Chapter 1
The Lord of Broken Song
---~~~---
Silent art deco eyes watched the family, the mother and young child sitting together and listening to the radio while the father read in peace. Arkham had always been a safer place, the harshness of the depression fell softer, the decays of society less lingering, even at night the home took a quiet cheer lent by the table lamp at the father's elbow. The radio chirped merrily, piping out the beginning of the theme to "The Transcredible Adventures of Terren Smith"- much to the delight of the child.
Announcer: After diving into the lair of the ape people in search of the martian princess Zahuustra the great Terren Smith finds himself confronted by the terrible greystriped leader of these vicious beasts!
Terren: Unhand that fair maiden ye mongrel beasts!
Zahuustra: *Delicate scream*
The mother gasped in mock surprise as the ape people hooted and gnashed their terrible fangs, making the child sit forwards in rapt attention as Terren began to light one of his shoes on fire to ward the beasts away. The father however had read the same line of his book five times now, trying to remember exactly where he'd heard that tune before... It nagged at him and wouldn't leave him alone. He hadn't been able to get it out of his head for days, but he could almost remember what it was now, if he could just think for a moment...
Apeman Chief: Hrngh! Pritty gurrl ours, alwahys!
Announcer: Missing a shoe and faced with the immense apeman chief Terren smith stands alone, the only force on any world capable of saving the beautiful princess from certain peril!
Zahuustra: *Delicate scream*
Terren: You are mistaken monkey-man! You've forgotten one important thing!
Apeman Chief: Urh?
The commercial for Duz came on then, leaving Terren smith locking stares with the hideous ape and completely wrecking the father's train of thought with its cheery jingle. Growling inaudibly in his throat the man white-knuckled the book in his hands, he'd almost had it! If only he could remember what he almost had... The commercial's tune mocked him, playing a few notes of the broken melody before hiding the rest from him. Damn the radio, and damn this song.
Announcer: Today we have a visitor - a newcomer to radio - right, Mrs. Alcott?
Woman: Right! My job's at home! FOUR children! But I wanted to tell EVERYBODY a story!
Announcer: Go on...
Woman: A while ago I heard that DUZ guarantees a beautiful, white, clean wash EVERY TIME!
Announcer: Yes-...?
Woman: Well, I'd been trying those 'short-cut' washing products and WORRYING about the results.
Announcer: But no 'short-cut" product gives you the wonderfully clean, safe kind of wash that DUZ GUARANTEES!
Woman: I know now!
Announcer: NEW Extra Duty DUZ GUARANTEES to get out more grimy, graying dirt from your clothes than any 'short-cut' product. And DUZ GUARANTEES to do it with greater safety to colors. It's a DOUBLE GUARANTEE that only DUZ of all leading washday package soaps or suds can make!
The father closed his eyes, breathing in and out in with forceful concentration. He had to stop thinking about this, but how could you not think about something? The child laughed as his mother tickled him gently from the side, the silvery peals fitting in almost perfectly to the tune that would not leave his mind. Almost. Everything seemed to almost fit, the soft sounds from outside, the radio, christ above, even his breathing almost sounded out the notes that would unlock the melody... He thought about leaving, perhaps laying down for a while, but he knew sleep would not come to him, it barely had since he heard the song... He couldn't even remember where he'd heard the damn thing.
Terren: What you've forgotten ape is the power of the human mind!
Apeman Chief: Powur?
Terren: Yes ape, power! Look there's a hideous flaming spider behind you!
Zahuustra: *Delicate scream*
Announcer: Even as the Apeman chief turned to face the unseen threat Terran Smith darted by, using the time bought by his ruse to grab the princess Zahuustra in his arms and run down the corridor, leaving the Apeman chief howling with stupid rage behind him!
They looked so happy together the man thought as he looked at his wife and child, but how could they be happy when the song wouldn't end? How could they laugh and be content like THIS?! They must know.. They were laughing at him, they knew the song and wouldn't tell him... His hands bent the cover of the book back on itself as his hands clenched with rage. How dare they? After all he had done, after all he did! How dare they? Miserable sagging whore and that runt of a parasite...
Zahuustra: *Delicate Scream*
Terren: You're safe now, I've got you! All we need to do now is flee down the uncharted tunnels and through the inky blackness of the voidstar abyss!
Announcer: Terren charged forwards into the unknown, each step bringing him closer and closer to the greatest adventure of hi-
The program ended rather abruptly the first time the man smashed the radio down into his wife's head, spitting sparks and flickers of sound the second and third times before dying away into the tenth. Each blow, each scream, it fit the song. Ecstasy filled him as the song finally began to unravel in his mind, every nerve in his body alight with pleasure as he murdered the one he swore to love. Art Deco eyes watched in bloodstained silence, watching the man sing softly over his wife's body. Watching as looked around for his now absent child. Watching as he smashed his reading lamp into a pool of flame on the floor.
They watched as he left the burning house, still smiling and singing soft soft words that no human ear was meant to hear, and that no lips were meant to touch.
---~~~---
Briar R. Charleson had, until recently, been taking a dirtnap in one of his texts. It had taken several rather insistent jabs from a dark haired man of his own approximate age to wake him up enough to allow him give his bastard of a friend a foul tempered growl somewhat reminiscent of bear, albeit a slightly gangly and bespectacled bear.
"Sleep is for the dead, not for people behind on their grind." The friend said, continuing to poke Briar in the side.
"Poke me with that again Robert and I'm putting it through your head... What time is it?" Briar said as he began to wipe drool off the corner of his book, blinking occasionally in a vain attempt to make the world less fuzzy.
Robert grins
"Don't know, just woke up. Thought you could use it too." Briar continued to grumble, his head was pounding and he was having a difficulty remember what he'd just been studying... It had something to do with something...
Robert shook his head at Briar and got up, heading over to the dorm room counter to grab a pair of bottles and a small box out from under. He returns with two bottles of Coca-Cola and a pair of pills, offering the pills and one of the cokes to Briar.
Briar raised an eyebrow.
"I look that bad?" "I'd get you a mirror, but I'm not in the mood for seven years bad luck right now." Briar grunted and took the pills and the drink without further complaint, the painkillers were for the headaches, but he always got the headaches without the painkillers... Vicious cycle that. It took a couple more minutes for Briar to feel human enough to check his watch. 1AM, if he'd had the presence of mind to keep it wound, and it hadn't decided to stick, and if Robert hadn't decided to mess with it just to screw with his head.
"Time?" Robert asked expectantly.
"Too damn early." Briar said, resting his head back on his arms.
"One in the morning." There was a long moment of pause before Robert spoke.
"That can't be right, it's starting to get light outside..." Briar picked his head of his arms and twisted around to face the window, his watch had probably just wound down and... That light had a lot of flicker to it.
Somewhat cautiously Briar got up and approached the window, pulling back the soft curtains and taking a look at the wonderful view of the flaming building that he was currently residing in. This had to be a dream. Any moment now Charlemagne is going to come flying in and beat him to death with his philosophy textbook while screeching at him to remember that he was mortal.
Robert was more awake and was able to muster a slightly more coherent curse at the sight of the flames licking up the window.
The pair of students stood stunned for a moment, half dressed and rather surprised looking as it dawns on them that they are in the fourth story of a burning building.
Location: Owned room, Miskatonic Dormitory, Fourth Floor.
Status Affects: Painkillers (10) Health: 40/40
Sanity: 70/70
Head: Reading glasses (No spots)
Body: Black Houseshirt (No spots)
Legs: Black pants (4 Small)
Feet: Brown Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Coca-Cola -open-
R. Hand: Empty
Other Worn items:
Wristwatch
Carried Weight: 1/35
Available Spots: 4 Small
Inv:
Pocket lint
One exit out into the main hall, windows facing north.
Robert Denver (Close Friend) is here.
There is a pair of beds here.
The building is on fire.
Loose Items,
Painkillers (9 doses, needs a small spot)
College Textbook (Needs a medium spot, one pound)
Pen x3 (needs V.Small spot)
Notebooks (Needs Medium spot)
Closed Containers,
Closet
---~~~---
Professor
Clayton M. Brooks was, as usual, working late at the university. He had student papers to look over and comment, a couple of recommendations to fill out and a set of class discrepancies that needed correcting in addition to the personal work he wanted to make a little headway on. His position as the youngest professor on staff (by a slim margin of seven months) meant that he got the job of picking up most of the paperwork that the professors with seniority passed off.
He shook his head ruefully as he finished looking over one set of lecture notes, some things never changed. Of course some things did, he wasn't doing the work for bully's and fools anymore, just men who wanted to do something other than bury themselves in paper for a few hours each day. Considering the tedium of some of this mindless paperwork he couldn't say he blamed them.
Brooks yawned and stretched his legs out underneath him, it felt like he'd been sitting still for far too long.... Glancing up at the old wall clock he was surprised that it still merely showed a quarter to ten. Strange, he could have sworn that's what it said when he finished the last batch of papers.
Wait a moment, hadn't George knocked that thing off when he'd started ranting about that bloody flower garden of his? Brows knit tight Clayton stood, carefully shaking the pins and needles from his legs as he ambled over to the coatrack, withdrawing his pocket watch from his greatcoat. Its smaller hands read 1AM, a time much more in keeping with how his buttocks felt after their stay in the chair.
"Christ, Helen..." He prayed softly as he threw his greatcoat back on and began stuffing his effects back into the pockets of his coat. Helen would probably forgive him for being late back from the college again... probably.
Within five minutes he was out of the faculty offices, heading out along the green and trying to figure out how best to apologize to his wife. It is a testament to his concentration on the future that he looked twice at the dorms before realizing they were on fire.
He stopped there, standing in the middle of the stone path and watching dumbstruck as fire began to eat its way up the student housing.
At least now he had an excellent reason to be late home.
Location: Miskatonic Grounds, outside library.
Status Affects: None
Health: 50/50
Sanity: 50/50
Head: Hair (No spots)
Body: Dress shirt (1 V.Small), Greatcoat (2 medium, 4 small, 4 V.Small, 2 pounds)
Legs: Brown slacks (2 Small)
Feet: Brown Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Empty
R. Hand: Empty
Other Worn items:
Wedding Band
Carried Weight: 2/35
Available Spots: 3 Very Small, 5 Small, 2 medium, both hands
Inv:
Silver Pocket Watch (V.Small Coat pocket)
Pen (V.Small Dress shirt pocket)
Wallet (Small, slacks pocket, contains $100 in small bills)
The Miskatonic library is immediately behind you, you can see the flaming Dorms from here.
---~~~---
David A. Hadjem was working a case, he would have loved to say this was usual, but the way business in Arkham he counted it as a blessing to have work. Even work that involved twisting a few arms till they snapped. Case theory was simple enough, man was married. Man has affair with dockside 'entertainer', entertainer robs him blind, shoots him, and dumps him in the river. Cops of course never made it that far, they left it at man dead in river, probably from the docks. Lazy, pragmatic in their desire not to mix with the criminal groups that thrived there, but lazy.
Hadjem had gotten himself involved at the wife's request, she just wanted her husband's murderer brought to justice. Hadjem snorted slightly, he hadn’t yet told her is theory or shown her any of the proof behind it... Learning that his theory hinged on the little known fact that her husband had been prone to visit the naughty ladies of the night might make her slightly disinclined to pay his fee.
Still, he needed to solve the case before he could worry about not getting paid, and his best lead to do that was here at the Dancing Saint. A gentleman’s club just behind the docks, respectable looking place with more than one hidden way in mouseholed into the buildings around it, and more than a few fine and upstanding looking people using them. David didn't need the discrete entrance though, it wasn't exactly as though he had a reputation or a wife to lose by action or inaction, but then again it might be nice not to be seen coming in... The owner of the place was reputedly both eccentric and well tied in to the Trade family; eccentric, powerful, and criminal were not traits that wise men crossed. Not that David had a reputation for wisdom.
Hadjem hunched his shoulders up as a northbound breeze ruffled his trenchcoat, it took away the damp chill air of the river and replaced it with a slightly warmer draft of air, tainted with the smell of the Dancing saint and a hint of fire... Neither were good smells but it wasn't David's place to whinge about the malodorous properties of the place, it was his place to solve a murder.
Well, as long as it wasn't his own.
Location: Outside the Dancing Saint.
Status Affects: None
Health: Base 50/50
Sanity: Base 45/45
Head: Fedora (No spots)
Body: Dress shirt (1 V.Small), Trenchcoat (2 medium, 2 small), Concealed Shoulder holster (1 small)
Legs: Black Suspenders (2 Small)
Feet: Black Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Empty
R. Hand: Empty
Other Worn items:
None
Carried Weight: 3/45
Available Spots: 1 V.Small, 2 Medium, both hands
Inv:
Pocket Watch (V.Small pants pocket)
Pen (V.Small coat pocket)
notepad (V.Small coat pocket)
Wallet (Small, pants pocket, contains $50 in small bills)
Colt detective special (6/6, Small, Shoulder holster, 2 pounds)
Loose .38 special rounds (13, small, coat pocket)
You're outside the Dancing Saint, you can see several discrete entrances to use. There is no visible exterior security.
---~~~---
Patric Stefan Williams was an honest man, an honest man hired for an honest job by dishonest people with thoroughly dishonorable intentions. A fact that was beginning to show all too sharply after the Dancing Saint's owner had sent for him. Patric didn't know why he'd been pulled off the floor, as far as he knew he'd done his job to the best of his ability.
Patric knocked on the door of the office twice, waiting for the a reply before coming in. The boss had a reputation for... quicksilver moods and odder habits. Williams didn't know the truth of that, he hadn't ever met the man before now.
"In." Commanded a surprisingly dramatic voice from the other side of the door.
Patric entered immediately, taking note of the well furnished office, the tragedian masked man behind the desk, and dead woman on the floor. Leaning forwards in mild shock he realized he knew the woman, she was a dancer and more for the club, a little crazy but not a bad lass.
"Ah, you've noticed your job." The masked figure said softly from behind the desk.
"Job?" Patric inquired hesitantly.
The man's fingers curled up like spiders for a moment before straightening slowly.
"Never. Ever. Speak in front of me again with that voice." The masked man's hand knotted again and a breath passed before they flattened out once more.
"You're new, and I will forgive this infraction... just this once." Patric was beginning to regret taking this job, with the depression it had seemed like any port in a storm... but this... Mindful of his host's insanity Patric simply nodded slowly, not making a sound.
"Good. Now, your job." The boss said, his fingers tapping out an even tempo against his lacquered desk.
"Little siren here got too bold, paid the price. You're going to dump her." His fingers stop moving abruptly.
"Any questions?" Patric stood silent, hardly breathing as the question hung in the air.
"Ah, yes, you're quite right. Directions." His fingers began moving in their restless motion again.
"Angelo knows where the dump is, now stop blathering and get out." His fingers hung again and the Tragedy masked man began laughing uproariously.
"Yes, of course you may take the body... Why would even need to ask?" Patric worked not to back his out the door. The boss was dead crazy, 'quicksilver moods and odd habits' didn't even begin to cover this.
Location: Inside Tragedy's office, back rooms of the Dancing saint.
Status Affects: None
Health: 75/75
Sanity: 55/55
Head: Hair (No spots)
Body: Cheap Suit (2 small, 1 V.Small)
Legs: Tan Slacks (2 Small)
Feet: Black Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Empty
R. Hand: Empty
Other Worn items:
Wristwatch
Carried Weight: 2/55
Available Spots:
Inv:
Brass Knuckles (V.Small, Slacks pocket, 1 pound)
Wallet (Small, Slacks pocket, $50)
One exit immediately behind you.
Tragedy (Employer,
) is here.
There is a dead body here
Loose Items,Unknown
Closed Containers,Multiple, Unknown
---~~~---
Green= Serious
Purple= BD
Blue= Ahra
Yellow= Micelus
Author
Topic: City of Madness; Arkham. Ch. 1: The Lord of Broken Song (Read 30313 times)