Plotlogs
Neon Hellscape The Devils Broadcast Sr Novel 250302
The tale begins in an abandoned theater in Los Angeles, where the remnants of old Hollywood glamour gather dust and memories. Here, Siofra, Victoria, and Castiel come together, each drawn by their own motives to explore the decrepit building's secrets. Siofra, with her cheeky charm and pockets full of mystic tools, steps into the eerie silence alongside Victoria, who wears a ballistic vest and carries an air of pragmatism. Castiel, an entity of celestial power, descends like a meteor, his dramatic entrance tearing through the fabric of the building and setting the stage for what's to come.
The trio is not typical - Siofra jokes about getting autographs and discusses the peculiarities of the Nightmare realm, Victoria prepares for battle with her bow and daggers, and Castiel, unmoved by the darkness, summons hellfire to light their way. Their banter masks the tension as they uncover a trapdoor on stage, revealing a staircase that descends into the depths below the theater.
As they venture into the underground, the air thickens with the scent of blood and decay, offering a stark reminder of the countless souls who might have met their ends in these catacombs. The walls, etched with occult symbols, suggest a history of sacrificial rituals aimed at appeasing demonic entities. It's clear that this place has been used for dark purposes, far removed from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood above.
The hellfire Castiel summons reveals not just the path ahead but also the ominous sight of a tomb-like chamber, its walls marked with shifting, unsettling runes. The trio hears distant shouting, signs of others alerted to their intrusion. Despite the foreboding atmosphere, their resolve does not waver. Siofra, armed with a singular dart gun, may seem underprepared, yet she carries herself with a bravado that belies her vulnerability. Victoria, ever practical, suggests a strategic use of hellfire to clear their path. Castiel, confident in his judgment and power, leads them forward, the infernal flames at his beck and command.
As they advance, the echoes of their adversaries grow louder, the anticipation of confrontation building. Castiel's intent is clear: to personally address the source of the corruption pervading this hidden realm. Their mission, while undefined in its conclusion, is driven by a common purpose—to unravel and confront the darkness that lurks beneath the city's surface.
But their journey is abruptly paused — a sudden illness forces the players to halt their adventure, leaving the fate of their characters hanging in the balance. Will they succeed in their daring raid into the depths of demonic dealings? Only time will tell as they plan to regroup, ready to press on with their quest to loot, confront, and if necessary, extinguish the sinister forces festering in the catacombs beneath Los Angeles.
Thus, the first act of their story closes, not with a bang but a whisper of things to come, as the trio prepares to dive deeper into the neon-lit hellscape that is the Devil's Broadcast.
(Neon Hellscape: The Devil's Broadcast(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sat Mar 1 2025]
In An Abandoned Theater
A once-grand art deco relic whose neon lights flickered their last decades ago. The marquee is shattered, its rusted letters spelling nothing but gibberish now, and a thick layer of grime clings to the faded posters of films no one remembers. The lobby is filled with the ghosts of old Hollywood glamour, its velvet seats moth-eaten, its chandeliers blackened with soot. The floorboards creak as if whispering warnings, and the air is thick with the scent of mildew, forgotten popcorn, and metallic and sickly sweet smells.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
The air in Los Angeles carries a scent unlike any other city. A mixture of sea salt and ambition, yes. But it has the glossy veneer of celebrity lifestyles and studio backlots, warmth and sunshine mingling up with the pizazz of Hollywood. A city built on illusions, where the brightest lights cast the longest shadows. The entertainment capital of the world, home to dreams spun into reality, and a playground for the rich, famous, and powerful. But right beneath that flimsy surface: Those smiling faces, of inhuman creatures. Dismissed as fringe nonsense by the public but treated with wary reverence by those who know better. Demonic deals, soul contracts, ancient entities masquerading as actors and musicians - so many rumors, all converging in one indisputable truth: the most successful among them, the ones who seem untouchable, have help. And not the kind that comes from a good agent or a well-timed PR stunt.
The high priests and priestesses of the entertainment world have kept their secrets well. They lurk in the background, pulling strings from the safety of their candle-lit sanctuaries. But no matter how carefully a web is woven, a spider always leaves traces. And someone - someone powerful, someone connected, someone untouchable - has finally slipped up.
Sean Combs, known to the world as P. Diddy, is in custody. The circumstances surrounding his arrest remain vague to the public, wrapped in layers of misdirection and media control, but the truth is far more disturbing than any of the salacious headlines making their way through the tabloids. It wasn't just money laundering, or weapons charges, or some manufactured scandal meant to distract from the real issue. No, this was something much deeper. Something old, dark, and primal. A connection severed, a power structure shaken. The whispers have turned into screams in certain circles, and the fear is palpable.
His arrest has sent ripples through the underground, disrupting operations that were never meant to be seen. Its not just his personal empire thats crumbling - it's the very foundations of a much larger, much older machine. And yet, like any beast backed into a corner, it fights to survive.
Someone else has stepped in to fill the void. A new voice, less known but equally dangerous, has taken the reins, ensuring that the machine continues to function, continues to feed. A podcast is still in the air, drawing in new acolytes with honeyed words and seductive promises. A pretentious "Rex Obscura," a caricature of self-importance, wrapped in an insufferable blend of arrogance and faux intellectualism. His voice is a grating mix of affected gravitas and performative mystery, speaking in deliberate pauses as if each word he utters is a revelation from the heavens. He weaves conspiracy and half-truths into a captivating narrative, his words a net cast for the desperate and the gullible.
There are sprawling catacombs beneath the city. It is said that Michael Jackson met his fate in those very tunnels - not in the sterile whiteness of a hospital room, but in a chamber far older than any recording studio, his lifeblood spilled in a ritual meant to appease something beyond human comprehension.
And he was not the only one.
Many have disappeared. Many have been forgotten. The names we chant in reverence today may have been unwilling participants in rites older than Hollywood itself. The city's history is built on suffering.
This is where you all come in.
For if you wish to stop them, you must descend into those catacombs, navigate the labyrinthine tunnels and deal with the mostly-mortals that work and operate. You few act without the constraints and restraints of centuries of deals, coming in from the outside to do deniable dirty work. Recruiting is an option. There are those on the fringes who are disillusioned, those who have seen the rot within and wish to escape. They can be turned, guided, and used to dismantle the beast from the inside. Information is power, and the more you know, the deeper you can cut.
But killing? Killing is always an option. Some things are beyond saving. Some threads must be cut to unravel the whole.
And so you arrive to this sparkling town. Here, the original access point is displayed, untended and ignored, given to you by your connections.
An abandoned theater, a once-grand art deco relic whose neon lights flickered their last decades ago. The marquee is shattered, its rusted letters spelling nothing but gibberish now, and a thick layer of grime clings to the faded posters of films no one remembers. The lobby is filled with the ghosts of old Hollywood glamour, its velvet seats moth-eaten, its chandeliers blackened with soot. The floorboards creak as if whispering warnings, and the air is thick with the scent of mildew, forgotten popcorn, and something elsesomething metallic and sickly sweet.
Siofra steps out of the bathroom without her contact, 'The Plumber-' a man constantly flipping pink plastic explosive in his hands like putty. There are certain job titles sure to get an invite anywhere, and thus, an innate quirk of his own vampirism is always appeased. Nonetheless, The Hand-y man has other places to be.
"Howya, all! Lovely little circus we've got on to, isn't it?"
Siofra, not entering with a weapon, steps into the hall- whipping her head back to down a shot. She isn't particularly dressed for violence, but every pocket of her overalls bulge with something.
"Well, aren't ye both dress feed?" Siofra muses to The Crew, drawing hair off her face.
Victoria arrives without much fanfare, slipping into the space quietly. She raises a hand, fingers combing absently through her tousled hair as her gaze flickers across the scene before her, and her nose wrinkles. A slow breath, a pause, and then she exhales her words with an air of dry finality. "Right, then," she murmurs, her voice edged with wry amusement. "I suppose I can cross this off the list of things to do before I die, or something like that."
Siofra notes Victoria's ballistic vest with a meaningful glance and a meaninglessly flat expression.
Siofra says "Isn't it just?"
Naturally, Castiel arrives as any person of his station ought to.
Like a comet, uncaring, undisturbed.
A flying streak of pure radiance and fire, manifested, molded in the shape of a celestial rock from afar by the sheer speed with which he moves - dazzling and certain to make headlines of a stray asteroid burning up so very close to the city of fallen angels. There is some humor there, a bit of irony - one that flies over Castiel's head before he crashes out of sight and out of mind, straight into the building from the ceiling.
The weathered and worn rubble cannot mount the slightest bit of resistance to his descent, and when the smog and dust falters, falls away within the crater where flaming posters, notices and fliers are scattered - there is him. Castiel, standing without a single hair displaced, soon to step out of the small hole he's made in his fall. Wings that widely spread, and would be a terrifying, biblical sight should they fold around him, instead retreat upon his back. Shiver, shimmer, and slide like blades drawn to their sheath into his back beneath his clothes to be hidden by whatever machination keeps them veiled like they don't exist.
Victoria and Siofra are given a glance - but that is it, before he focuses on the theater at large. Inspecting, scrutinizing, observing with the uncanny weight of his stare that burrows into the whole place with a narrow look that casts an unerring glow of molten amber from his sight.
Siofra hops back on one foot, arms braced defensively to her side, a hand covering her face, as the body reacts to the sudden give of ceiling, a splintering of noise, and the sudden presence.
Her side hits the booth where she steels herself in frustration, wiping herself off of nothing like Castiel had just come into the pool with a canonball. "I'd give out to ye' fer that but I don't think ye' know any other way to get somewhere."
Ancient curtains flutter with must and mold, a whole section of the stage collapsing in response to Castiel's entrance as his gaze darts here and there. Discarded food, rubbish, the occasional literal vermin scuttling around of bugs and rats. But native and normal as opposed to the lingering darkness of something shapeshifted or transformed. Bits scatter here and there, shrapnel pinging off Victoria's and Siofra's features. There's the soft crunch underfoot as bits are destroyed and new light punches in through the new ceiling. Things that seemed dramatic or spooky are shown to be wilting and gray under the light. Peeling posters for live shows fallen by the wayside for mass-produced media. Phantom of the Opera! Macbeth! But alas, it's all turned to Much Ado About Nothing and the information the three have found. A testament to success and failure both, all in one swoop, and the tentative, temporary lines of celebrity stardom.
Castiel's angel eyes pierce through and spot it - something that has been moved more often, that has trails leading to it through the dust more than insects and bent to leave a shine. A trapdoor, mounted in the stage itself, leading down to parts unknown.
Siofra gives Castiel a long, odd stare. Her own blank scrutiny whose subtleties don't play out on the second layer of skin.
"So-" Siofra sneezes, patting her forearm as light catches a ray of kicked up dust lingering about her, "..I came with mandrake, a few tools. Here fer a craic, dread honest."
Without looking away in the slightest- but taking the whole of the room at any rate, Castiel brushes off some dust from his shoulder. Siofra probably hit the nail on the head - that he knows no other entrance but wrath and judgement, and here, it is in abundance. It's likely that Castiel was informed of this, of why he is here - and it is likely that he has no intention of recruitment of anykind.
Evident, in how he reaches for his bag - that thing that hangs at his side in an off-way, like something too big for it is crammed by force. In reveal, it is his trusty sword. So old and worn, chipped that it should be useless in any other hand, and it probably is. And yet, eons of mastery prevails, because Castiel strides with it held at his side. "Good. I will rely on you." Though, the way he says it is cryptic - in a way that might indicate more than her possession of tools.
"I expected to be alone in this," Castiel makes mention, before he blurs out of sight at a mere walk. When he's within more easily seen, it is when he's standing on the stage, tracing the ground with the edge of a weapon in his pace - following the trail of aged marks upon wood leading to exactly where they're looking for. It just so happens that his sword clacks against a seam. "Why are you two here?" He shoves it in, in a kneel on a single leg, and twists his blade to elevate the trapdoor and bare the way forward.
"You think I'd miss a chance to get autographs?" Victoria shoots back at Castiel, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she casually brushes dust and debris from her clothes. "Bonus if I get to stab something too," she adds, rolling her shoulders. She tilts her head slightly, as if considering for a fraction of a second before offering a simple shrug. "I guess the question is more, why not?"
"Craic." Siofra says like a sweetheart's name, full of the smile it brings. She steps on top of the debris in her way, claiming dominance over the territory in a lazy trajectory to catch up to Castiel.
"I'd say there could be a few reasons why not. I've got t'be in Greece in t'ree hours- but I'm catching what's on about this first."
Siofra says "And also- I've just got a small imagination for how people get on with themselves in the real world."
There's sickening CRACK as the trapdoor just snaps up and open as Castiel falls in the steps of the philosopher Archimedes, revealing the entryway below - a flight of stairs, crumbling and spiral, descending down and down to other areas. The sharp smell of blood is now more strident and pungent, flowing from this new opening and reaching to even Victoria and Siofra. And other foulness, behind, scents that they are no-doubt familiar with. And, further, tingling against Siofra's mandrake-enhanced senses, warning of danger and a certain kind of violent excitement.
But it's clear that 'recent' only means within the last few years. Stale scents mingle up with it, of air that hasn't been disturbed in too long.
Siofra blinks through the Nightmare hallucinogenic, taking in the hints of that second plane that lingers. A thought as she jogs with a few skips to reach Castiel over preparing for his gait.
"If ye' shite in the Nightmare do it not decompose proper? Or- or, does it ONLY decompose if yer psyche witnesses and expects it?"
"I see."
Perhaps this, too, flies over Castiel's head at Victoria's response. He doesn't judge, or question, to each their own. Though, he does note Siofra's approach with a sidelong glance as dust slowly settles around the trapdoor and foreign yet familiar scents waft out of the hole they've laid open. "You, however, talk too much." The words are delivered prior to a gesture of beckoning over his shoulder.
One that claims Siofra with an unseen hand, squeezing, holding her like a puppet and demanding she moves to Castiel's whims. She's propelled forward from her location, sliding on her heels straight into Castiel - or so it seems initially, before her body continues to be flung ahead, straight into the hole. "You can check out whether it does ahead of us."
Victoria herself is given a simpler gesture. One more mundane in simple request to follow along while he stands back up to his full height, and takes a step forward into the hole as well. Straight down, diving feet-first like a nail behind Siofra.
Victoria huffs an exhale that blows an errant strand of hair from her face. "Clearly this isn't going to be the spot for signature finding," she states, her tone laced with disappointment. As she inhales, her eyes narrow. "Still, might be a salvageable trip." She doesn't respond to Siofra's statement beyond the raise of a brow. She moves a bit more languidly, stopping once beside Castiel, after her movement through that hole.
Siofra is quite the well balanced, aesthetically satisfying, if not kinetically. Her converse scrape until they make hard contact with a staircase and she tumbles in an air cartwheel- tucking a leg to stumble into a stand from the fling.
Siofra holds a hand in surrender, rictus of a smile present as she opens the back of her neck for a spotlight through darkness.
Siofra just lets the end poke out, casting the shadow of her neck like a monolith out in front of her.
Siofra comes face to face something disgusting, scrutinizing it like an art critic.
"The one with the swirl on its nose is creative. Sorta need context fer why scent would be center of its world."
Dust and rubble shakes loose as Siofra's circus antics take her down the stairs. Though while debris crumbles, the structure itself stands tall, beyond the swaying that's typical of structures designed to withstand earthquakes and such sabotaging destruction. Posters - The 13th warrior, The Fall of the Roman Empire, Inchon, Ishtar - movies that they may not have even heard of, but here flaking and crumbling in a testament to resources poured into them and then failed along these levels. Thump, thump, thump. And into the dark it leads. Echoing voices, strangely distorted, to those with acute hearing leads further into darkness. The subtle shift and click of various weaponry through the tunnel that extends before them.
Having sharp senses and being able to see in the dark may be a boon here, for this is where and when the hostilities truly start. Although this particular entrance stands unfortified and unguarded: There is no set of sandbags with a machine gun nest, or tripwires nor traps in silverly line.
Siofra takes a Seran-wrapped glass of alcohol as she takes a moment to drink off the darkness. The dim red glow peeking out of the seams of her flesh behind her gives nothing but dark thoughts to the path ahead.
"I feel 'tis grand to mention that if I get shot I die. My blood has left me sooooo.."
Siofra waves a hand to the natural conclusion ahead of her.
Victoria blinks at Siofra, drawing a bow from her belongings, and securing a pair of daggers into a sheathe. "Has left you," she repeats quietly. "Easy solution. Don't get shot." Her attention turns to Castiel then, brow furrowing as she listens to the voices coming from further on.
"I can not see the enemy in front of me. I do not have a vest, and I glow like a stick." Siofra lists out the factors that would result in her assisted suicide down the dark tunnel.
"Don't be a dolt hoor when there's no sanctuary, Vic."
Unlike before, Castiel lands like a feather. Not a dust risen in descent, and thankfully he doesn't land on a poor Siofra to crush her spine like a plastic tube. The darkness is barely an inconvenience, those eyes peer through it viciously, with severity that is the make of him. But his place is in the sky and light, not in the dark and underground - so he makes it homely first.
There is that infernal twist, a glimmer nestled in his eyes. Over consumption of Hell has certainly left its mark within Castiel, and it shows in the look of his eyes that flit about the darkness that holds no sway over him. One of his hands lift, palm open - before fire flickers. A single lick of it full of soot and ash, incredibly sulphuric in scent, elevates between his fingertips before being cast out with a flick of his wrist.
Hellfire claims. It burrows into the walls, sears through jagged, uneven, yet chaotically symmetrical lines on both walls at their side and the center of the ceiling in continuation, dripping with acrid swirls like tar set aflame - glowing a deep crimson with a mauve tint waning with each drift following a non-existent wind as it starts to rampage forward, illuminate their path ahead.
"You worry too much. Don't forget that I am here."
Siofra wilts instinively
Siofra blegh
Siofra wilts instinctively under the torrent of fire. It feels like home, and home is a place she has no part of. The quaint sadistic spark of blood inside her recoils not from the heat, but the element, leaving the vessel for it stiff in the face of an illuminated hallway.
"Hallions. We've made Hell of this space, have we?" She mumbles. Giving a tired look, face broken by the 'minus,' she continues forth in a marching order- holding her breath tense as the tube retreats back under her skin.
With light comes heat. In this case, sulphuric and brimstone heat, radiating outwards from Castiel as it casts both moss and trash to condemnation, and whatever lives within the walls with crack and pop. A faint mushroomy scent blossoms followed by a crying scream that quickly dies beneath the waves, the brief outlining of a person down the tunnel as their skeleton is shown in that bright light before crumbling. Apparently Castiel's action caught someone remaining there, and leaves what shows to not be mere sewer tunnels, but a level below. The glowing heat of hellfire revealing to Siofra, Victoria that for all appearance seems to be an unfilled tomb, the walls marked and etched with lines of occultism and worship.
But not to any one thing.
Even here, lines are drawn, entities are warred to, and what particular being is sacrificed to seems to change. Swirling patterns that distort space - for now, though, it seems as if whatever is taken hold is demonic in origin as it drinks it the heat, giving the runes a dedicated glow the suffuses the twisty passageways and hallways in stark familiarity.
The echoing picks up. People are shouting. Some forces are being marshaled down within these branching depths.
"Ought to send some of that down the way, yeah?" Victoria tells Castiel, squinting her eyes toward the source of the shouts. "Nothing I recognize, I don't think we'd be charring anyone overly important." She glances about, and there's a soft sigh. "Gross," she declares.
Siofra snickers nervously, more than a little numb to be unarmed in a crumbling tomb of demonic influence, unarmed. "Well, we've no reason to care about the lives of the unnamed? I barely remember their bones! Much less their face."
Siofra says, snickering, "'Tis a firefight. Eheheh..."
Siofra's echoing giggle is an odd response to the shouts below. Were she without her skin, there would be the illusion of foreboding doom to the sight.
However, she's well and truly neutered of her Knighthood. Aos Sidhe in name only.
The sight alone of the demonic influence, quite hypocritically, leads Castiel to assume a frown that haunts the edge of his mouth. The distaste is palpable, but he doesn't relinquish his own infernal fire. Instead, he steps through - walking past Siofra and Victoria to take the helm and be the spearhead leading the charge. The brittle sword at his side remains ever still in his grasp.
"I have something more personal and up-close in mind. Let us move, we're lingering too much." And so he does first. Strides forward with unhurried steps down the hall, towards that sound of shouting and people being marshaled in preparation to react to unwanted guests. With each step, the fire that has stopped its advance continues across the walls, buried within the seals and seams of sigils, tethered to the plume of flame held aloft within Castiel's other palm. "I only have a vague understanding of what transpires with your so called 'celebrities' but this, places like this, I know well, and I will judge."
Judge first, then be the jury, and likely the executioner too, at the end.
Siofra fishes out pistol with no hammer- a small bolt opening the chamber to a single dart she sticks inside. It is perhaps not better than nothing. For the absence of something might in fact attract gunfire to someone else more likely to kill their opponents.
And whatever happens will have to wait until part two - the player's suddenly been struck with a bout of sickness and will have to call off until next time, where the trio go in and loot and/or murder everyone.
The trio is not typical - Siofra jokes about getting autographs and discusses the peculiarities of the Nightmare realm, Victoria prepares for battle with her bow and daggers, and Castiel, unmoved by the darkness, summons hellfire to light their way. Their banter masks the tension as they uncover a trapdoor on stage, revealing a staircase that descends into the depths below the theater.
As they venture into the underground, the air thickens with the scent of blood and decay, offering a stark reminder of the countless souls who might have met their ends in these catacombs. The walls, etched with occult symbols, suggest a history of sacrificial rituals aimed at appeasing demonic entities. It's clear that this place has been used for dark purposes, far removed from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood above.
The hellfire Castiel summons reveals not just the path ahead but also the ominous sight of a tomb-like chamber, its walls marked with shifting, unsettling runes. The trio hears distant shouting, signs of others alerted to their intrusion. Despite the foreboding atmosphere, their resolve does not waver. Siofra, armed with a singular dart gun, may seem underprepared, yet she carries herself with a bravado that belies her vulnerability. Victoria, ever practical, suggests a strategic use of hellfire to clear their path. Castiel, confident in his judgment and power, leads them forward, the infernal flames at his beck and command.
As they advance, the echoes of their adversaries grow louder, the anticipation of confrontation building. Castiel's intent is clear: to personally address the source of the corruption pervading this hidden realm. Their mission, while undefined in its conclusion, is driven by a common purpose—to unravel and confront the darkness that lurks beneath the city's surface.
But their journey is abruptly paused — a sudden illness forces the players to halt their adventure, leaving the fate of their characters hanging in the balance. Will they succeed in their daring raid into the depths of demonic dealings? Only time will tell as they plan to regroup, ready to press on with their quest to loot, confront, and if necessary, extinguish the sinister forces festering in the catacombs beneath Los Angeles.
Thus, the first act of their story closes, not with a bang but a whisper of things to come, as the trio prepares to dive deeper into the neon-lit hellscape that is the Devil's Broadcast.
(Neon Hellscape: The Devil's Broadcast(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sat Mar 1 2025]
In An Abandoned Theater
A once-grand art deco relic whose neon lights flickered their last decades ago. The marquee is shattered, its rusted letters spelling nothing but gibberish now, and a thick layer of grime clings to the faded posters of films no one remembers. The lobby is filled with the ghosts of old Hollywood glamour, its velvet seats moth-eaten, its chandeliers blackened with soot. The floorboards creak as if whispering warnings, and the air is thick with the scent of mildew, forgotten popcorn, and metallic and sickly sweet smells.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
The air in Los Angeles carries a scent unlike any other city. A mixture of sea salt and ambition, yes. But it has the glossy veneer of celebrity lifestyles and studio backlots, warmth and sunshine mingling up with the pizazz of Hollywood. A city built on illusions, where the brightest lights cast the longest shadows. The entertainment capital of the world, home to dreams spun into reality, and a playground for the rich, famous, and powerful. But right beneath that flimsy surface: Those smiling faces, of inhuman creatures. Dismissed as fringe nonsense by the public but treated with wary reverence by those who know better. Demonic deals, soul contracts, ancient entities masquerading as actors and musicians - so many rumors, all converging in one indisputable truth: the most successful among them, the ones who seem untouchable, have help. And not the kind that comes from a good agent or a well-timed PR stunt.
The high priests and priestesses of the entertainment world have kept their secrets well. They lurk in the background, pulling strings from the safety of their candle-lit sanctuaries. But no matter how carefully a web is woven, a spider always leaves traces. And someone - someone powerful, someone connected, someone untouchable - has finally slipped up.
Sean Combs, known to the world as P. Diddy, is in custody. The circumstances surrounding his arrest remain vague to the public, wrapped in layers of misdirection and media control, but the truth is far more disturbing than any of the salacious headlines making their way through the tabloids. It wasn't just money laundering, or weapons charges, or some manufactured scandal meant to distract from the real issue. No, this was something much deeper. Something old, dark, and primal. A connection severed, a power structure shaken. The whispers have turned into screams in certain circles, and the fear is palpable.
His arrest has sent ripples through the underground, disrupting operations that were never meant to be seen. Its not just his personal empire thats crumbling - it's the very foundations of a much larger, much older machine. And yet, like any beast backed into a corner, it fights to survive.
Someone else has stepped in to fill the void. A new voice, less known but equally dangerous, has taken the reins, ensuring that the machine continues to function, continues to feed. A podcast is still in the air, drawing in new acolytes with honeyed words and seductive promises. A pretentious "Rex Obscura," a caricature of self-importance, wrapped in an insufferable blend of arrogance and faux intellectualism. His voice is a grating mix of affected gravitas and performative mystery, speaking in deliberate pauses as if each word he utters is a revelation from the heavens. He weaves conspiracy and half-truths into a captivating narrative, his words a net cast for the desperate and the gullible.
There are sprawling catacombs beneath the city. It is said that Michael Jackson met his fate in those very tunnels - not in the sterile whiteness of a hospital room, but in a chamber far older than any recording studio, his lifeblood spilled in a ritual meant to appease something beyond human comprehension.
And he was not the only one.
Many have disappeared. Many have been forgotten. The names we chant in reverence today may have been unwilling participants in rites older than Hollywood itself. The city's history is built on suffering.
This is where you all come in.
For if you wish to stop them, you must descend into those catacombs, navigate the labyrinthine tunnels and deal with the mostly-mortals that work and operate. You few act without the constraints and restraints of centuries of deals, coming in from the outside to do deniable dirty work. Recruiting is an option. There are those on the fringes who are disillusioned, those who have seen the rot within and wish to escape. They can be turned, guided, and used to dismantle the beast from the inside. Information is power, and the more you know, the deeper you can cut.
But killing? Killing is always an option. Some things are beyond saving. Some threads must be cut to unravel the whole.
And so you arrive to this sparkling town. Here, the original access point is displayed, untended and ignored, given to you by your connections.
An abandoned theater, a once-grand art deco relic whose neon lights flickered their last decades ago. The marquee is shattered, its rusted letters spelling nothing but gibberish now, and a thick layer of grime clings to the faded posters of films no one remembers. The lobby is filled with the ghosts of old Hollywood glamour, its velvet seats moth-eaten, its chandeliers blackened with soot. The floorboards creak as if whispering warnings, and the air is thick with the scent of mildew, forgotten popcorn, and something elsesomething metallic and sickly sweet.
Siofra steps out of the bathroom without her contact, 'The Plumber-' a man constantly flipping pink plastic explosive in his hands like putty. There are certain job titles sure to get an invite anywhere, and thus, an innate quirk of his own vampirism is always appeased. Nonetheless, The Hand-y man has other places to be.
"Howya, all! Lovely little circus we've got on to, isn't it?"
Siofra, not entering with a weapon, steps into the hall- whipping her head back to down a shot. She isn't particularly dressed for violence, but every pocket of her overalls bulge with something.
"Well, aren't ye both dress feed?" Siofra muses to The Crew, drawing hair off her face.
Victoria arrives without much fanfare, slipping into the space quietly. She raises a hand, fingers combing absently through her tousled hair as her gaze flickers across the scene before her, and her nose wrinkles. A slow breath, a pause, and then she exhales her words with an air of dry finality. "Right, then," she murmurs, her voice edged with wry amusement. "I suppose I can cross this off the list of things to do before I die, or something like that."
Siofra notes Victoria's ballistic vest with a meaningful glance and a meaninglessly flat expression.
Siofra says "Isn't it just?"
Naturally, Castiel arrives as any person of his station ought to.
Like a comet, uncaring, undisturbed.
A flying streak of pure radiance and fire, manifested, molded in the shape of a celestial rock from afar by the sheer speed with which he moves - dazzling and certain to make headlines of a stray asteroid burning up so very close to the city of fallen angels. There is some humor there, a bit of irony - one that flies over Castiel's head before he crashes out of sight and out of mind, straight into the building from the ceiling.
The weathered and worn rubble cannot mount the slightest bit of resistance to his descent, and when the smog and dust falters, falls away within the crater where flaming posters, notices and fliers are scattered - there is him. Castiel, standing without a single hair displaced, soon to step out of the small hole he's made in his fall. Wings that widely spread, and would be a terrifying, biblical sight should they fold around him, instead retreat upon his back. Shiver, shimmer, and slide like blades drawn to their sheath into his back beneath his clothes to be hidden by whatever machination keeps them veiled like they don't exist.
Victoria and Siofra are given a glance - but that is it, before he focuses on the theater at large. Inspecting, scrutinizing, observing with the uncanny weight of his stare that burrows into the whole place with a narrow look that casts an unerring glow of molten amber from his sight.
Siofra hops back on one foot, arms braced defensively to her side, a hand covering her face, as the body reacts to the sudden give of ceiling, a splintering of noise, and the sudden presence.
Her side hits the booth where she steels herself in frustration, wiping herself off of nothing like Castiel had just come into the pool with a canonball. "I'd give out to ye' fer that but I don't think ye' know any other way to get somewhere."
Ancient curtains flutter with must and mold, a whole section of the stage collapsing in response to Castiel's entrance as his gaze darts here and there. Discarded food, rubbish, the occasional literal vermin scuttling around of bugs and rats. But native and normal as opposed to the lingering darkness of something shapeshifted or transformed. Bits scatter here and there, shrapnel pinging off Victoria's and Siofra's features. There's the soft crunch underfoot as bits are destroyed and new light punches in through the new ceiling. Things that seemed dramatic or spooky are shown to be wilting and gray under the light. Peeling posters for live shows fallen by the wayside for mass-produced media. Phantom of the Opera! Macbeth! But alas, it's all turned to Much Ado About Nothing and the information the three have found. A testament to success and failure both, all in one swoop, and the tentative, temporary lines of celebrity stardom.
Castiel's angel eyes pierce through and spot it - something that has been moved more often, that has trails leading to it through the dust more than insects and bent to leave a shine. A trapdoor, mounted in the stage itself, leading down to parts unknown.
Siofra gives Castiel a long, odd stare. Her own blank scrutiny whose subtleties don't play out on the second layer of skin.
"So-" Siofra sneezes, patting her forearm as light catches a ray of kicked up dust lingering about her, "..I came with mandrake, a few tools. Here fer a craic, dread honest."
Without looking away in the slightest- but taking the whole of the room at any rate, Castiel brushes off some dust from his shoulder. Siofra probably hit the nail on the head - that he knows no other entrance but wrath and judgement, and here, it is in abundance. It's likely that Castiel was informed of this, of why he is here - and it is likely that he has no intention of recruitment of anykind.
Evident, in how he reaches for his bag - that thing that hangs at his side in an off-way, like something too big for it is crammed by force. In reveal, it is his trusty sword. So old and worn, chipped that it should be useless in any other hand, and it probably is. And yet, eons of mastery prevails, because Castiel strides with it held at his side. "Good. I will rely on you." Though, the way he says it is cryptic - in a way that might indicate more than her possession of tools.
"I expected to be alone in this," Castiel makes mention, before he blurs out of sight at a mere walk. When he's within more easily seen, it is when he's standing on the stage, tracing the ground with the edge of a weapon in his pace - following the trail of aged marks upon wood leading to exactly where they're looking for. It just so happens that his sword clacks against a seam. "Why are you two here?" He shoves it in, in a kneel on a single leg, and twists his blade to elevate the trapdoor and bare the way forward.
"You think I'd miss a chance to get autographs?" Victoria shoots back at Castiel, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she casually brushes dust and debris from her clothes. "Bonus if I get to stab something too," she adds, rolling her shoulders. She tilts her head slightly, as if considering for a fraction of a second before offering a simple shrug. "I guess the question is more, why not?"
"Craic." Siofra says like a sweetheart's name, full of the smile it brings. She steps on top of the debris in her way, claiming dominance over the territory in a lazy trajectory to catch up to Castiel.
"I'd say there could be a few reasons why not. I've got t'be in Greece in t'ree hours- but I'm catching what's on about this first."
Siofra says "And also- I've just got a small imagination for how people get on with themselves in the real world."
There's sickening CRACK as the trapdoor just snaps up and open as Castiel falls in the steps of the philosopher Archimedes, revealing the entryway below - a flight of stairs, crumbling and spiral, descending down and down to other areas. The sharp smell of blood is now more strident and pungent, flowing from this new opening and reaching to even Victoria and Siofra. And other foulness, behind, scents that they are no-doubt familiar with. And, further, tingling against Siofra's mandrake-enhanced senses, warning of danger and a certain kind of violent excitement.
But it's clear that 'recent' only means within the last few years. Stale scents mingle up with it, of air that hasn't been disturbed in too long.
Siofra blinks through the Nightmare hallucinogenic, taking in the hints of that second plane that lingers. A thought as she jogs with a few skips to reach Castiel over preparing for his gait.
"If ye' shite in the Nightmare do it not decompose proper? Or- or, does it ONLY decompose if yer psyche witnesses and expects it?"
"I see."
Perhaps this, too, flies over Castiel's head at Victoria's response. He doesn't judge, or question, to each their own. Though, he does note Siofra's approach with a sidelong glance as dust slowly settles around the trapdoor and foreign yet familiar scents waft out of the hole they've laid open. "You, however, talk too much." The words are delivered prior to a gesture of beckoning over his shoulder.
One that claims Siofra with an unseen hand, squeezing, holding her like a puppet and demanding she moves to Castiel's whims. She's propelled forward from her location, sliding on her heels straight into Castiel - or so it seems initially, before her body continues to be flung ahead, straight into the hole. "You can check out whether it does ahead of us."
Victoria herself is given a simpler gesture. One more mundane in simple request to follow along while he stands back up to his full height, and takes a step forward into the hole as well. Straight down, diving feet-first like a nail behind Siofra.
Victoria huffs an exhale that blows an errant strand of hair from her face. "Clearly this isn't going to be the spot for signature finding," she states, her tone laced with disappointment. As she inhales, her eyes narrow. "Still, might be a salvageable trip." She doesn't respond to Siofra's statement beyond the raise of a brow. She moves a bit more languidly, stopping once beside Castiel, after her movement through that hole.
Siofra is quite the well balanced, aesthetically satisfying, if not kinetically. Her converse scrape until they make hard contact with a staircase and she tumbles in an air cartwheel- tucking a leg to stumble into a stand from the fling.
Siofra holds a hand in surrender, rictus of a smile present as she opens the back of her neck for a spotlight through darkness.
Siofra just lets the end poke out, casting the shadow of her neck like a monolith out in front of her.
Siofra comes face to face something disgusting, scrutinizing it like an art critic.
"The one with the swirl on its nose is creative. Sorta need context fer why scent would be center of its world."
Dust and rubble shakes loose as Siofra's circus antics take her down the stairs. Though while debris crumbles, the structure itself stands tall, beyond the swaying that's typical of structures designed to withstand earthquakes and such sabotaging destruction. Posters - The 13th warrior, The Fall of the Roman Empire, Inchon, Ishtar - movies that they may not have even heard of, but here flaking and crumbling in a testament to resources poured into them and then failed along these levels. Thump, thump, thump. And into the dark it leads. Echoing voices, strangely distorted, to those with acute hearing leads further into darkness. The subtle shift and click of various weaponry through the tunnel that extends before them.
Having sharp senses and being able to see in the dark may be a boon here, for this is where and when the hostilities truly start. Although this particular entrance stands unfortified and unguarded: There is no set of sandbags with a machine gun nest, or tripwires nor traps in silverly line.
Siofra takes a Seran-wrapped glass of alcohol as she takes a moment to drink off the darkness. The dim red glow peeking out of the seams of her flesh behind her gives nothing but dark thoughts to the path ahead.
"I feel 'tis grand to mention that if I get shot I die. My blood has left me sooooo.."
Siofra waves a hand to the natural conclusion ahead of her.
Victoria blinks at Siofra, drawing a bow from her belongings, and securing a pair of daggers into a sheathe. "Has left you," she repeats quietly. "Easy solution. Don't get shot." Her attention turns to Castiel then, brow furrowing as she listens to the voices coming from further on.
"I can not see the enemy in front of me. I do not have a vest, and I glow like a stick." Siofra lists out the factors that would result in her assisted suicide down the dark tunnel.
"Don't be a dolt hoor when there's no sanctuary, Vic."
Unlike before, Castiel lands like a feather. Not a dust risen in descent, and thankfully he doesn't land on a poor Siofra to crush her spine like a plastic tube. The darkness is barely an inconvenience, those eyes peer through it viciously, with severity that is the make of him. But his place is in the sky and light, not in the dark and underground - so he makes it homely first.
There is that infernal twist, a glimmer nestled in his eyes. Over consumption of Hell has certainly left its mark within Castiel, and it shows in the look of his eyes that flit about the darkness that holds no sway over him. One of his hands lift, palm open - before fire flickers. A single lick of it full of soot and ash, incredibly sulphuric in scent, elevates between his fingertips before being cast out with a flick of his wrist.
Hellfire claims. It burrows into the walls, sears through jagged, uneven, yet chaotically symmetrical lines on both walls at their side and the center of the ceiling in continuation, dripping with acrid swirls like tar set aflame - glowing a deep crimson with a mauve tint waning with each drift following a non-existent wind as it starts to rampage forward, illuminate their path ahead.
"You worry too much. Don't forget that I am here."
Siofra wilts instinively
Siofra blegh
Siofra wilts instinctively under the torrent of fire. It feels like home, and home is a place she has no part of. The quaint sadistic spark of blood inside her recoils not from the heat, but the element, leaving the vessel for it stiff in the face of an illuminated hallway.
"Hallions. We've made Hell of this space, have we?" She mumbles. Giving a tired look, face broken by the 'minus,' she continues forth in a marching order- holding her breath tense as the tube retreats back under her skin.
With light comes heat. In this case, sulphuric and brimstone heat, radiating outwards from Castiel as it casts both moss and trash to condemnation, and whatever lives within the walls with crack and pop. A faint mushroomy scent blossoms followed by a crying scream that quickly dies beneath the waves, the brief outlining of a person down the tunnel as their skeleton is shown in that bright light before crumbling. Apparently Castiel's action caught someone remaining there, and leaves what shows to not be mere sewer tunnels, but a level below. The glowing heat of hellfire revealing to Siofra, Victoria that for all appearance seems to be an unfilled tomb, the walls marked and etched with lines of occultism and worship.
But not to any one thing.
Even here, lines are drawn, entities are warred to, and what particular being is sacrificed to seems to change. Swirling patterns that distort space - for now, though, it seems as if whatever is taken hold is demonic in origin as it drinks it the heat, giving the runes a dedicated glow the suffuses the twisty passageways and hallways in stark familiarity.
The echoing picks up. People are shouting. Some forces are being marshaled down within these branching depths.
"Ought to send some of that down the way, yeah?" Victoria tells Castiel, squinting her eyes toward the source of the shouts. "Nothing I recognize, I don't think we'd be charring anyone overly important." She glances about, and there's a soft sigh. "Gross," she declares.
Siofra snickers nervously, more than a little numb to be unarmed in a crumbling tomb of demonic influence, unarmed. "Well, we've no reason to care about the lives of the unnamed? I barely remember their bones! Much less their face."
Siofra says, snickering, "'Tis a firefight. Eheheh..."
Siofra's echoing giggle is an odd response to the shouts below. Were she without her skin, there would be the illusion of foreboding doom to the sight.
However, she's well and truly neutered of her Knighthood. Aos Sidhe in name only.
The sight alone of the demonic influence, quite hypocritically, leads Castiel to assume a frown that haunts the edge of his mouth. The distaste is palpable, but he doesn't relinquish his own infernal fire. Instead, he steps through - walking past Siofra and Victoria to take the helm and be the spearhead leading the charge. The brittle sword at his side remains ever still in his grasp.
"I have something more personal and up-close in mind. Let us move, we're lingering too much." And so he does first. Strides forward with unhurried steps down the hall, towards that sound of shouting and people being marshaled in preparation to react to unwanted guests. With each step, the fire that has stopped its advance continues across the walls, buried within the seals and seams of sigils, tethered to the plume of flame held aloft within Castiel's other palm. "I only have a vague understanding of what transpires with your so called 'celebrities' but this, places like this, I know well, and I will judge."
Judge first, then be the jury, and likely the executioner too, at the end.
Siofra fishes out pistol with no hammer- a small bolt opening the chamber to a single dart she sticks inside. It is perhaps not better than nothing. For the absence of something might in fact attract gunfire to someone else more likely to kill their opponents.
And whatever happens will have to wait until part two - the player's suddenly been struck with a bout of sickness and will have to call off until next time, where the trio go in and loot and/or murder everyone.