Encounterlogs
Isaiahs Odd Encounter Sr Legion 240731
Isaiah's night begins at The Succubus Club, where his mischievous departure involves using his supernatural abilities to heat a patron's beer to steam. His excitement carries him across the dance floor and out into the city, eventually leading him to an odd sight at the dockyard. He witnesses a group of goons, posing as dockworkers, sorting through dolls in Container 19. With the intent to interfere, Isaiah spies, strategizes, and finally, fueled by both bravado and boredom, decides on a direct confrontation. His approach is improvisational, blending stealth with moments of thoughtless impulse, including tossing a rock to create a diversion and considering—and then dismissing—various dramatic methods of attack. His night takes a bizarre turn as he attempts to steal an SUV filled with cocaine smuggled within dolls, but his plans hit a snag when the vehicle's push-start system reveals the absence of the key, leaving him stranded and the SUV eventually stopping due to a "Key Not Detected" warning.
Trapped in a standoff with the Golden Shadow gang at the dockyard, Isaiah manages to summon a fiery imp to aid in his escape. With a combination of elemental combustion, a desperate attempt at vehicular theft, and a fiery familiar causing chaos, Isaiah fights and flees the scene, narrowly escaping with part of the precious cargo. Despite the volatile success of his summoning and a getaway that sees him hiding stolen cocaine dolls in a defunct laundromat, he is left haunted by the shadow of his powerful father, feeling the acute disparity between their abilities. As Isaiah's self-doubt gnaws at him, he reaffirms his determination to live up to the supernatural legacy despite the volatile course of the night.
Meanwhile, early in Haventown, Tom Lockhart finds himself in a less fantastical but equally perplexing dilemma as he encounters a state police officer at his door under suspicious circumstances. The officer accuses him of parole violation—a case of mistaken identity or something more sinister? Tom, a seemingly law-abiding citizen with no known ties to criminal activity, faces the unexpected confrontation with calm and confusion. With the officer demanding compliance over a misunderstanding or deliberate frame-up, Tom's peaceful morning of coffee and painting shifts towards an unforeseen legal entanglement, hinting at deeper mysteries or corruptions yet to unfold.
(Isaiah's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Tue Jul 30 2024]
In the Main Dance Floor of The Succubus Club
The wide open space of dance floor takes up most of this open portion of
the club, warehouse ceilings high and fixed with a multitude of appropriate
strobing and colorful lights. Lounge furniture is spaced along the outer
walls to watch the dance floor and provide a place for seating and drinks as
the thrum of high energy dance music and trap remixes of popular songs
pulses from the speakers. Waitresses in skimpy attire move between the
seating and throngs of people to take and deliver drink orders on site, and
the rounded double stairs converge together on a sky balcony to look over
the floor below.
A hallway leads to vending and bathrooms, as well as a steady stream of
people who seem to be getting club drugs from one source or another in that
direction. The front bar is partially partitioned behind the dance floor
near the entrance, a more suitable place for conversational drinks as the
music allows for limited version in the main club.
It is night, about 90F(32C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
If Isaiah got any more excited, he'd be shivering like a Chihuahua in a cat fight. He immediately draws himself up off of the wall and stuffs his phone into a pocket on his jacket, which is then both buttoned-up and zipped closed to conceal the blinding whiteness of his shirt- and his skin. With tongue pressed into cheek amusedly, he gives the club one final glancing over before raking a hand back through his curly red hair- it just bounces right back into place- and heading for the door. In passing the bar, the young man's knuckles rap playfully against a bargoer's cup of beer. "Have a good night, pal, says the blue-eyed man with a smirk. The patron looks confused, and as Isaiah steps out of the door, the patron is spitting a boiling-hot beer out of his mouth and shouting curses at the bartender as steam erupts from his mouth.
Oh, yeah. Now Isaiah is feeling his groove, and he skips through the scant amount of traffic on Devilwood Drive straight across to the dockyard, and from there? He finds a handhold on a storage freight and starts climbing up."
If Isaiah got any more excited, he'd be shivering like a Chihuahua in a cat fight. He immediately draws himself up off of the wall and stuffs his phone into a pocket on his jacket, which is then both buttoned-up and zipped closed to conceal the blinding whiteness of his shirt- and his skin. With tongue pressed into cheek amusedly, he gives the club one final glancing over before raking a hand back through his curly red hair- it just bounces right back into place- and heading for the door. In passing the bar, the young man's knuckles rap playfully against a bargoer's cup of beer. "Have a good night, pal," says the blue-eyed man with a smirk. The patron looks confused, and as Isaiah steps out of the door, the patron is spitting a boiling-hot beer out of his mouth and shouting curses at the bartender as steam erupts from his mouth.
Oh, yeah. Now Isaiah is feeling his groove, and he skips through the scant amount of traffic on Devilwood Drive straight across to the dockyard, and from there? He finds a handhold on a storage freight and starts climbing up.
It's easier to see the rows upon rows on stacks from a high perch, certainly. On a summer night, the dockyard is a mass of shadows, with a few pools of lights in front of containers that have been converted to some other purpose. Container 19 is an actual container, in the actual working part of the docks, and people shouldn't really be milling around it at night -- and yet they are. From his perch, Isaiah can see a selection of men standing in front of it, the doors open, along with an SUV backed up to the entrance. The men are -dressed- like dockworkers, but they don't seem the type, do they? They're all central-casting goons who seems to overspill out of their stevedore uniforms.
Finding a vantage point where he can both observe the 'dock workers' and keep out of sight, Isaiah lays low for a time, taking note of what they're doing. Are they unloading the dolls from the SUV? Is it a shift change? Are they pooling the dolls into the SUV itself to move elsewhere? Are they armed? He inches a touch closer, taking in information with every motion that is made by these soon to be poor, unfortunate souls. He tries to get a proper count of how many people he's up against- he wonders if he'll have to call in a goon or two, or if he can run this one-man mission on his own. All the while, he's popping AirPods into his ears and considering what tonight's battle music is going to be.
They seem to be sorting dolls -- there's a rapid pile growing of discards outside the container, on closer inspection, as some dolls go into the back of the SUV. They aren't -visibly- armed, from where Isaiah can see, but they stand with the attitude of someone who carries of weapon; right arms are always free, there's a carefulness when bending over, and a general stiffness to the body that suggests each and every one of these lumberjack-sized dock workers is strapped. From Isaiah's position, he is going unnoticed -- they are focused on the prize.
"Mmmh.." says Isaiah, quitely and under his breath as he observes the process for a while. He counts the number of men that will be in the SUV when it takes off, catching himself hoping that it's two or less. Plan in mind, he slips towards a few containers closer to the entrance, and he waits. His muscles tense as he prepares for a daring leap; his plan? My name is J.R., and you're watching Jackass. The scenario floods his mind: Jump on the roof of the SUV, take out the goons, bada-bing, bada-boom, use their own wheels to ride to the rendezvous point. The problem? As he spelled out the perfect heist in his mind, it all started to feel so boring. His ADHD-adled mind starts to deviate from the goal: what if he just Superman punched straight through the roof of the vehicle? Oh, that would be badass as fuck. Oh, oh, or what if he just blew up the fucking car? Yesssss, perfect... Perfect enough in his imagination that he almost forgets he's supposed to be keeping an eye on these losers. Almost. He glances back towards them, awaiting their next move.
Less than two -- that'd be great. How about four? That's a power of two, at least. On the other hand, are they expecting Superman? Probably not. After all, Isaiah is in disguise: he's wearing his underwear inside his pants rather than the other way out. At the least, though, it doesn't seem as if they are moving that quickly. It seems to take some time to sort through dolls, as the pile of black-eyed babies grows outside the door.
That's more than Isaiah was hoping for, to be sure. Four? He scowls, but nonetheless, he was set on getting this extra portion of rent-slop from this gig, and with them taking far too long for him to tolerate, that innate impulsiveness of his takes over before he can think to meditate it away. Down he drops from the top of the shipping container, around he goes back to Number 19, and looking to pick off the pack one or two at a time, finds a large stone.
He bounces it in his hand a few times to check the weight- not too heavy. Perfectly palm-sized. Just how he likes his boobs. Catching himself from drifting away into that thought, he ducks behind the container and tosses the rock into the shadows, allowing it to faintly *ding* off of the metal side of another receptacle. Just enough to make a little noise without drawing /too much/ alarm. If successful, he repeats the process until it stops working. If not? Well, he'd have to wing it from there.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Goon one looks up, nods to goon two, and then they're moseying, around the edge of the container. They're out of view, if not earshot, of the SUV where goons three and four are still sorting babies. Perhaps unsettlingly, it seems as if they're twisting the heads off them before they go in the pile.
Isaiah sneaks to the very edge of the container as two of the goons stalk off- he glances towards the driver's side door, back to the goons sorting dolls, and then makes a break for it. The blade of the pocket knife he pulls from his jacket suddenly lights up red hot, and in passing he jabs goon number three right in the kidney with it. Maybe he did it just for kicks, or perhaps he did it strategically. Whatever reason, the sweet smell of suffering fills him with vigour as he hops into the driver's side of the SUV, reaches for the ignition- praying it has the key- and twists. Does the car start? Because if not, holy fuck this kid had better learn Kung-Fu quick. Regardless, his adrenaline is pumping, and his baby blues have been taking over by icy, glacial hues as he enacts his plan.
It's 2024, kid. Push-button. When Isaiah jams the button, though? It roars to life. That's something -- it's a saving grace, is what it is. Sure, the back doors of the SUV are open, and it's only half-full of headless baby dolls filled with faerie cocaine, but half an SUV of priceless occult narcotics is a lot better than nothing. The engine has a thrum to it like an animal, rumbling under Isaiah's seat, as the goons turn. Shouts go up. It's go time.
Isaiah is, at least, wary of the trunk being wide ass open when he puts this puppy in 'drive' on the PRNDL. Being raised on old school cars is rough, but when he realizes he's snagged himself one of them fancy-schmancy push-to-start vehicles? Well, he feels a momentary buzz of excitement go through him. He doesn't take off with the pedal to the metal; no, he takes off like a mom in a soccer van at first. He ducks his head down to avoid any stray bullets, and moves just fast enough to keep someone from hopping in the back, gradually building speed so his payload doesn't get scattered all over the road. He paid attention to a couple of science classes. Momentum. Centrifugal force. Gravity. Something something something kinetic energy and friction. Yeah, that's right.
His battle music? Many Men by 50 Cent, and once the song is about halfway through he pulls off the road, slams the trunk closed on hopefully minimal losses with his half-load of cocaine babies, then gets back in the driver's seat and finally, finally, he floors it towards Boston, texting Fariq Wilson that he was on his way. He probably feels pretty darn good right about now.
This is an excellent, awesome plan. Accelerating, accelerating -- no bullets, and a clean damn getaway. Isaiah steers the SUV out onto the road, and then it starts to beep. "Key Not Detected." Another beep. "Key Not Detected." Uh-oh. There's a lot of flashing red on the dash. Without question, the demonborn has gotten away, but getting away with the car? With the stash? That may be harder, as it begins to coast to a stop on Devilwood Drive.
As Isaiah's SUV sputters to a halt, the waning crescent moon casts a dim, silvery light over the darkened street near the dockyard, its slender curve hanging low in the night sky. The cobblestones glisten faintly, slick with a recent rain, reflecting the moonlight in broken shards. Shadows stretch long and deep, obscuring the alleyways and the silent, looming shapes of warehouses and abandoned crates.
A salty breeze drifts in from the sea, carrying the faint, rhythmic sound of water lapping against the docked ships. The air is cool and damp, thick with the scents of brine and aged wood. The streetlights, few and far between, flicker occasionally, casting an uneven glow that barely pierces the darkness.
Silence hangs heavily in the air, broken only by the distant creak of a boat and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures scurrying in the shadows -- and the Golden Shadow, perhaps, advancing.
"Oh you cheap piece of fucking bastard shit," Isaiah scolds the SUV as it coasts to a stop, his eyes wide with confusion as the vehicle starts to slow down. He was so close. So wonderfully close. But technology foils him, and he finds himself punching and kicking the steering wheel for a good five seconds before he leaps out and onto the road. His teeth are gritting as he starts to wrack his brain for another plan. What was close? A building. Somewhere he could at least push the SUV behind. A copse of trees. He considers pushing this piece of cutting edge vehicular technology the rest of the way to Badwater Park. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Fuck. No. Calm down. What would Papa do?" He curses himself for refer to his father that way, and then starts to dig around in the car. Obviously the keys aren't there, but right now all he can think about is nicotine.
He was a late bloomer as a Super- his parents never put him in special schools that tortured you into activation at twelve years old. No. He had lived a rich boy's life for 16 whole entire years before his latent blood boiled over. He didn't have the practice, the expertise, the years under his belt of training required to mind-fuck this car into moving. But he did have one thing, and though he hated using it, he wondered if he just might have to. Another quick glance around, hoping for another option besides degrading himself to name-dropping.
Panicked, he starts trying to unload cocaine Barbies into the shadows of a hopefully nearby building or behind a tree.
Devilwood Drive is full of abandoned buildings -- of dumpsters, of dirty alleys and trash heaps. If there's a place someone would go to hide headless baby dolls full of cocaine, this would be it. Isaiah finds an forgotten storefront, once some kind of laundromat but now long lost to time, and he's able to start stashing the cocaine-filled dolls in broken and cracked washers. This, too, is a hiding place: it's from there that Isaiah can see the Golden Shadow troops when they come back up, starting to search the SUV. Has he gotten all of the loot from the back? No: but he's gotten some. Enough to pay the rent, perhaps, to make Desmond King happy... and to get the devil's son a fresh start back in his hometown of Haven.
Isaiah glares outwards as the men finally catch up to the SUV he hadn't emptied, kicking himself for not trying to snag a set of keys before taking off. He could have been gone! He could have had it all! But even after five years of being like this, he still can't control the impatience, the impulsiveness; things his father had mastered. He shifts his blue eyes towards some form that only he can see and mutters, "Yeah, I'm a failure. I know. Less than half the man you are, yada yada yada. Go fuck yourself." He sighs and leans his back against a rusty, dusty old dryer and glares down at the screen of his phone, meeting the devil-red eyes of the Isaiah that had come before him in all of his powerful regality. "Fuck your stupid hat, fuck your gloves, and fuck your trench coat," the twenty-something mutters before hitting the power button to turn the screen back off. He sighs, and tries to relax his shoulders and wait for the coast to clear out.
Half the man, a quarter of the cocaine. Surely the elder Isaiah would have gotten it right. As those Golden Shadow bruisers search the SUV, it's hard not to imagine how he might have torn through them, how they might have been some orgy of blood and fire -- of claws and violence, of screams ripping through the night. As Isaiah, the younger Isaiah, -hides-, the shade of his father stalks the night.
The goons are starting to pull back from the SUV, now. One of them produces a small flashlight -- is that a gun-light? Probably. He begins to stalk away from the inventory of the stalled SUV, flashing it around the area. The beam is like a lancet, poking and prodding into little nooks and crannies. For now, it's not quite to the abandoned laundromat, but it is approaching.
"C'mon... Get up. Just get up. Just fight... Fight, you fucking coward!" Isaiah scolds himself as his mind battles itself. He spends so much time comparing himself to the monster his father is that he barely recognizes that being Supernatural in and of itself is power. Desmond had sent him here, to his hometown, for a reason. He /joined/ Desmond King for a reason. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to prove himself. He was /craving/ the opportunity that his father never gave him. Those words play over and over again in his head until they spill forth from his lips. "You're not ready. You don't think. You're too irresponsible. You're too impulsive. You're too impatient. You're not ready. You're just not ready."
Even as he recites this he notices the lights in the distance. There's still a chance. He can still fight. He can give it another go. A second shot. Just get up. All he has to do is get up.
"Alright... Okay. I can do this," he chants under his breath then, closing his eyes and reaching into that fiery blood in his veins. His father despised fire, but this kid? He harnesses it. And then, for the first time, a ball of flame flickers to life in his right hand. Growing, growing, and growing. Small at first, but the beginnings of some sort of flaming Imp begin to take shape. A summoning. Only a little while longer.. "Focus..." he murmurs.
Slowly the fire forms -- it flickers, it grows, piecing together in tiny ascending construction the figure of some demonling. The imp takes life: it is, like the good Quran says, a creature of smokeless fire, and in its red-hot eyes is a hunger. Is this little imp enough to fight the goons? Hard to say, as light plays across the laundromat, now. The Golden Shadow are not ordinary men. Is it enough to escape? Most certainly.
Indeed, as Isaiah works his magic he can feel for some moment the tug of destiny. The waning crescent moon above seems to shade red, and for a moment the summer's heat is something more than that. It is not seaside breeze; no, it is the wind of hell. The salt tang is not the sea but blood. And the man, the mercenary now stepping inside the laundromat?
He is prey.
"Oh. Holy shit," Isaiah barely has time to say as his little Imp companion finally forms. The two gaze at each other for what might have been a long while if they hadn't been interrupted. But now? Isaiah only has three words to say. "Get 'im, boy." In a flash that creature of pure flame is latched onto the lackey's face, clawing at his skin and leaving behind a combination of cuts and burns as the young Demonborn dives in with his knife glowing red-hot once more in his hands.
If there's anything 'Papa' taught him, it's that a good kidney shot can bring down even the biggest badasses, and it's the kidney he goes for first. The scent of cooked pork exudes from the wound as he drives the knife in deep and twists, a renewed fire in his pretty blue eyes as he launches into action.
Get'm, boy -- and sure enough, the imp does. It's like an ember, bathing the abandoned laundromat in flames, and then it is zig-zagging around the space. It's not the most /accurate/ minion in the world, and the part about breathing and shooting fire hasn't come yet, but violence? Some hellish demand for blood? The need to fuel the fire in its heart with suffering? That's there in spades.
The bright spark of the imp strikes the goon in the throat, and the smell of sizzling flesh is like sickly-sweet barbecue. The goon screams, but the scream turns into a gurgle and the gurgle into a sizzle, something sickening and awful. Do the other goons notice? Maybe. Maybe, but notice or not, this one's dead.
Huh. That was easy. "Nice work, little man," Isaiah calls to his new companion before turning his sights out onto the road. He's determined to finish what he started now, and after taking a deep breath, he's running out onto the street, sic'ing his Imp on the closest unfortunate bastard the dynamic duo come across and then turning himself on a different one. Divide and conquer, that's the new mantra of the night. He busts out whatever he can for this fight- one goon starts sweating profusely as the air around him heats up with burning intensity. Another shouts out as any armor or clothing he's wearing starts to burn away. The kid returns his attention to his AirPods once more, demanding Siri play him some battle music as he tries to push away his own self-doubt.
There is a tempo to battle: Isaiah's AirPods are in his ears, and the first goon goes to plan. Well. Mostly. They did hear the screams, it seems, and they have guns out. When the Imp goes for one, the retort of someone's gold-plated Desert Eagle -- the Golden Shadow are nothing if not gaudy -- create some awful hole in the middle of the imp. It struggles, a little, and then it goes into a puff of smoke.
For his part, Isaiah hits his man with supernatural force and strength, and he's knocked back if not killed, but: now, perhaps. Now is time for the better part of valor and a sack full of cocaine-fueled babies.
Hell giveth, and Hell taketh away. Just as quickly as the Imp had brought into this world, *poof*. It was gone. Being in his zone, it takes a moment for Isaiah to notice that he's a one-man squad once more. He's tearing apart the guy he had latched onto originally when the realization dawns upon him. He blinks a few times. "Oh, shit..." One last good punch to the thug's head is offered before the young adult tries tearing off into the trees. He almost looks like Santa Claus, if old Kris Kringle had chosen a different path in life. But he has a sack of goodies, and that's what counts, right? He doesn't stop until he hits water and realizes he needs to find another way across, but the bridge is in view if not just around a bend. Just don't stop. Keep the ball rolling. Did you get more cocaine babies? No. But do you believe in yourself more now? Also no. But, hey. He did manage to summon some kind of fire elemental. "I'll have to work on that later. A lot to process right now. I was /really/ hoping they didn't have fucking guns," he thinks aloud as he dashes, hopefully homeward bound and towards a sneaky link of a different sort.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
It's early morning in Haventown, a dangerous time, to be sure. With witching hour so close, and most good little boys and girls tucked away in bed, there's a higher than might be considered average chance for danger and daring in the quaint seaside town. The question remains then, how is Tom, the tall, heavyset fellow, spending these early hours? Why isn't he safely tucked away in bed, warm and content?
Tom is an early riser, he goes to bed early and wakes early. This morning, is no different. The night owl had been up for a couple of hours now, making himself a pot of coffee. He'd got dressed, tended to a few texts he missed whilst asleep. He skipped having a morning shower and mulled over whether or not he was going to go to the gym for a late hour session before other people started turning up there. In the end after deliberating through a whole cup of coffee, he struck a deal with himself that as long as he was positively procrastinating at home he didn't need to go to the gym. A self deceit of sorts, but one that enabled him.
So this is where Tom is now, standing in his own dining room in front of a table top easel. A freshly poured cup of coffee on the table, a paintbrush in his hand. He's been painting now for roughly half an hour, the painting itself seems quite complex emotionally with bold fiery reds and deep blacks. The main subject looks like a slumped black silhouette of a humanoid on some kind of throne, with what could be interpretted as wings.
What kind of a monster starts their morning with healthy choices? Ew.
The scent of coffee fills the air, as the fellow produces art. This somewhat soothing scene is interrupted by a knock upon the door of the man's home. A thumping sort of knock that demands to be answered. The crackle of a radio can be heard outside, whether Tom approaches or not.
Tom carefully puts down his paintbrush and after taking a sip of coffee, he goes off in the direction of his front door. His apartment was a second story home which was located above several commercial properties along Main and Lynch, so after the main door of his apartment, he has to travel down some narrow and forboding stairs that lead to the street itself. It's this door which he stops at, his home door behind him at the top of the stairs still open. He peers through the little peep hole located at the upper middle of the door, trying to see what he can see.
It is an unusual time for a visitor, isn't it? Yet, here we are, middle of the early morning and a knock at the door. Yet, stranger things have happened, especially in Haven.
It may take a few moments for Tom's gaze to quite adjust to the dimness of the light through the peephole, but eventually a figure comes into clarity. They're a uniformed officer, or at the least, someone wearing the uniform of an officer. An interesting distinction, perhaps. The fellow is clean shaven, sunken eyed, and clearly a little agitated as he knocks on the door again. "Mister Lockhart, this is State Police. Open up." He calls out around a wad of gum he'd been working on for some time.
For all intents and purposes, Tom considered himself to be a law abiding visitor. All his paperwork was correct, he hadn't knowingly committed any crime. So without much in the way of hesitation, no further thought to the matter at hand beyond thinking 'here is a police officer who knows who I am'. He calls back, "No worries officer, just taking the door off the latch." True to his word, Tom unfastens the chain lock, then pulls across the bolt and finally the door's main handle has the weighty door swinging on its hinge. He takes a small step back into the hall, lifting a hand to wave at the officer guised visitor. "What can I do for you officer. Is anything wrong?"
"..You armed?" It's probably not the first question a police officer would typically ask, but it's pretty clear that the irritated man is somewhat nervous as well. Judging by the way his eyes dart over the larger man's frame, and his hand shifts to rest on the handle of his service weapon when the door opens. He peers a little past him then, and up the stairs, "You alone tonight, Mister Lockhart?"
"No Sir." Tom replies, his large palms lifting up as if to offer an additional layer of reassurance to the police officer. It's probably a cultural thing, he's watched enough television and movies to know that cops can sometimes be excessively jumpy. His expression focuses on the other man's face, searching his expression as if trying to work out why he's so agitated. He voices in his softly spoken British accent, "I'm alone, yes. Can you tell me what this is about?"
The larger Brit doesn't need to scry the officers features for long, as he provides an answer to the question in short order. "You know exactly what this is about, fella, and you can drop the accent. You missed a parole check-in, and you left Boston. You had to know this was coming." The office declares, around irritated chews of his gum. Minty fresh.
"Now, I'll have ya turn around, and put your hands against the wall. Nice and smooth, yeah?" Either Tom had just broken some parole conditions, or this is a case of mistaken identity.
Trapped in a standoff with the Golden Shadow gang at the dockyard, Isaiah manages to summon a fiery imp to aid in his escape. With a combination of elemental combustion, a desperate attempt at vehicular theft, and a fiery familiar causing chaos, Isaiah fights and flees the scene, narrowly escaping with part of the precious cargo. Despite the volatile success of his summoning and a getaway that sees him hiding stolen cocaine dolls in a defunct laundromat, he is left haunted by the shadow of his powerful father, feeling the acute disparity between their abilities. As Isaiah's self-doubt gnaws at him, he reaffirms his determination to live up to the supernatural legacy despite the volatile course of the night.
Meanwhile, early in Haventown, Tom Lockhart finds himself in a less fantastical but equally perplexing dilemma as he encounters a state police officer at his door under suspicious circumstances. The officer accuses him of parole violation—a case of mistaken identity or something more sinister? Tom, a seemingly law-abiding citizen with no known ties to criminal activity, faces the unexpected confrontation with calm and confusion. With the officer demanding compliance over a misunderstanding or deliberate frame-up, Tom's peaceful morning of coffee and painting shifts towards an unforeseen legal entanglement, hinting at deeper mysteries or corruptions yet to unfold.
(Isaiah's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Tue Jul 30 2024]
In the Main Dance Floor of The Succubus Club
The wide open space of dance floor takes up most of this open portion of
the club, warehouse ceilings high and fixed with a multitude of appropriate
strobing and colorful lights. Lounge furniture is spaced along the outer
walls to watch the dance floor and provide a place for seating and drinks as
the thrum of high energy dance music and trap remixes of popular songs
pulses from the speakers. Waitresses in skimpy attire move between the
seating and throngs of people to take and deliver drink orders on site, and
the rounded double stairs converge together on a sky balcony to look over
the floor below.
A hallway leads to vending and bathrooms, as well as a steady stream of
people who seem to be getting club drugs from one source or another in that
direction. The front bar is partially partitioned behind the dance floor
near the entrance, a more suitable place for conversational drinks as the
music allows for limited version in the main club.
It is night, about 90F(32C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
If Isaiah got any more excited, he'd be shivering like a Chihuahua in a cat fight. He immediately draws himself up off of the wall and stuffs his phone into a pocket on his jacket, which is then both buttoned-up and zipped closed to conceal the blinding whiteness of his shirt- and his skin. With tongue pressed into cheek amusedly, he gives the club one final glancing over before raking a hand back through his curly red hair- it just bounces right back into place- and heading for the door. In passing the bar, the young man's knuckles rap playfully against a bargoer's cup of beer. "Have a good night, pal, says the blue-eyed man with a smirk. The patron looks confused, and as Isaiah steps out of the door, the patron is spitting a boiling-hot beer out of his mouth and shouting curses at the bartender as steam erupts from his mouth.
Oh, yeah. Now Isaiah is feeling his groove, and he skips through the scant amount of traffic on Devilwood Drive straight across to the dockyard, and from there? He finds a handhold on a storage freight and starts climbing up."
If Isaiah got any more excited, he'd be shivering like a Chihuahua in a cat fight. He immediately draws himself up off of the wall and stuffs his phone into a pocket on his jacket, which is then both buttoned-up and zipped closed to conceal the blinding whiteness of his shirt- and his skin. With tongue pressed into cheek amusedly, he gives the club one final glancing over before raking a hand back through his curly red hair- it just bounces right back into place- and heading for the door. In passing the bar, the young man's knuckles rap playfully against a bargoer's cup of beer. "Have a good night, pal," says the blue-eyed man with a smirk. The patron looks confused, and as Isaiah steps out of the door, the patron is spitting a boiling-hot beer out of his mouth and shouting curses at the bartender as steam erupts from his mouth.
Oh, yeah. Now Isaiah is feeling his groove, and he skips through the scant amount of traffic on Devilwood Drive straight across to the dockyard, and from there? He finds a handhold on a storage freight and starts climbing up.
It's easier to see the rows upon rows on stacks from a high perch, certainly. On a summer night, the dockyard is a mass of shadows, with a few pools of lights in front of containers that have been converted to some other purpose. Container 19 is an actual container, in the actual working part of the docks, and people shouldn't really be milling around it at night -- and yet they are. From his perch, Isaiah can see a selection of men standing in front of it, the doors open, along with an SUV backed up to the entrance. The men are -dressed- like dockworkers, but they don't seem the type, do they? They're all central-casting goons who seems to overspill out of their stevedore uniforms.
Finding a vantage point where he can both observe the 'dock workers' and keep out of sight, Isaiah lays low for a time, taking note of what they're doing. Are they unloading the dolls from the SUV? Is it a shift change? Are they pooling the dolls into the SUV itself to move elsewhere? Are they armed? He inches a touch closer, taking in information with every motion that is made by these soon to be poor, unfortunate souls. He tries to get a proper count of how many people he's up against- he wonders if he'll have to call in a goon or two, or if he can run this one-man mission on his own. All the while, he's popping AirPods into his ears and considering what tonight's battle music is going to be.
They seem to be sorting dolls -- there's a rapid pile growing of discards outside the container, on closer inspection, as some dolls go into the back of the SUV. They aren't -visibly- armed, from where Isaiah can see, but they stand with the attitude of someone who carries of weapon; right arms are always free, there's a carefulness when bending over, and a general stiffness to the body that suggests each and every one of these lumberjack-sized dock workers is strapped. From Isaiah's position, he is going unnoticed -- they are focused on the prize.
"Mmmh.." says Isaiah, quitely and under his breath as he observes the process for a while. He counts the number of men that will be in the SUV when it takes off, catching himself hoping that it's two or less. Plan in mind, he slips towards a few containers closer to the entrance, and he waits. His muscles tense as he prepares for a daring leap; his plan? My name is J.R., and you're watching Jackass. The scenario floods his mind: Jump on the roof of the SUV, take out the goons, bada-bing, bada-boom, use their own wheels to ride to the rendezvous point. The problem? As he spelled out the perfect heist in his mind, it all started to feel so boring. His ADHD-adled mind starts to deviate from the goal: what if he just Superman punched straight through the roof of the vehicle? Oh, that would be badass as fuck. Oh, oh, or what if he just blew up the fucking car? Yesssss, perfect... Perfect enough in his imagination that he almost forgets he's supposed to be keeping an eye on these losers. Almost. He glances back towards them, awaiting their next move.
Less than two -- that'd be great. How about four? That's a power of two, at least. On the other hand, are they expecting Superman? Probably not. After all, Isaiah is in disguise: he's wearing his underwear inside his pants rather than the other way out. At the least, though, it doesn't seem as if they are moving that quickly. It seems to take some time to sort through dolls, as the pile of black-eyed babies grows outside the door.
That's more than Isaiah was hoping for, to be sure. Four? He scowls, but nonetheless, he was set on getting this extra portion of rent-slop from this gig, and with them taking far too long for him to tolerate, that innate impulsiveness of his takes over before he can think to meditate it away. Down he drops from the top of the shipping container, around he goes back to Number 19, and looking to pick off the pack one or two at a time, finds a large stone.
He bounces it in his hand a few times to check the weight- not too heavy. Perfectly palm-sized. Just how he likes his boobs. Catching himself from drifting away into that thought, he ducks behind the container and tosses the rock into the shadows, allowing it to faintly *ding* off of the metal side of another receptacle. Just enough to make a little noise without drawing /too much/ alarm. If successful, he repeats the process until it stops working. If not? Well, he'd have to wing it from there.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Goon one looks up, nods to goon two, and then they're moseying, around the edge of the container. They're out of view, if not earshot, of the SUV where goons three and four are still sorting babies. Perhaps unsettlingly, it seems as if they're twisting the heads off them before they go in the pile.
Isaiah sneaks to the very edge of the container as two of the goons stalk off- he glances towards the driver's side door, back to the goons sorting dolls, and then makes a break for it. The blade of the pocket knife he pulls from his jacket suddenly lights up red hot, and in passing he jabs goon number three right in the kidney with it. Maybe he did it just for kicks, or perhaps he did it strategically. Whatever reason, the sweet smell of suffering fills him with vigour as he hops into the driver's side of the SUV, reaches for the ignition- praying it has the key- and twists. Does the car start? Because if not, holy fuck this kid had better learn Kung-Fu quick. Regardless, his adrenaline is pumping, and his baby blues have been taking over by icy, glacial hues as he enacts his plan.
It's 2024, kid. Push-button. When Isaiah jams the button, though? It roars to life. That's something -- it's a saving grace, is what it is. Sure, the back doors of the SUV are open, and it's only half-full of headless baby dolls filled with faerie cocaine, but half an SUV of priceless occult narcotics is a lot better than nothing. The engine has a thrum to it like an animal, rumbling under Isaiah's seat, as the goons turn. Shouts go up. It's go time.
Isaiah is, at least, wary of the trunk being wide ass open when he puts this puppy in 'drive' on the PRNDL. Being raised on old school cars is rough, but when he realizes he's snagged himself one of them fancy-schmancy push-to-start vehicles? Well, he feels a momentary buzz of excitement go through him. He doesn't take off with the pedal to the metal; no, he takes off like a mom in a soccer van at first. He ducks his head down to avoid any stray bullets, and moves just fast enough to keep someone from hopping in the back, gradually building speed so his payload doesn't get scattered all over the road. He paid attention to a couple of science classes. Momentum. Centrifugal force. Gravity. Something something something kinetic energy and friction. Yeah, that's right.
His battle music? Many Men by 50 Cent, and once the song is about halfway through he pulls off the road, slams the trunk closed on hopefully minimal losses with his half-load of cocaine babies, then gets back in the driver's seat and finally, finally, he floors it towards Boston, texting Fariq Wilson that he was on his way. He probably feels pretty darn good right about now.
This is an excellent, awesome plan. Accelerating, accelerating -- no bullets, and a clean damn getaway. Isaiah steers the SUV out onto the road, and then it starts to beep. "Key Not Detected." Another beep. "Key Not Detected." Uh-oh. There's a lot of flashing red on the dash. Without question, the demonborn has gotten away, but getting away with the car? With the stash? That may be harder, as it begins to coast to a stop on Devilwood Drive.
As Isaiah's SUV sputters to a halt, the waning crescent moon casts a dim, silvery light over the darkened street near the dockyard, its slender curve hanging low in the night sky. The cobblestones glisten faintly, slick with a recent rain, reflecting the moonlight in broken shards. Shadows stretch long and deep, obscuring the alleyways and the silent, looming shapes of warehouses and abandoned crates.
A salty breeze drifts in from the sea, carrying the faint, rhythmic sound of water lapping against the docked ships. The air is cool and damp, thick with the scents of brine and aged wood. The streetlights, few and far between, flicker occasionally, casting an uneven glow that barely pierces the darkness.
Silence hangs heavily in the air, broken only by the distant creak of a boat and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures scurrying in the shadows -- and the Golden Shadow, perhaps, advancing.
"Oh you cheap piece of fucking bastard shit," Isaiah scolds the SUV as it coasts to a stop, his eyes wide with confusion as the vehicle starts to slow down. He was so close. So wonderfully close. But technology foils him, and he finds himself punching and kicking the steering wheel for a good five seconds before he leaps out and onto the road. His teeth are gritting as he starts to wrack his brain for another plan. What was close? A building. Somewhere he could at least push the SUV behind. A copse of trees. He considers pushing this piece of cutting edge vehicular technology the rest of the way to Badwater Park. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Fuck. No. Calm down. What would Papa do?" He curses himself for refer to his father that way, and then starts to dig around in the car. Obviously the keys aren't there, but right now all he can think about is nicotine.
He was a late bloomer as a Super- his parents never put him in special schools that tortured you into activation at twelve years old. No. He had lived a rich boy's life for 16 whole entire years before his latent blood boiled over. He didn't have the practice, the expertise, the years under his belt of training required to mind-fuck this car into moving. But he did have one thing, and though he hated using it, he wondered if he just might have to. Another quick glance around, hoping for another option besides degrading himself to name-dropping.
Panicked, he starts trying to unload cocaine Barbies into the shadows of a hopefully nearby building or behind a tree.
Devilwood Drive is full of abandoned buildings -- of dumpsters, of dirty alleys and trash heaps. If there's a place someone would go to hide headless baby dolls full of cocaine, this would be it. Isaiah finds an forgotten storefront, once some kind of laundromat but now long lost to time, and he's able to start stashing the cocaine-filled dolls in broken and cracked washers. This, too, is a hiding place: it's from there that Isaiah can see the Golden Shadow troops when they come back up, starting to search the SUV. Has he gotten all of the loot from the back? No: but he's gotten some. Enough to pay the rent, perhaps, to make Desmond King happy... and to get the devil's son a fresh start back in his hometown of Haven.
Isaiah glares outwards as the men finally catch up to the SUV he hadn't emptied, kicking himself for not trying to snag a set of keys before taking off. He could have been gone! He could have had it all! But even after five years of being like this, he still can't control the impatience, the impulsiveness; things his father had mastered. He shifts his blue eyes towards some form that only he can see and mutters, "Yeah, I'm a failure. I know. Less than half the man you are, yada yada yada. Go fuck yourself." He sighs and leans his back against a rusty, dusty old dryer and glares down at the screen of his phone, meeting the devil-red eyes of the Isaiah that had come before him in all of his powerful regality. "Fuck your stupid hat, fuck your gloves, and fuck your trench coat," the twenty-something mutters before hitting the power button to turn the screen back off. He sighs, and tries to relax his shoulders and wait for the coast to clear out.
Half the man, a quarter of the cocaine. Surely the elder Isaiah would have gotten it right. As those Golden Shadow bruisers search the SUV, it's hard not to imagine how he might have torn through them, how they might have been some orgy of blood and fire -- of claws and violence, of screams ripping through the night. As Isaiah, the younger Isaiah, -hides-, the shade of his father stalks the night.
The goons are starting to pull back from the SUV, now. One of them produces a small flashlight -- is that a gun-light? Probably. He begins to stalk away from the inventory of the stalled SUV, flashing it around the area. The beam is like a lancet, poking and prodding into little nooks and crannies. For now, it's not quite to the abandoned laundromat, but it is approaching.
"C'mon... Get up. Just get up. Just fight... Fight, you fucking coward!" Isaiah scolds himself as his mind battles itself. He spends so much time comparing himself to the monster his father is that he barely recognizes that being Supernatural in and of itself is power. Desmond had sent him here, to his hometown, for a reason. He /joined/ Desmond King for a reason. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to prove himself. He was /craving/ the opportunity that his father never gave him. Those words play over and over again in his head until they spill forth from his lips. "You're not ready. You don't think. You're too irresponsible. You're too impulsive. You're too impatient. You're not ready. You're just not ready."
Even as he recites this he notices the lights in the distance. There's still a chance. He can still fight. He can give it another go. A second shot. Just get up. All he has to do is get up.
"Alright... Okay. I can do this," he chants under his breath then, closing his eyes and reaching into that fiery blood in his veins. His father despised fire, but this kid? He harnesses it. And then, for the first time, a ball of flame flickers to life in his right hand. Growing, growing, and growing. Small at first, but the beginnings of some sort of flaming Imp begin to take shape. A summoning. Only a little while longer.. "Focus..." he murmurs.
Slowly the fire forms -- it flickers, it grows, piecing together in tiny ascending construction the figure of some demonling. The imp takes life: it is, like the good Quran says, a creature of smokeless fire, and in its red-hot eyes is a hunger. Is this little imp enough to fight the goons? Hard to say, as light plays across the laundromat, now. The Golden Shadow are not ordinary men. Is it enough to escape? Most certainly.
Indeed, as Isaiah works his magic he can feel for some moment the tug of destiny. The waning crescent moon above seems to shade red, and for a moment the summer's heat is something more than that. It is not seaside breeze; no, it is the wind of hell. The salt tang is not the sea but blood. And the man, the mercenary now stepping inside the laundromat?
He is prey.
"Oh. Holy shit," Isaiah barely has time to say as his little Imp companion finally forms. The two gaze at each other for what might have been a long while if they hadn't been interrupted. But now? Isaiah only has three words to say. "Get 'im, boy." In a flash that creature of pure flame is latched onto the lackey's face, clawing at his skin and leaving behind a combination of cuts and burns as the young Demonborn dives in with his knife glowing red-hot once more in his hands.
If there's anything 'Papa' taught him, it's that a good kidney shot can bring down even the biggest badasses, and it's the kidney he goes for first. The scent of cooked pork exudes from the wound as he drives the knife in deep and twists, a renewed fire in his pretty blue eyes as he launches into action.
Get'm, boy -- and sure enough, the imp does. It's like an ember, bathing the abandoned laundromat in flames, and then it is zig-zagging around the space. It's not the most /accurate/ minion in the world, and the part about breathing and shooting fire hasn't come yet, but violence? Some hellish demand for blood? The need to fuel the fire in its heart with suffering? That's there in spades.
The bright spark of the imp strikes the goon in the throat, and the smell of sizzling flesh is like sickly-sweet barbecue. The goon screams, but the scream turns into a gurgle and the gurgle into a sizzle, something sickening and awful. Do the other goons notice? Maybe. Maybe, but notice or not, this one's dead.
Huh. That was easy. "Nice work, little man," Isaiah calls to his new companion before turning his sights out onto the road. He's determined to finish what he started now, and after taking a deep breath, he's running out onto the street, sic'ing his Imp on the closest unfortunate bastard the dynamic duo come across and then turning himself on a different one. Divide and conquer, that's the new mantra of the night. He busts out whatever he can for this fight- one goon starts sweating profusely as the air around him heats up with burning intensity. Another shouts out as any armor or clothing he's wearing starts to burn away. The kid returns his attention to his AirPods once more, demanding Siri play him some battle music as he tries to push away his own self-doubt.
There is a tempo to battle: Isaiah's AirPods are in his ears, and the first goon goes to plan. Well. Mostly. They did hear the screams, it seems, and they have guns out. When the Imp goes for one, the retort of someone's gold-plated Desert Eagle -- the Golden Shadow are nothing if not gaudy -- create some awful hole in the middle of the imp. It struggles, a little, and then it goes into a puff of smoke.
For his part, Isaiah hits his man with supernatural force and strength, and he's knocked back if not killed, but: now, perhaps. Now is time for the better part of valor and a sack full of cocaine-fueled babies.
Hell giveth, and Hell taketh away. Just as quickly as the Imp had brought into this world, *poof*. It was gone. Being in his zone, it takes a moment for Isaiah to notice that he's a one-man squad once more. He's tearing apart the guy he had latched onto originally when the realization dawns upon him. He blinks a few times. "Oh, shit..." One last good punch to the thug's head is offered before the young adult tries tearing off into the trees. He almost looks like Santa Claus, if old Kris Kringle had chosen a different path in life. But he has a sack of goodies, and that's what counts, right? He doesn't stop until he hits water and realizes he needs to find another way across, but the bridge is in view if not just around a bend. Just don't stop. Keep the ball rolling. Did you get more cocaine babies? No. But do you believe in yourself more now? Also no. But, hey. He did manage to summon some kind of fire elemental. "I'll have to work on that later. A lot to process right now. I was /really/ hoping they didn't have fucking guns," he thinks aloud as he dashes, hopefully homeward bound and towards a sneaky link of a different sort.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
It's early morning in Haventown, a dangerous time, to be sure. With witching hour so close, and most good little boys and girls tucked away in bed, there's a higher than might be considered average chance for danger and daring in the quaint seaside town. The question remains then, how is Tom, the tall, heavyset fellow, spending these early hours? Why isn't he safely tucked away in bed, warm and content?
Tom is an early riser, he goes to bed early and wakes early. This morning, is no different. The night owl had been up for a couple of hours now, making himself a pot of coffee. He'd got dressed, tended to a few texts he missed whilst asleep. He skipped having a morning shower and mulled over whether or not he was going to go to the gym for a late hour session before other people started turning up there. In the end after deliberating through a whole cup of coffee, he struck a deal with himself that as long as he was positively procrastinating at home he didn't need to go to the gym. A self deceit of sorts, but one that enabled him.
So this is where Tom is now, standing in his own dining room in front of a table top easel. A freshly poured cup of coffee on the table, a paintbrush in his hand. He's been painting now for roughly half an hour, the painting itself seems quite complex emotionally with bold fiery reds and deep blacks. The main subject looks like a slumped black silhouette of a humanoid on some kind of throne, with what could be interpretted as wings.
What kind of a monster starts their morning with healthy choices? Ew.
The scent of coffee fills the air, as the fellow produces art. This somewhat soothing scene is interrupted by a knock upon the door of the man's home. A thumping sort of knock that demands to be answered. The crackle of a radio can be heard outside, whether Tom approaches or not.
Tom carefully puts down his paintbrush and after taking a sip of coffee, he goes off in the direction of his front door. His apartment was a second story home which was located above several commercial properties along Main and Lynch, so after the main door of his apartment, he has to travel down some narrow and forboding stairs that lead to the street itself. It's this door which he stops at, his home door behind him at the top of the stairs still open. He peers through the little peep hole located at the upper middle of the door, trying to see what he can see.
It is an unusual time for a visitor, isn't it? Yet, here we are, middle of the early morning and a knock at the door. Yet, stranger things have happened, especially in Haven.
It may take a few moments for Tom's gaze to quite adjust to the dimness of the light through the peephole, but eventually a figure comes into clarity. They're a uniformed officer, or at the least, someone wearing the uniform of an officer. An interesting distinction, perhaps. The fellow is clean shaven, sunken eyed, and clearly a little agitated as he knocks on the door again. "Mister Lockhart, this is State Police. Open up." He calls out around a wad of gum he'd been working on for some time.
For all intents and purposes, Tom considered himself to be a law abiding visitor. All his paperwork was correct, he hadn't knowingly committed any crime. So without much in the way of hesitation, no further thought to the matter at hand beyond thinking 'here is a police officer who knows who I am'. He calls back, "No worries officer, just taking the door off the latch." True to his word, Tom unfastens the chain lock, then pulls across the bolt and finally the door's main handle has the weighty door swinging on its hinge. He takes a small step back into the hall, lifting a hand to wave at the officer guised visitor. "What can I do for you officer. Is anything wrong?"
"..You armed?" It's probably not the first question a police officer would typically ask, but it's pretty clear that the irritated man is somewhat nervous as well. Judging by the way his eyes dart over the larger man's frame, and his hand shifts to rest on the handle of his service weapon when the door opens. He peers a little past him then, and up the stairs, "You alone tonight, Mister Lockhart?"
"No Sir." Tom replies, his large palms lifting up as if to offer an additional layer of reassurance to the police officer. It's probably a cultural thing, he's watched enough television and movies to know that cops can sometimes be excessively jumpy. His expression focuses on the other man's face, searching his expression as if trying to work out why he's so agitated. He voices in his softly spoken British accent, "I'm alone, yes. Can you tell me what this is about?"
The larger Brit doesn't need to scry the officers features for long, as he provides an answer to the question in short order. "You know exactly what this is about, fella, and you can drop the accent. You missed a parole check-in, and you left Boston. You had to know this was coming." The office declares, around irritated chews of his gum. Minty fresh.
"Now, I'll have ya turn around, and put your hands against the wall. Nice and smooth, yeah?" Either Tom had just broken some parole conditions, or this is a case of mistaken identity.