Initiation
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's not like Washington here, the scent of coffee and cigarettes isn't in the air and the ground below your feet resembles a hospital interior more than an office. Warm down here too, poor ventilation to protect against something. Still, this is friendly territory as far as you are aware. No reason to be high-strung.
Fixing to fix the scent issue you reach into a pocket of the long coat currently hanging off your shoulders. Slim fingers get a single cigar out, sorta stuff you can only get out of Miami these days, and lighting it up with a flick of a Zippo. Puffing smoke from your nose while nicotine washes further down the hallway comes clean in your sight, all the little gritty pieces of imperfection that make a place normal.
Make it human.
Another puff of smoke takes you far enough to be right in front of what you need to be inside.
Room 101, huh?
Out of order with the rooms surrounding it sticks out obviously. Not an attempt made to hide the thing because they know that anyone who's made it this far is supposed to be here. The handle twists, opening in a blast of fresh, cold air as a trio of spooks sit around a desk, eyes darkly shaded and practically invisible in the dimly lit office.
"Come on boys, three on one? How's that for fair." A quip to break the ice barely chips it as you sit down, the flask at your hip suddenly becoming friendlier by the moment. "Fair's not the name of the game, Miss Figueroa." The central man speaks, leaning forward to reveal humanity, bare as it is, in two cold brown eyes.
"You've been selected because it ain't fair." A touch of drawl, Georgia drawl peeks out and makes this person even more understandable. "Because you know how to fight unfair, and we've got a situation that needs that." His hands come together in front of him, "You are being assigned as director of the Special Affairs Division. You'll be beholden to no one in particular, and your only limit is what the mission requires."
A paper is slid across the table from the man to your left. Reading its title, it's a contract. "But you'll be signing away your life, you'll never get out of this job unless it is in a casket." A deal with Uncle Sam for every year you've got left, "In exchange, we will give you every resource we can offer to take down the threat."
"What threat is that, sir?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. "Vampires, Miss Figueroa, them and everything else that goes bump in the night." The stun of someone higher up than you saying that breaks your poker face for a second, cigar limply hanging before you recover.
Still, no sense in fucking it up at the finish line, "When do I get started?" The man on the right sets down a pen for you. "As soon as you sign on the dotted line, Director."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A base is constructed full of all sorts of computers and radios linked up to satellites so you can talk anywhere in the world, but you can't spare a moment for them- only their usage. Not even time enough to meet your specialists. Instead, an emergency call is already screaming across the net.
"Got a situation in Jacksonville, who's nearest?" A foreign voice, one you don't recognize yet but likely will soon. Looking at records you answer them. "Rerouting…" Pausing as you read a callsign right out of a cheap flick, "Brady Bunch".
Fucking Miami, "Brady Bunch, they'll be there in an hour." As you set to another radio ordering a helicopter to launch out of your base, loaded with your officers.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mmm, yeah!
"Hey, what's everyone's names?" A man in a Hawaiian shirt asks, clean cut and young looking. There's something more to him, years he hasn't experienced settling heavy on him somehow. The driver of the van rolls his eyes, hidden behind shades that dimly reflect the moon outside.
Tonight, I want to give it all to you
In the darkness, there's so much I want to do
The radio drowns out the quiet of night, waking up civilians and announcing the presence of a new force. "There's no reason to learn any of that till we get past tonight, kid." The driver chuckles, joined by the rest of the men in the back, all holding pistols tightly. "Get ready boys, this party's about to get going." He speaks again as the vehicle comes near the suspicious warehouse found by investigators on the ground.
And tonight, I want to lay it at your feet
'Cause girl, I was made for you
And girl, you were made for me
"This a no-knock?" One of them asks, already cutting up a pile of white powder with a credit card for the rest. "Nah, let's give them the courtesy of a warning, see if they wanna surrender tonight." The driver responds with a laugh while the rest of the men snort in the cocaine, giving hoots and hollers as they get pumped up.
The van stops and everyone moves, kicking the doors open and moving to stack up on the front of this warehouse-turned den of iniquity, pulsing industrial music inside. The lead man, shades glinting, shrugs before slamming his fist onto the door with a roar.
"This is the police! We have a warrant! Come outside with your hands fucking up!" Echoes clearly into the building, causing the music to lower in volume. No response after a moment makes the lead man look behind him, shrug again and say "Well, we knocked." Before twisting and booting the door open.
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
The inside is covered in blood and viscera, something ignored by the majority of them as they funnel in, handguns raised and searching for targets, "Looks like a cartel slaughterhouse in here!" Someone laughs, stepping in a pile of guts and then across it, some pretty young thing split into two halves. "Nah, they've still got all their teeth, ain't cartel." Another man recalls memories, sweeping a flashlight over a dark corner of this concrete hell space.
The younger man seems to have a flash of insight, shouting on a guess, "Above us!" Raising his gun and flashlight to reveal three shapes on the ceiling covered in thick, red blood. Glinting eyes and shining fangs are met with immediate gunfire as they dive down, bullets punching through their bodies with sprays of meat and blood. Enough to kill any man.
And I can't get enough of you, baby
Can you get enough of me?
Still, they land among them and begin a grizzly counter-reprisal. Grown men are thrown clear of their feet by powerful swings, inch-long claws at the end of hands ripping flesh and clothes in the process, sending arcs of claret life into the air, mixing in with the rest of this place.
"Fuckin' hell, they don't go down!" One of the officers almost laughs, gun barking as his eyes widen in a mixture of fear, adrenaline and chemical bliss. The monsters are driven back as officers stand with broken shoulders and busted ribs, preparation saving them the disabling nature of such injuries. "Just gotta try harder man!" Another screams, unloading more rounds towards the enemy.
Tonight, I want to see it in your eyes
Feel the magic, there's something that drives me wild
Monsters are driven back by gunfire, having accurately traced its way up to their necks and faces, the only shots that seem to matter to them. Backs to the wall as, terrifyingly, all at once they run out of ammo. They both stare at one another, monsters healing slowly while officers realize what just happened in a sea of clicking firearms.
And tonight, we're gonna make it all come true
'Cause girl, you were made for me
And girl, I was made for you
"Truce?" Someone on the reloading side of the spirited debate asks, a grin spreading across his face with the hilarity of the situation before the Kindred recover themselves. "I'm going to drink your fucking blood!" A monster roars as they stumble from their healing neurology.
"Fat chance, bloodbag."
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
More gunfire screams out, eventually driving these things to their knees and, with another few rounds, to a still repose on the ground- stiff and unmoving. Silence is all that's left after the chaos, "Hey, I think I broke my shoulder on that fall?" An officer complains.
And I can't get enough of you, baby
Can you get enough of me?
"Pack it in, let's get these bodies in the van before actual cops show up." The driver orders, causing the officers to kick into gear, hauling the stiff bodies of the monsters to their van and peeling out at speed, leaving this place in the rearview mirror.
Rolls
The Brady Bunch=d100(87)+10 (Miami Vice Veterans)=97
Vs
Vampires=d100(33)+30 (Blood Drunk Predators)=63
Brady Bunch Victory. Opponents disabled.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Listening to their radio report your head pounds from the aneurism induced by the sheer carnage and lack of care their entry displayed. But three vampire bodies and no casualties is a miracle by your standards. Now it's just time to focus on the future.
Before you lay thick dossiers, briefings on boiling situations across the US. The geographical distance is significant enough and your current resources are limited enough that you can only reasonably interact with one for now. So, time to focus.
Focus of Turn 1
[X] New Orleans Deaths
Beautiful city, but it's always had a rotten heart. In the vodoun glamour of its gin-soaked streets roam monsters. Fifteen exsanguinations in the last month, they aren't even trying to hide themselves. Businesses being bought out and a crime wave following the deaths is just more evidence that you have to intervene.
[X] New York Subway Disappearances
The New York Subway has had a train go missing, 800 souls simply vanishing in its depths to massive public panic. No one's using the subway until this is solved, and that's making NYC grind to a screeching halt. Something needs looking into here.
Fixing to fix the scent issue you reach into a pocket of the long coat currently hanging off your shoulders. Slim fingers get a single cigar out, sorta stuff you can only get out of Miami these days, and lighting it up with a flick of a Zippo. Puffing smoke from your nose while nicotine washes further down the hallway comes clean in your sight, all the little gritty pieces of imperfection that make a place normal.
Make it human.
Another puff of smoke takes you far enough to be right in front of what you need to be inside.
Room 101, huh?
Out of order with the rooms surrounding it sticks out obviously. Not an attempt made to hide the thing because they know that anyone who's made it this far is supposed to be here. The handle twists, opening in a blast of fresh, cold air as a trio of spooks sit around a desk, eyes darkly shaded and practically invisible in the dimly lit office.
"Come on boys, three on one? How's that for fair." A quip to break the ice barely chips it as you sit down, the flask at your hip suddenly becoming friendlier by the moment. "Fair's not the name of the game, Miss Figueroa." The central man speaks, leaning forward to reveal humanity, bare as it is, in two cold brown eyes.
"You've been selected because it ain't fair." A touch of drawl, Georgia drawl peeks out and makes this person even more understandable. "Because you know how to fight unfair, and we've got a situation that needs that." His hands come together in front of him, "You are being assigned as director of the Special Affairs Division. You'll be beholden to no one in particular, and your only limit is what the mission requires."
A paper is slid across the table from the man to your left. Reading its title, it's a contract. "But you'll be signing away your life, you'll never get out of this job unless it is in a casket." A deal with Uncle Sam for every year you've got left, "In exchange, we will give you every resource we can offer to take down the threat."
"What threat is that, sir?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. "Vampires, Miss Figueroa, them and everything else that goes bump in the night." The stun of someone higher up than you saying that breaks your poker face for a second, cigar limply hanging before you recover.
Still, no sense in fucking it up at the finish line, "When do I get started?" The man on the right sets down a pen for you. "As soon as you sign on the dotted line, Director."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A base is constructed full of all sorts of computers and radios linked up to satellites so you can talk anywhere in the world, but you can't spare a moment for them- only their usage. Not even time enough to meet your specialists. Instead, an emergency call is already screaming across the net.
"Got a situation in Jacksonville, who's nearest?" A foreign voice, one you don't recognize yet but likely will soon. Looking at records you answer them. "Rerouting…" Pausing as you read a callsign right out of a cheap flick, "Brady Bunch".
Fucking Miami, "Brady Bunch, they'll be there in an hour." As you set to another radio ordering a helicopter to launch out of your base, loaded with your officers.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mmm, yeah!
"Hey, what's everyone's names?" A man in a Hawaiian shirt asks, clean cut and young looking. There's something more to him, years he hasn't experienced settling heavy on him somehow. The driver of the van rolls his eyes, hidden behind shades that dimly reflect the moon outside.
Tonight, I want to give it all to you
In the darkness, there's so much I want to do
The radio drowns out the quiet of night, waking up civilians and announcing the presence of a new force. "There's no reason to learn any of that till we get past tonight, kid." The driver chuckles, joined by the rest of the men in the back, all holding pistols tightly. "Get ready boys, this party's about to get going." He speaks again as the vehicle comes near the suspicious warehouse found by investigators on the ground.
And tonight, I want to lay it at your feet
'Cause girl, I was made for you
And girl, you were made for me
"This a no-knock?" One of them asks, already cutting up a pile of white powder with a credit card for the rest. "Nah, let's give them the courtesy of a warning, see if they wanna surrender tonight." The driver responds with a laugh while the rest of the men snort in the cocaine, giving hoots and hollers as they get pumped up.
The van stops and everyone moves, kicking the doors open and moving to stack up on the front of this warehouse-turned den of iniquity, pulsing industrial music inside. The lead man, shades glinting, shrugs before slamming his fist onto the door with a roar.
"This is the police! We have a warrant! Come outside with your hands fucking up!" Echoes clearly into the building, causing the music to lower in volume. No response after a moment makes the lead man look behind him, shrug again and say "Well, we knocked." Before twisting and booting the door open.
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
The inside is covered in blood and viscera, something ignored by the majority of them as they funnel in, handguns raised and searching for targets, "Looks like a cartel slaughterhouse in here!" Someone laughs, stepping in a pile of guts and then across it, some pretty young thing split into two halves. "Nah, they've still got all their teeth, ain't cartel." Another man recalls memories, sweeping a flashlight over a dark corner of this concrete hell space.
The younger man seems to have a flash of insight, shouting on a guess, "Above us!" Raising his gun and flashlight to reveal three shapes on the ceiling covered in thick, red blood. Glinting eyes and shining fangs are met with immediate gunfire as they dive down, bullets punching through their bodies with sprays of meat and blood. Enough to kill any man.
And I can't get enough of you, baby
Can you get enough of me?
Still, they land among them and begin a grizzly counter-reprisal. Grown men are thrown clear of their feet by powerful swings, inch-long claws at the end of hands ripping flesh and clothes in the process, sending arcs of claret life into the air, mixing in with the rest of this place.
"Fuckin' hell, they don't go down!" One of the officers almost laughs, gun barking as his eyes widen in a mixture of fear, adrenaline and chemical bliss. The monsters are driven back as officers stand with broken shoulders and busted ribs, preparation saving them the disabling nature of such injuries. "Just gotta try harder man!" Another screams, unloading more rounds towards the enemy.
Tonight, I want to see it in your eyes
Feel the magic, there's something that drives me wild
Monsters are driven back by gunfire, having accurately traced its way up to their necks and faces, the only shots that seem to matter to them. Backs to the wall as, terrifyingly, all at once they run out of ammo. They both stare at one another, monsters healing slowly while officers realize what just happened in a sea of clicking firearms.
And tonight, we're gonna make it all come true
'Cause girl, you were made for me
And girl, I was made for you
"Truce?" Someone on the reloading side of the spirited debate asks, a grin spreading across his face with the hilarity of the situation before the Kindred recover themselves. "I'm going to drink your fucking blood!" A monster roars as they stumble from their healing neurology.
"Fat chance, bloodbag."
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
More gunfire screams out, eventually driving these things to their knees and, with another few rounds, to a still repose on the ground- stiff and unmoving. Silence is all that's left after the chaos, "Hey, I think I broke my shoulder on that fall?" An officer complains.
And I can't get enough of you, baby
Can you get enough of me?
"Pack it in, let's get these bodies in the van before actual cops show up." The driver orders, causing the officers to kick into gear, hauling the stiff bodies of the monsters to their van and peeling out at speed, leaving this place in the rearview mirror.
Rolls
The Brady Bunch=d100(87)+10 (Miami Vice Veterans)=97
Vs
Vampires=d100(33)+30 (Blood Drunk Predators)=63
Brady Bunch Victory. Opponents disabled.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Listening to their radio report your head pounds from the aneurism induced by the sheer carnage and lack of care their entry displayed. But three vampire bodies and no casualties is a miracle by your standards. Now it's just time to focus on the future.
Before you lay thick dossiers, briefings on boiling situations across the US. The geographical distance is significant enough and your current resources are limited enough that you can only reasonably interact with one for now. So, time to focus.
Focus of Turn 1
[X] New Orleans Deaths
Beautiful city, but it's always had a rotten heart. In the vodoun glamour of its gin-soaked streets roam monsters. Fifteen exsanguinations in the last month, they aren't even trying to hide themselves. Businesses being bought out and a crime wave following the deaths is just more evidence that you have to intervene.
[X] New York Subway Disappearances
The New York Subway has had a train go missing, 800 souls simply vanishing in its depths to massive public panic. No one's using the subway until this is solved, and that's making NYC grind to a screeching halt. Something needs looking into here.
That's national news level, we gotta plug that shit pronto (and hopefully acquire cute rat allies/contacts).
