Penny

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

How to Write a Collaborative Mystery

As long time Pennyphiles will know this is my third attempt to get his rp up and running. In the past one of the problems with it was how can we present a mystery in a way that lets players interact with the mystery rather than I as the GM doling out all the intel? Fortunately I have recently played an RPG called Lovecraftesque which has given me a potential solution. I'm going to allow players to introduce clues, and then have players formulate their best guess as to what is going on in the OOCs to steer the whole thing towards a coherent narrative. I may ask you to rewrite occasionally to facilitate this, or your character may simply be wrong or deceived about events you have describe.

This is somewhat experimental and may change.

Pacing

As my Father is fond of saying 'We didn't come here to fuck spiders.' What does this mean? I honestly don't know, but the tone of this RP will be active. I don't mind a certain amount of the internal life of the character being presented but wherever possible do something rather than picking up a cup of coffee and taking four paragraphs to do it. Quality is not quantity ect ect ect.

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

Everyone has a story. You know the story. The one you Aunt dusts off every Thanksgiving when the wine is flowing and the sense is going? The one about the old house on the end of the street where flowers never grow and maybe old Sweeny killed his wife and hid her in the drywall. Or perhaps it was the time your grandmother swore that she saw something floating in a broken window grinning at her. Maybe it was you. Maybe you heard strange voices out in the woods, or glimpsed something in the fog out at sea one night. Maybe you saw the same pale woman everywhere you went for a week and you swear the bitch had no reflection.

There are thousands of stories like these and they all have one things in common. Ninety nine percent of them are bullshit. Of course ninety nine percent certainty means that one time in a hundred you’re dead.

There are things out there in dark. Sometimes they leave us alone, hell maybe most times, but sometimes the snatch up babies and sacrifice them in stone circles. Sometimes the feed on the minds of the living. Sometime they set fires for the joy of watching people burn.

Who do you turn to if something like that happens? Cops can’t help, write you a prescription and ship you to a mental hospital if you even mentioned it. You need professionals, and frankly there aren’t that many people stupid enough to put their heads in that particular noose. People who know, know enough to be fucking terrified. Usually they find the deepest darkest hole they can climb into.

Want to turn to the sort of broken desperadoes still stupid enough to stand in the line of supernatural fire? Good luck with that.

Welcome to the Sunday Group

This RP will follow the adventures of the members of the Sunday Group. It is a story about the occult world behind the world, and those brave or foolish enough to want to understand it.

Somewhere in a big city in America, there is a nondescript building. It is a few stories tall and it has an extensive basement. It could easily be the Law Offices Of Boring, Dreary and Bland, no one would guess that it is the home of one of the nation’s only occult detective agencies.

Employees of the Sunday Group are a diverse bunch. Small time magical practitioners, those with strange abilities, broken down cops who have seen too much, or just regular folk who saw something they shouldn’t and want to do something about it. Everyone who works for the Group has touched the supernatural world in some way or another, and for whatever reason just cant let it go and sink back into the comforting security of the mundane.

The World

The world is very much like our own except there is a secret magical world beneath it. It isn’t happy Twilight Magical though, think of it as somewhere between Harry Dresden and the Call of Cthulhu. Many of the trappings of any Urban Fantasy will apply here and I encourage you to introduce them into the setting. Think a shotgun filled with rocksalt will take out a ghost? Great, it is in. Want werewolves to have a silver allergy? No problem. Anything you want to introduce into the setting will probably be ok. If I have a problem with it, Ill ask you to reconsider privately.

Magic for the Modern Age

Some humans have the ability to handle arcane forces, either innately or through elaborate ritual preparations. Some people gain magical powers via congress with spirits or demons, even Gods there is always a price to pay for subverting the natural order though. Sooner or later the bill comes due.

Magic exists in the world in a multitude of form and traditions. It is even possible to do some magic by computer. I dont want to put to many restrictions on people here. Many types of magic do not require the use of spells or incantations. Some people might be able to move small objects with their minds, read the surface thoughts of others, turn invisible or any number of other small boons you might come up with.

While magic can be very effective under the right circumstances it isn’t a be all and end all solution. A powerful practitioner might be able to hurl a bolt of lighting but it is normally much simpler, safer and more effective just to use a gun. Magic is a tool, use it wisely.

Who are the Players?

The players will take the roles of detectives in the drama, but this won't be an RP solely about solving crime. Personal relationships between characters, their families and dependents will be crucial to the story.

Be connected! The nature of the world is such that all the brooding loners with a tragic but unknowable backstory were exsanginuated long ago. You don’t need to like people, but you do need to depend on them to survive.

What Can I Play?

You can play a human (or near human) with some minor edge over the rest of the herd. You cannot play an immortal dragon vampire samurai. Your character should have some life experience. I don't want to flat out say that they need to be a certain age but my personal preference is to avoid the teenage types who no sane detective would want covering their back when the tentacle hits the pentacle.

Notes On the RP

This will be a small group RP. I’m looking for 3-4 players tops. I want personal interaction to matter and I just dont see that in large group RPs.

This will be a collaborative rp and we will create the world as we go, feel free to introduce detail! I will exercise some limited forms of narrative control if necessary but my instinct is to let it ride if it fits in the framework of the fiction.

This will be an 18+ RP. Sex, drugs, sex drugs and horrible nightmares from distant space times ect.

Inspirations and Style

Inspirations for this include Call of Cthulhu, Harry Dresden, Supernatural, Delta Green, the Laundry Files. The goal is to be not quite as bleak as Lovecraft but to maintain something approaching that level of horror and danger. The protagonists can effect the outcome but plenty of stuff out there is well beyond the weight class of the Sunday Group.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

The desperado pulled up a chair uninvited and sat down putting his boots up on the table, scattering sandy soil on a tabletop already none to clean. He produced a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a pocket igniter that was much fancier than it was practical. He puffed several times to get the cigar going, large lips making a satisfied sucking noise. The smoke that issued from the cigar was acrid and unpleasant, unlike any tobacco Junebug had ever smelled.

"Danac...," the stranger rasped, drawing the word out into three syllables.

"The pure stuff, a cigar like this would cost you two hundred credits anywhere else in the galaxy," he boasted.

"How very fucking fascinating," Junebug replied dryly. The stranger grimaced in irritation at her lack of respect.

"You got a smart mouth bitch, it will get you in trouble someday," he promised. Junebug shrugged in affected boredom her eyes scanning the room. The gunmen were clearly used to having the run of the place. They grabbed at the serving girls and helped themselves to the booze without any intention of paying. Those locals that hadn't fled were handled roughly, shoved and mocked although there was no violence yet. Junebug began to wonder if it had been a mistake to bring Taya into a place like this, the young blonde was getting a lot of looks from the thugs but fear, perhaps of the leader, or perhaps of Neil whose earlier exploits were already being talked about kept them at bay. If Taya noticed she wisely gave no sign, staring nonchalantly in imitation of Junebug.

"My name is Warez," the smoking man declared with lofty self importance.

"My friends and I keep this bar free of the Spider scum," he boasted, his hand reaching down to stroke a large bore pistol in a holster on his belt. Junebug wondered what would happen if he drew on them. The swaggering Warez would be dead in an instant but his cronies around the bar were another problem. They surrounded them on three sides and though they were drinking and probably stoned, they watched the byplay at the table with the enthusiasm of hungry sharks. Junebug doubted that any of the gunmen were worth much, but it was likely that they would manage the job through raw number if not skill. Warez probably felt the same way, though Junebug suspected his logic was different.

"How do I know you aren't Spider scum hey?" Warez asked, puffing theatrically.

"Well between the three of us we only have six legs, so I suppose that might be your first clue," Taya said flatly. Junebug froze for a moment shocked that Taya would act so boldly and worried that it might precipitate a crisis. Instead Warez began to laugh and his crew joined in with sycophantic enthusiasm.

Recollections: The Othergrounds [Complete]

Everytime you quote your penny character I'm getting a notification

Recollections: The Othergrounds [Complete]

You guys are killing me

Penny's Pencils

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene watched with a quiet smile on his face as Solae lead Rosaria through the steps of the dance. It was rare that he got to see Solae enjoying herself, she had a light and happy soul that was often seemed oppressed by the duties that were thrust upon her. He was glad that she could take a moment just to enjoy the simple act of dancing with another person, without worry of how it would be interpreted or that armed gunmen might burst in at any moment. Rene reflexively checked the exits, though out of training rather than any actual concern. Assassins would need to use depth charges to get to them here. He turned to Kel'shaiel to find her watching the dance with what he imagined to be a bemused expression.

"Rosaria is too young to have a mate among our people," he told her. The alien bobbed her head in understanding. It wasn't that Rene begrudged the girl the opportunity to fraternize with her peers, whatever age that might be among the Kalderi, but he was already starting to feel a little dread about the prospect of having to deal with challenges to Solae. Kel'shaiel made a clicking sound and nodded.

"Among ours too Colonel," she reassured him, "No one may challenge for the right to mate with one who has not yet taken to wing." Rene nodded in relief, he wasn't sure exactly what taken to wing meant for those without wings but he was relieved that the situation wasn't quite as complicated as it might have been.

"Do you think it is likely there will be any challenges for Solae?" he asked. Kel'shaiel seemed to consider this for longer than Rene would have wished.

"We have a saying among our people Colonel," the Kalderi said in her sonorous voice, "Only a fool tries to predict what a fool will do."

Rene didn't know what to make of that, but he felt like there was considerable subtext to it. Were there Kalderi whose politics she dissaproved of? Did she think they were likely to try to make trouble at the ball? No scion of the Imperial aristocracy grew to adulthood without learning the Machiavellian maneuvering of the political system, but they also knew the terrain and the players and beyond that the way other humans, or at least other nobles, thought. There was so much he didn't know here, so many pitfalls that might be yawning in front of them which they wouldn't see until they were on top of them. He resolutely pushed such thoughts from his mind as he watched Solae dancing and laughing with Rosaria. There needed to take time to enjoy the moment, there would be time enough to worry about tonight later.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

"He is right Taya," Junebug said quietly taking a sip of her own drink. It was a locally brewed ale, heady and with a slightly oily aftertaste that she suspected might be an unpleasant companion after a night of heavy drinking but all Neil had the right of it. The drink had the virtue of being cold and refreshing, which she could appreciate even if this world lacked the oven like temperatures of Hahn.

"Do we even need to work I mean we have..." Junebug stomped on Taya's boot cutting her off with a yelp. When interest in the outburst waned she spoke quietly to her friend.

"Taya if people though they had a thousand credits we wouldn't get thirty feet from here before the gunned us down," she explained taking another judicious sip of her beer. The place certainly had a down on its luck feel. Tables of shaped stone that were set into the ground so they could be hosed off rather than wiped, cheap electrical wiring taped to the wall with cargo tape where it didn't just hang from the ceilings. A large high bar that would be difficult for a drunk patron to lunge over. Now and again a serving girl came out carrying plates of fried foods to various tables, setting them down quickly and retreating deftly to avoid gropes and pats on the rump. This was evidently a service you had to order at the bar because there were no menus and the serving girl didn't stop to ask.

"Rough place," Junebug observed as a pair of men dragged Neil's victims out the narrow back door and into an alley. This clearly wasn't a humanitarian gesture but just the desire to pillage the dead in private.

"You have been in rougher I suspect," Taya said trying to sound confident. Junebug grinned wolfishly.

"Yes but those times I had a dozen troopers with me and we weren't likely to run into anything half as bad as us," she said with a smirk. The Armored like most mercenary units tended to drink in packs, and the cohesion of a military unit was as devastating in bar fights as it was on the battle field, usually the only thing to worry about were other groups of mercenaries.

The sipped beer and watched the crowd for a few minutes as the interest in the shootings died away. They were a mixed bunch, farmers of a rough sort, a few spacers, evidently from the freighter at the space port and townspeople, mechanics, and small trades people. Everyone Junebug looked at was either openly armed, or more frequently seemed to be concealing a weapon in a pocket or tucked into a waistband. They were nervous also, not just about what had just happened, but in general. They ordered some food and more drinks as the afternoon wore on and Junebug began to think that Warner's dire warnings were just the line of nonsense a crooked spaceport operator might spin to keep the credits in his own hands, but as sundown approached there was a marked change in behavior. People began paying their tabs and leaving and the streets seemed to empty almost as though by magic. Junebug turned her head suddenly.

"What," Neil and Taya both asked at once.

"Engines, diesel maybe light trucks," Junebug stated her practiced ear picking out the sound a few moments before the rumble was evident to the others. The locals who hand't vacated the bar hunched their shoulders as though in anticipation of a rainstorm. Ten minutes later the reason why became evident. A parade of light trucks pulled onto the main street each one loaded with hooting gunmen. The were dressed much like the farmers save that everyone of these was obviously armed. They were festooned with weapons knives and bandoleers and each of them wore gold fabric prominently, some had bandannas, others sashes or coats, but every single one of them was marked. Warner's gangs she supposed. A moment later a second such convoy pulled into the street from the other side of town and disgorged an equally disreputable looking group, these were indistinguishable from the first save they wore green. The two groups began to shout insults at each other and hurl bottles and other bits of debris at their opponents. Some men, not directly involved in the shouting and cat calling, swarmed into the bars, swaggering and shouting.

"What is going on here," Junebug asked catching the wrist of the serving girl as she hurried past.

"Mistress," she hissed, gaging her chances of breaking Sayeeda's wire snare grip and judging against it.

"The gangs, they spend the days forcing the farmers to labor in the fields and they come back to town at night," she said, casting increasingly nervous glances at the gold clad thugs. Sayeeda let her go and the woman turned and fled.

"Well I guess that explains that," Junebug observed. Outside a hurled brick brained a man outside the tavern sending him tumbling to the dirt in the door way, blood pouring from his nose.

"I can see this getting interesting once they all get drunk," Junebug observed a moment before a knot of gold clad gunmen shoved their way into the bar and began shouting for drinks.

The Sinful Stars

The trembling man shivered in the rain pulling his fire scorched uniform around him. There seemed to be burns around his eyes, red and weeping sera but he didn't seem to have noticed them. The one over his right eye appeared to be in the rough shape of the sigil of the Universal Church. The soldier glanced around in shock as though he couldn't truly believe he was still alive.

"The Sister, she had us stopped here, waiting for the shooting to start," he began stammering through the sentence. He made a vague gesture towards the west where the distant spire of the church could be seen even through the rain by the illumination in its stained glass window.

"I was... watching my sector and the corporal... Pancreator save me..."

"You will need your cursed Pancreator if you don't get on with it!" Ragnar snapped. Orion shot him a quelling glance but it seemed to brace the soldier up somewhat.

"The cororal says four guys in black came out of the woods, and they were saying something to the Priest and then... and then they were screaming, screaming and burning and my eyes were locked on the stained glass window and I couldn't turn away, then I heard the big MG70 on the main truck open up, I dont know if it hit anything but all of a sudden it got real cold and ... and I don't remember after that," the soldier trailed off. After a moment he began to weep babbling about the Pancreator and the cold.

Scanning the area Orion's augmented eye traced where gunfire had churned the earth to a body clad in black and up until then unnoticed in the rainy gloom. Ragnar jumped down and strode over to the body seizing the dead woman by the hair and hauling her up for Orion's inspection. Her face was familiar, though glanced only out of the corner of an eye as one of the hangers on during their brief audience with the duke earlier in the day. Her eyes hadn't been completely black back then however.

"Black Magic," Ragnar repeated disapprovingly, his ominous words punctuated by the crack of lightning overhead.

_________________________________

Annika woke with a start, gasping for air as she remembered the feeling of dark black energy, cold as the void and hot as the fading suns pouring down her throat. Instinctively she grabbed for the holy symbol she wore around her neck but her hand was snapped short by something hard and metallic almost as soon as she began to move, a rattle of chains confirming what the cuffs on her wrist had already presaged. Her eyes opened onto blackness and felt a momentary rush of claustrophobic dread at the thought she had been buried alive.

"Ah, you are awake," came a familiar voice from out of her field of view. Two luminator lamps lit, filling the air with a harsh white light that someone managed to be even more unpleasant than the darkness had been. Annika blinked her eyes, sneezing at the rapid change in illumination and then looked around. She appeared to be on a stone bier chained at wrist and ankles with archaic cuffs with silver chains that ran down to bolts in the floor. A circle with strange symbols hand been carefully scribed around her in what looked to be some kind of reflective paint. Above here were the familiar arches that formed the basis of all theological architecture and she was instantly able to orient herself as being in the nave of a church, even though the illumination hardly seemed to pierce more than a few feet in any direction. The alter should be behind her somewhere but a prickle in the back of her neck warned her that she didn't want to try to hard to look at it.

Annika realized how cowl had been removed but she was otherwise fully clothed and apparently unharmed. With a shock she remembered that Orion was depending on her to come to his aid. She heaved at her chains with all her might but she might as well have tried to push a mountain for all the good it did her. Defeated physically she lashed out with her mind, though the intent of the psychic emanation was uncertain even to her. The lights dimmed and the paint seemed to shimmer but nothing else happened.

"Careful, you dont want to do yourself an injury," the voice said with supreme lack of concern. Annika turned her head, her normally coiled braid flopping to the side as she did so. It was Engel. The Dukes Chamberlain was once again dressed in his courtly best, though he was carefully applying make up of some sort to conceal some sort of burn or disfiguration on his wrists.

"The Pancreator will curse you Apostate," she snapped, struggling once again against her chains, trying not to think of Orion being borne down under a tide of Vuldrock. Engel yawned theatrically and stood up walking over towards her without crossing the edge of the circle. He smiled down at it proudly.

"Rather good work don't you think, amazing what you can find in old books isn't it," Engel gloated. Annika glared at him but didn't dignify it with a response.

"Why am I here," she said in a voice as cold as ice. Engel arched an eyebrow.

"Right to business, no threats of being burned at the stake, no dire warnings of the Pancreators displeasure, no litany of curses for heretics?" Engel asked.

"That is all implied," she said between gritted teeth. Engel laughed delightedly and bowed in courtly fashion to her, palms pressed together after the al-Malik custom. He straightened and sobered.

"As it happens you are here to serve one of two purposes," he explained, then paused as if considering.

"I'm no fan of melodrama, this isn't a join us or die speech, but I would very much like you to join us," he explained and Annika could tell he meant it. She wondered if it was because she had managed to kill one of his confederates or if there were some other motivation. He held up a hand to forestall a response.

"Before you answer, please don't bore me with platitudes about how you are too pure to dabble in forbidden secrets, we both know that isn't true. There are other powers in the universe Annika, powers that reward their followers in this life as well as the next," he continued smuggly. Annika felt a spike of shame and worked to keep it from her face. He was right that she had strayed beyond the Orthodox teachings more enthusiastically than most but she had always told herself it was for the Pancreators glory and not her own.

"Where is Orion?" she demanded and Engel's eyebrow rose.

"Not Sir Pentecost, so informal already? How very al-Malik of you Sister," he tutted, then his face hardened.

"I'm afraid Sir Orion Pentecost is a captive of the Vuldrok Star Nation," he explained simperingly.

"It seems his plan rather depended on getting some help that never arrived, a pity really," Engel said and Annika felt another stab of panic and shame. Orion had depended on her and she had failed, now he might be worse than dead.

"Of course if you were willing to consider my offer, perhaps I could prevail upon my Vuldrok friends to release him unharmed, if not... well a famously unpredictable people the Vuldrok," Engel pretended to lament, his hateful smile sharp as a knife in the luminator light. Annika cursed silently.

"Think it over, I have other business to attend to, then I'll be back to discuss you answer," Engel told her, running his fingers through his dark hair to smooth it.

"What is the second purpose," she asked as he began to turn away. Engel looked back over his shoulder.

"I already implied I don't like melodrama Annika, this isn't the part where I tell you my evil plan. Think on my offer, and think on what might happen to your Knight if you refuse." With that he turned and extinguished the luminator, plunging the room into darkness filled with the echos of his retreating footsteps.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

"Extracting," Junebug stated/thought, her consciousness merging with the computer her thoughts surging down the circuits in a stream of electrons. Reality stuttered into existence around them and Junebug felt a wrenching sense of loss which passes almost instantly. The sensor boards lit up as data from the material universe flooded in. Before them hung a greenish blue world with a single large continent dominating the lower half. There were several other worlds in the system but they seemed to be either gas giants or unremarkable rocks.

"Looks like... one spaceport with a lit beacon, sporadic radio traffic, fairly sparce settlement, or fairly low tech," Taya reported looking gray and shaky. Junebug had never found that the wrenching psychic shocks got any better, but with time you learned to deal with them. The junction had obviously been tough on her and she hadn't yet fully recovered from the strain. Junebug hoped they could take some time to rest and recuperate wherever this was.

"Any local net?" Junebug asked, tuning the sensors on the spaceport beacon Taya had mentioned.

"Doesn't look like they are that organised," Taya said a little disapprovingly.

"Beacon lists the world as Tiosinte, a protectorate of The Caliphate of Tarsaros, whatever that is," she commented. Spaceport beacons were not uncommon on more out of the way worlds that lacked centralized orbital nets. They usually provided basic information about the world as well as docking procedures and fees. Few worlds had several of them unless there was a political situation that made competing spaceports necessary.

"Docking fee five hundred credits and a further hundred in departure duties, tankage and gases, blah blah blah," Junebug continued reaching the end of the the meager data stream. No information on trade, no employment listings, no data on local conditions.

"Well, they will have charts if they have a spaceport," Junebug said, "and we might as well look over the damage from the junction with gravity under us. Take us in Neil."

"You got it babe," Neil said and shaped their course for reentry.

The Highlander settled onto the cracked concrete pad, the plasma thrusters starting brief fires fueled by weeds that grew up through the fissures on the landing surface. The spaceport was an space of perhaps forty acres enclosed by a curtain wall of synthetic stone. Presumably this was meant to protect the settlement they had overflown on the way in should one of the freighters under go a reactor failure rather than to defend the spaceport, manning such a fortification would take at half a battalion. Several hangers, apparently used for storage rather than to shelter ships, leaned haphazard and rusted, roofed in a combination of corrugated iron and structural plastic sheeting. A control tower of sorts stood roughly in the center of the space, a sun faded flag blowing lazily from its peak. Well it was a tower at least, they hadn't responded to any hails Sayeeda had attempted either by radio or with laser communicator. A battered looking freighter, several times the size of the Highlander sat on the other side of the port looking battered and ugly. It had power readings but no crew were immediately evident.

Junebug, Neil and Taya walked down the ramp and onto the cooling concrete. A shabby looking man was walking from the terminal with a clip board in his hand. He was unshaven and wore a grease spotted shirt in a garish red printed with white flowers and a pair of cargo shorts that contrasted to the steel toed boots that completed the ensemble. He reached the group and paused pulling a cigarette from his mouth and extending a hand. Junebug reached and and took it, shaking it formally.

"Welcome to Tiosinte captain...?" he asked.

"Cykali," Junebug supplied, "Junebug Cykali." If the name struck the man as odd he didn't show it, eyeing both her and Taya with appreciation, his eyes sliding over Neil.

"I'm Warner, Tobin Warner, I run the spaceport for the Tars," he intorduced himself before chuckling good naturedly.

"Not that they give a fuck what happens here of course, so long as they get their port duties, speaking of which..." he extended a hand.

"Six hundred credits please," he said with a smile. Junebug couldn't help but smile, graft on such a minor scale was almost charming and she passed over six of the platinum inlaid credit chips. Warner made them vanish with a skillful flick of his wrist.

"This is our first time on Tiosinte Mr Warner," Junebug told him, "Can you fill us in on conditions here?" Warner smiled tiredly.

"Its a fucking shit show, that is how conditions are," Warner told her, waving for them to walk with him. Obidently the followed him into the base of the tower. The interior was pleasantly cool compared to the tropical heat outside. A single ceiling fan turned slowly and music of some kind of acoustic harp blared from a music projector unit.

"There are a couple of gangs here that supply danac to the cartels on Easterling, they are at each others throats," Warner explained picking up a large pitcher of iced tea and pouring four glasses without bothering to ask them if they wanted any. He made a magnanimous gesture to the table of battered wood and Junebug took a seat.

"Danac?" Junebug asked and Warner arched his eyebrow.

"Gods where are you from? Danac is a narcotic that grows here, only grows here really, though it grows like a weed, freighters from the cartel come in every couple days and pick up the raw stuff." He made a gesture with his cup towards the other freighter on the pad, accidentally splashing tea onto his shirt and squaring colorfully.

"The gangs supply the cartel, and make everyone else miserable," Warner complained.

"They don't bother the spaceport though?" Junebug queried. Warner shook his head.

"Nah, the Tars could fucking gut them in a hot second if they managed to piss them off enough to notice, though that aint easy to do, no point in risking it when they already got everything else. If you want my advice, do whatever you need to do as quickly as you can and get the fuck out of here."