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Parcia
Negotiator
 
Posts: 6678
Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Tue Mar 12, 2019 4:42 pm

The Prince's Estate.


Three Cracked Ribs, 4 broken fingers, a light concussion, multiple scratched and cuts, and a pair of lucky bite wounds. And to think, a few months back Jonah was doing hits for the Triad. Now he sat in the bathroom (one of many she owned) letting the warm water soak in and un wind his muscles. He had long since figured the Changes had made him different. Stronger, faster, more durable.


But now was a time to reflect, to think what he could have done better.


Earlier that night.


He made the point to take the bitches head and wrap it in to a bag behind the bar. He took a moment to look over the scene of destruction. He liked seeing his work. He wasn't sadistic, not really, he just had 60 years of near non stop fighting to work out.

Then he heard a muffled Cry. Well, he though it was, that's what his mind told him it was.

Setting the tied up head on a still standing table, he topped off his revolver and set about finding it. He swept the entire place again, pumping an extra round in to a body or two he judged to be not dead enough, and found him self in a side room. This one was another of the feeding rooms, yet the booths were up against a door that barely peeked up above the line.

Keeping his weapon ready, he pulled the Booth, ripping it free of its feeble mountings with ease. The Crying, Yes, actual crying coming from the other side of the door. He bashed off the small lock and with a whoosh ripped the door open...only to find a pitiful sight.


She was maybe...20? young thing, long blond hair, maybe 110 lbs soaking wet. She was...pretty much butt ass naked, a tattered par of undies and a dirty bra clinging to her emaciated form. By all accounts she looked like some poor soul that had been nabbed by them...but, she smelled like one of them. She had that same "New Born" Smell from the Childe he had seen back at the estate.

She was gaunt and...bony, like she hadn't been fed in days, weeks, and she had the tell tale pair of puncture wounds in her neck. He began to piece the puzzle together when she opened her mouth and tried to sinker her fangs in to his arm. In Doing so, he saw flecks of dried blood in her teeth, and then it hit him.

With a frown, and a roll of his eyes, he swatted her on the side of the head, rather lightly. She went out like a light and he pulled her out of the hole. It Stunk, she stunk, and he frowned at seeing such a pretty little thing in such Conditions. He could see it, underneath the dirt, dried blood, and filth, she was a looker.


He wrapped her up in a spare towel he found in the bathroom and carried, along with his weapons and the Bitch's head, out to his car. Ignoring the confused look John gave him as he did so, he opened the back door to lay the girl down on the seat. Storing his guns in the trunk, he sat in the driver's Seat and tossed the Bitch's head in to John Lap.

"Here proof of work done...i'm...94% sure I left one of them alive...and don't ask about the girl, at least not until I can get back to the place and tend to some scratches." With that, he started the GTX, gunned the engine, and peeled the hell out of the Parking lot.
Last edited by Parcia on Tue Mar 12, 2019 5:47 pm, edited 3 times in total.
I remember her...
Fear the Dread Lady.
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All hail God Emperor Trump!
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Despite the above statements, I am an open person, I support Gay Rights, freedom of speech, and the right to bear arms. I welcome those who challenge my beliefs. I may even acknowledge your pronouns for the sake of discussion.
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Fascist Republic Of Bermuda
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Posts: 1916
Founded: Apr 28, 2014
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Fascist Republic Of Bermuda » Tue Mar 12, 2019 4:51 pm

Gates, Kingsley & Gates Moeller Murphy Funeral Directors
Afternoon


“Are you sure this is the place?” Agent Higgins asked as the car pulled over in front of the home. “Yep. That’s what the background check said,” Sergeant Powell confirmed, flipping the file closed, “Name-” “Name Konstantin Mikhailov, born in the Soviet Union, immigrated to America sometime in the ‘90s, former university professor, sold his home a few years ago, currently believed to be residing in this funeral home,” Graves rattled off from memory, getting out of the car and adjusting her suit jacket, “Come on. Longer we stay out here the more time he has to expect us.”

“I’ll stay by the car. You get wind of any narcotics, just call me,” Higgins affirmed as Powell and Graves walked up to the door of the funeral home. Graves rang the doorbell, flashing her badge as soon as it opened.

“Afternoon, sir, I’m Special Agent Sam Graves. Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Sergeant Powell, Los Angeles Police Department. Is Mister Mikhailov home?”
N U T S !

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Luminesa
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 51274
Founded: Dec 09, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Luminesa » Tue Mar 12, 2019 5:18 pm

Fascist Republic Of Bermuda wrote:Gates, Kingsley & Gates Moeller Murphy Funeral Directors
Afternoon


“Are you sure this is the place?” Agent Higgins asked as the car pulled over in front of the home. “Yep. That’s what the background check said,” Sergeant Powell confirmed, flipping the file closed, “Name-” “Name Konstantin Mikhailov, born in the Soviet Union, immigrated to America sometime in the ‘90s, former university professor, sold his home a few years ago, currently believed to be residing in this funeral home,” Graves rattled off from memory, getting out of the car and adjusting her suit jacket, “Come on. Longer we stay out here the more time he has to expect us.”

“I’ll stay by the car. You get wind of any narcotics, just call me,” Higgins affirmed as Powell and Graves walked up to the door of the funeral home. Graves rang the doorbell, flashing her badge as soon as it opened.

“Afternoon, sir, I’m Special Agent Sam Graves. Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Sergeant Powell, Los Angeles Police Department. Is Mister Mikhailov home?”

Mikhailov had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but he was unable to stay asleep for a long time. He woke-up around noon, and shook his head. He hated sleeping for so long-valuable hours of sleep were lost, and he wanted desperately to get back to work. Yet as he got-up and got dressed, he noticed two things. Michael was gone, and as he walked through the funeral home, he did not find any traces of him. He wondered if the Doll had gone to find Alexei, which caused him some worry. I guess he really did listen...Well, as long as he did not try to get too close to him... he thought, a little apprehensive. The last time the Doll had left the house, after all, he had returned in a pile of bloodied scraps.

The second thing he noticed was that the doorbell had rung. He decided to answer it, hoping Michael would be at the door. When he got to the door and opened it, he frowned as he noticed the official-looking individuals at the door. “...Why hello there. Can I help you?” He was rather tired of being apprehended by official-looking individuals, but he kept his calm and leaned against the doorway. “...Ah. I see. I am Mikhailov, yes. What do you need?” He wondered what they could possibly want, and then a possibility struck him.

The strip club? The gunshot outside the church? The burning bodies outside Arquart’s house? Curses, it could be a number of things. And then I got excited and used Magic all three times...Well, Konstantin, how are you going to get yourself out of this mess?... he questioned. Getting locked-up was not his concern, but invoking Paradox in this situation could cause mass panic, enough that he could get himself killed.
Catholic, pro-life, and proud of it. I prefer my debates on religion, politics, and sports with some coffee and a little Aquinas and G.K. CHESTERTON here and there. Not that I need the coffee, but you know... :3

So apparently I am an ENFP!

Unofficial #1 fan of the Who Dat Nation.
"I'm just a singer of simple songs, I'm not a real political man. I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you the difference in Iraq and Iran. But I know Jesus, and I talk to God, and I remember this from when I was young:
faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us...
and the greatest is love."
-Alan Jackson

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Parcia
Negotiator
 
Posts: 6678
Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Tue Mar 12, 2019 9:25 pm

The Young Blood

Funny thing about un holly torture is that when you finally get out of it, the after effects tend to stay behind for a while.

She awoke with a start finding her self swaddled in clean sheets and as naked as the day she was born. She felt...strange...the last thing she could recall was a bright light, a gun barrel, sinking her teeth in to some ones arm, and then a flash of lights and pain as another arm hit her on the temple.


She sat up and looked around. She was in some mansion or hotel, but it was...extravagant to say the least. She got up, only to find her arm hooked up to an iv, a blood bag at the end of it. Something...snapped in her, when she saw it, that bag of red nectar.

She ripped the iv out of her arm and snatched that bag and sunk her teeth in to it and drunk it down in a second. It...it felt amazing. That coppery red liquid feeling like an orgasm sliding down her throat better then any sex she had ever had.

With the Bag empty, she dropped it, blood dripping down her face and painting her lips. She got out of the bag and took a few shaky steps. That's when she heard...or, rather, smelled the Maid in the other room.

This thing her new found instincts Kicked in. Everything became clearer, she could hear things, smell things she would have never would have been able to experience before...and the Hunger...the Hunger...the Hunger was sharper, more defined, it cut through her mind like a Hot Knife through butter.

She Crossed the room with a stealthy grace that she would have been hard pressed to achieve before. The poor women must have been in her late 40s, old, slow, yet she could sense the life that pulsed inside her, the bountiful blood that lay in side her, that pumped through her veins.

She stopped her self for the slightest of moments, hesitation brought on by the smallest slice of Humanity that made it self known in some small defense of what remained of her psyche.

In the end, its what saved the old women, as she stood there an had this small conflict of self she felt a large hand take hold of her through and pick her up clear of the floor.

"OIe, women, get out and lock the damn door, she's Liable to eat ya fucking heart out right now, damn girl has nearly gone feral." The Maid, a little startled, did so in short order.

She kicked grunted and hissed at the man as he held her aloft like a small child, and compared to him, she was a small child. "You, for some one vary much so on death's Door, you got a lot of fight left in ya."

She hissed at him, actually Hissed at him. This drew a laugh from him and this unnerved her. "Calm down and stop hissing at me like a damn kitten." He held aloft a plastic cooler, and while it was closed, she could see the multiple bags of blood in side, she could sense the blood inside. She reached for it only to have this giant man keep it out of her reach.

"Uh Uh little Kitten, you have to promise me you will behave your self, and by that I mean not try to rip mine, or any one else throat out, understand?" She hissed at him again and, to get his point across he dropped the cooler, drew his .357 and leveled it on her. She froze, even in her frenzied state, she recognized the gun as something that could vary easily end her for good.

So she piped down a bit and gave a him a glare. Smiling, she holstered the revolver and picked up the cooler. "Now, im going to put you down on that bed, and your going to sit there and feed, quietly, and if you try to claw my eyes out...or escape, I wont hesitate to put you down." She got a shaky nod out and he smiled again.

Walking over to the bed, he set her down and took a step back. Keeping one hand on his revolver, he set the cooler down and pulled up a chair. She kept her eyes on him. "Alright, take your time, drink up, and don't be to messy about it."

She didn't hear him past "Messy" as she had ripped the cooler open and began to drink the bag dry. He sighed, and began to inspect is revolver as she fed.


This...this was going to be a hell of a ride.
Last edited by Parcia on Tue Mar 12, 2019 9:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I remember her...
Fear the Dread Lady.
https://www.16personalities.com/intp-personality INTP-A
Paste this in your Sig if you passed Biology and know Gender and Sex are the same thing ♀♂
All hail God Emperor Trump!
Ethnic Kekistani, Deus Kek!
Despite the above statements, I am an open person, I support Gay Rights, freedom of speech, and the right to bear arms. I welcome those who challenge my beliefs. I may even acknowledge your pronouns for the sake of discussion.
I reserve all rights to my posts, OCs, and contributions to any threads I post on.
I'm a Catholic too, figure that shit out!
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Fascist Republic Of Bermuda
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1916
Founded: Apr 28, 2014
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Fascist Republic Of Bermuda » Wed Mar 13, 2019 7:43 pm

Luminesa wrote:
Fascist Republic Of Bermuda wrote:Gates, Kingsley & Gates Moeller Murphy Funeral Directors
Afternoon


“Are you sure this is the place?” Agent Higgins asked as the car pulled over in front of the home. “Yep. That’s what the background check said,” Sergeant Powell confirmed, flipping the file closed, “Name-” “Name Konstantin Mikhailov, born in the Soviet Union, immigrated to America sometime in the ‘90s, former university professor, sold his home a few years ago, currently believed to be residing in this funeral home,” Graves rattled off from memory, getting out of the car and adjusting her suit jacket, “Come on. Longer we stay out here the more time he has to expect us.”

“I’ll stay by the car. You get wind of any narcotics, just call me,” Higgins affirmed as Powell and Graves walked up to the door of the funeral home. Graves rang the doorbell, flashing her badge as soon as it opened.

“Afternoon, sir, I’m Special Agent Sam Graves. Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Sergeant Powell, Los Angeles Police Department. Is Mister Mikhailov home?”

Mikhailov had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but he was unable to stay asleep for a long time. He woke-up around noon, and shook his head. He hated sleeping for so long-valuable hours of sleep were lost, and he wanted desperately to get back to work. Yet as he got-up and got dressed, he noticed two things. Michael was gone, and as he walked through the funeral home, he did not find any traces of him. He wondered if the Doll had gone to find Alexei, which caused him some worry. I guess he really did listen...Well, as long as he did not try to get too close to him... he thought, a little apprehensive. The last time the Doll had left the house, after all, he had returned in a pile of bloodied scraps.

The second thing he noticed was that the doorbell had rung. He decided to answer it, hoping Michael would be at the door. When he got to the door and opened it, he frowned as he noticed the official-looking individuals at the door. “...Why hello there. Can I help you?” He was rather tired of being apprehended by official-looking individuals, but he kept his calm and leaned against the doorway. “...Ah. I see. I am Mikhailov, yes. What do you need?” He wondered what they could possibly want, and then a possibility struck him.

The strip club? The gunshot outside the church? The burning bodies outside Arquart’s house? Curses, it could be a number of things. And then I got excited and used Magic all three times...Well, Konstantin, how are you going to get yourself out of this mess?... he questioned. Getting locked-up was not his concern, but invoking Paradox in this situation could cause mass panic, enough that he could get himself killed.


"Mister Mikhailov, you're under arrest for suspicion of participation in severe damage caused to the Coven of the Purple Hearts. Powell, cuff him," Graves ordered, the LAPD Sergeant taking his cap from under his arm to put it back on. "Nobody's not being charged with anything just yet, we just need to bring you in for questioning about the whole thing," Powell tried to soothe the man, before launching into a little spiel, "Please slowly turn around and slowly put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one a Public Defender will be appointed for you. I wouldn't worry too much, Mister Mikhailov. We're not even sure the case is going to court yet." Powell got out a set of handcuffs to cuff the mage.

"Mister Mikhailov, it is in your best interests you come with us," Graves jumped in again, putting her FBI badge away, "Other persons involved might not testify kindly about the man who shot lightning from his hands."
N U T S !

User avatar
Luminesa
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 51274
Founded: Dec 09, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Luminesa » Wed Mar 13, 2019 9:33 pm

Fascist Republic Of Bermuda wrote:
Luminesa wrote:Mikhailov had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but he was unable to stay asleep for a long time. He woke-up around noon, and shook his head. He hated sleeping for so long-valuable hours of sleep were lost, and he wanted desperately to get back to work. Yet as he got-up and got dressed, he noticed two things. Michael was gone, and as he walked through the funeral home, he did not find any traces of him. He wondered if the Doll had gone to find Alexei, which caused him some worry. I guess he really did listen...Well, as long as he did not try to get too close to him... he thought, a little apprehensive. The last time the Doll had left the house, after all, he had returned in a pile of bloodied scraps.

The second thing he noticed was that the doorbell had rung. He decided to answer it, hoping Michael would be at the door. When he got to the door and opened it, he frowned as he noticed the official-looking individuals at the door. “...Why hello there. Can I help you?” He was rather tired of being apprehended by official-looking individuals, but he kept his calm and leaned against the doorway. “...Ah. I see. I am Mikhailov, yes. What do you need?” He wondered what they could possibly want, and then a possibility struck him.

The strip club? The gunshot outside the church? The burning bodies outside Arquart’s house? Curses, it could be a number of things. And then I got excited and used Magic all three times...Well, Konstantin, how are you going to get yourself out of this mess?... he questioned. Getting locked-up was not his concern, but invoking Paradox in this situation could cause mass panic, enough that he could get himself killed.


"Mister Mikhailov, you're under arrest for suspicion of participation in severe damage caused to the Coven of the Purple Hearts. Powell, cuff him," Graves ordered, the LAPD Sergeant taking his cap from under his arm to put it back on. "Nobody's not being charged with anything just yet, we just need to bring you in for questioning about the whole thing," Powell tried to soothe the man, before launching into a little spiel, "Please slowly turn around and slowly put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one a Public Defender will be appointed for you. I wouldn't worry too much, Mister Mikhailov. We're not even sure the case is going to court yet." Powell got out a set of handcuffs to cuff the mage.

"Mister Mikhailov, it is in your best interests you come with us," Graves jumped in again, putting her FBI badge away, "Other persons involved might not testify kindly about the man who shot lightning from his hands."

Mikhailov nodded, put his hands behind his back, and let the authorities handcuff him. He was annoyed by how tight the cuffs were, as well as by how his suspicion had turned-out to be correct. He was being arrested for his relation to the mess at the strip club, and he had to wonder if perhaps they had found Alexei as well. ...As long as I don’t tell them about Alexei or Silvanus...or the Inquisition...or my powers...I should be fine...but in that case, what do I tell them? Think, Mikhailov, think! he thought as the agent read him his rights. He had quite a few obstacles through which he would have to weave a very good, complex story, and he did not have a whole lot of time to consider the details. He needed to be careful, and to only indicate what of the story was absolutely necessary.

On the outside, however, he remained silent and obedient, getting into the car and allowing himself to be taken for questioning. He leaned his head against the window, and wished he could go back to sleep and disappear. He wanted to dream, as his sleep had been sufficient, but empty of dreams. As he closed his eyes, he went right back to sleep and began to dream. Two arms approached and pulled him into darkness, with the only spotlight being the pale moon. Shining over him, the moon made the world appear to be silver and glittering. Before him was not Alexei, but Silvanus, dressed entirely in a glittering, silver suit, and smiling knowingly at him. Mikhailov merely stared back, doing nothing to stop him. He did smell blood, however, and went to look around, but Silvanus took his head and turned it back toward him.

Why am I dreaming of this? Silvanus...we haven’t spoken in a while...in a few days...what could you possibly want from me in a dream?... he wondered, not aloud. He realized, however, as he stared down at Silvanus’s hands, that his own face and hands were freezing cold...and a pale, grey-white. He felt the moon blanketing over him, and thousands of whispers filling his ears, flooding his brain with conflicting, impossible, enthralling knowledge. ...The...Embrace... He felt weak and infinitesimal in size, but also invincible in wisdom and power. The world smelled sweet...but in an eerie fashion of sweetness. Blood, sweet death and unlife.

Mikhailov was not fazed, once he understood, but looking at Silvanus’s expression brought gloom into his heart. ...So it is...Ah, but...you would never look at me with such a welcoming face...would you?...You know me too well...You know how I am when others are kind to me...And you are too beautiful to be kind for too long...The wrath of the gods... In his dream, he approached, and put his head on Silvanus’s shoulder. He then jolted awake, and stared ahead in the police-car, his heart beating fast.
Catholic, pro-life, and proud of it. I prefer my debates on religion, politics, and sports with some coffee and a little Aquinas and G.K. CHESTERTON here and there. Not that I need the coffee, but you know... :3

So apparently I am an ENFP!

Unofficial #1 fan of the Who Dat Nation.
"I'm just a singer of simple songs, I'm not a real political man. I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you the difference in Iraq and Iran. But I know Jesus, and I talk to God, and I remember this from when I was young:
faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us...
and the greatest is love."
-Alan Jackson

User avatar
Fascist Republic Of Bermuda
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1916
Founded: Apr 28, 2014
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Fascist Republic Of Bermuda » Wed Mar 13, 2019 10:05 pm

Luminesa wrote:
Fascist Republic Of Bermuda wrote:
"Mister Mikhailov, you're under arrest for suspicion of participation in severe damage caused to the Coven of the Purple Hearts. Powell, cuff him," Graves ordered, the LAPD Sergeant taking his cap from under his arm to put it back on. "Nobody's not being charged with anything just yet, we just need to bring you in for questioning about the whole thing," Powell tried to soothe the man, before launching into a little spiel, "Please slowly turn around and slowly put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one a Public Defender will be appointed for you. I wouldn't worry too much, Mister Mikhailov. We're not even sure the case is going to court yet." Powell got out a set of handcuffs to cuff the mage.

"Mister Mikhailov, it is in your best interests you come with us," Graves jumped in again, putting her FBI badge away, "Other persons involved might not testify kindly about the man who shot lightning from his hands."

Mikhailov nodded, put his hands behind his back, and let the authorities handcuff him. He was annoyed by how tight the cuffs were, as well as by how his suspicion had turned-out to be correct. He was being arrested for his relation to the mess at the strip club, and he had to wonder if perhaps they had found Alexei as well. ...As long as I don’t tell them about Alexei or Silvanus...or the Inquisition...or my powers...I should be fine...but in that case, what do I tell them? Think, Mikhailov, think! he thought as the agent read him his rights. He had quite a few obstacles through which he would have to weave a very good, complex story, and he did not have a whole lot of time to consider the details. He needed to be careful, and to only indicate what of the story was absolutely necessary.

On the outside, however, he remained silent and obedient, getting into the car and allowing himself to be taken for questioning. He leaned his head against the window, and wished he could go back to sleep and disappear. He wanted to dream, as his sleep had been sufficient, but empty of dreams. As he closed his eyes, he went right back to sleep and began to dream. Two arms approached and pulled him into darkness, with the only spotlight being the pale moon. Shining over him, the moon made the world appear to be silver and glittering. Before him was not Alexei, but Silvanus, dressed entirely in a glittering, silver suit, and smiling knowingly at him. Mikhailov merely stared back, doing nothing to stop him. He did smell blood, however, and went to look around, but Silvanus took his head and turned it back toward him.

Why am I dreaming of this? Silvanus...we haven’t spoken in a while...in a few days...what could you possibly want from me in a dream?... he wondered, not aloud. He realized, however, as he stared down at Silvanus’s hands, that his own face and hands were freezing cold...and a pale, grey-white. He felt the moon blanketing over him, and thousands of whispers filling his ears, flooding his brain with conflicting, impossible, enthralling knowledge. ...The...Embrace... He felt weak and infinitesimal in size, but also invincible in wisdom and power. The world smelled sweet...but in an eerie fashion of sweetness. Blood, sweet death and unlife.

Mikhailov was not fazed, once he understood, but looking at Silvanus’s expression brought gloom into his heart. ...So it is...Ah, but...you would never look at me with such a welcoming face...would you?...You know me too well...You know how I am when others are kind to me...And you are too beautiful to be kind for too long...The wrath of the gods... In his dream, he approached, and put his head on Silvanus’s shoulder. He then jolted awake, and stared ahead in the police-car, his heart beating fast.


"Thanks bud," Powell patted Mikhailov on the shoulder at the lack of resistance he was putting up. He was shoved into the back seat next to Higgins. The car drove off, headed back to the Field Office. "I think he's asleep, Graves," Higgins updated the FBI agent in the passenger seat. "Don't let your guard down. He might be faking it to get a grab at your gun."

Mikhailov snapped awake just as the car pulled into the parking lot.

He was escorted by an LAPD officer to a fairly nondescript room, the only objects inside of interest the a table in the middle and the two chairs facing each other. And the mirror that took up a good portion of the side wall. Provided with a plastic cup of water nabbed from a water cooler, he was allowed to simmer for a few minutes before Graves entered, holding a bundle of papers, taking the seat opposite the Russian.

"Mister Mikhailov, before we begin, do you wish for an attorney?" She asked, flipping through some of the papers she brought in, "You can legally request an attorney be present for your questioning. One of your choosing or a public defender."
N U T S !

User avatar
Luminesa
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 51274
Founded: Dec 09, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Luminesa » Thu Mar 14, 2019 3:52 pm

Fascist Republic Of Bermuda wrote:
Luminesa wrote:Mikhailov nodded, put his hands behind his back, and let the authorities handcuff him. He was annoyed by how tight the cuffs were, as well as by how his suspicion had turned-out to be correct. He was being arrested for his relation to the mess at the strip club, and he had to wonder if perhaps they had found Alexei as well. ...As long as I don’t tell them about Alexei or Silvanus...or the Inquisition...or my powers...I should be fine...but in that case, what do I tell them? Think, Mikhailov, think! he thought as the agent read him his rights. He had quite a few obstacles through which he would have to weave a very good, complex story, and he did not have a whole lot of time to consider the details. He needed to be careful, and to only indicate what of the story was absolutely necessary.

On the outside, however, he remained silent and obedient, getting into the car and allowing himself to be taken for questioning. He leaned his head against the window, and wished he could go back to sleep and disappear. He wanted to dream, as his sleep had been sufficient, but empty of dreams. As he closed his eyes, he went right back to sleep and began to dream. Two arms approached and pulled him into darkness, with the only spotlight being the pale moon. Shining over him, the moon made the world appear to be silver and glittering. Before him was not Alexei, but Silvanus, dressed entirely in a glittering, silver suit, and smiling knowingly at him. Mikhailov merely stared back, doing nothing to stop him. He did smell blood, however, and went to look around, but Silvanus took his head and turned it back toward him.

Why am I dreaming of this? Silvanus...we haven’t spoken in a while...in a few days...what could you possibly want from me in a dream?... he wondered, not aloud. He realized, however, as he stared down at Silvanus’s hands, that his own face and hands were freezing cold...and a pale, grey-white. He felt the moon blanketing over him, and thousands of whispers filling his ears, flooding his brain with conflicting, impossible, enthralling knowledge. ...The...Embrace... He felt weak and infinitesimal in size, but also invincible in wisdom and power. The world smelled sweet...but in an eerie fashion of sweetness. Blood, sweet death and unlife.

Mikhailov was not fazed, once he understood, but looking at Silvanus’s expression brought gloom into his heart. ...So it is...Ah, but...you would never look at me with such a welcoming face...would you?...You know me too well...You know how I am when others are kind to me...And you are too beautiful to be kind for too long...The wrath of the gods... In his dream, he approached, and put his head on Silvanus’s shoulder. He then jolted awake, and stared ahead in the police-car, his heart beating fast.


"Thanks bud," Powell patted Mikhailov on the shoulder at the lack of resistance he was putting up. He was shoved into the back seat next to Higgins. The car drove off, headed back to the Field Office. "I think he's asleep, Graves," Higgins updated the FBI agent in the passenger seat. "Don't let your guard down. He might be faking it to get a grab at your gun."

Mikhailov snapped awake just as the car pulled into the parking lot.

He was escorted by an LAPD officer to a fairly nondescript room, the only objects inside of interest the a table in the middle and the two chairs facing each other. And the mirror that took up a good portion of the side wall. Provided with a plastic cup of water nabbed from a water cooler, he was allowed to simmer for a few minutes before Graves entered, holding a bundle of papers, taking the seat opposite the Russian.

"Mister Mikhailov, before we begin, do you wish for an attorney?" She asked, flipping through some of the papers she brought in, "You can legally request an attorney be present for your questioning. One of your choosing or a public defender."

Mikhailov had genuinely fallen asleep. If one looked closely at his face while he was dreaming, they would have seen hints of a conflict, and sorrow. He had wanted to speak to Silvanus, to ask him what all of this meant, but his mouth would not move. He could only stare and wonder, and while he felt cold in the dream, his body was warm. When he awakened and felt his pulse, he knew his heart had started beating quickly. He was not afraid, but rather...surprised. Shocked. Confused. ...No. I wish to Ascend...Why am I dreaming about the Embrace?... He remembered how he had thought Silvanus was perfect, when he had first met him. He wondered whether he still thought that way. ...Ahh...it is because the Embrace is perfect...perfect destruction...and rebirth...Losing myself to gain everything from him... he reasoned. He gave a deep sigh as the police-car finally came to a halt.

He got out the vehicle and followed the agents into the building. He remained silent and calm, his eyes down and unfocused. He only seemed to focus when he got to the interrogation room and was handed a glass of water. Sipping it, he listened as the agent asked if he wanted an attorney. He put the glass down and frowned. “I do not have too much money on my person at the time, but if you would like then I could bring money from home to use to pick an attorney. If this is not allowed then a Public Defender is no problem. What do you wish to know about me?” he inquired, his voice softer and meeker than usual.

Part of the unusual demeanor was his own design, to avoid suspicion, but part of it was also genuine. His dream had softened him and had lifted his heart elsewhere. Ahhhh Silvanus...if only I can defend you here...maybe you will forgive me...and we will be able to speak on such matters...I will be able to find the truth...but first, this trial I must pass... he thought.
Catholic, pro-life, and proud of it. I prefer my debates on religion, politics, and sports with some coffee and a little Aquinas and G.K. CHESTERTON here and there. Not that I need the coffee, but you know... :3

So apparently I am an ENFP!

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Fascist Republic Of Bermuda
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Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Fascist Republic Of Bermuda » Thu Mar 14, 2019 10:45 pm

Luminesa wrote:
Fascist Republic Of Bermuda wrote:
"Thanks bud," Powell patted Mikhailov on the shoulder at the lack of resistance he was putting up. He was shoved into the back seat next to Higgins. The car drove off, headed back to the Field Office. "I think he's asleep, Graves," Higgins updated the FBI agent in the passenger seat. "Don't let your guard down. He might be faking it to get a grab at your gun."

Mikhailov snapped awake just as the car pulled into the parking lot.

He was escorted by an LAPD officer to a fairly nondescript room, the only objects inside of interest the a table in the middle and the two chairs facing each other. And the mirror that took up a good portion of the side wall. Provided with a plastic cup of water nabbed from a water cooler, he was allowed to simmer for a few minutes before Graves entered, holding a bundle of papers, taking the seat opposite the Russian.

"Mister Mikhailov, before we begin, do you wish for an attorney?" She asked, flipping through some of the papers she brought in, "You can legally request an attorney be present for your questioning. One of your choosing or a public defender."

Mikhailov had genuinely fallen asleep. If one looked closely at his face while he was dreaming, they would have seen hints of a conflict, and sorrow. He had wanted to speak to Silvanus, to ask him what all of this meant, but his mouth would not move. He could only stare and wonder, and while he felt cold in the dream, his body was warm. When he awakened and felt his pulse, he knew his heart had started beating quickly. He was not afraid, but rather...surprised. Shocked. Confused. ...No. I wish to Ascend...Why am I dreaming about the Embrace?... He remembered how he had thought Silvanus was perfect, when he had first met him. He wondered whether he still thought that way. ...Ahh...it is because the Embrace is perfect...perfect destruction...and rebirth...Losing myself to gain everything from him... he reasoned. He gave a deep sigh as the police-car finally came to a halt.

He got out the vehicle and followed the agents into the building. He remained silent and calm, his eyes down and unfocused. He only seemed to focus when he got to the interrogation room and was handed a glass of water. Sipping it, he listened as the agent asked if he wanted an attorney. He put the glass down and frowned. “I do not have too much money on my person at the time, but if you would like then I could bring money from home to use to pick an attorney. If this is not allowed then a Public Defender is no problem. What do you wish to know about me?” he inquired, his voice softer and meeker than usual.

Part of the unusual demeanor was his own design, to avoid suspicion, but part of it was also genuine. His dream had softened him and had lifted his heart elsewhere. Ahhhh Silvanus...if only I can defend you here...maybe you will forgive me...and we will be able to speak on such matters...I will be able to find the truth...but first, this trial I must pass... he thought.


[Collab Post between myself and Lum]
“Evening, Mister Mikhailov,” the man offered his hand, smiling warmly and nodded, “Name’s Barry Mitchell. I’m from Warren, Michaelson, and Associates. I’ll sit in on your questioning and offer you any legal counsel you need from me.” Graves rolled her eyes and motioned for the two to reenter the questioning room, a chair having been pulled up beside Mikhailov.

She sat down across from the mage and his attorney, and tapped her pile of papers. “Your legal name is Konstantin Mikhailov. You were born in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and immigrated to the United States after the Soviet Union’s collapse. A former university professor. You’re a clean individual, Mister Mikhailov. Not even a driving ticket. So it makes it a little concerning that security footage shows you doing this.”

She slid him a photo, showing him using lightning. “You channel lightning. You use it to cause pandemonium at a massacre at the strip club known as the Coven of Purple Hearts. You understand how this looks?” “Are you accusing my client of mass murder, Agent?” “I am not accusing him of anything, Mister Mitchell. Mister Mikhailov, what was your involvement at the strip club massacre?”

Mikhailov stared at the man calmly as he entered, giving a cordial smile and shaking his hand. He knew how to act polite, and given he was in a bind, now was the time to be as polite as possible. He nodded as Mr. Mitchell introduced himself, and he followed Graves without a word into the questioning room. He nodded as she mentioned he was born in the Soviet Union, though internally he smiled as Graves mentioned his “clean” record. She of course did not know everything about him, and that was due to his mostly-careful handling of his everyday life. For decades he had played the part of a normal individual, a professor in the fields of theology and biology. He had been considered respectable, intellectual, even charismatic. Now he had to defend that persona.

He looked at the tape. He noticed the moment when he raised his hands and used the lightning, and his stomach dropped. Of course, he kept a cool poker-face, though he knew explaining what had happened would be difficult. Lying would land him into hotter water, and would put Silvanus at risk. His dream was a message: he had a chance to preserve himself and everything he wanted, or it would all fall to dust in a matter of moments. One thing he noticed was that the FBI had not gathered the entire video, only what they saw of Mikhailov using lightning. Nothing of Alexei’s swordplay, or of the gun-toting giant nearby. At least that was one relief. He only had to explain his side of the story. “...I am sure that this looks very strange, Agent Graves. After all, lightning coming down from the ceiling over an individual almost seems like an act of God, does it not? You see, I did not necessarily fire the first shot. These people were aggressive and believed I had taken part in some wrongdoing. I had gone into the club to find an individual, an old friend of mine. She was shot, right before my eyes, and the club’s staff and patrons turned against me. Now, I have a concealed carry license from the State of California, so I was prepared to defend myself. After all, a citizen is allowed lawful self-defense if a person is threatening to kill you. What you see is that the lighting on the ceiling burst in the midst of the violence…” He pointed to the ceiling, which did indeed have light panels that seemingly burst open during the fight. “The individuals were struck and electrocuted.”

He was glad to have noticed the lighting. It made for a perfect Devil’s Proof. Now these individuals would have to explain how a person might shoot lightning from their hands, so he decided he would offer a question back. “Given you...might not believe my words, I have to ask. How would a man shoot lightning through the ceiling and onto a man? I do not believe Star Wars is a real continuity in our world, and so we do not have Darth Vader or Emperor Palpatine using Force Lightning on anyone,” he inquired smoothly.

“That is true, gunfire started before the little sparkler display…” Graves wrote down what Mikhailov was saying, “You were meeting a friend, friend was hit… do you know your friend’s name, for the record?” She glanced up at him as Mikhailov offered his version of events. “Mister Mikhailov, that is not how lighting works. We are not claiming you are any sort of Star Wars villain. The timing is a little too convenient.” Some new drug. If the Russians could make a drug that made people explode, then they could make one that manipulated electricity. That fact that Mikhailov himself hailed from the good old CCCP certainly didn’t lower her suspicions. “Mister Mikhailov, do you associate with any individuals who are also Russian or otherwise ex-Soviet in descent?” “Hey, that’s racial prof-” “Mister Mitchell, if I want your opinion, I will ask for it,” Graves snapped back at the lawyer, “There is a drug in the streets of Los Angeles that make people explode when they contact sunlight. A Russian drug. Mister Mikhailov, I am not concluding you are a member of the Russian Mafiya nor am I attempted to get you convicted on those grounds. I need information. Who was your friend? Why would somebody- Mafiya or otherwise- want her dead?”

“Elena Valentina. She was a student I had met while working as a professor. She had a difficult life, but...well, she wanted to be successful. Of course, ambition for some is...not always enough. So she ended-up in a rather...miserable place...” he explained, giving his voice the gentleness and wistfulness he needed to sound convincing. The girl’s name had come to him immediately, a spark of inspiration which had caused even himself a bit of surprise. An Elena Valentina did exist, and she had disappeared sometime after she had graduated as a philosophy student. He was not certain if the girl in the club had been her, but she looked quite similar to the girl he remembered. He had recalled her being a bright mind, and if she had indeed been the Ghoul whose head had been shot, her life had indeed been a tragedy, one he considered with a spark of contemplation. “I had not seen her for some time, and given she...went off the grid for some time, from what I had heard, I figured she might have changed her name, maybe her appearance a little...She never liked herself very much, from what I recall…”

Then he listened to Graves mention this Russian drug, and she asked about his association with any other Russians. He actually chuckled when she implicated that she thought he was a member of the Russian Mafiya. Of course, he still had to be careful not to implicate Alexei, who unfortunately in this instance happened to have a native-USSR-born mother, even though he himself was born in the States. “I do not mind, you do not need to be offended on my behalf. I have suffered much worse in my life than a poorly-timed question of my nationality. If you would like a clarification, I have not claimed any connections to the USSR or the Federation of Russia since my defection from the country. I have no intention of having any connections to it either, Russian friends or not. As for the Mafiya and Elena, I do not know why anyone might want her dead, or if anyone might have even been targeting her specifically in the first place. Someone fired shots on quite a few people, and I happened to be caught in the onslaught. But...this drug...hmmm…”

He took a moment to consider his next move. A Russian drug that caused people to explode...clearly this was some way of covering for the Masquerade. He did not want to remove this illusion, even if the FBI agents could not explain Magic even if it did exist. They were Sleepers, unknowing of the other world which surrounded them. At the same time, he was now given another weapon with which he could defend himself. “As for this...drug you are mentioning...I do not know much of it myself. I do not associate in the sales of drugs. Rather, I have taken some time off from my work as a professor to do my own research on religious and philosophical subjects. Sure, that does not make as much money as drug-trafficking, but I have never cared much for money,” he explained. What he said now was truth, and he knew he had the advantage. A little truth, a few deflections, and maybe a lie or two. They would have to decide which was which, and they would look like fools if they guessed wrong. “...I have to ask, how is this drug generally administered? Orally? By syringe? Do you drink it, or does it dissolve in someone’s drink?” he inquired.

Graves turned to the mirror, “Run that name,” She pointed to the personnel on the other side of the one-way glass, before turning around to face Mikhailov again as the Russian went on. “So you claim no connections to the Russian mob… carry on,” She waved him on, writing it all down. She nodded at his alibi, but stopped writing and shot a glare at him when he moved on to making fun of the mystery drug. “Mister Mikhailov, that information is not your concern.” “Agent, you can clearly see my client is no bedfellow of the Mafiya…” “Mister Mitchell, if Mister Mikhailov is not a suspect he is at the very least a witness. Now. The shooter. There was only a single one, correct? Please describe him.”

“I was concerned because you suggested I have connections to the Mafiya, and that I could have possibly administered this drug to individuals in a club. I was asking information about how this drug works, but I suppose that is superfluous to this investigation…” Mikhailov tried to recall the shooter’s appearance. He recalled that he had dwarfed Alexei, who already was a few inches smaller than himself. He packed a huge gun as well, though he could not tell what kind it was, in the darkness. He could hardly remember the man’s face or features, but he decided to take a shot anyway. “Well, given that the club was dark, his features were rather hard to...pinpoint. He was definitely enormous, and I am six feet tall. He was much, much bigger than myself. Rather angry face, broad build...and he carried a massive gun of some sort. I do not know why he was in the club, but he started some of the ruckus. I do not have a name which I can give.”

“I was implying nothing of the sort. I was pointing out that this new generation of drugs far exceed what was previously thought possible, Mister Mikhailov,” Graves retorted, staring daggers into the Russian. And then the shooter’s description. Not much but… workable. A good framework to build off of for a profile. “Thank you, any details help towards his identification and arrest.” So they were looking for a basketball player- in height, at least. “Mister Mikhailov, I have one more question. Did you notice anything abnormal about your drink at the strip club? Taste, color, and such.”

One more question. He felt he was close to passing a huge exam, one that would determine his fate within the Masquerade. He wanted to grin, but he kept his calm, amicable facade. “I apologize for not having more information, as do I apologize for seeming rude at all. I am a curious mind, I like to know things. I suppose being too nosy can be annoying for some. But as for my drink…” He had not noticed anything about it at all, beside how girly it was and how the vodka had an awful taste. “It was a Mai-Tai...as girly and silly as that might sound, I’m sure...nothing was atypical about it. The vodka tasted normal for vodka, though subpar. The color had not changed, nor had the smell or texture. I did not watch my drink being made, so someone very well could have attempted to put something in my drink. I would not know if they had. I should be more careful about my drinks in the future, maybe watching whoever makes my drinks rather than moving away from the counter. You never know these days who might want to see you unconscious on the floor of a club…” he answered. Internally, he held his breath. An agent could create another question at any moment, if they felt they needed to question his persona further. He had no room to celebrate just yet.

“Understood,” Graves marked it down. If Mikhailov was using drugs, it certainly didn’t seem to be negatively influencing his health. That was the initial suspicion she had- yet another new Russian drug, what had gotten her involved on this wild goose chase in the first place. So either Mikhailov was lying through his teeth, or his drink was spiked. “That should be all for the moment. You’ll remain detaine-” She grimaced, holding a finger up to her earpiece. She swore under her breath. “You’re free to go, it would seem,” her personal reservations about that easy to spot, “No arrest warrant. We just need one more thing.” The door opened and Agent Higgins entered. “Senior Agent Higgins, Drug Enforcement Administration. We just need a blood and urine sample. It’s perfectly safe and harmless. Free, too. If you’ll follow me.”

A blood and urine test. Mikhailov grimaced inside, as he knew he had been too cocky and had forgotten that they would still want a record that he was not using drugs. Of course, the drugs would not be the problem. He rose from his seat and followed Agent Higgins, hoping the procedure would be quick. He would have more explaining to do, and he did not look forward to it. Just a little more. Just a little more time, and I’ll be finished. I’ll go back to the funeral home, and I will find Silvanus. Yes...all will be well, he told himself, though he did not allow himself to show fear or excitement.

“Oh sweet dear, split your skin and show me that sweet elixir that lurks within!” The doctor declared when Higgins presented Mikhailov, eliciting a confused “What.” from the DEA Agent. “Nah, just messing with you. What, I extract blood for a living, my son expects me to dress up like Dracula every Halloween, I get into it a bit. Here, sit down,” the doctor motioned to a seat, preparing a swab of alcohol and an empty syringe. “You’ll feel a little pinch,” he said, cleaning the inside of one of Mikhailov’s elbows before inserting the syringe, drawing a syringe full of blood. “There we go,” the doctor applied the bandage after cleaning the area again, “You can pick up a lollipop on the way out.” “Now. Urine sample?” Higgins picked up an empty little bottle and handed it to Mikhailov, helpfully indicating, “Bathroom’s over there.”

Mikhailov gave an amused snicker as Higgins teased Mikhailov, acting as though she was a vampire. He gave a grin and replied, “Oh dear, if I had known what I was dealing with today, I would have worn a few more crosses. Maybe I could have worn some silver as well.” An ironic response, considering his dream. Then with a distant, blank look, he remembered those days, drawing blood from creatures, examining them, watching as some wasted away...He shook his head, and quickly came back to the present. He sat still, as she rolled-up his arm, revealing a tattoo on his shoulder of three lines arranged in a wave moving from north-to-south, and one on his forearm of the word ‘radiance’ written in Hebrew. Perhaps they were insignificant, except that the FBI might use them in the future for identification. Nevertheless, he got his blood drawn, and then got his urine sample. He came out of the restroom and handed her the small container. “Anything else you need, Doctor?” he inquired.

“Yep, wooden stakes too,” the doctor smirked. At least somebody around here appreciated her sense of humor. She nodded after all was said and done. “That’s it. You’re through. You’ll get your results in the mail in a couple of workdays.”

“Thank you very much. I’ll wear my silver earrings next time, I hope you’ll notice,” he replied, with a chuckle. He then got up, nodded to her, and left. He walked through the facility and out of the building, and finally drew a soft breath. He looked at his watch. 2:45 PM. He still had so much time until evening, and he needed desperately to speak to Silvanus. He could always sleep until the evening and could record more of his dreams...but he loathed the idea of simply wasting another day in bed. At the same time, his head throbbed and his body wanted desperately, for some reason, to rest. I really have lost my touch, haven’t I… he thought. At the very least he could be pleased that the interrogation was a success for him. Perhaps Silvanus would be pleased to know he had defended the Masquerade. Keeping him in a good mood, after all, would allow him just a slight bit more ease in getting information from him. Maybe being nice every now and then did pay. He wondered if he could perhaps show the same sort of amiability to get info from Silvanus...or perhaps the old Malkavian liked his torturous, brooding, cold personality. He could never tell, but showing some charm never hurt. He headed back to the funeral home, deciding that he would know what to do when he got there.
Last edited by Fascist Republic Of Bermuda on Thu Mar 14, 2019 10:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
N U T S !

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Parcia
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Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Fri Mar 15, 2019 10:04 am

The Giant and the Kitten.
The Prince's Estate.


He watched her as she emptied the bags of plasma, watching as she ripped in to the first one and drank it down in a few seconds. This seemed to make her perk up a bit and when she tore in tot he second one, she did so a tad bit slower, taking a bit more care not to spill as much as she had before.

It was interesting to watch her, like a junky getting their first fix after a good long while. He passed the time by cleaning under his nails with his Blade. It was a Kukuri, a long curved blade he had picked up in China during his stay with the triad. He took a moment, embedding the blade in to the wooden floor with a thud, and shed his jacket, leaving him in a wife beater style tank top. On top of the Sanskrit Tattoo, the rest of his arms and back were taken up by a large, intricate depiction of a Chinese dragon, white in color and with the same Sanskrit tattoo on its tail. It was a parting gift from some old friends in the Triad, one he wore with pride, being one of the few westerners to gain the right to sport such a thing.

He brought his attention back to the girl, watching as she slowly drank down the third and final bag of blood. She dropped it, taking a few heavy breaths and felt a shiver run through her nude form. "Where...where am I?"

He himself perked up. "Ah, right. Your in one of the guestrooms of the Estate of the Prince Angelos of the Camarilla." She gave him a blank stare while licking her fingers clean. Had his member not worked or really shown any life in 60 years, he might have enjoyed the sight as bit more. "Right, so, hear's a big bomb...your a Vampire."

She blinked again. "Ok..." He nodded. "Yea, lot to take in. So, how this works, as I have been told, is that you suck blood. Now, that's fine. But you can't, and I mean can't under any circumstances expose your existence, or the existence of the Camarilla, or the existence of the Vampire race and other creatures because well...once you do, not even i can keep your safe."

She took this information in as he said it. "So, Vampire? a Nosferatu, a creature of the night, romantic..." he laughed, a deep, hearty laugh. "No love, most vampires, spare the elder ones that are pushing 250 years in age, or complete fucking pricks. Self centered bastards who really only care for their own existence or petty blood line feuds...Well, the "Good Prince" is a noted Difference from that, and that's not just me being nice in case any one is spying on us. So far, she has acted with respect, something I have yet to get from most others."


"So, now that your not going to shank me for the blood in my veins, what did you mama Call you." She leaned back on to the bed, wrapping her self in the silk sheets.

Her Accent would come out for once as she spoke, "Jennifer...Jennifer Ann Ziegler."
I remember her...
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Luminesa
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Founded: Dec 09, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Luminesa » Sun Mar 17, 2019 6:44 am

Connor seemed to be allowing Alexei a chance to calm Michael, and the former Inquisitor knew he had to try and act quickly. The heat of the many firearms around him continued to burn, and he felt his knees trying to buckle from the terror. He could not decide if he was more frightened by the multitude of angry Garou or by Michael’s transformation into a cruel, raving beast. He hugged Michael more tightly, trying to act as the Doll had acted toward Silvanus. The irony was palpable.

“...Michael...listen to me, please...” Alexei whispered, as he felt the sharp spines in Michael’s back sticking into his chest, “...You don’t need to fight...I am not asking for you to fight. We...we were only talking about...”

“...About Mikhailov...I heard everything...” the Doll responded, in the horribly distorted voice which caused Alexei to shiver as he heard it again. The Doll had decided to lower his voice to a grumble, as he felt that his purported charge was afraid of him. “...You said you do not know...how he feels about you...and this Garou has decided that he...he hates you...” The growl grew slightly louder, alarming Alexei.

“No, no, no, no, no, he didn’t say that. But...he does not know Kostya. He does not have a reason to trust a person he has not met...Do you know why he wishes to protect me?...Why he sent you?...” Alexei inquired, walking to the front of the Doll in order to keep his focus away from Connor and Derrick.

The Doll grew quiet, strangely so, and he dodged Alexei’s gaze. The silence was full of painful static and fearful breathing, but after some time Michael found a response. “...He...hallucinated...that you were with him...and he...wanted to speak to you again...I fear he...he has lost his ability to be content by himself...I fear...he shall get himself hurt...seeking for a way out of his loneliness...but you...You keep him sane...You keep him peaceful and happy...” he explained. He glared toward Connor again, but Alexei turned his face to him.

“Don’t focus on Connor then. Focus on me...I do not hate you...I have never hated you, Michael...You are afraid that I won’t be able to love you if you can’t fight, but...I already love you. It’s okay...” he whispered, trying to console the beast. He wondered if he had been born to be so belligerent, and whether he was constantly fighting between his beast-like instincts and the kind, polite persona he showed to others.

Michael’s eyes grew large, and they sparkled. Alexei felt an odd sensation as he stared at his face, and he had to remind himself this was not Mikhailov. The Mage would never show such pure, innocent emotion on his face. He did not seek the approval of others as a part of his existence, or at least not overtly. The Doll, however, knew his survival depended on being loved. Thus Alexei’s words struck his heart. His voice even began to change to its sweeter tone, though his body was still a monster’s form. “...You...you do?...You...do not hate me for...not protecting you?...” he mumbled.

“I do not hate you. I want you to be the sweet, gentle friend I love. That’s all I need you to be, okay?...” He continued to watch the reaction to his words in Michael’s face. Michael was mystified. He had never been told he was loved simply for being himself, and especially not in his hideous monster-form. Alexei felt he was speaking now to a child, and he ignored the pain that came from hugging him. “...Now...I want you to change back. We’ll get you new clothes, I promise...” he whispered.

The Doll obeyed, changing back to his lovely humanoid form slowly. His spines receded into his back, he became smaller again, and his original appearance slowly reformed. Michael did not fight against Alexei now, but rather dropped his head onto his shoulder as he returned to his old form. Blood trickled from his mouth, and his breathing was labored. His clothing was also torn, with his shirt reduced to shreds and his pants torn at the legs and knees, and underneath one could see much of his body. Alexei stared with shock. Long scars and trails of stitching wrapped around his limbs, parts of his chest and back, and his neck. He had indeed been put together much like a doll that had been torn many times before, and Alexei was reminded that Michael was at his core one of Silvanus’s creations. His pain and his madness came from his creator, who ordered him to act as he was commanded to act. “...Alexei...help me...I am in pain...” he whispered.

Alexei nodded, and whispered a prayer to begin healing him. He would not be able to entirely save Michael’s broken bones, but he could stabilize them. As his Faith began to work, he looked to Connor. “...He will not hurt you now. He misunderstood what was asked of him, and now he is docile. Do...do you have any spare clothes which I can place on him? I’ll repay you, I promise, as you allowed for both of us to live. I am very grateful.”
Catholic, pro-life, and proud of it. I prefer my debates on religion, politics, and sports with some coffee and a little Aquinas and G.K. CHESTERTON here and there. Not that I need the coffee, but you know... :3

So apparently I am an ENFP!

Unofficial #1 fan of the Who Dat Nation.
"I'm just a singer of simple songs, I'm not a real political man. I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you the difference in Iraq and Iran. But I know Jesus, and I talk to God, and I remember this from when I was young:
faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us...
and the greatest is love."
-Alan Jackson

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