ph_logs | [OPEN] You always dreamed that there'd more to life than all the lies

[OPEN] You always dreamed that there'd more to life than all the lies

Who: CT (

liesdontfindyou) & you!
What: Catch-All for CT; work, investigation, and just hanging out
When: July
Where: Various places, in headers
Warnings: Cult discussion, death discussion, etc.

1. A place you'd find where you weren't all alone [around town, O&I]

CT is back to work immediately after her return to life. To sit idle would only invite her to dwell on it and that's not something she wants to do at all. Not that routine patrol shifts do much to occupy her mind, but just the act of working helps her to focus her mind on things besides cults and sacrifices and experiences thereof.

She's relatively easy to find around town whilst out on patrol, whether because you just want a chat or because you're having some kind of issue that she might be able to help with.

Most days, after she's done with work, she stops by the O&I for a drink and a meal that she doesn't have to make herself. That and maybe the bustle of real living people is good for her in controlled doses. She's generally sitting alone, with plenty of space to join her if asked, or may occasionally have to ask if a seat is free herself.

2. But now you look around at what you've learned and face the truth [library, enforcers office, other]

When she's not working on actual assigned duties, CT's still working on her own investigative angles. Following some initial discussions with other attendees of the cult gathering, she has multiple little bits and pieces she plans to follow-up on with or without help. These include: verifying the reported deaths of each cult member via official records at the office; cross referencing missing persons reports to see if it's possible to find out who they replaced in the past; searching through old newspapers and photos and the like among library records to narrow down the year it took place; and so on.

Those who attended the cult gathering may find themselves invited or sought out for further discussion or to help her with what she's doing. Other Enforcers may also find her seeking them out for discussion or to get properly acquainted for the sake of future endeavours.

3. That you may never find a home [northwest hollow residental]

Even in CT's downtime, it's hard to say she's relaxing. Pieces of her old routine adapt well enough to the town and that old routine was built around keeping herself as busy as possible during long days travelling or holed up in bases. So, for example, she can be found going on a daily jog to keep herself fit, weaving through the streets of Northwest Hollow on a route she figured out for herself.

Around her home at 517 Meadowlark Lane, she can also be heard or seen practising knife throwing with a makeshift target attached to a tree in her yard. Her gate is cracked open, because she prefers the easy exit and is very aware of her surroundings—anyone who peeks in will soon find her looking back at them, holding a throwing knife between her fingers. "You can watch. Promise I'm only aiming at the tree."

Sometimes she's even sat on the porch, appreciating once again living under real sunlight whilst she reads through a book checked out from the library—all, invariably, some kind of non-fiction about the town or world as a whole. Research.

4. Wildcard

Hit me or find me in the discord to plot. Happy to write custom starters and the like.

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In between his own work, Gaeta starts compiling lists of potential resources. He can't dive in too deep while he's on duty, but he makes a point of stopping by CT's table on his breaks to pass along anything that looks helpful. He casts a wide net -- maybe a little too wide: whole volumes of newspaper clippings, starting the year Mayor Larkin died and working backward; encyclopedias of local legends and gods; even a couple magic-related books, before it becomes apparent the open stacks won't have anything about massive, murderous cult rituals to a chaos god. But every time CT finds a new clue that might narrow down the search, he swaps out the books he's given her for ones that (hopefully) might be more useful.

As soon as his shift ends, he drops into the seat next to hers with a tiny groan.

"Any luck?"

"More than you'd think in some ways, less than I'd like in others."

She'd arrived with a bag holding a notebook full of notes taken from reports she could get her hands on at the station, as well as a few well-sealed containers of food that have gone predictably ignored as she actually works. Throughout the day the pile of resources has shifted and moved, bit by bit, until it's settled in its current form.

The notebook is laid open on the table and various bits of scrap paper are floating around the rest of the space, makeshift labelling for what information various books and newspapers actually have that's of use. It's all organised according to a system that only exists in her head and she's really, really missing her PC but needs must.

She taps her pen against a page, "So, obviously even before the barrier went up things around here were dangerous. Which means there are countless disappearances and deaths, many of which never made the papers. Now at least we have Larkin's death to use as a point of reference, or finding out even as much as I have would've been much harder. Even then I found multiple groups that disappeared at the same time before 16:44. But, I think I've narrowed it down."

She taps a written-out copy of a police report about the unresolved disappearance of 6 people that she's paired with a newspaper report about one of them, which has a few personal details from their family about the night they didn't come back. "I think this is them. 16:43."

Propping his cane against the table, Gaeta tugs the reports a few inches closer to get a better look. He sighs out a curse under his breath as he skims the newspaper clipping.

"It doesn't feel great, putting names to anybody who died that brutally," he admits. "But it's a good lead." Better than good, really. He rubs his forehead. "Do you think they were picked at random, or did you find any prior links between them and members of the cult?"

"I haven't found anything in public or police records that give much indication either way, unfortunately. They seem like otherwise unremarkable people, at least as far as public perception goes. But given how well the cult seems to have kept their activities secret..." she nods her head to the side, "I doubt it was entirely random. They had to pick people who wouldn't talk in the time between being invited and attending, right?"

"Makes sense." He gives the police report another once-over. "Especially if their cover story was selecting new inductees to the cult. Find someone with the right temperament, say you have a secret to share, drop enough hints about the nature of Nyarlathotep to keep them interested, then make it clear that if they blab they'll never learn more..."

It'd be almost too easy to lure in the curious. (Case in point: the two people seated at this library table.)

"I just wonder how much of a foundation of trust they built with the inductees before they killed them all. If they were neighbors, friends, whatever."

"My first instinct is to assume neighbours at best. Too personal a connection to the victims would be risky, but, then, every name they raised as an option for their 'conduit' was connected to at least one of them. Though it sounded like that was in some way necessary for it to work, so minimising the risks elsewhere would make sense. I think."

Quantifying the behaviour of the people in a situation is her least favourite part of a problem like this. You can make reasonable predictions, maybe even get most of them right, but all it takes is one wildcard to throw it all off.

"Multiple members were either public figures or some way connected to figures that are still present today. Mayor Larkin, obviously. Lucy Calloway, Nora Winterbottom, Brahm Aberdeen... they're dead, but if they were at all as decently well known in the community as Gil, Agnes and Yorick when they were alive? That kind of communal presence might have been all they needed to establish just enough trust to pull this off."

Gaeta hums in agreement, thoughtful. "As long as they targeted people who could be swayed by that level of communal clout, anyway. Probably no true loners or outsiders -- which you think would be easier targets, since they wouldn't be missed."

Briefly, he drums his fingers on the table, then sighs. He's getting too in his head about the victims. Time to take a step back and look at the bigger picture.

"Anyway. 16:43. That's two whole years before the barrier went up, right? So the 'conduit' had to be active for a while before it could be... used, I guess." His mouth twists a little at that; gods, he hates saying used to reference a human being.

"That's where the dangers of living on Marrow Isle come in handy, I suppose. Easier to make people write even multiple disappearances off as just another routine tragedy. I've seen similar used to people's advantage before."

Freelancer was very good at covering their tracks. When they killed Mass, they didn't just leave zir to die, they sent out a 'rescue' operation whose ship then got 'shot down'. They'd had just enough real losses on missions before that no one batted an eye.

"Multiple years before the barrier and before Linette actually disappeared. It definitely seems like she had to wear that locket they put at the centre of that whole ritual for a while before its effects took. Since she was two of their's daughter," her face wrinkles uncomfortably, her nails catching at the scar across her palm, "getting her to put it on and keep it on would've been unfortunately easy."

Gaeta's jaw tightens. "Yeah," he says, low. "When Mrs. Brenning pulled a gun on us, I asked if that's what she had in mind for Linette, too. A quick death. I almost wish she'd said yes." He exhales a sharp breath and says, more to himself than CT, "Gods, their own daughter."

Trying to rein his emotions back in, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"...You've seen similar?" he thinks to ask after a moment. "Were you a detective before this?"

CT's nails dig a little harder into the scar tissue before she forces her hand to uncurl, flexing her fingers. It's not as if horrible parents are a novelty to her, but there's just something about the specifics that's uniquely sickening.

"...not a detective. More like an analyst. Whatever intelligence we brought in, I worked on to see where it led us and what it could tell us about our enemies' resources, motives, forces, so on."

Trying to hide her intelligence ties is clearly not working and would only get more complicated as she slips back into similar work, anyway.

He catches the movement of her hand, and for the first time, really notices the scar running across her palm. He doesn't ask. He's missing a leg and hates talking about why unless absolutely necessary; of course he's not going to ask a near-stranger about an old injury with no preamble.

But, quietly, he files it away. Something about the scar, and CT's past as an analyst -- well. It's just good to stay apprised.

"You sure you don't want to ditch the enforcers and join the library team?" he says instead, lightly. "You'd make a hell of a researcher. Even if it's all paper."

"Why thank you. But, see, the thing about the Enforcers is they have the best access to half the kinds of information I think this is going to need. Combine both enforcer and public records and we get a much fuller picture of things than just one or the other." Then, with a shrug, "Plus the other resources don't hurt."

It's not a motivation for joining the enforcers that she's admitted in so many words to people like Cerrit. Though, the way he seems to look right through her sometimes, she's sure he already knows. It's not that she won't do her job, not that she won't try to use it to help others where she can, but ultimately she's in it for the access.

Gaeta huffs a tiny laugh. "Fair enough," he allows. "You can't beat what's in a police filing cabinet if you're investigating a string of murders."

A beat.

Completely deadpan, he adds, "Plus, I hear you get a free horse."

"Oh, god," CT cracks into a rare, actual laugh. "That poor thing's barely left the station's stables since she was assigned to me. I don't know how to ride a horse. I've never even known anyone who knows how to ride a horse. I guess some of the principles can't be that different than a Mongoose but..."

Briefly forgetting to clarify that 'Mongoose' is the name of the military's ATV/motorcycle.

"Wait," and now Gaeta's sputtering, too, "wait, please tell me you don't mean a mongoose like a..."

He tries to gesture out the shape of the animal.

"Oh, no, no that's—" she covers her mouth to try and hold back another laugh and shakes her head, "—god, can you imagine? No, the UNSC just really likes naming its vehicles after animals. Mongoose, Pelican, Scorpion, Warthog..."

She gestures in a circular motion—so on, so on.

"Mongoose is the standard ATV. I— really don't know the logic behind the name choice, actually."

Still laughing, Gaeta manages, "Honestly, I should have assumed that, we have Vipers and Raptors as our small craft, but -- mongoose -- "

Okay, Gaeta, pull it together, stop picturing the town enforcers riding on teeny tiny mongooses instead of horses. (Mongeese?) One more giggle escapes before he manages to smother the rest.

With a completely straight face and delivery, "I mean. They'd probably be pretty fast and agile. Though maybe not when carrying a person."

Gaeta clears his throat.

"There's only one solution," he says, endeavoring to stay just as solemn. He folds both hands atop the table. "Twenty trained mongeese per person."

CT holds it together for the length of one sage nod, before cracking anew into helpless laughter that the hand flying to her mouth doesn't do much to muffle. Her nose even crinkles up in a way it hasn't much in a long time.

It's— a little bittersweet, not that it shows. She can't help but be thrown back to stupid conversations in the mess hall, people debating silly questions like whether one of the smaller aliens or a particularly angry Chihuahua would win in a fight. It's a good memory. It's also a painful one.

But she still laughs.

Gaeta's right there alongside her, face buried in his hands as he laughs so hard he aches a little bit.

There wasn't a lot of that go around in the last four years of his life. (Even less for Gaeta, honestly, reserved as he's always been.) You caught it while you could, trying to find some absurd spark in the gloom and latching on with all your might. Sometimes it felt like the dumber the joke, the harder and longer the laughter would go -- because what else are you supposed to laugh at, really?

Apparently: trained mongeese.

"Okay," he wheezes after what feels like forever, "okay okay okay, research, right, we have to -- " Weakly, he waves a hand toward the books, still snickering.

"Right, right—" there's a silly little snrk sound as she reins it in, clearing her throat and yet still unable to fully take the smile off her face. "Serious, important research."

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[OPEN] You always dreamed that there'd more to life than all the lies

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