Encounterlogs
Viorels Odd Encounter Sr Irene 241119
On an overcast Monday at the Trove, a blend of an old-time bar and a gaming arcade, Sam encounters a peculiar individual. The man, visibly disheveled and burdened with anxiety, enters the establishment seeking solace or perhaps escape. Amidst the clamor of arcade machines and the nostalgic maritime decor, he makes his way to the bar, demanding a whiskey, neat. The environment of the Trove, with its eerie calmness juxtaposed against vibrant relics of adventures and voyages, accentuates the man's internal turmoil. Sam, the bartender, offers the man a free drink and engages him in conversation with the practiced ease of someone versed in coaxing out the troubles of others.
The conversation quickly dives deep as the man confides in Sam about a vivid dream he had - a dream so intense and real that it left him questioning his own sanity and morality. In his dream, he was a killer, tearing into an unknown victim with such ferocity that he woke up believing he was covered in blood. The revelation is heavy, loaded with an aura of genuine fear and confusion. Sam, picking up on the distress and the sense of bloodshed emanating from the man, subtly investigates with a hint of magical intuition and offers assistance. He recommends a contact from Ventr-corp that could help and proceeds to arrange for the man’s discreet departure in what turns out to be a limo rather than a cab. The man, engulfed in a mix of gratitude and despair, leaves the Trove in the hands of those who promise help, leaving Sam to go back to his duties with a smirk, as if all is just another day’s work at the Trove.
(Viorel's odd encounter(SRIrene):SRIrene)
[Mon Nov 18 2024]
At Franklin Street and Buckthorn Lane
It is morning, about 35F(1C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds.
Viorel glances over to Vindicta, "Do I need my gear?" He muses with a canted head.
Parking at stop ten and lingering alongside the steel mill until Viorel arrives, Vindicta clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She'd been eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, it seems, the remnants of her breakfast held in her left hand. Raspberry preserves are in the midst of dripping down her wrist, and the tiny albino quickly lifts her arm and licks it away before it has a chance to go into her sleeve- that would be the worst.
When the red-haired Templar shows up, she smiles, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth again as she tries to dislodge that peanutbutter stuck bread from within. Frustrated, but ultimately washing it down with.. Milk. Milk from a thermos which she unscrews the cap on and drinks from, ice cold and refreshing. She licks her lips clean after, then settles it all away in her passenger seat, sandwich returning to lunch box, lid going back on thermos, and a napkin dabbing at her arm and her mouth to clean them both off before addressing her fingers with a wet wipe.
"Probably not need," she says to him sweetly, climbing down the ladder affixed to the driver's side of her BearCat via welding job. She jumps down the remaining foot or so to the ground, then brushes off her SWAT uniform with both hands, dislodging crumbs. "Just need get inside, maybe. Find what speakers attached to, disable program. That not work, maybe just cut wires."
By the time he arrived, Viorel barely had cleaned up his clothing, splotches of dirt and dried blood still speckling the otherwise fanciful outfit. "At least you had enough time to eat." He mused, chuckling lightly as he habitually reached into his jacket pocket. After pulling out a couple of orange pill bottles, he emptied them into an open palm, revealing that only a couple were left.
"Well that's that, will have to talk about Irene if I need to get more, or if I'm gonna wean off of them." Viorel spoke, perhaps mostly to himself as he knocked the handful back and swallowed dryly. "I hope you're better with technology than I am, I've got a good six years of missing experience." He stated before wandering about to find an empty trash can, dumping the bottles in.
line "Do you know who did this anyway? I remember that lass at the beach was screaming her head off about it. Penny has been in a right state since the last time I spoke to her too." He asked softly as he caught back up the pint-side police officer, tone lightly tired as the daylight sun cast over his pallid features.
By the time he arrived, Viorel barely had cleaned up his clothing, splotches of dirt and dried blood still speckling the otherwise fanciful outfit. "At least you had enough time to eat." He mused, chuckling lightly as he habitually reached into his jacket pocket. After pulling out a couple of orange pill bottles, he emptied them into an open palm, revealing that only a couple were left.
"Well that's that, will have to talk about Irene if I need to get more, or if I'm gonna wean off of them." Viorel spoke, perhaps mostly to himself as he knocked the handful back and swallowed dryly. "I hope you're better with technology than I am, I've got a good six years of missing experience." He stated before wandering about to find an empty trash can, dumping the bottles in.
"Do you know who did this anyway? I remember that lass at the beach was screaming her head off about it. Penny has been in a right state since the last time I spoke to her too." He asked softly as he caught back up the pint-side police officer, tone lightly tired as the daylight sun cast over his pallid features. (fixed line break)
It's a brisk Monday morning out on Haven town for the Temple duo, and the air is biting cold. For Vindicta, however, there's nothing at all particularly unusual going on by Haven standards, at least not as far as she can tell.
It's a different story for Viorel. The closer they get to the Temple Steel Mill, driving in the Deputy's car, the more irritating and oppressive that strange sound gets, a constant keening scratching at the upper limits of his hearing. There's a smell too, something at once sweet and sharp on the wind -- it's familiar, too, reminiscent of a flower that blooms in the garden of 62 Ash Street -- wolfsbane.
Viorel's usual facade twitches slightly the closer and closer the approach the mill. The cold expression that adorns the man's face pulling into slight hints of irritation and bother. Eventually, he slips the stress aside with a sight, "First my eardrums pop, then I have to deal with this."
"Vio not in Temple when announcement made," Vindicta recalls as she leads Viorel up the dark alley between Temple Steel and Badwater Park, chewing the last of her remaining mouth-lunch slowly, swallowing, then then watching him enjoy his breakfast of medication. She tilts her head at his pill habit, curious, but deeming this to be neither the time nor the place for her idle curiosities. "Irene warn setting up speaker with ultrasonic sound in steel mill for full moon," she explains, leading him along the side of the looming building until they come upon a door- likely barred with chains and padlocks.
"Full moon long over, but sound still made from speakers. Not good, soon maybe werewolves riot if not stop. Go crazy like Lucy, or refuse fight like Penny. Maybe go feral like lunacy, start attacking civilian," worries the albino, giving Viorel an even more furrowed brow afterwards as she asks him: "What wrong?" She can' hear it, or smell it, and so she relies on his keen senses here for information that she cannot gather herself.
"Sounds like nails against a chalk board." Viorel simply explains, the defensive slouch in his posture hinting at how uncomfortable he was far more than his resolute expression. "And I guess that makes sense, if not a little cruel." He paused, catching himself in his own words, "Not like they don't deserve a little cruelty." The man clarified, expression breaking before he rubs his face with gloved palms.
"And yeah, I'm guessing it's been staying on longer than intended? Does Irene know?" Viorel asked as his gaze fell back down to Vindicta, "Unless this is one of those 'police matters'." He winked, flashing a sharp, toothy grin.
The door is indeed heavily barred with chains and padlocks; whatever goes on at the Temple Steel Mill is serious business, and its notoriously high security makes breaking into this locked up steel fortress nearly impossible.
For Vindicta, however, it's a different matter. A security panel can be found to one side of the door, requiring no less than three things:
1) A security code
2) A retinal scan 3) A Temple society symbol
Which, fortunately, are all things Vindicta can provide -- the code is found in the encrypted app she uses to check the faction notes, roster, and order files on her faction mates. Whilst someone could decapitate her, or steal her symbol to try and break in, being able to meet all three criteria is tough without serious planning by an enemy faction member.
As for Viorel No such luck, in this department. His rank in the Temple evidently offers no such clearance into the building.
Vindicta's pretty little eyes roll in their sockets when Viorel mentions police business, the petite albino countering with: "Irene not deputy. And Vio going to get mouthful of garlic if bully Vindi. Very mean, not good," she pouts, though it isn't clear if she's joking about the garlic or ot. She seems perfectly prepared to start picking padlock after padlock at first, but when her keen eyes spot that security panel, she seems oddly relieved. "Good.. Vindi heart when have break and enter. Was worried when Irene not leave her key. There's a moment of hesitation when she realizes there is, in fact, a security code, but enough digging through her Temple application nets her the gains she seeks. ... "Turn round, sharp eyes," she grumps at Viorel, though she still juxtaposes herself between him and the pad, punching in the key carefully, flashing her society symbol, and then stepping back some, holding a pale pink eye open and waiting for the retinal scan to complete.
"Think Irene been too busy with science stuff to cut off self," she murmurs, seeming nonplussed about it, neither here nor there- she's here now to solve the problem, and with Viorel as her personal bodyguard and probably meat shield if something bad happens, let's be fair. "Temple not Hand," she goes on to say. "Cruelty malicious, monstrous, we do what we must for continuation and safety of mankind. Hand act for thirst of power. Sometimes cruelty necessary for Temple goals, yes, but this not one of those time," is her short-lived monologue."
(Fix for quotations) Vindicta's pretty little eyes roll in their sockets when Viorel mentions police business, the petite albino countering with: "Irene not deputy. And Vio going to get mouthful of garlic if bully Vindi. Very mean, not good," she pouts, though it isn't clear if she's joking about the garlic or ot. She seems perfectly prepared to start picking padlock after padlock at first, but when her keen eyes spot that security panel, she seems oddly relieved. "Good.. Vindi heart when have break and enter. Was worried when Irene not leave her key." There's a moment of hesitation when she realizes there is, in fact, a security code, but enough digging through her Temple application nets her the gains she seeks. ... "Turn round, sharp eyes," she grumps at Viorel, though she still juxtaposes herself between him and the pad, punching in the key carefully, flashing her society symbol, and then stepping back some, holding a pale pink eye open and waiting for the retinal scan to complete.
"Think Irene been too busy with science stuff to cut off self," she murmurs, seeming nonplussed about it, neither here nor there- she's here now to solve the problem, and with Viorel as her personal bodyguard and probably meat shield if something bad happens, let's be fair. "Temple not Hand," she goes on to say. "Cruelty malicious, monstrous, we do what we must for continuation and safety of mankind. Hand act for thirst of power. Sometimes cruelty necessary for Temple goals, yes, but this not one of those time," is her short-lived monologue.
Glancing between the codepad and Vindicta, Viorel hitches a shrug, "I miss having my own clearance... Demolishers don't even get discounts at the cafeteria." He sighs wistfully, only to add on in an abruptly flat tone, "Not like I need to eat anyways." The words sarcastic despite their factual nature.
"And I wasn't bullying you, I was being serious! You seemed mad at me last time." Viorel rolled his eyes, crouching down to match Vindicta's height in a manner that could be considered condescending if it wasn't for his soft expression, "Anyway, I love garlic, so good luck with that." He grinned, spinning on his heel at the diminutive albino's command.
"And I know, I probably know better than you. Been doing this for years." The man spoke, not quite as convincing as he could be as he peaks over his shoulder just as her queerly-hued iris is scanned, "The means justify the ends is probably the only reason the Temple keeps me about after all."
There's a series of clicks, all the way along the edge of the door, before it unlocks in full. It's still fairly heavy, and takes a little elbow grease to shove open.
Inside unfolds what seems to be a genuine steel mill; whilst doubtless a front for Temple activities, it still makes money, and much more importantly, materials, for their day to day operations. A petite, pale woman seems to recognise Vindicta within, and gives her a little wave, before hurrying off -- she's one of the faction's arcanists kept on retainer, a low-level Demolisher who never talks on comms. Some of the workers are also recognisable as the Temple's reservist manpower, who often show up on important psychic battles or serve as bodyguards, such as during the most recent excursion to Hell.
The keening sound gets louder, and even less bearable for Vindicta, coming from high above the ceiling.
Correction: even less bearable for Viorel.
"Vindi not mad at Vio," says Vindicta sweetly, twiddling her fingers in greeting at the woman and a few of the recognizable team members she gets to see now and then, leading Viorel into the steel mill with dainty steps and yet still with an authoritative air about her. "Just... Disappointed." Like a parent who had hoped for better from their child, Viorel is burdened with the wait of falling short of Vindicta's expectations, those soft, feminine tones delivering the words in a way that makes them look like cotton candy, secretly disguised as fiber glass.
Perhaps the albino knows her way around here, or maybe she asks the most important-looking person present for directions, but one thing is certain: she's seeking out the source of the noise, maybe a security room, or the manager's quarters, where a control panel could be found, or a main computer, assuming for herself that this is where she will find that repeat-record playing across their sleepy little town. "Just because like garlic not mean want eat whole bulb," she warns Viorel playfully, bumping his bicep with her shoulder as she grins up at him. Not clove. Bulb. "Like eat cattail pod dry in summer's end. Or Popeye biscuit no drink. Or do cinnamon challenge. Choke to death, mouth full of yuck. Bad way go."
The further they step into the compound, the more Viorel struggles with maintaining his composure. His features twitch, lips instinctively sneering enough to let his fangs catch the light of the morning sun. Even as Vindicta talks, most of the words pass through his mind as the sound akin to maddening tinnitus drowns out all but itself.
Viorel finally snaps out of it as his shoulder is bumped playfully, a smile instinctively forming on his lips in a manner a schoolkid would do when they're found daydreaming in class. "A clove?" He mutters, not being able to hear his own speech, "Oh! And I mean- I'd vomit." Leaning in, he manages to play with the facade of their back and forth despite the pain, "And if I vomit, I'm gonna vomit on you. Good luck washing out that." He snickers.
"Morning, Bianchini, did you need a new bodyguard?" a dull-eyed mill worker checks with Vindicta when she approaches to ask for directions. He's a grizzled, somewhat portly fellow with white hair and stubble, pinkish skin and steel-blue coveralls. Once upon a time, he may have been a soldier, but being only human, and naturally susceptible to the ravages of time, those days are long behind him. Now he pushes pencils, including the one attached to his very important-looking clipboard as he inspects the mill machinery.
But she asks him about the sirens. He doesn't seem to question the authority. "Oh. They're on the roof," he tells her, pointing a finger up. "I thiiink you might be able to switch them off from the command centre? Yeah, I'll show you." This does slow them down just a bit, because he waddles, creaking up a long flight of stairs with arthritic knees. He doesn't appear to recognise Viorel, and so he doesn't address him at all -- after all, the Demolisher's only been in town a few days.
It's a woman in a white lab-coat who does recognise him, whose hair is bound in a tight, dark bun. When she sees him, she nearly stumbles down the stairs in passing, tightly gripping the guard-rail, and glares at him for no apparent reason from behind thick-framed glasses.
"Hey!" she calls up to Vindicta and the Mill inspector leading her. "Is he collared?"
"Bianchini thank very much," says Vindicta to the portly inspector, her smile as polite as it always is as she walks alongside Viorel, a hand on his back when she starts to realize he's struggling more and more the closer they get to the source, guiding him onward. When she's questioned on her need of a bodyguard, the albino giggles faintly and shakes her head. "No thank! Not in danger right now, rather have troops in reserve for emergency, yes? And people who really need!" Bubbly as ever, until she isn't, there's the briefest moment- a mere flicker- of disgust on her face when the labcoat-dressed woman nearly tosses herself down the stairs to avoid her Demolisher. Those pale pink eyes turn oddly cold for a moment- Temple Steeled, you might say- before relaxing as she addresses the female worker. "You okay?" she asks with a beaming smile on her face, sifting herself between the woman and the Demolisher in an oddly authoritative fashion. "Took quite tumble there. Could break neck on stairs- should be careful! Vio drugged, so no need worry- and Bianchini have collar on hip," assures the albino, who lifts a silver collar from her utility belt, shows it off, then immediately buckles it back into place.
Viorel draws a long breath at the back and forth, still massaging his temples. "Probably should have put a collar or something on me before we headed in here." He murmurs through a pained tone. "I don't blame them for being wary around vampires. I know /you/ said you've never met one before Vinny, but I've met plenty." Not quite self-depreciating, but the man sides with the labcoat-uniformed lady as he settles a hand on his hip.
"But also-" Viorel turns to the other woman, "As the lass says, I'm pretty heavily medicated right now. And I think I'm more likely to start bleeding from the ears right now than to bite anyone. If that's any reassurance." He gulped, a long, clenched blink clearing the twitches from his expression.
The look of disgust on the fallen woman's face is palpable, and she fixates her beady eyes on Viorel's mouth. But when she sees the collar Vindicta has on her hip, she touches a hand to her heart, and finds it in herself to collect herself. "Oh ... good. Thank you, Deputy," she breathily replies, addressing her, and only her, and not the Demolisher in question. "You are so ... brave, having to work with them in the field." And then she scoots off in a hurry, downstairs to the hidden laboratories.
The dull-eyed Mill inspector watches this kerfuffle with a sort of bored expression, like he's seen it all, done it all, including whatever spectacle just took place, a million times before. He patiently waits for it to be over, and then swivels back around, leading Vindicta onwards into the command centre. "He stays here," he nevertheless insists, holding up a hand. "Sorry, protocol, humans only in Command. Why don't you uh, climb the roof? Check to see the sirens are properly disabled."
"So brave." Viorel repeats with a light, smarmy smile to Vindicta, mind going to all the threats of both bodily violence and inhumane treatment as he does. "I can stick outside though, good time for a smoke break." He shrugs, eyes darting over to the inspector as the man waits for a response from the tiny enforcer.
The Deputy watches the scientist go with a dull expression that matches that of the inspector, the notes of her bravado for enduring Viorel's presence taken in stride. It doesn't make her preen, nor does it inflate her ego, it simply is what it is. Her job, which she does every day, whether on behalf of the Temple, or on behalf of the Sheriff's Department. She works, sometimes with unsavory people, sometimes in unsavory places, and even sometimes seeing unsavory things. "Very well," she tells the portly man before turning to Viorel, her voice coming to him in a soft but still barked command: "Listen for danger," she tells him strictly as she thumbs over the silver collar she has yet to put on his neck. It still is not placed, remaining on her utility belt where it always is, a backup in case of emergencies. "Vio stay here for now. If something happen, unlikely, but if, you come to Bianchini. Remember, if hurt human, only cement their fear and bias, yes? Fangs in mouth, claws in pocket, hypnotism to self. Understood?" she inquires, though even as she says this, she seems to trust Viorel will listen without waiting for his answer. Vindicta touches the center of his chest, giving it a pat, then wanders up towards the roof access, climbing when bid to do so and seeking the source of all this inaudible racket.
(fix because I misunderstood) The Deputy watches the scientist go with a dull expression that matches that of the inspector, the notes of her bravado for enduring Viorel's presence taken in stride. It doesn't make her preen, nor does it inflate her ego, it simply is what it is. Her job, which she does every day, whether on behalf of the Temple, or on behalf of the Sheriff's Department. She works, sometimes with unsavory people, sometimes in unsavory places, and even sometimes seeing unsavory things. "Very well," she tells the portly man before turning to Viorel, her voice coming to him in a soft but still barked command: "Listen for danger," she tells him strictly as she thumbs over the silver collar she has yet to put on his neck. It still is not placed, remaining on her utility belt where it always is, a backup in case of emergencies. "Vio go up to roof for now. If something happen, unlikely, but if, you come to Bianchini. Remember, if hurt people, only cement their fear and bias, yes? Fangs in mouth, claws in pocket, hypnotism to self. Understood? Take smoke break and check out," she insists, though even as she says this, she seems to trust Viorel will listen without waiting for his answer. Vindicta touches the center of his chest, giving it a pat, then wanders towards the command center when bid to do so and seeks the source of all this inaudible racket.
Even as he's treated like some sort of pet, Viorel nods along easily, brow still furrowed from the scratching buzzing filling his mind. "I don't even have claws..." He mutters, rolling his eyes as his chest is pat and Vindicta runs off, truly seen alike a dog. With one last glance over to the inspector and a lightly-tapped-off salute, Viorel heads out from the door again, letting it shut behind him.
Once outside, Viorel sits down against the wall, somewhere in the shade. A hand rifles through his pocket, pulling out the still-untouched packet of menthols. His other hand fishes out his zippo, a few flicks of the ignition revealing it to still be dead. A sigh drifted past his lips and he settled on fidgeting with the thing, opening and closing as he watched what little foot-traffic passed by the mill.
The eyes of the Inspector are as dead as Viorel's body, and though lacking any hostility, he responds to the salute with only the barest of nods, before directing his attention down to his clipboard. The list of numbers on it is so cryptic and uninteresting that even the Scouts won't care to report on it.
The Command Centre, on the other hand, is a sprawling maze of security panels and controls; a list of upcoming battles is on one, and a high-tech, interactive map of supernatural warzones on the other. A few Intelligence personnel man the room, but they only look up at Vindicta to welcome her with a nod, and then simply return to their business. They don't seem to find her presence here particularly unusual, even though one of the newer Assistants can't stop staring at her bunny-themed get-up. Using the clearance she has access to and a little navigation, or else asking for directions, it's not hard for her to find where to switch off the sirens and diffusers that Irene had set up for the Full Moon; this panel also includes a very detailed description of all of the intended effects, which appears to have been chiefly making the town's werewolves want to attack other werewolves.
Up on the roof, no one is waiting for Viorel. But hear the sound of the ultrasonic sirens becomes almost deafening. The smell of wolfsbane on the air is likewise much stronger, although not as unpleasant, originating from scent diffusers dotted all along the roof.
Viorel was split between the torture of the sirens or the midday sun. It gave him a good time to reflect, reflect on what was but the question. He reached into his pockets, pulling out a pair of ear-buds to connect to his archaic smartphone and settle in his ears.
Even if it barely dulled the pain, at least he had whatever music Spotify would offer him to keep his mind to something and the inoffensive sent of wolvesbane. There, he'd stay, cross-legged up against the wall and aside the doorway until disturbed.
The commands aren't too hard for Vindicta to handle, likely. With access codes and perhaps assistance from others mulling about the space, the tiny woman does her best to find a way to disable the sirens herself, her eyes closing drearily for a moment as her horrible sleep schedule harasses her, reminding her that she doesn't take care of herself as much as she lets on with her healthy diet, her water-drinking, her daily exercise. She clearly spends too many sleepless nights filing through paperwork, answering 911 calls, and trying to solve cold cases. Yet, just like any other day, she does not let this impact her work.
Her goal here is simple: She'll first disable the sirens for the sake of all of her Demolishers, because they've truly been cranky from the noise and a lack of sleep has started to make them wild. Next she'll try to disarm the diffusers, but if she finds that to be a task she cannot complete from the command center, she instead sends a text to Viorel diffusers on roof. vio can handle. spreading woflsbane. not inhale or get sick. good thing vio not need breath. good job for vio because of this.
It does appear that Vindicta is able to disable both, from the command centre. She's given a little dialogue box to confirm, and then asked to enter her security code -- but she does have clearance, it seems. Still, it might be worth checking in on Viorel. Although he's up on the roof, their faction comms still work.
One of the security staff happens to notice what she's doing, and remarks, "It was fun while it lasted, huh? Shame none of the wolves actually killed each other, though."
At least, merciful relief, as the ultrasonic keening sound fades from Viorel's ears. The morning sun remains a menace, however.
Letting loose a long, relieved sigh, Viorel finally pulled himself to his feet after going through the messages on his phone. "Don't need to breath... I don't even know how true that is." He chuffs, unrolling his umbrella to provide whatever scant reprieve from the sun it could.
"Diffusers diffusers..." Viorel notions to himself, walking around the rooftop until he finds them. With a couple of minutes of examination, he finds the switches on them, turning them off one by one. During this, he decided to give the whole 'no breathing' thing a shot. After all, up until now, he mostly had been doing so from habit, and if it was a thing, I guess it was at least another coin in his wallet to balance out his particular existence.
Her job done, her word kept, Vindicta turns to the girl that had been staring at her for a while, smiling warmly and making conversation- she asks her name, where she's from, talks about hopes and dreams, of hobbies, of goals, introducing herself as just a normal woman who happens to have a vested interest in rabbits. Hopefully the conversation is mostly polite, but even if the new assistance makes it take a turn for the worst, the Deputy upholds her decorum. Eventually she excuses herself once it's all over, and sends another text to Viorel, this one instructing him to meet her downstairs so they can leave together. She waits for him where they had parted ways so that he isn't wandering the place unattended, and God willing, they make it out without a flock of curious onlookers questioning Vindicta's appearance or throwing tomatoes at Viorel.
(Your target encounters a newly made werewolf who doesn't know what they are or what they've done shortly after the full moon.
)
Standing behind the bar, Sam holds a glass in one hand, and a slightly dingy dish-cloth in the other. He looks around, humming softly to himself as he polishes the glass. Occasionally, he greets a patron with the well-practiced and repeated line of
"Ey! Welcome to the Trove! What can I getcha to get the games started, eh?"
The weathered door of the bar creaks open, allowing a worried-looking man to slip inside. His shoulders are hunched, and his eyes dart around the room, taking in the eclectic surroundings with an air of apprehension. The sprawling, weathered bar in the center of the room, polished to a high sheen and inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, glints under the dim, lantern-like lighting, casting fragmented reflections across his troubled face. Here the walls are painted a deep, oceanic blue, are adorned with an assortment of nautical paraphernalia, creating a surreal contrast to the man's tense demeanor. Aged maps, faded flags, and vintage arcade game marquees intersperse, lending the place an air of nostalgic charm. Above him, the ceiling is draped with tattered sails and thick, knotted ropes, giving the distinct impression of being below deck on a shipa ship in a storm, mirroring his own inner turmoil.
In the corners of the room, clusters of arcade games flicker and beep, their colorful screens casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the worn floorboards. The air is filled with the clatter of pinball machines, the electronic melodies of video games, and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target, sounds that blend into an odd, chaotic symphony. Each noise seems to jar the man further, his worry etched deeper with every passing second. He approaches the bar, his steps hesitant and heavy. The array of bottles behind the bar, displaying everything from craft beers to exotic rums, offers a tempting distraction. Sam is behind the bar, and he notices the man's worried expression. The man takes a seat on one of the weathered barstools, the leather creaking under his weight. He runs a hand through his hair, revealing just how disheveled and lost he feels. His fingers drum nervously on the bar's polished surface, tracing the sea glass mosaic absentmindedly. The dim light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of stress and worry that seem to have taken permanent residence.
He finally raises his gaze Sam, as he tries to offer a lackluster smile. "Whiskey, neat." In this bar, where the past and present meld in a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, the man sits, a solitary figure wrestling with unseen demons, seeking comfort in the dim light and the smooth burn of his drink. The eclectic surroundings, with their nautical charm and lively arcade games, provide a stark contrast to the storm raging within him, creating a scene both poignant and haunting. The moments stretch into minutes as the man nurses his drink, the whiskey's warmth doing little to ease the turmoil in his mind. His gaze drifts to the walls, where aged maps tell tales of distant lands and voyages long past. He traces the routes with his eyes, imagining the adventures and perils faced by those who once relied on these charts. The faded flags flutter gently in the breeze from an unseen source, adding a sense of movement and life to the otherwise static decor. The man is troubled, and perhaps Sam can find a way to flash that good old fashioned bartender charm. After all, bartenders are practically therapists, right?
A short pause, and Sam smiles, putting a glass of whiskey onto the bar. He smiles, and pauses, briefly counting the profit made so far tonight. "On the house." He concedes, eventually.
He grabs that glass and dishcloth again: An old bartender trick. If you approach someone with something to do, it's less threatening. "Hey friend, rough day?" that charming bartender smile is cracked out, and he locks his eyes on the man's, tilting his head aside quizzically.
The man can't help but notice Sam when he walks up, of course but true to his logic it does seem to help to have him wiping down the counter with that rag. The little things. "What am I gonna do" he mutters to himself, voice low that the man behind the bar can barely hear him. Still .. there's something a little familiar about the man's plight. Maybe it brings to mind something about his roommate. Or their girlfriend. Either way this man seems to be in a way. The mystical training of Sam can detect a sense of pain and suffering about the man, and BLOOD. He can't see it, but his instincts tell Sam that this man should be covered in blood.
Keeping quite calm, Sam keeps wiping down that counter, and he leans in, his nostrils flaring ever so briefly. "If ya need some judgment free advice, I'm all ears." He smiles a little, pausing as he speaks, his voice lined with a barely perceptible edge of command. Like he is speaking not as an offer, but as a demand. "Ya can trust me." He hums, picking up an empty glass and polishing it as he works that glass.
There's a sense of hesitation from the man who's sitting there at the bar. When Sam does finally bring that whiskey, he'll knock back in one morbid gulp. "Yeah?" He says to Sam with a look of misery. "You ever ... dream something so real ... you think it might be real?" The question is a strange one, but here in Haven - not so strange. Sam gets the sense he might be talking about more than just a little dip into the shadows of the Nightmare or some drealm realm, though. The blood mage's magical senses are still all a-tingle. He doesn't seem to catch any resistence from the man's mind either; he's far too distraught to be worried about what Sam might be doing.
Hook, line and sinker. A mild smirk crosses the Jock's face as Sam quickly composes himself. "Matter of fact, yeh, actually." He puts down that glass, turning his back briefly to mess with some bottles as he tugs out a finger-bone on a silver chain from under his jacket, the runes on it glowing very briefly as he focusses those senses that all all a tingle.
"Wanna tall about it, or shall I bring out the tequila?" He turns around again, letting that focus hang subtly against his chest. He keeps up his friendly bar-keep demeanor, grabbing a fresh glass to polish.
There's a bitter laugh that comes from this disheveled man but he nods at the mention of tequila only to hold up a two fingers. "Keep it whiskey, but make it a double" he mutters before his eyes retreat back to the bar. His head lifts long enough to look around, and it's a slow afternoon on a Monday ... "I dreamed I killed someone" he whispers across the bar, his face growing pale as the color drains from it. "But it was so real ... I .. " Sam can tell ihe wants to give more, but that wariness kicks back in and he's glancing around the room again so skittish. Still, that fear and that worry pours off of him like water.
"Ey, take twenty." He nods to the bartender, in that familiar phrase he uses when he needs the room. The bartender obliges, since hey, the deal is that these are /paid/ breaks.
"Killed someone, huh?" Sam lowers his voice, and looks over the man as he puts the bottle down on the bar, and smiles. "Sounds like ya could use a few, yeh." He glances over the man, perhaps trying to see that familiar glow around newer arrivals. "Ya been in Haven long, friend?"
This man shakes his head, top answer Sam's last question first. "Not long" he mentions before tossing back a shot when one comes around at the offering. "Dreamed" he says desparately to Sam, wincing as he recalls the memories. "It's like I was running ... or crawling ... and then I was ripping into someone I don't know I just ... I woke up and at first I thought there was so much blood!" His voice cracks, eyes growing wide with fear. "But then it was gone .. "
Sam nods his head, and smiles. "Aight, yeh, I getcha man." He takes a piece of paper, and jots down his number. "I got a friend, works over at Ventr-corp. I think he can help ya out. Getcha sorted." He sighs a little, looking to the man. "Want me to call a cab forya?" He pauses, pressing a finger to his ear-piece, waiting at least until the man answers.
There's a blink from the man almost as if he's not expecting this kind of response at all. Called crazy, or that he's just being paranoid, or even that he might be a killer. All of these he'd been prepared for, but not this. "Wait. What?" Sam isn't paying attention that much of course while he's reaching out to his own contacts to get things rolling, but this man quiets down after a minute or two. At the end of the day ... help with something like this isn't exactly something people just offer around. And he seems to know that. "Thanks" he mutters despondantly to Sam, now. Perhaps growing into the depression of realizing that maybe he really did kill someone. The man behind the bar will soak it all up, and soon enough those contacts will arrive. A cab? No, they give the man a Limo! Platitudes and placations that lure him into the vehicle and soon enough Sam will watch him driven off. What happens to him from here, who's to say? Just another day, another deal to make around here.
OOC: Thank you so much for your participation! If you need a summon to anywhere when you head down please let me know, I will get you there!
Sam nods some when the man is luxery-black-bagged off, and smirks. "Aight, do visit again!" He returns to wiping the counter. Just another monday.
The conversation quickly dives deep as the man confides in Sam about a vivid dream he had - a dream so intense and real that it left him questioning his own sanity and morality. In his dream, he was a killer, tearing into an unknown victim with such ferocity that he woke up believing he was covered in blood. The revelation is heavy, loaded with an aura of genuine fear and confusion. Sam, picking up on the distress and the sense of bloodshed emanating from the man, subtly investigates with a hint of magical intuition and offers assistance. He recommends a contact from Ventr-corp that could help and proceeds to arrange for the man’s discreet departure in what turns out to be a limo rather than a cab. The man, engulfed in a mix of gratitude and despair, leaves the Trove in the hands of those who promise help, leaving Sam to go back to his duties with a smirk, as if all is just another day’s work at the Trove.
(Viorel's odd encounter(SRIrene):SRIrene)
[Mon Nov 18 2024]
At Franklin Street and Buckthorn Lane
It is morning, about 35F(1C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds.
Viorel glances over to Vindicta, "Do I need my gear?" He muses with a canted head.
Parking at stop ten and lingering alongside the steel mill until Viorel arrives, Vindicta clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She'd been eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, it seems, the remnants of her breakfast held in her left hand. Raspberry preserves are in the midst of dripping down her wrist, and the tiny albino quickly lifts her arm and licks it away before it has a chance to go into her sleeve- that would be the worst.
When the red-haired Templar shows up, she smiles, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth again as she tries to dislodge that peanutbutter stuck bread from within. Frustrated, but ultimately washing it down with.. Milk. Milk from a thermos which she unscrews the cap on and drinks from, ice cold and refreshing. She licks her lips clean after, then settles it all away in her passenger seat, sandwich returning to lunch box, lid going back on thermos, and a napkin dabbing at her arm and her mouth to clean them both off before addressing her fingers with a wet wipe.
"Probably not need," she says to him sweetly, climbing down the ladder affixed to the driver's side of her BearCat via welding job. She jumps down the remaining foot or so to the ground, then brushes off her SWAT uniform with both hands, dislodging crumbs. "Just need get inside, maybe. Find what speakers attached to, disable program. That not work, maybe just cut wires."
By the time he arrived, Viorel barely had cleaned up his clothing, splotches of dirt and dried blood still speckling the otherwise fanciful outfit. "At least you had enough time to eat." He mused, chuckling lightly as he habitually reached into his jacket pocket. After pulling out a couple of orange pill bottles, he emptied them into an open palm, revealing that only a couple were left.
"Well that's that, will have to talk about Irene if I need to get more, or if I'm gonna wean off of them." Viorel spoke, perhaps mostly to himself as he knocked the handful back and swallowed dryly. "I hope you're better with technology than I am, I've got a good six years of missing experience." He stated before wandering about to find an empty trash can, dumping the bottles in.
line "Do you know who did this anyway? I remember that lass at the beach was screaming her head off about it. Penny has been in a right state since the last time I spoke to her too." He asked softly as he caught back up the pint-side police officer, tone lightly tired as the daylight sun cast over his pallid features.
By the time he arrived, Viorel barely had cleaned up his clothing, splotches of dirt and dried blood still speckling the otherwise fanciful outfit. "At least you had enough time to eat." He mused, chuckling lightly as he habitually reached into his jacket pocket. After pulling out a couple of orange pill bottles, he emptied them into an open palm, revealing that only a couple were left.
"Well that's that, will have to talk about Irene if I need to get more, or if I'm gonna wean off of them." Viorel spoke, perhaps mostly to himself as he knocked the handful back and swallowed dryly. "I hope you're better with technology than I am, I've got a good six years of missing experience." He stated before wandering about to find an empty trash can, dumping the bottles in.
"Do you know who did this anyway? I remember that lass at the beach was screaming her head off about it. Penny has been in a right state since the last time I spoke to her too." He asked softly as he caught back up the pint-side police officer, tone lightly tired as the daylight sun cast over his pallid features. (fixed line break)
It's a brisk Monday morning out on Haven town for the Temple duo, and the air is biting cold. For Vindicta, however, there's nothing at all particularly unusual going on by Haven standards, at least not as far as she can tell.
It's a different story for Viorel. The closer they get to the Temple Steel Mill, driving in the Deputy's car, the more irritating and oppressive that strange sound gets, a constant keening scratching at the upper limits of his hearing. There's a smell too, something at once sweet and sharp on the wind -- it's familiar, too, reminiscent of a flower that blooms in the garden of 62 Ash Street -- wolfsbane.
Viorel's usual facade twitches slightly the closer and closer the approach the mill. The cold expression that adorns the man's face pulling into slight hints of irritation and bother. Eventually, he slips the stress aside with a sight, "First my eardrums pop, then I have to deal with this."
"Vio not in Temple when announcement made," Vindicta recalls as she leads Viorel up the dark alley between Temple Steel and Badwater Park, chewing the last of her remaining mouth-lunch slowly, swallowing, then then watching him enjoy his breakfast of medication. She tilts her head at his pill habit, curious, but deeming this to be neither the time nor the place for her idle curiosities. "Irene warn setting up speaker with ultrasonic sound in steel mill for full moon," she explains, leading him along the side of the looming building until they come upon a door- likely barred with chains and padlocks.
"Full moon long over, but sound still made from speakers. Not good, soon maybe werewolves riot if not stop. Go crazy like Lucy, or refuse fight like Penny. Maybe go feral like lunacy, start attacking civilian," worries the albino, giving Viorel an even more furrowed brow afterwards as she asks him: "What wrong?" She can' hear it, or smell it, and so she relies on his keen senses here for information that she cannot gather herself.
"Sounds like nails against a chalk board." Viorel simply explains, the defensive slouch in his posture hinting at how uncomfortable he was far more than his resolute expression. "And I guess that makes sense, if not a little cruel." He paused, catching himself in his own words, "Not like they don't deserve a little cruelty." The man clarified, expression breaking before he rubs his face with gloved palms.
"And yeah, I'm guessing it's been staying on longer than intended? Does Irene know?" Viorel asked as his gaze fell back down to Vindicta, "Unless this is one of those 'police matters'." He winked, flashing a sharp, toothy grin.
The door is indeed heavily barred with chains and padlocks; whatever goes on at the Temple Steel Mill is serious business, and its notoriously high security makes breaking into this locked up steel fortress nearly impossible.
For Vindicta, however, it's a different matter. A security panel can be found to one side of the door, requiring no less than three things:
1) A security code
2) A retinal scan 3) A Temple society symbol
Which, fortunately, are all things Vindicta can provide -- the code is found in the encrypted app she uses to check the faction notes, roster, and order files on her faction mates. Whilst someone could decapitate her, or steal her symbol to try and break in, being able to meet all three criteria is tough without serious planning by an enemy faction member.
As for Viorel No such luck, in this department. His rank in the Temple evidently offers no such clearance into the building.
Vindicta's pretty little eyes roll in their sockets when Viorel mentions police business, the petite albino countering with: "Irene not deputy. And Vio going to get mouthful of garlic if bully Vindi. Very mean, not good," she pouts, though it isn't clear if she's joking about the garlic or ot. She seems perfectly prepared to start picking padlock after padlock at first, but when her keen eyes spot that security panel, she seems oddly relieved. "Good.. Vindi heart when have break and enter. Was worried when Irene not leave her key. There's a moment of hesitation when she realizes there is, in fact, a security code, but enough digging through her Temple application nets her the gains she seeks. ... "Turn round, sharp eyes," she grumps at Viorel, though she still juxtaposes herself between him and the pad, punching in the key carefully, flashing her society symbol, and then stepping back some, holding a pale pink eye open and waiting for the retinal scan to complete.
"Think Irene been too busy with science stuff to cut off self," she murmurs, seeming nonplussed about it, neither here nor there- she's here now to solve the problem, and with Viorel as her personal bodyguard and probably meat shield if something bad happens, let's be fair. "Temple not Hand," she goes on to say. "Cruelty malicious, monstrous, we do what we must for continuation and safety of mankind. Hand act for thirst of power. Sometimes cruelty necessary for Temple goals, yes, but this not one of those time," is her short-lived monologue."
(Fix for quotations) Vindicta's pretty little eyes roll in their sockets when Viorel mentions police business, the petite albino countering with: "Irene not deputy. And Vio going to get mouthful of garlic if bully Vindi. Very mean, not good," she pouts, though it isn't clear if she's joking about the garlic or ot. She seems perfectly prepared to start picking padlock after padlock at first, but when her keen eyes spot that security panel, she seems oddly relieved. "Good.. Vindi heart when have break and enter. Was worried when Irene not leave her key." There's a moment of hesitation when she realizes there is, in fact, a security code, but enough digging through her Temple application nets her the gains she seeks. ... "Turn round, sharp eyes," she grumps at Viorel, though she still juxtaposes herself between him and the pad, punching in the key carefully, flashing her society symbol, and then stepping back some, holding a pale pink eye open and waiting for the retinal scan to complete.
"Think Irene been too busy with science stuff to cut off self," she murmurs, seeming nonplussed about it, neither here nor there- she's here now to solve the problem, and with Viorel as her personal bodyguard and probably meat shield if something bad happens, let's be fair. "Temple not Hand," she goes on to say. "Cruelty malicious, monstrous, we do what we must for continuation and safety of mankind. Hand act for thirst of power. Sometimes cruelty necessary for Temple goals, yes, but this not one of those time," is her short-lived monologue.
Glancing between the codepad and Vindicta, Viorel hitches a shrug, "I miss having my own clearance... Demolishers don't even get discounts at the cafeteria." He sighs wistfully, only to add on in an abruptly flat tone, "Not like I need to eat anyways." The words sarcastic despite their factual nature.
"And I wasn't bullying you, I was being serious! You seemed mad at me last time." Viorel rolled his eyes, crouching down to match Vindicta's height in a manner that could be considered condescending if it wasn't for his soft expression, "Anyway, I love garlic, so good luck with that." He grinned, spinning on his heel at the diminutive albino's command.
"And I know, I probably know better than you. Been doing this for years." The man spoke, not quite as convincing as he could be as he peaks over his shoulder just as her queerly-hued iris is scanned, "The means justify the ends is probably the only reason the Temple keeps me about after all."
There's a series of clicks, all the way along the edge of the door, before it unlocks in full. It's still fairly heavy, and takes a little elbow grease to shove open.
Inside unfolds what seems to be a genuine steel mill; whilst doubtless a front for Temple activities, it still makes money, and much more importantly, materials, for their day to day operations. A petite, pale woman seems to recognise Vindicta within, and gives her a little wave, before hurrying off -- she's one of the faction's arcanists kept on retainer, a low-level Demolisher who never talks on comms. Some of the workers are also recognisable as the Temple's reservist manpower, who often show up on important psychic battles or serve as bodyguards, such as during the most recent excursion to Hell.
The keening sound gets louder, and even less bearable for Vindicta, coming from high above the ceiling.
Correction: even less bearable for Viorel.
"Vindi not mad at Vio," says Vindicta sweetly, twiddling her fingers in greeting at the woman and a few of the recognizable team members she gets to see now and then, leading Viorel into the steel mill with dainty steps and yet still with an authoritative air about her. "Just... Disappointed." Like a parent who had hoped for better from their child, Viorel is burdened with the wait of falling short of Vindicta's expectations, those soft, feminine tones delivering the words in a way that makes them look like cotton candy, secretly disguised as fiber glass.
Perhaps the albino knows her way around here, or maybe she asks the most important-looking person present for directions, but one thing is certain: she's seeking out the source of the noise, maybe a security room, or the manager's quarters, where a control panel could be found, or a main computer, assuming for herself that this is where she will find that repeat-record playing across their sleepy little town. "Just because like garlic not mean want eat whole bulb," she warns Viorel playfully, bumping his bicep with her shoulder as she grins up at him. Not clove. Bulb. "Like eat cattail pod dry in summer's end. Or Popeye biscuit no drink. Or do cinnamon challenge. Choke to death, mouth full of yuck. Bad way go."
The further they step into the compound, the more Viorel struggles with maintaining his composure. His features twitch, lips instinctively sneering enough to let his fangs catch the light of the morning sun. Even as Vindicta talks, most of the words pass through his mind as the sound akin to maddening tinnitus drowns out all but itself.
Viorel finally snaps out of it as his shoulder is bumped playfully, a smile instinctively forming on his lips in a manner a schoolkid would do when they're found daydreaming in class. "A clove?" He mutters, not being able to hear his own speech, "Oh! And I mean- I'd vomit." Leaning in, he manages to play with the facade of their back and forth despite the pain, "And if I vomit, I'm gonna vomit on you. Good luck washing out that." He snickers.
"Morning, Bianchini, did you need a new bodyguard?" a dull-eyed mill worker checks with Vindicta when she approaches to ask for directions. He's a grizzled, somewhat portly fellow with white hair and stubble, pinkish skin and steel-blue coveralls. Once upon a time, he may have been a soldier, but being only human, and naturally susceptible to the ravages of time, those days are long behind him. Now he pushes pencils, including the one attached to his very important-looking clipboard as he inspects the mill machinery.
But she asks him about the sirens. He doesn't seem to question the authority. "Oh. They're on the roof," he tells her, pointing a finger up. "I thiiink you might be able to switch them off from the command centre? Yeah, I'll show you." This does slow them down just a bit, because he waddles, creaking up a long flight of stairs with arthritic knees. He doesn't appear to recognise Viorel, and so he doesn't address him at all -- after all, the Demolisher's only been in town a few days.
It's a woman in a white lab-coat who does recognise him, whose hair is bound in a tight, dark bun. When she sees him, she nearly stumbles down the stairs in passing, tightly gripping the guard-rail, and glares at him for no apparent reason from behind thick-framed glasses.
"Hey!" she calls up to Vindicta and the Mill inspector leading her. "Is he collared?"
"Bianchini thank very much," says Vindicta to the portly inspector, her smile as polite as it always is as she walks alongside Viorel, a hand on his back when she starts to realize he's struggling more and more the closer they get to the source, guiding him onward. When she's questioned on her need of a bodyguard, the albino giggles faintly and shakes her head. "No thank! Not in danger right now, rather have troops in reserve for emergency, yes? And people who really need!" Bubbly as ever, until she isn't, there's the briefest moment- a mere flicker- of disgust on her face when the labcoat-dressed woman nearly tosses herself down the stairs to avoid her Demolisher. Those pale pink eyes turn oddly cold for a moment- Temple Steeled, you might say- before relaxing as she addresses the female worker. "You okay?" she asks with a beaming smile on her face, sifting herself between the woman and the Demolisher in an oddly authoritative fashion. "Took quite tumble there. Could break neck on stairs- should be careful! Vio drugged, so no need worry- and Bianchini have collar on hip," assures the albino, who lifts a silver collar from her utility belt, shows it off, then immediately buckles it back into place.
Viorel draws a long breath at the back and forth, still massaging his temples. "Probably should have put a collar or something on me before we headed in here." He murmurs through a pained tone. "I don't blame them for being wary around vampires. I know /you/ said you've never met one before Vinny, but I've met plenty." Not quite self-depreciating, but the man sides with the labcoat-uniformed lady as he settles a hand on his hip.
"But also-" Viorel turns to the other woman, "As the lass says, I'm pretty heavily medicated right now. And I think I'm more likely to start bleeding from the ears right now than to bite anyone. If that's any reassurance." He gulped, a long, clenched blink clearing the twitches from his expression.
The look of disgust on the fallen woman's face is palpable, and she fixates her beady eyes on Viorel's mouth. But when she sees the collar Vindicta has on her hip, she touches a hand to her heart, and finds it in herself to collect herself. "Oh ... good. Thank you, Deputy," she breathily replies, addressing her, and only her, and not the Demolisher in question. "You are so ... brave, having to work with them in the field." And then she scoots off in a hurry, downstairs to the hidden laboratories.
The dull-eyed Mill inspector watches this kerfuffle with a sort of bored expression, like he's seen it all, done it all, including whatever spectacle just took place, a million times before. He patiently waits for it to be over, and then swivels back around, leading Vindicta onwards into the command centre. "He stays here," he nevertheless insists, holding up a hand. "Sorry, protocol, humans only in Command. Why don't you uh, climb the roof? Check to see the sirens are properly disabled."
"So brave." Viorel repeats with a light, smarmy smile to Vindicta, mind going to all the threats of both bodily violence and inhumane treatment as he does. "I can stick outside though, good time for a smoke break." He shrugs, eyes darting over to the inspector as the man waits for a response from the tiny enforcer.
The Deputy watches the scientist go with a dull expression that matches that of the inspector, the notes of her bravado for enduring Viorel's presence taken in stride. It doesn't make her preen, nor does it inflate her ego, it simply is what it is. Her job, which she does every day, whether on behalf of the Temple, or on behalf of the Sheriff's Department. She works, sometimes with unsavory people, sometimes in unsavory places, and even sometimes seeing unsavory things. "Very well," she tells the portly man before turning to Viorel, her voice coming to him in a soft but still barked command: "Listen for danger," she tells him strictly as she thumbs over the silver collar she has yet to put on his neck. It still is not placed, remaining on her utility belt where it always is, a backup in case of emergencies. "Vio stay here for now. If something happen, unlikely, but if, you come to Bianchini. Remember, if hurt human, only cement their fear and bias, yes? Fangs in mouth, claws in pocket, hypnotism to self. Understood?" she inquires, though even as she says this, she seems to trust Viorel will listen without waiting for his answer. Vindicta touches the center of his chest, giving it a pat, then wanders up towards the roof access, climbing when bid to do so and seeking the source of all this inaudible racket.
(fix because I misunderstood) The Deputy watches the scientist go with a dull expression that matches that of the inspector, the notes of her bravado for enduring Viorel's presence taken in stride. It doesn't make her preen, nor does it inflate her ego, it simply is what it is. Her job, which she does every day, whether on behalf of the Temple, or on behalf of the Sheriff's Department. She works, sometimes with unsavory people, sometimes in unsavory places, and even sometimes seeing unsavory things. "Very well," she tells the portly man before turning to Viorel, her voice coming to him in a soft but still barked command: "Listen for danger," she tells him strictly as she thumbs over the silver collar she has yet to put on his neck. It still is not placed, remaining on her utility belt where it always is, a backup in case of emergencies. "Vio go up to roof for now. If something happen, unlikely, but if, you come to Bianchini. Remember, if hurt people, only cement their fear and bias, yes? Fangs in mouth, claws in pocket, hypnotism to self. Understood? Take smoke break and check out," she insists, though even as she says this, she seems to trust Viorel will listen without waiting for his answer. Vindicta touches the center of his chest, giving it a pat, then wanders towards the command center when bid to do so and seeks the source of all this inaudible racket.
Even as he's treated like some sort of pet, Viorel nods along easily, brow still furrowed from the scratching buzzing filling his mind. "I don't even have claws..." He mutters, rolling his eyes as his chest is pat and Vindicta runs off, truly seen alike a dog. With one last glance over to the inspector and a lightly-tapped-off salute, Viorel heads out from the door again, letting it shut behind him.
Once outside, Viorel sits down against the wall, somewhere in the shade. A hand rifles through his pocket, pulling out the still-untouched packet of menthols. His other hand fishes out his zippo, a few flicks of the ignition revealing it to still be dead. A sigh drifted past his lips and he settled on fidgeting with the thing, opening and closing as he watched what little foot-traffic passed by the mill.
The eyes of the Inspector are as dead as Viorel's body, and though lacking any hostility, he responds to the salute with only the barest of nods, before directing his attention down to his clipboard. The list of numbers on it is so cryptic and uninteresting that even the Scouts won't care to report on it.
The Command Centre, on the other hand, is a sprawling maze of security panels and controls; a list of upcoming battles is on one, and a high-tech, interactive map of supernatural warzones on the other. A few Intelligence personnel man the room, but they only look up at Vindicta to welcome her with a nod, and then simply return to their business. They don't seem to find her presence here particularly unusual, even though one of the newer Assistants can't stop staring at her bunny-themed get-up. Using the clearance she has access to and a little navigation, or else asking for directions, it's not hard for her to find where to switch off the sirens and diffusers that Irene had set up for the Full Moon; this panel also includes a very detailed description of all of the intended effects, which appears to have been chiefly making the town's werewolves want to attack other werewolves.
Up on the roof, no one is waiting for Viorel. But hear the sound of the ultrasonic sirens becomes almost deafening. The smell of wolfsbane on the air is likewise much stronger, although not as unpleasant, originating from scent diffusers dotted all along the roof.
Viorel was split between the torture of the sirens or the midday sun. It gave him a good time to reflect, reflect on what was but the question. He reached into his pockets, pulling out a pair of ear-buds to connect to his archaic smartphone and settle in his ears.
Even if it barely dulled the pain, at least he had whatever music Spotify would offer him to keep his mind to something and the inoffensive sent of wolvesbane. There, he'd stay, cross-legged up against the wall and aside the doorway until disturbed.
The commands aren't too hard for Vindicta to handle, likely. With access codes and perhaps assistance from others mulling about the space, the tiny woman does her best to find a way to disable the sirens herself, her eyes closing drearily for a moment as her horrible sleep schedule harasses her, reminding her that she doesn't take care of herself as much as she lets on with her healthy diet, her water-drinking, her daily exercise. She clearly spends too many sleepless nights filing through paperwork, answering 911 calls, and trying to solve cold cases. Yet, just like any other day, she does not let this impact her work.
Her goal here is simple: She'll first disable the sirens for the sake of all of her Demolishers, because they've truly been cranky from the noise and a lack of sleep has started to make them wild. Next she'll try to disarm the diffusers, but if she finds that to be a task she cannot complete from the command center, she instead sends a text to Viorel diffusers on roof. vio can handle. spreading woflsbane. not inhale or get sick. good thing vio not need breath. good job for vio because of this.
It does appear that Vindicta is able to disable both, from the command centre. She's given a little dialogue box to confirm, and then asked to enter her security code -- but she does have clearance, it seems. Still, it might be worth checking in on Viorel. Although he's up on the roof, their faction comms still work.
One of the security staff happens to notice what she's doing, and remarks, "It was fun while it lasted, huh? Shame none of the wolves actually killed each other, though."
At least, merciful relief, as the ultrasonic keening sound fades from Viorel's ears. The morning sun remains a menace, however.
Letting loose a long, relieved sigh, Viorel finally pulled himself to his feet after going through the messages on his phone. "Don't need to breath... I don't even know how true that is." He chuffs, unrolling his umbrella to provide whatever scant reprieve from the sun it could.
"Diffusers diffusers..." Viorel notions to himself, walking around the rooftop until he finds them. With a couple of minutes of examination, he finds the switches on them, turning them off one by one. During this, he decided to give the whole 'no breathing' thing a shot. After all, up until now, he mostly had been doing so from habit, and if it was a thing, I guess it was at least another coin in his wallet to balance out his particular existence.
Her job done, her word kept, Vindicta turns to the girl that had been staring at her for a while, smiling warmly and making conversation- she asks her name, where she's from, talks about hopes and dreams, of hobbies, of goals, introducing herself as just a normal woman who happens to have a vested interest in rabbits. Hopefully the conversation is mostly polite, but even if the new assistance makes it take a turn for the worst, the Deputy upholds her decorum. Eventually she excuses herself once it's all over, and sends another text to Viorel, this one instructing him to meet her downstairs so they can leave together. She waits for him where they had parted ways so that he isn't wandering the place unattended, and God willing, they make it out without a flock of curious onlookers questioning Vindicta's appearance or throwing tomatoes at Viorel.
(Your target encounters a newly made werewolf who doesn't know what they are or what they've done shortly after the full moon.
)
Standing behind the bar, Sam holds a glass in one hand, and a slightly dingy dish-cloth in the other. He looks around, humming softly to himself as he polishes the glass. Occasionally, he greets a patron with the well-practiced and repeated line of
"Ey! Welcome to the Trove! What can I getcha to get the games started, eh?"
The weathered door of the bar creaks open, allowing a worried-looking man to slip inside. His shoulders are hunched, and his eyes dart around the room, taking in the eclectic surroundings with an air of apprehension. The sprawling, weathered bar in the center of the room, polished to a high sheen and inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, glints under the dim, lantern-like lighting, casting fragmented reflections across his troubled face. Here the walls are painted a deep, oceanic blue, are adorned with an assortment of nautical paraphernalia, creating a surreal contrast to the man's tense demeanor. Aged maps, faded flags, and vintage arcade game marquees intersperse, lending the place an air of nostalgic charm. Above him, the ceiling is draped with tattered sails and thick, knotted ropes, giving the distinct impression of being below deck on a shipa ship in a storm, mirroring his own inner turmoil.
In the corners of the room, clusters of arcade games flicker and beep, their colorful screens casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the worn floorboards. The air is filled with the clatter of pinball machines, the electronic melodies of video games, and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target, sounds that blend into an odd, chaotic symphony. Each noise seems to jar the man further, his worry etched deeper with every passing second. He approaches the bar, his steps hesitant and heavy. The array of bottles behind the bar, displaying everything from craft beers to exotic rums, offers a tempting distraction. Sam is behind the bar, and he notices the man's worried expression. The man takes a seat on one of the weathered barstools, the leather creaking under his weight. He runs a hand through his hair, revealing just how disheveled and lost he feels. His fingers drum nervously on the bar's polished surface, tracing the sea glass mosaic absentmindedly. The dim light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of stress and worry that seem to have taken permanent residence.
He finally raises his gaze Sam, as he tries to offer a lackluster smile. "Whiskey, neat." In this bar, where the past and present meld in a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, the man sits, a solitary figure wrestling with unseen demons, seeking comfort in the dim light and the smooth burn of his drink. The eclectic surroundings, with their nautical charm and lively arcade games, provide a stark contrast to the storm raging within him, creating a scene both poignant and haunting. The moments stretch into minutes as the man nurses his drink, the whiskey's warmth doing little to ease the turmoil in his mind. His gaze drifts to the walls, where aged maps tell tales of distant lands and voyages long past. He traces the routes with his eyes, imagining the adventures and perils faced by those who once relied on these charts. The faded flags flutter gently in the breeze from an unseen source, adding a sense of movement and life to the otherwise static decor. The man is troubled, and perhaps Sam can find a way to flash that good old fashioned bartender charm. After all, bartenders are practically therapists, right?
A short pause, and Sam smiles, putting a glass of whiskey onto the bar. He smiles, and pauses, briefly counting the profit made so far tonight. "On the house." He concedes, eventually.
He grabs that glass and dishcloth again: An old bartender trick. If you approach someone with something to do, it's less threatening. "Hey friend, rough day?" that charming bartender smile is cracked out, and he locks his eyes on the man's, tilting his head aside quizzically.
The man can't help but notice Sam when he walks up, of course but true to his logic it does seem to help to have him wiping down the counter with that rag. The little things. "What am I gonna do" he mutters to himself, voice low that the man behind the bar can barely hear him. Still .. there's something a little familiar about the man's plight. Maybe it brings to mind something about his roommate. Or their girlfriend. Either way this man seems to be in a way. The mystical training of Sam can detect a sense of pain and suffering about the man, and BLOOD. He can't see it, but his instincts tell Sam that this man should be covered in blood.
Keeping quite calm, Sam keeps wiping down that counter, and he leans in, his nostrils flaring ever so briefly. "If ya need some judgment free advice, I'm all ears." He smiles a little, pausing as he speaks, his voice lined with a barely perceptible edge of command. Like he is speaking not as an offer, but as a demand. "Ya can trust me." He hums, picking up an empty glass and polishing it as he works that glass.
There's a sense of hesitation from the man who's sitting there at the bar. When Sam does finally bring that whiskey, he'll knock back in one morbid gulp. "Yeah?" He says to Sam with a look of misery. "You ever ... dream something so real ... you think it might be real?" The question is a strange one, but here in Haven - not so strange. Sam gets the sense he might be talking about more than just a little dip into the shadows of the Nightmare or some drealm realm, though. The blood mage's magical senses are still all a-tingle. He doesn't seem to catch any resistence from the man's mind either; he's far too distraught to be worried about what Sam might be doing.
Hook, line and sinker. A mild smirk crosses the Jock's face as Sam quickly composes himself. "Matter of fact, yeh, actually." He puts down that glass, turning his back briefly to mess with some bottles as he tugs out a finger-bone on a silver chain from under his jacket, the runes on it glowing very briefly as he focusses those senses that all all a tingle.
"Wanna tall about it, or shall I bring out the tequila?" He turns around again, letting that focus hang subtly against his chest. He keeps up his friendly bar-keep demeanor, grabbing a fresh glass to polish.
There's a bitter laugh that comes from this disheveled man but he nods at the mention of tequila only to hold up a two fingers. "Keep it whiskey, but make it a double" he mutters before his eyes retreat back to the bar. His head lifts long enough to look around, and it's a slow afternoon on a Monday ... "I dreamed I killed someone" he whispers across the bar, his face growing pale as the color drains from it. "But it was so real ... I .. " Sam can tell ihe wants to give more, but that wariness kicks back in and he's glancing around the room again so skittish. Still, that fear and that worry pours off of him like water.
"Ey, take twenty." He nods to the bartender, in that familiar phrase he uses when he needs the room. The bartender obliges, since hey, the deal is that these are /paid/ breaks.
"Killed someone, huh?" Sam lowers his voice, and looks over the man as he puts the bottle down on the bar, and smiles. "Sounds like ya could use a few, yeh." He glances over the man, perhaps trying to see that familiar glow around newer arrivals. "Ya been in Haven long, friend?"
This man shakes his head, top answer Sam's last question first. "Not long" he mentions before tossing back a shot when one comes around at the offering. "Dreamed" he says desparately to Sam, wincing as he recalls the memories. "It's like I was running ... or crawling ... and then I was ripping into someone I don't know I just ... I woke up and at first I thought there was so much blood!" His voice cracks, eyes growing wide with fear. "But then it was gone .. "
Sam nods his head, and smiles. "Aight, yeh, I getcha man." He takes a piece of paper, and jots down his number. "I got a friend, works over at Ventr-corp. I think he can help ya out. Getcha sorted." He sighs a little, looking to the man. "Want me to call a cab forya?" He pauses, pressing a finger to his ear-piece, waiting at least until the man answers.
There's a blink from the man almost as if he's not expecting this kind of response at all. Called crazy, or that he's just being paranoid, or even that he might be a killer. All of these he'd been prepared for, but not this. "Wait. What?" Sam isn't paying attention that much of course while he's reaching out to his own contacts to get things rolling, but this man quiets down after a minute or two. At the end of the day ... help with something like this isn't exactly something people just offer around. And he seems to know that. "Thanks" he mutters despondantly to Sam, now. Perhaps growing into the depression of realizing that maybe he really did kill someone. The man behind the bar will soak it all up, and soon enough those contacts will arrive. A cab? No, they give the man a Limo! Platitudes and placations that lure him into the vehicle and soon enough Sam will watch him driven off. What happens to him from here, who's to say? Just another day, another deal to make around here.
OOC: Thank you so much for your participation! If you need a summon to anywhere when you head down please let me know, I will get you there!
Sam nods some when the man is luxery-black-bagged off, and smirks. "Aight, do visit again!" He returns to wiping the counter. Just another monday.