Katherine was glad to leave the legwork to Shield, since she wasn't a Shield member herself just yet. Besides, Romanov was so interesting; it was almost too easy prodding him along, saying things like "But what about Schick?" or "It just can't compare to Liss! Or even Genelli!"
Eventually, though, she felt it necessary to steer things along. "What about the past few weeks, what was she working on?" she asked innocently. "Had she met with anyone she didn't usually see? Did she bring home any unusual props for a painting?"
The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
-
Karl the Mad
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Tam took the disc with a nod.
"Dreams are just as much part of the stock, here," she murmured, straightening up. "Be seeing you."
"Dreams are just as much part of the stock, here," she murmured, straightening up. "Be seeing you."
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
With interesting clues to peruse at her leisure, Tam was free to make her way to the Institute.
South Sheffield hadn't been terribly marred by '75's events, seeing as Rendell's focus had always been the Centennial Tree. Considering, the chunk of town that housed young families and students in dorm housing didn't have the towering heights of downtown, with architecture that remained recognizable to anyone who'd grown up before the attack. Down there, there wasn't a whole lot of super-tensile materials or nanotube alloys or leftovers from the eighteen-hundreds' own engineering marvels. The lot values were lower than in Old Hope, but the houses and strip malls looked cozy enough. It was there that you'd find the Last Round, Silas Robertson's Bar and Grill, along with the local campus and the Trismegistus Institute's nearby facilities.
From the outside, the place looked like any other office campus. A squat, two-storey building in fairly conventional brownstone made up the bulk of the entrance and office spaces, but a far larger, cubic structure had been added to it. Windows were irregularly spaced on the cube - a clue that this was a Guild facility. Matthias, like most of his brethren, was highly sensitive to daylight. He was old enough to be able to work during daytime while not being forced to go for a blood pack every fifteen minutes to recharge, but he still couldn't be exposed to it. Odds were the cube's window placement was so odd because they needed to allow for some sort of insulated corridor the vampires could use without being afraid of getting toasted. Naturally, the Institute had a direct connection to the pedway network running underneath the city. This also explained why few Guildmates tended to own little more than bikes - or perhaps a pair of good walking shoes.
Once inside, Tam was greeted by a security officer and directed to a specific elevator. The side of its frame carried a now familiar pictogram - a black-and-white smiley face adorned with fangs. This alerted most vampires to the fact that this specific elevator led to a space where their more specific needs were more easily attended to.
The elevator cabin went up for the two storeys and then seemed to slide forwards a bit instead of opening. It then went up another level, and finally opened its rear doors.
Seeing the Drifter's back, Matthias raised a hand and lightly coughed in his fist.
"Apologies, miss Zainall," said the former monk's cultivated non-specific accent. As a Medieval Frenchman who'd been part of the first wave of colonists in what had originally been intended to be New France, he'd picked up English very early on in the country's formation. The resulting intonation he'd taken wasn't quite your average lower East Coast American, it certainly wasn't British either, and he also didn't have French's more clipped syllables, either. Uncharitable college kids tended to call Professor d'Aubignier's accent "Eurotrash", for lack of a better term.
"I should have informed the front desk of our elevator's particular nature," he said, a bit of harmless playfulness touching his voice. "Not that it matters, however. I'm very pleased to meet you."
If there were two things you could reproach to Guildmates, it was that they were nerdy and a bit absent-minded because of their Kenning - and maybe a tad smelly if they hadn't remembered to feed, recently. As hair and fingernails tend to keep growing postmortem, the head of the Guild vampires in Hope had a bit of a five o' clock shadow that didn't go too well with his decidedly pasty skin. Thin for his five feet eight inches, he had sunken, reddish and perpetually haunted eyes, and features that probably had been a little more appealing, in life. His tie, shirt and waistcoat all looked a little rumpled, and his pants carried old chalk marks. Being who and what he was, Matthias probably hadn't fed in a while or even thought to go home and change in a few days. As the Kenning overrode everything else, however, Tam wasn't in any danger of being snacked upon. Long feeding sessions got in the way of research, and the Guildmates took to their research being disrupted notoriously badly. Even if she had been considered for a quick nosh, the bloodline's traditions involved asking for permission and finding the least painful spot to draw blood from. They took as little as they needed and nothing more, and always seemed anxious to care for their generous donors. Guildmates volunteering at blood clinics was a fairly common sight in Hope. Not so much because they wanted to oversee the collection of what was their food, but because they are all culturally inclined and conditioned to actually take pains to make the process of donating blood as painless and comfortable as possible.
As to how she could tell he hadn't recently fed - the smell would be indication enough. the professor smelled of slow, heavily inhibited decay. A few years would need to pass without his drinking blood for actual signs of decomposition to begin to show, but the flesh was already producing a very light whiff of a grimy, wet, earthen musk. Polite concern was typically the expected M.O., as the poor types often couldn't break out of their supernaturally strong nerd-ons to realize they'd better spend a few minutes to an hour on personal upkeep, once in a while.
Still, they shook hands. He was a little on the clammy side but moved with the surety expected of the living. His was a good, but short squeeze - signalling a good sort whose only big failing probably involved a bit of social awkwardness.
***
Anastasius looked away and through a window as he tried to go over the last few weeks in his mind. "I - cannot confirm this in any serious capacity. Phyllis and Virgil were prone to succumb to the fires of creation, as it were," he explained. "They created in spurts, innovated whenever something spurred them forward - only ever alive when I could see them armed with paint or a blowtorch. In-between, during research?"
He sighed and looked back to Katherine. "Pray that your summations continue coming to you with ease, miss Starr. Being wracked by a concrete project being just out of reach is one of the most agonizing experiences I have ever been through. It drives one to be - irascible. Hot-blooded. Impatient. The Laidlaws could sequester themselves for months, during which they would wrestle their respective Muses into submission. Epiphanies are truly glorious, wondrous things - but their price is unimaginably high. For your heart to finally soar, you must spend long, long weeks in the miasma of your own inability to grasp what seems achingly obvious..."
He made a clawing and fist-closing gesture as he talked, looking down on his hands in a way that suggested he'd been there before, his features momentarily darkening with the echoes of some personal frustration of his - something that undoubtedly came from his post-dictatorship career. As alien as the concept had been, prior to Archie Holden becoming involved, frustration was something he was all-too familiar with. You couldn't be one of the few sensitive Karthians on Earth without your artistry being perceived as odd by both the Terrans and sane Grayskins.
Anastasius started to recall one of his own experiences in the matter, but one glance at Katherine reminded him of the requested subject. "Ah - yes. Odd someones. I do recall her mentioning someone she emphatically referred to as a new muse of hers. I was more than willing to procure her more funds if it meant that her creative process could be enriched by this... Erasmus of hers. I asked her if I would ever be granted the honour of meeting him, and she replied that he was a very private person; that he had chosen her for his project, instead of the other way around.
She did call me, the day before she died," he admitted. "Those epiphanies I mentioned? She was very clearly in the midst of one, suddenly filled with ebullient energy and joyful anticipation - like a child on Christmas morning. I tried to tell her to slow down, to explain to me the particulars of this breakthrough, but she hung up before I could corner her into precising her intent. I was foolish enough to believe that Terran giddiness had made her overly anxious to share her glee with me, and assumed the night would bring some sobering wisdom to her prospects."
His features grew haunted again. "I called her. All day, I redialed her number. Once every hour. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, I stormed her residence and blew the door open with a thought."
Anastasius produced a ragged sigh. "The rest is in the police report. I - always assumed that Art could forever elevate even the most grotesque of sights into a meaningful display. Violence can be given a meaning - the Ancients wrote a plethora of dramatic slayings to be portrayed onstage, nobility can be suffused in the deepest and darkest of tragedies if one has a skillful eye - but what I found in this chair?"
He was trembling again, as much with disgust and sorrow as with white-hot rage, sheer indignation that briefly pressed hotly against Katherine's empath senses. "This is no Art. There is no Art in what I found in this chair, miss Starr. What I found was a mocking perversion, a travesty of Art. Someone took creators for whom I had respect enough to offer them funds and time enough to create, annihilated them - and spat in my face."
***
Marlon shrugged. "Well, sure, but it happened off-duty. Like I said, it's not like I keep a log of his activities."
Bucky sighed, the sound accompanied by a rather sonorous toot and a puff of white smoke from one of his exhaust pipes. "Consider Weasel. We all have a little more than a sneaking suspicion that he's a total sleaze. You don't carry toys around as a Clank and not brag about it. It's part o' the whole damn package, and I speak from experience."
Stumped, Astoria's CEO grimaced. "Well - I do mention some workers telling the foremen that he was getting hard to work with. He - belittled the organic workers on fairly personal grounds.
- You mean he mocked 'em for not having a telescopic shaft?"
Bucky's more upfront tactic was apparently working to a degree. Marlon Biggs turned beet-red and coughed nervously. That made Shamus chortle.
"Anythin' else he might've bragged about? People, places? Suppliers?"
***
Benson shrugged. "Nope. You know how suicides go. Or, well, I'm assuming you do, seeing as you're kinda green: in most suicide cases, the least-informed witnesses are the close friends and relatives. Couple that with the way gruffs are, or how they're supposed to be. Big, tough, resilient, straighter than a straight arrow, incorruptible... That's a lot of pressure for your average Joe."
Percival sighed, the look on his face suggesting he had experience in the matter. "Aye. 'Tis pressure we gladly endure, however. For our good and that of Evergloam and Hope alike. A gruff cannot claim to be of Summer if the Court's tenets of chivalry are not close to his heart. Egimbart remained silent until the end. We was undoubtedly fearful of us finding him weak. Unfit for duty. His mantle would have been damaged, his sense of Self crippled.
He was wrong. I cannot count myself Viscount if I do not see to the good of my men."
Benson grunted. "Don't sweat it, boss. You're only human. Well, kinda. Sorta. I sure as shit didn't see anything either. Figured our Knight-Commander was tough as nails. There's a few odd things around here, though..."
The bugbear carefully paced around the projected crime scene, pulling out a pair of surgical gloves for himself. He slipped them on and then picked up a fine metal needle from the mantelpiece. "An iron lancet," he said. "Too thin to provoke serious or lasting injuries."
Percival stepped closer, but he was careful not to touch the object. "Why would Egimbart carry the Bane in his residence?
- That's the crux of it," summarized Benson. "We figure out why a Wyldfae got his kicks out of flirting with death and we find out why he picked something as grody as this to off himself," he said, gesturing to the crime scene.
Percival was silent for a long moment. He carefully paced around the quarters, his hands touching the ghostly projections of the objects that had been there in the Knight-Commander's final hours.
"Egimbart was not suicidal," he finally said.
"What?! How do you figure?" asked Benson.
The gruff turned to face the selkie and bugbear. "The Bane. 'Tis everywhere, here, and in concentrations too small to kill. Except in the case of the device that endeth his life. Egimbart did not court Death, he courted Sensation. Think of the mortals who jump off planes or imbibe noxious substances they know to be harmful. Think of Fae are blessed with long and hardy health. Being a skilled warrior means harm is never received unduly. How likely is it for him to desire something to feel, to experience?"
Benson seemed perplexed. "So... Our boy was masochistic. Then why the big-ass Horrible Torture Cube of Death?
- Because Pain is a fleeting mistress," said Percy. "One becomes used to it. The rush, even in the case of injuries caused by iron, dissipates. Greater concentrations are required for the same effect of searing agony."
Benson eyed Neasa and grimaced. "So more and more iron came through here, less and less of it was effective - to the point where he needed a big whammy. He needed something that would bring him close to the point of death, but something went wrong."
While Percy looked unfazed, Benson was starting to look a bit livid. "Jesus Christ," he silently swore. "Poor bastard."
***
Three bent down and picked one of them up. "There's something there, but the effect is pretty mild. I feel fine if I tilt the page like this," he displayed, "and look at it pretty vaguely, like I'm trying to look past it. Looking at the bigger lines helps. I'll have to head back to the car to try and radio Archie. We can't take these papers off the scene without a warrant-"
At about this point, Anastasius began to show signs of agitation. Three looked to Katherine and the Karthian, as the man discussed how this was an affront to his artistic pursuits and personal beliefs.
"Is everything okay, over there?" he called out, to be sure.
South Sheffield hadn't been terribly marred by '75's events, seeing as Rendell's focus had always been the Centennial Tree. Considering, the chunk of town that housed young families and students in dorm housing didn't have the towering heights of downtown, with architecture that remained recognizable to anyone who'd grown up before the attack. Down there, there wasn't a whole lot of super-tensile materials or nanotube alloys or leftovers from the eighteen-hundreds' own engineering marvels. The lot values were lower than in Old Hope, but the houses and strip malls looked cozy enough. It was there that you'd find the Last Round, Silas Robertson's Bar and Grill, along with the local campus and the Trismegistus Institute's nearby facilities.
From the outside, the place looked like any other office campus. A squat, two-storey building in fairly conventional brownstone made up the bulk of the entrance and office spaces, but a far larger, cubic structure had been added to it. Windows were irregularly spaced on the cube - a clue that this was a Guild facility. Matthias, like most of his brethren, was highly sensitive to daylight. He was old enough to be able to work during daytime while not being forced to go for a blood pack every fifteen minutes to recharge, but he still couldn't be exposed to it. Odds were the cube's window placement was so odd because they needed to allow for some sort of insulated corridor the vampires could use without being afraid of getting toasted. Naturally, the Institute had a direct connection to the pedway network running underneath the city. This also explained why few Guildmates tended to own little more than bikes - or perhaps a pair of good walking shoes.
Once inside, Tam was greeted by a security officer and directed to a specific elevator. The side of its frame carried a now familiar pictogram - a black-and-white smiley face adorned with fangs. This alerted most vampires to the fact that this specific elevator led to a space where their more specific needs were more easily attended to.
The elevator cabin went up for the two storeys and then seemed to slide forwards a bit instead of opening. It then went up another level, and finally opened its rear doors.
Seeing the Drifter's back, Matthias raised a hand and lightly coughed in his fist.
"Apologies, miss Zainall," said the former monk's cultivated non-specific accent. As a Medieval Frenchman who'd been part of the first wave of colonists in what had originally been intended to be New France, he'd picked up English very early on in the country's formation. The resulting intonation he'd taken wasn't quite your average lower East Coast American, it certainly wasn't British either, and he also didn't have French's more clipped syllables, either. Uncharitable college kids tended to call Professor d'Aubignier's accent "Eurotrash", for lack of a better term.
"I should have informed the front desk of our elevator's particular nature," he said, a bit of harmless playfulness touching his voice. "Not that it matters, however. I'm very pleased to meet you."
If there were two things you could reproach to Guildmates, it was that they were nerdy and a bit absent-minded because of their Kenning - and maybe a tad smelly if they hadn't remembered to feed, recently. As hair and fingernails tend to keep growing postmortem, the head of the Guild vampires in Hope had a bit of a five o' clock shadow that didn't go too well with his decidedly pasty skin. Thin for his five feet eight inches, he had sunken, reddish and perpetually haunted eyes, and features that probably had been a little more appealing, in life. His tie, shirt and waistcoat all looked a little rumpled, and his pants carried old chalk marks. Being who and what he was, Matthias probably hadn't fed in a while or even thought to go home and change in a few days. As the Kenning overrode everything else, however, Tam wasn't in any danger of being snacked upon. Long feeding sessions got in the way of research, and the Guildmates took to their research being disrupted notoriously badly. Even if she had been considered for a quick nosh, the bloodline's traditions involved asking for permission and finding the least painful spot to draw blood from. They took as little as they needed and nothing more, and always seemed anxious to care for their generous donors. Guildmates volunteering at blood clinics was a fairly common sight in Hope. Not so much because they wanted to oversee the collection of what was their food, but because they are all culturally inclined and conditioned to actually take pains to make the process of donating blood as painless and comfortable as possible.
As to how she could tell he hadn't recently fed - the smell would be indication enough. the professor smelled of slow, heavily inhibited decay. A few years would need to pass without his drinking blood for actual signs of decomposition to begin to show, but the flesh was already producing a very light whiff of a grimy, wet, earthen musk. Polite concern was typically the expected M.O., as the poor types often couldn't break out of their supernaturally strong nerd-ons to realize they'd better spend a few minutes to an hour on personal upkeep, once in a while.
Still, they shook hands. He was a little on the clammy side but moved with the surety expected of the living. His was a good, but short squeeze - signalling a good sort whose only big failing probably involved a bit of social awkwardness.
***
Anastasius looked away and through a window as he tried to go over the last few weeks in his mind. "I - cannot confirm this in any serious capacity. Phyllis and Virgil were prone to succumb to the fires of creation, as it were," he explained. "They created in spurts, innovated whenever something spurred them forward - only ever alive when I could see them armed with paint or a blowtorch. In-between, during research?"
He sighed and looked back to Katherine. "Pray that your summations continue coming to you with ease, miss Starr. Being wracked by a concrete project being just out of reach is one of the most agonizing experiences I have ever been through. It drives one to be - irascible. Hot-blooded. Impatient. The Laidlaws could sequester themselves for months, during which they would wrestle their respective Muses into submission. Epiphanies are truly glorious, wondrous things - but their price is unimaginably high. For your heart to finally soar, you must spend long, long weeks in the miasma of your own inability to grasp what seems achingly obvious..."
He made a clawing and fist-closing gesture as he talked, looking down on his hands in a way that suggested he'd been there before, his features momentarily darkening with the echoes of some personal frustration of his - something that undoubtedly came from his post-dictatorship career. As alien as the concept had been, prior to Archie Holden becoming involved, frustration was something he was all-too familiar with. You couldn't be one of the few sensitive Karthians on Earth without your artistry being perceived as odd by both the Terrans and sane Grayskins.
Anastasius started to recall one of his own experiences in the matter, but one glance at Katherine reminded him of the requested subject. "Ah - yes. Odd someones. I do recall her mentioning someone she emphatically referred to as a new muse of hers. I was more than willing to procure her more funds if it meant that her creative process could be enriched by this... Erasmus of hers. I asked her if I would ever be granted the honour of meeting him, and she replied that he was a very private person; that he had chosen her for his project, instead of the other way around.
She did call me, the day before she died," he admitted. "Those epiphanies I mentioned? She was very clearly in the midst of one, suddenly filled with ebullient energy and joyful anticipation - like a child on Christmas morning. I tried to tell her to slow down, to explain to me the particulars of this breakthrough, but she hung up before I could corner her into precising her intent. I was foolish enough to believe that Terran giddiness had made her overly anxious to share her glee with me, and assumed the night would bring some sobering wisdom to her prospects."
His features grew haunted again. "I called her. All day, I redialed her number. Once every hour. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, I stormed her residence and blew the door open with a thought."
Anastasius produced a ragged sigh. "The rest is in the police report. I - always assumed that Art could forever elevate even the most grotesque of sights into a meaningful display. Violence can be given a meaning - the Ancients wrote a plethora of dramatic slayings to be portrayed onstage, nobility can be suffused in the deepest and darkest of tragedies if one has a skillful eye - but what I found in this chair?"
He was trembling again, as much with disgust and sorrow as with white-hot rage, sheer indignation that briefly pressed hotly against Katherine's empath senses. "This is no Art. There is no Art in what I found in this chair, miss Starr. What I found was a mocking perversion, a travesty of Art. Someone took creators for whom I had respect enough to offer them funds and time enough to create, annihilated them - and spat in my face."
***
Marlon shrugged. "Well, sure, but it happened off-duty. Like I said, it's not like I keep a log of his activities."
Bucky sighed, the sound accompanied by a rather sonorous toot and a puff of white smoke from one of his exhaust pipes. "Consider Weasel. We all have a little more than a sneaking suspicion that he's a total sleaze. You don't carry toys around as a Clank and not brag about it. It's part o' the whole damn package, and I speak from experience."
Stumped, Astoria's CEO grimaced. "Well - I do mention some workers telling the foremen that he was getting hard to work with. He - belittled the organic workers on fairly personal grounds.
- You mean he mocked 'em for not having a telescopic shaft?"
Bucky's more upfront tactic was apparently working to a degree. Marlon Biggs turned beet-red and coughed nervously. That made Shamus chortle.
"Anythin' else he might've bragged about? People, places? Suppliers?"
***
Benson shrugged. "Nope. You know how suicides go. Or, well, I'm assuming you do, seeing as you're kinda green: in most suicide cases, the least-informed witnesses are the close friends and relatives. Couple that with the way gruffs are, or how they're supposed to be. Big, tough, resilient, straighter than a straight arrow, incorruptible... That's a lot of pressure for your average Joe."
Percival sighed, the look on his face suggesting he had experience in the matter. "Aye. 'Tis pressure we gladly endure, however. For our good and that of Evergloam and Hope alike. A gruff cannot claim to be of Summer if the Court's tenets of chivalry are not close to his heart. Egimbart remained silent until the end. We was undoubtedly fearful of us finding him weak. Unfit for duty. His mantle would have been damaged, his sense of Self crippled.
He was wrong. I cannot count myself Viscount if I do not see to the good of my men."
Benson grunted. "Don't sweat it, boss. You're only human. Well, kinda. Sorta. I sure as shit didn't see anything either. Figured our Knight-Commander was tough as nails. There's a few odd things around here, though..."
The bugbear carefully paced around the projected crime scene, pulling out a pair of surgical gloves for himself. He slipped them on and then picked up a fine metal needle from the mantelpiece. "An iron lancet," he said. "Too thin to provoke serious or lasting injuries."
Percival stepped closer, but he was careful not to touch the object. "Why would Egimbart carry the Bane in his residence?
- That's the crux of it," summarized Benson. "We figure out why a Wyldfae got his kicks out of flirting with death and we find out why he picked something as grody as this to off himself," he said, gesturing to the crime scene.
Percival was silent for a long moment. He carefully paced around the quarters, his hands touching the ghostly projections of the objects that had been there in the Knight-Commander's final hours.
"Egimbart was not suicidal," he finally said.
"What?! How do you figure?" asked Benson.
The gruff turned to face the selkie and bugbear. "The Bane. 'Tis everywhere, here, and in concentrations too small to kill. Except in the case of the device that endeth his life. Egimbart did not court Death, he courted Sensation. Think of the mortals who jump off planes or imbibe noxious substances they know to be harmful. Think of Fae are blessed with long and hardy health. Being a skilled warrior means harm is never received unduly. How likely is it for him to desire something to feel, to experience?"
Benson seemed perplexed. "So... Our boy was masochistic. Then why the big-ass Horrible Torture Cube of Death?
- Because Pain is a fleeting mistress," said Percy. "One becomes used to it. The rush, even in the case of injuries caused by iron, dissipates. Greater concentrations are required for the same effect of searing agony."
Benson eyed Neasa and grimaced. "So more and more iron came through here, less and less of it was effective - to the point where he needed a big whammy. He needed something that would bring him close to the point of death, but something went wrong."
While Percy looked unfazed, Benson was starting to look a bit livid. "Jesus Christ," he silently swore. "Poor bastard."
***
Three bent down and picked one of them up. "There's something there, but the effect is pretty mild. I feel fine if I tilt the page like this," he displayed, "and look at it pretty vaguely, like I'm trying to look past it. Looking at the bigger lines helps. I'll have to head back to the car to try and radio Archie. We can't take these papers off the scene without a warrant-"
At about this point, Anastasius began to show signs of agitation. Three looked to Katherine and the Karthian, as the man discussed how this was an affront to his artistic pursuits and personal beliefs.
"Is everything okay, over there?" he called out, to be sure.
-
TennyoCeres84
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Ciaran shrugged and looked at Marlon. "I think we'd be better off talking with the foreman or the main Biggs," he suggested, then glancing back at the samurai. "He'll probably just keep skirting around our questions."
***
"Even a masochism device shouldn't go to this extreme," Neasa said. "That box seems like it was intentionally made to be defective. And with the strange designs on the box, I'm concerned it might have to do with Them. That would certainly explain why you can't look at it without the whole room spinning."
***
Aislinn frowned with concern and raised an eyebrow in Anastasius' direction. "Is there anything all right?" she inquired.
***
"Even a masochism device shouldn't go to this extreme," Neasa said. "That box seems like it was intentionally made to be defective. And with the strange designs on the box, I'm concerned it might have to do with Them. That would certainly explain why you can't look at it without the whole room spinning."
***
Aislinn frowned with concern and raised an eyebrow in Anastasius' direction. "Is there anything all right?" she inquired.
-
Karl the Mad
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- Location: Oregon
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Took it a bit personal, I see, Katherine thought wryly, taking in the scope of Romanov's feelings. "We're fine, don't worry," she called over her shoulder. So, Phyllis finds a new source of inspiration, and at the cusp of an Epiphany she dies gruesomely? Oh no, not connected at all, nothing to see here move along.
"Do you think she might have been manipulating you?" the lawyer went on, focusing on the Karthian once again. "Abusing your generosity, as it were? Or maybe this Erasmus of hers was doing so by proxy, through her?"
"Do you think she might have been manipulating you?" the lawyer went on, focusing on the Karthian once again. "Abusing your generosity, as it were? Or maybe this Erasmus of hers was doing so by proxy, through her?"
-
IamLEAM1983
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Anastasius sighed, both notions being equally disheartening to him. "Yes. I, well - you Earthlings have developed a balance of Reason and Emotion. One fuels the other, one feeds and enriches the other. I, comparatively, have been called naive by some. Her project was fascinating to me. I pledged myself to her assistance and, well..."
He sighed again, this one ragged. Being taken advantage of was something that he didn't take to calmly. His right hand returned to his ribs, compulsively hugging his frame as if to try to push back a bout of anxiety. "I could procure my ledgers for your perusal," he said, his tone clipped, as if it were hard for him to admit. "If I have been defrauded for nefarious purposes, I fear I will find myself at my wit's end. To knowingly betray the trust of someone who is as fragile as I am?"
His other hand moved to his mouth and was pressed against it, while his eyes gleamed a bit. They eventually found Three. "I had forgotten the cruelty of your species," he said, his tone clearly wounded.
Three didn't take it personally. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir. It's just part of being human. Some of us have good poker faces. We feel one way about something, but act as if we did another. Katherine might be right, though. If Phyllis had fallen in with this Erasmus character, maybe she was being goaded into leeching money off of you. Maybe her defrauding you wasn't as deliberate as you'd think. We'll need to compare the Laidlaws' expenses and your ledgers, to be sure."
He managed a smile. "Don't spit on her grave just yet. There's still a chance we might be able to exonerate the Laidlaws.
- Will Virgil be arrested?"
Three nodded. "We'll put out a warrant. As soon as he returns from his trip, we'll have officers waiting for him at the terminal. We might not question him, though; that's liable to be in the HPD's hands, like it should be."
Anastasius was still trembling. "If he is involved...
- If he's involved, sir, we won't do anything. We'll prosecute and sentence him. We're part of the law enforcement service, sir. We're not vigilantes."
That seemed to disappoint the Karthian, but he accepted it with a nod. Three managed another sympathetic smile. "Give yourself a good cry once you'll be back home. Get any ideas you might regret out of your system, change your mind or blow some steam. You don't want to carry this around for the duration of our investigation.
- I cannot - "
The former soldier's voice turned a little brittle. "Screw being a proper Grayskin, Romanov. I've seen people eat up their feelings, I've seen people keep awful stuff inside before. That kills you, on the long run. You've been given the chance to feel. So, well, start feeling. No matter how painful it might be."
That gave the Karthian pause, a confused mix of relief, gratitude, wounded pride, anger and a dash of rage washing over Starr. Anastasius' lower lip quivered, but he held himself together long enough to give all three persons a look, and to briefly mutter something along the lines of "thank you". He rushed out of the apartment, something like a strangled sob being lost in his obvious attempt to noisily clamber down the stairs.
This done, Three eyed the two women and let out a long, huffed sigh. "Well, that was fun; in a not-fun-at-all sort of way...
So we've got this Erasmus character to look into and a potential for fraud, plus nice and cheerful scrawls that look like some sort of cultist made them instead of an avant-guarde artist."
He looked to Katherine. "So - what say we give Mister Intense Feels a few hours to bawl his heart out? We'll go and collect his books once he'll have calmed down a little."
WySec had never dealt in anything like traditional sects before - Scientology was silly, of course, but even Aldergard would have scoffed at the idea of digging into their records - but Katherine would have run into the more mundane cases of so-called gurus roping impressionable people in with promises of unity or transcendence. Most of the time, the guilty parties had been guiltless fraudsters who didn't mind preying on people who were in spiritual distress.
A sensitive and potentially destabilized artist with an access to a wealthy patron with a known case of excessive sensitivity and his own occasional inability to think rationally about his investments? That made for a double-layered fraud that any long-toothed financial miscreant would have found tantalizing.
***
Marlon obviously took it personal. "I'm not skirting, I'm telling you what I know!
- Yeah," flatly retorted Bucky, "which is pretty much jack and shit. Thanks for the wasted time, Biggs. We'll go talk to your better half."
Once they were out of earshot, Shamus rolled his eyes at Ciaran. "You don't know how much this reminds me of the old days, kiddo;" he said. "Stick a complete idiot in charge of the books. That was one of the classic establishment moves for a con job. Weasel does know his ins-and-outs, then."
***
Benson nodded. "Those symbols? Yeah, we've received rubbings from companies posted at the Far Reaches," he said. "Any structure that pops out of their creepy black shit is covered in these. Summer types are generally too solidly built to just flat-out succumb. I've heard about Winter soldiers losing it, though. Especially folks on Mab's side. It's like they're doing it deliberately."
Still, he put a knee to the ground and looked vaguely in the projected cube's direction. "The idea that it wasn't designed to kill? That suggests foul play," he said. "Someone else is involved.
- Or the object's creator was coerced," offered Percy.
That made Harry uneasy. "I dunno. The craftsmanship is like nothing we've ever seen before. If the constructor was coerced, he already did know how to put a Murderous Cube of Yuck together."
He sighed again, this one ragged. Being taken advantage of was something that he didn't take to calmly. His right hand returned to his ribs, compulsively hugging his frame as if to try to push back a bout of anxiety. "I could procure my ledgers for your perusal," he said, his tone clipped, as if it were hard for him to admit. "If I have been defrauded for nefarious purposes, I fear I will find myself at my wit's end. To knowingly betray the trust of someone who is as fragile as I am?"
His other hand moved to his mouth and was pressed against it, while his eyes gleamed a bit. They eventually found Three. "I had forgotten the cruelty of your species," he said, his tone clearly wounded.
Three didn't take it personally. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir. It's just part of being human. Some of us have good poker faces. We feel one way about something, but act as if we did another. Katherine might be right, though. If Phyllis had fallen in with this Erasmus character, maybe she was being goaded into leeching money off of you. Maybe her defrauding you wasn't as deliberate as you'd think. We'll need to compare the Laidlaws' expenses and your ledgers, to be sure."
He managed a smile. "Don't spit on her grave just yet. There's still a chance we might be able to exonerate the Laidlaws.
- Will Virgil be arrested?"
Three nodded. "We'll put out a warrant. As soon as he returns from his trip, we'll have officers waiting for him at the terminal. We might not question him, though; that's liable to be in the HPD's hands, like it should be."
Anastasius was still trembling. "If he is involved...
- If he's involved, sir, we won't do anything. We'll prosecute and sentence him. We're part of the law enforcement service, sir. We're not vigilantes."
That seemed to disappoint the Karthian, but he accepted it with a nod. Three managed another sympathetic smile. "Give yourself a good cry once you'll be back home. Get any ideas you might regret out of your system, change your mind or blow some steam. You don't want to carry this around for the duration of our investigation.
- I cannot - "
The former soldier's voice turned a little brittle. "Screw being a proper Grayskin, Romanov. I've seen people eat up their feelings, I've seen people keep awful stuff inside before. That kills you, on the long run. You've been given the chance to feel. So, well, start feeling. No matter how painful it might be."
That gave the Karthian pause, a confused mix of relief, gratitude, wounded pride, anger and a dash of rage washing over Starr. Anastasius' lower lip quivered, but he held himself together long enough to give all three persons a look, and to briefly mutter something along the lines of "thank you". He rushed out of the apartment, something like a strangled sob being lost in his obvious attempt to noisily clamber down the stairs.
This done, Three eyed the two women and let out a long, huffed sigh. "Well, that was fun; in a not-fun-at-all sort of way...
So we've got this Erasmus character to look into and a potential for fraud, plus nice and cheerful scrawls that look like some sort of cultist made them instead of an avant-guarde artist."
He looked to Katherine. "So - what say we give Mister Intense Feels a few hours to bawl his heart out? We'll go and collect his books once he'll have calmed down a little."
WySec had never dealt in anything like traditional sects before - Scientology was silly, of course, but even Aldergard would have scoffed at the idea of digging into their records - but Katherine would have run into the more mundane cases of so-called gurus roping impressionable people in with promises of unity or transcendence. Most of the time, the guilty parties had been guiltless fraudsters who didn't mind preying on people who were in spiritual distress.
A sensitive and potentially destabilized artist with an access to a wealthy patron with a known case of excessive sensitivity and his own occasional inability to think rationally about his investments? That made for a double-layered fraud that any long-toothed financial miscreant would have found tantalizing.
***
Marlon obviously took it personal. "I'm not skirting, I'm telling you what I know!
- Yeah," flatly retorted Bucky, "which is pretty much jack and shit. Thanks for the wasted time, Biggs. We'll go talk to your better half."
Once they were out of earshot, Shamus rolled his eyes at Ciaran. "You don't know how much this reminds me of the old days, kiddo;" he said. "Stick a complete idiot in charge of the books. That was one of the classic establishment moves for a con job. Weasel does know his ins-and-outs, then."
***
Benson nodded. "Those symbols? Yeah, we've received rubbings from companies posted at the Far Reaches," he said. "Any structure that pops out of their creepy black shit is covered in these. Summer types are generally too solidly built to just flat-out succumb. I've heard about Winter soldiers losing it, though. Especially folks on Mab's side. It's like they're doing it deliberately."
Still, he put a knee to the ground and looked vaguely in the projected cube's direction. "The idea that it wasn't designed to kill? That suggests foul play," he said. "Someone else is involved.
- Or the object's creator was coerced," offered Percy.
That made Harry uneasy. "I dunno. The craftsmanship is like nothing we've ever seen before. If the constructor was coerced, he already did know how to put a Murderous Cube of Yuck together."
-
TennyoCeres84
- Site Admin
- Posts: 2931
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Ciaran frowned. "Weasel wouldn't have the power he does now if he didn't know how to do business. Any ideas on how to approach Biggs?" he asked. "Showing our badges only goes so far. We have to know what info Biggs might have."
***
Aislinn nodded. "Romanov needs his space for now. I also think it might be fair to consider this Erasmus might be tied to Gammell. That's what links all these boxes and tools. They're all his creations."
***
"Tam went off to investigate Gammell's shops, since he made the boxes. Since Gammell's an enigma, we have to assume he could be anything. We don't know what his unknown associates might have made him do," Neasa said.
***
Aislinn nodded. "Romanov needs his space for now. I also think it might be fair to consider this Erasmus might be tied to Gammell. That's what links all these boxes and tools. They're all his creations."
***
"Tam went off to investigate Gammell's shops, since he made the boxes. Since Gammell's an enigma, we have to assume he could be anything. We don't know what his unknown associates might have made him do," Neasa said.
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Tam had turned at the change in light, catching the vibration of the differing mechanics engaging more than the sound, preferring not to be caught with her back to anyone. She took the vampire's hand without sign of hesitation, only seeming a hint brusque, quietly straining at the bit with her other arm pressed firmly against the pocket that held the box in question.
"Hey. No big, it makes sense having it like that- but I'm here with a very strange box in all of a plastic bag, what's been involved in several unpleasant scenes. Show me where I can stow it?"
"Hey. No big, it makes sense having it like that- but I'm here with a very strange box in all of a plastic bag, what's been involved in several unpleasant scenes. Show me where I can stow it?"
-
Karl the Mad
- Posts: 1260
- Joined: Wed Jan 16, 2013 4:27 am
- Location: Oregon
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Katherine nodded in thoughtful agreement, her eyes on the retreating alien's back. "Fraud is a definite angle, but I doubt it's the full motive," she mused aloud. "Where's her gallery? I should like to look at the art she made while under the influence of the mysterious Erasmus."
-
IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
- Posts: 3710
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
- Location: Quebec, Canada
Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma
Bucky cracked a smile. "We go for pasta. I'm hungry, you're buyin'."
***
Three looked back down on the drawings. "Yeah, fraud's just the enabling scheme. Something bigger is unfolding here."
He then pulled out his smartphone and briefly tapped in Phyllis Laidlaw's name into the local directory app for restaurants and various other venues. That made him frown.
"The Firebird Gallery?" he mused aloud. "Oh, right - if she was backed by Romanov, it'd make sense for her to have sort of a long-term lease on a section or maybe a full floor."
The former soldier then looked at the two women. "Welp, across the Hillard we go, I guess."
***
Matthias' eyes immediately darted to the bag. "Yes, of course. I'd offered for our testing apparatus to be put to your disposition. If you'll please follow me, we'll entrust this box to our insertion technicians."
They walked for a relatively short distance, only stopping at what looked like a two-person Segway. Riding it, Tam would see how the corridor they were both in was circular, looping around the entire building. Office rooms dotted the walls here and there, but the path was otherwise clear of all distinguishing features.
After a minute or two, they passed a lit sign reading Insertion Antechamber and soon came to a stop. Other Guildmates were waiting there, receiving the box with equal parts care, interest, curiosity and keen reverence for the artistry involved. Tam would be able to see that the "output" section of the testing apparatus was essentially an empty Clank armature, permanently connected to thick rubber cables that had to hide a complex electrical array. The frame was modern and the construction absolutely cutting-edge, but the runes covering the carters and pistons weren't. Both of them were scored and scratched so deeply that she'd immediately understand what the equipment involved.
They had a crash test dummy for spells, in essence, but needed an operator. Re-adapting the hijacking technologies used by fraudsters and criminals the world over, they'd created a non-permanent armature interface that wouldn't involve dying and having your soul sucked into a machine.
"We've calibrated the involved sigils to carry only phantom pains and other disabling effects. We can't entirely shut off pain for the sake of just about every other form of sensory data the rig has to process. The only way to entirely shut off lethal influx is to, well, turn the machine off. This defeats the purpose."
He gave her a nervous smile. "So if this box were designed to impale its user, you'd only feel something like this," he said; lightly prodding her abdomen with one claw-like fingernail. There was barely any pressure, too. Enough for her body to register the poke - but no pain whatsoever.
Nervousness turned into sympathy. "I know; it's gruesome nonetheless. We all live with it, if this allows us to bear the brunt of angry demons or nefarious enchanted objects. I've lost count of how many optical arrays we've had to replace - and of how many times I've felt like I'd just been poked in the eye."
***
Three looked back down on the drawings. "Yeah, fraud's just the enabling scheme. Something bigger is unfolding here."
He then pulled out his smartphone and briefly tapped in Phyllis Laidlaw's name into the local directory app for restaurants and various other venues. That made him frown.
"The Firebird Gallery?" he mused aloud. "Oh, right - if she was backed by Romanov, it'd make sense for her to have sort of a long-term lease on a section or maybe a full floor."
The former soldier then looked at the two women. "Welp, across the Hillard we go, I guess."
***
Matthias' eyes immediately darted to the bag. "Yes, of course. I'd offered for our testing apparatus to be put to your disposition. If you'll please follow me, we'll entrust this box to our insertion technicians."
They walked for a relatively short distance, only stopping at what looked like a two-person Segway. Riding it, Tam would see how the corridor they were both in was circular, looping around the entire building. Office rooms dotted the walls here and there, but the path was otherwise clear of all distinguishing features.
After a minute or two, they passed a lit sign reading Insertion Antechamber and soon came to a stop. Other Guildmates were waiting there, receiving the box with equal parts care, interest, curiosity and keen reverence for the artistry involved. Tam would be able to see that the "output" section of the testing apparatus was essentially an empty Clank armature, permanently connected to thick rubber cables that had to hide a complex electrical array. The frame was modern and the construction absolutely cutting-edge, but the runes covering the carters and pistons weren't. Both of them were scored and scratched so deeply that she'd immediately understand what the equipment involved.
They had a crash test dummy for spells, in essence, but needed an operator. Re-adapting the hijacking technologies used by fraudsters and criminals the world over, they'd created a non-permanent armature interface that wouldn't involve dying and having your soul sucked into a machine.
"We've calibrated the involved sigils to carry only phantom pains and other disabling effects. We can't entirely shut off pain for the sake of just about every other form of sensory data the rig has to process. The only way to entirely shut off lethal influx is to, well, turn the machine off. This defeats the purpose."
He gave her a nervous smile. "So if this box were designed to impale its user, you'd only feel something like this," he said; lightly prodding her abdomen with one claw-like fingernail. There was barely any pressure, too. Enough for her body to register the poke - but no pain whatsoever.
Nervousness turned into sympathy. "I know; it's gruesome nonetheless. We all live with it, if this allows us to bear the brunt of angry demons or nefarious enchanted objects. I've lost count of how many optical arrays we've had to replace - and of how many times I've felt like I'd just been poked in the eye."