And we're off. I hope I made the situation clear, let me know if you have any questions!
Polyphemus Member
They/ Them
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JUNE 1, 2019
SOMEWHERE OVER THE CELTIC SEA
The big plane was surprisingly quiet, the flight steady and untouched by turbulence. They'd reach their destination in very little time. They had a good pilot up front, Major Carvalho thought with approval.
No one had really gotten to know each other yet- they had all been rushed to The Hague and thrown into an office building barely a week before, and each person had been so occupied with getting his or her responsibilities in order that there hadn't even been time for a casual chat with anyone else, let alone a beer at the pub. And now, suddenly, they were going to Ireland before they had even managed to get unpacked.
Carvalho's tablet chirped. He took a peek at it, nodded to himself as he saw the new email from headquarters. Perfect. The last thing he needed to brief everyone.
“Alright, listen up, everyone,” Carvalho said abruptly as he got up out of his seat. He turned on the intercom to the cockpit so the pilot could also hear what he was about to say. “You all know we're going to Galway, Ireland to assist there, but until now we haven't really known what we're getting into. Facts still seem to be scarce, but let me tell you what I can about the situation there.”
He ported the viewing screen at the front of the cabin to his tablet. On an ordinary flight, this might show movies to bored passengers. Instead, it displayed a still photograph. A sandy beach, peacful and idyllic- except for the series of perfectly round holes leading out of the water. A meter wide and two meters deep.
“Footprints, ladies and gentlemen, at the beach by the little town of Cathair. Taken two days ago. The tracks of something very big, with round feet and no toes. And something that is apparently very hungry.”
A new photograph came up, a scene of total carnage. A small rural pasture, the normally green grass stained red by blood. Tufts of wool and a few identifiable chunks indicated that this was all that remained of a herd of sheep.
“These footprints lead up to this paddock. Fifty-eight sheep dead or missing, torn apart and swallowed. By what, we don't know. It must have happened in the dead of night, no one saw or heard anything. The Irish police force, the Garda, was put on alert. Looking for sheep thieves, pranksters, god only knows what.”
The photo changed once more, this time to a Nissan Terrano painted in white and yellow. The vehicle had been cut completely in half, and dried blood covered the crushed hood. “This is one of the Garda patrol cars, found this morning on a country lane outside Spiddal. Two men inside, and both are missing. As you can see, the whole vehicle was cut completely in half. Not torn or bitten, ladies and gentlemen. Cut, like with some giant blade.”
The Brazilian frowned, then went on. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, you know as much as anyone else. We can safely assume it comes out of the water at night, and it seems dangerous. But with no witnesses, we can't say much else.
“The Irish authorities are keeping things quiet for now. They don't want a panic on their hands. The Armed Forces are being mobilized, but frankly they're not much. The Irish Air Corps operates no armed aircraft and the Navy is more of a glorified coast guard, so we'll be dealing mostly with the Irish Army. Now, I know you're thinking to me 'João, just splatter the thing with tanks and heavy artillery' but believe it or not the Irish Army has neither of those. So, they called us for help, because we're smart people who think outside the box, right?” He smiled, hoping the humor would cut some of the tension.
“So let's do some thinking before we touch down in Galway,” he invited the group at large. “All of our heads are better than one. So let's hear some ideas, some thoughts, whatever you guys have so we don't show up empty-handed.”
He opened a bottle of water and took a long swig, looking expectantly at the group.
SOMEWHERE OVER THE CELTIC SEA
The big plane was surprisingly quiet, the flight steady and untouched by turbulence. They'd reach their destination in very little time. They had a good pilot up front, Major Carvalho thought with approval.
No one had really gotten to know each other yet- they had all been rushed to The Hague and thrown into an office building barely a week before, and each person had been so occupied with getting his or her responsibilities in order that there hadn't even been time for a casual chat with anyone else, let alone a beer at the pub. And now, suddenly, they were going to Ireland before they had even managed to get unpacked.
Carvalho's tablet chirped. He took a peek at it, nodded to himself as he saw the new email from headquarters. Perfect. The last thing he needed to brief everyone.
“Alright, listen up, everyone,” Carvalho said abruptly as he got up out of his seat. He turned on the intercom to the cockpit so the pilot could also hear what he was about to say. “You all know we're going to Galway, Ireland to assist there, but until now we haven't really known what we're getting into. Facts still seem to be scarce, but let me tell you what I can about the situation there.”
He ported the viewing screen at the front of the cabin to his tablet. On an ordinary flight, this might show movies to bored passengers. Instead, it displayed a still photograph. A sandy beach, peacful and idyllic- except for the series of perfectly round holes leading out of the water. A meter wide and two meters deep.
“Footprints, ladies and gentlemen, at the beach by the little town of Cathair. Taken two days ago. The tracks of something very big, with round feet and no toes. And something that is apparently very hungry.”
A new photograph came up, a scene of total carnage. A small rural pasture, the normally green grass stained red by blood. Tufts of wool and a few identifiable chunks indicated that this was all that remained of a herd of sheep.
“These footprints lead up to this paddock. Fifty-eight sheep dead or missing, torn apart and swallowed. By what, we don't know. It must have happened in the dead of night, no one saw or heard anything. The Irish police force, the Garda, was put on alert. Looking for sheep thieves, pranksters, god only knows what.”
The photo changed once more, this time to a Nissan Terrano painted in white and yellow. The vehicle had been cut completely in half, and dried blood covered the crushed hood. “This is one of the Garda patrol cars, found this morning on a country lane outside Spiddal. Two men inside, and both are missing. As you can see, the whole vehicle was cut completely in half. Not torn or bitten, ladies and gentlemen. Cut, like with some giant blade.”
The Brazilian frowned, then went on. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, you know as much as anyone else. We can safely assume it comes out of the water at night, and it seems dangerous. But with no witnesses, we can't say much else.
“The Irish authorities are keeping things quiet for now. They don't want a panic on their hands. The Armed Forces are being mobilized, but frankly they're not much. The Irish Air Corps operates no armed aircraft and the Navy is more of a glorified coast guard, so we'll be dealing mostly with the Irish Army. Now, I know you're thinking to me 'João, just splatter the thing with tanks and heavy artillery' but believe it or not the Irish Army has neither of those. So, they called us for help, because we're smart people who think outside the box, right?” He smiled, hoping the humor would cut some of the tension.
“So let's do some thinking before we touch down in Galway,” he invited the group at large. “All of our heads are better than one. So let's hear some ideas, some thoughts, whatever you guys have so we don't show up empty-handed.”
He opened a bottle of water and took a long swig, looking expectantly at the group.
Oooh, it's plane! Yay! What kind of plane!? *Dances up and down then hugs @Polyphemus*
Good question. I was thinking maybe a converted Boeing 767 such as the United Nations uses in real life. Tear out most of the seats and there's plenty of room for equipment, cargo, even a small lab or a couple compact vehicles. Or, if things really get bad, shove all that out on the runway and pack in as many evacuees as possible. Not a jet you want to take into combat though- it's unarmed and unarmored.
It would look a little like this:
Anyways, everyone, I feel pretty confident about starting, if not tonight then definitely tomorrow. I'm planning to keep this open to newcomers, as well- the more the merrier!
She can totally be flying the plane if you want.
Colm fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. He really didn't feel right talking to this kid, and he felt worse at having dredged up obviously painful memories. Pity welled up in Colm- he was a decent enough man, he didn't like to see a little kid bawling. He had confronted his share of crying people in his time as a police officer, but it was much easier with adults.
Colm did the only thing he could, grabbing a wad of tissues and holding them out to the little boy, while trying to offer a comforting smile. The poor kid needed an adult to make things right, and it was looking like him. Colm's determination to find this mystery killer got a small boost from that sobering thought.
"You're doing great, Quincey," he said softly and- he hoped- soothingly. "This is going to be a lot of help in catching this bad guy." He waited until the sobs subsided a little before plowing on. "Now, tell me a little more about this guy. You said it wasn't a man, was it a woman? What kind of clothes were they wearing? And what col-" Colm stopped short, unsure how to broach the subject of race with this kid. "Uh, was their skin, uh, like mine?" he said, gesturing at his own Afro-American features. "Or like the nice man who brought you here?" he said with a point to the white Social Services agent, watching carefully through the office window. With any luck, Colm could at least coax a useful description out of the poor kid.
Colm did the only thing he could, grabbing a wad of tissues and holding them out to the little boy, while trying to offer a comforting smile. The poor kid needed an adult to make things right, and it was looking like him. Colm's determination to find this mystery killer got a small boost from that sobering thought.
"You're doing great, Quincey," he said softly and- he hoped- soothingly. "This is going to be a lot of help in catching this bad guy." He waited until the sobs subsided a little before plowing on. "Now, tell me a little more about this guy. You said it wasn't a man, was it a woman? What kind of clothes were they wearing? And what col-" Colm stopped short, unsure how to broach the subject of race with this kid. "Uh, was their skin, uh, like mine?" he said, gesturing at his own Afro-American features. "Or like the nice man who brought you here?" he said with a point to the white Social Services agent, watching carefully through the office window. With any luck, Colm could at least coax a useful description out of the poor kid.
@Yin Jingshin@datadogie@Jangel13@Gimple@R31GN@KaijuBaragon
I just wanted to thank everyone for their patience so far and assure you all we will be starting soon, in the next few days. We will be starting aboard the flight to our very first mission in Ireland, giving everyone a chance to both introduce their characters and receive their briefing.
Unless anyone objects, I'm going to go ahead and make a couple of GM-controlled characters to add to the team.
I just wanted to thank everyone for their patience so far and assure you all we will be starting soon, in the next few days. We will be starting aboard the flight to our very first mission in Ireland, giving everyone a chance to both introduce their characters and receive their briefing.
Unless anyone objects, I'm going to go ahead and make a couple of GM-controlled characters to add to the team.
I'm waiting on Smiley but I'm willing to post to keep things moving.
Colm was not comfortable with this arrangement.
There were many reasons for that. One, this was his first case with Homicide. It had ended up in his lap precisely because he was a rookie- no veteran detective wanted anything to do with this one. An unreliable child witness, a never-before-seen MO, political pressure from up top. The veterans weren't wrong to assume this one wasn't solvable. So they dump it on the new guy with excuses about "fresh eyes" and "youthful energy" and wait for the press and the bigwigs to lose interest so they could quietly pretend none of this ever happened. Colm might be new, but he was far from naive. He had seen this kind of thing plenty of times as a uniform, no reason to think things would change as a detective.
Two, the kid. Of course, the kid. The only eyewitness just had to be some six-year-old. He wasn't really good at dealing with kids in the first place. He didn't have any children himself, but he had enough nieces and nephews to know that his default response to talking to kids was a lot of stammering and awkward shuffling. He just didn't know how to speak to them.
Still, someone needed to do something. People were dying. Including the poor kid's parents. Sure, Colm didn't really like kids but come on, no one deserved that.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, the dropped a few chocolate chip cookies on a plate. Maybe a snack would put the child at ease. When the Social Services people brought Quincey in, he smiled, pointed at the cookies. "You must be Quincey. Have some cookies."
Colm spoke calmly and clearly, trying to sound nice and comforting. The last thing he needed to deal with was his witness turning into a crying mess. "My name is Detective Davies, but you can call me Colm. I'm a policeman, and I'm going to catch the bad man who did this to your parents. You've been a really brave boy, Quincey, but I need you to be a brave boy just a little longer and tell me exactly what happened." He got out his notebook expectantly, ready to take some notes.
There were many reasons for that. One, this was his first case with Homicide. It had ended up in his lap precisely because he was a rookie- no veteran detective wanted anything to do with this one. An unreliable child witness, a never-before-seen MO, political pressure from up top. The veterans weren't wrong to assume this one wasn't solvable. So they dump it on the new guy with excuses about "fresh eyes" and "youthful energy" and wait for the press and the bigwigs to lose interest so they could quietly pretend none of this ever happened. Colm might be new, but he was far from naive. He had seen this kind of thing plenty of times as a uniform, no reason to think things would change as a detective.
Two, the kid. Of course, the kid. The only eyewitness just had to be some six-year-old. He wasn't really good at dealing with kids in the first place. He didn't have any children himself, but he had enough nieces and nephews to know that his default response to talking to kids was a lot of stammering and awkward shuffling. He just didn't know how to speak to them.
Still, someone needed to do something. People were dying. Including the poor kid's parents. Sure, Colm didn't really like kids but come on, no one deserved that.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, the dropped a few chocolate chip cookies on a plate. Maybe a snack would put the child at ease. When the Social Services people brought Quincey in, he smiled, pointed at the cookies. "You must be Quincey. Have some cookies."
Colm spoke calmly and clearly, trying to sound nice and comforting. The last thing he needed to deal with was his witness turning into a crying mess. "My name is Detective Davies, but you can call me Colm. I'm a policeman, and I'm going to catch the bad man who did this to your parents. You've been a really brave boy, Quincey, but I need you to be a brave boy just a little longer and tell me exactly what happened." He got out his notebook expectantly, ready to take some notes.
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