It was a quiet night in Scarlet Falls. The myriad bridges over the Scarlet River were humming with traffic, but only from south to north. The train lines further upriver, in the west, were silent, only the lights of the barracks-turned-station keeping the scarce workers of the nearby factories' graveyard shifts company. Even the city's myriad back alley markets were silent, only rats present to witness the thin streak of cyan working its way down the wall of the most important apartment complex in Highwater.
It was a quiet night in Scarlet Falls. But it was not a peaceful one.

Devaux's Books
"And consider this your payment for services rendered." The spindly, aging proprietor of the dusty bookstore slid a neatly folded piece of paper over the desk towards Amanda. Its movement through the shimmering light of the desk lamp made it difficult to infer the contents, but the handwriting was clear, elegant, and concise.  "Now, I do have another job whenever you wish. There is no need to rush for this one! At the bottom of that slip is a name I need you to do some digging into.  This individual would hardly prove an... easy mark - I expect you'll have to do most of your digging at night. I just need you to check on their schedule. And by all means, do not hesitate to call me should you need anything more." The man's kindly smile barely betrayed those awfully sharp teeth.

Julian's Clinic
It was another quiet evening. The only patient over the course of the night was a young one - barely seventeen, by the looks of things, and his auburn hair was already halfway down his back. Odd fellow, needed some patching up from a few dozen scratches; nothing serious, but he would've made quite a mess without intervention. Even his clothes were in tatters. It would have been a noteworthy, if not quite unusual, story on its own, but one detail stuck out. After thanking Julian, before leaving a small token of appreciation - a hastily-scribbled-on sheet of refill -  he hurriedly apologised before rushing out. Well, aside from the currently-sleeping inpatient taking up a bed with that broken leg, that seemed to be it in the clinic for the time being.

Silver Grid Factory Building
Disconnect.
A shiver ran up Robert Gallows's spine as he came to, the last few familiar threads connecting him to everything he once knew disconnecting. Now Tzayidiel found itself alone in a dimly-lit, but otherwise derelict, manufacturing floor, a 'circuitboard' of oily ash emanating from where it awoke. A cursory look at Gallows's watch showed that roughly 26 minutes, 34 seconds had passed since the mission had gone according to no known plan.
A Hunter was sure to arrive soon. On average a Hunter deployment takes roughly 42 minutes, giving Tzayidiel a window of approximately 20 minutes.

Hell in Highwater Bar
"Frankly, I hope this is your last job." Sunny's retired contact was his usual melancholy self, his clerical collar flashing for a moment before he tucks it back into his scarf. "But if you must have my next suggestion, I have a location for you to check out. Reports of something that... reminds me of someone I know, so keep me abreast. Civilian 'going insane', seeing 'imaginary' monsters. You know the drill, probably some scheme or another." He pulled out a smartphone, his fingers practically creaking as they moved with frantically geriatric speed across its surface. "There, I've texted you the address. Don't let your guard down, yeah?" He took another sip of his scotch, and nodded to himself.

"The bar's a hellhole, but a useful one." That's what Nate was told before being told that was his meeting point with the tired young man in front of him, and what Leo probably should've been told before he walked into the most supernatural lion's den this side of the Atlantic to meet his "partner"/boss for the first time. Although the paradoxically ancient yet youthful Magus that had "requested the aid" of the pair would hardly be the type that you'd expect to make a pun, in the end it was at least very useful; there were more signs, both trace and heavy, of supernatural activity here than in the entire journey on the way to Scarlet Falls combined. Clearly it was still the supernatural meeting place it had once been; it was doubtful anybody in the building was unaware of the nature of those around them, and indeed of their own place in the world. Surely the perfect place to begin the planning of a clandestine investigation into the death of a very influential man.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 1):

Hell in Highwater Bar
Sunny snorts. Taking a draft of the, what, 5th? Yes, 5th Cigarette of the hour, She nods. "Very well, monsieur. So, what, are you expecting some kind of vampyre? Perhaps, god forbid, a Werewolf, Oui." Her voice, carrying a Quebec accent, intermixed with some words of French, is bored, and dull. "Besides, it's not like 'going insane' is much of a rarity these days, oui? I've heard a that the drug trade is up again, I was actually working on a story about it. Was going to give it to a tabloid. Oh, by the way, have you got any other news? I need some stuff for content, ya know?"
This message was last edited by the player at 04:33, Sat 08 Feb 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 1):

Devaux’s Books

Amanda Yelverton, sitting across from her employer, landlord and friend, quickly snatched up the folded paper. She smirked knowingly at his choice of words, rolling her eyes at his insistence on obfuscation – even behind closed doors vampires, or at least the older ones, seemed to cling to euphemism. A force of habit, perhaps, but she appreciated the wisdom in not trusting apparent safety, “Wait, that Veranika? Anton, you’d better not be getting me to stalk your celebrity crushes.” She laughed, reading the note more closely now and scratching the back of her neck, “Is… there anything particular you want me to let you know about? Is this a political matter or a personal one?” Amanda inquired after a moment, standing and carefully replacing the chair to its original position.

“Oh! And do you want anything from the grocers? I’ll probably go past the local store on the way back.” The young woman added after a moment, smiling genuinely from the door frame as she tugged on a button-up cardigan over her shirt and tucked the note carefully into her battered journal.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 1):

Julian’s Clinic

As the clinic turned quiet, Julian pulled together his notes for the day and set them on his desk with a mug of coffee that had been at the bottom of a brew started four hours ago. He didn’t sit down just yet, he’d get to that in just a minute. First he had to double check his single patient was resting alright. Even from here, he could feel the sting in the back of his mind preventing him from addressing his own lack of sleep, so he might as well try to do something productive with the time. A few steps down the hall and a glance into the room through a crack in the door told him the man was well asleep and just fine. Admittedly he was just a touch envious of his guest’s ability to rest so easily, but that was something he’d just accepted as reality now. He’d get this straightened up soon enough.

With hardly a sound to be heard, Julian closed the door and made his way back to his desk. He took a seat finally, just sitting a minute as he let his weight lean into the chair and desk for support before he began looking through the files he had for the day. Most of it was regarding his most recent two patients, since he’d already sorted everything from the day before and other than these two, it was quiet today. There wasn’t even much to the papers, both patients had left a lot of gaps in their files. He’d only told them to fill out what they could, and they’d taken every liberty, it felt like. Whatever, it wasn’t his business unless if affected what he needed to do to get them fixed up and moving on. He filed each page away into his desk, following his own organization habits that any other doctor probably would have torn their hair out over. He knew his system and no one else, and given his line of work, it was all for the better. Finally the only thing left was the note he’d been left. Might as well sort out whatever it said now, given he had little else to do.

Hell in Highwater Bar

Nate looks up at the young man sitting across from him, straightening himself in his seat and giving a small sigh, "I take it your going to be my associate on this little assignment here, Its Leo... right?" He quickly scans over Leo, sizing him up. "Now, I dont know how much know so Im gonna give you a rundown real quick." He reaches into his jacket and produces a tattered and dusty notebook, before skimming through to a specific page. "So, some guy named Aaron Green has apparently, and unfortunately bit the bucket, and its on us flicks his wrist to point at both himself and Leo to figure out how and why someone of talents similar to ours has met his end." In one quick motion he closes the notebook and tucks it back into his jacket, before leaning back, stretching up and letting his arms hang over the back of the seat.

"Now, between you and me, this place seems like its home to quite a few goodies, so if its all the same, do try not to slow me down? The sooner we can get this done the better, ya get me?"
This message was last edited by the player at 11:04, Thu 06 Feb 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 1):

Tzayidiel gave itself an extra second to consider it's situation. Dangerous given the short time period, but it needed to assess. Robert's body ached with a visceral pain Tzayidiel had never processed before, and the line between Robert and Tzayidiel, which had once been so clear to the former angel, was now blurred and distorted until it was if it had never existed. Tzayidiel had half a mind to sit and wait, let the Hunter come. It was the appropriate response, after all. The correct response. But.... along with the pain came a nerve-wracking anxiety that caused Gallows to shudder once more.

Robert.... Tzayidiel... was nervous. Tzayidiel knew what fate awaited it should the Hunter locate it and.... it did not want to be recycled. It was perfect after all. It had been a good Hunter, successful, proven to work efficiently. It had made a simple error. Surely it could.... prove the mistake was not in earnest. Surely there was a difference between a hostile demon that rejected the God Machine and.... and Tzayidiel's situation. Robert rubbed his head. Tzayidiel was unused to such free thought, and it was adding more pain to its cover in the form of an ever growing headache.

Robert's bike was still parked outside. Tzayidiel knew that, using it, it could start to gain a head start on the time it had already lost. Slowly, carefully, Robert rises on shaky feet, rubbing his head and trying to stay upright for the first few steps. Eventually, he finds his legs, and makes his way through the building.

Hell in Highwater Bar
The old man scoffed. "Reeks of mental trickery. Think subtler, but besides that, just be on the lookout. Could be one of a million things, or even just a run-of-the-mill lunatic." He took a slow, measured drag of his scotch, and looked to the bartender, who gave him a hasty thumbs up, then squinted so slightly Sunny almost missed it before turning back to her. "I don't have any other stories for you. Mundane crap ain't my field, and I don't want it to be. Go chase your own money." He idly traced the rim of the glass with a finger. It was very faint, but there was scarring visible on the palm of his hand when it tilted just right.

Devaux's Books
The aging vampire chortled, a low-pitched, scratchy sound. "She is rather... young for my tastes. I could have sworn I told you this when I requested you check in on my co-conspirator in the delightful little company that sold some of her merchandise. Regardless..." He pulled out an immaculately-prepared post-it from somewhere under his desk, flicked a gaze at it, and scrunched it up, throwing it into the basket below said desk before continuing. "Oh, and if you would, I've been absolutely craving some garlic recently." He grinned mischievously, then started with an "oh!" and pulled out a small, brown paper bag. "For the trip!" He tossed it to her, his grin growing wider, and made a shooing motion. "Now run along, child, I have plenty of work to do."

Julian's Clinic
The note was written in a hasty scrawl that starkly contrasted with the... order... of the desk behind it. It helda message of only five words. "Stop it before it starts." Below said message is a business name and a log that feels almost 'murky' despite being written in what otherwise seems like normal ink. Of course, Julian's perceptions were hardly mundane, and it resolved quickly enough into a trinity of thin crescent moons in a triangle formation, the centre of the formation being where their 'inner' tips meet. There was no further explanation.

Silver Grid Factory Building
The dead machinery groaned as if to complain at Tzayidiel's very presence as it passed. Every second felt like an ice-cold bolt of lightning shooting down Gallow's spine, a second closer to the beginnings of what could be the most frantic pursuit of the hunter's storied life - or parody therein. Occasionally, nonsensical sentences scrawled in the dull lustre of air-sprayed graffiti flickered on and off the walls; once, they functioned in tandem with the fallen angel... was that correct? The Fall had plunged the newly-mortal creature's memories of previous service deep into the unfamiliar fog of amnesia, and now-dead connection ports were not forthcoming with answers as they once may have been, leaving vast swathes of memory corrupted and the rest in an uneasy, possibly untrustworthy state. However, the past may have to take a back seat, as it were, as Tzayidiel reached Gallows's bike, the keys exactly where they had last been left. The only question left was: where to?

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 7):

Hell in Highwater Bar

Sunny sighs, and finishes the last of her drink. "Very well, monsieur. Thanks for the info. I will check it out, thank you. And it is my money."
She stands, leaving her contact behind, and grabs her jacket from the coat rack, heading out into the night. She fumbles for her pistol, only know dully aware that the situation she has decided to walk into might actually be quite dangerous.

.......Non', nothing for it now, she decides. And, despite the trickle of fear she feels, she is quite curious. What could it be? At the very least, she could get a small tabloid story out of it. Dangerous person spotted in city, what could be the cause?

Yes. Either way, Sunny decides, it would be worth it. Getting into her car, a small, 2 decade-old hatchback with paint peeling in some places, she drives to the site mentioned by her contact, fiddling with her small camera-drone, both nervous and excited about what might be there. She thinks to herself, she will get there, skulk around, use her small drone to get inside shots if she can't, and keep a nice, low profile. Nothing to it at all.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:05, Wed 12 Feb 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 7):

Devaux's Books, to the streets of Scarlet Falls

Amanda just barely caught the brown paper bag as it sailed in her direction with surprising speed – or at least it would have been surprising from a mortal being, rather than a cantankerous vampire. She quickly peaked inside with an expression of mock suspicion, resolving into a wry smirk at the contents. A ham sandwich and a police badge she very much hoped was fake, “You’re so thoughtful, Anton.” She chuckled, “Have a good evening.” The young woman waved as she checked the register was locked and exited his ‘office’. In fact they had been chatting over the counter, but he had a way of making the room feel different – maybe it was one of his talents, but maybe just the air of authority.

Tucking the bag into her satchel she made her way out into the streets of Scarlet Falls, securing the bookstore door behind her. As she walked, Ms Yelverton pondered where to start her investigation of Vera Nikitovna. One possibility was to combine the task with her own investigations and see if the local Infrastructure had kept any tabs on musician. But, as tempting as it was to multitask, risking her already dwindling privacy by digging too deep wasn’t the best solution. Amanda passed a newsagent, still open despite the hour, and paused. “Huh, maybe that’ll work.” The fractal mused and, with a shrug, went into the store and approached the tabloid section.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 7):

Julian’s Clinic


It took a few moments of though for Julian to confirm that he’d never seen the logo before. The fact that it had taken a bit of focus to read the message and perceive the logo at all was already a warning that something wasn’t right, and he could only think to approach this with caution. He took the sad excuse for a cellphone from his desk drawer and decided it best to pull up anything he could on it. It was only a few lengths of scrolling down the search engine’s page that he figured it best to see if anyone else could help. At least finding a name to go with the logo would probably help more than anything, and if there was anything tied to this place he needed to know fast, others like him would be a better resource to ask than the Internet.

Julian closed up the phone and pocketed it this time, taking his wallet and keys before leaving a note of his own on the desk that he had stepped out for a moment. He didn’t make a habit of visiting Hell in Highwater a lot, but if he didn’t want to try there it meant finding other Changelings at the Freehold. Nothing agains the Freehold, but he had a suspicion that if this was a Changeling-central problem, it would have been taken there first.

In reply to Nate (msg # 5):

Hell in Highwater Bar

"I hear you."

As Leo spoke those words, he hoped that his exhaustion was hiding his fear. For the fear was in the process of totally overwhelming him, for this entire situation was absolutely terrifying. Leo had been directed to this enigmatic person, Nate (if that was his real name), by an unknown party. A party which held so much power over Leo's that he was mildly surprised that there wasn't a sword hanging over him. Now Leo was currently sat in a bar which was decidedly "unnatural" and a place where he could feel the glances and stares sent his way. Now he and Nate were investigating a death? The death of someone who had similar "talents" to them?

It was murder surely? It must definitely be a murder. Otherwise, what need would there be to investigate? Against Leo's best interest, his mind was already beginning to conjure up images of death. Images that Leo was far too familiar with.

In attempt to stop both the fear and the macabre images from overwhelming him, he spoke again, hoping his voice would lack emotion and his words wouldn't betray him.

"Before, we go, I've got to ask. Anything in particular we're looking for here and who even is Aaron Green?"
This message was last edited by the player at 18:56, Wed 26 Feb 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 7):

Tzaydiel paused as it sat itself down in the bike's saddle, Gallows' hand resting on the keys - the excessive number of keychains rattling. Where... was he going to go? Tzaydiel freezes up. It... Wasn't used to having to pose such a question without an immediate answer. It almost panics, and then almost panics at its panic.
Where to go...where would be safest...? The apartment. Maybe an obvious choice but... it was familiar, and easy to defend until... until a better option arose. That in mind, Gallows starts up the bike, speeding off down the road in the direction of 'home'.

Smoked and Mirrored
This building was once a textile factory, closed in the wake of the march of automation and the depletion of the country's workforce in the 40s. Since then, its interior had been segmented into several spaces, originally occupied with cafes that moved to trendier locations as gentrification set into the neighbourhoods north of the river dividing the city but now host to a constantly-fluctuating set of businesses. If the clearance signs in the neighbouring furniture store and the outlines of poorly-cleaned graffiti on the windows were any indication, the current occupants weren't to last. But for the time being, Sunny found her reflection looking back at her from the windows of the Smoked and Mirrored glass store, the half-ajar wooden door clashing harshly with the rusted iron wall it was blatantly carved into decades ago, the smell of glass cleaner and a sound halfway between sobbing and croaking coming from somewhere within.

Habit Co.
The newsagent was cooled to a temperature only just low enough to be uncomfortable, the hum of the air conditioning audible even during the night. The cashier looked like they hadn't slept in 4 days, the bags under their eyes more like the night sky than darkened skin. The tabloids Amanda had found were filled with the usual celebrity drivel, although one brand in particular, the Weekly and Homely, caught her attention. Advertising both "Poll: Would YOU like to see a closer look at Scarlet Falls' boys in blue?" and "CAUGHT ON CAMERA?: VERA IN THE STREETS", it would appear almost normal were it not for the acrid stench of battery acid and engine oil coming off every word of the alleged nonsense.

Highwater Library
Highwater's library had seen better days, the meeting room Vera was in moreso. The table's surface was faded at best and scribble-ridden, and placing one's hand under the table would result in the distinctly unpleasant feeling of gum, its precise age unplaceable. Outside, through the windows, the building was entirely vacant; a night-time visit to the library wasn't on the itinerary of most Highwater residents, but even by those standards it was desolate, not even a librarian visible at the desk the floor below.

The man across the table, visibly out-of-place in the setting even putting aside his subtle but constant askance glances at their surroundings, sighed and turned his full attention on his apprentice, his hand brushing invisible dust off his suit's cuff and twitching only slightly towards his eternally slicked-back hair before settling on the table, elegantly keeping his sleeve from actually touching its surface. "I do apologise for this... less than civilised environment, but settling into a pattern is dangerous when playing high-stakes games such as these." His fingers drummed against the table, his voice carrying through the room with unnatural ease despite the room's small size. The only somewhat sincere apology aside, he continued. "I have what you may call a learning opportunity, and certainly one that will improve your own web of information, should you conduct yourself appropriately." He placed a key on the table with a clink that all but echoed. "This has been acquired at great expense. I could conclude the matter myself, but opportunities to both test and teach you are few in recent days. You are charged with finding the legacy of the late owner of this key - one Aaron Green - and acquiring it before the other players in the city can. I trust you will conclude this business with all efficiency, Ms. Vera." The back of his hand pulsed almost imperceptibly at the last two words.

Hell in Highwater Bar
The bar faintly stank of cheap beer and cheaper blood, although the stains would long have been wiped away by now. As Julian entered, for but a heartbeat he could feel the eyes of every patron (bar, perhaps, two) in the establishment on him, even if he couldn't see them move in the slightest. There were few, tonight: an elderly clergyman, even if he was hiding it behind his collar at the moment; a pair of teenage girls - twins - of which one was always glancing at everybody else in the room, including Julian himself; a bald man with a thick, chestnut goatee, his distinctly Nordic features framing icy eyes all but staring a hole into the whiskey he'd almost emptied; and two young men in a quiet, if somewhat rapid-fire discussion, any drinks at the table entirely untouched. Then, of course, there was Ted. Almost furniture more than bartender, the stocky young man scratched at his sideburns with his right hand as he waved greeting with his left. "Ah, welcome, welcome! What can ol' Ted get you today?"

Brandon-Walter Apartments
Traffic had taken roughly 4 minutes longer than usual, but Tzayidiel had returned to the closest thing to a home it now had. Gallows's apartment looked ransacked - but then, hadn't it always been that way? The television was off, even the plug remaining curled within the cabletie it had come packaged with, and the weekly barking was about to end despite the lack of any animals in the apartment. The facade was somewhat shallow, but sure to eventually normalise, if Tzayidiel lasted that long. Gallows's desk - some would call it a 'kitchen counter' - was coated in papers, legitimate cases fragments of work for Tzayidiel's former faction of the most ancient cold war in history, although points of interest for beings beyond mortal law enforcers had been specially marked by the angel, incredibly convenient now that it was without memory of which is which. In particular, of the three documents marked as priority by Tzayidiel, one returned a kernel of corrupted memory to a readable state: an old asset, one that Tzayidiel had made extensive use of. The demon would likely be less than welcome if caught by an angel, but Gallows himself still had an informant or two there, and it was the only asset the demon could call its own for the time being, even if it's not entirely that.

Brand Park
Well, here Damian was. It wasn't often he received a letter telling him to pick up a dead drop just to start an investigation, but then again it wasn't often he got paid that many figures in advance, either, putting him in the unenviable position of checking for a package taped to the underside of a bench. Fortunately he hadn't been jumped by some revenge-seeking thugs yet, indicating that there is indeed a package, and a minute of searching had found him an envelope containing a blood-stained business card, the stain being at least a week old, a list of names, what looked like a microchip except wrought from stone with pulsing cyan circuits carved into it, and a note saying "YOU MUST FIND THE SOMMELIER". Not the first time Damian had heard that name, sadly much worse than him having never heard of them. Was the park always this cold?

Time was... Unusually difficult to keep track of now Tzayidiel had been cut off from any of the usual information that might alert it to it's passing. It had barely noticed those precious lost minutes until it bothered to recheck it's calculations via a blaringly obvious solution - checking the time on Gallows' phone. It felt itself hesitate then, despising that reaction almost viscerally. If it could not keep track of four simple minutes, how was it to keep track of anything else?

Gallows' throat constricts with anxiety even as the man fumbles his way into his apartment. He states at the space, all at once appreciating the facade and hating it. Why the fuck had he not plugged in the TV? But why would it ever need it? A more plausible shroud, he reasoned. But it would not make the unseen dog any more plausible, it argued. Groaning, Gallows' rubbed his face. He itched for a drink. Swinging open the cupboard on impulse, the grizzled man grabs the first bottle of liquor available and takes a swig before casting his eyes over the papers.

Marks. Marks, it needed marks. Of course it did. It could still perform it's jobs, it's duties. It could prove itself to still be functional. It scans the pages, almost desperately searching for a scrap of familiarity among the chaos. Robert's eyes come to rest on the paper detailing the informant... That would be useful. He mentally notes it down, filing that information away more manually that it's used to. The marks... They seemed so foreign now it had to look at them without the usual influx of information. With it's mind still dazed and frazzled, Tzayidiel took what little it could, and filed that away as well. Perhaps... Perhaps if it started a hunt, the inevitable hunter after itself may hold back a time. Let it prove itself again... It was a delusional thought, fueled by Robert's anxiety more than Tzayidiel's senses, but it hooked onto it all the same. It needed to locate that informant. Robert needed information on some mark, *any* mark. It paces the apartment for a while before seemingly reaching a decision, grabbing the papers, and heading back out.

Smoked and Mirrored

Sunny, her enthusiasm now somewhat curbed by the noises, once again checks for the reassuring weight of her USP match pistol. Allowing the handle to mold with her hand for a brief moment, she instead releases it, and pulls out a small torch. She curses at it when it fails to turn on. Hand shaking, she places a cigarette between her lips and lights up, letting an intake of nicotine and smoke to relax her anxious mind.

She thinks for a moment. From here, the best course of action to react to some person in there would be to probably call someone to at least back her up, in case it was some just drugged off their ass, and she could very well only get a broken bottle through her neck for her trouble of investigating. Opting to trust the word of her benefactor, she decides to walk in and deal with the problem head-on. She had a weapon, her words, everything that had keep her alive and still making rent every 2nd Friday.

Well, her father had always said, not to Coincer la bulle ,so, ah well. Sunny steps into the store, and heads toward the crying, stepping softly, but, not overtly hiding her presence. As she walks into the store, she can almost feel the vibe of Failed business ventures, and all the dark, desperate thoughts of anxiety and depression that came with all that. A reflection of her own attempts at self-employment.

Sunny frowns. Since when did she get so introspective from old buildings?
This message was last edited by the player at 10:45, Thu 05 Mar 2020.

Brand Park

Damian shivered. It wasn't the cold. Instead it was because it was far too light outside; a dim streetlamp cast a faint glow down the park path. The bench where he'd found the dead drop was frigid in colour, despite the warm light. Its almost sparkling metal, unsettled Damian. He was far too exposed.

Slinking behind the bench, he slithered around a tree trunk to bask himself in darkness once again. In the process, he let out a breath that had been trapped tight in his chest. It was hard to believe that only a few years before he had freely roamed the daylight. Part of him felt a tinge of sorrow that he'd adapted so quick to the dark.

Casting aside his musing, he returned focus to the job at hand.

"One day a time", he thought. Perhaps this job would finally shed light on his affliction. Even it didn't, the money would keep him afloat for a while. He just needed to stay alive. One day at a time.

He started by raising the business card to his nose. Breathing deeply, his tongue writhed around uncontrollably and ecstatically in his mouth. The smell rushed through him, exciting more than just his tastebuds, filling him with an understanding of their source. He filed the information away as usual. Damian didn't like snap judgements.

He then scanned the list of names. Were there any that he recognised? The thought led to the Sommelier. Damian once again parsed through the name in his mind. The rumours were troubling and as he rested against the tree trunk on this frigid night, Damian did what he'd always done best. Look for links.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:48, Tue 10 Mar 2020.

In reply to Leo (msg # 11):

Hell in Highwater Bar

Nate stares at Leo for a moment, before pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a sigh. "Great," he thought, not only had been called here to look into the death of some mage, but he was given a complete rookie as a partner. It was obvious Leo knew next to nothing about this sort of work, which was likely to cause them both some trouble later down the line. "Id prefer to not have to teach someone, much less have to do so during an investigation, but he'll just slow me down if I don't"

After a brief moment Nate sits back in his seat, looking at Leo with a faux smile, "Aaron Green was a very prominent mage in Highwater, considering that he basically ran the place, and now, as I'm sure you can probably tell, he's been killed, so, you and I are here to figure out why someone would have killed him, and also preferably who did it. Also, seeing as your quite obviously new to this here's some advice, if his death was caused by anything other than an accident, then the further we delve the bigger the target we paint on ourselves, so I personally recommend that you do as I say, unless you want to end up like he did"


"Again, Id hate to have to waste time, so..." he stands suddenly, shouldering his bag "Unless there's anything else, let's get going, his apartment seems like a good place to start"

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 13):

Highwater Library

A few years ago, she never would have believed that there would come a moment when she'd welcome some peace and quiet.

Once he had left her, she let out a deep sigh. She had just returned from a series of concerts hundreds of miles away, and all she could think about was having a moment to rest. But then he had appeared, and she knew another...assignment...would be in store.

Vera stared at the key in annoyance. The name Aaron Green was not entirely unfamiliar, but she could not at all place where she'd heard it before. She'd have to be stealthy, then, to figure this out -- far from her strong suit. Why in the world did he give her this task? And why were these tasks growing in frequency and getting harder to complete? They were inhibiting her career, disrupting her coveted stardom, and robbing her of the fleeting time she had to herself, without her agents or team watching her every move.


No matter -- right now was hardly a time to dwell on these thoughts. The night was only beginning, and she hadn't been out at all since she had left for her concert tour. Well, not exactly, there had been that one time a few days ago...she'd been desperate, though. Right now, she would just go clear her mind.

She rose from the gum-infested table.

It was time for some fun.

In reply to Nate (msg # 17):

At Nate's order Leo nodded, downed his drink in one go and stood.

Though this "Nate" was certainly was condescending bastard Leo had at least got the information he wanted. Information that seemingly confirmed Leo's speculations. The confirmation of Leo's speculation alongside "Nate"'s comments had made Leo acutely aware of the knife concealed in his jacket. Part of Leo, the part of him that was new to this world and had not yet been tainted by magic, told him to reveal the existence of the knife and a "friend" to "Nate". Yet, another part of Leo, the paranoid part born of that night with a vampire laughed at the notion and whispered for Leo to keep his mouth shut.

That was the part that Leo listened to. He would follow "Nate" but for now, this man was just as much of a enigma and perhaps just as much a threat to Leo's well being as the death of Aaron Green.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 13):

Habit Co.
Amanda felt an involuntary shiver run through her body, not from the chill of the newsagent but in reaction to the stinging smell of battery acid. She fought not to make her reaction so obvious, but a tingling sensation lingered – it felt like her scars were crawling. Despite its acrid nature, the smell was familiar and, in a way, almost inviting. Instinctively, she picked up the top magazine of Weekly and Homely with what she hoped was a suitably casual motion, scanning the pages for information and trying not to appear too interested.

Wits+Socialise+Infrastructure Proficiency Bonus: 1 success

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.
Gallows's working relationship was an interesting sort. First he got a mark, then he got the mark, then when it came out that his mark was missing, it also came out they were a criminal and a payslip appeared in the police's transaction system. And here Tzayidiel found itself, at the beginning of the process: Weekly and Homely, a building where you could smell the cold-steel smell of superconductors with every opened inkwell. Does wonders for productivity, or at least that's what the labels say.
Even through the mess of damaged and destroyed machinery that once maintained Tzayidiel's existence and role, more intricate than any Swiss watch, getting inside was still little problem for the time being. Ushered through reception after nary a glance by the blank-faced man at the receiving desk, Gallows found himself passing by two workers discussing tomorrow's stock tickers as if they had come out yesterday morning and a desk occupied by no worker but instead a surprisingly comprehensive list of missing persons whose maiden names - when letters were turned to numbers - were prime, before taken to the cubicle of a pencil-stached man who Tzay's memories throw up as more of a machine than the typewriter taking up the space his computer normally would. Whether this assessment was literal or a half-remembered figure of speech was uncertain, but what was certain was the ever-familiar scent of freshly-printed paper that went with a newly minted dossier slid across the table.

Smoked and Mirrored
As Sunny approached the sobbing, her footsteps echoing through the desolate store, the sobbing gradually slows. As she nears the figure by the counter, it looks hesitantly up at her; a dishevelled young man, his eyes practically bloodshot and his brown hair absolutely frazzled. His suit, while clean, was incredibly wrinkled from crouching against the counter for so long, and the "Hi, I'm Terry!" sticker on his suit pocket was almost illegible through the tearing and wrinkling. He squinted, obviously confused, and eventually calmed his breathing enough to stammer out a line. "Are... are you Julian?"

Brand Park
Plenty of these connections were clear. David Jenson, an amateur photographer who was arrested for a day after the Rapture Killing - the body was found hanging in front of the city's eponymous waterfall, as if pausing mid-ascent - for sneaking onto the crime scene. Johanna Nielsen, a librarian who was brought in for questioning after offering books related to details of the Brazen Murder - the body was found covered in burn marks, locked in a small steel shipping container, with a list taped to the container's exterior of imports and exports found months afterwards to be forged covers for smuggling operations - that were never made public. Anthony Flanagan, arrested after sloppily covering his tracks while posting leaked phone calls on the internet from the victim of the Lotus Killing - It involved a wind tunnel and piano wire, the less said about that one the better - revealing that they were attempting to investigate suspicions of a cannibalistic cult in the countryside before their untimely death and the loss of their notes.
Damian, roll Intelligence+Investigation.
Two successes rolled.
The immediate implications were obvious; these individuals were all stopped from investigations. There were also less pressing matters, such as the fact that Damian himself only remembered this from the digging he did with the help of a friend in the force proper. Who were his employer's sources, anyway?
Damian gains a Clue in the investigation into the Sommelier's identity: Friends in the Force?
Three successes rolled for Bloodhound.
The blood on the business card - the name read Alistair Wright, and listed an address in Highwater - was certainly not human. Well, it was, until Damian's senses kaleidoscoped into a confusing mess of shifting blood types, even flip-flopping on whether it was human. A cocktail of adrenaline and several completely unrecognisable drugs splattered themselves across the ever-vigilant Beast's mental map of blood types. It was lucky Damian hadn't actually attempted to lick the blood, for such a sensation would likely have led to addiction beyond even that of Vitae.
Damian gains a Clue into the identity of the Sommelier: Exotic Blood.

Waterside Luxury Apartments - Fifth Floor
Formidable though a pair of magi may be, at the end of the day they found themselves looking at a locked door leading into the apartment. While space magic could of course create a pathway, there was no telling what kinds of arcane items were watching for precisely such intrusion. Of course, it was always a risk the duo could take, given the door itself seemed to be made of wood only on the outside, the keyhole taunting the pair. Looking around, this floor was rather luxurious; Green had what must be almost a penthouse, given that his apartment was the sole inhabitant of this floor.

La Comédie
Built out of an unsuccessful theatre after Vera's patron very kindly offered to take it off the previous owners' hands for a decent lump sum, La Comédie is built off the expansive nature, its music carrying well from acoustics instead of volume, allowing people at the bar to actually hear each other talk. Similarly, some creative, difficult to notice restructuring ensured that the sound drowned out any chatter when you were actually on the floor. It was no secret that La Comédie was, if not most popular club among the nouveau riche of Scarlet Falls, at least a serious contender. But first, Vera had to survive the constant second glances and occasional outbursts from those that recognised her as she approached the front door. Fortunately the bouncer recognised her as more than just a pop star, and quietly leaned in as she approached. "Good evening, ma'am. Would you like an escort to the VIP section? Only four others tonight."

Habit Co.
There; page numbers 12 and 18, both multiples of 6, ignore 6 itself because the page starts with the word "actually"... alright, it wasn't quite as simple as just looking up dirt. It seems these magazines serve more as a directory, a 'phone book' of G-M agents for specific purposes, than a direct source of information. Amanda had just found the name of the agent she needed to speak to for further information - one Alexander Bryson, journalist at Weekly and Homely, Ltd. - when she heard the bell above the newsagent's door ring, a young man maybe a little older than herself shuffling up to the exact same rack of magazines before fluidly picking one and leafing through it idly. "Weekly and Homely, huh? Fair's fair, though I haven't seen you around before. Are you new?" He offered a small smile, the teeth barely visible through his lips practically (although not entirely figuratively) crackling with kindness.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:20, Fri 10 Apr 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 21):

Habit Co.

Despite her need for caution, standing in the jaws of the Machine as she was, Amanda could help but let a bemused smirk work its way onto her face. Her rather unusual heritage had its benefits. Alexander Bryson was the one to contact regarding Veranika’s activities, though she wondered if they were a stigmatic, angel or something more complex. Her reading was interrupted by the bell, starting a little as the young man approached her.

“Hmm? Oh, uh – yes, I suppose so. Moved here not long ago for some work.” Amanda turned and forced a smile, pretending not to notice how his teeth crackled. She was no fan of lying, but thankfully a bit of truth was often just as good a distraction, “That reminds me, I need to get going. Uh, n-nice to meet you.” She stammered, replacing the magazine and moving towards the exit. Should could find the address of Weekly and Homely without much trouble, surely.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 21):

Smoke and Mirrored

Sunny sighs in relief. So far so good, as far as she's concerned. She hasn't been attacked on sight, and she even got the man to talk first. Always a win.
She takes a deep breath, and cocks her head as she approaches, her voice more throaty than she usually feels as she speaks.
"Hello, monsieur? Are you alright? This is no place to hang around in these times."

She approaches the man, stopping only a few steps from him. She takes off her hat, and covers her chest with it, a look of concern on her face. She wonders why someone of such stature would be in a dump like this, if the cleanliness and state of his clothes are anything to go by.
"Monsieur...Terry, oui?"
This message was last edited by the player at 08:48, Fri 27 Mar 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 21):

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.

Gallows gives a curt nod to the receptionist as he enters, scratching at his stubble in an awkward attempt to look relaxed whilst his partially bloodshot eyes darted around the space like a panicked addict on a bad trip. Tzayidiel was twitchy, trying not to draw attention and still oh so determined to just go about its usual routine. It barely pays attention to the two workers past a short glance, and only briefly scans the missing persons before moving forward. This place had never made Gallows feel so anxious before. Tzayidiel or Gallows, or perhaps both now that lines were blurred more than ever before, felt like the walls were closing in on them. It was not a feeling, Tzayidiel decided, they enjoyed.

Gallows nods again, this time at the man in the cubicle, and takes the dossier. Licking his pointer finger, Gallows flicks through it carefully, a quick glance at the pages to understand what he was doing before he retired somewhere more private to had a proper read through.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 21):

Brand Park

Damian stumbled slightly at the overpowering wave of the blood's smell. 4 years and he still wasn't fully accustomed to human blood, let alone... whatever that was. Yet, and the wave of dizziness passed, conflicting emotions welled within him to fill the vacated space.

Why was night so cold? What mess linked these victims? Why did he have to deal with it? Part of him just wanted to lash out in frustration: kick the bench, kill some small animal, have a drink and call it a night. Yet, the money... he wasn't going to cure this horrid curse with pocket change.

Forcing himself to move, he oriented himself towards the address of the card. Slinking back into the shadows, Damian avoided the park paths, opting to slither around tree trunks instead. The darkness was slick, comforting.

Being in this park reminded him of his first big scoop. He'd climbed up one of the trees to get a better look at some protesters. The mayor had been trying to clear part of the park for a new playground. Environmental activists had chained themselves to the trees. From his own perch nearby, Damian had managed to snap pictures of the unlawful, and violent, eviction of the tree-huggers. Part of the vampire thought that he had once cared for their cause but he didn't quite remember anymore. All that remained was a hollow reflection of the thrill of investigating. The excitement of uncovering a truth for himself.

That spirit had died with him.

Yet, it still hauntingly lingered. He could feel the echoes of the young dreamer in the branches above him. Tucking deeper into his cloak. He withdrew from the pain, and the shame. He was nothing more than a silhouette now. Luckily sometimes, that was all he needed to be. Whatever awaited at the home of this Alistair Wright, Damian intended to be neither seen nor heard. Now that he was knew that he wasn't expecting a simple human, he could take the proper precautions. A quick look. That was all he intended to have.

He had a job to do.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:11, Thu 09 Apr 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 21):

Upon reaching the apartment with Leo, Nate steps close to the door and gives the handle a quick turn. Locked, of course, although that had never stopped him in the past. Turning back, he faces Leo with a smirk on his face. “First lesson for ya kid, there’s almost always going to be something in your way to slow you down, but we have the luxury of being creative with our solutions.”

Redirecting his attention back to the door, Nate drops down, pulling some objects from his bag and inspecting the lock. “Now, in most other circumstances it would be relatively easy to ignore the door outright, but considering who used to live behind it, they probably took that into consideration. No need to worry though, I can still get us in, just won’t be as fun it could be.” Standing back up and packing away his things Nate once again reaches for the door handle and twists it, making the space within the lock itself expand in such a way that the bolt within the door is no longer able to prevent the door from opening.

Space + Gnosis (Improvised Spellcast): 2 Successes

This time, the handle turns properly, swinging open. "That wasn't so hard now was it, much easier than finding a key for it. C'mon, let's see if Mr Green left behind anything useful to us" Nate steps inside the apartment, unlocking the door properly from the inside and waving to Leo to catch up

Habit Co.
The young man's eyes followed Amanda almost half a second after the sensation he was looking at her did, and his smile scarcely faltered at her words, he himself staying silent for a moment before responding. "Ah, I see. Well, I hope we see each other again while, ah, making the circuits." He turned back to the magazines and chuckled to himself, picking up one of his own, as Amanda left, the cashier still standing exactly how she was when Amanda entered.

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.
Amanda had definitely done something right. The receptionist's eyes focused as soon as the name "Alexander Bryson" was mentioned, and the directions given felt less like words and more like ritual, something immaterial locking into place with every word he spoke. As he finished, the metaphysical directions of the Infrastructure shifted, the labyrinthine mess around the corner behind him resolving into a single room.

If any of the denizens of the office noticed Tzayidiel's odd behaviour, they didn't show it - although, did they always glance at it while smiling blandly? - and the closest thing Gallows had to a handler immediately turned back to his rhythmic typing, already creating new documents for other gears in the Machine.

The dossier contained the target's first and last name (Elizabeth Waller), known aliases (none, surprisingly; most of Tzayidiel's targets had three or four), a photograph (an excessively pale face with short, black hair), and a last known location - "RElTQ09OTkVDVEVEX09VVFNJREVSX1RSQUlUT1JfRklMVEhf..." it goes on like that for a paragraph, filling the same space a full four-line address normally would. An odd address, to say the least.

Smoked and Mirrored
"Wh... what? I..." Terry blinked once, twice, looking around the dark store, and for a moment pausing on a large display of lounge mirrors, faintly glimmering from the outside's street lights. He turned back to Sunny, his eyes all but trembling out of their sockets. "I'm Terry, yeah. Can you... can you help me? Please, I just want to go back."

Wright and Bright Finance
Wright and Bright took a moment to find, lacking a sign above the stairs and the steel door. The office was above a boxing gym, the two places probably once having been a single lease before being split into two 'lots'. The upside was that if Damian couldn't get around the locked door directly, he could always try breaking in through the gym instead, although the lights being on in a backroom did sort of imply he wouldn't be alone in there while he tried to move up.

Waterside Luxury Apartments - Penthouse
Green was certainly not slumming it, from size alone. This spacious doohickey-laden room - probably his laboratory, although a kitchen sink was visible on a cluttered counter as well - was going to be an absolute nightmare to sift through, if indeed there was anything of use among these tests, experiments, and samples. The insistent ticking of a brass apparatus reminiscent of one of those centuries-old models of the solar system certainly wasn't helping with concentration, either, nor were the occasionally-flashing obsidian slabs or the absolutely persistent assaults, however 'light', on the senses. For Leo, they were in the form of a constant, coppery taste, like his tongue was bleeding all over itself. For Nate, they were a constant, weighty chanting just slightly too indistinct to make out the details of the syllables.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 27):

"Monsieur, I very happy to help you. I can get you someplace safe. However, if I may, I must ask you by where you wish to go back to? That would be....ahem, let us say, helpful to understand the context of you predicament, oui?"
"You are not hurt, are you, Terry?" She pronounces the word as Teh-ree, her accent rolling the r's.
Sunny attempts to wrap her hand around his arm and gently pull him to his feet. At the same time, she looks around the store, trying to listen out for any strange noises that might indicate a creature that is hunting this man close by.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 13):

Julian decided that for now it would be best to approach where he had been addressed. He didn’t recognize too many faces as helpful just yet, but maybe Ted had seen the symbol on a customer. He went to the counter, just a few feet from Ted without taking a seat.

He spoke in a quiet, tired voice that still carried just fine despite the background droning of music and quiet conversation. “An ice water and whatever snack thing you serve here, please.” Even if he wasn’t drinking, he didn’t want to come in and ask questions without giving the bar at least a little business. He continued speaking as he pulled his wallet from his pocket to procure the cash for the food. “You’re a well-traveled fellow who sees a strange thing or two every so often. You think you could answer a few questions for me?”

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.

Her brief conversation with the receptionist felt more like turning a key than a conversation with an actual human being. Or perhaps it was more like entering a command for a program, their words just an automatic readout. Regardless, researching Veronika was so far disconcertingly easy. A lack of resistance to her investigations was always somehow more disheartening, or at least disconcerting, than a dead end. Regardless, Amanda gave perfunctory thank you to the receptionist and navigated the corner to find herself in something like an office.

Ms. Yelverton paused at the door for a moment, glancing around at the numerous desks and apparent employees scattered across the space. Unfortunately the receptionist's 'directions' only covered up to this point, and she hardly remember any features of his face - let alone any clues as to where this 'Alexander Bryson' was. So, she fell back on her instincts - there was at least one figure in the building that seemed to stand out. It didn't quite seem to fit into the physical room, bird like talons digging into the bland carpet as it bent to handle a thin sheet of paper with two sets of mechanical arms. Horns, lit up like the filament of a light globe, grazed the ceiling as its tail coiled around the shadow of a man.

Amanda cautiously approached the being, keenly aware that revealing herself to an angel was a risky venture at best, "Um, excuse me?" She called from behind it, making an effort to focus on the human component that existed beneath (and around, and within) it, "Uh, sir? Are you Alexander Bryson?" She smiled nervously, itching the prickly scars on her neck.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 27):

Wright and Bright Finance

Damian didn't have a lockpick on him. This was hardly the first time that he'd left his office without thieving tools, it likely wouldn't be the last. Despite his attempts at practicing, he still felt like he'd made zero progress in the fine arts of robbery. Part of him wondered if it were perhaps because some noble remnants of his soul rebelled against such developments.

It was weird how there seemed to a fundamental schism between just being a shadow, a fly on the wall if you will, and an active agent. Often, his outcomes would be the same whether he'd broken into a house, or simply finessed the info he needed with careful observation anyway, and yet... they just felt different. In the shadows, Damian could at least pretend that he was just another detective, albeit one with a few extra abilities. In many ways, was that really so far from the person he had one day dreamed of being? Yet, honing skills as a thief. Even if it was for the sake of his work, something felt wrong inside him.

He was just going to have to get over it.

Yet, once again, after procrastinating the training of his skills, he was stopped by a lock. Slinking to the lot down below, he examined the area until he found a spot where he could slip into the gym. Ironically, the front door was the most welcoming point of entry, a rusted and useless lock basically inviting beginner burglars far and wide. Slipping it open as little as possible, Damian scampered into the darkest parts of the space beyond. From there, he maneuvered as close as he willing to the lit backroom. Then he listened.

With his acute senses, there was no point in not examining a potential threat before continuing his mission.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:40, Tue 19 May 2020.

In reply to Amanda (msg # 30):

Gallows scans the document, trying hard not to frown. It's already increased and unfamilar paranoia was making it hard to focus on the information, only making the warbled address even more headache inducing. How had this once made so much sense? He tucks the dossier into his jacket pocket, sighing, itching for a smoke. And probably more alcohol. At the same time, Tzayidiel was repulsed by the very notion of 'itching' for these things.

Tzayidiel freezes upon realising it had been directly addressed, unsure of how to react, how to reply, what to do -

"Nah, hate to break it to you kid." Gallows replies in a low, gruff voice, rolling his eyes slightly.

In reply to Tzayidiel (msg # 32):

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.

"Oh!" Amanda replied, offering an apologetic smile, "Sorry, you just looked like you..." She tried to focus more on the man, blinking a little out of reflex, "Uh, worked here." The fractal's nose wrinkled a little at the smell of alcohol and cigarettes, as well as the subtle notes of molten solder and blood in the air. She glanced around at the other figures, "You wouldn't be able to point me in their direction, would you? I'm... doing some research." She scratched the back of her neck, feeling more than a little nervous in front of the horned being.

Smoked and Mirrored
Terry gibbered out a few nonsenical syllables as Sunny pulled him up, the rest of the store starkly quiet, for the most part,  in the meantime. Even so, as Sunny looked at the mirrors around the pair, she could still hear the faint, almost ethereal sound of windchimes, and could see Terry looking back at her through the mirror, every single time.

Hell in Highwater Bar
Ted went through the back door a moment before returning, grinning as he slid over a plate of hot wings laid out in the shape of a butterfly (a rather bloodsoaked one, if the hot sauce was any indication). He started talking while pouring the water. "Ah, and here I was worried you wouldn't fit in here! Don't worry, I almost have nothing but answers for our kind of people! Whaddaya need?" After sliding over the water to sit leisurely near the plate, Ted idly began gently flicking his suspenders.

Wright and Bright Finance
The sounds from the backroom were idle humming, along with the occasional sloshing and clattering. From the glimpse he got from his angle, Damian could see she was cleaning the place - although she hardly had the uniform for it. Her back was turned, so he could probably scamper up the stairs without much problem if he was quick and quiet, but... well, the mop she was currently pulling in and out of view did have a red-brown tinge to it, and that backroom didn't exactly look like a supply closet, with its linoleum tile flooring and hospital-esque lighting.

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.
Something clicked in the air before Tzayidiel could respond. The gears of the Machine shifted, ever so slightly, and the Infrastructure's machinery rearranged itself in accordance. Tzayidiel felt a sharp force slide down its back like a keycard being read - Amanda only feeling a smaller tingle down her spine - as the background chatter ceased and the eyes of all the officer's workers fell right on Gallows. Then something new happened, something this office has never seen: the man with the pencil moustache, the inhuman thing that gave Tzayidiel its missions, cleared his throat.

Your time before this crescendo ends is limited.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 34):

Maybe another day he would have asked what that was supposed to mean. He wasn’t much of a social creature these days, he could admit to that. But today he ignored the comment, not really deciding if he actually considered himself able to ‘fit in’. “A patient came into the clinic and left me with this.” Julian handed the payment for the food over with the scribbled-on refill sheet. “Didn’t say much, and I didn’t get the chance to ask any questions. You haven’t seen this mark anywhere else, have you?”

For now, he let the food and drink wait in front of him. He’s really only ordered to be polite and he wasn’t too hungry. Maybe he could get the wings boxed to go and see if his current patient was interested in them later, but he wanted answers more than a cheap greasy snack.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 34):

Sonny looks at the reflection, at Terry, back to the reflection, and back to Terry. Well, she thinks. Not a baseline human, she presumes, and the ethereal bupkis means that, this Terry, probably isn't human at all. She stares, hard, at Terry, while using a single, slow hand to pull the back the hammer of her pistol, ready to draw and fire in a second. She really hopes that it's just the drugs in her system fucking with her perception of reality.

"Mon dieu..." She whispers to herself.

She clears her voice, letting the rough edges of both her cigarette-burned throat and her harsh french accent her father spoke in do the talking for her.

"You, Terry. I'll only ask this once. What are you, and why are you hanging out in an abandoned Mirror store."

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 34):

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.
Something felt wrong. Amanda couldn't quite put her finger on it, but the infrastructure seemed different somehow - her spine seemed to shiver in time with it. More disconcertingly, someone had noticed her and the being. "... Shit..." She muttered, taking a step back and glancing with renewed caution at the other figures. The horned creature didn't seem to have shifted with the rest of them - in fact they seemed to be staring at him. Was it a demon? There was no time to think about it yet, not in the jaws of the machine and not while she had a job to do.

Nearly shivering with fear, Amanda lunged for a jumble of unattended papers at the nearest desk. Not the surgical acquisition of knowledge she had planned for, but it would have to do. "W-well, nice meeting you!" Shooting a quick look back to the stubbled man, she stuffed the reports into her satchel and sprinted back to the doorway. She sighed with relief when she saw the reception was still there, and so was the exit. Amanda glanced back to the man that was not a man, a conflicted expression on her face, "C-Come on! They'll do more than stare soon." She waved for him to follow and made a run for the outer door.

In reply to Amanda (msg # 37):

Gallows rolls his eyes dramatically, mouth halfway open with a response Tzayidiel was convinced would be both witty and clever enough to be adequately human, when it feels something that makes Gallows' throat tighten. He freezes, and both man and machine shudder, a grimace passing across Gallows' face before the grizzled man could stop himself. He felt the eyes on him, and it knew that, whilst the goings on may have frozen, the ticking of the clock was only growing louder. It had to do something. Anything. But what? Fighting back was an almost laughable thought, Tzay's cold analysis and Gallows' more human thought patterns both knew that. It wasn't a contested thought. But, at the same time, it was all Tzay knew. Running was almost inconceivable, beyond the growing, queasy, feeling of fear.

It had almost entirely forgotten about the girl until she spoke to it, Gallows' shuddering again before his suddenly wide eyes met hers. He pauses, caught up in his own growing paranoia and awareness of the current threat. It takes a second longer than it should have to process her words. But they reach him, and suddenly, violently, he nods, and bolts towards her with a fear in his eyes unique to a man under pursuit.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 34):

Wright and Bright Finance

Damian quickly sniffed the air, hoping to catch a whiff of blood. Unluckily, the cleaner, if that was what she was, was too good. Any blood that had been mopped up had long dried past any use for his nose. Regardless, unless it was related to his target (which he had no reason to presume), it was none of his business. Opting to sneak past the doorway, and the woman, Damian quickly scampered up the stairs to check out the office of Alistair Wright.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:03, Sat 20 June 2020.

Hell in Highwater Bar
Ted idly scratched at his sideburns with his right hand as his left held the sketch up. "I think I've seen this before, let me just..." He pulled out an old but well-maintained leatherbound tome with plenty of bookmarks and other notes sticking out before flicking through to about three quarters of the way through. "Ah, about... 20 years ago, thereabouts. A group of Freeholders showed up and asked me for use of the backroom. Gave me the symbol as a token of thanks, I think. Dunno much more, some unsubstantiated rumours but..." Julian only got a moment to consider that Ted only looked about 30 before he continued talking. "That's all I've got, seem a secretive lot, but I'll keep an eye out for you, aye?"

Smoked and Mirrored
Terry staggered back, falling back over. "Ah gosh I'm sorry what did I do what did I do I'm sorry I..." As he continued stammering, the windchimes got louder, and noticeably, the reflections, despite otherwise mechanically following his lead, still met Sunny's eyes every time she looked at him. Has he breathed at all since he started apologising?

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.
As the duo beat a hasty retreat, all of the inhabitants of the office, one by one, reached for their phones. All except one, whose pencil-thin moustache didn't even quiver as he quietly reached for two blank pieces of paper by his typewriter. The door to the lobby felt longer than most, a hundred slightly different (but largely similar) offices with posters of nonsensical characters and reports of gibberish, punctuated with cubicles containing dead CRT screens and long-cold coffee, flashed by as the pair passed through the doorway, the door itself slamming behind them - Amanda could easily feel an enormous shift, the layout behind the door reorienting and even growing. As the pair run through the lobby, they catch a brief glimpse of the receptionist politely waving them farewell even as the front doors closed, leaving them alone on the street outside.



Wright and Bright Finance
The office was clean. Incredibly clean. As any PI would know, this is clearly a sign of one of two things: either the occupant was a psychopath, or they never actually used this location. Regardless, the contents were rather clear, although the more Damian checked the higher the risk of the cleaner downstairs doing something unexpected would grow: a slightly ajar drawer on the desk itself, from which came a rather musty smell; a closet, which stank of more than just mothballs; a clean, blue ledger, placed neatly just right of the desk's centre so it would be perfectly centred when opened; and a briefcase, leaned impeccably against the wall by the shelves across from the door, just to the desk's left.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 40):

Sunny relaxes, seeing Terry does not mean any harm. Her eyes soften, and she un-cocks her pistol. This man, while clearly not human, probably doesn't want to kill her, and frankly, that's enough for her to be kinder to him. She presents both her hands, indicating no threat, and offers a hand to pull him up.

"I am sorry, mousier. I am, not very trusting, and I thought you might want harm upon me. Please, forgive my behavior, as you are clearly are in no state for me to handle you roughly. May I offer you a ride to somewhere that might help you? Is there somewhere in particular you may wish to go? Now is no time to be in this part of town."

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 21):

La Comédie

The first thought she had when she regained consciousness was that her head was absolutely pounding.

Vera had never quite gotten hungover back in her human form before, but she imagined this was a similar feeling -- though, perhaps, she could handle it better in her current state than the humans could. All the more reason to be glad of her current form, as she could go absolutely wild in a way she never could have done in her previous body. She tried to remember the events of the previous night -- or was it still ongoing? -- but it was practically all a blur.

She eventually pried her eyes open to scan her surroundings. Thankfully, she seemed to have stayed in the same room she last remembered entering: the VIP suite of La Comédie. She was splayed on one of the familar lush couches, next to the marble table at the center of the room. Resting on its smooth surface was an array of glasses and pipes of various shapes and sizes -- all empty or nearly so -- and of course, there were a few used parcels that once contained...sustenance. Glancing down she noticed a receipt, though it was soaked with liquid that smelled like vodka. Frowning, she realized that she could not make out its contents, most pertinently the origins and details of her recently consumed sustenance.

Sighing, the young woman slowly sat up on the couch, cradling her pounding head. Once upon a time, she would have been terrified of blacking out and losing memory for an unknown amount of time, but nowadays, the only annoyance was not knowing where her latest meal actually came from. She supposed she should be grateful to him for her new form...

With a jolt to her already suffering head, she remembered her task. Aaron Green...she had to find him, for he would likely be checking up on her soon.

But perhaps not for a few hours or so -- she could lie here for a while until her head cleared up again.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 40):

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.

The space behind Amanda felt as if it were stretching and warping in the space of the breath it took to pass through the doorway. She was almost certain it was of course, but whether that was reassuring or disconcerting was up for debate. Both she and the demon had barely made it out of the jaws of the machine when she felt unseen eyes on her and a great shadow fall over them. Amanda let out a quiet gasp, involuntarily taking a step back and nearly into the door, "Uh... We should-" The colour drained from her face as she stared at the dripping badge the agent clutched.

"M-My friend and I are in a hurry, we need to go." Ms Yelverton managed, tugging on Mr. Gallows' sleeve gently with one hand and holding her satchel with the other, "Sorry, Agent Tina." She tried not to stare at its teeth.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 40):

Wright and Bright Finance

Damian quickly tries to grab the blue ledger and slip into his cloak to analyse later, before honing on the drawer. The musty smell was overpowering. He needed to check what was inside. He kept an ear out for the cleaner downstairs, hoping that his enhanced sense would catch anything creeping up on him.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:23, Thu 16 July 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 27):

Leo could feel something off about this place. His mind screamed at him to run. The part of his mind that was instinct and instinct alone demanded that he flee this place and hide, far away from everything else. Yet his rational mind knew that such a course of action would do him no good. The best thing to do here was investigate this place and solve this problem. Perhaps then both his debts and sins would be forgiven.

He turned to Nathan and spoke.

"Don't know about you, but I can feel the target on our backs growing."

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 40):

Tzayidiel's mind raced as it sped through the corridors after Amanda, possiblities and questions whirring through its complex but newborn mind. Just how much attention would this draw? Who was this woman? Would they make it out?

Gallows heaves a breath as they come to a halt, hands on knees - more reflective of Tzayidiel's panic than any lack of fitness. Panting, he looks up at the woman in front of them, frowning. He ignores the tug on his sleeve, staring at the Agent.

"I'm witness to plenty ma'am. Comes with the territory. But I'm in a bit of a hurry right now, maybe we can pencil something in for later."

Smoked and Mirrored

Terry scampered back from Sunny's hand, his mood little improved by her holstered pistol. "Yes- no- I- why are you here?!" Even as he spoke, his words thankfully no more fevered than earlier (though that's hardly a high bar), the chimes began to ring ever so slightly more often, the texture of the sounds becoming ever so slightly deeper.
[Sunny, roll Wits + Occult.]

La Comédie

Unfortunately, Vera's rest - decadent as it was - was not to be, with the earsplitting ring of an old telephone piercing the silence. From behind a partition intended for privacy of clientele when not ordering, a bartender - dressed in the establishment's uniform of a black body-concealing cloak and a crimson venetian mask (more specifically, the left half of one), laughing like the bar's namesake. She bowed, exactly at the right angle to indicate politeness without going overboard and imply apology, and held out a cushion with the telephone on it - something straight out of the movies, an affectation of the owner. "Apologies madame, but it is for you." She spoke no further, giving no indication of precisely how she knew it was for Vera.

Wright and Bright Finance

The ledger felt cool to the touch, smooth - so little wear it could've come straight from the factory. Although its secrets could wait, there was always the risk that its disappearance would be felt keenly by the owner. But that was, surely, a question for another day. For now, the drawer beckoned, and opening it revealed... a tattered old leatherbound journal, with what felt like (although almost certainly wasn't) several dozen pieces of paper sticking out in a haphazard mess; from the appearance of all the papers, the musty smell was from poor maintenance of the aquatic variety, as if somebody had decided to waterboard them for their secrets.
[Damian, roll Wits + Composure.]

Weekly and Homely, Ltd.


[Amanda, gain the Accomplice condition.]
[Tzayidiel, gain the Flagged condition.]
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:24, Fri 31 July 2020.

In reply to Leo (msg # 45):

"Of course there is, Green was a powerful man, and if someone wanted him dead, then it's safe to assume that they'd want us dead for trying to figure out why. You'd better not tell me you didn't expect that sort of thing to happen."

Nate walks around the room, going around and poking his head through the doors that lead to the other rooms, before moving over and stopping by the counter that has Greens experiments and tests strewn about over it, giving the desk a sharp knock with his hand. "Okay, see all this here?" Nate waves his hand over the counter "I want you to go through all of this, sort it out for me, go through whatever is in the draws if you can get into them, I'm going to go check out the other rooms, see what else Green had lying about." He heads over to the door leading to the bedroom, pausing briefly before entering. "Let me know when you either find something interesting or you're done with that crap, also, I'd advise against touching anything else besides that counter, we don't know what kind of man Green was."

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 47):

Weekly and Homely, Ltd. - Outside

Amanda felt as if its gaze lingered on her, even as it passed through the doors of the building. She shivered and waited for her heart to calm a little before moving, "W-We really need to go." She smiled weakly at Gallows and glanced quickly at the surrounding streets. She bit a finger thoughtfully for a moment, then set off in the direction of the bookstore, "Come on, I know somewhere safe." She waved the demon to follow her, casting another nervous glance at Weekly & Homely. She didn't have much of a reason to trust it, but if nothing else she stood to learn more about demons in the city.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 40):

There was something of a disappointment in Julian’s mind to hear the symbol was connected to the Freehold, and maybe it showed a little bit in the creases of his face. It wasn’t necessarily anything against the Freehold, he just wasn’t really ready to try dealing with their suspicion. He could tolerate it to an extent and he fully understood the reasons for the caution, but it was a tiring ordeal. “Thank you, Ted. It’s well-appreciated, but don’t stress yourself over it.”

He decided to finish most of the plate he’d bought, given he wasn’t exactly in a big hurry to visit the Freehold. He still had to go back to the clinic just to check on his patient, and then he’d be clear to leave. He made sure to place a fair tip for the information when he paid for his meal and finally left.

The patient was simple enough, awake, bored but not looking for conversation with a stranger. A simple, brief visit, which Julian departed from after leaving a proper meal, drink, and a notification he’d be out for maybe an hour or two. He wasn’t willing to give the Freehold too much time, not with a patient in the clinic. He checked he had his belongings with him before he went out again.

A lot of Highwater looked the same at night. Julian had taken the route to the night market that he best remembered, locking the bike on one of the lightposts close to where he could walk between the buildings. He’d chosen a common area over something Court-specific, hoping someone might be able to point him in the right direction if he sourced a broader gathering. The entire walk through the winding alleys and backways, he kept an ear out for anything to help guide him.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 40):

Wright and Bright Finance

Damian quickly flicked through the water logged journal. Although the underlying logic and structure was clear, it may have well been gibberish. He was hardly a scientist after all. Perhaps he could've been if he had applied himself more at school, but the outside world has already seemed bigger. Its call for exploration, for exposure, like a siren song had mesmerized him. However, akin to many a poor sailor, he had not been prepared for the murky depths that swallowed him whole.

Yet, there was no relief from this dark whirlpool unless he, himself, struggled to shore. He would find the cure for his affliction and then leave this world, this life behind. That was the goal that kept driving him, the only thing keeping him going. He must know someone who could decipher this. He was already taking the ledger, what harm would slipping the journal under his cloak do too? Even if someone discovered it missing, there should be no trace of him - the one advantage of his present curse.

Mentally shelving the journal for now, Damian approached the closet next. Keeping half an eye towards the door, he also scanned for an alternative escape route - just to be prepared were he interrupted.

A hand around the closet door, he opened it slowly, to not make sound. Wondering if there would be more to add to his haul. Already tonight was looking like it might cause him to burn the midday oil.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:04, Tue 29 Sept 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 47):

La Comédie

Vera's head was still throbbing, but at least it seemed she could pass off as functioning normally. Thankfully, the woman beside her didn't seem to give any sort of funny or surprised looks as she handed Vera the phone.

"Is this Veranika?" she heard from the other side of the line. It was a fairly average female voice, yet the distinctly bored tone it carried was instantly familiar.

Immediately Vera's senses sharpened as she straightened her posture. It wasn't every day that she'd receive a call like this, and she had a gnawing feeling she wasn't going to like it.

"Melissa," she replied with the warmest tone she could muster. "It's been a while. How have you been?"

"Fine," Melissa responded with a yawn. "I've just had a certain meeting and was wondering if you have any updates for him."

Damn. Maybe she really should've started the task earlier. But it had been such a long week, and she had really needed to recharge...

"It hasn't even been a day..." Vera sighed. She heard a noncommittal hum in response.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Melissa added, her voice betraying nothing, as usual. "I don't appreciate being used as a lapdog any more than you do, so I suggest you better get some results before I'm asked to call you again." With a click, the bored voice was gone.

Before she quite realized what she was doing, Vera placed the phone handle back down and wordlessly walked out to hand it to the bartender from earlier.

"Anything I can help you with?" the woman asked, studying Vera carefully.

It took a moment, but Vera finally found her voice.

"Yes, actually. Take me to the back, quietly."

In reply to Nate (msg # 48):

Leo's hand had curled itself into a fist at Nate's words. Various words and phrases rolled around his brain as he gazed at the space which Nate had occupied moments ago. The most obvious one was "condescending asshole". Still, Nate had a point. This scene needed to be investigated, the sooner that was done the sooner the investigation was over. Leo began to investigate the files that Green had left behind and began to read through them.

What he was looking for in particular, Leo didn't know. However, reading and organizing this stuff would hopefully bear fruit.

In reply to Amanda (msg # 49):

"Tomorrow. For sure. Have a good day ma'am."

Tzayidiel pauses, too caught up in processing thoughts to register the hand until it was too late and she had moved away - although Gallows' usual casual standoffishness worked in place of the falter.

He looks at Amanda, nodding and quirking a brow.

" And where might that be?" He asks, although it follows despite it's questioning. It didn't really have much of a choice. And besides, if this one was helpful.... Tzayidiel knew it needed all the help it could get.

In reply to Tzayidiel (msg # 54):

Weekly and Homely, Ltd. - Outside

"A bookstore." Amanda looked back to Gallows with a friendly nod, glad to see the demon following. After a few minutes she slowed her pace slightly to let it walk nearly beside her, "My name's Amanda, by the way." She said after a few moments, scratching the back of her neck nervously. A little way ahead, the pleasantly quiet store front of Devaux's Books was already visible.

Waterside Luxury Apartments - Penthouse

The bedroom was in a similar state to the unhinged room outside it, with its own writing desk absolutely coated in gadgets, scorch marks, and unsorted notes. The bed itself, however, was absolutely immaculate, except for the words "DON'T FORGET" scratched into its headboard like the ravings of a lunatic, with an arrow pointing towards the room's closet, which coincidentally had no fewer than 8 padlocks on it.

The notes Leo is searching through were difficult to read, as the paper was irregularly coated in a black substance that looked like tar and had the consistency of candle wax, on top of absolutely refusing to reflect even the smallest iota of light. "...fascinating, seeming to oscillate with purpose I have yet to decipher. I may need to pry open the manhole to get a better look, but I'm not sure M would appreciate me rummaging around under..." This may take days to sort through and actually glean anything from, but if Leo thinks he's up to the task he may feel free to [make a Resolve+Academics check.]

The Night Markets

The Markets were busy this evening. Julian needed to slip by a quartet of what - by the smell - could only be werewolves, arguing with a body that had the pallid appearance of the dead, whether vampiric or otherwise unclear, over the value of a pinky nail-sized vial of black water that looked like a cosmos full of stars (probably sand, but who can tell?), and that was just to reach the second wave of bustling, hawker-laden alleyways. Fortunately, the rest of the path had enough room for personal space, although that consolation was unlikely to last long as he came up to his destination - a rusted steel door with no knob to anybody else, as likely to lead to a meat locker as some very underground club, though nobody would bat an eye at somebody entering even if it weren't common occurence. Part of the benefits of Glamour, similar to the implicit permission to be ostentatious as hell; to a Changeling's keen eye, the door quickly resolved into an elegantly hewn - probably hand-crafted - oak door with thin gold trim in the shape of a violin's F-holes adding flair, along with what's probably some form of Fae enchantment for protection or somesuch. The walls around the door gently faded from rose-tinted cobblestone lit like a fairy tale set at sunset to the brutalist bricks making up the building it's been fused into, and in front of it stood a being like a human-sized flame made of shadows, with motes of brilliant vermillion light acting as its eyes. Jack, if memory serves. The hissing emanating from the shadowflame formed words easily enough - a convenience of Arcadia's own rules - although any warmth was lost in transit. "Evening, Julian." Jack's eyes, without moving, gave off the sensation of sweepig up and down Julian's body with no shortage of suspicion. "See you're still doing alright for yourself. Go on in." To any other creature, it looked like the thin, frail-yet-intimidating teenager knocked, but of course any other creature couldn't see the doorknob the flames wrapped around. Where they should have slipped or parted, they instead turned, and the knob with them, revealing a room with a roaring fireplace and no shortage of velour in the furnishings.

Most humans would find the fact that a man was already sitting in the room expecting them without appointment creepy, even ignoring the hushed whispers from within going deathly silent as all the other inhabitants of the room looked to Julian, but you don't even need to be a Changeling to know Fae work by rules of stories in lieu of mortal timekeeping. As it was, the porcelain mannequin sitting in one of the lush armchairs nodded to Julian, sweeping an arm ending with ink-stained fingertips to a chair by him as he regarded Julian with the eye on his otherwise-immaculate face that hadn't been cracked and split by dark vines bursting from within. Of course, Julian could pick anybody else to approach, but that could be taken as spurning the Court of Eyes; already a dangerous proposition without involving Julian's precarious reputation. And Hadrian, of course, knew this; why else would he be awaiting the good doctor?

Wright and Bright Finance

A rush of dry air went by Damian as he opened the closet, along with a scent that rushed by too fast to properly identify, although when the stale, saturated air from deeper within the closet - contrary to its outward appearance, on the inside it was bare, well-waxed wood, worn from what faintly smelled of bleach - wafted gently out, he got a good whiff; blood. The details were murky, Damian's senses still a little confused from the business card; it would take a few moments to identify the smell - and its source - better, and Damian could hear shifting from downstairs. There was a good chance of Something Dangerous (to his ability to hide, at least) happening downstairs if he stayed any longer; there was information to glean, but was the risk worth it?

Aside from the scent of blood, Damian could see the closet was organised into three sections: on the right, a set of neatly-pressed suits, all of which were identical and some flavour of tan. On the left, a set of drycleaner's bags, eerily reminiscent of (very short) body bags in the almost-lightless surroundings. And at the bottom, right in the middle, a pile of haphazardly-arranged boxes sized for wine bottles, all with different branding, and all closed. If Damian stayed to identify the scent, he would at least have enough time to also rummage around one of these three areas, though there was no guarantee he'd get anything useful of course.

La Comédie

The back room was clearly once a back stage, seeing as it looked like it used to be the prop room. However, while the racks and racks of various costumes (which were discarded for much subtler alternatives under new management) remained, the rows of shelves filled with trinkets and useless knick-knacks were emptied out and replaced with rows of shelves filled with enough firearms, street drugs (in classy packaging) and other various illicit - and supernatural - goods to give even the dirtiest cop palpitations. A ghoul attendant, whose garments lay on the crossroads between Victorian butler and contemporary fashion designer, bowed elegantly. Wilfred, the man who could avoid neither rolling an R nor adopting the most dreadful Southeast European accent imaginable since she had met him. "Ever a pleasure, Lady Vera, though I did think you would come sooner.  I have been given a manifest to make available for rent if you came here." He went behind a small counter and pulled out a Post-It, squinting for a moment as he scanned it over once more to be sure. He then loudly grunted as he picked up a steel suitcase - like the ones criminals always use to lug money around in the movies - and gently hefted it onto said counter, opening it to reveal a sealed vial of blood the size of a thumbnail. "This, and a means of defending yourself. Since there was nothing more... specific, I take it you can choose one of anything. Don't be shy, yes?"

If Vera accepts the equipment-in-exchange-for-nonspecific-price deal, she may select any one weapon (unless I've missed some weird stuff) from the rulebook, add that and one Vial of Ambrosia Red to her sheet, and take the Tasked condition, though she doesn't know what for yet.

Devaux's Books

Was that traffic camera always pointed this way? Was the manhole cover always oriented so the graffiti on it looked like an eye from the angle of their approach? Would it change anything if it weren't? A city is normally bustling, no matter the weather, even in the middle of the night, but on the duo's way back to the book store they encountered nobody. Perhaps a coincidence, or even Devaux's own design to avoid attracting too much attention, but without having verified beforehand there will now never be a way to be sure.

Even vulnerable to the Machine as Devaux was, by sheer virtue of not being born from its machinations, he was no pushover. If nothing else, that was unchanged, as the smallest flicker of calculation passed behind his eyes when Tzayidiel followed Amanda inside, followed by a welcoming smile. "Ah, good evening! I do not receive many visitors at this time of night, but feel free to look around as long as you need." He paused, looked between the two a moment, his smile never fading. Then it seemed he had reached a decision. "Erm, Amanda, you know my joints have been acting up today. I can't reach a box on the top shelf, could you help me with that for a moment?" He waved eagerly as he beat a retreat into the store's back room, leaving Amanda to (probably) follow and Tzayidiel to browse the selection of books from "Cerebral Trigger: Unbanishing Your Mind" to "Behind the Azure Curtain: Musings on the Soul".

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 56):

Devaux's Books
The longer they walked through the empty streets, the more Amanda's skin crawled. She hoped the lull in activity around their route was the result of something more exciting elsewhere in the city. Most of the graffiti around the neighborhood was little more than a collection of supernatural territory markers, much of the time. Nevertheless, she went as fast as was reasonable for a woman absolutely not in a hurry to escape the clutches of the God-Machine.

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped through the threshold of Devaux's Books, the familiar scent of old books reminding her of home. The look she caught from her boss gave her some cause to worry, despite his cheery affect. Was it him calculating risk? Or perhaps the old fiend was planning something. Amanda toyed with the strap of her satchel nervously as Anton waved her towards the back room, "O-of course, not a problem." She turned to Gallows with an apologetic look, "I won't be long, just try to be careful with the pages - a lot of the books are a little fragile."

The fractal folded her arms as she rounded the corner, leaning carefully by one of the backroom shelves, "So, you've probably noticed he's not Veranika... " She started with the beginning of a smirk, "But I promise he's almost certainly worth the risk of bringing here. I hope."

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 56):

The Night Market

The suspicion was nothing new. Every rare visit to this place was always met with the same cautions. Other Changlings were just nervous, he told himself. They had every right to be, and he was no exception. It was unsettling to be in a place where no one trusted him, but what it would take to remove their fear, Julian could not promise.

“Good evening, Jack.” Julian answered, though he didn’t have much of a response to the rest of his statement beyond a nod of thanks before he entered through the door. The response of watchful gazed and silence was all too familiar, but still just as nerve-racking. He could feel the eyes of a classroom long since graduated without him turning back in one of the many days he’d been late to a lecture, and the only difference now seemed that if his composed demeanor slipped, he could actually be in danger rather than just severely disapproved of.

He moved the little card from his pocket to the center of his palm before he approached anyone, checking it again, then beginning to walk forward to mannequin. He gave a small nod in return, quietly clearing his throat with a small cough. “I would have sent a message if I’d known earlier I needed to come in. Excuse the intrusion.”

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 56):

Wright and Bright Finance

The smell piqued Damian's curiosity. However, it would not be curiosity that kept him rooted in the strange office. The tantalising trail of curiosity had stopped giving him pleasure long ago. Investigation was a job; nothing more, nothing less. Without information, he was powerless, trapped. And, he didn't have enough. Not yet.

He'd been planning a quick look.

Not a full investigation.

He told himself that every single time. He'd also always tell himself it was for the money whenever he inevitably stayed a bit too long. But no. He wasn't curious. Maybe a bit prideful, but not curious. He didn't enjoy his work. He couldn't enjoy anything, not while he was cursed like this.

Why couldn't someone else deal with this again?

There were far too many unanswered questions. What was Wright and Bright's connection with the Sommelier? What was going on downstairs? Where was that smell coming from? If he didn't know, he couldn't share. If he couldn't share, he couldn't sell. Information was money. Information was the key to everything. Then, he could surely step away. Start anew.

If there was anything left of him.

With a soft sigh, he reached towards the wine boxes. Perhaps it would be too on the nose for the sommelier to leave any hints in such an obvious place. It would be remiss to not check however.

Just for precaution, Damian slipped among the hanging bags in the cupboard, before softly crouching to check the boxes. The dark was calm and comforting. Priming his enhanced senses, he divided his focus between the noise downstairs and the boxes in front of him. He also kept an eye towards the window, making sure that there was always at least one way out.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 05:23, Tue 29 Sept 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 56):

La Comédie

"I appreciate your hospitality," Vera replied to the well-dressed attendant. She reached out to grasp the small vial with her manicured nails, carefully fastening the vial inside a small compartment in her top.

Vera had been in this room multiple times, but every single time the layout was equally unfamiliar and confusing; she surmised that the turnover rate for job in the back room was understandably quite high (though the attendant did look vaguely familiar, she supposed). Nodding at the attendant, she scanned the room, walking around the vast array of sharp objects until she stopped at a high shelf and looked up at the top shelf. She gestured to the attendant to aid her, and thankfully he immediately understood her intentions. The tall ghoul grabbed the box at the top and lifted the lid.

"Only the finest craftsmanship for the lady," he bowed. Looking inside the box, she couldn't help allow a small smile as she reached in to grab the handgun inside. Ornately decorated with gold and rubies, the revolver was small and delicate enough to fit her hand well, and yet it was made of strong and well-functioning material. The gun was fully loaded of course, but she still scooped up the string of bullets from the box and secured them inside the pocket of her jacket along with her new weapon.

"Thank you," she responded, stepping through the back exit. It was a cold night, but though she wore only a pair of shorts underneath her jacket, she was hardly bothered by the weather as she dashed to the specified location.

Waterside Luxury Apartments

The apartment complex was certainly wealthy, she had to grudgingly admit, but it seemed quite deserted. No matter, she used the faded key as a guide to reach the penthouse.

And as the doorknob to Green's apartment rattled, Vera used it to mask the click of her revolver being loaded.

Just in case.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:56, Tue 20 Oct 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 56):

"Interesting..." Nate mumbles to himself as he walks around the room, pulling out his phone he begins to systematically take photos, making sure to get every angle he can, before stopping at the headboard of the bed. Trying carefully not to disturb the bed, he pulls a handkerchief out, placing it below the scratchings in the wood, he begins to scratch out the message as thoroughly as he can, catching any splinters that fall from his work. Once he's certain that the message is completely erased, he makes a few more marks in the headboard, catching the rest of the splinters, and emptying them into his bag. He goes to return to the main room that he left Leo in, stopping briefly to quickly pull back the large curtains covering a wall of the bedroom to reveal a fire escape, "Hmm..." Nate mumbles once more.


"Please tell me you've found something useful while I was gone" He once again takes a stroll around the room, examining various objects as he does so, before stopping by the window and peering out, surveying the alleyway below. "Because if you've found nothing in that time we really need to work on your efficacy. In case you've managed to miss it, Green happened to be an important individual, and as you put it before, there are more than likely targets on our backs now, so unless you're bringing snacks for any unwanted guests I suggest you get a move on, we've wasted enough time sitting around here, we should probably..." Nate stops suddenly, hearing the doorknob rattle. "Quick, here, now, leave the paper" Nate waves Leo over to him "It seems we do have guests... Love it when I'm right"

Devaux's Books

Devaux lifted a single eyebrow. "It is not that I am adverse to guests, but some warning would be appreciated. I don't even know whether he's human, how much secrecy is needed. I... would appreciate being kept in the loop here." He glanced at the door, his eyes thoughtful, before continuing his thought. "If he is a friend of yours, he is welcome to stay here, of course." He gave his best kindly smile, but there was the slightest tinge of stress in it that was absent when Amanda had first set out.

The Night Market, Changeling Cranny

Hadrian's good eye regarded Julian evenly, searchingly. Whether it found what it was looking for, or anything at all, was a little unclear, but his response was at least polite as he held up a hand, a voice echoing a little, as if his head were a hollow sphere. "Please, you know you can rely on us when needed. Concerns have been raised about your intent with the questions you've been asking, but given your reputation can't afford to have any more holes poked in it, I imagine you're too wise to have ill cause." He let his words linger for a moment, his face reflecting the crimson of the velour decorating the room today. "So, what is it you need to know?"

Wright and Bright Finance

The boxes contained syringe after syringe with a congealed, brownish-red substance within. They are unlabelled, unlike the boxes; at first, the contents of the syringes look entirely identical, but even when spun the same way, there's a slight difference in the way they settle; the vials from each box seem to be similar enough to each other, but... Well, anyway, one of the boxes actually contains a single wine bottle, pristinely clean but otherwise empty. The branding on that box is Sunrise Someliers Ltd.; the only one of that brand, unlike the others, which have varying rarities but at least seem organised into groups in some way.

[Damian rolled Wits+Composure - 3 successes.]

There was suddenly a loud knocking on the building's front door - he couldn't see it, even if he did look, but as the cleaner shifted Damian could hear the faintest of clicks - a button had been pushed. Four almost entirely unidentifiable - such was their blandness of appearance - individuals, dressed somewhere between maintenance workers and urban sanitation engineers, calmly awaited as the cleaner opened the door. "Sorry for the intrusion, ma'am. We're here because our monitoring has noticed your water usage has gone up to an unrealistic degree in the last hour. Normally we'd wait until morning, but the leak is too bad in this case." The front door was occupied, but there was no guarantee they'd stay there, of course - for now, eavesdropping was a perfectly valid option.

[After all, as your GM, it wouldn't do for me to skip straight to them entering the room with you sans warning, would it?~]

The window is indeed not shuttered or otherwise barred, it'd take some parkouring but Damian could exit through it if necessary; assuming he makes it that far before Something Happens. What next?
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:51, Wed 02 Dec 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 62):

Devaux's Books

Amanda grimaced a touch deeper as Anton mentioned his preference for warning as to 'guests'. She didn't like putting him out like this at no notice, even her intent was just to talk to 'Richard' for a short while. Maybe she should have tried a bar after all. Her discomfort deepened as the matter of what her new acquaintance was came into question, "Ah..." She started, biting her lip thoughtfully and shifting her weight awkwardly.


"Well, I do hope he'll be a friend. I think we can help each other, at least." Amanda began, sticking to the truth and noting the hint of strain Mr. Devaux failed to hide. "Richard is human." She added truthfully, scratching the back of her neck as she glanced at the door. As much as she hated to lie, especially to Anton, she didn't want to risk anything unintended overhearing what the demon needed hidden. Her parents had eventually managed to drill that into her, much to their relief. More than one cover had suffered from a younger Amanda's honesty.


She glanced at the door again, tapping her fingers against her satchel nervously.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:54, Mon 23 Nov 2020.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 62):

Wright and Bright Finance

When it came to one on one, Damian always trusted his ability to run. Well run might be a misnomer. He'd fade into the shadows far more gracefully than that. But five potential enemies was definitely too much of a threat. He'd never been a fighter - especially when he had believed that he had something to fight for . He was too weak for that - would always be too weak for that - and there was no point pretending otherwise. Not if he wanted to survive long enough to cure his affliction.

Making a mental note of the coagulated vials, Damian reached quickly ripped the label off the Sunrise Sommelier's bottle. Perhaps there might be a hint in it. Perhaps not. Either way, he'd look later once he had more time.

Pocketing the label, he sprung nimbly to his feet and turned towards the window. The cold, harsh, comforting night awaited. Soon, he'd be alone again.
This message was last edited by the player at 07:42, Tue 05 Jan 2021.

In reply to Nate (msg # 48):

Frustration, anger and ran through Leo's body as he followed Nate's directions. The investigation had yielded no useful information on his end. Now there was going to be "company". Even as a newcomer of this world, Leo had a fairly good idea what that would entail, that being violence. As the thought entered his consciousness he began to smell it again. The scent of decaying flesh and those awful sounds. He could feel that power, that terrible energy that he kept dammed up inside himself beginning to seep through the defenses. There was no way that this was going to end well.

Wright and Bright Finance

Outside the window, the street was blocked by a van. Outside it, two maintenance workers stood extraordinarily still in the vicinity of the building's front door, occasionally glancing around. Their faces were, sadly, obscured by caps from above, and their builds and uniforms were very similar.

[Damian rolled Wits+Composure - 1 success.]

In fact, they were a little too similar - the same stain was present on all three of their left shoulders.

One of them was fiddling with some form of metallic cylinder, though from the way it shifted and deformed before 'resetting' its appearance, it seemed like some puzzle box genes were spliced in there somewhere. Despite the preoccupied nature of this individual, sneaking past the duo - with the fortuitous aid of some nearby dumpsters - would still take some effort.

[To escape through the street without supernatural aid, make a Dexterity+Stealth check.]

Meanwhile, downstairs, footsteps could be heard shuffling around a little. "No no, it'll just be a moment, ma'am. I assure you, not a soul will hear of the mess you have yet to clean this evening."

[Damian rolled Dex+Stealth to escape - 2 successes.]

Getting out through the window was easily enough - getting out quietly was more of a challenge, but fortunately one Damian himself was accustomed to in his career. The handymen (whose drab beige van's logo on the side read "Kent's Gents: No Dents In Your Vents!") were preoccupied looking the other way and fiddling with the cylinder to notice the vampire during his escape.

Most of the way down the road, there was a concussive wave, then one of heat and roaring sound, as Wright and Bright went up in flames. On the second, a police car rounded the corner, sirens blaring almost the instant the shockwave passed Damian. Fortunately, he was far enough down the road that the wave didn't cause him to stumble, and it was easy enough to duck into a nearby alleyway to hide from the prying eyes of the authority.

[Damian rolled Wits+Composure - 3 successes.]

He was not alone. Somebody had followed him here. Somebody was trying to sneak up on him. Without turning, he could see the silhouette - though the nature of its source was unclear. They had not yet realised their stealth was compromised.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:43, Tue 29 June 2021.

Nightingale Apartments

Using one's status as a boundary between the living and the dead to make up for one's crimes in life had seemed, perhaps, much easier before tonight. Unfortunately - and by necessity, since a certain letter Rosa needed was in this building - this evening Rosa Campos found herself face to face not only with the more violent of the latter category, but one that was especially fickle: The Judge, a spirit renowned for applying "justice with extreme prejudice" to those they encountered, including, of course, those who were entirely unaware of their existence.

At least the (abandoned) apartment block's reputation for turning up corpses had made quiet ingress easier than usual - even the most desperate squatters left the place alone. For dealing with the Judge, Rosa had gleaned one glaring weakness: they could be calmed by the presence of their (also-deceased) lover. The only problem was finding a trail to this lover. Well, one could only hope a happy little chat would enlighten her a little, though it would perhaps be easier were the phantom's first rasping words not "What is your crime?" to the tune of falling guillotines and sharpening blades.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:16, Sun 11 Apr 2021.

In reply to Leo (msg # 65):

It was unlocked.

Vera knew she'd never been the smartest person in her vicinity. No, that honor was usually reserved for Da-...for someone else, back in her human life. And although she wouldn't trade her current, better state for anything else, she couldn't shake the feeling of being constantly out of her depth. That would change with time, though, time during which she'd stay just as young and beautiful and adored as she was now.

Vera knew she'd never been the smartest person in her vicinity, and yet, even she knew that an unlocked door at the scene of a particularly high-profile death meant that someone else had gotten here first.

If she'd still been a breathing creature, she would have probably hyperventilated by now, but those days were far in the past. As it was, she reasoned that it was likely that whoever had been here was long gone. Just in case, she clenched her loaded revolver in her hand, aiming it forwards in a steady pose, and slowly tiptoed inside.

The apartment was dark, but that was of no matter. She could plainly see an empty kitchen and dining area that she'd absolutely want for herself. Most importantly, she could see two figures before her -- somewhat youthful, though appearances could be deceiving -- as they seemed to face her.

At least she'd already pulled out her revolver.

"State your business."

Rosa definitely didn't like any of this. Spooky abandoned apartments were still kinda spooky even if you were part ghost apparently, at least if their only occupant was an angry specter more powerful than most of the ones she'd dealt with before. But she needed that letter and she was bound by her duties as a Sin Eater to try and alleviate this ghost's pain regardless. It was the bargain she made in order to start a new...un-life? unlife sounded right.

So, this ghost could easily murder her, but she did have a plan. If the Judge was still trying to be a judge, even in this warped and half-remembered way, then it was a really good thing she used to be an amazing lawyer. Not the most ethical, during her time alive. But damn good at her job. Hopefully she remembered enough...

"Your Honor, I come before you as an officer of the court to formally request your assistance with constructing and serving a formal summons. I believe the potential witness may be hostile or reluctant to appear in court and require your assurance that the summons is binding and will be met with appropriate measures if ignored. I also have reason to believe you may know the witness and her current whereabouts, as she was once romantically involved with you. I would not normally seek judicial assistance but the matter is time sensitive and critical to an upcoming case."

There, if he wanted to hold his own kangaroo court then she'd just get through this on court procedure.

Devaux's Books

Anton's stare pierced through Amanda's eyes for scarcely a moment before mellowing out as he opened the door, returning to the storefront with a polite nod to Tzayidiel. "I am certain my accomodations will prove sufficient to anybody in need, but if not, do not hesitate to ask for improvements."

[~One moderately awkward time skip later~]

While Tzayidiel was getting settled in, Anton quietly pulled Amanda out of sight of the street in the storefront. "You should know before you resume your search that moves have been made elsewhere. Watch yourself - enough blood has been shed in this city tonight." He handed her a polaroid  of an explosion viewed from down the (empty) street.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:29, Thu 24 June 2021.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 47):

Sunny curses as the atmosphere changes around her, her head whipping around, trying to see what is going on. Her hand drifts to her holstered pistol, before she grits her teeth, and drags it away. Now's not the time to go loud, especially a few days before rent day. She can't afford Court fee's for unlawful discharges..... again. Not yet, at any rate, with a bank account that could be charitably described as very, very poor.

Instead, she slips away from the creepy mirrors, attempting to get Terry to either follow her, or follow her example, her senses suddenly aware that the slabs of glass are not exactly what they seem..... She feels something coming, and at least feels obligated to.... well, prevent Terry from being attacked by a malicious force emerging from a Mirror.

She slides over the shop's counter, calling out with a whisper. "Monsieur Terry, it is not safe to be in the open, we must hide. Do not be seen by a mirror, and remain hidden until I tell you."

In reply to Vera (msg # 68):

Nate casually raises his hands to Vera in a placating manner, though its clear he hardly means it

"Hey now, that's hardly a kind introduction don't you think? I mean, let's be real here, you're the one breaking and entering here. How about we try that again from the top? I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be here so why don't you politely tell us what it is your supposed to be doing here?"

As he's talking, Nate lowers his hands, taking a few slow steps towards the balcony.

"I mean, I do assume you have a reason for being here right? Looking for something to steal maybe? Pawn off to some of your friends? Do you have friends? I can't imagine someone of your age going around entering peoples homes uninvited would have too many friends..."

Smoked and Mirrored
Terry whimpers, cowering behind the counter alongside the more dignified Sunny. A faint mist begins to coat the mirrors, hiding whatever is behind them. Then it begins to seep into the store. The sound of rattling chains enters the room as something big and heavy briefly falls onto the floor before getting up and thumping around - as if searching for something.
[Sunny, roll Stealth+Composure.]
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:30, Thu 24 June 2021.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 73):

Sunny cracks her lips open just enough to not whistle with each breath, something her mama once told her would help when hunting wild game up in the cold forests of upper Canada. She isn't exactly convinced of dear mama's advice, but, well, the rest of her knowledge for remaining still comes from badly dubbed police drama's. Family first, she justifies.
Her hand gently brushes her pistol, despite the loud protests of the part of her brain that regulated her expenditures. Each bullet cost about 6 dollars. She had 15, in her double-stacked magazine, meaning if she fired it all off like she usually did in a hasty gunfight against weird and otherworldly beings, she'd be in the gutter 90 bucks..... a lot of money. 5 days living, even.

As the heavy footfalls set the floor shuddering, Sunny briefly remembers that her life might be on the line in a much more immediate sense.

In reply to God-Machine (msg # 70):

Devaux's Books
Amanda tried not to shiver at Anton's intense gaze, still uncomfortable with her omission. The old vampire didn't seem particularly convinced, even if she was technically telling the truth, and she couldn't blame him. She took a deep breath before following Devaux back into the storefront, offering her best reassuring smile to Richard. "I'll, uh, clear off the couch upstairs and find us a spot to look at that paper work." She patted her satchel and made her way to the stairs, "I won' t be long, but tell Anton if you need anything."

~A short but unspecified length of time later~

Having sourced some spare blankets and stashed away the messiest of her notes, sketches and books, Amanda had returned to unburden a dusty store table of unsorted books. She neatly stacked the stolen papers at the edge before taking the books to their respective selves, offering the demon an apologetic glance as she passed, "You can get started, I'll join you shortly." Tomes returned to order, Amanda let Anton pull her aside. "Is that..." She started, recognising the now destroyed patch of street and glancing at her boss, "I'll be careful, Anton." She grimaced, trying to hide the worst of her fear. Amanda glanced out the storefront window with concern before slipping back to the table.

Ms Yelverton began by skimming the pages for key phrases before starting any more rigorous reading.

Nightingale Apartments

The Judge raised a robed hand towards Rosa, then hesitated. The phantom sat there for a moment, seemingly paralysed, before dejectedly lowering the hand. "You... bailiff... retrieve the witness..." The walls fall away briefly, leaving Rosa on a suburban street - no, this is the spirit's memory. Is this some twist on the notion of testimony? It matters little; she finds herself closing the car door and approaching her - no, the Judge's - home. With a whistle and a gentle knock, she opens the door, revealing Anna and a police officer-

And she was back, with a bit of a shock but otherwise unharmed. Rosa, gain Connected: The Hanged Court. This applies to the Judge and the Judge's allies. She's still getting flashes of memory, but it's enough to work with - a name, "Anna Bouchard", and an address in the suburbs on the northern edge of Scarlet Falls. Not that she needs it - the lingering vestiges of the Judge's influence give her a familiarity that lets her go there at her leisure, practically without looking.

But the Judge was not finished speaking. "There is... another..." Another flash, this one colder - a man stealing from the dead, under the Judge's wrathful gaze. "Bring them both... The court demands it..." Rosa, gain a Beat. Rosa gets a name, and the closest to a case file she'd get from the spirit (a location) - Nathaniel Williams, and another two locations. One is a hotel - a place of residence. The other is an apartment - a current location. The Judge's sympathy with the criminal has been spent; Rosa will have only these hints to go on, assuming she will indeed go after this individual and not simply make her excuses upon her return.