In-Character Thread
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?