They could never know about the gleeful little squee that Katherine privately indulged in whenever someone gave her the run of things. It was what she did, after all; grandstanding and making the way ahead were as much a part of lawyering as any of the other stuff. "Watch and learn, then," she replied with a smile, taking the keys and getting into Shield's car, starting the motor and waiting for the others to get in too before heading out.
They made good time across the city, partly due to Katherine being unafraid of taking shortcuts although she didn't run any lights. "Here we are," she announced as they pulled up in front of Central. "If they've given you any badges or laminates, don't go flashing them; it's embarrassing, trust me. They know me here, so just follow my lead, alright?" Reminder delivered, she climbed out and went inside the precinct.
The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
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Karl the Mad
- Posts: 1260
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
There a few moments' adjustments, of course- taking in the weight and range of the form she found herself inhabiting for purposes of research. But soon enough that fell by the wayside, as mechanical fingers probed and studied, notes and sketches of every side and how they fit together piling up before methodically pressing for loose parts, buttons or depressions that might go click or pop. Sigils were noted, as well as how they were oriented related to other marks.
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
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- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
- Location: Quebec, Canada
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
"That's what I'm hoping for," concurred Spector, as the sedan drove off.
The car being a fairly recent and potentially government-issued model, electrochromic windows were a given. Spector pressed a button on the controls that waited at his right arm, causing the windows to noticeably darken. As for any windshield treatment, the final effect left the driver's visibility intact but prevented potential gawkers outside from getting a particularly good look at what was going on in the vehicle. He closed his eyes for a second, sighing like someone who would've removed a heavy coat. On cue, his features began to drastically change.
The instructor grew thinner and taller - to fairly worrying levels, to the point where his normally comfortably bent knees were bunched up against his chest once he was done. His skin became chalk-white and slightly rubbery, a vaguely marbled pattern of mottled skin adding sepulchral flair to what already looked nightmare-inducing if you weren't prepared. Spector's face vanished entirely, his hairline and ears fading off into a completely featureless dome of that same skin - a skull that retained some clear human characteristics; safe for the presence of a mouth or nose. Both features felt as though skin had grown on top of them, sealing them off entirely. Similarly, Spector's eyes turned to sealed-off pits where nothing resembling the curve of an eyeball could be seen. Yet, impossibly, the same casually human voice could be heard, coming from the general direction of the Wisp's head, as clear as if he'd had an unobstructed mouth to show.
"Ah," he sighed, a bit of relief palpable in his voice, "that's better..."
Benson shivered slightly in the rear-view mirror. "You sure you're fine back there, Your Grace? Your knees are all bunched up!
- Segmented bones," replied the Wisp, as if it answered the question. "I'm far more flexible than you could imagine. Don't worry about me, Sir Knight. If anything, constraining myself to move and act only within the confines of human parameters was what was being tiresome."
They made their way back to the Gate Percy had used to see Neasa to Evergloam. It wasn't long before they were treated to the sight of the White King's fittingly insectile walking motions, his upper body bent forward a little and seemingly questing for what it was he'd been briefed. As tall as he was, he ate the ground faster than Neasa or the Viscount could manage, reaching the reconstituted crime scene first. They found him in the doorway to Egimbart's quarters, bent down and through the doorway, with one spindly hand thoughtfully stroking his hairless chin, the other arm uselessly folded close to the body, almost like a vulture.
Before Percy was able to say anything, Spector's spine impossibly twisted around so he looked back on the trio. "This isn't Winter work. I can guarantee this much. The pall that's hanging over the room, however - that is familiar. I don''t know of a great many beings who could simultaneously taint their killing floors with a predator's relish and a sentient man's guilt - at least not at this magnitude...
- So the Squids are involved?" asked Benson.
Spector's covered mouth could be seen twisting in unease behind the skin. "No, not so much them as someone close to their kind - but not by choice. I've worked on cultist sites before and there's a certain aroma that's missing in the air. The scent of the rare thing that could conceivably kill me."
He stepped inside, his long and bendy legs carefully avoiding projected blood spatters and other elements of evidence in an almost comical fashion. The hand he hadn't been using went to his chest, the long and supple forearm hugging it in a posture that evoked sudden hunger.
"There is, however, a dash of desired innocence, here. It would be sweet, if I didn't also smell-"
He paused to sniff the air. "-Resignation? That seems to be in line with your suspicions, Mrs. McConmara."
***
Three repressed a smile as they went along. Katherine's exposition would've been vital if they hadn't spent months growing acquainted with police procedure. He couldn't speak for Aislinn, but even without it, flashing a laminate was a lot like giving the salute. Do it too much and you pass for either a yes-man or a self-important idiot. There was a reason why most of these cards were usually worn clipped to the front of the chest's clothing, after all.
He put the appropriate laminate on as they entered, designating himself - as well as Aislinn - as a consultant. Central was appropriately named, as this was where most of the Inspectors held their desks, with the last of the three floors holding Chief Alderan's office as well as the boardroom he shared with his Deputy Chiefs. As such, there was less activity per square meter than at your average precinct and what was there was mostly administrative - but they'd still catch sight of a few lieutenants and officers hauling in suspects of various natures.
As could be expected, paperwork was involved. Katherine's smiles and know-how only got them so much leeway and really only served to get the three of them seated at a rickety table faster, wielding shitty ballpoint pens. Then came the process of depositing the button and tooth in the care of the Forensics department as a Priority assignment.
Past that? They had at least forty-five minutes of the waiting game to play. Luckily, smartphones made it possible for part of the investigative work to keep going while they sipped on bad coffee.
Three emailed one of his snapshots of the symbols Phyllis had etched to the police's appointed academic resources at the local university. Ten minutes later, he held up his phone for Katherine and Aislinn to see.
"Check this out," he said. "The design Phyllis drew on sheets of paper? I've got an Anthropology professor who tells me there's Medieval Muslim connotations to that. Not so much in terms of religion, but in how the Arabian cultures were the first to develop complex hydraulic mechanisms. They didn't invent clockwork, of course, but they took it pretty far nonetheless. This is part of an odd machine they found while excavating in Dubai. It isn't a timepiece or any kind of solar calendar, and it doesn't fit with anything Arab scientists could put together before the Crusades.
While the Greeks were busy trying to find ways to chart celestial movements, a contemporary in the middle of the future Arab Emirates was insane enough to try and build a machine that doesn't have any real purpose. Springs and cogs and wheels that spin for the sake of spinning as far as anyone could tell. That reminds me of Vergil's exhibit for sure."
***
Being cautious, it'd be a while before Tam would find anything that would qualify as a breakthrough. What she did manage to record, however, boggled the mind.
The first order of business was to realize that there was a lot more clicking, clacking and whirring than there was conceivably any room for, in there. Dismounting one of the panels would allow the Drifter to see what felt like a collapsible infinity of gears, pulleys, cogs and springs, all inter-connected in such a way that trying to rationally dismantle the thing like any seasoned watchmaker would would have been insane. At best, she'd find herself peeling back a dozen layers of kinetic force and movement distribution, only to find more waiting below. And more. And more. And more...
Furthermore, reassembling the panel for the sake of actual testing would prove to be far too easy, as though Gammell had planned for this occurrence and decided to extend an olive branch to the lucky tinkerer that would manipulate his design. That done, flipping and turning the cube over would reveal a small plethora of hidden switches and buttons - none of them leading to anything of a particularly deadly nature. Several triggers even caused a few fanciful geometry shifts in the plates' design, to the tune of a little tin cylinder covered with nubs and being plucked at with metal bars. There wasn't any real rhyme or reason to these little showtunes, even; with combinations playing Camptown Races while another produced a tinny version of Vivaldi's Four Seasons.
If anything, it spoke of Gammell as being a highly playful sort, but in a restrained, slightly twisted and potentially perverse fashion.
The more she dug, however, the more the triggers changed. Buttons and sliders disappeared as she rotated the cube, and the tone and presentation of the object began to take on more ominous tones. Lambent green energy could be seen showing through the occasional crack, hinting at a deeply-buried arcane centre of a particularly noxious nature.
It took all of forty-five minutes, but Tam would finally find the proper solution: one twist here, a pull there, a few clicks, and she was treated to the sight of the cube springing out of her surrogate hands on its own. The musical-box melody that came from it felt period-appropriate, that much was obvious, but it was off-key in such a way as to seem immensely off-putting...
Segments that hadn't been there before rotated. Vertexes became planes, polygonal surfaces seemed to flatten out before her eyes. Clattering furiously all the while, the cube collapsed in on itself in a way that felt curiously controlled, revealing a smooth, glass-like underside to the side panels that hadn't been there before. The glass obviously offered her sight of her own armature, but one detail was off.
There was a teacup on the side of the reflected image's workbench, where there obviously wasn't one in the Danger Room itself.
In the reflection, a pale white hand slipped into view, grasped the cup and lifted it away. She'd see a leather apron, a bit of a cravat, part of a shoulder - but no face. That, unfortunately, remained out of her field of view.
In the reflection, the adam's apple bobbed a bit. The glass vibrated, under her hands, the clattering of the mechanisms beneath losing its volume and being partially replaced by a male voice. Its tone was poised, either from its use of Received American or from some sort of ultra-classical upbringing. It was low, a bit nasal and very gravelly - strangely seductive in its own way.
"Ah, good," the unseen man said. "I wasn't quite sure if someone was to stumble upon the correct manipulation. You find me glad that that you did, friend. My time is short, however, as are those windows of privacy my captors afford me. I cannot risk you seeing me as of now, as I have no measure of your ability to resist the Guild's efforts. Sight would constitute a form of escape, according to their Byzantine rules, and I would rather those working towards my deliverance remained covert.
The madman holds the key. The Great Work must not be allowed to be activated, as the Architect has not foreseen this world's demise in this shape or form. The Guild of Makers is ushering in chaos, even as they are attempting to serve the cause of Order.
They have bloated me; fed me to the point where innocence has lost its taste. I would sleep and seek to digest all this sweetness, cleanse my palate with a bit of deserved suffering; but they pick my targets and pilfer my larder without care for the resulting consequences. Erasmus. Must. Perish."
The man paused, other voices and noises reverberating through the glass. "Mertown," hurriedly added the toymaker, "Local 4576-B. Unity shields the Guild. Remember those words, tinkerer: Unity shields the Guild!"
Then, without much in the way of conclusion, the surface morphed from a glass-like surface to a panel of treated wood. Even though it had laid flat against the table, lifting it would produce much grinding and rattling noises - the rest of the box seemingly rising out of the table's very surface.
The car being a fairly recent and potentially government-issued model, electrochromic windows were a given. Spector pressed a button on the controls that waited at his right arm, causing the windows to noticeably darken. As for any windshield treatment, the final effect left the driver's visibility intact but prevented potential gawkers outside from getting a particularly good look at what was going on in the vehicle. He closed his eyes for a second, sighing like someone who would've removed a heavy coat. On cue, his features began to drastically change.
The instructor grew thinner and taller - to fairly worrying levels, to the point where his normally comfortably bent knees were bunched up against his chest once he was done. His skin became chalk-white and slightly rubbery, a vaguely marbled pattern of mottled skin adding sepulchral flair to what already looked nightmare-inducing if you weren't prepared. Spector's face vanished entirely, his hairline and ears fading off into a completely featureless dome of that same skin - a skull that retained some clear human characteristics; safe for the presence of a mouth or nose. Both features felt as though skin had grown on top of them, sealing them off entirely. Similarly, Spector's eyes turned to sealed-off pits where nothing resembling the curve of an eyeball could be seen. Yet, impossibly, the same casually human voice could be heard, coming from the general direction of the Wisp's head, as clear as if he'd had an unobstructed mouth to show.
"Ah," he sighed, a bit of relief palpable in his voice, "that's better..."
Benson shivered slightly in the rear-view mirror. "You sure you're fine back there, Your Grace? Your knees are all bunched up!
- Segmented bones," replied the Wisp, as if it answered the question. "I'm far more flexible than you could imagine. Don't worry about me, Sir Knight. If anything, constraining myself to move and act only within the confines of human parameters was what was being tiresome."
They made their way back to the Gate Percy had used to see Neasa to Evergloam. It wasn't long before they were treated to the sight of the White King's fittingly insectile walking motions, his upper body bent forward a little and seemingly questing for what it was he'd been briefed. As tall as he was, he ate the ground faster than Neasa or the Viscount could manage, reaching the reconstituted crime scene first. They found him in the doorway to Egimbart's quarters, bent down and through the doorway, with one spindly hand thoughtfully stroking his hairless chin, the other arm uselessly folded close to the body, almost like a vulture.
Before Percy was able to say anything, Spector's spine impossibly twisted around so he looked back on the trio. "This isn't Winter work. I can guarantee this much. The pall that's hanging over the room, however - that is familiar. I don''t know of a great many beings who could simultaneously taint their killing floors with a predator's relish and a sentient man's guilt - at least not at this magnitude...
- So the Squids are involved?" asked Benson.
Spector's covered mouth could be seen twisting in unease behind the skin. "No, not so much them as someone close to their kind - but not by choice. I've worked on cultist sites before and there's a certain aroma that's missing in the air. The scent of the rare thing that could conceivably kill me."
He stepped inside, his long and bendy legs carefully avoiding projected blood spatters and other elements of evidence in an almost comical fashion. The hand he hadn't been using went to his chest, the long and supple forearm hugging it in a posture that evoked sudden hunger.
"There is, however, a dash of desired innocence, here. It would be sweet, if I didn't also smell-"
He paused to sniff the air. "-Resignation? That seems to be in line with your suspicions, Mrs. McConmara."
***
Three repressed a smile as they went along. Katherine's exposition would've been vital if they hadn't spent months growing acquainted with police procedure. He couldn't speak for Aislinn, but even without it, flashing a laminate was a lot like giving the salute. Do it too much and you pass for either a yes-man or a self-important idiot. There was a reason why most of these cards were usually worn clipped to the front of the chest's clothing, after all.
He put the appropriate laminate on as they entered, designating himself - as well as Aislinn - as a consultant. Central was appropriately named, as this was where most of the Inspectors held their desks, with the last of the three floors holding Chief Alderan's office as well as the boardroom he shared with his Deputy Chiefs. As such, there was less activity per square meter than at your average precinct and what was there was mostly administrative - but they'd still catch sight of a few lieutenants and officers hauling in suspects of various natures.
As could be expected, paperwork was involved. Katherine's smiles and know-how only got them so much leeway and really only served to get the three of them seated at a rickety table faster, wielding shitty ballpoint pens. Then came the process of depositing the button and tooth in the care of the Forensics department as a Priority assignment.
Past that? They had at least forty-five minutes of the waiting game to play. Luckily, smartphones made it possible for part of the investigative work to keep going while they sipped on bad coffee.
Three emailed one of his snapshots of the symbols Phyllis had etched to the police's appointed academic resources at the local university. Ten minutes later, he held up his phone for Katherine and Aislinn to see.
"Check this out," he said. "The design Phyllis drew on sheets of paper? I've got an Anthropology professor who tells me there's Medieval Muslim connotations to that. Not so much in terms of religion, but in how the Arabian cultures were the first to develop complex hydraulic mechanisms. They didn't invent clockwork, of course, but they took it pretty far nonetheless. This is part of an odd machine they found while excavating in Dubai. It isn't a timepiece or any kind of solar calendar, and it doesn't fit with anything Arab scientists could put together before the Crusades.
While the Greeks were busy trying to find ways to chart celestial movements, a contemporary in the middle of the future Arab Emirates was insane enough to try and build a machine that doesn't have any real purpose. Springs and cogs and wheels that spin for the sake of spinning as far as anyone could tell. That reminds me of Vergil's exhibit for sure."
***
Being cautious, it'd be a while before Tam would find anything that would qualify as a breakthrough. What she did manage to record, however, boggled the mind.
The first order of business was to realize that there was a lot more clicking, clacking and whirring than there was conceivably any room for, in there. Dismounting one of the panels would allow the Drifter to see what felt like a collapsible infinity of gears, pulleys, cogs and springs, all inter-connected in such a way that trying to rationally dismantle the thing like any seasoned watchmaker would would have been insane. At best, she'd find herself peeling back a dozen layers of kinetic force and movement distribution, only to find more waiting below. And more. And more. And more...
Furthermore, reassembling the panel for the sake of actual testing would prove to be far too easy, as though Gammell had planned for this occurrence and decided to extend an olive branch to the lucky tinkerer that would manipulate his design. That done, flipping and turning the cube over would reveal a small plethora of hidden switches and buttons - none of them leading to anything of a particularly deadly nature. Several triggers even caused a few fanciful geometry shifts in the plates' design, to the tune of a little tin cylinder covered with nubs and being plucked at with metal bars. There wasn't any real rhyme or reason to these little showtunes, even; with combinations playing Camptown Races while another produced a tinny version of Vivaldi's Four Seasons.
If anything, it spoke of Gammell as being a highly playful sort, but in a restrained, slightly twisted and potentially perverse fashion.
The more she dug, however, the more the triggers changed. Buttons and sliders disappeared as she rotated the cube, and the tone and presentation of the object began to take on more ominous tones. Lambent green energy could be seen showing through the occasional crack, hinting at a deeply-buried arcane centre of a particularly noxious nature.
It took all of forty-five minutes, but Tam would finally find the proper solution: one twist here, a pull there, a few clicks, and she was treated to the sight of the cube springing out of her surrogate hands on its own. The musical-box melody that came from it felt period-appropriate, that much was obvious, but it was off-key in such a way as to seem immensely off-putting...
Segments that hadn't been there before rotated. Vertexes became planes, polygonal surfaces seemed to flatten out before her eyes. Clattering furiously all the while, the cube collapsed in on itself in a way that felt curiously controlled, revealing a smooth, glass-like underside to the side panels that hadn't been there before. The glass obviously offered her sight of her own armature, but one detail was off.
There was a teacup on the side of the reflected image's workbench, where there obviously wasn't one in the Danger Room itself.
In the reflection, a pale white hand slipped into view, grasped the cup and lifted it away. She'd see a leather apron, a bit of a cravat, part of a shoulder - but no face. That, unfortunately, remained out of her field of view.
In the reflection, the adam's apple bobbed a bit. The glass vibrated, under her hands, the clattering of the mechanisms beneath losing its volume and being partially replaced by a male voice. Its tone was poised, either from its use of Received American or from some sort of ultra-classical upbringing. It was low, a bit nasal and very gravelly - strangely seductive in its own way.
"Ah, good," the unseen man said. "I wasn't quite sure if someone was to stumble upon the correct manipulation. You find me glad that that you did, friend. My time is short, however, as are those windows of privacy my captors afford me. I cannot risk you seeing me as of now, as I have no measure of your ability to resist the Guild's efforts. Sight would constitute a form of escape, according to their Byzantine rules, and I would rather those working towards my deliverance remained covert.
The madman holds the key. The Great Work must not be allowed to be activated, as the Architect has not foreseen this world's demise in this shape or form. The Guild of Makers is ushering in chaos, even as they are attempting to serve the cause of Order.
They have bloated me; fed me to the point where innocence has lost its taste. I would sleep and seek to digest all this sweetness, cleanse my palate with a bit of deserved suffering; but they pick my targets and pilfer my larder without care for the resulting consequences. Erasmus. Must. Perish."
The man paused, other voices and noises reverberating through the glass. "Mertown," hurriedly added the toymaker, "Local 4576-B. Unity shields the Guild. Remember those words, tinkerer: Unity shields the Guild!"
Then, without much in the way of conclusion, the surface morphed from a glass-like surface to a panel of treated wood. Even though it had laid flat against the table, lifting it would produce much grinding and rattling noises - the rest of the box seemingly rising out of the table's very surface.
-
TennyoCeres84
- Site Admin
- Posts: 2932
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
"Okay, so the killer isn't entirely dedicated to his actions. It reminds me of a kid who does something for his parents because they have power over him. That gives us something behind the motive, but not on where, what or who the murder is," Neasa concluded. "Is there anything else?"
***
Aislinn grimaced upon looking at the image. "This is really starting to make me think this is some sort of cult that's related to antiquated tech. The clank death, for one, the boxes, and now this? The victims seem like they're sacrifices."
***
Aislinn grimaced upon looking at the image. "This is really starting to make me think this is some sort of cult that's related to antiquated tech. The clank death, for one, the boxes, and now this? The victims seem like they're sacrifices."
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IamLEAM1983
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- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Crossing the Hillard was something Bucky had always hated doing. The North side of Little Italy reminded him a little too much of his days as a member of the traditionally living, seeing as a lot of kids who lived a stone's throw away from Naughton tended to gravitate to the thug life for cheap thrills and some sense of validation. He'd been a huckster because there wasn't much else he particularly excelled in, but here were some kids who were given as many outlets as the city's extracurricular programs could afford to sponsor - and who pissed it all away for the sake of looking tough.
The Sin Bin was as sleazy as the name suggested, a wedge of a basement studio stuck between a cheap Kinkos knockoff and a pawn shop. Right off the bat, Shamus gave Ciaran a look and sighed.
"Looks like you'll hafta let me prop the door open; this is too narrow for me to fit through. Not that I'd want to, anyway."
His limited facial mechanisms approximated a moue of digust. "Blech. I'll, uh, just holler at you through the door if I need to, buddy."
***
Spector went over the room a few times. After a few minutes, he twisted his spine around once more and gestured for Ciaran to come closer.
"Fae customs frown upon careless displays of bloodshed, even if the crime scene requires isolation. This is why murder or assault scenes are duplicated using arcane projections. Interestingly, however, the resolution of this process is so acute it sometimes captures things that aren't quite part of the expected body of evidence..."
On the floor, almost invisible underneath the room's dresser, was a card. There wasn't really anything there for Ciaran to pick, but its ghostly image was unmistakable. It was blurry, a sign that someone had picked it up immediately after dropping it. The White King's spine impossibly bent as he lowered himself to take a look at it, his rear end and legs following behind his upper half only at the last second. Eyeless pits narrowed in scrutiny.
"What do you make out, Miss McConmara?"
The question felt almost academic. Spector had already picked up on this new trail, but the point of this was to get Neasa to start thinking like an investigator. Feeding her the next few steps of her investigation wouldn't have been fair.
In any case, the card read Ernest Ramos - Clothier. 3562 Hale Street. Just a stone's throw away from the boardwalk, and Mertown.
The Sin Bin was as sleazy as the name suggested, a wedge of a basement studio stuck between a cheap Kinkos knockoff and a pawn shop. Right off the bat, Shamus gave Ciaran a look and sighed.
"Looks like you'll hafta let me prop the door open; this is too narrow for me to fit through. Not that I'd want to, anyway."
His limited facial mechanisms approximated a moue of digust. "Blech. I'll, uh, just holler at you through the door if I need to, buddy."
***
Spector went over the room a few times. After a few minutes, he twisted his spine around once more and gestured for Ciaran to come closer.
"Fae customs frown upon careless displays of bloodshed, even if the crime scene requires isolation. This is why murder or assault scenes are duplicated using arcane projections. Interestingly, however, the resolution of this process is so acute it sometimes captures things that aren't quite part of the expected body of evidence..."
On the floor, almost invisible underneath the room's dresser, was a card. There wasn't really anything there for Ciaran to pick, but its ghostly image was unmistakable. It was blurry, a sign that someone had picked it up immediately after dropping it. The White King's spine impossibly bent as he lowered himself to take a look at it, his rear end and legs following behind his upper half only at the last second. Eyeless pits narrowed in scrutiny.
"What do you make out, Miss McConmara?"
The question felt almost academic. Spector had already picked up on this new trail, but the point of this was to get Neasa to start thinking like an investigator. Feeding her the next few steps of her investigation wouldn't have been fair.
In any case, the card read Ernest Ramos - Clothier. 3562 Hale Street. Just a stone's throw away from the boardwalk, and Mertown.
-
TennyoCeres84
- Site Admin
- Posts: 2932
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Neasa murmured out the information on the card. "It seems like our killer dropped it and then hurriedly picked it up. So, our killer is wealthy enough to have their clothes custom made. The clothier would have at least some inkling as to what or who this person is because of the need for measurements. Given the area, there might be some secrets hiding there that we didn't know about before," she said, lifting herself off the ground. "Looks like I'm off to this address."
***
Ciaran nodded to the clank and entered the establishment, if it could be called that. He used a piece of asphalt that had been knocked loose to prop the door open.
***
Ciaran nodded to the clank and entered the establishment, if it could be called that. He used a piece of asphalt that had been knocked loose to prop the door open.
-
Karl the Mad
- Posts: 1260
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- Location: Oregon
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Katherine had not been idle during the wait, juggling at least two smartphones and three separate conversations, one of which was in French. "Business doesn't wait," she remarked breezily to her companions at one point.
When Three came up with his find, she scrutinized it carefully. "Cults, eh," she mused. "Sounds like the plot to a bad horror movie. Maybe they were trying for a perpetual motion engine?" She shrugged. "If Aislinn's right, to whom or what are the sacrifices being made? What do the cultists have to gain? On the other hand maybe this is all the work of some random loony with a penchant for geegaws; we can't rule that out yet, I think, even with the toy shop's involvement."
When Three came up with his find, she scrutinized it carefully. "Cults, eh," she mused. "Sounds like the plot to a bad horror movie. Maybe they were trying for a perpetual motion engine?" She shrugged. "If Aislinn's right, to whom or what are the sacrifices being made? What do the cultists have to gain? On the other hand maybe this is all the work of some random loony with a penchant for geegaws; we can't rule that out yet, I think, even with the toy shop's involvement."
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
"Y'all get that?" Tam said, after a long, silent moment. The box seemed well and truly stuck to where it had chosen to rest, and she was glad, for a moment, that the chill down her stomach was just in her head for the time being.
"Someone relay to SHIELD, the thing up and divulged a full-on 'help me Obi-Wan', and I don't understand all the references it's made. Guild of Makers, Erasmus must die- a spot in Mertown. Unity shields the guild- I don't know if that's a password or a code or a flippin' anagram. Get this to the brain trust, I'm not sure there's much else I can do with the thing beyond a sledgehammer. I don't trust it."
"Someone relay to SHIELD, the thing up and divulged a full-on 'help me Obi-Wan', and I don't understand all the references it's made. Guild of Makers, Erasmus must die- a spot in Mertown. Unity shields the guild- I don't know if that's a password or a code or a flippin' anagram. Get this to the brain trust, I'm not sure there's much else I can do with the thing beyond a sledgehammer. I don't trust it."
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
The speaker crackled. "It's been recorded, miss Zainall," confirmed Matthias. "I've sent for a phone call to Holden Hall."
There was a pause. "A local was mentioned, and a number. This would point to a work union, if I'm not mistaken. There's still time on the clock, however. You're entirely free to keep working, or we can pull you out. Your choice."
***
Three shrugged. "Right off the bat? I'd say the murders are sacrifices, if this is relevant. We do still need to figure out how this ties into Gammell's disappearance."
He shifted in his seat. "We know our killer isn't entirely committed to what he does. We know he's either morally conflicted or just vaguely more moral in his choice of victims than your classic serial killer. We know he's being coerced. Gammell's gone. Between gone and kidnapped, I'd say the difference is small. Tam's working with the box, Neasa's out with Percy to look at a crime scene from Faeside. The Laidlaws' exhibit was forced open. Clanks are getting killed, and most of the kills are done by proxy."
Drake sighed. "That amounts to something. What, though? Something's missing."
A few moments later, however, Aislinn's own phone rang. Bagley was on the other end, apparently.
***
"It certainly does look like it," confirmed Spector. "I unfortunately can't provide much assistance on the federal level; you'd have to see to it that the case is escalated for me to be involved. As troubling as it might seem, a few murders and some ritualistic elements aren't enough for any Chief of Police to request involvement from on high."
He recoiled from the card's shadow in a rather alien manner, his spine bending out the whole way. "As the Archduke, however, I can spare a warning. What you're up against is potentially on the same scale as the wholesale highway massacre that led to the creation of your unit to begin with. This time, however, Queen Mab isn't the one to blame, and the Centennial Tree is of no consequence or importance in this investigation. You'd have told me if your dryad was in any danger, or she would've manifested herself.
Mab may be noxious for all of us, but evil isn't an epithet I'd use. This is wholly unlike what the Dark customarily unleashes. I have no idea what's in store for either yourself or your comrades, miss McConmara - a bloodbath, a firefight or open negotiations - and this feeling leaves me unwell. Being born of the Dark of Winter, I'm familiar with diseased minds in a way few people would appreciate. It takes a lot to unsettle me and, well..."
He looked around and headed for the door. "I'm unsettled. Afraid. It goes without saying that I don't like it."
There was a pause. "A local was mentioned, and a number. This would point to a work union, if I'm not mistaken. There's still time on the clock, however. You're entirely free to keep working, or we can pull you out. Your choice."
***
Three shrugged. "Right off the bat? I'd say the murders are sacrifices, if this is relevant. We do still need to figure out how this ties into Gammell's disappearance."
He shifted in his seat. "We know our killer isn't entirely committed to what he does. We know he's either morally conflicted or just vaguely more moral in his choice of victims than your classic serial killer. We know he's being coerced. Gammell's gone. Between gone and kidnapped, I'd say the difference is small. Tam's working with the box, Neasa's out with Percy to look at a crime scene from Faeside. The Laidlaws' exhibit was forced open. Clanks are getting killed, and most of the kills are done by proxy."
Drake sighed. "That amounts to something. What, though? Something's missing."
A few moments later, however, Aislinn's own phone rang. Bagley was on the other end, apparently.
***
"It certainly does look like it," confirmed Spector. "I unfortunately can't provide much assistance on the federal level; you'd have to see to it that the case is escalated for me to be involved. As troubling as it might seem, a few murders and some ritualistic elements aren't enough for any Chief of Police to request involvement from on high."
He recoiled from the card's shadow in a rather alien manner, his spine bending out the whole way. "As the Archduke, however, I can spare a warning. What you're up against is potentially on the same scale as the wholesale highway massacre that led to the creation of your unit to begin with. This time, however, Queen Mab isn't the one to blame, and the Centennial Tree is of no consequence or importance in this investigation. You'd have told me if your dryad was in any danger, or she would've manifested herself.
Mab may be noxious for all of us, but evil isn't an epithet I'd use. This is wholly unlike what the Dark customarily unleashes. I have no idea what's in store for either yourself or your comrades, miss McConmara - a bloodbath, a firefight or open negotiations - and this feeling leaves me unwell. Being born of the Dark of Winter, I'm familiar with diseased minds in a way few people would appreciate. It takes a lot to unsettle me and, well..."
He looked around and headed for the door. "I'm unsettled. Afraid. It goes without saying that I don't like it."
-
TennyoCeres84
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
OOC: You need to post a reply for Ciaran.
BIC: "Guess we might find out soon enough," Aislinn said, then hearing her phone ring. She recognized the number as coming from Holden Hall and answered it. "Hey Bagley. What is it?" she asked.
***
"Shit..." Neasa breathed upon Spector's admission that this case was repellent enough to unnerve him of all people. She followed him out of the room and down the stairs She grimaced slightly. "If this is going to be that extreme, I think a group should go to this address. We don't know who or what is going on there. It's going to become too dicey to be separate."
BIC: "Guess we might find out soon enough," Aislinn said, then hearing her phone ring. She recognized the number as coming from Holden Hall and answered it. "Hey Bagley. What is it?" she asked.
***
"Shit..." Neasa breathed upon Spector's admission that this case was repellent enough to unnerve him of all people. She followed him out of the room and down the stairs She grimaced slightly. "If this is going to be that extreme, I think a group should go to this address. We don't know who or what is going on there. It's going to become too dicey to be separate."