Encounterlogs
Valeries Odd Encounter Sr Victor 241103
In the mysterious town of Haven, Valerie and Vindicta, officers with a special task, find themselves entangled in a precarious situation when John Baker, an ex-cop turned private investigator, uncovers the supernatural underworld they're part of. Baker, determined and bruised from his capture, confronts the deputies with undeniable evidence of supernatural beings - vampires, werewolves, and fae, documented meticulously over a year of dangerous investigation. Despite his aggressive and insulting manner, particularly towards Vindicta, he remains steadfast in his conviction to expose the hidden world he's stumbled upon, even at the risk of his own life.
As Valerie handles Baker with a balance of threat and negotiation, suggesting he could work under their directives, Vindicta matches her partner's intensity, offering no sympathy to Baker's self-righteous martyrdom. The tense standoff is interrupted by a Temple official, their arrival signaled by a charismatic entrance. Quickly, the situation is resolved as Baker is sedated and taken into Temple custody, leaving the potential for his cooperation - or further punishment - hanging in the balance. Valerie and Vindicta, relieved of their charge, plan to retreat to more mundane concerns, like linguistic lessons and the prospect of carrot cake, a much-needed reprieve from the supernatural frontlines. Their dynamic partnership, bound by duty and tinged with an undercurrent of mutual respect and care, showcases their commitment to maintaining the delicate veil between the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen, in Haven.
(Valerie's odd encounter(SRVictor):SRVictor)
[Sat Nov 2 2024]
In a warm, softly lit bedroom with an electric fireplace
The bedroom exudes comfort and luxury, illuminated by the flickering
glow of an electric fireplace and the soft light of a crystal bright
chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Large windows framed by thick
and flowing beige curtains, let in glimpses of the world beyond. The
centerpiece of the room is a plush, oversized bed, piled high to the
top with layers of soft pillows, thick duvets and a cozy fur blanket
in neutral shades of ivory, taupe, and cream, inviting relaxation at
any time of day with easy supply of comfort no matter where you lay.
A fluffy sheepskin rug spreads beneath the bed, creating texture and
comfort underfoot. On either side of the bed, round nightstands hold
a mix of glowing candles and small decorative vases filled with wilt
flowers, their arrangement contributing to the total serenity of the
bedroom. A small seating area by the electric fireplace has pillows,
throws and more that create a cozy nook for enjoying electric warmth
It is afternoon, about 43F(6C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.
(An amateur paranormal investigator has stumbled onto the truth of the supernatural world and has evidence. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
The bedroom feels like a cocoon on this chilly afternoon, a pocket of warmth wrapped in soft hues and delicate comforts that seem to lull the senses. Outside, a cold breeze rattles bare branches against the windows on the first floor apartment on the northern side, while the thick curtains keep the chill firmly at bay, allowing only faint gray light to filter in. Its a light that seems to soften the room's edges, making the bed's inviting mass of pillows and blankets look like the only right place to be on a day like this.
The electric fireplace crackles gently, its glow shifting across the plush layers of bedding and casting soft, flickering shadows up the walls. The oversized bed, piled high with ivory and taupe duvets, looks like a refuge from the world, a sanctuary of warmth on an overcast day. And nearby, the sheepskin rug, soft and warm underfoot, adds to the sense that stepping too far from this spot would be abandoning luxury itself.
A small seating area near the fireplace brims with pillows and throws, creating a perfect nook where one might lose hours curled up with a book or just watching the fire dance. The wilted flowers on the nightstand give a touch of muted color and stillness, as if caught in the pause of an afternoon nap. Its the sort of room that seems to defy time, as if a long, lazy stretch of hours could pass here without notice.
But the stillness breaks as the soft hum of a phone begins to vibrate on the nightstand, its insistent pulse an unwelcome reminder of duty and the outside world. The caller ID reads the Sheriffs department, the screen casting a faint glow that pulls Valerie from the comfort of the moment. The departments call cuts through the tranquil silence, hinting at a disruption waiting beyond this calm - a private investigator causing a stir, now held in the interrogation room.
Elsewhere in the quiet corners of Haven, an old diner sits on the edge of town, its neon lights casting a muted pink and blue glow on the cracked sidewalk. The overcast sky hangs low, pressing down heavy clouds, draining color from the streets below. Fallen leaves gather in restless clusters along the curbs, rustling in the light wind and scattering with each gust.
The diner's tall windows are fogged over, blurring the silhouettes of patrons inside, hunched over cups of coffee or leaning close in quiet conversation. A faint smell of burnt coffee and a lingering hint of exhaust from a nearby truck waft through the air, adding a worn, lived-in feel to the scene. Everything about the moment feels suspended, as if the town itself is holding its breath.
Suddenly, a radio crackles to life in one of the cars parked just outside the diner, breaking the subdued calm. A voice relays a call to meet with Officer Valerie in the station's interrogation room - assistance needed for a cross-examination with a troublesome private investigator, delivered to Vindicta. Whatever they may do from here on, they have their orders - and it could only be something of a supernatural nature if the special deputies are being called in to question this investigator.
Valerie's eyes crack open, lids heavy from the early morning hours spent on duty, and the vibration of the phone on her nightstand feels like the only unwelcome thing in the entire sanctuary of her shared bedroom. She sighs, lifting herself out of the warm, cocoon-like comcofrt of her bed, squinting against the intrusive lighting of midday as she checks the screen. She watches the name flash there a moment, contemplating the call of mild irritation before sighing. "Of course," she murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. She forces herself up, stretching her arms out and lingering just a little longer in the warmth of the bed, before she throws on clothes, ties her hair back, mentally preparing herself to deal with what awaits her at the station. She grabs her classic lady's companion, a standard issue Glock 19 from the nightstand drawer, and takes her keys, boots, and badge before heading out the door.
Vindicta is more than likely far closer than she is to respond to the call, so the details are forwarded to her partner, with the heavy caveat that she take it easy since she is still recovering from her recent injury in the line of duty. And she means HEAVY EMPHASIS ON TAKING IT EASY.
It's true- Vindicta is already at White Oak, mid-conversation with a tall, dark-haired man named William when he pops her a question that makes her visibly uncomfortable. She's already looking for reasons to flee when dispatch calls out, followed by a text or email incoming from Valerie, which is scanned over loosely- take it easy? She always takes it easy. This makes no sense. In one eye and out the other it goes as her excuse to run off comes by the grace of what can only be considered Fae luck on her part. "Bianchini must go," she tells the strange, pale man without answering his question. "Work do. Much paperwork, yes?" she explains, and before the guy can respond or ask to come along, or even observe, she bolts a few paces west down the Union hallway, hooking a sharp left into the police department and following that dingy but otherwise clean hallway south until she's eagerly bumping one of her voluptuous hips against the door with a twist of the handle.
"Deputy Bianchini," she introduces herself, glancing around the interrogation room to seek both the Private Investigator and the suspect as she awaits the arrival of her partner in busting crime. "Status?"
Call of duty waits for no one, nor does it care for their agitation, discomfort, or injury. Valerie, with her own quiet preparation, and Vindicta following suit on foot after disentangling from someone unrelated - they're both informed and leading to their workplace. It's an uneventful drive for Valerie, full of annoying drivers if nothing else. The sort they really should give a ticket to - if only they were regular officers. Alas, it isn't either of their departments to write parking tickets, even if Vindicta seems like she might have a bunny-like knack for it.
The Sheriff's department in Haven is a place that speaks to both tradition and practicality, designed to function as a quiet but unyielding cornerstone of the town. The main room is spacious but efficiently arranged, with well-used desks lined up in neat rows, each one personalized in subtle ways - coffee mugs, stacks of paperwork, and the occasional small photo frame. The walls are adorned with faded photographs of Havens history: monochrome images of the towns founders, snapshots of past officers, and even a framed, sepia-toned photograph of the station itself from decades ago when it was a separate building, far cry in looks to its current state.
Flickering fluorescent lights cast a cool, even glow across the room, illuminating the scuffed, faded floor tiles that form a subtle checker pattern. To the right, a few sturdy filing cabinets line the wall, each drawer labeled with neat but faded handwriting, marking years of records and reports. In the back corner, a hallway branches off, leading deeper. The atmosphere shifts as one walks down this narrow corridor; it's quieter here, the sound of footsteps slightly muffled by an old runner carpet that stretches down its length. Faintly yellowed walls close in just a bit tighter, lit by small, square wall sconces spaced every few feet, casting a dim, amber glow that barely reaches the floor. At the end of this hallway, a single door stands slightly ajar - the entrance to the interrogation room that Vindicta bumps open with her hip.
Just before the door, a small, compact waiting area holds two sturdy chairs set against the wall and a battered, wooden side table stacked with outdated magazines. The area feels forgotten, as if it rarely sees use beyond the occasional observer or a waiting officer. The hallway's silence deepens here, creating a sense of separation from the busier front of the station. The scent of stale coffee and faint disinfectant hangs in the air. In the main desk, in the middle, sits a man that has been liberated of much. His slightly rain-damp shirt and tie speaks of a jacket taken from him, and his hands are cuffed together to a notch in the center of the table, one of them holding cigarette that he has to lean all the way down to to steal a drag. Beside the ashtray that's already half-way full, a plethora of foldered documents lay haphazardly across the metal expanse of the desk.
No one replies to the first deputy that's here - that information will come with her partner. Who, in fact, is getting a debrief message on her way here. A simple document forwarded to her phone detailing the capture of a man in his late twenties, John Baker, caucasian, dark hair, blue eyes, tall, ex-cop turned private eye. Mostly employed to snap pictures of cheating husbands or wives and reporting back. Grimy sort of work, but one that makes someone like him eager for a lucky break. His folder goes into detail as to what it is: he chased a trail of a broken heart all the way here, and snapped a few pictures he shouldn't have of a vampire feeding on an enthralled woman. Sad state of affairs, but it is enough to off on and fix whatever damage was done on their own terms, if they can.
"You're the third today." John gruffly, distastefully, speaks towards Vindicta without lifting his head. Face full of bruises, a split lip. His capture was not a pretty one, evidently, but it is no deterrent to him testing the limits of his cuffs to take a long, pained drag of his cigarette, and blow it out with his words. "What the fuck do you want? Here to fill me with more lies?"
Valerie arrives not long after Vindicta into the all too familiar interrogation room, the persistent odor of mildew welcoming her like home. She strides in, pushing the door shut behind her before giving a faint nod of acknowledgement to Vindicta. Her eyes are set on John Baker, taking in his profile, the busted lip, and bruised countenance. She exhales slowly, adjusting the chair across from him with a precise tug, the scrape of metal against tile punctuating the silence as she takes a seat. Cool gray eyes settle on the battered man as she studies his bruises and the impatient drag she takes of his cigarette. "Mister Baker, we're not here to waste your time or ours," she begins, a measured calm and quiet authority always present with the deputy, motioning Vindicta to join her. "You're a smart man, so let's save the theatrics. I understand you've seen something that concerns you. So let's address it ... honestly."
Vindicta does not choose to sit despite coming to Valerie's side, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her pants as she observes John with the pallid pink eyes of your run of the mill albino, albeit a bit more animalistic in their hue than is normal, a solid pink rather than a scattering of different pigments of it.His gruff greeting of her is not taken negatively- in fact, she makes a few hypothesis of her own in retort: "Much ash in tray. Been here long while, so agitated. Bianchini understand. Bianchini apologize you wait so long," she says, her accent having only the slightest inflection of Italian due to her English teacher, just enough to make it all that much more feminine in delivery, higher in the throat. "Name.. John Baker. P.I., catch cheaters.. Not fun work. Want be taken seriously," she levels with him, barely taller than the man when he sits down and she stands up, but she speaks to him as though they were on even footing regardless. "Bianchini understand," she explains. "Bianchini not take serious either, see? Very small, people think dumb, or weak. Bianchini neither. But most not give Bianchini chance to prove. Sad for Bianchini. Sad for John Baker," says the albino babe as she lets Valerie handle the Understanding business, choosing to soften the conversation with a bit of personable talk and relation.
emote "Okay." John waits. He has no qualms with waiting, he's not agitated, just pissed off, beaten, battered. Another drag of his cigarette, and words blow out of his mouth in a cascade towards Vindicta first. "You, shut the fuck up, 'special' deputy." An overt, not so little jab at the way the officer speaks, then his together hands point over at Valerie. Her measured and calm authority doesn't do enough to dent the old cop, "And you, are full of shit."
His cigarette is tipped into the tray to dispel the excess ash, then both hands rise up while his hand dips to rub along his jaw over a few days old stubble. If he wasn't as badly roughened as he was, he might've been looking charming with a devil may care attitude. Though, that attitude doesn't extend to the subject at hand. "You know full well why I'm fucking here, I wouldn't be surprised if you two were in on it." He tries to reach forward at the scattered folders next, but a harsh jangle of his cuffs stills his hands, his reach, and he resorts to just pointing. "I''ll tell you what I told others," His words cut through with animosity. "I saw it - I took a photo, and I shot it. I fucking know, so how about /you/ save the theatrics, tell me what that is."
Should Valerie open the nearest folder, she'd find a series of photographs affixed to paper, documenting practically everything. His research had been thorough, grimly at that - because the first folder is about a vampire. Dating nearly months back, the pictures leading to a cultivated moment of it feeding on a poor woman quite gruesomely. The sight suggests a lack of sanctuary - most likely not taken in Haven. The man's face is heavily blurred, distorted, off-putting like it might crawl out of the papers if someone so much as blinked. The rest follow suit. A man with yellow eyes and a bestial nature, wolven mien - another with red eyes and cloven hooves cavorting with a woman, Fae no doubt, who looks like she's out of an elven cosplay, except, no doubt its all genuine. Undisputable proof of a lot of things, especially with another picture of a pack of mermaids spread out on jagged rocks that seem like they were taken from miles away with a carefully selected lens.
The perpetrator of it all, John's camera, sits right next to his hands on the table. Practically broken, down to every lens scattered around it, and it looks like a fortune lost with how expensive those things come by. "I've been on this trail for a fucking year, and the day I chase another here, I get fucking caught? Don't play with me, this place is a fucking den of monsters and I refuse to believe you or the government knows about it." The cold certainty in his tone cuts forward, through ground teeth, and even his fingers curl into fists upon one another. Crush his cigarette against his palm and snuff it out.
Valerie watches Baker's outburst with an unflinching poise, her eyes following his every motion. She lets a beat of silence linger in the air, allowing his anger to settle before she speaks. Without lowering her gaze, she shifts her hand to the folder and flips it open, skimming over the images he's collected with a clinical neutrality that hides the weight of what she's seeing. Finally, she closes the folder with a soft snap, fingers pressed against its edges as she glances aside to Vindicta out of the corner of her eye.
"Mister Baker," she begins tentatively, weighing out her words, deciding her approach. "I'll make one thing clear... you're not wrong to take your work seriously. But in your profession, you know that all information, no matter how urgently, has to be handled properly." she glances to the mess of broken lenses and scattered images, her fingers still pressed against the folder. "This line of work you've taken up has brought you into unconventional circumstances."
She allows him a moment to absorb her words, acknowledging his suspicions without fanning the flames of his anger. "However, she continues, her voice sharpening slightly. "the fact remains that you're pursuing a lead that's going to get you killed, frankly put. My partner her is only helping you by making sure you leave without a ... deeper involvement than you already have. For your own protection." She nods briefly to Vindicta, not missing a beat before leaning forward slightly, her gaze fixed and piercing. "What is it you're looking for out of this? To expose it all, paint a target on your back for you and the people you care about, or are you wanting answers? A real sense of purpose instead of chasing down broken hearts and cheating puttanas?""
The strange inflection that John adds to 'special' has Vindicta confused- it's a good word, but he speaks it with venome, and so she must assume it has a negative connotation. But what? Her brows furrow deeply enough that they shift the shape of her balaclava along her forehead, and her voice is soft as she counters, seeming to match stride with Valerie for now. "Shame," says the SWAT officer with a loose shrug of her shoulders. "Bianchini maybe put in good word with department. Need more detective. Need more investigator. But... John Baker bad attitude. Not make good asset. Bad Deputy, always yell and insult. Not make progress. Very gum shoe behavior, not care if professional or not. Bring shame on Department if join," she sighs softly, pushing a hip out to the side as she stands alongside the sitting form of Valerie. "Man get good info. John Baker work hard.. Research much. Feel bad, but... Likely must wipe all away. Make forget. Go back to cigarette for breakfast and beer for dinner." These words come with a sidelong glance to her partner, a little bump as the rabbit takes some small pleasure in turning the tables on the man's insults, keeping a professional air while dangling him a carrot on a stick that keeps getting longer and longer the ruder he is.
John can do nothing but stare - even his attempt to answer Valerie is stilled in the moment of his near dumbfounded expression staring at Vindicta. It takes some time, but his hands open, the snuffed out cigarette drops onto the table, and in his quietitude, he reaches for the back again. Drags it along the table with the tips of his fingers, and liberates one to lay between his teeth. The pack is replaced with a lighter with which he lights his poison, and soon discarded - where he takes a long, long drag of his smoke.
It's blow towards Valerie, words following suit. "Don't translate that for me, I don't want to fucking know what she's talking about." More jabbed insults, ruthless ignorance, SRVictor drags his tongue over his busted lower lip and sits straighter instead to stare hard at Valerie. "You're afraid to speak up, she's afraid to speak up - everyone is afraid to speak up. This world needs whistleblowers like me. Good talk, officer." He spits his words with venom, "But the talk about 'someone you love might get hurt' bullshit doesn't fly." The ex-cop points over at the pages with his newly lit cigarette again. "That is years of research. I jumped into this rabbit hole, and I'm going to see it through." Even if it costs him his life, with a zealot-like drive. "So cut to the chase. You clearly know what all this shit is about, more than I do."
He draws further into his shell. Rattle of his chains resounding again when he slides the seat he sits on forward, and rests his elbows on the table- not like he has any other choice. "This is the part you tell me what you're going to do to me, not try to deter me. I'm all ears, Deputy. Tell me what's gonna happe." Another drag, harsher, and he blows it hastily to the side. "Are you going to kill me? Put me in a ditch? Burn all my work? Put me in a cell for life? I know when I fuck up, lay it out so I can get some fucking rest."
Valerie remains seated beside Vindicta, a murderous look slowly frosting her pretty gray eyes as John slings yet another insult at her partner. She lets him finish his rant, leaning back with a slow, calculating smile that never quite reaches her eyes. When he finally slumps forward, cigarette smoke curling into the dim room, she speaks, voice calm, deadly serious. "Let me tell you something, Baker." Her hand, steady and slow, gestures to her belt where her sidearm rests snugly. "The next time you insult my partner like that, I will put a bullet between those brows of yours, cigarette or no cigarette. Is that clear?" Her gaze flicks to the scattered evidence on the table, as if acknowledging his work for the first time.
"Now, Im not here to kill your drive, John. Neither is my partner. You've been following this trail for months, digging into the underbelly of a reality that you were not meant to know. And you've come this far - so no, we're not interested in stopping you. If we wanted that, your precious files would be ash already, and you'd have already been in that ditch."
Her tone shifts, quieter but razor-sharp. "This is dangerous work. Real, life-ending dangerous. The things out there, they would tear you apart without a moment of hesitation if they so desired. But you want to keep going? Fine." Her gaze hardens, motioning with a hand. "You're useful. This truth you're so eager to uncover? We'll let you keep doing it, but now you're doing it our way, and you're doing it for us. Step out of line, and nI'll know." She lets the last words drop with a hint of ice, giving him a moment to process before settling back, and takes her phone from her pocket. She begins texting for a Temple mook to prepare and transport John for briefing and the next steps. "Any complaints with how we're going to handle this?" she opens the line for Vindicta's input, as always, while she communicaters.
"One wrong move make Baker dead," Vindicta explains in agreement with Valerie, gesturing around the space where John is currently held captive. It could have been much, much worse than this. It still can be, really, if the way the small woman's hand lingers on her gun is any indication. A massive revolver more akin to a hand canon, justifiably labeled: THE JUDGE. It looks like it kicks like a mule, too, and yet she's fully capable of handling it. She doesn't make threats of her own when the gum-shoe continues to insult her intelligence, an intellect of a different kind dancing behind her keen pink eyes. She's bound to be a quick draw. "John Baker play with his own life. Opportunity given, he spit on it. This last chance. John Baker spit again, Bianchini and Valentin help him clear his head some." A slow blink, all of the sympathy and empathy she had been showing to the man gone just as quickly as she offered it. Then she leaves the talking to Valerie, living under the assumption that her words will have no further power here.
They /are/ right. It is good work. Splendid, actually, that someone so unaffiliated, and came to their awareness on their own to go and self-finance such an easter hunt across the country. The stacks speak for themselves, even if his demeanor leaves much to be desires. But then, who could blame a man who's being tested and threatened with what essentially amounts to his life's work? Years spent in a chase, countless sleepless nights spent in search.
He's tasting the ash in his mouth silently while staring at his cigarette, not really offering anything in his quiet retrospection of himself, and the verdict that's placed on him. He tips ash onto the table, not willing to lean and stress his raw and red wrists to do it properly in a tray - but he does bend his body down to steal his final drag. Finish up, then flick it casually into the pile in the ashtray, leaving it to smolder that acrid scent where ember meets the butt of his cigarette. "Whatever." Smoke descends with his words, in clear regard of his insults. Not defeatists, his worries and goals just lay elsewhere.
"I'm not happy." He calls out to them both without looking at either. "People should know." At least, he's calmer now that he's not fussing or going through a thousand scenarios of how some government official or corrupt deputies may be here to put a bullet in him and move on, shelf his work. "I'll play your game, for now." And that's exactly when someone knocks on the door. It isn't another deputy - the playful noise of rapt knuckles soon open the door, and someone's head pops in. A half-mask obscuring the entire lower-half of their face, but not quite enough to detract from the jovial nature of blue eyes. He invites himself in, nods to Valerie in a mock-professional manner, and Vindicta gets a wink. "Vita mia," The former is greeted, then the latter, "Little spirito."
Despite the rough, mechanical sound of his voice altered by his mask, it's undoubtedly a certain Temple official came to collect. Dressed to impeccable order of a militaristic suit of combaat in black kevlar, with enough explosive ordinance to blow up the whole building hanging off around webbings or straps. He hums all the way to poor John Baker, and the man gets no opportunity to protest when the Templar produces a syringe with which he stabs the man in the neck, injects its contents, and doesn't even wait for the light to go out of the man's eyes before he unlocks their handcuffs. Not with any keys, nor with braws. Some small tool.
With Baker hoisted up and thrown over his shoulder, the tall Italian gives them both a mock salute over his temple. "I was on my way from a hunt," He reasons for why /he/ is here on pick-up duty. "We bagged a runt of a wolf out in the woods, they can become amici on the truck, si?" Off they go, "Ciao," Leaving as promptly as he arrived, and leaving the two women liberated of their charge, but not all the paperwork they have to run through, the ones scattered around included.
It is nothing short of a welcome surprise when it is none other than a certain fair-featured Italian that responds to Valerie's call. "Salve, amore. You are a sight for sore eyes. Please be gentle with this man, hm? He is already a grouch, so do not make more trouble for yourself." Her lips upturn just-so, deeply dimpling her cheeks, before she cuts her gaze aside to Vindicta and reaches over to adjust her balaclava for the upteempth time, ensuring it snugly fit. "Bene work, piccola," she compliments, before pushing her chair back with a scrape of metal legs against cold tile. "We will do more lingual lessons this evening, hm? Over carrot cake?"
"Fine," Vindicta murmurs to Valerie as the woman fusses about with her concealing balaclava, the albino femme as concealed as a nun, or a Muslim woman, showing no skin whatsoever beyond her eyes. "But Val buy cake... Bianchini no money until paid tonight. Buy many explosives from goblins, drive hard bargain. Empty pockets," she sighs out, playfully swatting the Italiana's hand away from her mask. "Oh, also... William may no. Bianchini need fix. No good," she says cryptically.
And so, their afternoon overtime is concluded. The unruly invetigator is left to the Temple custody, while Valerie and Vindicta can enjoy tormenting him further if they so desire at their leisure back at base. The papers are cleaned up, and thankfully, the man's paranoia meant there were no hidden caches - at least none they know of. There is no necessity for a cover-up with the source dealt with, especially by delicate Temple intelligence at work. All is well on the war against MisUnderstanding. Just another casualty handled in Haven.
As Valerie handles Baker with a balance of threat and negotiation, suggesting he could work under their directives, Vindicta matches her partner's intensity, offering no sympathy to Baker's self-righteous martyrdom. The tense standoff is interrupted by a Temple official, their arrival signaled by a charismatic entrance. Quickly, the situation is resolved as Baker is sedated and taken into Temple custody, leaving the potential for his cooperation - or further punishment - hanging in the balance. Valerie and Vindicta, relieved of their charge, plan to retreat to more mundane concerns, like linguistic lessons and the prospect of carrot cake, a much-needed reprieve from the supernatural frontlines. Their dynamic partnership, bound by duty and tinged with an undercurrent of mutual respect and care, showcases their commitment to maintaining the delicate veil between the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen, in Haven.
(Valerie's odd encounter(SRVictor):SRVictor)
[Sat Nov 2 2024]
In a warm, softly lit bedroom with an electric fireplace
The bedroom exudes comfort and luxury, illuminated by the flickering
glow of an electric fireplace and the soft light of a crystal bright
chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Large windows framed by thick
and flowing beige curtains, let in glimpses of the world beyond. The
centerpiece of the room is a plush, oversized bed, piled high to the
top with layers of soft pillows, thick duvets and a cozy fur blanket
in neutral shades of ivory, taupe, and cream, inviting relaxation at
any time of day with easy supply of comfort no matter where you lay.
A fluffy sheepskin rug spreads beneath the bed, creating texture and
comfort underfoot. On either side of the bed, round nightstands hold
a mix of glowing candles and small decorative vases filled with wilt
flowers, their arrangement contributing to the total serenity of the
bedroom. A small seating area by the electric fireplace has pillows,
throws and more that create a cozy nook for enjoying electric warmth
It is afternoon, about 43F(6C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.
(An amateur paranormal investigator has stumbled onto the truth of the supernatural world and has evidence. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
The bedroom feels like a cocoon on this chilly afternoon, a pocket of warmth wrapped in soft hues and delicate comforts that seem to lull the senses. Outside, a cold breeze rattles bare branches against the windows on the first floor apartment on the northern side, while the thick curtains keep the chill firmly at bay, allowing only faint gray light to filter in. Its a light that seems to soften the room's edges, making the bed's inviting mass of pillows and blankets look like the only right place to be on a day like this.
The electric fireplace crackles gently, its glow shifting across the plush layers of bedding and casting soft, flickering shadows up the walls. The oversized bed, piled high with ivory and taupe duvets, looks like a refuge from the world, a sanctuary of warmth on an overcast day. And nearby, the sheepskin rug, soft and warm underfoot, adds to the sense that stepping too far from this spot would be abandoning luxury itself.
A small seating area near the fireplace brims with pillows and throws, creating a perfect nook where one might lose hours curled up with a book or just watching the fire dance. The wilted flowers on the nightstand give a touch of muted color and stillness, as if caught in the pause of an afternoon nap. Its the sort of room that seems to defy time, as if a long, lazy stretch of hours could pass here without notice.
But the stillness breaks as the soft hum of a phone begins to vibrate on the nightstand, its insistent pulse an unwelcome reminder of duty and the outside world. The caller ID reads the Sheriffs department, the screen casting a faint glow that pulls Valerie from the comfort of the moment. The departments call cuts through the tranquil silence, hinting at a disruption waiting beyond this calm - a private investigator causing a stir, now held in the interrogation room.
Elsewhere in the quiet corners of Haven, an old diner sits on the edge of town, its neon lights casting a muted pink and blue glow on the cracked sidewalk. The overcast sky hangs low, pressing down heavy clouds, draining color from the streets below. Fallen leaves gather in restless clusters along the curbs, rustling in the light wind and scattering with each gust.
The diner's tall windows are fogged over, blurring the silhouettes of patrons inside, hunched over cups of coffee or leaning close in quiet conversation. A faint smell of burnt coffee and a lingering hint of exhaust from a nearby truck waft through the air, adding a worn, lived-in feel to the scene. Everything about the moment feels suspended, as if the town itself is holding its breath.
Suddenly, a radio crackles to life in one of the cars parked just outside the diner, breaking the subdued calm. A voice relays a call to meet with Officer Valerie in the station's interrogation room - assistance needed for a cross-examination with a troublesome private investigator, delivered to Vindicta. Whatever they may do from here on, they have their orders - and it could only be something of a supernatural nature if the special deputies are being called in to question this investigator.
Valerie's eyes crack open, lids heavy from the early morning hours spent on duty, and the vibration of the phone on her nightstand feels like the only unwelcome thing in the entire sanctuary of her shared bedroom. She sighs, lifting herself out of the warm, cocoon-like comcofrt of her bed, squinting against the intrusive lighting of midday as she checks the screen. She watches the name flash there a moment, contemplating the call of mild irritation before sighing. "Of course," she murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. She forces herself up, stretching her arms out and lingering just a little longer in the warmth of the bed, before she throws on clothes, ties her hair back, mentally preparing herself to deal with what awaits her at the station. She grabs her classic lady's companion, a standard issue Glock 19 from the nightstand drawer, and takes her keys, boots, and badge before heading out the door.
Vindicta is more than likely far closer than she is to respond to the call, so the details are forwarded to her partner, with the heavy caveat that she take it easy since she is still recovering from her recent injury in the line of duty. And she means HEAVY EMPHASIS ON TAKING IT EASY.
It's true- Vindicta is already at White Oak, mid-conversation with a tall, dark-haired man named William when he pops her a question that makes her visibly uncomfortable. She's already looking for reasons to flee when dispatch calls out, followed by a text or email incoming from Valerie, which is scanned over loosely- take it easy? She always takes it easy. This makes no sense. In one eye and out the other it goes as her excuse to run off comes by the grace of what can only be considered Fae luck on her part. "Bianchini must go," she tells the strange, pale man without answering his question. "Work do. Much paperwork, yes?" she explains, and before the guy can respond or ask to come along, or even observe, she bolts a few paces west down the Union hallway, hooking a sharp left into the police department and following that dingy but otherwise clean hallway south until she's eagerly bumping one of her voluptuous hips against the door with a twist of the handle.
"Deputy Bianchini," she introduces herself, glancing around the interrogation room to seek both the Private Investigator and the suspect as she awaits the arrival of her partner in busting crime. "Status?"
Call of duty waits for no one, nor does it care for their agitation, discomfort, or injury. Valerie, with her own quiet preparation, and Vindicta following suit on foot after disentangling from someone unrelated - they're both informed and leading to their workplace. It's an uneventful drive for Valerie, full of annoying drivers if nothing else. The sort they really should give a ticket to - if only they were regular officers. Alas, it isn't either of their departments to write parking tickets, even if Vindicta seems like she might have a bunny-like knack for it.
The Sheriff's department in Haven is a place that speaks to both tradition and practicality, designed to function as a quiet but unyielding cornerstone of the town. The main room is spacious but efficiently arranged, with well-used desks lined up in neat rows, each one personalized in subtle ways - coffee mugs, stacks of paperwork, and the occasional small photo frame. The walls are adorned with faded photographs of Havens history: monochrome images of the towns founders, snapshots of past officers, and even a framed, sepia-toned photograph of the station itself from decades ago when it was a separate building, far cry in looks to its current state.
Flickering fluorescent lights cast a cool, even glow across the room, illuminating the scuffed, faded floor tiles that form a subtle checker pattern. To the right, a few sturdy filing cabinets line the wall, each drawer labeled with neat but faded handwriting, marking years of records and reports. In the back corner, a hallway branches off, leading deeper. The atmosphere shifts as one walks down this narrow corridor; it's quieter here, the sound of footsteps slightly muffled by an old runner carpet that stretches down its length. Faintly yellowed walls close in just a bit tighter, lit by small, square wall sconces spaced every few feet, casting a dim, amber glow that barely reaches the floor. At the end of this hallway, a single door stands slightly ajar - the entrance to the interrogation room that Vindicta bumps open with her hip.
Just before the door, a small, compact waiting area holds two sturdy chairs set against the wall and a battered, wooden side table stacked with outdated magazines. The area feels forgotten, as if it rarely sees use beyond the occasional observer or a waiting officer. The hallway's silence deepens here, creating a sense of separation from the busier front of the station. The scent of stale coffee and faint disinfectant hangs in the air. In the main desk, in the middle, sits a man that has been liberated of much. His slightly rain-damp shirt and tie speaks of a jacket taken from him, and his hands are cuffed together to a notch in the center of the table, one of them holding cigarette that he has to lean all the way down to to steal a drag. Beside the ashtray that's already half-way full, a plethora of foldered documents lay haphazardly across the metal expanse of the desk.
No one replies to the first deputy that's here - that information will come with her partner. Who, in fact, is getting a debrief message on her way here. A simple document forwarded to her phone detailing the capture of a man in his late twenties, John Baker, caucasian, dark hair, blue eyes, tall, ex-cop turned private eye. Mostly employed to snap pictures of cheating husbands or wives and reporting back. Grimy sort of work, but one that makes someone like him eager for a lucky break. His folder goes into detail as to what it is: he chased a trail of a broken heart all the way here, and snapped a few pictures he shouldn't have of a vampire feeding on an enthralled woman. Sad state of affairs, but it is enough to off on and fix whatever damage was done on their own terms, if they can.
"You're the third today." John gruffly, distastefully, speaks towards Vindicta without lifting his head. Face full of bruises, a split lip. His capture was not a pretty one, evidently, but it is no deterrent to him testing the limits of his cuffs to take a long, pained drag of his cigarette, and blow it out with his words. "What the fuck do you want? Here to fill me with more lies?"
Valerie arrives not long after Vindicta into the all too familiar interrogation room, the persistent odor of mildew welcoming her like home. She strides in, pushing the door shut behind her before giving a faint nod of acknowledgement to Vindicta. Her eyes are set on John Baker, taking in his profile, the busted lip, and bruised countenance. She exhales slowly, adjusting the chair across from him with a precise tug, the scrape of metal against tile punctuating the silence as she takes a seat. Cool gray eyes settle on the battered man as she studies his bruises and the impatient drag she takes of his cigarette. "Mister Baker, we're not here to waste your time or ours," she begins, a measured calm and quiet authority always present with the deputy, motioning Vindicta to join her. "You're a smart man, so let's save the theatrics. I understand you've seen something that concerns you. So let's address it ... honestly."
Vindicta does not choose to sit despite coming to Valerie's side, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her pants as she observes John with the pallid pink eyes of your run of the mill albino, albeit a bit more animalistic in their hue than is normal, a solid pink rather than a scattering of different pigments of it.His gruff greeting of her is not taken negatively- in fact, she makes a few hypothesis of her own in retort: "Much ash in tray. Been here long while, so agitated. Bianchini understand. Bianchini apologize you wait so long," she says, her accent having only the slightest inflection of Italian due to her English teacher, just enough to make it all that much more feminine in delivery, higher in the throat. "Name.. John Baker. P.I., catch cheaters.. Not fun work. Want be taken seriously," she levels with him, barely taller than the man when he sits down and she stands up, but she speaks to him as though they were on even footing regardless. "Bianchini understand," she explains. "Bianchini not take serious either, see? Very small, people think dumb, or weak. Bianchini neither. But most not give Bianchini chance to prove. Sad for Bianchini. Sad for John Baker," says the albino babe as she lets Valerie handle the Understanding business, choosing to soften the conversation with a bit of personable talk and relation.
emote "Okay." John waits. He has no qualms with waiting, he's not agitated, just pissed off, beaten, battered. Another drag of his cigarette, and words blow out of his mouth in a cascade towards Vindicta first. "You, shut the fuck up, 'special' deputy." An overt, not so little jab at the way the officer speaks, then his together hands point over at Valerie. Her measured and calm authority doesn't do enough to dent the old cop, "And you, are full of shit."
His cigarette is tipped into the tray to dispel the excess ash, then both hands rise up while his hand dips to rub along his jaw over a few days old stubble. If he wasn't as badly roughened as he was, he might've been looking charming with a devil may care attitude. Though, that attitude doesn't extend to the subject at hand. "You know full well why I'm fucking here, I wouldn't be surprised if you two were in on it." He tries to reach forward at the scattered folders next, but a harsh jangle of his cuffs stills his hands, his reach, and he resorts to just pointing. "I''ll tell you what I told others," His words cut through with animosity. "I saw it - I took a photo, and I shot it. I fucking know, so how about /you/ save the theatrics, tell me what that is."
Should Valerie open the nearest folder, she'd find a series of photographs affixed to paper, documenting practically everything. His research had been thorough, grimly at that - because the first folder is about a vampire. Dating nearly months back, the pictures leading to a cultivated moment of it feeding on a poor woman quite gruesomely. The sight suggests a lack of sanctuary - most likely not taken in Haven. The man's face is heavily blurred, distorted, off-putting like it might crawl out of the papers if someone so much as blinked. The rest follow suit. A man with yellow eyes and a bestial nature, wolven mien - another with red eyes and cloven hooves cavorting with a woman, Fae no doubt, who looks like she's out of an elven cosplay, except, no doubt its all genuine. Undisputable proof of a lot of things, especially with another picture of a pack of mermaids spread out on jagged rocks that seem like they were taken from miles away with a carefully selected lens.
The perpetrator of it all, John's camera, sits right next to his hands on the table. Practically broken, down to every lens scattered around it, and it looks like a fortune lost with how expensive those things come by. "I've been on this trail for a fucking year, and the day I chase another here, I get fucking caught? Don't play with me, this place is a fucking den of monsters and I refuse to believe you or the government knows about it." The cold certainty in his tone cuts forward, through ground teeth, and even his fingers curl into fists upon one another. Crush his cigarette against his palm and snuff it out.
Valerie watches Baker's outburst with an unflinching poise, her eyes following his every motion. She lets a beat of silence linger in the air, allowing his anger to settle before she speaks. Without lowering her gaze, she shifts her hand to the folder and flips it open, skimming over the images he's collected with a clinical neutrality that hides the weight of what she's seeing. Finally, she closes the folder with a soft snap, fingers pressed against its edges as she glances aside to Vindicta out of the corner of her eye.
"Mister Baker," she begins tentatively, weighing out her words, deciding her approach. "I'll make one thing clear... you're not wrong to take your work seriously. But in your profession, you know that all information, no matter how urgently, has to be handled properly." she glances to the mess of broken lenses and scattered images, her fingers still pressed against the folder. "This line of work you've taken up has brought you into unconventional circumstances."
She allows him a moment to absorb her words, acknowledging his suspicions without fanning the flames of his anger. "However, she continues, her voice sharpening slightly. "the fact remains that you're pursuing a lead that's going to get you killed, frankly put. My partner her is only helping you by making sure you leave without a ... deeper involvement than you already have. For your own protection." She nods briefly to Vindicta, not missing a beat before leaning forward slightly, her gaze fixed and piercing. "What is it you're looking for out of this? To expose it all, paint a target on your back for you and the people you care about, or are you wanting answers? A real sense of purpose instead of chasing down broken hearts and cheating puttanas?""
The strange inflection that John adds to 'special' has Vindicta confused- it's a good word, but he speaks it with venome, and so she must assume it has a negative connotation. But what? Her brows furrow deeply enough that they shift the shape of her balaclava along her forehead, and her voice is soft as she counters, seeming to match stride with Valerie for now. "Shame," says the SWAT officer with a loose shrug of her shoulders. "Bianchini maybe put in good word with department. Need more detective. Need more investigator. But... John Baker bad attitude. Not make good asset. Bad Deputy, always yell and insult. Not make progress. Very gum shoe behavior, not care if professional or not. Bring shame on Department if join," she sighs softly, pushing a hip out to the side as she stands alongside the sitting form of Valerie. "Man get good info. John Baker work hard.. Research much. Feel bad, but... Likely must wipe all away. Make forget. Go back to cigarette for breakfast and beer for dinner." These words come with a sidelong glance to her partner, a little bump as the rabbit takes some small pleasure in turning the tables on the man's insults, keeping a professional air while dangling him a carrot on a stick that keeps getting longer and longer the ruder he is.
John can do nothing but stare - even his attempt to answer Valerie is stilled in the moment of his near dumbfounded expression staring at Vindicta. It takes some time, but his hands open, the snuffed out cigarette drops onto the table, and in his quietitude, he reaches for the back again. Drags it along the table with the tips of his fingers, and liberates one to lay between his teeth. The pack is replaced with a lighter with which he lights his poison, and soon discarded - where he takes a long, long drag of his smoke.
It's blow towards Valerie, words following suit. "Don't translate that for me, I don't want to fucking know what she's talking about." More jabbed insults, ruthless ignorance, SRVictor drags his tongue over his busted lower lip and sits straighter instead to stare hard at Valerie. "You're afraid to speak up, she's afraid to speak up - everyone is afraid to speak up. This world needs whistleblowers like me. Good talk, officer." He spits his words with venom, "But the talk about 'someone you love might get hurt' bullshit doesn't fly." The ex-cop points over at the pages with his newly lit cigarette again. "That is years of research. I jumped into this rabbit hole, and I'm going to see it through." Even if it costs him his life, with a zealot-like drive. "So cut to the chase. You clearly know what all this shit is about, more than I do."
He draws further into his shell. Rattle of his chains resounding again when he slides the seat he sits on forward, and rests his elbows on the table- not like he has any other choice. "This is the part you tell me what you're going to do to me, not try to deter me. I'm all ears, Deputy. Tell me what's gonna happe." Another drag, harsher, and he blows it hastily to the side. "Are you going to kill me? Put me in a ditch? Burn all my work? Put me in a cell for life? I know when I fuck up, lay it out so I can get some fucking rest."
Valerie remains seated beside Vindicta, a murderous look slowly frosting her pretty gray eyes as John slings yet another insult at her partner. She lets him finish his rant, leaning back with a slow, calculating smile that never quite reaches her eyes. When he finally slumps forward, cigarette smoke curling into the dim room, she speaks, voice calm, deadly serious. "Let me tell you something, Baker." Her hand, steady and slow, gestures to her belt where her sidearm rests snugly. "The next time you insult my partner like that, I will put a bullet between those brows of yours, cigarette or no cigarette. Is that clear?" Her gaze flicks to the scattered evidence on the table, as if acknowledging his work for the first time.
"Now, Im not here to kill your drive, John. Neither is my partner. You've been following this trail for months, digging into the underbelly of a reality that you were not meant to know. And you've come this far - so no, we're not interested in stopping you. If we wanted that, your precious files would be ash already, and you'd have already been in that ditch."
Her tone shifts, quieter but razor-sharp. "This is dangerous work. Real, life-ending dangerous. The things out there, they would tear you apart without a moment of hesitation if they so desired. But you want to keep going? Fine." Her gaze hardens, motioning with a hand. "You're useful. This truth you're so eager to uncover? We'll let you keep doing it, but now you're doing it our way, and you're doing it for us. Step out of line, and nI'll know." She lets the last words drop with a hint of ice, giving him a moment to process before settling back, and takes her phone from her pocket. She begins texting for a Temple mook to prepare and transport John for briefing and the next steps. "Any complaints with how we're going to handle this?" she opens the line for Vindicta's input, as always, while she communicaters.
"One wrong move make Baker dead," Vindicta explains in agreement with Valerie, gesturing around the space where John is currently held captive. It could have been much, much worse than this. It still can be, really, if the way the small woman's hand lingers on her gun is any indication. A massive revolver more akin to a hand canon, justifiably labeled: THE JUDGE. It looks like it kicks like a mule, too, and yet she's fully capable of handling it. She doesn't make threats of her own when the gum-shoe continues to insult her intelligence, an intellect of a different kind dancing behind her keen pink eyes. She's bound to be a quick draw. "John Baker play with his own life. Opportunity given, he spit on it. This last chance. John Baker spit again, Bianchini and Valentin help him clear his head some." A slow blink, all of the sympathy and empathy she had been showing to the man gone just as quickly as she offered it. Then she leaves the talking to Valerie, living under the assumption that her words will have no further power here.
They /are/ right. It is good work. Splendid, actually, that someone so unaffiliated, and came to their awareness on their own to go and self-finance such an easter hunt across the country. The stacks speak for themselves, even if his demeanor leaves much to be desires. But then, who could blame a man who's being tested and threatened with what essentially amounts to his life's work? Years spent in a chase, countless sleepless nights spent in search.
He's tasting the ash in his mouth silently while staring at his cigarette, not really offering anything in his quiet retrospection of himself, and the verdict that's placed on him. He tips ash onto the table, not willing to lean and stress his raw and red wrists to do it properly in a tray - but he does bend his body down to steal his final drag. Finish up, then flick it casually into the pile in the ashtray, leaving it to smolder that acrid scent where ember meets the butt of his cigarette. "Whatever." Smoke descends with his words, in clear regard of his insults. Not defeatists, his worries and goals just lay elsewhere.
"I'm not happy." He calls out to them both without looking at either. "People should know." At least, he's calmer now that he's not fussing or going through a thousand scenarios of how some government official or corrupt deputies may be here to put a bullet in him and move on, shelf his work. "I'll play your game, for now." And that's exactly when someone knocks on the door. It isn't another deputy - the playful noise of rapt knuckles soon open the door, and someone's head pops in. A half-mask obscuring the entire lower-half of their face, but not quite enough to detract from the jovial nature of blue eyes. He invites himself in, nods to Valerie in a mock-professional manner, and Vindicta gets a wink. "Vita mia," The former is greeted, then the latter, "Little spirito."
Despite the rough, mechanical sound of his voice altered by his mask, it's undoubtedly a certain Temple official came to collect. Dressed to impeccable order of a militaristic suit of combaat in black kevlar, with enough explosive ordinance to blow up the whole building hanging off around webbings or straps. He hums all the way to poor John Baker, and the man gets no opportunity to protest when the Templar produces a syringe with which he stabs the man in the neck, injects its contents, and doesn't even wait for the light to go out of the man's eyes before he unlocks their handcuffs. Not with any keys, nor with braws. Some small tool.
With Baker hoisted up and thrown over his shoulder, the tall Italian gives them both a mock salute over his temple. "I was on my way from a hunt," He reasons for why /he/ is here on pick-up duty. "We bagged a runt of a wolf out in the woods, they can become amici on the truck, si?" Off they go, "Ciao," Leaving as promptly as he arrived, and leaving the two women liberated of their charge, but not all the paperwork they have to run through, the ones scattered around included.
It is nothing short of a welcome surprise when it is none other than a certain fair-featured Italian that responds to Valerie's call. "Salve, amore. You are a sight for sore eyes. Please be gentle with this man, hm? He is already a grouch, so do not make more trouble for yourself." Her lips upturn just-so, deeply dimpling her cheeks, before she cuts her gaze aside to Vindicta and reaches over to adjust her balaclava for the upteempth time, ensuring it snugly fit. "Bene work, piccola," she compliments, before pushing her chair back with a scrape of metal legs against cold tile. "We will do more lingual lessons this evening, hm? Over carrot cake?"
"Fine," Vindicta murmurs to Valerie as the woman fusses about with her concealing balaclava, the albino femme as concealed as a nun, or a Muslim woman, showing no skin whatsoever beyond her eyes. "But Val buy cake... Bianchini no money until paid tonight. Buy many explosives from goblins, drive hard bargain. Empty pockets," she sighs out, playfully swatting the Italiana's hand away from her mask. "Oh, also... William may no. Bianchini need fix. No good," she says cryptically.
And so, their afternoon overtime is concluded. The unruly invetigator is left to the Temple custody, while Valerie and Vindicta can enjoy tormenting him further if they so desire at their leisure back at base. The papers are cleaned up, and thankfully, the man's paranoia meant there were no hidden caches - at least none they know of. There is no necessity for a cover-up with the source dealt with, especially by delicate Temple intelligence at work. All is well on the war against MisUnderstanding. Just another casualty handled in Haven.