Encounterlogs
Novels Odd Encounter Sr Illyana 240828
In the bustling ambiance of a pharmacy in Haven city, Novel, a twitchy erratic figure, is buying an assortment of drugs under the guise of a science project. His unfiltered ramblings and peculiar interactions failed to disturb the pharmacy's routine, yet attracted attention from an out-of-place government suit observing him, coupled with the tension-filled presence of police radio crackles nearby. Novel, driven by a compulsion for violence and an intense hatred for cops, navigates his jitteriness and homicidal inclinations while dealing with the array of narcotics in his possession. Despite his aggressive demeanor, a moment of pause hits him when confronted with the need to evade police attention, prompted by a deep-seated hatred for incarceration and memories of obligations to a figure named Fayad.
As the encounter unfolds, Novel faces a mysterious suit and police officers intent on interrogating him about his alleged involvement with Frank Tanner in Boston—a scenario he's clueless about due to his recent obscure and violent endeavors. Trapped in a twisted inquiry filled with insinuations and taunts, Novel resorts to deflective humor and outright denial, entangled in a web of confusion and aggression. The situation escalates into a verbal confrontation, where Novel's survival instincts and disdain for authority challenge the suit's probing. Ultimately, Novel's desperate assertion of ignorance convinces the suit, leading to an abrupt, if not perplexing, resolution allowing Novel to walk free—yet not without casting a final provocation into the air, marking a bitter end to an odd encounter that epitomizes the chaotic interplay of defiance, identity, and the enigmatic pressures of unseen forces.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Sat Aug 17 2024]
In the pharmacy
A large window separates the pharmacist, his tools, and the rows of
shelves holding various medicines. It isn't perfectly transparent or clear
and has the tendency to distort whatever is on the other side. Thin vein
like ripples run through the material. It lends an amber hue.
It is noon, about 77F(25C) degrees,
(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.
)
Novel resides within the pharmacy. He is buying drugs. Not just one or two drugs. He's buying ALL THE DRUGS. Not big doses, but small samples of literally every chem, every stimulant, every thing. The twitchy man doesn't even bother to explain himself. He probably would rant at someone if they worked up the desire to talk to the horrible creature forced into a man shape. The way he's getting it is very simple. He told them it was for a science project.
This is, technically, true.
Either way little neatly-labeled single plastic packs disappearing into the bag one after another. Despite his apparent spasming and rapid-fire chattering about "That fucking bitch ass game where the dumbfucks have given even tanks full damage but fuck them I'm going to keep playing Aatrox and hitting people in the face with a bigass demon sword because it's fucking AWESOME but holy SHIT to I hate playing into Vayne top," only a small portion of confused people - and not the pharmacist - even understand what he's talking about. The people who -do- understand either are in the same boat as him, or even deeply confused how someone who may be a homeless person knows any of this.
The pharmacy is active; Perhapse not unusually so. It's not too early in the day after all, and the weekend draws many people in to fill their prescriptions, to allow for casual purchaces and to simply take in the ambiances-- This is the city of Haven after all. Not everything is above board or even vaguely legitimate. The breeze drifts in, slowly circulated via the enshittened quality of the air conditioning, the sterile scents and abrupt clinical coloration creating an ambiance that can best be described as "Oh-god-fuck-not-again" to anyone suffering from the cripling lack of inhabition granted from substances that can most pleasurably be identified as "mind bending." when used casually. Yet, even in the narcotically active active portions of the clinic... Like for example here, where the unfortunates who have been driven bat-shit-craycray congregate for their day passes and or for good boy point tallies to be checked for day release, not all is as it seems. For as the likely-possibly-perhapse paurper steadily fills his bag- Hey, it's a free country after all- And one where capitalism rules and questions arn't asked so long as the cash keeps-a-flowing, some- The youth and the fourty year old virgines first and foremost were paying attention. Though curiously, one person seems out of place. A gentleman in an aggressively governmentaly issued -non descript- suit leans against a wall, his Mr. Smith-esque shades shielding the half a face that's not obscured by today's- It has to be said, very fresh Haven gazette.
The air though is punctuated with the smells of many pressed-together people; Older, younger, washed and unwashed, but nothing quite so clawing as the scent of gun oil poorly masked with the vintage Broot that is likewise drawn through the room, kicking and screaming with the impitus born of insipid professionalism. It's out of place here, among the clinical fragrances, the sweat-riddled -inmates- and, of course, the sterile baseline, steady footfalls and the hum of conversation all around. But more than that. There's the sound of a police radio from not too far off. It's most certainly not the intercome, and is that Mr. Smith look-alike surreptitiously keeping his shrouded gaze on you?
Novel has an erratic series of sleeping habits to begin with, and day and time passing before or behind him is mostly a trajectory of which drugs he's been taking, how long, how often, and how much caffeine has gone with his diet. The awfulness is par and parcel with most places he's been in and he fits right in, though the astringent scents and the closed in feelings of the walls makes him more jittery and more homicidal than usual. It's also been a whole day since his last 'fix' of stabbing someone in the face, back with the operations with killing all those templar operatives and handfuckers. It may have been some weird mental psionic bullshit but it's usually 'good enough' for him to tide him over to go int he woods and force something to painfully bleed. And some of those narcotics - well, he enjoys partaking himself. He's leaning what shit does! Nobody explains to him anything not that he would even pause long enough to ask and the man loves his money. And his drugs for money. Simultaneously, he hates that money exist in the first place and the whole structures INCLUDING some dumb motherfucking suit who thinks he's being cute by being a fly on the wall.
Yeah. He sees you. He knows you're there.
His head rotates on a swivel, his nose twitching. Violence. Exciting, delighted violence. His pupils dilate and his heartrate subtly goes up as he turns himself this way and that. Beyond the sterility. He hears it. An -intimately- familiar crackle. The man was arrested just yesterday after all. He didn't let them search his bag and continually insisted on a lawyer and you would be hard pressed to make a case work for someone who, having purchased the product directly from the shop, was then using the same outlet's workbench to adjust the sights on his shiny new crossbow. They didn't have a case and so they had to let them go. But that doesn't mean...
Isn't remember and not pissed off. He steps through the crowd. He's used to dealing with sheep. Determined glare, slow steps, walking against the crowd. Parting. He beelines towards that sound. Is it coming from the lookalike? Maybe. There's too many people in the way to say. But the noise, the sound, like a predatory dog, he beelines towards.
The man inconspicuously turns a page; Sport, funny page? It doesn't really matter now does it, because he's certainly watching you. There's that subtle shift, the transition from pads of his feet to the balls- And yes, there it is, for this gentleman, in spite of being fully adorned with the perfectly innocuous garb of your every day civil servent is not wearing the matching slightly skuffed, and mutch commented on wing tips. To the contrary. It's easy for one brawler to notice another, and this man is spoiling for a fight. He's been ready for some time, apparently, and as he notices you noticing him noticing you, he smiles; A thin grim line as he decides upon you as his Neo. Quite aside from the expected throwing of hands however, the gentleman straightens, wide shoulders set, legs apart, the paper set to one side as he lets his hands hover at his sides. The shades arn't removed though. His expression doesn't change and he simply waits for you to near him, the thrusting of his chin suggesting that he's fully aware of how this goes- And he's ready. Listening as you are though, that crackle of static comes again. It's not from this man, but from more than one place. Not near, but close enough that the potential is there for an aspiring group of feds to rush their happy asses in and beat down a less-than-upstanding citizen for any number of charges really-- Will it be assault? Will it be disturbing the peace? Who knows. The only thing that's certain is that sanctuary is in play.
Novel is given pause. Angry, yes. Homicidal, yes. But a survivor. Even when running into four people or a horde of dog-sized rats he's always reasonably certain he can come out the other side with enough bits intact to grow back. It's the noise. The background static. The hiss that radiates from everyone except the man before him like a nest of snakes in the grass.
He loves snakes. They're delicious.
But he HATES fucking cops.
In stark contrast as his hands flex. Once, twice, thrice, clenching those big mitts as he apparently sizes up the man before him. But his mouth open. He tastes the air. He hates prison. And...
He's full of Depnastifen and Gunesiclone, which have some interesting effects. He feels near-murderous rage boiling below the surface, an endless simmer, and despises everything in the Sheriff department. A memory harkens back. A whispered word. Favors, owed, someone who has given him more than what he deserves.
What would Fayad want him to do?
He stands there awkwardly, no longer looking at the faceless suit and staring somewhere over his shoulder, his head jittering back and forth, as if the drugs he's on are wearing off or something else is taking hold.
Novel then suddenly focuses, a disturbing, eerie effect of clarity, a different kind of drug penetrating from the normal illegal uppers and downwers, hypnosis drugs that makes one more reliant and pliable of their effect harkening back from someone who isn't even there. He says, very quietly, "I fucked your mom," to the suit. And then he turns on heal, intent on stomping away, even angrier than before. The boss BETTER take him out killing tonight.
There's a conspicuous sound now; The steady foot fall, the scent of Broot growing more and more clawing. The suit is following. There's not even a question of that, though there's not an attempt to collar... yet. The way parts of course. Who's going to stand in the way of a preditor? The feeling of suffering grows. There are a lot of people fearful here and it of course makes you feel good-- Great-- enraptured by the state of those around who vilify you. But for now, there's no escape ahead of you. There are officers out there. They're not even hiding. Not deputies. To the contrary, these look like hardened men and they're ready to rock. They are blocking your way, four men and the suit catches up. "Hey now." he says in a gentle barratone. "You're not leaving now are you? You've still not finished telling your story. League of Legends right? Maybe there's a fishing story to come after." It's not even a question. These people -know- about you. They're doing it to antagonize you. Get you mad enough to make mistakes.
You make it as far as the door of the pharmacy before you spot agents, and as you do, the suit catches up. The scent of Broot, the chadish toxicity of a complete Steve at your back and ahead, THE MAN- And in force. They're not blocking you -yet- but they're most certainly waiting on -someone-.
Novel feels high on life right now. He's not going to jail. He just, figuratively, pissed on a bunch of goddamn pinko commie nazi shoes, even though that makes zero sense as he strings together hate words to wield into a weapon for the explicit purpose to attack, attack, attack. Even his tongue a tool to inflict violence and pain. As he steps away down the narrow corridor to the waiting room, people parting.
And then he's drawn up short by a bunch of those dumb motherfuckers who are doing their best to commit suicide by Novel. He wishes he had a grenade right then and there. He wishes his sword was in his hand and they were out in the woods and he could hack the head off a few and then force them to torture each other.
Delightful fantasies.
Focus, Novel. Diplomacy. There's nothing more that he hates more than having to do diplomacy that isn't the rubber hose and lead pipe style. For such an anti-social maniac he sure does play a game that requires team coordination and basic communication skills. One of those little bits of sugar, distancing themselves from life.
The real problem is the crystal meth that it's in his bag. It weighs heavily. He's still mad. He wants to violently torture them. He pauses. A memory. Another deputy, on her knees, suddenly surfaces.
Novel brings up the phone, flicking his thumb over it. He angles it. There's a soft, subtle click. Aimed right at the speaking man's badge before him. And then he lowers it with the horrible smile and soulless eyes of something that's been pulled from the depths of hell and stuffed into a human shell.
He offers a wink, and then, he starts to whistle to himself cheerfully, thumbing a text as he attempts to walk away, ignoring them.
That collaring does land at that. The scent of Broot, the hand on Novel's shoulder, a shaking of the head and still all very casual. "Let's stop a little my man." the man suggests-- But it's not a suggestion. His aftershave is thick, pungent and it does mask- for any without supernatural senses- the gun oil, but nothing can mask the pervasive voice of a Steve in full swing. The tone is dickish, overly friendly and his Chad is on full show as he sidles up to give his -victim- the stink eye- Possibly forgetting about the shades, but why would a man like this remove them? It would detract from the cool that he's projecting, like skunk shit from his very being. "We just want a quick word with you. Maybe you wanna remove that cap for us. Maybe you wanna tell us about your latest dungeon run, or raid, or what ever you kids call that shit. Maybe you fancy talking about that fish you landed-- You know the one..." This is joined by a smile that could freeze hell over. "The big one you caught over in Bostin last night. That one that has an investigation going on around it because of how noticable it was, right? You know, that one." And the suit goes on. The destraction? Questioning? Torture! As the agents take notice. They don't close in -yet- though there are signs they're ready to move if provoked to it.
"Bostin" This douchebag is even trying to be cute now. Dumfuck accent and all. The next time is a reminder, "Bostiiiiin." It's joined by a finger snap, but there's no way Novel was in Boston last night, on account of having been arrested in Haven. Something is very wrong.
Novel instinctively moves to shake if off. A shrugging. It doesn't go, as if to casually brush off the overimportant shit as he stares blankly at the man and his snapping, the fingers getting him to clench his jaw and bare his teeth. His thumb flicks up - down. The SNAP of the phone closing. But the green light is still on. It's set to record. Not that it matters. The entire college is crammed with cameras in every corner except in those tiny special rooms that are in certain places that they use for their very 'special' guests and not criminals.
Novel... isn't so sure. There was that thing. That event. That attack. That weird dream state, where everyone's picked up, pulled from their bodies, forms on the floor, but very real weapons appearing in their hands. Scions told him to go.
So he went.
But, internally, he doesn't know. Where he actually was. He remembers the soldiers in their strange, powered armor. He remembers the faceless black-suited corporate goons that made this little fuck look like an ant while having fully automatic weapons in their hands, fanning out and putting bullets in his chest.
He remembers the chaos, the shouted orders, the zap of tasers, the callout of various people, the dying wolf's blood on his hands, the quiet sighs and gurgles that follows professional activity.
He remembers brimstone and sulphur, fire blazing past and towards him, charging a man with sword in hand while feeling glee.
He remembers precisely the taste and scent of smell of ozone and crackling electricity as they were surrounded by power cables and a humming server box in an ice-cold place near a river.
But he realizes... he didn't know where he actually -was-. Just the murder and the blood.
This fact doesn't bother him in the slightest.
He reminisces over it with thrill and pleasure, starting to zone out to what the man is saying and doing.
Novel lets his mouth and another part of his brain take over, the screaming, spewing obscenities that is automatic to any toxic as fuck online gamer that have spent their lives simmered in the deepest cesspools of 4chan and newgrounds back in their hayday, where the game was to show everyone you knew another fresh horror in an attempt to casually destroy each other's psyche.
For fun.
"Let go of me you stupid fucking faggot I know you like touching yourself all the time dreaming of how you can get rodded down by government paperwork while sobbing none of the women in the college are willing to even speak to you, there's cameras everywhere and you're acting like a fucking child toucher is that what you are? A child toucher? Do you molest children? Is that what you like doing? Is that why you're touching me? You belong in a goddamn woodchipper and if you keep being a stupid gay-ass handfucker and I'll call my friends to obliterate you if you keep violating my personal goddamn space I know my rights around here this is AMERICA motherfucker."
"We've been watching you, Novel." Mr. Smith repeats. "The failed job at the call center. The homelessness. The job at the Great News Center and all. Your stints in various locations- All failed and the curious thing is, you're always at the baseline of violence. So tell us what we need to know and we can make this go easy." The suit waves a hand. "The boys here really want to hear your story, too. It'd make their day." Then he leans in to whisper. "If you tell us what we want, we can even conveniently lose your bag on the way. What you got in there anyway? Weed, meth, V?" Then he works with another tact. "You could always tell us about Fayad. You could give me a nice long story about the Scions brainwashing the poor, about Gonthorian. We know about the eidolon, too. But we just want answers about this." And he moves back, smiling in that cockcrunching way of all fags who work for THE MAN. "But we just want to know about Bostiiiiiiiin." Again, it's drawn out. Again, deliberately antagonizing. The suit doesn't do more than letting Novel go, making a show of brushing his back down. Then, he flashes a warrant. "Fancy talking to us now? Because what I heard there was hate crimes. And against an official. That cant be what I heard, right." The air is left for Novel to fill in the narrative. Boston. He only wants to know about Boston.
Novel gets drawn back from the wonderful daydream of his sword managing to hook into a white-suited armored man and then ripping all his steaming guts onto the floor as blood splashed everywhere before he disappointingly disappeared and dragged back out in whatever bullshit that Mr. Smith is talking that he no longer cares about. His eyes dance around. Someone far away might mistake it for seeking a way out. The cops close notice that they're finally focusing on reality, dancing between their hands, their holsters. Do they even have their guns out? He's in stabbing range. Knives are legal carry.
Amateur move. Then he realizes he -is- one of the amateurs. He really needs more combat practice. Wait, sorry, he was saying something. His face twitches erratically as his gaze wanders back onto the suit's face, tensing briefly as he reaches for something, his shoulders raising and his spine prickling in outrage at the touch. Then his shoulders slump. Oh. It's just a stupid fucking piece of paper. What a tease, getting him all worked up for nothing.
Novel finally focuses on Smith's face as the man who's not even all the way there and finds his own internal conversation then whatever bullshit THE MAN is trying to spew. Uh. What'd he say? ...Call center. Homelessness. Yep, okay, boring, he wonders if his mother sent these chucklefucks to check in on him. Nah, she's more competent than that probably. Offering drugs - nope, he tried that once, went in the slammer for awhile and there's no WAY he's giving up his shit to these cunts to try and use as evidence. Man why the fuck do they care about Fayad? And Gonthorian just wants to set everything on fire which is metal as hell.
"Dragons are awesome," He says, reacting to... nothing? Something? Is he even listening? One eye lazily shifts to the left on it's own.
"Depends did an official commit an assault on a student by touching them or did I just tell you the truth and now all your friends know about you too. Ask my lawyer to sort your own paperwork."
Novel wanders back into the lovely fugue-street mayhem of planning what he's going to do with the indirect access to the paperwork and the fact he's got pictures of their deputy badges with his camera. Now THIS one is getting the broken glass and THIS one is going to get the acid and THIS one he's going to hunt him for sport and THIS one he's going to see how many organs you need to stay alive, I mean really, you have duplicates of most of them and THAT one.
Oh boy, he has special plans for that one. His legs start to move, jittery, starting to walk again. If they had something they would have grabbed him.
Spreading his hands helplessly, the suit offers that dickish grin again. "Convince me you wern't there. Convince me we shouldn't bring you in. Convince me to drop it and the violence, the eidolon, the drugs. We can drop it all. We're only here about Frank Tanner." The man snaps his fingers to punctuate this- And once more, he makes 'Boston' sound like a joke; Something he does with great relish. "Bowwwwwstiiiiiin." -- It may possibly be that they suspect Novel of having some involvement with someone named Frank Tanner in Boston. In fact, it's not possible, but even alleged. The -police- don't have weapons out yet, their batons are on their belts, their guns holstered. It might simply be that they need confirmation or denial of identity. Maybe that's why Mr. Smith asked about the removal of that cap earlier. Who the fuck knows. They're not making mutch sense here.
Novel is starting to get a headache from all this fucking thinking, the pills he took from the pharmacy wore off, he doesn't have any smokes or alcohol, and the hangover from sobriety is starting to push in and that tiny voice in his head is talking again that he has tried to murder several times.
It is not his conscience. He doesn't have one of those.
It is, however, telling him that maybe he should try taking less drugs because THAT way he'll have more time to murder people now that he's in a job that is happy to tell him to murder people instead of being imprisoned for it. He hates being patient almost as much jail cells. But the voice has a point.
He's tells the voice to go fuck itself even though it's right and does it have any other stupid fucking advice that will help him run a blade through the cunt in front of him and eat his heart. He's saying something about crossbows.
No, the voice explains patiently. He's asking about Boston. And Frank Tanner. Who the fuck is Frank Tanner? He's got an idea.
No, don't do that the voice says.
"Oh yeah Frank I heard about a Frank from a guy from another guy that he was hanging out with Ken earlier."
Mr. Smith follows on- And obnoxious, his friends are following as Novel weaves through the croud. It's beginning to draw a croud- But fuck it. It's mostly only psychos and they're too fucked in the head to notice. No one aside from you appears to have a phone anyway, so maybe it'd just be easier to make a big claim, agree with, or just... walk off? Though walking off will likely have someone knocking on your door. Maybe your mother, maybe someone else official. Maybe some dumfuck PI. Who knows. Just getting this done and you can leave to get high and kick a homeless dude's ass sounds like a more entertaining idea anyway, but ideas happen... And ideas are fucking good, so the snide and somehow-- How the fuck is this not working, this was an amazing idea. But Smith seems more pissed off and his shades come off his nose. "I think you should tell us if you killed Frank Tanner." the suit says, and there's the slightest of pressures there. You could resist it, but it's just a question; A slight nudge. A simple question. Did you or did you not? But hold the fuck on, is this guy playing Jedi now? Fuck it! Do you let the suggestion take root, or do you fight it? It's not that strong at all, but is it even worth it?
Novel doesn't have any weapons out and is starting to get aggravated. And not in a fun way. Homicide is for excitement and happiness. Now he just feels like agreeing with jamming a bunch of hard drugs and then kicking someone around or maybe finding a military boot camp so he can hang around and just vibe on the pure distilled suffering of barely voting age teens that were tricked into torture for the 'good of the country'. Oh man the drill sergeants there have it GOOD, he wishes he had thought of some of the fucking schemes some of the other assholes had all cooked up. Another official he can deal with. He can just kill and murder the body.
His mother... No. He doesn't want to deal with his mother again. Of -all- the people in his world, that's the only creature that when faced with that would make him turn tail and run or shrink down into himself. The scars run too deep. He stops, suddenly, halting perfectly in place. The question, the pressure, usually it doesn't take any effort for him to run on his words on and on and on and it's building on both sides, even though he knows anything he can say can be held against him.
They're asking about nonsense. Eidolons and other shit. Cops are full of lies. But it's not worth fighting. People are going to be trying to kill him later. He needs to reserve his strength, and so he says, "I've met plenty of Franks but never heard a Tanner." Again. The problem is he doesn't know. "You know where I was last night. But again: You should ask. " Come on. Work this time.
Novel realizes he doesn't know what an Eidolon is. He should ask Fayad.
Novel may have killed a Frank Tanner at one point. But last night? He succumbs to the suggestion. "No. I didn't harm a Frank Tanner last night."
Novel says "Ask. "
By the sound of Mr. Smith's sigh, it sounds like that's what he wanted to hear-- But he's a fed, or some shit, and cant do anything easily, because they're all spineless pricks. The suit locks eyes with Novel for a long... long moment, and there's the feeling that the fag is deciding if he should or should not believe him. Eventually though, those shades are replaced and he nods. What the fuck even just happened? Why couldn't he have just asked that in the first place. Why did these idiots bother Novel with such bullshit? Smith holds up his own phone
By the sound of Mr. Smith's sigh, it sounds like that's what he wanted to hear-- But he's a fed, or some shit, and cant do anything easily, because they're all spineless pricks. The suit locks eyes with Novel for a long... long moment, and there's the feeling that the fag is deciding if he should or should not believe him. Eventually though, those shades are replaced and he nods. What the fuck even just happened? Why couldn't he have just asked that in the first place. Why did these idiots bother Novel with such bullshit? Smith holds up his own phone; Producing it from who knows where, he snaps a pic of Novel, grunting as something on the tablet pisses him off. "Okay." the chadish Steve says, stepping back so that Broot aftershave isn't within puking distance. "Okay. I believe you. You're free to go."
Eventually, once things are cleared up, it comes to light that someone resembling Novel was pegged as a partial match for a suspect in a murder case in Boston. Novel, clearly just being some asshole prick didn't do it, and he's left alone, unutterably perplexed at why the feds couldn't just ask the simple fucking question in the first place!!!
Novel genuinely doesn't give a shit if the man doesn't believe him or not. He's so fucking done with this conversation and this pile of human slime that if the world would have any justice would have been drawn and quartered by meathooks and the slowest oxen that were physically possible to find. Eyes are met. His eyes are empty, and horrible, and the image of Mr. Smith's own torturous death reflecting back in gruesomeness. The tall tweaker prays he can read minds. He's thinking it REALLY HARD at him.
He calls, out the top of his lungs, "KEN YOU FIT DEEZ NUTS IN YOUR MOUTH,"
and then he's off again like a shot before he ends up foaming at the mouth and brutally murdering a college student. He's going elsewhere to do horrible things.
Novel has managed not to kill anyone. But only because he was literally imprisoned. A punching bag can only sate him for so long... and feds are stupid fucks. He's always known that. If they weren't they wouldn't be feds.
As the encounter unfolds, Novel faces a mysterious suit and police officers intent on interrogating him about his alleged involvement with Frank Tanner in Boston—a scenario he's clueless about due to his recent obscure and violent endeavors. Trapped in a twisted inquiry filled with insinuations and taunts, Novel resorts to deflective humor and outright denial, entangled in a web of confusion and aggression. The situation escalates into a verbal confrontation, where Novel's survival instincts and disdain for authority challenge the suit's probing. Ultimately, Novel's desperate assertion of ignorance convinces the suit, leading to an abrupt, if not perplexing, resolution allowing Novel to walk free—yet not without casting a final provocation into the air, marking a bitter end to an odd encounter that epitomizes the chaotic interplay of defiance, identity, and the enigmatic pressures of unseen forces.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Sat Aug 17 2024]
In the pharmacy
A large window separates the pharmacist, his tools, and the rows of
shelves holding various medicines. It isn't perfectly transparent or clear
and has the tendency to distort whatever is on the other side. Thin vein
like ripples run through the material. It lends an amber hue.
It is noon, about 77F(25C) degrees,
(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.
)
Novel resides within the pharmacy. He is buying drugs. Not just one or two drugs. He's buying ALL THE DRUGS. Not big doses, but small samples of literally every chem, every stimulant, every thing. The twitchy man doesn't even bother to explain himself. He probably would rant at someone if they worked up the desire to talk to the horrible creature forced into a man shape. The way he's getting it is very simple. He told them it was for a science project.
This is, technically, true.
Either way little neatly-labeled single plastic packs disappearing into the bag one after another. Despite his apparent spasming and rapid-fire chattering about "That fucking bitch ass game where the dumbfucks have given even tanks full damage but fuck them I'm going to keep playing Aatrox and hitting people in the face with a bigass demon sword because it's fucking AWESOME but holy SHIT to I hate playing into Vayne top," only a small portion of confused people - and not the pharmacist - even understand what he's talking about. The people who -do- understand either are in the same boat as him, or even deeply confused how someone who may be a homeless person knows any of this.
The pharmacy is active; Perhapse not unusually so. It's not too early in the day after all, and the weekend draws many people in to fill their prescriptions, to allow for casual purchaces and to simply take in the ambiances-- This is the city of Haven after all. Not everything is above board or even vaguely legitimate. The breeze drifts in, slowly circulated via the enshittened quality of the air conditioning, the sterile scents and abrupt clinical coloration creating an ambiance that can best be described as "Oh-god-fuck-not-again" to anyone suffering from the cripling lack of inhabition granted from substances that can most pleasurably be identified as "mind bending." when used casually. Yet, even in the narcotically active active portions of the clinic... Like for example here, where the unfortunates who have been driven bat-shit-craycray congregate for their day passes and or for good boy point tallies to be checked for day release, not all is as it seems. For as the likely-possibly-perhapse paurper steadily fills his bag- Hey, it's a free country after all- And one where capitalism rules and questions arn't asked so long as the cash keeps-a-flowing, some- The youth and the fourty year old virgines first and foremost were paying attention. Though curiously, one person seems out of place. A gentleman in an aggressively governmentaly issued -non descript- suit leans against a wall, his Mr. Smith-esque shades shielding the half a face that's not obscured by today's- It has to be said, very fresh Haven gazette.
The air though is punctuated with the smells of many pressed-together people; Older, younger, washed and unwashed, but nothing quite so clawing as the scent of gun oil poorly masked with the vintage Broot that is likewise drawn through the room, kicking and screaming with the impitus born of insipid professionalism. It's out of place here, among the clinical fragrances, the sweat-riddled -inmates- and, of course, the sterile baseline, steady footfalls and the hum of conversation all around. But more than that. There's the sound of a police radio from not too far off. It's most certainly not the intercome, and is that Mr. Smith look-alike surreptitiously keeping his shrouded gaze on you?
Novel has an erratic series of sleeping habits to begin with, and day and time passing before or behind him is mostly a trajectory of which drugs he's been taking, how long, how often, and how much caffeine has gone with his diet. The awfulness is par and parcel with most places he's been in and he fits right in, though the astringent scents and the closed in feelings of the walls makes him more jittery and more homicidal than usual. It's also been a whole day since his last 'fix' of stabbing someone in the face, back with the operations with killing all those templar operatives and handfuckers. It may have been some weird mental psionic bullshit but it's usually 'good enough' for him to tide him over to go int he woods and force something to painfully bleed. And some of those narcotics - well, he enjoys partaking himself. He's leaning what shit does! Nobody explains to him anything not that he would even pause long enough to ask and the man loves his money. And his drugs for money. Simultaneously, he hates that money exist in the first place and the whole structures INCLUDING some dumb motherfucking suit who thinks he's being cute by being a fly on the wall.
Yeah. He sees you. He knows you're there.
His head rotates on a swivel, his nose twitching. Violence. Exciting, delighted violence. His pupils dilate and his heartrate subtly goes up as he turns himself this way and that. Beyond the sterility. He hears it. An -intimately- familiar crackle. The man was arrested just yesterday after all. He didn't let them search his bag and continually insisted on a lawyer and you would be hard pressed to make a case work for someone who, having purchased the product directly from the shop, was then using the same outlet's workbench to adjust the sights on his shiny new crossbow. They didn't have a case and so they had to let them go. But that doesn't mean...
Isn't remember and not pissed off. He steps through the crowd. He's used to dealing with sheep. Determined glare, slow steps, walking against the crowd. Parting. He beelines towards that sound. Is it coming from the lookalike? Maybe. There's too many people in the way to say. But the noise, the sound, like a predatory dog, he beelines towards.
The man inconspicuously turns a page; Sport, funny page? It doesn't really matter now does it, because he's certainly watching you. There's that subtle shift, the transition from pads of his feet to the balls- And yes, there it is, for this gentleman, in spite of being fully adorned with the perfectly innocuous garb of your every day civil servent is not wearing the matching slightly skuffed, and mutch commented on wing tips. To the contrary. It's easy for one brawler to notice another, and this man is spoiling for a fight. He's been ready for some time, apparently, and as he notices you noticing him noticing you, he smiles; A thin grim line as he decides upon you as his Neo. Quite aside from the expected throwing of hands however, the gentleman straightens, wide shoulders set, legs apart, the paper set to one side as he lets his hands hover at his sides. The shades arn't removed though. His expression doesn't change and he simply waits for you to near him, the thrusting of his chin suggesting that he's fully aware of how this goes- And he's ready. Listening as you are though, that crackle of static comes again. It's not from this man, but from more than one place. Not near, but close enough that the potential is there for an aspiring group of feds to rush their happy asses in and beat down a less-than-upstanding citizen for any number of charges really-- Will it be assault? Will it be disturbing the peace? Who knows. The only thing that's certain is that sanctuary is in play.
Novel is given pause. Angry, yes. Homicidal, yes. But a survivor. Even when running into four people or a horde of dog-sized rats he's always reasonably certain he can come out the other side with enough bits intact to grow back. It's the noise. The background static. The hiss that radiates from everyone except the man before him like a nest of snakes in the grass.
He loves snakes. They're delicious.
But he HATES fucking cops.
In stark contrast as his hands flex. Once, twice, thrice, clenching those big mitts as he apparently sizes up the man before him. But his mouth open. He tastes the air. He hates prison. And...
He's full of Depnastifen and Gunesiclone, which have some interesting effects. He feels near-murderous rage boiling below the surface, an endless simmer, and despises everything in the Sheriff department. A memory harkens back. A whispered word. Favors, owed, someone who has given him more than what he deserves.
What would Fayad want him to do?
He stands there awkwardly, no longer looking at the faceless suit and staring somewhere over his shoulder, his head jittering back and forth, as if the drugs he's on are wearing off or something else is taking hold.
Novel then suddenly focuses, a disturbing, eerie effect of clarity, a different kind of drug penetrating from the normal illegal uppers and downwers, hypnosis drugs that makes one more reliant and pliable of their effect harkening back from someone who isn't even there. He says, very quietly, "I fucked your mom," to the suit. And then he turns on heal, intent on stomping away, even angrier than before. The boss BETTER take him out killing tonight.
There's a conspicuous sound now; The steady foot fall, the scent of Broot growing more and more clawing. The suit is following. There's not even a question of that, though there's not an attempt to collar... yet. The way parts of course. Who's going to stand in the way of a preditor? The feeling of suffering grows. There are a lot of people fearful here and it of course makes you feel good-- Great-- enraptured by the state of those around who vilify you. But for now, there's no escape ahead of you. There are officers out there. They're not even hiding. Not deputies. To the contrary, these look like hardened men and they're ready to rock. They are blocking your way, four men and the suit catches up. "Hey now." he says in a gentle barratone. "You're not leaving now are you? You've still not finished telling your story. League of Legends right? Maybe there's a fishing story to come after." It's not even a question. These people -know- about you. They're doing it to antagonize you. Get you mad enough to make mistakes.
You make it as far as the door of the pharmacy before you spot agents, and as you do, the suit catches up. The scent of Broot, the chadish toxicity of a complete Steve at your back and ahead, THE MAN- And in force. They're not blocking you -yet- but they're most certainly waiting on -someone-.
Novel feels high on life right now. He's not going to jail. He just, figuratively, pissed on a bunch of goddamn pinko commie nazi shoes, even though that makes zero sense as he strings together hate words to wield into a weapon for the explicit purpose to attack, attack, attack. Even his tongue a tool to inflict violence and pain. As he steps away down the narrow corridor to the waiting room, people parting.
And then he's drawn up short by a bunch of those dumb motherfuckers who are doing their best to commit suicide by Novel. He wishes he had a grenade right then and there. He wishes his sword was in his hand and they were out in the woods and he could hack the head off a few and then force them to torture each other.
Delightful fantasies.
Focus, Novel. Diplomacy. There's nothing more that he hates more than having to do diplomacy that isn't the rubber hose and lead pipe style. For such an anti-social maniac he sure does play a game that requires team coordination and basic communication skills. One of those little bits of sugar, distancing themselves from life.
The real problem is the crystal meth that it's in his bag. It weighs heavily. He's still mad. He wants to violently torture them. He pauses. A memory. Another deputy, on her knees, suddenly surfaces.
Novel brings up the phone, flicking his thumb over it. He angles it. There's a soft, subtle click. Aimed right at the speaking man's badge before him. And then he lowers it with the horrible smile and soulless eyes of something that's been pulled from the depths of hell and stuffed into a human shell.
He offers a wink, and then, he starts to whistle to himself cheerfully, thumbing a text as he attempts to walk away, ignoring them.
That collaring does land at that. The scent of Broot, the hand on Novel's shoulder, a shaking of the head and still all very casual. "Let's stop a little my man." the man suggests-- But it's not a suggestion. His aftershave is thick, pungent and it does mask- for any without supernatural senses- the gun oil, but nothing can mask the pervasive voice of a Steve in full swing. The tone is dickish, overly friendly and his Chad is on full show as he sidles up to give his -victim- the stink eye- Possibly forgetting about the shades, but why would a man like this remove them? It would detract from the cool that he's projecting, like skunk shit from his very being. "We just want a quick word with you. Maybe you wanna remove that cap for us. Maybe you wanna tell us about your latest dungeon run, or raid, or what ever you kids call that shit. Maybe you fancy talking about that fish you landed-- You know the one..." This is joined by a smile that could freeze hell over. "The big one you caught over in Bostin last night. That one that has an investigation going on around it because of how noticable it was, right? You know, that one." And the suit goes on. The destraction? Questioning? Torture! As the agents take notice. They don't close in -yet- though there are signs they're ready to move if provoked to it.
"Bostin" This douchebag is even trying to be cute now. Dumfuck accent and all. The next time is a reminder, "Bostiiiiin." It's joined by a finger snap, but there's no way Novel was in Boston last night, on account of having been arrested in Haven. Something is very wrong.
Novel instinctively moves to shake if off. A shrugging. It doesn't go, as if to casually brush off the overimportant shit as he stares blankly at the man and his snapping, the fingers getting him to clench his jaw and bare his teeth. His thumb flicks up - down. The SNAP of the phone closing. But the green light is still on. It's set to record. Not that it matters. The entire college is crammed with cameras in every corner except in those tiny special rooms that are in certain places that they use for their very 'special' guests and not criminals.
Novel... isn't so sure. There was that thing. That event. That attack. That weird dream state, where everyone's picked up, pulled from their bodies, forms on the floor, but very real weapons appearing in their hands. Scions told him to go.
So he went.
But, internally, he doesn't know. Where he actually was. He remembers the soldiers in their strange, powered armor. He remembers the faceless black-suited corporate goons that made this little fuck look like an ant while having fully automatic weapons in their hands, fanning out and putting bullets in his chest.
He remembers the chaos, the shouted orders, the zap of tasers, the callout of various people, the dying wolf's blood on his hands, the quiet sighs and gurgles that follows professional activity.
He remembers brimstone and sulphur, fire blazing past and towards him, charging a man with sword in hand while feeling glee.
He remembers precisely the taste and scent of smell of ozone and crackling electricity as they were surrounded by power cables and a humming server box in an ice-cold place near a river.
But he realizes... he didn't know where he actually -was-. Just the murder and the blood.
This fact doesn't bother him in the slightest.
He reminisces over it with thrill and pleasure, starting to zone out to what the man is saying and doing.
Novel lets his mouth and another part of his brain take over, the screaming, spewing obscenities that is automatic to any toxic as fuck online gamer that have spent their lives simmered in the deepest cesspools of 4chan and newgrounds back in their hayday, where the game was to show everyone you knew another fresh horror in an attempt to casually destroy each other's psyche.
For fun.
"Let go of me you stupid fucking faggot I know you like touching yourself all the time dreaming of how you can get rodded down by government paperwork while sobbing none of the women in the college are willing to even speak to you, there's cameras everywhere and you're acting like a fucking child toucher is that what you are? A child toucher? Do you molest children? Is that what you like doing? Is that why you're touching me? You belong in a goddamn woodchipper and if you keep being a stupid gay-ass handfucker and I'll call my friends to obliterate you if you keep violating my personal goddamn space I know my rights around here this is AMERICA motherfucker."
"We've been watching you, Novel." Mr. Smith repeats. "The failed job at the call center. The homelessness. The job at the Great News Center and all. Your stints in various locations- All failed and the curious thing is, you're always at the baseline of violence. So tell us what we need to know and we can make this go easy." The suit waves a hand. "The boys here really want to hear your story, too. It'd make their day." Then he leans in to whisper. "If you tell us what we want, we can even conveniently lose your bag on the way. What you got in there anyway? Weed, meth, V?" Then he works with another tact. "You could always tell us about Fayad. You could give me a nice long story about the Scions brainwashing the poor, about Gonthorian. We know about the eidolon, too. But we just want answers about this." And he moves back, smiling in that cockcrunching way of all fags who work for THE MAN. "But we just want to know about Bostiiiiiiiin." Again, it's drawn out. Again, deliberately antagonizing. The suit doesn't do more than letting Novel go, making a show of brushing his back down. Then, he flashes a warrant. "Fancy talking to us now? Because what I heard there was hate crimes. And against an official. That cant be what I heard, right." The air is left for Novel to fill in the narrative. Boston. He only wants to know about Boston.
Novel gets drawn back from the wonderful daydream of his sword managing to hook into a white-suited armored man and then ripping all his steaming guts onto the floor as blood splashed everywhere before he disappointingly disappeared and dragged back out in whatever bullshit that Mr. Smith is talking that he no longer cares about. His eyes dance around. Someone far away might mistake it for seeking a way out. The cops close notice that they're finally focusing on reality, dancing between their hands, their holsters. Do they even have their guns out? He's in stabbing range. Knives are legal carry.
Amateur move. Then he realizes he -is- one of the amateurs. He really needs more combat practice. Wait, sorry, he was saying something. His face twitches erratically as his gaze wanders back onto the suit's face, tensing briefly as he reaches for something, his shoulders raising and his spine prickling in outrage at the touch. Then his shoulders slump. Oh. It's just a stupid fucking piece of paper. What a tease, getting him all worked up for nothing.
Novel finally focuses on Smith's face as the man who's not even all the way there and finds his own internal conversation then whatever bullshit THE MAN is trying to spew. Uh. What'd he say? ...Call center. Homelessness. Yep, okay, boring, he wonders if his mother sent these chucklefucks to check in on him. Nah, she's more competent than that probably. Offering drugs - nope, he tried that once, went in the slammer for awhile and there's no WAY he's giving up his shit to these cunts to try and use as evidence. Man why the fuck do they care about Fayad? And Gonthorian just wants to set everything on fire which is metal as hell.
"Dragons are awesome," He says, reacting to... nothing? Something? Is he even listening? One eye lazily shifts to the left on it's own.
"Depends did an official commit an assault on a student by touching them or did I just tell you the truth and now all your friends know about you too. Ask my lawyer to sort your own paperwork."
Novel wanders back into the lovely fugue-street mayhem of planning what he's going to do with the indirect access to the paperwork and the fact he's got pictures of their deputy badges with his camera. Now THIS one is getting the broken glass and THIS one is going to get the acid and THIS one he's going to hunt him for sport and THIS one he's going to see how many organs you need to stay alive, I mean really, you have duplicates of most of them and THAT one.
Oh boy, he has special plans for that one. His legs start to move, jittery, starting to walk again. If they had something they would have grabbed him.
Spreading his hands helplessly, the suit offers that dickish grin again. "Convince me you wern't there. Convince me we shouldn't bring you in. Convince me to drop it and the violence, the eidolon, the drugs. We can drop it all. We're only here about Frank Tanner." The man snaps his fingers to punctuate this- And once more, he makes 'Boston' sound like a joke; Something he does with great relish. "Bowwwwwstiiiiiin." -- It may possibly be that they suspect Novel of having some involvement with someone named Frank Tanner in Boston. In fact, it's not possible, but even alleged. The -police- don't have weapons out yet, their batons are on their belts, their guns holstered. It might simply be that they need confirmation or denial of identity. Maybe that's why Mr. Smith asked about the removal of that cap earlier. Who the fuck knows. They're not making mutch sense here.
Novel is starting to get a headache from all this fucking thinking, the pills he took from the pharmacy wore off, he doesn't have any smokes or alcohol, and the hangover from sobriety is starting to push in and that tiny voice in his head is talking again that he has tried to murder several times.
It is not his conscience. He doesn't have one of those.
It is, however, telling him that maybe he should try taking less drugs because THAT way he'll have more time to murder people now that he's in a job that is happy to tell him to murder people instead of being imprisoned for it. He hates being patient almost as much jail cells. But the voice has a point.
He's tells the voice to go fuck itself even though it's right and does it have any other stupid fucking advice that will help him run a blade through the cunt in front of him and eat his heart. He's saying something about crossbows.
No, the voice explains patiently. He's asking about Boston. And Frank Tanner. Who the fuck is Frank Tanner? He's got an idea.
No, don't do that the voice says.
"Oh yeah Frank I heard about a Frank from a guy from another guy that he was hanging out with Ken earlier."
Mr. Smith follows on- And obnoxious, his friends are following as Novel weaves through the croud. It's beginning to draw a croud- But fuck it. It's mostly only psychos and they're too fucked in the head to notice. No one aside from you appears to have a phone anyway, so maybe it'd just be easier to make a big claim, agree with, or just... walk off? Though walking off will likely have someone knocking on your door. Maybe your mother, maybe someone else official. Maybe some dumfuck PI. Who knows. Just getting this done and you can leave to get high and kick a homeless dude's ass sounds like a more entertaining idea anyway, but ideas happen... And ideas are fucking good, so the snide and somehow-- How the fuck is this not working, this was an amazing idea. But Smith seems more pissed off and his shades come off his nose. "I think you should tell us if you killed Frank Tanner." the suit says, and there's the slightest of pressures there. You could resist it, but it's just a question; A slight nudge. A simple question. Did you or did you not? But hold the fuck on, is this guy playing Jedi now? Fuck it! Do you let the suggestion take root, or do you fight it? It's not that strong at all, but is it even worth it?
Novel doesn't have any weapons out and is starting to get aggravated. And not in a fun way. Homicide is for excitement and happiness. Now he just feels like agreeing with jamming a bunch of hard drugs and then kicking someone around or maybe finding a military boot camp so he can hang around and just vibe on the pure distilled suffering of barely voting age teens that were tricked into torture for the 'good of the country'. Oh man the drill sergeants there have it GOOD, he wishes he had thought of some of the fucking schemes some of the other assholes had all cooked up. Another official he can deal with. He can just kill and murder the body.
His mother... No. He doesn't want to deal with his mother again. Of -all- the people in his world, that's the only creature that when faced with that would make him turn tail and run or shrink down into himself. The scars run too deep. He stops, suddenly, halting perfectly in place. The question, the pressure, usually it doesn't take any effort for him to run on his words on and on and on and it's building on both sides, even though he knows anything he can say can be held against him.
They're asking about nonsense. Eidolons and other shit. Cops are full of lies. But it's not worth fighting. People are going to be trying to kill him later. He needs to reserve his strength, and so he says, "I've met plenty of Franks but never heard a Tanner." Again. The problem is he doesn't know. "You know where I was last night. But again: You should ask
Novel realizes he doesn't know what an Eidolon is. He should ask Fayad.
Novel may have killed a Frank Tanner at one point. But last night? He succumbs to the suggestion. "No. I didn't harm a Frank Tanner last night."
Novel says "Ask
By the sound of Mr. Smith's sigh, it sounds like that's what he wanted to hear-- But he's a fed, or some shit, and cant do anything easily, because they're all spineless pricks. The suit locks eyes with Novel for a long... long moment, and there's the feeling that the fag is deciding if he should or should not believe him. Eventually though, those shades are replaced and he nods. What the fuck even just happened? Why couldn't he have just asked that in the first place. Why did these idiots bother Novel with such bullshit? Smith holds up his own phone
By the sound of Mr. Smith's sigh, it sounds like that's what he wanted to hear-- But he's a fed, or some shit, and cant do anything easily, because they're all spineless pricks. The suit locks eyes with Novel for a long... long moment, and there's the feeling that the fag is deciding if he should or should not believe him. Eventually though, those shades are replaced and he nods. What the fuck even just happened? Why couldn't he have just asked that in the first place. Why did these idiots bother Novel with such bullshit? Smith holds up his own phone; Producing it from who knows where, he snaps a pic of Novel, grunting as something on the tablet pisses him off. "Okay." the chadish Steve says, stepping back so that Broot aftershave isn't within puking distance. "Okay. I believe you. You're free to go."
Eventually, once things are cleared up, it comes to light that someone resembling Novel was pegged as a partial match for a suspect in a murder case in Boston. Novel, clearly just being some asshole prick didn't do it, and he's left alone, unutterably perplexed at why the feds couldn't just ask the simple fucking question in the first place!!!
Novel genuinely doesn't give a shit if the man doesn't believe him or not. He's so fucking done with this conversation and this pile of human slime that if the world would have any justice would have been drawn and quartered by meathooks and the slowest oxen that were physically possible to find. Eyes are met. His eyes are empty, and horrible, and the image of Mr. Smith's own torturous death reflecting back in gruesomeness. The tall tweaker prays he can read minds. He's thinking it REALLY HARD at him.
He calls, out the top of his lungs, "KEN YOU FIT DEEZ NUTS IN YOUR MOUTH,"
and then he's off again like a shot before he ends up foaming at the mouth and brutally murdering a college student. He's going elsewhere to do horrible things.
Novel has managed not to kill anyone. But only because he was literally imprisoned. A punching bag can only sate him for so long... and feds are stupid fucks. He's always known that. If they weren't they wouldn't be feds.