Solo IC Thread- Let the 20's Roar- Strawberries

[pife]

Margaret- Daniel's "girlfriend". A waitress who occasionally spends evenings with customers to make ends meet, she is something akin to a friend and willing ear of Daniel. She has been slightly confused by his actions the last two times they have spent time together, but is not the kind of girl who asks a lot of questions.
http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/MargaretDanielsGirlfriend_zps821cc5f2.jpg (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/MargaretDanielsGirlfriend_zps821cc5f2.jpg.html)

Madame Phyllis- Phyllis runs a very quiet, very discreet brothel. They mostly cater to the upper crust- Stock brokers, lawyers, politicians. Her girls are all clean, classy, and well educated. (They are more like escorts than hookers, and Phyllis' taste harkens back to the old days when a "courtesan" was a highly sought after companion, who could hold her own in discussions of politics, culture, and history. As such, they tend to hear a lot more than the average streetwalker. Many of her 'girls' are regular mistresses of prominent decision makers. For a price, and the promise of discretion, Phyllis either knows, or can find out much of what is happening in the City and beyond. And since many of her customers work in the courts or City Hall, the police typically leave her girls alone.
http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/MadamePhyllis_zpsfbff9f4b.jpg (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/MadamePhyllis_zpsfbff9f4b.jpg.html)


Wenfei "Icehand" Wei- One of the premier "fixers" in New York City during Prohibition, he doesn't deal in the import or distribution of liquor, but in finding (and hiding) things. Based in Chinatown, Icehand is one of the best fences and information brokers in the City
http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/WenfeiWei_zps6ad4f8fb.jpg (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/WenfeiWei_zps6ad4f8fb.jpg.html)


Risteard Cooper is a Lieutenant in one of the more powerful Irish gangs of Brooklyn. He was fond of smoking a particular type of cigar (Black Stags, imported from the Netherlands), which you found at the scene of your son's murder. By itself, this was a clue, but it wasn't particularly damning. However, you had given an emerald ring to your wife after Robbie was born. After you split, she gave it to Robbie, which he wore on a necklace. You later saw one of Risteard's favorite trollops wearing it.
http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/PrimoAdamo_zps54e2ed5b.png (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/PrimoAdamo_zps54e2ed5b.png.html)


Melaneen Foster- Lounge-singer, and mistress of Risteard Cooper
http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/MelaneenFoster_zps779bf072.png (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/MelaneenFoster_zps779bf072.png.html)


Widow O'Keene (Ethel)
http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/WidowOKeene_zps322771e4.jpg (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/WidowOKeene_zps322771e4.jpg.html)






None yet

Anidel/Daniel (http://sheetgen.dalines.net/sheet/36730?message=true)

[pife]

Reserved for DM

[pife]

Anidel watches Margaret as she rolls first one stocking, and then the other back up her long, pale legs. Definitely not shy, Margaret sits on the edge of the bed in a dressing gown, her hair already perfectly rearranged. I'm gonna have to get back to the diner, Danny, you'll be okay? There is a touch of genuine softness and concern in Margaret's heavy Irish accent, and she looks up at you while reattaching the clasp of one of her necklaces. Ye don't seem yerself t'day.

The last couple of weeks have been a huge adjustment, though a welcome one. What wouldn't be an improvement over the agony you have endured for the last several thousand years. This new skin you wear.. itches, for lack of a better word, as though it doesn't fit quite right yet, but with each day, the sensation lessens. You are slowly becoming acclimated to Daniel Heather's physical capabilities, though the mental images, the memories and feelings are still hard to deal with. As Anidel, you experienced a range of emotions during your incarceration in the Abyss, but sadness was rarely one of them. Rage, frustration, despair, confusion, all these and more. Daniel, on the other hand, has been consumed by sadness. You think that you understand, in some way. Obviously, you never had a child of your own, but you once thought of all humanity as at least partially "yours". You cheered their triumphs, and lamented their setbacks, and you joined Lucifer in his rebellion because you thought it was going to afford you the best chance to "help".

When you were "released", there was the sensation of movement, a tearing of sorts, as though you were being dragged through a hole that was too small for you. After that, there was darkness interspersed with flashes of light, as though from distant thunder through a solid curtain of clouds. For a moment, you had the feeling that there were others, many others with you, though you could see, hear, and feel nothing other than a pulling sensation in your stomach as though you were falling. After the motion stopped, it was bright, extremely bright, and your vision was grainy and foggy. You had no concept of where you were, but you were, at least.. somewhere, which was a vast improvement. You didn't seem to have a body, no form of any kind to control, and yet, you could move. Strangely, you were in a building, a dimly lit smoky environment that smelled faintly of rot and unwashed bodies. Slumped backwards in a chair before you was a man, middle aged or slightly beyond, and paunchy, with the look of hard drinking and a hard life. A pistol lay unattended on the floor, and a pool of blood silently grew, reaching out and then toucing the pistol, surrounding it, seeping into the cracks in the unswept wooden floorboards. Floating nearer, you see that the man had a pair of great penetrations in his head, both of which oozed more crimson lifesblood. The entry wound barely wept, but the left side of his skull was largely missing above the ear. Why? You began to feel a pull, but it was not the unwilling tug of being dragged somewhere against your will. Rather, it was very much the kind of instinctive and involuntary steps one might take towards a loved one that they were seeing for the first time after a long absence, or toward a person in need. The feeling grew as you approached closer, weightless. A part of you, though you couldn't identify it as a physical "hand", touched the man's still warm flesh. Warmth! It had been so long since you had felt any kind of sensation of temperature, or even of touch. Intrigued, you floated still closer, closer, until you actually enveloped your formless spirit within the fleshy body before you.

Immediately, your eyes cleared, and your perspective changed. Pain! Immense pain in your head. It was almost unbearable, but after an initial shock, the pain begins to lessen. The lungs begin to rise and fall, and you can feel that you are.. breathing! A large ham-like fist clenches and unclenches as the wounds in your.. his.. head begin to close. The hand goes up to the exit wound, and comes away dripping with blood, and immediately reaches for the nearly empty bottle on the desk, unbidden. You stop.. yourself? As the seconds turn to minutes, you begin to see a flood of images, thoughts that you know are not your own, and you realize that you are seeing all of the memories that this man, this.. Daniel.. ever experienced. It takes over a quarter of an hour before you think to stand and try walking. You feel faint, and weaker than a newborn, and you only manage to stumble from the desk chair to a large overstuffed brown sofa with several rips in it's leather fabric. Lying down, your mind begins to race, the first question coming to mind.. "How"? Followed almost immediately by.. "Why"?

It has been two weeks, and you have barely scratched the surface of your endless pool of questions. You recover from your reverie, and fumble with your memory to dig Margaret's last question out. You reassure her that you're fine, that you have a lot on your mind, and she seems mollified by that. Well, Danny, you give me a ring if you get bored, say you will, won't you? I mean, of course, I enjoy.. her eyes flick to the folded $5 bill laying on her vanity, well, you know. I miss you when you don't come see me. After some perfunctory good-byes, you make your way back to your office near the Brooklyn waterfront, walking the ten or so blocks to clear your head. You nod to Everett, the barber who seems to always be sitting outside his shop, which sits underneath your office, and enter the narrow stairway that leads to the second floor. Four offices share this floor, and as you come to the top of the stairs, you see an older woman knocking on your office door. She turns at the sound of your footsteps, and her expression brightens. Oh! Mr. Heather, thank goodness it's you!

http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/WidowOKeene_zps322771e4.jpg (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/WidowOKeene_zps322771e4.jpg.html)

You invite the lady, whom you recognize as the wife of Willard O'Keene, a retired cop whom you had done some work for about a year prior, into your office. While not perfect, at least there is no dust on anything, and you spent a goodly amount of time removing the bloodstain from the floor. Mrs. O'Keene informs you brusquely that Willard is dead. They killed him, Mr. Heather. They killed him for what he knew, and I want you to do something about it!

[Strawberries]

It has been a bit more than eight days, and Anidel hasn't yet completely deciphered the reason why he keeps visiting Margaret. He knows it isn't for the physical pleasure, not entirely, albeit that is something very welcome after centuries of nothingness. His inability to find an answer, to investigate the patterns behind it, vexes him: it has to do with Daniel, he is sure of it. The way the mortal's thought and emotions seems to mix with his own is worrying and troubling, as if his own mind isn't exclusively his own anymore.

He makes his way back, slightly baffled, as usual, as how easily Daniel's body seems to tire out. The human had been heavy, and suffered from some kind of respiratory affection: the walk back to his office is enough to have him pant slightly. The woman in front of the door takes him by surprise: in the two weeks he's been on earth nobody has come knocking at his door. He scrambles for something to say, discarding the first impulse, that had been to express sympathy, or shock (death, he doesn't think he'll ever get used to death. Humans seem to consider it a part of life, now, but he can remember - almost remember, in flashes and soundbursts - a time when it wasn't like that). She doesn't seem to want any of it.
In the end, it's Daniel's memories that help him, again, and a sentence that the man has uttered more than once in this same office to more than one person "Please, take a seat, Mrs. O'Keene, and start from the beginning."


Let's put some of that high perception to use, shall we?
Perception+alertness, for visual details and clues
[roll0]

Perception+empathy, to analyse what she says, eventually.
[roll1]

[pife]

Oh, so you do remember me. I wasn't sure if you would, Mrs. O'Keene comments as you let her into your office. She seats herself delicately on the edge of the chair that faces your desk. Arranging her dress primly, she continues. It was four days ago, Mr. Heather. Poor Willard just couldn't stand retirement, had to keep snooping around on some of his old cases, like the ones he had you help him on? Her demeanor is very proper, but you can see that she is agitated. She keeps fiddling with the hem of her dress with one hand, while the other holds a dry handkerchief. Well, the doctors, they say they don't know what's killed him, but I do! It was those dirty rotten space-people again! Perhaps you were unable to contain a befuddled look, or perhaps she is just alert to how bizarre this statement was. You know what I mean, Mr. Heather.. They were astrologists! Godless heathens if ever there were any! Always staring up at the moon and the stars, and holding rituals on the rooftops, or in basements when they were doing something particularly loathsome! The color in her cheeks rises as she gets going, and she starts to use the hand with the handkerchief like she's directing traffic! Willard kept meticulous notes, and he had me transcribe them all with his new typewriter. He loved the clickety clack when I typed. He couldn't use it, you see, because of his arthritis, but he was having trouble with his penmanship for the same reason, so.. the typewriter was really the best thing for it. Anyway, like I was saying, I read all of his notes, and I know that he was staking out one of their profane rituals Monday night. And that's when they killed him. Throughout her story, she has leaned further and further forward, until she was almost leaning on your desk with her elbows. Resituating herself, she cleared her throat. Mr. Heather, you know that I have Willard's retirement coming, and my aunt left me a little something in her will. I'm willing to pay you forty dollars a week if you will take my case on, and find out who killed my poor Willard and left me all alone! Noticing that she was still clutching the handkerchief, she stows it in the proper ladies handbag that she has set on the floor next to her chair, and looks at you expectantly. Well? What more do you need to know?


Mrs. Willard had served you tea on one occasion, and coffee on two others, when you were meeting with Willard while working on other cases. (He was a retired beat cop, but he had a sharp mind, and had turned into something of a hobbyist detective after his retirement.. Just for fun). Other than being more excitable today then you have seen her in the past, you don't see anything out of the ordinary. You know that different people grieve in different ways, and Mrs. O'Keene is less weepy than you would have thought, especially since the event is still so fresh, but you don't detect any kind of prevarication or obvious "tells" that she is lying. Also, you do your best to read her body language. She is angry, extremely so. You would say that she feels personally put upon, and that this is something of a "how dare they take my husband away from me", rather than despondency that he is gone.

[Strawberries]

The twinge of interest that makes him sit up a little straighter is both his and Daniel's this time - there's no mistaking about it. Rituals was the word that had gotten him alert, and he wouldn't be able to rationally explain why, except that it sounds like a thread. Like the piece of something important. Daniel, he knows, would have taken the case as well, but for different reasons - emotional, human reasons. He thinks he's almost able to grasp them, but not quite. Perhaps it will become easier, in time, as he adjusts.

He realises he has been silent and staring for too long, and that the woman is giving him a strange look. "I will take the case, mrs O'Keene" He reassures her. Tea. This is another of Daniel's thoughts, reminding him of something that he would never have thought of by himself "I'll make some tea, to start with, and then, of course, I will need the notes that Willard had you type"

He gets up, to the little kitchenette, starting the task of heating the water on the little stove, and getting the tin full of tea leaves from the cupboard over it. He tries not to think about the gestures too much: the secret is letting muscle memory do the work for him. "Any other detail would be useful as well - is there a police report? When was the body found?"

[pife]

Tuesday morning, she sniffed primly. They, she continues, cheeks reddening, her voice becoming more shrill and clipped, say that he had a heart attack. Poppycock! Willard had a physical not a month gone, and the doctor swore that he had the ticker of a twenty-five year old man. She pats her hair momentarily, lost in thought. And, the police wouldn't let me see his body. That's a bit strange, wouldn't you say? They showed me a picture. A picture, to identify my husband of thirty years! The report says he was found on Staten Island, outside of a construction company. Willard never set foot on Staten Island in his life, and he certainly wasn't there the night he died! He had gone out Monday afternoon to find a spot to observe their rooftop ritual. One of his informants, Raoul Gonzago found out the location somehow. My Willard, she concludes, was in Brooklyn, Brighton Beach, somewhere overlooking the Tivoli Theater!

http://i1294.photobucket.com/albums/b604/Pife/TivoliTheater_zpsa9c84d50.png (http://s1294.photobucket.com/user/Pife/media/TivoliTheater_zpsa9c84d50.png.html)

[Strawberries]

Anidel interrogates Daniel's memories for the exact location of the place she mentioned. He could just go there, he suddenly realises, with the wonder that comes from being able to get somewhere else, after an eternity spent in the same prison. And if he gets there he will be... he might able to do what he and his kind were once the masters of. He could analyse the patterns, the threads that converge there and gain insight on the events that have transpired.

The thought excites him - it's been so long since he's felt the simple joy of being able to have reality make sense - and he's almost about to manipulate Daniel's face in a smile, when he hears the familiar noise of the water boiling in the kettle. It's enough to snap him out of it. He busies himself with the preparation of the cup of tea. As an afterthought, he makes one for himself, as well, and carries both back to his desk. "This...Gonzago" he asks, setting the mug in front of her "Any idea where he could be found?"