In Service: A Science Fantasy Quest

[I.F. Ister]

"Baba!" You call as you step into the salon, the bell jingling as the door closes behind you.

The salon is much the same as it always is: dust-filled and cluttered. However, in between the stacks of books and long-forgotten paper is a rather new addition to the mess-in-motion.

A cauldron, black-iron and burbling as green and orange bubbles float from the boiling concoction. A wood spoon stirs the mixture as if handled by a ghost's hand.

Noise comes from the back as Baba emerges from the beaded curtain in the place of a door while carrying a small handful of eyeballs—far too small to be human.

"Ah, tygrysek!" She grins cheerfully as the eyeballs splash into the brew. "I had almost thought you weren't coming."

"Sorry, Baba," you scuff the dusty wooden floors as you grimace, "I got caught up in a Corridor and didn't watch the clock."

"Ah, Corridors." She mutters, shaking her head as she takes command of the spoon. "The flow of time is a strange thing in those places."

You step up next to her, looking down into the violently bubbling mixture as the witch lazily stirs. "What's this for?" You ask, pointing a finger to the cauldron.

"A tracing spell containing four eyes of newt, a compass made of meteoric iron, thirteen drops of mercury, and, soon, shavings of a disgruntled rock." She replies, absently picking up a cheese grater and shaving off parts of what looks to be a normal rock with a frowny face drawn in black sharpie. The rock looks to have been used before in a similar manner.

"Does that actually do anything? The rock, that is. And I thought that 'eyes of newt' was just a stereotype."

"It sets the spell to a negative polarity. Meaning that it should find people who don't want to be found easier." The witch answers as she yawns, waving at her open mouth as you scribble down the concept of spell emotional polarity into your notes. "And the eyes of newt are just used because they have magical significance thanks to said stereotype. Any old eye would work for this specific tracing spell, all they're here for is to serve as a stand-in for the cardinal directions, but never hurts to have some extra oomph to the spell."

"And this is part of Witchery, right?"

She wiggles her hand, shrugging. "Eh, this is more Wizardry, just through the medium of a cauldron. I have several other spells that could do the same thing, but those either take too long or I don't have all the ingredients on hand. And I already had the cauldron out, from some potion making earlier, so I just used this one."

"What's the mercury for?" You drag a chair over, settling down for an impromptu lesson in magic as you flip open your notebook.

"The purer iron is the more resistant it is to magic, yes?" You nod, manacles of pure iron on the wrists and ankles stop a magic user from casting spells. Enough iron can even completely stop magic from even touching something or activating in the first place. Though there are ways to get around it, like painting the iron and then layering magic onto the paint—not the iron. "Iron can be seen as a deactivator, stopping magic from happening. Mercury, on the other hand, serves as a stabilizer for magic. Thirteen drops of mercury should be enough to stabilize just about any reaction, save for things already melting down."

"Good to know." You write that one down too. Perhaps you should carry some mercury around on you? That could be quite useful. "So, why are you doing this spell anyways? I thought you already traced the blood."

"I lost my keys." She remarks, cleaning the spoon against the rim. "And I did, but…" Her expression turns pensive. "Well, you're not gonna like it."

"Just tell me."

She sighs. "The blood is a composite, a mixture, with multiple different sources. Four different blood donors have their blood in this mixture. It's a common anti-blood tracing measure. If you inject someone else's blood, it will remain magically separated for a short time."

You swear, knocking your hand against your knee as you scowl. And then you remember something, the piece of information you gained from the Puppet. Fishing the card out of your pocket, slightly bent from something pressing against it, you present it to Baba. "Could this help in any way? It's the name of somebody who helped with the break in."

"Arabesh-lel Kran-komar." She reads out as she takes the cardstock square from you. "Yes… I believe this will work." The old, muscular woman turns to you. "It will take me likely around three days to complete the ritual. If this Arabesh-lel Kran-komar is the source of one of the bloods, I will find out and you will know."

"Thanks, Baba." You say, leaning back in your chair. What are you going to be doing for three days?

Spoiler: Downtime Options

You may pick up to 3 options and you may pick the same thing multiple times.

[ ] Call the Winchesters, perhaps you can convince them to tell you if they have it or not (Persuasion Roll)
[ ] Pen seems to have a lot of knowledge about things, perhaps he might know something that can help with the investigation (Persuasion Roll. You can gain a bonus depending on what you want to offer as payment)
[ ] Set up a basic lab in your new apartment
[ ] Buy something from Pen (Please include what you want to buy and what you want to pay)
[ ] Perform Super Science
-[ ] Research Something
--[ ] Gremlish Summoning Ritual
--[ ] Dullahan
--[ ] Fallen Angel Feathers
--[ ] Write in
-[ ] Brainstorm New Ideas (Come up with new ideas that you can then start designing)
-[ ] Design a Creation (Create an actual design from an idea. You can specify what you want to get out of it)
--[ ] Troll-Muscle Fiber
--[ ] Enhancing Serum
-[ ] Test a Design
--[ ] Zoom Powder
--[ ] RegenerThread
--[ ] Re-Cuffs
--[ ] Bloodthirst Pill
-[ ] Make Something (Some designs are materials, this is where you make something from them)
--[ ] Write in
-[ ] Optimize Creations. Which? (Have a chance to improve on a design in some way)
--[ ] Burninator
--[ ] Infragoggles
--[ ] Anti-Plant Spray
--[ ] MSB 10
--[ ] Cutter Rounds
--[ ]Bloodthirst Pill
-[ ] Combine Ideas and Designs together (Pretty self explanatory, the more ideas you want to combine the harder it gets)
--[ ] Write in (Include the desired outcome, if you would)
[ ] Visit a Facility
-[ ] Study at the Archives (Increases Mental Health) (Has a chance for you to come across some interesting bit of knowledge) (You may specify what you want to study)
-[ ] Meditate in the Chapels (Has a chance to increase Spiritual Health)
-[ ] Workout in the Gym (Increases Physical Health)
[ ] Train something/with someone
-[ ] Damien Rhodes (Blades of the Crow) (11 More Successes Needed)
-[ ] Damien Rhodes (Dance of the Crow)
-[ ] Damien Rhodes (Knowledge (Write in))
-[ ] Sean McCullen (Unarmed Combat)
-[ ] Old Baba (Magic)
[ ] Visit someone
-[ ] Damien Rhodes
-[ ] Old Baba (Not Available)
-[ ] Sean McCullen
-[ ] Someone else (Write in)
[ ] Take a Personal Action
-[ ] Go for a walk
-[ ] Write in (this can be used to do something that's not listed here, though I reserve the right to veto something if it couldn't be done right now)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Alrighty, some extra information has been gained and Baba's on the case! Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for voting!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"Are you going to need any help with all that?" Your landlady speaks up, gesturing at the box in your hands as you haul it up the stairs. The box contains things like beakers, bunsen burners, plastic tubing, and plasma-velocitic warpers. You know, the basics of laboratory equipment.

Of course, you don't actually need a plasma-velocitic warper, let alone two, but what kind of self-respecting super-scientist doesn't have a plasma-velocitic warper? The kind that has ants in their car, that's who.

"No, no," you grunt a reply, the contents of the box shifting as you laboriously drag it up the stairs, "I've got it, I've got it." You don't have it. Your fingers are starting to slip on the cardboard, but you're too deep now to give up.

"You sure?" She presses, walking up to the base of the stairs. "Cause from here it looks like you're gonna drop it."

"Don't worry, I've go-oh shit." The box slipped out of your fingers as you were reaffirming your false statement.

Sandy regards you with a mirthful smirk as she recovers from catching the much-heavier-than-it-looks box. "Good Lord!" She exclaims, handing it back up to you. "You carrying bricks in that thing or what?"

"No," the bricks were in the last box, "just some basic equipment. Like pyroclastic accelerators."

She squints confusedly up at you, mouth slightly ajar. "Pyroclastic accelerators? Why do you have that? I thought you were a chemical super-scientist."

You shrug. "The bunsen burners needed fuel."

"And you decided to use pyroclastic accelerators!?"

You shrug, once more. "I've always used pyroclastic accelerators. What's the big deal?"

"You know that stuff explodes, right?"

"So does biothorium, and we power our cities with that."

"Well, I guess." She sighs, defeated by your superior logic. "Just, be careful? And not super-science careful, I mean normal science careful."

You recoil in shock. Careful? You? That's practically your middle name! Well, one of them at least. "I'll have you know that I'm plenty careful!" You retort, beginning your ascent up the stairs once more.

"Says the lady who uses pyroclastic accelerators!" She calls after you as a parting shot as you shake your head. Food super-scientists, they never understand. Science is about pushing limits and boundaries! Especially including the preconceived notions of safety! You can't break the laws of physics if you adhere to them in the first place!

But, regardless, this should be the last box. Now you can actually get to work setting up the lab…! Wait a second, you're forgetting something, what are you thinking of-oh yeah! You had completely forgotten about them! The Fallen Angel feathers should be in your mailbox.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you casually race to the wall of mailboxes mounted on the street corner. Unlocking the padlock and entering in the combination, you open the little door and find three pristine feathers sitting inside.

You can feel a smile stretching across your face as you pick one up and start examining it. Each feather is a glossy black, with almost a metallic sheen to it. They're each about eight inches long with a pointed tip. The feathers are soft but—as your fingernail finds out to your detriment, shockingly sharp. You're going to have to file that nail down later, the edge it left is far too sharp for you. But, as the sound of metal on metal rings out as you tap it against the gray mailbox, they seem to be pretty tough. It will require more testing, of course, but preliminary expectations have been met!

Quickly, to the lab!

~~~~~~~

Slipping the safety goggles over your glasses, you grin, planting your hands on your hips as you take in the sight before you.

Your apartment is a four room affair. One bed, one bath, a living room with a kitchenette in the corner, and a side room that you've converted into a laboratory.

It's rather sparsely furnished at the moment, filled in with basic furniture that you bought from OmegaIKEA—no personality at all. Not yet, at least, you'll have time to decorate properly once you find that book of yours. Of course, the exception to the sparsely furnished nature of the rest of your apartment is the laboratory.

The lab is quite cramped, as is to be expected from something that used to be a closet, but it'll do for your purposes at the moment. If you need something bigger you can simply buy or rent or squat in a warehouse or something—the monthly stipend you get from letting the Service use your creations is quite the hefty thing. Though, if you aren't careful with your funds it could get kinda tight sometimes.

But that's a matter for later! You've got work to do!

(Learning Roll DC 40,70,90: 81+10=91, triple success)

First things first, figure out what the hell this thing looks like under a microscope. …which will require you to get a sample, from the super-tough material. Great.

Eh, even if you can't get one you can just do it anyways—balance the feather on the sample mount.

After a bit of finagling, and several burnt out emitters, you managed to use a laser cutter to carve off a teeny-weeny chunk. Pressing that between glass panels, you slip it into place and secure the sample using the clamps.

It takes a moment to zero the microscope in properly, having to swap through a few of the lenses as you do, but you do make some discoveries in your preliminary examination of it.

One. The feathers' calamus, the hollow shaft at the base of feathers, is completely smooth. It reminds you a bit of your MSB10 cans and their effect. Frankly, it rankles you a bit to just stumble across something that, apparently, has the same effect. That damn nature, always screwing with super-scientists!

Though, since this is a Fallen Angel's feather, there is the potential that it wasn't naturally like this. While Angels have a lot of divine power that they Channel, Fallen Angels don't—cut off from the Throne of Heaven. Which, of course, forces them to be extremely efficient and conservative with their use of their remaining power. If they want to survive long at all, they'll pour their very finite reserves into improving their body until they can find another source of power to Channel.

As you know from the exam, smooth surfaces allow magic to flow smoothly. That's likely why they're so smooth, to allow the magic to get there more efficiently. Hmm… that's giving you an idea! While you can't use magic now, perhaps there's a way for you to make some things in preparation for when you can?

Smooth tubing that can easily and efficiently transport magic would be a boon to that, that's for sure. And hey! If you can figure out how to incorporate the smoothness of the feathers' calamus into your MSB10 mixture, you reckon you could improve it mightily!

The second thing you discover is, upon activating the atomic lens of the microscope, that the atomic bindings of the molecules are actually way stronger than they should be. You're beginning to think that you getting a sample at all was a bit of luck on your part—the pile of burnt out laser emitters would certainly support that hypothesis.

Could this be a result of them enhancing and refining their bodies? Wait. Refining… where've you heard that before? In the context of bodies and enhancement that is…

Your eyes widen as you think back to your first assignment at the house of the Myers. Specifically, to the being you had encountered there.

The Gremlish. A being from a 'cultivator' plane of existence where people refine their bodies using some form of magical life energy. And, if you recall correctly, the cultivator planes are located in the Upper Realm, just like the City of Heaven…

Could it be that Fallen Angels utilize a form of this 'cultivation' to refine their bodies? This will require more research…

In other news, you think that you've got a little idea forming in your thoughts. A multitude of ideas, to be exact.

But the one that grabs your attention the most is the one about merging the traits of the RegenerThread, ReCuffs, the Troll-Muscle Fiber thread you've been playing around with, and the Fallen Angel Feathers. A material that heals you, that repairs itself, provides a great deal of strength, and helps keep you safe? Oh man, you can almost smell the Nobel Prize.

Hmm… now that you think about it. How exactly would you give something the properties of the Fallen Angel Feathers if you can't even replicate it yet? Hmm… you could try electrically shocking the atoms? You have a feeling that this is going to be a difficult creation to make. Same with the Troll-Muscle Fibers, but that'll be easier than the Fallen Angel stuff, you reckon.

(Gain two Ideas, a half-formed Combination, a new Research topic, and a bonus to an Optimization
Idea 1: Fallen Angel Ballistic Fiber: A suitably tough material that replicates some of the traits of Fallen Angel Feathers, though nowhere near the degree of actual Fallen Angel Feathers.
Idea 2: Ultra-Smooth Tubing: When you inevitably learn magic, you're going to be incorporating that into your super-science—that's a certainty. These will help you in that task by easily and efficiently transporting magical energy.
Combination: ??? Thread: A thread with the healing properties of RegenerThread, the repair abilities of ReCuff, the strength enhancement of Troll-Muscle Fibers, and the toughness of Fallen Angel Feathers. (Requires all four of these to be at least at the Testing stage of super-science and will be very difficult to make properly)
Research Topic: The Link Between Cultivation and Fallen Angels
Optimization: +15 Bonus to Optimizing MSB10: You've seen the peaks, now it's time to climb them)

~~~~~~~

As you're finishing transcribing all your notes, you glance at your phone as a thought comes to mind. The Chainsaw would be invaluable for slaying any stray Deadites that pop up from the book being out there.

And the last people to have it are but a phone call away…

Well, no time like the present!

Finding and dialing their business number takes less time than it does to calibrate a photon imager—or, in layman's terms, a camera.

"Winchester's Hunters, how can I help you?" A chipper young woman answers the phone on the second ring.

"Hi, my name is Itzabella Williams-" You don't even get to finish as she interrupts you.

(Does the secretary recognize Itza? 73, I guess she does)

"Like the singer?" Why the hell do you keep getting recognized for the literal two month stint you did as a musical artist? You're more famous for being the daughter of your 'parents' than that! There's been, like, one person who knew you from your family, what the hell.

"Yes, that's me." You sigh. Frankly, at this point, you're considering trying to get back into it again. Even if just to shut people up.

"Awesome! You should do more music." Goddammit.

"Yeah, sure, I'll think about it."

"Fuck yeah!" The excitable woman on the other end of the line whispers to herself as she silently cheers.

"Great, uh, about the reason I was calling?" You launch an operation to steer the conversation back on track. You feel like you do that a lot.

"Oh yeah, you got a monster you need killed?"

"No, if I did I'd do it myself." You can hear the slow, doubtful blink on the other end.

"...Right. It would be a shame to lose a talent like yours to a monster so please let the professionals handle it." She begs and you want to go stick your head in the ground. Augh, this is so awkward!

"Th- wha?" You sputter, not quite believing what she just said. "Lady, I am the professionals. I've got the ID to prove it. And even if I didn't!" You cut her off as she goes to speak, massively overcompensating for earlier. "I'm still a damn super-scientist! If I couldn't take care of a single pombly-tombly monster then I'd hang up my lab coat for good!"

"Ma'am, if you're here to talk then please call someone else, this is a line that people could need." Her voice turned rather icy at that and you wince.

"A-ah-I'm sorry." You stammer out. "I, uh, I-I don't know what came over me."

The other end is silent for a moment. "...Right, okay," you can hear her sigh, "what can I help you with?"

"Several years back, in 2088, the Winchesters of the time bought a weapon at an auction house. It was a red chainsaw with an attaching point on the handle. It's also an important family heirloom and… And I was wondering if you still have it because I'd like it back. Please." You add almost as an afterthought.

She's silent again, this time for a longer moment. "Um, I'm going to need to speak to my bosses about that. Please hold." And the line goes dead, great.

The only thing they play is 'Carry On Wayward Son' by Kansas.

Over and over again.

You're there for about an hour, being slowly driven insane by the music looping over and over and ovER AND OVER!

A man comes on the line, his voice rather refined as he begins speaking. "This is Henry. You're Itzabella, right? Itzabella Williams?"

"That's me!" You nearly dance out of your seat as you finally get some human contact! Oh happy days! No more music, no more tunes to torture!

"Uh, good to hear. You had something you wanted to talk to me about? Regarding a certain chainsaw heirloom of yours?"

"Yes, I was wondering if you still have it and if you'd be willing to part with it." While you have a good deal of cash, you still have nowhere near the amount of money it would take to purchase the Chainsaw at the price its worth.

(Persuasion Roll DC 45: 42+5=47, success, that was a close one!)

"I believe we do, yes. I accompanied my father when we made the purchase of it. A red Homelite XL Chainsaw with a peculiar handle?"

"That's the one!" You nearly shout, feeling giddy.

"Why, I believe it's sitting in the shed. We've only ever used it to cut down the odd overgrown tree." You choke on your spit as you hear that, nearly hacking up a lung as you try to process what you just heard.

They did what with it!? It's a tool for killing demons and monsters and they cut down trees with it!? The sheer disrespect, the utter gall of these people!

"If you'd like," Henry continues on, seemingly oblivious to your predicament, "we could ship it up to you, Miss Williams. Save you the trip."

"When would it arrive?"

"In about two to three days, if the weather holds."

You weigh your options. You could spend all day driving down yourself and pick it up in person, which appeals to your desire to get your hands on it as fast as possible. But that would draw you away from the investigation for around two days, if you spent the minimum time there possible.

Or you could put your trust in them and the postal service to get it to you on time and intact.

[ ] "I'll drive down myself." (Puts a pin in Grave Robbing and starts The Quest for the Chainsaw)
[ ] "Go ahead and mail it up." (Bypasses The Quest for the Chainsaw, but there is a chance it gets lost in the mail, or worse)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: This was a big one, holy cow! Both in content and word length.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have a good day everyone!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"I'll drive down myself." You declare to Henry Winchester on the other end of the phone.

"Well then, I'll have it ready for you when you arrive." He replies, refined voice smooth on the other side.

You hang up after saying your goodbyes, slipping the phone back into your pocket.

"Well," you announce to no one in particular as you look upon your freshly unpacked apartment with a sigh, "guess I'd better pack a change or two of clothes."

With that, you set to work with a backpack—mentally marking off the steps as you complete them. Gun, badge, and knife—check. One can never be too careful, not in this day and age. Besides, having your badge on you should help you if you need to get somewhere. Not that you're expecting to need to use it, but it pays to be prepared. A couple changes of clothes as well as your wallet—which contains a few hundred dollars in various denominations as well as your more civilian ID.

Slinging the backpack over your shoulders—after tucking in a few bottles of water and a lunchbox of food, you set out.

And immediately encounter your first obstacle: getting to Lawrence in the first place.

Which is going to be a problem as you don't actually have a car. An easy solution, you'll just call Damie-and he's not answering. His answering machine, however, did and a recording of Zerada-Kil's ever chipper voice informs you that Damein's not in right now and is likely doing some rather important business.

Which does make some semblance of sense. The man is always ready to be called upon at a moment's notice and there'd been some mutterings on the news about something going down in New Orleans for a couple days now.

Regardless of why he can't help you, it doesn't change the fact that he can't help you.

Which means you're shit outta luck unless you can find some other way to get there.

Great.

Not that that's going to stop you from getting there. You're a Williams on a mission, woe betide those who stand in your way.

It just, you know, might take you a bit longer than you thought.

Alright, what are your options?

You could buy a car. Though that's not likely on such short notice… If you could find one of those 'sign and buy' places you could probably do it, though… quality control might be an issue and you don't have the time to be doing any in depth research.

Shelf that idea for now, what else do you have? Take a bus? Ask somebody you know? Charter a flight?

Actually, scratch that last one. Kansas weather makes pilots nervous at the best of times, though apparently it used to not be that bad—before the seals broke of course.

You could try to ramshackle together some super-science, though misaligning a teleporter is a nasty way to go.

You could also try to use some of that magical knowledge Baba's been driving into your head, maybe you could convince some power to give you a ride.

…actually, on second thought you like your free will just the way it is, thank you very much. So you're going to just not accidentally missummon something and have it take you over.

No matter what you do, you're gonna need to decide on something eventually.

[ ] Used car (You're going to get swindled here)
[ ] Bus (Easiest solution, but also the slowest)
[ ] Phone somebody you know (Who? Persuasion Roll of varying difficulties depending on who you call)
[ ] Ramshackle Super-Science (Difficult Craft (Super-Science) Roll)
[ ] It's time to call in that favor the Mercers owe you (Unlocked thanks to them owing you a favor)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I'm actually from Lawrence, so that's gonna be kinda weird to write about lmao

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for playing!

 

[I.F. Ister]

Fishing out your phone, which you find yourself using a lot today, you quickly dial Sean's number—the soothing tunes of Irish fiddle players filling your ears as you listen to his ringtone.

"Itza? It's been a while." Special Agent Sean McCullen comments as he answers the phone in his subtle Irish accent. "How's it going? Holding up okay? You haven't really been at work recently, well, you haven't been mentally there at least."

"Hey, Sean." You reply as you rock on your heels, hands in pockets as you stare at the cloudy horizon line far in the distance. "I'm doing okay, for the most part. Currently working through some stuff in my personal life."

"Ah, damn." He mutters as he grunts softly. You can hear the shifting of weights and the clanking of machinery in the background—it would seem that he's at the gym. "Your parents botherin' you? I know you had some trouble with them."

"Eh," you shrug and then immediately realize that he can't see the motion in the first place, "something to do with that."

"Family matters are never fun to deal with, unless it's a wedding—then it gets real exciting." You can hear the fond grin in his voice as he thinks back.

"I was actually calling you to ask you about that."

"What, a wedding?" That vocal grin of his grows wider and wider. "Sorry Itza; you're cute and all but I'm not exactly looking to settle down just yet." Your eyes widen as you feel piping hot blood rush to your face. You thank your lucky stars that he can't see your mortified appearance, your mind conjuring up the half-formed words he'd tease you with if he could. "Oh man," he laughs at your expense, "I bet that you've got one helluva look on your face right now!"

"Can we move on, McCullen?" You stamp down the red hot sensation on your face as you violently suppress any rebellious thoughts that might be lingering around.

"Ooo," your mind's eye can almost see Sean's smirking grin as he carries on, "calling me by the surname. I must be in trouble!" He draws out his syllables as he continues to torment you with those damnable teases! "Well, Miss Williams," he adds an extra smiling emphasis to your last name, "how can this lowly Dullahan assist you today?"

You take a moment to compose yourself, finally wrestling control over your rioting emotions before launching into the preliminary steps of gaining his help as you sink to sit on the wooden porch step. "Before I tell you anything, I need to know if you have a couple days off saved up. Do you?"

"Aye, I've got a couple." Something tells you that he's being a bit facetious right now, but you can't put your finger on what exactly—beyond it not being malicious. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I need a ride." You're not sure why you're being so cagey on this, perhaps for the drama? You are a super-scientist, after all, drama tends to come with the territory.

"A ride where?" He squints vocally, suspicions rising in his voice.

"Lawrence. Lawrence, Kansas."

"...Kansas is the place with the tornados, right?"

"Yep, smack dab in the middle of the Founding United States." You confirm.

"And where's this Lawrence?"

"East-Northeast, in between Topeka and Kansas City. About a day by car."

"By car? What about by ghost horse?" That's something of a non sequitur, but whatever, you'll roll with it. Not like you've never said anything like that before.

"Uh, are ghost horses faster or something? If so I would assume so."

"Aye, they are." He answers before asking another question of his own. "Now, why are you asking me this? It must be important for you to actually reach out to someone."

"Can you keep a secret?" You almost demand him to answer—your words filled with an authority that brooks no contest.

"Of course I can! I'm a feckin' fae ain't I?!" He sounds a tad bit insulted that you'd even ask that, his accent growing stronger along with his ire.

"Sorry, I just had to make sure that you weren't going to shout it to the rooftops." You hurriedly apologize, unforeseen and irrational fears racing through your mind as you wait for him to speak.

"Itza, you're my friend." It's a good thing you're already sitting because that'd probably knock you off your feet if you weren't. "The only way anyone'd get your secrets outta me is if they pieced it together from the crumbling remains of my shattered mind. I promise that on the hallowed crypts of my honored ancestors."

You have absolutely no idea how to respond to that so you decide to just go ahead and tell him, trusting in the strength of the oath he swore. "A particularly dangerous book that I'm hesitant to say the name of was in the possession of my family and guarded in the family Mausoleum alongside our founder. That book was stolen. I aim to get it back. One of the tools of my family's founder has recently resurfaced in the collection of the Winchesters down in Lawrence. I would go down and collect it, but I lack a way of actually getting there. That's where you come in."

(Persuasion Roll DC 25: 95+5=100, success, Jesus Christ on a bike, Itza!
94+0=94, double success, well I'll be damned)

"Itza, on a scale of zero–thirteen—with zero being no more dangerous than a children's paperback, ten being the literal Book of the Dead, and thirteen being the Book of Life, how bad are we talking here?"

"It's kinda ironic that you put that book as ten…" You trail off with a hollow chuckle.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God…" Sean swears under his breath in a continuous stream of Irish-accented vitriol that lasts for a full twenty-five seconds—all in one breath and not reusing any curses. "You had the Necro-feckin'-nomicon Ex-Mortis all this time?"

"Yes, yes we did. The founder of my family was the one who killed the Kandarian."

"Jesus." Sean declares for a final time before falling into a silence for a few moments. "So, what's the plan?" He asks like he just wasn't swearing the strongest you've ever heard—save for that time you encountered one of Santa's Workshop Elves.

You blink in surprise. After all that swearing and panic-fuelled fear, he's ready to get to work? Just like that? Is that normal Human behavior? You don't know, people have never really been your strong suit and even that's when you're in person. People over the phone are just about impossible for you to grok.

"I've got some evidence that's being traced to a person by a third party friend of mine. It's going to take some more time, about two days or so by my estimate, to complete it. So I thought that it would be a good idea to grab high quality demon slaying equipment."

"How high quality? Just out of curiosity."

"Chosen One."

You can hear him open his mouth and then close it—his teeth clicking shut. "At this point I'm not surprised any more. I'm sure I'm going to wake up tomorrow in a cold sweat, but that's a problem for Future Sean as it seems that you've overloaded my surprise meter for the time being."

"My vengeance for earlier." You grin as his chuckle carries over the line.

"Aye, fair enough." You share a moment of laughter as the exact moment he called himself your friend cemented itself in your memories. "Whats your address? I'll be swinging by soon. But, before I go, there's one thing I must ask you. Carriage or Horse?"

Carriage or Horse?
[ ] Carriage
[ ] Horse

"Also, Kansas City's in Missouri? Why's it called Kansas City then and not 'Missouri City'? They need to get their heads on straight." Sean comments blithely, only realizing the pun he just made when you start laughing.

(Sean's Opinion of you has increased from 4/20 to 7/20 (Definitely, positively, friends—as much as you hesitate to believe it. Though… given some of his comments… maybe there's…?))

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: The Haircut has claimed its first activation and I had a lot of fun writing this update, I won't lie.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST and make sure to have a wonderful day!

 

[I.F. Ister]

Sean said he'd be here shortly, so, while you're waiting on the porch step, you decided that it would probably be a good idea to research the threats and local powers of Kansas.

Since you don't have access to the Archives at the moment, you're just scrolling through the sites and who's-who wikis from your phone.

Engrossed in the articles and biographies on your phone, you don't notice the vehicle pulling up on the street—only paying attention once an engine is gunned.

Head snapping to the sound, you're of two minds of what you see before you. On one side, you're somewhat disappointed that Sean wasn't talking about a literal horse—those feelings came from the same source as those rebellious thoughts from earlier. On the other hand, you're very happy that it isn't an actual horse as that would likely be painful after a while.

Sean sits astride a black motorcycle—a cruiser if you remember correctly, his thick arms covered in a leather jacket as they cross under his sparkling eyes and pearly white teeth. His unruly curly red hair has been slightly tamed since last you saw him, slightly longer too as the ends tickle the lobes of his ears. While it does still look a bit corpse-like, his skin looks far healthier too—you can even make out a light splash of freckles across his nose!

A pair of helmets sit next to him on the seat of the motorcycle, which you now notice is unusual. Steam rises from the exhaust in regular bursts, like a predatory beast breathing in a cold and quiet night. The headlight is solid red and glowing, like an ever-watching and all-observing eye. The wheels spark as they press against the pavement and the whole vehicle has this air of tenseness to it, like it could leap into motion at any moment.

Momentarily speechless, you give Sean an opening to work with. "Like what you see?" His grin grows into a smirk as your cheeks gain a low simmer.

"You know, when you said 'ghost horse' I was expecting an actual ghost horse. Not whatever that is." You say, gesturing at the whole ensemble with your phone as you rise from your spot on the porch.

"It is a ghost horse," he insists with a laugh, "some just look like this now."

"How does that work?" You question, your arms folding in front of you.

"Well, ghost horses, and to a lesser extent ghost carriages, are bonded with the Dullahan thanks to millenia-old treaties." The handsome Dullahan begins to explain from across the strip of cracked sidewalk and surprisingly well-kept grass. "And since they're spirits they can shapeshift into things that are close enough to them." The broad-shouldered man pats the rubber grips with an affectionate look in his eye. "This here is the Black-Fire Charger, a ghost horse that's been in my family for generations of Dullahan."

As you open your mouth to respond with more questions, you spot out of the corner of your eye the door opening and Sandy emerges. She looks from you to Sean, a questioning look in her eyes. "Who's this, Itza?"

"Sean, a friend from work that's giving me a ride down to Kansas." You reply, mentally clocking that you didn't actually tell your landlady that you'd be going anywhere. You've gotta get better at that. "And this is Sandy, my landlady." You say to Sean.

"A friend from work, huh?" She sends a wink down your way that has Sean guffawing in the background. Oh goddammit, not her too! "And isn't Kansas kinda far away? What're you going down there for?"

You shrug. "Got a call saying that an heirloom important to my family is down there. We're heading to go pick it up, should be about two or so days."

"Ah well, have fun you two. And make sure to be safe, alright?" Of course you're not going to be safe, traveling long distances is never safe—not with how the roads are these days. "Unintended consequences can throw your lives into chaos." Wait, is she…? "Which is why you should always use protection." Oh by the spirits of long dead mad geniuses.

Your palms slap against your face, covering your eyes while your cheeks gain a nuclear heat as Sean doubles over with a wheezing, choking laugh. Sandy herself has the look of the cat that caught the canary as she pivots and saunters on through the door disappearing back to the kitchen with a flick of wave.

Sean wipes a tear from his eye as he recovers from nearly dying of laughter—you having uncovered your eyes though you still sport some heated cheeks, though they cooled off some.

"She is a riot!" He declares, pushing off the parked motorcycle as he swaggers on over to you. "And she's your landlady? That's gotta be great."

"What she is is a menace." You mutter, squinting at the giggling figure of Sandy through the window. A thought occurs to you, a suitable way to get vengeance on Sean. If you invite him over for dinner, you can get him to try some of Sandy's concoctions! It'll be glorious!

"Menacingly awesome." Sean replies as he leans a well-muscled arm on one of the porches supporting the roof of the porch, his head tilted down at you. He's close enough now that you have to lift your head up to look him in the eye—you're not even that short, dammit! You're 5'7", way above average for women, and you still only barely come up to his neck!

A rebellious part of your mind points out that there are advantages to being this close to him, namely the fact that you can faintly make out his abs from under his slightly-too-small white t-shirt. That, of course, sparks another wave of heat to rise in your cheeks before you can quench it fully.

"So, wanna get going?" He asks, that damned smirk of his back on his face.

"Yeah, lets get going." You slip by him and walk up to the motorcycle, Sean a step behind. "Sean," you begin as he swings a leg over the seat and wraps his hands around the handlebars, "where am I gonna sit?"

He blinks, a blank look on his face as he replies. "I… hadn't thought of that…" The Dullahan rubs his chin as he thinks. "I guess I could get Charger to make a sidecar if you wa-"

"I'm not doing that." You interrupt him as you sigh, knowing what you're going to have to do. That damnable part of your mind cheers on as you climb behind him, Sean strangely quiet as you settle in. "Drive." You command, your hands resting on his shoulders—which are nice and sturdy, well-optimized for carrying heavy things over long distances.

"Yes Ma'am!" He responds, gunning the engine and peeling out from the street—harmless sparks shoot off from the tires.

~~~~~~~

After a few minutes of driving, you begin to tell Sean about Kansas and the threats present there.

"Kansas as a whole has a rather large population of spellcasters among the people living there, second only to Massachusetts among the states—though there's also just a lot of really haunted places there." You begin as you get push the thoughts of how nice this feels back into the abyss they came from. "While most other places have about 1:40 for the ratio between non-normal individuals and humans, Kansas has a ratio of about 1:13—high, but not nearly the 1:7 of Massachusetts or the ungodly 1:3 of the Independent Nation-State of Florida."

"Why's Florida so wild?" Sean asks just like hundreds of thousands of people have before him. "And did you say Independent Nation-State, how'd that happen?"

"Curse of the Florida Men and when it declared succession and floated off into the middle of the Atlantic, which sparked a whole shit storm."

"That… is goofy." He declares succinctly as you continue on.

"Something that must be noted about the states, and about America as a whole, is that the United States of America no longer really exists. At least, not in the same form as before the Calamitous Years. During the two-ish decades of chaos and violence the federal government fell apart, and fell apart hard—leaving the governments of the states to pick up the pieces while the feds were reorganizing. As such, the USA—now officially called the UNSA, or United Nation-States of America, is a collective mess of states that are all nations unto… themselves…" You trail off your long-winded speech as you notice Sean looking at you with an amused expression. "What?"

"Why are you telling me that? I live in the UNSA." He remarks as you sullenly shuffle and shrug.

"Well, I dunno," you mutter, "maybe you didn't know and then that would be useful for you."

He laughs, shaking his head as you scowl at the back of his helmet. "Well, why don't you carry on then?"

With that, you launch into another long-winded lore-dump.

"Kansas is governed from the state capital of Topeka by Governor Smitty Wizzen, a particularly wizened wizard who is best known for throwing a 18-headed hydra that had been threatening Wichita at a fleet of gnome airships that were raiding the Flint Hills region in Southeast Kansas—a forty mile throw. Kansas as a nation-state is currently locked in a low-level cold war with Missouri, a rivalry from the First Civil War that flared up in the Second—with neither side winning that stupidly bloody throwdown. Four-hundred thousand people lost their lives, a stupidly high deathcount for a pair of states that collectively have about six million people between them."

"Four-hundred thousand!?" He exclaims in abject shock, jaw hanging open as he slips a bit into his Irish accent. "How the feck did that happ'n?"

"I have no damn clue." You shake your head. "I was already twenty tabs deep when I stumbled across that little tidbit and I didn't feel like opening another forty."

"Fecking outrageous." He mutters while you prepare your next section.

"Western Kansas has sort of embraced a strange aesthetic and culture sourced from an old movie. There's a city-state by the name of the Emerald City, roads paved in yellow brick that seem to lead you where you need to go, covens of wicked witches, and dimension-hopping tornadoes. Overall, it seems to be a rather strange place that I'm glad we're not visiting."

"I think I watched that movie when I was a kid, I thought the color change was cool." Sean remarks with a shrug, your hands feeling the slabs of muscles shift with the movement. This time you manage to clamp down on any thoughts before they have a chance to form, your passion for talking about knowledge overriding your… whatever you have towards Sean.

"Eastern Kansas, on the other hand, is a place you are visiting. It's split into a multitude of factions that all, officially at least, bend the knee to Governor Smitty Wizzen. In the North you've got the Gnomish Enclaves, the group that most openly defies the Governor and periodically leads raids on the other parts of Kansas—and parts of Nebraska and Missouri. To the West you've got Basilica, an offshoot of the Knights of the Church that operate as protectors for the local populace. Basilica is headquartered out of the Cathedral of the Plains in Victoria. More Eastwards you've got the Jayhawkers who operate out of Lawrence—so we're probably gonna be encountering them sooner or later. The Jayhawkers are led by the restless spirit of John Brown and, unlike Basilica or the local monster hunting groups, protect people out of a pure altruistic desire. As such, they're much smaller than most other groups but also fiercely loyal to the Governor." You're nearly done with this bit of an explanation, which makes your tongue cheer with delight—talking this much isn't something you're used to but there's just something about talking with Sean that makes you never want to stop. That would be an impossibility, eventually your body would give out, but not if you remain well hydrated, so you take a drink of water.

After swallowing a couple mouthfuls of water, you launch into your final topic to talk about. "There are also some groups that roam around, like the Lord of the Dancing Dead, a necromancer that has a penchant for having his undead legions dance into battle. He's not a particularly dangerous person, so I don't think he'll be too much trouble. What is a dangerous person is the Wizard of the Wind. This ancient Wizard is another resident of Kansas that you might run into, but he's a neutral party in the politics of the Sunflower State so if we do we'll probably not have a fight on our hands. And if we do… then we'd best find a way to de-escalate as he's one helluva powerhouse."

~~~~~~~

You're about two thirds of the way through the journey at this point, in the outskirts of Kansas City, when the sun starts to set.

Sean suggests staying the night in a motel, but you kind of want to just keep on going through the night. However, being delirious from a lack of sleep probably isn't a very good thing to be.

Which do you choose? (Fair warning for if you choose to spend a night in a motel, you'll be sleeping in different rooms. Itza's not at the stage where she'd be okay with sleeping in the same room with Sean, let alone the same bed, and certainly not with him—even if some small parts of her mind would disagree.)

[ ] Spend a night in a motel
[ ] Carry on through the night

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I am having so much fun writing this, this is great!

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have an absolutely fantabulous day, everyone!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"Motel, definitely don't want to be delirious for this." You decide as Sean nods in agreement. A few moments later he pulls into a poorly maintained parking lot outside of a seedy-looking motel in the outskirts of Kansas City. The name of this seedy-looking motel is 'Darelene's Stop and Drop Motel', a rather interesting name for a place such as this.

The sun is touching the horizon, far in the distance—what you can see through the buildings at least. The horizon is turning an orangy-pink with streaks of golden yellow streaming past fluffy gray clouds that drift across the sky.

The smell of barbeque fills the warm air as people mingle in front of their nearby homes, beers in hand and tongs in the other as fathers with jiggling beer bellies laugh and grill chicken wings. Children play yard games on the street under the watchful eye of their gossipping mothers standing off to the side in packs of their own. None of the children draw too close to the motel and if they do they're quickly herded away by observing adults.

None of that really draws your attention as you're focused on the run-down motel in front of you. It's old, decrepit, run down, a mere shadow of its former self. The once-white paint peels off the wooden walls in great flakes, just brushing your hand against it too hard sends a flurry of paint flecks flying.

The overall structure of the building is a two-storied affair, an open-air stairway made of welded metal plates and twisted rebar gives access to the second floor walkway—which is supported by a series of wooden posts connecting the second story to the first. There are seven doors on each floor, with the seventh door of each floor dedicated either to the front desk or the personal residence of the building manager.

The door, a painted green metal rectangle with the words 'Front Desk' scrawled onto a brass plate, squeaks as you open it—a small bell jingles as the door opens fully against hinges that need a good oiling. A four-bladed ceiling fan spins lazily, likely doing more damage to the electricity bill than the actual temperature of the place. The floorboards creak as you follow the trail of cigarette smoke to the front desk.

Manning the front desk is, presumably, Darlene. Darlene is an old lady, about in her late fifties, with a green visor over her head and a trashy-looking cigarette hanging from her pursed and wrinkly lips as she peers down at a crossword puzzle book she's got open on her cluttered desk.

The desk itself has a wired telephone, a green mat in the center of the desk, an old dusty mug with the words '2nd Place Winner of KCMO's Motel Contest, 2172' printed on it holds pens and pencils of various designs. An old computer, square and rugged and boxy, sits at an angle at the corner of the ensemble, drawing it all together with its cream-colored mechanical keyboard.

Filing cabinets line the walls to the left of Darlene, not all of the drawers are fully closed and look to have been open for quite some time.

Your footsteps draw Darlene from her crosswords and her face gives you the overall impression of a crab.

"How can I help you?" The landlady sounds exactly like you'd expect from the old, bedazzled glasses perched on the end of her nose and the curly gray hair tied back with a rubber band. Her pale blue eyes flick from you to Sean and back. "Couples' rooms cost 30% more for a total of $26 per night per person."

You sigh mentally as you corral the heat rising in your cheeks. Alright, this has gone on far longer than it has any right to. You've gotta get your emotions under control here and stat, this is far too important to allow yourself to be distracted by any feelings, strangely nice or otherwise. Indulging in these exotic sensations was a pleasant surprise, but it's starting to get out of hand here. You can address these nascent desires once this is all over and you have some time to yourself for introspection.

"We'd like a pair of rooms for just the night, we'll be out of your hair come morning." You announce, fishing out your wallet and opening the bill fold as Sean examines the memorabilia on the poorly-wallpapered walls—memories of once happier times now long gone.

"That'll be $36 for the lot." Darlene intones, finishing off the horizontal section of the crossword puzzle. You lay down four bills and receive four in change along with a pair of keys. "Yours is 104," she nods to you before nodding towards Sean, "his is 206." She fixes you with a stern glare from over her wide glasses. "And no 'nightly visits', you hear? The extra 30% is to pay for cleaning costs and I'll ban you if you try and flout that."

"Got it." You nod as you toss Sean his key, internally grossed out by the idea of not cleaning up after oneself. What sorta things are they doing in there that'd require proper cleaning chemicals?

With that outta the way, you say your goodbyes to Sean after agreeing to both be up by 6:30 AM at the latest. After that, you retire to your room while Sean heads out to explore the town a little.

The room itself is a simple affair. A twin-sized bed with cheap sheets and a single lumpy pillow sits flush with the far wall. A small sitting area rests to the right of the door, a window in the wall looks out onto the parking lot as the sun sets. A kitchenette stands in an alcove to the left and beyond the bed, a door leading to a bathroom sits in the right wall of the alcove—right behind the bed's headrest.

The overhead light buzzes as you flick the lightswitch on. Closing the curtains you begin undressing, preparing to take a quick shower before bed. A floorboard, about two paces from your bed, creaks loudly as you step on it.

After lathering up and rinsing off, you change into your sleepwear—blue pajama pants and a soft, loose-fitting shirt. These fuzzy pants have little yellow ducks on them, which sends a flutter of dopamine to your brain and causes you to smile.

Before you can get to bed, however, you need to complete a few more tasks. Brushing your teeth, running through the day's events, and setting up some basic alarm systems—never hurts to be prepared.

After priming the laser-activated alarms, you stretch, yawn, turn out the lights, and climb into bed. After placing your glasses on the nightstand, of course.

Sleep comes quickly and you soon find yourself in blissful oblivion.

~~~~~~~

The soft sounds of your back-up alarm system wake you from your slumber. Your sleep-addled brain slurches around, wondering why the back-up's buzzing sound would be playing in your ear. That is, until you remember that the back-up only goes off when the primary and secondary alarm systems are disabled, meaning that somebody's breaking in.

A creaking floorboard alerts you to the presence of somebody in your room, about two steps away.

It's not Sean, he doesn't have the key nor is he aware of your alarm systems. And even if he was, he wouldn't know how to disarm both of them.

Which means that this is likely a hostile entity.

You can feel your gun and knife under the pillow, your right hand brushing up against them. You don't think that the intruder's realized that you're aware of their presence.

You don't have much time so you're going to have to act soon.

What do you do? (If you would like, you can write up a plan and receive bonuses for doing so)
[ ] Draw the gun (Likely to lethally wound the intruder)
[ ] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
[ ] Subdue via CQC (Very unlikely to lethally wound the intruder)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I realized I might be playing it up a bit much with the feelings stuff so I have decided to to draw back on it a bit. Was it a bit much? Was it just right? Let me know

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for participating!

 

[I.F. Ister]

Your fingers curl around the knife hilt under your lumpy pillow. You can hear the breathing of the individual that has so rudely intruded into your rightfully rented room.

All you hope that happens, in the coming moments, is that you don't get blood all over your pajama bottoms. These duck-covered pants hold a rather soft spot for how new they are and you would rather them not be dirtied or ruined.

The intruder is close, far too close for comfort. You're going to have to create some distance here.

Your foot lashes out, catching the intruder in the stomach as the sheets flutter to the ground. You hear something glass-like clatter against the ground, but pay it little mind as you twist from the bed and land on your feet—-knife in hand and ready for violence.

The intruder reveals itself to be a large man dressed in dark clothing. He's holding a boxy device with a blinking red light as he stumbles into a wall lamp.

You lunge forwards, knife extended and taking full advantage of the opportunity—you are the daughter of a capitalist after all, you're anything if not opportunistic.

The honed, razor sharp edge of your Service Knife carve through skin and wrist tendons like a hot knife through butter. The man screams as his hand falls limp, the black box falling from numb fingers and crashing against the carpeted floor.

He falls backwards, holding his hands up over his head as you stand there with a knife slick with his blood. He cowers under your steely gaze, he won't be doing anything to threaten you now.

Keeping your eyes on him, you reach down and pluck the box and the glass from the floor—which turns out to be a syringe of some kind. The syringe is likely filled with a sedative, but you can't be sure until you can actually study it. The box is presumably a jammer of some sort, allowing the man to get past your primary and secondary defenses.

Now then, what do you do?
[ ] Check on Sean
-[ ] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
-[ ] Don't bring the intruder with you (Gives him a chance to escape)
[ ] Interrogate the intruder (Please write any questions you want to ask)

Spoiler: Combat Rolls

(Combat (Unarmed) Roll DC 35: 33+10=43, success)
(Damage: 7 Damage)

(Combat Contest:
You: 84+10=94
Intruder: 62-5(Distracted)=57
You Win)
(Damage: 11 Slashing Damage, Disarmed)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Sorry about the short chapter, but I am rather tired.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have a good sleep everyone.

 

[I.F. Ister]

Content Warning: Mentions of kidnapping and human trafficking

~~~~~~~

"Alright, dick." You say, hauling the large man to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

"I-I wasn't gonna do anythin'!" He whines, a surprisingly thin and reedy voice for such a large guy.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll see about that." You roll your eyes as he tries to spew whatever bullshit he can think of. Pressing the tip of your knife against his back shuts him up nicely and you lead him from your room and out into the cold, brisk air of the night.

After grabbing your gun, of course. Leaving that unattended would be a grievous display of irresponsibility.

Your breath mists in the air as you force him along. He half-heartedly squirms against your iron-clad grip, an ultimately futile token effort towards escape.

You frogmarch him to and up the metal plated and twisted rebar stairs under the light of fluorescent street lamps.

Your fist slams against the door to 206, rattling the thin metal door in its hinges. A quiet moment passes before silent shuffles approach from the other side of the door.

You hear the door unlatch as the flimsy metal swings open, revealing Sean's headless body in all its glory standing in the doorway.

His headless, half-naked body.

His headless, half-naked, and very sculpted body.

Which you studiously ignore.

The body of the Dullahan waves at you and jerks a thumb towards the bed. Leaning around the large body, you spot Sean's head sitting on the pillow, squinting at you with bags under his eyes.

His body moves out of the way as you enter, dragging the mysterious man in your wake. Sean's eyes widen as his gaze flicks from you to the man, his eyebrows rising in slight surprise.

"What the hell…?" He trails off as his body plucks his head from the pillow and plants it on the empty stump.

"Broke into my room." You say as you shove the intruder down onto one of the chairs. "And dropped these." You show off the syringe and black box, handing them to Sean to examine while the man fearfully looks between you and the Dullahan—clutching his crippled hand to his chest.

(Does Sean recognize either of these? 93+5=98, yes, one of them)

"I… don't recognize this one." Sean mutters as he turns the box over in his hands, mouth twisting into a deep frown as he lays eyes on the green-fluid-filled syringe. "And he had these on him when he broke into your room, right?"

"Correct, I believe the needle contains a sedative of some kind." You respond, glaring at the large man cowering on the hard, wooden chair that can't be comfortable to sit on.

"It's a bit more than that, used to be quite common in Ireland about thirty or so years back." Sean shoots a scalding glare of his own at the man on the chair. "Not just a muscle relaxant, but a mental blocker too. An addictive one at that. Used a lot in human trafficking but fell off when the Irish broke a massive ring of slavers."

You feel a bit sick to the stomach when you hear those words. That feeling of disgust quickly gives way to a spark of anger that grows larger and larger. Your fingers twitch around the knife handle, wanting nothing more than to plunge the blood-slick blade into the living sack of shit sitting before you.

But you restrain yourself, killing him won't do anything to help anyone.

"Alright." You declare, pulling the other chair out and spinning it around to rest your folded arms on the backrest. You were right, this is uncomfortable. "We're gonna ask you some questions, you're gonna answer them. Capiche?"

His head bobs up and down rapidly. "Y-yeah. Whatever you want to know."

"Lets start with something simple." You begin as Sean pulls out a notepad and pencil. "Who are you? Name, age, things like that"

"Uh, w-well my name's Dillon Sandor. I'll be twenty-two in a month and I weigh two-fifteen."

"Good job, Dillon." You say as Sean scribbles those down. "Now, let's try something harder. What were you gonna do to me, Dillon? You ever done anything like that before, Dillon?" You might be putting a bit too much pressure on his name there, but you don't care all that much right now.

He swallows a couple times, trying to work up some wetness in his mouth as he clutches his limo wrist. "I-I was g-gonna s-stick you with the needle, ma'am. And no, ma'am."

"If you've never done this before, then what gave you the idea? Are you working alone, Dillon? A group? A ring? You from around here, Dillon?"

He blinks, surprised by the seemingly offbeat question. "I don't know!" He cries out.

"What don't you know, Dillon? How could you not know if you're working alone or not. Where did you get the idea, huh? Answer me, Dillon!" You demand as Dillon shuffles around silently, eyes wide as they flick around the room. You slam your knife into the table, his eyes zeroing in on the blade as it sticks through the wood.

"There's three of us!" He shouts, breathing heavily. "I only joined recently! This was my first solo, I swear!"

"First solo? So you've done this before?"

"Yes! No! I haven't done this before but I've been looking out for the others!"

"Look out? You got some friends coming to get you that we should know about?"

"N-no!" He quickly denies it, shaking his head and arms—the limp wrist wobbling limply. "We get a lot of money per each girl we bring in and I-I figured I could get more if I did it solo!"

"Each girl you bring in, huh, Dillon? Who's buying these poor girls?"

"I don't know! Honest!" He pleads as you let the knife drift a little closer. "We just bring them to a point and leave, an hour later the girl's gone and there's a sack of cash for us to split."

"So, you were gonna sell me?" You can't help but get heated at that, a growl entering your voice. You were at the Fall of Troy, you saw some of the most horrific acts imaginable with your own two eyes. That might have left a mark or two on you.

"No!" You glare at the obvious lie as he hurriedly corrects himself. "I-I mean, yes!"

"Why me specifically?"

"You were alone and from out of town, a perfect target!" He cringes away from the heavy stare you send his way. A motel on the outskirts of town is a perfect target for somebody to watch for marks.

Sean chimes in here with a laugh. "Even if you had succeeded, you'd have called down the wrath of God on your poor, fool heads by abducting an agent of the Service."

Dillon pales even more as he starts shivering in fear. "P-please d-don't k-k-kill me!"

Sean only laughs at that.

"Where'd you get the needle and jammer? Those don't exactly grow on trees, Dillon." You interject, pulling it back on track.

"Dead drops! But the jammer was a recent addition, only came in today's!"

"Where are they, these dead drops?"

He gives you addresses and descriptions of locations, Sean writing them all down beside you.

The interrogation proceeds along similar lines. You find out the first names of Dillon's accomplices and various other pieces of information.

But, now you've come to an impasse. This situation isn't part of the Service's jurisdiction, this falls under the jurisdiction of the local authorities, with the FBI taking over if it turns out to be interstate in nature. The only way the Service gets involved beyond providing an agent for consultation is if it turns out that it's being masterminded by some supernatural force—in which case the Service will then take over the investigation.

However, the Service is going to be mad that this even almost happened and try to muscle their way into at least a joint investigation. Giving your bosses the information would speed that process along a lot.

But of course, that is a flouting of the rules you're supposed to follow.

What do you do? (Either way, we're not interrupting the Quest for the Chainsaw for this, as the Quest for the Chainsaw is already interrupting Grave Robbing and I don't want to get too off track here. After everything's done with those two, we might have something happen with this)
[ ] Call the local authorities
[ ] Send it to the Missouri Service Division

After making your decision, you and Sean get going. You don't exactly feel like staying at the motel any longer.

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for feedback!

 

[I.F. Ister]

You've arrived in Lawrence, Kansas without much issue beyond a little bit of a rendezvous with the Missouri Service Division to hand over Dillon and the intel.

The pair of female agents you handed Dillon over to had a particularly scatching look in their eye as they glared at the man. It seems that the Service's reputation for 'controversially legal' acts might hold a bit more water here in Missouri than it does in Chicago, but that's not your problem anymore.

You suspect that Dillon will give a confession before either committing 'suicide' or is euthanized for being corrupted by some spreadable influence—which might even be true depending on what happens to him while in their custody and what the Missouri Division have in their deep containment.

Some Bushwhackers, the Missourian equivalent of the Jayhawkers in Kansas—with which they skirmish occasionally in guerilla campaigns, followed you from a distance. They didn't interact with you at all, just riding nearby until you got to the DMZ between Kansas and Missouri—the stretch of land where Kansas City, Kansas used to sit. Once you reached that place, they peeled off and left you alone.

Getting through the border was easier said than done, any travel from Missouri is heavily scrutinized by the Kansas border guards and vice-versa for the other side of the border. But flashing your Chicago Division badges was enough to get through most of it without any hassle, your accents handling the rest.

So, after another hour of traveling, you find yourself in Lawrence—which is a surprisingly haunted town. While the articles you read mentioned the presence of ghosts in Lawrence was higher than average, they really didn't emphasize enough on how haunted this place is.

You suppose that being sacked multiple times and having its people butchered would do that to just about any place.

But regardless of the reason, ghosts are relatively common here. Well, as far as ghosts go, at least.

Even just walking down the street will result in you seeing one or two ghosts just going about their business. Remarkably cognizant ghosts as well, presumably a result of there being a decent amount of powerful specters around and about.

All of that is in the back of your mind as you find yourself standing in front of Winchester Manor, or rather, the estate walls.

Thick stone walls topped with barbed wire, presumably with a solid iron core, line the property. A strong defense, but nothing that'll keep something especially determined out.

"Itzabella Williams?" An intercom speaker buzzes.

"That'll be me." You respond, showing off your badge and ID to the camera.

"Come on in, then." A beep and the gate swings open. Sharing a glance with Sean, who shrugs, you step through the now open gate.

Passing across the threshold, even you with your meager magical senses can detect the light film that breaks against your skin. And if you can feel it… then just how strong are these defenses?

You suppose that that's what happens when people that actually care about something take care of it.

The inside of the Winchester Estate is, in a word, green. Green, verdant grass rolls across the property in grand, sweeping hills topped with trees bearing green, leafy boughs.

A trail leads up the manor atop the largest of all the hills. It's a three story affair built in a Victorian-era style. Dark wood roofs and stone brick foundations.

Following the trail, you get the impression that you're being watched. An impression that turns out to be true as, from a copse of apple trees near the path, a young man emerges with a half-eaten apple in hand.

He's tall, which seems to be a pattern with people you meet. His hair is dark and short and he's dressed in sensible pants well suited for outdoor activities. The golden buttons of his jacket shine and sparkle in the morning light.

He's also rather handsome, a small part of your brain notes as he bites off a large piece of apple flesh with a satisfying-sounding crunch.

"Good morning!" He greets with a wave of his hand and a smile on his cheery face.

"Good morning." You respond with a small wave of your own. His smile grows wider at that.

"I was hoping you weren't going to be a serious old stuff-bag like my father and it turns out that I'm right!" He jovially takes another bite of his apple. "You are Miss Williams, yes?"

"That'll be me." You nod at that and notice Sean having taken a couple steps back, a queasy look on his face as he looks anywhere but the young man before you. "You okay?"

"What's wrong with him?" The man asks, a frown on his face as he steps closer. That only makes it worse for Sean, who actually buckles at the knees.

"I-I don't kno-" You begin to say, only to catch a glimpse of the buttons on his suit jacket. Memories of a lesson learned flash across your mind—Dullahan are weak to gold. "Are those buttons gold, like, actual gold?"

He blinks. "Why, yes!"

"Sean's a Dullahan." You explain to the, presumably, Winchester. Sean at this point is on the verge of throwing up or falling down, or both at the same time. You're supporting him as best you can, helping him to not fall.

The unknown Winchester's eyes widen as he hurriedly takes the jacket off and wads it up. As soon as all the buttons are covered by cloth, Sean seems to recover.

He still looks a bit queasy, but nothing like his earlier sickness.

"Thanks." He wheezes out in a phlegm-filled cough. To who he's speaking you're not entirely sure, but you'll take it anyways.

"No problem!" The Winchester declares happily, smile wide and eyes bright.

You don't like the flicker in his eye. Why, you don't know, you can't place it. There's just something… not right about it. Not quite wrong, per se, but definitely not right.

"Oh, I just realized that I haven't introduced myself yet!" He takes a deep, sweeping bow full of stylish vigor. "I am Archibald Winchester, at your service." Archibald grins at the minor pun. "But you can call me Archie."

"Good to meet you, Archie." Sean says, taking his hand and shaking it—a process you repeat. The Dullahan is still sneaking green glances at the jacket crumpled up on the ground behind the three of you. "There's not going to be more gold, is there?" He asks weakly.

Archibald taps his well-formed chin and hmms. "I can't quite recall, it all blends into the background eventually." He shrugs. "It might just be best to simply have you stay outside while Itza meets with my father." There's something you don't like in how he says your nickname, the same feeling as his eyes. You don't comment on his use of your nickname, at this point you need to cultivate as much goodwill as possible.

"I'm sure I can tough it out." Sean states, pushing off from you to stand on his own.

"Why don't we ask Itza? She is the reason you're here after all." The young Winchester offers as a solution, to which Sean agrees.

What do you decide?
[ ] Have Sean come with you
[ ] Have Sean stay outside

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I wasn't super happy with this one, so I rewrote it. It is better now, but not by a whole lot.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"Sean, do you think you can muddle through?" You ask the Dullahan standing next to you.

"Aye, well, I can try." He responds lacklusterly. You get the impression that he's not especially enthused about this whole situation.

"That's all I ask." You thank him for his efforts, which earns you a smile that sends a flutter through your rebellious heart. You'd thought you'd gotten a hold of this already, dammit!

"Splendid!" Archibald Winchester proclaims, clapping his hands together in a sharp tap that pulls you from your thoughts. "If you'd follow me, I'm sure my father's waiting for you in the study." He gestures broadly at the estate. "You never know who, or what, is listening in."

"Well, that's certainly ominous." Sean states, wiping some residual sweat from his forehead.

"Isn't it?" The young Winchester exclaims as he leads you through the trees, towards the manor on the hill. "But it is good advice, we've got some contracted spirits that roam around, keeping the place tidy. Oh, what're they called? Lawnkeepers or something."

"Groundskeepers." You mention.

"Yes, that's the word! Groundskeepers!" He smiles as he thanks you.

With that, you arrive at the front door to Winchester Manor. Which isn't the same Winchesters as the gun designers—different Winchesters, apparently.

The inside of the manor can be described with five words: dark wood and cold iron. You can't quite identify what tree the wood is made out of, other than it looks expensive.

It's all very tasteful. The walls bear ornate decorations with curling crenulations. The floors are heated and warm. Marble statues sit in picked positions, busts of members of the Winchester family.

There's really not as much gold as you were thinking there would be. And what gold is there is quickly left behind as you move through the manor at a relatively brisk pace.

You're led up a flight of stairs, Sean behind you as Archibald gives you a brief tour of the place—what little you see of it on your way to the study at least.

The doors to the study are short, surprisingly squat things. Engravings are carved into the rich, lacquered wood, the patterns giving off strong magical resonances. The doors aren't small out of a desire for them to be small, you realize, they're small to better concentrate the magic.

You have to stoop slightly to fit through the door, but once you entered the room opened up quite a bit.

It's a fancy affair that reminds you vaguely of your father's own study. A small library curves around a rounded edge, a cut-out letting in light through a window is placed in the center of the bookshelves. A grand desk made of the finest mahogany sits facing the window on the other side of the room. A green and comfortable-looking office chair is pushed in, close to an open book.

Atop the desk is a sight you'd half-thought you'd never get the chance to see.

The Chainsaw sits proudly on a green mat, a pristine shine to its body. The teeth of its 18 inch long blade catch the rays of light streaming into the room in a show of glimmering pride. The cherry red paint is as vibrant as ever, like it was made yesterday. The bare metal shines in the mid-morning light, bright and polished to a mirror-like finish.

It almost seems to beckon to you. Begging you to pick up your birthright and lay waste to the demonic hordes. To clean the once silver name of the tarnished Williams.

You run your fingers over the mastercraft weapon of demon slaying prowess. The teeth are as sharp as the stories described it—so sharp you nick yourself just by pressing your finger lightly against the tool of eternal war.

While its near-endless engine is cold, it seems to hum with a powerful anticipation. It hungers to spill the blood of the enemies of mankind—the many, many years spent doing just that having had an effect on the soul of the machine.

The handles look to be too big for you to wield, your hands simply too slender to hoist it properly. Once you wrap your fingers around it, however, that changes. It fits your hands perfectly, like it was meant for you to use.

You get the impression that it's like this for all Williams, the loyal servant recognizing the master's rightful claim.

"Impressive, no?"

You jump, startled as you whip around to face the speaker—the Chainsaw somehow finding its way into your hands.

The speaker is a tall man that bears a striking resemblance to Archibald standing outside the study. Though, this obvious Winchester is much older than his, presumably, son.

This must be Henry, the man you spoke to over the phone.

"Y-yeah," you breathe out, finally noticing the breath you'd been holding in, "it's certainly something."

"When we bought it at auction, it was in poor condition." Your blood boils at the thought as Henry walks around you to the other side of the desk. "The paint was faded and peeling, the chain snapped and rusted, the metal warped and half-melted—like it'd been through the stomach of some beast."

"But you fixed it." You hazard a guess as Henry pulls the green leather office chair out.

"But we fixed it, sparing no expense in the process." He confirms, nodding as he sits down. He nods towards the chair sitting across from him, on your side of the desk. "Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss."

"What do you want to know?" You ask, taking the seat. It's a pleasant thing, slightly over-stuffed but not uncomfortably so and with soft velvet brushing against your arms.

"I have many questions, as I'm sure you're aware. Fortunately for me, many if not all of these questions can be answered by you." He smiles, leaning back in his chair as he steeples his fingers. "Why don't we start with something simple: why now? Why, after all these years, do you come for it now?"

That is an easy one. "I only found out about it being here recently. If I'd known earlier I'd have contacted you about it earlier."

Henry hmms, thinking for a moment before nodding sharply once. "I believe that that makes sense, yes. Now then, the next question on our docket. After you called me, I did some research on the history of the Williams and came across a most peculiar figure: Ashley J. Williams, the progenitor of your family."

"What do you want to know about him?" You're gonna have to be careful here, if you're right and Ash is out and about—letting somebody know about that could be extremely dangerous.

"What, exactly, is a 'Chosen One'?"

"Oh that's easy." You release a tension-filled sigh. "A Chosen One, or rather, the Chosen One is an individual who, upon birth, is ordained to be the greatest thorn in evil's side. When the bells toll and true evil rises once again, the soul of the Chosen One is reborn to combat it in a new form."

"Interesting." Henry mutters, thoughts somewhere else. "But, what makes the Chosen One so special?"

You shrug. "What makes the Chosen One so special is twofold. The first is that the Chosen One is preternaturally talented at slaying evil—they will struggle, they will bleed, they will suffer, but they will triumph eventually. The second is that when they kill something, it stays dead—for the most part. While the forces of evil are infinite and eternal, when killed by the Chosen One they are lessened, made weaker by their loss."

"And is it possible to predict when, or who, will be the Chosen One?" There's something here you're not getting, that you're not aware of. But with the Chainsaw on the line, you can't afford to question it. "Like, say, a prophecy? I believe that prophecies and Chosen Ones are often linked."

"Yeah, most of the time there's some kind of prophecy attached to it. Ash's was called something along the lines of a 'hero from the sky', if I recall correctly."

"Very, very interesting." There's something in Henry's words that causes your skin to crawl. The well-groomed man leans back "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm asking these questions."

"That thought had crossed my mind, yes." You nod, eyes narrowing as the elder Winchester flips through the open book on his desk. He spins the book around and pushes it towards you, a perfectly-manicured finger taps at a handwritten passage in the leatherbound book.

"I discovered this in my grandfather's journal while cleaning three weeks ago. Go ahead, read it."

You do so, eyes scanning the page. Over all, it's pretty standard prophecy stuff in your opinion. Mentions of 'great, shadowy doom spreading across the land' and 'the armies of creeping evil corrupting all they touch' are a dime a dozen amongst things like this.

But one line stands out to you. A line that, given the weirdness of the situation, honestly makes your skin crawl.

From the line of the Ashen Hero, a new Champion shall be born by a union between two powerful mortal families.

"And you think this is… literal?" You ask with some hesitation.

"I have an offer for you, Itzabella AP Williams." Yeah, yeah you really don't like how he says your name.

"What is your offer, Henry HG Winchester?" Two can play at this game, Harvey-George. "Is it the price I must pay for the Chainsaw?" You flick your eyes to the object of your thoughts.

"No." He says to your surprise. "The Chainsaw was simply to get you to sit and listen. If you don't like what I have to offer, that is perfectly fine, you simply may take the Chainsaw and leave at any moment. All I ask is that you hear me out."

"Alright…" You sigh, slumping down in your comfortable chair. The least you can do is listen to what he has to say.

"You know as well as I that evil is rising once again. The forecasts are being clouded by black, shadowy masses." To be honest, you didn't know that. But you're not gonna let that slip. "Evil, true evil, is returning."

"...And the Chosen One must as well, to combat this new evil."

"Correct." He says, steepling his fingers once again. "Two powerful families and a union between them."

"And you think this union is, what, a marriage between the Winchesters and the Williams? How can you even know? There are loads of powerful families, for crying out loud."

"How many are mortal, truly mortal?" He prods, answering your question with one of his own. "I'll tell you the answer, only two: your Williams and my Winchesters."

"Who would even marry?" You exclaim, leaning back in your cushioned chair. "There's only the two of you in the Winchesters and there aren't any eligible Williams, unless you want to marry my Aunt. Good luck getting to her, though, she's locked away in a sub-dimensional prison."

"You're not quite right there, Miss Williams."

You frown, furrowing your eyebrows. "What are you talking ab- no, you can't mean…"

Henry Winchester smiles. "My son is about your age, you've met him, yes? I've been led to believe that he is quite handsome too."

You're quiet for quite some time, stewing in your own thoughts. Until, that is, you remember something. "Chosen Ones don't always appear when evil rises again, most of the time evil gets defeated by good people long before a Chosen One would ever be required."

He shrugs. "Better safe than sorry. I assure you, you will be kept in the greatest of comfort and security, you and the baby."

And you're back to being silent, this time out of a steaming anger rather than shock.

What do yo- (Overruled by Itza)

"No." Your mouth moves on its own, before your brain can even process it. "No, I don't think I will be doing that." You stand up, and lay a hand on the Chainsaw, as if daring him to try and stop you.

"Itzabella, please reconsider!" He cries, trying to grab your wrist as you wrench your arm away. "You don't know what the stakes are! The consequences could be enor-!"

"Could be, not will be. That's the keyword there." You reply coldy, glaring with as much volcanic fury as you can muster. With the cherry red Chainsaw in hand, you march right to the tiny door.

"Women!" Henry snarls, face twisting into a look of utter revulsion. "All the same! Too cowardly to do what needs to be done!"

You flip him off as you stoop to exit the study, your lone finger greeting a wall of spewing misogynistic bullshit.

Archibald tries to say something to you as you emerge, but Sean takes one look at the expression on your face and pulls him back.

Thanks, Sean.

~~~~~~~

"So…" Sean rocks on his heels as you two stand outside the now closed front gate of the Winchester Estate. "Wanna talk about what happened back there? I didn't hear much, think there was a muffle charm on the room, but you seem kinda pissed."

After a moment's silence, he shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's cool if you don't."

Do you want to talk about it?
[ ] Yes (Will likely lead to you and Sean getting closer)
[ ] No (Just carry on home in silence, you can likely make it there if you leave now)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: If there were to be an interlude, what do you want it to be about?

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!

By the way, here are the stats of the Chainsaw
(The Chainsaw (7 Slashing Damage, Damage Doubled against Evil, Extremely Durable Ancestral Heirloom, Badass, Unique, 1/2 Hands, Medium-Large Item))