowers them in a bizarre manner. Since they give in to
   the call of the pattern, they find it much easier to manipulate their
   personal pattern, with its connections to other patterns. Some say
   that this subconscious yearning reinforces their desire to protect
   humanity, as they feel the connection to those who are hurt.

   Organization: Most would say there is less organization among the
   Trenchcoaters as fifteen drunk faeries trying to tie a ghost's
   shoelaces together during a riot. However, their ability to suddenly
   come together and thwart anything, despite the best efforts of
   Chantries to hide their secret plans leads many mages to believe that
   they are seriously underestimating the abilities of these poor
   cousins.

   Meetings: Whenever.

   Chantry: Once again, most would conclude that a bunch of wandering
   loners would have no chantry. This is a baldface lie. Indeed, every
   major metropolitan city has a seedy bar linked directly to the Bar.
   Through this focus, a mage can link himself to several others. A
   strange dual-locality will take place, and people in bars in London
   can meet and talk to mages in New York. However, it's just images. No
   matter can be exchanged, but ideas can be transmitted. Thus, depending
   on how it's looked at, there's either one bar, or several thousand.
   The effect seems so natural that no Paradox is accumulated.

   Acolytes: None are called, all are chosen by powers beyond their
   control. Virtually anyone can become a Trenchcoater in name, whether
   or not they are Mages, though they do not necessarily get the special
   powers. Most have a history of once being open- minded about the world
   of fantasy or the Occult, only to have it slap them in the face one
   morning. It can happen at any time, from early adolescence, to late in
   life. Sometimes other Coaters are called to a new Coater, to help them
   change, while others go for years before they realize that there are
   others out there.

   Sphere: Like most Orphans, none. Spheric magick comes much more
   difficult to Trenchcoaters. Their maximum rating in one sphere can be
   4; all others are maxed at three. Only through years of intensive
   studying, ultimately by surrendering the life of a Trenchcoater, can
   one become a Master of a sphere. These are usually reviled by other
   Trenchcoaters.

   Foci: There is a belief that the Trenchcoat itself, ubiquitous in this
   group, is the common focus. Much to the chagrin of those who try to
   weaken a Coater by taking it away, nothing happens. Trenchcoaters have
   no foci when using Coincidental magick.

   Their weakness in relation to vulgar spheric magick compels them to
   use foci when trying vulgar magic. This usually requires the foci of
   another Tradition. Thus, to use Forces in a vulgar fashion, they must
   rely on the language foci of the Order of Hermes (usually Latin).

   However, an interesting quirk manifest when they get their hands on
   just such a foci. They can tap into the sympathetic pattern each magi
   invests into a foci when it is used as a channel for mystical energy
   (whether or not it is unique). When an item is stolen, it can be used
   to lower difficulties on magic cast through the focus. The foci starts
   with a pool of 5 for a non-unique item, 10 with an unique item. Every
   time the foci is tapped, difficulties are lowered by one. The item is
   burned out at a rate equal to the highest level of magick. Thus, when
   using Matter 3, Correspondence 2 through batteries owned and used by a
   Son of the Ether, the difficulty to the roll is diminished by one.
   Since the highest sphere tapped was three, the item is drained three.
   When the item is completely tapped, it can function as a normal foci.
   There are no "unique" items.

   Some of the more peculiar foci they require, like languages, can be
   tapped in modern ways. Thus, to use Forces with the -1 difficulty, the
   Trenchcoater has to get an Order of Hermes mage on tape. Realize,
   however, that this turns the Hermetic mage's coincidental act into a
   vulgar with no witnesses (there now is proof of the magic) and a
   vulgar with no witnesses into a vulgar with witnesses. Some hermetic
   mages might be a bit miffed when this occurs.

   Although this would seem as a boon for a Trenchcoater, most mages are
   leery to give away a focus, regardless of how readily it can be
   replaced. The Trenchcoaters can easily tap into forces they cannot,
   and it frightens them. Subsequently, a trenchcoater must steal the
   majority of the foci he wants, storing them in boltholes until they
   are needed.

   Concepts: Student, Professional, Drifter, Outcast.

   Quote: You have a problem? Get a clue. Don't count on me being there.
   You Tass-suckers are messing with crap best left alone. I know a lot.
   More than I should, I know, but at least I'm not making it worse.

   Sure, run on in, and fight the Machine. Fight the forces of darkness
   and crap Man wasn't meant to know. Just remember, it's fools like me
   that'll have to run in there and save your lousy asses.

  Stereotypes

   Akashic Brotherhood: They believe that they're connected to all
   things. A good start, I know, but Christ, they're abandoning their
   humanity by losing themselves. What's the point of saying you're
   connected to all things, when you're not even connected to yourself?

   Celestial Chorus: Is it live, or Memorex? Who gives a flip! These
   holier than thou types really need a reality check. The world isn't as
   cut and dry as they make it out to be, and they're only cutting the
   innocent out of the loop. When you fight demons and stare into that
   Abyss, remember to try not to step on those you're defending.

   Cult of Ecstasy: A bunch of circle jerkers. They're so intoxicated
   with what gets them off, they miss the big picture. Magick's a tool.
   You use it wrong, you use it to get your jollies, and people die. The
   only life is a life free of vices. Hey! Those silk cuts get me through
   the night...!

   Dreamspeakers: Omm...Omm...Hairy Goddamn Fishnuts. Get a job.

   Euthanatos: A good idea. Cack those who abuse the Stuff. Too bad they
   don't start closer to home.

   Hollow Ones: Please! Listen to a little Joy Division, and suddenly you
   have the right to twist reality like a pretzel? I'd like to take the
   wanker that created this bunch, and drop him off a cliff.

   Order of Hermes: Maybe the Oldest. Definitely the most lost. Always
   toying and manipulating, never taking responsibility for their
   actions. They'll get theirs, and soon.

   Sons of Ether: These guys aren't so bad, since they usually leave a
   lot of pretty potent stuff lying around to swipe. Also, you can
   usually get a hearty chuckle out of their best efforts.

   Verbena: Nothin' like that ol' Black Magick, right? Hell. I thought we
   got rid of these black bastards at Salem. Just trying to scam a foci
   off them is creepy enough.

   Virtual Adepts: Let them play at their video games. The Technomancers
   will fry their brains, hang them out to dry, and maybe download a clue
   into their addled brains. Magic is here and it's now! Why spread it to
   virgin worlds?

  Special Powers

   Part of the innate nature of Trenchcoaters is their ability to change
   their personal pattern, and its connection to other patterns. In
   short, they can subconsciously build up Backgrounds even after game
   play has started. Backgrounds can be bought at the rate of Current
   levelx8. The first level taken to five becomes the primary Background.
   That remains a constant during play, and cannot be altered by the
   Storyteller. It is, in short, the one thing a Trenchcoater can always
   rely on in the crazy world in which she lives. Other Backgrounds may
   be bought, but they are highly variable, shifting and changing over
   the course of a chronicle. One moment,the character is swimming in
   dough, the next he is broke. It's part of the ebb and flow of the
   Trenchcoater life, and most take it on the chin. The permanent level
   usually entails some special power significant to the background. Some
   examples follow:

   Dream: Once a lunar cycle, the mage can summon and speak with a
   mystical being known as the Lord of Dream. Through this connection,
   any question can be asked, and answered--for a price. The advantage is
   that the Lord of Dream can access the subconscious of the Dreamer.
   There is no chance for the victim to discover the inquiry, unlike most
   Mind abilities.

   Arcane: The mage's connection to reality begins to get tenuous.
   Reality seems to want to deny her existence. A piece of paper once
   held suddenly bursts into flame when discarded, leaving no ashes. The
   mage must make a conscious effort to leave record of her passing.

   Allies: One specific ally seems to lead a particularly good charmed
   life. Nothing seems to keep her down long, and she's always willing to
   lend a hand, regardless of what you do to her.

   Resources: Money really loses all value to the user. A quick check in
   a coin return always reveals change, and the bill is seldom calculated
   correctly, whether it be at restaurant, the grocery store, or from the
   power company.

   Node: When the character achieves mastery in Node, something happens
   to their pattern. So entwined are they within the quintessence flow
   that their own pattern comes to resemble a nodal trap, catching free
   quintessence, as does a Node. Thus, for all purposes, the character is
   constantly standing in a node. However, this does not come without a
   price. To reform a personal pattern on such a level prevents direct
   application of the Prime sphere. Thus, the character can never exceed
   his Avatar rating, and must constantly apply quintessence to keep
   effects going (one point of quintessence for each turn).

   Beyond the permanent one, there are two kinds of background: variable
   and diminishing. Variable are the ones you see in the rulebook. They
   may increase and decrease as the story progresses, never surpassing
   the maximum that they are bought to. The ones introduced here are
   diminishing. Only time, sometimes overnight, usually over the course
   of the story, can replace the background, and the Trenchcoater must do
   something to increase his rating. These, however, can be bought to
   five and made permanent.

   Coincidence: This rare innate quality seems only to be possessed by
   those who never quest for personal mastery of magick, but instead
   allow it to obey its own ebb and flow. Subsequently, things happen,
   both good and bad. Each dot allows a die to be added to any non-magick
   dice pool, even surpassing the 10-limit. To an observer, the mage is
   "finding" stuff he requires. However, each application creates a
   phantom point of Paradox (the universe does not liked to be tweaked).
   Start on the outside of the Paradox chart, and place a dot for each
   current paradox point. For each application place another on the
   outside of the track, whether he uses one or five points. If he picks
   up a paradox point later, a space is filled in the wheel, and a dot is
   placed on the outside. When phantom paradox hits quintessence
   reserves, reality goes awry. A 1-point paradox flaw is picked up,
   usually humorous and embarassing. Often, a real point of paradox is
   picked up.

   The dice pool is regenerated at a rate of 1 per hour, or recharged
   through quintessence on a one for one basis (reality manipulation is
   reality manipulation.

   Immunity: This new background confers a form of resistance to (1)
   Sphere. A mage can reinforce his pattern versus attacks aligned
   against his pattern. Taking the amount spent on the background, a mage
   can use this total to negate attacks on his person. For each point
   alloted, a success against the mage is negated. This is a reactive
   ability. The mage knows how much he needs to spend to negate the
   effect.

   However, the hardening goes both ways. Not only is he rendered immune,
   but he also steals from himself part of his influence over that
   Sphere. Thus, if 2 points are spent, two successes are negated for the
   rest of the day from each roll using the given sphere. However, every
   time he attempts to use that sphere, or if it is used beneficially
   against him, two successes are wasted. If he had a 4 rating, and added
   2 more effects, he would be immune to four successes against the
   sphere.

   Only one sphere can ever be selected. The effect lasts until the next
   sunrise, or the next moonrise. Once the effect is negated, points are
   regained at a rate of 1 per hour.

   Favor: This level one to five background symbolizes how good the
   character is at finagling people. It can be used on a one to one basis
   to emulate most tangible backgrounds. It is used up during the course
   of a story, and is replenished only at the end.

   The background usually works like this. If the item/person/thing is to
   be returned, then it can be used on a point to point basis. If it is
   to be kept, then it works as a background at 2 less. As an example,
   the mage want to get his hands on some fast cash. He has a level 4
   favor. If he intends to give it back, he can get the full cash value.
   If he intends to keep, it acts as a Resource 2.

   The background cannot be used to supplant an existing resource. For
   instance, if the Mage has a level 1 resource, and wishes to spend a
   level 2 favor, he can only get the level 2 resource total for the
   favor.

   In the case of the Trenchcoaters, this is not merely the ability to
   mooch. It is part of their unique ability to create connections.
   Basically, one moment the mage is bereft of friends, and the next a
   connection has been created between her and someone with a valuable
   ally.

   Paradox affects Trenchcoaters, but in a way not truly expected or
   understood. The majority of the time when Paradox hits, it instead
   attacks those around the Coater. Friends, allies, contacts, it doesn't
   matter. All have the chance to be hit by the unpredictable nature of
   paradox, usually leaving the mage physically unscathed. This is the
   primary reason why Trenchcoaters are so solitary, unwilling to harm
   others. Some have never experienced Paradox firsthand, and don't
   understand what's destroying their lives. They blame intangible forces
   of darkness, unaware that the true danger lies within them.

   90% of Trenchcoater magic is Coincidental, as well as subconscious, as
   the Trenchcoater taps into her largely hidden potential. To utilize
   coincidental magick, the Trenchcoater offhand states the effect ("I
   wonder what he's thinking..."). The Storyteller determines effect
   level and difficulty as usual. However, the ST rolls the dice. The
   Trenchcoater never knows to what degree her powers worked. Since the
   power derives from the subconscious, sometimes, during emotional
   moments, the mage triggers her power. Of course, spending a willpower
   point negates the effect.

   Although the trenchcoat does not act as a focus, many Trenchcoaters
   build up the Favor background, and convince mages to augment their
   individual garment as Talismans. Bulletproofing is a must, as well as
   protection from the elements. Some prefer to have weapons and effects
   stored into it, as well as a healing effect. Perhaps the first
   trenchcoater, Ambrose Bierce had his garment augmented so that it
   consistently put beef sandwiches in his pocket, never looked crumpled
   or dirty, and completely arrested the flow of time around him, so that
   he never aged.

   Trenchcoaters have an innate disdain for the Prime Sphere. They cannot
   comprehend the concept of limiting the flow of quintessence in a
   pattern, or even treating it as a force to be manipulated.
   Subsequently, they work strictly on their Avatar ratings to gain
   quintessence, and hoard pieces of tass as the natural way of storing
   magick. However, once a 5 is garnered in Avatar, something happens
   within the Trenchcoater, and he understands the subtle nuances of
   quintessence. Only then will he begin to understand the reason for
   Prime, and take it to heart