Encounterlogs
Declans Odd Encounter Sr Irene 241012
In the early hours at Cair Paravel, Declan awaits a mission order amidst the eclectic setting of the thrift store. His contemplations are interrupted by a text from Temple's High Command, tasking him to persuade the former Director Anderson, a brilliant but now disillusioned strategist of their organization, back into the fold. The mission strikes a personal chord; Declan holds respect for Anderson, having been part of operations under his command. Armed with a cryptic and concerning insight into Anderson's current state through a disturbing photograph, Declan sets his resolve to confront and hopefully salvage the man once admired.
Declan locates Anderson in a pitiful state at the Nymph's Rest, a place far removed from their noble causes, where the ex-Director drowns in alcohol and defeat. Attempting to appeal to Anderson's better nature proves challenging as Anderson rejects the notion of returning, instead offering a cynical view on their efforts and suggesting Declan pursue a life free from the burden of their doomed mission. Throughout their conversation, Anderson oscillates between despondency and brief lucidity, hinting at his internal turmoil over the life he's led and the realization of his own downfall. In a moment of vulnerability, Anderson admits to feeling useless and dangerous if he were to return. Declan, notwithstanding, offers understanding and a ride home, suggesting Anderson could still choose a different path, whether in continuing the fight or potentially finding solace in retirement. This encounter weaves a complex narrative of duty, disillusionment, and the faint glimmer of redemption as Declan endeavors to navigate the remnants of their once cohesive bond.
(Declan's odd encounter(SRIrene):SRIrene)
[Fri Oct 11 2024]
In Cair Paravel
The interior of the building is draped lavishly in clothing of all sorts
and rotary racks pepper the bulk of the available space like multicolored
trees. The walls here are obscured with wood paneling from which hangers
can be attached to display individual items and the floor is likewise
hardwood.
The southwestern section shifts from casual to formal as it approaches the
furthest point. Mirrors are quite common along the walls and give an
impression of vast space. The changing rooms are also located here and
labeled obscurely. One to the northwest reads "Sons of Adam" while the
other more directly to the west displays "Daughters of Eve".
It is dawn, about 49F(9C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with convincing a retired and burnt out faction member to come back to the fight.
)
Appearing to be waiting on contact from someone electronically, Declan is spending some time at Narnia, examining an old leather clutch and turning it over. He decides he's too closed-minded and masculine to use one, trying to check for a more neutral sling bag or the like.
Dawn rises across Haven's horizon, and in perfect synchronicity, a sun emoji flashes across the screen of Declan's phone. It appears to be a text message from a contact of his in Temple's High Command:
> Sergeant Hayes. Got an unorthodox mission for you in Haven right now. Won't cost you an arm and a leg, but you may need to be armed.
Declan had just picked up a silver clutch as the message comes in, failing to find what he wants but needing some storage space. He tosses it as soon as he notices the source of the message, lips pursing. A mission? 0730? It must be important. Sure, he's dealt with worse timing both here and in the Army, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying. 'How armed?' he'd answer it.
> That depends.
Good sign or a bad sign? For most missions, his contact would be acting a lot more professional right now. He would've received an encrypted, official memo, or at the very least a direct phonecall. But this mission he's just been called to seems to involve orders that are a little haphazard, spur of the moment.
[:sun: emoji is typing ...] Stops typing. Starts typing again. It's like waiting for a text from a deadbeat ex.
Finally, instead of a verbal message, in comes a photograph. A gruesome, graphical photograph. Declan's seen a lot of bad stuff in his line of work, but this ...
You just hate to see former Director Anderson in this sort of state. Once among the most brilliant Temple strategists Declan has ever had the honour of working with, here he is slumped at a wet booth, nursing a full bottle of Tequila. Oh no. Theres video, too. He's ... singing?
> How confident are you that you can talk ex-Directer Anderson into getting his shit together right now, without getting shot? Hand tipped us off to his location. He's making us look bad.
Oh man, thinks Declan. Director Anderson has fallen into the Virtuous pitfall - coping with the bottle because lasting change can't be enacted. That's what this Strike Force agent assumes, anyways. He's not been with the Temple as long as some, but did have the honor of participating in several operations, big Oh and small Oh, headed or at least organized by Anderson. Seeing him like this is both embarassing and a waste of an asset. And, on a personal level, if he's going to get drunk, at least get drunk on Whiskey. 'Noted. Will try sweetly then sharply,' he answers Command. They are breaking some comms SOP, so he does, too, before departing Narnia to head for his car, crack his knuckles, and prepare to try to pick up Director Anderson.
Its 7am and apparently Anderson has been at the Nymph's Rest all night. It's been a while that he's been MIA from all digital contact ... but he's still alive, at least? Even if he is trying to drink himself to death at this filthy den of iniquity, being served by an unscrupulous bartender who hasn't cut him off. It might not be the Nymph's fault, though -- evidently a few Handjobs have been stopping by to photograph and video him, mocking him for how far down he's fallen.
When Declan arrives on the scene, the once sharp Director Anderson doesn't even seem to notice him, but he's awake, rubbing his face into the table and talking to himself.
Declan stops at the entrance, choosing to come in through the back and avoid the vampiric bouncer charging for wristbands. He does make sure he's presentable first in the backrooms, smoothing down his coat, but looking passable next to a dead-drunk Director shouldn't be a hard feat, right? He briefly stops by to check out the dancer on stage at this hour, and .. mmm, not his type. It does make his mission easier to have fewer distractions. He walks up behind Anderson and gently taps him on the shoulder, trying not to overly startle the guy. "Hey. Anderson. Psst." He slides into a seat next to him, ordering a cheap piss-beer.
"Honey I told you I don't got another in me ..." Andreson starts to murmur to Declan, only to lift his head and slowly realise that the body looming over him is considerably less willowy or boobylicious than what he'd ordinarily like. It seems to take him a few to recognise the Sergeant at all, even after he starts squinting up at his face. "YOU." He scowls, making as if to start stagger up to his feet and fight, but he's too drunk to even fully get up. "I told you fucking suns of bitches I ain't going back. Leave me alone! Go and fucking blow up my implant already, see if I fucking care."
Declan had made the assessment earlier that Anderson is in no shape to fight, anyways. Or perhaps even shoot straight. The man has helmed and commanded a desk for most of the past decade, which granted was a much better use of him than as a field asset. But, it can't have been good for his reflexes and aim. What's for sure is his chesticles aren't the kind Anderson needs, though those two are relaxed as their owner sips from a beer. "Don't think you were equipped with one of those, sir," he says mildly, "Unless you secretly are a bad boy. Do you know this place offers outcalls?"
"Yeah. They got a vampire stripper here," Andreson tells Declan with a lascivious grin, and rather than try and get up again, he reaches up to try and yank him down into the booth beside him. "You ever been sucked dry by a horny vampire bitch, Sarge? Sweetest thing there is. Temple makes you say no to that so they can make you waste your life running around them doing nothing. NOTHING. You ever feel like maybe we're the bad guys after fucking all?"
Now in Anderson's defence, as far as 'Temple are the bad guys' logic goes, his is somewhat original.
Declan avoids Anderson's hand, nudging the clumsy reach for him aside unless that vampire gawk-gawk hawk-tuah got him moving real fast all of a sudden. However, he did intend to join the booth earlier, but does change choice of seating to sit across from the lapsed Templar. "Am sure she sucked more than that, sir," he replies, making a mental note to find out if there actually is a vampire stripper-escort here. "Nothing in the Temple charter says you can't hire leech strippers. She might even only eat animals."
"Sarge," the disgraced Director says to Declan, hazily reaching for the bottle to try and pour himself another shot. Some of it spills onto the table. "You're young. Full of life. They haven't crushed all your hope in this world here. You gotta get out while you still can. They say we got thirteen years left, and I'm telling you, it's hopeless. The Temple has no plan. NO PLAN. You seen their dossier at High Command? I have, man. No plan. It's all ... smokes and mirrors. Now if I were you ..." He takes a swig of his tequila, "I'd chip myself one or two of those furry or sucky demolishers, whatever you like best, and take her with me to some beach in Bali, and forget all about the Temple for the rest of your short, numbered days."
Young? This is the first time Declan has been called a youngun in a while. He almost missed it, in a town with the public full of White Oak college brats and perfectly-complected, ageless supernaturals, looking a conventional mid-thirties veteran. He stretches to take the bottle from Anderson and get a gulp of it for himself. "I like angels and fae myself," he claims. Basic! As he has another swig of the bottle, then continues holding onto it to prevent the Director from having any more, he continues, "Twelve years isn't enough time to fix the world. But. It might be enough time to keep it together. Still a long time in mortal terms to find some kind of .. artifact to stop it." Pause. He does sound like he buys into it. "Have you heard that we recently absorbed a recruit? From a sister organization."
Disgraced-Director Anderson is obviously having an emotional day. (Or night, but it's dragged on so long that it's now officially day again.) Something in him seems to break, and he starts to cry, cradling his forehead in his hand. Overly long, oily salt-and-pepper hairs stick out like fronds between his splayed sausage fingers. But as for what he's so upset about? Well, when he finally starts pouring his heart out ... "I like 'em furry. Girls these days, sarge ... they wax everything. At least those werewolves, they got hair."
He sniffles, listening to all this talk of artifacts without absorbing much, before prompting in confusion, "Sister?" He does appear to be listening, even if most of his braincells are gone.
Declan seems sympathetic to Anderson's plight, yes, even this one. He lowers his gaze with some unspoken, but visible dismay that the trend of the day is complete hairlessness. "Nice bit of bush is nice," he concurs, but he doesn't let this sidetrack him too much, nor does he remark that if it's the sucky kind they can't regrow it that easily. He releases the bottle, keeps it on his side, and switches back to his beer to wet his tongue before he speaks up again. "Little info on the recruit proper; I wonder if she's a plant or spat out from a dream. Willing to fight, but hardly aware. For us in the know, we take too many things granted, accept the shit hand we've been given in a losing battle. Still, not one to waste a potential asset. And I could use more friends." He means that last part. "First introduced her to the supernatural problem. She witnessed Baptiste and I have an ideological disagreement over monsterdom."
After all the talk of chipping monster girls for sexual purposes, here in this den of iniquity with scantily-clad silicone dolls in stilettos, the Disgraced Director manages to find some thin sliver of shame in him when Declan mentions a new recruit -- a female recruit -- and groans. "No, no, no," he starts to whinge, shaking his head before blearily looking back up at Declan. "You brought a new girl? Here? Sarge, they're gonna eat her alive. This who you replaced me with? C'mon, look at me. Declan." (Government name! He hardly ever calls him that.) "You see this face? You know what this place does to people like us. Chews us up, spits us out, now you're telling me HC is sending in new fresh meat to toast? Doesn't this shit ever weigh on you? Don't you think we should leave these promising assets to their Communications degrees or wherever it is we find 'em?"
"Someone had to," replies Declan in a mild fashion to the notion of replacement. "Who's going to keep going if the old guard casts aside their colors." He has another nip of his beer, then leans to look Anderson in the eye, even if seeing him so unpresentable and drunk is rather difficult even for the hardened Sergeant. "So far as I see, she's got too much of a spine to give up this early. Gave her a quick rundown on the origin and history of supernaturals and let the databases do the rest. Not long ago, then, I brought her to the Goblin Market."
"Yeah, well, Temple has a habit of finding folk with spine and then breaking them, don't it," the ex-Director bitterly sneers. He himself stays slouched, but behind his drunken, lecherous exterior, this news of a new recruit seems to be stabilising his mood at least a little. He keeps listening, even if he does so with another swig of tequila. Perhaps training her would've been his duty, once upon a time. "You show her the baby hearts?"
"Yeah, I did. Someone left some zombie brains laying around since they wouldn't take 'em - that helped the impression somewhat," Declan explains to Anderson, allowing a small pause. "It .. broke her a little bit, as tends to happen. But it serves a good purpose. Helps us, before any taste of combat, tell between those who'll crumble to the horrors or who might find it in themselves to stand strong. His beer bottle is now empty, so he tries to get a swig of tequila for himself. "The way I see it, sir, is by that point.. there comes a stage where closing your eyes and covering your ears won't cut it any more. And turning away almost feels like a sin.""
"Yeah, I did. Someone left some zombie brains laying around since they wouldn't take 'em - that helped the impression somewhat," Declan explains to Anderson, allowing a small pause. "It .. broke her a little bit, as tends to happen. But it serves a good purpose. Helps us, before any taste of combat, tell between those who'll crumble to the horrors or who might find it in themselves to stand strong." His beer bottle is now empty, so he tries to get a swig of tequila for himself. "The way I see it, sir, is by that point.. there comes a stage where closing your eyes and covering your ears won't cut it any more. And turning away almost feels like a sin." (fix)
Declan's words slowly start to sink in beneath the ex-Director's skin. It's hard to believe to look at him now, but he was a good man, once. A principled man. Maybe a man can only witness so many used-up blood-dolls before that's all he can see in the world. His grip tightens round the bottle, but he yet doesn't take another drink. "You don't want me, Hayes," he quietly demurs. "I don't have that kind of fight in me anymore. Just can't do it. My brain ..." He slowly tilts his head, probing a sausage finger in a circle around his temple. "... It's all ... wires and gore in there, you know what I mean? Wires and gore. I wake up and I'm violent. Just wanna kill someone. Kill myself. I see our people die and get brainwashed and it means nothing anymore. You take me back, I know, I know I'm gonna get some people killed somehow. Probably this new friend of yours, too."
Declan nods once, slowly, at the ex-Director, examining his empty shotglass with a vaguely curious air. He decides he's had enough and puts it aside. "Whether or not we do," and in the Sergeant's case it's leaning towards 'I do', "The missions will happen. And losses will occur. Maybe this new lass won't last long, but I have a feeling even if she's truly only a temp assignment to our chapter, she'll pick up the fight elsewhere." A beat. "Besides that, you were brilliant in your past tenure. And, I think you still have it in you. Might even have a chance to turn back that clock. But even if you don't, sir, and it's a rare time to take up the retirement package, I think you've had enough of the bottle for one evening." He tips his head towards the door. "Home?"
No one even seems to be eyeing the ex-Director for any pending payment. Perhaps they already cleaned him out for far more than they should. "Well," says Anderson, sounding like he's about to argue, "... maybe I have." With a grouse, he tries to push himself up. "Alright. But ... I'm handing in my resignation in the morning. And then I'm getting my hardware carved out of my brain, you hear me? I don't want it anymore. You put it in your new girl, if you're so sure." But for all his complaints, he does look ready to follow Declan home, and is unlikely to follow through on his suicidal threats after some rest.
Declan starts to rise from his booth with a nod, momentarily making eye contact with a passing stripper as well as her tits; he looks her up and down after she eyes the ex-Director and realizes this must be the vampire. He can't help but chuckle despite himself, giving the other man a hand. "If you want," he'd concede, "And if you decide you just want to snort coke off vampire hookers, then at least apply for a retirement transfer." LA might have more of those. "Let me drop you off. I don't think you can drive."
Declan locates Anderson in a pitiful state at the Nymph's Rest, a place far removed from their noble causes, where the ex-Director drowns in alcohol and defeat. Attempting to appeal to Anderson's better nature proves challenging as Anderson rejects the notion of returning, instead offering a cynical view on their efforts and suggesting Declan pursue a life free from the burden of their doomed mission. Throughout their conversation, Anderson oscillates between despondency and brief lucidity, hinting at his internal turmoil over the life he's led and the realization of his own downfall. In a moment of vulnerability, Anderson admits to feeling useless and dangerous if he were to return. Declan, notwithstanding, offers understanding and a ride home, suggesting Anderson could still choose a different path, whether in continuing the fight or potentially finding solace in retirement. This encounter weaves a complex narrative of duty, disillusionment, and the faint glimmer of redemption as Declan endeavors to navigate the remnants of their once cohesive bond.
(Declan's odd encounter(SRIrene):SRIrene)
[Fri Oct 11 2024]
In Cair Paravel
The interior of the building is draped lavishly in clothing of all sorts
and rotary racks pepper the bulk of the available space like multicolored
trees. The walls here are obscured with wood paneling from which hangers
can be attached to display individual items and the floor is likewise
hardwood.
The southwestern section shifts from casual to formal as it approaches the
furthest point. Mirrors are quite common along the walls and give an
impression of vast space. The changing rooms are also located here and
labeled obscurely. One to the northwest reads "Sons of Adam" while the
other more directly to the west displays "Daughters of Eve".
It is dawn, about 49F(9C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with convincing a retired and burnt out faction member to come back to the fight.
)
Appearing to be waiting on contact from someone electronically, Declan is spending some time at Narnia, examining an old leather clutch and turning it over. He decides he's too closed-minded and masculine to use one, trying to check for a more neutral sling bag or the like.
Dawn rises across Haven's horizon, and in perfect synchronicity, a sun emoji flashes across the screen of Declan's phone. It appears to be a text message from a contact of his in Temple's High Command:
> Sergeant Hayes. Got an unorthodox mission for you in Haven right now. Won't cost you an arm and a leg, but you may need to be armed.
Declan had just picked up a silver clutch as the message comes in, failing to find what he wants but needing some storage space. He tosses it as soon as he notices the source of the message, lips pursing. A mission? 0730? It must be important. Sure, he's dealt with worse timing both here and in the Army, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying. 'How armed?' he'd answer it.
> That depends.
Good sign or a bad sign? For most missions, his contact would be acting a lot more professional right now. He would've received an encrypted, official memo, or at the very least a direct phonecall. But this mission he's just been called to seems to involve orders that are a little haphazard, spur of the moment.
[:sun: emoji is typing ...] Stops typing. Starts typing again. It's like waiting for a text from a deadbeat ex.
Finally, instead of a verbal message, in comes a photograph. A gruesome, graphical photograph. Declan's seen a lot of bad stuff in his line of work, but this ...
You just hate to see former Director Anderson in this sort of state. Once among the most brilliant Temple strategists Declan has ever had the honour of working with, here he is slumped at a wet booth, nursing a full bottle of Tequila. Oh no. Theres video, too. He's ... singing?
> How confident are you that you can talk ex-Directer Anderson into getting his shit together right now, without getting shot? Hand tipped us off to his location. He's making us look bad.
Oh man, thinks Declan. Director Anderson has fallen into the Virtuous pitfall - coping with the bottle because lasting change can't be enacted. That's what this Strike Force agent assumes, anyways. He's not been with the Temple as long as some, but did have the honor of participating in several operations, big Oh and small Oh, headed or at least organized by Anderson. Seeing him like this is both embarassing and a waste of an asset. And, on a personal level, if he's going to get drunk, at least get drunk on Whiskey. 'Noted. Will try sweetly then sharply,' he answers Command. They are breaking some comms SOP, so he does, too, before departing Narnia to head for his car, crack his knuckles, and prepare to try to pick up Director Anderson.
Its 7am and apparently Anderson has been at the Nymph's Rest all night. It's been a while that he's been MIA from all digital contact ... but he's still alive, at least? Even if he is trying to drink himself to death at this filthy den of iniquity, being served by an unscrupulous bartender who hasn't cut him off. It might not be the Nymph's fault, though -- evidently a few Handjobs have been stopping by to photograph and video him, mocking him for how far down he's fallen.
When Declan arrives on the scene, the once sharp Director Anderson doesn't even seem to notice him, but he's awake, rubbing his face into the table and talking to himself.
Declan stops at the entrance, choosing to come in through the back and avoid the vampiric bouncer charging for wristbands. He does make sure he's presentable first in the backrooms, smoothing down his coat, but looking passable next to a dead-drunk Director shouldn't be a hard feat, right? He briefly stops by to check out the dancer on stage at this hour, and .. mmm, not his type. It does make his mission easier to have fewer distractions. He walks up behind Anderson and gently taps him on the shoulder, trying not to overly startle the guy. "Hey. Anderson. Psst." He slides into a seat next to him, ordering a cheap piss-beer.
"Honey I told you I don't got another in me ..." Andreson starts to murmur to Declan, only to lift his head and slowly realise that the body looming over him is considerably less willowy or boobylicious than what he'd ordinarily like. It seems to take him a few to recognise the Sergeant at all, even after he starts squinting up at his face. "YOU." He scowls, making as if to start stagger up to his feet and fight, but he's too drunk to even fully get up. "I told you fucking suns of bitches I ain't going back. Leave me alone! Go and fucking blow up my implant already, see if I fucking care."
Declan had made the assessment earlier that Anderson is in no shape to fight, anyways. Or perhaps even shoot straight. The man has helmed and commanded a desk for most of the past decade, which granted was a much better use of him than as a field asset. But, it can't have been good for his reflexes and aim. What's for sure is his chesticles aren't the kind Anderson needs, though those two are relaxed as their owner sips from a beer. "Don't think you were equipped with one of those, sir," he says mildly, "Unless you secretly are a bad boy. Do you know this place offers outcalls?"
"Yeah. They got a vampire stripper here," Andreson tells Declan with a lascivious grin, and rather than try and get up again, he reaches up to try and yank him down into the booth beside him. "You ever been sucked dry by a horny vampire bitch, Sarge? Sweetest thing there is. Temple makes you say no to that so they can make you waste your life running around them doing nothing. NOTHING. You ever feel like maybe we're the bad guys after fucking all?"
Now in Anderson's defence, as far as 'Temple are the bad guys' logic goes, his is somewhat original.
Declan avoids Anderson's hand, nudging the clumsy reach for him aside unless that vampire gawk-gawk hawk-tuah got him moving real fast all of a sudden. However, he did intend to join the booth earlier, but does change choice of seating to sit across from the lapsed Templar. "Am sure she sucked more than that, sir," he replies, making a mental note to find out if there actually is a vampire stripper-escort here. "Nothing in the Temple charter says you can't hire leech strippers. She might even only eat animals."
"Sarge," the disgraced Director says to Declan, hazily reaching for the bottle to try and pour himself another shot. Some of it spills onto the table. "You're young. Full of life. They haven't crushed all your hope in this world here. You gotta get out while you still can. They say we got thirteen years left, and I'm telling you, it's hopeless. The Temple has no plan. NO PLAN. You seen their dossier at High Command? I have, man. No plan. It's all ... smokes and mirrors. Now if I were you ..." He takes a swig of his tequila, "I'd chip myself one or two of those furry or sucky demolishers, whatever you like best, and take her with me to some beach in Bali, and forget all about the Temple for the rest of your short, numbered days."
Young? This is the first time Declan has been called a youngun in a while. He almost missed it, in a town with the public full of White Oak college brats and perfectly-complected, ageless supernaturals, looking a conventional mid-thirties veteran. He stretches to take the bottle from Anderson and get a gulp of it for himself. "I like angels and fae myself," he claims. Basic! As he has another swig of the bottle, then continues holding onto it to prevent the Director from having any more, he continues, "Twelve years isn't enough time to fix the world. But. It might be enough time to keep it together. Still a long time in mortal terms to find some kind of .. artifact to stop it." Pause. He does sound like he buys into it. "Have you heard that we recently absorbed a recruit? From a sister organization."
Disgraced-Director Anderson is obviously having an emotional day. (Or night, but it's dragged on so long that it's now officially day again.) Something in him seems to break, and he starts to cry, cradling his forehead in his hand. Overly long, oily salt-and-pepper hairs stick out like fronds between his splayed sausage fingers. But as for what he's so upset about? Well, when he finally starts pouring his heart out ... "I like 'em furry. Girls these days, sarge ... they wax everything. At least those werewolves, they got hair."
He sniffles, listening to all this talk of artifacts without absorbing much, before prompting in confusion, "Sister?" He does appear to be listening, even if most of his braincells are gone.
Declan seems sympathetic to Anderson's plight, yes, even this one. He lowers his gaze with some unspoken, but visible dismay that the trend of the day is complete hairlessness. "Nice bit of bush is nice," he concurs, but he doesn't let this sidetrack him too much, nor does he remark that if it's the sucky kind they can't regrow it that easily. He releases the bottle, keeps it on his side, and switches back to his beer to wet his tongue before he speaks up again. "Little info on the recruit proper; I wonder if she's a plant or spat out from a dream. Willing to fight, but hardly aware. For us in the know, we take too many things granted, accept the shit hand we've been given in a losing battle. Still, not one to waste a potential asset. And I could use more friends." He means that last part. "First introduced her to the supernatural problem. She witnessed Baptiste and I have an ideological disagreement over monsterdom."
After all the talk of chipping monster girls for sexual purposes, here in this den of iniquity with scantily-clad silicone dolls in stilettos, the Disgraced Director manages to find some thin sliver of shame in him when Declan mentions a new recruit -- a female recruit -- and groans. "No, no, no," he starts to whinge, shaking his head before blearily looking back up at Declan. "You brought a new girl? Here? Sarge, they're gonna eat her alive. This who you replaced me with? C'mon, look at me. Declan." (Government name! He hardly ever calls him that.) "You see this face? You know what this place does to people like us. Chews us up, spits us out, now you're telling me HC is sending in new fresh meat to toast? Doesn't this shit ever weigh on you? Don't you think we should leave these promising assets to their Communications degrees or wherever it is we find 'em?"
"Someone had to," replies Declan in a mild fashion to the notion of replacement. "Who's going to keep going if the old guard casts aside their colors." He has another nip of his beer, then leans to look Anderson in the eye, even if seeing him so unpresentable and drunk is rather difficult even for the hardened Sergeant. "So far as I see, she's got too much of a spine to give up this early. Gave her a quick rundown on the origin and history of supernaturals and let the databases do the rest. Not long ago, then, I brought her to the Goblin Market."
"Yeah, well, Temple has a habit of finding folk with spine and then breaking them, don't it," the ex-Director bitterly sneers. He himself stays slouched, but behind his drunken, lecherous exterior, this news of a new recruit seems to be stabilising his mood at least a little. He keeps listening, even if he does so with another swig of tequila. Perhaps training her would've been his duty, once upon a time. "You show her the baby hearts?"
"Yeah, I did. Someone left some zombie brains laying around since they wouldn't take 'em - that helped the impression somewhat," Declan explains to Anderson, allowing a small pause. "It .. broke her a little bit, as tends to happen. But it serves a good purpose. Helps us, before any taste of combat, tell between those who'll crumble to the horrors or who might find it in themselves to stand strong. His beer bottle is now empty, so he tries to get a swig of tequila for himself. "The way I see it, sir, is by that point.. there comes a stage where closing your eyes and covering your ears won't cut it any more. And turning away almost feels like a sin.""
"Yeah, I did. Someone left some zombie brains laying around since they wouldn't take 'em - that helped the impression somewhat," Declan explains to Anderson, allowing a small pause. "It .. broke her a little bit, as tends to happen. But it serves a good purpose. Helps us, before any taste of combat, tell between those who'll crumble to the horrors or who might find it in themselves to stand strong." His beer bottle is now empty, so he tries to get a swig of tequila for himself. "The way I see it, sir, is by that point.. there comes a stage where closing your eyes and covering your ears won't cut it any more. And turning away almost feels like a sin." (fix)
Declan's words slowly start to sink in beneath the ex-Director's skin. It's hard to believe to look at him now, but he was a good man, once. A principled man. Maybe a man can only witness so many used-up blood-dolls before that's all he can see in the world. His grip tightens round the bottle, but he yet doesn't take another drink. "You don't want me, Hayes," he quietly demurs. "I don't have that kind of fight in me anymore. Just can't do it. My brain ..." He slowly tilts his head, probing a sausage finger in a circle around his temple. "... It's all ... wires and gore in there, you know what I mean? Wires and gore. I wake up and I'm violent. Just wanna kill someone. Kill myself. I see our people die and get brainwashed and it means nothing anymore. You take me back, I know, I know I'm gonna get some people killed somehow. Probably this new friend of yours, too."
Declan nods once, slowly, at the ex-Director, examining his empty shotglass with a vaguely curious air. He decides he's had enough and puts it aside. "Whether or not we do," and in the Sergeant's case it's leaning towards 'I do', "The missions will happen. And losses will occur. Maybe this new lass won't last long, but I have a feeling even if she's truly only a temp assignment to our chapter, she'll pick up the fight elsewhere." A beat. "Besides that, you were brilliant in your past tenure. And, I think you still have it in you. Might even have a chance to turn back that clock. But even if you don't, sir, and it's a rare time to take up the retirement package, I think you've had enough of the bottle for one evening." He tips his head towards the door. "Home?"
No one even seems to be eyeing the ex-Director for any pending payment. Perhaps they already cleaned him out for far more than they should. "Well," says Anderson, sounding like he's about to argue, "... maybe I have." With a grouse, he tries to push himself up. "Alright. But ... I'm handing in my resignation in the morning. And then I'm getting my hardware carved out of my brain, you hear me? I don't want it anymore. You put it in your new girl, if you're so sure." But for all his complaints, he does look ready to follow Declan home, and is unlikely to follow through on his suicidal threats after some rest.
Declan starts to rise from his booth with a nod, momentarily making eye contact with a passing stripper as well as her tits; he looks her up and down after she eyes the ex-Director and realizes this must be the vampire. He can't help but chuckle despite himself, giving the other man a hand. "If you want," he'd concede, "And if you decide you just want to snort coke off vampire hookers, then at least apply for a retirement transfer." LA might have more of those. "Let me drop you off. I don't think you can drive."