This is a placeholder message for Misty's newest thread, GMed by Tadeusz.  :)

In reply to Tadeusz (msg # 1):

You're in an English parlour room, tied to a chair.  Sherlock Holmes in his deerstalker hat, Hercules Poirrot, Mike Hammer with a cold smile and a gun, Miss Marple, Rick Castle in his 'Writer' kevlar vest, Robocop, and Batman are all there, studying you.

"Who thinks she's guilty?" Hands begin to raise...

And you realize you are slumped in a chair.  An odd staccato of noise goes away from you. You look up, and out of an apartment window you can see a brightly patterned cowboy boot outside an apartment window, as it leaves.

A thick coppery stench in the air turns your stomach.  Looking down, you see an attractive blonde woman in a dress, with a sai stuck through her chest, pinning her to the carpetted floor.

   I snapped out of the jump fog much more quickly this time.  Maybe the smell of blood triggered some ancient fight or flight response to blow away the cobwebs my brain seems to accumulate when I verse out.  I don't need to know how it worked, just that it did.

   I grabbed my backpack and placed the weapons harness and its weapons in it.  I kept my constant traveling companion in her shoulder holster, shrugging into my denim jacket to conceal the rig.  Until I find out what the rules are, walking around with a visible weapon might be against the law.  There's also probably a law against the leaving pretty blondes with melee weapons embedded in their chests laying around, too.  I shrugged into my backpack and checked outside the front door to see if anyone was paying attention.

To the right, you see a long hallway with an ugly faded yellow runner and a couple of doors off to each side with a stairs down at the end. one of the doors has what looks like an 'ankh' hanging on it. To the left you see two uniformed cops quick-walking, hands near their guns, led by a mustached man in a suit, and a shaven-headed, very large man in a trenchcoat.

The large man looks at you with quick surmise, then fear, then a controlled fury.  you can tell he's a hunter of men.

He is reaching for a weapon, shouting something.  The cool, night air from the open window hits you in the back.  The scents of the apartment swirl around you, and mix with the stale cigarrette smells of the hallway.

   Most of the time, I can tell when I'm not wanted.  This time, I can tell that I am, but I'm not really thrilled about the concept.  I boosted to snap the doorknobs off of the door, then closed the door.  With any luck, the lack of a quick way to open the door might buy me a few moments to get out of here.  I pushed what was probably a heavy couch against the door for the same reason.

   The police seemed as happy to see me as I was to see them.  That wasn't good.  The open window, however, was calling my name and I decided to answer.  I took a quick look out the window to see if any other officers were hanging around.

grrntrnnnnnnnggg! The door handle snaps off.

"Stop police!" For a whimsical quarter second you wonder why the police are telling themselves to stop, as the door seems to drift shut.  Two hands on the couch, and it more flies than is dragged over to in front.

The pounding of footsteps.

You're at the window when you hear Smackcrack! As a large shoe kicks the door.  You've got at best thirty seconds and probably less before the room will be filled with cops.  Outside, you see a police car and another car parked near it, haphazardly along with other more normally parked cars.  But no attendants.

Its four stories down and six stories up on the black iron fire escape.  Cowboy Boots is not in sight.

Another massive thwack at the door, and the couch moves a little.

   I guess it's time to go.  I never understood why people in cop shows and movies usually fled upward.  Unless you have an escape route already in place, going upward seems like a sure way to trap yourself.  I don't have an escape route planned.  I don't even know where I am, let alone where I'm going.  I killed the boost, not wanting to stand out by doing anything else to draw attention to myself, then started moving downward in what I hoped was a quick but casual manor.

You're down to the second floor when you hear some shouts above you.  You're clearly eyeballed from the few comments, and then its decided you're not the sought after target.

A couple minutes later, and you're down to the road.

Another minute, and you turn onto Memphis Street.

Despite the late hour, there are dozens of people about.  Some are clearly dressed in work uniforms, and others have very fancy clothing.  A few are dressed what you would consider normally.

Most of the cars are three-wheeler, and make a fluting sound as they pass you.

You see a vending machine selling energy drinks, and fortune cookies, and temprary tattoos in front of an acupuncture shop.

In the far distance, past many streets of multi-story buildings, you see well-lit nuclear cooling towers.

   First things first.  I need to figure out where I am.  Given the surroundings, it looks like the people here are technologically equal to my Earth's late twentieth or early twenty first century.  My mind wandered a second at the treasures this city could provide...  Beauty salons...  Day spas...  Shampoo that smelled of exotic places that actually smelled as good as exotic places should smell...  Chocolate...

   My momentary fantasies fell apart as I realized that there was nothing  I could do about it tonight.  Once again, I'm both wealthy and broke at the same time.  I have food in my pack and water in my canteen.  But I need some kind of a roof over my head for tonight.  What I really needed was a phone book.  I dug the wedding rings on the heavy silver chain I had picked up during my disastrous stay in the early 1900's out of a side pocket of my pack and placed the chain around my neck, tucked under my shirt.  I then set off in search of someplace still open, like a diner or a bar.

At the end of the block you see The Lucky Clover.  It has a sign with a tipsy leprechaun that hangs out over the sidewalk.  You hear someone that sounds like Enya from the inside as a door opens and a giggling woman leaves with an attentive man.

Inside, you see a dimly lit bar.  And on the thick TV set over the counter is an MTV video of Enya singing a song you've never heard of.

Three guys to your left are tossing darts over their shoulders at a dart board with the picture of some balding man with a smile on his face taped to the dart board.

To your right you see a long-haired man at a small square table chalking up a wheel shaped design on a complex outline on a coloring sheet.  Its vibrant with color.

Five guys and three girls are chatting at the bar.  The bartender looks up and gives you a quick scan as if to check if you're trouble.  Then he smiles welcome.

The rest of the room buzzes with chatter, clinking bottles.  A waitress passes you with a tray full of baskets of chili fries, bbq chicken? stuffed in tomatoes, and ankh shaped giant pretzels, and bottles of dark beer.

   The aroma of the food reminds me of just how long it's been since my last meal.  I wonder if versing drains your metabolism and that's why I always land with an empty stomach.  Maybe I should start versing right after I eat.  Or, should I wait an hour after eating to verse, like with going swimming?  Why yes, thank you for asking.  I am definitely suffering from low blood sugar.

   This place looks like the type of bar I used to frequent as a second office because the food was better than at my first office.  I'm a little curious about the pretzels, but I don't want to rat myself out as a total outsider just yet.  I set my pack on the floor beside me as I picked out a bar stool and sat down.

The bartender slips up to you with a single push on the bar.  He puts down a piece of paper to write on.

"Welcome, Lass. My name's Bill. Guinness? Terrible Colonial beer? Margharita? We also got stuffed clamshell tomatoes, hot pretzels, spiced egg rolls, sherbert, chips, beanie fritters, and if you're real daring and have a mouth of armor, we have fried firefingers. Also water."

The curly haired guy next to you looks your way. He gives a brief smile.  He seems laidback.

"Get the lass a stout on me, Bill why don'tchya?"  He's dressed in a working uniform like many of those here.

   "A stout would be wonderful, thank you."  It was time to be honest, sort of...  "I'd love to buy you one back, but I have this not so small problem.  I was riding with some people I didn't know very well.  They dropped me here and took off.  I'm in a strange city with no money and no identification.  The only thing they left me was my pack and this."  I pulled the wedding ring set on the heavy silver chain from under my t-shirt, lifted it over my head, and placed it on the bar.  "These belonged to my great grandmother.  Do you know anyplace where I can pawn these for food and rent money until I get back on my feet?"

"No need. Just my way of introducing myself. I'm Aidan. I work QA at the Winston HVAC factory." The curly haired guy says.

"Ach. Now that's downright rude." Aidan says.
"I'm pretty sure that Lisa or Dominique wouldn't mind a friend for a few days." Bill says.

You place the chain on the bar. Aidanand Bill both stare open-mouthed at the chain. Then Bill quickly starts to sweep it over, but then tosses instead the bar towel on top of the chain.

"Your Ladyship, its ....difficult for commoners to possess that much silver." Bill says.

"Aye. I mean the Commonwealth Contract says we can, I guess, but the High Court says 'the right of all free men to own precious metals is undisputed.' doesn't mean what we think it means." Aidan says a bit sourly.

   This is sooooo not good.  I generally finance my stops with valuables from my previous stops, those rare times when I manage to stick around long enough to get paid.  Fortunately, my sporadic paydays tend to be big enough to allow me to do some pro bono work on other stops.  This was starting to look like a pro bono stop.

   I slid my hand under the bar towel to get my rings and chain back.  "My name is Misty and I'm sorry about this misunderstanding.  I don't want to cause anyone any trouble.  How much in precious metals are we allowed to possess?  I'm asking because I don't know.  I really am not from around here."

Bill wrinkles up his forehead.
"Um about a ring's worth. Just a second." He scoots back down the bar, leans over it, and calls out a guy's name.  The guy is sitting with his wife, both munching on chili fries.

He comes over.  He's dressed in a shirt and pants, normal to you clothing.  He's broad shouldered, and has a solid extra tire around his belly.  He has shooter's hands.

"Mr. Norton, what's the rule on precious metals?" Bill asked.

"Ah, one half of an ounce of not more than fifty percent purity for jewelry purposes for gold, silver, and platinum in total." Mr. Norton replies. "Which is, of course, total garbage. Hi, I'm Jake Norton, local organizer for Si."

He takes your blank look, and adds.

"The Silver Initiative. We believe the Contract meant that anyone has the right to gold and silver.  Its because of us that you can have any silver at all."

"And every time there is a currency fluctuation, or inflation the press blames you guys." Aidan adds sipping his drink.

Norton sighs.  "It is a burden being the Mostest Evil Man Evar in Philly, but hey, someone's got to do it.  Good thing we don't have any serial killers more worthy of the title."

   This place had a political group called the Silver Initiative.  I wonder if they do more than just lobby for political and economic change.  Maybe Norton knows someone who does currency transactions as a sideline.  If not, I could probably find one.  Every city has that place where the people who need things done can find people to do them for a price.  I'm a pretty good detective.  I can figure it out.  Or, maybe I could just ask Bill.

   I dug into my pocket for some of the change I received from my transactions while being Misty Noir.  I selected a dime, probably one of the ones I had earned washing dishes, and showed it to Mr. Norton.  "This is one tenth of an ounce of ninety-five percent pure silver.  What is it worth money wise?  Also, I couldn't help but notice your hands.  I was a detective back home.  What are the firearm laws here in Philly?"

Indeed. You spot one guy with a flashy jacket, and a loud manner off at a table with a few others.  Your mind instinctively looks for the gun, and you spot it, along with a knife.  He looks like bad news in a petty kind of way.

Mr. Norton grows more serious. Weighs the coin on his thumb, sniffs it, and still keeping it visible pulls out a small pad from his back pocket.

"The Precious Metals exchange or PMX has Crown Silver, or moonpure, which is 98% at 98.43 pounds per pound.  So, we'll round it off to a pound as I hate dealing with pennies.  And as an SI I have dispensation to own more silver, and I have an advocate on retainer."

He hands you a one pound note.

He glances over at Bill who nods.

"Now if you had more, say more than two ounces, I might know some ways to deal with things.  The PMX will give you  25% of face.  Or 50% if you have provenance.  There are collectors who pay quite a bit better, some nobles with seats on the PMX, and a wholesaler who pays in between.  For 5% I can take you, and vouch for you, as some are not pleasant. And if this is entrapment, the SI won the last three cases against the Crown."

"If you're in your house, you can use whatever you want. An Englishman's house is his castle.  On the street, if you have permit, you can carry a .30, a .22, or an .17. Assault pistols of heavier calibre require a special dispensation....or you could join the Martini Family and flout the law." He gets a sour look on his face as the flashy guy gives  a braying laugh.

   Well, I have a pound note, so I'm technically not broke.  I even have a way of getting some operating capital, but this might not be the best time to talk about what it involves.  The thug in the flashy jacket might start getting interested and I've already got one dead body behind me this evening.

   I made a mental note to stock up on silver coins at my next visit to someplace that actually used them as currency.  I pawed through my change from 1938 to find six quarters and five more dimes.  I handed it all to Norton.  "These are all the silver coins I have.  It comes to two ounces of silver.  Perhaps you could make me an offer so I could avoid all the limitations I would face by having no valid identification at the moment."

He nods, and looks over at Bill.

"Could you spot me from the till? I'll get you back tommorrow." Mr. Norton says.  Bill nods and opens his change counter.

"Two ounces, keep it simple, twenty pounds."  Mr. Norton says, and pulls out of his pocket a five pound note, and Bill makes up the difference with money exchanged for a written IOU.  Then you get ten one's and two five pound notes. Slipped in with the money is a business card for SI.  He nods, and heads back to his wife and nosh.

"Now you can buy me that drink?" Aidan asks with a hopeful smile.

"Drink for you, and for the lush would be a ha'pound.  A sampler tray would set you back another pound." Bill says.

The TV changes to a news station.

"Breaking news: Lady Angeline DeWitt found murdered in one of her rental properties. Rumores say it was some sort of sword.  Some speculate that this is Farcoast Yakuza, others that it was the Martini Family hiring an outatowner."

The broadcast leaves the anchors, and shows the hunter of men looking harrassed on a street.
"Detective Calhoun, can you tell us...?"
He wheels on the reporter and glares down at him.

The broadcast cuts to another.
"My wife and I are dreadfully saddened. She was the youngest of four. We're posting a ten thousand pound reward for the succesful capture of her killer."
"Earl DeWitt, thank you for talking to us." The reporter sounds very respectful to the straight-backed, grayhaired man who has a palpable aura of authority.

There's some buzz in the room, and you hear one guy curse, and say he knew her.

   I ordered a beer for Aidan and a beer and the sampler platter for myself.  I paid Bill and waited until he had a free minute or two.  Bill didn't seem to have a lot of free minutes.  I divided my time between watching the news flashes about the former Lady DeWitt and the people in the bar, especially the punk in the loud jacket.

   I finally had a name to go with the body.  I had a name to go with the cop, too.  Calhoun looked competent.  I hoped that he was, since he was the lead detective on a high profile case.  This wasn't my case to work.  I have no authority, no carry permit, and no paying client.  I don't have an office, a cell phone, or even a business card to hand out to potential clients.  All I have are some unlicensed weapons and my backpack.  I'm not working this case.

   I tried to see who made the comment about knowing the Lady.  That might have been more difficult if the bar had been fuller.  I'm really not working the case.  I just wanted to see the guy who traveled in Her circle but still hung out here.

   The food was good and I was hungry.  It wasn't quite what I was expecting, though.  You can't grow up around Chicago and not know a little about Irish cooking.  I was kind of hoping for some colcannon and boiled ham.  Still, I ate every crumb...  and waited for Bill.

In reply to Misty (msg # 21):

"One terrible colonial beer", and you get a credible lighter beer in a mug.  The food is fried, and greasy, and not  Irish.  The sampler gives you one or two of everything.  The BBQ in a clamshell tomato is turkey. Edit...The chips turn out to be fried, battered white fish, and the chief spice in the egg rolls is ginger.  Its like eating a gingerbread cookie made of cabbage.

There is a crispy coated thing like a thick green bean.  One bite, and your eyes water.  Its the firefinger.

"Habanero, marinated for a week in 'special' sauce, stuffed with jalopeno sour cream, and baked in a a flour mix that is one-forth cayenne pepper." Aidan explains. "We import them from the El Mexican Provincia."

The punk has gotten quiet as soon as the news came on.  You can tell he's trying to hide his nerves.

There is a few more news bits. The RIS denies plans to get involved.  There is a mention of several serial killers who all used knives.  From listening to them, they have about a dozen current cases on such folk.

An advertisement comes on, and its a 1-900 number for Bog Witches, Ltd. asking if you want to curse someone, say your boss.

Riverdance comes on.

You spot the guy who knew her, and he's in the midst of small crowd telling what he knows.  He's dressed in working clothes in a booth on the far side of the room.  Listening, you get the impression he worked for her somehow.  He's not one of her social peers.  But he seems comfortable with that, and you see that the people here are relaxed around their 'betters', or at least some of them.

It seems like in a society where everyone knows their role there is less social competition.  A bright kid on the bottom rung can't rise to the top, so the elite is not continually pressured.

You see the punk slide out as soon as he thinks he can without attracting notice.

And Bill comes over to you.  "I gotta minute, your ladyship."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:32, Tue 26 Apr 2016.

    The punk seemed very agitated.  I'm still not working the case, but I wanted to know why he was so spooked.  It was time for him to share what he was thinking with me.  I focused in on him.

   I had no idea what a Bog Witch was, even after seeing one of their commercials.  I can only go with it must be something like the Psychic Friends Network back in my original timeline.  And, as with the Psychic Friends Network, I had no plans to ever call any Bog Witches.

   When Bill came over, I rolled my eyes at his "ladyship" comment.  "My name is Misty and while I am female, I'm seldom mistaken for a Lady.  This is a great place you have.  Thanks to Mr. Norton and you, I have almost twenty pounds.  I'm not sure what kind of lodging that much cash will buy in Philly.  Would you put in a good word for me with one of your servers?"

"But you're a noble." He objects as you watch the punk slip unobtrusively as he can toward the front door.  "Ah, three to five pounds will get you a decent to nice place to stay the night."

He nods, and calls Lisa over.  She's the waitress you saw earlier.  She seems tired and sweaty and drops down on a bar stool while Bill gets her a water. Her dark brunnette hair is drawn back in a pony tail, and she's shorter than you by a decent bit.  She's watchful and a bit quiet.  She's also trim and lightly muscled, probably from having to tote a full tray back and forth on her shoulder all night.

"Good tips, bossman."

Bill asks her, and she gives you a glance, sizing you up, and nods.  "Sure.  I warn you I have a parrot."

And punk is leaving...

   "If a place to sleep costs five pounds, I'll try to find a place for tonight.  After all you've done for me, I wouldn't feel right imposing further.  I'll go see what I can find."  I left the half pound in change on the counter as a tip for the food and drinks.

   I shrugged into my pack and headed toward the door.  I didn't have any specific direction in mind, so I decided to follow the punk.  I wasn't working the DeWitt case, but twitchy thugs make me wonder why they are so spooked.  It's just curiosity, that's all.

You leave, and go out into the night.  The streets are less populated, but there is still a good number of folks about.  Some are clearly mostly drunk, and are stumbling along.  A guy tries to sing you a drunken Christmas carol, but he keeps forgetting the lines.

The punk, now that he's out of the bar, steps wide.  Others get out of his way. A guy gives him a dark look after the punk passes, and the guy pops his knuckles.

There are very few cars now on the road.  A four wheeled police car passes you, its engine growling.

He turns down a short dead end street dotted with small trees growing in large pots, and narrow townhouses of brick.  Two girls walk, a little tipsy, up to the front door of one, and enter.

He goes to a payphone, and calls.  His manner as he begins to speak is nervous.  He's about thirty yards away, and you can't hear his words.

   I can't do from much here, so I'll have to move closer to be able to read his surface thoughts.  It didn't seem to work in the bar before the punk left.  Maybe there were too many people around creating background noise or something.

There had been an odd hum in the ether you now realize.  Its gone. And the night seems a bit colder and darker.

You slip up toward him, hiding behind small trees.

You hear some of his words, and you hear his surface thoughts.

:Boss, yeah, its Deck, yeah, Deck. Doesn't remember does he? Anyways Boss, I heard about the sticking. Yeah, I'm alone. you think I'm stupid? He thinks I'm stupid. Snot you boss. Yeah, I left the bar a bit later, went to ask what was going down.  It is in my territory after all. You idiot...how dare he talk to me that way.  I was cool. YOu think I don't sound cool, well boss I'm the king of cool and you're the king of dorks.  Yes, boss, of course, I'll wait Yeah, I'm at the payphone on the Wallace Dead End. Hah, dead end. Got a body buried in the crete. Hah. No I won't leave.  I know you think I'm done but one day old guy, one day.:

Its a confused mix of what he said, what he thought, and him repeating in his mind some of what his boss said to him.

He hangs up, and curzes.  Some of the curses stand out as odd...'By Hecate's tangled hairs' and 'To Hades with the lot of them', and 'Loki give me strength to send these dimwits to hang on the tree, maybe then they'd realize how valuable I am.'  There's also more traditionally Christian and simply vulgar cursing.

The street seems to have darkened.

   So much for my not working the DeWitt homicide.  This bozo was a small fish in a big pond.  I understand that some people use small fish as bait to catch bigger ones.  It seems like a good technique to me.

   I made sure my Glock was ready to go, then stepped out from behind the shrubbery and smiled.  "Hi!  You're name is Deck, right?  I've seen you around.  They say you're the person to see to get something done around here.  Are they right?"

He literally jumps into the air, looks, and then calms down.  He smooths his hair back, and readjusts his jacket.

"Yeah, I'm the Man. Just last week went to Old Man Martini's mansion for Sunday dinner.  So, uh, like what's your problem?  Your boyfriend cheating on you, and needs a good beating? Got some hot rocks you stole you need fenced? You want some Ruby to get you high? How can Deck the Man help you out, for a fee, of course."

He's relaxed, a bit, but you can still tell he's nerved about the coming visit from his boss.

   As a P.I., I get to see people when they're having some of the worst times of their lives.  Too many of those times involved drugs.  I've seen the results when a husband and father puts everything his family owns up his nose as white powder.  I've found a missing kid dead with the needle still in his arm in a building even the rats and roaches abandoned as unsafe.  I've seen the ones standing on a street corner hoping to trade their bodies for a taste of something to make the pain go away for just a little while.  I'm a P.I. and my anti-drug policy isn't "Just Say No!"

   I tried for the hype stutter in my voice as I hugged my arms around my torso and bent my knees slightly.  "Yeah..  Ruby...  I'm really hurting...  Do you have it here?"  The pose also just happened to put my right hand on my Glock.

He grins.  Its shark-like.

"As it happens, I have two vials."  He pulls out a thin metal box from his jacket, and opens it to pull out an inch long plastic vial with a stopper cap.  It's red flakes or powder or something inside the tube.

"Ten pounds. And this is fresh." He pauses.  "You look hardcore enough to just swallow it, but otherwise there's a water fountain down the street."

He's really relaxed now.

   So that's what they call Ruby.  It doesn't look like much to sell your soul to get.  I kept the quiver in my voice.  "D-do you have any m-more....uhhh... for later?  I-I've got m-most of the money.  Maybe we can... work something out... p-please?"  One vial isn't anywhere close to being enough for what I have in mind.

He shakes his head.


"Sorry, I don't. I can get you more tommorrow, a lot more if you've got the cash." He looks unhappy to be adding this. "Or you could go to Clive on Harbor Road.  North end.  He's usually got a few dozen at least. Course, some of his ain't as fresh as mine."

He makes the trade, and then advises you to scoot.

   As he closes to make the trade, I fire off a couple of pain spikes at the little pussball of a drug dealer.  If he's still conscious, I'll hit the slime sucking worm with a couple more.  I don't want to leave a mark on him, but I want him down for the count.

   I really hate drug dealers.

It comes easy, and slam, slam, he's down on the ground moaning and weeping, and slam, he's out, and one more just to make sure he has a bad morning when he wakes up.

A four wheel car drives past the entrance to the short dead end, and then wheels back around.  It looks like someone missed their turn, someone who's not law abiding enough not to do a U turn in the middle of a street.

The car looks larger and more expensive than any you've seen so far.

   I take a moment to help myself to his pistol and his wallet.  The money in that wallet came from the misery of others.  I should be able to find a good use for it.  I'm taking his pistol because children shouldn't play with guns.  I tucked Drek's pistol in my waistband.  There's no way I'm using it without examining it first and maybe getting more ammunition for it.

   I was hoping his boss would take a little longer to get here, but here he is.  I start moving toward the pay phone as if I am going to make a call.

His knife in its sheath, a one edged thing four inches long, is just laying there next to him too, having fallen loose in  his struggles.

The car wheels in, and you're standing at the payphone already even before it got to the street.

It pulls up, and the driver gets out.  He's a tougher looking version of punk with more expensive clothes, but not much more so.  If the first is a mouse, then this is a rat.He opens the back door, and a bull-necked man with thick lips and an oddly shaped head of very large size gets out. He's dressed in very expensive clothing indeed, and if the others are a mouse and a rat, he's a wild boar.

   I snagged the knife, too.  I clipped it to my belt under my jacket.  I might need to peel an apple later on tonight, once I carefully washed the knife.

   I kicked my voice up a couple of notches.  "Are you his boss thank God you're here I was going to try to panhandle a couple of pounds from him and he told me he was waiting for his boss and to go away and he collapsed and I was going to call for help but I don't have any change and please help him please."  I made sure to frantically wave my arms about as I talked, even though it meant not having my Glock right at hand.

Rat and Boar come over.
"Probably been sampling his own stuff." Rat speculates.
"mmmph." Boar grunts.
As Boar gets close to you, all the hairs on your arms and neck stand up. He leans over Mouse, and studies him for a second.  One-handed, he pulls Mouse up, and tosses him on his shoulder.  Its an impressive feat of strength.  He glances at Rat.
"You...sure. She's...respectable."
Boar lays a hand on Rat's arm, and Rat winces as its tightened.
Rat smiles at you, as Boar takes Mouse to the car.
"Why don't you come with us. We don't carry....ah, small bills with us.  But we have some at ..."
"The penthouse." Boar's voice is thick, as if he's speaking through a mouthful of blood.

   Yeah, I'd get a ride... a one way trip to my next verse.

   I took a couple of steps back.  I want some room to work in case they push the issue and I'm pretty sure they are very pushy types.  "Ummm... that's all right.  I don't need any money.  I was just doing my civic duty.  I'll be on my way now and you can go back to having your meeting."

   I know what the boss looks like to be able to describe him to authorities.  That's enough for now.  I want our next meeting to be on my terms... when I'm holding a blaster pistol.

From over by the car, Boar snaps his fingers with an audible crack, and Rat nods.

"You're coming with us.  We can do this the hard way or the easy way."  He takes a step toward you, holding out a hand.  You're sure he's going to grab you if you let him get close, but he's still moving slow.

Boar dumps Mouse into the trunk of the car.  You think you hear an audible klunk that sounds like a skull striking metal.  Boar turns back your way.

   Since Rat is closer, I draw my constant traveling companion and double tap two nine millimeter semi-jacketed hollow points toward Rat's chest.  "The hard way it is then."  Once Rat is no longer a threat, I'm covering Boar with my Glock.  I'd rather have a howitzer to cover Boar, but I'll make do with what I have.

   I'd like to ask Boar a few questions, but somehow, I feel that just isn't going to happen.

Rat's been exterminated.

You cover Boar.  He grins mockingly.

"So, you're not who you were pretending to be.  And you have an illegal gun.  Who are you?"

   I start monitoring Boar's surface thoughts.  I'm not expecting any problems.  I've been in sewers before.  "Why?  Is the Old Man going to invite me over to his house for Sunday dinner?  What is your connection to the Lady DeWitt murder?"

You push through something a lot like your psi bubble.  And you get a weak connection that won't last long.

::Outatowner?::  He looks baffled, and a bit apprehensive.

::Not me, 'twas BB.;; There's more, but you can't grab it.

"All right, I'll let you live." He turns to his car. "You can dump the body." He says with relish.

   Boar knows what I look like and being on a mob hit list isn't on today's to do list.  Even though he isn't a part of the DeWitt hit, Boar is a major bad guy.  This won't be murder, this is just his bad karma catching up with him.

   "Bodies."  I put several more rounds into Boar's back.  I make sure that Mouse, Rat, and Boar are all dead, then help myself to the remaining wallets and weapons.  If there's time, I'll carefully put Rat and Boar into their vehicle.  I don't want to get any blood on me before I head back to the bar.  I'll probably have to boost to get Boar tucked away.  He's a really big guy.

Your first shot hits him in the back of the right shoulder, you think, and he roars in surprise and pain.  Your next shot nearly misfires.

Boar's turned to you, and he's coming at  you in a heavy-footed run.

You shoot again, and he's swerving a half-step, and you miss.

Another shot, right in the heart, and he grimaces. Stops, takes a half step forward, and then looks back up at you with fury in his eyes.

You realize to your shock that he's not going down, not yet anyways.

   Great...  I've just pissed off the Incredible Bulk.  Maybe I should have held off and located a howitzer.  This is probably going to get messy.

   I pull the pack release tab on my left pack strap to let the backpack fall to the ground.  Unfortunately, the right pack strap snagged my Glock as it slid down my arm.  I released my grip on the pistol and let it fall to the ground with my pack.   I boosted as I smiled.  Let's see how mad I can make him.  "Bring it, Fat Boy."

   With any luck, I'll be able to use Boar's momentum against him to throw him past me to the ground.  Then maybe I can recover my pistol and fire it into Boar's skull enough times for him to realize that he's actually dead.

"Rip your arm off." He growls, and comes in intending to do just that. You catch his arm, drop to your back, and flip him.  He's stronger than you expected.

His hand closes on your arm, and you feel your ulna twinge.

And then he's airborne, and flying, and his feet hit the brick townhouse wall behind you before he collapses in the grass.

You're up, fast, metallic taste in your mouth...guns in hand...braced with other in a crouched Weaver stance....BAM...Miss....you're still shaky....BAM....Miss....and your shooter's skills tell you to stop beating yourself up over your misses, and just be in the moment....BAM....It hits him in the head....Incredulous, you watch him stagger wildly to his feet.....BAM....you realize you've stepped up to him, and shot him point blank....his head's not there....and yeah its messy.....his arms flail one last time....one just grazes you, and knocks you on your back.

Boar is dead.

You get up and finish the job.  Oddly, you have plenty of time.  No cops have come to investigate.

And your right arm, the ulna bone, is increasingly painful.  And going back to the bar in your current clothes is not on the agenda.

You have one .17, one .22, and one double .30 pistol.  Three wallets with ID cards and a variety of oddments are included, as is 382 pounds, and some change in pennies.  There are two knives, one switchblade, one which was Boar's or Liam Muerte's is more  a short machete.

Inside the car is a phone system that looks massive, maybe fifty pounds weight of phone gear.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:11, Sun 01 May 2016.

   That went... well enough since I'm still here.  I wiped the blood off of my hands with a bandana before popping a couple of ibuprofen tablets from my dwindling supply and washing them down with a swig of water from my canteen.  I don't think Boar broke the ulna completely, since I can still sort of use my arm a little.  This might be a greenstick fracture.  I've had enough things broken to know there is a difference.  Things worked well enough for me to swap out my used mag for a fresh one in my Glock.

   Since there doesn't appear to be any one else around, I take a few moments to wash the blood off of my hands with canteen water before changing into my one backup set of clothing.  It's taking a bit longer than normal.  I'm forced to favor my injured arm.  I try not to wonder how badly it would hurt without the onboards I picked up on the Yankee.  I checked the glove compartment of the car.  There might be some spare ammo or other useful things in it.  I put everything from this encounter into my pack.  It all fit, but just barely.  I'll have to sort it out later when I have someplace quiet to relax.  I reset the quick release tab on my pack strap and shrugged into my pack.  I had to put it on the hood of the limo to raise it to the right height to get into it, though.

   I started walking back toward the bar with my one hand tucked into my jacket pocket.  My arm hurt a little less that way.  I hope no one at the bar notices that I went from a blue denim jacket and jeans with a black t-shirt to a black denim jacket and jeans with a dark blue t-shirt.  Yeah, I know that I have no imagination when it comes to clothing.  I go with what works for me.

You have to work quite a bit getting clean.  And it does seem like  a greenstick fracture.

Inside the glove compartment is a small metal box with a dozen doses of Ruby; another holder for the double .30's ammo, and small notebook with phone numbers and initials in it.

The roads have cleared out even more.  You walk into the bar, and Bill gives you a puzzled glance.  The man who is drawing looks up startled by you, and gives you a long stare before returning to his chalking.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:14, Mon 02 May 2016.

   I can't help what the artistic man is thinking.  I sit on the bar stool and ask for another glass of whatever he served me the first time.  "...I'd order it by name, but I forgot to ask what it was called.  Do you know what else I forgot?  I forgot to get directions to that nearby hotel.  I walked around a while, but I didn't see any possibilities.  I came back here because I didn't know anywhere else to go."

   After a few minutes, I headed over to the Ladies Room.  I alleviated some biological distress and poured the doses of Ruby into the toilet.  I buried the box and the emptied vials under some trash in the waste basket.  I washed my face and hands very thoroughly.  Then I took a five pound note from the pack and added it to my nineteen pounds in my pocket before heading back to my seat.

   I looked around the bar.  Most bars sell some kind of clothing, t-shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, whatever, with the establishment's logo on them.  I looked around to see of Bill had any such items for sale.  I also ordered another sampler platter.  I had worked up an appetite this evening.

Bill shakes his head, and tells you he will draw you a map.

"Its a stout from the Green Isle. Dublin Special."

The Ruby is flakes, and when it hits the water, it stains the water red as blood.

The sampler comes out, and its doubled up on a few things, firerfingers and chips as they are out of egg rolls and beanie fritters. It is about an hour from the bar closing, and there are fewer people, but they make up for it by being louder.

You hear one guy arguing with a few others about politics.  He's trying to convince them of the greatness of a republic.  They're laughing at him.

Bill hands you the map, and you finally realize why it looks like he is sliding behind the bar.  There is an inbuilt slideway, probably power assist under his feet.

Bill has dish towels and straw hats for sale.

   So much for upgrading my wardrobe with a souvenir t-shirt.  I avoided the aptly named firefingers.  I did eat everything else on the tray.  I kept my arm resting on the top of the bar.  With my not using it, my onboards, the ibuprofen, and the beer all working on the pain, my arm didn't bother me all that much.

   I waited until I could catch Bill's attention for a refill.  "Bill, why did you call me Ladyship?  Is that a customary greeting here in Philly?"  I probably have another me somewhere in this world.  It was time to go for broke.  "Do I look like someone you have seen before?"

Bill slides you another stout, a dark, heavy beer, and takes a moment to rest his arms on the bar.

"No, I don't think so, its just you came in with all that..." His voice drops. "...silver....I figured you were a back country noblewoman who's manor house had a hole in the roof or something.  Dug thru the ancestral jewelry, and got what you could easily part with and headed toward Philly to get rid of it on the down low."

He shrugged.

"Got your money purse pickpocketed, and made up a likely story.  I'm okay with that.  I've had a lord in here in his cups tell me how in order to afford the ancestral feast, he had to eat beans for a whole month before it. One thing I've learned as a bar keep, everyone has a story."

   If Bill the Barkeep collects stories, I just might have one for him.  "Bill, I'm not a Lady, backwoods or otherwise.  I really was mugged and dumped here.  They got my money and identification, but they couldn't get my backpack.  They injured my arm in the process."  I slid my jean jacket sleeve up my arm to expose the area which took the major hit from Boar.  I managed to not make a sound, but I know that I winced from the pain.

   "There should be a really big bruise tomorrow.  I just hope it isn't fractured."  I tried to smile bravely.  I don't think that it worked, though.  "I took something for the pain earlier, but it's starting to wear off."  I took a long pull from the stout.  "This helps."

"Philly can be a rough town, if you get off the main roads, and out of groups."  He gently touches your arm, and you flinch.  "You need to go to the emergency room.  St. Sarah's is nearest."

He gets you an ice pak which helps.

"You want me to call a taxi for you?  Five minutes, and you'll be in the ER, and they can give you something better than stout for the pain.  And once its wrapped up, it really will feel better.  I know.  I got my arms busted thrice. Once by falling, and twice by the stupid Martinis."

He gives you a concerned look.

A nearby drunk opens a salt canister, and starts pouring circling lines on the bar.
"This'll help."
"No, you're doing it wrong." His current girlfriend grabs him by the arm.

   I raised an eyebrow.  "There's something better than stout?  For anything?"  I tried to crack a smile, but the crack in my ulna made it difficult.  "St. Sarah sounds like a nice place, but I still have two problems, no Identification and little money."

   I decided not to mention the unlicensed pistol under my left arm and the goodies in my pack.  There's no need to overly complicate things at this point.  "It's probably just bruised.  It should be all right in a couple of days."

   It was time to change the subject.  "I understand falling.  Accidents happen.  Why would the Martinis break your arm twice?  Did you notify the authorities?"

"Silly of me." He grins, and draws you another.

"There is the Grain Woman Free Clinic, word is, they don't care if you fake a name, and it is free.  Course you might end up sitting in the waiting room for five hours before they can see you."

"I got behind in my protection money.  And yeah, I went to the police.  That's why they broke the other arm.  The police told me that was just how things were in the big city for bars and restaraunts, and even some of the other small businesses.  i'd considered moving next to St. Sarah's, they say the Martinis are not as strong there.  I used to be a small town boy, grew up in Pikesville, with all of forty thousand souls. We had criminals there, but it wasn't this system with a five percent 'tax' and audits by Family accountants."

   I didn't know what to say.  I've never considered that the police would let things like assault and extortion just happen to good people.  Maybe the police get a cut of the proceeds.  Maybe the money trail goes all the way to the mayor's office, or even higher.

   I need to do something to change this.  An entire city is being systematically robbed by a crime family.  I can't walk by this one.  Freeing a city will take time.  Fortunately, time is something I have to invest in this project.  Time, experience, a a bag full of guns and ammunition, and a red and black kevlar/spandex composite costume.

   I took another pull of the stout.  The beer was really good.  I used to celebrate the end of a case with an occasional Carta Blanca, but this stout was a lot different.  "I don't know what to say.  I guess you do what you have to in order to survive.  I will try the Free Clinic tomorrow if the arm doesn't improve.  It looks like you're needed over there.  Can we talk again before closing time?"

He nods, and goes to break up an argument about rugby teams that started friendly and has turned hostile.  After that, he chases an owl eyed guy off telling him to come back next week.  He carries another beer out to a one handed man without a word, and chats with a couple of customers on the way.

You sit there and relax as most of the remaining few customers leave.

There is some news.  The High Temple of Mars is sponsoring a triathlon.  The serial killer named "Pennyman" for his habit of leaving a penny in his victims right hand has killed again.  Noted philanthropist Liam Muerte was brutally murdered by street violence the police say.  A picture of Boar is shown, in a tux, accepting an award for Benevolence.  In rugby, the Engineers beat the Sabers for All City Third Form.  Rumors that the Duke and Duchess of Lancaster might visit America on their world tour continue to spread.  The Duke is quite a fan of nuclear power and Philly has a Type E reactor which makes it the first of its kind.  The Firemen's Union and the Lord Mayor are again, at odds.

And then just like in your home timeline you hear the song 'You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here', and Bill comes over to you after topping up a few mugs, and turning the taps off.

   Noted philanthropist?  Maybe...  If I were looting the city, it would be good press for me to be publicly seen giving back a tiny fraction of my loot to help the people I stole it from.

   It is also obvious who owns the media here.  I don't know if it is because the Martinis own the media or just has it running scared.  Either way, I can't count on the media for any public support.  Of course, I don't know what I'm going to do yet.  But, I have to do something.

   "After you close up, do you think you could drop me off at that hotel?" 

You notice of the few watching, no one seems terribly broken up about Boar's passing.  The Sabers loss is greeted with more enthusiasm,  as is the news about the nobles.

Bill nods, calls a cab for one sleeping fellow, and ushers the rest out.  It takes him and his two waitresses and two cooks about thirty minutes to clean the place in a well practised routine.

A policeman steps in, and the two waitresses go with him as he escorts them home.  Bill then walks over to you, and lets you out while he closes the bar.  A fluorescent green taxi is waiting for you two.

"My apartment is just three blocks over." Bill explains.  The taxi takes you ten blocks with one turn at four blocks, and pulls up in front of Windrose Arms Hotel.  It has a large awning, and an attentive doorman who gets your door.

The lobby is small, but splendid with carved wooden pillars with gold paint, and yellow paisely wallpaper.  The uniformed clerk leaves the other two behind the desk, takes your moneyu, which is eight pounds, does not ask for ID, and leads you to your room, and waits to see if it is acceptable.

Its solidly constructed, and small.  The TV is like older TV's.  There is no remote.

"Checkout is at two in the afternoon, Lady."

   I gave the place a quick once over.  It didn't take all that long.  I handed the clerk a pound note for a tip to get the room key as I told him that the room would be fine.  "There's one thing before you go.  Do you have a weekly rate?"

   I locked the door once the clerk left.  I dropped the pack on the bed, then went over to close the drapes.  This was the first bit of privacy I'd had in quite a while.  I figured out the plumbing in the bathroom without too much trouble.  I did remember to make sure to leave a wake up call for eight A.M. before I dry swallowed three ibuprofen.  I was a little too buzzed to do much else, so I pulled my pack over enough to be able to lay down.  I fell sleep atop the covers almost immediately, totally dressed and partly wasted.

'35 pounds for the week, lady.' He says.

You're on the second floor, and this is the first building with a signifcant parking lot.  Its filled with three wheelers, a half dozen motorbikes, and one four wheeler truck.

You get your wake up call at 9:05, and when asked the morning clerk is embarrassed and mentions something about bad handwriting by the night clerk.

There is tea and crackers for 'breakfast', and you see others moving about slowly, chatting with their friends and such.  After a few minutes they start leaving to get dressed to go to work at ten in the morning.

Your arm hurts worse.  Its a throbbing pain that with effort you can push to the background.

   I take my last three ibuprofen tablets and give them a few minutes to start to kick in.  Here's yet another reason why I'll need to do a lot of shopping on this stop.  But first things will have to be first.  I looked up the address of the Free Clinic.  I was already dressed in my cleanest outfit.  I shrugged out of my shoulder holster with more than a little difficulty and put it in my pack.  I made the space by removing my outfit that I was wearing last night and putting it in the sink to soak.  I also helped myself to a hundred and fifty pounds from my war chest to use as operating capital.  I shrugged back into my pack to go downstairs.

   I paid the desk clerk for an additional week and asked him about cabs.  There was one outside, so I took it to the Clinic.  Since I was going with the homeless story, having my pack with me might lend a bit of weight to the tale.  I watched the streets as carefully as I could while in the cab, making mental notes of the various shops and how the people on the street were dressed.

In the cab you spot a number of businesses stacked on top of each other.  There might be an eight story building, and the first three stories are Jiang's Print Shop, Worldwide Travel, and Aiken Security, with the top five being apartments.  Other places just have a continual straight row of businesses of one and two stories for each business.

On Whelson Street, you see Pamela's Fortunetelling, Brown's Men's Shoes, Teahappy, a barber shop, the Pound's Friend Variety Store, the Neo-Presbyterian Church of Whelson Street, Roayal Clothiers, and at the corner, as at many corners is a bar, this one is named Tom's Lam.

Things seem to be made sturdier, and in smaller sizes, and not so much plastic, and few chains.  There's a lot of religious and occult places.

The people as last night seem to be in three groups of clothing.  Neat, sturdy work uniforms, clothing that resembles yours, and rather splendid suit, tie or dress.  Most people seem to be walking, and after a bit you spot a trolley.

You pass into a warehouse district, and the taxi drops you off at a dirty looking building near the edge of the district.  It was about three miles trip.

Inside, there are about twelve people in the waiting room, and the receptionist takes your name, and asks for symptoms, and then gives you a wooden number with green paint. Anyone with red paint is seen quickly, yellow sorta quickly, and you're back of the line.

Five hours later, and you've read all their magazines, and picked up 1@2 Popular Culture of the Royal Commonwealth.  The doctor is straw blonde woman with a tired face, and a kind manner.  They give you an X-ray, and she nods.

"A greenstick fracture of the ulna,about half broken through."  They wrap it up tight in a spray from a can foam cast that is lightweight, and the doc gives you a few pain pills of 'somewhat stronger stuff, my dear.'  Once it is wrapped, the pain eases considerably as your arm can no longer wiggle back and forth.

"If there is anything you want to tell me, I'm here to help.  We offer a safe haven for men and women from abusers as Ceres commands us."

Twenty minutes later, and you're done.

  The day hasn't a total waste.  I generally spend several hours reading magazines and newspapers to get a feel for where I've landed.  I'll call this one a research day.

   "Thank you for your kind offer, but I'm sure that there others in much worse situations than I am.  There is one question, if I might ask.  I had to leave rather suddenly."  I glanced at my arm, then continued.  "While I had most of what I needed in my camping gear, I wasn't able to get any additional clothing.  Is there a used clothing store nearby and a reasonably priced place to purchase some food.  I have a little money, but I need to make it last as long as I can."

"Used clothing....ah..." And she sketches a map with quick sure lines on the back of your 'Medical Advice' paper, and then ore easily adds two food places, and one more store.  They are "Alice's Consignment", "Grain Woman Second Day Bakery", "Thompson's Squirrel Hunt", and "Pound's Friend Variety" all is within a mile.

   I had a couple of places to go for badly needed supplies.  More importantly, I had a patched up arm.  "Thank you Doctor.  You provide an amazing service to people like us.  Ceres can only be pleased with the work you do."  I held up the paper with my hand drawn map.  "And thank you for helping a stranger find her way in an unfamiliar city."

   My first stop, of course, was for food at Tom's Lam.  I wasn't sure how booze would interact with the pain meds from the Clinic, so I would be limited to sodas, tea, or something else non-alcoholic.  I opened the door and entered the bar.

The meal is a Sans Blueberry Flash, or non-alcholic carbonated blueberry soda, and big, fat corndogs with an interior of egg and ham, and a very crunchy exterior with a side of sour pickles that sets you back two pounds.  The artwork and the chairs and such are humorously prison themed with the waitresses wearing uniforms sorta like prison guards with water pistols in place of actual guns.

The barkeep answers to 'Tom' even tho' you're pretty sure from his hesitations that that is not his real name.

Its a more touristy spot than the Lucky Clover.  Its two blocks away from the Philly Aquarium, and the Zoo according to a large map on the wall.  The Zoo has a Live Dodo exhibit, as well as Siberian tigers.

   The food was delicious.  The beverage wouldn't have been my first choice.  Still, it was food not cooked by me.  I left what I thought was an appropriate tip and headed out the door.

   My first stop after a very belated lunch is going to be to Alice's Consignment.  There's nothing which makes you stand out to the people who look for anomalies than someone always wearing new clothing.  Buying used exterior garments will help me be able to move around in society more easily.  If I hand wash my underclothes, they should be all right to keep wearing until I can get some quality new stuff locally.

   As I walk, I'll look around at the types of shops in the neighborhood.  I'll also look for empty stores.  Taking down a corrupt city government held in place by a powerful crime family isn't going to happen overnight.  I need a real place to use as my base of operations.

Going to the consignment shop leads you away from the semi-touristy zone, past Inkblot (tattoos), Fat Jim's (tobacco), Our Lady of the Sorrows Reformed Catholic which is a gothic cathedral, but small, Runes to Avoid Ruin (fortunetelling), Delhi Curry Express, River Basin (a laundromat), empty and boarded up, Wilkon's which is???, Gutpunch (downmarket pub), Royal Guards Recruiting Station, Alan's TV Repair, Variation Nation (variety store), and Alice's.

You enter the dimly lit store right off the sidewalk.  Its narrow and deep, and there are hundreds of mostly female clothing on hangers up front, and tables stacked with random clothing in the back.  The random stuff is cheaper.

A short barrel shaped matron, in a pale dress, curls, and plentiful pearls comes out.  Her voice is clear, but almost  birdlike in its tones.

"Hi. I'm Alice. The stuff up front is labelled as to price, and the tables are a pound for any item.  We get bales shipped from Ireland, and we break open the bales and dump them out.  And anything you find is yours.  Had one customer buy a vest and found a diamond ring in it.  The up front stuff is used, some hardly at all, and I return 40% of the sale priced to the owner.  So I buy sort of, and sell.  So, can I help you?"

   "I really need a couple of outfits.  I'm not saying that this a fashion emergency, but I am wearing every serviceable piece of clothing that I own."  Ummm... I wonder what my size translates into on this world.  "Where would I find clothing in my size?"  I dropped my pack in an unused corner by her counter.

She raises one eyebrow then turns a bit brisk.

"Wait right here, dear. We'll get you fixed up."  She bustles off, clears one of the back tables. Comes back with a measuring tape, and quickly gets down the relevant details on a pad.

Then she starts looking and grabbing and laying out items in blouse and skirt, and blouse and pants format.  As you wander over to study her choices, she holds up a blouse next to your face to check color and shakes her head, and puts it back quickly.  Within five minutes she's got four outfits laid out, and she stops, and fans herself.

One is good, two are decent, and one is so-so.

The cost is four pounds each.

OOC: I'm going to be enough of a guy not to describe women's clothing choices in a store.  I get an allergic rash when my wife makes me go clothes shopping with her.  :)  You're free to describe them.

   I was very impressed with her knowledge of her stock and her work ethic.  "These outfits are wonderful.  I'll take all of them."  I thought about my shoulder rig resting in my pack.  No matter how much clothing I wear, I feel naked if I'm not armed.  "Do you think you might have some kind of jacket to match any of these great selections?  Maybe something cut a little looser in the shoulders?"  I'll take whatever she can find.  After all, beggars can't be choosers.


OOC:  I'll describe them after I research English fashion of the 1980's.

She comes back with two jackets, one leather, men's motorcycle jacket, and one denim and its the right size.  Ten pounds for the first and two pounds for the second is the quoted price.

The Pound's Friend boasts on the front door that they've just opened their fiftieth store.  The clerks inside seem dazzled by this remarkable achievement.  Its not like America where Subway has 11,000 branches.  Its basically a smaller, more dimly lit Walgreens without the pharmacy.

Thompson's Squirrel Hunt despite the name is a grocery.  You tell the clerks what you want, and they, dressed with squirrel hats go off to find your 'nuts' or flour, milk, sausage, etc.. The bags are decorated like peanuts.

The Grain Woman Second Day Bakery is where you can get not yet stale bread for very cheap prices.  A dozen doughnuts goes for ten pennies, and a pound is a hundred pennies.  There is pita, and pretzels, and sliced white and wheat, doughnuts, large sausage buns, and thats about it, but in great quantiities in a large warehouse with several dozen customers quickly grabbing what they want off the stocked tables, and checking out at one of the three exit doors.

Getting to all these took only a mile of walking.  You do spot some Family members going about and soliciting 'donations'.

You also spot some young guys, about fourteen (Edit: years old) who stand near GW, and offer to carry things for the customers, for a fee of course.  The fee is one bag one block is one penny, with heavy bags costing twice as much.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:05, Fri 06 May 2016.

   I took everything Alice offered me for sale plus an oversized dark gray draped cardigan sweater which hung down to the middle of my thighs for another two pounds.  Alice was kind enough to help me pack...  all right... she packaged the clothing into three paper wrapped bundles which she tied to some spare cargo loops on my pack exterior using a sturdy twine.  I handed her thirty-five pounds.  "Thank you for all of your help.  I'm not sure what I would have done without you."  She also helped me get my pack on.

   The Pound's Friend was quickly becoming my friend, too.  I bought a small box of laundry soap, a small bottle of bleach, new hairbrush, a bar of heather scented soap, a bottle of heather scented shampoo, a bottle of conditioner, a bottle of heather fragrance cologne, a stick of unscented deodorant, and two large bottles of moisturizer.  I wasn't exactly sure how heather was supposed to smell, but I was relatively sure that it had to be better than how I smelled at the moment.

   I glanced through the two food stores, but all I bought was a dozen donuts from the bakery.  I passed on buying any more food for several reasons.  The room didn't have a kitchenette.  I was totally out of cargo capacity to bring anything else back with me.  And most importantly, I'm really a terrible cook.

   I caught a cab back to the hotel.  Once there, I hung my new clothes in the tiny closet.  The cubby just managed to hold the two jackets, the dark gray sweater, a dressy white short sleeved blouse hung over a light gray midi length fabric skirt, and a lavender polyester pants suit that I would only think of wearing when I have absolutely, positively nothing else to wear ever.  I folded and put the light blue denim skirt and the short sleeved black blouse in the dresser drawer.  I left the dark blue sleeveless wide-leg jersey jumpsuit on the bed to wear in a little while.

   I took a woefully quick shower, taking care to protect the cast according to the medical care sheet.  I really wanted to soak for several hours.  The heather toiletries were very nice.  They smelled a little floral, but seemed to be mostly a mix of earthy and herbal.

  I dressed in my last clean undies and used my new brush to work the knots out of my hair.  It took far longer than I had expected even after using the conditioner.  I slipped into my new jumpsuit and looked in the mirror.  I almost didn't recognize myself.  I dug out the card for my local SI representative and made a call.

The choices of hairbrushes are light metal, or bone.  You see no plastic handled brushes.
This makes the hairbrush one of the more expensive things you bought today.

Feeling a lot more human, you call Mr. Norton at SI.  His secretary gets your name, and you wait a couple minutes before he comes on the phone.

"I was in the break room getting coffee. Good to hear from you again, Misty. I hope you're doing well. Is there anything I can do to help you, or..." He chuckles. "Do you want to donate to the continuing efforts to preserve the Commoner's Right to Silver?"

   I didn't want to say too much over an open line.  "I would like to discuss those matters with you in more detail, but not over the phone.  I'm not sure what time you end your work day, but I need to see you as soon as possible.  Would you allow me to buy you and your wife a meal at the place where we met?"

   If he's agreeable and the meeting won't in the next hour or so, I get a little work done.  I add some soap and bleach to the clothes soaking which I was wearing when I went slam dancing with Boar and mangle them around in the water to get them clean.  I hang them up to dry in the bathroom.  Next, I wash out my used undergarments and socks, then hang them up to dry as well using a lampshade to hold them.  Hopefully at least the underthings and socks will be dry by morning.

   I jammed the three pistols and the extra ammo I had acquired last night between the mattress and the box spring of my bed.  I wanted to lighten the pack's load a bit.  Then I put my new denim jacket in the pack, in case the night got cool.

   With my laundry and unpacking done, I headed down to the front desk to get a candy bar.  It couldn't be a flat one, like a Hershey Bar, but rectangular like a Milky Way.  I didn't really care what kind of bar it was.  I only wanted the wrapper.

   Back in the room, I carefully opened the end of the wrapper to keep the paper as intact as possible and slid the bar out on the nightstand.  I took the three pounds of gold I had mined from that planet with the slimy little murder god, and mushed it by hand into the approximate shape of the candy bar.  When I say by hand, I literally mean by hand, the one hand at the end of my undamaged arm.  I slid the gold bar into the candy bar wrapper to keep it from prying eyes.

   I had spent so much time getting my arm patched up, I had forgotten to accessorize.  I had no purse and no shoes for any of my new outfits.  My black crosstrainers would work well enough with the jumpsuit for tonight.  I transferred the remains of the hundred and a fifty pounds to my pockets.  I figured that could get by on the almost fifty pounds still remaining.  I tucked the camouflaged gold bar into my sling where it wouldn't show.  Finally ready, I called down to ask the front desk to call a cab for me, grabbed my pack, and headed out.

"Ah....yes...I could get out early.  Yes. 4 O'Clock would be good.  Lisa will be glad to meet you."

The cab takes you a few miles, and deposits you at the corner of the Lucky Clover.  You walk inside, and there is another barkeep.  He waves at you.

"I'm Jay. Bill's second cousin, and his backup barkeep and accountant.  Bill will be in in a few hours for the night rush.  Uh, over in that corner."  You look and Mr. Norton and Lisa Norton have a far corner with all the nearby tables still dirty.

Tom winks.
"They wanted quiet so I got lazy."

At the table, the man gets up, introduces is matronly wife who gives you a cautious smile, and he waits until you sit down across from them in the booth.

"You've got us both curious.  Me for my job, and my wife loves to read spy mysteries, particularly the Adventures of Lexa in the Imperial Spanish Court in the last century."

   I slid my pack on the bench seat, then sat down.  I ordered a sample platter for appetizers with a round of whatever they wanted and a stout for me.  I waited until the food and drinks arrived.

   "Thank you both for coming.  I need to ask you something about SI.  For example, say someone needed large sums of currency and had small valuable items to sell to get them.  Hypothetically, let's say this person has very good reasons to want to remain anonymous.  As a representative of SI, theoretically, could you handle these transactions or recommend someone who could do these supposed transactions both legally and discretely?"  I took a sip of the excellent stout and waited.

"I can do some...? Mr. Norton said.
"Baronet Boyle Raleigh." Lisa Norton interjects.
"Really?" He looks skeptically at his wife.  She nods.
"OK." He takes out a notepad and writes a note in your view.

"Boyle, old chum, this is Eagle Eye. This lady needs to sell some stuff. Help her out." Then he gives a quick description of you to keep someone else from using the endorsement.  "Go to Raleigh Steel, and get in contact with the Baronet."

"Even the Martinis do not bother the Steelworker's Union." Lisa says giving you a direct look. "A couple years back they sent someone to threaten the workers, and well, the man fell into an open molten steel pit.  They fished him out, and 'returned' the steel 'body' to the Martini Mansion.  It set the front lawn on fire.  After that, no one bothered the Steelworkers again. And the Baronet is the owner of the factory where the Steelworkers work."

   I took the note, folded it, and tucked it into one of the side pouches of the pack.  "Thank you for sharing this.  You only met me yesterday, yet you trust me with this information.  You also stand to lose a fair chunk of change on commissions.  It is only fair that I share something with you.  Mrs. Norton, you enjoy spy mysteries."  I smiled.  "Have you ever read any science fiction or speculative fiction stories?  That might not be what you call them, though.  They are tales of what might happen in the future or... on alternate versions of your own world."

   I dug out the one remaining pouch of eight assorted gold coins from my Misty Noir run.  Lexi got the other one for operating capital several lifetimes ago.  I placed it on the table between us.  "Examine each coin carefully, then select one for yourself.  Personally, I think your wife would like the Spanish one.  Then maybe you might want to talk about what you've just seen."   I helped myself to one of those delicious bean thingies.  Lunch happened a long time ago.

"I've read A Man Disrupted and Gravity Kills and Lord Darcy Investigates and also Marooned in Real Time which are murder mysteries in science fiction except for the Darcy story."  She seems to come out of her shell, and speaks with a quiet enthusiasm.

'And well, when my husband called me this afternoon, I did a reading."

They both examine all of them, and note with excitement the varied details.  Mr. Norton clearly knows his coins, and Lisa is knowledgeable for an amateur as well.

As you finish the food, and take a swig of beer, they both turn to you with bright eyes, and curious looks.

   It was time to say something witty and creative.  I couldn't think of anything, so I just went on talking in a low, conversational tone of voice.  "Each of those coins are real.  They are not props, reproductions, or creative imaginings.  Each of them was used as currency at one time or another.  And none of them were minted on this planet.  I've offered one of them to you as a gift.  What would the other seven coins be worth, approximately?"

   I took another sip of stout from my rapidly emptying glass.  I signaled Jay for another round of drinks.  "And while you're thinking of a response, I have another question.  What do you recommend for dinner?"

"Curry House is just down the street." Lisa says hopefully.  Mr. Norton grins and nods.

"Gold runs twice what silver does." Mr. Norton says.  "Crown law."  He flips a coin on the table and peers at it.  "Its possible you could get more from a coin fancier of whom I know a few.  If you could get connected with a serious collector, and prove the provenance of the coins, well, the sky's the limit, but I don't have those contacts.  Gold is not a big deal like Silver is.  I mean, you're not supposed to buy and sell too much, but its only a misdemeanour if you get caught."

"Alice Mainwaring might pay good money for one of them."  Lisa says.
"She's a nutter."
"A rich nutter."
"True that.  I hate it when I have to go ask her for her yearly donation to SI."

You finish up, and leave for a side street, and an Indian, dot not feather, restaraunt.  A sitar is laying 'God Save the Queen' when you enter, and the softly gowned woman with an English drawl takes you to a table with a fan slowly spinning above you.  There are only a few people here as its still early.  From what they say, the typical work day starts at ten or eleven, and goes to six or seven.

They both order chai, a spiced tea, and lentil soup for starters.  After that, he gets a double helping of lamb curry over rice, and she gets aloo palak which turns out to be spinach and potatoes.

   Note to self:  Save most of the gold for another stop.  It is held by law to an artificial low price.  I don't understand why, but then I don't need to know why.

   I take the pouch with the seven remaining coins back before we leave the bar.  I cover the tab and leave a tip, of course.  "I'll save the rest of the coins for my next stop.  They're not worth very much here."

   There isn't much time for conversation before we get to the restaurant.  I went with the chai, a spiced tea, and lentil soup appetizer as well.  As for the main course, I know what lamb is, I know what rice is, and I think curry is a spice.  That put me farther ahead than my knowledge of aloo palak.  I ordered what Mr. Norton was eating.

   I waited for the food to arrive before asking, "So, do you have any questions about the coins... or me?"

The taste is odd, but savory, and has a long, slow burn.

"Yes, since you said other worlds which could mean outer space, but you've mentioned alternate timelines, I assume you are telling us, that you're from one of these alternate timelines?" Lisa asks.

"How are they different from here?  Is one like totally wonderful, and you want to get back there?"  Mr. Norton asks.

They eat some more, and he asks you...

"So, do these worlds have an English Royal Commonwealth, a Spanish Imperium, a Tsardom, and the Middle Kingdom and its associate lands? Whats it like in Philadelphia 2040 in these other worlds?"

"Have you met others like us? Have you met us, in some other time?" Lisa asks.

   The food was delicious.  Of course, I think most everything that I don't have to cook is delicious.  I answered their questions as well as I could.

   I dug out my scruffy badge case to show them my P.I. license and badge.  "I was a private detective working out of Washington, D.C. in America in the year 2005 when this dimension traveling started.  I've been a security officer on an exploration starship, bodyguard to a South American President's daughter, averted the destruction of a human colony by solving the murder of an alien Ambassador, among other things.  I never know where I'm going to wind up, but I know I'm never going home."

   "Each world is different,politically and culturally.  I have seen myself a time or two, which was awkward to say the least.  I have met other travelers like me in my travels.  As I jump to different places, I try to make that world a better place from my having been there.  Sometimes I succeed.  Sometimes I don't.  But I always try.  And sorry, but I've never met you before.  The multiverse is a very large place."

As Mr. Norton fingers your badge case, you can see in his eyes, that he's finally considering that you might be right, that you're not insane.  Lisa asks if you have other books from other timelines.

The restaurant is beginning to fill up.

The waitress comes by and asks if you would like rice pudding for desert.  A tray of it is being toted by a teenage boy who follows behind her.  The pudding is decorated with flowers and dried fruit on top.

Mr. Norton frowns, and instinctively moves his hand down toward his leg.  You follow his gaze and see a pair of suited punks talking harshly to an elderly Indian woman.  You can hear a few words through the  carved wooden screen behind your chair.

"...Paid all...."
"Special.....expenses.....Muerte, our brother....."
",,,,,unprecedented...."
"One percent..."
"I..."
"Be a shame,...real....if...."

"The Martinis are getting more painful.  Its not like in the days of Grandfather Martini when I was a kid." Lisa says, shaking her head.  "They've gotten professional.  I wonder if their leader has RIS training."

   I pass on the rice pudding, but I do ask for a refill of the chai.  I also explain that I'm not much of a reader these days.  I generally stick with reading magazines and newspapers of the place I've just versed into to get a feel for the current culture.

   I listened to the parts of the conversation with the two thugs and the owner.  The Martini Family strikes again.  I've got my right arm in a stupid cast for between six and eight weeks while innocent people are being systematically robbed.  I just can't sit here for six weeks and do nothing.  I also can't do much with a broken arm.  It's time to get back to being dangerous again... somehow.

   "I've heard that term several times.  What is the RIS?"   I asked this as I opened my pack to wrap my blaster in my jean jacket before taking both objects out of my pack.  I held the blaster under the table as I adjusted the beam aperture control to its widest setting.  Normally, I keep the setting to the tightest focus to get the most range, but since I would be using my off hand, sacrificing range for an area effect seemed like a good idea.

   I put thirty pounds on the table, tucked my loaded candy bar wrapper into the pack, closed the pack securely, slipped my jean jacket over my shoulders, and slid my blaster into my sling.  I smiled as I got up to leave.  "Please enjoy the desert.  I need to step out for a few moments.  I'll be right back."

"Its the Royal Intelligence Society.  Unlike the Tsar with his Internal Group and External Group, or the Imperium with the Inquisitors and the Jesuits, the RIS does both.  It tracks spies, traitors, and enemies of the Crown and the Peace whether here or abroad." Mr. Norton says searching your face.  You're aware his gun is now sitting in his lap under the table.

You slip away from the table with them watching you mutely.  Circling back around the room divider, you come into the open area near the front door where the two are just finishing up with a tear-stricken old lady whose body shakes.

One of them sees you coming, and sneers.

"Go back to your table, and you won't get the other wing broken, girlie."

   I need to limit potential collateral damage.  I don't know why it's called collateral damage.  I've never met anyone named collateral.  Still, there are two thugs here who need to disappear.

   I stage whispered to the thugs, "Are you with the Martinis?  I've got some information you gotta hear, but I don't want everyone to know what it is.  Meet me behind the restaurant in a couple of minutes and I'll tell you everything."

The leader of the two nods, and you and they leave to go around back.  Once in the dark alley, Sneer looks about for listeners, and finds none.  Then Leader turns to you, and says.

"OK. Spill.  If its good, we'll give you a nice chunk of money."

   My pain spike is fueled by anger and I just saw these two street punks rough up an old lady.  Anger is soooo not hard to come by right at this moment.  I pain spike the both of them twice, and if they're still capable of movement, I hit them again and again until they aren't, then hammer them a couple of more times just to make sure.

   I'll do a quick check to make sure that no one is paying any attention, then empty each thug's pockets and holsters.

You hit Leader lightly, his brain is abuzz with chemicals so that your hit is attenuated by his sleeping part of the brain which interprets pain. Next hit, flattens him, and you feel as if you've broken thru to a new level of damage.

You hit Sneer who is looking puzzled to see his bud collapsing, and Sneer goes down as well.  You tag them several more times.

+1 Damage Category Rider of Dangerous (added 'of Dangerous' Edit) if Deeply Angry, +@1 skill

A rat is standing atop a metal garbage can, looking at you with beady eyes, but otherwise you're alone.

One has a .17 and the other a .22, with neither having a suppressor.  They have in total 108 pounds.  There is also a note 'Hey, Boss says go shake down your bizzes for funeral expenses for Muerte.  It seems Old Man was hopping mad about this. Stew the Snake."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:02, Wed 11 May 2016.

   The wallets and the note went into my jacket pockets.  I peel Sneer's jacket off of him, then dump the pair into a nearby dumpster.  I have to boost to do it one handed, but I did it.  I took Sneers jacket and wrapped part of the sleeve around the .22's barrel to act as a crude suppressor.  I then put several rounds into each of the thug's heads.  I then toss both pistols atop the bodies and close the lid.  I wipe my hands using the unburned part of the jacket and and toss the jacket behind the dumpster.

   I checked to see that I still had my blaster, picked it up from where it had fallen near the dumpster, then went back into the restaurant.  I stopped at the counter to talk with the old woman if she was still there.

She is sitting at the counter, sipping tea, and being comforted by a younger woman while a couple guys who look like employees stand scowling nearby.  When you start to approach, one of them turns to you, and holds out a hand in the sign to stop.

"Mrs. Khan has had a bit of a shock,  perhaps you can talk to her later."

But then the old lady turns, and tells him that its okay, and motions for you to come up.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." Clearly she doesn't recognize you as the 'tipster' which shows her level of shock.

   I offer her my best reassuring smile.  I don't use it much any more.  I hope it still works.  I bowed my head as I spoke.  I hope that it is still a sign of respect here.  "Honored Grandmother, how much money did those men take from you?"

"Beyond my usual payment earlier this month, nothing.  They said I was to give them one percent of the appraised value of my business as a gesture of respect to the Martini Family and to Liam Muerte who died recently. In cash. They would come back in two days to collect.  If not, they would burn down my business which my husband, God rest his soul, and I built over thirty years."

She looks wildly about.

"I don't have five thousand pounds.  I'll have to go get a loan from the bank."

She pauses.

"It used to be easy.  There were fewer rules, and taxes were lower, and the Martini's did not bother this end of town.  Now, all is harder, and slowly getting harder.  I feel as if a python is strangling me."

She turns to you.

"Are you a reporter?"

   "Those two will not be back to bother you.  If anyone asks, those two thugs left with a woman you had never seen before and you didn't get a good enough look at her to be able to describe her.  I'm not a reporter.  In fact, I'm not anyone.  But I will help you.  Please do nothing until I speak with you again tomorrow morning."

   I wasn't sure exactly what I could do, but whatever it was would have to be good and it would have to be soon.  I headed back to my table.  "I'm sorry.  That took a bit longer than I had anticipated."  I took a sip of my Chai.  It was cold.  "What were we talking about?"

"Oh, the RIS and your visiting the Steel Baronet." Mr. Norton says.  He chats easily with you for some time until you indicate its time to leave.  Lisa just listens, and studies you a bit wide-eyed until her husband whispers in her ear.  Then she does her part to pretend to converse normally.

Its only by small signs that you can tell Mr. Norton is nerved up.  He'd make an excellent poker player.

After a bit, you and they leave, and as Lisa hugs you as a parting gesture, she whispers.

"If you need help, or a hideyhole, call us.  The cards were quite specific."

   As we leave the Curry place and prepare to part company, I ask the question that has been on my mind.  "Mr. Norton, your answer about the RIS sounded rather textbook, you carry a gun you were ready to use in the restaurant, and you seemed way too calm when I left with two thugs, but came back alone.  Are you part of the RIS?"

"Hypothetically, a person might be a member of an infiltration squad, until they broke both their legs in a botched night parachute drop over the Ural Mountains.  And thus were forced to retire with medical benefits as they could no longer run well, and their commanding officer might reccommend them to the SI as a good guy over fifteen years ago."

He pauses, and for a second, you seem to see a much younger and more deadly version of Mr. Norton. "Such a person would be trained to view scum the same way a wolf saw rabbits."

"But I'm glad he's back from his missions." Lisa says. "Now he comes home every night. And it doesn't take him two days to remember how to smile."

He grins and kisses her on the cheek.

   I thank both of them for joining me for dinner.  "I promise to keep in touch.  I wouldn't want to disappoint these cards of yours."  I watched the Nortons walk away, arm in arm.  They are good people in a city controlled by bad people.  It was time to show these bad people, the Martini Family, that they were no longer the highest predators on the food chain.

   I had a really good or maybe a really bad idea.  However it worked out, I needed my gun arm back and I needed to try something to get it back.  I hoofed it over to the bar.  Once there, I ordered a huge take out order of foods loaded with meat, beans, and cheese... lots of cheese.  I also ordered six large teas to go to accompany the food.  I paid for the food, drink, and tip with funds involuntarily donated by Sneer and Company.

   I hailed a cab and headed back to the hotel with my dinner for twelve.  My arm was starting to bother me a little.  It had been a long day, so far, and my night was just beginning.

You get your food, and the cabbie jokes with you about it, and you get to the hotel, and enter in.  Once in your small room, you're pleased to put the food down.

OOC: Got me curious as to how a dozen servings of food equals a gun arm back.

   A long time ago, while I was partnered with Lexi, a guy named Mentum showed me a couple of mental tricks which have served me well along the way.  He helped Lexi mentally turn her body into that of a muscle packed Amazon.  I was there for most of the process.  Now, it was time to see if I could replicate Lexi's process on a smaller scale.

   I dug my iPod and earbuds from my pack and set up to listen to Chuck Mangione's "Bellavia" played on a loop.  If I have to have a song stuck in my head, a classic example of smooth jazz will be a lot easier to live with.  There wasn't a lot of charge left in the well traveled little box.  It should be enough, though.  I sat on the floor with my back against the bed, arranging the twelve meals and six beverages around me on the floor.

   I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and started eating.  As I ate and drank, I listened to "Bellavia" and imagined my broken tibia bone joining together.

As you sit there, trying to focus, losing your focus, trying again, and again over the next hour as the power fades and the device starts to drop notes, and then the arm is healed.

1@1 Mind over Matter Healing with Song and Food.

You're tired but its healed.  The song fades from your mind, but the healing holds as its your normal form.  Feeling stuffed, you smile as you start breaking the arm cast off.  It comes in chunks, and in a few minutes you're free.

Flexing your arm, you feel one mild twinge, and then nothing more.  You're good to go.  And you still have a meal for six left...

   I pack up the remaining six meals and take them down to the hotel front desk for the staff to share.  I tell them that my expected dinner guests failed to show and that I didn't want the food to go to waste.  I also leave a wake up call for eight AM.  Then I go back up to my room, pull the local guns and ammo out from under the mattress, stash the guns in my bag, and fall into an exhausted sleep.

The clerks are hungrily grateful.
"Much better than a bag of chips." One says as he scoops up some food one-handed while using the other to scribble down some inventory checklist on a clipboard.  Despite it being 2040, you've not seen personal computers ore cell phones, and the TV's are out of the '80's.

That night you sleep, but with troubled dreams whose nature eludes you once you wake.

The next morning as you eat breakfast you see on the communal TV in the hotel's breakfast room...
1. A city councilman snarling about the 'scourge of Ruby', and its delusional effects.
2. Ad: Sir Hilkes Realty and Land Development.
3. Ad: Spells and counterspells offered at 'Which Broom?"
4. Ad: A children's animated movie about a possessed guillotine.  It looks disturbing.
5. Ad: Come worship with Father Collins at Michael the Defender Cathedral, downtown.
6. Calhoun, the detective, asking for help in the DeWitt Murder.
7. Public viewing of Liam's casket at the Martini Mansion.
8. Lord Mayor decrying violence which has taken such fine citizens as 'Mr. Muerte and Lady DeWitt, along with a half dozen others this year.'
9. Today is the day for the Red Planet Triathlon.
10.  Bunch of cheering fans for the triathlon, faces painted red, holding sticks above their heads and screaming when not cheering.

The taxi has to take you the long way around to get to the Curry House as the Triathlon is cutting off the short routes across downtown.  Inside, you see Mrs. Khan sitting at a table, looking over financial papers while her crew scurries about getting ready for opening.  You're able to walk in, although one guy informs you that they are not open yet.

   I took a quick shower with those delightful heather scented soaps.  I brushed my hair, then put on my clean and, fortunately for me, dry undergarments, then went for my business suit look.  I made sure all the mags were topped off before adding my Glock shoulder rig to the gray skirt and white blouse combo, then covered it with the oversized gray sweater.  I looked the most professional I have looked in a very long time.  It felt good.

   I took several gems from my Lilith stash and folded them into one of my bandanas.  I tucked the bandana into my left jeans pocket for safekeeping.  On the way to the curry place, I stopped to get a more businesslike pair of black flats.  Truth be told, my crosstrainers were getting more than a little shabby.  I tossed them into the trash can on my way out.

   I approach Mrs. Khan slowly at her restaurant.  "Honored Grandmother, is there somewhere we can talk privately?  What I have to say is for your ears alone."

She looks up, pauses, then nods decisively.  Getting up, she tells one of the workers to put up her notebook.  Another she reminds to set out the tea.  She takes a quick look around, and then leads you back to a darkened room.

Flipping on the light, she shows you a private dining room.

"We usually rent this for wedding parties, and for local sports clubs. " She closes the heavy wooden door behind you, and takes a seat at the checked tablecloth covered thirty seat table.

"Last night, one of my cooks taking out the garbage saw a body in the dumpster.  Just a foot.  I told him to dump a lot of stuff on top.  He's worked for me for eight years, and I trust him, and his desire to stay out of trouble."

   I can't help but smile.  "It is a wise woman who knows her people."  I pull the dark blue bandana from my pocket, set it on a table, and unfold it to reveal what it was holding.  The nine assorted gems sparkle in the light.  "Give these to the men who come for your money.  I have a way of tracking these stones.  They will lead me to the people who give the orders."

"I...I can't. This is too much." She gasps out.  It takes some effort, but eventually you get her to agree.  At which point, she gets up, and hugs you about the neck while crying.

Eventually, you leave, and Mrs. Khan sends a message that she is ready to pay that day.  A higher level punk, a bit older, more well-dressed, with a toothy smile comes in, with his driver aka hulking bodyguard.  He's very polite and charming, until Mrs. Khan says something a little out of place as they stand at the front door.  And like a mask dropped, his face changes, and the sociopath glares out.

You see this from the pub window down the street.  The pub is Lemon and Salt, and you're eating their 'best' dish, a well-fried whitefish doused with you guessed it.  The pub is mostly empty this early, and the barkeep tried to be friendly, but when he realized you were not in the mood, he wandered off.

Soc and Guard get in a three wheeler, and leave.  You're able to track them easily with your scriff sense.

The taxi cab driver is enthused to play 'track the baddies' with you, and is full of advice, some useful from his street driving skills, and some remarkably stupid from watching TV shows.  The target tri-car pulls up, and a valet takes it in front of Delmonico's.  Its a moderately expensive looking Italian restaurant with shadowed windows, and a doorman who looks more like a walking section of wall than a normal man.  The two go in, but step aside when a couple of older men step out, and then they go in.

   I pay the driver since I've found the first stop on my journey.  I look around to find a place from which to casually observe the restaurant.  I need to watch the traffic flow to find out if this is an exclusive Family hangout or if it is really open to the public.

A window seat in the Goofup (Edit.) Pub serves your purpose well.  Its filled with pictures of famous mistakes, statesmen proclaiming peace, rugby players scoring for the other team, tri-wheel race cars running out of gas a hundred feet from a pit stop, a bird rescuer who had his bird eaten by a hawk a second after it was released, and so forth.

   And after a bit, its clear this is a Family owned place exclusively.  You see people, almost all men, enter in and leave.  Over a couple hours, you see twenty-five Family members.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:22, Sat 14 May 2016.

   As a part of the casual conversation with the bartender, I ask if he knows whether the food at Delmonicos is any good.  I think I already know the answer, but confirmation is always a good thing.  After the couple of hours, I leave the bar to look for a pay phone.

   I find one a block away on the corner, but if there ever was a phone book, it's now a faint and fond memory.  I have to head back to the Goofup Pub to get the police business (non-emergency) number.  Back home, 911 calls were automatically recorded and non-emergency calls were just answered.  I didn't want this call recorded.  I dropped some coins in the slot and dialed the number.  "Hello, may I please speak with Detective Calhoon?  It's a matter of utmost importance."

"Its said to be decent, but not great." The bartender says.  "Not that I've ever been there.  Been serving here for thirteen years, and never went thru the front door.  I'd be mad, but I'd have to be a leech and a thug so I guess I'll decline the honor."  He looks a bit ticked at the insult from the Family.

"Just a second,..." A female voice says, and then...ring, ring...

"Detective Randall Calhoun here." The voice is deep, and as you remembered from him shouting. "What can I do to help you?"

   I needed to find out just what kind of a cop I had on the other end of the phone.  This was going to go very well or very badly.  With my luck, I had a fair idea how it would work out.  I lowered the pitch of my voice to try to disguise it.  "Stew the Snake sez ya can be convinced ta look the udder way fer a hundert pounds.  Izzy right or is it a thouzan pounds to let anythin' slide?"

The reply is loud, ferocious, and unprintable.  He sounds like a man who knows how to hold a grudge, and how to get even.

   "The Snake sez yer money's waitin' fer ya at Delmonikers."

   I hang up the phone smiling without waiting for a reply.  I probably wouldn't be able to understand it anyway.  It looks like my call has two results.  First off, Detective Calhoun appears to be an honest cop.  Secondly, I do believe that I've just made that Snake guy's life a little more interesting, a lot shorter but more interesting.  I almost wish I had time to see what happens next.

   I look around this neighborhood to see if there are any places selling women's clothing.  I need to pick up a few sets of undergarments to go along with my new clothing.  Once I get my shopping done, I need to head back to my hotel to do a little laundry and make plans for what to do next.

The shopping is easily done once you figure out their measurement system.  Back at the hotel, you walk into your room, and drop down on the bed to sit.  You find yourself waking up after an hour nap.  It seems destroying the Mafia is stressful and burns energy even when yuu're not running or shooting.

You start to make plans.

   I hadn't planned on a nap, but I got up feeling more awake and alert.  This is a good thing.  I need to stay sharp.  I've never tried to topple a crime family before.  I've occasionally been known to fracture a few laws as a shamus, but never really break them.  This time, I'm operating outside of the kind of rules I'm used to following, the kind of rules I'm used to enforcing.

   I make a mental list of things that I needed to locate.  Some were targets and some were operational:

   1.  Money collection points to hurt them and help my mission.
   2.  Gathering places for the mobsters.
   3.  Revenue generating illegal operations, like Ruby factories, to cost them money.
   4.  Safe houses to store equipment and lay low.
   5.  A source of weapons and ammunition.  I don't have enough stuff to fight a war.
   6.  Information sources.
   7.  A way to change gems to cash.


   I was about to try something relatively dangerous.  I brushed my hair and changed into my dark blue jumpsuit, the closest thing in my wardrobe for going to the viewing of a body.  I reluctantly tucked my Glock rig into my pack.  I'll probably wish I had it along, but I don't want to get caught with it where I am going.  I headed out to say goodbye to Boar.  Part of me wants to make sure he's still dead.

The taxi driver takes you silently to the Martini Mansion.  The community is lined with expensive Georgian, and Victorian mansions with at least half the names having a coat of arms next to their name.  There is a long line of cars, many four wheelers,  parked on both sides of Old Primrose Road.

The day is bright and beautiful.

At the open gate in the fifteen foot tall brick wall surrounding the five acre estate in front of a Georgian mansion of several thousand feet on the first floor, and as much on the second and third, you pass hard-eyed guards and black, hairless large dogs, a pair of them glaring balefully at everyone.

Those who identify as VIP are given a cart ride, and the rest of you have to walk up the long, winding gravel driveway between the oaks and hickories.  The grounds are parklike.

You get in line, and see the Lord Mayor, a pompous, and theactrically serious man, surrounded by twittering aides march up to the front of the line.  Other VIPs do the same thing, which seems shocking to the folk, as its the height of bad manners.

You see one old lady with precisely straight posture sniff and refuse to be led to the front despite the ropes of pearls and the very expensive silk dress she is wearing.

"Countess Washington, please."
"I am here for propriety's sake. Thus I will do this properly.  One visits one's neighbours in their time of grief even if one does not like them.  And if you touch me again, I shall have you flogged."

After an hour, you enter in to the house, and get an eyeful of expensive gauchery in the front hall, along with a dozen punks along one wall, a half dozen leader types along another wall, and a line of servants all dressed in black along another wall, and the open casket of Liam Muerte.  In place of his head is a wax representation.

As you head to leave, you see a man, perhaps Indian, who flares his nose.  This draws your attention, and you see his boots. Rattlesnake skin boots.

   The cab ride to the Martini Mansion seemed to take forever.  I didn't speak to the cab driver.  I didn't really know enough about anything local in order to carry on an intelligent conversation, so I shut up... for a change.

   I have to keep reminding myself that this is a reconnaissance run.  I'm here to get a look at the grounds and what I can of the mansion's interior.  I'm not here to pay any kind of respects to a drug dealing, murdering Mob underboss.

   I pay attention to everything, the wall, the grounds, the building, and the people.  I have to.  Every brick in the wall, every blade of grass in the lawn, everything in this mansion has come from the misery of others.  I'm planning on leveling this place to the ground as an object lesson to future criminal leaders that the karma bus will eventually run you into the ground.

   I can't help but admire Countess Washington.  Maybe later I can interest her in an urban renewal project.

   I finally get to see the results of my handiwork.  I'm struck by the realization that no matter how fancy you wrap up a turd, it's still a turd.

   I see Mister Boots.  I take a very good look at him to be able to describe him later.  Now, it's time to take this up a notch.  I walk over to him.  "Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice your boots.  They are amazing."

You realize every other taxi driver has been at least friend, one of them outright chatty.  This one disaproves of you since you're visiting the Martinis, but he's not willing to say it.

The brick walls are eighteen inches thick, and you see a glint that suggests broken glass on the top.  The trees offer very little cover.

The building has glass windows on the exterior, and less visible, second panes that are iron barred.  The building is surprisingly sturdy, and the front door is four inches of oak, backed by a steel plate.

Its well hidden, but this is more of a small fort.

The people seem to divide into a number of groups: The clueless beneficiaries who seem genuinely sad who got benes from 'the philanthropist'; the politically connected who affect sadness, but are here for the game; thugs who alternate between hiding smiles and anger; a few who seem to come because its an important event or they want to see the house; and a small group of miscellaneous oddballs.

Countess Washington, you, an elderly and frail Reformed Catholic priest with a cane, a guy who is checking everyone else out just like you, a teenager with a shivering intensity that he tries to hide, and a frequently sleeping guy in a truck drivers work uniform who has a broken arm.

Mr. Boots gives you a closemouthed, but swaggering smile.
Then he sniffs.
"I know you." He looks puzzled.  Up close, you can see he's got loose skin on his neck and forearms, like he's lost a lot of weight recently.
"What's your name?"

   I smile my nicest smile. "I don't think so.  I'd remember you if we ever met.  I'm Teri.  What's your name?"

"People call me BB.  I am Javanese, an immigrant to your Commonwealth from the Associated Lands." You can see that you're a puzzle he's still working on, but he's put it on the back burner for now.

   This could get interesting.  I have met Lady DeWitt's assassin and he is a part of the Martini Mob.  Now, all I have to do is get away from the mansion fortress of the local Capo... while unarmed.

   "It was very nice to meet you, BB.  Maybe we'll run into each other again."  I don't think BB would try anything with all of these people around.  If all else fails, BB is going to suffer a really bad headache.

He reaches out and pats you on the hand.  Then he snaps his other hand.

Two large thugs come up.

"Miss Teri who is a mystery is not feeling well.  Take her to a back room, and let her sit down."  And suddenly you feel deeply nauseous, and dizzy.

Desperate, you launch a pain spike at BB.  The first one almost works, and then it feels like you slam into a steel wall.  The second just isn't on, as you try to stand.

The two guys are holding you up, with attentive kind of expressions, and very firm grips.  YOU hear someone murmur.

"His girlfriend? She got drunk?"

They start guiding you to a back door of the main lobby.

   I throw up a psi shield as I try to fight past this.  Then I boost.

As soon as the psi shield goes up, the feelings go away.  Evidently you were not dosed with a contact poison.  Boosting, you break free of the startled duo.

Turning back, you see that BB is retreating back towards a side door, and a couple thugs are racing over to take positions between you and him.

And out of the corner of your eye, you see the intense teenager dart forward, out of his place in line, and toss something into the casket.  Liam's body catches fire, top to bottom with foot high orange and green flames.

   O.K., so BB did try something with all of the people around.  That is why I'm a detective, not a fortune teller.  I don't know why the kid is torching the corpse, but I can use the distraction.  I also hope he worked out his escape plan better than I did.  Of course, it wouldn't take much planning on his part to do better job than I did.

   I run toward the exit door, but at normal, not a boosted pace.  The Mob wants to keep my kidnapping low key.  I want to keep it from happening.  I'm not expecting gun play, but I've been wrong before.

Thick black smoke billows up from the burning body, and as you quick walk toward the door you see other punks heading your way, but the geometry is against them.  And then the teenager bumps you hard as he sprints past you, and out the door.

Once outside, and down the split to right and left stone steps, you see dozens of people turning back to see smoke billowing in great clouds out of the door and windows of the first floor.

"May Mars take you down to Tartarus, Liam Muerte."  The teenager says, and then sets out at a very good run.  He's ripping off his outer light jacket to reveal a red shirt, and a number on its back.  Its just the same as the horde of runners that is thundering down the street in similar shirts.  You thought the triathlon was yesterday...

You can see four guys, and one running dog converging on him as he sprints for the wall.  Countess Washington is out here studying things.  Viewers and punks are spilling out of the mansion behind you.

   Yup, the kid has a much better escape plan.  I keep moving toward the street, trying to hurry without looking hurried to stay ahead of the thugs.  As I near the street, I look for some type of a way out of here.

Your plan seems to be working, and the kid is just fleeter of foot than his pursuers, even the outside ones who try to encircle him.  And as people hurry away, the chaos is working in your favor.

But then you see the guard who was at the gate, the very big one, and he is thirty yards in front of you, slow-walking toward you, ready for you to break to either side.  He looks in your eyes, and smiles in a very unpleasant way.

Despite the fact that he's blonde haired and blue eyed, there's something there that reminds you of Liam.  And its not just that he has biceps thicker than many men's thighs, or the cruelty in his face.

"Surrender, mystery. BB wants to talk to you."

   I look at the big goon in front of me.  "That makes one of us."  He's expecting me to make a break.  I'll accommodate him by breaking to his left, hopefully his off hand, at full boosted speed.

You get the first two feet, and its all over but the shouting by then.  He makes you run in earnest, but he never has a real chance after being caught flat footed, and you hit the wall at full tilt, going up, and over, and landing on top of a red three-wheeler on the far side with your left hand bloody from the glass embedded in the top of the wall....there was no way to dodge it, and keep the speed you needed.

And you're out in the crowd of runners, and decide that its a good day to get some physical exercise.

A few cross looks among them, and then they make a wall of runners between the Martinis and you.

After a few blocks down Old Primrose, they turn left onto Market, and you drift from the path of the thudding herd.  A nurse, a beefy fellow in a red cap, comes over to you from his table at the corner, with a half-dozen spectators nearby, and insists on treating your hand.  The table is half med supplies, and half water cups.

Its hard to hear anyone talk, unless you shout, with the slap of running shoes going on behind you.

You hear approaching fire sirens wailing.

   I end the boost at the table and hold my hand out for whatever medical treatment they can offer.  It hurts, but it's not bleeding as badly as it could.  My onboards must be doing something to help keep me functional.

   I'm not sure if I'm still being followed, but I do know what I'd do if I were them.  I would mobilize an army of street thugs to try to find me.  Two of the types of places I'd check would be hotels and taxi companies, both of which I've used recently.  That means I need to collect my gear and drop out of sight for a while before I get trapped somewhere.

   I have a couple of options once I get clear.  I could hide at the Grain Women Shelter or I could call my dinner partners from the previous evening.  But I have to get clear first.  And I have to get out of here in order to get clear.

First its numbed, mildly with a topical.  Then he cleans it with an antiseptic cloth which you can feel, but at a distance.  Another cream, which is an antibacterial and a healing promotion named Healbak, in a small tube, and then bandages, and then a gauze wrap.

Once down, he gives you a cup of water, and then goes to check on someone else.  A few quick blocks walk, and then a mix of running and walking, and you arrive at your hotel.  Going in, you see nobody worrisome.

Ten minutes later, you're out the door without signing out.

And as you go around a corner, you hear a squeal of brakes, and turn back to see two punks in checked jackets get out of their tri wheel, and hurry inside.

For some reason, you find yourself walking into the Grain Woman place.  And from there, its a few questions, and they take you in.  You travel in the back of van without being able to see out, and arrive ten minutes later.  You get out along with two other women, and one guy.

A man and woman are waiting for you.  The male leader takes away the guy, and the woman leader says 'Hi, my name is Chessie. I'm a priestess of Ceres, but we accept all in need.  We ask that you do not go outside, and you will find the phone requires a code to use.  Meals are at 9,1, and 6.  I'll show you to your rooms, and you can ask me questions when I drop by later."

All the windows are covered by heavy curtains.

   I wonder...  Is it still called paranoia if they really are after you?  The Martinis are well organized and well staffed.  And, they have industrial strength psionic abilities.  My mind tricks are strictly amateur hour in comparison.  If there was a place to train the bad guys, and they definitely seemed trained, maybe there was a place where a gumshoe like me could up her game.

   I let Chessie show me to my room.  It wasn't as if I had any better options at the moment.  I looked around my temporary home.  Maybe they have some information about Ceres or their Grain Woman organization.

The room is plain and small and built of furniture that looks almost Shaker.  On the wall is a stylized face of a woman with grain for hair.

On the tiny desk is two books.  One is thick, and its 'Stories of Ceres', and the other is a slim booklet, "Practises for Ceresians.' and then you find a pamphlet below that 'Rules of the Hidden House of Ceres."

You read that quickly.  Its mostly commonsense stuff like 'don't sneak out at night to call your abusing boyfriend when you're lonely.' and how the chores are broken up by which room.  There is a rota so that everyone ends up doing the bathroom one day a week, and cooking one day a week, and sweeping another day and so on.  They offer therapy, exercise, TV, crafts, baking, and card games, and private time.

You're on flyswatter duty tomorrow.

An hour and a half later, Chessie knocks on the door, and you let her in.  She has a plate of just cooked cinnammon rolls in her hand.

"As a newcomer to our place, you must have questions.'

   I'm reading "Stories of Ceres" as Chessie stops by the room.  Ceres appears to be in charge of agriculture, fertility, and nurturing from what I've been reading.  Her stories might be best sellers around here, but I'll hold out for the local version of Sara Paretsky.

   "I've read the Hidden House rules.  Would it be possible to swap my cooking turn for someone's bathroom cleaning turn?  Trust me when I say it would be less dangerous for everyone involved.  I do have a lot of questions.  The biggest one is how many dishes do I have to wash in order to get one of those rolls?"

She thinks for a second, balancing things in  her mind, and then grins.
"I'm pretty sure you'll have eager takers."

She hands you the plate.

"Eat as many as you like.  Its rather hard to overeat or get sick from bread in this house."

The first roll goes down quickly.  Its one of the best cinnaommon rolls you've ever had.  The second goes down slower.

Chessie grins, and takes one herself, and waits for your questions.

   I hand the plate back after taking the second roll.  I don't want to seem greedy and they are very filling.  I ate with my undamaged hand to not get the bandage dirty.  "Thank you for the rolls.  It has been a while since my last meal.  I have so many questions, but I'll just ask a few of them now.  First, can you get an anonymous message to the Police for me?  Second, some shady looking guy stared at me strangely and I started to feel sick.  I ran away from him and I felt better.  Is there someone I can talk to about that kind of thing?  Third, is there some place where I can wash my clothes?  Everything else seems to be covered in the pamphlet."

"Yes, we can. We have contacts in the police force.  The Martians, the Christians, the Martinis, and us, all try to have contacts.  The Martians appeal to machismo, the Christians have ancient families, the Martinis corrupt with money and threat, and we bring cinnammon rolls.  Its surprising how effective that can be."

She leads you by the kitchen to drop off the plate.  A young girl with a black eye is rolling dough.  On the far side is the laundry, and its fairly large.

Then she takes you another room, a small, quite plain temple.  There is an altar with French bread in a blue ceramic bowl, and chairs, and a few small statues, and some inspiration sayings and metal folding chairs, ten of them.

"I am a priestess of Ceres, and as such I can teach you how to strengthen your soul against assaults, and to bring revivification from being pushed down.  But, its not like you see on TV.  I can't command mighty oaks to walk up a road and flip cars over."

   "I've tried your cinnamon rolls."  I can see how they could be effective.  They worked on me.  "Detective Calhoun is working on the Lady DeWitt murder.  I know who killed her.  Her killer tried to take me out of circulation, too, but I'm harder to get rid of than most people."

   The laundry area looked awesome.  I hoped the machines didn't take quarters.

   I realized that this is the heart of the place.  "The only thing I watch on television is the news, and the inevitable Bog Witches commercials.  I don't know about oak trees, but as to flipping cars, if they're small enough I can probably do those myself.  I gladly accept any help you offer."

"This detective is not one of ours, but we can have a comrade deliver a message to him.  Write it down on a piece of paper, and he should have it by tomorrow."

There are no quarters, least of all because this universe doesn't use quarters.

Chessie makes a sign and a moue of distaste when you mention the Bog Witches.

She looks surprised at your comment, but says nothing.  Instead she sets to teach.

"Let it be understood first that magic is primarily the action of the gods in response to a request from us.  There are Powers of great antiquity, and strength, and they intervene in human life.  Magic is not something you pull up out of yourself, but a power that uses you as a door into the world.  That is not to say that sometimes you won't pay in energy, but that's not what causes the effect.

She walks over to the altar, and pulls out a shelf from under it.  She takes out some odd paper.

'Wheat paper. Now this ill worker probably sought to impose a False Pattern on you.  So, I want you to write down on this paper every word you can think of that describes you."  She hands you a regular ball point pen, and motions toward the altar.

   I dash off a quick note:   "Lady DeWitt was killed by a man known as BB.  He is Javanese, an immigrant to the Commonwealth from the Associated Lands.  I saw him giving orders at the Martini mansion during the Muerte viewing."  I sign it "Mystery".

   "Uhhh...  Magic?"  Magic is guys like Penn & Teller, David Copperfield, and Harry Houdini.  Magic is card tricks and sword sticking and assistants vanishing from cabinets.  "So... I'm kind of like a light bulb socket.  I don't make the light, I just let the current flow through me?"

   I take the offered pen and paper.  "Every word that describes me?  This miiiight take a while."  I look around for a writing surface other than the alter.  I eventually sit on one folding chair and bend forward to write on an adjacent one.

   I start with "Miss, Theresa, Teri, Reynolds, Misty..." and other variations of what I am called.  I even included my middle name, which I hate, as a part of the list.  I started writing descriptive words next like "Tall, blonde, pretty, right handed..." and character traits "stubborn, loyal, creative, pesky, violent, dangerous, caring, curious, honest,..." I added both "smart" and "stupid" to the list, since I can be both.

   I didn't write in large letters, but I still filled one page and started on the next.  I went on to start to list what I do.  "Investigator, shamus, gumshoe, private eye, shooter, warrior, helper, guard, seeker, detective, bodyguard, friend, enemy, guardian, sentry, fool, hero..."  The last two words I added were "mentalist" and "Verser".

   I offered the paper and pen back to Chessie.

OOC:  There were a lot more words on the page than the ones I listed.  They were just examples of types.

After you finish, she nods,  looks at the sheet, and grins.

She hands it back to you, and points out an outline of empty spaces, and words written in deeper than others.  It forms the shape of a loaf of bread, and now that she's pointed it out, you can't not see it.

"Tne Ancient Greeks spoke of the goodness of knowing yourself.  This is a reminder of who you are.  When you feel yourself attacked, tap it with a finger, even if it is in your pocket.  If you feel yourself genuinely assailed in mind, toss it down to the ground as a sacrifice and appeal to Ceres."

She pauses, and thinks, and you can her face clouding over.  And she pulls out a folded up sheet in her hand, and tapping it, and she grins.

"To explain, Misty, I remembered an incident last week where a woman was rude to me in front of my friends. I was quite embarrassed, and even remembering it is unpleasant.  But Ceres helps me take things in perspective.  Know what is true, and what is a lie, and now that my mind is clear, I can see why this woman was so rude."

She smiles.

OOC: This gives you another check for willpower or intutition, etc..

"But I doubt that that is what you want.  The next part can be dangerous.  If you want to journey down the path of the magi, you can come with me, but it is a path beset on both sides with dangers."

1@3 Prepare Know Thyself Paper, which is a prep for other spells.
1@1 use KT, and tap, for check.

   As she spoke, I folded the papers and tucked them into my left breast jumpsuit pocket.

   I laughed.  I couldn't help it.  "I'm sorry for laughing.  Your version of dangerous and mine might not be the same.  I've had my arm broken by a gorilla who wanted to kill me because I saw him kill someone.  Two punks threatened to break my other arm when I wanted them to leave an old lady alone.  I gashed my hand badly escaping from an evil man who tried to kidnap me.  I barely escaped the bag team of the Martini mob sent to my hotel to collect me.  And that was all just in the last couple of days.  You should be here during a busy week."  I could hear the pitch of my voice climb as I spoke.  I was nervous.  I'm much better at hunting than being hunted.

   I tapped the papers on my pocket.  Surprisingly, it helped.  "Let's do this."

At first her eyebrows rise, then she looks impressed, and then a bit daunted.

"Ok." She goes to the altar, and pulls out of it a metallic vase with symbols inscribed in it that are too detailed to see.  She unscrews the cover, and you feel something horrific invade the peace of the sanctuary.  Its like a black smog of fear, and despair, and hatred that you can't see, but its almost palpable.

You hear whispers to your side, and behind you, as of things preparing to attack....

A white-faced Chessie hands you the screw-on top of the vase.

   I take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, then let it out.  I relax my mind and open my heart.  I remember the Rat King.  I remember the Murder God.  I remember the plain of despair and spiders.  I know who I am.  I know what I am.  I plant my feet firmly and call out.  "I am Misty the Gray.  I stand in the shadow to protect those in the Light from those in the Darkness.  I fear no man.  I fear no beast.  I fear no evil.  I am a warrior of hope and I stand protected by the power of Ceres."

You repeat it once, and the Smog laughs harshly.  Furious, you repeat it again, and a smell like fresh baked bread blows through the room.  The Smog retreats, and then keeps on retreating as you advance, and then put it back into its confinement.

The smell lingers for a few seconds, and then is gone.

1@2 Spiritual Protection Against Negative Emotion Attacks. Requires Verbal. Holy Magic.

   Silently, I offer the screw-on lid back to Chessie since she is the one who handed it to me initially.  I'm not exactly sure of what just happened.  I'm just glad that it worked.

She guides your hand to screwing the lid back on, and then the last fragmnent of nastiness is gone.

"What you faced was the shadow of some greater evil. Not a being, just sometimes the Earth remembers the footsteps of the wicked, and so we have handed down to us from several generations back, this dust which 'came from That Which Should Not Be passed.' as one of my ancestor priestesses wrote.  So something walked along, and later the priestess got our her spade, and dug up the dust." Chessie says.

She then tells you to rest, and eat.

Later that night, after a meal of homemade chicken noodle soup made by one of the others, she comes in with a written message.

"This is from our contact....'Calhoun says your informant is unreliable."'

She also gives you an assignment.  She has a handful of wheat on stalks. eom4 pencils and paper.

"Draw these as photorealistically as you can, and then impressionaistically, then whatever else. Make it so I can pick which stalk is the one you're drawing.  Really stretch your brain.  This will help you with magic."

   The soup was delicious.  I know my cooking skills are not good.  That is how I can recognize when some one else has done well at it.

   I take the note and add something of my own to it.  "I saw him.  I saw you.  Doorknobs and sofa."  Then I hand the note back to Chessie.  "Please have your contact deliver this to Detective Calhoun."

   I also take the wheat and the drawing supplies.  I've sketched a crime scene or two, but my drawings more resemble Picassos than portraits.  "Ummm... is this test being timed?"

"The more time you take, the better, as long as you're finding facts, and more clearly seeing reality." Chessie says.  "Once the well is dry, stop."

The next day another note comes back.

"Who are you?" And its accompanied by a black and white autopsy photo of an overweight man before he gets the Y-cut.  He has nine bullet wounds in his torso and upper arms, and is very dead looking.

At the bottom of the photo is an old note.

"Bouncing Ball" Malik, aka 'BB', thought to be an 'outatowner'  who was recruited to join the Martini Family.  Killed approx. two  years ago.  Known for his rattlesnake boots, and his proficiency with piercing weapons.  Wanted for a long list of violent crimes.

Its your old 'pal'.

   I start by examining each stalk of wheat separately.  Each stalk looks like the others at first glance.  This is going to take a while.  I know that I'm not an artist.  I'm an investigator.  I'll start with what I know to figure out what I don't yet know.

   "Chessie, do you have a book on plants here.  It's for my assignment.  I need to know what the various parts of the plant are named."

She comes back with a five hundred page textbook on botany.  Over the next several days you learn more about wheat than you imagined possible as she shows up with a two hundred page book strictly on wheat formation, another fifty page treatise on wheat farming, and a giant pamphlet in color with pictures of seventy-one different strains of wheat.

By the end, you've sharpened your vision to Notice Tiny Details 1@2, and Knowledge of Wheat 1@3, and Understanding of Ceres 1@2 (which is the general religious skill used for doing Ceresian magic), and Sketching 1@1.  You feel somehow as if you're deeper or bigger inside than you were.

You practise with the Dust Smog again, and while its not easy, its noticeably easier.

OOC: The Understanding skill is a +12 to your dice rolls for Ceresian holy magic.

And then one night, you're watching TV after you cleaned the bathroom for another lady who made Cheese Pancakes.  The pancakes are fried cheese, about ten inches across, and served on top of potato pancakes with an inner filling of sour cream.  The other girls tease her about vegetables, and she responds by putting a sprig of parsley on the top of each pancake.

....of Curry House pleads with the kidnappers of her granddaughter to spare her.  The Sir Roger, chief of police, said this 'crime will not be allowed to disturb the peace of the city'...and in other news, the beloved Father Morgan of Our Lady of the Sorrows was hospitalized after a hit and run....in more news, the local sports with Sir Jay, our very own former rugby warrior is here to.....

The TV says.

   I thought my brain was going to melt from plant overload when I saw the botany text.  I have never considered myself to have a green thumb.  Case in point, I once managed to kill a plastic office plant.  Still, I've never refused an assignment, no matter how much I wanted to let it pass by.  The text was as interesting as... watching grass grow.  But I as stuck with it, I began to understand the cycles and the relationships involved.  I realized that this book was was a doorway into a brand new world and I wanted to go through it.  And after the first tomb, the rest of Chessie's wheat literature was a walk in the park.

   I didn't really hear the rest of the news.  All I heard was the Curry House story playing over and over in my mind.  I doubted that the Martini family randomly chose that family.  Maybe the crime family thought the restaurant family had more jewels.  Maybe it was an attempt to draw out a mysterious stranger who invaded their sanctuary and escaped their efforts to capture her.  Maybe they missed the two pieces of street trash I tossed in the dumpster.  No matter why the Martinis did this, I had to find a way to undo this.

   I set off to find Chessie and ask if I can speak with her privately.

You find Chessie in the kitchen supervising a young woman in the process of making bread.  The bread maker looks to you to be a clear drug addict with her too thin skin, and stick like arms, and slight twitches.

"I'll meet you in my office in half an hour." She says, and impatiently you wait.   Once done, Chessie lets you into her small office, and invites you to take a seat while she collapses with a sigh.

"So many of ours have real problems, and then they choose the easiest and stupidest method of solving them, which makes things worse. Rubyheads think they are invincible and strong, until they come down." She says.  "But I can see your time here might be done.  You have the light of Mars in your eyes."

   I sighed.  "If the light of Mars means what I think it does, you are probably right.  I have learned a great deal from you, but the greatest thing I have learned is just how much I still don't know.  I'd like to tell you a story that is completely unbelievable and absolutely true..."

   I started with talking about a scruffy Private Investigator attending a D.C. electronics show and the accident which began her journey.  I gave her the Readers Digest version of her adventures on the Yankee, protecting a young girl from her family, traveling with Alexis, destroying a Murder God and his temple, solving the murder of an alien ambassador, everything...

   "...  So I never know where I'm going or what I'm supposed to do when I get there.  Sometimes I learn new things which help me on my journeys.  My goal wherever I go is to leave it a better place than when I got there.  Sometimes I succeed.  Sometimes I don't.  But I always try.  It is who I am."

She shakes her head, not in disbelief exactly, but there is more than a bit of incredulity.

"I knew there was something different about you.  Especially when the Tossing of the Wheat Stalks told me to teach you magic, even when you had not been through the usual course of study that precedes such, nor been confirmed as a Ceresian.  The Goddess herself owes you a debt of gratitude for inviting her into that other world, the one with the Murder God, after you killed that Snake Demon.

Back in the older days, when Mars and Ceres and all the others who have left this world, first came here, the priests of Mars would often come to the Temple of Ceres to beg of us, the Cakes of Life."

She pulls out of a locked cabinet, a towel folded bundle, and a silver knife.  Inside is a small loaf of banana nut bread with the end cut off and nine wheat symbols of nut dust baked into the brown top to delineate where to cut.  She sweeps up a few crumbs and puts them in your hand.  At her nod, you eat.

It doesn't taste like anything at all.  Instead you feel for a second as if you should break out and dance, or sing, or jump and touch the ceiling.

"Like all good gifts this can be misused.  It is meant for if you are injured.  It is the Power of the Goddess to heal those she wishes."

   The Cake of Life crumbs reminded me that I still had a bandaged hand from my Martini compound escape.  I haven't been using it much to let it heal.  With the Curry House granddaughter kidnapping, I needed to be back at full capability.

   "I know that I'm kind of new to the whole gardening thing, but I do know that some people plant the seeds, other people water the growing plants, while still others harvest the bounty.  I also know what my part is in the Garden of Life.  I'm the one who pulls out the weeds."

   I held up my bandaged hand.  It hadn't been bothering me much, but I knew from previous misadventures that I had a week or two more before it would be completely healed.  I needed to change the bandage.  I still had some of the ointment from the race aid station.  "I'm pretty sure from the way you are treating that Cake of Life, it's not something you can pick up at any local bakery.  Why are you showing it to me?  I'll be back up to speed soon."

She slices off a piece, holds it up reverently, and then hands it to you.

"Eat and be well."

You do, and it tastes just like a good banana nut bread, and then you finish, and look at her. She smiles as if waiting.  And then you feel a sudden warmth, sweat breaks out on your forehead, and you smell bananas and nuts as if you were in a rain forrest.  A pressure builds behind your eyes, and suddenly your hand no longer hurts, and all the odd sensations are gone.

She slices off three more pieces in one large chunk, and wraps it with the towel.

"Take this with you as you go to war."

   I set the towel wrapped bread on the table, then unwrapped the bandage from my hand.  I knew what I would find, but it was still a bit of a surprise to see my hand restored to full working order.  "Thank you for the bread.  I will use it wisely.  I have two questions, though.  Do I need a silver knife to cut the Cake of Life?  Before I leave, may I have a container of wheat seeds to take along on my journey?"

"Any sort of knife will do.  And, of course."  She fishes around in her desk, and you see a half dozen little plastic disc holders.  Each one has several of the different seventy plus strains of wheat you studied. She gives you one.

She tells you that in a few hours the van will come.  And so you gather, and are waiting when a short, balding guy dusted with flour, and with a mellow presence gets out, followed by a skinny guy with a nose in a splint and two black eyes.  They start to pass you and Chessie, and the skinny guy flinches.  The short guy steps between you, and guides him off to the right half of the Hidden House.  At the same time, he mouths to Chessie.

"Ruby TD GF."

She sets you in back where you can't see anything and explains.

"Triple dosing Ruby.  That girl in the kitchen can be rescued but she's only single dosing, and not every day, but by the time you're triple dosing, it would take an Avatar of the Goddess to rescue her. Probably his girlfriend has less than a month to live, and she beat him half to death in a homicidal rage because of some imagined slight."

She drives you through town and ends up dropping you off at the Day Old Bakery after doing her best to thoroughly confuse the direction.

   I accepted the disk of seeds gratefully.  "Thank you for this.  I have something for you, too."

   I dug a couple of gems and a quarter dated from 1990 from my pack.  I offered them to Chessie.  "Running this place must cost something fierce.  I'd like you to use the gems to help finance what you are doing here.  The coin is from my home time line.  The man on the coin is George Washington.  He was a great leader in both war and peace.  I'd like you to have this coin as a keepsake of my visit."

   I didn't say anything about the Ruby addict.  There wasn't anything I could do to help.  I got in the van.  Like Chessie said, it was time to go to war.

She accepts it with a glad if reserved smile.  "Oh yes, it does.  We get money from the Temple, and from some former alumni who have produced a bountiful harvest in their life, and from some of the aristocrats, but its never enough.  Its like a poison has invaded our fair city, and now some who might stumble through, now fall."

She studies the coin. "Oh, you mean Lord Washington the Fox.  He was a famous general.  We still have Washington's in this city....I think the Countess Washington is their highest." (Edit.)

She hugs you.

"Be careful out there. Come back any time."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:31, Mon 30 May 2016.

   I told Chessie that I would be back sometime, but I probably won't.  I can't lead Martini's goons back here under any circumstance.  I owe it to her to keep her secret.

   And here I am, back at the bakery.  I took stock of my situation.  Other than being homeless, lacking transportation, having a limited supply of local currency, and being hunted by the reigning crime family, I was in pretty good shape.  I was healthy again.  I had a couple of contacts who might be able to help.  I had enough gems to finance anything I needed, once I can get them converted.

   My stomach growled.  Other than the banana nut cake, I hadn't had a lot to eat today.  I was suddenly in the mood for some curry.

It doesn't take too long to walk under the cloudy sky, and you arrive at the Curry House.  You are invited back into a private room, and about five minutes later, Mrs. Khan and a middle aged man looking similar to her come in.

He sees you, and flies at you his face distorted in rage.  He slams you against the wall, and yells something about his daughter into your face.

   I let the man, obviously the Father, take his one shot.  He doesn't get a second one.  "If you're done with the macho crap, maybe you can tell me what happened so I can help you get your daughter back."

He lets you go, grabs a chair and throws it against the wall.

"Its a desire for justice. You come to my mother to use her for your own ends. In doing so you have brought my second daughter into danger. You claim to be a merciful angel, but I think it more likely you are a lying devil.  In my life, I've found more devils in disguise than angels."

"Henry, please,,," Mrs. Khan says.
"Mother..."
"This is my house."
Long pause. Sigh.
"Yes, Mother."

"My third son is a policeman, and as such is not trusting.  I however, disagree.  Two men came to my restaraunt, and demanded to speak to me, and I was not here, and from my waiters account, my granddaughter offered to give them a message, and identified herself as mine.  They then discussed quickly with themselves, and took her away at gunpoint.  They have demanded as many jewels as they got last time for her safe return."

   I wonder what the furniture did to make him so angry.  "There are some things I need to know before I can help you.  First, Officer, perhaps you can help me to understand how my helping your Mother by paying off some extortionists is using her to my own ends.  Second, as a duly authorized member of the local law enforcement group, what are you doing to get your daughter back?  Third, what do you think I can do that a whole police force seems to be unable to do?"

He studies you, and decides to answer, in part because his mother is waiting on it.

"We've heard that there is an outoftowner that did for Lady DeWitt.  Makes me think you were hired by some crime family, perhaps the Thuggees of New Delhi who want to move in on Philadelphia. You've got weapons, you move like you know how to fight, and you took out two of the Family scum.  Thankfully, they landed in the town dump with no one the wiser.  Fed rats to rats.  So, the Thuggees,  they'd try to make inroads with fellow Indians first."  He shrugs. "There's always some scheme or another. It might not be that one, but eventually the clever clogs trip up, and i catch them."

"There is little I can do.  I've hit up my snitches, and by hit, I mean hit.  But, its the Martinis.  And I go to my bosses, and they say all these nice words, but they don't like me anyways.  Ever since I broke my lieutenant's nose five years back.  Sir Roger, our 'esteemed' captain is more concerned with keeping things calm then rescuing my daughter."

He throws another chair.

"If I knew who I had to kill to get my daughter back, I'd go to my temple, and ask the priests of Mars for a special permission for war." He looks at you pleadingly, and you realize with a start that he thinks you kidnapped the girl.

Mrs. Khan sighs.
"That theory doesn't make any sense, Henry."
"Mother, people don't just walk up to complete strangers, and give them handfuls of gems."
This message was last edited by the player at 05:15, Thu 02 June 2016.

   I laughed.  I couldn't help it.  "Maybe you just don't know the right kind of people... and it was only one handful of gems."  I calmed myself down.  "Look, I didn't kill Lady DeWitt, but I saw who did.  I've already reported it to Detective Calhoun, but he needs additional proof.  And if you're serious about going to war against the Martini Family, we can help each other.  But before we start, I need to know that you are with me all the way, a one hundred percent commitment to the end, not just to rescue your daughter, but to destroy the Martini family."

In reply to Misty (msg # 179):

He thinks about it for a second. Slowly weighing things in his head.

"Yeah. My word to the Lord of War, if you get my daughter back alive, I will go to war with you. Mars witness this."

And while they don't seem to notice, you smell gunpowder and blood, and hear the sharpening of swords on a grindstone.

And then you hear in your mind.

"This contract is valid."

And then the oddness is gone.

   That was strange, but as a shamus, I'm used to strange.  As a versing shamus, I know that strange is the new normal.  It's the normal things that appear strange now.

   "The plan is to make it more expensive for the Martinis to keep her than to release her.  I'm going to need a few things..."  I pointed out that I needed some type of identification to be able to blend in as a local.  I explained that I needed a vehicle and some lessons on how to drive it to be able to move around.  I covered why I needed a safe house to use as a base of operations.  I stressed the need for reliable intelligence on their operations like Ruby, the protection racket, loansharking, Family banks, and their other commercial operations.  "...  We could just pay the ransom, but there is no guarantee that they will release her.  It is more likely that they will come back with a demand for more gems."

   Sometime during the strategy session, a pot of tea and cups arrived.  I helped myself to it.  Plotting the downfall of a crime family is thirsty work.  "Finally, I can't guarantee anything other than I will give it my absolute best effort to get her back in one piece."

For your first request, he goes to the phone, and tells one of his sons to go to the safe at home, and have Mom bring it over.

It, being a spare ID.  He finicks with it, with a small knife, and some glue, and a picture of you, and you've got a 'serviceable fake ID. Don't use it on an experienced cop.'

Mrs. Khan calls one of her workers in, and tells him that she's going to give him the rest of the day off, if he will give 'this lady' some driving lessons in the delivery van at his other job.  It seems like they are some sort of relatives, so they are okay with her borrowing it for a week or two.

"I have a duplex that is livable, if you don't mind the floor not being carpetted, and some of the interior walls being not yet wainscotted." Mrs. Khan says. "I had planned to rent it once I got it refurbished."

Henry leaves.  He comes back two hours later, with an armload of files that smell of copier ink, and have 'Philly Police Dept." stamped all over them.  He also has a man waiting in the main room.  You recognize him as the guy at the funeral who was watching everyone.

"The high priest handed me my permiso without a word." Henry says, showing a gold gilded piece of parchment that claims the right of the bearer to wage war by the authority of Lord Mars.  "Its not legal, but...it is some protection. Fellow Martians are likely to look the other way if they can."

While the cop was gone, the dishwasher took you out, and taught you the particularities of driving a Royal Commonwealth small delivery truck (think a large van sized.)

Add +@1 to your current driving skill as its a New Use.  Its mostly the same, but a lot of little details are different.  The steering wheel is an infinity shape, the vehicle is underpowered by your lights, and there are no interior lights other than the lights in the instruments that dangle seperately under the dash.  On the plus side, its quite quiet for a gasoline engine.

   I was absolutely amazed at the speed and depth of the help this family provided at a moment's notice.  This war was actually starting to look possible.  I still wasn't sure if it was winnable, but I'll always take possible as a starting place.

   I was going to need time to go over the police documents to come up with a target list.  "Do you think your Mother would let us use her back room until closing time?  We need to figure out where to start our attack, places like a Ruby manufacturing site or a mob bank.  Also, I need to make a phone call before we get started on our research."

   I called my local contact with the Silver Initiative.  Once I got past his secretary, I started my spiel.  "This is Misty at the Curry House.  Thank you for participating in our business card drawing.  You've won dinner for two at the Curry House.  Would tonight be convenient for you to accept your free dinners?"

"I'm certain she would." A little while later you notice an 'Under Renovation' sign hanging on the Back Room door.  There is a also a snack tray and a tea pot in the corner of the room.

You make the call, and there is a wait of ten seconds, and then a boisterously enthusiastic answer.

"Oh, that's great! I love their food! Yes, I will indeed be their tonight with my wife. We will arrive like last time." You notice he doesn't mention the time in specifics that he plans to arrive.

And then you and Henry start wading through the paper.  He's an experienced flatfoot, but financial matters are not his skills, nor is he more than middling bright.  So the search for the mob bank really comes down to you.  As to the Ruby manufacturing, he says 'we've never found one in town.  Some folk think it gets delivered to Industry Mainframe, Ltd. or to Delmonico's from out of town, but we've never caught such a delivery truck. And we've never seen the chem lab you'd think you'd need in either place."

And then he snaps his fingers, and goes out, and drags in the guy you recognized from the funeral.

"And before you say anything Misty, how many times have the Martinis tried to kill you, Kurt?"
He shrugs. "Two, I'm sure of.  Once more might be them, or it might be other criminals, and that fourth time, I mean, I don't have much money, and my brakes might have broken on me."  You can see him scanning you, noticing details, putting facts together in his head.
"I write the Crime Beat for the Philly Star. Which means I make enough money to eat at the Curry House once a month. What were you doing at Liam Muerte or 'I am Death''s funeral?"

   I smiled as the contest call response.  Yes, this guy was definitely an operative at one time.  I would have hated to be the person he was after.

   I looked at Kurt.  The officer trusts him, but I need a little more assurance.  "Kurt, before I say anything, I have to know that this is off the record.  You can't even mention anything you hear in this room until I tell you that you may.  There's a story here, an exclusive with your name in the by-line, but only if you keep it quiet for now."

"Right. You scratch my back, I scratch yours,  thats how this works.  And as a bonus, I get to mess with some bad people, the Martinis, I'd guess.  I don't hold grudges, can't in this business, but they are bad for the city. And Henry and I have worked together for two years. So I want to help him rescue his girl.

But, I don't rat out my sources....too anyone."

He pulls out a notebook, and flips it open to show to you. Its a full page of odd symbols.

"My own private code."

He talks fast, and quietly puts on the sales spin.  He's got a runner's build, and fine bones, and he kinda flops himself into a chair with his notebook in front of him.

   That was enough for me.  "So you want to know why I was at the Muerte funeral.  Let me ask you a single multiple choice question.  Was I at the funeral to:

   A.  Identify the man who killed Lady DeWitt?

   B.  Get eyes on the mansion grounds as the first step toward leveling the place?

   C.  Making sure that he stayed dead after I killed him and his little rat buddy in self defense?"

   I gave him a moment to think about the answers I offered for the question.

It takes about two seconds for the more cynical Henry, and the quicker Kurt to come to the same conclusion. Both of them stare at you; Henry in approval; Kurt in shock.

"You're ambitious!" Kurt exclaims.

"You've got illegally large guns. The wounds were 'huge' according to a friend of mine. When this is over, I'd love to take a picture of your guns." Kurt says.  "And you've taken out one of the Ten."

"That's..." Henry scoffs. "street stories, made up by junkies."

"The Ten are supposed to be unkillable, huge, eight men and two women.  All impossibly cruel."

"The way I heard it, they are Twenty, and born of the eggs of Leviathan.  Not even human.  Its a good story for the kiddies, Kurt, but let's skip than nonsense, and concentrate on the Martinis."

"Sure, the Martinis are newcomers. The First got here with a bunch of other immigrants who mostly went west to help the Cherokee Province build the Great Missisippi Dam.  But they and several other crime families stayed.  The Second wiped out the other crime families.  The Third took over ten years ago after a suspicious accident, and immediately set out transforming the Martinis from a mosquito to a python."

   I smiled.  "Your city needs a lot of work.  I usually try to keep finding things to add to my to do list.  Otherwise I get bored easily."



   I saw an opportunity to lighten the load of my pack just a bit.  "Kurt, since you're being so cooperative, please allow me to give you one of my weapons."  I dug around in my pack until I found that huge hawgleg I took off on one of the hostage takers on the space station.  "I don't use this one much.  I'd like you to have it."  I popped the mag out, removed the cartridges from the magazine, and pulled the slide back to show him that the weapon was empty.  I handed Kurt the empty mag and the pistol.  "This is yours for helping us."

   I wondered about this Ten group.  If they were running the city and propping up the Martini family, they definitely had my interest.  "Maybe you can tell me what you know about the Ten.  Anything you can tell me might help."

He takes it, sights with it, and grins.  Then he puts it on the table.

"I don't know. My preferred way of dealing with trouble is to run. Fact is, thats how I met Henry. I was asking some thugs questions, and they got mad, so I ran, but they knew the area better than me, and cut me off.  I was about to take a beating, when Henry here just wades into them. He made them run." Kurt looks admiringly at his friend who shrugs.

"Well, the Ten is a street story, but there's some facts to back it up. Liam, Sven who is the Martini's butler, Brown who works down near the docks...all these guys look different, and yet the same.  There is supposed to be Ten of them, all working for Old Man Martini personally.  He has lieutenants who handle ordinary things, but the Ten get sent in for special cases or when they are bored.

All of them are new to the city since the Third took over.

They can be hurt, but not killed.  They heal from any wound in a day and a night.  I know one guy who swears he saw someone in a mini-tank run Brown over, twice, and Brown was uninjured at a party the next night."

"There is suppose to be two of them at the Martini mansion, and one at Delmonico's, and Indra at the police hq fits the bill." Henry says with a skeptical look. "For sure, Indra is corrupt, big as an ox, an eltee, and mean as a snake. Guy delivers punishment papers personally because he likes to look at the cops who get fired or suspended. But he's not one of the Ten, he's just sadistic scum."

   I thought back to my fight with Muerte.  If I was a smarter person, the thought of facing nine more of the Martini enforcers would have sent me screaming into the night.  "Well then, we'll make a couple of runs against Martini targets and hope that we don't draw any attention from the big guys until we're ready for them.  I'm expecting to meet a couple of people here for dinner.  Until then, let's see if we can nail down a couple of lucrative targets and a couple of targets, besides Delmonico's, that would send a serious message.  Do these guys run some kind of a high end bordello..."

"Oh, yeah, Saxby's." Kurt says, and Henry nods.  It seems its notorious.

You search the papers, and find a list of 'Known Martini Family soldiers and leaders.'  It has forty names, and most of them have pictures.  You recognize Rat, Sven, Liam, and BB.  There is also a list of 'Suspected Martinis' which is seventy strong, and has only a few pictures.  One of them is Mouse.

There are eight current Martinis in prison.

"Best guess is that there are 125 active Martini Family members." Kurt says.  If that's true, then you've reduced that number to 123, and with 8 in jail, there is 115 to explain the concept of right behavior too.

Their structure seems a mix of area runners and activity runners which looks as if a lot of areas have two bosses, one for the docks, and one for drugs which often comes thru the docks, and so on.

Some close study reveals that Campbell Bank seems to be a mob front, and money laundry.

A waiter knocks, and then enters.

"Your guests are here, miss."

And you go out and see your friends sitting at a table waiting for you.

   I took a moment to shrug into my shoulder holster containing my Glock and the two spare mags.  I covered it with my oversized sweater, then went out to join my dinner guests.

   "Hello and thank you for coming.  I know you have questions and I promise to answer all that I can as well as ask some of my own.  But let's order first."

"We've already ordered." Mr. Norton says.  "We expected you to be busy."

Everyone gets shots of weak rice beer, and rice cakes folded in leaves as the appetizer.  After that, its chai and butter chicken with a side of boiled lettuce mixed with ginger, coriander, and green chilies. Dessert is mango and mango sherbert.  In the background, the sitar is playing a mournful tune.

Lisa had been reading 'The Death of a Hidalgo', Adventures of Lexa no. 8, Now it sits next to her.  Mr. Norton is wearing a larger jacket than last time, and you're fairly sure he has more weapons under it than just the one last time.

   The food is so good that I could happily live here.  "I have been busy..."  I gave them the Readers Digest version on what happened since I saw them last, my visit to the Martini estate and my hiding out at a place I can't tell anyone about.  "... to keep them safe, of course."

   I ordered a pot of tea.  "You are probably wondering why I asked you here.  You may have heard on the news that someone in the Martini Family has kidnapped the Granddaughter of the Curry House owner and is holding her for ransom.  I'm going after the Granddaughter and I'm going to take down the Martini family, including the remaining enforcers of the Ten.  I'm going to war against the Mafia.  The fact is, Mr. Norton, that I need your help in procuring the supplies I need to get this done."

They both nod with Lisa gasping out a very quiet 'poor girl'.  Mr. Norton nods at the end.

"I can get a few things, others, might require you going to see some folk. Give me your list. Also, what time frame we have, and where you need them delivered too....that last you can hold on to for a bit for operational security reasons."

   I borrowed a pen and a piece of paper and jotted down my shopping list.

2 military grade battle rifles with spare magazines and ammunition
2 military grade handguns with suppressors, spare magazines and ammunition
2 military grade sniper rifles with suppressors, scopes, magazines, and spare ammunition
2 military grade shotguns with magazines if needed and a mix of buckshot and rifled slugs
incendiary grenades
fragmentation grenades
tear gas grenades
two protective masks

   I thought about adding explosives to the list, but other than a quick class or two during my military days, I wasn't all that well trained in their proper use.  I passed the note over to Mr. Norton.  "It's a kidnapping, so there isn't a lot of time.  With your help, the Martinis are about to learn that they are not the highest species on the food chain."

He examines the list as he chats with his wife about visiting her mother.  Then he hands the list back to you.



He takes back the note, and drops it into a cup of tea, and give it a vigorous stir.  its gone by then.

An hour later, and he comes back.  You leave with him, and he takes you by dark alleys with few words exchanged.  You can see he limps once in a while. The area gets meaner, and closer to the docks.

He opens the door of a small shop in the wall of a building, and grimaces.  Stepping back, he murmurs.

"Four Martinis with guns are trying to hold up Sylvester.  He's holding them off with a grenade.  He's nuts enough to go out in a blaze of glory.  If so, his grenades probably go too.

   While Mr. Norton is gone, I grab a handful of gems, wrap them in a bandana, and stuff them in my pocket.  I also transfer my backpack and the research information to my borrowed truck.  Finally, I ask Henry to meet me at the duplex after the restaurant closes because it isn't safe to keep meeting here.

   As we head toward wherever we are going, I kind of wish that I had my MP7 along.  I really need to get a trenchcoat... and some hair dye.

   I listen to the situation.  "Well, we can't let that happen, can we."  I drew my traveling companion and scanned mentally for one of the attackers.  If I can find him and make sure it's not Sylvester, I can maybe do something to reduce the odds.

You touch one mind, and its paranoid, furious, scared, and all of it cranked to 11.

....death or glory, death or glory...

You check another mind.  Its slimy and sadistic.

....this guy is bluffing.  He's not going to drop that grenade.  But as soon as he puts it down, i'm going to break his fingers, on his one good arm....

You've got a lock on one guy.

   I let several pain spikes go at the guy, then start to move in.  With any luck, the guys with him will be distracted for a moment and a moment should be all that I need.

OOC: Not good, but not horrible GE roll.

You hear a scream from inside as you hammer the guy with your pain spears.  Hitting the door, you hurtle in to see one thug looking your way as he was looking around for whatever could have caused his bud's screaming collapse.

You shoot him in the heart, and as he falls, his finger convulses putting a .22 round in your stomach area.  (Armor?) He's down, and so is the other guy.

Two bullets slap past your head, and one of the last two, his head caves in.  Mr. Norton is at work.

As you turn to the last, you see the small room.  Behind the counter, full of guns and grenades is a man in a wheelchair with a wooden right arm prosthetic.  In his left is a grenade with the pin pulled.

Against the far wall is a couple dozen boxes of grenades and a dozen metal boxes of ammo.  To your left is a passage  around the counter.

The last guy used Cave In Face as a shield, and shoots you as well, and then you put two in him, and so does Mr. Norton.  The three are all dead, and the fourth is moaning on the ground, but you're hurting.  Mr. Norton guides you to your right, and right there, against the front wall is a cot which you slide down to sit on.  Evidently the owner of this tiny shoppe sleeps inches away from live grenades.

(Edited).
Oh yeah. It was 121, and now its 118.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:30, Tue 07 June 2016.

   I drop to my knees in pain from the two shots that connected.  My onboards kicked in almost immediately, so the pain let up a little.  Still, I needed to do something quickly if I wanted to stick around long enough to put the Martinis on ice.  I turned to Mr. Norton.  "See if this guy has any ready to eat food, then bring it to me.  Also, turn the radio on to some kind of music."

He looks concerned, and clearly wonders if you have lost it, but he gets food from the guy who puts down his grenades.

You get two packages of a dozen each, Twinkies, and the guy turns on the music to something that sounds like Death Metals mentally deranged cousin.  There is a lot of screaming, drums, and guitars, along with a tuba.

Mr. Norton finds some bandages with help, and begins to patch you up while the shop guy tells you this is great music.  Its "I Brush My Teeth With Nitroglycerin' by the illegal underground band Really Massive Idiots.

'Turn it'. Mr. Norton snaps as he wraps your side with a bandage.  A sniff, and the shopowner turns it to "Tales of War" which is orchestral music by the Martian Sacred Chorus.

You start healing to the swelling waves of sound, and the crashing of cymbals.  In a few minutes, the pain ceases, but you continue healing.

"If she dies, can I have that gun of hers?" The shopowner asks. He's wheeled his wheelchair up next to you, and you can see he's got a wooden right arm prosthetic, and is missing his left leg at the knee.  And he has a dozen grenades in his lap.

   My universe consists of music... and healing... and Twinkies.  Especially Twinkies.

You get a +@1 to that skill.

And both the guys are looking at you incredulously.
"You're alive!" Mr. Norton says. "And uninjured."
"You ate two dozen Twinkies!" Says the shopowner.

You're getting the distinct feeling the shopkeep's view of reality is about ninety degrees off from normal people.

"That's like something out of the Age of Legends when gods walked among men." Mr. Norton says.

   I smiled at Mr. Norton.  It was easy.  I felt a lot better now.  "Yeah, about that Legends thing.  Let's just say I can be kind of hard to kill.  I'm just glad they weren't using anything stronger than rimfire cartridges."  I put a fresh mag in the Glock.  There was no reason to get careless.  "These guys probably had a vehicle.  Maybe we can borrow it to transport some cargo."

   I turned my attention to the shop owner.  I decided to speak in short sentences to try to not confuse the guy.  "We saved your life.  I need grenades.  You have grenades.  How many can you spare?  What do you want for them?"

He gives you five boxes of twenty each in a variety which hardly dents his supply.  Just asks that you come back later, and tell him how you used them.  Then he privately whispers to Mr. Norton.  You and Mr. Norton take them out to a mid-sized four wheel sedan of new quality, in a dark blue, and load it up.

Outside....

"He thinks you're the avatar of Mars." Mr. Norton says. "I'm going to have to have someone look in on him.  He's gotten a lot crazier than he was last time."

   I make it a point of gathering their wallets and papers.  I didn't bother with their pistols.  I told Mr. Norton that I was using Martini money when I could to finance my war against them.  I called it judo economics.

   I carried the five cases of grenades to the car myself.  It only took two trips, boosted.  The grenades are a wonderful addition to my armory.  They will do a lot toward helping me break the Martini stranglehold on the city.

   "Thank you again for this.  I do have a couple of questions, though.  What should I do about the bodies?  Also, after I transfer the cases to my vehicle, do you have any ideas about what to do with the car?"

"Sound guerilla tactics." He nods in approval.  Inside, he asks the shopkeep for the basement key which he gets.  You and he tote the bodies down to the basement, and dump them into an incinerator.  The basement looks like it hasn't been cleaned in a decade.  He tosses one of the grenades, the inflammatory kind into the incinerator, and stumbles back.... a great gust of flame leaps out, and the whole building vibrates, but after a couple minutes it settles down.

"Won't even be bones left after that."

He asks for two more grenades to do something similar to the car.  "I'll grenade it, and roll it into the river and not even our best CSIs will find something then."

He drops you off with your new supplies at your van, and then drives off with a small smile on his face.  Clearly, he's enjoyed the evening.

   I took my borrowed van and headed back down to Sylvester's place.  I took a moment to top off the mag I used earlier with 9x19mm cartridges.  I noticed that he had guns as well as grenades when I was there earlier.  I still have an unfilled shopping list and a packet of gems in my pocket.  Maybe we can work something out.  I jotted my list down on a scrap of paper...

2 military grade battle rifles with spare magazines and ammunition
2 military grade handguns with suppressors, spare magazines and ammunition
2 military grade sniper rifles with suppressors, scopes, magazines, and spare ammunition
2 military grade shotguns with magazines if needed and a mix of buckshot and rifled slugs

   I knocked on Sylvester's door.  "It's me again.  Can I talk to you for a few minutes?"

Edited.

He cracks open the door, and a shotgun points out.  He looks up and down the street, then he backs up, and opens the door.

"Come in. Just had to be sure you were not followed."  He wheels back to give you some space in the middle of the small room.

Then he looks expectantly up at you.

OOC: Time for a GE roll, I think.  14 on 4d6 is slightly bad.

He has you dig into his stores in the back room. There are boxes and boxes of stuff, much of it dangerous.  Some of the cardboard boxes are practically falling apart. He has a solider's war chest and some old guns stored in that.

(1) Royal Commonwealth battle rifle, with .236 inch rounds with four hundred rounds, and one spare magazine.
(2) Match grade handguns with suppressors, no spare magazines ('we figured if we needed spares we were already dead') and a hundred rounds of .30.
No sniper rifles.
(1) twenty gauge shotgun with buckshot and solid slug with twenty each rounds, side by side, break.
(1) illegally large twelve gauge with the same as above. Five shot magazine.

In the front counter is mainly pistols and revolvers, ....(GE roll..14)
There is another RC battle rifle in well-used condition.
Another box of 20 gauge solid (100) slugs.
There is a deer rifle with a 10X scope and (230) rounds of .304.

He tries to sell you a .20 rifle with a two thousand rounds of ammo.

He asks for four gems.
Again, you're struck by how this world favors lightweight ammo. The .236 is smaller than the  M-16's round.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:52, Sat 18 June 2016.

   I feel like a kid in a candy store.  And fortunately, I have my own money to get the sweet treats offered here.  I bought everything in his soldier's box, then I offered to buy the soldier's box to carry the weapons and ammo.

(1) Royal Commonwealth battle rifle, with .236 inch rounds with four hundred rounds, and one spare magazine.
(2) Match grade handguns with suppressors and the hundred rounds of .30.
(1) twenty gauge shotgun with buckshot and solid slug with twenty each rounds, side by side, break.
(1) comfortably large twelve gauge with the same as above. Five shot magazine.


   I bought his other RC battle rifle in well-used condition.  I could use the gun for parts and it did give me an additional spare magazine for the first one.  The big box of 20 gauge solid (100) slugs was a find.  Of course I bought it.  And finally, I added the deer rifle with a 10X scope and (230) rounds of .304 to my growing pile of ordinance.  That was as close to a sniper rifle as I needed from this place.  I asked him if he had any holsters for the handguns, pouches for the rifle magazines, and bandoliers for the shotgun ammunition.

   I passed on buying his .20 rifle with the two thousand rounds of ammo.  I didn't need it.  I still had my MP7.  I offered him six gems for everything, including his failing memory in case anyone asked about me.

He gives you a crooked grin as he relaxes a bit more.

"Very bad memory. Not sure what I did tonight, think I slept in."

You load up your supplies, and ...

  ... head over to the borrowed duplex which will be my base of operations until I find a better one.  Then it will become my safe house or fall back position.

   The duplex was in a nice neighborhood from what I could see driving through it at night.  The streetlights weren't broken.  There wasn't any trash in the street.  Vehicles parked along the curb weren't the fanciest that I've seen, but they didn't look like rent-a-wrecks, either.  I could see myself settling down in a place like this... for maybe a month before I went stark raving mad from boredom.

   The duplex was in the middle of the block.  It was a single story building.  I backed the truck up to the garage and parked it in front of the door.  That way I could empty it without drawing any undue attention.  I parked the truck and used my key to go in through the front door.

   The electricity and water were on, probably for the people who had been working on the place.  The place was as described, an almost finished work in progress.  I didn't even mind the lack of carpeting.  All in all, I've slept in worse places.  I went through the house to get to the garage.

   I unloaded the things from Sylvester's and the research papers into the storage room in the garage.  The garage didn't have any windows.  The rest of the house didn't have any curtains.  That made the storage location obvious since I didn't want prying eyes to see anything that they shouldn't.  I put my pack in the garage by the door to the house.  I then locked the truck and went into the house to wait for my partner in crime.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:26, Mon 20 June 2016.

The policeman comes over with some food from Curry House hidden in a toolchest.  He's outfitted to look as if he intends to work on the house, but inside the tool box there are no hammers or screwdrivers.

   The curry is good idea, but that isn't why he's here.  As we eat, I plan to ask him several questions.  "So, what weapons are you trained to use?  With what kinds of weapons are you most comfortable?  Ever use grenades or explosives?  Have you ever killed anyone?  What kind of equipment can you bring to this operation?"

   If, or more probably when, he gets miffed at my line of inquiry, I'll explain to him that I need to know his level of expertise in things to be able to work with him effectively.  I'm also curious about the guy's Mars Temple.  The Ceres people run a bakery.  I can't help but wonder what the Mars people run as a sideline.

   "If you don't mind, would you tell me about Mars and how things work at his temple?"
This message was last edited by the player at 13:09, Tue 21 June 2016.

He opens one of the toolboxes, and pulls out a .30.  He then strips it, and puts it back together in a minute of steady moves.

"That is my service weapon. It is bullet matched down at headquarters."

He pulls out a fourteen gauge pump, in line shotgun.

"I'm second level qualified with this. Um, first level is minimum for street cops. Second is minimum for detectives.  Third and fourth are fewer.  We only have three fours in the whole dept. with the shotgun.  I'm close to getting my third, but I tend to lose my focus towards the end of the test shot."

"No grenades, except tear gas, and that was in the police training course, years ago. No explosives at all."

He pulls something else out with a smile.  Brass knuckles.

"I like a good punch up."

He looks long at you, and then says 'a few.'

"Vests. Contraband if we need it as bait. Telephoto lens and 'long ears'."

He pops his neck, and drinks some tea.

"Mars is the God of War.  Soldiers, fighters, people who love truth above all else are his followers.  He is a soldier.  He carries a sword a thousand feet long that is sharp enough to cut a man in half, and the man not die for seven days.

Well, there is the yearly Triathlon, and the quarterly Marathons, and the monthly Competitions of various kinds.  Also, there is the Gymnasium, which is pretty nice. There is the Sacred Chorus if you like that. There's not a lot of crime near the High Temple, and the Martinis stay back, although I hear they are getting bolder."

He describes the High Temple a bit.  Its on high, and well defended ground.

   "Hold on a minute.  I'll be right back."  I went to the garage and snagged my backpack to bring back.  Once I'm back there, I open my pack to take out the three pistols I got from Muerte's crew.  I offer him Liam's double .30 pistol.  "You can't use your service weapon for this run.  Would you like this one?  It's thirty caliber, like yours."  I didn't mention the results of my shopping trip this evening.  A girl needs to keep some secrets.

   While he considered the offer, I kept asking questions.  I am a detective.  It's what I do.  "How are you fixed for fourteen gauge and thirty cal ammunition.  Once we go off grid, resupply might become an issue."
This message was last edited by the player at 18:05, Tue 21 June 2016.

He grins.

"One of the teachings of Mars is to have your own weapons supplied, so I have five hundred each buried in my back yard plus the fifty I keep at my police locker, plus the hundred I keep at home."

He talks as he strips the double, and examines it.  Puts it back together.

"This will do. The single .30 is more accurate, but you're right.  Hard to explain away why my bullet was in Old Man Martinis head when IA comes calling."

   I could appreciate the teachings of the Mars Temple.  "Are you any good with a rifle?  I'm asking about a scoped deer rifle or even a battle rifle.  Sometimes things have to happen at longer than pistol or shotgun range.  You see, I'm working on getting some gear together for this operation.  This helps me to know what we need."

   The food was gone.  While we talked, I took out my PDW and cleaned it.  I emptied each mag, tested the magazine's spring, oiled it, then refilled it before replacing it back on my equipment belt.  Nobody who ever really depends on a firearm to stay alive neglects weapon maintenance.

"I can shoot one, but I'm not really a rifle guy.  My favorite weapon is these." And he shows you the brass knuckles.

   I looked at the guy, his vow to Mars notwithstanding, he was a liability.  "You have prepared pretty well for this.  I need you at work when I make the initial probing strikes.  You are my informational pipeline as to what the responses are to be.  You are also my liaison with your family keeping track of what the kidnappers want.  I'll bring you in for the secondary strikes, when we rescue your daughter."

   The guy had family on the bullseye.  That made him too close to the situation for my taste.  I know that sooner or later I'm going somewhere else.  He needs to be alive to stay here.  And for someone whose favorite weapon is his fists, I'm not sure I can keep him alive.

He clearly doesn't like it, but he nods in acceptance.  He's used to working in a chain of command.

"Well, then I'll start putting in for extra hours at work.  Tell them, I need the distraction.  That way, I can get you more of the inside scoop."

With that, he heads out...

   I make sure that he takes his toolboxes and Liam's pistol with him when he leaves.  I reassure him that this is a vital part of the operation.  Still, I'm finding my own place and my own wheels as soon as I can.  I'm too exposed here.

   It's late and I've had a very busy day.  I move my stuff back to the garage, unroll my sleeping bag, inflate my air mattress, take my Glock with me in my bag, and try to get some sleep.

You have vivid dreams about a cat eating someone's soul, and a black poison spreading across the City, and an old man in the hospital talking to you, but you can't understand him, and later you dream of buildings being blown down, and a man in a dirty white trenchcoat with a third eye looking at your business card....

Shuddering you wake in the early dawn, and find yourself grateful for the robin chirping outside.

   I make a mental note to avoid eating anything from Curry House right before bed.  I did some exercises, made my peace with Ceres, took a quick shower, and generally got myself ready to face the day.  I dressed in my traveling clothes of jeans, black t-shirt, denim jacket, and flats.  I wore my Glock shoulder rig under my jacket, like always.  I put something together for breakfast from my bag.  As I nibbled, I went over what I needed to do today.

   My war chest had a healthy infusion of cash last night.  That was good because I needed a great pair of tennis shoes, a pair of hiking boots, a trench coat, a fedora, some hair dye, several gym bags, and some non-perishable groceries.  I also needed to find a local gun shop and a range to familiarize myself with some of my recent acquisitions.  And just in case I wasn't busy enough, I needed to see an industrialist about some assistance, a realtor about some property, and maybe find a used car in the newspaper from some private owner.

   I snagged five hundred from my stash and headed out to get something both hot and caffeinated and a newspaper.

Your current residence has a good view of the Ceresian High Temple with its bread loaf parthenon with wheat stalk column design.  And beyond it, you can see the nuclear power plant towers.

The nearest pub is the Bread and Butter, and from its wall hangings it caters to Ceresians.  You can get coffee, or ten types of tea, and bread of several types here.  Newspapers are available on the bar for rent in pennies, or buying in a stack of pennies.

Walking three blocks gets you to a Pound's Friend, and hair dye, and gym bags.

Next door is the Arrow, which is like Squirrel Hunt, in that clerks get your stuff, but its more dignified.  Here you pick up a dozen cans of corn beef and hash, and another dozen cans of 'one of everything' veggie mix.  The clerk tells you this is how he got thru when he was indebted to the Martinis for gambling.  "Tastes ok, but it has pretty much everything you need to stay alive."

Two blocks over is the Explorer's Club.  You have to pay a fee to become a club member, but they supposedly have one of the best hiking boots, parkas, rope for climbing, etc. selections in the city.  It is more like an underfinished warehouse, but with a bar, lots of maps, and harpoons on the walls.  There are a variety of folk there, a con artist looking for a free beer for a story, a couple young guys with stars in their eyes, some office worker types who come to wish they'd have an adventure, and a few guys who look like they've really been there, done that.  One looks almost handsome, and another looks nerdy, but its in the eyes. A blonde girl with the same eyes nods at you in the sisterhood of people crazy enough to risk life and limb.

A skinny, balding man bustles out, and quickly asks what you intend for the boot as you examine a poster.  "When I make a boot, it really matters if the explorer is going to the Yukon Provinces or to collect samples in the uncharted Amazon Basin.  Totally different design for boots.  Or, if mesdames merely wants something stylish for about town, I can create that as well."

Jos. A. Banks Clothiers is a taxi cab ride away down into the downtown, and when you walk in, the walls are chestnut pannelled, and the the very well dressed man asks what you want for your husband.  From the taxi guy, it seems like a high end men's store is the only place to get fedoras and trenchcoats.

   I bought the newspaper.  I need to be able to refer to realtor property ads and see about any used cars for sale, to get ideas on just how much cash I'll need to acquire.  I go for the breakfast tea, a bolder version of the standard variety and use it to wash down a couple of slices of whole wheat bread.  On a whim, I ask if they have jam and peanut butter.

   I also look for peanut butter and jam or jelly at the Arrow.  If I can't find peanut butter, I'll see if they have peanuts.  After all, how hard can it be to turn peanuts into peanut butter.  After the Arrow, I take my purchases to the condo to drop them off.

   At the Explorers Club, I realize that I should have grabbed another handful of money before leaving the condo.  I looked for any oversized backpacks while I was there.  I also asked around if anyone could recommend a gun shop that caters to explorer types.

   The boot maker offered the question of what I intend for the boot.  "Well, it would be nice if they could fly...  Here is my problem.  I travel to places on a moment's notice.  I keep my backpack by the door, packed with what I hope will be useful at my destination.  I need a pair of hiking boots that can go pretty much anywhere because I go pretty much everywhere.  My questions are how much and how long will it take?"

   I knew when I walked into Jos. A. Banks Clothiers that I didn't have enough money on me.  I would probably never have enough money on me, but I looked at the prices for fedoras on my size and trench coats large enough to conceal my fully loaded weapons harness.

   Then, it was off to find some black athletic shoes, preferably crosstrainers.

In reply to Misty (msg # 229):

The barkeep winks at you, and pulls out two glass covered bowls with very wide spreading tools from under the bar.

"Don't tell anyone, but I like it that way too."

The Arrow has what you want as well.

There are a couple dozen backpacks stashed in a corner for sale.  Some are new, and others have been used.  You find a few oversized.

The blonde girl tells you that Stevens' does that, but if you're looking for an elephant gun, you need a special permit.  She shows you hers, its a metal card with the Lord Mayor's signature and seal engraved in it.  It took her six months to get hers.

The boot maker chuckles at your joke.

"Ah, an all round.  Not optimized for any condition, but good for all of them. Yes, I can do that."  He measures your foot.  "Two days, unless you want a rush. Cost fifty pounds."

If I remember right, I'm going with or trying too a pound is about ten dollars US, with some variations.  So, you have a lot of cash in your pocket.  It brings to mind why the scum were so loaded.

He shows you a number of fedoras ranging from forty pounds to four hundred pounds for the Imperial ('the exact type His Royal Highness wears when strolling around London'), and trenchcoats running from seventy to one hundred fifty pounds as well.

"We can fit the trenchcoat, of course, and if you need concealed pockets for some reason, easy to reach ones, that can be added as well." He says overly blandly.

You have to take the taxi to near the Mars High Temple for 'Mike and Misty's Marathoners' to find the crosstrainers you like.  With some trepidation you enter, and find that the Misty is Mike's sister, and not your dop.  They have everything one would need for exercise, along with a prominent state of Mars running.

You walk in, and one look at you, and one look between the two, and you find Mike has moved to your left, and Misty to your right.  Each of them has a hand behind their back.

"We don't serve Martinis here. No offense. The door is that way." Misty says flatly.

   I payed the boot maker up front for a pair of boots.  I guess the flying part is off the table.  I didn't buy an oversized pack, though.  I wasn't sure if any of them were bigger than the one I already owned.

   I bought a fifty pound fedora and an oversized trench coat for a hundred pounds.  I explained that they were for my boyfriend's birthday.  I pretended to have no idea what he was talking about when he went into the special pockets pitch.

   Mike and Misty's Marathoners seemed like a nice place, even with the somewhat hostile greeting.  I kept my hands away from my Glock.  There was no need to make these people any more irritated.  "None taken.  Actually, that sounds like a well thought out business model.  From what I've seen of the Martinis, you are smart to steer clear of them.  If I had a store, I wouldn't deal with the Martini family either."

There is a long, quiet moment, and then Mike speaks.

"Our apologies. Please forgive us. We saw you were carrying, and assumed you were with the Martinis."

"What can we get you?" Misty asks. By now, both have taken their hands from their guns, and are not flanking you as they were.

   I relaxed as much as I had ever relaxed during this stop.  I gave the store a quick once over.  "It's an honest mistake.  One of the Martinis broke my right arm.  The cast came off about a few days ago.  I decided that the Martinis weren't going to get another chance to do it again.  By the way, splitting apart to divide my attention was a nice move.  Were you clearing a lane of fire for the guy in the back room covering you with a rifle?"  I set my bags with the trench coat and fedora on the floor by the register.  "I'm looking for a pair of quality crosstraining athletic shoes in black.  What do you suggest?"

"Ummmm...." Mike says. He looks a bit embarrassed.
"We used to have a third, Morgan, but not anymore, and now we're here." Misty says evenly.

They trip over themselves almost to pull down a variety of such, and measure your feet, and check if you have any sole problems.  They have about eight choices for you. The prices range from five to twenty pounds.

   "I totally understand your precautions.  If you don't protect what is yours, it won't be yours much longer."  I meant it.

   Misty and Mike had quite a selection.  I passed on the slip-on looking lightweight shells.  They were obviously for yoga or Pilates, assuming this place had yoga or Pilates.  There were a couple of pairs of an open mesh style shoe.  My feet would get serious ventilation working out indoors.  I passed on them since a lot of my time wasn't spent indoors.  I also passed on the ones with pink, purple, and orange trim patterns.  Anyone who knows me can tell you that fashionably anything is probably lost on me.

   That left two pairs of all black shoes.  One of the pairs had a tag which touted that the shoes featured a removable sock liner that lowered the heel height.  I'd get to decide whether I want more cushioning or a closer-to-the-ground feel.  When I think of the word convertible, I imagine myself screaming down the open road in the driver's seat of a Detroit muscle car while wearing wrap-around sunglasses on a hot summer day.  I do not imagine pulling part of my shoe out to change the feel of it.

   I purchased a dozen pair of white athletic socks before I tried on the remaining pair of black crosstrainers.  The shoes fit as if they had been designed for my feet alone.  I finally realized just how worn out my other shoes had been when I put on this new pair.  "These are fine.  I'll just wear them out.  Do you need the tags to ring them up?"

"Yes." Misty has Mike get some scissors, and she bends down and clips the tags off.  You pay, and they welcome you back, and out the door you go in your nice fitting crosstrainers.

"Steve's" is just down the street, and the owner opens the door to you as you enter.  The left side of his face clearly had a close encounter with a lion or tiger's paw, and he limps on one leg.

The store is dusty, and there is no counter, but a table where a large gun is being worked on is in front.  The narrow front has a locked solid door to your right, and stairs down into the concrete floor.

"The gun range is down there, miss, and I can call my warehouse manager to bring up whatever you want, provided you have the neccessary funds, and the approval of the Lord Mayor."

He sits back down, and goes back to work on removing the bent at the tip barrel of the large rifle.

Later, you visit the Steel Baronet at Randolph Steel.  The factory is surrounded by twenty feet steel fence, bearing a coat of arms near the gate. The guard at the gate lets you in.  Inside a half dozen street vendors are setting up. The whistle blows and the vendors start scrambling to make sure their food is ready.

Fish and chips, sausage rolls, black pepper cabbage soup....

As you walk on, the men of the steelworkers swagger out.  You get a half-dozen offers to buy you lunch. Then one of them, a bit skinnier than the rest steps up to you.

"I don't believe we are due an inspection, nor do I believe that you are a Martini." He says in a cultured voice.  "Which raises the question, who are you, and what are you doing on my property?"  Like his men, he has burn spatter scars on his arms, and grease and sweat, and the kind of arrogance that knows its going to crush whoever is foolish enough to challenge it.

   Steve seemed a nice enough person.  He has his rules to follow though.  I'll just have to see what he says.  "Good morning.  Do you rent out your range to people who already have weapons?  If so, what kind of facilities do you have...  pistol, small caliber rifle, large caliber rifle?  Do you stock ammunition?  Also, do you buy weapons as well as sell them?"

   I really needed a place to sight in the deer rifle and to check out how the suppressed pistols fired.  The thirty caliber pistol cartridges looked like they are about the same as a .32 ACP cartridge, but I couldn't bet my life on just appearances.  I needed to work out some ballistic tables for myself.

"No. We allow gun users to use it free of charge. There is one single range, suited for everything up to 1.5 inch non-explosive shells.  We stock primarily the larger, special permission rounds, but we do have a small selection of the regular rounds. I'll be glad to take a look at any weapon you want to sell, and perhaps make an offer."

Downstairs you see what he means.  There is a three foot thick concrete bench, and a two hundred yard hole in bedrock going into what looks rather like armor plate for at least a cruiser.  Its dank, not well-light, there's only two ranges, but you could safely fire a Weatherby .454 down here.

On the target armor wall are a few paintings of elephants with their kill zones marked out for different rounds, and lions, and water buffalo,  a Kodiak bear, and something that looks like a pleisosaur.

There are a bunch of taped up pictures on the wall autographed to 'my friend, Steve' showing hunters with a lion and a huge gun, or a rhino and a huge gun.

There is another guy down there, but the range is not hot as he is cleaning a ten gauge shotgun.  You recognize him as the injured, but sleepy man at Muerte's funeral.  He is not injured now.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:14, Thu 23 June 2016.

   I thank Steve for the information and head back upstairs.  As I'm about to leave, I turn to ask, "I think I know the guy cleaning the shotgun, but I've forgotten his name..."  I did the hair toss thing.  I hope blondes have the same undeserved reputation here as in my home timeline for ditziness.  "...  I didn't want to look silly by telling him that I forgot who he is, so could you help me out with his name?"

   Whether I get the name or not, I need to be going before the guy recognizes me.  I took a cab back to the Arrow, then walked home from there to drop off my packages.  I also picked up most of my remaining gems from the bodyguard run.  I left a couple behind for incidental expenses.  I folded them into a bandana and tucked them into a pocket.  I made sure that my Ceres papers were in one jacket breast pocket and my note from Mr. Norton was the other.  Then I headed out in the truck.  I planned to park nearby and walk in.

   The guy at the steel mill was impressive in a testosterone fueled way.  "If you are the Baronet, a mutual acquaintance thinks that you can help me with a little problem. Perhaps we can go somewhere more private to discuss this?"

In reply to Misty (msg # 239):

In reply to Misty (msg # 239):

"Oh, that's Mike Shaunsby.  He's a dozer operator for....I forget the company.  He's a good shot with that ten gauge of his, and he used to race four wheelers for a living out in the Cherokee Province.  I think he just likes things that make a lot of noise because he's never really shown any interest in safari hunting." Steve says.  "Fact is, this gun is his, as well." He points to the fixed rifle on the table.  Steve seems a casually talkative sort.  He starts working on another gun as you walk out.

He nods.

"Come this way. Joe..." Another guy comes over. "Don't let them stay out here too long.  Good pour this morning."

He takes you inside to an office covered by large blueprints.

"OK. Give. I can't place you. Regulators don't wear guns. You're not here to drum up charity money for your Cause.  My father, the Duke, did not send you, at least not as a date,....although he could have hired you as...." He's clearly thinking hard. He snaps his fingers.  "You work for a security company as a rainmaker, and the Duke wants me to hire some bodyguards. Tell him not to worry.  I have five Dobermans at home, and two hundred fifty pirates at work who all would be overjoyed to send a Martini to his eternal reward."

   I smiled.  This guy was smart, confident, and tough.  "Actually, I've already put down nine Martinis since I've come to Philly... including Liam Muerte."  I handed him my note from Mr. Norton.  "This should serve as my introduction."

He stares at you with his mouth hanging open, and recovers enough to read the note.


"Ok. I think we're going to be good friends. Let me clarify my situation, and we can discuss future activities related to reducing the Martini stranglehold."

He clears his throat.

"Randolph Steel is one of the top four steel producers over here.  We're not as big as Two Rivers over in Lord Pitt's town, or Vulcan Steel in Birmingham, but we're better than White Mountain.

I've got a few hundred highly motivated steelworkers who hate, and I mean, wouldn't rescue one from a burning house, hate the Martinis.  They see themselves as an elite, and they don't like anyone but a noble standing above them.  Plus a lot of them have personal reasons to hate the Martinis.  If a man comes to my employment, has no skills, but tells me his sister was killed by a Martini, I hire him, and train him, and turn him into a highly skilled steelman, if he survives the factory.  And don't get me wrong. The factory is dangerous.

I am also a safari hunter, partially because of the image.  I have to be more of a man's man than any of my men in order to retain their respect.  So, please don't tell them that I actually enjoy opera.

Lastly, my older brother doesn't want the job, and my father is 83.  He is a Duke, and yes, that means he is on the Council of Fifty which ratifies the next king, and oversees the lesser parliameants.  Which means that right now, the Lord Mayor is my social superior, but in a few more years, I'll be one of three dukes over here, and he will be decidedly my social inferior.

I've used this to create a fortress against the Martinis.  I thought at one time I could destroy them, but they seem to have advantages that I don't understand.  They are extraordinarily good, if they bother, at finding out information they should have no way of getting.  And several of their chief opponents have committed suicide in public with no clear explanation.

And now, I have a shield, and i wonder if you come to offer me a sword."

   I smiled at the Baronet with my best rich client smile, because in reality, he is a rich client.  "My story is simple.  I have certain special skills and abilities.  I travel to various places.  I use those skills and abilities to try to make every place I visit a better place for my having been there.  It's what I do.  It's who I am.  This city has a corruption that needs to be cut out.  Baronet, I am not offering you a sword, I am your sword."

He thinks for a second, and then tells his secretary to get a map.  She comes in, and leaves a map.  Opening it on top of the blueprint, he marks two buildings with an X and one large one with an R.

"X-1 here is to keep an eye on me.  Abandoned warehouse, and they have a few guys up there.....I think.....X-2 is a dance club run by Bron.  He's a stack of meat big enough to wrestle a rhino.  And two of my men swear their girlfriends got job offers from him, and were never seen again.  If these two irritants were removed, without killing civilians, in such a way that it can't be legally tied back here..." He points to the R which is near the other two. "But its clear to anyone with sense that it is tied back to us, I'd be suitably grateful."

   The description of Bron sounded a lot like the description of Muerte.  "It sounds like Bron is one of the Ten.  I'd better go after him first.  Do you just want Bron or can I add the dance club to my target list?  The best way to really hurt the Martinis is to mess with their income."

   "I'm in the process of acquiring the tools I'll need to get this done.  To do this right, I'm going to need to set up a couple of places to work from, a primary and a backup base.  I'll also need a couple of nondescript vehicles for transportation.  I don't have the connections to get bases or vehicles..."  I dropped the packet of gems on the desk.  "...but I'm not totally bereft of funds for such things."

   I thought about the request for recognition for a minute.  "Is there some hand tool that is both specific to the steel industry, but also in general usage?  If I left a new tool at each site, with no tool use markings and no prints, would that be enough of a signature for you?"

"As long as the dancers don't get hurt, or the non-Martini staff, I'm okay with that.  As to the Ten, I've heard a lot of stories.  Grew up on tales of King Arthur.  Doesn't mean its true.  If they were all the same race, but Muerte was Black Irish, and Bron is German.  Brown, down at the docks, is supposed to be another, and he's an African.  Sven is Norwegian. Indra is rumored to be the descendant of Thuggees from the Raj.  No, the Martinis just recruited a lot of big guys from the world over, and then made up a story to scare the gullible."

He examines a gem, nods in approvals, sweeps up the rest of the gems, and hands them all back to you.

"I think I can get you the above, without straining my weekly whiskey budget."  He calls his secretary again, and gives her a message to give to someone. "By the end of the day you'll have that.  Just tell me where you want the verhicles delivered to."

He reaches down into his desk and pulls out a ten pound short handled sledgehammer.  "We use these to clean up steel scruff that's spattered. Knock it loose. You can buy them at a good tool store."

   I folded all but three of the gems back into the bandana and tucked them back into my pocket.  "Could I interest you in purchasing these three gems to provide me with some operating capital for the project?  I don't know their going value, but I trust you to offer a fair price."

   "We are in agreement where it comes down to the non-combatants.  Deliver the vehicles to Mr Norton's office.  Leave the keys for Misty with the secretary."  The Baronet already knows that I have a connection to Mr. Norton, so I'm not revealing any secrets here.

   There was one vital piece of research material that I needed, but had not picked up as yet. "Also, could you spare a current phone book?  I need to go hammer shopping."

As you leave, the secretary hands you a telephone book, and a check for twenty thousand pounds.

Mister O'Tooles is a small chain of Irish themed tool warehouses out on the edge of the city it serves.  There is tons of tools, almost no service, dusty and dirty floors, and everything from ash wood staves if you want to make your own barrels to zoo cages for transporting dangerous animals.  There is even a machine shop where you can special order a handmade tool to your specs.

You find your hammer.

When you take the taxi back to the SI offices, you find two cars, one a three wheeler, the other a four wheeler, and the keys and addresses are with the secretary.

   I tucked the check into the phone book to hide and protect it, then waited until I was back in the truck to do fist pumps.  The food trucks at the steel mill reminded me that it had been a while since breakfast.  A couple of more stops and it would be lunch time.

   I thanked the secretary and took the keys and the addresses.  I got a piece of paper and an envelope from the secretary.  I wrote down copies of the two addresses and added a note that said something like if I disappeared for a long while, he could salvage what there was from the two locations.  I left the two cars there for the time being.

  I took the truck back to the duplex where I had a can of that veggie stuff for lunch.  It might have tasted better if it were warmed up, but I somehow doubted that was possible.  I loaded all of the supplies and material from the storage area back into van.  Truth be told, it didn't look like very much stuff to use to fight a war.  I made a mental note to work on improving my supply of armaments and munitions as I drove to the first destination.

OOC: OK.

You drive on over to the dance club before noon.  Its opening up, not for customers, but for the janitors and a guy delivering beer.  But even before you draw up past it, you feel a choking sensation in your throat.  Its as if you were facing that Smog Thing under the guidance of the Ceresian priestess again.

Driving past, you see the big neon sign over the black block of building that is in red..."Bron's".

You drive past, and the feeling fades, aided by tapping the folded up paper.

   So much for a first look at the dance club.  By best option for Bron might be a scoped rifle from a long distance.  Still, I need to have a look at the inside of the place before I take it down.  My mind was racing as I speculated on what was back there.  Given that girlfriends were going missing, cult worshipers and modern day slavers were my top two possibilities.  The evil radiating from the place had me leaning toward cultists.

   I started driving toward the first location of my new office, or in this case, staging area.

And you arrive there.

Its a small two story building wedged between a pub for sale, and a warehouse.  The red brick wall has a single double door in it.  Inside, is what looks like a lawyer's office after the lawyer has moved most of his stuff out.

   I check the lower floor out carefully.  I'm looking for papers, signs of insect infestations, a possible second exit, checking to see if the water and power are turned on, pretty much everything.  Then since this is a two story building, I'll head up to the second floor to see what is there.

There are some papers relating to bills for paper, and warnings of legal action if the lawyer did not pay up.  There is a case involving the placement of a fence between two neighbours.  Its a boundary dispute.

You find no insects, and brand new mice and roach hotels.

There is a back door, but its misaligned so it scrapes, and it is creaky.

The water and power are on.

The second floor is more offices which look as if they've never been used, and a break room with a ping pong table.

   This place reminded me of my old office in DC.  Other than this place was a lot bigger, had an actual break area, more than one place for an actual office, lacked patched up bullet holes from dissatisfied customer's spouses, and wasn't shoehorned in with several other offices in a seedy looking building, they were almost identical.

   I unlocked the back door, then pulled the van around in back to unload some goodies.  I stored the food from the Arrow, the trench coat, and the fedora to the break room.  I put two of the three gym bags and locally procured firepower in one of the upstairs offices so nothing out of the ordinary would be able to be seen by passersby.  When all of this was done, I locked both doors to the office.

   On a whim, I checked the pub for sale next door by looking through the front window.  From what I could see, it looked as if the owners had just put the sign in the window, then locked the door and walked away at closing time.  This could be a turn key operation for whoever bought the place.  I was glad that the place was closed.  People in my line of work don't want to attract attention or gunfire.  Nosy neighbors would be a bad thing.  Dead ones would be even worse.

   I got in the truck and out of there.  I had noticed earlier that the gas gauge was at about half a tank and I wanted to full the truck before returning it.  I had needed to walk around the truck a couple of times before I found the gas cap.  Fuel pumps in DC were unnecessarily complicated.  I could hardly wait to get gas here.  I saw a BCP station ahead on the right.  This was going to be interesting...

Philadelphia in the Royal Commonwealth, despite the serial murders, and the Martini Family is a far more civilized place than Washington, DC.  This Philly is getting worse, but its got a long way to go before its as evil as DC.

The name on a sheet of paper visible from the window in the silently waiting pub is the 'Tree and Field'.

Its more refined in its design, and sturdier in its make up with heavy grade steel for its parts.  It takes a few efforts, but you figure it out.  The price is very cheap. And a girl with long, black hair in a hairnet comes running out to you as you finish.

"I'm sorry, I'm supposed to do that.  I was in back cooking the fish n' chips."

   I paid her for the fuel, a take out tea, and an order of fish and chips to go.  The can of veggie stuff was filling, but the taste made it strictly an emergency ration item only.  The taste would probably grow on anyone who had to eat it regularly.  It just wasn't going to be me.  I ate the food in the truck.  It was delicious, far better than gas station food had a right to be.  Maybe I should have picked up a double order to go.

   I headed over to the second safe house.  That would tell me which one would be my primary base and which one would be my fallback position.

The veggie mix has about two dozen different veggies in it, but its all overcooked to the point where the single water chestnut is almost mushy.  The single cucumber slice is more liquid than solid.

However, the tiny twig bit is still nice and crunchy.

A couple miles brings you to an underground apartment underneath a cement slab that holds up one of the few parking garages you've seen.  This is near downtown.

   And here is my secondary position.  I can stash the second vehicle hidden among the others and keep a cache of weaponry in the apartment.  It's close to downtown, so I'll have resupply points nearby.  I need to check out the apartment, but from what I see so far, this should work nicely.  It doesn't have much of a view, but I can live with that.

Inside is a one-bedroom apartment with a kitchenette.  The ceilings are low, and the walls are concrete.  There is a back door, which is actually a tiny spiral staircase just for this apartment up into a small supply closet which opens into the first floor of the four story parking garage.

There is a bed and a stove.

   This place is perfect as a secondary position.  There isn't a lot of space to store much of anything, but it will easily hold what reserve supplies I should need if my primary place is compromised.  The fact that it has a concealed back entrance makes this place even better.

   I spent a few minutes studying the city map in the phone book.  I needed to be able to navigate around the city.  I had a fair feel for the traffic flow from walking around and taking taxis, but I needed to at least nail down the major routes since I was going to be driving on them.

   I didn't really have much of anything to leave behind here.  I left the .17 and the .22 pistols donated by Muerte's boys there.  They took up space in my pack that I needed for something more important, like anything else.  I put the two subcaliber pistols and the stack of magazines I picked up at the space station in the gym bag to take over to the gun shop at some later time.  I left the gym bag on the bed

   I tried to jamcram the rest of my stuff into my backpack, but it wasn't working out so well.  The leather jacket was a lot bulkier than my usual denim jacket so I swapped out to wear the bulkier garment.  There would be a lot more room once I got my weapon harness out of the bag.  I put my pack back in the van.

   I locked the apartment and aimed the van toward toward the name of the bank printed on the check.  I got the address from the phone book.  I parked the van as close as I could.  I also made sure to leave my shoulder rig in the van.  I'm thinking that bringing an unlicensed gun into a bank might not work out all that well for me.

The city is built very strongly on a 'small square block' model which makes it easy to understand, and easy to find alternate routes. If the road south is blocked, turn right one block, turn left, and continue south.  Its not until you get down to alleys that things can get a bit chaotic.

You not the best passages and bottlenecks, and familiarize yourself.

The bank is narrow, and tall, and the three marble columns out front are solid marble.  A doorman opens the door for you, and tells you where to go.  The male cashier is attentive, and then when you pull out the check, his mouth opens a bit, and he asks you to come with him.  He quickly walks around the other cashiers and takes you across the hall to the far wall where doors are closed.

Knocking he opens it, and says to the balding man inside.

"Mr. Johnson, is our chief of deposits.  Sir, this is Miss Misty, a most valued new customer."

His frown turns upside down, and he quickly gets up, and shows you to a chair, and gets you some tea.

"We at Londinium Bank have been in operation since Sir Walter Raleigh first deposited monies with us.  Through wars, gales, the Tulip Bubble, and other bits of economic madness, we have steered a quiet, conservative course.  We don't take risks with your money."

   "Not taking risks with other people's money sounds like good business to me."  I smiled sheepishly.  "I've got a confession to make.  I've never had a bank account before.  I don't know how they work.  I mean how can I access my funds for business purposes?"  I wasn't lying.  I've never had an account in this dimension.

   I needed a chunk of the cash immediately, but I didn't want to carry it all with me.  "I'd like to get five thousand pounds in cash in smaller bills...  and something to carry them."

"Well then." He pulls out a couple pamphlets, and a notepad, and proceeds to give you the 101 Banking in the RC course. He feels that it is his duty to make sure that you are well informed. He's not charismatic, nor a gifted teacher, but he is a subject matter expert, and he knows how to keep it clear and concise.

During that time, clerks set up what you've wanted, and they put the money in a belted bag to go under your blouse.

There is no ATM, but otherwise, checks and calling the bank for verification, and dropping by the bank are all methods to get your cash during business hours which are from ten to seven.

+@1 Banking as this counts as a new use.

Edited.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:44, Wed 29 June 2016.

   I thanked Mr. Johnson for all of his help.  I did ask how long it would take to get some checks printed.  Then, I made my exit.

   All my places are nice, but they were arranged by someone else.  The Baronet had said that the Martinis had special ways of finding things out.  I believed him.  I had to find my own place to use.  The Martinis had their hooks deep in this city.  I needed a place to call my own, some place not tied to anyone else.  I'd have to look into that tomorrow.  I wanted to get some sleep before I started work tonight.

   Back at the van, I spent an extra couple of minutes shrugging into my Glock rig and leather jacket.  I took the van back to the duplex, then walked over to town to catch a cab over to a place near the SI Office.  I planned on picking up the three wheeled car and taking it over to the lawyer's office, then getting a couple of hours sleep.

Mr. Johnson gives you a dozen temporary checks, and says your personal checks will be ready by noon tommorrow.

You get your other work done, and get a nap.

Its night.

   I opened and ate a tin of corned beef.  It would have been better between slices of bread, but you go with what you have.  I used the rest room to clean myself up as best I could.  Then I dug my weapon harness out of my backpack and gave everything on it a good going over.   I made sure that the six mags of PDW ammunition were the forty round types.  I also got my multivisor ready to go.  Since this was going to be a night run, a night vision device could come in handy.  I tucked the money belt into my pack.  There was room for it now.

   When my own gear was ready, I started working on some of my new goodies.  I checked the two suppressed thirty caliber pistols.  I tested both magazine springs.  I familiarized myself with the safety positions and the slide lock and pointed them at different things until I had a good grasp for where they pointed.  I even fired a couple of rounds from each one into the floor to get the feel of the recoil.  I left a round in each chamber as I topped off the magazines.  Since this was a combat run, I removed the stunstick and its holster from the harness and replaced it with one of the suppressed pistols in a holster.  There wasn't anyplace to carry the second pistol, so I removed the mag from the other pistol and tucked it into my gear belt.

   I studied the grenades until I thought I figured out how they worked.  Fortunately,  I realized that just thinking that I knew about how to use an unfamiliar grenade was not really the same thing as actually knowing how to use an unfamiliar grenade.  I left the grenades in their cases this time.  I also made a mental note to ask Mr. Norton how grenades worked around here.

   Once everything was ready for use, I slipped into an outfit I haven't worn in a long time.  While I was putting it on, I realized that I didn't have a pocket for the Ceres papers.  I wrapped them in a plastic baggie and taped the packet to the inside of the suit where it would ride over my heart.  The form fitting black body glove with the blending red flame pattern still fit like a second skin.  I might never know the exact kevlar/spandex/nomex/whateverex composition of the suit, but it was what I had and it was what I was going to wear.  I tucked the full hood into the neck, then donned my full weapon harness.

   I stood in the center of the room.  With my eyes closed, I did a touch check of my weaponry.  Glock...  PDW...  Snapstick...  Blaster...  and the suppressed thirty cal... all resting where they should.

   I put on my trench coat and my fedora, grabbed the two gym bags and the hammer, snagged my multivisor, and headed down to the three wheeler.  My first stop was an abandoned warehouse marked X-1 on a map.  I'll park nearby and work my way there.  The Martini family traded in fear.  It was time to return a little of that fear back to the family.

The suppressed pistols have a silk smooth pull.  They are visibly nicer quality, machined to exacting tolerances, than the other weapons.

X-1 as you drive past it, takes up half a block.  The roof is metal, dark red?.  The roof is broken up into a upper narrow roof, and then a ten foot drop, and about seventy feet of roof on this side.  In the drop are long, low windows, probably for ventilation.

You see two cars that are separate, but these three-wheelers look to be nice, too nice for the neighbourhood.

On the north end of the two acre building is a small door.  On the south end is another such door, and a gravel parking lot with a roll up truck door.

Looking around, you see a double door on the west side with a fence, overgrown with vines but eight feet away.  There is no door on the east or road side.

There seems to be some light near the top south side.

You don't feel anything untoward in the night.  The closest person seems to be a half block down at a machinist shop.  Sparks and a screeching grinding noise are coming from inside.

   I parked around the corner from the pair of three wheelers.  I swapped out the twenty round magazine in the PDW for a forty round stick, but I left it in the holster.  I planned on seeing just how much damage I could do with seventeen almost silent shots before I have to get loud.  I left the trench coat and the fedora in the car.  I would need them later as camouflage.  The hiding was over for now.  I tucked the hammer in my belt, then dialed the multivisor to thermal and slipped it on.  It was time to go to work.

   It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the thermal imaging.  I drew my new pistol and scanned the area around the cars, the west side fence, and the gate, looking for any guards.

You see nothing, other than a black cat that seems to be looking at you from the west side, atop the fence.  The electric cord on the side of the warehouse is slightly warmer than the air. One of the parked cars is a lot warmer in its engine compartment than the other. A car drives by on a nearby road, but keeps on going.

   I ease over to the car with the warmer engine and use my snapstick to break out the right front window.  I keep watch from the shadows for a few minutes to see if the noise draws any attention.  I plan on going through the vehicle to see if there is anything I can use to short out the electrical system of the warehouse, maybe something to jam into a socket.  Of course, documents, currency, weapons, and ammo won't be turned down.

The cat comes over to investigate.  Other than that, nothing.

There is a set of jumper cables, a lug wrench that you suspect got more used as a weapon, candy bars, thirty pounds, a loaded water pistol that looks like a real pistol hidden under the driver's seat, a ka-bar like knife, a couple bricks with messages taped to them of the 'pay up, or next time its worse' variety, along with a list of intended targets, and an empty envelope that says 'payouts' on the side along with 'no skimming or its your neck.'

   I test how functional the local version of ka-bar is by stabbing holes in the sidewalls of the tires of both vehicles.  This way, if anyone tries to chase me while I make my escape, it will have to be on foot.  Then there's just the annoyance of having to replace all the tires on two vehicles.  The fighting knife worked pretty well.  I'm keeping it.

   I snagged the water pistol, as well, being careful to not get any of the liquid on me.  I'm guessing that the pistol contains acid of some type, which should do well when I shoot it into an electrical socket.  But then, if the pistol does contain water, that could also have the effect that I want.  I was going to take the thirty pounds, but this outfit isn't equipped with pockets.

   I trace the electrical cord on the side of the building.  I'm looking for an outlet or junction box to create some mischief with the building's power.  I'm still also checking to see if I've drawn any attention with my puttering around.

The cat leaves when you start stabbing.  After the sixth and final tire, a man comes out from down the street from the machinist's shop.  You're not sure if he heard something or....and he's lighting a pipe.  You wait ten minutes in between the two cars until he finishes his smoke break, and goes back to work.

The junction box is near the wire on the west side of the building.  It opens without much noise.  You're not familiar with their electrical notation, but the wires look heavy duty.  Its definitely not for a house.

   The junction box is supposed to protect the wiring from the elements.  I figure that I can mess up their lights and put them a little off balance.  I removed my multivisor to avoid getting blinded by any exothermic reactions.  Then I stood back what I hoped was far enough away to avoid splashes and fired the squirt gun at the inside of the junction box.

An arc jumping about, a low boom and all the lights up and down the street go out, and now the junction box is on fire with a couple inch high flames.  Happily, the walls of the warehouse are metal, and there is not much that is flammable in a junction box.

You hear some yelling from up high in the warehouse.

   That went well.  I put the multivisor on again and set off to find a way to the top of the warehouse.  I drew the suppressed pistol as I looked for targets.

   I've never held any foolish notions about fighting fair.  I was in it to win it.  Like Bill Jordan said. "Be first or be dead... there is no second place winner in a gun fight!"

The west side small door opens with a small scrape.  You hear some yelling inside, and duck in very quickly (using your boost?) to avoid skylighting yourself.  But you needn't have worried.

The huge floor is dotted with scaffolds, old two by threes, twenty feet of rope, and a wheelbarrow just to name a few.  Its up near the ceiling that a sliding track holds a twenty square foot iron floor with rails.

Your targets, eight of them, are up there.  Someone has got out a flashlight, and there's a good bit of angry yelling.

On the south side of the warehouse, is a staircase going up to a landing, and then another landing, and finally up to the top with a ten foot railed walkway leading to the movable floor.  This floor has some chairs and tables on it as well.

   This isn't the time to try long range fire with an unfamiliar and probably underpowered pistol.  I holstered the pistol and drew the PDW.  I extended the stock and dropped the vertical foregrip.  It was time to say hello.

   I take a careful aim at the one holding the flashlight and squeeze off a double tap at him.  Then, I move to another position to continue firing at the ones on the iron flooring.  Shoot and move.  Shoot and move.  I'll slowly work my way over to cover the entire stairwell.  If anyone takes a look over the edge or goes for the stairwell, he becomes my next target.

You drill the first guy, and the flashlight drops. One down.

Moving over behind some square metal tubing, you see some crouched.  You pick the guy in the middle since if you miss, you're likely to get someone else.  He drops.

They open fire. Nothing comes even close as you slide down behind a stack of concrete blocks.  Aim at the idiot standing up, plugging away at a shadow twenty feet to your left, and you wing him.  He yelps, and hits the deck.

Moving again...easy peasy.  You move forward instead of lateral which you have been doing.  Aim at another shooter, this one is crouched. Head shot.

The rest get smart and hit the deck. Some are still visible, but its a far smaller target.

Fire slackens off as reloading occurs, and you see someone holding a flashlight, but only by their hand, and sweeping it about.  It doesn't look like the want to venture down the stairs.

   I fired a couple of shots at the flashlight and the hand holding it before moving to a new location.  I wanted total darkness for this next part.  I closed up the PDW's stock and front grip, then swapped out the partial forty round mag for a full one before holstering it again.  I was going to need both hands.

   I needed to get on the same level as the remaining thugs.  I could either use the scaffolding or the stairs.  There wouldn't be anywhere to move if I used the scaffolding, so that left the stairs.  I looked around to find something small and heavy to throw for a distraction, other than the hammer in my belt.  I had another use for that.

   Once I found the distraction, I drew the suppressed pistol and transferred it to my right hand.  I had nine shots.  I needed to make them count.  I started up the stairs as quietly as I could, keeping to the wall to try to avoid noise from the steps.  I planned on pitching my distraction across the building from the second landing, then rushing up the stairs to finish the job.  I covered the bad guys as I moved.

First shot shreds the flashlight, and maybe the guy's hand.  Second shot just flies where his hand was jerked back from.

"You don't know who you're messing with!! We're the Martinis!!  You are soooooo dead."

The stairs creak once or twice as you go up them, but the thugs are moving tables to provide a barrier against the shooter down on the ground.  Someone does glance your way, and your blood chills, but they miss you.

You toss your distraction, and charge up the stairs in a mad rush.  As you hit the top walkway, you see one guy, awkwardly shooting with his off hand, that is looking your way.  The others, four of them are looking the other way.  He misses you by several feet.

   The guy facing me gets two thirty cal pistol rounds for all of his trouble.  Then, I start working his friends, one shot at a time.  I'll save my three follow up shots for anyone still needing my attention.  I'm hoping that since they were hearing my PDW fire earlier, the suppressed pistol fire will buy me an extra second or two to act before they react.

A shot to the chest, and as he falls, a shot in the shoulder and the guy you winged earlier is now out of pain, in this world.  His Maker may have something to say to him.

Bam. And the guy was knocked off balance by the guy you shot, so that its a clean miss.
And same with the other guy you shot at who is further to the left on his side.  Its almost comical. The guy furthest to the left almost gets shoved over the rail.

And you hit the fourth man squarely in the back.

You still have two unhit.

You send the rail-leaner over the edge screaming with a shoulder hit.  And two more solid hits, and the crew of thugs is rapidly assuming room temperature.

+@1 to Gunfighting.

   I took a moment to swap out the empty thirty cal mag for my spare and chamber a round before holstering the pistol.  I switched the visor to low light and began to gather the weapons they were using.  I'll bundle them into a coat or jacket one of them is no longer using.  I also wiped the hammer off on one of the bodies to remove any fingerprints, then left it in the middle of the floor among the bodies.

   I'm not spending a lot of time at this.  Someone might have called in a report of shots fired.  I don't plan on being here when anyone arrives.  I'm going back to the  car, turn off and remove the multivisor, put on my trench coat and fedora, then head back the long way around to the lawyer's office.  I've got a busy day ahead tomorrow and I need some sleep.

You're well on your way before you hear police sirens.  They do not come your way, and you make your way to bed in peace.

That night you dream that you have a century and ten men to kill.

Waking up in the morning, the news says speculates that their is a new gang war, and then there is an interview with the Baronet who very, very blandly denies having any of his men involved in the deed.  There is an attempted interview with a Martini lieutenant, but its only a string of curses that get bleeped out.

   I did the usual things one does upon rising.  Today's outfit was going to be black jeans, a dark blue T-shirt, and the motorcycle jacket.

   I cleaned the PDW and the suppressed thirty, then replaced the ammunition I had used.  I slipped the reloaded thirty cal mag back into the second pistol.  The little gun was beginning to grow on me.  I had an idea, so I decided to go through my small but growing collection of locally acquired handguns to see what I had.  I paid special attention to any thirty cal pistols.

   I checked to see what company made the suppressed pistols, then checked to see if any of the mobster thirties were made by the same company.  I was looking to see if any of the standard pistols had mags that would fit the suppressed ones, like mags for a military .45 ACP M1911A1 would also fit a Colt .45 ACP Gold Cup.  I also checked the cartridges for the suppressed thirty caliber pistol, taking notice of the size, weight, and headstamp markings.  I compared them to the cartridges from the standard thirty cal pistols.  Given this world's affection for weak cartridges, I was looking to see if the cartridges were interchangeable.

   I dug through the assortment of gun leather and accessories until I found a twin pistol rig which looked as if it would hold both suppressed thirties.  I tried the rig on, and it fit well after I took in the straps a bit.  The suppressed thirties were slimmer than my Glock.  I wouldn't look as armed while walking around.  As I looked at the rig, I couldn't help but wonder about its history.  Maybe this rig belonged to Sylvester and this is what he used to wear to work.

   I also made myself some breakfast, if a cold can of hash can be considered breakfast.  I had spent quite a bit of time working on my tools and I was getting more than a little hungry.  I grabbed five hundred pounds from my war chest.  I still needed to do some shopping.

   I caught the news as I had a bit more for breakfast at one of the local pubs.  I picked one at random to not be identifiable as having a pattern.  I listened as casually as I could to the conversations around me to see if there was any reaction to the story.

There are three single barrel thirty cals, and one double barrel.

The suppressed thirties are made by Westhouse Ltd..  None of the mobster guns are made by the same company.  One of the magazines matches from the mobster guns.  All the cartridges are interchangeable.  The suppressed are marked with 'Westhouse Prime, .30, Handchecked'.  While the cartridges are interchangeable, there is a clear difference in quality.  The suppressed has what is called match grade ammunition.  The mobsters guns have basic cartridges, nothing fancy.

Considering that Mr. Norton broke his legs on a night jump in Russia, and Sylvester seems to be an acquaintance, it seems likely that Sylvester went places, and disposed of enemies of the Crown.

The Sheephead has a nice mutton, tomato omellette, and what you hear from most is suppressed schadenfreude.

'...couldn't happen to a nice bunch of guys...'

Some look worried.  And a few openly mock the Martinis.  '...the Steel Baronet will show these thieves what a real man does.'

Nobody says '...oh, its so sad those poor men were killed.'  Even the Neo Presbyterian pastor says 'God will judge the wicked. Even now they stand before Him in his wrath.'  You know he's such because the crowd at the table he's pontificating too say 'yes, pastor'.

   I loaded the extra compatible thirty cal magazine with match ammo and tucked it in my jacket pocket.  Somehow, having a spare mag of ammo along just made me feel better.  I guess I'm a cheap date.

   It seems as if my evening activities have already had a small effect on Philly.  I needed to keep the momentum going.  But first, I needed a few things.  My first stop was the Explorer's Club.  I need a solid black, sturdy day pack to carry whatever I find when on a run.  I found one that was perfect and only paid twice what I thought it was actually worth.  What a deal.

   My next stop was Steve's.  I took note of the name of the pistol that had a compatible magazine.  I needed to see if Steve had any mags for that type of pistol and some match grade thirty cal pistol ammunition.

Steve is reading a gun manual at his table when you come in.  You ask him the question.

"No. I do have some match-grade, but only for the big rifles."  He thinks for a second, his lion scar pulling his face strangely.  "Oh, I did talk to that dozer operator you were interested in.  He was right curious when I told him a nice blonde had been asking about him.  Asked lots of questions about you.  You might have an admirer.  I told him I would give you a message, but he said not to bother."  Steve shakes his head.  "It isn't a bother.  The big gun community is not that large.  Its always nice to see folk get together."

You realize that underneath the scars, and the sun leathered face, Steve is a romantic.  He does give you the address of the dozer guy's company with a wink that makes his face horrendous for a second.

   I thanked Steve for the address.  "So, can you get match grade thirty cal pistol ammunition and additional magazines like this?  I'm going on an extended trip in a while and I'd like to have enough spare cartridges to last."  I took the extra mag out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him as I told him the kind of pistol that used it.  I waited for him to examine the mag, then asked for it back.  I left him with a promise to go see the dozer guy.

   I headed over to Arrow and bought some more canned food to take to the parking garage.  My next stop was a trip to the parking garage to drop off the food and leave the three wheeler.  I hoofed it a few blocks to find a cab, which I took to a place near the Silver Initiative office.

   The office was open.  I introduced myself to the secretary again and asked if Mr. Norton was available.

"It should be here, three days from now. How much do you want?" Steve asks after getting out a paper and pen.

"If you can wait twenty minutes, he's in with a donor right now." The secretary says with a consoling smile.

   Hmmm...  This was probably my last chance to get this caliber of ammunition and I did have two pistols to feed.  "I'd say six hundred rounds, four double magazine pouches, and seven magazines, if you can get them."

   I told the receptionist that I didn't mind waiting.  I passed the time reading the magazines in the waiting area.  Mr. Norton had fewer, but newer, issues than the clinic.  I'll call that a win.