CRESTFALLEN Copyright © 2002 Alexis Mayton. All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this archive may be duplicated without the expressed 
consent of the members and site owner.

. . . T H E . C F . A R C H I V E . . .
>>PCs:
August Green (cfallenplayer@hotmail.com)
Elysa Morgan (sweet_serene99@hotmail.com)
Everett Cross (suborntouch@hotmail.com)
Hampton Chelsea-Foster (rei59@hotmail.com)
Grenadine En'gel (suborntouch@hotmail.com)
Henry Winchester (jburn2bs@mwc.edu)
Jake Torn (subotai_kaz@yahoo.com)
Ophelia Grady (rei59@hotmail.com)
Matthew Sheridon (ijot@cox.net)
Mirko Svjatoslav (cyberspyder@hotmail.com)
Simon Cardinal (mmichalo79@hotmail.com) (deceased)

>>CNPCs:
Caleb Frailty
Marissa
Nora Drake
Poe Seig-Overstreet
Zenning
Zephyr

..:Last Updated 10.27.02 + Current Threads (3):
'Loitering'
'Shattered Glass'
'Umbrella'


. . .
Thread: (CL-F) White Walls, Red Futures: The Unknown Compound

[Grenadine wrote:]
It was a white room. Fitting, as it were, a metaphor sublime in comparison 
to Grenadine's current state. Or life, one might say.

Grenadine sat with legs crossed indian style in the center of the room, 
honey eyes glazed blank and staring as if the paleness of their color had at 
one point frozen over with a layer of ice. It was almost possible; the room 
was nearly freezing. They kept it that way always, as if they thought it 
might bring her around, force her to tell them what they wished. But their 
logic was flawed. It often was.

And so she merely sat, jaw slack, platinum locks of coarse hair framing her 
face like jutting shrouds of so much frozen glue. Occasionally she would 
blink, or a finger or two would twitch to life, reaching to trail their pale 
tips along the lower jaw line, trembling ever so slightly as they paused to 
trace dry, parched lips.

At one languid moment in time one of the men dressed in the starch white lab 
coats came to check on her, peering in with his narrowed blue gaze through 
the smallish circular window cut into the metal door that lead to the girl's 
holding cell. For several seconds he watched without comment, his 
clean-shaven features hard and expressionless. Only his eyes belied the 
emotion, and even that was little more than a fleeting twitch, an 
afterthought quickly washed away by duty and nothingness.

A noise, faint yet definitely present, sounded then, echoing dimly through 
the compound, reverberating slowly across and along its sleek metal walls.

The man frowned, the shadows taking residence under his dark blue eyes 
cutting deep peeks and chasms into his otherwise smooth features. He glanced 
away from the cold metal doorframe and to the featurelessness of the hallway 
behind him.

Back inside the room Grenadine's lips were moving, her dry throat working to 
form words.

The doctor shifted his attention back to her room, his pretty little captive 
with the sunken-in eyes of ice and red stained cheeks. For the first time in 
nearly two weeks she moved then, something more than a twitch or blink. Her 
head turned to face him, to gaze directly through the doorway and its darkly 
tinted two-way circle of glass, through which the doctor now watched with 
renewed interest.

Her eyes were depthless orbs, as frozen and blank as the color of the white 
padded walls surrounding her. Her chapped lips quirked, tugged faintly at 
the corners, then parted way to raspy words, her voice mimicking that of a 
child's sing-song verse-- "Thheeeyyy'rree cooo-mmiiin'..."  It was the 
doctor's turn to blink. His face, suddenly, was very pale.

The outside sound intensified, rattling the cold metal compound walls, 
threatening to root the good doctor from his solid ground. He lurched 
forward with panic as much as outside force, his hand slapping against the 
circular observation window as he opened his mouth to scream. But Grenadine 
was only laughing, laughing wildly and staring straight up at the 
plexi-composit ceiling with its white wash of neo-glow lighting, gaping, 
eyes closed and fingers twitching.

. . .
Thread: Start Kit: Archer's Row

[Jake wrote:]
It was called Archer’s Row and nearly no one could
venture a guess as to why.  These were not the kind of
men and women who waxed intellectual on such matters
at any rate.  It was the place to find muscle,
bullets, and the men and women who put those tools to
work.  

As far as assassins, mercenaries, and bodyguards went,
these were the bulk and lower quality of all Los Delos
had to offer.  Your high-end, top quality gun and
sword slingers for hire had -agents-.  That’s how
things worked.  When you’re on the bottom of the food
chain, you practically begged for work.

And that’s where Jake was, sitting at a bar, waiting
for someone… anyone to grab his attention and start to
haggle.  The process of hiring went very much like
courting.  The ‘vendors’ would sit at the bar, looking
very adept, the prospective customers would sit at the
tables, until someone was brave enough to make a
match.  Then the two interested parties would park in
a booth until they haggled out a price or went
separate ways to try once again.

Some denizens of the bar side often required a little
down payment just to haggle.  Jake, though, would be
fairly happy with just a lingering glance.  Of the
dozen shops of the like on Archer’s Row; be it rough
bar, tattoo parlor, or strip joint, this particular
bar was on the far end of the street.  Reserved, or
left over, for the new agents and crews trying to find
work.  Even amongst the rookies and newbies, Jake was
still just a young pup as far as hired muscle went. 
He lacked a reputation or even an experienced mentor
to help him find jobs.  

“Wanna talk, sailor?”

Jake looked up from his beer and depressive reverie to
lock gazes with a young woman, maybe just out of her
teens, through the mirror positioned directly behind
the bar.  The momentary shock was quickly displaced as
Jake slowly rotated to face the woman.  “Talk about
what?”  He asked, sizing her up as a butcher might
size up a lean piece of meat.

She rolled her eyes and answered, “A job.  What else?”

Keeping his face unemotional and peering through her
eyes, Jake took in the whole of her.  She was marked
up all over, with tattoos arching and reaching their
way around her bare arms and her bare stomach.  There
were most likely a few wrapping around her legs, but
her baggy pants kept Jake from discerning such a fact.
 He did see a small tear shape tattoo under her left
eye and a strange symbol next to her right eyebrow. 
There were also various metal protrusions in her face.
 Her nostrils, lips, and eyebrows were all clipped and
no doubt there were countless other metal bits
attached to her body.  Jake figured she might be
attractive were it not for the pointless additions.  

“What kind of job are we talking about?”   Jake asked
and nonchalantly took a sip of his beer.  He might not
get work often but he knew how to play the game.

“One that pays,” she replied, crossing her arms in a
gesture of resilience.

“Step into my office,” he instructed and motioned for
her to follow him to the nearest empty booth.  A
waitress strolled by and idly asked the pair if they
wanted something to drink.  The girl passed on the
offer quite vehemently.

“What would be required of me?”

“Protection,” she told him, barely able to withhold
her excitement.  “I need some backup.  That’s all I
can tell you until you agree to work for me.”

“I only agree on working for money.  So, let’s get
down to brass tacks.  How much?”

“Plenty.”

“Could you vague that up for me?” Jake quipped and
took the last drink of his beer.  He eyed it curiously
as if he was sure there was more to the bottle than
that, then slid the empty bottle to end of the table
for the waitress to pick up on her next pass.  “I
mean, this is all a question of semantics, isn’t it? 
‘Plenty’ for you could be junk to me.”

“How about information instead?”

Jake moved to stand up.  “We work for money around
here.”

“Wait!” She nearly whined.

He moved back to a comfortable sitting position but
painted a bored expression on his face.  The girl
shifted and contorted her body a bit in the cozy booth
to move her face closer to Jake’s.  Then she
whispered, “I can make you a generous but fair offer
and include the information to sweeten the deal. 
How’s that?”

“What kind of information?”

“The kind that a guy in your line of work would find
most useful, I’m sure.  So, can we deal or what?”

Jake stared a hole through her head for a few tense
moments until the girl began to shift nervously in her
seat.  Without blinking, finally, he answered, “Okay. 
Let’s make a deal.”

. . .
Thread: Loitering: VR Arcade, Deep Lower City

[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew yawned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, grunted as he found 
dirt in there and it immediately made its way under his fingernails.  He 
pulled a small piece of plastic from his pocket, couldn't identify its 
origin or purpose and tossed it over his shoulder.  He yawned again, 
remembering that he hadn't eaten since at least the day before yesterday 
but figuring it could wait until tomorrow, it wasn't like he was going 
to blood lust before then.  He knew his own tolerance well enough.

He walked for a little while.  Everything was closed except a few shops 
here and there and none of them held any interest for him.  Walker had 
come home too tired from work to go anyway and since Matthew had slept 
most of the day he wasn't tired enough to crash.  He stopped in front of 
a VR Arcade he would usually go to, but this late at night it had been 
closed for hours.

He leaned against the wall and pulled his hands from his pockets to 
inspect them.  He'd spent all day sleeping and then vegetating in front 
of the HV.  This was disappointing, coming out here only to find nothing 
of interest at all.  He looked up at the unlit holosign above his head 
and then at the glass paneling to his right.

He considered the situation and weighed the pro's and con's of just 
breaking in and using the facilities without supervision.  He knew from 
his previous visits that all of the cameras faced the the front doors. 
It was only a matter of getting past those and he was home free.  Of 
course, just going home and jacking in was a much less risky activity, 
but what was the fun in that?  He finally shrugged to himself and tried 
it the hard way.

Getting past the cameras and scanners was the easy part, and he'd worked 
in hardware long enough to know how to get the equipment hooked up.  He 
pulled a couple of games he'd been wanting to play for awhile from 
behind the counter, pushed one into one of the arcade's custom 
headpieces, slipped into a comfy chair in the back, and ceased to exist 
in the world of the living.

. . .
Thread: Prodigal Son: Tower Rooftop, Upper City

[August wrote:]
August wrote:]
The EMC banked along a curve in the skyline gap above a major 
thoroughfare, parting the smoggy haze of the predawn Los 
Delos skies as it set a reasonable vector towards its destination, 
the aging skyscraper where two other vehicles were already 
parked.

L.D.H.O. militia soldiers watched the aircar set down, laser rifles 
held at ready.  Hands tensed against the stocks of the weapons 
as the door opened and the occupant hoisted himself out 
gracefully.  As his boots struck the hard asphalt of the de facto 
landing sight, August Green found himself the subject of the cold 
regard of the striking female standing amongst the group, her 
face speaking volumes in its exasperated expression.

The situation was unreasonably tense as both August and his 
subordinate come nemesis, Marissa, noticed through mundane 
perception and telepathic sense-and neither was going to do 
anything to relieve that tension.  August took the first word. "Nice 
to see you made it." 

The female sneered. "Yes, I did-in fact I made it 15 minutes ago, 
when this little meeting was scheduled to begin."  August 
sighed; "I feel no need to defend myself.  Is there a reason that 
we're conferring here?" "Yes, as a matter of fact-it's along
the way to my next destination." Glancing idly at the militia, he 
shifted his weight and narrowed his eyes.  "Thanks for taking 
some of your valuable time to see me.  I had no idea you were 
so pressed for available appointments."  Snidely, she 
responded with a bitter tone, "Well, we're always losing the race 
against time trying to repair your legacy."  August smiled- "Than I 
find it odd that you waited 15 minutes for me, seeing as you're 
so busy."

"Sarcasm does not become you." Marissa growled in a low 
tone.  "And such treatment does not become me." August 
returned.  An awkward silence filled the space between the two.

A cold gust of wind swept over the rooftop as Marissa raised her 
voice over it.  "Let's cut the parlor bullshit.  I'm supposed
to be here, but I'm not sure why.  You know the score-I don't
haveto  hold your hand and stamp your papers, do I?"  August 
shook his head; "I'd like to propose a change to the usual 
arrangements."  He took the following silence as a nod to 
continue.  "You see, I know where I stand-I hear what's been 
said and I know what people think.  But I don't think I'm fit
to inspect the herds and argue with two-bit militia 
representatives-and I don't think  you want me to fulfill such a 
mundane position either."

Marissa raised an eyebrow.  "Oh really?  You think I wouldn't
love to see you stuck in some bureaucratic busywork, rusting 
and rotting?  I don't think you know your standing as well as you 
say."

August snorted and gritted his teeth a bit, continuing as calmly 
as possible, "I suppose it comes down to your judgement of 
character.  You can tie the hands of a member of the Veil who is 
historically its among its most proficient and its most  
experienced, or you can hear me out.  It depends on if you trust 
me."  A short, high laugh sounded out of place here, giving the 
guards a bit of a start as the female vampyre dramatically threw 
her head back a little and let a smile cross her face.  "Trust you?  
I heard a story about some informants and an L.D.H.O. officer 
who put a good deal of trust in you, but I don't think they can 
vouch for that anymore."

August grimaced-it had been a long time since such a remark 
had provoked any anger in him.  His skin had thickened with 
every barb lashed at him regarding his biggest mistake.  
Marissa was visibly displeased that he hadn't lost his temper, 
and this gave him the slightest bit of pleasure.  She wiped the 
smile off of her face and made her decision.  "Enlighten me."

He began speaking as evenly as possible, trying to put an air of 
reasonability over about what he was going to ask.  "Allow me to 
say all before you question my thoughts.  I want, how is this best 
expressed…an independent position.  By this, I mean that I want 
license to operate on my own terms to further our means.  I 
believe that someone needs to take a proactive stance towards 
our opposition, in order to lessen it.  We spend much of our time 
bolstering our defenses, and I believe that at this point 
taking…hmm…something of an…offensive stance would be 
quite effective."

Marissa eyed him, her arms crossed.  "Are you finished?"  As 
soon as he nodded, she commenced her discourse; "You 
essentially want me to give you permission to seek out those 
who hinder our operation and attempt to deal with them.  Am I 
correct?"  August nodded.  She cast a gaze of disbelief at him.  
"And you think this is even possible in your case?"

He nodded lightly.  "At this point, the various groups that have 
opposed us have to have some kind of organizational structure.  
We are at somewhat of a disadvantage as the larger and more 
organized system, but not all our enemies are independent cells 
acting on their own.  I'm sure of this-near the end of my tenure, 
we started having troubles that aren't caused by anything short
of an organized resistance.  Multiple and organized defection, 
precise raids, payoffs and kickback-we're not dealing with  
vengeful relatives of victims or self-righteous vampire hunters 
anymore."

Marissa growled and stepped up into his face; "I will NOT be 
lectured on the nature of our problems-I am fully aware of what 
we face."  August smiled.  "Then you hear a ring of truth in my 
words.  Every system has points upon which larger parts of the 
system hinges, and every system has weaknesses, even the 
seemingly discordant organizations within the Spider's Dusk. All 
I ask is that you allow me to observe and learn, while reporting 
and consulting with the Veil."

The pale female stepped back and scowled.  "Maybe you're right 
about the Spider's Dusk.  But that doesn't mean that you can
just  walk into the Lower City and commence a senseless 
rampage,  hoping that you'll end up damaging something that 
we oppose."

One of the LDHO officers clears his throat.  "Missus, it is the 
time."  Marissa held a hand up to him.  "Never mind the time I 
appropriated." She turned back to August; "Your idea is only 
half-sane.  Your logic is not flawed on the part of your concept.  
We have before considered such an idea.  But it is not your 
place-we have insiders, Crestfallen who not only inform but also 
hinder.  You, however…you would not succeed in such an 
endeavor.  Even if I told you where to start, you couldn't get on
the  inside.  Aside from your notoriety, consider that Doves are 
few  within the Spider's Dusk-they do not escape the public eye 
for  long.  It would be impossible for you to get on the inside 
without stirring up a storm."

August shook his head.  "My notoriety is no longer tied to an 
appearance in that place-it hasn't been for years.  As for the
rest,  there isn't much that I can say-plainly, I disagree, but
we could  spend hours debating the nature and logistics of the 
Lower City  and its urban vampyres, something neither of us 
wants.  So it is here that I rest my case.  You can put me to work 
as another one of the lower lackeys, having wasted my talent but 
having the consolation that you needn't worry about me.  Or you 
can take a chance that will possibly bring about more good for 
the Veil than it has known for a while in these times.  Either path 
you take, I am out of your way, and you may continue your own 
duties as you see fit."

Marissa frowned.  "Do as you wish-we both know that if I restrain 
you you're going to cause more trouble than you're worth. 
You know where to procure the tools you'll want, so you need no 
more help from me.  Prepare yourself and then I want a detailed 
report of your intentions to my people at L.D.H.O."  She slowly 
strode right up next to August, leaning forward to whisper in his 
ear; "Don't think that this doesn't mean that you're no
longer on your last legs.  If you make any mistake that is 
counterproductive to our agenda, you'll be lucky to escape to a 
life among those whom you hunt.  My eyes will rest upon you 
always."

August had nothing more to say, his mouth turned up in a rare 
and irrepressible smile.  As Marissa returned to her EMC and 
the L.D.H.O. guards to theirs, she mused, "Parting is such sweet 
sorrow, August."

"You know…" August said loud enough for her to hear as she 
walked away, "The last time I said that, it was right before I killed 
a man."  Marissa paused, a forced smirk crossing her face as  
she resumed stride.

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit, Henry's Apartment

[Henry wrote:]
There was a soft knocking at Henry's front door.  He wasn't expecting visitors, and it was a little late for the uninvited.  He grabbed his pistol and set it to single shot.  Hopefully he would not have to use it.  The knock repeated a few moments later.  He got up from the table he was working at and walked cautiously to the front door.

He checked the front door monitor.  A well-dressed human was standing patiently, carrying a leather briefcase.  When he reached to knock a third time, the folds of his suit shifted into just the right position for Henry to get a quick peek at the pistol he carried.

Raising his weapon slightly, Henry keyed in the code to unlock his door, which was confirmed by a loud click, saving his "guest" the trouble of knocking a fourth time.  The door slid open at the touch of a button.  The mysterious visitor inquired, "May I come in?"

"Might as well."  Henry was not tense; this man posed little threat to him.  He wasn't about to get shot because he was too trusting though, and kept his weapon lowered but ready.

The man walked in, the door closing quickly behind him.  "I suppose you are wondering why I have chosen to seek you out in such a fashion."

"We could start with that."  Henry replied.  He lowered his weapon down to his waist.  He still felt safe with it there.  No way could this guy draw from a jacket pocket fast enough to wind up anything but knocked out.  Henry motioned with his free hand through a doorway to his office.

The home office was a little cramped, but with enough room for comfort.  The office was the best-kept room in the home, for business appearances.  Henry sat down behind his desk, and set his pistol in his lap.  He reclined in his plush synthetic leather chair, and put one hand behind his head, keeping the other free and close to his laser.

"I must apologize for coming after business hours, however, it was a necessity.  I am in need of your services."  The client paused to take a short breath, and picked up his briefcase.  "I am under investigation by the Militia Patrol, therefore, I am limited in the scope of my actions.  Had I come during normal business hours, they would have noted that I was not at work, and I am sure they would monitor any holographic communication.  However, I am here dining with an old friend of mine as far as they are concerned."

Henry then interjected, "If you're asking me to find out how to get you out from under investigation, you're askin' the wrong guy.  I'm not in with the MP's.  I never have been and I probably never will be able to get that deep."  He knew this wasn't what he was asking for, but the response would get them down to business faster.

The client quickly acknowledged the falsehood of this statement.  "Not a chance.  All I'm saying is that my ability to maneuver is limited.  I just want you to send a message…of sorts… to someone, no questions asked."

"Would this message involve injury to the recipient?"  Henry was recalling the last person to use the term "send a message" so loosely.  The "message" was pretty clear when he burned a hole in their chest.

"Here's everything you'll need."  The client produced a file from his briefcase.  "For now, I don't want her dead, but if she ends up lying in a drain in Spider's Dusk without blood, it won't break my heart."  The man smiled.

"I don't give vampyres free lunches," Henry replied, feeling a sense of dark irony with the words.  

"Look, I don't care what you do, so long as she knows that someone doesn't appreciate her."  The client then moved his briefcase back to the floor.  "About payment now.  Upon completion, you will find 5,000 credits extra in your account.  Don't bother asking where it came from.  It's better if you don't know anyway, right?"  Henry nodded, and his client continued, "Assuming the target is not sufficiently persuaded, we may speak again."

"Everything you know is in these files?"  Henry solicited.  

"Everything you'll need to know, yes.  You don't need to know why this woman needs a lesson."  He paused, hoping to clinch this deal.

"What guarantee do I have that you'll pay up?  I don't even know who you are, how am I supposed to kill you if you stick it to me?"

It was almost like this man was hoping Henry was a complete idiot.  "Well… I see your problem.  Forgive me, but I've never contracted like this before."

"No problem, we'll just do it by my rules.  You pay me now, because you seem to know who I am.  If I fail, you come back to me, usually with three or four men.  I either give you your money back, promise to finish the job, or tell you to go away.  Of course, often any of these responses ends with you beating me anyway."  Henry chuckled outwardly, to ease the painful realization that the last statement he made was both true and common.  He couldn't tell if this guy was a real rookie, or a slick negotiator trying to get a free job done.  Probably was a rookie.  No one pays 100% in full unless they're desperate and out of time.

"In that case, if we have a deal, expect payment in 12 hours, and I want results within 72."  The client rose and offered his hand.

Henry rose as well, setting the pistol aside, and took the outstretched hand.  "Deal.  Twelve hours or the contract is terminated."

"Twelve hours.  I expect results for this much in advance, of course," the client replied.

"I always give my clients a good bang for this much."  He meant it too.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: VR Arcade, Deep Lower City

[Nora wrote:]
"Fuck!"

The bullet caught the Offspring directly behind the kneecap, entering and 
then exploding as if on cue a second time within the delicate tissue and 
bone, effectively reducing everything in its immediate path to the likeness 
of raw hamburger. Some random thought procured from within Nora's adrenaline 
flooded system suddenly determined that the designers of the Patrol's 
weaponry were certainly a group of efficient bastards.

The sudden pain surging up through her leg was nearly unbearable. Had she 
been fully human, she would have been reduced to a sobbing ball of blood and 
tears and little else, but as it were, she was not, and so her damaged form 
slugged on fueled by a blending of adrenaline and several various other 
synthetic chemicals.

Behind her from the direction of the not so distant adjoining streets Nora 
could hear their shouts, barked commands of "capture the Illegal!" and other 
such nonsensical ranting, the steady hum of the EMCs of the Patrol Unit in 
search rattling the pavement and threatening to shake down many of the older 
surrounding LC buildings. The bullet had been carried by the luck of the 
devil, a random firing from one of the Militia monsters behind her, yet the 
next was far less likely to be so random if she didn't find safe ground 
soon. In the meantime they were gaining on her, the static darkness of the 
LC her only saving grace.

Nora "Artemis" Drake busied herself with much teeth gritting and the 
occasional backward glance, eyes simultaneously peering out from beneath 
several sweat laded locks of metallic gold, searching feverently for 
anything that looked like a quick hiding place. She grunted, her damaged leg 
threatening to give up the ghost as a sudden sensation of lightheadedness 
set in.

There. She blinked in the Lower City's late night darkness. Faintly glinting 
in the shadows was broken glass, dangling still above in places and 
littering the damp brown sidewalk in others. A sign was flickering in 
neo-glow radiance above her head and across the street: "VR Arcade 0:02."

The metallic haired Offspring sighed ever so softly and continued her slug 
forward, gloved fingers finally searching out the remaining plexi-glass 
segments jutting boldly from the arcade's only side-door. The shouts in the 
background grew steadily louder.

With a massive grunt and combined wince, Nora pulled herself through the 
shattered doorframe and stumped wobbly into the ensuing shadows within. She 
made it four whole steps before blood-loss and shock forced her to the floor 
and shortly afterwards into unconsciousness.

. . .
[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew's form sluggishly turned, the chair creaking lightly as one hand 
came up to shut off the VR.  The sound that had been distant and 
distracting for the last minute or so was suddenly all around him.  His 
first thought was panic.  He'd been caught, but then the girl on the 
floor and the smell of blood made him think that maybe he had just been 
caught by proxy.  That was bad enough.

He tore the device from his ear, winced as it caught briefly on his 
earlobe and dropped to a crouch behind the chair, watching her prone 
form for a moment.  The blood was going to his head, he couldn't think 
straight.

The activity outside sounded searching, not surrounding.  He felt very 
stupid and a little miffed that this girl had crashed his party.  He 
slunk forward, trying to keep from breathing through his nose, which 
didn't quite work as he found he could still -taste- the blood.  He 
would have never thought that that taste would be appetizing, but things 
changed.  He blinked and prodded her in the shoulder with a blunt finger 
than brushed her streaked hair aside for a look at her face.

He needed to get out of there.  He shouldn't bother with this girl.  He 
hadn't asked for this.  And then his conscience kicked in and he 
reluctantly realized that he wouldn't be able to sleep with himself if 
he decided to go any other way.

He quickly tore a large chunk of the upholstery from a nearby chair and 
wrapped her leg and knee thoroughly before lifting her behind the 
shoulders and under the legs.  She was taller than him, and though he 
could carry three of her, it was still awkward and he ended up 
half-propping her on his shoulder, letting her head hang behind him.

He stopped by the wall near the window the two of them had come through 
and waited, listening for movement.  The EMCs roared all around, but 
none seemed to be moving his way.  He listened for a large enough gap in 
the noise and took his chance, moving across the street at a jog, trying 
not to jostle his charge.  The idea was mostly to get into what could be 
described as a 'better' part of the LC.  Where the militia wasn't 
searching so thoroughly.  He was no where near his apartment, so he'd 
have to make due with something else.

He chose a mostly empty warehouse and broke through the heavy padlock on 
one of the service doors, pulled it open, and let it swing closed with 
an echoing bang, surprising a large rodent across the way, as well as 
himself.

He set her down upright against the wall, used an empty crate to elevate 
her leg and then settled down next to her to think and listen to the 
EMCs whooping and roaring less than half a dozen blocks away.  When 
nothing came to him, he settled for shaking her lightly by the shoulder.

. . .
[Nora wrote:]
FLASH!

Dimly, softly, a voice speaking. Two men in the corner, ignoring her.  Did 
they not see her?  Blood on the walls, splattered and thick in places, 
patterns long, thin and dripping in others. At least those cold metal walls 
would not be so cold anymore.  Nora chuckled at the last and coughed, blood 
forming at the corners. Then, sudden pain.

Her muscles involuntarily spasmed, drawing her legs up to her trembling body 
in fetal position. Her body was wracked by a wave of white hot pain, each 
movement sending its own surge of torrential flame ripping through her legs 
and lancing into the pit of her stomach. When she opened her eyes the bloody 
room was gone. But she was not alone.

_Caught!_

The Offspring moved with all the lightening speed her damaged chemical 
flooded system could manage, planting the booted foot of her good leg 
sharply in the ribs of the young man in front of her, sending him sprawling 
backwards into a store of darkish metal contains behind him. Matthew, the 
not so hapless bystander, suddenly found himself the center of attention of 
one cocked and ready Desert Fang .357, the young woman doing all the 
pointing no longer whimpering and withering. She was frozen, perfectly still 
and wide awake, eyes iced glaciers of the coldest winter blue trailing the 
length of her gun barrel to its laser sighted target. A tiny red dot danced 
centimeters across the boy's forehead.

"Don't move and you'll live longer. Now who are you and where are we at?"

. . .
Thread: Prodigal Son: Lower City, Streets & Trotsky's Bar

[August wrote:]
The arrangements were made, the chains cut, the hound 
loosed.  Things came easily enough through the grace of the 
L.D.H.O.-an public housing apartment within the lower city, an 
account for minor living expenses, provisions.

August had picked up his `tools' from the militia evidence 
warehouse where they had been since his suspension-he was 
not happy about this, but was thankful that his arsenal hadn't 
suffered anything not easily restored during a year packed away. 
Gathering his odd assortment of ammunition through the 
laser-happy Humanity Order was a deplorable chore as always, 
but there was a pleasant surprise-the militia's newest fangs-.40 
caliber lead-azide explosive rounds.

In addition to armament there were other provisions to take care 
of.  August took some time going through the possessions 
collected from apartments of no longer living illegal citizens and 
was able to pick out a more motley wardrobe than what he was 
used to. It is well known that all sorts of odd characters wear all 
sorts of odd garments in the Lower City, but he thought this 
would perhaps give him that slight extra degree of subterfuge 
that his coming existence would hinge on.  August always 
preferred safe to sorry when he could help it-no member of the 
Veil was ever alive if they had reason to be sorry.  The ensemble 
was topped off with a tattered knit cap bearing the Skylark logo 
he tucked his hair up into.  The metal shades he wore were 
replaced by a cheap pair from a street vendor with thick plastic 
frames, a style that seemed just a bit more common by his initial 
observations.  In addition to the shades, the Blackdoves had 
provided August with a hastily obtained pair of superficial contact 
lenses that would make his eyes appear a very healthy and 
normal brown.  Both a purist and a man with little need for social 
subtlety, August had never owned or used these before, but he 
didn't argue-he knew that he couldn't well hide behind his 
sunglasses forever when he threw himself into the jungle.

Dropped off by an unmarked EMC, August walked the 5 blocks to 
his apartment complex while taking in as much of the place as 
he could-he knew that his first impression after a year away 
would govern his feelings, thoughts, and actions here, whether 
he liked it or not.  August caught sight of a few vampyres along 
the way, but none of them seemed to pay him too much notice, 
for which he was thankful.  Walking into the apartment building, 
he was assaulted by the aura of the place-in addition to the 
horrific smell and ghastly sounds which were enhanced by his 
heightened senses, he could not help but sense the emotions of 
those in the lobby.  It was a typical place of the public housing 
system in appearance and mood-a spartan building that was 
constructed with function over form in mind, though it achieved 
neither to any degree.  It was filled with people who were broken 
down and waiting to die, some who knew it and some whose 
imagination was too good to let the primordial brain abandon all 
hope.  All it took to obtain his key was a few words to the desk 
clerk, with a little exposure of his faux-brown eyes for good 
measure.  His tattered brown cloak and beat-up suitcase with 
steamer trunk attracted little attention in the lobby; he fit into
the mold of a new resident of the projects well by appearances.

As August surveyed his new apartment, he smiled at the 
additional locks that his benefactors had taken the liberty of 
installing.  There was nothing else to be pleased about-an old 
bed which practically swallowed its occupant up, a tiny and 
permanently squalid bathroom, a closet lit by a bulb on a wire…a 
slums nightmare come to life.  As he unpacked, August 
immediately decided that he would start his tasks immediately 
and spend as little time in this place as possible.

The Lower City night was a living thing-August could feel it.  
EMC's thrummed amongst the sounds of the masses milling 
here and there, to get drunk, stoned, fucked, killed, and all sorts 
of other wholesome aspects of poverty.  As for the vampyric 
community, August had purposefully used the available 
demographics to select a housing complex that was not within it 
for the sake of a sanctuary.  But now it was time to consider 
immersion.

Trotsky's was a well-liked watering hole, even if the
metaphorical water was akin to raw sewage.  But civic planners 
in a time when cities were useful and beautiful had a 
saying-location, location, location, and Trotsky's was on a plot
of land worth ten times more than all that encompassed the 
establishment itself.  Not only was it adjacent to infamous strips 
such as the den of criminals known Archer's Row and the gang 
war-torn neighborhoods along Blackwall Street (both of which 
were only survived through drunken oblivion), but it was a place 
where all sorts of folk mingled.  Among the phenomenal 
spectrum of people encompassed within the lower city, everyone 
seemed to be well represented at Trotsky's, vampyres included.  
It was for all of these reasons that the militia often had to pay 
visits, and that August chose it to get a taste of the blood of the 
city itself.

August's entry into the seedy bar aroused little suspicion in 
anybody, save for perhaps the always paranoid staff.  Taking a 
seat on an empty bar stool as casually as possible, he removed 
his sunglasses and a ordered beer, placing his hand over his 
mouth in mock-confusion so that the bartender wouldn't get too 
good a look at August's abnormal pearly-whites.  He took small, 
careful sips of the watered down and likely stale beverage to 
keep the charade up.

Observation had always been a talent that August prided himself 
on.  He leaned against the bar with one arm, keeping his eyes 
on the whole floor of the place.  As people passed through his 
sight, conversations drifted into his ears and feelings drifted into 
his mind.  All those who passed him with no more than a glance 
or sat by him thinking he was just another loser like them were 
being absorbed, taken in, and felt.  Most everything August was 
getting was meaningless background noise that did little but 
perhaps give him more material with which to blend into the 
atmosphere of the place.  But still he waited, hoping to pick up 
on something (anything, he wasn't sure what) that might give 
some direction to the vague parameters of his odyssey.

. . .
Thread: Common Man: "Cardinal Things," Lower City

"I confess my belief in the common man. . . .The man who is swimming 
against the stream knows the strength of it….The man who is in melee 
knows what blows are being struck and what blood is being drawn." –
Woodrow Wilson (1856-1924), U.S. President

[Simon wrote:]
The day had been like any other, few customers, fewer items sold but 
the couple items sold would be more then enough for Simon to stay 
just above the meek line of poverty for another day or so.  Despite 
living on the fringe of bleakness, Simon remained as steady and 
bright as possible.  Life had given what he felt were the same 
hardships as any other child who had known no life outside the dome 
and walls of Delos.  This thought pattern kept him from being 
depressed about his missing sister or his choices in life.  It would 
seem that Simon was not born to be depressed, a hard way to be born 
when you were from the areas that the Upper City did not want.

Simon unlocked his back room safe, dropped in his daily reports and 
slid out a laser pistol.  He had never really used it for real and 
hopefully he would never have to.  It was just a sense of security, 
no matter how false it would be for a man of 31 who was not very 
skilled with any firearm.  Couple that with that with the fact nearly 
everyone seemed to pack something these days, Simon saw that it was a 
good part of his daily going to and leaving form work attire.  That 
and the shotgun under the desk out front was way to large, modeled 
for the average 6 foot 3 male and the 5 foot 10 one like himself.

It was on the way out when something caught his eye.  It was an ammo 
case from World War III, standard issue.  Simon's brain franticly 
searched for a memory of that item being where it was, third display 
shelf from the door, but his cortex was as blank as the desert around 
Delos as to where the ammo case was from.  Of course, Simon has long 
been used to this.  He would often find items among his shelves and 
racks that he did not remember.  It was the nature of his 
shop, "Cardinal Things", a store of old and kitsch things.

The shortish man tucked the laser pistol in the pocket of his nearly 
hundred year-old dark crimson bomber jacket he had found in his store 
and grabbed the ammo box.  It was not labeled so he would take it 
home to get a good look at it before he sold it.  With that Simon was 
off into the Los Delos night.

Of course, Simon was innocent to things, a 31 year old citizen of Los 
Delos who had been able for the most of his life avoid the dark sides 
of the city.  Problem was, the dark side did not avoid him.  For 
nearly six months now the Spider's Dusk had been using his shop as a 
safe place to exchange items and information.  That evening, two 
members of the Dusk who where on their to purchase an ammo box, were 
attack by agents of the Humanity Order.  One escaped, one was 
captured.  It would not be long before both sides knew what they had 
to do, get the box as soon as possible.  It was going to be a race, a 
race where Simon was unknowingly the finish line.

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit, Henry's House

[Henry wrote:]
There was a gentle beeping noise that began to repeat itself at two-second intervals.  Henry looked up from the hardcopy file he was given the previous night.  The beeping was being generated from his computer.  He was curious who was sending it, and even more curious when the message information had no identification.  "Computer, display message," he ordered.

It was an audio recording from his client, sent earlier that day if the time on the recording was right.  "The money is in your name now.  The transfer went down within allotted time period.  Good luck in completion of your objective."

That was it.  Henry stared at the screen for a brief second.  "Computer, retrieve credit statement."  A box popped up and prompted him for a keyed-in password, which Henry quickly typed in.  The computer took a few moments to log in before displaying the statement.  Henry waited patiently, and sighed about how easy it would be for the unscrupulous to take a good look at his assets.  Finally a window popped up.  "Computer, list transaction for the last twenty-four hours."

Three transactions appeared on the screen.  Two were customers who were paying him on the deadline, and both paid 2,500 extra.  Henry started to check around, and after digging down through several menus, he noticed the payments had anonymous benefactors listed.  It was a clever piggyback scheme that was both entirely legal and almost impossible for the casual observer to even notice.

"Computer, log off and close credit statement," he commanded, and went back to his file.  The target was a young female of approximately twenty years of age.  She had numerous tattoos and a piercing for almost everything visible.  Whoever had done this workup was thorough and well informed about this one.  Still, it lacked a great deal of specificity.  The researcher included everything, including contradicting facts, though these were made note of.  Even two names were listed.  There were enough contradictions to come to two conclusions.  One was that this one didn't want to be found, and the other was that she had the resources to stay that way.

Henry wondered why someone wanted her mucked up.  He put it out of his mind.  It didn't matter if it was a small-time pimp who didn't get his cut or the start of a massive gang war; he wasn't about to have the crap beat out of him over a question of morality or tact in a business situation.  It was time to consider the fastest and safest way to scare this woman.

The piece of information that stuck out in his mind was location.  Only three addresses were listed.  It was highly unlikely that she lived in any of these domiciles anymore, but he wasn't worried about that, it was all part of the plan.  If she were on the run, she would most likely keep some kind of monitor on her old apartments.  It helped to keep tabs on the pursuers.  All of the residences were in the Lower City, which meant fewer cameras and lower security.  Paying a few gang thugs off to vandalize an apartment was cheap and quick work.  Since he'd probably have to pay in drugs, it was also untraceable.

Henry had a crude but effective plan.  It was almost noon, and he wanted to get some sleep before he went out that night.  He slipped out of his office and into his bedroom.  The room was completely black thanks to shutters over all of the bedroom windows.  As he stepped into the room, he felt stronger, and a little more energized.  He was starting to adjust to the sunlight, but it still felt good to get out of it.  Time for the sack.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Warehouse, Deep Lower City

[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew pushed himself to a sitting position with his hands to either 
side and slightly behind him.  His nose wrinkled up at the sight of the 
gun.  He stared at her, his expression baleful.  Slowly, 
unthreateningly, he lifted a hand in front of him and liberally showed 
her his middle finger.  With that completed he let the hand slowly drop 
back down to his side and sniffled once indignantly.

"I'm your fuckin' hero, and were not far from where you led the fuckin' 
bulldogs right too me.  I didn't have to save you and you don't 
seriously think that you would be doing that right now if you were 
surrounded by militia.  Put it down and talk to me like I'm a 
Hundred-Gods-Damned Human being."

. . .
Thread: Prodigal Son: Streets & Trotsky's Bar

[Elysa wrote:]
It was her first time at Trotsky's. She would have had a drink at 
the club after her shift, but she hated the clientele. Half of them 
were drunk, and she would have preferred the other half better if 
they *were* drunk. This bar was new to her, but she liked new.

Maybe she could find someone here. She was hungry, but it wasn't 
necessary to feed... yet. But she had always loved the thrill - 
picking up one young, unsuspecting fool - naivity seemed to have 
made the blood taste even sweeter.

As she made her entranced, she noticed and felt several pairs of 
eyes upon her. She knew it, and she loved it.  She looked around, 
and noticed a bar patron grinning at her, his eyes slowly trailing 
down from her face, pausing a moment at her breasts, before ending 
with an examination of her slender legs. He seemed to nod in 
approval. As much as she enjoyed the attention, she ignored him.

There were vampyres here. It did not make her feel more comfortable, 
nor did it bother her. She had better things to think about. She 
took a seat at the bar, next to another vampyre. She looked over at 
him, but didn't acknowledge him. There was a strange sensation that 
she felt as she sat next to him, something familiar... she couldn't 
decipher it, but perhaps this one was different. It was safer to 
ignore him. She smiled at the bartender, and ordered her drink.

Maybe if she were bored, she would later play with the minds of some 
of the patrons here. It had been a while since she had used her 
telepathic powers for fun. It would be interesting to start a bar 
fight... but right now, the only thing she was interested in was her 
drink.

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]

"Listen, dickhead – I might not hear my bed frame creaking and I sure 
as –hell- don't feel any tingle in my special place, but I still know 
when I'm getting –fucked-."

Ophelia Grady was part of the sober half of Trotsky's.

Which turned out well for her at the moment, as a more bleary eyed, 
brain woozy her might not have noticed when the small man in front of 
her was trying to rip her off.  She didn't like selling drugs, it was 
messy, and tiresome, and if she were to believe any of the ads she 
saw, also morally reprehensible.  But when you realize that the 
inside of your fridge is about as bare as her midriff currently was, 
just about any type of work was better than none.  And when she woke 
up this evening after a beauty sleep of about fourteen hours, feeling 
like someone had laid shag carpeting in her mouth, she'd decided that 
the last bit of her supply had to go.

The two haggled in low tones for a handful of minutes more, Ophelia 
feeling more and more restless with each shitty offer he 
extended. "Look, you seem like you're fucking borderline retarded, so 
let me make it clear for you, alright?  All I'm asking is 150."

In front of her, his brow lowered.  "125."

A guttural huff went out from her throat, her brightened lips curling 
distastefully.  Her contempt was interrupted by a rather growling 
voice from the man, his shoulders raising in his plum coloured 
suit.  "Who the fuck you think you are anyway?  How about I pay you –
shit-, and just put a goddamn knife in your neck once you walk outta 
this place?"

Flat green eyes registered no surprise, helped by the fact that one 
of them never registered much.   She shifted her weight on her legs 
and folded her arms under her breasts, glancing over to the far end 
of the club.  "See that guy over there? … no, over there.  With the 
bullring and long hair," she lifted a hand lightly, and gave the 
large man she was indicating a brief waggle of her fingers.   He 
noticed her, and nodded back in the grave way that especially large 
men do so well.  "That's Angel.   Angel's my friend, and when I walk 
outta this place, Angel will be right behind me.  And Angel has other 
friends, most of which hold more rounds than you could count."  The 
tall woman moved her gaze back to the man in front of her, whose eyes 
were still rooted on the fellow at the other side of the room.  "Now 
I don't know you, so I'm giving you a special price and then I don't 
want to see your mother -fucking- ugly face again.  One," she 
pronounced the words clearly, "Fif-tee."

Fortunately for her, the man in the purple suit knew who `Angel' was 
about as well as she did.  Also fortunate to her, the man with the 
bullring through his nose was the type to nod back at punked up girls 
he didn't know.   A trait likely possessed by a good deal of the 
crowd here tonight.  Five minutes and one goods trade later, money 
safely pocketed away, Ophelia was now able to afford a decent meal.

Adjusting the bottom of her shirt slightly, a form fitting affair 
that looked like a toddler had gone at it with scissors, she made her 
way to the bar to get a seat.  There were a couple available, but she 
delicately chose to go with the one to the left.   To the right, it 
seemed like she was going to have to sit next to another woman, and 
sitting next to the delicate blond would make Ophelia feel like a 8 
foot tall crack whore.  Best to err on the side of not being 
compared, she decided, and took her seat with a graceless thwump.  
She waved her hand at the bartender absently.

"I know this might be hard, but something without piss in it.  
Thanks."

. . .
[Elysa wrote:]

"Your drink."

Elysa smiled at the bartender, her hand gently touching the back of 
his as she reached out to receive her glass. She gently flipped hair 
back with her left hand. Maybe he would 'forget' to charge her for 
this drink later. It did not matter.

She had watched the almost agitated exchange between the small man 
and the woman in the bar with much interest. Although she naturally 
would not have been able to hear their conversations, their thoughts 
were clear; almost screaming to her from across the room.

She cared about neither of them. Personally, she couldn't have cared 
if they killed each other right there and then, and on a morbid 
level she would have prefered it more if something did happen. It 
would have given her something to do while she waited for her drink.

Elysa smiled to herself as she read the woman's reasons for not 
wanting to sit beside her. She thought it amusing, and reveled in 
this for a couple of seconds before she took a sip of her drink. It 
wasn't fantastic, but it beats the watered down crap they had back 
at the club. She looked around - it was boring. Something should 
happen soon.

. . .
Thread: Shattering Glass/Prodigal Son: Lower City, Streets & Trotsky's Bar

[Zenning wrote:]
The expression presently clinging for dear life onto the features of one 
Unit Commander 005 Zenning's visage was, in a matter of speaking, bland. 
Bland in fact, to a dangerously disinterested degree; for if the Commander 
was disinterested then he was certainly displeased and such displeasure did 
not bode well at all for his current prey, or anyone else that happened to 
be in the vicinity for that matterl.

["Alright, get it right this time! Sensor scan is indicating one, two, 
three, five Illegals in the area, Blackwall and Archer's Row intersections 
heading toward the Industrial Centre. Three moving to your direct left, the 
two others imobile and stationed in what might be an abandoned EMC 
warehouse."] The EMC's radio com chatter startled and hissed, UC Zenning's 
unusually gruff voice booming over its airwaves and vaguely rattling the 
inside audio hook-ups in his fellow officers' helmets and likely their ear 
drums as well.

The com channel flickered back to life with the affirmative, and Zenning's 
features tightened visably, black gaze narrowing beneath the gleam of his 
newly polished officer's helmet, wind flashing by and ripping with all its 
vicious late night force at his unadorned black Milita fatigues. ["Mera, 
commerce flanking lances to the rear, heading 32g by 27 due north. Octobre, 
sweep due south by southeast, open L5 angle and spade maneuvers –only-. Full 
alert people. This time that little bitch won't get away."  The last all but 
dripped venom, the seamless black helmet wrapped around the Commander's head 
shielding expression but doing little to mask the veracity of barked 
intonation.

The colored dots on the squarish scanning device fitting snugly into the 
Commander's EMC counsel glowed and flickered as the four grayish dots 
representing his comrades and their EMCs jolted once each, then surged 
forward veering off into their assigned directions. The buildings of the 
deep LC reverberated and shook as the EMCs cut through the streets, neo-glow 
search lights scalding the night air with the intensity of a thousand 
blistering suns.

Zenning's EMC balked and jerked upward, then down, the maneuver placing the 
Commander strategically better positioned to intercept one of the fleeing 
Illegals, the dancing red dot on his downward sensor display jutting and 
then flickering briefly in and out as its represented Illegal commenced mad 
flight down the sidewalk in the direction of one of the more popular late 
night bars of the area. UC Zenning's bone dry expression never shifted an 
inch as the gloved fingers of one hand slipped from the EMC's control bars 
and to the craft's weaponry targeting device.

<...cllliiiiick>

Only as the twin white beams of silent death tore from the EMC's two main 
forward firing cannons and touched upon their paniced target a good sixty 
yards across the street did Zenning venture a change in expression. Beneath 
that featureless helmet the beginnings of the smallest of smiles tugged at 
the mouth's corners, the sound of Trotsky's  largest window shattering and 
the faint but definitely present smell of burnt flesh suddenly permeating 
the air.

Two streets over, in a dimly lit and mostly condemed section of the deep 
Lower City's warehouse district, two EMCs flew through the air, their 
internal homing becons locked and set, the twin pin prick red dots on their 
targeting computers motionless in their hiding places.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Deep Lower City

[Nora wrote:]
"A human being. Ah, I see." Nora's gaze lingered, blankly, a very few 
seconds more after the conclusion of Matthew's eloquent speech... A whopping 
total of two, actually.

With great effort the taller female pushed herself to her feet, first easing 
to her still fully intact leg, then oh so slowly straightening the bloody 
and torn one into what passed for a ginger standing position. As she did so 
she noticed, most unfortunately, the nice sized pool of ruby that had 
accumulated at her feet. It was all she could do to keep a straight face and 
not scream. Instead, Nora concentrated on soothing away the dust now 
painting most of her clothing with flaky streaks of gray in an attempt to 
buy time for the second wave of dizziness to pass. When it did and she could 
look up without involuntarily grinding her teeth, she flashed Matthew a 
tight smile.

"Well then, 'fuckin' hero,' what are you waitin' for? Save the day already."

The room around them went  super nova, the sudden wash of brilliant white 
light searing through the grime of the four uniform square windows cut into 
the warehouse doorway, illuminating every crevice, roach and spider web in 
its direct path and simultaneously blinding the two of them. It was 
immediately trailed by the hiss and click of a com radio being switched over 
to loudspeaker from the lead Patrolman EMC outside, two ebony machines of 
tech-spurred death hovering and poised in their own fiery illumination.

["You are in direct violation of Commandments 1 through 5 of City ordinance! 
Drop your weapons and exit the building immediately!"]

Several blinks later, Nora's eyes gave up on adjusting to the abnormal 
inferno and instead settled on being temporarily blind.  In front of her, 
the illumination surrounding Matthew gave the boy a striking resemblance to 
a desperately jilted angel, one only recently dropped off from the from the 
alien homeworld and now mightily pissed about it. Nora did the only thing 
she could think of--she grinned. "They left out commandments six and seven. 
Feel special."

["Exit the building now, Illegal, or face lethal force!"]

"Or maybe not." Nora grimaced, teeth bared. "Lets go!" She turned, the pain 
ripping through her entire body with renewed interest and giving way to a 
wave of nausea. Nora managed a step, then another, blood dripping onto the 
poli-composit warehouse floor with each. "Backdoor! Now!"  Somehow, she ran.

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit: Yellow Dragon Nightclub

[Jake wrote:]
As the bass of the pounding, beat-heavy music,
vibrated through his chest, Jake went through the
procedure of checking all his gear for perhaps the
fourteenth time.  His 9mm pistol was firmly attached
to his belt near the small of his back, a hatchet axe
was tucked into the front of his belt, and his modern
arnis fighting sticks were strapped onto his back, all
hidden beneath his black fleece jacket.  The night had
been cool but the warmth of the club was causing Jake
to sweat now.  

He checked his watch.  Nearly midnight.  He sighed and
scanned the room.  There were others like him, some
less noticeable, some much more so, but with a
practiced gaze, he noted which patrons of the club
were there for fun and which were there for business. 
His mark, in particular, happened to be doing a little
of both.  She managed to dance her way towards him. 
She’d obviously had a few drinks and sauntered the
last few steps like a lover might.  She smiled at him.
 A broad expression that might be considered beautiful
if the chunks of metal didn't reflect light all over
the room.

Her lips moved as if she were speaking and then she
smiled once more.  Jake shook his head and leaned his
ear towards her to hear better, in a plutonic a manner
as he could manage.  She pushed her face near his ear
and yelled, "You’re not having fun!"

"I’m working," he answered and checked his watch
again, making sure she saw the gesture.  “What time
does the exchange take place?"

"Two!"

He nodded and asked another question, "Where?"

"In the back alley behind here.  There’s an exit
between the bathrooms.  We’ll meet him there at two. 
Stay sharp, huh?"

Jake glanced back at the area she indicated and nodded
once more, his mind swirling with unfavorable
thoughts.  "I’m going to take a look at it.  See how
secure it is."

"Fine," Donna replied and put on a faux pout.  At
least, that’s what she had said her name was, and it
was debatable at best.  It mattered little to Jake. 
As long as she answered when he called, he couldn’t
have cared less.

He moved to the back of the club and examined the
exit.  It was simple enough and there was no lock. 
Obviously, they locked it at closing time with a chain
and a padlock.  Apparently, this wasn’t a high-end
establishment.  

With care and deliberate movements, he pushed the door
open slightly and peered carefully out into the alley.
 Slowly, he pulled his thin gloves tighter and
restrapped the velcro.  Reaching down underneath his
jacket, Jake brought forth the Ruger and chambered a
round.  He took a deep breath and stepped into the
nighttime air.  He looked around the surrounding back
alley area and shook his head in denial.  "Great. 
Just great."

There were open windows on all four sides, where any
gunman worth his salt could setup and take aim. 
Anyone caught on the ground floor outside the door
would be open game.  The only possible safe haven,
other than, of course, darting back into the club was
a small unused dumpster in the far corner.  Pushing it
away from the wall, Jake spied a small crawlspace that
could have been ductwork leading into one of the other
buildings.  Jake whistled a low whine and whispered,
"Well, hello, Mr. Escape Route."

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Warehouse, Deep Lower City

[Simon wrote:]
Simon had decided to not go right home that night and that decision 
would turn out to not be the wisest.  Later Simon would wonder why on 
Earth he just did not go home right away, but for now he was clueless 
as to what was going to happen to him.

It was perhaps a sense of adventure with a little blatant stupidity 
thrown in, that made Simon take that particular alley way. It was by 
an old warehouse when he heard the voice over the loud speaker and 
the great flash of light from the EMP.

["You are in direct violation of Commandments 1 through 5 of City 
ordinance! Drop your weapons and exit the building immediately!"]

Simon was not in any violation of anything that he knew of.  There 
must be something going on in the warehouse he was behind.  Curosity 
overwhelmed, losing thoughts of fear and better sense in its great  
shadow.

["Exit the building now, Illegal, or face lethal force!"]

It did not come into Simon's mind that he might be confused for 
someone from inside the building and his case would not be helped if 
the guard discovered what he had no clue was in the ammo case he 
carried.

Simon walked to the back door of the warehouse and was about to open 
it. . . wrong place, wrong time.  Sometimes it pays to be normal in 
this city and sometimes it does not.  Simon was soon to learn when 
being normal had its problems.

. . .
[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew stood still for a moment as his companion started to 'run'.  He 
looked out towards the EMCs but found his vision almost useless.  He 
turned, blinked twice and then ran after Nora, didn't stop as in one 
fluid motion he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her over his 
shoulder in a fireman-carry.  "You'll just slow us down that way," he 
muttered in explanation.  "No way you'll be able to keep up that speed."

He reached the backdoor and pushed it open ahead with his free hand and 
nearly ran face first into some fool standing at the door.  It took less 
than a second to identify the man as a civilian and only left Matthew to 
baring his teeth- fangs concealed, fortunately- and do a fast twist 
first one way and then the other in order to avoid running bodily into 
the man or hit his charge against the door frame.

In the split-second he had to think about it, he used his free hand to 
grab the man around the arm and yank him harshly around.  "They'll kill 
you too," was all he had to say as he pulled the man several feet more 
and then left him to run or stop on his own.

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit: Henry's Home

[Henry wrote:]
Henry was about to go to sleep when a holographic call came in.  The annoying ring was that of his portable com.  Henry grunted, and cursed at himself for leaving the device on in the first place.  Groggily he reached over to pick the device off of the nightstand.

He wasn't much for talking right now, but he was even less for viewing.  He turned off the visual circuits, and accepted the call with a very fatigued, "Hello."

"It's me," sounded the caller.  Henry sighed.  It was his new client, a man whom he was becoming very annoyed with now.  "I need to change our deal."

"What!" Henry exclaimed, made almost fully awake from the surge of adrenaline.  "You don't just change deals like this, do you understand that?  It doesn't work that way with me."  He pulled back the sheets and stood up next to his bed, half-filled with rage.

"You don't even know the conditions, and you already are convinced it's a bad deal.  Will you at least hear me out?"  The voice was hardly a plea of desperation, almost one of smug confidence.  The client was obviously convinced his deal was decent.

"I'll hear you out, but I have the feeling you're about to make me an offer I can't refuse," Henry replied.  He was starting to believe that the deal he just walked into got him in over his head.  Way over.

"The terms are simple, and hurried.  I'm tripling your payment, first of all, because of the nature of the job and the time limit.  The time limit is right now.  I need you at the Yellow Dragon in the Lower City as soon as you can manage.  I've been tipped off about an appointment the target will be at tonight.  The tip is good, I assure you.  I want you to there to observe the exchange."  The voice paused waiting for a reply.

Henry was puzzled.  "What am I doing at the exchange point?"

"You'll be killing her business associates.  The alleyway behind the club is relatively out of the way.  I'm told it also features excellent cover."  

Henry didn't want to go walking into this blindly, but he didn't have much of a choice.  "Do you want the primary target taken out?"

"You will NOT engage the primary target.  She is to remain alive and well for now.  I want at least one dead body in that alleyway." He was cut off for a moment, before coming back, with a hurried voice.  "I need to go, my operator says he can only keep this line out of the MP's prying eyes for another fifteen seconds.  Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, we have a deal.  I'm en route to the nightclub.  You better pay up, or I will get your name and address, I assure you of that."  Henry said angrily.

"The money is already in your account; it was a precaution, I wouldn't want to have to show up at your home with the three or four big guys now, would I?"  He let out a very sinister laugh.

"You bastard!  How long have you been setting me up like this?" Henry roared.

"I wish I could say I'd been planning this for a while, it would make for great bragging rights.  Unfortunately, it was only an hour ago that I even learned of this, so, I can't take credit for having that much foresight.  Goodbye."  The other end went dead, and Henry turned off his unit as well.

This was becoming one of the worst business deals he'd ever made.  Even for 15,000, the risks were high considering that he was walking into a situation without any planning whatsoever.  He was trapped though.  This guy had enough money to turn him into ashes.  He sighed.  He was in over his head, but he didn't have much choice.

Turning on a light, he began to frantically put on his clothes.  He put on a pair of fatigues and a black cotton shirt.  Grabbing his holster, he secured it around his shoulders and checked his laser.  Good to go.  After brief consideration, he went into his closet and pulled out his laser rifle.  He slung it over his shoulder and behind him.  The black strap was all but invisible against his black shirt, and the laser would be covered by his leather coat, which he swung around his body and slipped his arms into.  He shoved the business end of the rifle into an inner pocket, which kept the laser out of sight from the front and left an abstract print from the back.

Henry jogged to the tram station; time was of the essence.  It was virtually empty; most of the Upper City was asleep.  The tram had just arrived, luckily, and Henry could get right on.  The next few minutes were uneventful, as the tram was mostly empty.

The tram arrived and Henry resumed his jog.  The nightclub was in sight now, but still far away.  The street was very busy, and full of vampyres.  The Yellow Dragon was probably one of the few major establishments left in the neighborhood to welcome humans.  The fact that it was on the fringe of what would be considered human areas probably contributed to that.

Henry arrived at what appeared to be the alley he was looking for.  It was shallow, but it went around a bend too, which was deeper.  The back door to the club was near the back of the bend.  Henry peered cautiously around the bend.  He noticed a man near a dumpster, investigating something.  Windows covered every angle.  Henry chose one that allowed him to shoot straight down the deeper part of the alley where it turned the corner.  It was easy, open, and it had a good, sturdy pipe he could climb.  The climb was rather difficult, even with his disease, but he made it rather quietly, hoping no one noticed.  The alleyway would be his for the opening shot.

. . .
Thread: Prodigal Son: Lower City, Streets, Trotsky's Bar & Exit

[August Wrote:]
The situation had rearranged itself into something perhaps 
more productive, perhaps more perilous.  August considered the 
female vampyre who had entered and sat next to him with 
neither too much nor too little hesitation-she seemed to be 
minding her own business for now so it mattered little.  He didn't 
know how much she knew about him, how much she could 
feel-after all, she was "only" a low blood, a consolation to make 
one of his exiled peers feel just a bit more godlike through their 
own creation.  It was hard for August to consider vampyric 
moralities without becoming just a bit wrapped up in them, and 
he nearly lost control of the tight mindset he was maintaining to 
avoid being too easily read; best to take no chances when ANY 
vampyre was so near.  On the other hand, he was somewhat 
curious to do a little investigation of his own; but best not to 
chance it.

Holding another small part of his attention was the little girl 
playing pusher.  He was sure that other activities of the same 
nature had been happening, but this deal had come to his 
attention because it was pretty much impossible to ignore.  It 
stuck in his mind for a minute-he was sure there was a reason, 
but it sad maddeningly on the tip of his tongue and within the 
dark corners of his mind before it hit him-drug money.  Take any 
given negative activity levied against a corporate or civic 
organization, and behind it you'd find scads and scads of drug 
money.  Could the faceless demons that haunted him be 
propping their operations up with such a scheme?

The matter seemed purely academic-getting to the drug lords 
through a girl hustling in a dive would be like giving the garbage 
man emptying the dumpsters at Skylark a petition to be seen by 
the CEO.  Perhaps it was possible, he thought, but it would be 
time consuming, and even so-was she the best route towards 
such an end?  August doubted that she felt so secure in her 
dealings-if he approached her for drugs and tried to further his 
quest that way it would stink enough to tip off the most naïve of 
criminals.  But here he was in a place that to him was near the 
belly of the beast-he was going to be faking his way through a lot 
of things…maybe one more couldn't hurt.  Numerous 
possibilities cycled through his mind and sorted themselves on 
the back burner with thoughts of the vampyre next to him as the 
noise of a bottle being broken loudly on a table caught his 
attention.

To a behavioral psychologist, Trotsky's was a wet dream on 
Cloud 9.  The rules of violence within the bar were fantastically 
consistent and phenomenally complex.  Fights interrupted at 
regularly scheduled intervals in order to release accumulated 
tension between certain individuals.  Of course, you needed a 
catalyst-a racial slur, a bad joke, the wrong look-maybe even 
someone who was just too ugly (or pretty) for their own good.  
The intensity of the fight varied; it would have been a fascinating 
process to break down the complex equations that generated 
the magnitude of each conflict.  Barometric pressure, gang 
presence, the current price of weaponry in a 5 block radius…the 
list could be infinitely detailed.

This was going to be a big one.  A large group of factory workers 
were incredibly sloshed, and an altercation arose between two 
of them.

One of these angry workers had a son who had hated his father 
since he could remember.  This son of his was in a generic thrill 
gang that had hollowed him out and filled him with ignorance, 
loathing, and misguided pride.  In fact, this boy was so ignorant, 
hateful, and proud that he had been nominated as a leader by a 
large group of young men who hoped that they could one day 
swagger and "peel caps" as well as he could.  This boy and a 
number of his friends are present and saw when the leader's 
father stood up and started yelling.  As much as this boy hated 
his father, his father was HIS father-HIS territory.  And failing to 
protect his territory would be unacceptable for a man like him.

Now the altercation was between a bad father, his son, a gang, 
and a factory worker.

But all was not lost for this poor soul opposing the boy and his 
son.  Being more popular amongst his colleagues, this second 
worker had their support.  This was compounded by the fact that 
among the workers who favored the second factory worker over 
the bad father was a middle-aged man named Leonov.

Leonov was old, and his children hated him even more than the 
other man's son hated his father.  Just about everyone had 
always hated Leonov.  Being bitter and angry, Leonov had spent 
the better part of his youth as a criminal, and his heritage, which 
no one could any longer put a name on, dictated that he work for 
other men of his heritage.  Men of his descent had names like 
his-names like Trotsky.  Contrary to urban legend, there had 
once been a man named Trotsky who had owned this place.  
His descendants had taken charge after his death, and had 
made sure that it remained, somewhat, a haven for the dirty 
dealings of men with names like Leonov.

So now there were two sides-the man, his boy, and his boy's 
gang…and man #2, his coworkers, plus the not-so-friendly and 
ever-so-heavily armed staff of Trotsky's.

And then there was the loser.  This place was full of losers, but 
no one had lost more than this man today.  The poor bastard's 
miraculous three-year recovery from alcoholism had in one week 
been horrendously derailed by the death of his son, the loss of 
his job, and the departure of his wife.  Like too many men down 
on their luck, this one had a nagging conscience-he didn't want 
to be a wino again.  It was far too prolonged as far as 
self-induced torture went.  So with the intent of adapting a new 
sociopath habit, the man had purchased a .38 snub-nose 
revolver from a kid in his building who walked like a hustler and 
grinned like a shark.  This man was easily upset-so of course 
the gun came out as men all about the room stood up and 
prepared to converge on the table at which the old industrial shift 
men were standing around.

And so that's how it's going to happen.  The tension was near 
climax as gang members furiously shouted street-speak insults 
at the Trotsky mafiosos who were trying to break up the old 
factory workers who were scared shitless by the poor John Doe 
holding a piece on them.  An old bum sitting at the end of the 
sighs and says "Bend over, here it comes again." to the 
bartender on shift as he climbs over the bar and ducks down.

. . .
[Ophelia Wrote:]
There was a brief rattle of glasses to accompany the derelict 
sliding over the bar to her right.   Not that it was a very noticeable 
noise, not against the backdrop of shouting and swearing that 
Ophelia just –knew- would become a chorus of breaking chairs 
and bones in no time flat.  With a more than willing motion, she 
pushed her glass of beer (otherwise known as swill, gut rot, 
donkey piss…) away from her on the counter.   She didn't know 
about the others who were currently lined up at the bar, but there 
was no way she was going to stay around and `enjoy the show'.   
After all, she knew too well that rough housing like that could put 
an eye out. 

Casual, but without any quick motions, she moved away from the 
bar and began to sidle her way between people to the end of it.   
There was a door there, closer than the exit/entrance was.   She 
remembered it from prior visits, knowing that it led to the bar's … 
facilities.   When she'd first discovered the ladies room at 
Trotsky's she had decided against ever going back – the 
washroom was exactly what you would expect from a lower city 
bar, and shouldn't be visited without taking a deep breath before 
going in (along with a full body plastic suit).   Back then, she'd 
been going back there to flush drugs during a raid, and had 
made her escape out a window that was easily accessible to a 
tall gal like herself.  If she could just make it out through that 
window now, she could possibly be avoid getting caught in this 
mess. 

. . .
[Elysa wrote:] 
She had sensed the vampyre next to her was something other 
than ordinary, but she was unable to fully tell what he was 
thinking. She had a few hints here and there, an odd sensation, 
an unclear image, but she did not receive more. Perhaps he was 
blocking her; perhaps he was not. She couldn't, and wouldn't 
care. At one point, she had sensed his observation of her, but 
she chalked this up to her plunging neckline. She would have 
liked to probe his mind, but not now. She was tired, and needed 
her drink. 

Elysa's head shot up as the shouting began. She spun around 
on her stool, carefully balancing her drink with her right hand so 
as not to spill it. She managed a small smile; looks like 
something was going to happen after all, and she had nothing to 
do it. The ranges of emotions from the crowded bar began 
sweeping into her mind, and she shut them out effectively. It was 
going to give her a migraine, and she had no need to read their 
minds now. 

She noticed the girl who had been sitting at the bar earlier get up 
and leave, while others around her seemed to do the same, or at 
least gravitate towards the growing argument. She contemplated 
both options, and decided that it would be worth her while to 
hang around. She was not afraid of these men, and she was 
curious to see what would happen next.

[August wrote:]
The old sadist in August grew increasingly restless as the angry 
men behind him made it near impossible for him to conduct his 
survey.  There were a million subtle ways out-the exit, the 
duck-and-cover…but every now and then even a man so 
morbidly businesslike as one August Green must amuse 
himself.  He gathered a good idea of his surroundings, but not to 
make a wise decision.

The yelling had progressed and more F-Bombs had fallen on 
Trotsky's in the last 30 seconds than firebombs had on Europe 
in the 1940's.  The tension was unbearable-the loser wanted 
everyone to be quiet, the gangsters wanted the loser to shut up, 
the workers wanted the gangsters to show a little respect, and 
the muscle at Trotsky's wanted everyone to take it outside.  The 
tension and suspense were unbearable.

A smile crept across August's face as the thought entered his 
mind.  He turned and looked directly at Elysa, ending the façade 
and posturing that had been going on within their minds and in 
the silent space between them.  With a wicked grin, he spoke:

"Ready….aim…-"  Perhaps a perceptive individual, which August 
was, would've noticed the small red alarm switch sitting on the 
wall behind the bar, obscured by an old bottle of dark rum.  
Maybe that individual would've read the switch.  "-Fire."

The switch dropped with a small, nearly inaudible click, though 
no one had manually flipped it.  Years of reflex training had been 
deeply ingrained into the psyche's of the Trotsky's security staff, 
and the whooping of the alarm set them off-the first show was a 
laser right into the chest of a gangster just as the ancient 
sprinkler system began to bathe the bar in tepid water the color 
of weak coffee.

. . .
[Elysa wrote:] 

Elysa shot a look at August and at the now flipped switch. Simple 
deduction and years of training under Misharof had led Elysa to 
the conclusion that August had dropped the switch, although not 
physically. She was intrigued by this display of telekinesis, but 
did show it. 

As the water poured from the sprinklers, Elysa gave a short cry of 
disgust, running her fingers through her wet hair. As it is, she 
had a great displeasure for water, but it would not do to have her 
new clothes drenched. Especially not in this water - with its 
questionable sanitation. She jerked back slightly, as the laser 
struck the gangster. This only seemed to infuriate the crowd 
which was already on the brink of insanity. 

"Well done," she managed to get out under her breath, wiping 
the water from her face with her hand, looking directly at August. 
She had dropped her drink earlier when the sprinkler came on, 
and it was long forgotten. "But I could have done with out the 
shower, thank you." 

She combed her wet hair back with her hands and took a step 
back, further away from the crowd. She would watch, but not 
involve herself until necessary. 

[Ophelia wrote] 
By the time the sprinklers had come on, a tactic Ophelia had 
chalked up to a quick thinking bartender, she was already half 
under the shelter of the alcove to the bathrooms.  The smell of 
the water made her stomach hitch slightly, remembering cold 
showers and hard scrubbing in some of the hostels she'd 
stayed in.   She was more than slightly thankful that her red 
mane had escaped the full force of the shower, and was only 
slightly misted.   Her clothes she didn't worry about as much – 
the fabric dried relatively quickly, and as for the smell… well, she 
had discovered she always had the faint scent of metal and ash 
on her person anyway. 

She pushed open the door to the girl's bathroom only to be 
greeted with a mucky wet sound as her boot hit the floor.  A fact 
only made more repulsive by the fact that there were no 
sprinklers in this part of the club.   Ophelia absorbed this with 
only mild disgust, then made her way across the row of stalls to 
the window at the other side.  Through it she could see a 
shallow alley, and then the bright light and buzz of the street once 
more.  There was a small pause as she considered whether 
she should stick around and maybe get some entertainment 
from the fight, but a sharp shout caused her to change her mind.  
Her long fingers found the window ledge.  She was getting outta 
the club while the getting was good. 

. . .
[August Wrote:]

August winced slightly and leapt over the bar as laser fire 
spewed into Trotsky's from the EMC's outside, colliding with 
flesh and water to throw up a sickening steam as the moisture 
from the sprinklers reached flash point instantly as it mingled 
with white-hot light, all to a chorus of screams.  He 
growled-whatever hotshot cowboy officer has commissioned 
this little turkey shoot was going to lose his shield, whatever 
reason he might have be damned…if August could live to 
resolve the situation.  He stalked over to an old door behind the 
bar, giving it a shove-but to no avail.

"That door ain't been used in years.", said the trembling voice of 
the bartender from a fetal position under the beer taps.  August's 
fingers twitched nervously as his mind moved into action-and the 
long dead spirit of Harry Houdini for one brief moment 
communed with August's soul, giving him something akin to 
divine inspiration.  August wasted no time in ripping the bar that 
had once operated the latch on the door off of its mechanism, 
and jammed it into the recession in the door frame where the 
door-jam once went.  After about 10 second of prying, the door 
flew open with a loud cracking sound.  August turned to offer a 
word to the female low blood- "Coming?"

. . .
[Elysa wrote:] 

Elysa spun around at the sound of the shattering glass, her wet 
hair whipping around behind her. She frowned, things were 
happening too fast for comfort.  Her reaction towards the chain of 
events may seem almost calm, and understated; but she is no 
stranger to catastrophe. She placed one hand firmly on the 
counter, lifting herself up and sliding gracefully across the bar 
and landing firmly on both feet on the other side. 

She looked over at the now open door. "Thank you," she says 
softly, almost delighted at the irony of etiquette here.  She made 
no hesitation to exit, cooly receiving a golden treble clef-shaped 
pin from her jacket pocket and pinning her hair back.

. . .
[August Wrote:]
The fight continued behind the two vampyres, with a seething 
mass of bodies locked in conflict tearing Trotsky's to pieces as 
others fired randomly about the bar or out the door at the EMCs. 
Stepping out into the alley, August looked about to survey the 
situation.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Warehouse, Deep Lower City

[Simon wrote:]
Simon, not being a man of any particular strength or grace, was 
easily tugged along until he was let go.  Simon however continued to 
run.  Something deep down inside him told him to run.  The militia 
were well known for their shoot, shoot some more, shoot again, then 
ask questions mentality.  Simon knew this, as he once was planning on 
becoming a militia man.

Huffing and puffing, Simon spoke to the man carrying the woman he 
was trying desperately to keep in pace with.

  "Where are. . . . <huff puff>. . . are we. . . .<huff puff> running 
to?"

The shopkeeper was impressed.  While he was in by no means any shape 
other then kind of out of it, Simon thought he should be able to keep 
up with a man carrying a woman. Perhaps Simon really needed to get 
out his store more often.

. . .
[He wrote:]
The Lower City was dark, badly lit and as usual rundown and slightly overcrowded. The black pavement, missing or cracked in some places stretched before the fleeing triad. A slightly bedraggled looking 15 year old in a pair of newer shoes was leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigarette as he watched them approach, obviously on the run. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then pulled the cigarette from between his lips, deciding to speak as they ran by. 

"Hey Man, three blocks east of here is a brownstone, ask for Doc Mik. She can help ya.. run like hell man, they'll be tracking you soon" He nodded, a greasy tendril of lank brown hair lying low over his forehead. He glanced down the street in the direction they'd just arrived from and slunk around the corner, deciding not to make himself a target. 

. . .
Thread: Loitering/Shattering Glass: Lower City, Streets, Trotsky's Bar

[Ophelia wrote:]
A bar fight was one thing, the front of the club being blown in was 
another.   The arrival of the EMCs in the area was detected in a 
matter of nanoseconds once Ophelia had shoved open the window in the 
bathroom – the assault on Trotsky's, however, made her lose contact 
with the ledge halfway through.   Her stomach hit the thick brick 
with an harsh thump, scratching her bare skin for a moment before she 
recovered with a quick breath.  If that's the worst she was in for, 
she would've been happy – she just needed to keep a good distance 
between herself and whoever the Patrol was miffed with this time.   
Her hands found themselves again, and she tucked her feet up and over 
the ledge of the window, jumping out onto the gritty floor of the 
alley outside.

Her hair whipped at her face briefly as an EMC blew down the street 
ahead of her, casting a harsh white light in even swoops across the 
road.   She froze, then quickly began to make her way to the mouth of 
the alley, checking around either corner.  The traffic on the street, 
which had seemed animated even both the sudden onslaught of light and 
power, now had taken on a more frantic tone.

. . .
[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew curled out onto a street, sick of dodging debris that his 
passenger probably wouldn't have appreciated his jumping over.  He 
didn't respond immediately to the Human's question or the street kid's 
recommendation.  He just kept running, trying to put as much distance 
between himself and the militia.

Maybe a clinic was a good idea.  At least, he assumed that that was 
where the kid had directed him.  "I guess we go there," he muttered, not 
really carrying if his voice made it to anyone else's ears.  "Maybe I'll 
be able to make a phone call."  He puffed a breath out and started 
towards the brownstone visible in the distance.

. . .
Thread: Prodigal Son: Lower City, Streets & Trotsky's Exit

[Elysa wrote:]
The waves of panic and frenzy from the surrounding area was crashing 
through her mind like a bullet train. Elysa closed her eyes and 
managed to shut them out; the magnitude of such collective emotions 
would surely give her a migraine later in the day. 

"That was a little more than I had expected, and something tells me 
those party crashers are going to be here soon, and I don't feel 
like staying around when they do," She turned to August, a few 
strands of wet hair stuck to the side of her cheek. She took a step 
forward, cautiously looking up and down the alley. "You coming, or 
are you just going to stand there all day?"

. . .
[August Wrote:]
August stood outside the doorway, merely looking around 
himself casually and even venturing a glance back into the bar.  
Water beaded lightly on his clothing that was for the most part 
lightly waterproof due to a combination of proper fabric and 
infused grime.

He responded to Elysa in a tone that was nonchalant as he 
contemplated things.  "I'd stand here for eternity if it suited
me.  I don't know that I am coming-we shared my path out of that 
bar, but I think that this is where our roads diverge.  Seeing as 
things aren't yet too tight out here, I'd say we can both find our
way out through this little network of side streets-and I don't think
you're going my way.  I bid you adieu."

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass/Loitering: Deep Lower City, Industrial Centre

[Grenadine wrote:]
She would crawl into that little hole inside herself and Grenadine would 
cease to exist. Wrap it all up, the pain, the confusion, into a tight little 
ball inside her head. Sometimes she wished she could split her skull open 
and let it all out, but it didn't work that way. For Grenadine the pain was 
a way of life. In a way she thrived on it, raging on furies and insults of 
inner consciousness like gasoline to a flame. It gave her energy in a way, a 
reason for existing when all the normal ones failed. She grew dark and hard, 
and she lost herself to it. It was one of those silent tragedies of the 
soul. The destruction of innocence.

Grenadine spent most of her time trying to convince herself there was a 
reason for it all, some higher purpose, some method to the chaos inside her 
head and filling up her world. But deep down she knew there wasn't and that 
knowledge was slowly driving her crazy, pushing out sanity like it was a 
deadly disease. She had spent so much time hurting that eventually that was 
all she knew, happiness, even the concept of it, forgotten and rotted away, 
until finally the word itself only registered black and white text book 
definition. The actual concept was long beyond her. The times she got like 
this everything faded to null, the point where she retreated so far into her 
mind, that all outside events barely registered. It was like being 
colorblind. She saw and comprehended and that was all. No color, no feeling, 
just a handful of sketchy outlines without the filling. By this point her 
life was not her own. She might not have even existed.

And it was with this mentality that the once pretty little pale teenager 
draped in green fatigues was walking down the lower LC streets, arms crossed 
and tucked under her armpits with her mind only half way working. She was 
thinking... But she still dreamed, not really hoped anymore, except in that 
distance unrealistic way the quadriplegic hopes to feel again. So she was 
alive, right? But she wasn't born this way—no one is. And didn't that make 
some difference? Life and people and the slow succession of one hell in 
miniature after another, that had done it. At first she had fought the 
depression, fought it bitterly, determined to make the best of things. And 
then slowly she came to see just how pointless her struggles were, the 
horror of it all, her life. People were cruel and uncaring, no one was 
coming to help and there was nothing she could do about it. And finally, 
just like the dog beaten repeatedly into submission, she had finally 
accepted her lot in life, her broken spirit, only a dull hollow shell left 
in its place, one that breathed and blinked and moved when commanded to and 
spit out the appropriate response when prompted. In ways, she was more a 
machine than anything metal and program man ever created. She was, in a cold 
dark horrible realization, without a will of her own, maybe even without a 
soul. Her disturbing thoughts wrapped her attention away from the long 
stretch of Humanity Order commissioned sidewalks in front of her, and in 
them, she grew colder than even the stench of darkness filled air swirling 
with breeze around her.

Still, she was thinking. Mindless and lost, pounded at from all sides and 
outside source until what was left was unrecognizable from its previous 
state. Why couldn't she have something, some place of solace. Beaten down 
till there wasn't much left worth salvaging, till what was left couldn't 
really even be called human anymore. Was she human? They had said no. New 
Child. She shuddered.

It was this lost, vacant creature wandering the streets as the EMC cut by, 
shattered glass filling the air with a spray of razors sized for an ant army 
in massacre. She hated the world at that point, hated them for having access 
to something she did not. Hated, hated, hated. And... wanted.

She destroyed things, random things. Her life was already destroyed, her 
mind, the only thing left, was now slowly being destroyed, eaten away by her 
own inner demons her past life and its traumatic instances had birthed. It 
wasn't out of vengeance that her destructive tendencies were spurned, nor 
was it out of desire to hurt others. She was neither vengeful nor violent 
towards others—at least not consciously. Rather, to her warped mind it only 
seemed natural, an extension of her own hurt, that she could break things. 
But she wanted happiness, and the company of others. Others. Gren blinked. 
From around the corner, her corner, two individuals were running, one slung 
over his shoulder and trailing blood. At this rate they would run right by 
her, see her. Grenadine stopped thinking then and resided herself to 
standing instead. She could hear the sound of an EMC approached, but this 
meant nothing to her. And so, she waited.

. . .
[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew sighed; the next thing he was going to do was talk to someone 
about the possibility of getting him a fake implant so that this 
wouldn't happen anymore.

The thought drifted up from his mind as he ran on instinct and nearly 
hit some girl in the street.  He side stepped and kept running.  Had she 
seemed odd to him?  Whatever.

The brownstone was just ahead, he wasn't even tired yet, but it was 
obvious that the idiot who was following them was very tired.  Silly 
Human.  Matthew glanced around.  The EMCs were a little far away.  There 
was a chance that going underground, preferably literally, would shake 
them.  Hope this Doc Mik person had a basement.  Hell a walk in 
refridgerator would do.  -Anything-.  He hit the door, found it 
unlocked, which only made sense if kids on the street were recommending 
the place to him, and pushed it open.

. . .
Loitering: Brownstone

[Mouse wrote:]
The Brownstone stood out from the other buildings on the block because it 
wasn't rundown and falling apart. It looked like an antique, probably one of 
the oldest surviving structures in the lower city. There was a stairway with 
twin lions gaurding the front, a few baskets of colorful flowers hung from 
either side of the doorway. Brass numerals were neatly screwed into the 
stone facade, a frosted glass window above the wooden door read "Argos 
Building".

A kid, probably about 14 was lounging outside the front door smoking a loki 
stick. If Mik caught him she'd have his ass in a sling..which was why Mouse 
was smoking outside and making sure to flick the butt into the rain swollen 
gutter a few feet away. His ears were too big for his pinched face, dark 
eyes widening as he saw the guy with the wounded chick and some other girl 
behind him approaching. He'd heard the explosions and the gunfire earlier, 
Mik had sent everyone upstairs or Down Below until things settled down. He'd 
been feeling the Crave though so he'd snuck out for a smoke.

The guy pushed open the door to the soup kitchen, he wasnt gonna find nothin 
in there but left overs..they hadn't even gotten around to cleaing up from 
dinner yet. He jogged down the steps quickly and slipped in behind the 3 
people who quickly shut the door.

"Hey, your here to see Doc right? She's Down Below...c'mon you can hide 
there till the heats off. Mik 'll get rid of the EC guy.. they kind of 
listen to her...sometimes." He added with a bit of uncertainty, sometimes 
her connections kept 'em off..sometimes they didn't. Who knew what kind of 
luck she'd have today.

Mouse led them to what looked like an old coal shoot in the back and opened 
the door of it, he pulled open the heavy steel panel by pressing a few spots 
on the door to release the magnetic locks that were hidden behind it. A 
smooth steel  slide beckone, soft green lights on the walls offering some 
illumination.

Mouse bounced from foot to foot nervously, he'd locked the door but who knew 
how long till the guy sniffed around? "Go down the slide, you'll get to Down 
Below in a few minutes. Mik will help your friend as soon as the EC guy 
disappears. Go on will ya? I don't wanna get caught man.. shit..Mik 'd kill 
me."

. . .
[Matthew wrote:]
Matthew followed the kid's instructions without reply.  His chest 
heaved, just a little, despite the running.  Carrying a woman, bigger 
than him and unconscious like a sack of potatoes, for four blocks at a 
full run was not such a huge thing being a Vampyre, but it wasn't 
exactly comfortable.  His shoulder was killing him under her weight and 
he'd just noticed that she'd bled all over his pantleg and the lower rim 
of his jacket which really put him in a foul mindset about the whole 
thing.  He didn't even know her name.

Carefully, he pulled her down from his shoulder to hold her leaning 
against him as if she could stand on her own and looked at the coal 
shoot suspiciously.  He couldn't recall seeing anything like it before, 
but then, this was a really odd building in itself.  He put one leg in, 
curled his charge up against his chest and pulled himself the rest of 
the way through.  However, he held onto the rim of the shoot in order to 
give his companion one last look and a parting comment.  "You don't need 
to come with us.  If you're legal they won't bother you.  You can just 
walk away," he said and let go of the shoot, pushing himself into the 
darkness.

. . .
Thread: Prodigal Son: Lower City, Streets & Trotsky's Bar Exit

[Mirko Wrote:]
Even through the pattering of the rain atop the ground and rooftops, 
the approaching figure could be heard before being seen; a slow, 
heavy beat upon the ground, hearkening to the beginning of a native 
dance, accompanied by a thin mechanical whirring that was only 
slightly below the level of perception.  It was not long before he 
emerged from the shadows - a looming figure, rain streaming from his 
saturated clothing, approaching ever closer to the two who stood 
engaged in conversation.  When he was within a few meters he stopped 
beneath a street light, gazing at the pair sternly, the faintly 
repulsive mechanical eye churning slightly in its cradle.

A thick smile broke out then on his face, and he lurched forward to 
them, laying a heavy hand on each shoulder.  "Come, my friends!  You 
cannot be leaving so early?  I will buy both of you a drink.  
Come!"  He glanced for a moment at the doorway of the bar into the 
chaos that reigned within.  "Bah, do not be concerned with 
that...they do this every week, they do.  No more than an hour, 
they'll be back at the bar toasting each other.".

. . .
Thread: Shattering Glass/Loitering/Prodigal Son: Alleyways and Rooftops

[Grenadine wrote:]
Her honey pale eyes watched, round and unblinking, in the relative gloom of 
the deep LC's faded and crumbling Industrial Centre. Watched and listened as 
the three passed her by and kept going, then turned her attention to better 
things, things like the deep hum of the approaching EMCs and their meaning.

Her hypersensitive hearing was picking out three distinct patterns of 
vibration, three night black EMCs and their perched riders. The patrol had 
regrouped, readjusted their course, and were now acting on it, blinding 
tripod mounted searchlights painting the LC in a wake of neon white, a 
smeared line of light gone faster than it came.

The EMCs cut through the alley only feet from her position, sending 
Grenadine's clothing ruffling madly airborn and birthing a minature quasi 
tornado of alley debris swirling into the air.

They hadn't even paused.

Out into the orangish black blur of faded skyline they rose..... and 
abruptly stopped, hovering no less, as if they had slammed into an invisible 
wall stretching up into the City's featureless night air. She could see them 
talking and gesturing to each other, the faint crackle of Com chatter 
faintly audible to her sensitive ears.

Seconds passed and the trio broke apart, zooming off each into a different 
direction to disapear into the maze of abandoned and dilapidated buildings.

So they were abandoning their prey in search of something new. Grenadine's 
small features twitched, the muscles of her mouth tense and uncomfortable as 
they fumbled with the beginnings of an indiscernible facial expression.

Realization struck her cluttered mind like a sledge hammer through water, 
sheer implication long prying itself into the jumble of thoughts inside her 
head. Visibly she nodded, confirmation to an invisible entity of the 
downfall of the world.  She was chewing absently on her lower lip and 
scratching idly at an itch in the fingers of one hand, jagged platinum locks 
shifting with the emotion of the wind and the beginnings of a gentle 
downfall.

Icy wetness began to mat what of it wasn't currently airborne to her 
slightly damp and pale face, and Grenadine continued thinking silently.  Her 
eyes saw nothing of the outside landscape; they were locked on the stately 
image flickering in rapid succession inside her head, flicking like a bad 
holoprojection film gone awry. The light had struck the lead Patrolman's 
helmet just right, an angle perfect to slice through the tinted blackness of 
the plexi-glass facial shield to give way the within to her unnatural light 
sensitive eyes. She picked apart the delicately thin nose, the thickish 
brows, the dark, brown eyes and the clean cut angle of the smooth-shaven 
cheeks. A face she had seen before. A face she would see again.

Grenadine sighed lightly, a soft exhale of escaped air as out of place in 
the heavy darkness of the grime-laden alley as a fish on dry land.

Several moments later into the rain washed night, the pale teenager was 
watching again, standing with one tightly booted foot resting gently on the 
outer coping lining one of the nearby warehouse roofs.  Her glossy gaze 
stared below at those standing, two "elegant" individuals, eyes glinting 
hidden agendas, and faces peering placid gentility--and a third, a machine 
and man creature she couldn't quite place. One last thought poked into 
Grenadine's mind, and her face wrinkled at its intrusion.

While she thought the wind picked up and swelled, the momentary surge in 
force battering her smallish form in attempt to dump her overboard, with all 
the success of a child pushing at a solid wall. When the thought had run its 
cycle, conclusion reached, Grenadine shoved off from the coping and began 
walking in the opposite direction, her boots crunching softly across the 
gravel and dirt littering the tiles of the rooftop, her features illuminated 
and nearly iridescent in the flickering orange-red glow of the moon as it 
peeked through the cloud cover and washed over her along with the steady 
sprinkle of rain. It tinged her paleness with an unnatural red glow, even 
the eyes shimmering intensly with its firey hue.

She knew that man. Knew him and knew what he was. And knew his plans.

By the time Grenadine reached the opposite coping mold on the far side of 
the roof she was smiling all out, lips split to reveal the pearly white of 
teeth beneath, basking in the soft icy mist grazing the rooftop.

She knew, it was almost time.

Her pale eyes glowed, crimson swirling in a bowl of black metallica.

-It- was coming... All in due time.

. . .
Loitering/Prodigal Son/Shattering Glass: Lower City, Residential Area & the Room

[Eve wrote:]
Everett Nadir Cross sat, body tense and frantically poised on the brink of 
frozen panic, the string of rapid keying only broken by the occasional short 
quipped voice command, brown blue eyes narrowed with a combination of 
concentration and strain.

"Computer, locate mode 'Artemis,' track and report coordinates and status."

And then the response, [Unable to comply. Mode 'Artemis' not found. Heat 
signature lost. Tracking beacon moving north by northeast, 54g by 25. Target 
presumed dead and captured. Rescrambling.]

The young man with the cotton candy streaked hair cursed and slammed a fist 
into the dust covered flooring beneath him, rattling the computer uplink 
display and sending shivers through its projected holographic screen. On it, 
the shaky images of two faded and blurry EMCs were hovering, searchlights 
broadcasting loudly into the cloud tinted windows lining the garage doorway 
to an unnamed and run-down warehouse. Static intermingled with the display, 
giving its depictions a ghostly gray sheen. The image paused as a second 
camera automatically loaded, picking up when the previous ended and 
displaying a singular EMC cutting down a fleeing individual and shattering 
out the glass windows of a popular bar in the same action.  But Eve was 
ignoring the previously recorded images, his attention transfixed downward 
to the smallish black object in his hands.

"Computer, locate mode 'Scatter,' track and report coordinates and status."

And again, [Unable to comply. Mode 'Scatter' not found. Heat signature lost 
approximately 0.42 minutes prior. Tracking beacon unresponsive. Target 
presumed dead. Rescrambling.]

"Shit!!" Eve switched to one handing commands into the flattish impute pad 
in his left and used his right to retrieve one of the squared black objects 
from the room's dust streaked and trash littered floor, high above one of 
Lower Los Delos' primary residential districts--primary neglected and 
decaying districts to be more specific, one less than two miles from Nora's 
last recorded signature.

Eve ran a finger along the side of the object and pressed, the device 
switching on and the crackle of Com chatter filling the air. ["Eve, what's 
the situation? ....over..."]

By this point, Eve was panicked. ["Dosh, heat tracking has lost Calvin and 
Nora, Calvin a little over 40 minutes ago and Nora just now. Computer's 
still tracking Nora, but Calvin's is totally offline. Either they've got 
subterranean or worse. What's your position? ....over...."]

["20g by 14, northeast corner headed toward the Industrial Centre and 
Blackwall. Patrol's split, man. Something's up. But they left ground troops. 
Whole sector just got swarmed, looking into this place called Trotsky's. I'm 
pinned down. You're on your own, bud.... over...."]

Eve frowned and broke off one handing code. Instead, he thought and drew in 
a deep breath of the damp night air. Across the room rain was leaking inside 
the broken glass panes of a window, saturating the dirty scuffed wooden 
floor below, the growing puddle there beginning to trickle in brownish 
streams across the floor and in his direction. The Offspring's brow drew 
taught, expression only slightly more bleak than anxious. ["Stay safe and 
see what you can find. I'm on my way.... over...."]

["Copy that. Meet up with ya soon...out...."]

The Com line flicked off, the handheld radio device shoved deep into a 
backpack of dark synthetic material, conjured from a nearby spot on the now 
slightly damp floor below. Moments later the computer uplink, impute keypad 
and a miscellaneous assortment of several small unidentified objects joined 
it.

Eve stood and slung the pack over one shoulder, then fished into one of the 
numerous pockets of his jacket. When he withdrew, he was holding a rather 
impressive looking handgun, one of those dual particle projection and laser 
type deals so common on the streets now, a HPV Desert Fang Nora had called 
it. Its twin was currently stashed safely in the bottom of the backpack, 
along with a handful of extra ammo clips should they ever become necessary.

Eve pressed a spot along the gun's base and the clip slid out and into his 
palm, its cold metallic surface reflecting in the room's dim lighting 
filtering in from the moon outside.  A full clip. 36 rounds. Quickly he 
flicked the ammo back in and chambered a round, then carefully tucked the 
weapon back into the pocket, safety on. Eve's eyes drew downward, breathing 
deep and fast, giving way to mumbles. "Christ Nora... I'm not cut out for 
this crap." He signed, drew in a single breath and turned for the doorway in 
the gloom behind him, and was gone.

. . .
('Shattered Glass' merged with 'Prodigal Son')
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, Trotsky's Bar Exit

[Elysa wrote:]
This strange man intrigued her. She tried not to stare, but she couldn't 
help noticing his mechanical features, and wondering about the undoubtedly 
interesting story behind them. Elysa seemed uncomfortable at his touch, and 
gently placed her hand on his before removing it from her shoulder - in a 
slow, careful yet almost nonchalant motion so as not to offend. "Your offer 
is tempting, but I'm afraid I will have to decline. All this activity is 
just a little too much for me, and I was just about to leave. I would 
suggest you do the same."

She brushed a few strands of hair from her face; the dirt-filled water from 
the sprinklers in the bar combined with the now falling rain had begun to 
mat her hair. It was going to take her a while to get it back to its natural 
complexion. Normally, she would have left without so much as a second 
thought, but something drew her to wait for his response.

. . .
[Ophelia Wrote:]
The street gave a gritty, scraping nose everytime her boot hit it.  
It was rough, but somehow reassuring to feel solid ground beneath her 
while the rest of the streets seemed to be spooked and a flurry of 
action.  She folded her bare arms tightly again, approaching the 
nearby corner with the occasional glance behind her.  After all, a 
raid like this would be the perfect cover for anyone wanting to steal 
a girl off the streets as she walked them alone.

By the time she turned the corner not much had changed, but the 
superficially redheaded young woman caught site of a couple of the 
bar's patrons standing not too far off.  A thin man, a large man who 
approached him, and the blonde from Trotsky's.  Ophelia's mouth 
compressed to a thin line for a moment before she relaxed.  Better to 
be seen with people, even mildly, than be picked off by a LC 
pervert.   And considering her shirt gave her cleavage that bordered 
on lethal, and her pants were as low as they could be without 
breaking some kinda law, that wouldn't be too far out of the question.

Picking up her pace a bit, she began to walk by the group, stopping 
just a few steps away from them and leaning against the wall of a 
building.   She caught the last of the man's speech, her eye 
immediately catching on his eyepiece.  A ghostly flare of pain spread 
out from her left eye, and she paused a moment.  A faint nod of her 
head and more hair swung down in front of it.  "What do they do to 
kiss and make up? Juggle a couple molotovs?" She grinned slightly, 
her mouth off kilter.

. . .
[August Wrote:]
August began to purposefully adjust his various articles of 
clothing as he thought, wary of the hand on his shoulder.  The 
situation seemed just a bit shaky.

Yes, definitely.  Things were getting dangerous around here, and 
not the kind of danger he liked: the non-constructive type.  He 
knew nothing of the large man who had just approached him 
and little more of the vampyre who stood beside him; both were 
threatening in theory if not outward appearance, which the 
machine man certainly was.  The newcomer who had been 
slinging dope in the bar certainly didn't raise any hairs on the 
back of his neck, but he never wrote off anyone until he was sure.  
He didn't think the chance involved any profit either-he had part 
gut hunch and part quick personality study to go on when he 
decided that the female wasn't in with the people he was looking 
for.  The same went for the talking toaster oven who apparently 
liked to invite strangers in alleys to drink with him, and the 
wonder tramp as well.

Of course, he had not the slightest idea what that Offspring's 
damage was.  Being expensive and illicit, the parts which 
Offspring were constantly having jammed into themselves 
usually meant that the tech head had all kinds of useful contacts.  
But that was for your average criminal-August couldn't think of a 
single vampyre who had ever even tried to have themselves 
augmented.  August believed this extended to the Crestfallen, 
who he viewed more as a sad effigy of his kind than a totally 
different animal all together.

The thoughts he had previously had about the human female 
returned to him, slightly more clear now.  If anything, she might 
just be one of the people in this place who knew things; knew 
their way around, knew who to trust, and knew who to fear.  In 
short, a well equipped citizen.

Three paths lay before him.  Leaving them all and going 
elsewhere was leaving a lot to random chance.  He couldn't see 
any direct gain to be had in his current position, but a decently 
good history of "police work" told him that most stakeouts yielded 
results that were less interesting than the motley cast of 
characters standing before him.

Following the female vampyre didn't have too much appeal 
either.  He didn't think she was wanting of his company, and 
pursuing her in a clandestine manner would prove challenging 
enough to be at least a pain in the ass.  Besides, she knew 
something about him, his instincts told him-maybe it was on the 
tip of her tongue or just barely eluding her grasp.  But it was too 
much none the less.  Using a classic risk vs. reward model, 
following an intelligent vampyre who might not even prove helpful 
was not a good option.

And then there was sticking around and feeling out these two.  
Trotsky's was perhaps a bit unsafe-a couple militia men and 
support staff would undoubtedly be scoping things out and 
cleaning up the bodies within-they'd shown some kind of 
interest in Trotsky's, though August didn't know why.  However, 
law enforcement didn't really present him with any kind of 
serious problem, and their presence would help to suppress the 
other possible dangers.  Shielding his companions from their 
expedition wouldn't be too much trouble either.  Besides-most of 
the people who had fighting on their minds were dead.  It was a 
ridiculous place to socialize none the less, but it didn't bother 
him enough to soften his resolve-he needed to do SOMETHING 
after being cooped up for so long.

The little appeal already present was compounded by the fact 
that it was a situation he could learn from.  In his opinion, no 
knowledge was ever completely useless.  It was decently safe to 
assume that he could use his mental talents to better assess 
these two without worrying that they were doing the same.  His 
thirst for blood was only at the point that it was just barely 
beginning to become noticeable, so August had time to spare.

August gave his most disarming smile, which, like all his 
smiles, was merely a curling of the edges of his lips.  Even 
young Doves have an instinct that prevents them from 
accidentally baring those often damning fangs.  He spoke to the 
large tech head subtly in his way that only opened the center of 
his mouth.  "If you say so, than I'd happily be your guest, my good 
man."  He stepped to the side of the door, through which one 
could see that the sprinklers had been dismantled, bowing 
gently and gesturing inwards with both hands.  "After you.", he 
spoke to Mirko and Ophelia, smiling just slightly once again at 
Ophelia's joke.  He offered no gesture to the departing vampyre, 
somewhat eager for her to be on her way without any more 
interaction.

. . .
[Mirko Wrote:]

Mirko scarcely seemed to notice when his hand was removed from the 
slight woman's shoulder, listening instead quietly as she eloquently 
excused her decision to leave.  His outburst of short-lived laughter 
when she finished was fairly explosive, a few seconds worth of 
hearty, good-natured amusement.  "Leave, eh?  I am not quite so 
squeamish as that...I am here every day, almost.  Or other places 
like it; it makes little difference, eh?  But I will not be leaving 
before I have even arrived."  He gestured vaguely out at the street, 
where large puddles were even now beginning to form.  "If you are 
leaving, you must hurry before that nice clothing is ruined by the 
rain.  I, I am going inside."

Suddenly, Mirko took his other hand off of the tall, thin man's 
shoulder and gave every impression of planning to follow his words 
before being interrupted in the exectution by a voice from behind.  
Facing away from the girl, the look of faint confusion which spread 
across his face when she mentioned Molotov was invisible to her at 
its inception and already gone by the time he laboriously turned 
around.   The role of his legs in the curious process would have 
caught anyone's attention - there was no provision made for torque 
in those curved columns of metal, now hidden all but for the dully 
gleaming 'feet' beneath a layer of pseudocotton; rather than 
pivoting on one leg, he turned almost as a tank would, walking in 
opposite directions with each leg.  When he had finished, he 
surveyed the newcomer.  Taller than the first, and younger, there 
seemed to be more life in her aspect than in the cultured flatness 
of the two he had greeted.

Mirko grinned abruptly, and replied in the thick Slavic accent he 
had never managed, or even really tried, to dispel.  "How they make 
up, child, is by kissing each other's fists.  And it is a good 
thing, too - right after a fight, it is as polite in here as in the 
fanciest Upper City affair you could name.  Only with more 
alcohol."  He tossed his head back and guffawed unselfconsciously 
for just a few moments before extending a hand and beckoning to the 
newcomer and the silent man.  "Come, the cursing inside will keep us 
warm.  This chill is getting down to my bones."

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]

Ophelia blinked at the thin man’s invitation.   Was this guy serious? He 
and the giant metal-man seemed to actually be interested in re-entering 
Trotsky’s, which looked like a tram or two had rammed into the front of 
it, backed up, then rammed into it again.  She hesitated for the 
slightest of moments before her smile, small and a little wary, tugged 
again at the edge of her mouth.  “Yeeeah… Maybe I’ll paaass.” 

Ophelia pushed off from the wall, stepping to her feet a bit more 
sturdily.  She regarded the larger man for a moment, taking time to more 
fully appreciate all his augmentations.   It wasn’t often that she saw 
someone so largely machina – while she didn’t want to stare, all the 
metal seemed to beg her to do so.  Her eye swept back to his.  “In a  
little while that place is going to have patrol so far up its ass it 
won’t be able to sit for weeks.  No offense, but you’re gonna raise some 
eyebrows,” she pointed out, her gaze swinging between him and the other 
man for a moment.  He wasn’t as large as the other, and his appearance 
wasn’t as overtly threatening, but… something about his face bothered 
her.  She half hoped the other woman would stick around, if for no other 
reason than to even the group out. 

The girl wet her lower lip briefly, leaning back a bit to check either 
way down the streets.  “I’m more in favour of hightailing it for now, 
then when we find a bar that wasn’t the recent scene of murder, you can 
buy me a drink there,” she swung her face back to look up at the man, 
flashing a friendly smile and look.  “Deal?”

. . .
[Mirko wrote:]

Mirko was sturdily unconcerned under the younger girl's stare - he was 
quite used to being a spectacle by now, and even took some pleasure in 
it - but when the words 'murder' and 'patrol' worked their way into the 
conversation, the surprise was evident on his face.  Those paying 
particularly close attention might have irrelevantly noted that even the 
implant in his head blinked, after a fashion; the glowing square 
jittered into pixellated noise for a moment before returning to a 
steadily shifting lump of colour.

"A murder?  The patrol is coming?  You are certain of this?"  The frown 
that appeared on his face seemed to shade it with an aspect of great 
menace, as the darkening of skies before a storm.  He turned decisively 
to face the shattered façade of the bar, tapping it authoritatively with 
his metal hand and emanating the distinctly bizarre impression that he 
had somehow gleaned information in the doing.  Slowly, the dangerous 
frown leaked away, replaced by a look of placid unconcern.  "I had 
thought that this was just another of the infamous bar fights.  Yes, we 
should go to a different bar; I came here for a drink, not to work more! 
 Come, I know just the place to go to.  The Pit!"  He grinned widely 
again, thumping himself on the chest as he added "I have been going 
there longer than you two have been drinking."

. . . 
[Elysa Wrote:] 

"I thank you for your offer, then, anyhow," Elysa said softly to the 
mechanical man in front of her, as she sidestepped and prepared to walk down 
the alley. She watched as the threesome reentered the bar. She had no 
interested in joining them, there was a prickling in her mind that disturbed 
her; it seemed to tell her that perhaps, that path is not one she should 
take. 

As she took her first step, she felt another sensation at the back of her 
mind; a cold, dull ache. It was a new thought, a new feeling - there was 
someone else there. She had felt this before, but attributed it to the 
arrival of the strange man who appeared from the shadows. She had since 
changed her mind - he had entered the bar with the other two, and the 
sensation was still there. 

The dull ache in her mind drew her upwards - she looked up to the rooftops. 
She could make out a figure, most definately female, standing on the roof. 
She must have been watching them all this while, and Elysa did not like 
being watched. 

//A little too high up, are we? // 

It had been a while since she had used her telepathic powers, but she was by 
now means rusty. She felt her thoughts slice through the cold air like a 
knife, and waited for a response. 

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit: Yellow Dragon Alleyway 

[Henry wrote:]
The targets were all in sight, at least as far as he could tell.  The girl
was speaking to two men, both armed.  Henry was observing the banter between
the two, though they were speaking too quietly to hear anything.  The lone
female, the one person here he couldn't kill, was facing towards him, though
not looking up at the window.  Two men opposite her appeared to be the
targets for this op.  One of them was a monstrosity, and had a very nasty
looking light machine gun which he was brandishing.  The other was not
holding a weapon, but he was probably armed.  The big guy was definitely
going down first; anyone else would just be a bonus.  Henry looked down to
assure himself that his laser rifle was set to fire a five's hot burst.  He
didn't want to take chances with the giant, or more appropriately, his
weapon.

The woman moved back and forth, and Henry was a little nervous about taking
a shot.  If the laser burned too far too fast, he might go right through his
target and possibly wound or kill her.  She moved back and forth as if she
were a soldier trying to intimidate them, or perhaps to hide her own
feelings of panic.

She paused in front of the shorter man.  Whatever she was saying was clearly
directed at him, and it got her out from behind the bigger man.  Out of the
line of fire.

The giant probably didn't even feel it.  The burst struck him in the back,
at the base of the neck.  The back of his shirt was burned away first.  As
the fibers disintegrated, the second blast struck.  This began to liquefy
the body armor he was wearing, but this was only completely accomplished
when the third blast struck, and melted the remaining armor to his skin.
Had the third been the last, he would have felt the intense burning of the
material on unprotected tissue.

He didn't have time to feel this, however, as the final two laser blasts hit
bare skin.  His flesh melted away and a hole about the size of a softball
opened up at the base of his neck, severing his spinal cord and burning a
portion of his windpipe, preventing him from screaming, assuming he could
manage overcome the shock.  The heat partially cauterized the wound and left
it smoking, though dark red blood still managed to find a way out of his
body through the new opening the laser had just created.

Though all of this happened, it happened in less than a blink, and all
anyone could appreciate about this horror was a streak of white, a hole in
the back of a man, and a body on the pavement twitching, but lifeless.
Everyone turned to the window.  By now, Henry was lining up his second shot
at the shorter man.

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, Trotsky's Bar Exit 

[August Wrote:]
The vibe of suspicion within the group swelled for a moment-August could 
feel the human beginning to have those little doubts about his façade.  
Focusing his mental energies for just a moment, he began to undermine 
these thoughts with a vague sense that she was being paranoid…it was 
almost as easy to make humans think that they were wrong as it was to 
convince them that they were right.  Feeling the suspicion within her 
subside, he made a mental note to do the same thing if he began to feel 
anything inappropriate from the Offspring as well, though he didn’t 
think this would be much of a problem.  When you’re a blatant freak, 
it’s hard to pick apart the subtle flaws in others.

He had no doubt the female vampyre had felt all of this, but he no 
longer cared.  She was out of their picture and she might miss his 
psychic activity anyway seeing as she was just a bit involved with the 
poor soul who was on the adjacent building’s roof.  August had developed 
a frightening ability to tell when he was being watched, and it had 
taught him one of the most valuable lessons he knew-that most everyone 
was ALWAYS being watched.  He cared no more about the entity on the roof 
than he did the bum down the alley that had been working up courage to 
panhandle or the bartender who was listening to the four from just 
inside the door while he had a smoke.  Whoever was on the roof had no 
business with him, and this made him fairly sure that he had no business 
with them, though it was slightly intriguing-who wanders from rooftop to 
rooftop eavesdropping on strangers?  But perhaps the person it was 
watching wasn’t quite a stranger…

He reminded himself it mattered not as he chuckled about forgetting that 
his two "companions" didn’t know that August could safely socialize in 
an L.D.H.O. militia station.  He smiled slightly again as he brushed off 
the front of his coat and prepared to follow the large man out of the 
alley.

. . .
Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit

[Mirko Wrote:]
Mirko led the way as the spontaneously-formed group trod through the 
puddles on the way to the Pit, another bar scarcely a block from 
Trotsky's.  He had not missed the momentary shock of recognition that 
flashed into being on the thin man's face when Mirko mentioned the name 
of the bar; evidently, he had either been there or heard of it before, 
something that could be quite telling.  He grinned to himself.  Ah, the 
city - so many people, all paranoid about one another and about what the 
next day would bring.  And perhaps best of all, they weren't being 
completely unreasonable in the doing - the rising of the sun quite often 
did bring with it new escapades, new excitements, new faces, and even 
new dangers.

He walked on, not bothering to check if the other two were behind him, 
past filty storefronts and housing complexes that looked as though the 
life had gone out of them.  There was a somewhat surprising lightness in 
his step - though it was perhaps more indicative of feeling than 
physics, as his tread was still accompanied by a distinct, though 
muffled, thud of weight.  Eventually he stopped before a recessed 
doorway, a dirty slab of wood hidden by shadow, sandwiched between a 
dealer in salvaged EMC parts and what was once an antique shop, now 
housing for moneyless itinerants of all kinds.  He pivoted at the waist 
just long enough to glance back at the pair of followers, then stepped 
into the narrow passage, filling most of it.

Finding the softly glowing button on the wall was but a moment's work, 
and Mirko pressed it with a certain theatrical flourish.  The voice that 
emerged from a tinny hidden speaker was thin and screeching.  "We don't 
want any!  Go away!"  The laugh, by contrast, which it prompted from 
Mirko was deep and throaty, and followed soon after by what was 
immistakably a recitation.  

"The curtain, a funeral pall, 
Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
While the angels, all pallid and wan, 
Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,' 
And its hero the Conqueror Worm."

The inner door slid open smoothly, revealing behind it a stairway down 
which was far cleaner than one would suppose from its setting.  Mirko 
walked in, saying "Amusing security, eh?  It is poetry, very old.  Come, 
we must not keep the door open."  He descended the stairs two at a time, 
passed through a thick, sound-dampening cloth doorway, and entered the 
Pit proper.

. . .
[August Wrote:]

August treaded lightly but quickly down the stairs and stepped into the 
bar, right beside the Offspring and the human he had come with, giving 
the place the once over.

The first thing that caught his eye sent his mind into action.  
Vampyres-present in much greater concentration than there had been in 
Trotsky’s.  Not only this, but the way the social structure worked was 
different.  Many of the beasts were in fairly large groups consisting 
exclusively of their kind, and were talking amongst themselves, also 
having secured the best locations in the bar, most notably the few 
private booths along the walls.

The nightspot itself was interesting if not overly original in many 
respects save the entryway.  It was arrayed in the increasingly common 
manner which combines a traditional bar with a traditional nightclub, 
and keeps the two elements adjacent but separate, hoping to appeal to 
everyone-those who want to drink copiously, those who want to dance, and 
those who want to do both.  August surmised that it was called The Pit 
because in the middle of the establishment was something of a dance 
floor which was lowered and seemed to radiate a somewhat violent 
aura-looking at it made the description of a pit seem fairly accurate.  
Generally bad music pounded out of speakers that couldn’t handle the 
decibels; all the music sounded like static over occasionally varying 
patterns of ultra-low bass.  Bodies on the floor writhed like a single 
sonically intoxicated organism whose heart was the regular thudding that 
resonated about the club.

Towards the back of the floor was the long black bar, and along the 
edges of the establishment, tables and the occasional booth were set up. 
 These areas were a decent ways apart from the dance floor, and the 
music was subdued enough here to see to it that audible conversation 
could be had without yelling.  Waiters and waitresses (almost entirely 
of the vampyric persuasion) dodged about, occasionally taking drink 
orders throughout the seating area, while the bar was swarmed with 
people calling for the bartender.  The décor was generally very minimal, 
and the color of this club, like so many others, was undoubtedly black.  
The place certainly had an aura of its own none the less, perhaps in 
part due to its obvious association to the Spider’s Dusk community, but 
perhaps due to something else yet perceived.

Standing beside Mirko and Ophelia, August addressed his two companions, 
"Care to choose the seats?  You two must certainly know this place 
better than I do."

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]
All that music needed, in her opinion, was a solid beat.   Preferably a 
medium to fast pulsing of sound, rhythmic and easy to catch on to.   
Down here in The Pit, she could feel more than hear the familiar 
thumping of the bass in her stomach, the pounding that slowly replaced 
the beating of your heart.  Even if the lyrics were shit, which she 
found was often the case with modern songs, and even if someone went 
overboard on the mixer, anything was salvageable if you could move your 
body to it in time.   Which, as she surveyed the dance area with a 
critical eye, was not the case for everyone. 

As was typical when she entered clubs, Ophelia caught onto the beat 
quickly and almost subconsciously absorbed it.  Her hips swayed casually 
as she glanced about.  The place was crowded, obscuring most of the 
club, but if she were to guess she’d say that she hadn’t been there 
before.  Which was likely – she’d been to a lot of clubs, but there 
–were- still zillions she hadn’t yet frequented.   As far as the Patrol 
went... well, they were farther away from the scene of the crime now, 
and she liked the music better than she liked the sound of panicked 
running, and so she let herself relax.  Just enough.

She swung her head around to look at August.   The noise and worrying of 
the street must’ve been getting to her earlier when she first laid eyes 
on him.   “In places like this… I don’t do much sitting,” she grinned a 
little, “But you fellas don’t seem like the dancing type, soooo….” She 
trailed off as she spotted a small booth being vacated over to their 
left.  Likely the metal man would have to take up one side all on his 
own.  While sharing a seat with the other fellow didn’t readily appeal 
to her, it still wasn’t out of the question.  She nodded her head 
towards the booth in question.  “Suitable?” 

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit: Yellow Dragon, Back Alley 

[Jake wrote:]
Jake was spinning into motion before the juggernaut's
last heart beat died away.  Kicking Donna to the
ground he fired off a three shot volley into the open
window and kept his feet pumping.  After a short jump
he kicked the dumpster clear of his escape route and
motione for Donna to dive into the ductway.  To be
certain of a clear escape, he fired off two more shots
into the general direction of the window.  They
weren't accurate shots but the bullets came near
enough that they served Jake's purpose.  After a split
second he, too, dove into the ductway and started
moving his way through the innards of the adjoining
building.

Donna gave very little protest as she moved and
scuttled like a pro.  Behind him, Jake heard the
firefight ensue.  He only hoped the shorter of the two
men was skilled enough to hold the assassin long
enough for a safe escape.

One can certainly hope.

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit 

[Mirko wrote:]
Mirko chuckled quietly, traces of irony dancing in his eyes.  "The 
question, my child, is not whether I dance, but whether any woman can 
keep up with me when I do."  A sudden stab of pain silenced him - the 
memory of the harvest dances, back so very long ago now.  He had indeed 
been a powerful dancer, though the great leaps and twirls were quite 
different from the prevalent styles of the here and now.  He held no 
illusions about his ability to do the same now; even apart from the 
effects of aging, there was no chance of it.  The smile swept itself 
from his face as he surveyed the writhing mass in the bar's namesake, 
replaced for the moment by a look of grim stolidity.

Finally he nodded to Ophelia's booth suggestion and followed her through 
the milling bystanders in the appropriate direction, catching the 
attention of a pale-faced Vampyre waiter he knew as he passed.  Once 
they were safely seated, Mirko on one side of the booth and the smaller 
pair on the other, with the waiter hovering around the sides, Mirko 
spoke again.  "So, we will be introduced over drinks, eh?  But first we 
must know our server.  Lady, gentleman, I give you Thal."

The thin man, immaculately dressed in an 'underground' interpretation of 
a waiter's uniform that managed to incorporate a great deal of leather, 
sighed heavily, as if he had been through all this before.  "Mirko, I've 
told you, my name is Lothalon.  Could you use it?"

The characteristic grin began to creep back onto Mirko's face.  "Ah, but 
you must have a good sense of humor if you expect to get anywhere!  Do 
not take things so seriously!"  He shook his head with mock sadness, and 
added to Ophelia and August, "He is a kind lad, truly, and is not very 
much older than he looks.  Now, order whatever you want - it is on me.  
But not too many of them!"  He shook a meaty finger dissuasively.  "And 
me...I will have a doppel-magenbitter."  With that, he leaned backwards 
slightly in the booth and watched the pair across from him 
speculatively.

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]

Ophelia had caught the look on the large man’s face once his friendly 
smile faded.  Panning across the dance floor like that, he had taken on 
an almost mournful quality, like something was missing in this picture.  
Either that, or she had completely misconstrued his comments.  She’d 
accepted them as an honest answer, as he was beginning to seem the type, 
 but maybe it was more in the sarcastic, self effacing way she was used 
to receiving from people in the LC.  

Having made their way to the booth, she politely stood to the side to 
allow August to sit down on ‘their’ side ahead of her, the spot closest 
to the wall.  She didn't like being pinned in by a bunch of strangers, 
no matter how many drinks she got out of them.  Besides, it was more 
practical this way - if she wanted to dance, she didn't want to crawl 
over him to do so. As she waited, she folded her arms  again and leaned 
on the dividing piece between them and the booth next door.  Looking up 
as the waiter approached, she nodded once.  The thin lipped, obligatory 
smile made an appearance on her face and she scratched the tip of her 
nose before speaking.  

“Hi, Loth.  Could I just get a beer, thanks? In a bottle,” she added, 
before turning to the man who was actually going to be paying for the 
night's drinks.  Seated, she noted, he still loomed.  “Mirko, huh? I’m 
Ophelia.”

. . .
Shattered Glass: Lower City, Streets 

[Grenadine wrote:] 
The voice intruding into Grenadine's head sparked a moment of lightening laced panic. Her dark reverie was gone, faded into the shadows so common in the deep LC, so common in fact that they often seemed to compose the large sections of the City itself. Shadows, why was she thinking about shadows? Grenadine blinked, her favored action of the rain saturated night. Like a twisted new age version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide the teenager's mentality spun a 180, the momentary splurge into the Great Below's fringe dropped like a breaking egg, in its place waiting a fragile and broken teenage girl, pale honey eyes glazed and round above a jaw ever so slightly trembling. 

_In my head!! Inmyhead inmyhead inmyhead!!!_ A year of foreign L.D.H.O. spurned synthetic chemicals flooding her brain had done more than just slightly shake her internal emotional response process. She froze, small thin body trembling despite her every opposite effort, delicate youthful lips parted in terror as they whispered. "...vampyre..." 

A flash in the darkness, vague, indistinct; a space in time the length of a single prenatural eye blink resounded. Grenadine was no longer standing atop the darkened roof of the adjacent building. She stood, impossibly, no more than two inches in front of Elysa, a literal breath away. 

A second more. Overhead lightening cracked, its talons spidering through the smog tainted Delos City sky, stretched and illuminated, just for a moment, the face of Grenadine, wide eyed as ever, mouth ajar before the taller female vampyre. 

Second three. Lightening again, this time so brightly that the shadows returning in the after blink seemed almost to be made of solid substance, matter that surrounded Grenadine herself. Her eyes were pleading, and she pointed in the one split second of following clear visibility, to the direction the others had previously departed. When she spoke it was but a hoarsely whispered breath... 

"Run!!" 

Second three ended. Grenadine had vanished. 

. . .
(Outside "Street" portion of 'Shattered Glass' became 'Umbrella')
Thread: Umbrella: Lower City, Streets 

[Elysa wrote:] 
Elysa frowned, several thoughts racing through her head at once. It was turning into a stranger night than she could ever have imagined. The appearance of her rooftop stalker seemed a little out of the ordinary; the girl seemed frightened and confused more than anything else, but her movement was silent, fast, and gracefully undetected. The plethora of emotions that rushed appeared together with her presence would have been overwhelming if Misharof had not thought her to control her gift. She was fascinated, but now it seems that the rooftop wandered had disappeared into the night. She pondered over her strange message. "Run," Elysa repeated to herself softly. 

And now, standing in front of her, was another woman, with green hair and a welcoming umbrella.  She stared at her, scanning her thoughts for her intentions. It was late, and she was not about to go wandering around town with a stranger; but Grenandine's words had also left a certain impact, and a dark sense of foreboding. Elysa thought it was best to leave this area soon. 

"Thank you," she said, smiling, "I am eager to get out of the rain. My hair is not used to such punishment, and I want to leave this place. I'm afraid it has lost much of its appeal in the past ten minutes or so. Shall we walk?" 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit 

[The Unknown wrote:] 
The packed masses of the club had increased to a thrall en masse, the hordes of patrons regularily brushing into the group's table in a constant stream of fanatically clad flesh. A hand flashed, from it landing a note on the edge of the table, bouncing once to end perfectly upright and folded once in half, its glossy silver paper reflecting the rapidly flashing multicolored hues of the club's dizzing lighting effects. On its front were flowing black letters, scrawled in a jagged styled pen. It read simply: To Ophelia.  Its placer was long gone, melting into the packed masses of the club's population from where he or she had come. 

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]
The exchange, or possibly just Mirko’s own heated words, made her tense 
up in her seat a moment.  Not that she hadn’t heard more offended tones, 
just that up until now the man had been so pleasant, and now he just 
seemed a little –too- eager to please.   The carefully chosen words that 
he had used to describe her name had been a little strange too, she 
recalled.  _Slippery_?, she thought back at herself, free to derive her 
own connotations.  

None sat well with her.

Absently, Ophelia glanced over at the man to her side, who was bearing 
the brunt of Mirko’s outrage.  She had caught the cred card a moment 
before, but her eyes had moved off it to pursue more interesting sights. 
  Now, looking back at him, her eyes met a chilly, white coloured gaze.  
Already looking at her.   For the second time that night she wrote the 
cold feeling in her chest off to paranoia, and with a smooth,  casual 
movement she gave her attention to Mirko.  He was speaking again, his 
voice having returned to a less abrasive tone.  

She clasped her hands on the table in front of her and listened to him 
tell about his job, his clients.  The words sunk in shallowly, but she 
got the gist of them.  “Alterations? I woulda never guessed,” she 
smiled, the next moment glancing to the side irritatedly as a club kid 
and her male counterpart bumped too close to the booth.  “Did you design 
the ones that-“

Ophelia’s voice cut off as a piece of crisp silver landed on the table.  
 She blinked for a split second, her first thought being to admire how 
well the paper had landed.  In the latter half of the same second, she 
read her name after the standard 'To:'.  One white hand came down on the 
note in a flash, slipping it off the table and closer to her person, 
while her eyes scanned the crowd quickly.   Dancers moved together in 
the same rhythmic bounce, new ones sliding into place closer, older ones 
moving back constantly.   No one looked backed at her.

“Gotta powder my nose,” she said to the two men with her, as she was 
already rising out of her seat.   Without pausing to get their response, 
she pressed her way through the crowd, to a place where she could 
examine whatever it was it relative privacy.  The thought that  at any 
moment she could be passing the person who gave it to her as she did so 
was clear in her mind.   However, this was not a frequent happening, and 
it bothered her.   Whoever it was must’ve seen her come in, know who the 
hell she was, and… whatever else was on the note.  And to think that all 
of tonight she’d been chalking up her emotional state to paranoia.  

_Well, -fuck- paranoia_.

The note.  She felt it in her hand still.  Stopping a little closer to 
the bar, she opened her hand  and took it out.  Her name glistened 
across the front.   Without waiting anymore, she slipped it open.

. . . 
[Caleb wrote:] 
//'Know which side you fight for. Choose the wrong one, and you're lost.' Oohh. Charming, that. So terribly uncreative.// A moment of pause. //Ah... hello, love. Enjoying yourself?// 

The words reaching Ophelia's mind were gentle in intonation, flow rapid and distantly polite in nature, and most definitely tinged thickly with what could only have been a cultured English accent. Their owner was leaned back against the bar, partially propped against the area with its black marble top met wall. The Vampyre wore an amused smile that would have been a smirk on anyone else had its degree not been so obviously faint and polite, a quip at the corners to a pair of pale lips and little more. The gaze staring so intently above that were a most unnatural electric blue in color, currently fixed on Ophelia's form, their magenta flecks swirling about the irises like frenzied sharks in a pool of fathomless piercing blue. 

His hair was white, not silver, and a softness so baby fine that the short sections around his ears and to the back seemed almost to not exist. Two longish slivers of white fell precisely along his face, to either side of his thick black brows and stopping level with an aquiline nose, each second in time passing painting a different hue of the reflected multicolored lights spiking with random splurges around them. He was dressed in hunter green and white, unlike so many of the other patrons, muscled arms crossed over vested chest, with ankles crossed as well below in a casual lean. 

//A good warning, Ophelia, dear. I suggest you heed it.// He smiled fully then, an expression radiant as the twin blue orbs glowing above it, the tips of ivory fangs peeking for a bare moment among his pale features. He turned to go and paused, an afterthought brimming on the lips, smile returning several gages thicker. //Oh. And tell August, dear I said hello. Ahh...hmm. Or that –the family- says hello.// He quipped the last, dark humor drawing overcast to his eyes. The tall Vampyre licked his lips, a pink tongue running quickly over perfectly white teeth and then pushed off from the bar and turned, slipping away into the crowd and immediately being absorbed into the thong of pulsing bodies and rapidly flickering neon lights. 

. . .
[Mirko wrote:]
Mirko shook his head sharply at the question, seemingly denying even the 
possibility of Ophelia having missed anything in her absence, an 
impression that was more or less contradicted by his words a few moments 
later.  “No, no, only the name of our companion…Friday, eh?”  A trace of 
a frown creased his face, a look of faint disappointment, of 
uncertainty.  It didn’t seem to fit, Friday with the character of the 
man’s walk, with his eyes – but then, it certainly wasn’t the first time 
someone’s name had been so inconsistent with the rest of them.  Perhaps 
the man had a nickname, after all.  “And then, also, his profession…the 
separator of the chaff from the wheat, the thin line dividing chaos from 
corporate profitability.”  He raised his thick glass – frosted over with 
cold – in a silent (and perhaps mocking) tribute.  The liquid inside was 
cold, but less so than the glass itself; swirling slowly, it moved more 
like oil than water.  Mirko gazed into it for but a moment, then downed 
a gulp, winced, and grinned as his eye misted ever so faintly.  “It is 
good.  You should try it, Friday - only be careful.”

“No,  but…” Mirko said, a bit abstractedly, “But I am thinking in fact 
that we here may have missed more than you over there.”  His sole 
eyebrow rose expressively.  “The note…I am sure we will understand if it 
is a private matter, but if it is not, I know myself to be quite curious 
on the matter.  It is not every day that people I drag into bars receive 
strange silvery notes addressed to them, after all.  Suspicious phone 
calls, yes, suddenly-remembered appointments, yes, but not so many 
notes.”  His grin widened.  “So, can you relieve this mystery, or would 
it only earn for us two a bullet in the head?”

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]
“Not at all,” she began, her tone returning to its original smoothness.  
She was almost disappointed to hear that the man had introduced himself 
as Friday… until she saw the frown on Mirko’s face.  He doubted the 
man’s story, saying as much by his hesitation over the name, and his 
fleeting dissatisfaction with it.   Then again, she could be jumping to 
conclusions.  For all she knew, this August person was the pretty blonde 
from earlier.  

Her first instinct at Mirko’s question was, of course, to lie outright.  
It was her usual M.O. when confronted with a direct query half the time, 
and a new story was on the tip of her tongue before she stopped it.   
There was no reason for her to lie really.   If anything, telling the 
truth might help her figure things out, maybe see if her company knew 
anyone by that name.  Her rounded shoulders shrugged lightly, her bright 
lips curling at the ends in a pleasing smile.  “Nothing interesting 
either, hate t’say.  Some guy,” her hand found the bottom of her beer 
bottle, wetting her hand with condensation.  She spun it a little.  
“Thought I might know someone named November or something.  No… August.  
Yeah, August.”

. . .
[Mirko Wrote]
“August, eh?”  A contemplative trace of a frown danced around Mirko’s 
lips as he cast his mind back over the course of time, assisted in some 
small part by the computer of his implant.  It was no great affair – the 
primary purpose was to allow a rudimentary access to the intranet, and 
the small database it contained could hold little more than a name and 
basic contact information; it served only to jog the more fallible 
memory in Mirko’s wetware.  Perhaps he thought that the bitter vodka 
might do the same, for he took another drink then, holding it in his 
mouth for a moment before slowly swallowing.

Finally he looked up.  “I do know an August, yes...or I did...but I am 
thinking that he is not the one of which you were told.  August was his 
last name.  A blandly inoffensive salesman of knick-knacks in the upper 
quarters.”  The amused smile re-established itself on his face.  “He 
fancied himself to be infatuated with a vampyre woman, and followed her 
down to a bar very similar to this one.  Eventually he worked up the 
nerve to talk to her, and I have not seen him since then.”

Another long pull at the glass, already nearing emptiness.  The circles 
of wetness on the table left by the glasses made obscure runes, random 
symbols that seemed pregnant with meaning – until Mirko swept them into 
nothingness with an idle pass of his hand.  “So – I have nothing.  
Friday?  Do you have any clues as to this August?”  Mirko said the name 
carefully; his accent seemed to disappear markedly, just for that one 
word.  “It would be quite interesting to unravel this little puzzle we 
have found, eh?  The only clues we have are Ophelia’s admirer and the 
single name.”  He looked up at the man with a bowed head, upraised pupil 
staring through eyelashes and eyebrows.  The electronic eye, unmoving, 
stared down at the lacquered table

. . .
[August Wrote:]

August took a drink of the vodka as he listened to Mirko and Ophelia 
talk.  It was strong alright, just as the man had warned August-but in 
the course of a century, plenty of odd things find their way into your 
mouth; this vodka was only about the eighth worst thing the dove had 
ever had.

Far more distressing than the beverage in his hand was the situation he 
was in.  The note Ophelia had received was something August felt he 
should have known was plausible-a club like this was likely frequented, 
if not owned by, Crestfallen who would be among the few who knew him.  
The old freedom fighters and renegades, plus their associates-a good 
number of these were theoretically still around.  Why they were being so 
subtle and toying around was another matter altogether; it made August a 
bit confused, but not uneasy by any stretch of the imagination.  There 
were times and circumstances when if he had been in a place like this, 
he would have been mobbed by a whole squad of Spider’s Dusk goons and 
shot, no questions asked or second thoughts had-so a puzzling note was a 
very pleasant surprise.

He decided to shoot the breeze and have some fun kicking the mystery of 
his own identity around.  "I don’t know that I do have a clue as to who 
this August might be.  At one time, I would’ve thought it to be an odd 
and rare name, but the truth is, I think I have seen it several times.  
Apparently not as uncommon as one might think.  But as far as who this 
specific August might be, I’m not sure."

. . .
Thread: Umbrella: Lower City, Streets 

[Zephyr wrote:] 
Zephyr smiled again and nodded at the question, a motion that didn't necessarily seem to mean affirmation.  But first, she determined to address the unnamed woman's first comment.  "It is my philosophy that Trust is actually underrated.  Trust is so rare these days, in these parts, that when it is given it should be noted with appreciation.  I do not believe that this is the case in society. 

"Truly though, I am forthcoming with whoever I please.  I might have something to speak with you in particular about, but I don't believe that the conversation is necessary.  In fact, now that I think about it, I don't believe it would be necessary.  I do not intend to press you." 

She tapped the steering wheel and then commanded the vehicle to rise. Lights on all sides slide downward rapidly and then blurred counter-clockwise as she rotated the vehicle to face northward.  "Now, if you wouldn't terribly mind, I'd like to get out of this depressing foundation," she muttered with a glance downward through the window. 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit 

[Ophelia wrote:]

She smiled a little grimly at Mirko’s story.  _Great, someone 
disappeared in a crowded bar… just what I needed to hear right now_, she 
thought, her fingers working around the bottom of her beer bottle again.

When the second man spoke, she frowned and wrinkled her nose slightly.  
Nothing.  If he knew who this August was, or if he in fact was this 
August, he didn’t seem to have any interest in pursuing it.  If that was 
going to be the case, she might as well get going soon enough – if the 
vampyre at the bar had been able to read her from across to the room and 
address a fucking –note- to her, god knows what else was down in the 
club.  She brought the beer to her mouth and took a sip, wetting her 
lips slightly afterwards.  It wasn’t the best stuff, but it was cold, 
and more importantly, it was free.

“Yeah… good point,” she glanced at August and nodded, “It’s a total 
stripper name too.  They like shit like that,” she noted, not entirely 
kidding either.  She scanned her mental rolodex of dancers, from all the 
clubs she’d worked at.  Again, nothing.  “Funny message to give to some 
chick though.”

. . .
Thread: Umbrella: Lower City, Streets 

[Elysa wrote:] 
"I am desperate to leave this area as much as you," Elysa said, pleased that the vehicle was finally moving away from the area, but at the same time she was also not entirely comfortable being in the car, with this strange woman who would not speak of her motives. "But I'm afraid I must decline your offer for coffee. If you would stop me wherever is convenient, I can find my own way home. Take no offense, I would love to have a longer conversation with you, but my day has been long; I am tired and I feel that I have had too much excitement for tonight. Do you mind?" 

. . . 
[Zephyr wrote:] 
Zephyr's expression was unreadable.  She glanced over towards her passenger, then slowly one malachite eyebrow lifted in synch with the corner of her mouth.  "Of course.  Trust only goes so far."  She looked around, her hands on the wheel, and choose a section of street that seemed relatively quiet compared to the bustle of the Trotsky's invasion. 

The car lowered to street level but before her passenger could exit she put a hand on the lock and turned to her.  "But I must warn you-- don't expect much quiet in the coming days.  Your best chance to brave the storm is to wait in the eye.  Remember that, Elysa, the periphery is not an option anymore.  You may be torn limb from limb out there and -no one- will remember you if that happens."  She blinked heavy green eyelashes over dark eyes that had no color of their own and touched the lock again to release the passenger door. 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit 

[Mirko wrote:]
Mirko shook his head slowly but firmly.  “It is not a woman’s name, no.  
It can only belong to a male, one who comports himself with dignity.”  
He frowned for a moment.  “And who does things in an understated way, I 
am thinking.  Yes.”  He drained the last of the glass with a swift 
motion, wincing slightly at the far-greater bitterness of the denser 
bottom.  It was an acquired taste for most, but it reminded him of the 
brews of home – though why he picked that which was reminiscent in a 
drink while living his life in a radically different way, he was quite 
unprepared to say.  Even if there was a way, he would never go back…but 
perhaps he needed some link to his past, despite disliking it.

“Well, there is not much more we can do to solve this mystery, I do not 
think.  Little point in pursuing something once it becomes futile, eh?”  
Amusement returned to his face once more, a smile on his lips and humor 
dancing in his eye.  “So, Ophelia.  We have not yet heard what it is 
that you do.  Friday says that his job yields no stories, though I think 
he may have some tales of boardroom bumbling to tell…still, perhaps your 
field of work is a more exciting one, eh?”  A carton of cigarettes 
materialized in his left hand, culled from an inner pocket of his 
loosely draping jacket.  He shook one out, paused a moment, and then 
looked inquiringly at the rest of the table, proffering the carton for 
anyone wanting one.

. . . 
[August wrote:] 

August  subtley waved off the presented cigarettes with one hand.  "I 
don't mind if you do, seeing as this place is already clouded with 
smoke-but I don't ever partake myself.  Both of my parents died of 
smoking related causes and before they did they imparted upon me that it 
was not a beneficial habit."

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]

She also politely declined the offer of the pack, only wishing that it 
was because her parents had both died of similar causes.  Instead her 
fingernails found the label on her beer and began nicking at it absently 
as she spoke, the moistened paper scraping off easily.  She cocked her 
head to one side, pulling her mouth tight a moment in a modest smile.  
“I’d seriously doubt that,” she straightened and tucked a piece of hair 
behind her ear, other vividly red pieces still hanging over her the left 
side of her face.  “I actually worked at a few clubs not too far from 
here, up until kinda recently.  Classy fuckers. The Red Carpet and the 
Pink Swirl… as a waitress though,” she wasn’t sure if the men were 
familiar with the strip clubs at all, but she felt the distinction was 
one that was necessary.  

“I’m sure there’s a story or two in there, but I’m currently trying to,” 
she paused, looking for the right word a moment.  Her mouth curled, 
pleased, when she found it. “-Suppress- all that information.  … y’know… 
your profile of that name was pretty specific, like the one you did with 
mine.  How d’you do that?”

. . .
[Mirko wrote]
With the refusals of his offer, the carton of cigarettes disappeared 
back into his jacket while the cigarette-clutching claw of his right arm 
underwent a peculiar permutation; after a sliding-open of metal panels, 
the claw itself retracted almost halfway into the arm, staying there for 
just over a second.  When it re-emerged, the tip was faintly smoldering. 
 He transferred it swiftly to his mouth, and after a draw at it, 
explained.  “It uses the same heat as my instrument-sterilization…very 
useful, eh?”  He puffed a bit more, with evident pleasure.  Some tobacco 
had, in fact, been cultivated back in his home, as well as other plants 
with more or less hallucinogenic or narcotic effects; burnt en masse in 
special ceremonies in a closed room, the effects had always been heady.  
Still, he rather thought that he preferred the personal variety, at 
least half artificial and heavily genetically engineered from the time 
before the lockdown on genetic engineering.

When Ophelia questioned Mirko about his name-analysis, though, he looked 
faintly surprised.  “How?  It is nothing, nothing at all.  You could do 
it, easily.  When you see many people, when you get to know them, you 
see that there is a…there is a correspondence, yes, between the name and 
what the person is like.  People are shaped by their name, I think.  And 
sometimes when what they are naturally like is so vastly different from 
their name, they will change it, to better fit.” He nodded 
affirmatively, glancing between the pair opposite, his eye conveying a 
frank honesty.  “Females will call themselves June, and April; these are 
months of promise, of warmth, of the delicate touch of rain.  But 
August?  August is the approach of cold, a subtle notion of looming 
danger.  As a name, it calls for wisdom; the withdrawn mind.  It is 
masculine beyond a doubt.”  A shrug rippled over his massive shoulders, 
and he paused, taking another drag on the cigarette as he glanced away 
before speaking again.  “I cannot say that it is always right.  Always 
there are those who live in conflict with their name.  But they are not 
so many, they are a definite minority.  And August is very clear, for it 
is distinctive.”

. . .
Thread: Umbrella: Lower City, Streets 

[Elysa wrote:]

Elysa narrowed her eyes as the lock on the door popped up. This woman 
was fascinating, but she was beginning to get weary of her cryptic 
behaviour. This situation was furthered by the fact that her mental 
state seemed almost unreadable; Elysa had yet to encounter a being who 
could actually block her psychic probe. It was frustrating, interesting, 
and tiring at the same time.

She put her hand on the door and pushed it open. "I thank you for the 
ride, and for your advice," she managed to say, almost emotionless. 
"Good night."

She stepped out, and proceeded to take shelter by a nearby building to 
prevent her from getting any more wet than she needed to be. She glanced 
at her watch, it was time to go home. Pulling her jacket close to her, 
she took a deep breath and ran out into the street towards home, the 
strange woman's words still lingering at the back of her head.

. . .
Thread: Starter Kit: LC, Streets, Near the Yellow Dragon 

[Henry wrote:]
The lower city was a ghost town tonight.  The crowds he had experienced on
his way to the night club had disappeared, and he started to figure out why.
  Militia EMC units were out in force tonight in this area.  He didn't know
of any unusual problems in the area, which probably meant they were running
search patterns.

He passed an alley like the one he had just exited two blocks back.  Without
much warning, three humans jumped out of the alley and grappled him.  One
put his hand over Henry's mouth; the other two grabbed one leg each and
quickly dragged him into the alley.  Henry felt a small gun jam up against
the small of his back.  The alley he was just pulled into was dark, but
small.  The entourage dragged him behind a dumpster, and threw him down onto
the hard concrete.

"Message for you," the apparent leader of the group exclaimed as he aimed a
pistol.  "Where do you want your message, in the head?  Maybe the chest?  Or
maybe a nice, slow leak in the belly?" The man gave off a dark laugh.
"After all, boss can't have you talkin'!"

Henry was not truly afraid.  All three were human, and they didn't
know he was a vampyre; at least he hoped they didn't.  Nevertheless, he
wasn't enthusiastic about his chances of winning this one, survival would
have to do.  "Just get it over with quick slob," he retorted.  He noted that
all three of them were giving off only slight signs of fear.  Their bravado
would need to be broken.

The gunman came back with, "I don't like your attitude.  You should be nicer
to people who hold your life in their hands." He kicked Henry in the shins
and gave off another spiteful laugh.

"Stop being so damn melodramatic and shoot birdbrain.  Don't you watch
holos?"  Henry slowly worked his way off his back using only one arm, hoping
to fool his captors into thinking the other had been broken.  "I'm sittin'
here waiting to die and--"  as he said this, a Miltia Patrol EMC flew by,
catching all three of the men's attention for a brief second.  The
distraction would have to do.

Henry pushed himself forward with both arms and kicked upwards.  His foot
landed under the gunman's weapon hand, which moved the business end of the
firearm off-target.  The gun discharged clear into the sky.  Almost
simultaneously Henry allowed himself to land on his back as he drew his
laser pistol.  He pointed the weapon in the general direction and just
started pulling the trigger, and moving the gun to spray his victims.  The
other two men started to draw their weapons, but were just too slow.  It was
their fault for not drawing them in the first place.

After about twelve shots, Henry finally stopped shooting.   Anyone looking
in on the alley would have been impressed by the light show.  The wall of
the building in front of him was now spotted with carbon scoring.  The three
would-be assassins were all unconscious, though the pistol was only set to
fire two shot burst, so they would live if he let them.  _Perhaps this is a
good time to send a message back to the boss,_ he thought.

He was forced to leave them there; he couldn't drag one back to his home,
the authorities might find that a little suspicious.  He couldn't hang
around here, it was too dangerous.  No, if he wanted to find out who this
client of his was, he would need to talk directly to the woman he just tried
to harm.  _No harm in sending a message though._ he thought, as he
systematically killed the trio.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Brownstone 

[Unknown wrote:] 
//Don't just sit there like the room isn't on fire, smart one. Yeah, so you hit your head when you landed and saw stars. Nice. Now get the hell up and go. No, not that way. -That way.- Turn around. See the light? Yeah. And hurry before you and your little unconscious companion there turn into well done fillet minon. Help's coming, but it ain't coming here. Now out!// 

The abrupt mental intrusion into Matthew's mind was followed by scruffling and a few harsh grunts, followed again by a loud crash and an onslaught of cool air rushing into the indeed fire wracked subterranean room. By the far wall (or at least what might have been the far wall had the room not been drenched in obscuring flame) lay the source of the fresh air - a second shoot opening, hatch up and glowing a faint bluish green through the haze of black smoke quickly filling the unknown surroundings of Matthew and Nora's current location.  A single horizontal bar was visible at the top of the opening, the first rung on the metal ladder lining its downward path. 

More scruffling. The sound of a faint alarm sounded from somewhere above. Visible movement. //Go!// A figure in the haze, blurred by the thick black gas blotting out even the brilliant orange of the flames surrounding the Vampyre and unconscious Offspring. And then, they were alone. 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit 

[Caleb wrote:] 
//Well well, dear boy. Chatting with cattle now, are we?// A soft masculine chuckle.  //Very well. Suit yourself.// An indefinite pause. //Careful, August. You almost twitched at that one. You're looking in the wrong direction anyway, dear. No. No. No, not that way either. Tsk tsk! Having a bit of trouble with thy memory, are we? Can't place the voice, eh? Ah well. I'll keep in touch. Oohh. Hmm. But before I go... Rather poor choice in company I must say. Mind the young woman beside you. Her group is the one those silly Patrol are after in the first place. Too -bad- she doesn't realize it. And that metal fellow across from you. He's bad news too. Some nasty people have him in mind. Anyway, later chap. For now...// 

The telepathic voice and its mock politeness winked out of August's mind with as much abrupt obscurity as it had come, doing so precisely the exact time its owner did the same, only on a more literal level, exiting the club with as much untraceable remoteness as its rather male and rather Vampyric owner could muster. 

Outside Caleb walked briskly through the faint wash of drizzling rain, a whistled tune, sharp and staccato, accenting the falling drops of icy liquid into the night as he went. 

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Brownstone, outside 

[Matthew wrote:] 
A grunt escaped Matthew's throat but he was already collecting the unnamed woman who was made of so many limbs.  He muttered, wondering if it was even worth it.  All she'd done since ruining his evening was point a gun at him and then black out again.  He sighed and rushed the exit, took the ladder with his free hand.  He braced his shoulder against the ladder and adjacent wall as he used the same hand to shove the grating that covered the top of the tunnel away and pulled himself awkwardly up.  Gasping for breath he pulled his charge further up on his shoulders and scrambled over the edge only to trip on the edge of the grate and land full on top of a woman who was walking down the street. 

It was raining out side now, which was new since he'd moved into the brownstone only a few minutes ago.  He rolled off of the woman (a vampyre no less, damn...) and grabbed the Desert Fang from the unconscious girl's holster and pointed it at the vampyre before she could recover herself.  "Wrong place, wrong time, eh?" he growled, adjusting himself slightly.  "Okay, so you're going to help me out.  My friend here needs medical attention and we both need a place to hide out till this military action ends."  He pulled back, giving her room to stand back up. 

. . . 
[Elysa wrote:] 
She stared into the barrel of the gun. If this had happened eighty years ago, perhaps she would be afraid, a little emotional even , perhaps - but her vampyric life had left her used to situations of danger and surprise. Elysa did not like being threatened. She got up slowly, dusting her jacket and clothes, visibly irritated at having been pushed to the ground. 

//Put that gun away, boy.// 

Her words pierced through his mind like a sharp arrow. She was tired of all the events that had taken place the whole night - from the explosion to rooftop stalker to the mysterious woman with cryptic messages - and now this young , almost fledgling vampyre was pointing a gun at her face. 

She paused, before sending a jarring bolt of pain through his mind. 

"Wrong place, wrong time?" She repeated his words to him coldly. 

. . . 
[Matthew wrote:] 
A loud bang mimicked Matthew's wince as the gun unloaded a single projectile.  He -had- been aiming at her head, but whether he had fired the gun intentionally or out of shock, even he didn't really know for sure, but it -did- fire. 

It took several seconds before he could open his eyes through the sudden, artificial migraine.  He leaned with one hand on his knee, his charge lay on the ground where he had dropped her only a second ago, the other hand still held the gun in a death grip aimed at where her chest should be.  He squinted through the pain at his attacker's (wasn't -he- the attacker?) feet and the fact that she wasn't lying on the floor in a puddle of blood said that if he'd hit her it wasn't lethal.  He didn't even know if he'd hit her, he couldn't hear a thing.  When he spoke though, his own voice boomed in his ears.  "My friend needs medical attention.  We both need a place to hide.  I'm not.  Asking.  You." 

. . . 
[Elysa wrote:] 
The bullet had missed her, she was sure of that. She flinched as the gun went off, but she was not frightened. She stared at the man at her feet, and the gun he was pointing at her. She narrowed her eyes. She did not speak outloud - the gunshot was almost deafening, and she was not sure if he could hear her if she did speak anyways. 

//It would do you good not to waste your time with that pathetic firearm, boy.// 

Her eyes seemed to pierce into his soul, as she concentrated. It had been some time since she had used this much psionic powers in one night - it had not begun to tire her yet, but rather she felt a rush of rejuvenation in reusing her gift. His hand, the one which was firmly gripping the gun, seemed to shake and shiver against his will. Within seconds, he found himself staring into the barrel of his own gun. 

//I will help you, but only if you stop this nonsense. I do not take likely to being threatened. Now get up, before somebody sees us.// 

. . . 
[Matthew wrote:] 
Matthew put his free hand on his head as he moved to stand upright, accutely aware of the weapon in his face.  He pulled his finger out of the trigger guard so as to prevent her from having him shoot himself if she decided to do that and then moved it down to his side, slowly.  His head still wrung and doing anything at a controlled pace was a problem with his head and heart pounding beyond painfully. 

He leaned to his knees and reholstered the weapon before moving to collect the girl.  He moved her into the fireman carry (again!), figuring it was the most comfortable position for him and he would be traveling a good distance, no doubt (again).  He stood upright and faced the telepath, choosing to keep his own conversation vocal. 

He opened his mouth to speak and then balled a fist and brought it across her face with all of his available strength.  "Fuck nonsense.  I take much worse to being threatened.  I had better not catch you fucking around in my head again."  He backed off, his face red with anger (and maybe something else) as he waited to see if she was about to change her mind.  He wasn't sure if he wanted her too or not.  The idea of getting help from a telepath/telekinetic bothered him. 

. . . 
[Elysa wrote:] 

She staggered backwards, holding her cheek where he had punched her. It was definately going to leave a bruise tomorrow - she silently cursed him. Elysa removed her hand from her face, and glared at Matthew and the woman he was carrying. 

This was it. She would not be treated this way... by this boy, this fledgling. Her eyes almost seemed to be swirling in a red sea of madness and anger. 

The familiar, searing bolt of pain rushed up through his brain once more, although it seemed stronger than the last time she did it. It was as if his mind was on fire. He sunk to his knees, dropping the woman again. The pain was slowly reaching the brink of being unbearable. 

Elysa walked up to him casually, and pressed her heel into the back of his hand - not hard enough to break any bones, but with enough pressure to hurt him. "You touch me again, and you'd wish I'd made you shoot yourself the first time." Her voice was sharp and venomous. 

She removed her foot from his hand, and turned around. "I have no doubt you and your friend are in desperate need of aid, but you will not be receiving it from me tonight." 

She walked away from them, but not before sending another painful psychic blow, enough to make sure that she would be a considerable distance away from them by the time he recovers; should he want to follow her or attack her. 

Elysa smiled to herself as she gave one last look at the vampyre on the floor, clutching his head in agony. She would normally not find so much pleasure in another person's pain, but this time it was satisfactory. She put her hand gently to her cheek, she could feel it begin to swell. She walked away, and headed home. 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit and Exit 

[August Wrote:]

August drummed his fingers on the table idly as he strained to finish 
the drink in his glass.  He put it down, commenting on Mirko and 
Ophelia’s name speculations.  "If I recall, there was once some sort of 
great conqueror named August or something similar."

The voice in his head was bothersome as he glanced about, unable to 
pinpoint the source.  August certainly couldn’t place the voice, which 
was what its originator had expected.

This person seemed to be flaunting the fact that they knew something 
that August didn’t.  Unfortunately for this mysterious figure, this 
notion wasn’t something that affected August much at all-everyone around 
here seemed to know a lot that he didn’t.  As for what they had to say 
about these two, it was a bit interesting.

The fact that the girl was wanted by the patrol didn’t surprise him 
much.  He remembered her in some way, shape, or form, and everyone he 
remembered, save a few examples, was either a part of the Veil or 
against it.

He hadn’t figured that anyone would be out to get the metal man, but it 
made sense-he took a lot of pride in being an under the table doctor and 
was quick to tell a perfect stranger.  He could just picture the huge 
offspring laying his story down to some off duty or plainclothes cop at 
an earlier time.

August wasn’t worried about catching their disease-he didn’t need a 
warning to avoid any kind of major involvement with them, seeing as that 
had never been the plan.  He decided to go ahead and book.

"It’s been lovely, but I think I should be going-I care for an elderly 
aunt of mine who is probably going to be a bit worried.", August began 
as he stood.  He nodded to Mirko, "Thanks for the drink.  Truly a 
pleasure." Another nod to Ophelia followed as he quickly turned and made 
his way through the press of the club and out into the entryway by the 
stairs leading to the street level exit.

. . .
Thread: Umbrella: Upper City, Foster's apartment 

[Foster wrote:]

Raining again.

Foster was not one for superstition.   He didn’t lend much credit to 
fate, and failed to see a great many things as more than circumstance.  
Luck and chance, he had long ago decided, in league with natural 
selection, had set him on his current path.  He often liked shooting a 
thin arrow of logic through a person’s belief in a bigger picture.  
Through any notions of Destiny.

It was raining again on his daughter’s birthday.  Like it did every 
year.  Great loads of the stuff falling in perfect sheets, only to 
spatter, broken, on his window pane.

If the great cosmic scheme of things was real, whoever ran it was a sick 
fuck.

A sigh pushed itself past his lips, almost forced.  It was a hassle even 
to waste time on it. Pushing away from the window with a faint move of 
his shoulder Foster turned back into his apartment.  His shadow filled 
the light rectangle supplied by the window, flecked with a stretched and 
strained shadowy droplets, before edging back into the sitting area.   
When it was late like this he didn’t like to keep too many lights on, as 
the more luminous the room the easier it was to see into.   Not that 
anyone peeking in would’ve seen much in any case – Foster’s living room 
was that in name only.   A sterile black couch and dark coffee table, 
flanked by several like chairs.  He didn’t leave papers out.   A dark 
jacket was hung lazily over an armrest.

Foster had gotten home early that day, put Indira’s present into a large 
silvery box, then spent the next fifteen minutes trying to close the lid 
over the plush pink elephant he’d gotten her.   He’d finally ended up 
taking it out again, putting it in ass-end up, then shutting the poor 
toy inside its bright prison in a most unnatural position.  When she 
opened it later it sprung out partway, and her squeal of surprise  later 
transformed into a squeal of happiness as she hugged it.   Foster 
himself hung to the side and watched his mother’s crystal collection 
distractedly.

That was earlier, right after dinner, and he’d excused himself as soon 
as dessert came and went.   He went back to the lab, had trouble 
focusing, and had gone straight home.  A few drinks had made their way 
into the night, but it was paced so that he still could have control of  
his senses.   Now, in the dark of the very early morning, he walked over 
to one of his chairs (which was hard to tell apart from much else in the 
black room) and fell down on it, tired, but not wanting to sleep.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Brownstone, outside 

[Nora wrote:] 
Nora groaned, not quite loud enough to suggest bloody murder, but loud enough to shake the by now only slightly dampened night air, and at least vaguely disturb the concentration of anyone within ear shot. Her system's temporary attempt at rest through unconsciousness was fading, and not gracefully at all. She had, in fact, landed on her still severely injured knee in Matthew's second meeting with the LC's less than superb public poli-composit street ways. Unconsciousness fought consciousness with bitter stubbornness, and lost, ultimately, the end result a very unhappy and slightly groggy Nora. 

"Damnit, Hero, you think you could do a little better with the ride?" Groggy Nora laughed with characteristic sarcasm, the noise proceeded immediately afterward by a brief fit of hoarse coughing. She then rolled onto her side, partially relieved to note an absence of anything red in the flecks of saliva staining the wet pavement beneath her equally wet form. 

From that position she continued laughing, albeit weakly, and despite the pain gnawing happily at the torn mess where her right knee should have been, blue eyes observing and trailing off after a young woman walking briskly away from their direction. Speaking of Matthew... 

Nora readjusted herself to better view her make-shift carriage's current painful state, curled up into a writhing ball of Vampyre flesh and clothing a good foot or two away from her. "Kid....? Oh shit." 

Nora sighed audibly and glanced once more, sky blue gaze drooping blandly in the direction of the still retreating woman, one who undoubtedly cared not for their situation. With a second fit of groaning, Nora shoved herself over on her back, left hand fiddling with something unseen in her vest pocket. The Offspring bit her bottom lip and strained. A soft click followed the movement, to which Nora finally relaxed fully onto her back. There was a hiss and crackle, then the definite sound of a male voice drifting over Com radio. 

["Artemis, that you??"] 

Nora let out a relieved exhale and drew the Com radio fully from her pocket and closer to her face, shoving errant strands of golden and brown locks from her mouth with a free hand in the same motion. ["Yeah, kid. It's me. God am I glad to hear your voice. Ran into a bit of difficulty over here."] 

Nervous laughter on the other end. ["No kidding. Got your coordinates and on my way. Give me five minutes....out...."] 

"Five minutes." Nora breathed deep and exhaled once. By the look of it Matthew wasn't doing much better. She had no clue what was wrong with him, after all, and the only other person in the vicinity was leaving. Not that that mattered. Nora didn't know who the mysterious vanishing woman was in the first place. Or maybe she did and it did matter. Again, she sighed, pondering. Finally after several moments the wounded Offspring called out, though admittedly against her better judgement. "Hey! You! Any clue where the Patrol is?!" Nora coughed again at the last, a new spasm of painful white hot fire lancing though her intensely throbbing leg as she resided herself with staring blankly up at the drizzling sky, blinking only ever so often as she waited. 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Pit and Exit 

[Ophelia wrote:]

Ophelia felt relief slip through her veins like a drug.  She was glad 
that Friday had left, he was just one more thing in The Pit that was 
making her edgy.   Although she wasn’t under the impression that she’d 
met him before, he still gave off a certain quality that didn’t quite 
sit right with her.  Hell, half this club was the same way.  By the time 
both he and Mirko had finished their respective parts, the label on her 
beer bottle had been mostly scraped away by vividly coloured 
fingernails.

She glanced at Mirko after the other man had left, a slender eyebrow 
jutting upwards on her face.  “If he’s got an elderly aunt to take care 
of, I’ve got two kids and a penthouse in the Upper City,” Ophelia almost 
snorted her disbelief in August’s excuse, which caused a vague smile to 
slide onto her face a moment afterwards.  She twisted in her seat a bit 
to scan the dance floor, in an almost half hearted attempt to find the 
vampyre she’d ‘spoken’ with earlier.   The scent of smoke hit her again. 
 “Hey, Mirko…,” she said, almost in a mock whisper, “No offense, but 
this place is kinda fucked up. D’you mind if we get some fresh air, then 
head someplace… I dunno, -lighter-?”

. . .
[Mirko wrote:]

August’s departing nod was met by a far deeper one – almost a seated 
bow, really – from Mirko, along with a goodbye; “You are most welcome.  
I hope your aunt is well.”  Mirko watched the man as he slipped easily 
through the crowded club and to the stairway out, a quiet smile on his 
lips and something unidentifiable in his eye.  He turned to Ophelia, who 
seemed to have done the same – she visibly relaxed when August passed 
out of sight, though still looked to be a trifle unhappy.  Mirko 
wondered for a moment if perhaps this had been the best choice of 
destinations – he had merely picked the closest bar to his original 
intent, but both of his guests had ended up rather harrowed.  Moreso, 
even, than a long conversation with him usually left people.  Well, what 
was done was done – no use crying over it.

A good-natured guffaw emerged from Mirko at Ophelia’s little joke, and 
he responded as she turned to look over the crowd.  “You did not believe 
all that he said either, eh?  It was interesting, though, even so, yes.  
Very much.  Most people do not lie completely without reason, after 
all.”  She turned back to face him soon after, her scan of the dance 
floor done, and Mirko patiently puffed through her question, then 
grinned widely when it was through.  “A vampyre den is too dark for you? 
 Bah!  You must have greater adaptability, child!”  Still, he banged his 
glass loudly on the marbleized table, trying to attract the attention of 
Lothalon.  “Offitziant!  Waiter!”  

The leather-clad Lothalon arrived after a short time, bearing a 
restaurant pad and an injured air.  “So,” he said quietly, “Will that be 
seconds, then?”

“No, no.  The atmosphere here offends the lady’s sensibilities,” Mirko 
replied with a wink, “And so we will be taking our leave.”  The pad was 
duly handed over; Mirko pulled his card from a jacket pocket, tapped a 
few squinting numbers into the pad to indicate a generous - but not 
obscene - tip, and finally passed the card a few centimeters over the 
top, until a quiet beep informed him of the successful transaction.  The 
card, in the most absolute technical sense of the word, did not belong 
to him, though the money on it certainly did; it had come, as had the 
citizen protocol chip currently residing in the base of his skull, from 
one of the reasonably few people who died on the operating table.  
Though it was always wise, simply for business purposes, to try to keep 
that number as low as possible, there was certainly some advantage to it 
occurring once in a while, and Nalin had taught him never to let the 
occasion pass without extracting what he could from the body – always an 
unregistered death.  The card itself had been tampered with, to bypass 
the usual DNA check and simply pass along an ‘all clear’ sign.  It 
worked well enough, though once in a while it would inexplicably fail, 
and Mirko had to either get by on credit and his good name or credit and 
his violent temper.

“So,” he said smilingly to Ophelia, “Lead the way, eh?  Where shall we 
go?  Lighter, maybe, but take care that it is not too upscale – there 
are some places it is not terribly wise for me to go.”

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Brownstone, outside 

[Elysa wrote:] 

Elysa paused, as she heard the woman call out. It appears that she was no longer unconscious, but she did not look all that well either. Elysa turned around. "I do not know, but I sense they are not far off." 

She pondered for a moment, wondering if she should help this other woman, but decided not to. A second glance at the fallen Matthew reaffirmed her decision. This woman had not crossed her, but if she was with that arrogant fledgling, Elysa would assume the same of her. She assumed no good could possible come from getting herself involved with these two misfits. Whoever (or whatever) put that woman in her current state would undoubtedly have no hesitation in inflicting the same on anyone who should assist them, and Elysa had no desire to be a part of that. 

"I suggest you take off soon, and tell your friend over there to watch his manners the next time." 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, Central Streets 

[August Wrote:]

As August left the club, he tucked his white hair up into his cap.  The 
brown contact lenses in his eyes were bothering him a bit, but he’d have 
to get used to it.  The best course of action seemed to be a quick stop 
by his new apartment, to take these lenses out for just a bit and clean 
them, as well as arming up a bit.  He wasn’t ready to rest yet-the 
anticipation of being back out on the job and the preparations he had 
made for it left him charged with enough energy to get for days if he 
chose to.  He’d fed back within the confines of the Veil’s 
infrastructure, but he estimated that at this point he could go for 
maybe a half-pint of blood.

The walk down the streets to his building wasn’t too long or 
interesting.  Now that it was getting very early (or very late, as most 
people would put it), the night life on the streets seemed just a little 
tired.  Hookers had made their first few rounds and the hustler’s had 
sold most of their sacks.  Vampyres seemed to be out on the streets a 
bit more now-August remembered something that one of his original 
mentors had told him.  The man’s name escaped him, but he had been 
ancient for a dove-a child of the high bloods who was not much younger 
than his parents.  He had told August that there is a phenomenal 
perception within urban areas that could be taken advantage of.  After 
4:30 A.M., people called the current state of the world ‘morning’.  In 
their minds, morning was a safe time, when the night’s predators had 
slunk back to their holes.  However, for about two-and-a-half precious 
hours, this morning was just as dark and as desolate as night.  It was 
during this time that men wouldn’t hesitate to go to the donut shop that 
they’d avoided hours before, or that they wouldn’t look over their 
shoulder like they had earlier, that they wouldn’t even be thinking that 
some trouble could be afoot.  They did all of this even though it was no 
less of an opportune time for life’s villains to commit heinous crimes.  
Many of the vampyres were standing near coffee stands, getting a little 
wake-upper before they sought to partake in their "beverage" of choice.

August reached his apartment building within perhaps 20 minutes having 
walked at a brisk pace.  He had been mindful of watchers or followers 
the whole way back and felt at least somewhat confident that his 
temporary home was safe still.  August scaled the stairs quickly but not 
at a run.  A little bit of relief came over him as he noted his door did 
not appear to have been tampered with, and it settled in even more when 
his room looked completely in order as he shut and locked the door.

After a drink of disgusting tap water that at least tasted better than 
the drink he’d had, August got down to business.  His two hip holsters 
went on as he surveyed his side arms.  He sat on the bed for a few 
minutes, loading the new explosive rounds from the militia into six 
clips marked with red tape.  The officer who’d arranged to give him 
these had told him not to fire the rounds when the silencer was on-not 
only because they made noise but also because even the best silencers 
did slightly interfere with bullets exiting the gun.  Normally this was 
no problem; it might skew the bullet’s path a nearly negligible bit but 
that was something you accepted as a price for discretion.  However, 
occasionally the additional friction would be just enough to pop that 
round in the gun, leaving you with a broken, smoldering weapon and an 
embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, problem.  August had also 
brought a box of normal rounds for this reason, and in case the new 
rounds were problematic (which he had heard they hadn’t been for LDHO).

After the pistols went into their holsters which he then set towards the 
back of his hips (still just barely drawable but also almost invisible 
from the front of him), August set his two scatterguns and his AR on the 
bed, regarding them carefully.  The shotguns could be concealed and made 
accessible without too much trouble and just a little ingenuity, but the 
AR was a different matter.  It was simply impossible to totally conceal 
even under his long coat-he’d have to carry it in some sort of bag, 
perhaps a large backpack.  He’d see about this later, he thought to 
himself, as he put the sawed-offs into two large pockets in his jacket 
and put the AR in the trunk under his bed along with the other rifle.

Feeling out his equipment’s configuration, August made some last minute 
adjustments as he mentally warned himself not to be too eager to use 
these.  He had already found one flaw in his apparent 
opposition-impatience.  Vampyres literally had all the time in the 
world, but behind arrogance, impatience was perhaps the most common flaw 
he knew of within his race.  August had been contacted what was probably 
the first time he had been seen, on his first night out in the Lower 
City; someone’s palms were sweating as they were chomping at the bit to 
get him-or at least to do SOMETHING to him.  If he could manage to 
remain patient and mindful, perhaps it would give him just that little 
bit of edge he needed in this situation.  Then again, it would be hard, 
seeing as he was just a bit tired of cryptic signs and dead end 
interactions.

Having determined that he was ready, he stepped out onto the street 
casually, glancing about the area and contemplating where to go next in 
the search for his phantom underworld as he began strolling down the 
main drag.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Brownstone, outside 

[Matthew wrote:] 
"Fucking whore," was the noise that escaped Matthew's lips at a barely audible level.  "She can mind her own fucking manners.  And I'll kill her if I ever see her again."  He rolled from his side to his back, both arms firmly pressed against his temples, he squinted through blurry eyes and fought down a wave of nausea.  "Fuck around in my head.  Told her not to fuck around in my head.  Fucking bitch."  He could taste blood where he'd bit deep into his own tongue. 

He rolled over to face away from "Artemis" and lost his lunch in the gutter, but doing so didn't make him feel any better.  He cursed some more, a little more creatively than previously, and spit out gobules of left-over dinner, colored pinkish from mixing with his own blood. 

He became accutely aware of that smell; blood.  And for some reason his fangs extended into his mouth unasked for.  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get his brain to put them away.  It took him awhile while he couldn't concentrate on a thing with his brain throbbing in his skull.  The world around him shrank to a pin point just in front of his eyes and it was all he could do to keep from screaming. 

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Streets 

[Ophelia wrote:]
A light peal of honest laughter escaped her.  Mirko’s last comment made 
her grin back at him, even as she edged through a gyrating mass of gaily 
clad dancers.  She ignored the bumping she received and instead 
responded, shouting somewhat over the music.  “Trust me, that wouldn’t 
be an issue!  Those types of places object to too much skin as much as 
too much machina!” 

She wasn’t sure if he even heard her, however, as they had the ill luck 
to cross right in front of a massive speaker before her sentence was 
through.  Ophelia covered her ears irritatedly and shoved her way 
through the crowd with a rather harsh movement of her elbows, only 
barely hearing the assorted expletives directed her way as she knocked 
into one person, then another.  In retrospect, she thought, it would’ve 
been better to make Mirko go ahead of her – where the crowd didn’t part 
for her, they certainly would’ve for him.

She was more than glad by the time she reached the stairs.   There was a 
scattered person on them here and there, a fellow smoking, a couple 
currently too involved with each other to see the odd pair making their 
way back up to the street.  Ophelia made her way past the man at the 
door, making only brief eye contact before he pulled it open with a pale 
grip.  Despite the fact that the air in the Lower City wasn’t exactly 
crisp mountain fare, it was still refreshing to be out of The Pit.  She 
took a few steps out, feeling her boots crunch against the grit of the 
street and almost relishing it.   The redhead swung around to look up at 
Mirko, squinting a little.  “Well, thanks for the beer, and the, eh, 
experience,” she smiled.  “Now… let’s try and find something above 
ground, alright?”

She paused, then swiveled on one heel to look up and down the street, 
flipping through her mental rolodex once more.

. . .
Shattered Glass: Lower City, Public Housing 

[August Wrote:]

No dice, August thought to himself.  Everything seemed too on the 
level-too straightforward, too innocent.  The vampyres about looked 
aimless.  The establishments seemed legit.  The criminals seemed petty.  
He’d walked about the area quite a bit, taking in the sights and hoping 
for another lead…but none to be had.  He cursed under his breath as he 
wondered at the wisdom of leaving his two companions from earlier.  It 
was obvious that it was all here-he just wasn’t seeing it.

His feet carried him back to his apartment.  Sitting on the bed, he 
realized that perhaps a little rest could do him some good.  Feeding 
could be tougher than he thought, so all the energy he could get 
appealed to him; plus, it might be good to sleep on the situation.  The 
first time you slept in a new place seemed to make it seem more like a 
familiar setting, and it cleared the mind, just what August needed.

He removed his jacket and weaponry, laying them down in the corner.  He 
checked the door locks and took the complimentary alarm clock from the 
apartment’s bathroom, setting it for 6:15 A.M. and placing it by his 
bed.  Clutching both of his pistols in his hands, he laid down with them 
by his side for a quick power nap.

. . .
Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Streets 

[Eve wrote:]
["16 by 20 by 16 and closing. Target in sight...over..."]

The characteristic crackle of Com chatter and the feminine reply. ["...copy 
that. Marking position now...over..."]

The first parameter was a hushed one, choked out quickly into the ear 
Comlink clip snuggled near invisibly beneath folds of flaying pinkish hair, 
tone just barely audible over the pounding chorus of Eve's booted feet 
thudding against the wet poli-composit street underfoot as he ran. He might 
have been running for dear life, for all his rushed pace and frantic 
expression as he spoke to Dosh's invisible entity on the other end of the 
Comlink, teeth gritted and side heaving from extended continuous physical 
exertion, each new footfall sending its own mild shockwave of fatigued 
musculature screaming into protest.

Ahead two figures were walking, a massive monstrosity of a man, if he could 
be called that, and a slender woman with hair of the most violent red.

Abandoned warehouses and dilapidated storefronts whirled by in one long blur 
as Everett Cross closed the remaining distance to his "target." When he 
finally did stop, he was panting in near canine fashion, sweat dripping in 
full force and body hunched, hands resting on knees as the young man 
struggled to spit out words between gasped breaths, tired eyes peering 
upward between sweat drizzles to the now stopped man and woman before him.

He smiled, or at least it might have been a smile, taking in one long breath 
and then holding it as he stared plainly up at the young woman's face. 
"Ophelia, right? Whew. Okay, just follow me. No, don't ask. Just do it. 
They're after you as much as they are me, and Artemis needs help."

He paused in mid-rant to draw in another long controlled breath, attempting 
only marginally to stand up straight. After this was all over, he really was 
going to have to work out more. No more of this near killing oneself and 
running marathons. Realizing the absurdity of his entrance and statement, 
Eve only grinned, flashing twin rows of pearly whites up at Ophelia's 
visage. "Yeah... eh... just follow. I'm not crazy, and you'll remember me 
soon enough. You'll see. Oh, and you're welcome to come too. The Patrol have 
you on their roster as well..." The young man trailed off and finally made 
an effort to stand fully upright, glancing briefly toward the machina man 
with the last.

He gasped a final time and seemed to struggle visibly, and after a few 
moments resumed his run at an only slightly decreased gait, aimed in his 
original direction. Obviously, he expected the others to follow, like such 
occurrences were common and accepted. Had he not been so tired, the 
Offspring might have paused to curse at his poorly delivered speech, but as 
it was, tonight had already turned into one huge fuck up en masse, and Eve 
was in no mood for pondering future catastrophies that might never occur. 
Hopefully they'd come. If not, well then he was only mildly fucked. And 
mildly he could settle for under the circumstances.

. . .
Thread: Loitering: Lower City, Elysa's Apartment 

[Elysa wrote:]

The door creaked open ever so slightly as she stepped inside. She closed 
it shut with one hand and secured the lock. After all that has been 
happening tonight, it was better safe than sorry. She took off her 
leather jacket and hung it on rusted hook at the back of her door - 
maybe it was time she invested in a proper coat rack. Whatever.

After a short, cold shower, Elysa examined the bruise on her cheek. It 
was going to be obvious, but nothing a little make up can't hide. That 
bastard. That fledgling bastard. It would be in his best interests if 
she did not see him again.

She changed into a pair of sweatpants and a small yellow T-shirt and 
climbed into her bed. It had been so long since she had a good rest, and 
using all of her mental energy on that fledgling had made her more tired 
than she normally would be at this time of night. Nevertheless, it felt 
good to relive the gift she had been carrying for the past ninety odd 
years.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

. . .
Thread: Shattered Glass: Lower City, The Streets 

[Mirko wrote:]
The re-emergence to the street was something of a pleasure to Mirko as 
well, the desert breezes from outside the city serving to slightly 
decrease the density of pollutants in the air, as well as bringing the 
temperature, at least, to a level that was refreshingly crisp.  He was 
preparing to suggest other nearby taverns when the clapping thud of 
quickly approaching footsteps caught his ear, and the words died on his 
lips as he assumed an attitude of wary readiness.  He had no particular 
reason to suppose that the approaching issue had anything to do with 
him, but he took a half-step forward anyway, standing partially between 
whoever was approaching and Ophelia; one did not survive long in the 
lower city without at least a rudimentary sense of paranoia, and people 
rarely ran without something important going on.

He did not have to wait long before the disheveled figure burst into 
view, looking less like a man with a mission than like a man possessed 
by something forcing him ever onward.  He didn’t look to be hostile, at 
any rate, and so Mirko stepped back again – just as Everett screeched to 
a stop in front of Ophelia, sputtering out disconnected words before he 
caught his breath.  Mirko himself was preparing to say his farewells to 
Ophelia and to the newcomer when he caught the man glancing up at him as 
he expelled something about “You come along, too,” and, far more 
disturbingly, mentioning the Patrol.  Mirko had existed for some time in 
what was more or less a truce with the Delos Patrol; he strongly 
suspected that they knew exactly where he worked and what he did, but he 
had never been seriously bothered by them.  The fact of the matter was 
that he was on speaking terms with a good number of the Lower City 
Patrolmen; a group almost universally regarded with disgust and hate, he 
treated with the same manic friendliness he gave to everyone, and that 
made a lot of the difference.  At the same time, he was anything but 
eager to force awareness of his existence on the central organization.

“The Patrol?  What about them?”  Scarcely before the words were out of 
his mouth, Everett was up and running again, without taking cognizance 
of Mirko’s question.  “Child!  Get…bah!”  Mirko grimaced in frustration, 
a not-unimpressive sight.  “The Patrol…not good.  But he may be lying.  
I do not know him.”  He glanced over at Ophelia.  “Do you?  Should we 
follow?”

. . .
[Ophelia wrote:]
For once, she found herself at a loss for words.  If she hadn’t already 
had the confusing experience in the club, she might’ve been more prone 
to regarding the young man with a healthy dollop of skepticism, mixing 
in a sarcastic comment about his hurry.   But the note that she had 
received from the vampyre rang in her mind, reminding her that she had 
some sorta choice to make.  Well, so he said.  She chewed on the inside 
of her lower lip a moment, contrasting the memory of the smooth, solid 
vampyre with the pleasing voice to the dripping boy ahead of her, 
panting and speaking in frantic snatches.

…'Know which side you fight for. Choose the wrong one, and you're 
lost.'…

_Oh, fuck –this-_.

Ophelia, with only a slight twitch, swung her head up to Mirko.  She met 
the man’s gaze and frowned a little, then scratched her chin.  She 
wasn’t sure that she could afford to just pass this over, not with the 
insistent feeling inside her that something had been consistently ‘up’ 
all night.  And this was just one coincidence too many.

 “… I think we should,” she nodded, delicately neglecting to answer 
whether she knew him or not.  If she was going to follow him, she wanted 
a giant to escort her no matter what – Mirko being around would give her 
more weight, figuratively as well as literally.  “Just to find out what 
this is all about.”

She turned and looked ahead, where the young man was still running, 
somewhat, aways ahead of them.  Pivoting slightly, she turned and 
followed him, catching up to him and slowing to a jog.  “We’re coming. 
But if you’re fucking with us, I’m kicking your skinny ass. And then 
–he- is, alright?” She glanced back quickly at Mirko, nodding for him to 
come along, then back at Eve.  Her eyes narrowed a little when she 
looked back at him, a glimmer of recognition flickering over her face 
before fading again.  Nothing.

. . .
Thread: Umbrella: Upper City, Foster's apartment 

. . . 
[Poe wrote:]
"You look tired, Foster. Same ole, same ole at the lab got you down? Or is 
it just life in general this time?"

It drifted, the disembodied voice. Though the quiet solitude of the living 
room, softly and without trace of sarcasm or hostility. It merely 
questioned, in its own familiar way, languid almost, and definitely tired, 
hints of complacency sliding through the last.

After a moment Poe moved, and the movement gave her life, detaching her 
lithe form from the obscurity of the rear wall and lending body three 
dimensional definition from the long shadows encroaching on the room's 
starch sterility.

She shifted into a lean against the septic white walls of Foster's living 
room and smiled faintly, wide lips tugging upward almost as if forced 
against their combined will. There she paused, gray eyes relaxed and 
thoughtful. She almost spoke again but declined, clouds falling on the sea 
of gray peering out from beneath a pair of thin brows. She moved again, 
ankles uncrossing, and nudging away deeper into the room instead. Two steps 
and she stopped a few feet from the wall, the pale light of Upper Delos' 
clouded skies filtering in through the opposing window and trickling down 
into Poe's lithe form.

She wore two colors, black and gray and all tight elastic materials, the 
singular swatch of blonde hair cascading over her shoulder the only break in 
the monotony. There it lingered, gleaming almost in the faint natural 
lighting, then slowly filtered its way back over her shoulder as she turned. 
It hung, in perfect straightness, from its origin gathered at the base of 
her neck to its finale resting comfortably above the area where back melted 
neatly into rear end.

She crossed her arms, the movement slow and deliberate and filled with a 
most unearthly sliding grace. Eventually she notched up the smile a few 
degrees, cherry red lips glistening loudly despite their owner's otherwise 
softness, and settled with a grin. "Long time, Foster. Very long time."