[center][img]https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/marveldatabase/images/9/99/MoonKnight.png/revision/latest?cb=20150218201439[/img][/center] Marc Spector looked at himself in the mirror. A button-down white short sleeved shirt and a pair of khakis. Felt underdressed for this place, but it couldn’t be helped. Borrowing “house trunks” made him feel enough of a bum without asking for clothing from Samuels. He might be accommodating out of a sense of duty, but he didn’t really want to ask him for anything if he could help it. Didn't want to create another excuse for him to look at him side-eyed. Marc gently opened the door to his guest room and looked up and down the hallway. Nothing. He was the first one dressed and ready. Perfect. An opportunity to look around and try and get some kind of a read on this place and the players involved. He walked down the hallway and saw quaint side tables with flowers, massive framed art pieces on the wall and ornate fixtures and fittings, such as the sizeable chandelier that hung over the sitting room. The wealthy. They have a room for sitting. Because of course they do. The sitting room contained numerous pieces of classic red velvet antique furniture, and a framed portrait of a man with a beard and his wife hung over a fireplace. It had a mantlepiece that looked bare, yet dust free and other contemporary art pieces hanging on the walls. Marc left the sitting room and started to inspect the other rooms; library, lounge room, conservatory and Grant’s own personal office, and found an interesting trend. The man had no photos of himself anywhere. At all. Marc realized he still had no idea what his mysterious potential employer looked like. Furthermore his office was immaculately kept. But he could find nothing of interest. That may not be terribly surprising, however. Samuels seemed quite proactive about cleanliness and the needs of guests. The mansion was enormous, there was no way he could search the entire place before dinner, but with only a handful of rooms left on this side of the complex, Spector decided he’d finish searching this hallway before rejoining the others for dinner. He opened a door... hup... bathroom, and quickly closed it. Two doors to go. Marc opened the next door; another guest double bedroom, it dogleg'd slightly around the door and it’s length swept all the way to the side of the building, with an awkward sized window overlooking the grounds on that face. This room hadn’t been used in some time. Looked like it had only really been entered in order to dust and maintain basic cleanliness. Marc walked back out and closed the door quietly behind him. One to go. Marc crossed the hallway and opened the door. Another guest bedroom. It mirrored the last one. Down to the same awkward sized window. Marc threw a cursory glance and a glint of yellow caught his eye. He moved to the window for a closer look. It was the yellow taxi cab that brought them here. Marc furrowed his brow. Samuels had said earlier that he was returning that car. Now he was either lying to create an alibi for his own absence for some time that couldn't be accounted for, or-- or what? Marc left the room, and once again gently pulled the guest room door closed behind him. Then he stopped. He looked at the end of the hallway. The two shallow doglegs didn’t account for the amount of space at the end of the hallway. There was something beyond the end of the hallway. External wood cellar, only accessible from the outside? Maybe. But something told Spector he should give the wall a closer look. The art was different. Didn’t fit the rest of the decor in the house. He recognized it, which was rare enough. He didn’t even recognize himself in the mirror, but this was a piece by Norman Rockwell. He could tell the artist, but didn’t know the name of the piece. It depicted a working class man standing before his peers at a town meeting like a character portrayed by Jimmy Stewart in a Frank Capra film. It didn’t match the rest of the up-market decor in this place, and that made Marc think he might just be on the right track. He moved closer to the wall and wrapped gently in different places, then he found a seam. He moved to the other side of the wall and upon close inspection found heavily disguised hinges. Another door WAS here! He felt around the wall and then found the door handle disguised as an ornamental moulding, he twisted it and then pulled and the door gave way… To a long depressing squalor. The room was long and fairly open plan. On one side there was a small area with a sink and tiny oven. There was a portable hotplate plugged in, but not switched on. A basin with faucets. A small card table acted as somebody’s dining room. Laundry was spread everywhere. On one wall was a painting of dogs playing poker. In a corner was a depressing rollaway bed which faced a tiny 12 inch tv. [b]“The Hell is this place?”[/b] As he pushed through the room he managed to get to an external door. He twisted the lock and applied the snib so it wouldn’t lock behind him as he stepped out into the darkness of the early evening. He saw the cab. It was parked over a stretch of flat worn grass. Suggesting it or a similar sized car was often parked there. Marc turned to go back into the mansion and looked up, stunned at what he saw... It was a brownstone facade. This whole side of the mansion had been done up like a Hollywood set to look like an entirely different building. But why? Why in the Hell would anyone send their property value into a freefall doing something like this? He could see those awkward windows in the guest bedrooms had been part of this makeover, to make the entire side of the house look like a few inner city brownstone apartment blocks. All of this asked more questions than it answered. And with this being the case, there would be no avoiding the direct approach. He went back inside, closing the door behind him and crossed the room of squalor, turning the ornate golden door knob (which may have been worth more than anything in the room), stepped back through the looking glass and into the mansion to quickly rejoin the others in the dining room. [center][h1][b]🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑[/b][/h1][/center] Flint’s car halted to a stop and the detective traded laying rubber tread, for rubber heels as he ran down to the station of the officer-in-command. [color=00aeef][b]“Flint. Central Detectives. What’s the latest?”[/b][/color] [color=8882be]“Captain Dixon. Well, Flint. We’ve cleared everyone off the street and managed to remove the injured from the area and paramedics have them en route to St Joseph’s. Now there’s obviously people in the residences, but we’ve told them via loudspeaker to stay indoors, away from doors and windows and to barricade those egress points if safe to do so.”[/color] [color=00aeef][b]“OK. What exactly is the issue and where is it?”[/b][/color] At that moment a howl drew everyone’s gaze to a rooftop silhouette of a man-sized wolf baying to the moon either from instinct or hunger. [color=8882be]“Yup. New York gets Spider-women, Gotham gets Dracula, we get goddamn werewolves.”[/color] Flint’s hand dropped to his hip for his piece. [color=8882be]“And you can forget about that. I got three officers who claim to have tagged him with sidearms, and Bendis over there shot it center mass with a goddamn shotgun trying to get it away from bystanders.”[/color] [color=00aeef][b]“And?”[/b][/color] [color=8882be]“And it got him away from bystanders, just to turn and go after Bendis! If Ellis over there hadn’t hit him with his squad car, Bendis’d be kibble right now.”[/color] “And not the good kibble either, like Acana Regionals. Your fat ass’d be that homebrand kibble made up of ground up mule assholes.” Ellis ribbed Bendis, punching him in the arm. [color=00aeef][b]“So any plans to engage?”[/b][/color] [color=8882be]“Honestly, Flint. Our plan was to sit here and try not to piss it off too much before SWAT gets here. D’you have a problem with that?”[/color] [color=00aeef][b]“No problem at all, Dixon. Just got sent down by BK to get the lay of the land. I’m not here to play hero or tread on toes. In fact, orders were to wait on Tactical. If you need another pair of hands, hit me up, but I’ll be debriefing Central over in the car.”[/b][/color] Flint walked back to his dark green BMW with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his long coat. He threw the car door open and sat in the driver’s seat for a beat to think. The long silence was over. Chicago had joined the community of American cities to have been visited by the strange. Goddamn werewolves. Flint slapped open the glove compartment and took out a flask, taking a quick hit of bourbon. He imagined the worst case scenario of disbelief from the Burger King when he reported in, took another hit of bourbon and used the radio to call in. [center][h1][b]🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑[/b][/h1][/center]