Chapter III: The Fall

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IamLEAM1983
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Chapter III: The Fall

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One Week Later

The last dregs of summer's heat were now well and truly gone. The Summer Fae's mantles appeared muted, a coating of frost uniformly covered every patch of greenery across town, and the sun seemed to be struggling to provide a last few golden rays in the fast-shrinking midday hours. Not that the city cared, Halloween was inching ever closer. Parties were on several minds, the yearly preparations, rituals and protective measures were being put into place, while the more holistic practitioners were carrying out the various dozen potential observances of autumn, Walpurgisnacht or Samhain you could think of. As mercantile as this time of year could be - especially if you were a candy distributor looking for sale outlets - it still was a set of a few weeks that was charged with heavy arcane significance.

These were the Dying Days, in which Nature laid down its head and closed its eyes - not to die, but to sleep and prepare for spring. Deep in the earth, well underneath the frozen crust, the city's Nexus was slowing down. The cost of spells had almost imperceptibly risen, reaching for power took slightly more effort; but this was a normal occurrence most practitioners compensated for without even thinking about it. As the mantle shifted, however, and the interim Winter Lord claimed the city, every performer in the Dark Arts across the county could feel their own font of power grow more steady, more reliable. As a warlock, Tom Magnus didn't need to look too far to notice it. He couldn't have picked a better time to bring some of his old friends home...

A little work from Preston and Arthur had bought him a temporary Russian name - Dimitry Volkov - and a slew of entirely fake commendations in East Berlin's former secret police. Having invented a fake Russian transplant for himself, and one that had allegedly lived in Berlin's Communist half, Magnus had quickly conscripted Mary as a liaison for the local branch of the Brotherhood, the cipher of the Russian mob that persisted in being unaffiliated with the Commission. A fake name, doctored plans for fake brothels being built out of real construction sites across Sandhill and a Bluetooth earpiece for Jameson had been all that had been needed for initial negotiations to really take off. Shen Long's Pervy Midget act had been surprisingly convincing and had required some profuse apologies post-encounter, but he'd been the shoo-in the warthog had required.

Now, all that was left was for Jameson to receive a single container's bill of lading and a hastily-assembled receipt; for Tom to actually prove he could pull off a decent Russian accent, and for Preston to move a few decimal points between America and some podunk banking outlet in Kazakhstan, and they'd have a few cryogenically frozen bodies available for whatever ritual Tom intended to perform...

For the occasion, the warlock had gone for a more textured shirt with a higher collar, along with one of the Clank's little rubies - a tiny red dot that normally served as a cravat pin. A few borrowed rings and a cane, and he'd effectively gone beyond looking merely professional, instead now looking like someone who seriously wanted to leave an impression. The idea was for this to clash with Melmoth's pin, in the hopes that exuberance and forced banality would collide in a bit of a head-scrambling number. If the Bratva's goons were too busy scratching their heads to realize they'd been had, Volkov-Magnus would have all the time in the world to disappear.

Of course, if that failed, Hellfire was always on the menu.

For now, however, he took a look at Aislinn from his reflection in the mirror, having spent a few minutes deliberately preening himself while working on a black Russian cigarette. Permeating his clothes with the right scents seemed like a good idea, in case anthros showed up. He'd also been gargling vodka - and not drinking it - since right after breakfast.

"Do I look like you'd want to punch me in the face?" he asked her. "I'm supposed to be moderately irritating - I hope I won't push too hard against the pin," he said, tapping the object.

He licked his lips. "Let me rephrase, considering... Do I look like enough of an asshole from the Caucasus? And don't tell me No, you're a warthog, because globalization mixed the proverbial cards decades ago. Now we've got polar bears living off the coast of Fiji and lions manning hardware stores in Alaska."

* * *

Today marked Three, Jenkins and Meris' second tour of Hell, Aislinn having already followed along for the first. As before, they'd sailed away on the Flying Dutchman for a few knots, had gone through the mildly nauseating sensation of corporeally shifting into the Shadowlands, and now waited as some of Sam's deck hands lowered rope ladders into the water. Maybe it was the Lexicons supporting them, but Three and Jenkins had both gotten fairly good at dislocating their spirits from their bodies. Drake had simply sat down at the main mast's base and closed his eyes, willing himself forward without moving - and now stood up and away from his own body. The ship's nature made it so they wouldn't float like Aislinn initially had, Aidan's lifeline manifesting as a literal length of lambent rigging that was tied to his waist as well as his body's. The connection being strong, Three's shade almost appeared as corporeal as his body, with translucence creeping in halfway across his thighs.

"Does it ever not get freaky?" he asked Meris, his voice feeling slightly distant, as if he were speaking through a light haze of radio interference. As Tom had explained to Aislinn, he appeared much as his physical body suggested, but a few of his own scars appeared deeper than they physically were - wartime trauma still clinging to him and his self-image.

* * *

As it turned out, Archie's assignment for the twins had been a relatively pleasant one.

Every workday started about the same as usual, but Holden had advised them to stop bringing their lunches to work. Instead, they'd gone to the Harp & Blackthorn Inn and its Faeside counterpart every single day since the spy's disclosed assignment, and had sipped beer and gone through Jimmy Winters' Irish Pup-meets-Bistro noontime menu. Archie didn't seem too focused on anything in particular, sometimes even selecting one of the stools at the bar to partake in the British tradition of blaming Manchester United for the evils of the world. They played pool and snooker, tried their hand at board darts and even managed to arrange for a few rounds of petanque with some of Winters' barflies - but it'd be a few days before the nature of the assignment would become clear.

They were waiting for someone, someone Archie obviously hoped for them to meet without relying too much on his own connections to the proprietor. It wasn't exactly working out, but they'd still gather plenty of data, judging by the frequency at which Holden mumbled for them to remember a specific face or to commit someone's drinking habits to memory.

A lot of cops came to drink at Jimmy Winters' bar, and most of them, he was at least on good terms with. Some of them, however, he clearly wasn't.

It wasn't any big secret that Hope had three kinds of cops on its payroll. You had the Straight Arrows, those who'd rather drive a Gruff's sword through their chest than accept a bribe. Plenty of these came in, and all of them seemed to ignore all the clues that pointed to Winters' relationship with the Commission. You had Those Who Knew, who worked with the unofficial system, but who still took their job seriously. A lot of Winters' Irish-American friends fell in that category. Good sorts, all of them; even if they'd sometimes overlook procedure if common sense appeared favorable.

Then, you had the Bad Apples. Cops people feared, and elements everyone between Alderan, Lowell and MacLoch were trying to either contain or excise entirely, the same way you'd cut off a diseased limb to preserve the remainder of the healthy body. These tended to go off like overheated grease on Jimmy's stove - flaring bright and ruining a piece of meat or some other project before being scrubbed away and forgotten. Quint had been something of this, long ago, and now he was dead. Worse than dead, if you believed Tom. Gone.

Unfortunately, not everyone had the grace of being laughably incompetent. Some people knew entirely what they were doing - and disturbingly so.

If you wanted to get the whereabouts and recent projects of one of Hope's most corrupt officials, you had to go where the least corrupt congregated.
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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Aislinn scoffed lightly, smirking lightly. "Your clothes and jewelry tell me that you look like a rich and unscrupulous ass, but what you say and how you move have to sell it as well, Tom," she commented, her reflection folding her arms. "So, show me what you got, Mr. Volkov." She raised an eyebrow at him. "By the way, are you wanting me to doll myself up and pose as armcandy that serves as backup?"

***

Meris gave Three a negative shake of the head. "Only if you're a ghost or prefer vacationing in the Shadowlands and other planes of existence," she replied with a sigh. "Physicality is what makes us who we are. It's no wonder it never stops feeling strange to be out of your body, but you adjust."

***

Ciaran and Neasa had ordered their respective drinks and meals, and they were now seated at corner table, having a good view of the area, its current occupants, and the main entrance.
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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Charles' incorporeal form had its share of scars, which made sense considering his background in warfare. The oldest ones were apparently somewhat buried, however, and later scars just didn't dig in too deeply anyway.

"Feels weird, aye," he remarked as he stepped out of his body. "Hopefully 'er ain't somethin' we gotta do s' much 'at we gotta git used to 'er."

------------------------------

Jimmy had, in the meantime, returned from his overseas meditations, and was back to overseeing the Inn he had invested so much into. He had of course noticed Archie and the selkies coming in every afternoon that week, but since the clank had made no sign of what he wanted, at least overtly, Winters was content to let them occupy space and spend their money. "Young'ns," he said in a low voice as he brought the two their orders, winking as he did so.

And as he returned, the door swung open, and a tall fellow walked into the bar. He was distinctly Native American, with a disarmingly open and honest face; the only thing that didn't mesh was the fact that he had dark red hair, as opposed to just dark hair, and he wore it long. He was dressed like an anachronism, in a battered black suit and dark brown overcoat, riddled with bullet holes, and a brown fedora with a garish purple feather stuck through the zebraskin band at a rakish angle.

He walked up, sat down next to Archie without saying anything, and tapped the bar. "The usual, Winters, if you please," he intoned, his voice low and pleasant-sounding. His hands were bare, and rather large; under the coat, it was plain to see he was solidly built, as well. Not a cop, but nonetheless a detective of some sort.

-------------------------

In due time, Aislinn's phone buzzed, indicating a text incoming. No problems so far, package still inbound. You guys still coming? -MJ
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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Neasa dug into her shepherd's pie, while Ciaran munched on some fish and chips, both having ordered a pint of Guinness. They only briefly observed the tall man's entrance, with the selkie woman noticing his anachronistic dress. From what she could tell, she figured he was older than he looked. It wasn't unusual for older individuals to wear the fashions of a bygone period, as they felt more comfortable in those garments over more contemporary styles. Given his Native American features, her thoughts drifted to Crystal, as she was the notable figure who happened to be of Narragansett lineage. Her eyes briefly lingered over his well-built form, and she was reminded of characters out of Pulp and Noir genre books.

Ciaran momentarily eyed the man's back and then looked over at Archie. His antiquated dress was something of note, but was he the someone they were trying to pick out from the crowd?

***

While waiting on a response from the warthog, Aislinn received the text message and then held it up for Tom to see.
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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Smirking, Tom took the phone from Aislinn's hands, his Wizard Chic fingernails clattering as he typed in a response.

Getting into character. Would A. look good w/ a catsuit? Not trying to compete against your good looks, of course... ;)

A brief break, followed by another one.

Give us 20 mins.
- T.

He then checked his watch. "What I think doesn't really matter - what matters is you've got, oh, five minutes tops to go from looking like the local Friendly Neighborhood Tattooist to a Russian mobster's plaything and-slash-or intentionally misleading bodyguard... We can't really afford to tour the local S&M or Goth outlets on that kind of time budget, so you'll have to see if you've got a past life as a costume designer for low-budget productions. Toss in a little via and we might be able to amp up the final effect a bit."

The warthog approached his room's closet and rubbed its door handle with a thumb for a few seconds, a bit of Hellish tumescence making the gesture linger. Turning the handle, he revealed not his own closet, but rather the contents of Aislinn's, back home. Fold-space spells were a Fae classic and one of the oldest arcane tricks in the book. The implications wouldn't exactly be too shocking, as Magnus had seen Aislinn's parlor and apartment once before. He remembered where Aislinn's closet was in her flat and had only needed to "pair" both closet doors with a bit of carefully harmonized arcane power.

"I recommend leather," he said, a smirk lingering on his features. "The I was an Uncredited Extra in Blade 2 look still pulls a lot of credit in Moscow. Blame late-nineties vampires."

* * *

"Recon is recon is recon," gamely sighed Drake as he climbed over the portside railing and secured his footing on the ladder. "You gotta do what you gotta do, Jenkins..."

The Shadowlands' waters felt real enough to his now-ambulatory soul, and he took an instant to take in the surface world's view. From a klick away from Rhode Island's coastline, the ghostly twin to the material world was a haze of dopplered seagull calls and old foghorns that had sounded anywhere between hours to decades ago, the foggy surroundings occasionally broken through here and there by the outline of a ship's shade. Most weren't actual ghosts so much as emotional recordings of passing vessels on the physical plane, the wispy silhouettes aboard going through an endlessly-repeated cycle of nautical drudgery. Peer long enough, however, and a few sharply-defined prows came into view, carrying the wailing sounds of anything between alarm sirens or steel being wrenched apart by some endlessly-repeated fatal impact. A lot of these immaterial ships clipped right through the Dutchman, the sensation of tortured spirits phasing through him still being as unnerving as it had been the first time.

As Aislinn herself had discovered, the Shadowlands weren't suited for the endless restitution of happy events. Pain and suffering left deeper arcane scars, and sailing the Shadowlands' waters near Hope was to hear and see all of the maritime tragedies that had struck the region across the span of human history. They could see Nargarransett canoes sink or even burn, while looking northwards revealed old Viking drakkars that would endlessly glide along the coast. Newfoundland had eventually become these warriors' home away from home, but it hadn't stopped a few brave captains from attempting to chart the coastline as far down south as they could manage.

The only tangible ships in this ghostly waters were those that made up Captain Sam's Last Fleet, Meris' covert little maritime army. Looking away from the coast, all kinds of starkly solid vessels slid along the waves, from all the regions of the world where seafaring had developed. They'd formed a loose horseshoe around the Dutchman at Sam's command, in order to keep a weather-eye for any of the spiritual plane's numerous nautical dangers. It hadn't happened yet, but Samigina had stressed the importance of vigilance. Confused ghosts could always mistake the Dutchman for their old targets, dead and deluded Norse pillagers or incensed Native Americans choosing to lob either ghostly axes or spears in their general direction...

Three lowered himself into the waves, his clothes failing to react to what still felt like water. The reflexes of the living being what they were, he felt compelled to draw in a breath before ducking under them, even if knew he'd keep breathing easily no matter how deep they went. Two more rungs later, he simply let go and allowed the Shadowlands' currents to drag him further down. His span of rigging felt like it could keep spooling forever, even as looking back up revealed what had since then stopped being particularly alarming: the water was turning opaque and solid - turning into stone - even as his lifeline kept growing longer.

Soon, he wasn't sinking anymore, as much as he was falling. Down below, the red haze of the Pit's lake of fire came into view, Three banking left as if he were skydiving. Hot winds tugged at him, but he managed to orient himself to the northwest and to start gliding down towards the scintillating lights that hugged the lake's shores. Pandemonium, the City of the Damned, came into view. As much as their enemy came from the Pit, there was merit in trying to figure out how the Black Goat's closest neighbours were coping with him.

Seeing as souls were by and large immortal, worrying about the dangers of falling several hundred thousand feet with no parachute was pointless. Only Pitspawn could endanger them here, and the City's local Fiends were likely to be expatriates looking to be more collaborative than nefarious. Pandemonium's natives were still called demons, although these were of the more altruistic kind - the Socratic demons known to freely converse with mortal philosophers as well as those that shared the Court of Solomon's more didactic approach. Plenty of angels still considered them Fiends - as any sort of help or assistance was said to endanger mortal independence - but most of the City's locals much preferred to help the very same people who, more often than not, stopped here for a while whilst on their way to Heaven.

Still, spiritual face-plants did hurt like a bitch. Considering, he set his attention at least partially on Charles and Meris. Using standard skydiving hand-signals, he motioned for Jenkins to avoid forgetting to slow himself down. They didn't have chutes per se, but they could control their lifeline's overall slack, slow down to the point where they'd stop being pinned in a starfish posture and would naturally right themselves up, like  someone opening a chute.

* * *

If Archie noted the selkies' interrogative looks at the newcomer, he didn't elaborate on them. Like any gentleman in a dining establishment, he'd taken his hat off, exposing his finely-polished dome of a head. If Neasa and Ciaran could afford meatier stuff, he'd been stuck sparing his porcelain molars by ordering a bowl of vegetable-and-barley soup. It still looked fairly scrumptious, judging by the care with which he sipped at it. A tiny lump of soft bread was also included, but he'd save it for later.

Initially, Holden settled with a simple nod. "Mister Liddane," he said, greeting the man; followed by nothing more for a solid twenty minutes. Archie wasn't one to force matters onto anyone while in public spaces, and it was clear Jericho had entered the Harp & Blackthorn to offer himself a bit of R&R. Respectfully, the spy didn't deny the Berserker that leisure.

Liddane would have ample time to eat, drink and watch a full period of the professional pool tournament being broadcasted by ESPN, before Archie so much as dared to cough.

"I may have a job for you, old bean," he then intoned, the playful suggestiveness of quasi-regular customers slipping a smirk underneath his facial hair.
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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"Milord," Jericho had murmured, nodding back. His 'usual' consisted of a Bloody Mary, apparently, doubtless mixed from synthetic blood; real blood being something of a health code violation, as it were. Fedora resting on his knee, he was content to sip from the tall glass, watch the games and absorb the atmosphere of the lively old establishment, but despite that he clearly kept himself to himself; he would speak when spoken to, in his soft and measured tones, but otherwise? Rest and relaxation, as Archie had surmised.

Eventually the clank next to him deigned to speak again, and Jericho glanced his way. "Oh?" he replied politely, an expression of polite interest on his face. He turned some more, glancing at the selkies; his nose flared, and he inhaled for a full three seconds. "If you or one of your young students back there would be willing to arm wrestle with me, I will listen to your proposal."

An arm wrestling match? Pft. Doubtless the selkies heard that one all the time.

----------------------------

The first time Charles had done this, it had been a little unnerving. But now, the second trip, he knew what to expect and had a good idea how to make it fun! He wasn't unfamiliar with skydiving as a form of infiltration, and easily kept apace with the younger soldier as they plummeted downward. He wasn't afraid to make his enjoyment known either, as he laughed and whooped and swept himself back and forth. Could he pull off more elaborate tricks? Probably, but his companions likely wouldn't have the patience for it.

Nevertheless, when the time came he pulled on his line and began slowing down, aligning himself for a safe and painless landing.

---------------------------

Either a catsuit or a schoolgirl outfit, a la Gogo Yubari. Doubt she could pull off a meteor hammer without a little cheating, though! -MJ
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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Aislinn peered down at the little screen of her cellphone and snickered, taking it back. "I can do the catsuit thing more than I can the naughty but lethal schoolgirl bit," she mused, eyeing the magically linked closets. Nodding gratefully to him, she disappeared into her closet and quickly began changing out of her civilian clothes. At home, her closet was surprisingly spacious, so Tom would only be able to hear the faint whispers of sweaters and jeans being removed. Afterward, the sounds of leather could be heard as the selkie shimmied into the form-fitting garment.

She reappeared a few minutes later, under the five-minute limit. She had decked herself out in a one-piece catsuit that zipped down the front. The long sleeves came down over the tops of her hands and secured themselves around her thumbs There was a few buckled straps here and there along the arms. Underneath the zipper's low neckline, she wore a black underbust corset, also made of leather. Knee-high platform combat boots covered her feet, which were also covered in buckles and straps. She had dabbed her eyes with dark gray eyeshadow, mascara, and eyeliner to achieve a smokey eye look. Red lipstick broke up all the black, gray, and silver. "Dark Magical Girl Transformation complete," she joked, the outfit leaving little to the imagination.

***

Meris cautiously clambered down the rope ladder, anchored by a blue lifeline that the thickness of rope. She allowed herself to fall some distance and caught herself so that remained within a reachable level of Aidan and Charles. Her descent hadn't been all that acrobatic, more in like with a firefighter sliding down a pole oddly enough.

***

Catching note of his prolonged intake of their scents, they immediately understood he had an idea of what they were and their abilities. Neasa leaned back in her chair and couldn't help but smile, not in a seductive fashion but simply friendly. "I'm game, darling," she responded to his offer, adding just a slightly flirtatious lilt to her tone.
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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The warthog feigned disappointment. "Damn it, I missed the transformation montage..."

That said, he cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was with the kind of Slavic accent that sounded suspiciously native - as Tom might have spent a few years in the body of a native of Russia's borders at sometime in the past.

"Perhaps I will see it in reverse at a later date," he teased, his consonants voiced in an appropriately harsh manner. "Can you channel your cousins from the Leptev Sea? The Strong and Silent type has its appeal, but it typically does not do characterization any justice. Just try and avoid thinking of Stalinist clichés and you should do fine."

He paused as they headed out and down to the mansion's entrance. "One question remains - are you an Irina or a Katya?"

* * *

The spy and aristocrat raised his hands in front of him in a gesture that was as much a plead to be left out of anything resembling arm-wrestling as it was an assent to Jericho and Neasa's proposed joust.

"So long as the both of you let Ciaran and myself clear the way first, I see no objections to seeing Jimmy's counter being graced with a few extra scuff marks."

He raised his glass in Jimmy's direction. "Unless the man himself does, of course."

Of course, the bar's counter was full of scuff marks and little pockmarks, being a solid slab of wood Winters probably sanded down once every ten or so years, keeping the entire pub closed so long as the new coat of varnish was still drying. You couldn't always stop idiots from taking their frustrations out on wood, or the kids of regular patrons from gouging flecks of the stuff out of sheer boredom with a steak knife. Add to that supers indulging in arm-wrestling, and you had a surface that could've been metaphorically represented as a war-scarred veteran.

* * *

Landing with a few skipping and speed-decreasing steps, Aidan looked back up in time to see Meris reach the ground. A bit of magic had made their lifelines almost invisible, and adding a bit of dirt from the Pit's shores to their faces made it less obvious that they were recent arrivals.

Standing on the lake's shores, the sound of the roiling mass of fire sounded like crashing thunder, the distant cries of the Damned reaching them from far within the Pit's borders. Stone-hewn docks stretched across a few hundred meters ahead of them, with Pandemonium's cityscape drawfing them overhead. The place looked packed and lively, but also worn-out - the sounds of groaning steel trusses and endlessly settling foundations reaching them, giving the city a vaguely ominous voice.

A horned and red-skinned fellow trundled up from the docks, stopping at the trio's sight. "New guys," he grunted. "Lucky bastards, eh - landing so close to the city... Not twisted enough to make it down there but with enough of a guilty conscience t'keep you here. I'd say you dodged one heck of a bullet."

Not wanting to refute the demon's assumption, Three extended a hand. "Um, yeah. I'm Adam, this is Charlie, and there's Mary," he said, nodding to Meris.

The demon nodded. "Call me Joe, if that suits ya.
- Are you some kind of fisherman?" asked Drake. Joe nodded in the negative.

"Nah, I'm a miner; I scrape Brimstone off of the shallow depths with this pole," he said, gesturing to the tool he'd balanced on a shoulder. "Council and Teachers need the material. Speaking of, if you're new, you'd better get yourselves registered at the City Hall - get housing and job assignments settled. Y'aren't too scrambled from the Fall, are ya? You remember what you did? Can't set you in a Teacher's class if you don't know what you done in the first place."

Three frowned. "Why do we need jobs? We've died, last I checked!
- Y'haven't reached Heaven, kid," explained Joe with a scoff. "You'll still be hungry, you'll still get cold - and you'll still have a landlord to deal with, most likely. Y'haven't earned the right to just kiss your Earthly necessities goodbye - not yet, at least."

Drake's affected disappointment made the demon chuckle. "Welcome to Purgatory, kid - it ain't the Pit, but it sure as shit ain't Heaven either!"

So for most people, dying simply exposed them to more of the same - or at least this was what it felt like. More schedules and bills to pay, more traffic jams and irate neighbours, more painfully short weekends...

"How long do people stay here?
- Depends," explained Joe. "If you're in denial, you're stuck here for a while. If you're willing to work on yourself, it'll feel a lot shorter. Time doesn't really matter here, is all - the past only really kicks in once your Teacher says you qualify for Ascension. 'Til then, it's always Today for you meatbags."
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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Charles figured it was probably fairly obvious he was a veteran of some description, if his hypothetical past life had left these kind of marks on his form. So as 'Joe' explained things and then went on his way, 'Charlie' just nodded and waved him off. "I'm guessin' all t'ree of us c'n pass fer soldiers a' some kind," he mused, figuring Meris had more then her share of acts of war in her own past. "We gonna bother with a cover story? Or jus' let folks assume shit?"

---------------------------

Jimmy smiled indulgently. "I certainly wouldn't object, and nor would anyone else," he replied magnanimously. Indeed, the merest hint of some kind of tussle was enough to get the attention of the barflies, and Jericho and Neasa were quickly the center of attention. Neasa was certainly more high-profile, but the dusky investigator had his own reputation here.

Jericho grinned toothily and shifted on his stool, planting his elbow firmly on the battered bar with his hand held up and open. "Game on," he teased, eying the selkie with confidence.
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall

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"Well, the point of coming here is to find what Pandemonium is doing to stand against the Black Goat. It would be good if we could get in contact with Ahriman, the head of the Council," Meris quietly responded, having followed after Jenkins. "Who might be at City Hall. It'd require some sneaking around, but having some cover would be necessary until we reach him. We could just say we were members of a special ops team, since we arrived together, and tweak our memories to fit until we can get to Ahriman," she suggested.

***

Smirking, Neasa got up from the table and found a stool next to the Berserker, propping her elbow on the bar and clasping his hand with her own. Her muscles tensed as she prepared for their arm-wrestle match, figuring it would be a genuine challenge with the vampire.

***

"Katya works for me," Aislinn replied in a decent enough Russian accent, chuckling as they left the mansion.
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