Plotlogs
Secrets Of The Sinner Sr Sarah
In the dreary Veshki Clinic for the Mentally Unwell, a motley group is tasked with a dangerous mission: to extract Natasha Ahmetov before the cult infiltrating the institution can make their move. The group is led by Lucien, who is joined by Deacon, Jett, and Kylia.
As the group maneuvers through the clinic, they witness the dismal contrast between the well-kept and the maximum-security areas. It becomes apparent that the staff expected their arrival, and despite initial suspicions by an orderly, the team manages to bluff their way deeper into the facility, thanks to quick thinking and intimidating presence, particularly from Lucien and Kylia.
Deacon showcases his resourcefulness by creating an improvised exit through a plaster wall disguised as part of the structure, leading to the staff room. Meanwhile, Jett, under the guise of a doctor, utilizes his knowledge to navigate the security and assist the group in moving unnoticed.
They find Natasha in a deplorable state, tortured and desperate for escape. She begs to be taken far from the cult's grasp, revealing her willingness to divulge everything about the tombs they seek—if only they can ensure her safe extraction.
Suddenly, the pursuit becomes perilous as the "Bishop," a dark figure enveloped in black magic, attacks them with lightning, which nearly strikes Jett. Deacon takes part of the impact aimed at Kylia, and both sustain injuries but survive. The tension escalates with the Bishop advancing menacingly, forcing the group to flee.
Carlisle Baker, the Watchers' representative, awaits in an alley with a path that leads to safety. Under his urgings, the escape is frantic. They navigate through a portal, emerging from the closet of a Boston cafe. Despite the chaos, Natasha is successfully liberated from the cult's grasp, and the Bishop's pursuit is thwarted.
The mission concludes with Baker welcoming the team to the warmth of a cafe, offering rewards for their service. Natasha Ahmetov, bearing both physical and mental scars, is transferred to White Oak's medical care—a place of recuperation rather than confinement. Yet the threat of the Bishop looms, suggesting this is but a temporary reprieve in the ongoing conflict with the cult.
(Secrets of the Sinner(SRSarah):SRSarah)
[Thu Dec 7 2023]
On a street in-front of the entrance of the Veshki Clinic for the Mentally Unwell
The structures lining this street in the center of Veshki are well-maintained and quaint. Historical buildings hearkening back to the Russia before the Soviet Union. This street would likely be touristic, wasn't it for the looming, communist structure in the center, crudely squeezed between two monumental shops that would likely groan in complaint, if they could. Unadorned concrete walls with far too little windows and two glass doors leading in, the title of this dreary place hung in flickering letters above:
'Veshki Clinic for the Mentally Unwell'
It is night, about 10F(-12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by grey clouds. It's snowing. There is a waning crescent moon.
Looking as though he's just woken up Deacon comes wandering through the halls of the medical facilities rubbing face and scratching his head with fingernails throug the knit wool of his beanie cap. He notes someone and someone, stepping around them as he comes to the intersection of hallways. "Sa va" he murmurs, in a southern Cajun drawl.
A man paths into the icy cold of the streets of Veshki, a town not far from Moscow. He immediately folds his arms, shivering and sneezing under the relentless assault of the winter air, then looking around himself with a shake of his head.
Carlisle Baker would be the man in question. The representative of the Watchers. A fidgety man, a bit of a spineless coward, really. Slick - far too slick, and studious looking. Black hair greased flat with a single curl and oversized glasses to match his brown suit in a contest of boredom. "It's f-fucking c-c-cold again." he complains as he leads in Kylia and Jett, then he would look at Lucien and Deacon, who likely have their own method of travel. "...S-So... T-this p-place a-also has a b-back entrance." he explains through his shivers, gulping.
(OOC: Feel free to emote to each other between my own emotes. Otherwise these plots grind down to a crawl. Follow the rule of 2: If 2 other people emoted, you can usually emote again. This leaves people the ability to take a bathroom break if they want. There's multiple solutions to this plot, don't be afraid to try something weird! Have fun!)
It's from another of those shadowy paths that Deacon emerges, looking mildly annoyed or surprised at something as he stumbles off of the path into the biting, bitter freeze of Russian winter. "Oh, jesus' balls in a blender" comes a southern drawl twisted up with a Cajun accent as that cold slaps him right in the face. He's not even paying attention to the overall rest of the crowd right now, he's just huddling into his flannet and cursing under his breath as piercing green eyes glance down to make sure he hasn't scuffed his shoes.
"Mr. Baker, I should think you a smart enough man to have worn a better jacket." Lucien, who apparently is unbothered by the chilly weather surrounding them, smiles thinly, emerging from a path not unlike the one that Deacon steps out of. He looks from Carlisle to Kylia, Deacon, and Jett before returning a gaze as chill as the wintry air all around to the Watchers' Representative.
He seems content otherwise, at least for now, to remain quiet, letting the his compatriots speak while the man can barely keep his teeth apart enough for a voice to emerge. Meanwhile, Lucien adjusts his suit, ensuring not a stitch is out of place.
Kylia's choice of attire, or lack thereof for the weather, becomes apparent as the frosty wind whispers through the fabric that offers little resistance. Shivers cascade through her frame, each step a reluctant dance with discomfort as she follows after Carlisle. A strained attempt of a pleasant smile is given as she spots the rest of the group, but quickly demures, as if waiting for someone else to take change.
The chill of the air has Jett shutting off his phone and stowing away his hands into his pockets. Each face in the area is familiar, and he gives them a nod of a greeting. He doesn't necessarily speak up, saving his breath and energy to bundle up in his many layers. Still, a shiver claws it's way up his spine with each exhale of wind that beats against his form.
The bookish man stares at Lucien, misery plain on his face. "T-this j-jacket w-worked f-fine in New York!" He protests. But the winters in New York, of course, are not the winters in the Moscow area. He then composes himself, stealing glances at the building as he speaks. "Y-your target is inside. Natasha. Natasha Ahmetov. She - we need her to tell us where the tomb is, and which tomb... And we need to make sure the cultists don't have her..." The man grimaces, then shivers again - the cold again? Or a thought? "We have reasons to believe they infiltrated the c-clinic and may be about to make their move. S-so you must r-rescue her before that." He of course fails to mention the /easier/ option of asking Natasha the information - and then killing them. Perhaps the Watchers wouldn't approve - but it /would/ get the job done. Faster. Safer than trying to smuggle some damsel back out. "T-there's two entrances... The staff room.." He points towards an alley, "...And the reception..."
He looks back at his path, "T-that's all right? I, I think i'll go back somewhere warmer now! C-contact me once you're done!" he starts to excuse himself, pocket watch in his hand.
Amidst the bone-chilling cold, Kylia can't help but exhale a suggestion, her words escaping in a dry, almost arid tone that leaves room for interpretation. "Could just blow a hole in the wall." she deadpans, a glint of humor hidden beneath the layers of frosty discomfort, before she goes on toward Carlisle in a way that cruelly denies him sweet release, "Is there a way to easily identify someone that's part of the cult? Do they wear anything like a symbol?"
Lucien looks around at each of his companions as they shiver and hunker down into the cold. That thin smile remains. For some, the cold is merely a fact of life. He moves to stand closer to Carlisle, lifting his hands to rub them together. This isn't an effort to ward off the cold, but rather a slow remnant of thought as he considers the conversations that lead him here. "Natasha Ahmetov," he considers quietly. Even when he speaks, no condensation forms outside his features. "Rescue her," he says softly, looking to Kylia as she offers up a solution that's sure to be a bang, watching Carlisle as the man looks about frozen solid and ready to scamper back to warmer climes.
"What do we think?" He inquires of the group, waiting until the Representative has escaped the icy clutches of the Muscovian winter.
"I think I can get that back door open without blowin' any holes" Deacon provides, gritting his teeth against the chatter of the cold as he steps closer to the group, now. He tucks his arms in, hands disppearing beneath the folds of flannel-covered armpits. "But I'm just the utility man, who's pushng point on this?" He asks this in a no-nonsense fashion.
"We can scope out security before we crack open the door.. maybe they'll have uniforms we can borrow," Jett reasons his words escaping like tendrils of warm smoke into the others frigid environment. As for volunteers on who will take the lead, he doesn't step up immediately, looking to the others first.
"Probably the smell of wine and a crazed look in their eyes, going by the reports.." Mr. Baker responds on the question of recognizing the cultists, right as he steps through his Path. It closes behind him - how useful, that man. Staying around to provide exactly no help.
Ahmetov, if saved, may be more useful in future ventures. But is that a risk the group wants to take?
The reception seems open enough - people occasionally walking out and in. Quiet, but mundane. The alley though - it looks dark, and empty. Perhaps a tempting path to explore.
"Think it has visiting hours?" Kylia wonders, each breath escaping her lips transforming into a visible wisp in the frigid air, "Could try to make out that we're concerned friends or something." She says, as if this explained her line of thinking, "Or like, her legal team?"
"I suppose I should be happy to take the lead. Quieter is better, unless we plan to take advantage of the chaos Nadiya's suggestion engenders. If you think you can get us in stealthily, Mr. Herveaux, that would be the best. I presume you and Mr. Carson are both versed in security systems enough to ensure we don't cause too much ruckus?" Lucien seems to consider the situation for a long moment, "Everywhere has visiting hours if you're a skilled enough talker," he suggests to Kylia, thoughtful. "It wouldn't be too difficult to convince them that some of us were representative of Miss Ahmetov's concerns, though others," and here he pauses to look at Deacon and Jett, "Might have a more difficult time of that.
"While the two of you scope out the alleyway there," he gestures down the invitingly dark space, "We could step inside and see what there is to see.""
"I suppose I should be happy to take the lead. Quieter is better, unless we plan to take advantage of the chaos Nadiya's suggestion engenders. If you think you can get us in stealthily, Mr. Herveaux, that would be the best. I presume you and Mr. Carson are both versed in security systems enough to ensure we don't cause too much ruckus?" Lucien seems to consider the situation for a long moment, "Everywhere has visiting hours if you're a skilled enough talker," he suggests to Kylia, thoughtful. "It wouldn't be too difficult to convince them that some of us were representative of Miss Ahmetov's concerns, though others," and here he pauses to look at Deacon and Jett, "Might have a more difficult time of that."
"While the two of you scope out the alleyway there," he gestures down the invitingly dark space, "We could step inside and see what there is to see." (fix)
"They'll probably know me" Deacon murmurs with a nod toward Lucien before his eyes shift to study Jett now. "I'm rusty but I can probably get the door open without waking up the whole neighborhood, yea" he says finally though his chin lifts in Jett's direction as he tries to visually assess the guy. "You might be more up on your shit, sha. But let's choose. I'm not standin' out here another minute." His grin is forced a little, not usual for Deacon but he sounds quite serious about getting out of the cold before his hands turn black and fall off.
Jett scans his attention over towards that dark alley upon Lucien suggestion. ".. Wouldn't say I'm an expert in cracking open a security system, but," he begins, and while it sounded like there was more to say, he never bothers finishing the sentence. He nods over towards the alley and checks with Deacon, "Shall we?"
(OOC: I can't read RP if you're in different rooms, so you'll have to re for me each time I switch location if you do split),
Kylia hovers, nodding with a quiet assurance, maintaining a close presence to Lucien with a positioning that hints at an intention to follow his lead. She gives a thumbs-up toward the group.
There's an easy enough nod from Deacon toward Jett happy enough to help the man investigate the darkened alleyway that may lead them at least beyond the wintery confines of Russia's winter. "Let's see what we got" he agrees quietly before setting himself in motion. Once the man is Oscar Mike - he's focused and serious and doesn't waste time getting on task.
"Very well then. The two of you get down the alleyway, and we'll head inside. I suppose we'll know if you two encounter resistance, won't we." He says consideringly before walking towards the front door of the Veshki Clinic. With the gang taking the Scooby Doo route, he leads Kylia towards the front door and stands before it, waiting for Deacon and Jett to get into position before -- with a grimace of distaste -- opening the door for Lucien's half of the group to get inside.
OOC: For the purpose of this particular issue, Deacon suggests we do something like this.
Deacon offers this is an alternative to splitting rooms for the SR's sake.
Deacon knows they put effort into rooms too!
There is a lazy noise that escapes Jett, something akin to a gunshot. P'kyow. Some confirmation of a response to Lucien's expectation that if he and Deacon were to meet resistance, they /would/ probably hear of it. Then he's off trudging snow after Deacon towards that sketchy alley of secrets.
Deacon prompts Jett to join him in the new dynamic place!
(OOC: Suggests everyone moves north, this is also where the staff room leads)
Jett and Deacon can be seen entering the reception closer to the hallway - out of sight of the receptionist, if barely, but just in sight of Kylia and Lucien, should they look. The latter pair seems to be talking to the receptionist, who in turn looks rather uncomfortable. The receptionist hesitates for a moment, then takes the bill, looking away. "...Cell 132, Wing-A" she says softly as she looks away from the pair, making a point of not seeing them. A chance to slip by, given on purpose.
In an instant, the warmth dissipates from Kylia expression, leaving behind an icy chill, almost as frigid as the air outside. Her mouth opens as if to say something, but then it closes almost as quickly as the receptionist seems to cede. A nod is given and her expression lights back up almost as quickly, "Thank you. And, which way is that from here, please?"
Jett hangs back for a time playing the role of a scowling authority figure silently judging from a distance. When Deacon hurries him he puts some purpose to his steps, entering into reception but hesitating to see where the receptionist might direct the two familiar faces negotiating with her.
The receptionist is no longer, it seems, in any mood to talk. She simply points - to the hallway, to Deacon and Jett. Whatever she saw on that screen - she didn't like it. Her hand once more trails under her desk - panic button, clearly playing with the idea of pressing it in her discomfort.
With a nod of compliance, Kylia obediently falls into step behind Lucien. As she goes - another appraising glance is given back over a shoulder toward the receptionist.
Near the hallway entrance, Lucien and Kylia would find themselves stumbling into Jett and Deacon. Jett now wearing a doctor's coat - most curious. The hallways look mundane - well maintained, clean, even at night, patients find themselves in states of recreation - insomniac perhaps, or more pessimistically, a lack of free bedrooms for the patients. The doctors working with some of the patients seem mostly normal - friendly smiles despite the late hour - and the patients seem at ease with them. Not the worst clinic, it would seem.
For himself, Deacon waits until the group of them can make it away from the receptionist's desk and hopefully with a relative hustle to leave that woman at the front desk less reason to consider that hidden button underneath her computer desk. He's keeping hismelf unobtrusive for a time but as soon as he can manage without drawing suspicion, he'll speak up quietly. "She lied to you" he murmurs without beating the bush.
Deacon is heading northwest!
Deacon should prolly wait for others to emote and junk.
"Good evening," a pause, "Doctor." He looks at Jett, gaze not betraying his curiosity. Still, the man seems mild-mannered, now that they've moved beyond the reception. "Perhaps you can lead us to the patient we've come to check on?" He gestures with an open palm and a smile. "I know." Lucien says congenially in response to Deacon, having noticed the difference in what the receptionist /was/ going to say versus what she /did/ say. "Hard to be surprised, all things considered," he mentions under his breath, neither meeting the passing doctors' gazes nor shying away from them.
As her gaze falls upon the familiar pair, a subtle wave of relief washes over Kylia features. A soft smile forms on her lips, and without a word, she seamlessly falls into step alongside them, supposing in a hushed tone, "Should probably get this over with before she calls for help."
May have thought they were on the move but waits after a few purposeful steps along. When Jett casts a look back to the others, he beckons them along, but ends up waiting. The other doctors are given a pass of a look, "Good evening." He tries to put a thick accent beneath the mutter.
Moving into the hallways beyond the reception desk, Deacon nods at Lucien before he shows the screen of his phone, and results concerning the translation raw though it is from the whiteboard minutes earlier. "D wing .. six thirty six." He reads off, glancing around a little too nervously with his head on perpetual swivel right now.
Doctors pass to and fro, looking quite normal, really. Some strange glances are afforded to the group, though they simply shake their head when their eyes fall on Jett. Some gossip about it in Russian, but they don't look /surprised/. As if unknown doctors bringing strange looking outsiders has been normal, of late. A sign, perhaps, of the cult presence. An orderly wearing a taser approaches from deeper into the hallways, then says something to Jett in russian. It sounds disapproving, but he does not say anything more, instead passing on towards the staff room.
Deacon is gonna explore while they speak! Just keep emoting, since everyone is following him!
At those looks and mutters, Deacon encourages Jett to move them along and he subtly starts to lead them through the hallways so that the younger man can play the role while he keeps a more sharp eye out for things that look around. "Noted somethin' off in the break room, not sure if it's gonna help but let's see if we can find some signage" he mutters now, more to himself than to Kylia, Lucien or Jett. He's trudging them through hallways to keep them on the move, and thus less suspicious overall.
"Quickly, I've got a flight to catch," he says to Jett, as though urging the man towards their objective. The Russian-speaking orderly with the taser isn't afforded more than a look. It's a damn shame they don't know Russian. He falls in line with Jett at a clipped pace as the group makes their way towards D wing. Given the receptionist's response, he expects an even chillier reaction as they get closer. "Something's got her afraid," he says quietly, "I'll give you two guesses you won't need to figure out why." Lucien's eyes swing this way and that as they walk, in a manner consistent with a visitor curious about his surroundings.
The door to the north has a curious sign-age on it in both, Russian and English. "Maximum Security Area". An electronic lock guards it from further access. There's no real reason to go there perhaps - since Wing-D may well be further inside. The hallways continue unceasingly inside, an endless maze snaking through the buildings.
Kylia's gaze lingers on the locked door in a subtle appraisal. The silent scrutiny is followed by a discreet clearing of her throat, a deliberate sound meant to draw attention to it. Casting a furtive glance around, she checks for any potential witnesses.
Despite the looks of disdain and the assumedly rude remarks offered by unknown faces of a language ignorant to him - Jett seems entirely unbothered. "I'm moving," he complains to the others but slows his pace just a hair to peer at the door deemed maximum security. He tilts his head askew with interest but remembering their position peers around and presses forth to find Wing D in the maze like asylum.
Eying the english on the sign, Deacon frowns as he continues to notice it. "Too much english" he says quiet before side-glancing toward Lucien and Kylia. "Yeah" he agrees with the woman with a slight grin, and a nod toward the door. "Say Doc ... swipe us in, oui?"
Lucien nods to Deacon, falling silent as they move into the maximum security area. The large red letters are illuminating as they move towards their objective, and the Arkwright seems less than pleased about the stench emanating from the direction they're about to head towards. His nose wrinkles. Sometimes the acute senses of his kind are a blessing ...right now they're a curse.
Orderlies do pass by on occasion, as do doctors. But besides their disapproving glances, they don't seem to find their interest in the maximum area to be very noticeable. In fact, they positively seem to expect them to go there. As they enter the Maximum Security Area however, there's a stark change of scenery. A facade, dropped. While doctors still walk around, they look exhausted, tired and irritated. The place isn't appropriately cleaned, the orderlies hold pistols, glancing around with an annoyed expression. One walks up to the group, then speaking to Jett. "Privet." He greets him, then tilting his head, cursing in Russian. He exchanges some words with another orderly, who proceeds to take over the conversation for him as he walks away. No english, probably. The other orderly speaks in a clean accent. "...You're new, are you with... the bishop?"
"The receptionist said it was Wing-A, Cell 132." Kylia murmurs to the group as a gentle reminder in a voice that's barely above a whisper. Then as the Orderlies drop by and address Jett she instinctively falls into a quiet reserve with her own voice fading into the background.
A moment of trailing Jett's eyes over the bright red letters has him abruptly turn towards the eastern most door. That is until an orderly approaches to finish the conversation initiated by another. "Somewhat," he claims of his unfamiliar presence without entirely trying to appear experienced with the going ons. A bishop? "Yes, the bishop - why do you ask?" he claims and then inquires further of the orderly questioning him.
As Jett confirms that they're here with the Bishop, icy eyes flash, watching the orderly. Years spent honing an air of authority go into this look, but he does not say anything in the moment, choosing to let Lucien's appearance speak for itself as the foursome prepare to move on. Wishfully-forgotten memories of J.A.'s withering looks pour into this imperious gaze, as though there's absolutely no reason this person should have felt comfortable approaching them.
The orderly furrows her brow. Suspicion. "You don't... look... like Bishop." The orderly comments, then shrinking back as she's given a rather scary look. She recovers however, composing herself, apparently no stranger to this sort of thing. She reaches to her belt, taking out some sort of communication device, eyes flitting between Deacon and Lucien. "Should call him here. He can - confirm. Introduce. Welcome." she explains somewhat apologetically as she starts to bring it to her mouth. There's multiple orderlies around - a fight, here, would be most risque.
"You're wasting his, and our time." Kylia allows her expression contort into a sudden sneer, a flash of disdain that cuts through the present atmosphere with abrupt hostility, "If this delay causes us to miss our opportunity then that's going to be on you, miss.." She snaps her fingers a few time, voice dripping with authority, "Tell me your fucking name."
It would seem Kylia and Lucien had similar ideas. "There will be no need for you to call the Bishop. We are already on our way to him," he says cuttingly. His voice is sharp, and he cuts the orderly off before she's even finished speaking, making it clear just where in the hierarchy between she and he she stands. "Stop wasting our time. The Bishop /will/ hear about this." Lucien says, then, staring down at the orderly, trying to wield that aura as a knife by which to cut thin the orderly's suspicion and allow them to be on their way. "Doctor, proceed, or I will see to it that the Bishop hears of your failure as well." When the orderly finds that her device fails, he rolls his eyes. "I see you're completely fucking useless."
"Maybe you should take that up with him," Jett suggests coldly to the orderly who points out his lack of uniformity for whatever presence he has associated himself with. As the others pitch in to their urgency to move he rushes along - trusting Deacon's Google translation to head towards the intended wing.
"B-but" The orderly starts paling, then smacking her hands on her device, multiple times, in a panic as it fails to respond. She nods, fearful, then walks off in a hurry. Most likely, she will eventually realize something was off there. Possibly, call in for help. But for now, the coast is clear as the group works their way into Wing-D. Various cells are on display here - one in particular standing out to the south. Isolation Cell 636. A piece of wall near the entrance of the room seems, strangely, made out of plaster instead of concrete.
On occasion, a howling can be heard - each time from a different cell. The patients here don't seem to be here by choice, and certainly don't seem to be enjoying themselves here.
As Jett leads them through into D wing and leaves that orderly sputtering, Deacon gives a faint sigh of relief before he turns around and after a quick scan his eyes pause against the wall before focusing on the door to the south. "That's six thirty six?" he asks for confirmation as he points to the door to the south. "I say we got .. five minutes. Then it's gonna get hairy" he says to them now, soudning deadly serious.
What a strange thing, uniformity being marred by plaster. Like that was the strangest thing Jett wastes just a little bit more time, tapping against the wall before he gets back on track to swipe them into the room.
"Let's make haste. Especially if we've got any chance whatsoever of getting this woman out of here." Whatever Jett and Deacon are talking about, Lucien doesn't seem to notice immediately, but he's intent on getting into that room Jett prepares to swipe them into. "We're going to need to walk and talk, I think, if we want to pull this off. Can't spend too much time plying her with questions if we want to get her out of here, but we can't afford something happening to her on the way out and us leaving with nothing." Lucien looks forward towards the room as the door opens, following them inside.
Kylia's nose wrinkles in mild disgust as she takes in the condition of the cell. Her focus remains fixed on the hallway with an apprehensive air, almost as if expecting someone to arrive on their tail any moment now.
A rancid smell fills the isolation cell. A torture room, to call it what it is. On the bed lays a woman, sleeping at first. Her nose broken, her face bloodied. The classically russian brown hair - often referred to as 'roosy' - falling onto her scrubs. The group entering wakes her immediately and she draws herself in a start, hugging her legs at a corner of the bed, wide eyes staring. She starts speaking in russian, a quick pace, a nervous one, then seeming to realize the futility of it, switches to English. Her accent is quite good - her speech fluent. "W-who are you? Why are you in my room? P-please! Please! I- I will behave! Please!"
From the roof, a strange noise can be heard. Footsteps. Running. Eastwards.
It's footsteps that bring the level of urgency that Deacon now displays as he hears that. He drops all pretense and his head whips around to Lucien "Get her in hand!" Then he's snapping to and shifting green eyes toward Jett. "Incoming" he assumes and then he's slipping back out the front of the door to the cell. He's aiming for that plaster-bit that seems as if a doorway or passage had been recently covered up? It all seems to add up with the absolute lack of facade back here in this half of the clinic. He doesn't waste time knocking knuckles on the wall he just trusts his instincts. If there's time when he pokes out of the door to the isolation cell, he'll haul ass right at that piece of wall, intending to try and shoulder his way through that plaster and throws out a mental prayer.
What a wretched and tragic sight of mistreatment. Jett wrinkles his nose but the smell is even far too potent for him to be able to stand it without lifting his hand up to cover his nose. "Christ," he mutters beneath his breath. When the patient wakes with a start he motions the others forth as if to interrogate her, his job swiping key cards done from as far as he's concerned. The sound of footsteps tapping across the roof have his eyes lift upwards, following their pace along and then peering back towards the singular entrance into the room as if expecting additional guests at any moment.
Beneath the fabric of her dress, Kylia allows her fingers discreetly tighten around an unseen object. Her eyes, however, are fixated on the source of the echoing footsteps above before she pokes her head out into the corridor, eastward, almost as if checking if there's an entrance that could utilized from the direction of the sound.
The sound of those footsteps from above gives him cause to look at Deacon and Jett. "We're going to have trouble sooner rather than later. We ought to get moving. You." He snaps his fingers and is stood before the woman before she can ask too many more questions. "Let's fucking go." There's no way this pitiful wretch of a person, in his mind, is strong enough to resist him, and he's pretty bodily in the way he grabs her and drags her back out the way they came. "I need to know about the tomb, Natasha." She's probably got plenty of questions for him, but he's not of any mind to answer them as Lucien simultaneously tries to ply answers from the woman and get her out of this hellhole in one piece.
Deacon finds himself in the hallway with no company besides frightened orderlies running westwards. Whatever is coming, it has the staff most nervous. The area seems to be getting colder, an oppressive atmosphere settling in. 'Sarge' finds meets an unmoveable object which... immediately breaks. A single pane of wood behind the plaster the only meager defence against the rather strong man. He finds himself across - back in the staff room. Lucien finds little challenge from Natasha, though she tries - oh she tries, kicking, screaming, clawing as she's grabbed without a moment of explanation, the barest of kindnesses. "Let me go! Wait, t-tomb? W-why are you- Let me go. Please, please. I'll tell you what you want!" Terrified. There's little way for her to know, after all, if she just found herself in less danger... Or even more.
"MOVE it!" Deacon calls out, the sound of him crashing through the wall no doubt reaching the others. He doesn't waste time coming back through the hole he's just truck-sticked his way through but now he's turning to watch the hallway and wait while he pulls himself together with a focus. "Last call y'all!" His drawl is decidedly American of course, he's hoping desparately that he'll have enough time to pull this off before thigns start to get really hairy. That cold atmophere doesn't bode well, and it only brings a renewed sense of urgency in the Cajun's man's words. "NOW!"
It is a handgun that Jett withdraws from within his labcoat now, a simple weapon without much glitz or glamor about it. "Yeah, I think you guys are right," he drones out with the impending doom lingering an echo of a footfall away. He looks to Deacon to see if he can bash them an escape route open first, but otherwise seems prepared to rush out sny other alternative. He calls over the terrified shouting, "You better start telling us fast if you want this to work out in your favor," he suggests but then with the wall crashes down and Deacon through it and without much hesitation Jett is rushing along after him, pausing his gait if only to make sure Lucien keeps up with the precious cargo in hand.
"We're trying to help you." Kylia murmurs toward the frightened woman, as if hoping this half-hearted attempt of encouragment might make her cooperate. Regardless of if it does or not she moves with the ground - occassionally tossing appraising glances toward the stairwell as she goes.
Kylia moves with the group, rather.
follows Deacon through the sudden hole that's been made in the wall. Good thing they're back to familiar territory, though with the way the orderlies are dashing away, he's not so sure that he wants to know what's coming. Despite Natasha's fervent clawing and the screams she emits, "You're going to tell me what I want anyway, but we don't have any time for your fucking questions, Miss Ahmetov. Now, will you" he says this phrase through bouts of her wriggling, "kindly. stop. moving." The Arkwright makes for the door out, one arm holding Natasha firmly, and the other rising to give Deacon's shoulder a bit of a push towards the exit, "Let's get the fuck gone before we find out whatever it is this group is so worked up about." Even holding the scared Natasha, and with the chaos all around them, Lucien is hurriedly collected. "The tomb, Miss Ahmetov," he reminds the woman as they make their way from high security to staff room, with the exit so precious few feet away.
OOC: Deacon will go along with the crowd here now, he has to AFK so he can get ready to run out and grab an errand! He'll stay semi-active as long as he can.
As Jett follows Deacon, he can spot the impending danger first-hand. A woman - dressed in a white, embroidered dress. An atractive dress, in a way, long black hair flowing over it in all directions. She would be most beautiful, if it wasn't for that strange, ethereal grin. Her blackened lips. The murderous expression in her eyes. Or, perhaps, that bizarrely fast walk - several robe-wearing cultists race behind her, but she glides gracefully with every step, as if she were skating along the concrete floor. Closing in quickly as the team makes its way back to the staff room, at most 20 meters away.
"I- But-" She looks at Kylia, doubting, shivering in Lucien's iron hold. "...T-there's a f-few t-tombs, w-which do- do you want? T.." She trails off, "N-not the... The home, do you...?" She seems to be begging, there. Whatever the 'home' is, she definitely doesn't want to share it.Or think about it, perhaps.
In the span of a breath, Kylia' patience wears thin and her measured tone, she suddenly snaps like a taut string, "But, what? You'd rather stay here instead?" With a resigned sounding huff, Kylia abandons the verbal sparring, the energy previously spent on debate now channels into a singular focus - escape, as she tries to keep up with the group.
Twenty meters isn't enough time for Deacon to try and pull up a path right off, so he's taking that shove and moving for the door they'd entered the place through - no need for a keycard from this side! Still, he has to be poushed and shoved along as the man tries to split his focus without focusing on the sight of the woman heading for them. Apart from all the things Horribly WRONG about her appearance - the man's eye can't quite help but leer for things exceptionally beautiful.
They're heading somewhere cold, and if Natasha is shivering now, she's about to be in a real world of hurt. Still quite adamant that he doesn't want to see what's coming, beautifully dressed or otherwise, Lucien makes his way through the staff-room door. Surely whatever was chasing them would cease when they got outside. No one wanted to make a public mess of things. ..did they? "Let's start there and we'll talk about the other tombs until I know what I need to know," he snaps coldly at Natasha, still carrying the woman like a briefcase, under one arm. Is that her blood hitting the floor? He hits the door at pace, bursting into the room beyond it.
Jett has yet to doff his nice new lab coat just yet, but he chugs along with the others like an escapee all the same. He doesn't add his voice to the chorus of convincing words to the patient - believing someone and Kylia entirely capable of convincing what the group needed to know out of her before we hit the ice cold outdoors.
Jett has yet to doff his nice new lab coat just yet, but he chugs along with the others like an escapee all the same. He doesn't add his voice to the chorus of convincing words to the patient - believing Lucien and Kylia entirely capable of convincing what the group needed to know out of her before we hit the ice cold outdoors.
Deacon suggests Lucien hit the beckon now!
Natasha whimpers as she's taken along, the icy cold of Moscow's outside doing little to ease her suffering. Spits something out, blood hitting the floor, though likely not too badly wounded, before her eyes fall on a corpse near the exit. "...Yuri..." she murmurs softly. A pang of sadness. A friend? She then grimaces, speaking in a shivering tone, "They'll k-ill me..." She complains before collecting what courage she has, a strange tension filling the air, a quiet, "I-I'll tell you e-everything if you c-can g-get me a-a-way from them. F-far away. B-before he p-possesses m-" AA crackle interrupts her, then a crash. Rubble as dark magic as black lightning breaks through the staffroom wall, revealing the 'Bishop' on the other side, missing Jett by a bare hair. "I missed." the woman pouts, then cackling as she steps through the first all - the solid concrete /next/ to the broken plaster, then heading towards the second.
Further into the alley, a man waits, next to a path. Thick coats hide his shape, but slick black hair betrays his identity. Carlisle Baker. He beckons to the group, grimacing as he sees the lightning. "Hurry! Hurry!" He beckons, the bishop approaching, that strange tension once more shaping in the air.
The crack of lightning and the rubble that flies has Jett flinch, the fact that he nearly gets smoked by it certainly doesn't help. "Fu-ghh," he chokes on the curse and stumbles, catching himself just barely. Now with that extra bit of encouragement and with the man waiting in the alley hurrying is exactly what he wants to do -- sprinting as fast as his legs can carry him now.
Drawing from beneath the frbaric of her dress, Kylia blindly hurls a knife in the Bishop's direction as if trying to buy precious moments for the group to evacuate. She keeps low as she runs toward Carlisle, a precautionary measure, as if anticipating being struck in potential retaliation.
"I see you're better dressed this time, Mister Baker." He doesn't look back. The singe of black lightning striking too-close to them is enough. The Arkwright stands near to the path, waiting for Jett, Deacon, and Kylia to clear its portal first. He's still holding the writhing hostage he's stolen out from under the Bishop's nose, and now that he's got a moment to ensure the rest of his group get through the portal, he turns to look at the ethereal woman who's just stepped through a concrete wall. "Get through there, I'll follow." When they've collapsed through the path, Lucien finally joins them, happy to step through with his ward.
Deacon follows at break-neck pace to keep up as well. However, as the Vanguard it's his job to keep the six covered and if there's antying that comes at them as they flee for their retreat so close at hand, it'll be Deacon that puts himself between it and the rest.
As Kylia hurls a knife, it misses her target by a wide berth, sliding pathetically next to the bishop, on the floor. The bishop pauses for a moment, her head tilting unnaturally far as she glances at the knife. Emotions flicker past her face. Surprise. Curiosity. Insult. Rage. She raises her hand, recklessly gathering her magic above the head, even in a dark alley like this, far too visible for anyone walking by. She fires it off towards Kylia, hitting her painfully in her back - something that would most surely be lethal if it wasn't for Deacon taking part of the blow, causing the rest of the foul energy to disperse into the night. Both spared from serious injury. Either way, the path isn't far, and they find themselves through - on the otherside, in the middle of those familiar woods, the Watcher goading them on as he runs as fast as his own feet can carry him to a bright light at the end. The one behind them - closing.
Kylia lets out piercing cry as her back bears the brunt of the Bishop's magic. Her body convulses involuntarily, a reflexive jerk spurred by the searing pain, though despite the searing pain, she swiftly she resumes running after a momentary stumble, knowing that whatever's on the other side of that portal is surely better than being trapped here with the Bishop.
It won't be until they are well and truly on that path home before Deacon starts to calm down from high levels of alert, faint wisps of smoke and the disctinctly plastic smell of burnt synthetic fibers wafting around him from where that blast impacted against his clothing to linger in the nostrils of the group as they make the journey.
When Kylia and Deacon are hit by that supernatural lightning, Lucien lets out a low string of curses all in French, and makes his way through the woods, feeling the pressure mounting to get his charge out and away before the hideously ethereal thing behind them catches up. He spills out into the bright light directly behind Carlisle, and looks about ready to throw Natasha in the rubbish. If only he wasn't so adamant about finishing a job. Turning back around, Lucien wants to make sure that the others spill out on /this/ side of things. Still, they're a lot closer to safe now than they were a few moments ago.
Coffee. The smell of coffee permeates the air on the other side of the path. They find themselves between coats... A wardrobe. Carlisle Baker opens a curtain, showing the truth of things - they made it, safe, to a cafe. He starts taking off his coat, the perhaps familiar streets of Boston behind the windows, then sits himself down, smiling at the group. "I see you got Natasha out alive." he praises, flagging a waitress down for some coffee. "Excellent. Most excellent. I will hear your request for awards, now. Of course we've money, but we also have found some of the items described in your past report in the rubble of the Pushkin Commune, if that would interest you." He sits down, gesturing ahead of him.
...And that's that for the Secrets of the Sinner, the Sinner in question being Natasha Ahmetov, traitor to the Cult. But was she a sinner because of the betrayal, or because of her stint as a member? And which secrets, does she hold? Questionings are held later, over time, - and she may be a familiar face to some, as she finds herself transferred to White Oak's medical care. Not a forced stay, this time, by anything but her wounds.
That is, if the Bishop doesn't get to her first.
(OOC: Thank you all for partaking in the plot! I hope you had fun. Feel free to ask for any plot award. Feedback is welcome as well, send me a tell with your preferred location for summoning.)
As the group maneuvers through the clinic, they witness the dismal contrast between the well-kept and the maximum-security areas. It becomes apparent that the staff expected their arrival, and despite initial suspicions by an orderly, the team manages to bluff their way deeper into the facility, thanks to quick thinking and intimidating presence, particularly from Lucien and Kylia.
Deacon showcases his resourcefulness by creating an improvised exit through a plaster wall disguised as part of the structure, leading to the staff room. Meanwhile, Jett, under the guise of a doctor, utilizes his knowledge to navigate the security and assist the group in moving unnoticed.
They find Natasha in a deplorable state, tortured and desperate for escape. She begs to be taken far from the cult's grasp, revealing her willingness to divulge everything about the tombs they seek—if only they can ensure her safe extraction.
Suddenly, the pursuit becomes perilous as the "Bishop," a dark figure enveloped in black magic, attacks them with lightning, which nearly strikes Jett. Deacon takes part of the impact aimed at Kylia, and both sustain injuries but survive. The tension escalates with the Bishop advancing menacingly, forcing the group to flee.
Carlisle Baker, the Watchers' representative, awaits in an alley with a path that leads to safety. Under his urgings, the escape is frantic. They navigate through a portal, emerging from the closet of a Boston cafe. Despite the chaos, Natasha is successfully liberated from the cult's grasp, and the Bishop's pursuit is thwarted.
The mission concludes with Baker welcoming the team to the warmth of a cafe, offering rewards for their service. Natasha Ahmetov, bearing both physical and mental scars, is transferred to White Oak's medical care—a place of recuperation rather than confinement. Yet the threat of the Bishop looms, suggesting this is but a temporary reprieve in the ongoing conflict with the cult.
(Secrets of the Sinner(SRSarah):SRSarah)
[Thu Dec 7 2023]
On a street in-front of the entrance of the Veshki Clinic for the Mentally Unwell
The structures lining this street in the center of Veshki are well-maintained and quaint. Historical buildings hearkening back to the Russia before the Soviet Union. This street would likely be touristic, wasn't it for the looming, communist structure in the center, crudely squeezed between two monumental shops that would likely groan in complaint, if they could. Unadorned concrete walls with far too little windows and two glass doors leading in, the title of this dreary place hung in flickering letters above:
'Veshki Clinic for the Mentally Unwell'
It is night, about 10F(-12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by grey clouds. It's snowing. There is a waning crescent moon.
Looking as though he's just woken up Deacon comes wandering through the halls of the medical facilities rubbing face and scratching his head with fingernails throug the knit wool of his beanie cap. He notes someone and someone, stepping around them as he comes to the intersection of hallways. "Sa va" he murmurs, in a southern Cajun drawl.
A man paths into the icy cold of the streets of Veshki, a town not far from Moscow. He immediately folds his arms, shivering and sneezing under the relentless assault of the winter air, then looking around himself with a shake of his head.
Carlisle Baker would be the man in question. The representative of the Watchers. A fidgety man, a bit of a spineless coward, really. Slick - far too slick, and studious looking. Black hair greased flat with a single curl and oversized glasses to match his brown suit in a contest of boredom. "It's f-fucking c-c-cold again." he complains as he leads in Kylia and Jett, then he would look at Lucien and Deacon, who likely have their own method of travel. "...S-So... T-this p-place a-also has a b-back entrance." he explains through his shivers, gulping.
(OOC: Feel free to emote to each other between my own emotes. Otherwise these plots grind down to a crawl. Follow the rule of 2: If 2 other people emoted, you can usually emote again. This leaves people the ability to take a bathroom break if they want. There's multiple solutions to this plot, don't be afraid to try something weird! Have fun!)
It's from another of those shadowy paths that Deacon emerges, looking mildly annoyed or surprised at something as he stumbles off of the path into the biting, bitter freeze of Russian winter. "Oh, jesus' balls in a blender" comes a southern drawl twisted up with a Cajun accent as that cold slaps him right in the face. He's not even paying attention to the overall rest of the crowd right now, he's just huddling into his flannet and cursing under his breath as piercing green eyes glance down to make sure he hasn't scuffed his shoes.
"Mr. Baker, I should think you a smart enough man to have worn a better jacket." Lucien, who apparently is unbothered by the chilly weather surrounding them, smiles thinly, emerging from a path not unlike the one that Deacon steps out of. He looks from Carlisle to Kylia, Deacon, and Jett before returning a gaze as chill as the wintry air all around to the Watchers' Representative.
He seems content otherwise, at least for now, to remain quiet, letting the his compatriots speak while the man can barely keep his teeth apart enough for a voice to emerge. Meanwhile, Lucien adjusts his suit, ensuring not a stitch is out of place.
Kylia's choice of attire, or lack thereof for the weather, becomes apparent as the frosty wind whispers through the fabric that offers little resistance. Shivers cascade through her frame, each step a reluctant dance with discomfort as she follows after Carlisle. A strained attempt of a pleasant smile is given as she spots the rest of the group, but quickly demures, as if waiting for someone else to take change.
The chill of the air has Jett shutting off his phone and stowing away his hands into his pockets. Each face in the area is familiar, and he gives them a nod of a greeting. He doesn't necessarily speak up, saving his breath and energy to bundle up in his many layers. Still, a shiver claws it's way up his spine with each exhale of wind that beats against his form.
The bookish man stares at Lucien, misery plain on his face. "T-this j-jacket w-worked f-fine in New York!" He protests. But the winters in New York, of course, are not the winters in the Moscow area. He then composes himself, stealing glances at the building as he speaks. "Y-your target is inside. Natasha. Natasha Ahmetov. She - we need her to tell us where the tomb is, and which tomb... And we need to make sure the cultists don't have her..." The man grimaces, then shivers again - the cold again? Or a thought? "We have reasons to believe they infiltrated the c-clinic and may be about to make their move. S-so you must r-rescue her before that." He of course fails to mention the /easier/ option of asking Natasha the information - and then killing them. Perhaps the Watchers wouldn't approve - but it /would/ get the job done. Faster. Safer than trying to smuggle some damsel back out. "T-there's two entrances... The staff room.." He points towards an alley, "...And the reception..."
He looks back at his path, "T-that's all right? I, I think i'll go back somewhere warmer now! C-contact me once you're done!" he starts to excuse himself, pocket watch in his hand.
Amidst the bone-chilling cold, Kylia can't help but exhale a suggestion, her words escaping in a dry, almost arid tone that leaves room for interpretation. "Could just blow a hole in the wall." she deadpans, a glint of humor hidden beneath the layers of frosty discomfort, before she goes on toward Carlisle in a way that cruelly denies him sweet release, "Is there a way to easily identify someone that's part of the cult? Do they wear anything like a symbol?"
Lucien looks around at each of his companions as they shiver and hunker down into the cold. That thin smile remains. For some, the cold is merely a fact of life. He moves to stand closer to Carlisle, lifting his hands to rub them together. This isn't an effort to ward off the cold, but rather a slow remnant of thought as he considers the conversations that lead him here. "Natasha Ahmetov," he considers quietly. Even when he speaks, no condensation forms outside his features. "Rescue her," he says softly, looking to Kylia as she offers up a solution that's sure to be a bang, watching Carlisle as the man looks about frozen solid and ready to scamper back to warmer climes.
"What do we think?" He inquires of the group, waiting until the Representative has escaped the icy clutches of the Muscovian winter.
"I think I can get that back door open without blowin' any holes" Deacon provides, gritting his teeth against the chatter of the cold as he steps closer to the group, now. He tucks his arms in, hands disppearing beneath the folds of flannel-covered armpits. "But I'm just the utility man, who's pushng point on this?" He asks this in a no-nonsense fashion.
"We can scope out security before we crack open the door.. maybe they'll have uniforms we can borrow," Jett reasons his words escaping like tendrils of warm smoke into the others frigid environment. As for volunteers on who will take the lead, he doesn't step up immediately, looking to the others first.
"Probably the smell of wine and a crazed look in their eyes, going by the reports.." Mr. Baker responds on the question of recognizing the cultists, right as he steps through his Path. It closes behind him - how useful, that man. Staying around to provide exactly no help.
Ahmetov, if saved, may be more useful in future ventures. But is that a risk the group wants to take?
The reception seems open enough - people occasionally walking out and in. Quiet, but mundane. The alley though - it looks dark, and empty. Perhaps a tempting path to explore.
"Think it has visiting hours?" Kylia wonders, each breath escaping her lips transforming into a visible wisp in the frigid air, "Could try to make out that we're concerned friends or something." She says, as if this explained her line of thinking, "Or like, her legal team?"
"I suppose I should be happy to take the lead. Quieter is better, unless we plan to take advantage of the chaos Nadiya's suggestion engenders. If you think you can get us in stealthily, Mr. Herveaux, that would be the best. I presume you and Mr. Carson are both versed in security systems enough to ensure we don't cause too much ruckus?" Lucien seems to consider the situation for a long moment, "Everywhere has visiting hours if you're a skilled enough talker," he suggests to Kylia, thoughtful. "It wouldn't be too difficult to convince them that some of us were representative of Miss Ahmetov's concerns, though others," and here he pauses to look at Deacon and Jett, "Might have a more difficult time of that.
"While the two of you scope out the alleyway there," he gestures down the invitingly dark space, "We could step inside and see what there is to see.""
"I suppose I should be happy to take the lead. Quieter is better, unless we plan to take advantage of the chaos Nadiya's suggestion engenders. If you think you can get us in stealthily, Mr. Herveaux, that would be the best. I presume you and Mr. Carson are both versed in security systems enough to ensure we don't cause too much ruckus?" Lucien seems to consider the situation for a long moment, "Everywhere has visiting hours if you're a skilled enough talker," he suggests to Kylia, thoughtful. "It wouldn't be too difficult to convince them that some of us were representative of Miss Ahmetov's concerns, though others," and here he pauses to look at Deacon and Jett, "Might have a more difficult time of that."
"While the two of you scope out the alleyway there," he gestures down the invitingly dark space, "We could step inside and see what there is to see." (fix)
"They'll probably know me" Deacon murmurs with a nod toward Lucien before his eyes shift to study Jett now. "I'm rusty but I can probably get the door open without waking up the whole neighborhood, yea" he says finally though his chin lifts in Jett's direction as he tries to visually assess the guy. "You might be more up on your shit, sha. But let's choose. I'm not standin' out here another minute." His grin is forced a little, not usual for Deacon but he sounds quite serious about getting out of the cold before his hands turn black and fall off.
Jett scans his attention over towards that dark alley upon Lucien suggestion. ".. Wouldn't say I'm an expert in cracking open a security system, but," he begins, and while it sounded like there was more to say, he never bothers finishing the sentence. He nods over towards the alley and checks with Deacon, "Shall we?"
(OOC: I can't read RP if you're in different rooms, so you'll have to re for me each time I switch location if you do split),
Kylia hovers, nodding with a quiet assurance, maintaining a close presence to Lucien with a positioning that hints at an intention to follow his lead. She gives a thumbs-up toward the group.
There's an easy enough nod from Deacon toward Jett happy enough to help the man investigate the darkened alleyway that may lead them at least beyond the wintery confines of Russia's winter. "Let's see what we got" he agrees quietly before setting himself in motion. Once the man is Oscar Mike - he's focused and serious and doesn't waste time getting on task.
"Very well then. The two of you get down the alleyway, and we'll head inside. I suppose we'll know if you two encounter resistance, won't we." He says consideringly before walking towards the front door of the Veshki Clinic. With the gang taking the Scooby Doo route, he leads Kylia towards the front door and stands before it, waiting for Deacon and Jett to get into position before -- with a grimace of distaste -- opening the door for Lucien's half of the group to get inside.
OOC: For the purpose of this particular issue, Deacon suggests we do something like this.
Deacon offers this is an alternative to splitting rooms for the SR's sake.
Deacon knows they put effort into rooms too!
There is a lazy noise that escapes Jett, something akin to a gunshot. P'kyow. Some confirmation of a response to Lucien's expectation that if he and Deacon were to meet resistance, they /would/ probably hear of it. Then he's off trudging snow after Deacon towards that sketchy alley of secrets.
Deacon prompts Jett to join him in the new dynamic place!
(OOC: Suggests everyone moves north, this is also where the staff room leads)
Jett and Deacon can be seen entering the reception closer to the hallway - out of sight of the receptionist, if barely, but just in sight of Kylia and Lucien, should they look. The latter pair seems to be talking to the receptionist, who in turn looks rather uncomfortable. The receptionist hesitates for a moment, then takes the bill, looking away. "...Cell 132, Wing-A" she says softly as she looks away from the pair, making a point of not seeing them. A chance to slip by, given on purpose.
In an instant, the warmth dissipates from Kylia expression, leaving behind an icy chill, almost as frigid as the air outside. Her mouth opens as if to say something, but then it closes almost as quickly as the receptionist seems to cede. A nod is given and her expression lights back up almost as quickly, "Thank you. And, which way is that from here, please?"
Jett hangs back for a time playing the role of a scowling authority figure silently judging from a distance. When Deacon hurries him he puts some purpose to his steps, entering into reception but hesitating to see where the receptionist might direct the two familiar faces negotiating with her.
The receptionist is no longer, it seems, in any mood to talk. She simply points - to the hallway, to Deacon and Jett. Whatever she saw on that screen - she didn't like it. Her hand once more trails under her desk - panic button, clearly playing with the idea of pressing it in her discomfort.
With a nod of compliance, Kylia obediently falls into step behind Lucien. As she goes - another appraising glance is given back over a shoulder toward the receptionist.
Near the hallway entrance, Lucien and Kylia would find themselves stumbling into Jett and Deacon. Jett now wearing a doctor's coat - most curious. The hallways look mundane - well maintained, clean, even at night, patients find themselves in states of recreation - insomniac perhaps, or more pessimistically, a lack of free bedrooms for the patients. The doctors working with some of the patients seem mostly normal - friendly smiles despite the late hour - and the patients seem at ease with them. Not the worst clinic, it would seem.
For himself, Deacon waits until the group of them can make it away from the receptionist's desk and hopefully with a relative hustle to leave that woman at the front desk less reason to consider that hidden button underneath her computer desk. He's keeping hismelf unobtrusive for a time but as soon as he can manage without drawing suspicion, he'll speak up quietly. "She lied to you" he murmurs without beating the bush.
Deacon is heading northwest!
Deacon should prolly wait for others to emote and junk.
"Good evening," a pause, "Doctor." He looks at Jett, gaze not betraying his curiosity. Still, the man seems mild-mannered, now that they've moved beyond the reception. "Perhaps you can lead us to the patient we've come to check on?" He gestures with an open palm and a smile. "I know." Lucien says congenially in response to Deacon, having noticed the difference in what the receptionist /was/ going to say versus what she /did/ say. "Hard to be surprised, all things considered," he mentions under his breath, neither meeting the passing doctors' gazes nor shying away from them.
As her gaze falls upon the familiar pair, a subtle wave of relief washes over Kylia features. A soft smile forms on her lips, and without a word, she seamlessly falls into step alongside them, supposing in a hushed tone, "Should probably get this over with before she calls for help."
May have thought they were on the move but waits after a few purposeful steps along. When Jett casts a look back to the others, he beckons them along, but ends up waiting. The other doctors are given a pass of a look, "Good evening." He tries to put a thick accent beneath the mutter.
Moving into the hallways beyond the reception desk, Deacon nods at Lucien before he shows the screen of his phone, and results concerning the translation raw though it is from the whiteboard minutes earlier. "D wing .. six thirty six." He reads off, glancing around a little too nervously with his head on perpetual swivel right now.
Doctors pass to and fro, looking quite normal, really. Some strange glances are afforded to the group, though they simply shake their head when their eyes fall on Jett. Some gossip about it in Russian, but they don't look /surprised/. As if unknown doctors bringing strange looking outsiders has been normal, of late. A sign, perhaps, of the cult presence. An orderly wearing a taser approaches from deeper into the hallways, then says something to Jett in russian. It sounds disapproving, but he does not say anything more, instead passing on towards the staff room.
Deacon is gonna explore while they speak! Just keep emoting, since everyone is following him!
At those looks and mutters, Deacon encourages Jett to move them along and he subtly starts to lead them through the hallways so that the younger man can play the role while he keeps a more sharp eye out for things that look around. "Noted somethin' off in the break room, not sure if it's gonna help but let's see if we can find some signage" he mutters now, more to himself than to Kylia, Lucien or Jett. He's trudging them through hallways to keep them on the move, and thus less suspicious overall.
"Quickly, I've got a flight to catch," he says to Jett, as though urging the man towards their objective. The Russian-speaking orderly with the taser isn't afforded more than a look. It's a damn shame they don't know Russian. He falls in line with Jett at a clipped pace as the group makes their way towards D wing. Given the receptionist's response, he expects an even chillier reaction as they get closer. "Something's got her afraid," he says quietly, "I'll give you two guesses you won't need to figure out why." Lucien's eyes swing this way and that as they walk, in a manner consistent with a visitor curious about his surroundings.
The door to the north has a curious sign-age on it in both, Russian and English. "Maximum Security Area". An electronic lock guards it from further access. There's no real reason to go there perhaps - since Wing-D may well be further inside. The hallways continue unceasingly inside, an endless maze snaking through the buildings.
Kylia's gaze lingers on the locked door in a subtle appraisal. The silent scrutiny is followed by a discreet clearing of her throat, a deliberate sound meant to draw attention to it. Casting a furtive glance around, she checks for any potential witnesses.
Despite the looks of disdain and the assumedly rude remarks offered by unknown faces of a language ignorant to him - Jett seems entirely unbothered. "I'm moving," he complains to the others but slows his pace just a hair to peer at the door deemed maximum security. He tilts his head askew with interest but remembering their position peers around and presses forth to find Wing D in the maze like asylum.
Eying the english on the sign, Deacon frowns as he continues to notice it. "Too much english" he says quiet before side-glancing toward Lucien and Kylia. "Yeah" he agrees with the woman with a slight grin, and a nod toward the door. "Say Doc ... swipe us in, oui?"
Lucien nods to Deacon, falling silent as they move into the maximum security area. The large red letters are illuminating as they move towards their objective, and the Arkwright seems less than pleased about the stench emanating from the direction they're about to head towards. His nose wrinkles. Sometimes the acute senses of his kind are a blessing ...right now they're a curse.
Orderlies do pass by on occasion, as do doctors. But besides their disapproving glances, they don't seem to find their interest in the maximum area to be very noticeable. In fact, they positively seem to expect them to go there. As they enter the Maximum Security Area however, there's a stark change of scenery. A facade, dropped. While doctors still walk around, they look exhausted, tired and irritated. The place isn't appropriately cleaned, the orderlies hold pistols, glancing around with an annoyed expression. One walks up to the group, then speaking to Jett. "Privet." He greets him, then tilting his head, cursing in Russian. He exchanges some words with another orderly, who proceeds to take over the conversation for him as he walks away. No english, probably. The other orderly speaks in a clean accent. "...You're new, are you with... the bishop?"
"The receptionist said it was Wing-A, Cell 132." Kylia murmurs to the group as a gentle reminder in a voice that's barely above a whisper. Then as the Orderlies drop by and address Jett she instinctively falls into a quiet reserve with her own voice fading into the background.
A moment of trailing Jett's eyes over the bright red letters has him abruptly turn towards the eastern most door. That is until an orderly approaches to finish the conversation initiated by another. "Somewhat," he claims of his unfamiliar presence without entirely trying to appear experienced with the going ons. A bishop? "Yes, the bishop - why do you ask?" he claims and then inquires further of the orderly questioning him.
As Jett confirms that they're here with the Bishop, icy eyes flash, watching the orderly. Years spent honing an air of authority go into this look, but he does not say anything in the moment, choosing to let Lucien's appearance speak for itself as the foursome prepare to move on. Wishfully-forgotten memories of J.A.'s withering looks pour into this imperious gaze, as though there's absolutely no reason this person should have felt comfortable approaching them.
The orderly furrows her brow. Suspicion. "You don't... look... like Bishop." The orderly comments, then shrinking back as she's given a rather scary look. She recovers however, composing herself, apparently no stranger to this sort of thing. She reaches to her belt, taking out some sort of communication device, eyes flitting between Deacon and Lucien. "Should call him here. He can - confirm. Introduce. Welcome." she explains somewhat apologetically as she starts to bring it to her mouth. There's multiple orderlies around - a fight, here, would be most risque.
"You're wasting his, and our time." Kylia allows her expression contort into a sudden sneer, a flash of disdain that cuts through the present atmosphere with abrupt hostility, "If this delay causes us to miss our opportunity then that's going to be on you, miss.." She snaps her fingers a few time, voice dripping with authority, "Tell me your fucking name."
It would seem Kylia and Lucien had similar ideas. "There will be no need for you to call the Bishop. We are already on our way to him," he says cuttingly. His voice is sharp, and he cuts the orderly off before she's even finished speaking, making it clear just where in the hierarchy between she and he she stands. "Stop wasting our time. The Bishop /will/ hear about this." Lucien says, then, staring down at the orderly, trying to wield that aura as a knife by which to cut thin the orderly's suspicion and allow them to be on their way. "Doctor, proceed, or I will see to it that the Bishop hears of your failure as well." When the orderly finds that her device fails, he rolls his eyes. "I see you're completely fucking useless."
"Maybe you should take that up with him," Jett suggests coldly to the orderly who points out his lack of uniformity for whatever presence he has associated himself with. As the others pitch in to their urgency to move he rushes along - trusting Deacon's Google translation to head towards the intended wing.
"B-but" The orderly starts paling, then smacking her hands on her device, multiple times, in a panic as it fails to respond. She nods, fearful, then walks off in a hurry. Most likely, she will eventually realize something was off there. Possibly, call in for help. But for now, the coast is clear as the group works their way into Wing-D. Various cells are on display here - one in particular standing out to the south. Isolation Cell 636. A piece of wall near the entrance of the room seems, strangely, made out of plaster instead of concrete.
On occasion, a howling can be heard - each time from a different cell. The patients here don't seem to be here by choice, and certainly don't seem to be enjoying themselves here.
As Jett leads them through into D wing and leaves that orderly sputtering, Deacon gives a faint sigh of relief before he turns around and after a quick scan his eyes pause against the wall before focusing on the door to the south. "That's six thirty six?" he asks for confirmation as he points to the door to the south. "I say we got .. five minutes. Then it's gonna get hairy" he says to them now, soudning deadly serious.
What a strange thing, uniformity being marred by plaster. Like that was the strangest thing Jett wastes just a little bit more time, tapping against the wall before he gets back on track to swipe them into the room.
"Let's make haste. Especially if we've got any chance whatsoever of getting this woman out of here." Whatever Jett and Deacon are talking about, Lucien doesn't seem to notice immediately, but he's intent on getting into that room Jett prepares to swipe them into. "We're going to need to walk and talk, I think, if we want to pull this off. Can't spend too much time plying her with questions if we want to get her out of here, but we can't afford something happening to her on the way out and us leaving with nothing." Lucien looks forward towards the room as the door opens, following them inside.
Kylia's nose wrinkles in mild disgust as she takes in the condition of the cell. Her focus remains fixed on the hallway with an apprehensive air, almost as if expecting someone to arrive on their tail any moment now.
A rancid smell fills the isolation cell. A torture room, to call it what it is. On the bed lays a woman, sleeping at first. Her nose broken, her face bloodied. The classically russian brown hair - often referred to as 'roosy' - falling onto her scrubs. The group entering wakes her immediately and she draws herself in a start, hugging her legs at a corner of the bed, wide eyes staring. She starts speaking in russian, a quick pace, a nervous one, then seeming to realize the futility of it, switches to English. Her accent is quite good - her speech fluent. "W-who are you? Why are you in my room? P-please! Please! I- I will behave! Please!"
From the roof, a strange noise can be heard. Footsteps. Running. Eastwards.
It's footsteps that bring the level of urgency that Deacon now displays as he hears that. He drops all pretense and his head whips around to Lucien "Get her in hand!" Then he's snapping to and shifting green eyes toward Jett. "Incoming" he assumes and then he's slipping back out the front of the door to the cell. He's aiming for that plaster-bit that seems as if a doorway or passage had been recently covered up? It all seems to add up with the absolute lack of facade back here in this half of the clinic. He doesn't waste time knocking knuckles on the wall he just trusts his instincts. If there's time when he pokes out of the door to the isolation cell, he'll haul ass right at that piece of wall, intending to try and shoulder his way through that plaster and throws out a mental prayer.
What a wretched and tragic sight of mistreatment. Jett wrinkles his nose but the smell is even far too potent for him to be able to stand it without lifting his hand up to cover his nose. "Christ," he mutters beneath his breath. When the patient wakes with a start he motions the others forth as if to interrogate her, his job swiping key cards done from as far as he's concerned. The sound of footsteps tapping across the roof have his eyes lift upwards, following their pace along and then peering back towards the singular entrance into the room as if expecting additional guests at any moment.
Beneath the fabric of her dress, Kylia allows her fingers discreetly tighten around an unseen object. Her eyes, however, are fixated on the source of the echoing footsteps above before she pokes her head out into the corridor, eastward, almost as if checking if there's an entrance that could utilized from the direction of the sound.
The sound of those footsteps from above gives him cause to look at Deacon and Jett. "We're going to have trouble sooner rather than later. We ought to get moving. You." He snaps his fingers and is stood before the woman before she can ask too many more questions. "Let's fucking go." There's no way this pitiful wretch of a person, in his mind, is strong enough to resist him, and he's pretty bodily in the way he grabs her and drags her back out the way they came. "I need to know about the tomb, Natasha." She's probably got plenty of questions for him, but he's not of any mind to answer them as Lucien simultaneously tries to ply answers from the woman and get her out of this hellhole in one piece.
Deacon finds himself in the hallway with no company besides frightened orderlies running westwards. Whatever is coming, it has the staff most nervous. The area seems to be getting colder, an oppressive atmosphere settling in. 'Sarge' finds meets an unmoveable object which... immediately breaks. A single pane of wood behind the plaster the only meager defence against the rather strong man. He finds himself across - back in the staff room. Lucien finds little challenge from Natasha, though she tries - oh she tries, kicking, screaming, clawing as she's grabbed without a moment of explanation, the barest of kindnesses. "Let me go! Wait, t-tomb? W-why are you- Let me go. Please, please. I'll tell you what you want!" Terrified. There's little way for her to know, after all, if she just found herself in less danger... Or even more.
"MOVE it!" Deacon calls out, the sound of him crashing through the wall no doubt reaching the others. He doesn't waste time coming back through the hole he's just truck-sticked his way through but now he's turning to watch the hallway and wait while he pulls himself together with a focus. "Last call y'all!" His drawl is decidedly American of course, he's hoping desparately that he'll have enough time to pull this off before thigns start to get really hairy. That cold atmophere doesn't bode well, and it only brings a renewed sense of urgency in the Cajun's man's words. "NOW!"
It is a handgun that Jett withdraws from within his labcoat now, a simple weapon without much glitz or glamor about it. "Yeah, I think you guys are right," he drones out with the impending doom lingering an echo of a footfall away. He looks to Deacon to see if he can bash them an escape route open first, but otherwise seems prepared to rush out sny other alternative. He calls over the terrified shouting, "You better start telling us fast if you want this to work out in your favor," he suggests but then with the wall crashes down and Deacon through it and without much hesitation Jett is rushing along after him, pausing his gait if only to make sure Lucien keeps up with the precious cargo in hand.
"We're trying to help you." Kylia murmurs toward the frightened woman, as if hoping this half-hearted attempt of encouragment might make her cooperate. Regardless of if it does or not she moves with the ground - occassionally tossing appraising glances toward the stairwell as she goes.
Kylia moves with the group, rather.
follows Deacon through the sudden hole that's been made in the wall. Good thing they're back to familiar territory, though with the way the orderlies are dashing away, he's not so sure that he wants to know what's coming. Despite Natasha's fervent clawing and the screams she emits, "You're going to tell me what I want anyway, but we don't have any time for your fucking questions, Miss Ahmetov. Now, will you" he says this phrase through bouts of her wriggling, "kindly. stop. moving." The Arkwright makes for the door out, one arm holding Natasha firmly, and the other rising to give Deacon's shoulder a bit of a push towards the exit, "Let's get the fuck gone before we find out whatever it is this group is so worked up about." Even holding the scared Natasha, and with the chaos all around them, Lucien is hurriedly collected. "The tomb, Miss Ahmetov," he reminds the woman as they make their way from high security to staff room, with the exit so precious few feet away.
OOC: Deacon will go along with the crowd here now, he has to AFK so he can get ready to run out and grab an errand! He'll stay semi-active as long as he can.
As Jett follows Deacon, he can spot the impending danger first-hand. A woman - dressed in a white, embroidered dress. An atractive dress, in a way, long black hair flowing over it in all directions. She would be most beautiful, if it wasn't for that strange, ethereal grin. Her blackened lips. The murderous expression in her eyes. Or, perhaps, that bizarrely fast walk - several robe-wearing cultists race behind her, but she glides gracefully with every step, as if she were skating along the concrete floor. Closing in quickly as the team makes its way back to the staff room, at most 20 meters away.
"I- But-" She looks at Kylia, doubting, shivering in Lucien's iron hold. "...T-there's a f-few t-tombs, w-which do- do you want? T.." She trails off, "N-not the... The home, do you...?" She seems to be begging, there. Whatever the 'home' is, she definitely doesn't want to share it.Or think about it, perhaps.
In the span of a breath, Kylia' patience wears thin and her measured tone, she suddenly snaps like a taut string, "But, what? You'd rather stay here instead?" With a resigned sounding huff, Kylia abandons the verbal sparring, the energy previously spent on debate now channels into a singular focus - escape, as she tries to keep up with the group.
Twenty meters isn't enough time for Deacon to try and pull up a path right off, so he's taking that shove and moving for the door they'd entered the place through - no need for a keycard from this side! Still, he has to be poushed and shoved along as the man tries to split his focus without focusing on the sight of the woman heading for them. Apart from all the things Horribly WRONG about her appearance - the man's eye can't quite help but leer for things exceptionally beautiful.
They're heading somewhere cold, and if Natasha is shivering now, she's about to be in a real world of hurt. Still quite adamant that he doesn't want to see what's coming, beautifully dressed or otherwise, Lucien makes his way through the staff-room door. Surely whatever was chasing them would cease when they got outside. No one wanted to make a public mess of things. ..did they? "Let's start there and we'll talk about the other tombs until I know what I need to know," he snaps coldly at Natasha, still carrying the woman like a briefcase, under one arm. Is that her blood hitting the floor? He hits the door at pace, bursting into the room beyond it.
Jett has yet to doff his nice new lab coat just yet, but he chugs along with the others like an escapee all the same. He doesn't add his voice to the chorus of convincing words to the patient - believing someone and Kylia entirely capable of convincing what the group needed to know out of her before we hit the ice cold outdoors.
Jett has yet to doff his nice new lab coat just yet, but he chugs along with the others like an escapee all the same. He doesn't add his voice to the chorus of convincing words to the patient - believing Lucien and Kylia entirely capable of convincing what the group needed to know out of her before we hit the ice cold outdoors.
Deacon suggests Lucien hit the beckon now!
Natasha whimpers as she's taken along, the icy cold of Moscow's outside doing little to ease her suffering. Spits something out, blood hitting the floor, though likely not too badly wounded, before her eyes fall on a corpse near the exit. "...Yuri..." she murmurs softly. A pang of sadness. A friend? She then grimaces, speaking in a shivering tone, "They'll k-ill me..." She complains before collecting what courage she has, a strange tension filling the air, a quiet, "I-I'll tell you e-everything if you c-can g-get me a-a-way from them. F-far away. B-before he p-possesses m-" AA crackle interrupts her, then a crash. Rubble as dark magic as black lightning breaks through the staffroom wall, revealing the 'Bishop' on the other side, missing Jett by a bare hair. "I missed." the woman pouts, then cackling as she steps through the first all - the solid concrete /next/ to the broken plaster, then heading towards the second.
Further into the alley, a man waits, next to a path. Thick coats hide his shape, but slick black hair betrays his identity. Carlisle Baker. He beckons to the group, grimacing as he sees the lightning. "Hurry! Hurry!" He beckons, the bishop approaching, that strange tension once more shaping in the air.
The crack of lightning and the rubble that flies has Jett flinch, the fact that he nearly gets smoked by it certainly doesn't help. "Fu-ghh," he chokes on the curse and stumbles, catching himself just barely. Now with that extra bit of encouragement and with the man waiting in the alley hurrying is exactly what he wants to do -- sprinting as fast as his legs can carry him now.
Drawing from beneath the frbaric of her dress, Kylia blindly hurls a knife in the Bishop's direction as if trying to buy precious moments for the group to evacuate. She keeps low as she runs toward Carlisle, a precautionary measure, as if anticipating being struck in potential retaliation.
"I see you're better dressed this time, Mister Baker." He doesn't look back. The singe of black lightning striking too-close to them is enough. The Arkwright stands near to the path, waiting for Jett, Deacon, and Kylia to clear its portal first. He's still holding the writhing hostage he's stolen out from under the Bishop's nose, and now that he's got a moment to ensure the rest of his group get through the portal, he turns to look at the ethereal woman who's just stepped through a concrete wall. "Get through there, I'll follow." When they've collapsed through the path, Lucien finally joins them, happy to step through with his ward.
Deacon follows at break-neck pace to keep up as well. However, as the Vanguard it's his job to keep the six covered and if there's antying that comes at them as they flee for their retreat so close at hand, it'll be Deacon that puts himself between it and the rest.
As Kylia hurls a knife, it misses her target by a wide berth, sliding pathetically next to the bishop, on the floor. The bishop pauses for a moment, her head tilting unnaturally far as she glances at the knife. Emotions flicker past her face. Surprise. Curiosity. Insult. Rage. She raises her hand, recklessly gathering her magic above the head, even in a dark alley like this, far too visible for anyone walking by. She fires it off towards Kylia, hitting her painfully in her back - something that would most surely be lethal if it wasn't for Deacon taking part of the blow, causing the rest of the foul energy to disperse into the night. Both spared from serious injury. Either way, the path isn't far, and they find themselves through - on the otherside, in the middle of those familiar woods, the Watcher goading them on as he runs as fast as his own feet can carry him to a bright light at the end. The one behind them - closing.
Kylia lets out piercing cry as her back bears the brunt of the Bishop's magic. Her body convulses involuntarily, a reflexive jerk spurred by the searing pain, though despite the searing pain, she swiftly she resumes running after a momentary stumble, knowing that whatever's on the other side of that portal is surely better than being trapped here with the Bishop.
It won't be until they are well and truly on that path home before Deacon starts to calm down from high levels of alert, faint wisps of smoke and the disctinctly plastic smell of burnt synthetic fibers wafting around him from where that blast impacted against his clothing to linger in the nostrils of the group as they make the journey.
When Kylia and Deacon are hit by that supernatural lightning, Lucien lets out a low string of curses all in French, and makes his way through the woods, feeling the pressure mounting to get his charge out and away before the hideously ethereal thing behind them catches up. He spills out into the bright light directly behind Carlisle, and looks about ready to throw Natasha in the rubbish. If only he wasn't so adamant about finishing a job. Turning back around, Lucien wants to make sure that the others spill out on /this/ side of things. Still, they're a lot closer to safe now than they were a few moments ago.
Coffee. The smell of coffee permeates the air on the other side of the path. They find themselves between coats... A wardrobe. Carlisle Baker opens a curtain, showing the truth of things - they made it, safe, to a cafe. He starts taking off his coat, the perhaps familiar streets of Boston behind the windows, then sits himself down, smiling at the group. "I see you got Natasha out alive." he praises, flagging a waitress down for some coffee. "Excellent. Most excellent. I will hear your request for awards, now. Of course we've money, but we also have found some of the items described in your past report in the rubble of the Pushkin Commune, if that would interest you." He sits down, gesturing ahead of him.
...And that's that for the Secrets of the Sinner, the Sinner in question being Natasha Ahmetov, traitor to the Cult. But was she a sinner because of the betrayal, or because of her stint as a member? And which secrets, does she hold? Questionings are held later, over time, - and she may be a familiar face to some, as she finds herself transferred to White Oak's medical care. Not a forced stay, this time, by anything but her wounds.
That is, if the Bishop doesn't get to her first.
(OOC: Thank you all for partaking in the plot! I hope you had fun. Feel free to ask for any plot award. Feedback is welcome as well, send me a tell with your preferred location for summoning.)