Innocent Monsters (IC)

[Rupudska]

P R O L O G U E

---

Monday, May 4, 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

It wasn't anyone's fault.

Really.

At least, not anyone in Black Dog's fault.

That was the thing about random, inexperienced gangbangers trying to summon demons. If they're lucky, they'll fuck up the summoning to the point that nothing happens, or that the demon simply ignores them. Or, they dilly-dally for so long that eventually someone sees something, tells someone, and one of the more established gangs, such as the New Leiden police, crack down on them before they can do something truly stupid.

If they're unlucky, they succeed in the summoning, perform a proper exchange in power, and actually end up in debt to a demon.

If they're monumentally unlucky, or just monumentally stupid (as was the case here), they do something to offend the demon and fuck up the summoning, resulting in a very angry demon (or demons) on the loose.

The fire department didn't take too long to show up. It was only the edge of Little Rio, not the dead center of it like the last job of Black Dog's that took them there. And the demons this time weren't much smarter than the baboons they so closely resembled - clearly, these gangbangers were looking for brute strength, potential for chaos, and trainability, not serious intelligence.

Best of all, the poop had dissolved into ectoplasm and quickly evaporated once the last demon was sent back to the Otherplace, leaving not so much as a stink except in memory. The fire remained, but that was the fire department's department, and only one or two people had been hospitalized. And none of those had been under Claire Woolf's employ, nor had they been innocents. So sad as it was, she didn't really care... too much.

All in all? Not bad for a few days' worth of work. Yet one more small case in a string of small cases going back months, but that was fine, too. Big cases paid far better, but they were also messier, more dangerous, and tended to rack up repair and hospital bills that made the profit margins astonishingly small for the maintenance of island life.

Still, though Claire as she patted the small duffle bag before hoisting it onto the table (careful so as not to disturb the food, not that hard with the big tables), small cases did pay pretty well.

She reached over her plate of jerk pulled pork sandwiches and fries to her glass of whatever local swill the Blue Moon was passing off as a Belgian craft beer this week. With one hand, she unzipped the bag, revealing a healthy helping of vacuum-sealed twenties and fifties, weathered with age but not to the point of being wholly limp - there's something to be said about a crisp, fresh bill, but out here one can never be too careful that someone uncouth is tracking your cash.

Even if cash is almost useless for tracking spells without blood on it.

She raised her glass as something sappy, country, and thus out of her realm of expertise played over the radio.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and all you other weirdos," she said with a smile. "This toast is to a successful mission, and if no more monkeys throw their flaming shit at me, it might even be a toast to a successful day. There's enough in this bag for the usual hazard pay bonus, four grand. Not much, but with how many jobs we've had lately, it's added up."

She lowered the drink, took a sizable bite of sandwich, and grabbed a stack for herself. She leafed through it with her thumb, more for the sound of it than actually checking it. Cash may have been useless for tracking spells on its own, but the smell, the feel, the sound of money, they all had their uses in alchemy. As did the fabric itself, if you were desperate enough.

"So," Claire said at length. "How will you all be spending this?"

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Monday, May 4, 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

“Finally” Fidel sighed, putting his finger against his ear as if listening from a hidden radio. A satisfied shiver went down his spine, his ear once more being free of ectoplasm. The green-blue whisps exited his ear and floated off into the aether, quickly vanishing from sight.

Ectoplasm, as it turns out, acts much like water from a swimming pool. It will stick inside your ear for ours after you’ve been doused, muffling all external sounds, and then, suddenly, it will pop out and leave you able to hear again.

This was the kind of day Fidel lived for. Action-packed, high on adrenaline, and, most of all, simple. Demon hunting was one of the favourite parts of his job, because it was straight forward. Demons were hellish, evil creatures from the underworld. They came to sow chaos and destruction, and the only thing between their flying, flaming, meteoric shit and civilisation was Fidel, the Cross, and a mauser. And the rest of Black Dog, of course, now quaintly gathered around a large table in the Blue Moon.

Fidel looked down at his order, consisting of barbecue meat loaf topped with cheddar and a side of fries and various greens. The fries and the greens had gone already, but the meatloaf was barely touched. On second thought, Fidel wasn’t so sure about ordering the sole dish that looked like demon shit, even if it wasn’t on fire. He had been poking it with a fork for a few minutes in anticipation of some decision he would make on the matter, until a large bag of cash was dropped on the table. The rattle of plates and cutlery pleasantly distracted him from having to finish his meal.

“To a successful day” Fidel answered the toast, raising his own beer. Perhaps it was hubris, but there were only six hours left in the day, and having two cases of demonic baboons would have been a case of real bad luck, so he thought he might as well take the risk. Though, when a man and a larger-than-average dog entered the diner, Fidel had to admit he tensed up for a moment.

“I’m thinking of buying some air conditioning for the Church. Things can get hot in summer, and perhaps it will attract some people just for the cool”

Fidel’s small parish in Little Rio, and the dilapidated mortar-and-brick ruin he called his church, were nothing to be particularly proud of. It was nothing to be ashamed of either, though. Every Sunday, about three dozen people turned up for Mass, and the community was generally tight-knit, if incredibly poor. But poverty was a sign of Christ, Fidel thought, and it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to pass into the Kingdom of Heaven. Though, hitting a demonic monkey between the eyes at 700 yards with a 98k was harder still, and he’d pulled that off. And he was happy with the help of Julian, his Brazilian-born assistant who covered for him whenever he was away on business on Sundays.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but father Fidel could not make it today, as he is hunting demons in Eindhoven”

Fidel smirked as he thought of the faces of his flock. Then, he turned his attention to his compatriots, see what they had planned with their wages.

[Reverend Norv]

Monday, May 4, 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

Eli Dahan sat quietly. His chair was pushed back from the table a little bit so that he could move quickly, if necessary, without hitting the table or the other diners. It was an old habit, a compromise with a life in which death was only ever one pronunciation mistake away. He had a beer in one hand and a barely-touched cold roast beef sandwich on the table in front of him: no cheese, extra horseradish. He was watching the other diners.

They seemed satisfied, mostly. Eli knew that he should be too, if only to blend in. After so many years, the urge to mirror those around him was almost overwhelming. The priest, for example, positively glowed with contentment. And why not? He had gotten to plink at the Devil's baboons with his antique rifle, and tell himself that it was the Lord's work. Even Claire was briskly cheerful as she hoisted a duffel bag of vacuum-sealed cash onto the table.

Eli looked at the money for a moment. It looked familiar. All those years in Gaza, Beirut, Hebron, paying for apartments and guns and information with unmarked bills. But he had always known where that money came from. That - wasn't true any more. Who had known that these Brazilian gangbangers were summoning demons? Who had an interest in stopping them?

It probably didn't matter. Probably. But Eli knew that things that probably didn't matter could get you definitely killed.

The Israeli's gaze moved on. He never looked anywhere for more than a couple of seconds, did Eli Dahan. His eyes marked the man with the dog who entered the diner, the waitress who greeted him, the other waitress approaching the Black Dog team's table, the car pulling out of the parking lot outside the window. Eli took a measured sip of his beer.

Claire hoisted her own beer and toasted to a successful mission, and a successful day. Eli raised his bottle, inclined it slightly toward the table, and replied: "L'chaim." He took a long pull and looked back at his sandwich. He had no appetite, and he couldn't bring himself to mirror Claire's satisfaction.

Demons. Baboons throwing flaming shit: good for a laugh, another day in the life, am I right, fellas? Eli shook his head to himself: a tiny manifestation of inward frustration. If one word of that incantation had been wrong - one syllable mispronounced - then God only knows what those idiots would have summoned, and how much damage it would have done. The job had not been another day's work. It had been a bullet dodged. An atomic blast dodged, maybe.

Eli looked away from his sandwich. It smelled like cooked meat. He did not want to think about that smell, not now. He could feel himself coiled too tight, and longed for a pill.

Claire reached out and took a bundle of cash from the bag on the table. She asked how the other Black Dog investigators would be spending their cut. Fidel said that he would buy some air conditioning for his church. Eli had been to Fidel's church in Little Rio; when the priest had started working for Black Dog, Eli had slipped into the ramshackle building for Sunday Mass, hoping to learn more about this strange Spaniard. It was a small congregation; Eli had needed to work hard to remain undetected.

Still: it had felt good. It reminded Eli of his mosque in Gaza, back when he was Anas Husayn. He did not lack for practice blending in with impoverished worshipers. Eli decided that, on the whole, he believed Fidel, and he was glad of it.

Eli picked up a stack of bills and ran one calloused thumb lightly over the ends of the bills. He glanced over at Claire. "Rent," he replied laconically. The Israeli's English betrayed no trace of his native Hebrew accent; if anything, it was flawlessly Portocielan, with its odd mixture of Spanish music and Dutch gutturals. Eli paused, considering whether to say more. "And there's a rare books dealer in Plezier," he finally allowed. "He says he has a facsimile of a tenth-century demonological text from Isfahan. I'll see whether there's anything to it."

Claire knew the reason for Eli's intense interest in the occult. A few of Eli's other colleagues had also seen the mysterious words that crowded the operative's back. For the others, the answer still was hardly out of character: no one could accuse Eli Dahan of failing to understand his enemies. Eli glanced around the table, and waited for the next comrade to speak.

[SangMar]

Monday - the 4th of May 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

”So, how will you all be spending this?”

“Cheers...” Orlando raised his bottle slightly, and toasted - barely being back in his seat before Claire’s words started to echo loudly within the confines of his mind.

Had the question been posed by anyone else, Orlando might’ve been tempted to give it an off-the-cuff, laddish remark. Maybe something along the lines of - “I’ll be spending it on bedding some of the local sluts...” or perhaps, “On getting completely piss-drunk, what else?” But, he’d found, he couldn’t do that with Claire. Claire Woolf, was perhaps one of the most capricious women that Orlando had ever met: there was just something about her that he couldn’t quite place. Yet, he didn’t what exactly. It irked him, this woman in front of him made him feel distinctly uneasy most of the time; yet at the same time, he felt her presence to be... reassuring. Now, Orlando didn’t know whether his brain had formed a pathway linking the sight of Claire Woolf and a successful mission together, or something else. But what he did know was that anything he’d say around her had to be said carefully, and with the greatest possible decorum. In his mind anyway.

So Orlando gave a tiny, almost non-existent shrug - and stayed silent for another moment, hoping that someone else could speak up instead: that there’d be no awkward pause. He looked at the clock - ‘One minute past six...’ If no one else spoke up soon, an awkwardness would set in - and Orlando couldn’t let that happen.

So he cleared his throat softly, and spoke up himself - seeing as how no one else had followed up on Eli’s words.

“I won’t be spending it, not yet anyway. Obviously, there might be a few things here or there - rent, food, and a new lock for my bathroom. But most of it is getting saved up - for what? I don’t know. And if you ask tomorrow, I still won’t know.”

It might’ve sounded a bit blunt, but Orlando didn’t intend for it to be that way: he was only a common soldier after all, and as any other enlisted person knows, that kind of job really attracts a certain type of personality. He wasn’t bright like Eli - or if Eli wasn’t then he most certainly had Orlando fooled. Nor did he possess Fidel’s passion - for demon hunting, faith or anything else.

Taking another sip of cold beer from his bottle, Orlando gripped a stack of bills - his bills, with his free hand: they felt good, like they’d certainly seen some use. Where? He didn’t know. But they’d definitely been passed between hands at some point - and that reassured Orlando.

Once he was done answering, he looked down the table - discreetly eyeballing Claire’s stack of jerk pulled pork sandwiches. His stomach turned. Suddenly, he was thankful that he hadn’t ordered anything from the diner - and after forcing himself to look elsewhere, he waited for someone else to speak - the sandwiches still on his mind.

‘They look absolutely gash. Fuck me.’

[Wolfenium]

Monday, May 4, 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

Golems do not eat. That much was obvious to most people. It did not necessarily matter what they were made of; golems these days were made of far sterner or complex stuff than dirt and stone. Without a functioning digestive tract, nor the requirement to obtain energy from such a system, a golem would very often be stuck staring at organics feasting away at processed vegetation or livestock. That said, watching gentiles ingest pork was always going to be an awkward experience for any golem. After all, their creators were, very often, practitioners of a faith with very strict dietary requirements, and golems often followed the faith of their creators or owners, even if they were not consciously following the tenets of it.

Seated with the others like an iron statue, Arsay kept her silence as she observes her employer and colleagues eat. Demonic baboons were, frankly speaking, not that hard to deal with. What they possessed in brute strength, they lacked in brains in spades. As such there was no need for such grandiose 'ninja' manoeuvres that could potentially put her fragile body at risk. Her scoped M16 had done the job pretty nicely.

As Claire posited her question, the muted automaton hardly needed any time to ponder over her answers. Food and drink were unnecessary for her, and shelter in Brammertown was easy to come by, if you have a pathological tolerance for Spartan accommodations. Electricity was still a consideration, though, due to a need for recreational operations at night and recharging of servos. And then there was maintenance and upgrading, a constant requirement for what was essentially a Dutch wife with extra motor functions. Fortunately, her current body was, for reasons she would politely decline to reveal, designed to take a great deal of human and even abhuman abuse. Unfortunately, it was not designed to withstand actual attempts at destruction, which was probably why Arsay happened across it at a Ginza recycling station.

That being said, she was not entirely devoid of personal needs.

Her eyes unblinking as always, Arsay silently listened in on her colleagues' replies. Hearing the priest suggest some air conditioning for his modest chapel, Arsay resisted a rare urge to frown. The golem did not figure herself as a competitive person, but seeing Fidel nail a demon with a bolt action rifle had somehow managed to annoy her. Not that she truly interacted with him beyond a professional basis; an Abhuman created by Jews was likely pretty low on the list of people the Catholic priest would like to talk to. Perhaps the only thing they had in common was their love for the range. Perhaps, she felt, that was why she felt so vexed for something this trivial. She disliked being a lesser marksman.

Eli, on the other hand, elicited a very different reaction. Pursing her lips, Arsay's normally flawless persona fractured for a split second, trying to stifle a modest smile. Of all the people in Black Dog, Eli was probably the one person she could relate to the most. He too swapped faces before, and did so with far less than she ever did as... whatever she was. However, the more she tried to interact with him, the more she realized how different they truly were. Despite her age, Arsay's accountable memory span was actually no longer than his, with most of the compromising details of her post-Lehi career wiped from her mind. But while Arsay had the dubious benefit of forgetting what torture she went through undercover, Eli's stuck with him like a plague. It was a disturbingly familiar look for her, and yet, nothing comes to mind other than the now decades-old wars she went through with Arseniy. And, for reasons she herself had trouble understanding, she dared not probe into what gave him that haunted stare.

Orlando, oddly enough, also elicited a very familiar feeling in her, but for very wrong reasons. This was someone she knew she had dealt with before, the unstable, ill-disciplined soldier, from the maniacal Japanese garrison watching over the ghetto, to the rogue zealots recently rehabilitated from the charnel houses of Europe, fed up by two thousand years of being treated like gutter trash by their hosts. Of course, she could not entirely blame him. He appeared to have been through a lot in his tour of duty. Still, she was a stickler for professional behaviour, even in a place as lax as a private detective agency. She did not really question if he disliked her for that, but she would not be surprised if he did. At minimum, at least he seemed cautious with his earnings, opting to clear necessities first and save the rest for emergencies.

"Rent for living quarters, charges for electrical and water utilities, and maintenance and upgrade of equipment," she recited in her usual robotic monotone, pausing a bit as she thought over her answer, "and literary material on Detective Dixon Hill."

There were few things Arsay had to live for these days, but getting by on detective novels was, if unusually, one of them.

[Theyra]

Monday, May 4, 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

Things have certainly been exciting since he joined Black Dog. Nothing like a group of Brazilian gangbangers summoning demons to make a day interesting. At least the demonic baboons were not smart though Zanuin would have appreciated if they did not throw their flaming shit at them. Just like real monkeys, guess some things come naturally to a demon that are similar to animals on our side of reality.

Plus, no one got hurt which is a bonus in this line of work. Well, no one in Black Dog got hurt. Some of the gangbangers were sent to the hospital but, that is what you get for summoning a demon. Why do people want to summon demons when it always ends badly for the summoner. Zanuin did not understand that but, knew it had to do with one thing. Power and its ability to get you places, high places. Places that Zanuin was comfortable not going to. He preferred to be unnoticed if he can and does not like the spotlight being cast on him. That is what one wants to do after being bullied by humans for years. He does not hate humans because of this or does he regret being half-human. He just wants to avoid any attention, mainly negative attention of his half-human status.

Zanuin was sitting on the edge of the table, by the wall and was enjoying a good old fashion burger with fries. When Claire place the duffel bag of vacuum-sealed cash on the table. She seemed pleased at the joy of a job well done. He could not disagree with that and felt the same. "Cheers and another job well done", saying it with a Welsh accent and he raised his glass and toasted with the others. Taking a sip from it after he was done toasting. His groves were showing and were green and what looked like had average. Which hides the fact that they are enchanted gloves. Probably one of the things that make him stand out, he always wears his groves except for when he was at his apartment or when he needs to wash them. Donning a pair of normal gloves that looked alike in comparison to his usual gloves. He has to be careful of touching steel and with these enchanted gloves, he can worry less about that.

When Claire asked the group what they were going to be with their pay. Zanuin replied sounding laid back, "Rent, for the most part, I may get some quantity of life changes like some new gear or something for my apartment". Going back to eating his burger, Zanuin chewing joyously. The food here tasted good and he was glad that Claire chose to go here. He is going to have to come here on his own time later.

As he finished his burger with a satisfying gulp and he moved on to his fries. Zanuin looked around at his fellow investigators, despite working him them. He has not know much about them really. Not that he is trying to learn more about them. Would be nice to learn something more than basic info though he is not going to force it.

Perhaps down the road if he does become friends with any of them. Zanuin could ask them to help him with his own investigation. Finding out who stole from his family and nearly killed his sister. Anger started to boil inside him at the thought of his sister almost dying. He hid it behind a smile and quickly calmed himself down. Better not let the others get a sense of what he is feeling right now. Zanuin cares a lot about his family and after it being touch and go with his sister was in the hospital. He will find the one who did this and recover that rare book that was stolen in the process. Last he checked, his family has not made much process in finding the thief. Hopefully, his lead in Portocielo will lead him somewhere and if not. Well, if not then... back to square one he guessed.

Still, he is anxious about it, this could make or break his progress. Zanuin just has to wait before it arrives at Cuypers Hall soon. Until then he just needs to relax and keep working in the meantime. He was about done with his food and took another sip of his drink. Waiting for what the rest of his colleagues were to say. Maybe they will do something different with their pay, he did not mind much. As long as they keep succeeding with their cases as long he is in Portocielo. Zanuin is glad that he can make some difference in the city while searching for his mark.

[Monfrox]

It hadn't been long. In fact, the amount of jobs Holly had done with the Black Dog outfit could be counted on one hand. Before that she was trying to hold down a linecook job at Madelena’s along with holding down her head onto her neck a few more times than she'd like. Of course, being a former Air Force cop with a better head on her than all others in her field and having two combat deployments under her belt (one of which took her through Korengal Valley on an off-the-books milk run), she was able to respond in kind. Maybe it was that time when Claire had ended up there for a lead that she took notice of Holly, or maybe the decision was reached later, but after helping give her a solid lead on something most other people didn't know a lot about, Claire took her out of that shithole and gave her a proper job. Hell, maybe it didn't hurt that Holly didn't burn everything she touched.

But here she was not "Holly Wilkinson", Deputy US Marshal. She was "Sylvia McIntyre", disenfranchised American trying to escape her debts. That was her cover, anyway. Bad business with the IRS and the unlucky fall gal for a big pyramid scheme from her former employer she swore vengeance on if she ever found him again. Not a bad story, but the best ones always have a grain of truth in them. And if they don't, then they're best kept to mundane levels so as not to draw suspicion. Afterall, lots of people moved out of the states once the IRS started hounding them for money they didn't have. She always played the game with her cards close to her chest, and that's how she had lasted so long. Her contact worked down at the Port District, which was also her escape method should her cover be blown involuntarily. She and he always met at church gatherings, never on the same day of the week and never at the same time. They made idle chit-chat and would slip notes with info to each other while doing so.

It was a dangerous game Holly was playing, and she knew that patience and restraint were the key virtues. She couldn't bag everyone one right after the other, but sometimes problems just sorted themselves out. Most fugitives that ended up here died by someone else's hand. While the Marshals didn't see that as a total win, they were always the least bit pleased when Holly informed them that they were no longer a problem. And for those who were lucky enough not to end up as fish food, she tracked as idly as possible. She even took up cooking classes to give the people at Madelena's something a bit better to eat on the off days she would work there for a bit of extra cash. It sure as hell beat volunteering at the Yellow Rose, no matter how nice Clara was to her. The idea of being a call-girl didn't sit right with her at all, and she still have a lot of dignity and self-respect to lose before she'd even consider such an opportunity. Granted, her figure was nothing to sneeze at.

Holly looked around the table as Claire made for a toast, and raised her small shot glass before throwing it back. She was always one for the hard liquor over a beer. With that, she took her cut and thought to herself. There was a lot she needed, but what was more pressing was perhaps some more holy icons of sorts or whatnot. Living within spitting distance of the Laagveldt was a bit unnerving. More than a few times she'd been woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with the feeling that something was present in her room. For that, she had started sleeping with her revolver under her pillow. A few crucifixes and such would hopefully further discourage anything else, and a good night's sleep was something she really could go for.

"I think I need to hit one of the small shops downtown for some things before I start getting anything else. Haven't been getting good sleep lately, so maybe I'll buy something like a dream-catcher."

[Wolfenium]

"I think I need to hit one of the small shops downtown for some things before I start getting anything else. Haven't been getting good sleep lately, so maybe I'll buy something like a dream-catcher."

"Stalker?"

That was a strange query to ask, especially from a magic automaton. Stalking was not something Arsay was overly bothered with. Quite a few locals learned the hard way she was not an ideal target regardless. But 'creep' is a universal term, whether it was the bestial man-eating kind or the more mundane sexual predator. And 'Sylvia', for a lack of a better word, would need more than a dream-catcher to deal with them.

"I apologize, that was uncalled for," Arsay elaborated flatly, "but if you have trouble with strangers with an excess of idle time and primal drive, I can keep a lookout for you."

Of course, Arsay herself did not really feel altruistic with that offer. Relaxed attitude aside, 'Sylvia' was a good employee, and the golem was unsure if her insomnia might affect her duties. Arsay, on her part, had no need for sleep, and had batteries capable of lasting upwards to a day. But ultimately, Arsay had 'an excess of idle time' herself, and had no idea how to spend it outside of reading and gun modding.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Monday, May 4, 2020
The Blue Moon Diner
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:00

Leslie sipped her drink, a beer. Eh, this could have been a worse career. She could spent her days not doing anything, or doing some low-level jobs. At least, when she was with them, the Dogs, she have...a somewhat solid flow of cash. Enough for her living days. And, some lust operations for herself. Time hasn't been kind to her, she have least relations with the criminal empires here in Portocielo. No allies of high ranks, nor enemies of high ranks. The Dutch spurned her but left her alone. The White Court-affiliated gang also left her alone. Even White Court left her alone.

Seems strange for her. She sipped her drink, again. Claire asked how they want to spent their newly-earned cash. "I'll buy myself air conditioning, a better one, for my place. Probably also a binocular or cheap telescope. Pretty sure we have pawn shops for that," she said.

[Sudbrazil]

“O Velho Botequim”
Blue Moon Diner, New Leiden
Fourth of may 2020, 18:05

---

Salazar glanced around the diner, savouring a piece of fried bacon. In this type of establishment it was generally wiser to ask for simpler dishes. While the food wasn’t as good, the Blue Moon Diner called back to the typical boteco in the Sudeste, filled with bohemians and old melancholic men at its late hours. There were even cops, welcomed as a reassuring presence by the owners The only missing link was a foosball table.

He stole a peek at the copious amounts of cash in the duffle bag. Even that felt at home. He had seem many during his years with the Federais and the wrapped stack of cash had ingrained itself into his mind – its smell, its touch, the particular colours and patterns which embellished it. They had always been in the hands of unsavoury characters though: drug dealers, misguided militias, popular politicians. Some of his instinct, mistrustful of the format, still insisted insufferably on receiving government cheques. Another instinct questioned his employer’s wisdom as she announced their payments to the diner’s ears. He kicked away these thoughts with a sip from his shot of liquor, and decided to join in. Thugs and muggers be damned: he had a Mateba on his hip.

“I haven’t had a decent bottle of whiskey in a month, and a change in diet would be welcome” he articulated, “Although, I might blow some of it on furniture. I have my eyes on a nice antiquary in Eindhoven.”

To boast about future purchases felt nice, as Salazar had been rationing himself since he had started work at Black Dog. His financial reserves, which he was still rebuilding, had been mostly spent on a small house he was proud of as well as a couple of Bohemian months which he had mixed feelings about. He did not dare pursue with the extensive shopping list, which included heavy ordnance near its top. Carlos had considered explosives for recreation and use in the job, but he was unsure of where to procure them. While a legal channel was preferred, he was unfamiliar with the finer details of local law on the matter, and the regional police wasn’t as zealous as the ATF.

[Segral]

Adriana Ribeiro
Monday, May 4, 2020

"Cheers." Adriana murmured as Claire called a toast, raising her own glass a foot or two off the table before quickly setting it back down again. Unlike the others', who had filled their glasses with beer (or liquor, in Sylvia's case) of the poorest quality known to man, Adriana had elected for a glass of simple ice water instead. She had been to the Blue Moon Diner many times, and she knew much better than to even dare ordering a glass of whatever the Joncker's were passing off as "Belgian craft beer". Plus, she was a lightweight when it came to her alcohol, and she didn't want to embarrass herself in front of her colleagues by getting tipsy.

She had also been to the Blue Diner enough times to know what menu options were safe to eat and which ones were enough to leave her or anyone else doubled over, hurling and retching into a toilet by the end of the night. Generally, it was safest to stick to the simpler dishes. She had elected for a simple tomato soup, which had been served along with a roll and a few small packs of butter scattered across the plate. The soup was thin, and the bread was a little hard, but it was still better than getting sick off of whatever Father Fidel had ordered. At the very least, it was warm.

"So, how will you all be spending this?"

The question jerked Adriana out of her thoughts, back into real life. The money. The money from the case they had just finished, controlling a few demons on the outskirts of Little Rio. Adriana had been lucky enough to be positioned far away from the bulk of the chaos, far away from the bolt-action rifles and ectoplasmic gunk that had flown in every direction. After all, her job was primarily gathering information and evidence, not doing the hands-on work. And she preferred it that way. She was no fighter, and she hated watching her community be torn apart. It was impoverished and ugly, but it was still home. It was where her family lived, where she had went to church, where she had practically grown up, considering how far in the past the original Rio felt. It destroyed her every time she caught wind of another gang shootout, another body found, another demon summoning gone awry.

Speaking of the church, Father Fidel piped up at Claire's question, claiming he was going to buy air conditioning for the church. Adriana smiled a little at this, remembering the summer days Mama had dragged her out of bed and into the hot, muggy, church for Sunday mass. It felt like a pressure cooker in there some days, three dozen men and women crowded on a set of dilapidated pews and fanning themselves with pamphlets as Father Fidel's plodding voice turned into a hypnotic drone. She quite liked the older man. Maybe it was just because he was such a familiar face, but his presence felt reassuring, friendly, even calming. She couldn't help but feel as if he had demons though; Adriana had seen him angry enough times to know that.

Eli, the Israeli who planned to spend his pay on rent and old literature, was another man whom Adriana believed to have demons; his were more apparent. She could tell by the way he was sitting now; his chair pushed well away from the table, on the very edge of his seat, his eyes darting around at everything and everyone as if visualizing what his escape plan would be if a gunman came through the door, windows, or ceiling vent. She didn't know much about him, and she had never really spoken to him much beyond the necessary conversations. Which was OK, demons were things that are not meant to be shared. Adriana would know; she hadn't told a single soul about her own demons.

Orlando spoke next, a man Adriana had also not spoken much to, but was not terribly fond of either way. He was a decent coworker, she supposed, but she had always found him...arrogant? Aggressive, blunt even? She hated thinking that way about someone, especially someone who she saw nearly every day, but it was true. She was starting to get tired of all the British Army rants. She was fairly new to the unit, so maybe she just needed some time to get used to him.

Arsay was also a strange character, and someone who Adriana liked even less than Orlando. Adriana knew full well that the woman was a golem, a magical automaton to be precise, but that still didn't stop her from being creeped out by Arsay's lifeless manner of speech, her monotone voice as she listed off things to spend her money on like rent, utilities, equipment maintenance. Not in the way someone would casually shrug about spending $4000 to get by with an "it is what it is" tone of voice. It was like a list of commodities, objectives to complete. She couldn't help herself. Emotions on people's faces and eyes were what helped Adriana read them, helped her to know what words to pick and what thoughts they had. Even if she always accidentally ended up saying stupid things, she couldn't imagine how many more stupid things she'd say without other people's emotions to guide her. With Arsay, she couldn't tell what made her tick, and that scared her.

Zanuin spoke in his Welsh accent next, yet another odd personality on the Black Dog roster. Adriana felt like he was an elf, and the pointed ears and four fingers made him look like an elf, but the characteristics were muted, half-formed. Maybe he was a half-elf? A changeling? She had never asked, not because Zanuin scared her, but because she had just never bothered to. Otherwise, he seemed to be decent, embodying the same casually shrugging, "it is what it is" attitude that Arsay lacked as he talked about spending money on rent and gear.

Sylvia was next, the woman with the shot glass. She was a very professional woman, very serious, a little stiff in her chair. Clearly not so stiff, considering she was knocking shots back, but serious nonetheless. She could see it in her eyes, she was a woman of principle. She didn't know much about her though, even though they were both relative rookies to the group. She didn't really know anyone in the group that well, did she?

She barely knew Leslie either, the blonde, green-eyed woman with a somewhat refined, haughty air. She knew Carlos a little better; they at least had their Brazilian heritage in common. Besides that, they couldn't be more different. He looked young and sounded well-spoken, but had gray streaks in his hair. Maybe he had demons too, or at least something eating away at him. He was also an aristocrat who spoke well. What could cause such a man to get grays in his hair so young? And what was such a man doing in Portiocielo? She was here because she had no choice.

She should probably chime in, she wouldn't want everyone thinking she's antisocial. If they don't already think that, that is. But what would she spend it on? Of course, she had to take some out for the basics, but she would still have some left over. Maybe she would put it towards the car? The Volkswagen felt like it was about to sputter and die any minute, she could barely get it started every morning. Of course, Claire was understanding every time she showed up late to work, as she always was, but she was sick of walking into the building late once every week because her car could barely start. But it was also Isabel's birthday soon, and she hadn't gotten a proper gift in years. What would she do with the money?

"I...I don't know what I'll do. With the money, that is." Adriana started, her quiet voice coming through during a lull in the conversation. "I have to take some for rent, food, things like that. It's also my sister's birthday in a few days, so I might buy her something nice, something expensive." she continued, her English perfect with only a light Portugese accent coming through.

"Maybe if I have anything left over, I'll put it towards the car." she thought to herself afterwards, unaware that she was mumbling the entire thing aloud.

[Khasinkonia]

Roxannie Avril Paramarimadu “Roxie” Anakkrakatau
The Blue Moon Diner
Payday

While other folks chatted about what they were going to buy, I took an opportunity to finger through my bills and recalculate what I had saved. Hopefully, if we got another decent job soon, I’d be able to rebuild my financial cushion that the last round of rough work had burned through. Although the work payed pretty well, hell if it wasn’t rather dangerous work. Certainly, I had earned my meal today. My half-eaten plate of fried catfish and fries laid unfinished as I rechecked my count. After a moment of mental math, I assured myself of my accuracy, and then banded up the money to hold together. I’d need to visit the bank later today and put enough to pay my bills, and then hide the other half in my mattress.

One of the biggest benefits of off-the-books money is that one really had a lot of leeway when it came to taxes. Although it wasn’t like I’d be paying a lot, every cent counts, and so it was much nicer to report my income as bare-minimum for my living expenses and pay discreetly otherwise. With mustard gas in my tote, it wasn’t like I was at much risk for muggings. The regular criminals around shopping areas had me marked down after the first time I used it on one of them. I was very firm with them: I’m here to buy stuff on sale, I didn’t sign the Geneva Convention, and getting between me and my sales with a knife isn’t going to end well.

It was odd, being part of this group was. Were we like family, or were we simply coworkers? It was a strange situation. Though at this point we had been in plenty of life or death situations, there was a mundanity and estrangement to the answers that always inclined me to feel as if people were just here for the paycheck. It wasn’t unreasonable, but it did feel at odds with how sweet Claire was. As the other people kept talking, I returned to eating my lunch. Unlike my coworkers, I had a strong respect for finishing meals. Every bite not finished was a cent wasted.

At this point, it felt like my turn to respond to Claire’s question.

“Y’know, I think I’m gonna go thrifting at one of the slightly more expensive stores. The bulk ones, not the used ones. I might try to buy more alchemic supplies and experiment with a few potions, ones I haven’t tried before; might see if I can find some discounted ingredients with Tor. I’ve been needing more regular groceries too. Oh, and an international call. Maybe I can chat with my brother about how his Bollywood bid is going. I haven’t talked with him in a while; it’ll be nice to get in touch with Buddy…”

At this point, I decided that I was on the track to rambling, and decided to cut it off before then. I cut another piece of catfish, and dragged it through the ketchup on my place with my fork. It was good catfish. The battering was light enough that it wasn’t overpowering, and they had Heinz ketchup stocked, not the nasty organic crap.