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