multiversallogs | Mission Delta

Entry tags:

Mission Delta

Who: List forthcoming.
What: Getting a lantern.
Where: Spatters.
When: NOW. This thread will likely cover a few days.
Warnings: To be updated.

Dear Mission Delta,

So you're going in to Spatters to deal with actual people. Actual confrontation how about that. Well don't feel too bad or too glad, these guys hardly count as Citizens but that's on them. They have apparently collected a significant number of neat and cleverful things, all of which you may keep should you come across them. All exempt for the lantern your gods require of course. Don't come back without it.

Your boons for this mission are as follow:

A Weapons Cache - I haven't personally gone through every single item in this collection but I am told they are for pacification and non-lethal if you hold them right. Who knows what happens if you hold them wrong.

Ward Breaking Talismans - You will not be kept safe from hexes, but you will be able to break through most protective spells and also bonus: you can touch the talisman to objects and people to see if they are what they seem to be. Pretty useful.

Spatters is in a constant sad state of affairs. It's not a neighbourhood into which respectable citizens often travel, and it is easy to see why; there seem to be mostly cracked houses and smashed windows, half-tents and shanties made up by discarded materials. This is where Baedal's rejects end up, the half-wits, the psychotics who cannot function in the City and those who can't deal with shifted reality. It's also a home to those who have business they wish to keep out of the public eye. Man-eaters and predators of different stripes are known to stalk Spatters. The streets are eerily empty, but perhaps the people here are so used to hiding that they hardly ever seen.

The House have a building in the area, and it is not far away from the basement that has been pointed out as host to the Candlelighter hideout. The place is likely to be occupied, and the occupants are likely to expect hostile company.

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To his credit, Arthur doesn't react negatively to the disparity between skill sets. He's not here to judge, only to participate and to guide where necessary. ...Well, okay, he may judge a little, but mostly he's wondering what kind of yutz just throws a bunch of random people together to do something that's allegedly so important, and in any case he's polite enough to leave that where it belongs: behind his poker face.

He does, however, stare at Alan until the man has moved out of his territorial space. Arthur isn't overly touchy about being touched, but seriously. Personal boundaries, sir.

"So far so good," he says, breaking the introductory combo to add in his two cents after Youko, at first speaking directly to her, then transitioning to an address of the entire crew. All of this comes out naturally, steadily, accompanied by the occasional smooth hand gestures of a man accustomed to this sort of discourse. "If that's a proper sidearm, you'll want to keep it as a last resort. Ammo's not easy to come by here, and intel suggests our targets won't be coming at us with anything especially heavy, at least as far as lead is concerned. So, whatever's in these crates should be suitable. Don't let that lull you into a false sense of security, though. These people are absolutely serious, and they will hurt you."
A brief pause.
"Actually, it's good to see some of you came prepared. If you didn't bring a utility belt, though, don't feel too bad—as you can see, you're not the only one running out there naked." Behold, a rare occurrence: a teeny tiny joke at his own expense. Derp, look at me, taking charge without so much as a pair of kneepads. (He is almost certainly doing this because there are ladies present.)

"Okay, who's next?"

Robin politely and belatedly holds up her own CiD, Delta message in fact still on-screen where she left it.

"Robin," she says, by way of names, with the raise of her arm showing where the sticklike device she pulled from the cache has already been shoved into a coat pocket. She clears her throat. "I'm an exorcist -" in case anyone wondered if the crosses on her gloves were just for show - "with an amateur's experience in incantations and more experience with medical magic than I'd like -" feel free to speculate on the stitching down her face now, everyone, go right ahead - "and I'm good at breaking down doors. Not always intentionally."

Aheh. She pauses, slightly awkward, then adds, "I didn't come unarmed either." She leaves that statement to hang in the air, uncertain of how to explain or where to begin.

Edited 2011-07-20 00:42 (UTC)

Oh, a joke. How precious. Eames looks profoundly entertained by the existence of Arthur's sense of humor, but while he can think of more than a few quips to add, he presses his lips together and politely refrains. He can occasionally focus on the task at hand, after all, and between finalizing his choices from the weapons cache and listening to the others, he has a few things to keep him occupied.

"Interesting," he remarks after Robin has finished. The variety of supernatural types in this city is still fascinating to him. Under different circumstances, he'd almost be looking forward to seeing them in action.

"Eames. My talents are, shall we say, versatile, but I'm as good in a fistfight as a firefight, and not bad at strategy, deception, or picking a lock, either." Which is a round-about way of saying he does this sort of thing for a living, but he's not about to elaborate. Arthur seems to be calling the shots, and Arthur knows plenty, so that's good enough for him.

What else is there to do but move forward and hope for the best? Njoki doubts that everyone here will believe that what she's brought will be of any use, but it won't hurt any of them to at least try it out.

"I think that it'd be a good idea to kit-up with what I've got before we head to Spatters so people can adjust and get used to it," she remarks before putting out a small jar with a waxy substance on a nearby table and a few anklets with little beads or flannel pouches attached to the braided leather. "The salve goes on your eyelids to help you spot wards, hexes and traps, and the speedwells on your ankle to keep you moving, give you luck, and hopefully stop you from getting tracked back when all is said and done."

Rachel trusts at once--doesn't she always?--moving to the table. She takes one of the anklets and then she turns, bracing herself with her butt against the of the table. She unties and slips off a shoe so she can get the anklet on.

Once she's fussed with getting her shoe back on she scrubs the fingertips of her right hand against the leg of her jeans, just in case, let's not get any dirt into this jar. "Thank you, Ki," she says, looking over at their benefactor before carefully distributing the salve between all her fingertips so she can carefully swipe it over closed eyes.

While Alan's a mite more cautious than Rachel--he's certainly not about to start smearing gunk on his face without first asking a few questions--he nonetheless makes his way over to the table and after some moments of (purely aesthetic) contemplation, selects an anklet.

"You made these? For us? I'm touched." And oddly enough he does sound charmed--perhaps because this magic is such a far cry from the dusty tomes inscribed with arcane and sinister incantations one so often imagines.

Or perhaps he simply enjoys receiving gifts.

Turning his attention to the little jar (he'll attend to the business of actually donning the anklet in just a moment), he cocks an eyebrow. "Possible side effects may include..."

Arthur's not quite ready to get equipped, apparently, and waits while the others fuss about with Njoki's offerings. CiD already tucked away, hands now on his hips—not out of impatience, only for somewhere to put them—he waits for an answer to Alan's curiosity.

In the meantime, he looks over at Remy (provided the guy hasn't wandered off or something, anyway), calmly expectant. The others may have begun to move on from introductions, but he hasn't.

Edited 2011-07-22 21:08 (UTC)

"Don't get to eager now, homme, I'm a taken man." JUST SO YOU KNOW, ARTHUR, YOU CAN'T GO ON A DATE WITH REMY, HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND who he was texting just now, hence the uncharacteristic silence. With a grin, he steps forward and for all the world looks like he's going to slap Arthur on the shoulder, as he raises his hand, moves, and - nope, at the last second he just flashes his CiD with the Delta transmission.

"My name is Remy, and I blow stuff up and do fist fights pretty good, and sneakin' around and whatever." That he is wearing well-loved tactical gear and is six-two and in shape suggests he's probably not making any of that up. Who knows what 'whatever' means, though. "Good somebody's on the spot with the proper kit, no?" He means Njoki, for the record, who he seems fond of. Remy's smile always appears a little sinister (shut up) due to his eyes (which aren't contacts, and obviously so), but there's nothing about his body language that suggests he's anything besides a friendly guy.

Darn. A girlfriend. All his hopes and dreams, crushed. Crushed forever.

Figuring Remy doesn't want or need his verbal approval, Arthur merely turns his attention back to Njoki as prompted—well, after a brief delay; now that they're close enough to see, he's kind of intrigued by this guy's bizarre eyes—and regards her craftwork evenly. Just as with the weapons, though, he'll wait for most of the others to have their pick first.

Speaking of that, presently he moves to the cache to avail himself of whatever appeals to him most after an initial look-over. He ends up selecting a telescoping baton, unremarkable save for the button switch on its insulated rubber handle. On extension—which he performs with a quick snap, well clear of other bodies—it emits a high-pitched tone, like the warming up of an old-school camera flash. Right, so he's taking this.
And there'd better not be any unspoken rule about bringing along only one item, because he's got his eye on a little tranq pistol, too. It looks kind of like a space derringer, and it comes with a little belt holster. Look at this thing, you guys, he needs this in his life.

...anyway. He's got a loose plan forming, but will wait to announce it until it seems a little less like he's rushing everyone along. (But only a little.)

Njoki turns to Alan and ticks off a series of factitious side-effects, "Dry mouth, boils, the condition known as hotdog finger, protruding eyes, but nothing else of note. If you've got your own magic, it might make a bump in your power; if not, you should be fine unless you've allergies to clover."

It's not that she's impatient to head off to death and glory, but there's a sense of restlessness to her. Since arriving in Baedal Ki has made an effort to get in touch with the city and its spirits and the upset of the fungal plague is bothering her on an instinctual level. When this is all said and done, there is going to be a lot of dead bodies to clear away.

Youko nods her head to Arthur's remark - the gun is from the supplies in the crate, so the ammunition is non-lethal, most likely tranquilisers of some kind, and it's not a model she recognises; but that doesn't make the ammunition any less valuable, really, and under the circumstances, it's certainly better than packing standard bullets. Which is one reason she didn't visit the Hellsing armoury before coming - though they have resources, she'd rather not waste them, not when alternatives are provided, and she can generally do without anyway.

She takes her turn selecting an anklet and tying it in place, slipping it inside her boot to make sure it stays safe, and applies a little of the salve to her eyes as instructed. "Thank you," she directs, quietly, to Njoki, before asking more generally, "Are we prepared, then?"

"Ah - just - a minute," Robin says. She dutifully swings her leg up and props the heel of her boot against the table, leaning forward in a bend to untie it; boot untied, she turns and scoots her butt against the table to yank it off, grunting as she does so. This reveals one threadbare-as-sin sock, which she wriggles her toes inside experimentally before visibly deciding "buggere this for a larke" and just taking the damn thing off completely and stuffing it in a pocket (as one does) for safe-keeping, next to the stick she picked up from the weapons cache. She palms an anklet and slips it into place against her skin, blinking at the sensation of it; wriggle wriggle, go her toes.

After a moment of internal decision, on goes the boot again, sans sock. Which leaves the problem of the jar and the salve inside. "Hah," she says, more of an exhale than an actual audible vocalization, then, louder: "What kind of bump?"

"'Blow stuff up,' hm," he remarks aside somewhere back there. A look would probably have been sufficient to convey that's relevant to his interests – as is the delightful rapport Remy is developing with everyone's favorite stick in the mud, but surely there will be other opportunities to express his camaraderie there.

As for weapons, he's indecisive, apparently. While Arthur makes his selections, Eames is doing a bit more rifling around and putting things back before he reaches down to the bottom and comes out with something a few evolutionary steps removed from a tear gas launcher. That'll do. (Yes, all right, he'll bring this dinky little phaser-looking thing too, if he must.)

Meanwhile, he's glad some of the others are so eager to slather unknown substances on their eyes – really, it makes his decision easier. Eames takes an anklet, but puts a dip of salve into a handkerchief for now. If no one has gone blind by the time they reach the Spatters, maybe he'll use it. Naturally, then, he doesn't look as if he begrudges Robin a little hesitance.

Listening quietly to all this, Rachel feels exactly ninety-seven per cent more useless than she did upon arriving. She's in with a group of people who seem to have, like, actual experience doing this kind of thing, or who at least have relevant skill sets. She's got nothing. And it's probably compounded by the fact that she doesn't want to say what she does have up her sleeve, or use it, ever, so she must seem like even more dead weight.

Still, she puts on her bravest face as she rummages around in the crate. She chooses several devices that approximate flashlights, stowing them all in her bag. No guns, no knives, just lights.

"I will gladly leave the shooting and blowing up of things to those of you who actually know how to do it," she notes. "Has anyone here actually, like, been to the Spatters?"

"I have," says Arthur, ever so coolly... although the coolness is, perhaps, diminished by the momentary visibility of his skinny ankle and the argyle patterned sock surrounding it. Look, he's being polite about the anklets, okay. At least he doesn't have big boots to yank off or something. Actually, his shoes are very nice, for the record, if slightly incongruous with the rest of his wardrobe.

As he straightens up, dropping his foot off the chair and all (there was a convenient chair there, deal with it), he continues. "Imagine a combination of every run-down neighbourhood, every slum you've ever seen in a movie. Now make it weirder and uglier. That's where we're headed. You're with me, by the way." Yes, he wants Rachel on his team. Surely this is a shocking development.

And now, time to get bossy: "So are you," pointing briefly to Youko, "and you." His finger hangs in the air for a beat, pointed at Remy. "Try not to blow us up. We'll be checking out however many upper levels are inside the building, so I hope you three enjoy stairs as much as I do. The rest of you will accompany Mr. Eames throughout the ground floor and, if necessary, down to the basement. Grab a flashlight if you haven't already got one. Once the group's inside, one or two of you should stick by the entrance, make sure we don't get sealed in."

"What, why? Maybe I wanna hang out with that guy." He's pointing at Eames, by the way, because apparently making a nuisance out of himself is a time honored tradition. (It is.) Despite the protest, Remy appears to have no problem with the assignments, and he goes about setting up with Njoki's augments without any fuss, and looking like it's almost familiar. He doesn't go anywhere near the weapons box, though he does nab a talisman.

"How read up on the Candlelighters is everybody? Because this is probably gonna suck." He's thinking of Sentinels - not the steel monsters themselves, no, but the scanning technology. Who knows what these hateful people could have come up with out there, away from prying eyes.

Separating your two biggest fans, Arthur? Eames mouths 'I'm hurt' in his direction, though he doesn't look at all surprised. There are only so many of them with tactical experience, after all, and it makes sense to balance the teams. To Remy, he adds, "I suppose you'll just have to keep our fearless leader on his toes without me."

As for the rest, he'll let someone else answer, since he's lacking any particular expertise there.

"I've only heard the name before," Robin says, flicking her eyes to the expression on Remy's face, "why? What's wrong with them?"

(He let her out of that little cell they call a waiting room for new arrivals and he's a fellow Francophone, as far as Robin is concerned that means they bros: if he has something he wants to say, he's earned the courtesy of her listening.)

"Either it won't do you any good or it'll itch like hell," Njoki says with a shrug and looking at Robin. "If you're worried, skip it."

In any case, she repacks her supplies, relaces her boots, and examines a little bit of stitching running along the inside hems of her clothes. She doesn't expect to shift at any point in this expedition, but it doesn't hurt to be sure that she'll be able to keep her clothes with her no matter what happens.

"They're anti-non-humans, related to the local pseudo-Christian gig, House Ecumenal, though those guys kicked 'em out a while back. Looks like folks investigatin' think all evidence points towards them bein' behind this, and whatever invasion y'all had a couple of weeks back, with the creatures from the ground. Rumor has it they moved to the Spatters. If they're equipped well enough to pull this off, who knows what kind of headache we got waitin' out there."

Robin dips her head, shadowing her eyes, forcing out a tight, resigned smile. "Ah, these are Christian men and women, and they hate us," she says, quietly acknowledging her own non-human status for those paying attention. "How regrettable ..."

She doesn't sound terribly surprised. "I can protect our escape route -" she looks up, then - "they may attempt to trap us inside, and -" smiling, haha, isn't it funny to feel this way - "I'll feel much better knowing we can get out than in among the mass of them."

Hate coming from those who hide behind religion. Rachel's not fond of that; she's seen, back home, the kinds of things that result from those attitudes.

"I'd appreciate that," she says, in reply to Robin's offer. She realizes she's not the expert on anything here, but: "We can do the most awesome job ever at getting this thing, but it does no one any good if we get it and then we can't get out."

Huh. That's interesting about the cultists being responsible for the city's recent mess, but Arthur declines to do anything beyond continuing to look attentive. Not much of what he learned about them seems technically relevant to the task immediately at hand.

"That's the idea," he says to Rachel, tucking the holster into his shoulder bag—which he completely had this whole time, by the way, la la la—and then doing the same with the baton, the talisman, and soforth. Some people can get away with wandering around fully armed, but he's accustomed to hiding it, so hide it he shall.
Then, to Robin: "Take Alan with you. It seems unlikely we'll need to argue our way out of there, but you never know." You giant tourist, you.

"All right, let's move out. Those of you taking the train, spread out among the cars, act like you don't all know each other, just to be safe. Train stations are monitored, so don't group up there. We'll meet at [intersection near to, but not right on top of, the Candlelighter house]." He flicks the cuff from his wrist to glimpse his watch, announces the current time. "Let's give each other two hours to get there. If you're early, just hang tight. If you run into a snag, let me know, because if you turn up late we're going in without you."

One more sidelong look to Eames, and then he's off.

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Mission Delta

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