@RBYDark @ONL I've just finished the new Argus post; if there’s anything that messes with the story/lore then let me know and I'll fix it up
[hider=Argus' new post]
Argus Lichfield
Physical state: Cold
Mental state: Inquisitive
Despite the many very deliberate blotches of ink on many very deliberate words, the Bureau's dossier on Dr. Atkins was surprisingly thorough - say what you will about bureaucratic incompetence, but the Bureau of Investigations definitely didn't do things half-assed; although, Argus got the feeling the two Feds weren't telling him the full story. He scanned through the documents for what seemed to him the hundredth time, trying to fill in the blanks.
It was fascinating, really - the oldest records dated back two and a half years, and ended barely three weeks before his untimely death. It was by sheer chance that they'd caught on to the death so fast - A routine telephone call to local law enforcement just hours after the incident quickly revealed the grim nature of events in Arkham.
Surprisingly, the agent assigned to him before the three week gap had declared the late doctor's mental state as 'erratic, but no cause for alarm' and recommended Atkins be downgraded from 'High' to 'Low' importance.
This was not the first time this had happened. The Bureau had apparently been jumping back and forth between active and passive surveillance. There was a full list of about five different agents that had been assigned to him at various points included in the file - a list which had completely succumbed to the dreaded black ink, and therefore would have been as much use to Argus at at the bottom of a well than in the file.
There was also a whole host of other information: newspaper cut-outs; articles published by Dr. Atkins; transcripts of phone conversations - the Bureau had gone through a strange period of intercepting his phone calls, most of which were irrelevant - name of colleagues; addresses; books...
Argus flicked back through the pages. References to several books had been circled, often multiple times: The
Necronomicon; The [i]Celaeno Fragments[i];
De Vermis Mysteriis; and most alarmingly, [i]The American Prophecy[i].
Although Argus had never heard of the first three, the dossier indicated they were archaic tomes filled with indecipherable mystical information, and some of the few extant copies were stored in the archives of Miskatonic University.
The American Prophecy, on the other hand... Argus was somewhat more familiar with. The doomsday cult associated with it had case files with Pinkerton - several times, agents had been hired by concerned families to retrieve loved ones from their grasp. The leader himself had been a known anarchist, and had often called for the destruction of the United States to hasten the coming of the end of the world - something the BoI believed Atkins may have been looking into.
And finally, at the very back of the folder in a previously sealed pouch, was the mission brief. It was a waste of time to read it again. Argus knew perfectly well what had to be done. And yet, confusion still filled his thoughts.
Why would Atkins be compelled by a foreign agent to commit suicide? Why not just defect? I'm sure those fucking Bolsheviks would pay a high price for-A screeching of metal on metal and a lurch of the train interrupted his own train of thought. The ruddy-faced conductor who walked past his cabin moments later did nothing to to ease his annoyance.
'Arkham, Massachusetts! End of the line, pal!' He announced. He sounded cheerful. Far too fucking cheerful.
Argus picked up his hat and briefcase. He'd had just moments to stuff the dossier in the case, away from prying eyes.
'Not today.' He replied through gritted teeth and made his way towards the door, leaving the confused conductor behind him.
Arkham was, unsurprisingly, as cold and shitty as he'd imagined. Trudging towards the hotel through the ever increasing snowfall that filled the streets, it was hard to not notice a few landmarks.
Arkham Sanitarium loomed ominously over the city, like a Daemon preparing to swoop down and lay waste to those poor souls who were unfortunate enough to wind up in this backwater. To his left, the tall roofed buildings of the Miskatonic University were easily visible from the sidewalk. Somewhere faintly in the distance, the Miskatonic gurgled as its waters flowed slowly past the frozen lumps that choked its course.
People darted through the streets, trying desperately to finish their business before the sun began to slip below the horizon. Argus watched them with a detached sense of curiosity. It was sad, really - A college professor kills himself and several residents are all simultaneously committed to the local asylum, but still the people in Arkham seemed worried about trivial, materialistic things - like personal appearances, or how much bread they had left in their larder. Tiny, selfish desires were like an opiate for these yokels, a distraction from the disturbing affairs that had begun to surround them as of late.
It wasn't too much longer before Argus arrived at the Arkham Grand Hotel - although calling it 'Grand' was nothing short of false advertising. But for all the weathered floorboards and peeling wallpaper, at least Room 15 had working plumbing and a fireplace to keep that damn chill out.
As the fire roared to life, Argus took one final look at the file. His large briefcase lay open on the bed - curiously, the layout had been modified to hold a short lever-action rifle and a few extra rounds in addition to his travel necessities. He'd had the case custom made a few years by a man who made a living building concealed gun cases for the Sicilian Mafia and whiskey bootleggers.
He looked back at the fire. The flames seemed to lick delicately at the soot-coated bricks of the fireplace, as if they were beckoning him. The file weighed heavily in his hands. It was time.
Argus stepped towards the fire as it crackled eagerly, and cast the dossier into the hearth. The flames quickly consumed it, turning all it touched to nothing more than ash and smoke and embers. As he watched, he thought about how Inspector Lexington would react to having the case taken out of his hands.
He glanced back at the open briefcase. The cold steel of his rifle glittered enticingly in the fire's glow. He hoped it he wouldn't have to use it.
But something deep inside him did.[/hider]
