The dank and dark tunnels of the sewer had a stench of gas and mold that would chase most people right up the manhole cover they cautiously entered from, but not Rachel Calloway. She was on the hunt.

Rachel had been tracking one of the women responsible for the tragedy that had made her into what she is now.

Melissa Snyder.

The name filled Rachal with revulsion. Melissa had been the one responsible for recruiting impressionable people, ripe for sacrifice and other stomach churning activities, and was the very person who drew Rachel to the cult that stole her life from her in the first place.

Rachal had pursued her across several states; each time Melissa had narrowly evaded her grasp. She was well connected, Melissa, and she had friend of all sorts. Dregs from the lowest that humanity had to offer as well as the upper echelons of society had all been aiding and abetting her. Not just humanity, Melissa had even the things that go bump in the night keeping her hidden. Rachel had killed all the ones that she could catch that had knowingly provided Melissa their aid. Some didn't know Melissa's true nature. These she spared. Those that did know were...less fortunate.

Now, Rachel was getting close. She had bumped into Melissa on accident following a lead here in Chicago. There was a club called The Abattoir where the supernatural of the city all rubbed elbows under Accord provided Neutral Territory. Rachel had only meant to go there to sift through the rumor mill for Melissa's whereabouts. Instead, she had literally bumped into her on her way to the bar.

Melissa's friends, some suckheads, had come to her defense. However, all were quickly reminded by the staff of the utter annihilation and ruin that would fall on their heads if they decided to start anything within the walls of The Abattoir. Melissa and her friends made a quick exit and Rachal pursued.

The suckheads slowed her down but they were dust now. Melissa hauled her ass down a manhole cover. So, here we find Rachel, the Spirit of Vengeance, trudging through noxious fumes and grime of all kinds. Her black boots splash brown and grey water with every footfall in pursuit of the woman she would kill when she caught her. Her custom Zippo lighter the only source of light in the black.

Up ahead, a scream cuts through the darkness.

Melissa's scream...
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:38, Sat 26 Mar 2022.

Ugh, way to fuck that up, Rachel...

After all this time and effort, here I am wading through piss and shit. Strangely not the worst thing I've had to do though, I suppose, but goddamn I was looking forward to a beer to go with the hope of some decent intel.

Of all the places for that to have fucking happened. Stupid bitch shoulda stayed put in that bar if she knew what was good for her. Lucky me. *smiles at the thought*

Hearing the ear piercing scream, confirmed I was at least still heading in the right direction. I pick up pace and head straight to the source with caution. It's difficult to tell exactly where it came from though. The sound echoed like crazy, stuck in the confines of the dank underground.

I have no idea what could have caused such fear from such an evil cunt used to all manner of things that go bump in the night. Whatever it is can't be good and I already can't see for shit.

Eventually I reach a fork in the proverbial road. I can't discern from which direction the scream came from.

Damn! Which way...

I'll be damned if something kills this bitch before I get to her. I need her to talk before I choke the vile life from her eyes for good.

A disembodied voice seems to eek out of the tunnel around you like sweat.

"You done fucked up A-A-Ron."

Try as you might, you cannot pinpoint the origin of the croaking frog like voice.

"This is Nossie territory and you got no invite. Although, I got me a feeling that you're a tourist or you wouldn't have dared. So, I'm gonna cut your pretty face a break before it gets broken. Turn around and go back to your world, smooth skin."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:40, Sat 26 Mar 2022.

In reply to GM (msg # 3):

Shit.

"Look, ya got me dead to rights. I'm not really a fan of talking to the air though. Think maybe we could talk about this face to face? I have no beef with you, just some piece of shit that made it your way.

I have rarely ever run into the Nosferatu, granted I never made a habit of crawling through sewers. It's going to be a bitch talking him into letting an easy meal go.

"Maybe we could make a deal. Aren't you guys a fan of those?"

"Huh. Not very scared. You must be Otherside."

Otherside was a common term for anything not altogether human or normal, a catch all phrase for the supernatural.

"Either that or the ballsiest bitch on two legs."

The voice chuckles at its own joke, the sound is not pleasant.

"A deal, eh? Yeah, we can make a deal. I got just the thing in mind. "

The voice seems to be ignoring your request to show itself.

"Since you seem keen on killing that lick stick that stepped right on my fucking bunion, why don't you kill somebody for me? You up for that, pretty killer?"

Well this seems suspiciously easy...

"Sounds surprisingly fair. Who's the hit?"

"There's a gang of assholes that have been moving in on our shit. Bikers. I didn't even know they still made fucking bikers. Surface world sucks. They call themselves the 'Six-Six-Sixers.' Bunch of smooth skins trying to sound scarier than they really are. I'd kill them myself but my hands are...tied. You clean them out for me and we'll turn over your playmate so you can have your fun."

A piece of paper from the yellow pages seems to materialize out of thin air before your eyes onto a dry spot of concrete near your feet. There is an address written in very beautiful and ornate handwriting.

"A warehouse. They keep guns and drugs there. Shouldn't be more than four or five of them. Go get 'em, killer."

"Aaaand there it is. A five for one special. Lucky for you, for us both, I want this so badly. Alright, consider it done."

Fortunately, I've heard of these assholes and know where they like to park their bikes at night.

"One question. What about the shit they're slinging? I don't typically care to get involved in this kinda mess. Tends to draw unwanted attention, and while I do live on the surface, I like to keep my whereabouts to myself."

"Your problem, killer. Not my trouble. Just dead 'em and come back for your prey."

The harsh croaking voice's tone lets you know the conversation is over. Silence returns to the tunnel, but you can feel the displacement of air from something, something unseen. The flame from your Zippo dances for a moment before returning to normal.

I feel a shiver run down my spine as the disembodied voice fades away.

Well, that was weird, but hell yeah. Go in, gank a handful of douchebags, maybe grab a couple new toys for the ol' arsenal, and done.

I've never been this close before. Melissa has always managed to stay one step ahead of me somehow which has only fueled me with that much more rage against her. No doubt, she's got flying monkeys of her own keeping tabs on me, but now...Now I have stumbled upon a stroke of luck for a change. Never would've guessed tonight would include a business deal with one of the baddest beasties underground. A single minute obstacle away from taking what is mine.

I go back the way I came down into the sewers. Pain in the ass, but it beats gambling opening a manhole cover in the middle of the street somewhere. As I head up and out, I find myself near the bar I had originally intended to go. Thankfully there's a motel close by so I can get some of this rank off me. Makes it a bit hard to get info when your informant is gagging...

I do the best I can with the shitty little bar of soap and give my clothes a tub wash.

Damn skank made me ruin my favorite boots. Bitch.

I plop on the bed and turn on the crappy box TV to drown out the wailing and moaning from next door, giving my clothes a chance to dry and giving me some time to think. To plan.

Eventually, your clothes are cleaned and dried enough to wear again. You get suited and booted and ready for action. You give your personal arsenal a once over, making sure that every weapon is ready to serve its intended purpose. You're ready.

The crusted and decayed scenery of the city is exactly how you remember it from the news when the Riots that created the Safety Zones took place. Chicago got the worst of all that. It's a miracle that anything is still standing. The whole city turned into a war zone and you can tell that there hasn't been much public call for rebuilding the particular section that you are in.

You gather your jacket closer to you as you begin the trek to the address the Nossie had given you. You would take a cab or an Uber but you're strapped for cash right now. Maybe you'll find some loose cash in the warehouse after you gank these demon bikers or whatever the Nossie called them.

Eventually, you arrive at your destination. The warehouse is isolated and looks completely abandoned if not for the four Harleys parked around back and the light coming from the second story windows. Look like the place has a catwalk and some busted skylight you might be able to sneak in through. However, you do prefer to just kick a door in and start the killing usually...

Seeing how high up and back they seem to be in the building, I decide against kicking the door in. Takes all the fun out an abrupt entrance when there's no one there to spook shitless.

I make my way up to the catwalk for a better view at exactly where they are. Through the skylight I see the four bikers, who are casually conversing. Well, casual in the sense they are obnoxiously loud and drunk. Two of them are playing a game of pool, one is lounging on a disgusting worn out couch and somehow managing to keep any booze at all in his glass as he swings his arm around wildly while talking, and the last is hovered over a small coffee table held together with duct tape and seems to be sampling some of their recently acquired wares.

Idiots. At least this should be quick and easy...

I jump down through the skylight onto the pool table.

My, my. Love what you've done with the place, boys. Haven't seen anything this quaint since I visited the backwoods of Louisiana.

I pick up the cute ball and whip it at the face of the biker closest to me before reaching my guns from both hips.

The 666'er that you clobbered with a pool cue is laying on the cold hard ground with a clean broke jaw. The other three are staring with their mouths agape at you while you whip out some sweet quipage.

Suddenly the warehouse is alive with activity! Two of them dive for cover behind crates and stacks of junk, but one of them is oddly walking directly into your guns.

His eyes begin to glow with a deep crimson as he snarls...

Let's dance!

I fire off two shots towards the ones taking cover before backflipping off the table to put it between myself and biker heading my way.

Vampire? Rival clan to the Nossies, maybe?

This is not exactly what I signed up for but what the hell. At least it's not as one sided. I whip out the sawed off shot gun strapped to my back and take quick aim at this one's head just to be sure.

The 666'er with the glowing crimson eyes soaks up your bullets without a flinch or a hesitation. He seems to be completely unharmed.

Once he has reached the table you flipped from, he plants a weathered biker boot into the table, kicking it with tremendous supernatural strength, sending it flying directly at your face!

Fuck!

I drop to my knees and lie flat back to dodge the flying table and sit up to study the creature who didn't even flinch at being shot at.

What the fuck are you?!

As he starts toward me I dive past him to go for the two in hiding. Surely they're easy targets if they felt the need to take cover.

I didn't sign up for this shit. Did the Nos know about this? Does he intend for me to come back at all?

I toss a flash grenade from my belt behind the crates with the other two and run for my own cover. I find a dark corner above them to perch and reevaluate the situation.

If it was up to me, I'd blow the whole damn place to bits, but I need this shit. Damn it...