Logs:Recovering George Otsuka
Peeps: Scarpia, Willow, Walter, and Phillip
Contents
Finding The House
The Adventures of Punch The Marionette begin on Lombard street, or rather, Leavenworth and Lombard. At this later hour, tourism is slim to nonexistent. Scarpia stops at the crosswalk at the crest of the crooked, hairpin block, and staring back at the eyes cut out of his horrible mask are the painted on eyeballs that compose the two O's of LOOK!, meant for rubbernecking pedestrians. The streets are sleepy and quiet out here, with the exception of a couple admiring the stately homes about halfway down the block.
As for the homes themselves, some houses stand dark and silent, every light turne off. Some have some or all of their lights on. At cursory, passing glance nothing quite stands out from any one house more than the next, but perhaps something eventually will, on inspection.
Scarpia crosses the corner to start up the hill, paying some mind for any autokinoton carriages that might come roaring along the way the damned things always do, but not minding the people looking at the houses, he's confident they won't see him. He starts along the famous winding block on the opposite side of Lombard from the pair, though. May as well give them some space. He takes his time, looking over the first house, glancing about for its mailbox.
As Scarpia approaches the street, the divide between the sidewalk and the winding road become apparent: he can elect to take the winding street or walk up the railed staircase carved straight along its edge that calls itself a sidewalk. The first home looks far more like an apartment than a home, with nested entrances perched on its three stories. The mailboxes for either are missing, but the doors do have mail slots.
Invisible Mr. Punch pauses to look over the apartment building, but doesn't approach it, instead heading up the staircase-sidewalk. He pauses when he touches the rail, dragging his fingers over it a moment before looking at the next house up.
Scarpia encounters a salmon pink Spanish style stucco home, this one clearly a home. Three stories tall. Brick planters string along the facade, the arched doorway is a handsome dark wood. The windows are broad and generous, and the curtains are drawn tightly, even on the top story, where by contrast its neighborhing homes aren't so secretive.
Scarpia tilts his head, contemplating the place through the hellish visage of the domestic violence clown, and then ambles slowly and silently up its front walk, pausing if there's a gate or post or mailbox he might check with a touch.
Once again, the mailbox situation seems to boil down to a mail slot in the door. There is a gate, but it's a laughably short half-gate, more of a suggestion and an aesthetic than anything else, and can be very simply stepped over.
Mr. Punch ignores the mail slot in favour of putting a hand on the doorknob, searching for an impression.
Fleeting impressions of annoyance flutter in and out, and for an instant, that happy couple pointing out one of the homes becomes distinctly unbearable. The door knob /is/ locked, for the record.
Punch doesn't even try to turn the knob, he just lays a hand on it, draws his pale fingers over it and turns away, moving round the side of the house to look for other doors. Under the mask, Jack grimaces.
The neighborhood is still quiet, and then as Jack mves to look for other entrances, the couple starts to depart. Along this street, the only apparent entrance is that front door, but that can't be. There's got to be a back way in, just from the other block. Being that these are row houses, it's not easy to go around the house itself, but it's not impossible. Jack'll just have to go back to the mouth of the block and trace around. When he does get there, it's by route of a different street, Lurmont Terrace, which opens up and snakes past another apartment building before leading down into the rear of the lot of the salmon pink house. This angle is not as flattering, but it's the same house: the same lox colored facade is waiting for him back there. A Hyundai Sonata sits underneath two fat, leafy trees from this view, and beyond it is a garage door. Two balconies decorate the second and third story, quiet in the dark. The windows here are likewise concealed with tightly drawn curtains, not a peep of light.
Scarpia doesn't hurry, but considers a route to check front doors and then back ones to avoid all this wriggling about to the ends of the terraced houses. He looks up at the pink house from this angle, smiles under the mask and goes to look at the door, giving the car only a glance as he walks past it, looking in its windows.
The Sonata is pretty nondescript. Inside is little, just some mail in the passenger front seat. The back door is tucked in next to the garage door, which is itself closed.
Scarpia pauses first to glance around, then lays his fingers on the doorknob back here as well, narrowing his eyes a bit dreamily.
NAs Scarpia settles his hand on the doorknob, he feels the kick of a surge of adrenaline, anticipation, excitement. A compulsion to look over his shoulder, a fleeting moment of suspense, of achievement: he is here to see something he's /earned/.
Jack grins under the mask, eyes widening. He's not sure the sensation is exactly enjoyable, but he takes a moment to savour it somehow anyway, and licks his teeth, grounding himself some with the spice taste of gold even as he lets go more by closing his eyes.
You've been living in a communal home in the Mission for months now and now this new responsibility fills you with accomplishment. You miss your old friends, but you owe a safe future to them and their kids. You're here to show your doubting company the truth.
Scarpia frowns a little, puzzled, and stands listening to the doorknob as best he can for a few more moments before withdrawing his hand.
You're torn about what lies on the other side of the door. It's a gruesome thing, but it's a necessary, galvanizing thing. The impressions, the sense of purpose and anticipation, disappate as Scarpia withdraws his hand and focuses back on the 'now'.
Scarpia stands there silently and lifts his head to listen to the house in a slightly more conventional way, Discipline-enhanced hearing prying at the walls and windows.
The house seems to stand quiet. What stands out more is the soft whisper of passing by cars. If there is noise to be had within the walls, it must be very quiet.
Scarpia nods, turning to look at the car now. He stares at it for a long moment, uncomfortable, then steps to touch its door-handle.
The very touch of the car door handle is draining: numb apathy drapes over Scarpia's shoulders like a wet blanket, a sense of emptiness and defeat. This person is in mourning. A young man, no family, what few friends dead. Murdered.
Scarpia makes a face, sighs almost silently as he collects the impressions, letting his hand linger, fingertips light on the metal.
The neighborhood stands silent, unheeding of the comically grotesque Mister Punch in the frilly red blouse, as the too familiar weight of loneliness fogs into his psyche.
Scarpia grimaces and draws his hand away. He pads around to the other side of the car, drawing his fingertips over the hood to see how warm it is as he passes. At the passenger window he peers in at the mail on the seat.
The car hood is cold. No sound escapes the vehicle. The mail looks run of the mill, like bills, ads, but it indicates an address in the Mission.
Scarpia left his Book back on Stormy in his horrible black overcoat, but he's got a pencil and a scrap of paper bag or flyer. He makes a note of the address and slips it into one of the deep pockets of his trousers and then slinks back over to the house, listening again.
Scarpia can be certain no spoken conversations are being had, no TV, no radio. It is possible that the house is occupied by someone reading, or on a computer, or asleep.
Scarpia moves along, a bit reluctantly, checking the back doors of the other houses in the row.
As Scarpia checks the neighboring homes' doors, nothing really stands out about them. Fleeting little impressions of passing concerns. Gotta let the dog out. Gotta take out the trash. Did I go to Wendy's twice today?
Scarpia shudders a little, he finds he's nod fond of the sensation. He moves back around to the front of the pink house, meaning to check it over again for access, or at least spots to listen and sniff at.
As Scarpia considers the house, he doesn't really come up with any way to get in that isn't glaringly obvious: no security faults stand out to him, no useful tricks of the details of the building. As he listens, he can very vaguely hear the click-clack of something rhythmic. Soft, dull, maybe like clinking machinery, maybe like setting dominoes. Roll Intelligence to identify it.
He's heard Khoi's laptop keys tippy tapping like that before. That must be someone typing.
Scarpia narrows his eyes some, sighs. He moves along to touch neighboring doorknobs, not really giving them his full attention now as he mulls over the problem, but taking it slow. He won't seem to have paid much more attention to one house than another, and he'll cross the winding street at random to inspect the other side, and back doors along there as well.
Scarpia's comparison of the houses yields little of note from the houses. He gets tiny glimpses into the lives of rich randos who wish that they didn't have to deal with so many tourists or lug themselves up this staircase sidewalk. The vibes from that second house up, the salmon pink one, remain outstandingly bizarre by comparison.
The sense of mourning is distinctly absent from the next door neighbors.
Scarpia eyes the suspect pink house as he walks past it and leaves the winding road. He wanders the neighborhood a bit in his disturbing get-up, keeping out of mind and thus out of sight.
Walter And Scarpia Check It Out
"I am sniffing around zhees house before," says Jack quietly, "I am think the unfortunate Signor Jorge Otsaka ees captive inside. Or zhey have killed heem. Ees one mortal, I hear in there, playing tap-tap toys?" He mimes typing.
Walter nods, "Alright. Let's go get him then. How do you want to handle it? Cloak of shadows, hit to disable? If George is one piece, do we wake him up here and feed the mortal to him?"
Scarpia makes a face like a cat when it finds something that disgusts it. He says, "Last time ees a car een back. I theenk we steal her and take Leel Jorge to hees own fellows, zhey can feed heem. I am think maybe he ees no likely to have much patience for us asking questions of hees dinner." He shrugs. "Ees maybe come along other way, at least somebody ees finding eet, eh. Gruesome necessity een house. I am no sure just how."
Walter muses, "We might want to find out what George has to say before we return him, that's all. We can also talk to whomever is holding him prisoner first, of course. But they probably ain't been feeding him much so he'll probably go apeshit on us if we just wake him up." He grins, "Of course, we gotta get him first."
Scarpia nods. "Si, ees zhe apeshit part I am find a leel trouble, eh?" He smiles. "You theenk his friends weel no show any, eh, gratitude for hees return? I theenk zhey get better honesty zhan eef we are waking him and making questions." Another shrug, "But maybe we see what ees happen. I am a leel more worried zhat whoever ees inside ees making zhe rest of zhem show up right quick. You want sneak in or just fuckeeng knock? I am no good for locks now, I think."
Walter shrugs, "I can get in regardless. I can do that and then you can knock if you want. And then I can get the drop on whomever is there? If there's just the one it should be pretty easy."
Walter adds, "Alternatively, I can just get in and get a door open for you and then we can just both get the drop on the guy?"
Scarpia nods. "I try to listen again," he says, "See eef ees just one. Come, I show you, we go along street you see front, and go around back, you see zhere also, and I am maybe knock there, eef ees what you think wise?" He leads the way to that famously crooked block of switchbacking curves at Lombard street, walking without hurry. "I am expect you are maybe better at getting drop on a man who ees staring at me waving me oldfellow about zhan both of us are at getting one who ees, eh, no distrated, eh? But eef zhere are more zhan one..." He shrugs again.
The residential street is mostly quiet, as most of its action relies on enough daylight for killer insta photos!
The home Scarpia previously singled out is visible from the base of the street he walks: a salmon pink Spanish style stucco home a few meters down the winding road. Three stories tall, with brick planters strung along the facade and an arched doorway in a handsome dark wood. The windows are broad and generous, but the curtains are drawn tightly, even on the top story, where by contrast its neighborhing homes aren't so secretive. There is a gate, but it's a laughably short half-gate, more of a suggestion and an aesthetic than anything else, and can be very simply stepped over.
Walter takes the time to find somewhere he is pretty sure isn't observed, and take up his mist form. Which is then doing it's best not to be noticed, although Jack can probably see it just fine, since Walter is not nearly as good at that kind of thing as Jack is at second sight. So he can almost certainly see the mist as it swirls around his feet, following him as he cases the joint.
Scarpia just walks past along the stairway-sidewalk that serves the odd street, pointing the exact house out to Walter with a silent and brief motion of his head. He focuses his attention on the sounds from inside while pretending to look about in a lost drunk sort of way.
Scarpia, as he attunes himself to his surroundings, attempts to pick up on some clues from within under his facade of drunken weirdo, mist pooling at his feet. His supernatural hearing picks up all sorts of sounds, but it's hard to sift for gold amidst the far off patter of footsteps, distant music, car engines, chatter, and even the gnawing of some rodents and rustling of some racoons in a tree.
As Scarpia looks for a car to duck behind or a privacy fence, alas, his drunken wobbling earns him the attention of a young man who steps out from his home at just precisely the wrong time. He frowns in distaste at the riff-raff that he sees before him, and his drunken stumbling, eyes following after him in judgement. "What are you doing here?"
Walter, when Scarpia goes off to cloak himself, simply sets to seeping through the house somewhere helpful. It is unlikely to be airtight, after all. Plus if he follows Jack the cloak will fail. He has full confidence in the italian, which, perhaps, may be his downfall.
Scarpia pauses when addressed, blinks, looks at the young man, looks around, looks down at himself, looks back at the man and blinks again. "Everytheeng's got to be someplace," he says. "I am, eh, walking uphill? What are you doing?" He offers a drunken grin.
The wobbling, the grin -- Scarpia's delivery would be believable, were it not for something about its nuance. Perhaps it's the fact that he's gaunt, and in that horrible coat, because what's going through this homeowner's mind is made bluntly very clear: "Wondering what a drug addict is doing on /my street/. Do I need to call the cops or are you going to get out of here?" He shoo's at Scarpia with an arc of his hand like he's some dog. "Why aren't you off on Columbus? Go bother people -there-."
"Which way ees zhat?" asks Scarpia of the homeowner, looking back the way he came and then up the way he was going.
As Scarpia catches unwanted attention from Sir HOA, who apparently seems intent on escorting Scarpia off of the premises like some pearl clutching boomer who will tell Facebook about this later, Walter approaches the Spanish style home. As the mail slot in the front door looks mildly promising, Walter picks out his approach. The place looks as locked tight as it looks beautiful, otherwise. As his curls of mist float nearer to the property and the brass comes within a few inches of him, an unwelcome sense of foreboding creeps through Walter's psyche, and an astounding sense of discouragement comes with it: entering through that space will take an act of deliberate will.
Walter has felt something like this before: this has the same signature as the dastardly trickery of the Tremere indeed, and their wards against vampires. Pushing through is possible, but will take a toll on his psyche and mental stamina.
Walter, preferring to go around rather than through when possible, takes a few minutes (something has delayed Jack after all) to see if he can find a place that they forgot to put one of the magic spells, maybe.
Walter has encountered wards that were possible to conquer. The skill of the caster determines just how draining a feat this can be, and he knows that defying a ward can sometimes actually physically harm the intruder, but pushing past them is doable. And also suggests there's more than a mere ward, if the place is worth that sort of preventative attention.
Back to Jack! The man steps away from his pitifully tiny little front lawn, if that pizza strip of like four blades of grass can be called as much, his front door still cracked open. "Linda!" he calls to the inside of the house, but doesn't give Linda instructions, apparently just confident that she'll come runnin'. "Go back where you came from." Says Ken, gesturing with an aggressive cut of his hand down the block. "Get out of here, I better not see you near here."
Walter may know that, for the Tremere at least, sometimes they can enspell an entire building, and sometimes they just enspell a particular entrance. So if the mice have been chewing holes, or there's a gap in one of the walls due to the home's age, maybe he can get through without paying the magical toll. If not, well, he isn't inclined to let a witch block him, and will just shove through.
Scarpia produces his ever-present paper-bag-wrapped whiskey bottle and is about to offer it to the man when he's directed down the block. He looks at the hand, looks at the street, shrugs, and begins to wander off in the direction indicated, his course somewhat straighter than that of the street, but not by much.
Ken has the caucasity to step out onto the sidewalk and mean-mug him like a kid he must banish from his lawn until Scarpia gets what he feels to be a Satisfactory Distance from his home. Granted, that ends up being the intersection, but he will finally relent when he can't see Scarpia, who can now roll for stealth again to vanish.
Walter, in his search, oozes over the house towards the back once he finds the front unforgivingly pristine of faults. Perhaps the back has some answers? He can't go neatly *around* the home because this is San Francisco and the houses are tightly packed row houses. Regardless, creeping over the roof, Walter feels that familiar discouraging sense that looms in the air like a bad omen. When he gets to the back, he can sense the rear lot of the salmon pink house. This angle is not as flattering, with a lox colored facade. There is an empty parking space underneath two fat, leafy trees, and a garage door. Two balconies decorate the second and third story, quiet in the dark. The windows here are likewise concealed with tightly drawn curtains, not a peep of light. The garage door does, in fact, lack the Fuck Off And Die Factor that so permeates the rest of the building.
Scarpia is meanwhile able to slip behind a car and become distinctly Unimportant.
Scarpia wobbles his way off, until he can find a dark alley corner or something along the cross-street and disappear, pulling on the Mr. Punch mask afterwards and transferring the silent and profoundly 'sleeping' Gufo into his baggy trouser leg, pull off his little sabotabby pin, add a pair of black moccasins and make his way to the back of the house, quickly.
Walter proceeds to mist himself into the garage. Hopefully they were somewhat less attentive to the entrances from the garage to the home proper. Or, hey, maybe there's something worth seeing.. misting? in the garage itself! Stranger things have happened.
Scarpia had poor luck finding a way in last time but his previous casing indeed found Lurmont Terrace (the street that led to the back of the house) promising. The old Hyundai Sonata that once stood there is now gone, but the rest of the house is quiet and still.
Scarpia steps up quite close to the back door after a pause to look about. He listens.
Walter, it's fukken dark in here. Let me go see if you can use Protean 2 in your CARL form.
It's pitch the fuck black in here, but hey, he's not exploding. In a moment of quiet and calm, Walter takes the risk and calls up the gifts of his clan. The garage starts to glow a soft red, and in here, he can see a hyundai sonata, a workbench with various home repair and maintenance tools, as well as a bunch of home clutter, like bicycles, winter coats, ski equipment, ...And a bunch of barrels. Like fifty gallon drums. Blue plastic ones, the kinds for long term storage of gasoline, water, or dry goods. The shelves are lined with canned goods.
Scarpia, as you listen at the back door, you hear footsteps. You can discern that there are two people inside on the first floor, and you can faintly hear a television playing. Someone's watching something, and a young child's voice speaking their native tongue -- a language that Scarpia doesn't recognize, but does undersatnd as foreign -- with a voiceover from a translation. "...terrible knowing I have to come back here again. Everything hurts. When I'm working here I'm suffering. My mother, she's already dead and I have to work all day and my head hurts."
Walter drifts closer to the drums. Presumably, mist-Walter can smell as well as see. He investigates them for the telltale scent of gasoline or other substances he is familiar with. Or labels. They may just be labelled, before moving on to see what else he can find.
Labels. This is a bunch of stored water. Give mea perception + investigation.
Scarpia can't hear mist and pauses to look around again, considering things. He continues to listen.
Walter, you take a brief assessment of the space. You and Scarpia meanwhile both hear the TV: a British narrator. "The tunnels are dug by hand with no supports," she says, and while Walter can't her the nuance, Scarpia can hear the background chatter of two men's voices discussing something in a foreign language underneath the voiceover. "They frequently collapse, especially during rain. The miners climb down using holes carved in the rock and no safety equipment. This most precious of minerals is often extracted and sorted by tiny hands. They don't wear gloves or masks, although the World Health organization says exposure to cobalt can cause long term health problems..."
Walter, in your inventory of the place, it all stinks of a doomsday prepper. Some Mormon amounts of food are here, organized, dated, packed and picked for extreme long term shelf life.
Walter figured. Oh, that funny show about how phones are made. Silly african vampires, poisoning their herds to trade dirty rocks for california gold. He swirls around the garage until he is satisfied that the secret weapons cache isn't located here. He then starts looking for a way into the home itself. He may have to cut the glow eventually, assuming he can feel that his cloak has stopped functioning, so he can reassert it.
As Scarpia moves to press his ear to the door to get more information, he's dissuaded. He can loom near the door, but touching it this time simply feels about as appetizing as a mouth full of hot ash. Fortunately his crazy sense of hearing makes up for the distance he cannot close in on by the door. A very soft red glow shifts underneath the gap of the garage door.
Walter swirls around in his cute little will o wisp glow party. He doesn't find a weapon cache in here, just enough food to last someone a few years, and the car. Nothing further really stands out to him in this space towards the tune of weaponry, occultism, or any other hunter-related stuff that he's looking for.
Swirling near the door that leads into the house, however, greets him with that unremitting, off-putting dread, a physical push back on his psyche.
"...We visited five differnt minds across the south of DRC and found all use child workers. Monika is the youngest worker of this group at just four. Even those barely able to walk has lost their childhood to mining. Natali is twelve years old. Miles away, on a different site, Mwanza shows us the cobalt tunnel he's dug with three of his friends..."
"This is just sick," says a woman's voice, interrupting the television. "The actual vampires are these motherfuckers right here." Scarpia hears the footsteps stopping, but this tiny detail is lost on Walter's ears, who can just make out the adjacent voices. "Puppeteered by an actual blood drinking vampire," reminds the second, male voice. "So we put an end to his empire, we put an end to it there, here, everywhere."
Scarpia grimaces, makes that little 'pttaahh!' revolted cat sound, too soft for mortal ears unless they're standing right beside him. The dialogue gets his attention and he tilts his head, frowns deeply.
Walter checks the wall for mouse-chewing ot gaps caused by the house settling, but, sooner or later he'll probably just have to cut the glow, reassert his cloak of shadows, and shove on through.
It does become apparent that Walter ain't getting into this fortress without shoving on through. The garage was not warded, but the rest of the house, is. Does he regroup with Scarpia first or is it Leeroy Jenkins time?
Walter has no idea where Scarpia is! Indeed, the clever Malkavian may already be inside. So, it is gonna be shovin time.
Scarpia whispers to himself noiselessly, lips moving a bit, eyes narrowed in concern. Telling Capo Doglio about it.
"I guess," the woman's voice says, her tone somewhat resigned. Scarpia hears the sound of something metal clinking on another sturdy, solid surface, maybe stone, or metal itself. Hard to identify the nature of the sound. Glasses clinking. A cabinet closing. As Walter braces himself to Leeroy Jenkins into the house, the TV keeps talking. The British narrator: "It's physically tough work. They removed all this rock by hand in only four months. There are no supports, there's no protective equipment at all, and right at the bottom you can see water. It's Mwanza's village's water, which he is convinced has caused him the huge tumor on his throat after a lifetime of drinking it, but it's the only water in the village."
Scarpia smiles faintly. He glances round, perhaps seeking evidence of Walter. His smile widens some and he starts to whistle, 'Sailor' Joy' more commonly known as 'Do Your Balls Hang Low?' He's good at it. He proceeds to take out his whiskey bottle and step into the bushes.
A thought hits Scarpia's psyche, not his own, but hard to say whose: What ward? It depends on the ward. I see a salmon house. You don't want to go into that house. Heh. I'll be right there.
Scarpia continues whistling in the bushes as close to the house as he can while still remaining well shadow-hidden, tilting his head and listening hard for the movements within the house.
Walter, as you steel your will to get into this building, you push through even though every fiber of your mental being ist elling you it's a terrible idea. As you slide through the door underneath its panel, fogging in through the cracks and into the poorly lit hallway, you hear Scarpia's whistling. The feeling stays with you, the feeling that you shouldn't be here, but you're able to block it all out enough to get a looksee. You're in a hallway that leads to other rooms, let me know if you need details. The television sounds like it's coming from your right, through a doorway that is indeed open. Scarpia, leaving the house, your lock on the sounds inside fades into more muffled and obscure perceptions of it all (give me another perc alert but at diff 7 to continue to hear).
Walter has also cut off the red glow he was detecting from the garage. For whatever reason! Inside, Walter slithers around the house, staying high, in the rafters where it is even harder to be noticed. And then he moves through the house, looking for his prey.
Scarpia watches the glow stop and finishes another bar of the old tune, its unsung but remembered lyrics moving past Walter's merits and on to the relentless questions about the condition of the listener's testicles. He falls silent.
Scarpia, the last thing you clearly hear is footsteps fading in volume, headed away from your listening point. THena s you step into the bushes to hide, you can mostly make out an interview. It's in French. A young man's pleasant sounding voice, but he is talking something about contaminated water having made him sick, and other various health maladies. Talking about children born with rashes and infections attributed to the mines.
There are not rafters available, but Walter still can follow the contours of the wall and stick to the ceiling as he goes. As he moves through the house, towards the sound, he sees a living room where the noise is coming from and some guy with a horrible tumor that makes him look like a bullfrog is talking in ...Well, Frog speak, frankly. Oui oui baguette omelette du fromage and so on. The room is incensed with juniper smoke. A staircase leads upward, and two doors which are closed lead to other rooms. As Walter gets his look about, he feels strangely ennervated.
Scarpia can also hear a car engine and the whisper of tires passing by, a car's imminent arrival. Maybe they'll just drive through, maybe they'll turn onto the lot.
Scarpia hunches his shoulders and draws invisibility around him as well as his horrible black overcoat. He's not one to resist voices telling him something is a bad idea, and is feeling unnerved himself. He slips out of the bush for surer, and less twiggy, footing and lifts his head, scenting the air or miming it.
It Gets Worse
Scarpia, as he stays withdrawn in the bushes, hears the blare of a motorcycle engine and the flash of a single headlight floods. What we have here is a gigantic biker who looks like he could roll with Walter, even! One huge Doc Marten hits the pavement as his Harley rolls to a stop. There's something tied onto the back of his bike, under one of the racks, strapped down with bungee cords. "I hear someone needs a LOCKSMITH?!"
Scarpia tilts his head, watching the approach, and then laughs, never mind that it makes him visible, Mr. Punch mask and all, entirely sketchy. "Who said?" he asks behind the painted latex.
There are not rafters available, but Walter still can follow the contours of the wall and stick to the ceiling as he goes. As he moves through the house, towards the sound, he sees a living room where the noise is coming from and some guy with a horrible tumor that makes him look like a bullfrog is talking in ...Well, Frog speak, frankly. Oui oui baguette omelette du fromage and so on. The room is incensed with juniper smoke. A staircase leads upward, and two doors which are closed lead to other rooms. As Walter gets his look about, he feels strangely ennervated.
Walter sadly has more important things to do than watch videos about the injustices of african cobalt extraction in the DRC, so he moves on from that room. There are more rooms to check on this floor, after all. Though if he feels more energized when leaving the room, that might be some kind of clue the evil magic is based in that one.
Walter works his way through the first floor. Kitchen, living room, a side bedroom... That lingering sense of malaise and disorientation neither fades nor grows. But he too hears the motorcycle.
"What the hell was that?" Walter hears, from the other end of the house, upstairs. "Nic, go check that out." As Walter moves from one room to the next, he hears foot steps just behind him, but far off -- other room. Passing ships.
Scarpia's new friend is a sight to behold. Think GG Alin on his last interview in life, complete with wearing booty shorts, german helmet, aviators and leather motorcycle jacket. As he gets up off of the motorcycle, he appraises Mr. Punch with one quick look while he pulls his load (hyuck) off of the motorcycle. It's a compact police surplus battering ram, and he's headed right for that door. "I'll get back to you with what you owe me tomorrow night," Mr. Jesus Christ Allin says, as he lines up to destroy the fucking door.
Mr. Punch tilts his head to one side, bird-like. The eyeholes of the mask have been enlarged, his bemused yet oddly pleased eyes glint a bit and he steps back into the shadows around the bush. He says, "You are maybe want to look a leel beet closer before you are doeeng zhat," as he watches the man line up his ram and his booty.
Walter elects to take advantage of the distraction. He goes up where the man has come down from. Doubtless Jack stole a motorcycle, or maybe it's just the gods giving him a little helping hand, like they do. Because they love him. Time to go see who was ordering this Nic guy around.
As you creep up the stairs in mist form, Walter, the weakened feeling grows stronger: perhaps it is just setting in, perhaps you are nearing the source. There are two people upstairs past the landing, which opens into two bedrooms. One of them faces the bedroom door, from a few feet within the bedroom, a shotgun in hand. The other one is in the adjacent bedroom, similarly armed, just now finished loading that shotgun with that iconic ka-chack.
"Life is too short to play the waiting game!" cries GG, and he stances wide as he reels back. As Walter crawls silently over the stairs in his mist form, downstairs meanwhile this Malkavian is shooting the head of this battering ram right by the door knob. The adacent wall shakes, stucco pops off of the immediate facade, and the door's hardware gives out.
Of course, on the shock of all the momentum, he feels what Scarpia was talking about. Didn't stop the big block of metal from giving the back entrance big, friendly hello, but it seems Mr. Allin has discovered the 'hell no' factor.
He drops the battering ram, turns to Mr. Punch, and finger-guns him once on his way back to his ride. "Someone doesn't want you in there!" Cries captain obvious. "Alright, my end of the deal is done!"
"Aye," says Jack, bemusedly, and disappears again where he stands, now tilting his head to listen to the house, or the crumbling door.
Truly it doesn't take heightened senses to see it coming: A woman with a shotgun is at the foot of the stairs, and as the hero Scarpia neither needed nor deserved swings a leg over his Harley to make his exit, she cries aloud. "HEY! Intruder!"
What Scarpia does see, though, is a panel near to where she stands, and she's lunging her body to smack into that panel and whatever buttons that thing means.
Of course, the battering ram nonsense is heard upstairs. "FALL BACK," one of the men yell, once he hears the crashing at the door. "Nic FALL BACK."
As for Walter's Perc-Alert, he sees an alarm panel in the bedroom of the man yelling to fall back.
"Fuck," says Scarpia to himself, soundless and hopefully unseen. Button-pressing means shit, it makes cars come.
Walter drifts into an excellent hiding position, and starts to resume solid shape. He can get the drop on these guys and do harm unto them before they can use their little hand cannons, hopefully. And of not, well, that just makes things more Fun. Too bad he doesn't have their phone numbers. He could do 'the call is coming from inside the house' trick.
In the moment of chaos that erupts, Scarpia's attempt to Vanish Before The Mind's Eye renders him an indistinct, ghostlike figure. Pair that shit with the Mr. Punch mask and you tell me what that horror looks like.
Scarpia attempts to enhance his hidden-ness by walking through the shadows to get to the side of the door. Near it but not where shotguns are pointing directly out...
As Walter starts to mutate in the shadows of the closet, ShotgunCharlie's feet thunder down the stairs, and is soon doing a sweep of the downstairs interior, shotgun ready to roll. He is not at the immediate base of the stairs, don't you koopa smash my hunters :(.
Mr. FallBack smashes the alarm with his fist, flustered with Shotgun Charlie's battle initiative. "God DAMN it!" He moves for the stairs, telegraphing of course his intent.
As Charlie joins Nic, her eyes widen in fright at the ghostly countenance that darts for the door. She aims, she fires! Not at Scarpia -- at GG Alin, the more obvious and corporeal threat she was already aiming at. But she yells -- "IT'S THEM! THEY KNOW!"
...As the shotgun fires, its flaming report explodes forth. It's a gigantic, angry flash and it erupts like a firework. Loud, dramatic, particularly in the night time lighting. Scarpiiiaaa, I think it's time for a Frenzy or Rotschreck check under the grounds of provocation and/or god damn fire near my face.
Well. Although GG's intended parting words were one thing, there's something about dragon's breath to the gooch that really changes your lines. "AAAUGHH! The FUCK BITCH!" He's getting out of here, fuck that! "CALL YOU TOMORROW." That engine roars as he punches it.
Scarpia pushes inside, and in the chaos of the moment the triumph of getting through that god damn door is nearly too distracting -- but the disorienting, ennervating effect this house has on him is immediate and impossible to deny. And he sees the cross that the hunter with the shotgun brandishes, and as he does he makes the connection. That rosary is to blame.
In the chaos of it all, Charlie rips out his rosary, shotgun in one hand, and then immediately his grip is back on the gun, the prayer beads dangling from his quickly wrapped wrist. There it is! The thing of power that must no longer be!
Another loud crash of gunfire out the back door from Nic firing her shotgun into the parking lot, yelling: "There's another one! There's a second one! Killer clown! Killer clown!"
Mr. Fallback's trek downstairs is complete, and he's quick to go on the offense of clearing the house's other potential points of entry.
BOOM! Another gout of flame. Indoors, no less. It's enough to make Scarpia's ears ring, bleed, temporarily deafen him -- but his head is in the fucking game, here, the dubstep is dropping, and he's getting his pirate on.
The second man fires right after Nic, and the heat blast scorches Mr. Punch. In that thunderous moment bits of the mask flash-fries onto Scarpia's bones, the shrapnel biting into his undead flesh.
Mr. Fallback zips into the scene to make this dynamic duo of destruction into a trio!
Walter finally turns solid, and he smiles, blood roaring in his head as he grips the rusty spiked knuckles in his jacket pocket. He mutters a prayer to the gods, asking them to protect him from the evil witchcraft and fire, all in exchange for a human sacrifice or three. And thus, he's ready to play. Walter has a big old grin on his face. Fangs out for Harambe.
Walter is a blur, a flash, a fiend. He hurls himself down the stairs, landing on Mr. Fallback, leading with that spiked fist. He gets his miracle - once, presumably, because the well-aimed blow merely shreds his clothes. Walter grins at the hunters, adopting a much older and much cruder accent, "'Ello, me poppet."
Nic fires her weapon. The powerful blast is so profound that her shotgun breaks! The Gods have answered Walter's prayers and clearly marked her for a sacrifice.
That wasn't very nice, that noise and fire. Jack forgets about his targeted loathing of the rosary and pops up with his right flintlock, firing it at Shotgun Charlie's face. It's old, it's big, it's weird. Ordinary pistols these day say, 'ahem. blam.' politely. Right clicks, spraying sparks over Jack's bony hand, and roars out a 'KA-BLAAAAM MOTHERFUCKERS' as if James Earl Jones' insane big brother is really pisssed. Under the torn and melted mask, Jack grins.
Scarpia's old Harper's ferry flintlock spits fire and spews black smoke.
BLAM! An eye for an eye, a melted face for a melted face! That black powder spews destruction over the woman who cried killer clown. She recoils in agony.
BLAM! An eye for an eye, a melted face for a melted face! That black powder spews destruction over Shotgun Charlie. HE recoils in misgendered agony.
Mr. Fallback has a new, terrifying, very vertical backpack with arms and spiked knuckles. His occpital lobe is surely doomed. He has already thrown himself in an attempt to thwart becoming someone's glorious battle steed, and yet it is for naught. And so all he can do is yell, "IT'S HERE FOR THE RELIC! IT'S HERE FOR THE RELIC!" as some radio on him bweeps to life and a crackly voice says "ETA 2 minutes!"
Walter blurs and surges into the wicked human. His spiked fist slams into the guy's back, and his fist comes back bloody. And then he grabs him, one arm in a half nelson, and the other pushind his head to the side. He grins at the others, and he says, as he slows down as his speed boost wears off, "Your books lied; the gods set us to hunting you."
CRACK! Nick smashes the shit out of Scrpia with that shotgun, and were she wailing on a human, she may have done a number, but the Malkavian's undead body doesn't really care.
Walter's head blurs and he sinks his fangs into Mr. Fallback's neck. He slurps and slurps, and the guy gasps, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He visibly pales as the huge vampire just drains out all his blood like a fucking lamprey. At least he's too busy to make a pithy comment about it.
As Charlie raises his rosary he starts spitting tupac lyrics. You know the ones.
The prayer that Charlie declares as he staggers from that blow that Scarpia burnt into his face is shouted with the fervent dedcation of his Christian faith, his hand trembling with adrenaline and conviction. The power of his faith rolls out like a shockwave.
Nic's eyes flash with a primal fury the likes of which usually only spark in the glares of middle aged suburban women who were just given perspective on their first world problem. She, too, turns out to be a huge tupac fan. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me! Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me!" They've heard this one before! This time apparently it works.
Walter is forced back! He's still feeding from his victim as he does so, but back he goes. Seven steps. Well, isn't that annoying. Still, the gods provide. Specifically in this case, they'll likely reward his clever preparation. He still looks pretty pissed off, though. Or at least, he would if his face wasn't currently stuffed full of dying vampire hunter.
Scarpia slips Right back into his coat as he wheels on Nic with the shotgun under his arm, stepping back from the two with involuntary haste, a horror registering in his eyes.
Mr. Fallback twitches and spasms and shits himself so Scarpia doesn't have to, as he leaves this mortal coil.
Scarpia glares at Nic sharply through the expanded eyeholes of the grotesque mask and says, "/Stop that and tell me where the relic is/, or I'll nail your tits to the table."
Nic plunges her medallion into Scarpia, going all out! The horror of its burn sears through the flesh, and as Scarpia dodges he narrowly escapes Shotgun Charlie's attempt on his unlife! Another blow like that will surely end him: he feels the rage and terror of the Beast writhing and wailing. Now's a great time to disappear.
Walter lifts his face from the neck of the hunter. The fellow starts to shake with the seizures that indicate he is having his last few seconds. The huge vampire looks a horrow, face covered in the poor man's blood from his sloppy, extremely rapid feeding. He grips the corpse in one hand, and hauls back and lobs his throwing axe with his own prayer, "All-Father, guide my hand!" And, apparently, He does. The little axe, carved with runes, slams into Nic. Walter then fucking shotputs his recently finished meal into the lady, laughing all the while,
Walter's fast thinking with the gun ends up with Nic scorched by wicked hot shrapnel!
Walter hooks the gun with a foot and flips it into his hands, and he fires it at Nic, "Die, blasphemer!" he cries out, in english, this time. He narrowly dodges her return throw. "Your evil witchcraft won't save you forver!"
Walter explodes forth in a tide of psychopathic violence, stabbing the running woman of Faith before she can scream her attention-grabbing shout. Of course, the gunfire has doubtlessly gotten attention by now in this densely populated neighborhood, so it may not have needed screaming. Regardless - his spiked knuckles tear into flesh and she cries out in agony.
Walter is starting to run a little low on Mr. Fallback, but the beast is in his head, and he DID promise her blood to the gods. As soon as their concentration wavers, he dashes forward, slamming his fist into her back - and then again, smashing the rusty spikes into her human meat. She'll be nice and tender for Loki's table. He makes a grab for chuck, but can't get a grip on the squirmy bastard, "C'mere!" he growls.
Walter zips back and forth with alarming, supernatural speed, and Nic makes a bloody break for it once she realizes Walter's not on him. Charlie, however, is next. Shit.
Charlie shoves that rosary but it only gains purchase on Walter's biker leathers. And those leathers don't have time to discuss our lord and savior.
Meanwhile...
It's a peaceful night for Willow and Phillip, the latter of which is somewhat indisposed for the moment: readying his things upstairs, or perhaps off filling his undead fuel tank. It was going to be such a wonderful evening in the city by the bay.
And then that's when a sharp, urgent series of rapping knuckles assault the door of the de Valmont estate. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK BANG BANG BANG BANG.
Whoever answers that door first is going to be met with Zora Pavlova's despairing face. She has all the personality of the stone from which a cemetery angel is carved. She's flanked by two young men dressed like SWAT team members, because that's totally a sight you want to be greeted with with ZERO context: the sheriff just knocking your door practically off the hinges with some buddies in kevlar and rifle plates.
It was going to be such a peaceful evening. Such a wonderful date night.
"You are needed immediately," Zora says, as she thumbs over her shoulder towards the NSX curb-parked halfway on the petunias.
Phillip quickly finishes up whatever he was handling and joins Willow in time to see the Sheriff's despairing face darkening their door. The Brujah is no stranger to being roused from a plan for a sudden, unexpected mission and only takes a few moment to pin on his pistol and a few other items before he's ready to go. Slipping on his jacket and an overcoat, he waits for Willow to be ready, or she's waiting for him. These two dress so nicely it's often a duel to see who's running later. Then he's headed out toward the NSX that is presumably parked upon the petunias. The Brujah has been quiet the whole time, contented to wait and be instructed and told what to do by Zora what is next.
It's not just the NSX. There's a crossover, although the driver of that car had the good decency not to ruin the gardener's work.
As Zora gestures over her shoulder with that midnight black driving glove she's wearing, the streets are aflash with blue and red lights, with the screaming of a police siren and the blaring, awful horn of the fire department hot on its heels.
Zora blinks once. It then occurs to her to say, "Coincidental."
Nevertheless, she gives the two precisely 4 minutes to lock and load and get in the car.
Willow gets her things together along with Phillip, swapping out her usual skirt for jeans and sneakers because no one likes to run in high heels; movies be damned. She's poking things into pockets, sliding a blade down the back of her jacket and then she's following in Phillip's shadow to hop into the car. She's less blase about it than the Brujah is, looking a little concerned as she settles into the seat next to him. The flowers will be mourned appropriately later.
Once The NSX gets out of the residential stretches where they found the two vampires, Zora, who is driving, races through San Francisco with unnerving timing. Whether it's Auspex to blame, her cop-spotter bolted to the ceiling, or that Malkavian spice, she is a consummately terrifying driver who barely obeys traffic laws.
When asked what all of this is about, and where they were heading, the two get their answers.
After receiving a tip from "the scholar" (she means Ehsan Khadem, Assamite) that Scarpia is going to go ahead and do some checking-out of the house on Lombard Street, Zora has been feeling omens in her bones. Tonight the Masquerade balances on a razor-wire, she says, and she's not about to let it explode. There was already a 911 call about somebody matching Scarpia's description in the area, so he is going alone. She is bringing back up to soothe her nightmares of fire and white phosphorous, because Something's Happening tonight.
She explains the address of the 911 call, which places their destination on the lower half of Lombard Street. Scarpia is investigating there, probably to do with the tip that was floating around that the Sabbat's missing Nosferatu is imprisoned "in a rich man's home on the wandering road".
And so, the Kindred are probably up against the vampire hunters who took out the Sabbat pack and is reportedly keeping one of them for unknown reasons.
Hopefully, this was just another one of Zora's bouts of paranoia. Then again, Zora would not remain sheriff if her intuitions turned out to be little more than delusions.
The crossover parts ways and goes off elsewhere as Zora drives, and she is not remotely concerned. The police radio sniffer she has is already talking about an incident and dispatching to the house, right as they turn. A motorcycle flies past, belching flames as it riots down the street, fleeing, the burst of its headlights nearly blinding. Zora swings the car right into the place that 'cycle just fled from: the back parking lot of an adjacent complex. Not too far off, gunfire erupts: one, two, three shots! Lights belch out of the busted down back door of a pink house on the opposite end of the lot. "FUCK," she hisses.
Phillip keeps his gun locked and loaded all the time, so it won't take four minutes. He is present on the curb as the sirens and sounds fill the peaceful Pacific Heights neighborhood. As the Sheriff indicates it is coincidental she is given a brief nod. Assuming the crossover is for them, he heads that way with Willow and climbs inside. Her look of concern is met with a reassuring smile. As Zora explains the situation, his face is set in a firm resignation of the details that are provided. There is a kind of professionalism about the Brujah that speaks to a confidence with difficult situations. When they are driving over, he does take a time to check over his H&K P30sk. As they get close to the spot, he rests a hand on Willow's lap and says softly to her, "When we get there, stay close to me and keep your head down, okay? They are Kine but they know what they are doing."
Willow looks back to Phillip as Zora finishes filling them in, and he speaks to her. The smile he gives her has her relaxing a little and she nods, finishing strapping the knife strap to her thigh, checking to make sure the snap opens easily with a tug. A sigh comes and she adusts the sheath over her shoulder, settling her sword into place. Someone seems to favor blades over guns.
As Zora, Phillip, and Willow make their exit from the car, there's no gunfire from inside. There is a crackling voice that can just barely be heard, a man's voice on a radio within the house whose door is busted down. A police surplus battering ram lays abandoned by the door frame, on the pavement.
<FFZZZT!>Almost there. SFPD en route! Hide the relic!<FFFZT!>
Finding The Body
Scarpia finds himself out in the back parking area, out the smashed-open door. He's bug-eyed and burned, with a hideous rubber mask of Mr. Punch half-melted to his face, blackened and bubbled. He turns, lifting his head, listening intently for a portion of a moment before he starts back, saying, "You are better get rid of zhat fuckeeng mess!" as he lengthens his stride, his grimace of pain and reluctance half visible under the burned latex.
Walter looks up at the figures when they get within view of the door, which he is pretty close to, and he can look right out of it as he feeds. He is splayed on the floor, pinning down the wrists of an unforunate victim, a corpse who was up until bout two seconds ago a human a male. His fangs are extended and there's blood and bits of cartilage in his beard. Walter grins up at them, and uses his free hand to peel a set of wooden rosary beads that have attached themselves to his cheek. Living scorch marks are left behind as he pulls them off and casts them on the corpse. "Evening, ladies," The radio on a second corpse crackles, and he laughs, "Two minutes until their backup gets here. Fucking house is warded by blackest witchcraft, makes me want to puke. First and second floor should be clear, just these two empies. One runner out in the night somewhere. Female, bleeding. Garage is full of medkits, maybe try there." He sniffs, as if for blood, and warns, "Don't fight them inside the ward, or you'll lose, unless you're as good as I am."
Phillip steps out of the car and unbuttons his coat. His dark eyes catch a glimpse of the two who have piled into the back parking lot. The Brujah takes a moment to slip his pistol out from his jacket holster and a rather large knife from behind a back sheath. A soft smirk as he spies Walter, speaking in a heavy French, "You again." A glance toward the building as he turns all business, "Where is the ward?" Time is short so he keeps it brief as he can.
Whenever Willow and Phillip approach the house itself, they will feel the effect when attempting to step over the threshold. It's a profoundly disturbing sense that ennervates and disorients. No physical barrier to be seen from the parking lot, it's simply a test of wil.l A very difficult one. As Scarpia starts back, he will find the same challenge he faced before getting inside, that same curtain of dread.
We're all at the back door, no?
Willow slides her shortsword out of its sheath over her shoulder, lowering the blade down to her side as she follows after Phillip. She looks past him to Walter, then turns to watch the area behind them with caution. Her fingers curl around the hilt, getting comfortable in a practiced motion. She can't help the nose wrinkle that comes from the sensation of the ward.
"Inside house," Scarpia says, waving a bony arm vaguely. "But girl ees run out zhe front." He makes a face as he tries, gingerly, to step back inside.
Zora, for her part, stomps quickly away from her alarming parking job, and she speaks into some watch underneath her riding gloves, her words in Russian.
Walter is inside the house, audible and visible from the back door (the back door has been busted and the door itself is on the ground inside). There is an immediately adjacent garage door, although the garage door itself is closed. Scarpia, Willow, Zora and Phillip are in the parking lot in the immediate vicinity of said busted down back door.
Walter grunts, "Come on inside and you'll see. I was looking for some way to break it that wannabe showed up and went loud, and I had to fight in it." He eyes the furnishings in the living room skeptically. "Getting in is a pain in the ass, It might take me five minutes to bust back in once I leave it. Five minutes which we ain't fucking got. So check the goddamned garage, it's also full of fucking incendiary rounds and I don't want a willy pete surprise. The garage isn't warded, but it covers the whole fucking house." What he CAN do is kick open the door to the garage, and assuming there is no one to murder right there, he can pick up and chuck the bodies out into the garage, "Use the tarps!"
As Phillip approaches the house, he can feel the ward. The presence of it causes him to curse softly, "Merde." Then he starst to edge his way quickly toward the door of dread so that he can try to muscle his way inside the ward. There is a moment he closes his eyes and moves to cross the threshold.
Scarpia grimaces, winces back and presses through regardless, saying, "Catch zhe fuckeeng girl," in a hiss. He might still be smoking. He reeks of burned latex and burned vampire and gunpowder.
Phillip steels his will and pushes through the ward. As awkward as it is and uncomfortable, he grits his teeth and steps into the clear area beyond the threshold. Pressing his back to the wall, he lifts his pistol and waits for the others to join him. His eyes sweep whatever halls and exits are ahead of him, looking for any signs of movement the he can train his firearm on and fire.
Zora turns, looking to Scarpia, as she wills herself into the house with one purposeful, almost comically lunging step. "The girl. She will be easy to identify? Describe her."
As Phillip and Willow square up to get into the house, they will see the devastation inside. A couple of gushes of arterial spray. A blast of burnt shrapnel, the awful stench of burnt hair that coincidentally reeks like Scarpia, who looks to have channeled the latter end of a twisted Mr. Bill short. It's a large house, a stairwell leading upward to the second story. It's a mostly contiguous floor plan, and here the den that they can immediately step into opens into a kitchen.
The body that Walter had just finished when they were arriving lays in an exsanguinated pallor on the living room floor, not far from the second victim. The second victim, closer to the stairs, is the source of the radio: ***<BFFFZT>*** Interference ran, but they're going to dispatch more! Luke, answer me. Anything. ***<BZZFT>***
A whiff of saltpeter from true-blue old school gunpowder metallizes the air, and the back wall of the kitchen is pock-marked with shrapnel and smoke burns, like someone let off a few literal fireworks in here.
"Bleedeenng and screameeng rape," says Jack to Zora, simply. He starts to limp around the house, not favouring any one limb so much as looking like none of them are right, his eyes darting about as he searches for some space big enough to stash the Nosferatu he came here to find.
Willow stays in Phillip's shadow, though it takes her longer to get through than he. It takes visible effort for her to make herself enter the house, and she's gritting her teeth as well against the unpleasant sensation. She remains close to the Brujah, though not enough to crowd.
As Zora observes the trouble with which Willow mind-over-matters her way through the ward, she makes her executive decision. Her long stride takes her directly to the first hunter, with the radio. She heaves him up, ostensibly expecting someon else to make short work of the second. "Throw the second in the garage, I will put them in car. I will then put screaming woman in car."
As Scarpia is looking for spaces that are big, and Phillip is lookin' out for tactical deets, anybody who wants that situational awareness check give me a Perception + Alertness roll and I'll fill you in in detail..
Walter tells Zora, "The garage isn't warded. I'll move the bodies there, and we can wrap and shift them from there without troubling the witchcraft." He says, "They called her by the name of Nic. I cut her up badly, but watch out, the demons are protecting her." He also can take a moment to check the bodies along with his surroundings!
The vampires look about the first floor.
Walter and Scarpia are no stranger to the sensation, having punched through the ward and experienced its ill effects, but as Phillip and Willow orient within the interior they find that the bark of that ward and its ominous feeling comes with bite: the weight of their bodies seem inescapable now, limbs full of sand. It's a disorienting effect for sure, and Zora seems to feel it as well: "The demons are in the house," she says, of Walter's demons comment, the thinnest thread of concern finally breaking her stony tone. Apparently she has more 'modes' than 'monotone' and 'enraged', after all.
This home seems, feels, just as plain as any other. The living room opens into the aforementioned kitchen, and two more doors on one side: these are bedrooms. The doors are open. A laptop sits on a sofa, its screen fractured and glitching from errant shrapnel, bathing the couch in a soft glow. As far as goes hasty hiding places, ... They do leave something to be desired. The living room has a storage-ottoman style coffee table, and the skirts of the cheap Ikea couch might afford a 12 year old a tight little space to cockroach beneath.
The house is quiet. Phillip sees no signs of movement, although he remembers that '2 minutes' prompt Walter had said earlier. He remembers from outside this house had 3 stories. Clearing this house for a sweep could be done in 2 minutes. Grabbing, say, a corpse and rushing it out of the house could be done in 2 minutes.
But wherever that body is, it's not on the first floor, that's for shure.
Scarpia kicks open the ottoman, awkwardly, giving its contents a glance before he makes his wincing way up the stairs, saying, "Have a care of zhat fuckeeng rosary," in a nauseated tone as he passes the corpses.
Phillip watches as the bodies are fished out by Walter and Zora, then glances down the hall. The Brujah crouches down and then moves swiftly along the wall toward the staircase up. When he reaches it, he quickly ducks his head out and then back, trying to get a good look to see if anyone is on the stairs. His approach is to make a break for a two minute sweep and clear. Walter said the first and second floors were clear, so it's just the third. Assuming he sees nothing untoward, he breaks for the stairs, pressing his back toward the wall and aiming his gun to sweep the stairs up.
Walter tells Jack, "The rosary is just wood and string. It's their demonic invocations that empowers it tu burn our sacred flesh." He moves up to search the house for anything, well, relicy. He warns, "Watch out for traps. The last house was full of them. Just don't let it slow you down." This isn't his first home invasion, and he starts looking for secret treasures.
Willow moves behind Phillip. He said stay behind him, so she's going to. It's her first rodeo, so she's not looking to be adventerous on her own. She stays down, quiet and watches behind them as well since he's handling the direction they're going in.
Scarpia pays no mind to Phillip's caution, he seems confident that the place is empty. He's also taking the stairs like he belongs in a nursing home, and is easily overtaken and passed on the way up.
It smells far less like burnt hair up here. That is, until Mr. Punch shambles up like a zombie and ruins everything. Scarpia has taken a beating one can only really call grievous, but there's simply no time to gawk at his freakish, half-melted countenance.
Up in the second story of the house, there are two bedrooms and a large study area, which drifts up to the third and final story.
Just before Scarpia's presence overpowered the air with his eau d'chair brulee, Walter can pick up on the smoky scents of juniper and lavender he hadn't quite noticed before, but then again, undead lungs need not breathe, and now that he's on the hunt for clues he's got a reason. He can probably track down the source (with a survival roll). Scarpia can't smell past himself, not without heightened senses he'd be a masochist to invoke, and so the hint on the air is lost on him. Instead, he picks up on what he's looking for: places to hide a body. With aching arms and hands he'll be able to uncover that the closets are empty, that nothing that could *reasonably* hold a fully in-tact body lurks beneath the bed, in the desk, and he's fairly certain that if there's a hidden wall somewhere, it's not going to be found unless someone already knows where to look.
Phillip, able to make much the same appraisal, is able to clear the area with the confidence that there's nothing lurking here. He does, however, find an alarm panel in the second bedroom. It's not ADT, it's not marked. There's a little green light on it, blinking.
Willow is able to also see this, as well as come across some ammunition. Crossbow bolts, dragon's breath.
Scarpia, that alarm panel's blinking is of a magical nature. That thing is probably what is causing this damnable ward. It should be destroyed.
Scarpia glares at the panel and takes a clumsy bash at it, hand curled inside his coat as he's reluctant to touch the thing, just wants to smash it off the wall.
Walter growls, "Not the gizmo. I smell something. Juniper. Uptairs." His nose leads the way. He keeps a wary eye out for traps. He'll refocus on his SPIDEY SENSE later, maybe. But first, prey! The horror-show gangrel is on the hunt.
Walter's eyes glow red as he ensures that nothing will get him from the all-concealing shadows!
"Clair.." Phillip says softly under his breath, speaking in French to indicate that this level looks clear. He spots the alrarm and sees it is blinking green. A quick look at his watch as he checks the time. Next, his dark eyes are looking for the 3rd floor stairs. Time is ticking and they have to hit the next floor before the police get here. He is looking for those stairs to the last floor.
Roughly one minute has elapsed since their arrival, give or take. That anonymous voice asking for 'Luke' had said something about 'interference', but how many seconds did that buy? Walter had said something about the hunters sending backup... Now or never.
"Ten thousand sea-cows fuck you, gizmo," Scarpia tells the alarm panel, quietly but with considerable wrath. He's slow to follow, still eyeballing the thing with discomfort and distaste and looking about.
Willow takes the time to snatch up the ammo she comes across, pocketing what she can, sliding strap of the bolts over her other shoulder. Then she's moving to catch back up to Phillip, looking up along the ceiling for the little button that usually heralds a pull for some steps.
Walter, as ever picks now! Keeping an eye out for tripwires and other deadly toys, he heads upstairs, weapons in his huge hands, eyes gleaming their uncanny red, blood drying in his beard.
The group makes it up the stairs to the third floor. Up here, the feeling of disorientation, the mental fog, becomes profound: it has to be here. Whatever it is that drains the bones, has to be here. More bedrooms, bathrooms, and a second, small kitchen -- this house must have had a history as two homes in the same building. But up here, the bedrooms aren't being used for their original purpose. They're cleared out, clinically clean, with high ceilings, hardwood floors. The walls, an eggshell white, are adorned with a series of banners displaying a number of Biblical scenes, very much reminiscent of a Catholic church.
Up here, the only thing that could hold a body is a big, heavy gun safe. It stands in a room alone, in a room where the incense is so profound every vampire can practically taste it. Painted on the face is the Magen David, painted in some sort of chalky substance, illustrated with various smaller symbols one would encounter in a work like the Lesser key Of Solomon. The baseboards are lined with chalk, the faintist whiff of blood intertwined in the scent.
As the group's eyes fall on that gun safe, a blaring car horn can be heard, doppler-effecting as it races past. Hopefully not up Lombard street's hairpin turns -- That's just a recipe for disaster. Probably a cross-street, like the one they took to get here.
Like something out of a police or military show, Phillip is going to go from room to room, checking each to make sure no one is up here. When he ducks into each room, his weapon sweeps it, aimed to train on anyone who might appear. He also does his best to keep an eye for tripwires and other devices that were left behind. This is mostly accomplished by staying in the hall itself rather than dipping into a room and risk crossing a threshold. He stays clear of the room with the incense for now, content to kind of make sure the rest of the floor is devoid of any lingering foes.
Scarpia gimps along, wincing and stinking. He looks at the safe, says dully, "I am maybe tip her out zhe window, eef ees no burn to touch zhe bloody theeng."
As Phillip makes his sweep, he finds no enemies -- but he does find the door to a bedroom balcony left open. Someone must have closed it in haste, and it didn't hit the latch all the way, the wind disturbing it open. As he makes his pie-slice tactical sweep of the area he sees that nothing awaits him on the other side of the balcony, but a shattered iPhone rests precariously on the concrete corner: someone must've jumped the balcony, and lost their phone.
Walter tells Jack, "Can you disable the fucking ward? I can open the box." He looks at it skeptically, "Or maybe just take it with." He steps up to inspect the box, with the air of a practiced safe-cracker. Which he apparently is?
Scarpia shrugs to Walter, painfully, and reaches inside his coat to come up with the paper-wrapped pint of middle-shelf scotch he usually carries about. Grimacing, he moves to pour the Water of Life over that chalky sigil.
Willow remains in the entrance to the room as the fellows check it out, watching the hallway and listening should anyone come barging in from downstairs.
As Scarpia pours the liquor over the door, the chalky paint wilts a little, although it doesn't exactly wash off: must've been here for some time. The group has only a few seconds to decide whether to check if the reversi-holy-water did the trick. That disoriented, heavy sense that weights the body remains, but it doesn't get *worse*.
"What, am I a priest?" mutters Scarpia as he pour, splashing a bit to /try/ to get the symbols to wash off, or at least decay more fully.
"Tip her out zhe window," Jack suggests again.
There do be that balcony.
Phillip grabs the iPhone from the balcony and sticks it inside his suit coat. He slides his pistol away and heads back to the group. "Time is running out," his dark eyes catch the safe as he studies it, "do you need that open?" The Brujah walks over in that direction and eyes it all up and down.
Scarpia stares at the safe and its smeared sigil, taps it with the empty bottle.
Walter replies, "They were protecting something. This is probably it. Might as well see what it is before we go." He checks the welded seams for weak spots where he might be able to jam a talon or otherwise pry it apart with more than just ENTIRELY brute strength.
Phillip takes ahold of the handle and flexes. His blood is already fully pumped up and his superatural strength only heightens the amount he can lift or bend. Right now he could almost tear metal and he tries to do just that, gritting his teeth as he seeks to basically just brute force his way in.
Willow steps away from the door when it becomes apparent brute strength is going to be the goal of the day. She takes a moment to prepare, then finds herself a spot to dig her hands in and start to help yank the door off the front of the safe.
Scarpia hesitates, but the thing doesn't seem to burn Walter on touch, so he sets about trying to wrench its doors off, without impressive effect, no doubt, considering his condition.
The horn blares again, this time much closer. It's a loud engine roar that follows. Practically in the parking lot. Probably in the parking lot. The balcony door is open from Phillip's investigation and sweep, and what luck, too -- because the sound of sirens wail through its open mouth, and those blue and red lights are seconds away. As Willow, Scarpia, Phillip and Walter put their collective backs into it, the steel door of the gun safe shrieks as its inner structure finally caves under the massive effort of the undead in prying the sucker open.
Inside, a shriveled corpse, his mouth in a rictus grin, his jaw an explosion of too many snarled teeth, his skin scarcely hanging to his skull. His fingers are curled, hands up, frozen in place mid lunge, his clearly inhuman claws dirty with the same dried blood that stains his front. The Nosferatu, dressed in street clothes, is paralyzed with a stake driven straight through him. And just as the light hits his hideous visage, the hue of it starts glowing alternating shades of red -- and blue.
Everybody GTFOs
Walter doesn't really have time to argue. He says, "I think it's time to go!" He lets Philip take the body, saying to Jack, "C'mon, let's get out of here. I'm sick of this place." He strides towards the balcony to hop out. He'll snag that phone if Philip forgot it.
Scarpia looks out toward the lights and says, "Fuck," in a philosophical tone. Then, "Get cracking!" more emphatically. He turns to make his way down, darting now as best as his battered frame allows.
Phillip scoops the Nosferatu body in his arms and makes a hasty retreat. He is deciding to take the fast trip down to the bottom and casually, which is funny, leaps out the balcony or window and drops four stories down toward the ground below. Such is the unlife of the undead making a fast get away.
As the crossover speeds away, hatch gaping open, Willow narrowly slips in, and Phillip too--but Walter stumbles, decked by the gnarly, ragdoll arm of their staked abudctee, and probably leaves a dent on the rear quarter panel. He's left tumbling with a split second to disappear. He can hear the screeching of tires on the opposite side of the street, the lights flashing red and blue. Car doors slam.
One of the two men who Phillip and WIllow had seen flanking Zora is crouched in the back hatch, and once they're there, he reaches out and slams the hatch shut, the car spilling out onto the street with a squeal of tires. The smell of sweat, gunpowder and blood permeates the interior, and the ghoul who just gave them their last-second lift is raggedly panting, catching his breath from whatever the hell he was doing before he got here.
Scarpia spills out onto the scene, unseen by mortal eyes, in time to see the four cop cars and the armed, armored men pouring out of them, armed with rifles from Lombard street. If it weren't for it being 2 in the morning, there'd probably be a sea of onlookers. But for now, the faces in bedroom windows are hard to pick out in the haste and the dark.
Scarpia just gets out of the way of the cops and starts to circle, staying as well hidden as he can in spite of his confidence in the obfuscate, watching for the non-cop arrivals while he looks for a good spot to whisper, "Gufo, tell Zora where now?" down his trousers without damaging the cloak.
Phillip slips the stiffy Nosferatu into the crossover and bounds inside shortly after. Pushing the staked Kindred into a secure spot, he makes sure Willow gets set as well. His eyes look around as the car speeds away, seeing if there's any sign that they were made. He's tucked his weapons away for now, but looks ready to draw them if needed. As they get some distance, he starts to relax. A glance over to Willow and she would notice he's smiling a bit. He won't say it in front of the Sheriff, but this looks to have been quite an exciting adventure for the evening. Not a bad date night.
Willow can't be breathless from the run back to the car, but she does look a little rumpled from the jump from the balcony. She starts to tuck her weapons back in their sheaths, then pulls the extra ammo stuff she grabbed out to set them on the seat next to her. She grins at Phillip as he looks over, moving her shoulders in a shrug. Seems she agrees.
The gang in the car aren't out of the woods, yet. They have a drive to make.
"We are taking you to a secure location," says the back-seat ghoul, who then finally settles his eyes on-- EUGH. "What the--" He stares. Balks, even, and his voice thickens with the temptation to vomit. "Oouufff, is that what they REALLY look like?"
Walter will be able to Batman into the night.
As for Scarpia - it'll be some time before Zora replies. Gufo's creepy little Furby eyes stare up with their glossy and lifeless plastic, silent. The police are busting in from the front door, announcing their presence loudly with their one-knock entrance. Knock of a battering ram. Look, now the front matches the back!
