Sigil

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: La Hacienda
Skills: N/A

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As the pair made their way downstairs to rejoin the viewing, they were greeted by the sight of their immediate as well as extended family in varying stages of applying ash and soot to their faces. A good many were already done and were now sporting faces painted with the white-gray ash, eyes blackened with char, done to resemble a skull over their own features. Some applied more contemporary grease paint, offering it to others only as they finished with it themselves. More often than not, though, it was the more traditional ash. It was an interesting cultural phenomenon, partly a tenuous grasp on the old beliefs before the coming of Spanish Catholics, slipping in bits of worship of Death and ancestors underneath the noses of the European priests, but mostly a comforting practice in the face of the metaphorical price that all those who live must pay for the privilege of doing so. It also gave them a sense of uniformity. They were dealing with Death by embracing it. To become one with the primal force of the universe, given representation as a Lady of unparalleled wisdom and serenity, was viewed as a noble purpose. The fact that this family very likely supplied their Lady of Immaculate Death with a steady supply of fresh recruits didn't hurt their credentials to wear her mark upon their faces.

Caesar and Thalia were the odd ones out, joining the viewing with their natural skin tones showing. The general consensus of opinion, based upon the knowing looks from those assembled, was to repair that situation as quickly as possible. Hence, the majority of La Famlia crowding around with their pigments of choice, making the patriarch and prodigal niece match the rest of their people. Caesar knew fully what this meant and was accepting of it. He had been to many such traditional rituals for the passing of notable members of his family. The young lady with him had not had the benefit of such experience, and as such was ...a little leery... of the idea of having multiple people put their hands on her face. By the time they were finished and handed her a mirror, her anxiety was laid to rest. It looked really damned good for the materials used. Thalia's thoughts flashed briefly toward the other reasons one may wish to don the markings of their Dama de la Muerte. Inwardly, she really hoped that they would never arise.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Front Gate -> Elizabeth's Office
Skills: Leadership, Security Procedures

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It was an interesting trip back up to Ms. Queensguard's office, not the least of which being the odd sort of irony found among the three making the trip. Valerie Pye seemed to be very proper, even frumpy, but very much sure of herself in an aristocratic sort of way. Her man Wadsworth also seemed very proper, if given to bouts of servitude. Still very aristocratic, in a "The Butler Did It" sort of way. Meanwhile Keystone was trying very hard not to speak with too much of his underclass, Cockney accent and stand as straight as possible. He was born and raised as far away from anything resembling aristocracy as possible. The only thing they all seemed to have in common was their country of origin: They were British. And an excellent cross section of London society in all of its shimmering glory. Until you got to J. Keystone, Survivor of Slums and Women of Loose Morality.

It wasn't his job to make friends, however. Nor was it even his job to like these people. That would happen or it would not. It was his job to keep tabs on Caesar's holdings and points of interest while he was away tending to family matters. One of the things that he had sent word back concerning was this woman, Pye. He had skimmed while en route, and planned on taking serious notes, stirring the pot with a few questions of his own. But first, he had to get them behind closed doors, preferably without incident. Check that, definitely without incident. The last thing he needed was a cadre of fellow East Enders making life interesting. Or another pesky murder to deal with. For now, he played the role he was there to play: Security Director. "Office of Ms. Elizabeth Queensguard, ma'am. Just this way, if you'd please." Yeah, that sounded nice and official.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main Building, Dining Room -> Kitchen House)
Skills: N/A

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"Well, Mr. Grady," began Gilbert with an almost sarcastic touch of formality, "As Evelina indicated, we are on refreshments. Well, I am. And you are with me, so... Kitchen House." He flashed one of his more disarming smiles and waved James on behind him. He was good at that. The new Paradox seemed to notice that he was good at it, and made mention.

"You know, Mr. Hat, sir?"

"Gilbert. Or Gil. Whatever."

James would not be deterred. "Mr. Hat? You ain't got to keep tryin' to be friendly with me. I ain't that pretty little girl that don't like wearin' shoes." The implication was not lost on Gilbert, who shot James an impressed but quizzical look. Mildly annoyed, maybe, but curious as to where he was taking the conversation. "Just sayin', this day's been suckin' out loud, okay? Just be straight with me."

Gilbert nodded his head and continued walking. "You sound like you have something specific in mind."

"Naw, not really." he replied, following his Emendator mentor. "Just... I may've told the Dice Lady inside that I had a lot of stories to me, tell the young'uns and whatnot?"

"Yes. I know about your life, James Mandingo Grady of the Leesburg, GA, United States. Born in the latter part of the 20th century; Undead Uprising Timeline. Your exploits and the exploits of your friends are well known. I'm telling you, if you could see the stories that were told about all of you guys, I don't know if you'd laugh or cry. The ones that I know are true, anyway, are inspirational. You have stories to tell. Like a Post-Apocalyptic Robin Hood and his entourage."

James stopped in the middle of his stride. People told stories about him? Them? Haunting. Though it was good that he was remembered, him and Ash and Thana and Alicia, the Valkyries, Doc Froggy, etc. If stories survived, that meant that his people weren't wiped out completely. But that wasn't his point. "That's damn fine and all, Mr. Hat sir, but that ain't what I'm gettin' at. Y'see... hmm. This ain't all that long ago for me, you gotta understand. Whole lotta pain an' death what I was involved in. An' I killed, sir. When I didn't have to, I mean. I'm a murderer, boss. I don't know if I can share who I am with kids anymore. I went too far."

The Hat likewise stopped in his tracks and turned around abruptly. He stood tall and close to James, and lowered the volume of his voice even as it grew clearer and sharper. "James Grady, you listen to me right now. Yeah, you killed. You might even be a killer. But it bothers you. That distinction is the most important. In the many millennia of my consciousness, I can safely say that is what separates the monsters from the decent people who have made mistakes. It's a big damn mistake, and it's a hard climb to get out of it. Believe me, I know." The sincerity, even raw emotion of his words impacted with the force of a swung hammer. "And with enough time, almost anybody can come back from it, James. You're a good man. Even if you are a killer, that's only part of you. A dark and gruesome part that you have to accept. Don't fight against it. Embrace it; all of it is who you are. Keep it tucked away like a tool on a shelf. Tend to it. Maintain it. Don't let it rust or corrode. But do not use it unless it is needed. I guarantee, having the instinct of a killer in the hands of a decent man is powerful. Just don't let it control you."

Tears began to form in James's eyes. The Hat was totally accurate about one thing he could recognize, that he was a killer. James was a violent man who had committed violent acts. And yes, it bothered him every time. Every single time.

Gilbert could tell that he might have gone too far, too fast with James's recovery. It was time to dial it back. "That's just one part of who you are though, James. You're also a hell of a funny guy. You're giving. Good to friends. And if memory serves... no, remind me: What did you do for a living before the Apocalypse?"

"I was a hog hunter, 'mongst other things."

"Not just any hog hunter, man. You had a TV show there for a while, didn't you? Some moderately rated multiple season contract where they followed you into the bush to root out nuisance hogs and the like. You were 'Black James(!)', right? Some ginger guy out in east Texas even wrote a folk ballad about you. You were a hero to a lot of people long before the dead rose and began to eat the living. And if I may say so, you were a hero to a lot of them after, too. How many lives did you save in Newnan? Just by being there. Keeping bellies full and people safe. Putting your bow and rifle to good use, applying that violence that way it should have been applied." Gilbert's voice loosened up a bit, becoming more friendly and brighter. "You can be that, too. Do you remember what happened the day you first set foot in Newnan? After, I mean." After meaning, of course, after the Apocalypse started.

James started to break a smile. "Hells yeah! I ain't never told anybody 'bout that, 'cept them that was there. I was pullin' this bigass..."

"No, not now. Just remember. Tell the others. Get comfortable with it, you'll be okay. Now come on, Kitchen House. Drinks and such." Gil casually spun around and walked the rest of the way to the Kitchen House. In a bit better spirits, James followed. What good was a party without refreshments, anyway?

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
Skills: Leadership, Engineering

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Though the majority of Ash's attention was focused on the radio, he had enough of himself in the room around him to give a nod or thumbs up as people declared their watch times. It was good to see that what survivors there were hadn't given in to the crushing emotional weight of what had gone down early that day. Their home was destroyed. Numerous people dead. Hell, as far as he knew, this mystery person they could barely hear was the only other person alive for miles around. But they had the five of them. It counted for something. It had better count for something, anyway. He had left Thana and Gavin up to their own devices with a pair of morbidly insane women who were apparently off on a suicide run.

You can't afford to think like that, Captain. They have their mission, you have yours. Take care of your people.

Ash's fear that they were the only ones left was immediately removed when he heard Guy's voice come through the radio loud and clear. But what was puzzling: Froggy? Could he hear the "mystery person" more clearly than Ash? But more the credible news was that there were other confirmed survivors in their Sharpsburg safehouse. In case the group in the house with him didn't quite catch the broadcast, Ash repeated for their sake, "Sharpsburg just checked in - Guy, Ray, Amelia, and Medic are still alive, and I think they picked up someone new." He then spoke onto the radio, "Holloway here, Arnco Mills. Damnit Guy, it's good to hear from a fellow Virginian." He had almost give up on anyone from his old group back home making it. "I've got Riley, Niesha, Tiffany, and Jack with me. Can anybody else check in? Over."

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, Grand Gallery turning into cross corridor in front of Mechanical
Skills: Stealth, Survival, Pistol

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With a shrug, Thalia grabbed the remaining couple of magazines from Thana. It wasn't like she needed them at this point in time, but if all Alexander needed was two, then no problem. She wasn't a huge fan of wasting ammunition, not in the slightest. But just in case, having an excess of 9x19mm Parabellum rounds was fine by her. She peered down at them, taking note of the count of rounds in each one and testing the firmness of the springs by pressing her thumb down on the top round. Satisfied that they were indeed full and serviceable, she slipped the clips insertion point down into her back pocket.

An abundance of ammo noted, Thalia's eyes darted over in Alexander's direction as his gun reported, surely the sound of another Edenite death. The word "clear" had been used several times recently. While it appeared that no one was directly shooting at them right that second, she couldn't believe that this was done with just yet. Thalia stepped toward the sound of breaking glass from just earlier. As she carefully peered around the wall, she was damned near overjoyed to see the overly colorful vision of Lola. A smile formed under her ashen skull facepaint. She said nothing, but gave a nod in her direction and poked her head back around to her group for a moment. "We got some stairs, and we got the tank crew over here." Stairs... probably meant ambush waiting on them, as it was the only way up that she had seen. "The moment we set foot on those steps, they're going to have the advantage. Any ideas? Or we can just hit it hard." Thalia craned her head from side to side, popping vertebrae in her neck. "I'm game."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Russian Imperial Circus (Regent's Park), Veta's Tent
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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The evening following the collapse of the tent was not ideal, granted, but at the very least Vladimir got in a little time involving relaxation and the diverting passions of music, food, and wine. And most certainly, what gathering of Circus folk would be complete without getting a few, well inebriated Bazhoolis together, spinning them around several times so as to fully disorient, and have them hurl knives for accuracy. Let us say that, within the confines of the Russian Imperial Circus, it was a very good thing that they had many healers and practitioners of Fal'shbort. A very good thing.

But good news! The tent was repaired, that Talink fellow was down for the remainder of the evening, and they could actually get to the celebration uninterrupted. Veta was, to the best of Vlad's knowledge, still associating with Virginia and Mary, having girl talk or discussing the overthrow of nations. It could go either way with that bunch, Vlad figured. It was best not to interrupt them. Veta had so few people to converse with outside of the Circus, and now she had two such people, influential young women who were about her age. Let them talk, while the Sem'ya would dance, and sing, and laugh. Also drink - definitely drink.

Dawn came early, as dawn does. Vladimir was not the earliest riser, as many of his performances were nighttime affairs, but there was the pressing threat of Soulless, apparently within London, that prompted him to take a more earnest interest in the safety and security of his people. It was around this time, while he was walking the perimeter and speaking to those on guard duty, that he heard a chilling scream from the tent of his dear Elizaveta. Without hesitation, he took off at rapid pace toward the sound. As he got to the silk and canvas structure, Vlad began to realize that the scream did not come from Veta, but from Sister Sophia, declaring the absence of the Grand Duchess.

"Sophia! Sophia, vait... Vhere are others? The Scary Catholic Girl and the Lady Crypt?" If anyone now would know something about this sudden need to depart, it might be them. His voice marked of command, but in a pleading sense. "You find, da? You find them and ve talk. It vill be good! All vill be vell." He didn't believe the words that were issuing from his mouth, but it would do no one any good at all to get into a panic. Locate, ask around, try to find out what happened. She likely was not abducted, not with a note like that. He also doubted that their uninvited guest had anything to do with it, having soiled himself and been unconscious throughout the evening. Vlad had questions, but could not let others see the depth of concern in his face. He needed his people to act as a unit and puzzle out this difficulty.

Word of things like this spread through the Circus like wildfire. If something was known, it would get back to him soon. Still, it never hurt to motivate.

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{"In God's name let us go on bravely." -Joan of Arc}

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Location: Road outside Nottingham
Skills: Horseback Riding

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The fog and the strange sounds of goat within said fog worked to the advantage of the trio of Trained women. Mary might consider the occurrence something of a miracle, though she did not remember any of the miracles of Angels or Saints to take the form of a livestock animal obscured by condensation. Her unwillingness to immediately place religious significance on the event notwithstanding, Mary did indeed follow Veta's lead, nudging her horse, Cassius, through the gate in the confusion. They had business of a most pressing nature that would not be halted by a gatekeeper, nor city officials bent on holding onto their population at any cost.

The plan was to ride as quickly north as they could and send back word later to let all parties back in London know that they were safe, at least then. But for the start of it, they needed to put as much space between themselves and anyone who would stop them, even if they meant well, and quickly. The overnight ride was certainly effective in doing that. Mary did not like pushing Cassius that hard, nor would she have unless the need was great. He was a fine horse and had served her well. Besides, breaking their animals or making them lame would help no one, especially not Millicent. They would need some time to rest. "I agree, Elizaveta." she said, urging her horse down to a manageable walk. The street signs pointed this city out as Nottingham, meaning they had covered a respectable amount of ground in the night. "I am impressed with our progress. Surely we might find a place to board our beasts for a while. I might send word back to St. Etheldreda's, if there is a person of Vatican training in one of the churches here." Even the Anglicans should be of assistance in their endeavor. If they were not, Mary would have to remind them of their obligations to humanity in the face of this new, better organized threat of Soulless. She had no intention of saying it with flowers.

"How are you faring, Virginia?" she asked behind her. It was rough for an untrained rider to be on horseback for so long, especially if one rode behind the person holding the reins. As they made their way to Nottingham at a slower pace, Mary offered up, "I still have a number of pies in my baggage, if anyone has interest. Strawberry. They might be a bit shaken by now, however." Perhaps it would be better to wait until they got into town for such things. But the offer was there. She didn't remember herself nor her companions taking a meal the previous evening in the hustle and bustle of events.

🦄 After Miranda - A Firefly Rp - Season 1 (Completed)

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Foy's Parlor)
Skills: Art, Perception

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It was the dawn of a new day. Yes, a shiny new day of possibility and opportunity for a man willing to make both for himself. A man of business, say. A man like Foy. Now, opportunity was the harder of the two to accomplish, but he was in an interesting position that morning: Aboard a newly registered, previously unknown ship with a fresh crew to pass association, services contracted to a Captain (a Browncoat Captain, no less!) with a contract of her own to fulfill. His bankroll was still heavy with the take from his last Alliance job, his substantial personal "per diem", and his cut from the ship's sale. Opportunities enough could be secured with the proper influx of starting capital. But this was not his aim today.

Foy's opportunities lay with whatever fate this ship and its crew brought to him. Until his little mess was cleared up involving Central contacts and his family's enterprises, he was bound to the Dragonfly vessel. The Captain was forward thinking enough to have provided Foy with a room suitable to establish his own tiny piece of civilization in the midst of a uncivilized 'Verse, which he did with great care and pride. Or to put it differently, the same Barbershop he had set up on board the I.A.V. Retribution was now upon Prometheus, though with a little less legroom. And right across from his quarters, as well!

"Fortuitous indeed." he spoke aloud from the confines of his room, considering many of the possible ways his week could have gone. This wasn't too bad. Foy absently wiped a swath of condensation from the smallish mirror, a temporary annoyance thanks to his efficient yet fastidious habits of personal hygiene. But more to the point, if memory served he had a small facility with which he might see to matters of style and grooming, and just short steps spanning the walkway.

First, clothing! Like any man of finery greeting the day, it was of importance. For today, the Esteemed Mr. Coiffeur chose a pair of black slacks and vest, snug yet mobile, over a fine, cream colored, linen shirt. His coat of the day, or at least of the hour, was dark grey with neutral grey pinstripes, and he tied a matching silk tie into an elaborate variation of a double Windsor knot, held in place by a platinum pin. A bowler hat perched top his head; a mild formality considering that etiquette suggested that he would have to remove it as soon as he left his bunk. He did want to see how it rested upon his noble head and check its match with the remainder of his outfit. Satisfied, Foy took a look at his pocketwatch, spun it a few times on its chain, and replaced it in his vest pocket. It was still early yet, so it was just the right time to set up a pot of strong, black coffee (the kind they serve in fashionable restaurants back in Londinium) and let the scent of it bring in people to fuel his conversational rumormill. And procure optimum quality care for all of their follicle-based needs, of course. He was an artist, after all.

And so, as sleep began to disentangle itself from the rest of the crew, Foy took a confident step outside of his quarters, made an immediate right turn, and followed the new path a good few steps until stood at the threshold of his Brand New Parlor. He felt immediately more comfortable when he walked inside. More Foy-ish, if you will. He doffed his hat and coat, saw to his grooming while the coffee drip, drip, dripped into an elegant, handled carafe, and set out a dish of wrapped candies. "Not a Barber, indeed." he sneered, remembering the words of the buxom, blonde grifter from the night before. "That, and more than a mere trifle in addition, I may assure." he continued speaking aloud to the room, gazing over his lovely barber's chair and professional accoutrements. "Now, I do wonder who, if anyone, shall avail themselves to the splendor of my attentions first?"

The door remained open, allowing for welcoming access and for the aroma of roast coffee to escape.

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William Harper

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, A Private Cabin)
Skills: N/A

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Something seemed off to Harper. Very off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was most assuredly something about his present situation that he did not immediately understand. He could have sworn that he had removed the mattress from his bunk and set it to the side, and in fact remembered that he made it a point to do exactly that late last evening. He just couldn't seem to get a full night's sleep anymore unless he was on a hard surface. It was an awful trait to pick up, even worse as it was a souvenir from his years in the Halo. Swear as he might, he could not escape the fact that he was, in fact, on a mattress not dissimilar from the one he had removed.

Ordinarily, this would be an occasion for him to sit bolt upright and reach for a painful blunt object, but his heightened sense of self-preservation wasn't screaming at him. He found that very curious. So instead of opening his eyes and taking a look at his surroundings, Harper kept still and began to assess his situation. He was laying in a bed that did very little for him so far as comfort was concerned. A sheet was partially draped across him that felt as if someone had spent a little money on it, something that he likely wouldn't have done for himself, yet despite the unwanted luxury of his sleeping accommodations, he felt incredibly relaxed. Yes, that was strange. Physically tired, as if he had pulled an all-nighter working on some engineering project or another back in the Fleet; a real endurance match to meet a deadline for a superior officer. But with a profound feeling of multiple accomplishment and a heavy, solid weight of tension removed from himself. He actually felt pretty good, mild headache aside.

A sense of movement nearby prompted him to roll onto his side. Harper absently thought he heard an alarm going off; not a shipwide alarm nor a proximity alert, but the type that might remind someone to wake up and tend to their duties. It passed very shortly, making his sleep-addled brain wonder if it was a product of semi-consciousness and a night of drinking. But even then, that wouldn't have made any sense. Harper ate well the previous night and kept to very low alcohol drinks, precisely to maintain his wits around new people in new surroundings. Then the gnawing thought hit him - Until he got back to the ship.

The sound of running water finally released him from any thought concerning remaining in bed. Harper gave himself a long stretch and breathed in deeply, amused to note that the bedsheets smelled faintly of flowers. Images of smooth, tanned skin and taut muscle flooded his brain, piercing hazel eyes, and brown hair cascading around him. A wickedly satisfied smile formed on his lips, and he allowed himself to open his eyes. There was a brightness to overcome before anything came into clarity, but even before it did, he was flung fully into the waking world by a simple, two word phrase of,

"Well shit."

To put it in terms that Harper, as a pilot, might better understand: "Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed properly, because this ride is about to get real gorram bumpy."

Very few times in his life had Harper moved as quickly as he did just then, springing from Anisa's bed and landing on his feet, a salute forming even before he had straightened fully. It was at this moment that he realized that he was completely without clothing, and suddenly felt a little self-conscious, snatching the sheet off of the bed and holding it precariously about his nethers. It did nothing to hide the ragged, poorly healed scar across his torso, but that wasn't the majority of his concern at the moment. "Ah, Ma'am?" he started, very unsure as to what route he wanted this conversation to take, "Captain? I, um... hooo..." Yeah, this was getting him nowhere, and fast.

Switching tactic, Harper cleared his throat and tried again, this time in a more casual tone of voice. "Good morning, Ma'am." He began grabbing up articles of his clothing and his gunbelt, "If you would prefer your privacy, Captain, I'll straighten up out here while you grab that shower and see myself out." He didn't know if this was something that had just happened or if he had been used by her. Not that he particularly minded, not at all. But she was in a position of authority over him, and more than that, she was the only one who knew the truth about him.

His potential for exposure aside, now that he was fully remembering the previous night, Harper realized that he had experienced the first meaningful piece of physical human contact he had in years. Literally years. His expression changed to one of gratitude toward Anisa. He took a couple of steps toward her before he stopped himself, saying, "Thank you. I'll um... I'll get you some coffee from the Galley once I've cleaned up a bit. How do you take it?"

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Museum - Vera's Office -> Front Doors
Skills: N/A

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Qasr El Nil Barracks

_{Egyptian Museum located at the top right, diagonally across the street from the Barracks.}

Being a stalwart example of stiff-upper-lippage, Reginald maintained the quiet dignity befitting his age and office despite the emotional equivalent of a desert whirlwind that had beset him over the past two days. Give him an enemy to mow through or a mechanical difficulty to fix, he was your man. Need help planning a three pronged, amphibious and air assault upon a stronghold occupied by the most ungentlemanly sort of armed contingent? Ask the Lord Major! Hell, he'd even hop in a Bristol aircraft and let fly the first fusillade whilst waving the Union Jack and bellowing out "God Save the King". But this? No, he was not accustomed to this type of uncertainty and senseless loss. As soon as the others had shuffled out of the door, Reginald hung his head and let his shoulders droop. He was not happy.

On his way out, the Lord Major stopped to have a word with the Curator. "My good man, Lady Munn has marked some items that she wished to be brought to the Barracks for safekeeping. It involves the expedition. I've a few men on their way for armed transport to one of our safe rooms. If you have anything else that you wish to be removed to the safety of the Crown's Military, if only for the time being, please let them know when they arrive. Likewise, if you wish for secure accommodation until the noise around this abates, I shall be most satisfied to provide. Perhaps a good meal and a glass of decent spirits, as well? It has been a trying day." In truth, Reginald had obligation to remain at the Barracks, and if he returned on his own and Peter was still unaccounted for through the night, it was very likely that the Lord Major would wake up on a padded booth in the Officers' Club come morning. It had happened before. A few times. Further obligation of a guest might remind him of propriety.

At the door, Reginald could see the approach of a squad of twelve men with rifles, led by a very vocal Corporal. "Yes, here they come now. Loud fellow, but quite expedient when on task." He breathed heavily, just vaguely aware that he still held the address where he might reach Vera and the others. It wasn't in his nature to worry, generally. Tonight was different. He very much wished that he would have to send word to that address, and soon.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: La Hacienda
Skills: Investigation, Security Tech

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It was a formality, unplugging and closing the destroyed laptop. It was probably also a formality to disconnect the battery, and likewise a formality to remove the fried flash drive from the machine. If the situation got any more formal, it would be wearing a top hat and tails. There was the most remote of possibilities that the laptop might still be hemorrhaging information to someone with a very firm grasp on technology. Thalia had heard of such things and Caesar had some working knowledge on security technology, at least enough to know not to take chances. But that thought was a minor stutter in the continuing series of messages sent to his man, Keystone, through the company 'net.

Caesar doubted that someone was watching the Hacienda at all times. Such an endeavor would consume resources on an extreme maybe, that being the chance that Caesar would be returning to his family's holdings in Mexico. He hadn't been back in a long time. It seemed more likely that the activation of the drive somehow had alerted whomever decided to crash their party online. Now that the door was open, though, he had no way of telling if the people responsible were still lurking somewhere behind their monitors, poking around in his family's affairs.

That unsettling thought aside, Caesar completed his last message to Keystone. He wasn't sure why the large man hadn't confirmed receiving most of the stuff that he had been sending, briefly wondering if the MSS Intranet had been compromised. Caesar needed Alicia at the helm of his Tech department, and fast. Her skills as a hacker, turned sideways, were invaluable to the company and to himself. The next best person for the job (that he trusted implicitly) was sitting in the room with him. But she wasn't a hacker by occupation; Thalia was a programmer with an education in network and tech security. She might make a damned fine hacker if she wanted, being as her knowledge of technology based security could readily be turned to the nefarious, but to the best of Caesar's knowledge his niece had not partaken in any computer based felonies as of yet.

Formalities and technological pondering done for the moment, Thalia decided that, like her uncle, she should probably get herself ready for whatever inclement conditions were about to make life interesting. She rifled through the contents of her pack, pulling out a few odds and ends that strongly hinted at her association with the family business. Tac belt, cutlass machete, and extra clips, followed by a phone that looked amazingly like Caesar's, except that it was tucked away in a case that appeared to be covered in fine wire mesh. The elder Gonzalez took an interest in what the upcoming generation was using these days, looking over the very familiar gear with approval. There was one item he was not familiar with, a smallish flashlight with a standard button and a pressure switch, which he instinctively reached toward before Thalia shooed him away.

"Careful where you pick that up, boss." Again, emphasis on the word boss, like she was hammering a point home. "Contact points are around the lens and endcap. You might get a little tickle with enough amperes to light your hair on fire."

Caesar's hand retracted. A rare smile formed on his face, to those who knew him. Anyone else would have seen a scowl, bordering on fury. But it was really a smile. "I sketched this years ago, Angelita. It was not this kind of flashlight though. This is our tech?"

"Yeah. Made right here in sunny Mexico. We moved away from the 'MAG' style light to reduce weight and decrease reaction time. But it's yours. Lot of other stuff, too. My dad not give you the numbers recently?"

"Been busy. I let the accountants handle that stuff and get the cliffnotes on the figures. As long as we're in the black, I'm okay." It was an oversimplification of his involvement with the company, obviously, as was the statement that he had been busy. The North American part of the business had been his area of concentration for a while now, and facilities for a clean room and factory floor were so much less expensive in Mexico.

In truth, this conversation about business and his series of thoughts on the matter was a distraction, keeping him from being in a state of constant despondency. Such was the way of grief: The strong undercurrent of pain stayed, but emotions on the surface ebbed and flowed, exposing the raw hurt one moment then allowing the cooling relief of humor, or love, or something far more dangerous to suppress the pain. This was one such moment for which Caesar was grateful.

But back to the matter at hand. "Fine, Angelita. Get yourself all Gonzalez'ed up. Tell your father what you are doing, and write a list of the working gear you are going to need. Keep it subtle. I am not putting you on the employee roster until we're in the air, either. Now come on, we need to get back to the viewing." The burial was scheduled for early the next morning. Many would not be sleeping that night in their revelry and preparation, which in this instance was preferable. Most all of them were armed, and a physical incursion onto the grounds by anyone hostile, short of an occupying military force, would be considered unwise by most schools of thought on the subject.

"I'll make sure you have a decent bike when we land. You still ride?" The sentence earned him a derisive expression from his niece. Caesar shook his head. Of course she still rode. No one in his family stopped anything until they died. Usually from not stopping.

With quiet resolve and an uncannily similar look on both of their faces, Caesar Hannibal Gonzalez and Thalia Angelica Carmichael of La Familia Gonzalez stepped from the upstairs room and made their way back to the viewing. Food, drink, important conversations with family, and the traditional trappings of Dama de la Muerte Inmaculada were forthcoming. And then back to business.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Elizabeth's Office -> Front Gate
Skills: Leadership, Security Procedures

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"Right then, Ma'am." responded Keystone, answering the request of his company's contract holder, Elizabeth Queensguard. She had visitors at the Gate, and murder on site or not they apparently needed entry. The problem was, Keystone had given the security on shift the express order not to let anyone in, regardless of who they said they were, unless he gave a personal okie-dokie on it. "Vinters, you hang about, yeah? Standard lockdown proties, yeah? When I'm back, we'll talk on gettin' you back to the Hub."

The angry faced blonde lady known as Vinters gave a sigh and a nod. She was none to happy with the present set of circumstances, being as she was supposed to be there to assist in the investigation of Alicia's death and the smooth operation of her holdings, only to be set on edge by an unexpected gathering of rich, influential schmucks and the untimely death of one of them. Still, she was a company woman. At least tonight. Such things were always possible. Maybe they could get to business tomorrow, but if she didn't get the opportunity to get shitfaced and beat the hell out of someone (not necessarily in that order) sometime that night, she was going to be pissed. Barring that, something in the way of vigorous horizontal attention would be fine, too.

On the other side of things, Keystone was busy making his way out of the building and down to the main gate. Just prior to leaving the awning outside of the front doors, he stopped to scan the information that Caesar was passing along to him. "I was thinkin' I 'eard that name..." he mused. Pye. Valerie Pye was apparently a big part of what was going on. And here she was, knocking at the gate. Keystone switched away from the app and gave the guards at the Gate notice. "En route, give Ms. Pye and, er... Guest? Guest my apologies. Be there in a jiff." During that "jiff", Keystone scanned the rest of the information sent from Mexico. It wasn't much. Maybe it was enough for his new tech people to get a more solid lead, though.

Approaching the Gate, the massive pugilist adopted more of a professional demeanor, though it was difficult to do away with his London East Ender's Cockney accent. "Ms. Pye? Mr. Wadsworth? 'pologies on the wait. If'n that you'd be as kind, please pull up to the main building. I'll be alongside." He waved the vehicle through and took up a jog to the passenger's side of the vehicle, staying with it for the short distance necessary to get them to the building. He opened the door and extended a hand to the lady in the backseat, intoning, "Ms. Pye, my name is Keystone, Director o' Security for the Complex. It's m'pleasure to escort the two of you to Miss Queensguard's offices. Be aware, security's a bit tense t'night. Stick with me until we're up where we gotta go, if it'd be your pleasure, ma'am."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main Building, Dining Room)
Skills: The Hat

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"Cairo, 1920's..." mumbled Gilbert. He didn't recall being part of the movement to reclaim the treasures of Egypt during that time period, at least not in any direct, situation-influencing way. He had been there when a lot of these miracles of the ancient age were created. Coming to think of it, he was responsible for destroying a few of them. Before they were the priceless bits of antiquity that they were today, at any rate. Nonetheless, digging up the bones of a past with which he was not directly involved was not a thing that held his particular interest at that time, especially while it was being sensationalized by a culture that mostly sought to profit from it.

James noted the sense of concentration on Gilbert's face, and peered at him with a touch of curiosity mixed with concern. "You okay there, Mr. Hat? Need you a Pepto-Bismol or somethin'?"

Gilbert snapped out of his little foray into his history. "No, I'm just fine. I was having a thought about the present situation in Cairo. Or, the situation twenty years ago." It tended to get confusing. This was expected. Gilbert stood from the table, wiping his hands with the cloth table napkin. He tossed it nonchalantly on the table and moved to recover his hat fro the back of his chair. Not the most gentlemanly spot to leave it, but perceived years of existence led for a sense of casual behavior. For someone like Gilbert, it concepts like "casual" carried more weight. He had been a little more formal than usual, owing to the presence of new Paradoxes.

An infectious smile parted his face and he looked down at James, who was still wrangling a fork around some sort of fruit dish or another. James responded by giving him a sideways glance and pushing his food back away from him. He knew that look. It meant someone was contemplating mischief. He held that look many a time before, and with like minded company. He just didn't know what it meant on the face of an immortal. "You sure you don't want that Pepto there, Mr. Hat, sir?" His voice was almost condescending.

Sensing his apprehension, Gilbert assured him, "Just a magic trick, James. Nothing up my sleeve..." Of course, having his sleeves rolled up prevented a lot of that, but it was merely the antics of an impromptu performance. A more serious look crossed the face of the tall Emendator, and he began to reach into his mildly distressed fedora. Impossibly far - hand, wrist, up to his forearm into a space that was not really there. "Here we are..." he finally said, removing his arm from the dimensional nonspace of his hat. "Bartholomew!" he exclaimed, his head snapping in the young man's direction. From his seemingly magic hat, he pulled a fine suit of tweed and Egyptian cotton. He laid it across the back of Bart's chair, and remarked, "You're welcome, boy. Here, you'll need this." He dropped a gold pocketwatch into a driving cap which matched the suit, and set it on the table near him.

"You can't pass as anything else but American. Yet. Don't try. In fact, it might be better not to say much at all. Just tag along with Gio and make yourself useful to him." A similar feat of headwear-based mysticism brought out another suit of richer appointment and cut for Giosue. He had seen this several times already; there was no point to theatrics with him. "Clothes make the man, I suppose. I had thought to go with something more scholarly for you Gio. You should find a fair amount of local currency in a wallet in your suit pocket, and I have taken the liberty of providing you a map. Inside breast pocket."

"They gonna need to go packin'?" inquired James.

"That... is up to Gio. Your call."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
Skills: Leadership, Engineering

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"Thank you, Riley." said Ash deliberately. He was on task, but didn't want to seem ungrateful. This kind of a thing wasn't a big deal for him, being military. He was accustomed to receiving a task and completing it without so much as an acknowledgement of job well done. Task performed, move on to the next one. Feedback was had only if the job was substandard, and it was safe to assume that one tended to avoid that type of feedback. On the one hand, these people had toiled faithfully for Ash, and before him Leann for a long time now. They might as well all be soldiers. On the other hand, life had handed them a beating of monumental proportions earlier that day. An ounce of politeness wasn't going to hurt anybody.

With the light focused on the relay, Ash was able to clearly fasten the connections to the machine and extend the antenna. He would have felt better if he had a small satellite dish instead, but for the intent of reaching other safehouses, the antenna would suffice. Now that he had this, there was a good possibility he could coordinate with the other survivors and work out a plan for when it got light out. Because one way or another, Ash wasn't done surviving just yet, and he was pretty sure that others weren't, either. They needed a leader, no matter how crazy he might be.

"Thanks again, Riley." he said, a little more confidently now that he knew the walkies were functional and the relay was set up. But before he got to using either, Ash waited to hear reports from his team. Riley and Tiffany gave the house the "all clear" tag, which was just fine by him. Jack and Niesha found a good haul for themselves, adding what was found to their existing supplies. Jobs completed, it was probably a good time for Ash to be a Captain again, or something close to it. The earlier thought of Leann McCormick, Newnan's first commanding officer that was lost to them a while back, prompted Ash to move his hand to the breast pocket of the jacket he now wore. It was a brown flight jacket that belonged to Leann's father from World War II, and in that pocket lay her Lt. Colonel insignias.

Very briefly, Ash had considered adopting her military rank in addition to the command of Newnan, but decided against it. It seemed too presumptuous. It would have fit a pattern, though - Ash was only a Lieutenant when all of this started. He pulled his Captain's Bars off of his own dead C.O. when the apocalypse really started to hit. They needed a Captain and he was the only guy there remotely qualified; moreover there was enough of a government left to formally approve the battlefield promotion. So no, Captain it stayed. Maybe he even earned Lt. Colonel, but he didn't feel that it was his call.

"Alright, fall in." he said aloud to get everyone's attention. "Gather around, let's take a head count... Riley, Tiffany, Niesha, Jack, and myself." There had to be more than five that got out. Ash sighed. "Okay, we're out, alive... We have emergency supplies, walls, and a roof over our heads. It's something. We have functioning radios. That's something else. It's been a long, bad day. Everyone grab an MRE and settle in for the night. Stick to this main room, I want everyone in sight of each other. Now, I'll take first watch. While you all eat, I'm going to see who's checked into the other safehouses. Okay? Let's do it."

As others got settled in, Ashton set himself back to the radio. He was going to deal with the news from Tiffany that they were all seeing deaddead people after a little bit. This took priority. It was a simple task of getting to the right frequency, made slightly more difficult by the fact that it wasn't preset; he had to dial it to the proper frequency manually, at least for the first time. Though long before he got to the correct span on the dial, a barely audible transmission issued from the speakers:

"garblestatichellostatictonighttomorrowstaticstaticalivestaticanyonestatic"

"Hold the goddamned phone..." He couldn't tell if it was man, woman, or child. He didn't know were it was coming from. All Ash knew: Someone else was broadcasting.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, Grand Gallery turning into cross corridor in front of Mechanical
Skills: Stealth, Survival, Pistol

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Team Lola seemed to be doing a fine job, operating as a distraction. First in that tank, a place that she called her big metal home over the winter. That tank got the sneak attack crew in there in the first place. Damned fine piece of work. Then of course was the singing. Thalia was fairly certain that it was one of the worst ideas ever, provided they were still entertaining stealth as an option. Tio Caesar would never have gone for it, period. But his was a singular school of thought. Old school, adaptive, chillingly effective; the kind that Thalia herself used, like some sort of Mexican ninja. So the application of music better suited for a binge drinking New Year's Eve party would have never been allowed in her family.

Damn, but it was proving effective. As long as it worked, Thalia didn't care.

Thalia continued in her original direction north, keeping to the wall and aiming to join up with Thana, or at least where she heard the woman's weapon report last. Doing so meant passing by the trio of Edenites that Alexander took out while providing his "cover fire", a thing which gave her a bit of a smirk. But one little detail did catch her eye: Two of the downed men carried 9mm pistols as backup. That was something worth taking note about. She decided to risk the couple of seconds necessary to check the models on those. A sly smile crept over her face as she recognized two Glock-compatible weapons, and she silently thanked her father and uncle for utilizing a standardized 9mm as their company's base sidearm. Many people wanted a .45, but no, most firefights were resolved by shot placement and magazine capacity over the ability to place a huge hole in somebody. Logistics were a lifesaver sometimes.

Keeping her pistol high, Thalia knelt by the bodies and set her machete to the side. With her free hand, she pulled one pistol from an Edenite belt and thumbed the magazine release, then repeated the other with a gun on the floor. She snatched up both, checked the counts, and shoved them both into her back pocket. Thalia recovered her blade and continued, this time cutting left in hopes of meeting up with Thana and getting their little group back together. Though it wouldn't hurt to check that door labeled "Mechanical" first...

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Russian Imperial Circus (Regent's Park), Vladimir's Vardo -> Main Tent
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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A determined flush of red swelled Vlad's cheeks, along with a clarifying hint of brightness to his eyes. He began with a walk, a very solid walk to return to the main tent, but it was not fast enough. Both hands worked sharp and pointy objects, twirling them back and forth wit rapid precision, a supposed cadence for his steps that never seemed fast enough. Soon, Vladimir found himself running. It wasn't but a short walk, but his willingness to get it over and done with was strong. When he had switched to the wide, reaching pace of a runner, the knives in his hands had ceased their nervous, twirling constitutionals, having settled into underhanded grips at the sides of the man known as the reigning Great Bazhooli. Safety, and such.

The run took him around carts and baskets of wares, vaulting over displays and spinning his physicality about groups of Circus Folk. He leapt over a brazier at one point, its smoke clinging to his body for a split second, giving the appearance of a men trailing vengeful, smoldering embers. Somehow, his ponderously tall hat clung to his head. It lent his appearance the barest of comical notes which no one in their right mind would snicker upon viewing, not if they wished to continue their evening untouched by the growing fervor of Vladimir's march. Such as it could be called a march at any rate, and not a mad dash to battle.

But battle was not to be had, as he set foot back inside of the Main Tent. He tucked his knives away, and with a look of high disbelief, pondered a question in something akin to The King's English: "Vhat, ah... Vhat in leftover ass transpires here? Eh?"

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{"In God's name let us go on bravely." -Joan of Arc}

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Location: Jericho's Barricade
Skills: Horseback Riding

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Defiance was not one of Mary's strong points. It wasn't who she was. In fact, one of the oaths that she had taken was one of Obedience. It was not as strict as that of a fully Cloistered nun, but it was enough to demonstrate that Mary was not given to open acts of rebellion against authority purely for the sake of it. (As an interesting side note, now that Mary was the Arch Graveolase, did that mean that her Oath of Obedience now limited her to orders given purely from the mouth of God? She would have to reconcile this new situation with her duties to the Church, as she now represented a lot more than Knights of the Papacy.) Nor was she inclined to give trouble to the men guarding the Wall, all protectors of the lives and souls of the people of London. But their business was urgent and they had to depart.

"Da mihi fortitudinem, et patientia, Dei Omnipotentis..."₁ said Mary in a clear but quiet voice as she edged Cassius forward a step or two. She kept her halberd within her horse's tack, but turned her mount slightly so that the distinctive weapon of the Swiss Guard could be seen readily. It was not a show of force more than providing something of an identifying marker to back up her words to the guard. "I am Commander Hale, Venator of the Order of St. Sylvester," she began, speaking to the man from atop her horse as an equal, rather than a woman who felt obliged to wait and answer questions. If word had gotten around London as per the local rumormill's reputation, this man knew the most recent title she had acquired; a young, fiery-haired Catholic girl, a Scottish Lady Knight of the Papacy and Soulless Hunter who had landed in the highest position in the land. People already knew about her in London. Being female, Catholic, and having her occupation had made her a well-known outcast (until they needed her), becoming Arch Graveolase even in the Interim was bound to get around. "I am pursuing business of my Order. By what cause do you interrogate persons leaving London, Sir Guard? What has happened?"

Mary considered not revealing her name, not saying anything that might tip their hand. It was not a falsehood to say that she was pursuing business of her Order. If given a command, a Knight of St. Sylvester was expected to carry it out expediently. It just happened that she, flexing the muscle of her new title, gave herself the order. Also, it would be rather difficult to go incognito from this point with a Russian lady riding a tiger. That was far too conspicuous. The Circus would know exactly who all three of them were from that detail alone, as might the good people of St. Etheldreda. But as far as they knew, the Circus didn't miss them yet, and the Church was not expected to check up on Mary that evening.

Translations

1 = Give me strength and endurance, Almighty God