StormWolf

High Castles, Ivory Towers

When the sly vixen had returned to her den, he paused for a moment on the street outside her drive, his road-weary car a blemish among the fine BMWs and Rolls Royce machines that came and went. The house was a castle in its own right, and Ben imagined a small army of staff tending to every need as soon as Jacqueline and her husband showed the slightest glimmer of discontentment.

What a life.

Grinding out the butt of his cigarette on the asphalt, he ducked into his car and drove off. He had a long night ahead of him yet. Ben had all but sweat through his shirt and hadn't eaten a nibble since lunch. He was hungry, tired, and had a knot in his back as large as the San Andreas fault. He could go for a fat steak and a long shower, but he had photos to develop. Instead, the PI stopped by a diner for a cold cut and the liquor store for a fresh bottle of bourbon.

What would have constituted a guest bathroom in Ben's office had been retrofitted into a dark room, the door fitted with enough locks to make any meandering client think twice before trying the knob. Dark red lights bored into his eyes, making them ache as much as the fumes did. It was at times like these that he detested his thoroughness. The photos came out well enough; far more than he'd anticipated. Hung up on a line like so much drying laundry, Ben was daunted by those dark lips and bright smile into the measly hours of the morning.

By the time he'd finished developing the photos and dragged himself into the shower, it was nearing the witching hour in the city of angels. For how ragged the landlady rode her tenets, Ben figured the water heater should be working when he needed it. Alas, Ben's shower was brief as it was brisk, but perhaps a cold shower was just what he needed.

A few glasses of bourbon later and Ben passed out on his measly cot. His rest was fitful, dragging him back to the mud and blood of the war, as it always did. A merciless ray of sunlight stabbed Ben in the eye to rouse him in the morning. Rolling out of bed, naked as a jaybird, the veteran planted his face in his calloused hands and breathed deep. Old wounds ached, his head pounded, and he felt empty in more ways than one.

Another day, another dime... Ben thought, shuffling tiredly to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He stared at his reflection in the dingy mirror with dismay; the circles under his eyes were more profound than the day before, his cheeks rough with stubble. Only one of those he could help, so after a quick shave and slurping down a cup of coffee with his bacon and eggs, Ben got back on the case.

Thankfully, Ben still had his staff badge for the GHS in the glove compartment of his car. Flashing it to one of the guards on the lot, Ben even got to park his car behind scenes. That alone would save him some time, and give him a few extra minutes to go through his notebook while his finished off the rest of the coffee pot's contents from his thermos. It was gas in the tank, and feeling jazzed enough from the french roast, he made his rounds.

The Glamor Hawk was even more impressive when coming in through the backlot, seeing the techies practicing their craft in sculpting setpieces, checking props, or doing makeup. Talk about movie magic. Sure enough, Jacqueline was back to her own proverbial grindstone, looking radiant as she was the day before. He spied her passing a note to... Jerry, was it?

It was a slower day at the studio, as relative as that was. People milled about their business as usual, but it looked like several crews had gone elsewhere to shoot. Probably at the beach or in the brush-laden foothills inland, that could so easily pass for Italy or Greece. As such, a tall drink like Ben would stand out with his camera. There was little else to do for now but make a gamble, so Ben, in his infinite wisdom, rolled the dice.

"I take it you talked him out of the forest nymph scene, then?" Ben asked lowly after clearing his throat on approach to the starlet. He was dressed in a fine summer suit, or at least as fine as he could afford. A linen shirt with matched khaki suit and slacks with an army-brown hat. All in all, it made him look more like a big-game hunter than some studio peon. Looking Jacqueline in the eyes, he offered a genteel smile and thrust his chin after the stout chimney of a man that had received the flash paper.

"If I talked at him the way you did, they'd have tanned my hide. Ben," he said, offering his hand. "Ben Carter."

High Castles, Ivory Towers

Things just kept getting better and better. Flash-burning paper? What secret could be passing hands and going up in, smoke, Ben wondered. The shutters rattled as quick as Ben could mash the button and crank the lever. There was a sort of iron-clad resolve in those picture-perfect features, something that, in Ben's experience, was much rarer than people thought.

He watched a bushel of those papers slip from those slender fingers to Jacqueline's bag, and he wanted nothing more than to see what they said in that moment. The mystique was almost worth working for the old Nazi politician. Almost. It would be a relief to cover something, anything but another celebrity sex scandal, and for the pay, Ben could feel the excitement and the relief crackling in his fingers like electricity.

Seeing her in the windows, framed by the frame and the viewfinder of Ben's camera, there was a look in those eyes like jewels that made Ben's heart sink. The anticipation turned to ashes in his mouth as sure as if it was that flash-paper in Jacqueline's purse, grimacing as he snapped a series of photos of the fellow's face and the shuttering of the blinds.

Well. That was that, it seemed.

Sweeping his head hither and thither to spy for any other possibly photographers, spotters, or voyeurs, only to find nothing, Ben sighed and sat himself on a nearby crate and fetched a cigarette from his pocket. A long and dejected draw filled his lungs. Another day, another dame, another goddamn scandal. It wasn't like Ben could blame her. It surely would beat getting frisky with that teutonic mummy that was her husband.

An hour and a several cigarette butts later, the groan of distant sea-rusted hinges drew Ben's attention. Well, the foreman had stamina, it seemed. Ben huffed in a wry bemusement as he snapped one more photo of the lady and her slightest dishevelment before stuffing the camera away and tugging his hat low, ready to tail her wherever she went next.

Rolling out ahead of her a ways, looking the part of a fellow just off the clock, Ben walked in the meandering swagger of a life-long Californian, helping himself to another smoke as he rolled through a mental checklist of his photos. He would, of course, need to see how many came out in development and where this wild chase took him next. For the time being, if even one in every three photos was solid enough to use, that was nearly a whole roll of evidence.

If he wanted to milk Mr. Shultz for all the Deutschmarks he was worth, Ben could just sit pretty on the most incriminating photos until the time was right. While he had a nose for this kind of thing, there was more to he story. The papers, in particular, stuck to Ben's thoughts like fly paper.

There wasn't much more to do but play it safe. No need to ruin a fellow's life over an incomplete narrative. While Mr. Schultz didn't seem the sort to lay hands on his wife, the man was still a Nazi, and a highly ranking, decorated one at that. Ben felt that if he provided these photos as they were, the foreman would vanish under the worst circumstance. He may be a lucky son of a bitch, but being green at the gills with a distant envy was no means to condemn the man to an incinerator.

High Castles, Ivory Towers

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that room. Ben was, despite the nature of his work, not a professional spook. He'd sell his left nut for the super-spy gadgets from the pre-occupation pulp novels that the Nazis hated so much. A bug to hear just what they were talking about, rather than trying to read lips, and doing a miserable job of it.

Still, Jacqueline and this John in the office seemed to be pretty chummy, but nothing scandalous. Sure, she lit a smoke off of his, but that wasn't anything inherently nefarious. Ben snapped a photo of that momentary closeness anyway. The little rendezvous felt more like a pair of old business partners talking about a deal rather than a sweltering tryst between lovers. Ben supposed that wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Hollywood types have been getting "party aides" from the docks for decades, and despite what the Krauts liked to think that everything marched to their tune, the Nips enjoyed their cut on the opium trade.

Could that be what was going on? Jacqueline didn't look the type, with her sophistication and charm, but the prettiest vipers were usually the deadliest. Snapping a few more photos, Ben watched the scene with a growing sense of sensational curiosity. Not merely for the prospect of some grandiose silver-screen plot, but just how interesting his mark was.

Here Ben was expected another titty-shoot and a quick buck, but this Jacqueline had shown him that she was as smart as she was pretty, and had the moxie to back it all up. Where was she when he cut the perfect picture of a man in uniform? It seemed a damn shame for her to be stuck with the ball and chain that was her husband... but then again, everyone needed to eat. Mr. Schultz was their mutual meal ticket, after all.

Satisfied with his photos for the time being, Ben would do what he did best: wait and watch. He figured that he'd need to resume his part as the lady's shadow once she made her departure.

Task Force: Sentinel - Occult Covert Operations

<Snipped quote by Naril>

Did we ever get an answer for this @StormWolf? I just posted in the IC thread but I kept it super vague because I didn't know what had been decided.

@Klumsykrow357

not inventing clues so much as go about your characters' process(es) and have them investigate an area as broadly, narrowly or esoterically as you think fits. If they are looking for something in particular, express that in a narrative manner.

If this was a game of Delta Green, for example, this is a round of "Spot hidden". Alternatively, Chief Millar is available for questioning/grilling.

Lions of Rhaetia

Flintlock fantasy?! Give!

Task Force: Sentinel - Occult Covert Operations

Let Jason be their truest self :P

Task Force: Sentinel - Occult Covert Operations

IC OP has been posted.

As stated, we're starting in media res. An investigation, in this instance.

Task Force: Sentinel - Occult Covert Operations

Task Force: Sentinel
Chapter I - Dread Harvest

Very few good things ever happen at 3am. It’s that weird dimension where all the dark thoughts that creep and crawl hatch in the human skull. The darkest and most dead time of night, where you wake from a dream full of adrenaline at a threat half-remembered, but deep embedded. The Witching Hour that stirs the darkness at the back of the mind, letting all manner of vileness bubble to the surface.

Nothing good ever happened in that unholy hour, and the scene laid out on the wooded side of a rural Wisconsin road. The sun was just barely rising, the foreboding red light casting long shadows through the trees. Overhead, tangled boughs hushed and groaned in the faintest sigh of a breeze. Withered leaves tumbled downward as the autumn chill turned breath into fog and gnawed to the bone.

The sparsely traveled road had more activity that morning that it likely ever saw in a normal year; a single sheriff’s cruiser, silent but for the grumble of the engine. Beside it was a pair of matte-black Land Rovers, the beams of their headlights casting a banal clarity over the scene at the edge of the gravel road.

A luxury SUV stuck in a road-side ditch; the hood crumpled like an aluminum can as it wrapped around a tree.

A collision wasn’t something that the Division, let along their elite team, the Sentinels, were called in to investigate, but the local Police Chief had their number, and he was terribly insistent. Chief Millar was a quirky, pigeon-chested man of late-middle age and diminutive height, but he was reliable as an oak. Clint hated that Millar was right. Again. If he kept this up, he’d get offered a job that he couldn’t quite refuse, retirement and pension be damned.

The car was indeed a nice one, strange for the rural roads, even those with old money. The tinted windows were all smashed, the airbags deployed, and not a soul to be found in or around the vehicle when their OnStar made the automated call to emergency services. Millar knew strange when he saw it, calling in the number on the nameless black business card he’d received after the first Wendigo incident.

“What do you think?” Millar asked, his greying mustache twitching nervously as he approached the darkly clad figure by lip of the ditch, passing a paper cup of coffee. There was a pause as the Sentinel agent regarded Millar with cold blue eyes, then nodded in appreciation for the burnt roast as he accepted with black-gloved hands.

“You know better than to ask, Bill,” said the operative, peeling back the tab and sucking down a long pull of coffee, to hell with letting it cool.

“Oh, don’t give me that shit, Clint. Your crew has come in on all manner of nasty business, and I need to know if this is another… skin-something-rather.” There was a moment of silence as Clinton scanned the scene, watching his teammates get to work, doing what they did best in their own ways.

“Mm-mmh,” Clint finally grunted in the negative. “A skin-dancer or wendigo would have made a mess. Claws marks, blood, body parts. This…” he paused, clicking his tongue in thought. “This is downright sterile by our standards. I could eat off this crime scene.” The chief nodded slowly, his gloved hands clasping his own coffee for warmth, and probably just to have something to do with his hands. Once again, silence reigned but for the shuffle of the Sentinels at work and the eerie call of a whippoorwill through the trees.

“So, what do you think it is?” Millar finally said after a pregnant pause. Clint, in no rush, finished the gulp from his cup.

“Chief Millar, I appreciate your faith in our abilities, but we need a chance to actually investigate the scene,” Clint said evenly, turning away from the ditch to round on the lead Rover’s trunk. Stacks of hard shell cases in various shapes and sizes were all neatly stacked, and a life-long Wisconsinite like Millar didn’t need to wonder how many of them housed firearms. Shoving a stack aside, Clinton grabbed his molle field bag and slung it over his shoulder. It was an unspoken, expected thing for every Sentinel to have a duty bag, but it wasn’t terribly enforced. After all, when some of their number could effectively command the “source-code of the universe”, something so mundane as a go-bag might seem silly. Alas, Clinton was not one of that esteemed group, but he was as unnatural as the rest.

“Chief, we’re going to need you to close off this road while my team does their investigation.” Clint thrust his scarred chin at the puzzle before them. Between divination, enhanced senses, and good old-fashioned forensics, they should be able to figure out something. If they couldn't... well, that was something to tackle after the fact.

Task Force: Sentinel - Occult Covert Operations

I apologize for the delays! I've been tiddling away at the draft of the opening post. It should be coming out over the weekend. The SD fire has made work slow going.

High Castles, Ivory Towers

Continuing to play his part of the shadow, Ben gradually changed lanes to keep after his mark. It was little surprise that the trolley was jam-packed. The deep blue waters of the Pacific would be a pleasant sixty degrees or so around this time of year, a great place to beat the heat and spend a fine summer day basking in the sun, or boating, for the more affluent. Ben had removed his hat and shrugged out of his jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as the automobile became more reminiscent of an oven. Drifting his eyes from the road, Ben fiddled with the climate controls on his vehicle, pushing the fans to their limit. By the time he looked back up, he was gazing directly into the dame's eyes.

There was a moment of brief apprehension as Ben's large fists tightened on the wheel in a white-knuckle grip, but the woman seemed lost in thought, gazing into that far-away middle space that only she could see. Letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, Ben flexed his fingers out with a satisfying pop of joints. Watching Jacqueline disembark from the tram, Ben continued down the avenue to park in the sparse shadow of a palm tree. The entire while, Ben kept his eyes on his subject - from his periphery vision to the reflection in his car mirrors.

Nestling his hat back over his head, Ben swung himself out of his vehicle with an appreciative sigh for the caress of the breeze coming off the sea. Folding his jacket over his arm, Ben doubled back to the path Jacqueline had taken. Leaning in the afternoon shade of a boardwalk storefront, Ben slipped his camera from the coat pocket and snapped a shot of the John Jacqueline conversed with. They seemed cordial enough, but no more familiar than a pair of chums might be.

It was a challenge to eavesdrop over the sound of the warf and the sea, but the occasional nugget drifted to Ben's trained ears. Fumbling for his notebook, Ben scribbled on a fresh page. At a glance, he was just a freelance photographer stuffing a reel for a publication.

Johnny; bouncer? Vin- Vinny? Vanessa?? He circled Johnny's name and connected it to Jacqueline's with a line, repeating the process with the unknown third. He'd have gotten the whole name if it wasn't for that goddamn shipping horn. When Jacqueline passed through the gate, Ben found himself facing a rough decision. Johnny was a burly brute with a physique that reminded Ben of a gorilla. Ben wasn't close enough to tell, but he'd bet hard cash that the fellow had the pitted knuckles and cauliflower ear of a seasoned pugilist.

"Aw, hell..." he muttered, scratching at the scar on his chin with the soft rasp of freshly-shaved stubble. If he confronted Johnny, chances were that Ben would get his bell rung if they fought clean. That was why Ben carried a set of knuckle dusters in his pocket. The office that Jacqueline entered was in the open, making a stealthy approach a challenge. Taking a deep breath, Ben pinched at his nose. He needed a photo of this other character, and an idea of their name. Something to build up the case, especially when it was just starting to get interesting. He snapped a photo of the squat little office, just in case he needed to circle back for a late-night B & E.

Ben shook his head, dragging a calloused hand down his face. He wouldn't need to know about this other character. He just needed the photos. He wasn't doing a full dossier for the OSS, for Christ's sake. Taking a deep breath and puffing out his cheeks, he mirrored Jacqueline's path to where he could see through the windows flung wide against the heat and to welcome the same brisk and salty breeze that Ben was enjoying. He didn't have an extension for his shutter, so his zoom would be less than ideal, but he had a piece of a name, a location, and after a few clicks, he'd have... a fuzzy approximation of a face.