Topic: DCH - Penance

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-07-19 13:17 EST
Early Saturday morning...

In the minutes before sunrise, an orange glow builds over Old Temple to the east of the West End like a wildfire, while overhead the sky remains a very deep blue. It's a clear day, and Alain expected it to be grey.

The skydeck of the West End townhouse Miss LeClerc acquired is small, only a few meters long, a single door leading to the staircase that connects to the three floors below. The detective leans on the railing, his long brown duster draped over it nearby. A Webley British Bulldog sits comfortably in his shoulder holster, white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, black tie loosened. He blows smoke into the startlingly clear air and listens as the city awakens, the look in his eyes as distant as a daydream.

For a moment, he feels like he's up above everything weighing him down, and his mind wanders to thoughts he's neglected, kinder memories that he's rarely had the time for lately.

Again Amir awoke with another, light hangover. It took him some time to rise, but he knew for a fact, that it was still already dark despite the shoe polish that blackened out his apartment windows.

By the time he got to the townhouse people were slowly emerging out from their doorways, preparing for the day's work ahead. Perhaps they were even getting up just to see the sunrise - he makes all these kinds of assumptions, until he gets to his intended destination. Up the flights of stairs he goes, hands stuffed deep into his worn, leather jacket pockets. Jogging bottoms, military issue boots, compiled with a cotton beanie atop of his head complete his look. His team is there on one of the levels, and he pauses in the center of the room to observe the sleeping forms lying all over, taking up most of the floor. One of them - one of the girls, is already up, attacking some early morning press-ups to start the day. She nicely informs him that Alain - mock codename, "Sex On Legs" among the female recruits, is on the deck upstairs, waiting to talk to him. Or something like that.

He makes his way up, and does not bother to awaken the others. Amir decides to give them a lay in for now, while he talks to Alain. Appearing on the deck, closing the door behind him, he says not a single word as he flanks the other man's side, and leans against the railing next to him. Amir turns his eyes to stare at the sky too, before letting out a sigh. "Morning."

Alain usually turns his head whenever someone enters the room, especially when he's waiting for somebody - but he keeps looking out over the city, watching and listening. "Good morning," he says back in a voice that, for now, has lost its edge. He taps his cigarette over the edge of the railing and at last looks at the sniper, a light smile touching the corners of his mouth and eyes. "Coffee?" he asks, and a hand drifts lazily towards two steaming paper cups on a railing corner.

"As soon as those lazy bastards get up, I'm going for a whole day whoop'in their ass 'till they bleed, on empty stomach. So....In short..." Amir struggles a smile, "Sure." He holds out a hand to take it from him, "Hothead-" the rather grumpy, so-serious about everything female doing the push-ups downstairs, "-told me you wanted to talk?"

"She's a real looker," Alain says with a grin and surrenders a cup of coffee to Amir. "If I didn't have so much to do, I'd have half a mind to get to know her a little better..."

The detective sips his coffee slowly. He does this twice more, and when he's done, his smile's gone. "Don't kick their butts today, Amir. Let them rest. They've got a long night ahead of them." He turns his head, his face empty. "We make our move tonight."

All amusement vanishes from Amir's face. He's inches from taking some of that much needed coffee, before the stone-dead weight in his chest drops, and cracks against his balls. He visibly winces and drops his head forward, coffee cup coming to rest on the railing, with hand still gripped about it. Amir looks reserved, as if contemplating the words Alain spoke. "Tonight..." He mutters. He does not look the other man in the face. It is perhaps the first ever time Amir puts up a tone that could have been something of annoyance to the news, or even to Alain himself. "Is it that time already?"

"We won't get a better chance," Alain replies, but his words end with a soft sigh. Still he feels conflicted about his decision, about picking this day, or any day at all. He could pick any day from now until the end of time, and still it would eat at him. He holds the cigarette aside and rubs at his eye with the heel of his thumb. "We will be using the codes contained in the yellow envelope I gave you - burn the others. Ideally we'll make our move around 2300 hours. The late hour should minimize the risk for collateral."

Alain's bright blue eyes turn back to the West End around and beneath them. He puts out his cigarette, and a frown looms behind his carefully controlled expression.

"Sure, whatever you want, Alain." Amir takes a gulp of the coffee, and despite that it's all too hot for any sane man to take, he takes it and swallows it down loudly. Perhaps flushing down the lump in his throat.

The last few days the sniper had been having this idea of....Stress. Of darkness looming closer, and closer. He doesn't like the whole thing, and now longs to return to that moment when he said he would gather recruits in this cause. Guilt fills his face, and he turns his head away from Alain. "Shit."

"God I love the city when it's quiet," Alain breathes, both his hands grasping the railing as he leans forward. "Some early mornings, in the right place, you can only hear a murmur....just enough to know she's alive and kicking. Reminds me of..." He huffs lightly and turns his head to Amir with a grin he doesn't quite feel. "Well, of someplace a lot nicer, anyway."

"Not until tonight, anyway." Amir grumbles, turning his head back to stare at the sky, his eyes narrowed, his anger visible. "....I had hoped to give the grunts downstairs two days leave sometime before the garden needed weeding."

Amir turns to look at Alain, after knocking back a good portion more of coffee. "I..." He begins, looking at the other man with total honesty bubbling beneath the surface. His other hand curls into a tight fist. Ghostly gunshots and phantom images invade his head. A flutter of eyelids, and then they shut. "They're not ready. Some of them are still kids. They all have families to go back to." A hard stare, as eyes reopen. "If I die, I want you to make sure they all get out okay."

"I'll take care of them, Amir....or the people who survive me will." Alain's arms fold on the railing. He leans into them and lowers his head. "You know how I said DCH is going to have a few prime targets during H-Hour, and I'm one of them - and every target has an out?" He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth a moment.

"...I don't have an out, Amir. My only chance is to outlast them....and I have no way of knowing how long they'll last."

"A fight to the death? A last stand." Amir laughs out loud, "Oh that's just great....Scratch my previous thought. We're all dead." Amir jokes, and with so much as a hand to Alain's shoulder, he smiles. "You have an out. That's what me and my team is for. You'll be fine, I promise. I'll blow their ****ing brains out before they get anywhere near you."

Alain places his hand over Amir's for a moment, and nods to the other man, a grin returning to his lips. "All right. I guess I've got my out after all. Maybe Frank can be convinced to help look after my sorry ass as well — but you remember to look after yourself, all right' If it gets too hot, get out, pick another spot. We both know a sniper with no way out is a dead man."

"I am going to move with my team in sight, Alain. I will protect you as much as I can, but I have lives under my command. This isn't the army, I know, but....You are my friend and my primary concern, and if it means I have to stay in the same spot to cover you, knowing that my position is given away, I would stay there until I needed to defend myself." He pauses, "If does get too hairy, I will be sending my team into standard assault, with the P90's, near you, just to cover your ass."

"If it gets too hairy..." Alain frowns, and then digs around in his coat pockets. At last he pulls out a piece of paper, a roughly sketched map, a location, and some notes on it. "...this is the last of the last 'safehouses.' Has everything, and I do mean everything."

Amir takes it, looks at it, then raised a brow. He would not question, but...."If it does, I will be having my team dragging you there if need be, to keep you alive." Amir grins. He would, too.

"Don't tell me there's more than one group I'll have to be evading now," Alain replies with a laugh, and shakes his head. Sipping coffee. "How do you think they'll take it?" He nods downstairs.

"Pretty good....Though, then, there is a greenhorn down there that is all about the whole 'the army is awesome, I get to play with guns' routine." Amir frowns, "He's a freshman, never killed anyone before. Made him a spotter." He finishes the coffee, and lets the empty cup remain clasped in his hand. He leans both elbows on the railings. "I'll give them the option of writing their goodbyes, this afternoon. So if they do....become KIA, then at least I'll have something to send their relatives."

"Well, if we're quick enough, and lucky enough....God willing, there'll be no KIA on our end." Alain takes another sip of his coffee, and frowns again. "I have to get going. There's still a lot to do."

"You're telling me. I am going to have to check their damn equipment for them, of they are getting the day off." The sniper chuckles, "Lazy bastards." He nods at Alain, "Nah, we won't die. We'll all just throw roses at each other, and in the end, we'll have a tea party."

"If that's an awful War of the Roses joke, I'm docking your pay," Alain threatens as he moves towards the door.

"I have pay?" Amir laughs again, bringing himself to look at the sky.

"You won't if you make that joke." Alain pushes the door open and looks back at Amir. "...Take care of yourself, Amir. I'll see you on the other side." He exits, taking his coat with him.

Amir mutters to himself, "I'll bring the sun lotion."

(Adapted from live play with Amir Wong's player)

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-07-19 22:10 EST
Alain had been staring at his computer at the DCH West End offices for the last two hours. Waiting. With a cigar clenched between his teeth, puffing steadily away, he types in commands, and his brass-framed monitor flickers between white text on a black background, and fuzzy videos from the image orbs outside on the eastern wall. They flicker, they buzz, and occasionally they black out.

Howe had seen the mark Belial's passion left, a mark Alain now suspected was more genuine than he first thought. He knew of their rendezvous last night, he'd watched them meet in the image orbs in the Red Dragon Inn - Belial's mark was proof enough, in the demon's eyes, that she would commit to meeting Alain again. And now, as everything prepared to move to full speed, the private eye, the spy, has to wait.

One and a half years as a detective that now feel like an eternity have prepared Alain well for the waiting game. He listens as one of the lawyers begins to move down the hall, and by the third step he recognizes the sound and the timing as Howe's. Preternatural or not, every bipedal being has a distinctive walk - you just have to listen hard enough.

Get a move on! the portly lawyer says with his head in the doorway, or something to that effect. They're to meet an asssassin at the Red Dragon Inn, someone who will see to Belial's demise. "Yeah, I'll be right along," is the detective's lazy reply. The demon leaves, and Alain hears a sound he holds very dear in these hallways.

Silence. It's meant in the past he can work his magic without looking over his shoulder, alter the image orbs and switch them on and off with a critical few degrees more freedom, and work openly on finding exploitable weaknesses in the security he's supposed to beef up.

Three quick commands later, the screen partitions itself into four image orb feeds. Marty was always better at code, but the interface is simple enough - he's named each orb according to its location, more or less, and taps them into the command prompt.

qpart nehall1 nehall4 off3 mhall2

He does rounds of the building in this way until he finds the building is nearly empty, no one about who will bother him. Half of everything is luck....he feels like he's heard that somewhere before...

Another command exits the program, and he flips a switch to turn the monitor off. He drags the CPU out from under the desk, switches it off, and without so much as a glance to the doorway for any spies, drops it onto the floor. Something breaks, can't be sure what. It's enough for him, the minute hand tick of his wristwatch reminds him. Without the computer plugged in, most security systems as good as offline anyway.

Alain grabs a satchel from one of the desk drawers, shoulders it carefully, rises from his chair and jogs briskly down the hallway. His best time in a practice scenario is 3:35, and he hopes he can beat it. He checks his watch and reaches the locked door on the left at the end of the hall, across from the presumed entrance to the lawyers' living chambers.

He opens the satchel, pops open a jar, and grimaces at the wet impact of three eyes into the palm of his hand. He juggles them nimbly between his fingers in front of the scanning lock, and after another whole minute of work, it opens. He doesn't stop to look at his watch, but his memory of his last practice session tells him he's already several seconds behind.

Now the tricky part. Alain pushes open the door (and thanks God and a saint or two when an alarm does not go off) and finds a few filing cabinets. His luck holds out as none appear to be locked, and he rifles through them, tossing numerous financial records and case notes carelessly onto the floor behind him. He begins to despair, to think maybe his luck has run out, when he sees a sheaf of parchment crowded with tiny script, and a flourishing red signature at the bottom. Blood.

The contracts for the souls. A careful scan that costs him another precious minute tells him Lisa's contract is not among them. He swears, and wonders if it has anything to do with Howe's intention to sic the assassin on Miss Jefferies.

Alain empties entire folders into a large pickle jar on the floor, cramming all the papers in the best that he can. With a flick of his wrist, a small glowing blue orb drops into his hand, and with another, it drops into the jar and begins to flash. He manages to seal the jar a second before it bursts into purging blue flames, reducing the lawyers' precious contracts to ash in seconds, and as much as he'd like to linger and watch it happen with a satisfied smile, he's on the move again.

With the tight security on the door, the security in the room itself has been scarce if it exits at all, and the wooden chest on the floor is no exception. He flips it open and finds more useless documents, old clothes, a bloodstained rag, a cocktail dress and slinky thong, and at the bottom, a familiar orb and a familiar tome, each draped loosely in velvet cloth.

Alain carefully re-wraps the two items, and his rider says, Good. The book is the real deal. With both secured in his satchel, and the satchel secured over his shoulder, Alain marches out of the office and slams the door shut behind him. He races down the halls and returns to his own office, stepping over the computer on the floor, dragging out one of his desk drawers carelessly. He tucks a revolver from within into the back of his pants, drops rounds into his coat pockets, puts out his cigar on the wall and pockets two more from the drawer.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-07-19 22:20 EST
4:47. That's how long the whole thing took him. Alain doesn't swear now, his heart thudding so fast, his stomach so knotted, he's afraid if he opens his mouth, he'll throw up. So distracted, it seems, that he does not appear to notice he's being tailed by two contractors.

Nor the woman he smacks right into it, a slash of orange hair covering half her face. He glowers at her in passing and cuts down an alleyway. One of his tails follows her, catching a few eyes when he lifts his radio to speak into it. Takes four tries to successfully get through to his buddies.

The West End sure can lay the hate on a radio.

The second tail makes it ten feet into the alleyway, into the darkness, out of sight of the crowds, his assault rifle dangling at his side. He does not see the hands that reach out and yank him behind a rubbish pile, and another hand muffles his mouth before his throat is slit.

Alain emerges from the other end of the alley at a jog, and again carelessly bumps into another, a large Scandinavian man with a bushy beard, a sailor by the look of him. "Excuse me," Alain says and keeps going, not minding in the least that his satchel feels a little lighter now.

Amir Wong

Date: 2008-07-20 00:01 EST
Midnight

Team Pink:

"You know, I was expecting something a little more exciting," the Kevlar armoured, grey and black urban camouflaged male sighed aloud. He was staring through his binoculars, spying out one of the high abandoned apartments Amir had cleared out. Boredom was his main issue, and his foot was starting to go to sleep. His other hand had secured the grip and trigger of the P90 that hung around him, keeping the sub-machine gun firmly at his chest, and himself to the wall next to the window. "There's nothing at all out there."

The balaclava-clad head turned to his similarly dressed female partner looking down the sights of the M40 standard issue sniper rifle, in the next window over, looking at the same direction the other observed. "Just shut up and keep watching. As soon as you spot someone, tell me quick, so I can give the street a new coat of red."

The black tinted goggles shifted, probably due to a shift of expression on the skin concealed below. A few seconds later, he shook his head and returned to his post. "You're a violent bitch, Hothead, you know that' Right?"

"*** you, Tiny Dick." Hothead raised a middle finger at him, using her shoulder to steady the butt of the rifle.

Team Yellow:

"So?" said the sniper, partly annoyed and uncomfortable with all the silence his partner was offering, deciding to break through the serious mood upon that flat rooftop they both occupied, staring hard down the barrel of the M40. "Come here often?"

"No," came the gruff reply of the man laying prone next to the other, that could have been registered as some kind of a bear's disgruntled grunt, "You?"

The sniper on the support stands was turned, aiming the barrel towards the building opposite. "Look at the tits on that one, Boss. She's all natural. Gotta love blondes, man. Especially the preened types?"

"Where?" The binoculars swing up to where the sniper looked, and too took a long peak at the action. "Ooooh yeah, this is why I signed up with the army, yo' Foreign chicks are hot, man. I'd luuuuuv to pound that fine sweet arse all day?"

"Dude. She's an elf. You can't get more foreign than that."

Team Green:

She slammed the clip into the bottom o the UZI, pulling the barrel bolt back to arm it. With an aim down the red dotted sights, and a fixture of a suppressor onto the nozzle, she turned back to other woman. "You okay, Green Horn?"

"Y-Yeah' Just a little shaken." The androgynous head turned to look up at the other, the hold on the heavy rifle .50 Cal unsteady, as it rested on the downstairs kitchen table, with her nicely seated onto a chair, squinting an unseen eye behind tinted visors into the centre of the crosshairs.

"Don't worry, I'm here to protect you," she walked over to her, and placed a hand upon the novice's shoulder. "Big Daddy promised us we'll all get out of this alive. And with large pay checks to boot at the end of it. Just focus on that hun, and you will be alright."

A nervous, and hard swallow came from the Green Horn, while she nodded back at the older more experienced one. "I-I just don't like the idea of u-us" Being on the ground floor" I thought we'd be higher up?"

"This street is a dead end, but it looks right out onto the main road. We can cut them off, and easily pin them down. Big Daddy seriously got his locations right. They won't get near us, not with that elephant killer you got there." Old Hag pointed at the large silvery coloured rifle mounted on the table.

"But what if they get too close" So that I can't hit them' What if they get in" I-I-I don't want to die" I c-can't die. My husband" He doesn't even know I'm here?"

"If they get too close, they will have to deal with me. Just focus on that crossroad. I'll focus on the leftovers getting too close?" Old Hag turned to walk away, but then paused, turning to look back at the other, ?" I noticed you were sick yesterday morning. Are you??"

Team Blue

"She's pregnant"!" Amir stormed away from the window with his binoculars clenched in one hand, and a finger pressed firmly over his ear. Angrily whispering back, "What the *** is she thinking" She could put this whole operation in jeopardy pulling a stunt like thi-do not! DO NOT ever tell me to calm down Hag!" He paused, his head tilting from the banter coming back down at him through the communications device, what appeared to be a glass marble tucked into his ear. "Alright! I'm sorry! Jesus Christ, stop shouting at me!"

His seventh member was looking at him, and not through the scope. "Something up Big Daddio?" She asked curiously, "You look like you're about to have a heart attack."

Amir returned to the other's side by the window, looking none too pleased. "Rendered deaf by the Hag, you mean. Looks like Green Horn neglected to mention she was pregnant."

"No way! Really?" The other was clearly shocked at this revelation.

"Which now means I got eight lives on my shoulders." Amir pressed his forehead firmly against the wall. "***?"

"Don't look at it like that, Daddio. She'll be fine. You've prepared us for every worst case scenario. We got all the checkpoints memorized, and even the location of the last resort you mentioned." She spoke softly, "They won't know what?ll hit "em."

It was enough for Amir to smile. "Thank you, Chickie. I hope so-hello?" He turned away again, dipping his head and placing his hand over his ear to focus on the voice whispering into his ear. "Team Pink, this is Team Blue, what is your status?" The colour drained from his face, and quickly he rushed to the window, bringing his binoculars up. "***."

Chickie looked into the scope. "Where did she say?"

"Headshot.?

* * *

Looking for one man in a city seemed like an absurd gesture that only the highly perceptive or particularly talented tracker would achieve successfully. The trio of security contractors had taken up the task of searching for Mr. D'Mourir in the West End, along with many of their other comrades in Silence's group. They were already beginning to tire with their so far unsuccessful hunt.

There was a cold, silent, business-like urgency to their movements, where two of them walked either side of the street, while one brought up the rear to cover them. Weapons were ready and waiting to take this man out. All they needed now was the target.

They approached a certain crossroad, cautiously taking up points so that they could peek around the corners quickly. It was almost too quiet. They could sense that something was not quite right. The lead man lifted two of his fingers towards his eyes, pointed at himself, and indicated a hand forward, which sprung the other two automatically in to hurried life, rushing to the other end of the four direction junction.

A resounding thunder crack, and splat of blood spraying up the side of a building wall, was the sign of the first to fall, his head a bloodied ruin of bone and flesh, as the .50 Cal made little work of its perfect shot, sending the body to freeze mid-step and fall forward onto its side in a fit of death spasms.

The one man that did manage to get to his ordered destination hid around a corner which he suspected would shield him for the sniper fire. The leader, who had barely moved from their original position, did the same.

But they were not safe as they had hopped. A different gun, at a different point, took out the leader next. The bullet passed through his neck like it had not existed, in one side, and out the next. He gargled incoherently, his dying words.

This was enough to spur the other man to run in terror, dropping his gun and sprinting as fast as he could to get away, to find a blind spot to which he could just remain for the rest of the coming fire fight. The very moment he turned a corner, the silenced fire of a P90 rained its hell fire onto him, rendering his legs into a mess of red.

Up in the corner across the way, Hothead was watching the man crawl across the floor, leaving a stripe of red in his wake. Her partner had not quite killed him, so it was up to her to deliver the final blow. A shot to the crotch severed a vital artery, which ultimately would bleed the man dry.

There was shouting in the distance, and the sniper nodded to her spotter. It was time to relocate.

Frank Paszinski

Date: 2008-07-20 00:05 EST
Frank sighed audibly as he spun the Jeep around in the narrow Rhy'dinian streets. He pushed the engine back into gear, and the idle purr turned into a roar as the vehicle sped off in the other direction. It was all somewhat of a relief. No more wondering when the signal would be given, no more toying with all the backups and contingencies, in endless mental circles. The only test now: who was better at raising hell" The old marine couldn't help but grin. In fact, the only reason to sigh was that hell should visit such a pristine evening. Where were the ominous dark clouds, the rain, the thunder; the symbolism part of every epic"

Frank lit a cigarette. Good thing he wasn't much for poetry, eh"

**

"Lieutenant!" Frank bellowed as he pushed open the door to the armory. Frank quirked an eyebrow at the half-dozen men in various stages of preparation, then scanned the room for his 'subordinate". Instead, his eyes alighted upon a rather knightly looking fellow in the corner. Frank's eyes narrowed. The man nodded in greeting.

"Sir!" The Lt. appeared before Frank, saluting. Frank finally nodded back to the knight before turning to the Lt.

"Don't salute people in wartime, soldier." Frank growled around his cigarette. "And don't salute me, ever." Frank didn't actually have a rank, but the SPI operatives, Lt. Grey here included, had taken to saluting him ever since he'd been placed in charge of certain aspects of Alain's operation.

"Yessir," the Lt. responded not missing a beat, but dropping the salute.

"And stop calling me sir. Sitrep!" he demanded before the Lt. could argue. His demand was greeted by a chorus of magazines sliding home.

"Ready and waiting," Lt. Grey responded unnecessarily, an unsuppressed grin on his face.

"Let's move!"

"HOORAH!" responded the room at large.

The other eyebrow quirked. Who'd taught them to say-" Alain's smiling visage suddenly appeared in his mind's eye. Well, now Frank would really have to save his boss's ass. It would be disappointing, after all, if he couldn't strangle the man himself. He stamped out his cig and followed "his" "marines" into the lovely twilit evening.

**

Night had settled. A veritable army walked the streets of Rhy'din, mercenaries searching for a needle in a haystack. They looked bored. A scant few were wary of the shadows, (this was West End after all) but for all the wrong reasons. They were about to discover that this needle left razor wire.

A small cylinder rolled innocently from the shadows, into the midst of a small group of mercenaries. "Huh?" one muttered, peering curiously at what his boot had come down on. The cylinder exploded.

The world went white. He clutched alternately, futilely at the burning in his eyes, and the ringing in his ears. He could feel the heat on his skin. Almost see the flash of gunfire, almost hear the screams, the curses, the piercing crack of automatic weapons. Something took his feet from under him, and he found himself on his back, pain flaring in his skull. Something sat on his chest. Something big, something terrible.

Something that smelled awful.

He blinked, almost seeing- bulbous amber eyes, stared out from a black, angular face with rubbery skin. "Boo," it said, and he screamed, remembering all the stories about the terrible creatures that haunted Rhy'din. He screamed, thinking he was about to be eaten.

He was still screaming when it punched him in the face.

**

Lt. Grey stood up from the comatose mercenary and pulled the mask from his face, breathing fully of the night air. He knew they'd be back below the streets soon.

"I expect that'll be the easiest fight of the night." Frank muttered casually as he, too, pulled the mask from his face and observed the scene. The rest of his unit had retreated back underground, leaving only unconscious and wounded mercenaries lying on the ground. A lovely scene- perfectly liable to spread some greatly exaggerated rumors, especially since the only ones who had made it out unharmed were the cowards who'd run at the onset. "No casualties on our side. Good work, Lt."

"We should go, sir," the Lt. said simply.

"I suppose so," Frank sighed, eyeing the sewer grate they'd sprung from as if it were the real enemy of this fight. He pulled the breath mask back on. "What d"you suppose they were more afraid of? The masks or the stench?" He wrestled open the grate, holding it for the Lt.

"I prefer to think it was our excellence on the field of battle, sir." The Lt. slid down the ladder, and splashed into the dirty water at the bottom.

"After we win, that's definitely the way it will go down in the history books.?

The grate slid closed, leaving the street quiet and dark, strewn with the bodies of the unconscious and fallen.

Mr. Howe

Date: 2008-07-20 00:38 EST
At 10:40 pm by the central clock tower. With the information gained earlier that day in a meeting with Alain, Howe and his personal team of security went to the restaurant where Bel was supposed to be. She wasn't there nor did she show up. They waited about an hour.

At 11:45 pm by the central clock tower, Howe had returned to DCH's headquarters in the Marketplace. He summoned the head of the office's security team and promptly promoted him to Alain's old position.

The bastard had betrayed Howe, pulled a gun on him in the inn and declared publicly against him and DCH.

They'd been setup by the ambitious mortal boy!

Howe could only wonder if Belial wasn't somehow behind it' Of course his suspicions were confirmed when she didn't show up where Alain said she'd be. The two are in this together, he knew it. Howe never did have a good grasp on Alain's intelligence, but then underestimating the detective hadn't done him any good so far. Yet Howe continued to believe that Alain had to be someone's puppet.

It was then Howe put the most wanted on Alain. He ordered every one of the security men to hunt the man down and bring him alive to Howe. He called upon Cerulean and made certain the assassins knew the new hit list. At the top were two names: Alain D'Mourir and Lisa Jefferies.

Howe knew now that Alain hadn't been lying to Lisa like Howe had thought. No, that was the truth after all. Howe also knew that Alain had to be protecting the girl. So now, Howe was going to make Alain pay with everything he holds precious.

And so the war, which had actually begun hours ago by Alain and his cohorts, had just been official taken up by DCH.

The game was afoot so to speak, and Howe was hunting Alain. He would see the man dead before sunrise and whatever information he held on that bitch Belial and those cursed Bloods would be Howe's. Yes, the gloves had come off and Howe was ready to splatter the town in red if he had to in order to get what he wanted; Alain's head on a silver platter with Belial's right beside it.

LdyBelial

Date: 2008-07-20 05:02 EST
It was at 3:37 am by the central clock that Roland and the book found their way to Blood House Onyx.

Roland was handed over to Indi and she took him to the healers while the book, DCH's unholy grimoire was taken to Corwyn. Belial handed the Ancient the book herself, then declared that part of her job done.

"You have the book. I need to get to Alain, make sure he's alright."

Corwyn nodded. "He'll be alright' eventually. But yes, go get him now. I have" business to attend myself." He had smiled mysteriously, but Bel didn't notice. She nodded and immediately turned away, intent on heading out of his office and down the hall at a swift pace. They'd heard of a battle in front of S.P.I. Now she needed to get there and survey it for herself. She'd already sent a contingent of Bloods under Wulf ahead but she knew she'd be arriving around the same time as them if she teleported now.

Belial didn't pause to check in on the young man Roland; she sensed she's running out of time. An odd aspect of their sudden new intimacy from the night past perhaps, but Bel knew Alain was hanging by a thread" she just didn't know how or why.

She mentally contacts Sid and then teleports to the office building where S.P.I. was located to meet up with her Bloods and her brethren. It was time to end this thing.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-07-21 18:53 EST
The old Polish motorcycle tears down an alleyway at breakneck speed - Alain has one arm around the knight in front of him, and with the other he holds out his revolver. It'll be one hell of a lucky shot at this speed, bumpy as the West End is, but it's worth the try. He squints through the sights, his view down the alley shaky at best, clicks the hammer back and fires at a cluster of silhouettes back behind them. He sees tracer fire and hears a metallic zing and a groan in front of him.

The driver slows down and tumbles off the bike before it can stop, and Alain does the same. It skids out into the open street they're now at the edge of, a patrol of three armed men right behind them....and two more running up the street towards them.

The detective's luck has taken a turn for the worse. The two men are bloodied, ragged, and among the now many security contractors just trying to escape - but when they spot their target, they change their mind pretty quickly. "Stay down!" Alain hisses at the driver and dives back into the alleyway, behind the corner of a brick building, and automatic gunfire rattles through the night, taking little chunks out of the wall.

A shot rings out, and Alain turns his head. "Jesus Christ..." The knight has risen to his feet unsteadily, blood streaming from his belly, loosely holding a revolver. He takes potshots at Silence's mercenaries, and they change their target long enough to mow him down with a vengeful hail of bullets.

Alain steps out from cover, draws another revolver and starts shooting with both at the men while they're distracted. Three shots catch the man on the right in the chest, sending him two steps back and knocking him to the street. He keeps sidestepping and firing, doing his best to keep low and keep the pressure on. Two shots miss, narrowly, and the third hits the mercenary in the chest just as he squeezes off a burst.

A familiar white hot pain tears through Alain and he falls to a knee with a sharp cry, dropping a revolver when he clutches his wounds. One bullet grazed the outside of his left thigh, the other went clean through the inside, missing bone and the femoral artery just a few inches shy of his knee.

A loud gunshot rings out behind him, keeping the patrol down the alleyway occupied. Alain recognizes it as a fifty-caliber, one of Amir's snipers, and ignores it while he does what he can to bind his leg. With a groan he forces himself to his feet and hobbles his way to the motorcycle, and collects the spilled briefcase nearby. The revolver he dropped is left there in the street. He can get other revolvers.

Where is he....Through the dizziness from the recent tumble and the more recent pain of his wound, it takes him a few moments to orient himself, and he realizes he is only two blocks from S.P.I. His Alamo. He tucks the briefcase under his arm, looks up and down the street, and limps away to the only fortress he feels can avail him.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-07-21 18:55 EST
Howe had set men to watch S.P.I. He knew eventually Alain would return there, he just hadn't expected it would be tonight.

Howe is pacing about in the upper floor of the DCH building in the Marketplace. The sign still read Morgan Enterprises, but they had already taken care of that, the new sign would be up by Monday. He's in the conference room waiting for news, any news as he paces to and fro. He's so angry he ponders random slaughter, for the first time in years.

He'd left Lisa's contract with the assassin Miles Muderr. The demon Muderr was likely dead and Howe isn't sure where the contract is. If he had only known what he knows now he never would have offered that contract up. He would have used it like a weapon against the pesky traitor Alain!

His new security head knocks on the door then slips quietly inside. Jones doesn't have the same appeal as Alain had. He didn't harbor delicious sin like an aura, nor did he speak his mind. In short the man is meek and Howe hates meek men. But when in the trenches, one makes do with what they have.

"Mister Howe" We have word on D"Muer, he's gone into his office, sir."

Howe snarls low then hisses "Send in my team, Jones, we have some trash to take out."

Howe turns to look out across the Marketplace, beady eyes narrowing as he thinks. His idea is insane, but it is also brilliant if brutal. He has just enough time if he works quickly.

It is a mere ten minutes later when the caravan sets out from the Marketplace for the WestEnd where Alain's offices are known to be. They make one stop in the WestEnd and a new body is added to the entourage. The girl is tossed unclothed and her hair wet, into the carriage with Howe. Her blue eyes wide with fear lock on demon but she doesn't say anything.

Howe leers down at her and leaning in close begins to whisper in an ancient chaotic tongue. The girl shivers and shies away from him. She doesn't seem to understand what he's saying instead large tears well up in her eyes and spill down over her cheeks.

"Very good Lisa, that's exactly how I want you to appear." Howe says with a cruel smile just before he slaps her into the side of the carriage hard

Blood wells from between her lips and her eye begins to swell closed and still all she does is cry. Howe takes his time beating her all the way to S.P.I. By the time the carriage rolls to a stop, the girl looks more like a mound of freshly slaughtered meat than anything resembling human. Howe steps out of the carriage and nods to two of him men to drag the girl out.

Stepping into the middle of the street Howe looks up at the building and in a clear voice calls out.

"Alain, I know you're in there. I have someone who wants to speak to you, maybe you'd better listen!"

Another nod and the two guards drag the beaten, naked girl to the middle of the street, right beneath a streetlamp. Abused as she is, Howe has managed to leave her face mostly intact. One of the men grabs hold of her hair and yanks it back, exposing her face to any who may be looking.

The girl cries silent tears as she closes her blue eyes.

Lisa Jefferies has seen better days, no doubt, for the girl on the street tonight looks barely alive.

**********************

Province Plaza itself is silent. Two men are lying in the street five meters from the building, heads destroyed by a sniper's bullets. All the lights are out, and sporadic gunfire rattles in the distance. It's died down now, less frequent than it was at first, as Jack Silence's army has broken itself upon RhyDin.

For seventy seconds, there is no reply. Then Alain emerges in the doorway, one hand on the Thompson machine gun in his hip. His leg is bloodied, his face is grim. He stares hard at Lisa. ...Whatever happens, at least her soul is free. "Tell your men to lower their guns, Howe. Or I'll set fire to your precious contracts."

He nods towards Lisa - "You want to kill the blonde....you go ahead....and I'll destroy your contracts, and even if you kill me, you'll never survive the Bloods' onslaught. Tell your men to lower their guns, and bring Miss Jefferies over here....by yourself. Leave your goonies behind."

"So I was right, you're in this with them, aren't ya boy?" Howe says with heavy disgust. "What' She that great a lay that whore Belial"! She tell ya how she got so good?" But Howe waves his hand and his men lower their weapons.

Howe doesn't believe Alain could torch his contracts. Hell, Alain doesn't even know where they keep them. And Howe still believes Alain is too stupid to find a way inside their private rooms. It would need a lot more tech than the poor little detective has. Even with help from that bitch Belial Howe can't imagine how Alain could have gained access.

Howe waves to the two men holding Lisa and they bring her forward to him. He wraps a hand around her slender throat and holds her weight up that way as he drags the girl over towards the boy.

"You know, I really liked you, I saw quite a bright future for you. You actually gonna toss all that aside" All that power, all that money' All that for?" Howe smirks coldly. "For sex"! You can have any woman in the whole bloody city, what are you thinking boy"!"

Howe stops a few feet away from Alain, he thrusts Lisa out in front of him. Her face is turning a peculiar shade of blue. "Well, I'm here boy, so tell me, what ya gonna do?"

Alain's fingers twitch, and then relax away from his Tommy gun. He appears to space out when he talks - maybe it's the blood loss" - and he angles himself against the doorway, staring somewhere between Howe's face and Lisa's. He shifts, struggling to get comfortable on his wounded left leg.

"You just don't get it, do you, Howe....I said it back in the inn, and I meant it. I'm in this for myself. It's not for sex - not from Lisa, not from Belial, not from anyone. It's because you're an insufferable son of a bitch, and, well....to put it simply....I don't like you."

The lazy posture, the lack of attention, has been a ruse. He's been zeroing in on one of Howe's henchmen. His right hand is lightning fast, and what looks like a revolver leaves its hip holster in a flash, firing a blaster shot at Howe's extended arm. If it burns through, or if he dodges, it may hit one of the men by the carriage.

Surprisingly, the blaster fire is deflected; it ricochets off somewhere to the left and in a flicker of blinding white light one of Howe's men is sheered in two. The casualty seems to mean nothing to Howe at all.

Howe laughs and shakes Lisa like a rag doll. She looks limp and her eyes are closed. Her face is turning rather purple, but Alain can still detect the quiver of her heartbeat in the naked flesh of her chest.

"You ain't so smart are you, boy' So it ain't the women, its all me!" Again he busts out with his robust country-lawyer laughter. "Well, what ya gonna do, shoot me"! Or maybe I should filet you? Save your skin and have it mounted on my wall" But first, why don't you tell me who you really work for" Or are you too afraid?"

Alain has to swallow down a lump of white hot rage. His gun hand, his right hand, shakes. Goddamn that hand and the messages it may be sending, true or not. He decides to roll with it.

"All right..." He looks at the purpling face and lets his gun hang loosely on his index finger, turning his aim away from Howe. "Okay, just let Lisa go, and we can talk....I won't fight."

Off in the distance, another shot rings out. Howe's mercenaries look around nervously. "...But if you don't let her go, if you kill her....so help me, you won't get a goddamn thing out of me."

"I thought ya said the women don't mean anything to you, boy' Don't go soft on me now," Howe clucks his tongue chidingly at Alain, but it's very easy to see how pleased he is. He tosses Lisa down to the ground at his feet and she gasps like a fish out of water for air.

Howe somehow seems to either pay the distant sounds of gunfire no mind or is keeping a cool, powerful fa"ade for the flagging morale of the troops. He kicks Lisa aside and moves over to smile reptilian at Alain.

"Now, let's talk, shall we" Perhaps you'd be more comfortable" inside?" Howe gives a significant look at Alain's leg and all the delightful blood. "Ew, buddy, that doesn't look good, you should have someone take care of that for ya." Howe smiles and reaches to take Alain's gun from his hand.

Alain stares uncertainly between Howe and Lisa. He saw what he did to her before, what he's done to her now....and he can scarcely imagine what the man will do to him, a real traitor. His hand is hovering a foot from Howe's, not yet relinquishing the gun, when shots go off. A sniper's bullet strikes a man in the back, and while the others turn their guns to look for the high ground the shot came from, the right hook follows.

Men in black masks with bulbous amber lenses pour out of two alleyways and take cover in an abandoned storefront and lay down fire. One of Frank's 'special assault teams,' their odor as deadly as their intent, as they've come fresh out of the sewers.

At once Alain dives and rolls past Howe and Lisa. The Thompson machine gun stutters into the night, its staccato sending a flurry of bullets to security contractors rallying rapidly to a siege of SPI.

Howe snarls turning to take in the chaos and Alain's sudden, new position. As several of Howe's security detail begins firing back, one falls under the onslaught. Howe is going to lose a lot of his men fast out in the open like this. He gives the sign for them to take cover, retreat into the building that S.P.I. calls home. But Howe doesn't wait for his men to pull back before moving, he's not that kind of leader. He is the first inside.

Lisa is left behind on the street.

As the men follow Howe to relative safety, the last man out takes a hail of bullets to his back. His trigger finger flinches as he topples forward and stray bullets fly through the streets and riddle poor, forgotten Lisa. Four strike her in the chest, one in the head and one through her lower left leg. Blood spills from the wounds and now there is no quiver in her flesh, just a long soft sigh as the last of her breath is freed.

Howe's men, having taken cover, return fire on those attacking, but morale is sinking as reports begin filtering in about the other casualties. Howe, not attached to a radio headset, has yet to hear, but even now one of his men is filling him in.

"It looks bad sir. Half the detail is down, a quarter missing. We need to pull them off the street."

Howe growls as he paces back and forth, unafraid of being shot. "Go ahead, pull them off the streets, I have what I want outside. Alain. All of you, to any one who hits him I'll give one million dollars! Is that incentive enough' Kill that motherfucker Alain!" Howe screams. He doesn't care if they overhear him outside or not. He wants the traitor dead, screw the information he might have, Howe has simply had enough.

It's an attractive order but a double-edged sword in a combat situation. The men that turn their guns too eagerly on Alain are picked off by enemy fire. The detective himself stands staring, disbelieving, face empty, eyes a thousand miles away, at Lisa's bleeding, tattered form, but a couple near misses urge him back to reality. He lets out a burst to cover his escape back into SPI, hotly pursued by those not pinned down.

The battle, like any gunfight in an open street, progresses very rapidly. Howe's contractors caught too far out in the open are mowed down, and more and more rally into Province Plaza, as much for a piece of the reward as to find decent cover from which to fight for their lives. In a matter of minutes, more than two dozen mercenaries have stormed into SPI, and a pair of abortive assaults from Frank's team in the abandoned storefront have been met with disaster.

Upstairs in Province Plaza, in the SPI offices, gunfire occurs sporadically, but at great length every time and mostly from one weapon. When three contractors spend too long in a stairwell discussing their attack, something rolls down the stairs to them, and an explosion resounds through the building, spreading smoke and dust through the first floor.

At length, the noise stops. No gunfire erupts from the second floor, no thud of footsteps from the detective planning his next defense. The wounded that still live, left out in the streets, moan quietly, men from both sides. Alain's people are hesitant to make a move. An assault would be suicidal.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-07-21 18:57 EST
As the eerie silence falls, Howe is happy that his quickly devised plan to inform the other contractors has worked so well. Yet surveying the dead and dying outside doesn't reveal Alain in the mix. The man has to be somewhere. Howe narrows beady eyes and focuses on the unholy power at his beck and call. He uses to 'sniff" the detective out and he knows full well the man is upstairs. Inside the same building as they are.

How convenient.

Howe's count is down to a meager five men, the others are either dead or useless. He waves over two of the men and jabs a finger upstairs. Sending them to their doom perhaps, but any information is better than none.

Howe and his three other men watch the two as they quietly creep upwards. All are waiting to see what will happen.

A minute later, the call finally comes -

"He's up here, sir! He's unarmed!"

Howe smiles jovially as he heads up the stairs. Once again he leads the way, now they have gotten the all clear of course. Stepping around the dead and wreckage until at last he's standing in the doorway leading into Alain's offices, beady eyes roam over the outer room. Howe follows his nose to Alain, hoping he isn't yet dead, but prepared should he find him so.

"He alive, or no?" Howe asks as he joins the men he'd sent upstairs before him.

"Still alive - grinning, the son of a bitch," one of the men says, and points Alain out. He's slumped against a wall, grinning, smoking a cigar. He's been nicked in the arm as well as his right hip. All around the now ruined office, draped over and crumpled behind overturned furniture, are the bodies of the men who tried to kill him.

"If you guys wanted to come in so badly, you should've just made an appointment," the detective offers. He's either lost it, or he's playing a game to keep his cool.

"You're alive, how nice of you to do that for me, Alain and here I was beginning to think you no longer cared?" Howe says snidely. A nod of his head is given to one of the men who have followed him up. "That chair, the sturdy wooden one, bring it in here. And you?" Howe looks at one of the two men holding guns on Alain. "Pick him up. We're gonna have a little chat, Mister D"Mourir and me. And when we're done we might be merciful to the traitor?" Howe laughs, short and nasty, "Then again, maybe we won't."

"A chair, for me" Oh Howe, you shouldn't have..." Alain grins up at one of his captors as he's dragged along and gets beaten over the head for it. The chair is set down, a body nudged aside to make room. The blow to his head has dazed him, but he still finds the focus to smile at Mister Howe.

Howe allows one of his men to whisper in his ear; he nods to the guy then turns his attention back on Alain. A wave of his hand and one of the guards claps handcuffs on him, twisting his arms behind the chair cruelly. Howe smirks as he moves to stand a foot or so from Alain.

"Now, I am going to flay the skin off of you in tiny pieces until you tell me what I want to know. And if that doesn't work" I am going to burn every inch of flesh off your bones. And if that doesn't work" I hope you're getting the point, Mister D"Mourir. Your games are over, time to pay the piper so to speak. So why don't we start with an easy one first, shall we"

"Who hired you?"

Alain hangs his head woozily, bound to the chair....and when Howe speaks, he grins and lifts his head. It takes a moment for his lips to form words, and he says, "The Holy Roman Catholic Church."

Howe laughs and lifts his hand. He doesn't touch Alain, but as he draws his hand downwards, the whip-like strike of energy slashes at Alain's back. Worse than a bullwhip, these barbs run deep, and certainly, should Alain live long enough, they will scar him for life.

"No, no, no, son, you know these games as well as I do. We both know it was Belial. Why not make this easier on yourself, yes" Just tell me" what did she offer you, eh' What was the prize" Did she whisper ridiculous words of redemption in your ear, Alain" Did she offer you greater power, celestial power, perhaps" Come on, tell me, son, make this easy on yourself."

He lets out a sharp cry as the energy tears into his back. Tears form in the corners of his eyes, and he laughs. He gulps a few breathes before he manages an answer.

"Would you believe..." He chuckles again, and gives Howe an incredulous look. "Would you believe it's nothing." It's like it's another lie, no different from the first answer.

Another strike slices Alain's back, crisscrossing the first and Howe laughs.

"Yes, you do make this fun, don't you, boy' Well, we'll try this all night if you want to. I don't mind."

Howe is flagrantly using the power of the unholy Triumvirate, if begins to throb through him like a heady wine. The intensity of the energy is better than sex and it improves Howe's mood immensely.

"Now, let's try another question, yes" How long you been screwing that bitch Belial" Can you answer that one, boy' Or do you prefer to kiss but not tell?"

Nnh!" He manages to muffle his next cry through his teeth, and the chair bounces as his body tries, for an instant, to get out of reach of his spell. He hisses breath rapidly in and out, and when he recovers...."Since we were married."

"Oh, you are trying my patience, aren't you boy?" Another strike of the whip-like energy, this time deeper across Alain's back. Howe chuckles as he metes out the pain. "Maybe I should break some of your bones" Grind them into dust right there inside your skin suit, would that loosen that tongue of yours, you think" Somehow I doubt it."

"Unh! Christ! Wait..." He huffs a breath as tears stream down his cheeks to gather on his jaw. "Wait..."

Howe leans in close to Alain, his warm breath stinks of cigars and old socks, like he forgot to brush his teeth this morning. "Wait' Should I wait' I dunno, son, you haven't been very helpful, have ya now. Maybe if you work with me, then I could be kind and not have to do this to you anymore?"

Another lightening strike of energy sears across Alain's back, now he can feel the blood oozing slowly from the wounds. Alain's lost so much of it tonight; it seems he might be running low.

"Shall we try this one last time?" Howe asks conversationally. "Who are you working for boy' What do they want?"

Yet again the man steps forward and Howe is forced to step away from Alain. He leans in and listens to what the guy has to say. A heavy scowl moves over meaty features, "*** that. I am in no mood. A *** tank"! Grab him, we're getting outta here."

But before anyone can move the room plunges into darkness and a voice, very familiar whispers inside Alain's mind.

"We're coming to get you, Detective" hang on?"

BOOM! An old Soviet T-35, while its condition may be questionable, is more than enough to knock down the wall of the tea shop downstairs. Out in the street, a battlecry rises eerily as a great number - soldiers from the Division, knights from Esperance, and a few even from O'Brien's unit in the West End Watch - charges in after the tank, driven by a particular old Marine sergeant....Gunfire rattles anew, as there seems to be little interest in taking prisoners.

Alain's grin has vanished. He remains silent, in some sort of daze.

Howe growls and reaches out to grab at Alain as the building rattles and shakes. But even as he reaches, his hand comes into contact with what feels like a wall. It hadn't been there a moment ago' but it is now. As he wraps his brain around the odd wall he feels them.

Belial blinks in directly behind Alain; her small hand falls to his shoulder lightly as she leans in close. She doesn't speak aloud. She is responsible for the wall between them and Howe. It is just a little trick and really just a play off of the defenses Alain already had in place.

"We're here, sweets, I am taking care of the handcuffs right now?"

And she does. With a touch of a slender finger they fall away and are easily caught up by her. No need to let them chink to the floor.

The Ancient looks to the wall and then smiles to the Detective. "Ye be doin' gran'. There be worries o' recent, but.....Nae, jus' gran', sweet.' Nodding to Belial, silver eyes sweep a look around and she lays a hand to her sibling and one to Alain. 'Apologies. I remember ye aversion to 'portin'.'

"I smell you bitches! Come for your lap dog, think this will save him?" Howe laughs coldly. "I will hunt him down and kill him no matter how far away you try and hide him!" But he can't see them. He can smell them and feel them but the darkness is too dense and the weird wall isn't making any sense. He gropes along it seeking any kind of weakness.

Beneath their feet there is the unmistakable feeling of power gathering. The air around them thrums with it and the Ancient slicks a look towards her sister, drawing on what the pair share with another.

"Jus' one shot."

Alain's not staring off into space, it turns out....but on a little red jewel sitting on the floor, glowing a little brighter now. His ring is just a silver band with an empty socket, has been for the last minute or so.

"We should get out," Alain says quietly to the two. "...We should get the others out, from downstairs."

The power that thrums between Bel and Sid is thick, but Belial isn't in the mood for confrontations. She's worried about Alain and can think only of getting him out here. She shrugs to Sid.

"Sooner we depart the better, sister" He's bleeding from multiple wounds and I fear he needs attention quickly?"

Bel leans into whisper to Alain "They are already getting out' The plan was to throw your captors off-guard to get us inside. But yes, right now, sweets." Bel shoots a determined look to Sid. "Later, take Howe on later, Sid!"

Alain's staring as the little jewel on the floor begins to blink. Good reason never to corner a desperate man, that.

Bel follows his gaze and green eyes widen. "Now Sid, sweets" Alain has handled your urge for violence, he's setting off what I think may very well be a bomb!"

"Ah." Glancing to the little red blinking light, nodding once and letting her hand drape back to Alain's shoulder. Her other had never left Belial, and as flesh touches down the air about three ripples and waves, bubbling violet then black and finally white before the light is so intense it flashes out the retina, burning after image. The three vanish.

Howe fails to find a way around the wall, then losing patience he slams into it with the force of the Unholy Triumvirate. He can feel the wall trembling under the impact of the energy, but it doesn't seem willing to break. Howe screams inhumanly. Raising his hands over his head he vows to make them pay, one way or another!

Behind him his men have begun creeping out the door and down the stairs. They have no idea what?s going on but they get that Howe's losing it. Between the eerie darkness and the strange sounds issuing out of their boss, they've made what they feel is the wisest choice; they're leaving.

The little red orb blinks faster and faster, and suddenly, it stops, going dim. For a moment, it appears as if the magical firebomb is a dud. Then there is a crackle. Another, and red energy begins arcing in and out of the orb like miniature flames. It implodes for a fraction of a second before it explodes, an intense inferno rushing out in every direction, enough to incinerate Alain's office and everything in it.

Howe couldn't see the bomb. That wall from out of nowhere kept it from his view and that weird darkness. It has to have been conjured is what he is thinking when suddenly it is as if his skin is alive with fire!

He screams throwing up his magical shields but nearly too late. His skin is blistering and burning everywhere it is exposed. He didn't even look at his expensive tailored suit or just how much it may have melted into him. Strangely the power that has been surging through him all night has sudden begun to sputter and strain. He's using it up too quickly and hasn't given it time to recharge. He needs to find safety fast. He teleports out of the raging inferno immediately and heads straight back to DCH's law office in the Marketplace.

(This post and the preceding post adapted from live play with the lovely and talented players of Howe, Sid, and Belial)