Zombiedude101

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN
Webb Family Coffee House

---

Clay quietly gulped down mouthfuls of caffeine while the group engaged in the discussion around their next plan.

The Doctor's words were stuck in his head.

Magic?

The jar that Lily had taken reminded him of those homeopathic treatments he'd seen too many fall into alongside the rest of the New Age bullshit. He wrinkled his nose. It reminded him of a bad case he'd seen a long while back, some mother who'd tried to treat her kid's near-terminal illness with another snake oil solution.

But if she `was what qualified for a doctor around here, maybe that set the example for what to expect. For all he knew it was a local recipe, a key to a bad trip.

He blinked it off, focusing back to what he was supposed to be here for. Where the group were going, this old rotting family mansion that may or may not have had what they were looking for, and how it related to what he came here for in the business. One loose end, and a retirement plan.

There were a few snags to his plan.

One. That was assuming his retirement fund was there.

Two. Finding the fund, and getting it out. Assuming Black, or whoever she was, hadn't already split it up and buried it in different parts, he had to figure out how to work around the others.

All they knew was Carl - a First Responder looking for his wife, or at least that's the story they'd been sold. Whether they bought it, well... he wasn't sure, but he'd not given any indication otherwise, or at least he didn't think he had.

Three. Black herself, or whatever name she was going by. The Black he knew, the wily bitch who, as far as he could tell, had turned on her fellow badge and ditched town with a share of something that was rightfully his, was no louch. She'd be trouble to deal with, if she was around. And if she wasn't, if she'd already ditched town, with or without the retirement fund, well - Clay wondered if he wanted to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

Cross that bridge when /I/ get there, he figured, glancing at the others.

Most of them were kids anyhow, and he didn't want them getting caught up in his business - that was a headache for him, and he wasn't interested in seeing them hurt. Yeah, he did things his way, made sure he got his dues, but he wasn't a monster.

Monsters, Werewolves and Ghoulies, huh. He snorted at the thought, almost interrupting the conversation that was taking place. Maybe it was them who got that 'Gene and the other one. They were apparently responsible for the girls that had gone missing, now that struck him as something off.

And judging by the point they'd caught up to....

"-hour? There might be monsters. There might be something worse. But, as long as we're out during the day, everything should be fine."

"But, I saw something at the motel. When...- I was at the motel... I saw a woman, but there was something wrong with her. It was like she was a... ghost."

"... You may have seen an Apparition."

"Ya, that's what I'm saying, I mean- uh, never mind. We'll, um, just meet in the motel in an hour?"

Neither Clay nor 'Carl' could argue with that. He threw her an affirmative expression, motioning to finish his coffee while the others slowly filtered out.

---

It was the waiting that had him thinking as he stood over the back of the car.

He glanced over his shoulder, a little wary. Keys were in his pocket. If the other two had cut their losses and run, then there was nothing stopping him.

Something kept his interest, either way. And deep down, he couldn't be honest with himself and say he was only here to tie up loose ends, right now. A part of himself he had figured was buried under years of apathy, weariness and paperwork.

"Ain' a badge anymore, just don't know it yet," he chuckled, almost bitterly, then shrugged, "Gonna get my ass chomped by Nosferatu."

Still, they were out in the ass-end of the swamps, real society miles away. He wasn't chancing it. Between the locals, the wildlife, and all the rumours, there usually wasn't some smoke without fire. Odds were, this town had a nasty problem with tweakers, and he wasn't taking any chances there. He popped the trunk, then pulled back a sheet to check he'd got everything he'd need. A pair of rugged boots, gloves for when he needed to handle some extra wear and tear - or otherwise ensure he didn't leave anything behind - and a dufflebag with a couple of tools that'd come in handy. After all... one thing he'd learned was a degree of self sufficiency, and the motto 'If you're gonna do it, don't half-ass it.'

He did carry a maglite, too, which was probably good for smacking a junkie in the face in a pinch, but under his waistband was where he'd come heavy.

One last thing to check, before the other showed up. He dropped the trunk, then circled around to the driver's side of his car. He knelt, felt underneath the wheel well. Yep, there we go.

It was about as ready as he was going to be.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@Fernstone @Punished GN
Sybil A. Harkness MD.

---

"... and keep your damn head on a swivel, especially at night. There are some things here that are a lot worse than an alligator, or a methhead."

Clay's expression crinkled at that - there was something about Sybil's phrasing that seemed deliberate. A gut feeling at the pit of his stomach. Fuck. What was he caught up in? It wasn't completely out of the question that some backwater place like this, families with old blood and deep roots, there were some folks pulling the strings. He'd not run into the local sheriff's department yet, or even seen a passing cruiser at this stage, but he could've guessed they knew who everyone was, and could pick out everyone who wasn't.

He'd heard stories of just how far that could go. Hell, he'd lived it back home, having to deal with things a certain way, well outside the realms of due process.

Instinct was that he could cut and run, but he was committed to this now. If he went home, tail between his legs, there was a fifty fifty chance he could end the year with the clothes on his back and nothing more. Riskier chance he might end up in a cell. That wasn't ideal, and given his history, he wasn't sure if those were the terms he wanted to go down on.

Leaning forward, he pressed the doctor further; "What's been said here, stays between us, so just level with me," 'Carl' asked, "Who are we talking about - people willin' to hurt folks for asking questions?" Briefly, he glanced off to one side, keeping his tone fairly hushed. "Look, she's just trying to find someone who mattered to her. You figure where these girls went? At least, y'know, I can keep an eye on these two, keep 'em outta trouble."

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN
Sybil A Harkness MD

Clay's brow arched for a just a second as they were led in past the receptionist, the nurse, all the way to Doctor Harkness herself.

This wasn't quite quite he was expecting either; small town family doctor out in the swamps, at the least he expected someone older. That might've gone either way for them, he rationalised.

The act - she wasn't buying it either - not that he expected it would've worked for too long - and he got the impression doubling down hard would throw up walls. Best to go with a soft approach. Before Lily or Charlie could blow it for them, he decided to speak up, projecting as best of a warm, disarming expression as he could.

"Look, bein' honest I just ran into these girls, saw this one seemed a little green aroun' the gills. I help take care of a fire crew up in Memphis, so I get it, but I always figure best to play it safe, but..." he shrugged. "I'm a Tennessee boy, so I know how tourists up north an' east can't take too much sun like us..." he chuckled, trailing off a little, then projected a warm expression .

He offered out a hand to her, projecting a warm expression, "Hell, I bet you get enough tourists on your plate as-is, huh?" he led on, projecting that warm persona. "Name's Carl - sorry for wastin' your time."

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN
Sybil A Harkness MD

---

"... not going to believe me when I say this, but magic? It's real. So are monsters and ghosts and other nasty things. Your fearless leader clearly has magic herself. I wooooould elaborate buuuuuuut... I can tell by the looks on your faces that you think I'm crazy! But, you all will find out on your own soon enough. Just uhhhhh... if you see a deer with flayed skin: run. If you see a tree with a talking skull on it: run. If you see a skeleton in a robe with a gold necklace: run. If you see a green werewolf... you're probably already dead. And whatever you do, stay out of the swamp - especially at night. I'll be around!"

Clay's expression crinkled as Odessa pulled away, but he didn't take things any further. That girl's skin was clammy, and cold. Only way he could describe it.
"What the fuck wqs that?" Lily asked, and he shrugged. "Better we don't get involved," She didn't have any track marks that anyone could see, and though she was cold she didn't exactly have the rotting teeth associated with meth mouth or sticking to the pipe. "If its drugs, or other issues, folk like that can get unpredictable if you push 'em while they're spiralling." Mental illness was another possibility, but some things didn't fully add up. She was awfully specific, and the spiel she'd run her mouth off on suggested she was going through some kind of episode. Didn't matter, he figured. They soon moved on.

"... Let's get a move on. Remember: we're going with the heatstroke story."

Nodding, Clay briefly gestured his palms towards Charlie.

"Doctor's gonna figure out quick that you're full of shit, so make sure you do it right. Remember, don't talk too much. You're head's gonna be spinnin', feelin' like you wanna throw up even if you've got nothin' in you, maybe your body's gonna feelin' tight like you got cramps everywhere. Head's gonna feel like it's on fire, and you're gonna be thirsty."

Then, as an aside, he chuckled "Anythin' else, we can really just put it down to you being a weak-ass tourist."

For added effect, Clay gently reached out for Charlie's tricep to lead her along into the waiting room.

"Hiiiiiii, mami, is Dr. Harkness available? Too obvious that. How's an out of towner gonna know the doctor's name firsthand? Sure, it wasn't implausible - there was a sign outside that read Sybil Harkness MD - but Clay felt it gave the game away a little too early.

"She's in the middle of someone's check-up, is this an emergency?"

"Ummm... Mami over here... she hasn't been feeling too good?

That was Charlie's cue. “I feel faint," she mumbled, "Think I’m gonna be sick.”

He felt the British girl lurch forward, almost on cue - and braced his feet to take some of her weight, just enough that when the girl accidentally lost her footing, he was better suited to take her weight. Instead of toppling over and pulling him down with her, she ended up swinging around into his side, with 'Carl' propping her up, "Woah, hang on-.." Playing this a little too well, maybe. With a grunt, he shifted the girl's weight against his shoulder to stabilise the both of them, then apologetically nodded to the receptionist.

"Sorry, ma'am," he interjected, not wanting to get on the receptionist's bad side with their unsolicited drop-in anymore than they probably had, "I'm not from around here - but I ran into these girls and this one looks like she might have been out in the sun too long, so I figured to get her checked out. I looked her over quick, but I think she's better off gettin' a professional's eyes on her. I'll wait with her while the Doctor finishes up, if that's alright."

REZORT: VACATION FROM HELL

@Vanny

Terry York

Terrence York
Terrence York

^{45| Male|Comedian/Actor/Voiceover}

A P P E A R A N C E
A P P E A R A N C E

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A stocky Yorkshireman standing at 5'9, Terry wears a #3 haircut of salt & pepper, that's vaguely receded a good few centimeters up his forehead since his youth. His face is somewhat rounded, with a square jaw cropped in a manner that would imply he shaved not too long ago.

Fat is not a good way to describe him, though the lack of firmness and somewhat loose skin around his stomach does suggest it in the recent past. He's certainly not at peak fitness, but for a man his age his efforts to avoid neglecting cardio are demonstrated in the tone of his legs.

P E R S O N A L I T Y
P E R S O N A L I T Y

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For the most part, Terry is what most would consider a laid-back individual. Most (mundane) things don't normally phase him, and he's quite used to flecking off insults like a hose pipe on a duck's back. He gets a little touchy when his private or his family life is brought up in tenous conditions, however - a recent incident is proof of that. Humour, sarcasm and general attempts at wit are part of both his public and private personas, with the latter expressing a degree of weary cynicism. There's a part of him that feels

One thing that characterises Terry; he's loud in the public view. He has a distinct "Pub Dweller's" accent stemming from his upbringing around South Yorkshire, with an inflection that pins him to somewhere anywhere between Barnsley- Sheffield - Chesterfield, although if you asked him he'd probably joke that he was the result of Channel 5 trying to clone a hybridised homonculus of Peter Kay and Sean Bean to appeal to that '00s demographic. Privately, he's a little more toned down, but the more stress he's under, the more his accent starts to slip into deedar levels of comprehension.

B I O G R A P H Y
B I O G R A P H Y

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Terry was born and raised in South Yorkshire, under a traditional working class family the likes of which were common for the time. Mind you, his dad wasn't down the pit, it was a bit late for that, but he was a tradesman of sorts. Stripped cars here, sold some scrap there. When times got hard in the 80s, like many others of the time Terry's dad resorted to scrap metal theft to make ends meet. Consequently, he had a view of the ground level, gritter edges of society - where one wouldn't bat an eye at someone selling imported fags on the cheap.

Growing up, he spent some time in the workforce; some time working in a call center, and some more as a cabling engineer supporting IT network rollouts at commercial sites. Eventually this segued into work as a technician for one of the local radio stations, where by chance Terry's voice happened to catch the ear of the station manager during a recording test. That earned him a weekend slot, and before long his voice was eponymous with the station and he caught the ear of a talent scout working for Channel 5. Things moved forward from there.

His career was one of moderate success. He was never quite the big hit that some of his counterparts in the industry would be - the best he got was being remarked by the tabloids as a Poundland knock-off of Sean Bean who would never step outside the shadow of his greater contemporaries. Yes, he made national media appearances, and even came up in the international spotlight once or twice, but he never quite achieved the main cast punching power in global box offices like some of his peers and predecessors did in the big blockbusters. His most recent claims to fame were being the voice of that English peasant sounding guy in a lot of Victorian - Medieval punk games, and a leading role in Grafter, a nostalgic British comedy-drama series set in the North featuring a cast ranging from rogue tradesmen (like that plasterer who stuck newspaper in the holes rather than doing the job properly) to gypsies known for stripping scrap metal off anything that wasn't nailed down. His character in particular had established something of a loveable rogue reputation, being a local trader who sold illegal duty-free (untaxed) fags on the side alongside his usual business, and the comedic effects of keeping the police and the Bangladeshi Mafia at bay.

In his personal life, things flagged. For a time, he had a stable marriage; a son came with that, from his wife's previous relationship. Things were okay for a while. However, people can grow apart - that's a fact of life - and this happened with Terry's relationship. It wasn't one singular thing. Neither of them had been sleeping around, or mistreating one another (though Terry later acknowledged he could've tried harder) - but their relationship slowly drifted apart. By the time his mid fourties were rolling around, his wife came forward and admitted it seemed more sensible to end it. Terry, admittedly, didn't take it as well as he should've - but it happened, eventually.

Still, life wasn't a complete trainwreck for him. Especially in this economy, he couldn't complain - he lived comfortably enough, with a house that was otherwise empty now his (soon-to-be ex) wife had moved out and his (step) son was off on a gap year. But it was still an empty house, and that absence of the people he'd originally had around him was slowly sinking in, just a little.

More specifically, he landed himself in a bit of controversy when he threatened to twat some camera jockey working for the tabloids when he caught them photographing him and his (ex) wife when she dropped by with some of the paperwork for their divorce proceedings. He wasn't sure what had done it, maybe it was the fact that the guy had made the mistake of asking him who his wife had been sleeping, but needless to say, the footage of him lobbing a plastic lawn chair at the guy's car in his bathrobe had been a point of amusement for the British public, and a difficult conversation with the police.

Luckily, it didn't cost him his spot in Grafter, though a firm chat with his agent suggested he take a break. This holiday was supposed to be a break from that - he and his (ex) wife had always talked about dropping by the Carribean, but it never came up. Well, he figured he would be too old to do it if he didn't get on it. Here we are.

"Ah, fer fucks sake."

M I S C E L L A N E O U S
M I S C E L L A N E O U S

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Dialogue will be "Bold - deed tha' know, some o'rem lads from up Sheff way speak a bi' like dis, orate?"

If you want to get an idea for what his voice sounds like, think of a slightly gravelly iteration of Peter Kay's portrayal of Maxwell Bygraves in Phoenix Nights/Max and Paddy

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

---

Webb Family Coffee House

---

Clay sat through the rest of the conversation without much else to say, only loosening a faint, exasperated chuckle to Lily's suggestion of enhanced interrogation techniques with the doctor. It made sense, they could probably take the British girl over, have her pass off as a tourist who had come down with heatstroke. He'd seen it back during some of Memphis' worst summers, particularly among those coming a good few hundred miles northwards.

The others had things in hand, but he couldn't get much of a size of them yet. His gaze briefly flecked towards the kid with the Texan drawl, among others, but he didn't keep his focus there. Too early to say what this group were like. He did find it strange, however, that this Jennifer was basically sending them to go away while she did something solo. One

---

@FernStone@Punished GN
Doctor's Office

---

The Doctor's Office was far from what he'd have considered welcoming, even by the low bar set by some of the rougher local clinics of his hometown. Paint almost looked like it was ready to peel off the wals, the wood halfway to rotting, or at least that was his perception - not that it would've been a surprise if it was, in this humidity.

He questioned what they were really going to get out of this, but it was as good a bet as any. Maybe there'd be some medical records they could peel out of Dr. Harkness' office. And the supposed missing girls.

For the most part he kept quiet, gesturing or nodding as Charlie and Lily conversed. He did offer a brief suggestion, "So uh, if you're wantin' to speak with this Doctor, maybe you can pass off as a tourist?" he idly gestured at Charlie, "I mean, none of us really from aroun' here, but I'm guessing you ain' used to this sorta heat, right? I used to see that a lot when I was a Fire L-T, humidity and heat gets a lotta folks down this ways."

"Ah, mami, here's the place but there's something I gotta get off my chest, I can't just be the only one that doesn't trust our little fearless leader? There's something about her - especially with the little Bambi act she puts on - like she's up to something. Liiiiiiiiiiiiiike.... let's think... she drops all these fucking leads on us, waves in our fuckin' faces that she knows something, then insists she works alone then dips."

Clay shrugged, letting her continue back and forth with the British girl.

"It's just a hunch right now, mami. But, if she's using us or something imma' bitch slap her little nerdy ass with a padlock...." It was difficult to tell if she was being sincere, but anything was possible in this day and age.

"Jesus, goin' heavy there, huh?" 'Carl' snorted, puffing out an almost exasperated chuckle, "I mean, I dunno, I kinda figure where you're comin' from, but this whole thing's a little weird, right? We're all-" He didn't get a chance to continue that line of thought, as some stranger wrapped in a clay-tone cloak skipped over, near enough thrusting a rose of all things into Lily's hands. In this heat? Probably methed out.

When he saw the stranger keep a hold of Lily's hand, he didn't like that at all, instincts about her being a junkie or transient paying off. He was about to physically intercede, when...

"... You all need to leave Quintin, there are things here that none of you are equipped to handle! Just pack up and leave. Before you all get more in over your heads. Eleanor Black is not real. Repeat after me... Eleanor Black is not real."

The mantra echoed at the base of his skull, contrary to all manner of logic - and he held back from grabbing her by the arm. For a moment, he wondered if this was a set-up, and he was at the center of it - a nice big fuck you from IA. He peered over his shoulder, briefly pulling his eyes from the girl in the cloak, but the only thing that caught his eye was a momentary glimpse of a feminine silhouette, peering out through the window at them. He blinked, and she was gone.

"Mhr," he bristled, rubbing at his jaw, attention flicking back to the laughing flower-girl.

"I don't know her, actually. But, in a way, I might as well know her... because like your fearless leader said, other people came to Quintin looking for Eleanor Black. What she left out - either due to obliviousness or something more... sinister - is that twenty-seven people came to Quintin - including those girls, who I also tried to convince to leave - and guess what?"

Flower girl's name was long-winded enough. Odessa. OKM. Even more long-winded was what she had to say

""Twenty-six of them are missing... the body of one was found in town and umm... it's not pretty," Odessa snorted. "When I say that Eleanor Black is not real: something is luring you all here - and I suspect that something is killing you all." if not for the mention of Eleanor, he was ready to believe she was just a transient coming off her latest bump, and even then he wasn't convinced that wasn't the case anyhow. The vague threat to their person rolled off him, for the most part - but his hands were a little closer to his side, a little more self-conscious of his surroundings.

Lily beat him to the punch, which he was glad for - how did she know about Eleanor?

"I was hiding in the bushes, listening to your whole conversation! Next time, close the window!" Fucking junkie, he quietly bristled with a certain inner contempt, before reminding himself that he was just a civilian here.

"That's not cute or funny at all..." Lily had trailed off, but Clay finished that line of thinking. "No, it's sick."

"But do you all have an idea of what's out here? Strange things that shouldn't be possible, but are!"

For all he knew, there could've been shades of truth in the apparent batshit crazy of it. Even junkies could carry fragments of a real story, however fucked their sense of reality was.
"Right, let's just back up" Clay stepped forward to firmly grasp and remove Odessa from within grasping distance of Lily, drawing on her wrist, "You're-... I'm just trying to figure out what's going on with someone. You can't be telling people they're gonna die, I mean how do you even know about all this, huh?"

REZORT: VACATION FROM HELL

Just popping in for a second to say that I'm still around. I'll likely get a post out today.

@Zombiedude101 Still with us?

@Vanny

Yeah, busy week mind. I'll get something out soon.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

Somewhere in swampass Louisiana.

---

A faint snort of relief passed through his nostrils. Clay was glad to be somewhere with actual paved roads and buildings, not just endless backwater swampland. Though it probably was only a little different back in Memphis, the humidity felt just a little worse here, a little stickier, a little more poisonous. Whatever possessed the French to set up shop here a couple hundred years ago, he didn't rate it much.

But he was here for a reason, which had gone by the name of Eleanor Black. The recent turn of his career had been a clusterfuck - the only thing he could figure of it, and from what he had actually heard, was that Black played a part in that.

His career was all but over, he was eighty-five percent certain. Granted, charges would be difficult to stick, and the Department would've been reluctant to pursue one of its own, but the shitshow that came after Black "resigned" and skipped town was enough to almost guarantee there would be too much heat on him. On the slim odds he kept his job, that the internal review of his conduct turned up inconclusive, well... he'd be looking over his shoulders until he stepped out.

Options on where he could go from here was anyone's guess. Go private security; that was one option. Ex-law enforcement, even those with murky stories, could find work there easy enough. He'd considered it, but he'd also made a share of enemies out in Memphis. The badge wasn't a shield he could rely on anymore. Become a private investigator, well it's not like he didn't have the credentials, but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend the rest of his days casing out cheating spouses and serving court papers. Assuming the past didn't catch up with him, he could go anywhere now. It's not like he was tied down anymore.

He eyeballed the wedding band around his finger. He wasn't sure why he'd even bothered taking it with him. That ship had sailed, struck an iceberg and plummeted to the depths of the ocean. He'd played his part in that breakup, but it stung nonetheless.

Death by a thousand cuts.

She wanted a family, and he'd been reluctant about the whole idea, at least at that point of his life. What did he know about being a father? He was a badge, and that was his limit. Was he even capable of being a half-decent father? What baseline point of reference did he actually have for fatherhood?

It wasn't just his old man giving him a couple lumps, though it didn't help. As a cop, he'd seen enough kids in a bad way, babies left in week old diapers next to crack pipes, toddlers sifting through and eating garbage because their folks were too busy shooting up to feed them. He hadn't realised at first, but he'd subconsciously built up a higher standard of what a parent should be - and he couldn't live up to that. Half-decent didn't cut it.

Part of him still hated her for the divorce, though. The way it was done. God dammit, he'd tried to make sure she was taken care of no matter what. They didn't lack for means, but it wasn't enough, and the extracurricular work had made Lisa suspicious. Fair, he hadn't always been at the bar like he'd sometimes said, but that didn't mean he was sleeping around. For all his failings, all his loose plays, he had been faithful to their marriage. If it wasn't for that, the house being sold off, and all the other hassle inolved, he wouldn't have even needed the money.

Frustrated, Clayton slammed a palm on his dashboard. It didn't matter. What was done, was done - and he'd not travelled all the way to bumfuck nowhere for the god damn sightseeing. Checking himself over, and making sure his things were in order, he climbed out of the car and eyeballed the sign not too far away.

"Webb Family Coffee House"

Right now, a coffee wouldn't be a bad idea. He'd missed out on that particular morning ritual for long enough.

---

@Fernstone
The Webb Family Coffee House

---

For a little while, he sat off to the side, nursing a mocha in one hand and a ring donut in the other. He was nothing, if not habitual, and a part of his old routine was as much. Others trickled into the place, meeting under this Jennifer. Most of them looked like they were kids, or close enough. And he was willing to bet they were all out of town. None of the crawdad drawl you'd get around this side of the Gulf.

Hearing the stories, for a second he considered just upping and leaving. Million dollar question - who was Eleanor Black? By the word of these guys, she'd been a mother, daughter, doctor, lover, friend - but not a cop. For a moment, he wondered if he'd been wasting his time. Maybe these people were just conspiracists on a loose trail, or Black had been playing some other game - but it didn't add up. This was the screwy thing. He'd known an Eleanor Black, and in broad strokes she shared some common factors with the others - foreign romance and parenthood excluded. As the story went, she'd come in on transfer out of Quintin, backyard swampland, and ingratiated herself with enough competency that she joined the MPD's Investigative Division. But these guys were, for the most part, describing a Black that was wholly different. But he was out of options and the alternatives weren't worth considering; either wait for the music and spend most of his remaining life in a cell, or go on the run with nothing but the clothes on his back. At least this way, he had some damage control. For now, he'd play ball, see what he could find out. Worst case scenario, he'd just delayed the inevitable.

The truth was that Black was the only other badge that knew about the money. Moreso, she was one of the only people who knew how they came across the money, and what they'd done to keep it. When he asked, nobody said a word to him. But at the same time, this didn't smell like witness protection, and witnesses generally didn't get to make off with a stash of several million dollars.

As the talk shifted to this enigmatic family matriach, Mary-Louise Black, he gulped down another mouthful of his caffeinated cocoa. It was unfolding into a wild goosechase. Haunted swamps and old slaveholder families camped out on their rotting plantations, exherting influence through some incestuous connections to the town. He got the impression, at the very least, that local law enforcement would be indifferent at best, and obstruct them at worst - he wasn't willing to play the MPD card either, just in case that pulled the wrong strings back home. Not to mention the locals probably were none too friendly, but there were a couple different answers to that problem. So speaking to the woman herself, he was willing to hold fire for a little while, let someone else tackle that alligator.

The other leads, his brow arched at. The butler wasn't a bad start. Might've had a grudge, but that might've played in his favour, having background of the family and all. The missing girls, on the other hand... how long had they been missing, one night? Something about that spooked him just a little. They were jumping to conclusions, possibly, in assuming this local doctor was involved - but he could understand some of the rationale that one might go to hit that conclusion.

"Sorry, didn't want to interrupt. I'm Carl," Clay lied, "Eleanor is... was my wife, I guess." He briefly glanced at the metal band around his ring finger, then pushed some air back through his nostrils, "And I'm just tryin' to figure out what's happened with her and us."

The best lies are grounded in truth. Mentally, he built up a small profile of this new persona - making sure not to stray too far from a real foundation.

"It makes sense what you're saying, hurts to say it, but there's a consistent trend there. The Eleanors we know walked out on all of us without a trace, as far as we can tell, so they... she probably doesn't want to be found. Same is probably gonna go for these people from the old families."

While he wanted to go after the butler, a pang of... something made him think back to the missing girls. He looked towards the English kid who claimed an Eleanor Black from Quinton, Louisiana was her mother - and her suggestion of going after the doctor. "It's not a bad idea, what were you thinking?"

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

Clay

Clayton Terry

_______________________________________________ (Former) Detective Clayton Terry Him | 39 | African-American | 5'10 | 192lbs _______________________________________________ Disgraced. _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents ___________________________________ [+] Casework ⫻ Nearly 20 years on the the MPD has given Clay a good set of instincts. He has an idea of the kind of questions to ask, and the buttons to push. Along with the fine intricacies of policework, he has the training and experience that any reasonably seasoned law enforcement officer would have.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ An endomorphic man approaching his mid-life years, Clay is at the point where age is starting to show. His skin is fairly weathered by the Tennessee sun, and he has calluses along his feet from walking a collective hundreds of miles on the job. He's no athlete, but he has the tone in his legs and sinew on his arms to show he's not just some desk jockey. A short layer of coarse, dark beard clings to his jawline - a similarly cropped layer of coarse, dark hair keeps the sun off the back of his head. Along his forearm up to the elbow is a scar from a field injury; the consequence of carelessly vaulting through a broken window.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Most of it's pissing in the sea."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Tie up loose ends and figure things out from there.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Clay's view to the world is to maintain a level of control, above all else. If you asked him during a forthcoming moment, he might reflect in crude terms that human nature would inevitably kick in whether or not you tried to stop it, and that energy was best directed towards steering it down the path of least resistance.

SECRETS ⫻ Aside from what is probably going to end up as a career ending disgrace, Clay has a loose end to tie up.

SEXUALITY ⫻ On-hold, on account of one dead marriage.

FEARS ⫻ Losing control of his life; dying in prison is a fairly shitty way to go. Years of work amounting to nothing.

WHO IS ELEANOR BLACK TO YOU? ⫻ An ex-colleague, drinking buddy, and a loose end.

FLAWS ⫻ Arrogance, greed, these are a couple of the things that have laid Clay low. In his own worldview, what he's done are acceptable evils. He's not really a bad guy, it's not like he hurt anyone who didn't have it coming. In the MPD, he had a mindset that so long as he dealt with the real filth, took care of the kids and the broken birds out there, he was doing it right.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Nearly twenny years, down the fucking drain."

Clay's early life is nothing special to talk about; growing up around Memphis, his situation was far from perfect, money wasn't always on the table and his old man took a lot of it out on the kids. He got out early, spent some time living with a loose relative who's boyfriend was in the Memphis PD. Far from a saint, the guy was a complex character, but he took a liking to Clay and eventually encouraged him to join his line of work.

Clay went through the grind; training and signing on, and found he had a knack for the job. With few years or so on the beat and a couple of prior failed attempts, he made the exam for Detective and signed on as an Investigator with MPD. He started with generally honest intentions - but over time this slipped, some in part to the nature of the job, and some in part to personality. What started off with some good will eventually shifted towards what he viewed as a pragmatic approach, with some acceptable losses here, rough edges there, and skimming a little off the top every once in a while. Did it matter if he twisted someone's arm to get to the truth of a situation?

When he was hauling a stack of cash from some dope fiend's apartment, would anyone ]really miss a few thousands pocked off a stack of a quarter million dollars? Salary wasn't anything fancy after all, and it wasn't like anyone would really miss it. In the MPD, Clay found a couple of like minded officers - some who encouraged him, and some he did a little encouraging himself. Good guys, really, they just had realistic expectations of the world and how to handle it. Eleanor Black was one of them, a transfer in from some backwater sheriff's department out by the swamps. As it happened, Eleanor was another good guy, someone who Clay came to trust - as far as a badge could, anyhow.

But it fell apart. Clay went through a messy divorce, and part of that meant the financial difficulties anyone could expect. Skimming a few thousand off the top just wasn't going to cut it this time, and he got greedy. In a case where he made a multi-million dollar bust, a large M out of that fell into his and Black's care. It wasn't as clean as he wanted it to be, and he had a loose end which had to be tied up, and in the aftermath things came crashing down. Someone had sold him out; or at least said enough to cast doubt on his conduct. Clay found himself suspended. He hadn't been charged... yet, and when he considered his escape options - Black was gone, along with his retirement fund. Word was she'd resigned and gone back to her hometown, somewhere in the armpit of the South.

His career circling the toilet, his retirement options gone and a key witness against him possibly out there with his money, he took a vacation - a road trip to Louisiana. Better to get ahead of things while he could.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

Sorry for the delay GN, my team just took on responsibility for a poorly run client account last week (with me being the SME for that on account of history with them) and my spare time was eaten up dealing with some dumb escalations and staff shortages. Anyhow, I have a long weekend and don't go back till Monday next week. Without further ado:

Clay

Clayton Terry

_______________________________________________ (Former) Detective Clayton Terry Him | 39 | African-American | 5'10 | 192lbs _______________________________________________ Disgraced. _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents ___________________________________ [+] Casework ⫻ Nearly 20 years on the the MPD has given Clay a good set of instincts. He has an idea of the kind of questions to ask, and the buttons to push. Along with the fine intricacies of policework, he has the training and experience that any reasonably seasoned law enforcement officer would have.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ An endomorphic man approaching his mid-life years, Clay is at the point where age is starting to show. His skin is fairly weathered by the Tennessee sun, and he has calluses along his feet from walking a collective hundreds of miles on the job. He's no athlete, but he has the tone in his legs and sinew on his arms to show he's not just some desk jockey. A short layer of coarse, dark beard clings to his jawline - a similarly cropped layer of coarse, dark hair keeps the sun off the back of his head. Along his forearm up to the elbow is a scar from a field injury; the consequence of carelessly vaulting through a broken window.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Most of it's pissing in the sea."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Tie up loose ends and figure things out from there.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Clay's view to the world is to maintain a level of control, above all else. If you asked him during a forthcoming moment, he might reflect in crude terms that human nature would inevitably kick in whether or not you tried to stop it, and that energy was best directed towards steering it down the path of least resistance.

SECRETS ⫻ Aside from what is probably going to end up as a career ending disgrace, Clay has a loose end to tie up.

SEXUALITY ⫻ On-hold, on account of one dead marriage.

FEARS ⫻ Losing control of his life; dying in prison is a fairly shitty way to go. Years of work amounting to nothing.

WHO IS ELEANOR BLACK TO YOU? ⫻ An ex-colleague, drinking buddy, and a loose end.

FLAWS ⫻ Arrogance, greed, these are a couple of the things that have laid Clay low. In his own worldview, what he's done are acceptable evils. He's not really a bad guy, it's not like he hurt anyone who didn't have it coming. In the MPD, he had a mindset that so long as he dealt with the real filth, took care of the kids and the broken birds out there, he was doing it right.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Nearly twenny years, down the fucking drain."

Clay's early life is nothing special to talk about; growing up around Memphis, his situation was far from perfect, money wasn't always on the table and his old man took a lot of it out on the kids. He got out early, spent some time living with a loose relative who's boyfriend was in the Memphis PD. Far from a saint, the guy was a complex character, but he took a liking to Clay and eventually encouraged him to join his line of work.

Clay went through the grind; training and signing on, and found he had a knack for the job. With few years or so on the beat and a couple of prior failed attempts, he made the exam for Detective and signed on as an Investigator with MPD. He started with generally honest intentions - but over time this slipped, some in part to the nature of the job, and some in part to personality. What started off with some good will eventually shifted towards what he viewed as a pragmatic approach, with some acceptable losses here, rough edges there, and skimming a little off the top every once in a while. Did it matter if he twisted someone's arm to get to the truth of a situation?

When he was hauling a stack of cash from some dope fiend's apartment, would anyone ]really miss a few thousands pocked off a stack of a quarter million dollars? Salary wasn't anything fancy after all, and it wasn't like anyone would really miss it. In the MPD, Clay found a couple of like minded officers - some who encouraged him, and some he did a little encouraging himself. Good guys, really, they just had realistic expectations of the world and how to handle it. Eleanor Black was one of them, a transfer in from some backwater sheriff's department out by the swamps. As it happened, Eleanor was another good guy, someone who Clay came to trust - as far as a badge could, anyhow.

But it fell apart. Clay went through a messy divorce, and part of that meant the financial difficulties anyone could expect. Skimming a few thousand off the top just wasn't going to cut it this time, and he got greedy. In a case where he made a multi-million dollar bust, a large M out of that fell into his and Black's care. It wasn't as clean as he wanted it to be, and he had a loose end which had to be tied up, and in the aftermath things came crashing down. Someone had sold him out; or at least said enough to cast doubt on his conduct. Clay found himself suspended. He hadn't been charged... yet, and when he considered his escape options - Black was gone, along with his retirement fund. Word was she'd resigned and gone back to her hometown, somewhere in the armpit of the South.

His career circling the toilet, his retirement options gone and a key witness against him possibly out there with his money, he took a vacation - a road trip to Louisiana. Better to get ahead of things while he could.