Washington, DC.  September 1925.

Tuesday, 8 September 1925.  The Day after Labor Day.

Captain Christopher Nolan arrived at 8:31 am, 29 minutes early for his appointment to meet with the Director of the BPRD, for his final interview.    He was standing along a gravelled unnamed road, outside the city, near what looked like a pine forest.  There was no sign of a building, or anything, just some ruts in the gravel that suggested there had been vehicles on it now and then.  He'd had to use his compass to find the spot, but there it was; a single quartz block carved with a simple eye symbol, the etched lines filled with what looked like ink.  Birds were calling in the trees.  A warm breeze riffled the weeds in the field he was standing near.

There had been two other interviews; one in which he had met with an older woman with a sweet manner, who'd introduced herself as Edith Moore, and they had met in a diner downtown.  She'd chatted pleasantly about his work experience, his time in the Army, but had seemed somewhat distracted; she also had been carrying several very full files in a large leather satchel.   "Oh, my yes, we do have to ask about that time in...the Hundred Days Offensive.  Late in the war....Yes, yes.  Bit lucky, weren't you, at St. Quentin.  Well then, that's all I need to know for now; thank you all so much."

The second interview had been with a tall, spare, silver-haired Scottish man, who had simply starting walking besides him as he went along the Park heading home.   The man's suit was well-cut but an older style.  "Angus McCrae Duncan, Agent, BPRD." the man had said, in a heavy accent, flashing a badge and identification.  "I'm to conduct your second interview.  Take a card and show it to me ?" As Nolan considered this odd query, eventually selecting one from the well-worn deck of cards the man offered him, and studied it briefly.  "Three of Coins," he muttered.  "All righty then; I'll pass the word along.  You'll be told where to go and wait."

It seemed as if he was the only interviewee, but a few minutes later an absolutely gorgeous woman came walking along the road, clad in a dark green, draped dress and wearing a matching cloche hat.  She looked like a bronze-skinned Venus with straight black hair cut in a perfect bob, and had huge dark eyes.  "Oh !  Hello,"  she said, with just a trace of accent.  "I didn't know anyone else would be waiting."  She offered up a sweet smile.
The rattle of gravel signalled that a car was approaching; it turned out to be a sleek new silver Mercedes, gleaming with chrome.  The car slowed and eased to a stop; behind the wheel was a thin blonde man in a light grey suit.  "Nolan, and Ginny, please get in, I'll take you into the Grey Building," he said, in crisp English with just a hint of German to it.  "I am Agent Trachenberg.  Do not be alarmed by anything you see, you are completely safe."  There was something about the man's bearing that Nolan immediately pegged as ex-military, though the bespoke suit and haircut were civilian.  It was a strange request, but the pay was reputed to be better than most government jobs.  The woman happily settled into the back seat of the car, leaving Nolan the shotgun seat.  The Mercedes shot forward, and into a thick bank of fog, in which odd shapes were swirling....then into very plain grey office building, where the parking garage was located on the lower level.  The Mercedes was expertly parked next to a very fancy red Auburn roadster and a rattletrap Model T.  The German got out, held the door for Ginny, and very politely escorted her from the car.   An older man in a security guard's uniform was standing by the elevator, with a look on his face that implied he hated the whole world and his job in particular.  Trachenberg showed his badge, and the guard stepped away from the elevator, giving all three of the visitors a gloomy scowl.   Ginny got into the elevator first, and Trachenberg held the doors for Nolan.  The elevator was large and seemed well kept, with brass railings and wood panelling.   Trachenberg tapped the button for the third floor.  They exited into a boring looking corridor with bad lighting and concrete flooring, painted dull grey.   "The Director will see you in the conference room - this way.  To your left, there is the Break Room.  Past that is the conference room, the big doors."

 There was a sound of voices, male and female, from the so-called Break Room; as Nolan passed by he saw a black woman in a grey dress chatting with a young caucasian man in a black suit; the woman was laughing and the man fussing with some kind of complex coffee-making machine.   Ginny sashayed off towards the next room, which was sealed off with an imposing set of double wooden doors; she went in as Trachenberg opened one of the doors for her, and he motioned for Nolan to follow her.  Nolan entered the room - carpeted, with a big oblong wood table with ten chairs, to find that he was alone in the room with a fortyish Caucasian man, thinning white hair in need of a cut, spectacled and idling shuffling papers with his right hand; his left hand was out of sight, tucked into his grey coat pocket.   His tie was striped in purple and green but it didn't contrast too much against his suit.  Trachenberg shut the door, quietly leaving.  The man stood, holding out his right hand to shake Nolan's.  "Captain Nolan, welcome, please sit down," the man said, voice heavily with a New England accent.  "I'm Ben Weintraub, Director of BPRD.  Tell me why you want to work here."

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Meanwhile; in the offices.  Everybody Else.

Spider and Jack had just seen Fritz walk in, heard Edith call out a Hello to him.  "Well, we may have new one," the German said, "Military; probably Army.  The shipment from Minnesota is on the way - custom mukluks."
"Icebreaker has reported that we have our first two supply drops ready." Thorne stopped typing for a minute and accepted a small note from one of the green mice.  "Thanks Jane.  Jane says we need to fill out more forms for the bills of lading for our sleds and gear, something about port - " he handed the note back and the mouse scribbled some more on it - "Port fees and grease money.  Honestly, grease money ?"  The mouse shrugged, hard to do with no shoulders, and scampered away.
"I'm not sure we will have enough time to train the new agents if we're leaving in November." Trevor Bruttenholm said, carrying a load of books towards his lab.
"What could be easier, shoot at the monster until it - explodes, melts, or otherwise ruins your day - and your clothes ?"  Thorne asked, crabbily.  "Not like they have to go across a frozen wasteland to do that."
"It will be summer down there," Fritz said, taking the files off his 'in' basket and dumping them into Thorne's, and taking the files out of Thorne's 'out' basket to go and file them away.
"Ladies, Gents," Edith rushed into the room. "We have a special request.  Who can go and spend the afternoon with the Serbian ambassador at their consulate ?  They said something about strange things happening."
"I do not speak Serbian," Thorne grumped.
"They speak English.  What's your beef today, Tommy ?"
"Nothing,"  Thorne said, and began typing again.
"Serbians, anybody ?"  Edith asked.  "Or you can stay here and help me inventory the office closets and fix the frother on the Brewmaster machine."
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GM: Please post with responses for the next half hour of game time, by Saturday, 24 July, next post Sunday.  Hope you are all well and coping.  Welcome, Nolan !
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     Jack will keep close tabs on Irina's condition, but will pitch in to help with the office work as a welcome distraction.
     At some point soon after debriefing, Jack will steal a moment alone with Ben. "This wand is going to kill me," he says simply. "Even if I try not to use it, eventually I do. After this last ordeal, my whole being feels the way my hair looks -- like it's turning gray, and too soon. So I'm asking for your help. Is there some way to rewire the wand -- or bargain with its patron-- so that it draws power from something other than the wielder? Maybe ambient energy, like heat in the area, or electricity, or the molecular structure of the target? Or the target's own magic? Something? There must be some way to redirect its curse. I'm not trying to figure out a way to use it more -- if I could be rid of it permanently, I would. And I'll keep trying to put it away for good if nothing changes, but so far that hasn't worked. I was just thinking that maybe the wand (or the intelligence behind it) would cooperate with some new arrangement, if it knew that it would continue to see more field action that way, rather than me trying to suppress it constantly. Any thoughts?"
     He responds to Thorne and Spider with a smile. "I believe 'grease money' is what one pays to keep the machines of commerce and legality smoothly turning in the desired direction. Although I'm sure we'll need some actual grease, also."
     When Spider asks if Jack and the new hire will tag along to the embassy, he readily agrees. "All for one, and one for all! Afraid I have no Serbian, though."

Spider had just finished some of the endless paperwork the job seemed to create.  He sighed at Thorne.  "I think the grease is to help us keep warm, and for the sled runners.  Just fill it out.  The odds are we're going to have to dump a ton of this junk along the way as we run for our lives.  But I'd rather have it to dump, than not have it when we need it."  Then Edith came in like a whirlwind, which in itself was highly unusual.  Very little flustered her.  "That damned coffee machine is off again, eh?  I fixed it last time."  He pursed his lips.  "I'll go.  Maybe the ambassador knows Cress or Tristan.  That can help ease the tension.  Jack, want to tag along?"  He suddenly smiled.  "Is that new bloke here? Maybe we can take him along for his first rodeo.  Ben's always preferred to throw us in the deep end, right?"

Summer in the Southlands pt 2

"Ah, it is never dull around here," Fritz said with a grin, as Thorne scowled at Spider.  He disappeared into the file room.
"Running for our lives over ice shelves being chased by who knows what...." Thorne muttered grumpily. "I'm willing to believe we'll need both kinds of grease, the money and the literal stuff.  Not chasing the Bogeyman today, filling out forms.  And someone besides Phyllis and me had better learn to type.  Sweetheart, give Fritzi those files to put away and help me with the backlog from Florida."  He waved down the young Phyllis.  "Why we couldn't get that damn Luftstreitkräfte pilot, I don't know.  He's crazy and expensive, but it will take forever to get there on that damn icebreaker boat."
"The coffee is fixed," Angus announced, walking in with two mugs, "And there is shortbread.  Gruber won't fly to the South Pole because Elise won't fly to the South Pole.  You must accept what they say."  The Scot handed the second mug to Edith.
"I have yet to meet a problem that did not diminish in the presence of money," Thorne said, scrolling more paper into the typewriter.

Edith did indeed seem out of sorts.  "My friend's husband Janko is Serbian and he does some of their translating, as a side job," she confessed. "I'm not sure Nolan's interview is done.  Ben's been very particular lately.  And everyone's been at me lately, the spheres are all very close and Mercury's in retrograde."  She rushed off to answer the ringing telephone.

Jack and Spider took the motorpool's Model T since it had been fueled up recently, and puttered into the downtown area.  The embassy was on Wisconsin Avenue, and the place looked posh.  The wallpaper was perfect, the woodwork was perfect, and the two burly men in black suits at the front door were nearly perfectly matched for sour expressions, muscles, and scars.  Jack and Spider's badges and identification cards were scrutinised carefully.  A much smaller, bald man in a black suit waited for them within.  "I am Aleksandar Miroslav, assistant to the ambassador," he said, in accented but precise English.  "Our concern is - unique.  Please come to my office, I will explain.  I have heard from Janko Zivanovik that your Bureau, it is able to handle such matters."  Miroslav's office was well appointed, with full in and out baskets.  A Serbian flag graced one corner of the room.  Large windows let in warm light from the East; one of them had a spiderweb crack in the pane.  He motioned for the two agents to sit in the well-made chairs in front of the desk and sat down behind the desk.  His chair promptly broke with a loud crack and he fell to the carpet; loud cackling laughter rang through the room.  There was a bony scraping sound from the air vent and something scuttled away, the cackle fading.  Miroslav got to his feet, grimacing.  "We have...this problem.  There is no one here in the United States that we can address this matter to, so I am asking - begging - for help.  This is...bijeda, a beda.  A miserable thing, a curse.  It is like a ghost, but it is not, and it has been taking....now my official seal is missing.  Yesterday it was the fountain pen my father gave me.  Last week it was the Ambassador's ring.  Paperwork is being destroyed.  The Ambassador has a bad heart.  It must go."   Miroslav's distress was genuine.  The support for the chair looked as if it had been chewed through, by large, sharp teeth - and the wood looked like walnut.  "I do not know what you may need, or want for your agency, but I will pay whatever you ask.  The Ambassador is at his home for the next week, to rest; it must be gone before he returns."

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GM:  Actions, etc, for the next hour of game time, please respond by 31 June, Saturday, next post is Sunday, hope everyone's all right out there.
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Captain Nolan expects the question but still finds himself somehow surprised by it. He stiffens unconsciously, much like he does when addressing an especially high ranking military officer.

"Director Weintraub, I would first like to thank you for the opportunity. To be honest, sir, the pay is a contributing factor." He smiles at his joke but continues on. "BPRD is a dichotomy. It has a stellar reputation as an elite organization while simultaneously remaining completely secret. The information I have been able to gather only confirms your elite status. Aside from rumors of bizarre artifacts and even magic, I cannot determine exactly what BPRD does. It is this fact that convinced me beyond doubt that it was an organization worth joining. Anyone who can build a narrative of superiority without leaking verifiable specifics demonstrates great skill."

He turns his head slightly and his eyes seem to be looking into the past. "When I was in the military I led men into great danger. People lived or died according to my decisions and I took great care to consider the consequences to all my actions. I had thought it would be a relief to return to civilian life. To no longer carry the weight of my men's lives. I was mistaken. I felt empty, without direction. I was made for something more."

He remembers himself and turns his head back to look the Director in the eyes. "I want to make a difference again and my research tells me that the BPRD is the best way for me to do that, sir."

(Nolan's Interview)
Weintraub smiles slightly, giving Nolan the hint that playing poker with this man would not be advisable.  "No one knows what the BPRD does.  They just know it works."

One of the two doors swung open, showing an exact copy of Weintraub, except this one had his glasses sliding down his nose, a sheaf of folders jammed under his right arm, and a spray of cookie crumbs on his suit sleeve.  His left hand was hidden in his jacket pocket.  "Dammit, Ginny," he growled, in exactly the same voice, slapping the folders onto the table.  The Weintraub that Nolan had been buttering up laughed and burst into a flowing wisp of black mist, shot with gold, and disappeared.

The second Weintraub gave Nolan a look over that actually made him nervous.  It was ruthlessly calculating.  "You've been asking a lot of questions about us," the Director said, his tone betraying no emotion as he sat down.  "One of the many ways we keep our operation going is a large amount of secrecy.  But I've found my uses for information, and misinformation.  I assure you, I am the actual Director.  That was one of our agents, who likes to play pranks on people. And if anyone asks what you do here, ever - and I don't care if it's your mother, your oldest friend, or whatever - you're going to lie to them.  You'll find that the truth does not fare well in the real world, when it comes to everyone's peace of mind.  You have no inherent evil in you right now, or you would not have been able to pass the wards.  I have reviewed your records and I'm satisfied that my staff has tested you.  But you will be hired as a Junior agent, though at G8 scale, which is almost twice regular rates.  That reflects the danger of the job.  You will no longer be an officer - no longer in command - and the agents working here have seen far worse than any battlefield.  Their advice may save your life.   For the moment, I'm going to keep you in DC, handling the smaller cases close to home.  We travel quite a bit.  Wherever we are needed."  A small bright green mouse was scaling the chair next to him, hopping on the table and sitting upright, adjusting a tiny pair of spectacles on its nose.  It had a tiny harness strapped to its body, that held a miniature clipboard.

"This is Senior Agent Professor Mills, PhD History.  He will give you your Orientation, and then you will be assigned work through our Office Manager, Edith Moore.  And your first lesson in the misapplication of magic."  Weintraub stood, offering his right hand to shake.  "If you are not concerned about that, welcome aboard."
"Good morning, Mr. Nolan," the mouse greeted him in a reedy old man's voice.  "We are fairly informal here in matters of addressing each other, and this is not a DoD Bureau bound by ranks for the most part.  I am, as you see, a mouse.  Several agents are not Human.  This does not prevent us from doing our work.  We are what stands between unspeakable horror and this world."  The black beady mouse's eyes fixed on Nolan's face as it waved its spectacles for punctuation.   "I am 82 years old; I spent 70 years as a human.  Now I am a mouse.  And it could have been worse.  We have one Agent locked up in a mental institution, and another on Medical leave after she was savaged by a monster - and she is an accomplished Mage."

Nolan noticed someone at the door; a teenaged girl in a green dress, coffee complexion, carrying a full-size clipboard.  She waved it at Weintraub, who slipped out of the room quickly - and they left him there, with the green mouse, who adjusted its spectacles back on its nose.  "I imagine you have questions, and you want to see the Warehouse.  If you survive the day, and I have learned there is an office pool, you'll receive your badge and desk tomorrow."

Be careful what you wish for...

Nolan, no longer captain, stood stock-still, his brain desperately attempting to process the avalanche of unexpected information that assailed him. While he was not sure what he had expected, he was damn sure that it was anything other than what had actually occurred. Using a technique he learned before battle, he took a deep breath and let it out. With the exhale he also banished all doubt and fear. He wasn't scared by any means, just...unsettled. He was more determined than ever to achieve membership in the BRPD, mental institutions and monsters be damned.

'We are what stands between unspeakable horror and this world', the mouse said. Mouse? He shook his head mentally. Somehow it didn't seem near as crazy in practice as it sounded when he said it in his head. It was utterly overwhelming and yet a perfect fit. One thing was sure. There was no better place to make a difference than here.

"Informality is not a problem for me, sir. And I assure you that I have no concerns regarding who, or what, I work with. As long as they are competent. "

"I am sure my questions will be answered in time." Frankly, he was unsure that he could handle much more craziness at the moment and preferred to deal with the challenges as they came rather than ask for them. "Where do we start?"

Before Agent Mills responded, he relaxed his unconsciously held parade rest and said with a smile "A pool, eh? Put me down for $50 on me." Then his smile faded and he added, "I won't let you down, sir."

(Nolan's interview)
"Noted," the mouse said, and made a notation on his clipboard.  "You may call me Prof, or Professor Mills.   Many Agents acquire nicknames, but are particular about who may use them.  And you need not stand at attention, it gives away your military background. Some of us regularly go into disguise.  Permit me the indulgence of trotting up your arm to stand on your shoulder, and I'll show you around.  Don't worry about dropping me; in this form I am nigh invulnerable."

The mouse carefully scrambled up Nolan's sleeve to perch on his shoulder.  "This is the conference room, used for impressing visitors, but mostly to shuffle files around.  The recordkeeping is an ongoing difficulty, and we're receiving information every day from our clippers and news reporters.  Walk outside into the corridor; to your right is the Break Room, where there is always coffee and food.  The coffee machine is capable of frothing, steaming, and mixing a great variety of drinks; ask Angus or Thorne how to work it.  To the left is the office wing, and there is a junction with the labs from there.  The office extends through three large rooms and ends with the file room.  Just past that corridor are the labs."  It must have been the poor lighting, or the fact that a mouse was giving him an orientation, but the floor plan didn't seem to match up with the dimensions of the outside building.  They proceeded past the offices, where he could hear voices and typing.  The labs were dark, but eerily so; purple traces of light glimmered along the door frame, and there was a handwritten sign taped to the door, "KEEP OUT TESTING NEW BATCH".

"Always check for warning signs," Mills said, and pointed down the corridor.  "There are more labs down this way, but for some reason, they're not accessible today. It happens.  Go around the corner and down the ramp.  You'll see double steel doors - ah, there they are.  This is one of the entrances to the Warehouse.  My department was in charge of storage of most of these artefacts, but to be frank, most of it's just old junk.  But some of it is extremely dangerous.  And for various reasons, inventory is a nightmare.   Stand still a moment."  The mouse took a tiny metal badge from its clipboard and held it up towards the massive metal doors.  The bolts inside slid back with loud clunks.  "Open the doors, Mr. Nolan."

The heavy doors swung open slowly as he pushed them, and the sheer size of the place was incredible.  The place was bigger than a football stadium; rows upon rows of tall shelves, poorly lit by sparking, flickering electric light.  It was a warehouse of very odd things.  In the first shelf, marked "K1" something rattled ominously, then fell silent; music played far away, something mournful with violins.  "If something's labelled as cursed, treat it as cursed and do not touch it," Mills said.  "If it's labelled as dangerous, use great care.  Sometimes the items reshelve themselves and there's an issue with time here; if we stay too long, we might wind up in next week when we come out.  Let me show you the Goddess Juno.  Go to J-14, turn left at the barrels.  She was one of our first acquisitions."  Nolan walked carefully along the huge shelves, having the unsettling feeling that he was being watched, past dusty crates and boxes.  The barrels seemed to be in complete violation of the Volstead Act; they were labelled in English and in what looked like Latin, as Roman Red.  Just past them was an alcove, with a ten foot tall marble statue of a Roman matriarch, her form draped in folds of cloth and her shoulders wrapped in a goatskin cloak.  She held a spear of a bluish metal.  The carving was perfect, unmarred by time.  The marble was white and seemed to glow from within.   "Queen Juno Curitis, we bid you good day and greet you with good tidings," Mills the Mouse said to the statue, and then repeated it in perfect Latin. The faraway music stopped, and lightning skipped along the line of her spear, arcing to the next nearest shelf.  The warehouse seemed to be holding its breath.  The statue's head tipped down ever so slightly, to look at them.  "This warrior's name is Nolan," the Mouse told her, again repeating it in Latin.  The statue raised its spear to tap it once on the floor with a ringing sound, and was still.  "Now you have been introduced to one of the guardians of the Warehouse, so you should be - less likely to have trouble.  Don't go in alone.  We'll head back to the office and see if you have a desk yet."

Spider listened, then looked at Jack.  "I think we should call our colleagues back at the office, and describe these exact circumstances.  One or two of the brilliant ladies can probably give us some insight as to what it is, and what we can do."