The Nyxenberg Thing: A BPRD Short Quest

[BadAtScreenNames]

It's 9:30 in the morning, and the day's already too damn long. You chug tepid coffee, lean back in your chair and fight back a sigh.

Saving the world from the forces of darkness was not supposed to involve so much paperwork. Yet here you are, working your way through yet another after action report ("this time in triplicate, Agent, and please consider working on your penmanship,") and praying- PRAYING- that someone's got a job for you. Or failing that, a gun with a single bullet.

Surely death by bureaucratically-induced insanity doesn't count as suicide.

"Hey."

You glance up. Leaning against the doorframe is...

Ah.

Hellboy. Huge, hulking, cigar jutting out of his craggy jaw, carrying-

"Made a fresh pot," he rumbles, pouring the coffee into your cup. Suddenly, the morning's looking up. "How you doing, rookie?"

You shrug. "Fine. So far, anyway."

"That changes, let me know. I realise BPRD stuff is a little weird-"

"My first case was a Witch who made voodoo dolls out of placentas," you mutter dryly, something like a smirk playing across your lips.

"-a little weird, yes, but I promise, you get used to it pretty quick."

You sip the coffee. "They have to keep me around first."

Hellboy winces. "I- Yeah." There's an uncomfortable pause. Then, "Look, I'm not gonna sugar coat it. That was a bad one. But bad ones happen in this line of work. No-one's gonna blame you for a blown case."

You turn to stare at the literal avalanche of after-action self-assessment paperwork drowning your desk, and then back at him. He winces again, scratches the back of his head sheepishly.

"No-one who matters," he amends. "It'll be okay."

There's a noise behind him, something halfway between a polite cough and a strangled dove's death rattle. Hellboy's face calcifies, but he shifts aside. Behind him, a man in a suit so utterly devoid of character it's impossible to even remember his name. He smiles at you.

"The director would like a word."

Time to face the music, it seems. You shoot Hellboy a grateful nod and follow the man away, cradling your coffee.

---

In his office, Director Thomas Manning is glaring at your file. It's a skinny thing, with your codename emblazoned on the front:

[] PAPERCUT. Agent Camilla Bathory. Vampire, Blood Witch, post-modern magician, army vet, hard ass. Survived a vampire attack, created a whole new school of magic to manage her new condition called Praxis Theory. Does Not Have Time For Your Shit.

[] HARDY BOY. Agent Ben Devereux. Were-Raven, touched by Odin, teenage detective, Antifa member, too curious for his own damn good. Foiled a neo-nazi asatru cult that was trying to murder most of London by summoning the Valkyries. Now fused at the soul with Munin and Hugin, Odin's ravens.

[] BAUHAUS. Agent Annette "Prudence" Possinger/Malach Ha Maweth. Recovering magic addict and satanist possessed by a fallen angel of death looking for redemption. Ethereal, guilt-ridden, compassionate, none-more-goth. Good with ghosts, bad with people.

[] GRANDMA. Agent Aeval O'Brien. Immortal banshee. Oracle, doom prophet, telepath. Experience measuring in centuries, temper measuring in miliseconds. Only here in exchange for her (Great-Grand) nephew getting a desk job somewhere FAR away from the action. REAL good at genealogy.

[] AMERICAN DREAM. Agent John "Apple Pie" Smith. Tulpa and living story. Created when a BPRD psychic stopped an insane wizard from creating a god to assassinate his enemies by imprinting the newly formed entity with the personality of the perfect BPRD agent. Can suppress the supernatural by enforcing a narrative of normalcy. Quietly trying to navigate an existential crisis. Likes baseball. Coming around on horror movies.

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

CODENAME: American Dream

NAME: John "Apple Pie" Smith

*​	Physical​	Mental​	Social​	Magical​
Power​	STRENGTH 6​	INTELLECT 10​	PRESENCE 3​	ARETE 14​
Finesse​	DEXTERITY 6​	CUNNING 10​	MANIPULATION 3​	GNOSIS 13​
Resistance​	STAMINA 10​	RESOLVE 12​	COMPOSURE 10​	ARCANUM 13​

HITPOINTS: 40



TAGS:

INTIMIDATING- Agent Smith embodies the cold impersonal authority of the Government. Which one you ask? You don't have the security clearance for that question. Bonus to Presence rolls to intimidate or threaten. Rating 7.

CAPTAIN AMERICA'S UNDERSTUDY- Ole' Apple Pie looks like something out of a Pepperidge Farm Comercial, and he talks like it too. Sometimes, there's something reassuring about that. Bonus to Manipulation rolls to reassure or calm targets who already like you. Rating 7.

FLESH OF STORIES- As a Tulpa, Agent Smith's flesh is only as real as he wants it to be. Bonus to Dexterity rolls to avoid harm or escape from constraints. Rating 6.

NORMAL IS A NARRATIVE- John says things are under control, and normal life may continue. Who is reality to disagree? Bonus to Arete Rolls to dampen supernatural effects. Rating 10.

MINDWIPE- What's that? A vampire? Sir, I promise you, it was just some idiot in a costume. Bonus to Arete rolls to erase memories of superatural events. Rating 10.

NEGATIVE TAGS:

I DON'T BELIEVE IN FAIRIES- Tulpas are only real when you make them real. All you have to do to stop one is just... stop believing. Malus on any rolls against targets who don't believe you exist (including those who know you're a Tulpa). Rating 10.



TECHNIQUES

SCHRODINGER'S TULPA- Smith only exists while being observed. By forcing others not to observe him, he can move to any area within 100 feet. This technique has some downsides; should he go unobserved for more than ten seconds, he risks death. Incompatible with Reality Reassertion, Clap Your Hands, Mind Wipe. Requires observers with minds.

Applications: Mobility Rating: 5



CLAP YOUR HANDS- Believe in a Tulpa, and give them form. And if a Tulpa forces you to believe? Well. Still counts. Smith telepathically assaults one target, forcing them to believe in him. This causes psychic damage to the target and regenerates some damage done to Smith. Incompatible with Schrodinger's Tulpa, Reality Reassertion, Mind Wipe. Requires targets with minds.

Applications: Offensive, Regeneration Rating: 5



REALITY REASSERTION- By aggressively forcing a narrative of normalcy on the surrounding area, Smith can dampen supernatural effects. This technique causes severe strain. Incompatible with Schrodinger's Tulpa, Clap Your Hands, Mind Wipe. Does 5 HP damage to Smith.

Applications: Offensive, Anti-Magic, Area of Effect Rating: 5



MIND WIPE- By forcibly rewriting the memories of a target (with impossibly banal Americana- he once convinced a leprechaun it was working at a paper company), Smith can briefly stun the target and keep it from acting. Incompatible with Reality Reassertion, Schrodinger's Tulpa, Clap Your Hands.

Applications: Offensive, Stun Rating: 5



WEAVER STANCE- As a part of his extensive (and entirely fictional) training with the FBI and the BPRD, Smith is an excellent shooter. Requires ammunition, limited effect on some supernatural enemies.

Applications: Offensive, Ranged Rating: 5



BPRD STANDARD LOAD-OUT- Every BPRD Enhanced Talent Agent has access to an arsenal of rosaries, relics, talismans and substances to damage even the most bizarre of threats. Requires access to load-out, target must be previously documented, no effect on non-supernatural threats.

Applicable: Offensive, Esoteric Rating: 5

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

Hi! Welcome to The Nyxenberg Thing, a BPRD short quest!

So quickly, some context. For the last year or so, I've been trying to write a system for my other quest, Coven Town Blues, as well as a WHOLE load of other stuff. I'm not quite ready to run that yet, but the system's pretty much done and I thought I'd take it for a spin to see if it works. I also want to write something that DOESN'T have to do with witch clans, kung fu, or eldritch hellscapes, so instead I'm going to run this!

Now, again, this is a short quest. The whole thing is going to cover one case that a rookie Enhanced Talent agent and their unit got caught up in. Whole thing should be done in a month, two months tops, so I can actually finish something for once.

EDIT: I'm also running this in a few other places! If you're AT one of those other places, please don't vote twice!

As for canon, I'm playing fast and loose. This thing happens a little bit before Wake the Devil, but stuff may not conform exactly to what happens in the comics. I'm also going to be nicking stuff from the Guillermo Del Toro films because they were awesome.

Finally, a note on behaviour. This is a pretendy fun-time game. I'm not getting paid to write it, and you're not paying me to read it, so let's try not to get worked up over it, yeah?

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

This is a system I've basically cannibalised from White Wolf's storytelling system, along with a few bits from D&D and Fate.

At its core, it's pretty simple. For any action the main character takes, I roll a d100, add a modifier to the result made up of 1 stat and up to 2 tags, and if it gets over the DC you succeed. If you're under the DC by 10 or less, you succeed at a cost. If you get double the DC, you kick ass, take names, and chew bubblegum. If you get a natural 100, you kick even more ass, take even more names, and chew even more bubblegum. If you get a natural 1, you screw up real bad. Simple enough.



You have twelve stats, broken up by arena (physical, mental, social, and magical) and approach (power, finesse, and resistance). Those stats are Strength, Dexterity, Stamina, Intellect, Cunning, Resolve, Presence, Manipulation, Composure, Arete, Gnosis, and Arcanum. In a grid, they look like this:

*​	PHYSICAL​	MENTAL​	SOCIAL​	MAGICAL​
POWER​	STRENGTH​	INTELLECT​	PRESENCE​	ARETE​
FINESSE​	DEXTERITY​	CUNNING​	MANIPULATION​	GNOSIS​
RESISTANCE​	STAMINA​	RESOLVE​	COMPOSURE​	ARCANUM​

Your hitpoints are derived from doubling your stamina score and adding a d20, in case you're interested.

After stats, there's tags, which cover everything from skills and training to equipment to everything else. Characters start play with five tags. You can invoke two onto any roll. It's worth noting that besides your own tags, enemies also have tags you can invoke against them, and situations and locations have tags you can invoke when you use them to your benefit. You can also get negative tags if you fuck up- poisoned, for example, or maimed if you lost an arm or something. You get the bloodied tag if you fall to half your hitpoints, which takes 5 off your modifier for any roll, and the wounded tag if you fall to a quarter of your hitpoints, which takes 10 off. Negative tags apply in any situation where they logically would, but they don't count towards the tag limit.

Finally, there's techniques. The main character has six magical techniques they can use in combat. These techniques are each applicable in different ways, and have a rating for how potent you've made them. In combat, you list which techniques you'll be using (and how you'll be using them!), I add the ratings together, and that becomes the modifier you use in combat.

And that's it!

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

The aide leaves you (or more accurately fades away, as blandly as he arrived) at the door to Manning's office. You pause, steel yourself in the sure knowledge that this, again, was going to suck, and knock.

Thud thud thud. Muttered growling. No response. Years of military experience tell you to wait, so you do, just shy of parade rest. Minutes pas.

Years of military experience. Formative, those years. Full of changes and growth and meaning and Christ it's a shame they were all completely fictional, wasn't it? Like the FBI cases teeming in your brain (coffee and pie please Mr Anderson you seem to have been living two lives wake up and smell the ashes Doctor Freeman fuck me was my whole life just one long string of references?)-

No. No. Don't go there. Just stay still. Calm. Waiting. Don't tie yourself in knots over this shit. Just wait it out, John. Everything's fine if you just wait it out.

And at last the door swings open, and Manning glares at you.

"Smith."

"Sir."

"Inside."

You follow him. His office is neat. Nondescript. A little shabby around the edges from overuse, maybe. Fits the man- kind of sagging into early middle age, dark hair graying at the temples, crows feet and frown lines carving their way across his face. The kind of man who'd shout at kids to get off his lawn, then wonder when he'd turned into his father.

Also currently glaring at you. Christ, you hope you didn't say that out loud.

"You know, I have worked with the most fascinating collection of freaks and wierdos since I took this position," he grumbles, sitting behind his desk and searching through the paperwork piled in his in tray. "All sorts. Vampires, werewolves, mummies, one time a succubus. All fucking kinds. But you? You take the cake, Smith, you really do."

You don't know what to even say to that, settling on a nondescript "sir."

"I mean, what, they stamped you out of a Grisham novel? Fuck me. Sit down."

You do, then hate yourself for it. Instinctive reaction to authority.

"Alright," he growls. "Alright. Let's start with you."

"Yes sir. The file-"

"Fuck your file. I read it. I didn't like it. Now I want to hear it from you, see if it's better as an audiobook. Who the fuck are you?"

Something automatic snaps in your head.

"Agent John Smith, sir. BPRD investigator five years. FBI Investigator three years, six months at the New York Desk, eighteen months in Washington as Secret Service Liaison, then another year in New York. Before that, Military police, four years. Educated at the Citadel. Married. Wife's name Pamela Smith, ne Jones. Home twenty minutes drive from the building. No kids."

There's a long- LONG- pause, after that. Manning's staring at you like you just stuck your penis in his ear. You can actually feel your own soul cringing from mortified horror. Then, after a long pause,

"The fuck was that?"

"It- sorry, sir."

"Five years? You even been alive that long?"

"No, sir."

"I mean, you'd be what, forty four, forty five if that was all true. Fucking. What?"

You stare at the desk.

"It- the memories- I have... memories of... of all that."

A long pause.

"You mentioned a wife."

"Pam. Yes." You swallow. "She doesn't exist."

Manning decides not to dwell on that, thank Christ.

"Alright. Well. How about we try that again, but this time stick to what actually happened, huh?"

"Yes sir. Agent John Smith, BPRD investigator six months, four days, five hours and fourty five minutes. Came into existence as a result of the New York case. Enhanced Talent Agent Moreau interrupted-" a reality deviant " some form of occultist, attempting to create a Tulpa to murder his rivals."

"What's a Tulpa?"

"That's definitely in the file."

"Yeah, well, there's a shiny little sign on my desk says Director on it, now do what I fucking say. What's a Tulpa?"

Prick. "A being or object created via metaphysical means, specifically requiring mental focus. It's popular amongst psychics, occultists influenced by some eastern traditions, or some paranormal entities with less human mindsets. They exist for as long as they're mentally reinforced by belief or focus from their creator. The suspect in this circumstance created the Tul- Me. Created me to be self sustaining. As long as I'm observed, I can reinforce myself."

"How nice for you. So what, Moreau walks in on the suspect, and?"

"She was too late to stop him, so she imprinted a more... socially acceptable personality onto me instead. The perfect BPRD agent."

Manning snorts. "Moreau's got a low opinion of us."

"you'd have to take that up with her."

He grunts what might, if one was feeling charitable, be a laugh, and goes back to the file.

"So you two arrest the suspect, then she brings you back. We give you a job. We give you a wage. And then, after all our generosity, you fuck the pooch."

You wince. "Nyxenberg."

"Yeah." He rummages through his desk, produces a cigar, and starts to smoke it at you. There's no other description for what he's doing. This is clearly a tobacco based assault. "So. I'm gonna be honest with you, Smith, I do not fucking like what I'm hearing so far. It is not, in fact, better than reading it. But I got you here now, and I'm tired, so how's about you keep talking and we'll see if I change my mind."

---

Three months earlier

The train's more comfortable than you expected, cramped as it is. One of those old school overnight ones, like the Orient Express. Agent Bryce, who'd handed you the tickets, had given you an envious smirk. "Lucky bastards. Normally it's economy class flights or a crappy bus. You're luckier than most."

You had to admit he had a point. The views in particular were surprisingly good. Europe could be beautiful when it wanted to be. Now, swinging up towards Russia, the world was getting cold and remote and an all new kind of gorgeous. And there, on the Horizon, Nyxenberg.

"Ugly fuckin' town," Bryce had warned you. "Lot of high rises, lot of old churches. Imagine New York and Budapest got real drunk one night and had a kid with craniodiaphyseal dysplasia."

"What?"

"Like what that kid had in Mask."

In hindsight, Bryce might have been kind of an asshole. Still, he wasn't wrong. Even from a distance, you could tell Nyxenberg looked like it had seen better days. Rain clouds were massed over its gothic spires and squat, brutal apartment blocks.

"Hey."

Your partner's voice. You turn, and see...

Pick one.

[] Codename Headache. Agent Megan Moreau. A two year veteran of the BPRD's field division and a talented psychic. Also your creator. Kind of hot, in an oedipal way. Awkward to work with, but not the worst in the world.

[] Codename Istanbul. Agent James "Opel" Augustus. A recent addition to the BPRD, you're not sure from where. A genius with magic, but utterly ruthless and too comfortable with civilian casualties. Recently recovered from cancer.

[] Codename Hardy Boy. Agent Ben Devereux. A bratty teenager from London. Has a thing for runic magic. Great detective, bad attitude, and worryingly fond of his baseball bat. You're not sure if you'e babysitting him or if he's babysitting you.

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

Agent Moreau is politely hiding her glare at you behind a mask of professional courtesy.

"Final brief's in five minutes. Dining cart."

"What about outside observers?" The question's out before you can stop yourself. Moreau takes the mask off her glare.

"What outside observers? Whole train is booked."

"Of course ma'am."

"Are you going to question me the whole way through this, Agent Smith?"

"No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. Old habits."

"You have to be old, to have old habits, Agent. You just have bad ones." She snaps her mouth shut the instant she's said it, and you both sit and marinate in the awkward silence that follows. For a second, it looks like she's about to apologise, but instead she pulls herself up to her full height (five foot seven) and glares again through a reddening face. "Dining cart. Five minutes."

"Ma'am."

Then she's gone.

---

The dining cart is a little bigger than the rest of the train. You have room to stretch a little more. That doesn't make it big enough for a team of six BPRD agents.

Well. Five. Doctor Briggs very clearly doesn't count, and even if he did he doesn't take up that much room. At the moment he's huddled in the corner, a balding little man in a tweed suit, greying red whiskers drooping off his face, nose bulbous and scarlet from too much drink. His hands are closed around a cup of coffee, and his watery little eyes are darting from face to face.

First time in the field. This is going to be... interesting.

The rest of the unit are pretty much exactly what you'd expect. Three agents, all normals, all filtering into the Bureau after short histories in police forces or army units or alphabet soup agencies or God alone knows what else. Their names are Jackson, Lewis and Folkham. You honestly struggle to remember which is which, some times.

Moreau has files out across the table, all business. "So, to recap one last time- four victims so far. The most recent was found yesterday, just outside city limits, naked. As of yet, he's not been identified. Most likely late teens or early twenties. Heavily wounded, including some sections of skin removed. Cause of death was multiple blows to the back of the head. The body was then drained of blood after death."

"So far, so normal," mutters Jackson/Lewis/Folkham. Moreau nods.

"True. What makes this more than just another serial killer is this." She pulls out a picture and holds it up. A body, which you can only assume to be the victim, lying crumpled and broken in a dark field, against the first pinks and golds of sunrise.

Glowing.

"All four victims produced the same effect. White light. Also all exsanguinated, some after death, some before."

"During," you murmur. Moreau carries on as if you hadn't spoken.

"That's our case. We're due in town in half an hour. After that..."



The briefing continues for five minutes. Agent Moreau outlines where you unit will make its headquarters:

PICK ONE

[] An abandoned church on the edge of the city. The church will provide you with privacy, and has good access to the city's sewers and underground tunnel system. However, it's a long way from anything relevant to the case, and has no power or running water; you'll have to make do.

[] A room above an all-hours cafe in the Latin Quarter. The cafe is known as neutral ground for Nyxenberg's occult population. You'll have easy access to every sort of wierdo in the city, and be safe from violence while on its grounds. However, your own movements will be public knowledge, and should you violate the cafe's sanctuary, you can be guaranteed not to last long.

[] A set of offices in the Provost's Headquarters. Nixenberg's Provost (or Mayor, depending on how you want to translate it) has been happy to offer the BPRD the use of his offices, as well as whatever resources he can spare. This will give you good access to the City's political elite, and a wealth of extra equipment. However, it will also drag you into the city's internecine politics, and almost guarantees outside interference in the investigation.



Moreau also assigns you the lead you'll be working at the start of the case:

PICK ONE

[] Search the site where the most recent body was found. See if there's anything the local cops missed.

[] Examine the body of the most recent victim. Maybe there's something unusual there.

[] Speak to the Detective who caught the case. What if he left something out of the report?

[] Examine the files for all four murders. Perhaps you've missed something here.

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

"...Jackson, Lewis, Folkham, I'll need you with me for the Provost. He's going to want a little..." Moreau's mouth creases in distaste, "pizzazz. Given we turned down his offer of accommodation, we'll need to unruffle his feathers. Smith, you're taking Briggs to L'arcane."

You stiffen. You should leave it. You really should.

"Ma'am, with respect-"

"No."

You catch yourself. Moreau has a tone in her voice like granite sledgehammers. She takes the pause like it's your jugular between her teeth.

"That was not a request, Agent. It was an order. Are we clear?"

"...Ma'am."

"Good. After Briggs is settled in, you're taking the body. Morgue's address is in the files. I'll take a look at the paperwork for the other murders, Folkham's going to check the scene again, and Jackson and Lewis are going to go doubleteam the detective."

"Good cop bad cop," mutters Jackson/Lewis.

"More like good cop incompetent cop," says Lewis/Jackson, smirking.

"Fuck you, man."

"Hey, shoe fits-"

"Can it." Moreau. They can it.

"This is the first time the Bureau has operated in Nyxenberg, gentlemen. How we conduct our investigation will shape our relationship with this city- and this country- for decades to come. I am not about to let you screw it up because you can't stop with the horseplay. Am I understood?"

"Yes ma'am," the room choruses.

"Good."

---

"...Are you sure this is the right place?"

Doctor Briggs' voice fits the rest of him pretty well; a weedy, timid little thing, shaking from decades of gin and misery. It's hard not to roll your eyes.

"Yes."

"It just doesn't look like-"

"Doctor," you say, even-tempered as you can manage, "I promise you. That's L'Arcane."

"Yes, but how can you be so sure?"

CHrist. "Two reasons. Firstly, the address in the file said 38 Rue De Sade, and this is Rue De Sade. Secondly, even if that wasn't true, where else is it going to be?"

It's not an unfair question. The Latin Quarter is pretty much identical to every other Latin Quarter in every other city you've been to. Lots of cramped, cobbled streets, lots of cafes, lots of bars. More brothels than you expected, but sex work is if not legal here, then not illegal either, so the pretty girls and boys beckon from glass doors. Old buildings that start at the ground floor as commercial spaces and turn into apartments after the second or third story.

So L'Arcane sticks out. Or under, more accurately. There's a high railing around it, with steps leading down to the exterior of the cafe.

A cold iron railing. You can taste it from across the street; the magic of cold, hard, reality. Great for scaring away fairies. And the blatantly supernatural river that just... appears out of nowhere, running beneath those steps and the thin bridge from them to the door gives the game away a tad, too. This is L'Arcane. This is very obviously L'Arcane.

But the doctor still isn't convinced. "Yes, but surely-"

"There's a RIVER, Doctor Briggs."

"Well... yes..." Something seems to happen to the Doctor for a minute. Then, "But I'm sure we took a wrong turning back there a few moments ago."

You stop. Turn. Examine him for a second.

"...You're not an enhanced talent, are you, Doctor?"

"What?"

"You don't..." you pause. Consider. "You weren't hired to the bureau for... non-standard reasons."

"Only a PHD in comparative folklore," he responds stiffly.

"That's what I thought. Follow me."

"It can't be-"

"Doctor."

He subsides, and follows you across the street. The two of you struggle under the weight of his research materials (every single book on Nyxenberg it's possible to find, from the occult to a Lonely Planet guide), heave yourselves down the stairs, and start towards the door.

And something moves.

It's more a collage of blurs and shadows then it is a figure. There's hints of aligator scales, or the plates of an Armadillo's shell. The eyes, though, those you can see. Dozens of them, all over the face and neck and shoulders and arms. Green. Blue. Brown. Black. Yellow. Red. Human. Goat. Cat. Compound. Every sort you can imagine.

"Who," it murmurs, in a voice like a child's nightmares, "comes trip trapping over my bridge?"

...Well, you've heard worse from bouncers in your life. Or at least you think you have.

"Agent John Smith, BRPD. This is Doctor Alexander Briggs."

"Charmed," gasps the Doctor.

"We have an appointment."

The troll eyes you up for a moment. Then, "have you gentlemen been drinking?"

"No."

"Any drugs?"

"No, of course not."

"Just asking."

And then it's gone, back under the bridge. The door to L'Arcane yawns open. "Hans is expecting you," the troll whispers.

You push through. Behind you, the Doctor is a spluttering mess, dropping the books the instant he's inside. "You go on," he mutters. "I'm- just going to take a moment."

A moment. Well. That's one word for the gin in his flask. But right now it's not worth the argument. You leave him to it, and head deeper into the warm smoky darkness of the cafe. It's early to be drinking, but that doesn't seem to be stopping the clientele. Wine and coffee dart across tabletops. The air is heavy with tobacco and other, less savoury scents.

Everyone's doing their level best to watch you without looking like they're watching you. That's pretty much the only thing they all have in common. It's hard to pick out individual faces, but you manage a few-

A bald man with literal porcelain skin, his eyes two yawning holes, sips his tea through bright red lips-

A girl eating a pork chop in a neat, demure dress with a wolfsangel rune picked out in black on red, a heavy cleaver lodged in her belt-

An exhausted man weeping into his beer, clutching a smashed astrolabe in one hand-

A sickly looking invalid in a funeral suit, short and squat with the uncomfortable gauntness of sickness around his face, tucking into red wine and black pudding with his collar pulled high-

An old woman drinking coffee and tossing rune stones on the table-

And there, in the centre-

Well. That has to be Hans. He's leaning against the counter, chatting amiably to a woman in full Victorian mourning regalia, stopping every now and then to whistle the first few bars to Hall of the Mountain King.

Also there's a single brick jutting out of his chest.

He looks up as you approach and smiles widely. On his face, it somehow looks furtive.

"Ah! Monsieur! You must be Megan's friend, yes? Mr Smith?"

"Agent."

He launches himself at you with such violence you have to fight not to go for your gun. Skinny arms embrace you. Thin lips kiss your cheeks.

"Agent, yes, of course! Hello! Hello. You must be tired. Let me help you up to your room. Where is Megan herself?"

"At the Provost's offices, with the rest of us."

Hans stops.

"The rest?"

"Yes. The rest of the unit. And Doctor Briggs."

It's usually best to just be direct. Hans turns back to you, smiling beatifically.

"There must be some mistake. Megan, she say a room. I get her a room. She say she brings a friend. And here you are! But now, also, there are half a dozen Americans and a little drunk man ruining my home? No. This is not acceptable, Mr Smith."

His smile has teeth behind it, pantomiming restrained anger, but his eyes have a calculating look. You're being tested.

Hans' tags:

Genial (Hans seems to like you more than you'd expect. 10), Career Criminal (Everything about this man screams criminal, and you know how to deal with that. 10), Relationship: Megan Moreau (He clearly has some kind of history with Agent Moreau... 20, Risky)

[] Threaten him. (Manipulation, Intimidating, Career Criminal- Modifier 20, DC ?)

[] Charm him. (Manipulation, Captain America's Understudy, Genial- Modifier 20, DC ?)

[] Write in.

---
We'll be getting to the body after this little interlude! Sorry this update took so long, folks, the day sort of got away from me.

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

You are tired. You are irritable. You are doing grunt work just because Moreau doesn't like you. It is immensely tempting to take hold of this man by the brick and beat his face in until he's spitting teeth. For a second, you're honestly tempted, but then your professionalism reasserts itself. You plaster your best polite smile over your anger.

"I'm sorry no-one told you Agent Moreau wasn't alone, sir. I realise we're imposing on your hospitality. I'm sorry for that too. Genuinely. But I know you've always been a friend to the Bureau, and a proud citizen of Nyxenberg. So help us help your city."

Hans looks at you through narrowed eyelids...

(MANIPULATION 3 +CAPTAIN AMERICA'S UNDERSTUDY 7+GENIAL 10- 1d100+20 against DC ??

81+20- 101 against DC 55. Success!)

...and grins.

"Ah, the earnest nature of a good officer! Agent Smith, I think you are a very nice man! Yes. You're right, of course. For Nyxenberg. You'll have a little drink?"

You try to protest, but he's already behind the bar and pouring what smells like Schnapps into two glasses. The lady in Victorian mourning clothes is smirking behind her veil. Hans presses a glass into your hand, raises his own in a toast, and shouts.

"FOR THE CITY!"

"FOR THE CITY," choruses the crowd. Hans drinks, and then stares at you expectantly.

You shouldn't. A lifetime of supervisors, staff sergeants, senior agents, heck even your mother's stern warnings all coalesce in your brain and tell you no, don't do it, you're on duty.

But none of them existed. The closest thing to a real mother you have is the one who sent you here. So you smile at him awkwardly, and drink. The schnapps is sharp and... almost fruity? Or maybe herby. Odd. It's odd, but not in a bad way.

In any case, Hans seems to approve. He slaps you on the shoulder, grins again. "That, there, is a proper Nyxenberg welcome. Now let's get you settled in, yes? LINDI!"

There's a flicker of movement again. Another troll, smaller than the one outside, with long, stringy grey hair hanging to her shoulders, appears behind the bar.

"Our friend and his friend, the man at the door with all the bags. They're staying upstairs with a few others. Show them the way?"

It nods. Turns to you. Gestures. Starts off into the dark recesses of the cafe. You go to pick up your bags, but-

(again that strange, flickering almost movement)

-Lindi seems to have picked them up, carrying them like feather pillows under its arms as it goes.

You shrug, and follow.

Up two narrow flights of stairs is a room. Give it its due, not a bad one either. Tall windows let in plenty of light from the street outside, and the high ceiling make it feel more open and spacious. There's a small kitchenette, a beaten up leather couch, a table and chairs, and five camp beds.

Five. You eye them, then turn back to Lindi. The troll shrugs.

"Hans likes to play his games," it whispers. Female voice. Much less... unpleasant than the other one. "We find it best to indulge him."

"I'll keep that in mind," you say, for lack of a better response.

---

An hour later, you're at the morgue, alone. Briggs had decided to stay and settle in to the room a little. He'll be drunk by the time you're back, you're sure of it, but Moreau had left him no orders and technically you weren't his superior.

Worry about him later. For now, there was the morgue. Halfway across the city by the U-Bahn, in the basement of a hospital you'd had to work your way through German, French and what little Russian you knew to get anything resembling directions through. And now the bastard attendant was being difficult.

"I'm not being rude, sir, I just- can't let you in without authorisation."

She's a tiny woman, blonde hair fading to grey, avoiding your eyes. Name badge says Alina. Christ. You push your BPRD ID in front of her. She stares at it, then not quite back at you.

"I don't know this agency. BPRD?"

"We're outside consultants, ma'am. Here at the Provost's request."

"I'm not sure I can..."

"Perhaps you could call his offices? City hall, right? That's what you have here."

"I have no telephone down here, and I can't-"

"I have a cell." You offer it to her. Alina crumples.

"...No. No, I'm sure it's fine."

Finally.

She leads you into the morgue proper, stopping to pull on her gloves as she goes. "You have read the casefile?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well. Good. He is... not a pretty sight."

As she pulls open the refridgerated shelf and you see the body for the first time, you're inclined to agree. It's cleaner than the photographs, at least; all the dried blood and mud has been washed away. But there's not much you can do with a body this... brutalised.

"Teeth were removed post-mortem, most likely to prevent identification," says Alina, suddenly brisk and professional. "Fingers, toes and eyes also. The bruising suggests he was beaten before he died. The head wounds-"

"-Were the cause of death, yes, I know," you mumble.

"Just so. Exsanguination occurred by the wound in the neck, you can see it here. They must have hung him upside down. All normal, so far."

"Exsanguination is normal?"

Alina shrugs. "in Nyxenberg, yes. The gangs do it all the time. Sends a message. Historical evidence shows the practice occurring here before the Crusades. It's quite fascinating from an anthropological perspective; our own fascinating little custom. But, if you want to see something more unique..."

She goes to the lightswitch.

"Observe."

The room goes dark. The body glows faintly with pale, blue-white light. Alina turns the lights back on.

How do you proceed? Choose one.

[] Try to ID the body. You have a few tricks the local cops might not. Maybe if you can find out who this was, you can find out who killed them.

[] Examine the glow. That's the thing that's unusual. Maybe you can figure something out by examining it?

[] Press Alina. She was surprisingly resistant when you came here first. Is she hiding something?

[] Write-In.



CURRENT TAGS:

ALINA

NERVOUS (Something seems to be worrying her, and that something seems to be you. Bonus to intimidation. 7.)

? (Unknown. ?)

TRAINED MORTICIAN (Alina clearly knows her way around a corpse. Bonus on any roll relating to the body that Alina assists in. 15)



THE BODY

BEATEN TO A PULP (You've seen skeletons in better shape than this. Malus to rolls to identify the body. 10.)

GLOWING (The body is producing a faint, gentle glow, clearly magical. Bonus to rolls to examine the glow with magic or investigation. 10.)



THE MORGUE

WELL-STOCKED (This place is pretty well stocked, all things considered. Bonus to any roll relating to the body that makes use of the Morgue's equipment. 10.)

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

(So! When votes were counted across Facebook, Space Battles and Sufficient Velocity, we had a tie between pressing Alina and examining the glow. I flipped a coin to decide which one we'd go with, and we got examining the glow.)

You step closer to the body, lean forward, and examine it more closely. There's no point trying to ID it; even on your home turf, you'd be leaning on forensics. The glowing, though, that you can do something about.

"Turn the lights off again, please."

Alina complies without comment. Again, the white-blue light shimmers across the body. You close your eyes, and... reach...

Magic talks to itself all the time; every spell is just a message.

Hear the whispers, Tulpa. Hear the echoes...

(Gnosis 13+ Glowing 10- 1d100+23 against DC ??

56+23 against DC 65. Success!)

OpenyoureyestoitnowseebeyondthefleshseebeyondthemeatseebeyondtheatomsandmoleculesanddulldullDULLseethestory-

there'salwaysastory-



You open your eyes. There is a sky, and it is thick with stars. So many, you can barely make out the spaces between. They crash together, break, reform- an infinity's worth of light, twisting and turning through a cosmic dance older than time and full of meaning. It is peaceful. It is good.

Then- Calamity. Something is here that shouldn't be- a shadow crawling through this sea of light. The stars pull away, fleeing in every direction as the thing pulses and grows.

One is too slow.

The

Thing

Reaches

Out

Opens

Its

Jaws

And-



Your eyes flicker open again. The morgue. Alina is watching you, her expression guarded. You take a deep, shuddering breath, and put your hand against a nearby table to steady yourself.

Time to use that brain of yours. What else can you get from that?

Psychometric impression. Strong one. Directly connected to the glow?

You reach out again, gingerly this time. The vision is still there, a hungry vortex of images and fury, but you're ready for it, anchor yourself to the here and now, and push past. You can make out the glow, now; a shivering, palid little half-spell clinging to dead flesh as it dies itself.

So no, then. Two different effects. The glow...

You look at it again, consider. At even the most cursory inspection, it's clearly something artificial.

...Is manmade. Design suggests sympathetic magic; body was connected to another object or entity, took on those traits. Impression was most likely unintended- natural result of contact with supernatural entity.

You pause.

Impression wasn't subtle. Easy enough to see. With preparation, wouldn't be hard to remove it, minimise probability of discovery. Still in place.

Whoever did this didn't know to do that.

...This was either an amateur, an idiot, or someone who wanted to get caught.



"Thank you. Lights back on again."

Alina flicks the lights on. "Is there anything else, Agent?"

You consider.

(Intellect 10 + glowing 10-1d100+20 against DC??

28+20 against DC?? Failure!)

"No, ma'am. Thank you. You can put him back."

Alina pushes past you to slide the cold steel shelf back into the refridgeration unit and slam shut the door. Something about her... niggles at you.

"Alina-"

the shrill scream of your cellphone cuts you short. You glance at the screen. Briggs. Oh, this can't be good.

You answer. "Smith."

"Help."

"Briggs? What's wrong?"

"For God's sake, help! She's trying to- There's a woman. We were in the cafe, got talking. She... I can't get back in and she's trying to kill me, for God's sake, Smith, HELP-"

Oh fuck.

"Calm down. Where are you now?"

"Rue de Renard, but-"

"Is she with you now?"

"I don't- No. No, I think I lost her..."

"Are you somewhere public?"

"Yes. Library. I'm in the lobby."

"Give me a name."

"Uh... Nyxenberg Public Library."



What do you do? Pick one.

[]Go straight to the Library. You can make it in twenty minutes if you leave right now.

[]Call Moreau. You're going to need back up. Briggs will have to wait a little longer, but you'll have a better chance if things get... ugly.

[]Call Hans. He seems to like you, and he probably knows who this woman is. Maybe he can talk her down?

[] Write-in.

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

"Stay there," you snap after a moment's indecision. "Stay public. I'm going to make a call."

"A call? Smith-"

"Stay there." You hang up, and go to call Moreau-

And stop.

Moreau's still going to be at the Provost's office. All she can do is the same thing as you, with as much information as you- at best a little more. You need information, connections, leverage.

God help you, you need Hans.

You dial in the unfamiliar number and pray.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Click. "Agent Smith, what a wonderful surprise! You know, I honestly thought you weren't going to call. What can I do for you? Is dear Megan with you?"

"I need a favour."

The line goes quiet for a minute. Then, with a tone filled with a deep, filthy glee, "do you now..."

"Doctor Briggs left your cafe with a woman. She's trying-"

"To kill him, yes. Francie likes to play with new people at the best of times. And when your good Doctor turned out to be Jewish, well. Red rag in front in front of a bull, you know?"

"Why?"

"She's part of the Flesheaters. The Honourable Aryan Order of Flesheaters, in fact. Fascinating people. Started off as a guild of butchers in the sixteen hundreds. Didn't like the local Jews, started killing them and draining the blood. Little joke, you see? Keeping kosher. Nowadays, they kill people for money, but they'll still handle the children of Israel pro-bono."

You try not to grind your teeth. "Hans-"

"You're in a rush, I know, I know. Okay. I tell you what. Maybe I can help you."

The sentence ends there, dangling like a fish hook. You're pretty sure you know what it leads to.

"What for?"

"Oh, nothing! Nothing at all. Just a little favour."

"What SORT of favour?"

"So suspicious! This is that cold war paranoia, Agent Smith. You shouldn't be so bothered by things like this, you really shouldn't."

"...You'd call her off?"

There's a moment of cynical laughter on the far end of the phone. "Darling, no-one calls Francie off. Her father's the highest of the high, in those circles. That's a lot of protection. No, I'll offer her something else, and that should calm her down enough to leave your sweet innocent little drunk alone. Need to be quick, though. Tick tock, Apple Pie, tick tock! A favour for a favour. Yes or no?"

What do you say?

Pick one.

[] Yes

[] No

[] Write-In