Turton - Is what you are in the dark the night? (Frederick's IC)

[Worlok]

To some people, the idea of running into an honest-do-goodness vampire in the dark still was the epitome of 'uncomfortable', to say the very least. To others, street-gangers, skinheads, drug-dealers or well-armed pimps took the place of the bloodsucking lords of the night. And had such a person run into these two guys, they would, to their utmost horror, have found themselves face-to-face with a pair of hoodlums matching all five categories, if their conversation could be believed.

Ranting and raving and trying to clearly impress onto one another just how tough they thought they were, they waltzed down the interconnected and labyrinthine network of backyards and alleyways that Eastern Turton was famous for, laughing at horrible, witless jokes, posing with their tacky hunting knives every once in a while, and remaining oblivious to the vampire called Le Pen that had been trailing them since they had caught his eye five minutes after sundown, as he'd struck out on patrol like he had done so many nights before.

It was curious, actually: Over the course of the last few years before the turn of the millenium, the famed and infamous hunter of his own kind had noted the age-old Sabbat tradition of shovelheading their hapless neonates slowly dying out. These guys were not only recent embracees, but from the way they carried themselves, one could have assumed that they had gotten hit with a shovel at least once too often, anyway.

"So, as I was sayin', Ralph, there I was, and this guy with his little chain, he just jumps me, right, because you know how 'em beaners get with their women, right?" one just refreshed their halting conversation as the two of them rounded a corner, showing the basic courtesy to make sure that noone was heading towards them before slowly having their fangs decend. "Right, of course I know that, Walt. Ain't like 'em mudbloods are rare 'round these parts." the other agreed, and both shared a hearty, mean-spirited laugh before Walt resumed his narrative: "So, basically, he jumps me, right, and I just like, kick into flip 'n' ****, and he flies right past, 'n' then I say to him, brochacho, I say, you jus' messed with the wrong guy tonight, and I let 'em fangs come out, and he goes all pale, and - basically, the next night, she was single again, ya feel?" - "I do, Walt, oh yes, I do. Still don't get why you'd lower yourself to a mud-blood, though. I always say, only blood really worth it's ours, yes?" - "Dunno about that, Ralph. Actually makes you feel like you help the war effort, though, ya know? Like, whoosh, and dat's pu-ri-fi-ca-tin' up deir asses, right?"

So far, they had obviously not noticed him.

[McStabbington]

Frederick Martel sighed inwardly to himself. We keep getting smarter; they keep staying the same. Honestly, there were days when he thought that the only thing he had really done with his life was to cull Lasombra that would never have survived ten years anyway. . .

He shook his head briefly and got his head back in the game. Even if they were idiots, they could kill a lot of humans in ten years. More importantly, even idiots had their uses, both for him and for the Lasombra. Vampires as a general rule were not the most technologically savvy of races, but if they could half the things they did on that CSI-show, Martel had to admit that it was possible that they had found a pattern to disappearing members of the Sabbat. In the past fifteen years, he'd been gradually working his way up the Eastern Seaboard, and every stop along the way would have seen a spike in Sabbat casualties. Sometimes they were tightly-run crews that only allowed him to pick off low-hanging fruit. Sometimes he managed to get enough information to rip their numbers down to the foundations. But everywhere he went, he always managed at least a few kills.

Which meant that it was always possible that they'd tracked him to Hartford and laid bait in the next few towns along the line. And few things make better bait than a vampire too young to know what a load of crap that "top of the food chain" talk really was. Still, in war overestimating your enemy can be as dangerous as underestimating them. While he made no effot to appear as anything other than a human, Martel quietly followed Walt and Ralph. With luck, they'll take me straight to the headquarters, which will allow me to start mapping out the entire Sabbat network. Still, as he walked after them, he looked up and down the street. He kept his face as unconcerned as possible, but inside he hoped that either he was being paranoid in his old age or that anyone who was trying to mark him as a potential target was new at this.

Spoiler

Show

I'll make a visual Alertness check just to see if anyone is starting to mark me. Better safe than sorry.

[Worlok]

As Frederick pondered, the conversation just went on. Neither Walt nor Ralph seemed to have any sense of strategy or stealth, noisily making about as they were without an apparent care in the world, but fangs out and shanks ready for all the world to see: "Yeah, sure, but basically, it's jus' - I dunno, I guess there is fighting the good fight, but I mean, like, you heard the Old Guy." - "Sure I did. But way I see it, there's nothin' base about getting your mouth dirty when you're out on a crusade, right?" - "Right. Still, I'd rather-" - "No. Stop it. No point, right? 'sides, the Old Guy's still a Slav." - "Well, sure. There's that, but-" - "See? Jus' ya lis'en to ol' Walty, 'cause, y'know... I KNOW MY CRAP!" And following that last outburst - in which "ol' Walty" was quite obviously imitating someone else, judging by the change in tone - the two of them were having a moment of bromance there; something about the way they briefly hesitated, looked at one another, and immediately broke down laughing again somehow seemed to imply it.

Spoiler

Show

Roll for it, then. Perception 2, Alertness 2, that's 4d10. Not stellar, but if there is someone there, you'd likely find them with a roll.

[McStabbington]

Spoiler

Show

(1d10)[5]
(1d10)[10]
(1d10)[1]
(1d10)[10]

As Martel walked along quetly behind them, he silently filed away their blathering for later. Their boss could be the chief of their war party; could be as high as a lieutenant in the Sabbat. By the sound of it, Tzimisce or Gangrel, and a decent age too. When he started asking questions, he'd be sure to inquire further. Martel doubted that these knuckledraggers were high up enough to know the head of the Sabbat in the area, but it was always possible that the Sabbat had resorted to shovelheading to bulk up their numbers for this "crusade" they were talking about.

The last part did give Frederick pause though. Apparently, whatever was up was beyond the normal Sabbat shenanigans. Martel considered his options, and opted to defer. For now they weren't hurting anything but Martel's patience, and by not killing them, there was no risk that he would make the local Sabbat change their schedule or tighten their security. Plus, I only brought one stake, he mentally added sourly. So long as it stayed that way, he would simply track the two cretins and see where that led. Once he knew their lair, their death was inevitable anyway.

[Worlok]

Spoiler

Show

Good rolls! The one is harsh, though. Still, two tens.

Frederick noticed birds. Row upon row upon flock upon flock upon swarm of them, mostly crows and rooks, lining the rooves, window panes, rainpipes and balconies of the surrounding houses in perfect silence, but clearly wide awake - funny how they had simply bypassed his notice until mere moments ago. It was almost scary to see them now, all lined up and watching, for they really seemed to watch the three Kindred below, but other than that, noone could be seen or heard. No pedestrians or cyclists about 'round here, and so far, they had not even encountered a single passing car.

While there was light behind some of the windows, and sounds coming out of several, he could not locate any sort of immediate threat. Nor could Walt and Ralph, apparently: "You heard him, though, right? Just grab a snack for now, and map the place while we're at it." - "Sure did, man. Reckon though this really makes sense?" - "Say what?" - "Well, y'know, I've been wond'ring about that plan of his." - "Plan Parliament?" - "Yeah, 'xactly. I mean, I guess it makes sense that he'd try and gather a presence here before speaking to them. But then why send us here to the ass-end of nowhere with nothing to do but snacking, huh?" - "Because that way, we can make sure it's just the ass-end of nowhere, obviously, and then we and the guys from the pack and his contacts, we land him a nice big map of the city, and every-"

Walt didn't get to finish his sentence: Having just been about to round the next corner, he suddenly seemed to freeze mid-step, staring in wide-eyed and still open-mouthed disbelief down the road at something Frederick could not see from his position. Ralph, having previously been looking at Walt, passed the corner in question, and from his breathless gasp it was quite obvious that his reaction had been similar. Whatever lay ahead had shocked two hardened criminals and apparent Sabbat hopefuls into complete silence with but a look. And the birds still watched.

[McStabbington]

Spoiler

Show

. . .Well this just went pear-shaped in a way that was both completely unexpected and surprisingly gothic.

Frederick ducked to the nearest shadow more out of instinct than out of any plan; his brain was still trying to process the implications of the eerie sight above. Martel had seen similar displays in the past. Jesse could do something similar, as could Pablo. But the sheer scale was still . . . daunting. Still, I haven't necessarily been made. The report could go back either way, although a betting man would say the Nosferatu picked the lunkheads up for the Camarilla. The important thing, though, was that while they could report he was there, they probably couldn't tag him as a vamp, and they definitely couldn't say what he could do. Each useful nuggets of information.

Still, as Martel sized up the tactical situation, it looked like they might get their info anyway. The shovelheads were scared of something, and there were really only three possibilities. They could fight, they could talk or they could break; breaking being most likely. Which would unfortunately send them straight back at him. If he fled full-tilt, he might get clear with them only seeing a shadow, but he'd lose any chance to keep tracking them or hear a conversation. If he disappeared into the shadows, he could see everything with a good chance at safety, but the birds would make him in a second. Still, if they turn, it can't be helped. Sliding as far into the nook he'd found as possible, he hid as well as could while maintaining his view of the two vampires in front of him. He could feel his blood humming as he gently eased himself from view.

Spoiler

Show

I'm goingto do Cloak of Shadows, remain very, very still and hope that being viewed by birds doesn't give me away.

[Worlok]

As shadows enveloped the hunter's form, he could briefly perceive some unknown sensation, a feeling as if he had passed a curtain dividing the world he knew from the one in the shadows, allowing him to pass unseen for now, but only for something hidden on this side to notice him and start staring, sizing him up. But it was over as quick as it had begun, and while a certain, uncommon, insistent unease prevailed within him, nothing happened to Frederick, suggesting that no, he had not been noticed.

The same was apparently not true for the two shovelheads, though: Ralph, the mask of terror on his features pretty much the splitting image of the one on Walt's, came around the corner he had crossed before, walking backwards, eyes primed at whatever it was that had scared them so, and his colleague helpfully sidestepped around him so as to not obstruct his path. A sound as if from running water suddenly and hotly bursting out of a million pipes, or as if from a massive snake preparing to strike its victim down, resounded in the alleys, and while it did nothing to quiet the sounds of the living behind the windows around, kindred and animal did react.

With the beat of ten-thousands of wings unfolding and hitting air, and the tremendous cacophony of a million coarse bird voices mouthing discontent, the swarm took flight, showering the world below in both a snowfall of black feathers and annoying noise, and the Sabbat scouting team at the corner now noticed the winged masses above, snapping out of their fearful hesitation just long enough to look at each other, nod, and then take off screaming, dash down along the street in screeching, cursing terror, away both from the thing that scared them and the place where Frederick had been hiding out.

Leaving him alone with some unknown monstrosity just around the bend. That, judging from the strange feeling now growing more insistent yet, was approaching his position rapidly, if likely without awareness of him.

[McStabbington]

215 years is a lot of time to encounter new experiences, but Martel found this situation totally out of his ken. On the one hand, his training insisted that the absolute best thing to do would be to stay still. If the thing coming was what he thought it was-what he prayed it was not-then Martel had no real hope of outrunning it and would only provoke it into chasing him by fleeing. On the other, his instincts demanded he flee anyway. While he couldn't place the hissing sound, he could think of only one thing that would provoke such a reaction in Sabbat vampires.

His training won out, albeit by the barest of margins. Martel just hoped like hell that what he was sure was coming would pelt off after the two Sabbat and not bother to look around too closely. That being said, he hardly did nothing. His blood pounding in his ears, he wrenched and racked the flesh in his hands, drawing forth a set of long, razored claws. At the same time, he pulled and twisted the shadows around him, drawing them closer and himself further into their depths. He hoped that the result would be enough to hide him from view even if the coming beast could see through his Cloak.

Spoiler

Show

Spending two blood points, one to bring out my Protean claws, and the other to activate my Shadow Play to give me another die to my Stealth pool for my hiding. I'm basically just hoping that Auspex/Taint of the Wyrm/whatever else a werewolf might use or no, he still can't spot me. I'm assuming it's Dex + Stealth, so a total of six die.

(1d10)[1]
(1d10)[4]
(1d10)[9]
(1d10)[7]
(1d10)[1]
(1d10)[4]

[Worlok]

Spoiler

Show

Dex plus Stealth works, yes, but those two ones are hell on the effort, much as I hate to say it, man.

Through the mess of feathers flying all over the place, Frederick saw a strangely clear-cut shadow, freakishly so with the lighting conditions in mind, coming out from just around the corner: Sharply thrown against the wall of one of the houses across the street, and of intimidating size, it seemed to be that of a bestial head, yet curiously, nowhere near remotely wolf-like or even mammalian. Rather, it would appear to be some sort of gargoyle, a beaked, quilled, and vaguely avian one by shape, yet with a slender, arched-back neck much like a snake's. The shadow, and whatever cast it, had obviously not yet noticed him, instead staring after the two Sabbati as they fled, still screaming.

What happened then, however, happened very fast: For the briefest of instants, there was a silence all around, as of the world itself waiting with bated breath, then another of the tremorious hisses, this one clearly betraying a semblance of pain, or maybe anger, or maybe fear, and as the Frenchman's claws came out, so disappeared the shadow. Suddenly, however, Frederick grew aware of something being - but vaguely - aware of him, feeling watched, and the shielding embrace of the shadows felt rather quite confining now, as if he was alone in the dark with a monster more terrible yet than a vampire was. Something in the back of his mind was now painting the picture of a child hiding under his blanket even though there already was a bogeyman perched on the bed, and his long years of training did their level best to help him keep his cool even under this onslaught of primal, instinctive fear.

Something was out there, using the shadows like he himself was wont to do, and now it was looking for him.

[McStabbington]

Frederick knew better than to press a losing fight. With any chance of an ambush blown on an illusion, pitted against a creature still hidden and even more at home in the shadows than he, to remain would be foolish. Turning back the way he came, Frederick bolted back for the street he'd picked up the two Lasombra, hoping against hope that whatever it was wouldn't follow him into the open. As he ran, he drew on his blood still further, forcing his legs to churn faster.

Spoiler

Show

Blood Point spent to raise my dexterity by one, bringing me down to 10 bp. I'll be running full tilt, giving me 29 yards of distance.

[Worlok]

Le Pen's rapid start for where he had come from and into the open was met with another resounding hiss, and he could have sworn he had seen the very shadows he had been hiding in clamp shut behind his back like a set of jaws that had just been denied a tasty bit of meat. The oppressive presence he had felt seemed to fall behind almost immediately once he was actually running, though, the unwholesome thing across the corner being apparently not all that interested in chasing him, or maybe conflicted as to whether it should go after the one Lasombra renegade or the two shovelheads that had escaped it earlier. Ultimately, the matter resolved itself, if likely just because he ran so very fast, and once Frederick arrived at the spot where he had caught sight of Ralph and Walt originally, the Frenchman had shaken the shadow, the hissing, and the whole messed-up situation for good - as far as he could tell, at any rate, and even if just for now.

Speaking of now, however, it was only then that he realised just how completely empty the streets of Eastern Turton were tonight, and a quick look-around only really confirmed that the same now held true for the rooves, as with the exception of a lone magpie chilling atop a trashcan off in an alleyway, and a small group of crows currently passing overhead, the birds had taken their leave as well. On the downside, his two prospective victims were now nowhere to be seen, and all he had to show for his efforts was what cryptic references their talk had contained.

[McStabbington]

Martel broke north, then east a block, then north again. He kept his remaining blood in reserve, but he ran to gain distance and lose any potential tail. As he ducked into an alleyway and skidded to a halt to check to see if anyone was tailing him, he mused ironically to himself that vampirism had all kinds of advantages that no one ever talks about, among them the fact that it's hard to get winded when you don't need to breathe.

He watched behind him for a minute, then retracted his claws. He pulled off his polo shirt and, dropping it in the alleyway, untucked his white tee. Even after fifty years of wearing tee-shirts, he still didn't quite feel right in them, but at the moment feeling right came a distant second to changing his look at a glance. With a tug, he pulled his short ponytail free to let the hair hang loose. Lastly, he spent a moment calming and centering himself, looking at the street lights, then controlling the shadows around him and pulling them into the appropriate position. A memory of Martel in Sante Fe, spending two hours every night for a full year figuring out how to do it, came back to him, and he smiled faintly. As he stepped back out of the alleyway, he had his old shadow back, winking in and out in perfect synchronization with the light hitting the pavement. Hopefully, he'd look different enough that followers would think him someone else.

He kept to the main, lighted streets like any smart civilian. He took the first main street north, then started cutting back west as he worked northwards. After losing his marks, Martel moved to his next priorities: food, and leading anyone tracking him away from his apartment. Martel hadn't really expected to find it, but with some googling he had discovered that there were enough livestock in the area to support a small-scale butcher. With some creative lying about being a local hemotologist using healthy cow blood as a control sample, he might convince the butcher to agree to catch the runoff when he slit a cow or pig's throat and sell it to him. Since relatively few vampires fed on animals except in extremis when they couldn't find a human, it was a good supplement to his diet that wouldn't bring him into conflict with other vamps. And since he didn't have enough blood in his apartment to cover the blood expended tonight, it would help him stay in tip-top shape.

Martel walked along in the night, silently musing on the events of a few minutes. As he walked, dark thoughts clouded his mind.

Worlok:

Spoiler

Show

Let me know if the butcher should have been covered as a contact. I can edit that part out.

[Worlok]

Spoiler

Show

I'd kinda prefer for Freddy to have found out about the butcher, and we'd roleplay the initial encounter. As it so happens, that plays into some notes I'd taken which might carry over into the larger plot. Would also mean that nobody has to edit much.

Notably, the shadows seemed to somehow try and elude the Lasombra renegade as he shaped them into his own, more so than usual anyhow, and it briefly felt like trying to tie living snakes in angry moods together - but they did as he commanded readily enough, and noone appeared to have followed him.

As Frederick moved towards the butchery, the streets became ever more crowded the closer he came to the town centre, and after only a short time, he was but a single form among houndreds, the dying throws of the rush hour taking the shape of polluters, on foot as well as motorised, scrambling and hurrying all about: Two black men, caught up in a conversation about how some mutual acquaintance apparently had trouble "protecting his hematite sticks", briefly paused as he passed them, one waving, the other just looking quizzically, and both were out of sight before he could make much of the event, a sizeable procession of long-haired individuals in bright green clothing following them, and briefly swarming all around him as they went along, talking and chanting in some language he couldn't remember having heard before.

On a street corner, an expensive-looking limousine containing several overweight individuals in suits and what was easily the ugliest dog Le Pen had seen in his unlife was stopping traffic while some kid in a uniform busied herself changing the left rear tire, and the noise would easily have been enough to distract a less focused person than Frederick was. He almost didn't notice that the bird swarm had returned, glossy black feathers lining the rooves and the traffic lights, but this time around without them watching him.

[McStabbington]

Spoiler

Show

So edited.

Frederick paused his musings about the shadow creature he had tangled with earlier. He did not break his stride, but his senses perked. People in robes, guys in expensive suits, and people I don't know waving at me. Something is . . . off. With a few casual steps, he slid into the nearest recess of an alleyway.

Frederick has learned a useful trick to successful skulking long ago. Fishing in his pants' pocket and trying not to loosen the stake tucked in the waistline, he drew forth a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. Personally, he found the habit as disgusting as he did when he was alive, but someone standing around staring stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone smoking was just enjoying a well-earned break. Plus, if he did it right he barely had to inhale once or twice and he could slowly let the cigarette burn down on its own. Tapping the carton with practiced ease, he drew forth a Marlboro, tucked it into the side of his mouth, put the carton back, and then lit the cigarette with the casualness of a lifetime smoker. He leaned one shoulder into the wall and leaned just far enough forward to keep a watch on the limo out of the corner of his eye.

[Worlok]

Spoiler

Show

Cool.

A multitude of honks, shouts, and people generally making huge impatient asses of themselves framed the limousine, and the girl that was fixing the tire sure seemed annoyed enough - which wasn't helped one bit by one of the green-clad figures, seeing how the guy had cunningly positioned himself right between her and her toolbox and apparently kept trying to talk to her without getting the slightest reaction. As if to form the whole unfortunate affair an exact opposite, the men inside the car were all deep in conversation, the closed windows silencing their words even before the street's overpowering racket could drown them out. Despite initial first-glance-appearances, they were not all identical, and not even all overweight: One, a refined-looking individual in what seemed to be a similarly elegant brown suit, currently seemed to be giving a speech of some sort, in that the rest formed a wordless audience, and another, an elderly man with a mohawk, was cleaning a set of sunglasses with his own shirt while staring at the speaker with a malevolence so palpable as to be notable from over here.

Le Pen grew uneasily aware of the aforementioned ugly dog perched on the mohawked man's lap, its rather quite massive teeth gleaming menacingly as it pressed its snout against the window and stared straight in his direction, its maw moving as if to form words of its own...

"Hey, man, you alright?"

And a meaty hand weightily, but not violently, touched Frederick's shoulder, moving as if knocking on a door.

[McStabbington]

Frederick cursed himself momentarily; while this not the first time someone got the drop on him, it was the first time in a long time that he'd been outfoxed twice in one night. Still, as drops go, this wasn't the worst. His body was already moving mechanically.

He jerked his head up and around before coughing a small cloud of smoke out. Then, casually drawing back to his right, he turned to face the man. He tried to keep his actions no more sudden or threatening than a man ordinarily would be when startled, but at the same time, he put his back to the wall and drew further into the alleyway, hopefully giving himself room to attack out of sight of the street, should the need arise. His voice sounded hoarse after the smoking and coughing.

"You mean aside from my heart attack? Jesus man, what does a guy have to do to smoke a cigarette in peace?"

[Worlok]

What stood behind him was, with utmost certainty, the tallest person Frederick had ever met in the flesh: Disturbingly close to seven feet in height, had he but stood up a little straighter, the stranger seemed to consist almost entirely of muscles - and hair, both beard and braincase being a vaguely palm-tree-like mess of dyed-black dreadlocks. The man stepped back, apologetically gesturing, and said in a deep, almost booming voice: "Hey man, I'm sorry. Just wondered whether you might have a smoke to spare. I saw ya standin' there, checking dat car and thought, I haven't had a Marbo in so long... I didn't mean to scare ya, yes? Name's Carl." His accent was difficult to place, Scandinavian maybe, and something about his face seemed off, but there was no way to tell why that was. Carl was dressed in an outfit that might have been white a long time ago and now looked grey, and his shirt depicted a faded depiction of Count Orlok from Nosferatu and the slogan "Reality? It is more likely than you think!" - He continued: "And you know, I'm really sorry about that. I always sneak up on people. Don't know why. Just happens. Am I interrupting anything?"

[McStabbington]

Martel stood for a moment, dumbfounded. Then his brain started to work again. His mind started mechanically ticking off the possibilities. If he's human, he's frightening enough that I wouldn't try feeding on him even if I wanted to. If he's not . . . Brujah, Gangrel, Nosferatu. They're the only ones of our kind that fit the mold and could slip up on me like that. Or he's the biggest damned Bone Gnawer the world has ever seen.

His mouth and hands worked on an entirely different wavelength: "Carl? Sorry about that; for such a big guy, you're quiet as a church mouse." He pulled his carton and his lighter out of his pocket, casually knocked the cigarettes to the carton opening, and pulled two free. "Here, take two. One for now, one for the road." He handed them and his lighter to Carl. "Name's Fred, although sometimes people call me Freddy, Frederick or 'hey you.' I was just looking at the convention of . . . well, the convention of people in robes. Seemed odd; know anything about it?"

[Worlok]

"Thanks, man. Freddy, was it? Funny. My last name is Krüger, see? Freddy Krüger?" He lit his first smoke with a wink and grin, inhaling deeply, then letting the smoke out with a deep and almost orgiastic sigh. Apparently the first smoke of any kind in a long, long time. "Maybe, we should hang out more, form a team and kill teenagers from the shadows, like...? Kiddin', here. But well, 'em dudes with the robes? They're everywhere nowadays. The other day, I'm chillin' with my buddy Ralph, and two of 'em come by and tell him he should leave, like, right? Not us. Just him. Has been getting that a lot lately. Some of the other guys, as well. And Ralph, he's a wee bit Nazi, like, so he goes full ballistic, and they tell him that they will be watching him, and one just kinda -" He looked around, making sure noone was directly looking at him - and curiously enough, noone was - before lowering his voice: "- hisses, basically. Apparently some sorta sect? Cult? Gang? It's like with that show with the aliens, yes?" His voice assumed a somewhat conspiratory tone as he bent forward, taking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and thus avoiding putting burning embers in the Frenchman's face: "The truth is somewhere out there!" Then, he leaned back again, rising to his full impressive height and laughing past the glowstick and the clouds of smoke. "Or rather, like, 'round here. All hiding in the shadows, like. Care for a magazine? Should have one left yet, see?" In saying so, he directed attention to a briefcase slung over his shoulder, reaching into it and searching for something.

Meanwhile, the green-robed guy had apparently lost interest in the tire-girl, and she had completed her maintenance operations, anyhow. As the man in green snuck off, she put the toolbox back into the back of the limousine, cleaned her hands with a worn old rag and proceeded to make for the driver's seed, the ugly dog - and by now, a number of birds as well - looking in Frederick's direction all the while.

[McStabbington]

Sabbat. Has to be. While this guy was clearly muscle for the Sabbat, he didn't appear to be all that perceptive or bright. The dude telegraphed his fishing out a weapon so badly, he might as well paste a big neon sign on his suitcase. Which actually gave Fred what was very likely his only chance.

"Karl, please remove your hand from your briefcase, look up, and tell me what you see."

[Worlok]

"Huh? What? What do you mean there, Fred, my man?" Carl did, in fact, look up, a look of puzzlement on his face as he did so, the hand leaving the briefcase in order to dust some ash off his cigarette that was now jutting out of his mouth right beneath his nose, like a drinking straw into nothingness.

Birds cawed, and some took flight, several passing the two of them by rather closely.

[McStabbington]

Worked so far; now let's see how much further on the defensive I can get him. Martel had no intention of provoking the big man; the more he was around his . . . off-ness, the more likely it struck him the man was Gangrel. Likely City-type, to judge by him being Sabbat and his complete befuddlement by the birds. Either that or a Brujah already fairly far gone, which would be even worse. But he could cow the man into a more submissive state with the right leverage. And if it turns out he's human, I'll just be a crazy he'll want to put distance between. Win-win. He spoke low and calmly, letting the words themselves carry the point home.

"Your friend Ralph the Nazi, right? He has a friend named Walt. Lives in East Turton. Recently killed an African-American. Works for the Old Man. 'I know my stuff!" He leaned closer. "Earlier tonight those birds that just flew past us. Were watching him. Now they were watching you. And because of you, they just marked me." He clucked his tongue primly. "It seems to me a magazine won't make this up to me, Carl."

[Worlok]

This was honest surprise if ever he'd seen it anywhere: "Y- yeah, Ralph and Walt. Hang out together all the time, working for Mr Rucinski, far's I know. But he never killed a guy, they can't prove anything, and even then the dude they have been on about was Mexican, I think." Then, however, he grew quizzical: "But what's this about birds? You new in town, Fred? One of them?" As he said this, he began slowly stepping back, now both hands out of his briefcase, uneasily huffing his smoke.

[McStabbington]

Well, crap. Martel had been positive that this guy was Sabbat. But either this guy, while aware of vampires, was still human or he was the best actor Martel had ever seen. Martel figured the latter more likely, which meant that Martel was still obligated to protect him and shield him from the truth. Which meant thinking really, really fast.

"Them, Carl? No I had to make sure you were all you appeared to be." Martel hoped that the fact that he just blinked to himself would go unnoticed in the dark, then ran with what had just come to his mind. "The truth is, I'm with the Hate Crimes division of the FBI. Your friends, Walt and Ralph, have been picked up as possible low-level members of an organized hate group. I had to test you before saying anything to make sure you weren't with them. It seems you aren't . . . but you do clearly seem to know the group and their activities." He quickly added the last part, then continued.

"Now I could take you to the station and book you, but I'd much prefer that we keep this as low-key as possible. I'd like it if you and I could talk somewhere private; one conversation to tell me about what you know about the group, and I can take it from there. Your name is never mentioned, you're never called as a witness, and I never saw you. Depending on the value of the information, there could also be money involved, entirely under the table, of course."

Spoiler

Show

I'm not even going to ask if I need to roll a subterfuge check on this one. I'm assuming Manipulation + Subterfuge.

(1d10)[10]
(1d10)[2]
(1d10)[2]
(1d10)[3]
(1d10)[4]
(1d10)[6]
(1d10)[8]

[Worlok]

Spoiler

Show

Countered by Perception + Subterfuge. I'll also need you to roll again for the extra dice scored by that ten of yours, you glorious golden liar, you.

(6d10)[9][3][5][7][1][8](33)

[McStabbington]

Spoiler

Show

Here goes nothing. . .

(1d10)[3]

[Worlok]

Carl recoiled. "FBI? Like, one of them real ones in the shadows, and all?" While he didn't seem to be entirely convinced, he was taken off-guard, that much was obvious. But hey, at least he didn't ask for a badge or anything. "But Ralph and Walt, really? They talk big, but they'd never kill a guy, I swear. I've known them since el'mentary, they're not like that at all!" He looked about uneasily. "But well, you are police, yes? Then I guess it is okay. I don't know much, though, Fred. Or is that officer for me? Just rumors, really." The big man seemed extremely small all of a sudden. "Anyway, my dad's shop is nearby, we can talk there, okay?"

[McStabbington]

A smile creased Frederick's face. Now that I've got the upper hand, it's time to be the good cop. The role was unfamiliar, but getting people calm and talking was one of Martel's specialties. "Just Fred, Karl." He looked at the man, now seemingly shrunken, and his face changed to one of genuine concern. "I'm didn't mean to scare you Karl. I just had to pretend that I was a part of their group in case you were also in; just did a bit better than I expected, I guess. And we can go anywhere that makes you feel safe, so your dad's business is just fine. I'll just ask a few basic questions, and if it turns out that someone has set Ralph and Walt up, you have my word we'll get this worked out and their names cleared." He made a show of looking both directions uncertainly. "Which way are we headed?"

[Worlok]

"Over there." Carl indicated another corner, not far away. "Follow me. It's about five minutes on foot." Then, he paused again: "Oh, and don't worry. It looks worse than it is. Dad's a butcher, you see, and he's getting old. Don't mind a little blood here and there though, do you, now?" He forced an awkward smile, apparently realising how strange that would sound, and made to lead the way.

[McStabbington]

Will the wonders never cease. "Butcher? Weird; I was actually on the way over there anyway. Not on official business, mind you, but as part of my cover. If you don't mind doing me a favor, just . . . don't tell your father what I told you. It'll keep him safe and give any conversations between us a plausible cover." He paused momentarily, then softly laughed. "But no, you could say I was a hunter long before I joined the Bureau. So no, a little blood never bothered me."