(I fixed some grammatical issues only in the edit, but the post remains the same.)

That is to say, not for all. Not for the man standing on top of Miskatonic University's highest tower, screaming an indecipherable prophecy of the end of the world and the damnation for everyone around him. Clad in only a coat, he finally leaps from the roof down to his death, surrounded by people on all sides. Times seems to slow down, and one can see his lips forming a smile, just before a loud thud breaks the silence. But this man was no lunatic, no madman or crazed fool.

Dr. Howard Atkins knew the truth.

With a pillow wrapped around his ears, Emil finished rereading the note that had just arrived in the mail. Well, someone had pushed the envelope under the heavy door of his new dorm room, Spartan in size yet well equipment with everything a student might need: a wardrobe, a desk, a lamp, a bookshelf, and even a decent typewriter... He woke up earlier, for he was waiting for his roommate to arrive, a boy he'd only known by name -- Sean O'Reilly. He liked the Irish, so he was looking forward to a possible friendship and a way to improve his English in a more intimate way, without embarrassing himself more than was needed.

He had wasted the entire day prior to the arrival of the note, trying to make sense of the new environment. The American mornings and the American food and the American snows -- which were in no way different than the German snows -- and a Bund of other small things all worked together to hinder him. He felt guilty already -- even more so because he was holding those Mark bills his grandfather had sent him -- but hoped his 'foreigner card' would save him if used politely with the professors.

Having pushed the note back into the envelope and briefly examining the postmark, he placed the money in his wallet and got off the bed, tossing the pillow onto it, thinking he'd have to deal with the noise coming from the outside.

Huh... He realized that the ceilings were not as tall as he had thought, because he managed to touch them with the tips of his fingers as he stretched. The alarm clock on the nightstand sounded, interrupting his morning routine, which annoyed his sensitive, sleepy ears. He slammed it shut, yawning, processing the fact that breakfast was nearing. He immediately drew a map of the campus in his head, prefiguring the path to the eating quarters.

''Frühstück-Zeit!'' he says, as if to assure his whining stomach that food time really is near. He then goes towards the window to finally see what the ruckus was all about. Click, screech of the window frame, and suddenly the cold white air penetrates his pajamas and chills him.

''Scheiße...'' he whispers, and discovers that it was not the cold that chilled him, but death rising from the misshapen remains of a man splattered on the pavement in the yard below.

For Professor Dupree, the spring semester was meant to be an exciting one. It was impossible to miss the pattern of the increasing cases of insanity over the winter - he had followed the newspapers meticulously, at first dismissing the case as mere lunacy until three more were committed over the course of a month. Jeremiah dug into his aged piles of newspapers and peeled apart the yellowing and dampening pages - it was not his imagination. He flipped back to the first case of the winter and clipped the mention. The articles, six in all, were pinned to a plain wall in his home alongside the other articles describing the peculiarities of Arkham that seemed to go missed. There was never any point to discussing them anymore, he'd found, not when he tried inquiring the professor of psychology as to what his field had to say about Arkham. The man had accused him of being addled himself! What did he know and understand of people, when his field reduced the vastness of human history and culture down to the most debased impulses! The man had the audacity to pass such teachings along to the students. Professor Dupree limited his contact with the man after that.

The presence of the pattern was not diminished by one man's closed mind, and Professor Dupree did his best to obtain what public records he could of the freshly committed men and women. When the sanitarium offered to open its gates for educational purposes, Professor Dupree was nothing short of ecstatic. Here he was, puzzling out how this most recent piece fit into the bigger mystery of Arkham - of the world - that others seemed to deny - and he might have the chance to personally speak to these people. He almost threw up. He did throw up. He determined it was from excitement. His first class of the semester had a buzz to it as he did confirm, yes, he would be arranging for a trip to the sanitarium for students who did particularly well in his classes. It was shameful to admit it was a ploy largely for his own benefit, but many of the students seemed curious and genuinely fascinated at meeting the mentally disturbed.

The weather was cold, and Professor Dupree, a briefcase full of handwritten analyses on the influences of Anglo-Saxon culture on its empire, had been returning to his office to begin the process of grading. That had been the plan, and nothing would disturb his good mood, not until he began reading, he had promised himself.

His route had taken him past the campus' tallest building, a monument dedicated to human knowledge.

It was impossible to miss the crowd near the base of the building, or the ranting voice whose words were lost to the distance.

It was impossible to avoid flinching when the body collided with the sidewalk.

Professor Dupree stood, stunned, staring at the small puffs of air that escaped the body even as the splattered brain tumbled from its shattered skull. It was a scream that returned him to his senses - just barely. Yes. There were students among this crowd, weren't there? Even if he had not been able to tell who the man was, nor was able to identify his deformed features now, this was not a spectacle for the students to see. He rushed forward, pushing his way through the horrified onlookers. His thick winter coat added some to his bulk, but he could now keep the gruesome sight entirely from the crowd.

"The doctor! Someone call for the doctor!" The words left his mouth as he set his briefcase to the side of the smashed skull, the puddling and steaming blood soaking into the leather. When he had fully regained his senses and the situation was resolved, and he found that the blood would not come out, he would discard the item. For now, though, his mind was focused on other matters.

Faye Desdemona.

The name lingered fresh in August's mind as he was thrust into the world of the living; which is to say he awoke in the small room he'd been renting for the better part of a week. Like usual his face was covered in a particularly cold sweat as he sat up in bed-he swore if his temperature had been any lower the damned downpour on his face would literally be frozen.

The odd thing was he didn't remember going to sleep-let alone coming back to the cheap yet rather well maintained Inn he had been calling home. In fact the last thing he remembered was being on a small wooden rowboat bobbing across a black surface of water-[b]but that couldn't be right.[/i] No, he quickly decided that the only real explanation was this...memory(?) had simply been yet another random thing that had made its way into the bizarre nightly horror show that were his dreams. The very dreams he had come to the small city of Arkham to disprove.

A part of him still held hope that if he could prove this “Faye Desdemona” of his dreams in fact didn't exist the nightmares would cease or, at the very least, quite down. If nothing else he would know he was just being crazy which in all honesty would be a slight relief; afterall a mental break was somehow easier to accept then...visions? Hell, he didn't even know what to call them, but the bottom line was that these dreams had to come from his damaged mind and nothing more.

Right? Right.

In a surprisingly fluid motion the giant of a man heaved his massive frame off the cheap box screen mattress that squeaked with relief beneath him. Standing at his full height of 6'6” he gave himself a quick once over and found that he was not only wearing the same dark gray pinstripe suit from the day before but was also encased in his favorite beige raintcoat-as if someone had knocked him unconscious and then been kind enough (and strong enough) to haul his massive dead weight into bed.

No. He demanded in his mind. He'd obviously gotten ahold of some illegal booze or something, no doubt while chasing another dead end lead. That must be it. In fact, he decided, he had probably been conned into buying someone drink after drink in some shady speakeasy while getting himself likewise inebriated in pursuit of some phony lead on the ever illusive Faye Desdemona. Probably a pretty someone. Yeah, that had to be it.

Right? Right.

Deciding he looked and smelled clean enough he chose to just set about his day instead of going through the rigmarole of bathing. changing, and shaving. He did have a job to do afterall-even if his clients were technically nightmares that tormented him each night. He had a reputation to keep up.

He'd been brought to Arkham by the word of one of the few men he trusted; Kane Kitter. Despite being non corporeal and just half a torso Kane had informed him over the course of several conversations that he should look-had to look-in a particular place called Arkham City. And Kane had been right. Sort of. Believe it or not August came to find out that there were in fact 33 women named Faye Desdemona in the town of Arkham City. More surprisingly over half of them had killed themselves within the past two years leaving a mere seventeen women who shared the exact same name that his mind had made up.

All of the fourteen girls he had managed to track down so far didn't match the same woman he had seen in his dreams. In all honesty though he had only seen the woman in question from behind, but that was still enough to make a profile in his mind that she was rather slender and stood no higher then 5'5” with long jet black hair...he wasn't sure what her face looked like though because every time she turned around in his dreams...well...there was a reason he sometimes woke up screaming.

He brushed these thoughts aside as his right hand felt for the usually holstered Colt .45 beneath his left armpit. He was extremely relieved to find the deadly black piece of steel still holstered safely in the old leather rig he constantly seemed to wear. The fact he still had a gun assured him his lack of memory had been from an uncommon bout of debauchery and not...something else.

At almost the same time he came to the belief that all things in the world made sense again he noticed what he could only be described as...gouge marks(?) in the old wooden floor of his room. They almost looked like claw marks.

No. Probably just from...furniture being moved around no doubt? They were old marks he hadn't noticed up until now he assured himself half halfheartedly. Not wanting to spend another second in the room that consisted of little more then a bathroom, bed, dresser, and peeling wallpaper he made his way for the door. He picked his brown fedora up that had conveniently been placed on the doorknob as he made his way out-he made double sure to lock the door behind him.

It didn't take anytime for August to make his way out of what he had come to know as “Nightshades Inn.” He was rather glad as he descended the stairs that lead to the rooms above-as far as he could tell the thin pasty white weazily man that ran the inn, the same one that swore up and down his real name was infact Nigel Nightshade, was nowhere to be seen. This small miracle allowed the behemoth that was August Dupin the ability to slink out of his temporary residence without the usual extremely odd and somewhat creepy morning chatter Nigel seemed so fond of. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth August made his way past the front desk and out the door onto the snowy streets of Arkham.

To be more precise he practically stood on the sidewalk at the intersection of Parsonage and College Street. He breathed in deep letting the cold air fill his lungs in a rather refreshing way despite the rather gloomy atmosphere that seemed to hang over the City streets. Having lit a cigarette with the stroke of a match he was in the midst of convincing himself he was just in a mood-he just needed get some good sleep, maybe some food? It wasn't this town, it was him.

As if in defiance to this thought a shrill scream floated in on the winter air-he couldn't quite pinpoint it but August was rather certain of the direction as the previous cry was quickly accompanied by a few more sounds of panicked yelps and gasps of terror. He was almost positive the commotion was coming from the prestigious Miskatonic University a bit down the road.

Without a word August set off on foot towards the sound of screaming that was already dying down: with one of the three girls left to track down actually attending said University he thought it was a rather good place to start today.

The little store off of Church Street was a rock. Not in the literal sense of the term, no. But in the sense that no matter what chaos or disorder existed outside, still the store stood defiant and firm. Jars of Oreos, bottles of Dr. Pepper, Baby Ruth bars and all other sorts of sugary delights lined the shelves of “Valentine’s”. Black Jack licorice gum and cigarettes could be purchased at the counter. The store was a welcome haven indeed for those seeking solace from recent events in the form of sugar or smoke.

John Valentine, the store’s proprietor and only employee was currently explaining to a rather confused old lady that no, not all buildings on Church Street were indeed churches, and that yes the building just across the street was indeed a church, but once again no she could not say her prayers here but if she wanted a candy bar then he would be pleased to help her out otherwise he would have to ask her to take her business elsewhere, such as the church right across the street that he previously mentioned. “Look lady, stop calling me St. Valentine and get out of here if you’re not going to buy anything.” He honestly had half a mind to direct her to the graveyard next door, God knows she looked like she’d wind up there in a week or two anyways. The old woman stared at him with her mouth agape for a few moments before wordlessly shuffling out the door into the cold winter air, making her way towards Christ Church.

Needless to say, business had been a bit slow.

What with a few of his regular patrons ending up in the crazy house and half of his new potential customers turning out to be confused old people thinking that his building is a church, sales hadn’t exactly been the best recently. Still, John wasn’t going to let a few minor setbacks keep him from doing his job. Which is why he chose to not join the crowd of people at Miskatonic University listening to that fool on the roof blather about the end of times as he’d been doing all morning long.

''What a beautiful focken day!'' The door behind Emil burst open and a draft of air rushed through the room, filling the nostrils of the burly bull of a newcomer who must have been Sean, or an idea of him, something distant but Seanian enough to allow the subconscious depths of Emil's mind to register it as the awaited roommate as he started at the mess from his window, speechless, jaw hanging so low it seemed dislocated. The heavy suitcase fell on the floor near the bed opposite of Emil's, the jacket was taken off and tossed over the chair, and the heavy hand rested on Emil's shoulder. ''Oy there, you ain't the friendly type, are ya?'' says the cohabitor playfully and joins Emil.''What the fock, man?''

''Ja...''

Among the apparitions down there, a man was shouting for a doctor. Emil looked up for a moment. The clouds hung low, impossibly low, so low it seemed unnatural. No, it was unnatural. Corpsle-like faces went to and fro, just pale orbs placed above their tattered coats, they paced around the man as he called for help. Emil didn't know why but he felt as if their breaths would smell of ash. Yes, ash, cold and damp, distinct smell, but sterile. Put it on the wound. A bitch can lick the cut, too. They put them in urns when they die. They don't want to be buried. Why do we? Six feet down. Worms.

''Let's go!'' says Sean. ''Medicine, second year, I might help before that doctor cunt comes!''
Emil grabs his jacket and slides into his shoes and they are off down the hall and stairs and through the doors and gates right into the yard. He introduced himself along the way, apologised, and collected his thoughts, bracing himself for the grisly sight.

Red. Real. Looks like a crimson chalice. This is my blood and this is my flesh. Drink of me and eat of me. Transubstantiation. A woman cannot. Blood might fall. Sean pushed through the scarecrows of people right to where the man lay, knelt and... Nothing. Like a big cherry. They must have had some when they celebrated without me. Habebat corpus.

Sean covered his mouth with his hammer-like hand, not to vomit. His red eyebrows connected as he frowned upon the shapeless head of the deceased. ''No need for a doctor, you need an undertaker.'' He stands up and strokes his beard, still looking down.

A frail boy at the back of the crowd fainted.

...And out from the nearby shellhole, the greenish-yellow cloud of death silently crept up over the top. In the hole he lay surrounded by his dead comrades, staying perfectly still, so peaceful, so innocent. The cloud made no difference though, as it formed into the shape of a man, if it could be called that. It looked at him with its empty eyesockets, pressing its face up against Jeremy's, only his mask between them. The others were not so lucky, as the figure turned around to devour them from the inside out, making them scream. Rats poured out from their mouths, yet their screams went on louder, piercing like a bullet.

"...for you shall seek the truth, but yet again find the darkness that surrouded you before. Give in, the stars align, one soul shall be the bane for all mankind...madness...darkness...
...He rises...

Jeremy threw himself out of bed, landing on his face as he made contact with the cold wooden floor of his room. How did he end up there? Oh yes, the nightmare...It always ended like this, him waking up violently from his sleep only to find himself safe, wherever he had fallen asleep. This time it felt different though; stronger, more real, frightening. Wait, what's the time? The clock kept on ticking as it hung on the wall, right over the stove and sink. The fading black arms pointed at II and VIII respectively; ten past eight. It was still time for him to eat a little bit before his shift started.

It was a bit chilly now that Jeremy thought about it, and a quick glance out the window comfirmed his suspicion; it was snowing outside, even more than the day before. Unlike those upper-class Yanks that inhabiteded the city, Jeremy was no stranger to the cold, and promptly pulled on his long, darkening-brown trench coat with makeshift sewing here and there to cover the holes. He'd buy a new now, if he hadn't been still saving money for someone much more important, so for now he could live with wearing a trench coat he'd been shot in. Not that those folks out there really care...

His path led him down towards Church Street, passing people going in both directions and minding their own business. It was then that Jeremy realized two thing; one, his right hand was still shaking, even when he clutched it as tight as he could. Come on you little shite, cut it! He though, violently pushing his hand down into his pocket, hoping it wouldn't be so apparent to everyone around.

The second thing was that more people seemed to walk towards the university than normal. It would normally have gone right past him, hadn't it been for the yelling that accompanied the crowd making their way down the street. A loud thump turned the yellig into screams, louder and louder as he got closer. But it was none of Jeremy's business, he was a simple mechanic after all, not psychologist or anything of the kind that dealt with people. At least in that particular way. So instead he made a left and opened the door to "Valentines".

"Mornin', Mr. Valentine. What's the fuzz over at Miskatonic all about? And I'll have the normal sandwich, please."




"Get out of the way! What the Hell is going on out here?" It seemed that there could be no peace for Arthur these days. Ever since he had returned from his annual Christmas celebrations at his beloved hunting lodge down towards Boston, he had been bothered by new, excited students or the old, grey professors. Rascals, always talking about some new discovery within the sciences of gravity or whatever in the name of God they called it these days. And then these bald moles who do nothing but dig their noses down in books. I don't care! I'm a professor of religious history and Latin, not physics!

His internal ranting came to a quick standstill once he breached the sea of people outside, and saw him. "In the name of Zeus...Howard..."

The man, or rather the remains of what once had been a man lay in front of him. Around him stood one of Arthur's students in his lingvistics-classes, Günther, German. With him sat another student, he didn't recognize him, and Professor Jeremiah Dupree of anthropology. They all looked taken back by the situation, although all in their respective ways. Arthur stood there speechless for a few seconds, taking it all it, when he heard someone ask Where did the other man go? Arthur looked in the direction the question came from, a puzzled look on his face as he turned back to Günther and Dupree. "There were two? What is going on, did Dr. Atkins jump from the Monument? Would some kindly explain to me, what the Hell is going on here?"

Dr. Arthur Steiner

"Get out of the way! What the Hell is going on out here?" It seemed that there could be no peace for Arthur these days. Ever since he had returned from his annual Christmas celebrations at his beloved hunting lodge down towards Boston, he had been bothered by new, excited students or the old, grey professors. Rascals, always talking about some new discovery within the sciences of gravity or whatever in the name of God they called it these days. And then these bald moles who do nothing but dig their noses down in books. I don't care! I'm a professor of religious history and Latin, not physics!

His internal ranting came to a quick standstill once he breached the sea of people outside, and saw him. "In the name of Zeus...Howard..."

The man, or rather the remains of what once had been a man lay in front of him. Around him stood one of Arthur's students in his lingvistics-classes, Günther, German. With him sat another student, he didn't recognize him, and Professor Jeremiah Dupree of anthropology. They all looked taken back by the situation, although all in their respective ways. Arthur stood there speechless for a few seconds, taking it all it, when he heard someone ask Where did the other man go? Arthur looked in the direction the question came from, a puzzled look on his face as he turned back to Günther and Dupree. "There were two? What is going on, did Dr. Atkins jump from the Monument? Would some kindly explain to me, what the Hell is going on here?"

''Two? Two what, Mr Steiner?'' Emil asked pronouncing the professor's name with an initial SH instead of S, and looked at him, puzzled, feeling he couldn't have met the man he started to admire in a worse situation than that one. Just arrived, and already bonding with his teachers above the remains of their colleague, the suicide victim. He already had enough material to write home about, and things would most definitely go crazier. ''I don't know. I opened the window and saw him all... all dead. Right there.'' he said and pointed at Dr. Atkins's body. ''There was no other man. Only him. He must have jumped.'' The snowfall became wilder, snowflakes swirling around the tower whence the body fell.

Emil's roommate nodded in agreement. ''Sean O'Reilly, sir. Medicine. Emil's new roommate. It is true, there was no other one. Poor bast-- Pardon me,'' he says and breaks eye contact.

Emil looked up at the tower. Syringe. Piercing the clouds. Wrinkled grey matter of the atmosphere. Ymir's brain. Its shadow fell over him. He felt numberless goosebumps rising on his neck, under the collar, and down his flanks. He zipped up his jacket, placed his hands in the pockets, thinking it was the cold that stung him, and swallowing the little saliva he had on his drying tongue, asked: ''What should we do? Someone should contact the police and the hospital.''

Reach into your purse. Yes, the keys are where they should be. Lock the door and get a move on, no time to waste. The metallic jingling of her apartment keys sounded through the chilled winter air, though jolly they most certainly were not. Huffing out a clouded breath into the wind, she placed her keys back in her bag and turned to face the world. Snow, lovely, right?

Being a few minutes late was not something Estelle had planned for, though the figures were especially insistent this morning that she stay inside, away from...what? She couldn't tell. A bath, a dress, knee socks, laced boots, a long winter coat, gloves, hat, all accompanied with a cup of black coffee. The morning called for nothing else, though those few minutes would make all the difference, of this she was sure.

With the first crunch of the fresh snow under her feet, she could already feel the numbing of her toes within the boots. Still, the sensation was better than the sting of her mother and that house, the house with blood forever staining the floor and echoes of stories past resounding in the halls and corridors. Arkham was the better choice, the more logical choice, the most interesting choice. Her thoughts flooded with a cold still lower than the temperature, and her eyes filled with the gloom of snow clouds overhead, she briskly made her way to Miskatonic University. It wasn't far.

Turning the corner on Lich street, she would have noticed an odd aura sitting on the curb, had it not been for a few shrill screams and the holler of a man in panic to break the stillness of the morning air. Her face remained passive, her pace quickened. Maybe today would be more intriguing than all the others. A new patient, perhaps? No, not today. As she strode alongside the Burial Ground, her eyes scanned the layout, spying a few potential plots for the crimson stain on the pavement ahead of her.

As August was just finishing up his first cigarette of the day he had reached the sight of where he assumed the previous screams had come from; he thought it was a fairly safe bet that the semi decently sized crowd of people ranging from what he deduced were students, faculty, and curious city folk must be huddling around whatever was the cause of such a campus wide uproar.

As August effortlessly pushed his way through the crowd he could indeed see why screams had brought him to this spot.

August was no stranger to death: quite the opposite infact. In all honesty at this point in his life death was almost a friend; his constant visits however always bringing more bad news about those around him. This particular time death had come calling for what was now a particularly large red smear on the ground-even with his keen detection skills August wasn't sure whether the aforementioned bright red bone riddled puddle belonged to a man or woman. Some hidden chivalrous part of him prayed it was the former and not the later.

As he stared transfixed by the macabre seen he could hear those around him-”What was Dr. Atkins thinking?” “Did he do it on purpose?” “I swore he shouted something on the way down!” these were but a sliver of the rumors and questions August picked up amongst the rampant talking that was occuring among the group of witnesses and onlookers.

Dr. Atkins eh? August asked himself, admittedly he was somewhat relieved that whatever was left on the pavement wasn't in fact Faye Desdemona. Just as August was thanking God for small miracles a particularly German sounding voice caught his ears.

''What should we do? Someone should contact the police and the hospital.''

Deciding it best to speak up August let his rather large presence be known “I'd be surprised if they hadn't already been called by now kid.” August bellowed in the deep rather matter of fact tone of voice he was known for. He did his best to hide the scowl that momentarily flashed across his face at the realization the "kid" was German. However without missing a beat he found himself responding to the boy known as Emil, without realizing it the whole of his piercing gaze was fixed on Dr. Steiner. From what August had picked up from snippits of surrounding conversation this man was more then likely the highest ranking faculty member present.

Because of this August directed his next line of speech towards Dr. Steiner; all the while doing his best to ignore the steam rising from the liquid red remnants of a one Dr. Atkins. “In my expertise as a policeman it would be best to back the crowd as far away from the evidence.” August quickly corrected himself. “Er, victim I mean, as much as possible. These first few moments are crucial”

August extended an almost comically large hand towards Dr. Steiner at the end of his suggestion in the form of a handshake, his calm demeanor making it appear as if he thought meeting amongst the shattered remnants of an old colleague were commonplace. “Dr. Steiner was it? With your permission sir I can...disperse this crowd. Again, I'm very sure the authorities would appreciate it.” As he spoke the words his beady hazel eyes fell upon the crowd of men and women who had come to gawk like this was some sort of circus show.

He decided he would very much like to get the chance to “disperse” them. At the same time he was decieding the act of crowd control might make him feel slightly better his eyes focused on the man he would come to know as Professor Dupree; the man was valiantly calling for a doctor while doing what he could for the pile of flesh and blood on the pavement. It was a familiar scene that made August's heart break a bit.

Breaking his handshake off with Dr. Steiner in a rather rude manner August made his way over to Professor Dupree in a few steps. He let his sausage like fingers clamp down firmly on the kneeling strangers shoulder in an attempt to snap him out of whatever denial he was in. "Professor. He doesn't need a doctor."

Wordlessly August gazed back towards Dr. Steiner while still resting his hand on Professor Dupree. Despite his previous lapse of manners it appeared as if Augusts offer of "crowd control" still stood-all he needed was verbal confirmation.

The hand on his shoulder seemed to break the professor from his trance. He glanced at it, cleared his throat, and chose to first address his fellow professor. "As a witness to the man's last actions-" Something that would be burned forever in Professor Dupree's mind. "-I will confirm there was only one person up there." And apparently his name was Dr. Atkins. The name was familiar but Professor Dupree had little time to spare for social interactions, and it took quite a bit to incline him to do so. "If it's all the same, Arthur, I do not wish to give details of his last moments with these students present." Their words had little to add to the account - he would later confirm that, as far as he was able to tell, the man had jumped and willingly. He would also give what few phrases he had been able to pick out from the chilly morning sky of what Dr. Atkins had been screaming about before his abrupt suicide. They were not many, and what he did pick out suggested the man had been on his way to candidacy for a more personal visit to the asylum.

The brain seemed to be losing its shape on the sidewalk, and the parietal lobe (was that it? Professor Dupree could never quite recall) slumped to the sidewalk with a wet noise Professor Dupree could never quite imitate. He shifted. Time to recompose.

"As for you two," he began, looking to the two students - Sean O'Reiley, he did not recognize, and the other student did not attend any of his lectures. "I must advise you to go to any classes you may have. Dr. Steiner can call the hospital and police. Your assistance has been appreciated." Not particularly. Perhaps it was still the shock, but he was still trying to keep the crowd from gawking at the victim - at the man splattered on the sidewalk before them, and the two students crossing into the mess of gore and blood had less helped than gaped at the sight of the dead man. Not even died right away, the muscles of the body still twitching and moving and only ceasing when these two had arrived.

He raised his voice. "If you do not have any particular business with this building, I must advise you leave before the police and ambulance arrive." That was addressed to the rest of the crowd. "They will need the space." And the man would need his dignity. The eventual report of this incident would join the wall, for sure. The details were simply too strange to go ignored.

But, for now, Professor Dupree would try to remain a shield from the horrors of death, and a shield from the prying curiosity of people.

Two, no, one; there had only been one. This both Emil Günther and Professor Dupree confirmed, as they stood over the ever growing spot of coloured snow, akin the Red Sea surrounded by burning hot desert. Arthur could not understand it, Howarding jumping was the last thing he thought he'd end up doing. As a chill surrouned his spine, like a pool of freezing water dripping down his back, he only gave a quick glance to Sean O'Reilly, another student of some sort, before settling his gaze on one who did not fit in at the university at all; the man without a name, wearing a fedora, and taking controll of the situation.

"You'd better mean victim, for this man was not the type of man to simply jump of buildings...But fine, as long as there is no fuzz." Arthur simply said to the man, while the man extected a hand forward. It was large, the sort of hand Arthur had seen around blacksmiths and carpenters down in Ottoman Syria and Palestine, yet free of the black soth that accompanied the anvils and hammers. After a little consideration, he allowed himself to shake the man's hand, only to have the handshake immediatly broken off while the man spoke to Professor Dupree, Jeremiah. What an undisciplined bafoon, must be a private investigator of some sorts...filthy Marxist...

"O'Reilly is not a student of mine, so I can't speak for him, but Günther..." Arthur turned his attention to the German student of his; he was good enough, doing his homework and answering questions in his broken English whenever he was asked, he showed potential. "Günther, you go call the police and ambulance, tell the Principable that I sent you. You can consider my classes postponed for today really..."

While Professor Dupree and the fedora-man dispersed the crowd, and his pupil phoned the police, Arthur looked up at the monument Dr. Atkins had presumably jumped off from. Odd...Arthur thought. The sun is just rising above the top as Howard jumped...and to think he wanted to tell me of some great discovery this morning...This world is going mad...

"I didn't catch your name, but you're with the police, or were at some point I take it?"

Estelle possibly could have gone unnoticed, if not for the grating sound of compacted snow beneath her boots as she casually approached the scene. She peered all the way down her nose to the crumpled mess on the ground, a hint of curiosity in her gaze. Unable to make out their identity, she listened to the stifled panic and murmurs floating around to catch a name for the pile of offal and blood.

It was a fruitless effort. She heard snippets of words and phrases. Something of a doctor and jumping, of phone calls to police or an ambulance. What she heard most was surprise, panic and fear. A laugh didn't escape her, nor a smile across her lips, though she found the whole event to be a funny thing. Arkham was a giant anomaly, subject to strange happenings every day, and still it's subjects were surprised by the outlandish events. They ignore the bizarre right before them, just as a carriage horse will ignore the pedestrian traffic with it's blinders on the sides. Good thing I chose psychiatry, there are plenty of loons here.

A focused moment produced a name, however. Atkins. Atkins...yes. She had heard of him before, though very little. In a town like this, you hear a little about everyone. But had she heard enough to care about him? No, not really. On the contrary, this Dr. Atkins had done more for her than anyone would know, on the contrary. In jumping from the roof of the university, he had stirred up her day to provide something akin to intrigue. In addition, and much to her chagrin, his death had also provided an adequate distraction from the fact that she was, indeed, a couple minutes late.

With a parting glance, Estelle made her way around the mass of hysteria, and searched instead for the entrance to the university or perhaps someone she knew.

((Accidental double post during forum problems))

He doesn't like me. Service. In France, most likely. A stalemate. Michael's father went blind. W. Steinkopf. Senfgas. Emil's mind flashed across the French trenches in a blitz, drawing on the canvas of his mind eerie images of men walking faceless through a miasma of poisonous gas, howling in that deathly stillness of the Western front. Maybe he was imagining it, but the muscles of the man of imposing stature seemed to take a subtly scornful look, from what he could see, being on the man's flank; but even that minute hint of possible hostility triggered in Emil the consciousness of his belonging to the German race. Emil had a different approach to life, and the political schemes and games were not a part of it. At least not in the amounts that would warp the way he approached people.

”Perhaps not,” he said when his professor, Dr Steiner, told him to contact the authorities.

A few minutes later he span the wheel on the telephone several times, the cold speaker pressed between his earlobe and shoulder. Tootoo. The wheel. Father wears it on his armband. Why did he jump? The Sun-Wheel. Misused, I believe. Indo-European disk of the sun. Tootoo. Kolovrat, the Russians call it. Slavic version. Same root. Doubled. Maybe he saw it rise bef. The voice on the other side interrupted his thoughts and before her knew the ambulance and the policemen were on their way and he was back in the yard, but a bit farther away from the scene than before. He leaned on the wall near the doorway leading into the dormitories and watched, curious, then curious even more after a while, seeing and following with his eye a slender woman sneaking past the commotion unseen and now sneaking around as if she were looking for someone.

In a rather surprisingly efficient manner Professor Dupree and August had dispersed the crowd of gawkers: the combination of his shear intimidating figure mixed with Duprees' authority as a campus professor having allowed them to run off the medium sized group of mostly students rather easily. He was somewhat pleased to see that they had in fact kept anyone from disturbing the ever growing pool of blood surrounding the unrecognizable pile of remains that was Dr. Atkins-not that it really mattered, he quickly reminded himself. Afterall he was extremely certain this would just be outright ruled as a suicide by the authorities-none the less August did his damnedest to preserve the scene as best he could for the boys in blue.

"I didn't catch your name, but you're with the police, or were at some point I take it?"

The man whom August had shakein hands with moments before spoke up-August had thought the man looked like a scatter brain of sorts and didn't particularly like the way he looked at him; it was as if his focus was never actually on the conversation at hand but instead was thinking of something else. Something negative, probably insulting.

Regardless August flashed such a well rehearsed smile that it almost appeared genuine.

“I was-but that was an entire war ago friend. These days I just...well, I get by. I'm actually in town looking for my niece. Perhaps you've heard of her Professor? I don't mean to make light of the situation at hand-” Without skipping a beat or glancing at the shattered remnants of Dr. Atkins August went on to lie with the kind of face that one could only aquire from years of practice; which is to say his helpful yet inquisitive demeanor remained as unchanged as the tired look on his face. “-But I am actually in town for a specific reason. I am trying to find my niece Faye Desdemona. My sister, her mother, told me she attends school here but...well...I'm no detective you see? In truth I was just going to inquire as to where her whereabouts were with your main office when I stumbled upon this...gruesome scene. Needless to say the old part of me, the part that you so brilliantly dedeuced was a cop, couldn't help but stop in an effort to lend a hand.” August paused here, his massive frame catching his breathe for a brief moment before his deep voice bellowed on. “Oh, how rude of me though-please, call me August. If you'd like I could wait here for the authorities to arrive?” He traced his gaze between Dupree and Steiner in an attempt to make the former man not feel left out. He thought that perhaps if he was lucky he might indeed learn something here; he was also well aware people were far more likely to open up to "Uncle August" rather than "A Private Investigator looking for a young women."

So, this was it, Professor Dupree decided as the crowd finally thinned out. There was little he could do about the watchers who simply migrated to the other side of the road, but even they seemed to be thinning out. And he dared not acknowledge those who seemed capable of disappearing in the space of time it took to blink. He did not wish to end up as Dr. Atkins had. Dr. Steiner could proclaim the man's sanity all he wished, but it did not change the fact that he was blood-splattered now. The sick words and sick act still hung in the air heavy, wishing to pull others down to the ground too.
Instead, he would finally pick up his briefcase once more. It dripped blood twice and ceased. He hoped he had not ruined it, as callous as the thought seemed. A man was dead, people saw fit to gape instead of assist, and now he was more concerned over his suitcase than what drove the man to end his life. On the other hand, this would be cleaned up soon, earn an article in the paper, and then people would move on. Such was the nature of the people of Arkham, and it was probably to their benefit. Professor Dupree had done what he could and the papers were irreplaceable; if ruined, he would have to declare the assignment nullified.

He almost wished he just felt worse about moving on to daily concerns so quickly.

Dr. Steiner finally asked the man his identity - not an officer. That was a bit of a shame, but the man had been able to act in the capacity of one, and his assistance in finally dispersing the crowd was invaluable. His story was told, and Professor Dupree considered the name.

"Unfortunately, Mr. August, while you've been quite helpful, I can't say I can return the favor. I've never heard of this young lady you describe." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but that was from years ago and he could be better than that, Professor Dupree was sure of it. It just took time. Even more time. An absurd amount of time. "I may be able to check the university's registry and see if I can find you her professors and room number." It might not be much better than his initial plan: as her uncle, and a veteran of the great world war (Jeremiah simply could not think of any other wars the man might have been in as of late), he would surely command respect and few would oppose his mission to find his niece. "If that plan suits you better, you are free to wait here with me - I intend to give a statement to the police as to what I witnessed. If not, however, the main office ought to still be open."

"Well, while you give your statement to the police, I'll be in my office. Tell them to contact me there if they need me to make a statement as well, Dr. Dupree. Mr. August..." Dr. Steiners words were quick and precise, mistakenly cold for a man who had just seen a body. To August he gave a simple nod, while secretly giving a conserned look, before turning on the heal and walking away. He was concerned, yes, but just as much in need of answers.

Emil Günther, the German student, stood and observed the scene from a distance, at least from what Arthur could see. Sirens. Sirens and heavy boots. Well, you can't complain about their response-time, I guess. Arthur pulled out a sigarette from his pocket and lit it as he stepped beside Emil, not noticing where he was looking. "Dr. Atkins was supposed to tell me something this morning. This seems too perfect to be a coincedence, glaubst du nicht?"

Breathing in the nicotine, mixed with the chilling winter air down into his old lungs, he let his thoughts wander. What on Earth could he have been thinking? What did he need to tell me? Another drag of the smoke, and out again. It was starting to get too cold even, Arthur suddenly realized. I need to check Dr. Atkins's office, Herr Günther, and seen as you have no class today, I'll need your help...Look at me when I speak to you, boy, what are you looking at?"

It was then that Arthur too saw the woman sneaking about the area, as if she was looking for something or someone. "Kennst du sie?" Die Mädchen?



Another day, another case, and another day wasting your life helping people who's already dead...great Barry, great...Inspector Lexington had been just around the block when a police cop pulled up beside him, asking for his assistence? For what? Some kind of accidente over at Miskatonic Universty. So the old geezers have finally hit the bucket, finally!

The sight that greeted Barry, however, was far from a sight to celebrate for; blood-soaked snow in a perfect sircle around the piece of cloth that lay in the snow. A body, what else could have it been? A practical joke, yes, but Barry was in no mood for jokes. Unless it was about those blacks from the South, always fun to poke them, not that they felt anything. You're getting off topic again, Barry. Oh yes, the body.

"Inspector Barry Lexington, Arkham Police Department, get back from the body!" Who's in charge here?" Barry pulled out his police sign, a simple card with his name, rank and a police-star, showing it to any and all who might be looking for trouble. But it didn't take too long to see who was standing beside the body; an older professor he assumed holding a briefcase, and an old face he hadn't seen for a while. Well I'll be damned, August? What the heck are you doing here?





Then the eyes opened, wandering around the square room. White fabric padded the interior, only one source of light and a small slit in the door, inticating a life on the outside. Alone, scared, and always remembering. It had been so long ago since the light had shined down, far too long.

Sneaky. She exposed her pale cheek over her shoulder, looking behind. Like a mouse. Her shoes ticked and tocked along the yard. Mäuschen toy of mine from school days. The curious heads are lifted up by the approaching sirens. Tie them all to the poles, the streetlights. They'll fall into the blood and the body. Police music. Atkins is not going home. Does he have a Penelope waiting? They all look like china pots in the snow, the heads. The police badge makes their faces seem too wooden, too artificial. We played on the break. Franz was Elpenor. Pretending to be drunken on water. The girl's mouth steams. Telemachus? Poor Atkinsboy. Fatherless.

"...at me when I speak...you, boy, what are you looking at?"

The classroom-ship of irregular edges and colours that sailed on the turbulent Aegean of his childhood memories evaporates as Dr Steiner's quite real frame emerges from the depths and sinks it with his voice made of stones. Made of Steine.

"Kennst du sie?" Die Mädchen?

”Es tut mir leid,” Emil says and fixes his posture, taking his sweaty hands out of the jacket pockets into the cold morning air. And it bites. A secret? Sweat. ”Maybe you were not the only one he was supposed to tell something, professor?” Rub them on the trousers. Nervous. ”Maybe he didn't jump. Maybe he fell. Or was pushed...”

Tick tock, tick tock.

”Und nein,” he adds, both eyeing her again, the one whom the police officer brought the gift of stealth. ”Ich hab' sie noch nie gesehen. Sie sieht wie keine Studendin aus.” The smoke from the cigarette between Steiner's lips breaches his bronchioli. ”I'm willing to help. With the office business, I mean.”

"Unfortunately, Mr. August, while you've been quite helpful, I can't say I can return the favor. I've never heard of this young lady you describe." Professor Dupree said to August. August thought the man looked as if the sentence had left a bad taste in his mouth but Dupree went on to say "I may be able to check the university's registry and see if I can find you her professors and room number. If that plan suits you better, you are free to wait here with me - I intend to give a statement to the police as to what I witnessed. If not, however, the main office ought to still be open." August was about to thank the man and graciously accept his help when Dr. Steiner chimed in.

"Well, while you give your statement to the police, I'll be in my office. Tell them to contact me there if they need me to make a statement as well, Dr. Dupree. Mr. August..." Dr. Steiner said in a a way that was so quick and precise August couldn't help but feel a chill. August had known a scatter brain or two but even they had snapped to a somewhat sober attention at the present of a gruesome corpse; even more so when they knew the deceased. But Dr. Steiner seemed wholly unaffected, as if his mind was already fixated upon a much more monumentally important task. As he walked away from the scene August couldn't help but notice the brief look the good doctor shot his way. Returning the polite nod August made note that Steiner was intent on leaving the scene before the police arrived-this in itself was in no way damning of anything, but nonetheless August filed it away within his mental catalogue for possible future use down the road. It was a habit that had served him well as a Private Investigator.

Many wouldn't think it by looking at the man but August was actually quite the detective and one thing he knew when looking for the truth, or in this case a person, was that it was a good habit to plant as many seeds as possible that might turn into future information along the way to the goal you were currently chasing. This morning he had simply gotten lucky though: it was one of those rare cosmic instances in which his maddening desire to leave his accursed Inn happened to lead him in the direction of a scream on the morning air, which in turn lead to a gruesome suicide scene followed by the introduction of both Professor Dupree and Dr. Steiner. It was a chain of events almost to coincidental in nature but August was not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hell, his plan had honestly been to maybe charm or bribe one of the more then likely numerous assistance staff members, like a janitor or file clerk. But here he was with a bonefied professor willing to actually go the extra mile to get him some decent information. If he thought about how lucky he had gotten he would have indeed gotten extremely uncomfortable.

Apparently helping me is one of the last things the former Mr. Atkins did, whether he knew it or not. August found himself randomly thinking as he literally looked down at the man whom had just offered to help, Professor Dupree. August was honestly flattered by the mans willingness to help and made a mental note to remember that Dupree actually seemed like a good person: or as close to one as you got in the Private Eye business.

“Please-Im in no rush, Professor Dupree was it?” He went on speaking, as if he had been asking the question more to himself than Dupree. His eyes still followed Dr. Steiner “I'd gladly wait here with you. Well, not gladly per say givein the circumstances but...” He trailed off for a brief moment. “...well, Im sure a man of your intellect understands my meaning.”

In one smooth solid motion August fished a cigarette out of his coat pocket and struck a match, a moment later a lit Marlboro sat precariously placed between his sausage like index and middle finger. The glowing stick of tobacco almost looked comically tiny in his bear like hand. After the first puff August picked up speaking without missing a beat. “In fact Professor I would be honored to have your assistance after the proper authorities-”

"Inspector Barry Lexington, Arkham Police Department, get back from the body! Who's in charge here?"

You have to be fucking kidding me. Augusts' mind practically shrieked as the all too familiar voice rang out in the air. Of all the fucking police in all the fucking towns the one that responded to this had to be Barry Fucking Lexington. Augusts mental tantrum (he cussed when upset, he had to admit) continued for a moment as he did his best to wipe the momentary look of genuine shock off his face.

August half raised his hands in the air in a mock surrender.

“Well I'll be damned, August? What the heck are you doing here?” Barry almost whispered in a question that was obviously somewhat rhetorical. Somewhat.

Not wanting to be called out in a lie infront of Professor Dupree August knew he had to take control of the situation rather quickly. Luckily he had a few things going for him. “Well I'll be damned. Professor Dupree this is, as you might have heard over the frightened shrieks upon his arrival, Barry Lexington.” August paused after his toneless joke, his eyes giving Barry the up and down. “I see your not in the uniform anymore, eh Barry? Guess that war record musta looked mighty good on your return resume.” August grinned in a half friendly smile: unlike Dupree, whom August had seemingly been completely sincere with despite the lies, August spoke to Barry like every word was chosein carefully and laced with a certain edge. Part of this was because Barry reminded August of the war...the other part was that Barry was, well, Barry.

As was often common the day to day struggle to simply survive on the war torn fronts overseas required each man to have the others back with an unwavering loyalty and dependence unheard of in civilian life. August would never say he loved Barry like a brother but, well, damnit they were something-all the men he'd served with in the 81st were something. August just still didn't know what that something was. He doubted he'd ever know.

Nonetheless a part of him was genuinely glad to see Barry-the other part couldn't help but see a man butchering unarmed POWs with a shovel. Like most men August had found a bit of hate to carry around on the battlefield-but Barry, Barry had arrived at the front full of a silent simmering hate. A hate that the war had been a perfect outlet for. Whereas August and many others had done their best to ignore the darker things war brought out in them Barry had revelled in the blood and chaos. The Germans came to speak of him as “Blutige Barry“ in fearful whispers. In fact, August decided, it was quite a sick universal joke of sorts that Barry was walking around as a symbol of law instead of confined in the sanatorium given the things he'd seen and done.

August had to remind himself that the man saved his ass on more then one occasion along with dozens of other men. August himself was well decorated but Barry, well, Barry had enough brass to forge a coat of armor. Despite all that though..well, August remembered Barry as being that rare sort of evil. The kind that was even scarier because it was so normal; he was the neighbor mowing his lawn, the one bagging your groceries, the cop comming to your rescue.

“I was actually just telling the Professor here about how I was in town looking for my kid sisters daughter. You remember my sis Mary, right?” As a matter of fact he wouldn't-there was no Mary. But August knew Barry and Barry would be to prideful to admit he didn't remember. “Just so happened to stumble onto the scene on my way in this morning. Lucky me, right?” His last words made him shoot a regretful look at Dupree-he hadn't meant to “talk cop” so to speak in front of the man. Most people didn't like hearing the death of those they knew made light of.

He assumed Barry held none of these qualms though-quite the opposite infact August would bet. If anything his old “friend” probably still found some twisted pleasure amidst the delightfully disturbing sights made only by man. No doubt between the macabre cases encountered in his line of work and the whole new ethnic group that was socially acceptable to discriminate against(Germans) August bet he was loving his job more than ever. Although silently mortified August wasn't surprised to see that Barry had apparently gone back to wearing a badge-the very same job August himself had been unable to stand after returning from overseas.