\ Haven:Mist and Shadow Logs/SR Mech

SR Mech

Friedrich has accepted the encounter. An amateur paranormal investigator has stumbled onto the truth of the supernatural world and has evidence. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.

In room 2 The lights are on.

It is night, and about 60F(15C) degrees. There is a waxing gibbous moon.

[ ] [ down ]

Friedrich is standing here.

It is like, five o'clock in the morning and Friedrich was probably asleep, or thinking about sleep, or.. yeah, one of those things. It is right then when his phone vibrates madly with a message with a dramatic title that reads: HIGH PRIORITY: OUR WORLD HANGS ON THE EDGE

Sleep? Friedrich doesn't sleep. Or, well, he does, because everyone does, but it's so much later than everyone else that his social life (and grades) tell the tale of it. Rather, he's on his laptop, playing some Divinity with his email open on another monitor, when the phone starts to buzz away. A curious tilt of his head, he hits F5 to quicksave, lifts the phone, sighs like it's interrupting the only good thing in his life, and taps on it. "Great. Is it Sammy hacking me again? Very funny, Sammy."

Friedrich must not be evil, for evil doesn't sleep and sees no reason why anyone else should: must explain the dramatic text, whoever sent it holds no regard of what others dream about. The big bold words flash before him as he brings the screen to where he can see it. Opening the message yields: Fritz Sugar, drop everything you're doing and head off to tranquility farm. The supernatural world has been compromised, one Jack Strauss-- paranormal investigator, is about to meet a journalist. Go there ASAP. . Why is Fritz going down there? Why is this Jack meeting a journalist? The message doesn't say.

The mist level rises.

How does Friedrich react to a bombshell of this nature? By letting out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, and muttering, "Son of a fuck. Goddamnit. Five-forty-five in the fucking morning, and some fuck decides *I'm* the one to change the world and save everything." The phone message is dismissed, and he pulls his boots on, zips them up, and adjusts his garishly-buckled belt. "Guess it comes with the goddamn territory, doesn't it?" he queries the skull on the buckle, as though it were a real thing. Another couple taps on his phone, and he's out the door, despite his complaints to himself.

Friedrich thinks; "No signal, either, of course. I'd text Briar so we could take care of this together, but... fuck it. Baby bird Britz has gotta fly on his own sometimes."

Friedrich thinks; "I swear, Verizon has like the spottiest fucking coverage in this goddamn town."

Friedrich (Internally) likes feeling useful, despite his complaints.

Most importantly, why is the meeting in that farm? It could very well be Verizon that Friedrich has no reception, that damn service provider and its unfortunate, flactuating signal-- or someone is having fun jaming the signal. Whatever the case is, the lad must get down to the given location and save the world!

Save the world, save someone, fix something, bury a body, Friedrich is like the Cinderella of the supernatural world. Or, well, the Samaritans are. Probably comes as no surprise that he drives a beat-to-shit BMW R75 with a sidecar, hauling ass on that World War 2-era bike while smoking a menthol cigarette. He pulls off onto the dirt road leading to it, unhelmets, tosses the safety precaution into the sidecar, and then makes his presence less than obvious as he surveys the lay of the land - and, more specifically, looks for this Jack.

Friedrich thinks; "Tranquil Farm. With the cult. Right. Great."

The mist level rises.

The stealth skills Cinderalla Friedrich pulls off are enough to make him advance safely, the clouds casting a dark shadow on the land assisting his case. Far in the distance, where the well is supposed to be - if Friedrich is familiar with this place -- is a torch and two figures. One of them, dressed up in dark garments with a shotgun slung across his back appears to be gesturing wildly next to another who is dressed up formally, their head shaking. Friedrich cannot make out features from where he is.

Friedrich thinks; "... great. He's armed, and I didn't bring my bat. I've just got the Walther, and that's not going to do much good if he freaks. Guess we're going with plan A, then, since fuck it, getting shot is always plan D or E."

The game will automatically reboot in one hour.

The eastern horizon starts to lighten.

[STalk] Friedrich: 'Clarification: wooden old-timey torches, or the European/British version of torches, meaning flashlights?'

You tell SRFriedrich 'Haha, the European version!'

Fuck it, indeed. Friedrich slinks his way up toward the pair, aided by dark clothes, a knack for skulking around, and some experience with these things. But when he gets close enough that he'll prooobably be spotted if he's not careful, especially if he makes a noise and that torch is swung his direction, he just sinks down to listen.

Of course, Friedrich would go for any cover he could find - fallen tree, terrace, whatever the hell he can find in this farm since it's probably not a lot - and avoid silhouetting as best as humanly possible, especially since the sun's about to break.

In room 2 The lights are on.

It is before dawn, and about 60F(15C) degrees. There is a waxing gibbous moon.

[ ] [ down ]

Friedrich sits at the desk, playing a game on his laptop

The mist level rises.

"..I'm not fucking kidding you, why the hell would I waste your time by calling you out here -with- a stor--" The dark clad man, definitely Jack, continues gesturing wildly as he talks with an irate tone to the other one: Jack's skin is tawny and hair a brownish-red. He looks bulky and favors leather a lot, his clothing is made up of it. "Mister Strauss, you have to understand that I cannot put fiction i--" a more reasonable tone of the journalist who is trying to calm Jack down, skin olive and hair black, flowing and lustrous. She is dressed in professional greys, a dazzling smile gracing her features even in the face of a pissed off man. Friedrich does step on a stray twig along the way, but it appears that neither of the two are incapable of hearing acutely. It appears the one is trying to deliver a story and that other thinks it is fiction.

Friedrich thinks; "Good, good. This one may resolve itself in due time. Let's stick around and see if he has any 'evidence,' because if so, we can definitely deal with that. Otherwise... we'll do what we do best, and manipulate until Leathervi Strauss here goes home."

Friedrich (Internally) refers to himself in the third person, mentally, for... some reason? Oh, there's likely a reason.

(Subtly) Remaining crouched low, Friedrich watches with rapt, acute senses as the two exchange words. Not one to tango with a pissed-off guy with a shotgun unless necessary - and usually, way more well-armed - he appears to have no intention of breaking up this little pow-wow just yet.

"This isn't fucking fiction, I have proof!" Jack half-grunts, half-wails to the woman, producing a compact disc which he handles carefully despite his furious motions. "Lets head inside, I'll fucking show you." he hisses then, as if apparently remembering that he needs to be discreet and paranoid for this task. He swings his torch around the area in general, seeking out intruders and spotting none, he turns off the flashlight, grabs the woman by the elbow and begins dragging her toward the house to the east: when a pissed off man with a shotgun begins dragging you, you can do nothing but follow along and that is what the poor journalist does.

You tell SRFriedrich 'Sorry for the slooowness!'

"'scuse me," Friedrich pipes up then - probably not the best idea, but if he can do anything, it's talk. Well, talk and other things. Without waiting for a reply, taking a couple steps forward toward the pair, and without waiting to see if the shotgun is pointed in his direction - and not flinching (much) if it is - he continues rapid fire. "I represent Chip Morrisson, channel seven, Brockton, Mass. If she's not interested in playing ball, I am."

(Internally) Before Friedrich has spoken up, and the entire time he was approaching the pair, he's focusing all of his efforts to overwhelm the pissed-off paranoia of the man and force, instead, overwhelming curiosity and trust to surface.

[STalk] Friedrich: 'Slowness is fine, you're fine, gives me chances to smokebreak without using the AFK flag. And also to throw out multiple emotes/internals so you can get a real feel for the scene. <3'

Jack lets go of the woman who stumbles back, gingerly rubbing her elbow: it was no romantic or fond grab, that much is obvious. He whirls around, one swift motion pulling the shotgun off of his back to point it toward Friedrich, the ugly thing staring down at the tanned man. "Who the fuck are you and who called you here?" he rapid fires in return to Fritz, gaze icy and finger on the trigger and other hand at the fore-end.

"My name is Otis Mueller, and I'm one of the best fucking newshounds in the good ol' U.S. of A," Friedrich states to the other man, his voice distinctly lacking its German inflection. Looking positively uncaring of the shotgun or of its current bearing on him, he continues, "I know to be here because I'm goddamn good at what I do." One index finger crooks past the shotgun toward the man's disc-handling other hand. "... just like I know what you've got is gold because you're damn good at what YOU do. Now, did you come here to get into a pissing match of questions neither of us are going to answer, or did you come here to make the story. Of. The. Fucking. CENTURY... public?"

Friedrich (Internally) keeps that mental focus on Strauss's emotions to keep the possibility of him going straight the fuck to the hospital after this to a minimum.

Jack lowers the shotgun a bit the more Friedrich speaks, growing visibly conflicted on what the next course of action is. But, this self-procliamed Otis Mueller is stealing someone's story. The lady strides forward, bold and head held high to place a hand on Jack's shoulder, motions soothing, "Now Now Jack dear, I am willing to see what you were about to show me. You know me, you -trusted- me enough you requested a meeting. Now this man, he -couldn't- possibly know how and when to be here. We are -great- at being discreet, sugar. What's to say he wasn't sent by them?" he mutters sweetly, leaning in a bit even. This, is enough to cause Jack to level the gun toward Friedrich once more, "I know of no fucking Otis Muellers. You're fucking one of them, aren't you? How the fuck do you know how to come here and what I want to share?"

Friedrich thinks; "I fucking hate the media."

Friedrich thinks; "Two-faced pieces of shit."

Friedrich (Internally) completely ignores the fact that he's being, like, a seven-faced piece of shit right now, but it's FOR THE GREATER GOOD.

The mist level lowers.

Friedrich lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, glasses coming off for a moment. "Jesus Christ, would the two of you listen to yourselves? Have a little bit of professionalism, for once," he states like he knows the pair. Buffing his eyeglasses against his t-shirt, he murmurs, "If I were one of 'them,'" he starts disdainfully, "... do you *really* think I would just walk up to you and start trying to play ball? You think I wouldn't, I dunno, swoop out of the shadows and kill you both? Or put some kind of gypsy curse on you so you wouldn't remember any of it to begin with?" A sharp scoff is given as the glasses are re-donned. As if growing tired of the conversation, he sets the train back on track: "Chip wants to televise it, and he wants exclusives. Thousand up-front, ten thousand if it pans out."

Friedrich (Internally) focuses everything he's got, both verbally and psychically, on bringing out Jack's greed and avarice.

In room 2 The lights are on.

It is dawn, and about 60F(15C) degrees.

[ ] [ down ]

Friedrich sits at the desk, playing a game on his laptop

Line too long. "I know it, you fucking need to see a person to rape their mind." Jack tells Friedrich, pulling the fore-end back to discard an empty catridge and averts his gaze from the tanned lad as if recalling something. "Yes, sweetheart, he is trying to lure you away from me so that he can take care of you in -private-, he read your mind and knows what you want. The two of us going missing is bad for them." the lady whispers to Jack, loud enough for Fritz to hear though as she presses her body against his, using her female charms to her advantage. She does appear to be winning him over, the gravity of what Jack has to say and familiarity assisting no doubt, "You said they were tricky. Did you not? Able to blend in with us without us even knowing.. why would this man.. who knew how to find us admit to that? I will hear your story, sugar, I -will- take it to the world." by now, his fingers is shaking violently-- the one at the trigger, it can go off anytime. Friedrich better do so

Haven is rebooting automatically.

Restoring from copyover...

Copyover recovery complete.

In room 2 The lights are on.

It is dawn, and about 60F(15C) degrees.

[ ] [ down ]

Friedrich materializes. The sun dawns over the eastern horizon.

But Jack broke the cardinal rule: never take your eyes off the enemy. And Friedrich doesn't seem to have any aversions to breaking rules of his own, because in that instant, his strong-as-the-strongest-humans-alive hand comes up all-too-quick to grab the pump of that shotgun and wrench it aside, quite liable to break the leatherclad man's fingers if he is successful.

Friedrich thinks; "I knew I should've brought Briar."

GTG: Friedrich's player has to log off in 10 to 20 minutes.

Jack is not as strong as Friedrich and the man does manage to wretch the shotgun off of the investigator's hands, a startled expression appearing on the man's face. But where is the barrel pointing? For during that period the trigger is pulled and the gun goes off, that high, unpleasant sound following as well. Those with acute hearing will not find this pleasant. The lady, who was all bold and brave moments ago lets loose a high pitched wail, kicks off her heels and begins running southward.

[STalk] Friedrich: 'No worries if we run over! Just wanted to give a heads up that that time is approaching for me. It's a soft deadline.'

Buckshot - or slugs - or who knows, silver shrapnel? - goes scattering into the air, and Friedrich lets out a terrific yell. The shotgun finds its way into his hands with some small degree of familiarity, clearly not a stranger to firearms, and it gets braced against his shoulder and leveled at Jack, pumped rapidly with that tell-tale *chuk-chak.* The accent is dropped, and he's speaking a little louder than normal: "Alright, motherfucker, disc on the ground. And then you on the ground. Understand me? I don't fucking hesitate like you do."

The journalist is booking it like a pro, arms spread out wide as she dashes madly for the gate to the far south. Lead, it was lead sharpnel that flew out of that shotgun. Now that the tables have changed and Friedrich is handling himself like a thug, Jack can't help but take a step back even in the face of potetional death, yelling angrily at the other man, "Fuck you, I've nothing to fucking lose and you aren't getting this disc. I'll fucking die with it!"

Jack only gets the words 'Fuck you' out of his mouth before Friedrich fires that shotgun again, just about a foot to the left of him. All that psychic pressure he can muster - which is, to be fair, a decent amount - goes into projecting pure, unadulterated, pants-shitting terror at the investigator, and feeding off of it to persuade him: "One more chance, Jack Strauss. If you want a single member of the Strauss family to not die a slow, painful fucking death, drop the disc or I will literally pry it from your cold, dead hands."

"Motherfuckingfine!!!" Jack cries out, alarmed, when the shotgun goes off, leg reflexively lifting as his hands fly up into the air, disc dropping to the ground. The man can barely keep still at this point, eyes shut tight as he submits and puts his fate on Friedrich's hands, a cracking voice pleading, "You got the fucking disc, just.. let me go, please." (coloured)

"You can go," Friedrich permissively states as the shotgun barrel slowly starts to rise. But then, instead, he abruptly brings the butt of the thing up way too fast and way too powerfully to crack the man aside the head with it--

[STalk] Friedrich: 'And here is where he would go about the usual process: knockoutpunch, go fetch a memory syringe, repress all his memories of the supernatural and of his media contact (because then, suddenly, she doesn't have a story because he doesn't even know who the fuck she is), bada bing bada boom, problem solved.'

Sometimes we got to make those tough choices, Yeah? Brute force the way out of a situation as long as it gets the job done. Jack appears susceptible to the methods used by Fritz to solve the issue and the Samaritan can relish in the knowledge of being a hero who is not quite out of the woodwork yet! (Maybe he is, but that is irrelevent) Fritz saved the day though, let's not deviate from that. The End.