| Deal with the Devil | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 25 2018, 02:50 PM (52 Views) | |
| Andrew Cutting | Jan 25 2018, 02:50 PM Post #1 |
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Shovelhead
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The information he had received from his sources thus far were quite intriguing. He had finally managed to get a reasonable amount of intelligence relating to the London Anarchs faction and their leadership structure, as well as their key players. He knew that a number of Gangrel were associated with them and had nominally followed the lead of a Brujah known as Vinnie, or Vincent Tadeu to give him his full name. Other linked individuals included an older Gangrel called Sullivan, and a younger Gangrel of a closer age with Tadeu called Nora Penvellyn. In Sullivan's case all he knew was that he was male, Gangrel, somewhat older than the others, and most likely Irish or of Irish descent. Not a huge deal to go on but it was a start. Tadeu was a similarly unknown entity; he'd had dealings in London not to long ago, where he'd initially met Sullivan and Nora, and he had close ties with local organised crime syndicates some of which had ties to Cutting's own extended network. However beyond know what Tadeu looked like and that he was a Brujah the intelligence on him was limited. It wasn't these two gentlemen who intrigued him though, it was Nora. She had a long and deep association with Sullivan, and a close though not quite so intense relationship with Tadeu. She was also the weak link, at least as far as Andrew was concerned. According to his intelligence she was drug dependent or at the very least an addict, a fact which had allowed a minor operator such as Tadeu to essentially kidnap her and bring her to Detroit. Nora Penvellyn also had known associations to one of his employees, Mr Stomalkov, who was a heavyweight in Andrew's special support team. He knew this because Mr Stomalkov had known her during his time in London, and his employees were required to divulge everything about themselves when they entered his employ. Andrew had very thorough ways of ensuring this and kept file upon file of information and minutiae that would probably never be used; but he was a paranoid yet strangely practical man, the more information he held the more he had to refer to later if he needed to. He also read each and every file and each and every new piece of information. It took up most of his time these days, but he dared not be caught unawares, information was the source of his power and with the rise of the internet and the global information age it was becoming more important now than ever. Raw data was a poor measure of one’s power when it came to an information war, but it was a valuable asset to have, a mine as it were which could provide the materials needed to execute vital operations. Now was one of those occasions when his system truly proved itself. He had seen the name Nora Penvellyn and a brief description, female, Gangrel, junkie, and recognised it; remembering the link to Mr Stomalkov he had then pulled out his file and leafed through it meticulously. Mr Stomalkov had been a very angry, but very busy man back in London. He suffered from an array of psychological problems which Andrew managed to keep under control for the most part through the regular application of a subtle blend of Domination and Presence. For a time he had been convinced that Nora was in fact his long dead sister, whom he had loved greatly, either than or that Nora was her reincarnation or avatar of some kind; the file noted varying accounts as well as additional research noting many different takes on the situation. Psychoses as deep as this rarely made complete sense to the terminally sane such as Andrew and so he had had to be meticulous since the mind of a psychotic was hardly a reliable source of information. In any case suffice to say that Mr Stomalkov had formed an unusual bond with Ms Penvellyn. According to his records Mr Stomalkov had provided Ms Penvellyn and her group in London with contacts to Russian arms dealers, mostly ex-Soviet, and had also provided a similar service he provided Andrew, namely muscle. Andrew very much wanted to meet Ms Penvellyn. For a start it would make it easier for him to fill his file on her if he could pull information directly from her rather than try and have her tailed; however there were a number of other factors in play. The consideration that Nora would prove to be the weak link in the London Anarchs, or at the very least in Mr Tadeu’s circle of associates, was not least among these factors. Strong as she may be she had a distinct weakness that could be exploited in any number of ways, she also had a pre-existing association with one of his present employees making it easier to make contact without arousing suspicion. So she could be used as a plant to gather intelligence on Mr Tadeu and this Sullivan character, and also to finger each of the London Anarchs’ associates and leaders. Not only this but she was like Mr Stomalkov had been when he had first met Andrew; an uncontrolled force with considerable potential being wasted by a lack of direction. Ms Penvellyn could be so much more to Andrew than just a plant, she could become one of his hands. He made the call; he’d have Mr Stomalkov reach out to her and invite her to meet him in one of the bar restaurants that were on the ground floor of the Building. From there he’d have to see where circumstance took him. Edited by Andrew Cutting, Jan 25 2018, 03:58 PM.
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| Nora Penvellyn | Jan 27 2018, 04:09 AM Post #2 |
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Rage Face
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Detroit. Most nights she'd get high enough to forget she was even here, but tonight, she was still stone cold sober and fully aware that this was her new hell now. Okay, the sober part was a lie, but who wouldn't get their kicks before heading straight into the belly of the beast? An idiot, that's who. Especially one as marked as the viper was if they were meeting some rich and precarious 'Boss man' as Vasili described him, in public no less. Living in L.A. was easier; the magic of the silver screen made looking like a walking freak show less startling and more interesting. The Masquerade was thinly veiled there. Here, it was the exact opposite. That or her old age was beginning to catch up with her. This was probably the first time in over a month that she'd actually left her haven, or bothered to comb her hair. She'd become quite the recluse since her 'relocation', but it wasn't every day that an old frenemy came out of the wood work with such an interesting and anonymous proposal. Nora walked the streets of Downtown and blended into the crowd effortlessly. The amount of blood it would require to keep this facade up would be costly, but she'd be damned if she got black-bagged falling into some stupid Masquerade breach trap. Burning blood, she wore the mask of her former self, pre-embrace and not a drop of ink or one scale marring her fair skin. Her eyes were the same icy shade of blue, but more doe like in nature, no overly large canines decorating her bottom lip. She looked entirely human, almost normal even, save for the outfit she wore. No matter where she went, she was never fully dressed for the occasion, but at least the cold weather allowed lining her jacket pockets with blood bags more discreetly. Only prying eyes would notice the small tube pinned inside the collar of her jacket. Her boring cashmere sweater, stonewashed denim skinnies, and brown leather boots paled in comparison to all the designer labels passing her as she dipped inside of the high end restaurant at the bottom of the skyscraper hovering above. Typical Ivory tower. She waited patiently behind a large party of suits to be seated, approaching the hostess with a smile that was as fake and generic as they come, "I'm not sure if I have a reservation or not, but I'm here to meet the owner of this establishment? My name is Nora." |
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| Andrew Cutting | Jan 29 2018, 09:32 PM Post #3 |
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Shovelhead
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The Maitre D' looked up at Nora from the reservations list in front of him, the way he flashed his gaze up and down combined with the obvious look of judgement on his face was surely enough to tell Nora precisely what he thought of her. If it hadn't been for the very clear instructions he had received from the Restaurant Manager he wouldn't have given her time to respond before asking security to escort her out, but as it was he had no choice but to show her to have her shown to one of the private function rooms. It happened occasionally, some misfit or other would show up and give a name and say they were here to see the owner and he'd have instructions to show them in regardless of their attire and demeanour. While the Maitre D' didn't approve it wasn't his place to, his job relied on this place and on its owner, and the owner was a man of business generally rather than restaurants specifically so he could only assume that the man he worked for, whoever he actually was, had some business arrangement relating to these individuals. Even the most high level corporations had to deal with the common masses on some level after all, and if the owner was also in the music or movie business then it made sense; creative types tended to be a tad rough around the edges. The restaurant itself was relatively busy in the kind of way very expensive restaurants are. Never completely full, but full enough to give the impression of booming business without spoiling the mood by cramming people in like sardines. Nora was led around the various tables and partitions which separated the floorspace; the man leading her couldn't have been more than twenty, and walked the floor like a pro, weaving in and out of guests and staff and following a path of wide spaces between tables which allowed the waitstaff to move freely without tripping over the customers or each other. Eventually they reached a set of double doors with a well dressed man with an earpiece stood on either side; a polished placard set into each door marked this as the entrance to the private function rooms. As they approached the security guards reached out and opened the doors for them and the waiter leading her passed through without acknowledging the pair. Both of the guards were ghouls, Nora with her typical Gangrel traits would be able to smell it on them. The potent mixture of testosterone, sweat, and potent blood marking them out among the mere mortals who worked the more menial jobs in the restaurant. Beyond the double doors was a broad receiving room, fashionable sofas were placed against the walls with low tables upon which drinks could be placed. Directly across from the double doors were the doors to the private lavatories and another guard stood between them watching the room. Four doors branched off from this room each leading to a separate function room and the waiter leading her led her to the one marked with the number four and opened it allowing Nora to pass inside. He then shut the door behind her and left. Function Room Four was a typical conference style room decorated in a neo-Asiatic style which wouldn't have looked wholly out of place in a cyberpunk version of the future. Elegantly arranged bamboo stood in planters and a large fish tank dominated one wall in which various tropical fish swam lazily about. The dominant colour was black, sleek polished black wood and stone. The only other decorations were a few examples of traditional Chinese art; anywhere else and they'd probably be cheap reproductions but something about these implied the real deal. Nothing about this room was cheap, other than the unimaginative decision to go with the neo-Asian style. The furniture in the room had been cleared; no doubt there would normally be a large table in the centre surrounded by chairs, but on this occasion there were just two seats, comfortable armchairs which looked somewhat out of place thanks to their classical European design with buttoned leather upholstery. In one sat Andrew, his cool blue eyes fixed on Nora, he was dressed plainly enough, a dark grey Italian suit and a fine linen shirt with a Mao collar. Behind his chair and slightly to the right stood Vasili, a looming figure who may as well have been built out of granite; his hulking figure somehow humanised by the well cut suit he wore. "Good evening, Miss Penvellyn." Andrew stood as she entered and extended his right hand to gesture for her to take a seat in the armchair set opposite his own. He then sat back down and looked at her with a predatory, yet otherwise unreadable expression. "You needn't keep up the facade for my benefit. I am well aware of how taxing it can be to maintain such illusions and this room is Elysium. You need not fear a violation of the Masquerade here. Any uninducted mortal would need to get through three of my security team and then evade Mr Stomalkov here in order for any such breach to occur and I'm sure you will recall just how effective our mutual friend can be at this sort of thing." He reached out and tugged lightly on his trousers, an unnecessary gesture to straighten out creases that weren't there. It was a habitual thing, almost involuntary, like a nervous tick yet not so nervous. Andrew found it best to affect at least one or two displays of human imperfection in order to avoid overtly intimidating those he had to speak with; many people became unnerved when they were subjected to a person without any obvious flaws to display their humanity and so it was necessary to at least pretend so as to avoid misunderstanding or the arousal of suspicion. Most kindred followed the Path of Humanity, but Andrew had shed his like dead weight a long time ago; he followed the Paths of Perfection and Self Control, rarer and viewed with some suspicion by those aware of them. This was perhaps because those who followed these Paths tended towards the psychotic and sociopathic; Andrew of course definitely both by the limited definition of human psychological knowledge, but as with most things his particular personality was more complex than the labels applied might indicate. "You needn't worry for your personal safety while you are here. I ensured that at least three prominent Anarchs saw you enter, as well as one Sabbat spy who is rather bad at her job. Not to mention all the Camarilla associates who were in the restaurant. If I were to harm you then I'd have too many loose end to tie up. Besides, I am not in the habit of murdering my guests." |
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