2023-03-17 The Case of the Acidic Man (High Hopes PRP)
The Case of the Acidic Man
Storyteller: Elyse
Location: King Eddy's Saloon, then alleys of Skid Row
Date and Time: March 17, 2023 5:50 PM
Summary: Following up from her earlier investigations into Derrick Houghton, Felicity meets Derrick at King Eddy's and finds that a suspicious character watching their conversation. She gives pursuit.
King Eddy's has been fairly slow most of the day. Mondays are not the best days for people coming in to drown their sorrows, apparently. Felicity was able to find the bagel place that Derrick uses, which is Johnny Bonkers' Bagels on east 4th. Where the prices are so low, you'll think Johnny is bonkers.
Later that afternoon, once the sun begins to sink through the horizon of the city, sending burning waves of heat off the blacktop, Derrick makes good on showing up to King Eddy's. He is dressed very different from before; he's wearing garb that helps him blend in with the usual inhabitants of Skid Row: torn, thrifted clothing and old shoes. He pushes through the doors and looks around the establishment, seeking out Felicity, sliding into the seat across from her in the booth. He ducks his head down and glances out the window. A slowly passing car casts a glint of light that reflects against his face.
"Miss Nash," he says without the aplomb he had before, his eyes look sad.
Felicity wrinkles her nose and sets down her newspaper. It's a several month old issue with the pages turned to that one story about Bristow Park construction being halted. She gives Derrick a raised eyebrow. "First name works fine, you know. I'm not this superstar or anything." Ahem. Right. Dude's nervous. "Actually, can I call you Derrick? Anyway. Yeah. What's going on, man? You look like you got somethin' to say and people don't want you sayin' it."
"Felicity," he says, and shifts his weight away from the window, sitting at the edge of the booth seat. He glances up and over at the proprietor of the restaurant, then leans across the table. "You can call me Derrick, yeah." The way his eyes look, he seems like a trapped animal. Frightened. "So when I got clean, it was at this rehab where they helped guys like me get their associate degrees. We could do some counseling work. It sounded great, especially since they paid for it. Too good to be true, right?" He laughs harshly.
Someone enters through the door and Derrick jumps visibly in the seat.
It's just a local, another regular.
Derrick leans in again. "They said they'd give me a clinic to run, some people to help out. I figured they did a lot for me, so why not give back? It's a five year work contract."
Felicity pays attention to Derrick's words and mannerisms alike. Noting his frantic eyes, she looks over to the bartender and holds up two fingers. 'The usual' for her and her friend. (Orange juice. Flicky's usual is orange juice.) "Too good to be true." She can't help but give away her feelings on the matter: the poor bastard got approached at his lowest point and hoodwinked into a raw deal, and now that he knows what's up, he's trapped. It also sounds like she's seen this before. "So, you needed money, you had the skills, and you took the contract. Alright, so you've got it made for five years. What's the Faustian part of the bargain?" Yeah. She's done this song and dance plenty, and it'd be hard for Derrick not to pick up on that.
Derrick rubs at his forehead and stretches over the booth to look out the window again. "That's the thing, Felicity. I don't know. I can't explain it. It isn't everyone," he turns back to her and the bartender brings two glasses of orange juice fresh from a container.
"Sometimes there'll be somebody who comes in for needle exchange or the medication treatment," he says in a quiet tone.
The A/C kicks on a little stronger, offsetting the late afternoon heat. Another streak of light through the window from sunlight glinting off a passing car.
"They start showing up more frequently. Maybe like one in fifty. They look sicker. I tried telling them, you know, get the fuck out. I don't want anyone getting sick, y'know?" He swallows. "Well, Veronica says we take all kinds. I figured, like, I'm Veronica's boss, right? So I try to tell her fuck no, the dude's sick. And then..."
Felicity mouths the words 'of fucking course' as Derrick explains what's going on. He isn't quite sure, but she has a very strong idea. Still, she keeps listening to the whole story, showing the appropriate shock and horror - and a hint of familiarity. "I take it this sickness isn't what you're used to seeing. These guys get sick and overdose all the time, so if it's something that's got you freaking out..." She taps her chin carefully, thinking. Thinking. "You told Veronica fuck no, and then... I feel like you're about to explain why you're afraid of her."
"Yeah," he says in a shaken, quiet tone. "It isn't like it. I mean I also saw guys get HIV and Hep-C from infected needles. Part of the reason I wanted to do this," Derrick explains. "But this, it's not the same. Their skin's all waxy, I - I don't know how to explain it." He swallows thickly in his throat, takes a drink of his orange juice.
Another patron enters. Derrick is a little less jumpy. The patron crosses to another booth, grabs a newspaper, and sits down to read.
"So Veronica," Derrick starts again, "she tells me that I take whoever comes in, no ifs, ands, or buts. I tried to argue more, but then," he shakes his head.
Pages ruffle and turn behind them. A newspaper flaps as the patron reads.
That A/C just seems to be getting louder.
"I don't remember. I woke up in my apartment. I swear I was in the clinic. Then it was the next day," he moans. "I thought I relapsed, maybe. But," he trails off. "Then Veronica, she was different," he whispers. "I know what this sounds like. I know it sounds fucking crazy, Felicity. But she was a white lady, I swear to God."
Yep, this is roughly what she expected. Felicity keeps her appropriately horrified and vexed look on her face, which is easier because she was afraid something like this would come up. She bites her lip harder and harder as Derrick continues his story, then drops an audible 'fucks sake' at the end of it. "Can't say I completely believe the bit about Veronica playing chameleon, but then again if Michael Jackson can do it..." Was that an attempt at humor?
Regardless, she reaches out a hand to his and gives him a hopefully reassuring smile. A smile, atop the anger she's feeling at this BITCH. This filthy bitch fucking up HER turf and using innocents to do it! Right. Focus, woman.
"This might surprise you, but this is not.... uh.... not eeeentirely new to me. I remember this one time I was sent on a milk run, and got to the grocery store just as they were stocking new milk. The guy stocking the milk had similar skin, and that milk was *rancid*. Unsellable. I raised a big enough stink about it that the local news picked it up and the place got shut down." She takes a deep breath, exhales, and continues. "I still don't know exactly how it happens. Some government experimentation crap?" Cue faux-helpless shrug. She can't really say 'banes' now can she?
Felicity coughs. "Erm. Is there anything else weird you can think of?"
Derrick also worries at his lip with his teeth. He looks up towards the man with the newspaper, then out the window again. Felicity dropping her hand on his seems to comfort him, even if he deflates regarding the disbelief of Veronica's skin change. He lowers his eyes to the table.
"Government experimentation? No, I don't think so. Maybe something else, though. I thought maybe like, a cult? But it seems weird. I don't know. Like are these guys robots or something?" He takes a breath and exhales through his nose, closing his eyes.
"There was one other thing," he says, looking at Felicity with those striking hazels. "Once I saw Veronica -- the current one -- messing with some of the needles. She picked up one in particular and did something. Like she breathed on it? I was gonna say something, but then when I turned I saw this weird mold patch and got distracted. It's an old building, you know? I figured I would say something later, but it's," he pauses, glancing down. "It's hard to tell her much of anything. She freaks me out, man."
Wow, this orange juice is really tasty. Felicity uses her free hand to finish the glass while her other hand continues to comfort Derrick. Once she's finished the glass, she sets it down and huffs angrily.
"Alright, so we have a, erm, a skin-tone-changing freakazoid who demands that you let in the differently-sick patients coming to your clinic. She breathed on some of the needles at least once, which is completely unsterile. And you have a hard time approaching her. Right. Either the mold's gotten into your brain, or... oh boy."
She slumps back into her seat. "Let's run with the cult idea. Or government experiments like that Tuskegee syphilis. This naturally leads to one question in my mind: who's paying for this operation, again?"
+ROLL/+DICE> Jupiter: 6 vs. 8 -> -1 success (Botch!). (5 4 3 3 2 1)
Derrick draws his hand back from Felicity's and folds his hands together on the table. "That IS a good explanation," he points out to Felicity, "The mold could be getting to me!" He laughs and leans back, putting his face in his hands, "Oh man. I really just needed to talk to someone about this." It's almost as though a switch flipped; the man breathes out gently. When his hands lower, his eyes look placid and calm. He smiles gently at her.
"Here, let me give you the card. If you want, maybe you can send some folks our way? We can always use more clinics." From his shirt pocket, he produces a business card and slides it across the table.
Midway through the slide, his hand jerks, and he stares at Felicity with a look of shock, horror.
Did he, though? Was that really what just happened? The card ends up in front of Felicity. It's been a long day.
The card reads, 'Terasil Rehabilitation Centers,' with an address in the city and a local phone number. Derrick begins to rise to his feet. "I gotta get back to the clinic." He laughs. "Felicity, you really should charge for counseling. I feel so much better."
Yessss. Felicity has details on a company. Contact information, the whole nine yards. And a cheeky idea. "Oh, I should charge? Then how about... some bagels from Johnny Bonkers. A bag of cinnamon raisin, bag of asiago, bag of plain. And some cream cheese." No threat behind those words, just an honest request to be paid in food. "Anyway. Yeah, it's prooobably just the mold, so get out and get some air when you can and try not to worry too much. And on the freak chance this *is* some Illuminati death cult, I'm gonna check these guys out." Once again, she holds up two fingers to the bartender. Two more orange juices.
"I'll see what I can do," he laughs. Derrick looks up towards the bartender, scans around the room, then back to Felicity. "They might be a day or two old. Should I drop them off here?" He waves off the second orange juice. "Like I said, I need to jet." It's such a sea change in the way that he's acting.
The patron with the newspaper finishes his beer, folds the newspaper at the table, then stands up and walks out of King Eddy's. The sun is starting to sink lower, and the interior lights come on a bit higher.
"If you know anyone who deals with mold, send them my way, all right?"
Felicity nods to Derrick. "Leave 'em with the bartender. I helped him grow parsnips several months back, so he helps me out with this stuff. You take care now!" And with that, she takes her leave as well.
With one eye on that super-sus patron with the newspaper. Time to trail this dirtbag and see how bad a threat he is.
The sus patron is already off and down the street by the time Felicity gets out the door. Now that she can see the back of him, he's dressed like an extra in a private eye movie. Long, unseasonable coat, large hat, and wingtips. This is extra suspicious given the hot weather today. He turns a corner.
Felicity is able to blend in with the crowd enough to get within fifty feet of him. He turns to look behind him, stares into the crowd, but doesn't notice his tail. He takes another corner, this time into an alley heading towards the Flower District.
When Felicity reaches the mouth of the alley, she can see him alone. He looks up and down the alley, doesn't catch her, and starts to unlock a chain on a door in the center of the alley. The metal chain slumps to the ground and he begins to work on the lock. He drops his keys, curses, and then stands back up, searching through the keychain for the right one to fit the bolt lock.
Felicity eyes a tire iron nearby on her sneaky sneaky way to ambush this super-sus government spy, and considers taking it, but she's far more experienced with just punching and kicking and grabbing. Unarmed ambush it is! She slinks around a dumpster with just enough space to maneuver, and once she's close enough -- WHAM! Full body check against John Trenchcoat. She drives her shoulder into his back, her hand against his head, and puts her everything into making sure he goes nowhere. Except, perhaps, six feet under.
Hm. Wonder if a choke hold would've been more effective?
Felicity can feel his flesh underneath the trenchcoat mold against her skin, as if he's made of some kind of rubbery material. He turns his head to look at her. She can see now that he's not entirely human. It's the eyes. And the rubbery skin. But explicitly: the eyes. His hat blows off his head at a sudden Santa Ana wind, displaying a bald, scabbed pate.
The leprous scabs and lesions decorate his face; his eyes are sunken in to the point that they look like little black holes set in pudgy, grey flesh. It looks like the skin has died, but not in the way that some Leeches might have, more like it's been disconnected from the blood flow.
When he speaks, the sound is bronchial. "Fuck you, dog," he coughs and attempts to spit into her face, a hock of yellow-green phlegm.
<OOC> Jupiter says, "So he's going to attempt to use a fomori power called 'Caustic Heave' which is about as gross as you think."
<OOC> Jupiter says, "Basically he's trying to vomit acid into Felicity's face."
<OOC> Jupiter says, "But also grappled, so at a disadvantage--"
+ROLL/+DICE> Jupiter: 5 vs. 9 -> 0 successes. (9 8 8 1 1)
The acidic phlegm-vomit combination splatters out of his lips and falls back onto his face, sizzling into his cheeks, exposing maggots chewing the remaining living muscle tissue near the bone.
Felicity just hisses right in Fuckstick's ear.
The fomor attempts to wriggle his way out of Felicity's grasp, but with his disabled arm, he's unable to do much more than flop in her grasp. He screams, "Stop! Stop!" It comes out as a gurgling phlegmatic sound, like bubbles in the lungs. Some of his bile burbles from his lips and drips onto the stoop in front of the door, sizzling against the concrete. "Let me go!"
+SHIFT> Felicity shifted into form Crinos!
+ROLL/+DICE> Jupiter: 3 vs. 6 -> 2 successes. (8 7 3)
+ROLL/+DICE> Felicity: Strength + Athletics vs. 6 -> 2 successes. (9 6 6 5 4 3 2 1)
+ROLL/+DICE> Jupiter: 3 vs. 9 -> -2 successes (Botch!). (2 1 1)
+ROLL/+DICE> Felicity: Dexterity + Brawl + 2 vs. 5 -> 6 successes. (10 9 9 7 6 5 4 2)
<OOC> Jupiter says, "Okay! Strength + 5 + 1 + 2 vs 6"
+ROLL/+DICE> Felicity: Strength + 5 + 1 + 2 vs. 6 -> 11 successes. (10 10 10 9 8 7 7 6 6 6 6 4 4 2)
Yeah, fuck this crap. There is NO WAY Brightens-the-Day is gonna let some fuckstick in a trenchcoat ruin her mission. Derrick Houghton is a good man, and like hell is she gonna let this bad situation screw him over any worse than he already is. This joker wants to spy on their conversation? It'll be the last thing he ever does.
Of course, expediency is key. And, well, there's no point staying homid if there's nobody to see her. So, she brings out the 'dog' that this fiend so loathes, and finishes the job in one. Quick. Bite. That neck? It's useless now. Nonfunctional. She waits until the detached head hits the ground before letting go, just to make DAMN sure the job is done.
Threat disposed of, she dumps off the body into one of the alleyway dumpsters, burying it under several bags of trash so it won't be accidentally stumbled upon. And finally... before leaving the alleyway... she puts her homid skin back on again.
Within a few moments after being dumped into the trash, the body dissolves into a mass of acid-burnt flesh. Maggots boil out of the wounds of the dead fomori. Whatever Bane was powering this creature, the intention was for it to be unfindable after death. A boon for the Garou, but also telling in its function. Infiltration.
