The Nyxenberg Thing: A BPRD Short Quest
- Thread starter BadAtScreenNames
- Start date
- Action Mystery Horror
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Vote closed! Charm wins!
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.)
"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
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
And in no way is that a cunning trap!
This comment is a joke by the way. Or is it? Nah, it is.
[X] Examine the glow. That's the thing that's unusual. Maybe you can figure something out by examining it?
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
(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.
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.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
Owing Hans anything doesn't sound like a good idea, but might be the best under the circumstances.
[x]Call Hans. He seems to like you, and he probably knows who this woman is. Maybe he can talk her down?
[x]Call Hans. He seems to like you, and he probably knows who this woman is. Maybe he can talk her down?
Given the effort that went into preventing victim identification, perhaps there were two actors? The glow could be an effect entirely unrelated to murder, or the attempts to hide the body'identity could have happened after the murderer was done with it.
[X]Call Hans. He seems to like you, and he probably knows who this woman is. Maybe he can talk her down?
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"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
"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
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hey guys. I'd like to apologize for two things. First, no update yesterday. I got caught up cleaning and job hunting and never got around to writing. I'll try not to let that happen again. Second, the length of this update. I know it's really short, and I am sorry about that, but given Hans is... well, Hans, I figured you'd want to decide whether or not Smith goes through with this. To make things clear, if you say no, you might still be able to get to Briggs in time, depending on how you roll. Then again...
- Location
- St. Petersburg
Doubled words.
[x] Yes, so long as the favor does not betray your superiors.
I wish we knew more of his relationship with Megan so we could use it to make sure we don't get cheated too much. If anyone wants to do a write-in to that effect, I'll support it.
Last edited:
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You grit your teeth. "Nothing that will undermine the Bureau or the investigation. Nothing that could compromise or harm Agent Moreau, or any of my superiors."
"Of course not! Just a little favour. I mean I'm just making a little phonecall for you, after all. Is that a yes?"
This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea this is a bad idea this is a bad idea bad idea badideabadideabadideabadidea-
"Yes."
Hans gives a delighted laugh. "Good answer, Agent Smith! Very good answer." The line goes dead.
There's a moment, frozen in time, of horrified indecision. Then you bolt out of the morgue, out through the streets of Nyxenberg-
(Cunning 10-1d100 vs DC 70
1+23 vs DC70- MASSIVE FAILURE!)
-And run, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, just running, running-
-Phone rings-
-Skid to a halt-
-Answer-
Briggs.
"Smith?"
Thank Christ for Tulpa lungs. "Where are you?"
"The- the library. The woman-"
"Are you safe?"
"...Yes. She left. She- she was standing at the door, then- I- she waved at me, and then she just... left."
And the world goes cool and still, the fear draining out of you. Exhaustion fells in the gaps it leaves, making you leaden and weak.
"Good," you manage.
"Good? How-"
"It's alright. She's handled for a while. Just... just stay there, I'll pick you up."
---
Moreau eyes you as she re-enters the upstairs room above L'Arcane. The others troop in, muttering to each other, safe in their uniformity.
"Smith."
"Ma'am."
Briggs is hunched over in one corner, reading something. He glances up at you over the edge of the book, something like fear in his eyes.
"Alright, fall in," she snaps. The others crowd around dutifully. "I have a lead. Two of our victims were previously seen attending the Trinity Rooms nightclub, just on the edge of the slums, before they disappeared. Local cops didn't chase it up. Getting the sense that that's not unusual."
"You're not wrong," says one of either Jackson or Lewis. "The detective, Stormare? He buried this thing. The police in Nyxenberg take buy-offs like it's going out of style. He doesn't even know who did it; the order and the bribe came down from his captain. Buried the whole thing. This close to ruling it a suicide."
"Provost hadn't called us in, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't have heard about it until half the city was glowing dead guys," mutters the other one. The room sniggers dutifully.
"Folkham?"
"Nothing at the scene," rumbles the last agent. "Sorry, boss. Best I got? Local observatory was pretty active."
"What?"
"The observatory. You could see it from where the body was dropped. Place looked like an ant hive after you poke it with a stick."
Moreau gives him an inscrutable stare. "Thank you for that, agent," she says eventually, before turning away. "Smith?"
"The body was glowing, as described in the reports," you begin. Moreau gives you a withering glare. You carry on, undeterred. "No noticeable marks- at least, not that I saw. On closer inspection, the glow was clearly magical, and fading; the spell was breaking down even as I examined it. A secondary effect was also present, although possibly not intentionally."
"What sort of effect?" Folkham.
"A psychometric impression, and a powerful one. It dragged me in immediately on first inspection. I saw a shadow eating stars."
Moreau considers. "Anything you recognise?"
"The symbolism wasn't anything I recognised- or more accurately, nothing specific. Shadow myths are fairly common."
"Thank you for that, Agent," she replies, in acid tones. "Doctor Briggs?"
"Some of the more esoteric Mayan myths use similar imagery," murmers Briggs. "It also brings to mind Norse legend- Guingagap, perhaps... I'd need to research it further."
"Do." Moreau turns back to you. "Anything else to report?"
Do you tell Moreau what happened?
[]Yes
[]No
After the briefing, Moreau will assign new leads. Where does she send you?
Choose one.
[] To the Trinity Rooms Nightclub. Two suspects in one place- it's something, at least.
[] To examine the scene of the crime. Maybe your magical senses can pick up something Folkham missed.
[] To meet with the detective. Perhaps you'll get more out of him than Lewis and Jackson did.
[] To look over the files again. Moreau's convinced she missed something.
[] Back to the morgue. What was it Alina was hiding?
[] To the cafe. One of the locals might have a better idea about this. Choose one from below.
-[] Speak to Hans
-[] Speak to Lindi
-[] Speak to the troll
-[] Speak to the porcelain man
-[] Speak to Francie
-[] Speak to the crying man
-[] Speak to the sick man
-[] Speak to the old woman
-[] Speak to the woman in Victorian mourning clothes
-[] Speak to someone else
[] To the Provost's offices. Maybe the answer can be found in the city's political community?
"Of course not! Just a little favour. I mean I'm just making a little phonecall for you, after all. Is that a yes?"
This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea this is a bad idea this is a bad idea bad idea badideabadideabadideabadidea-
"Yes."
Hans gives a delighted laugh. "Good answer, Agent Smith! Very good answer." The line goes dead.
There's a moment, frozen in time, of horrified indecision. Then you bolt out of the morgue, out through the streets of Nyxenberg-
(Cunning 10-1d100 vs DC 70
1+23 vs DC70- MASSIVE FAILURE!)
-And run, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, just running, running-
-Phone rings-
-Skid to a halt-
-Answer-
Briggs.
"Smith?"
Thank Christ for Tulpa lungs. "Where are you?"
"The- the library. The woman-"
"Are you safe?"
"...Yes. She left. She- she was standing at the door, then- I- she waved at me, and then she just... left."
And the world goes cool and still, the fear draining out of you. Exhaustion fells in the gaps it leaves, making you leaden and weak.
"Good," you manage.
"Good? How-"
"It's alright. She's handled for a while. Just... just stay there, I'll pick you up."
---
Moreau eyes you as she re-enters the upstairs room above L'Arcane. The others troop in, muttering to each other, safe in their uniformity.
"Smith."
"Ma'am."
Briggs is hunched over in one corner, reading something. He glances up at you over the edge of the book, something like fear in his eyes.
"Alright, fall in," she snaps. The others crowd around dutifully. "I have a lead. Two of our victims were previously seen attending the Trinity Rooms nightclub, just on the edge of the slums, before they disappeared. Local cops didn't chase it up. Getting the sense that that's not unusual."
"You're not wrong," says one of either Jackson or Lewis. "The detective, Stormare? He buried this thing. The police in Nyxenberg take buy-offs like it's going out of style. He doesn't even know who did it; the order and the bribe came down from his captain. Buried the whole thing. This close to ruling it a suicide."
"Provost hadn't called us in, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't have heard about it until half the city was glowing dead guys," mutters the other one. The room sniggers dutifully.
"Folkham?"
"Nothing at the scene," rumbles the last agent. "Sorry, boss. Best I got? Local observatory was pretty active."
"What?"
"The observatory. You could see it from where the body was dropped. Place looked like an ant hive after you poke it with a stick."
Moreau gives him an inscrutable stare. "Thank you for that, agent," she says eventually, before turning away. "Smith?"
"The body was glowing, as described in the reports," you begin. Moreau gives you a withering glare. You carry on, undeterred. "No noticeable marks- at least, not that I saw. On closer inspection, the glow was clearly magical, and fading; the spell was breaking down even as I examined it. A secondary effect was also present, although possibly not intentionally."
"What sort of effect?" Folkham.
"A psychometric impression, and a powerful one. It dragged me in immediately on first inspection. I saw a shadow eating stars."
Moreau considers. "Anything you recognise?"
"The symbolism wasn't anything I recognised- or more accurately, nothing specific. Shadow myths are fairly common."
"Thank you for that, Agent," she replies, in acid tones. "Doctor Briggs?"
"Some of the more esoteric Mayan myths use similar imagery," murmers Briggs. "It also brings to mind Norse legend- Guingagap, perhaps... I'd need to research it further."
"Do." Moreau turns back to you. "Anything else to report?"
Do you tell Moreau what happened?
[]Yes
[]No
After the briefing, Moreau will assign new leads. Where does she send you?
Choose one.
[] To the Trinity Rooms Nightclub. Two suspects in one place- it's something, at least.
[] To examine the scene of the crime. Maybe your magical senses can pick up something Folkham missed.
[] To meet with the detective. Perhaps you'll get more out of him than Lewis and Jackson did.
[] To look over the files again. Moreau's convinced she missed something.
[] Back to the morgue. What was it Alina was hiding?
[] To the cafe. One of the locals might have a better idea about this. Choose one from below.
-[] Speak to Hans
-[] Speak to Lindi
-[] Speak to the troll
-[] Speak to the porcelain man
-[] Speak to Francie
-[] Speak to the crying man
-[] Speak to the sick man
-[] Speak to the old woman
-[] Speak to the woman in Victorian mourning clothes
-[] Speak to someone else
[] To the Provost's offices. Maybe the answer can be found in the city's political community?
- Location
- St. Petersburg
[x]Yes
Wouldn't tell her if Hans didn't have a history with her. As it is, he might be using us to get back at her. Best she knows it and prepares for it.
If Hans was the one who set it up, after all... well, turnabout is fair play.
[x] To look over the files again. Moreau's convinced she missed something.
Wouldn't tell her if Hans didn't have a history with her. As it is, he might be using us to get back at her. Best she knows it and prepares for it.
If Hans was the one who set it up, after all... well, turnabout is fair play.
[x] To look over the files again. Moreau's convinced she missed something.
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Briggs is looking at you again over the edge of the book. He's afraid, you can already tell. Moreau's going to throw the book at him. You're almost sympathetic, but you're also very aware of how badly wrong that could have gone, and that it's at least partly his fault. Besides, you can't keep this secret. Too many ways it could come back.
"Yes ma'am," you reply. Sorry, Briggs. "Two things. Firstly, the morgue attendant seemed... shifty. Very shifty. Nothing I can confirm. Also-"
You pause, try and find a way to phrase it, but no, there really is no way to make this not suck. Oh well. Time to get chewed out.
"Doctor Briggs made contact with a local, who then pursued him through the streets intending to kill him. To keep that from happening, I called Hans and made a deal; he managed to get her to withdraw in exchange for an unnamed favour at some point in the future. The terms-"
It is at this point that Moreau starts screaming at you.
"WHAT THE FUCK, SMITH?!"
"-The terms included that it could not compromise the investigation-"
"WHAT THE ACTUAL, EVER LIVING FUCK?!"
"-or put you, our superiors, or the Bureau at risk."
"WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU CALL ME?!"
"You were on the far side of the city. In the circumstances it seemed best-"
"AND YOU'RE TELLING ME THIS NOW?!"
"You were in the middle of the briefing, it was the first time we'd-"
"FUCK!" There's a moment where you're convinced she's about to hit you. Instead she turns, snarling, stalks to the door, and bangs on it. "HANS!"
"No need to shout, Megan," he answers, from next to the Doctor, where he definitely wasn't a second ago. Briggs flinches away. "I was just downstairs. Drink, anyone? There's schnapps."
Moreau breathes out, visibly restraining herself. "Not while we're on the clock."
"Shame."
"You made a deal with Smith."
Hans smiles. "Ah. Dear sweet apple pie. He's a credit to you, he really is. I must confess, when I heard you'd had a child, I was a little shocked, but the results really do speak for themselves."
Moreau's face flushes, but she pushes on. "Let him out of it."
"WHy on earth would I do that?"
"He didn't know-"
"Oh, he very much did. Unless the Bureau's training has gotten a great deal more lax in the last few years, I imagine he was well aware of how this could have gone."
"He was MY operative, Hans. When we came here, you said no harm would come to them."
"And no harm has! I didn't trick him, hurt him, coerce, force or beguile him. He called me. I just picked up."
Moreau visibly struggles for another response. Hans tuts. "Now Megan, calm down. I'm not going to feed the poor boy into a meatgrinder. It's just a little favour. Didn't do me any harm, did it?"
"Because I'm nicer than you."
"Maybe. Well. Tell you what. As a consolation, how about..." and there's a bottle in his hand, dark and a little dusty, the label browning but still just legible enough to see the word Schnapps written on it in dark letters. "In case you change your mind. Toodle pip!"
And he's gone. Moreau stands frozen for a moment, locking down her fury. Then she turns to glare at you.
"That was fucking STUPID, Agent," she growls. "Intensely so. If we had more resources, I'd send you back to Connecticut and be done with it. But right now I'm fucking stuck with you. And you." She turns on Briggs like an avenging angel, descends on him, snatches away his flask. "You are a liability, you idiot. You have put other agents in a position where they have to cover for you. All because you can't go without a drink. So here's what happens now. You are not leaving this room until this investigation is over. You will be monitored every second of every day, tying up ANOTHER agent, so I can keep you from making things worse. And you are going to like it. Do I make myself clear?"
Briggs whimpers something that sounds like a yes. Moreau keeps glaring at him, then opens the flask, pours it out. Then, clearly working out some more aggression, she snatches up the Schnapps bottle and flings it against the wall.
There's a moment of silence. She breathes again, slowly, calming herself.
"Folkham," she manages eventually. "You're on babysitting. Jackson, Lewis, you're with me. We're going to check the nightclub. Smith..."
The embers of her rage flare again, but she smashes them down.
"Go check Folkham's work. Look at the crime scene, see what you can find."
"Ma'am," the room choruses.
---
Nyxenberg's high rises and churches give way first to the squat, soulless suburbs, then roads and sparse fields, before at last you find yourself at the crimescene. The steppe rolls away from the city to the horizon, a thick sea of tall brown grass and rolling hills. A feeble cordon of police tape marks out the spot where once, not that long ago, the body lay. There's been an attempt to mark out where the body was, but someone's already scuffed it up slightly. A slovenly man in a Nyxenberg police uniform is smoking some thirty feet away, his back to you. There's something... odd about his ears.
In the distance, you can see the observatory on a high hill. The lights are on, and you can see people outside. The sun is starting to set. At best, you have an hour, possibly two, before night descends.
What do you do?
[] Search the surrounding area. The local police clearly didn't treat this case as a priority. Maybe they missed something?
[] Speak to the police officer. He might know something.
[] Doorstep the locals. There's a few homes around here. Maybe they saw something?
[] Investigate the Observatory. Folkham was right, it is surprisingly active...
"Yes ma'am," you reply. Sorry, Briggs. "Two things. Firstly, the morgue attendant seemed... shifty. Very shifty. Nothing I can confirm. Also-"
You pause, try and find a way to phrase it, but no, there really is no way to make this not suck. Oh well. Time to get chewed out.
"Doctor Briggs made contact with a local, who then pursued him through the streets intending to kill him. To keep that from happening, I called Hans and made a deal; he managed to get her to withdraw in exchange for an unnamed favour at some point in the future. The terms-"
It is at this point that Moreau starts screaming at you.
"WHAT THE FUCK, SMITH?!"
"-The terms included that it could not compromise the investigation-"
"WHAT THE ACTUAL, EVER LIVING FUCK?!"
"-or put you, our superiors, or the Bureau at risk."
"WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU CALL ME?!"
"You were on the far side of the city. In the circumstances it seemed best-"
"AND YOU'RE TELLING ME THIS NOW?!"
"You were in the middle of the briefing, it was the first time we'd-"
"FUCK!" There's a moment where you're convinced she's about to hit you. Instead she turns, snarling, stalks to the door, and bangs on it. "HANS!"
"No need to shout, Megan," he answers, from next to the Doctor, where he definitely wasn't a second ago. Briggs flinches away. "I was just downstairs. Drink, anyone? There's schnapps."
Moreau breathes out, visibly restraining herself. "Not while we're on the clock."
"Shame."
"You made a deal with Smith."
Hans smiles. "Ah. Dear sweet apple pie. He's a credit to you, he really is. I must confess, when I heard you'd had a child, I was a little shocked, but the results really do speak for themselves."
Moreau's face flushes, but she pushes on. "Let him out of it."
"WHy on earth would I do that?"
"He didn't know-"
"Oh, he very much did. Unless the Bureau's training has gotten a great deal more lax in the last few years, I imagine he was well aware of how this could have gone."
"He was MY operative, Hans. When we came here, you said no harm would come to them."
"And no harm has! I didn't trick him, hurt him, coerce, force or beguile him. He called me. I just picked up."
Moreau visibly struggles for another response. Hans tuts. "Now Megan, calm down. I'm not going to feed the poor boy into a meatgrinder. It's just a little favour. Didn't do me any harm, did it?"
"Because I'm nicer than you."
"Maybe. Well. Tell you what. As a consolation, how about..." and there's a bottle in his hand, dark and a little dusty, the label browning but still just legible enough to see the word Schnapps written on it in dark letters. "In case you change your mind. Toodle pip!"
And he's gone. Moreau stands frozen for a moment, locking down her fury. Then she turns to glare at you.
"That was fucking STUPID, Agent," she growls. "Intensely so. If we had more resources, I'd send you back to Connecticut and be done with it. But right now I'm fucking stuck with you. And you." She turns on Briggs like an avenging angel, descends on him, snatches away his flask. "You are a liability, you idiot. You have put other agents in a position where they have to cover for you. All because you can't go without a drink. So here's what happens now. You are not leaving this room until this investigation is over. You will be monitored every second of every day, tying up ANOTHER agent, so I can keep you from making things worse. And you are going to like it. Do I make myself clear?"
Briggs whimpers something that sounds like a yes. Moreau keeps glaring at him, then opens the flask, pours it out. Then, clearly working out some more aggression, she snatches up the Schnapps bottle and flings it against the wall.
There's a moment of silence. She breathes again, slowly, calming herself.
"Folkham," she manages eventually. "You're on babysitting. Jackson, Lewis, you're with me. We're going to check the nightclub. Smith..."
The embers of her rage flare again, but she smashes them down.
"Go check Folkham's work. Look at the crime scene, see what you can find."
"Ma'am," the room choruses.
---
Nyxenberg's high rises and churches give way first to the squat, soulless suburbs, then roads and sparse fields, before at last you find yourself at the crimescene. The steppe rolls away from the city to the horizon, a thick sea of tall brown grass and rolling hills. A feeble cordon of police tape marks out the spot where once, not that long ago, the body lay. There's been an attempt to mark out where the body was, but someone's already scuffed it up slightly. A slovenly man in a Nyxenberg police uniform is smoking some thirty feet away, his back to you. There's something... odd about his ears.
In the distance, you can see the observatory on a high hill. The lights are on, and you can see people outside. The sun is starting to set. At best, you have an hour, possibly two, before night descends.
What do you do?
[] Search the surrounding area. The local police clearly didn't treat this case as a priority. Maybe they missed something?
[] Speak to the police officer. He might know something.
[] Doorstep the locals. There's a few homes around here. Maybe they saw something?
[] Investigate the Observatory. Folkham was right, it is surprisingly active...
- Location
- St. Petersburg
An erroneous capitalization.
This mystery is never going to be solved, is it?
I am torn between searching the area and pursuing the lead already provided by Folkham. We don't know if Observatory is even connected to the case, but the vision had stars in it, so maybe it wasn't entirely in our minds and people actually saw something.
Would it would be too much to hope there was someone spying on people instead of planetoids that night?
[X] Doorstep the locals. There's a few homes around here. Maybe they saw something?