This RP is rated R/M for: Violence, Gore, Horror, Occult and Satanic references, Language, Sexual Situations, Nudity, Racial Terminology, and all things that fall therein
OOC
It is always darkest and coldest just before dawn, and through that darkness and that gnawing cold, Connor ran. So far north, the weather was as much a challenge as the terrain. Solomon Island as more wilderness than not, with King's Harbor on the eastern shore, Rook’s Harbor on the north, and private property scattered throughout the rest. Thick Atlantic fog drew over the island like a frigid blanket. Connor charged through the fog, breathing heavy, but steady. A backpack strapped tight and heavily weighted to simulate the burden of his duty-gear. Despite the weather, Connor’s skin glistened with sweat as he made the return trek of his five mile trek. Connor knew that habit was dangerous, a ritual in its own right, but the crisp and clean air did Connor good… and the Coffee Cauldron was open by the time he made it back to King's Harbor. Their dark roast was good enough to kill for and strong enough to float an egg.
Connor trotted to a stop on rocky overlook, gulping down the salty Maine air as he saw the lights of King’s Harbor wink on, one by one. His breath came out as a thin mist, mingling with the twisting tendrils of the ocean, the rising sun casting a blood-red nimbus over the silk-veil clouds below. Grandmother Watching Bear always said such a sunrise was a bad omen, but in Connor’s line of work, every morning looked the same. He snatched his Condor cap off his head, shaking out his cropped mane of brown-blond hair to cool before putting his hat back in place. A shrill shriek tore through the silent dawn on the Blue Mountain. Connor’s gaze sharply snapped to the source, his right hand snapping to the small of his back, the squat grip of his glock nestling into his calloused palm. A pale barn owl leered down at Connor, darkly appraising him with eyes that flared like embers in the burgeoning light of the dawn. Another of Grandma Watching Bear’s omens. Releasing the textured grip of his pistol, Connor pursed his lips, sucking his teeth at the unblinking creature. It shrieked solemnly, and with the whisper of wings on the wind, the ghostly creature took flight, vanishing into the woolen blanket covering the harbor town, only the steeple of the old colonial chapel piercing the roiling marine layer. Connor let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, passing his lips in a fog that dragged the warmth from his lips as it dissipated. Standing still, even for the brief moment on the bald, boulder-strewn outlook, the Maine chill gnawed at the exposed flesh of his fingers, calves, neck, and face. Sweat dragged the warmth from him, leaving pinprick motes of frigid cold behind his numbing ears. Puffing into the cup of his hands, Connor resumed his jog, descending the jagged slope with sure and swift footing.
By the time Connor was back in town, the fog had burned off as much as it would bother, the glaring white ball of the sun blooming in a prismatic display while casting long shadows along Solomon Road as it lead into town. Following the road into Castle Avenue, Connor hung right when he came to Howard Road. Considered one of the more historical stretches of King’s Harbor, it was protected from any possible McDonalds or Starbucks incursions. Though, it was a small town on an island that was mostly wilderness, so they had been spared so far. Cauldron Coffee’s sign was old fashioned, hand-carved and hand-painted wood, heavily lacquered against the gnawing of sea air and gently squeaking on rusted hinges. The sign, a cauldron with a happy black cat in a witch’s hat lounging in a bubbling dark roast, was so overt that it was covert. Like a few businesses on the island, the owners were from the preternatural community. He strode through the threshold, the painted-glass door decorated with stenciled spiders and ghosts of a cartoonish suggestion. A silvery bell jingled overhead. So early, the only other patron was their mascot, a sleek black cat who, upon seeing a familiar face, came up Connor and leaned into his shin with its shoulder.
“Mornin’ to you too, Lily,” said Connor, his tone husky with a faint Kentucky drawl. He leaned down to scratch the lithe tuxedo behind the ears. As if summoned by the bell, a woman of middling age - though possessing something of an ageless quality - with autumn-red hair and brilliant green eyes burst through the storeroom door.
“Ach! If it isn’t dashing Ranger Rick! Welcome, m’boy! The usual brew?” She had an unmistakable Edinburgh tilt to her smokey songbird voice, feathery lashes batting. Connor rose, smiling in his lopsided way.
“Hello, Rowina,” Connor greeted in kind, saddling up to the teller’s counter, complete with an olde fashioned register and hammered copper espresso artifices that one would expect to find in a ritzy hotel. As always, the Cauldron smelled like fresh-ground arabica and nutmeg, with the faintest hint of lavender, sage, and myrrh beneath.
“You know me so well. Please and thank you, ma’am,” Connor said, fishing a few rumpled bills from his wallet. His phone buzzed, deafeningly loud in the homey cafe. Drawing it out from his hoodie pocket, he saw the caller ID flash across the screen.
Tuskface. Clicking his tongue, Connor swept right to answer, placing the cold screen to his ear.
“What is it, Claude?” Connor said, voice and tone like an anvil.
“Good morning to you as well, Connor, “ said Claude in his velvety, deliberate baritone. A voice like molasses, that one. “Right to it, then. Mister Sullivan received an alarming communique first thing this morning. Straight from O-5. He’s called for all hands on deck.” Connor pinched his nose at the news. O-5 was shorthand for the uppity-ups of the Division’s higher echelons, typically those with unimpeded access to… everything. Whenever an order trickled down directly from them, it was never a good sign. Dire-goddamn-omens, indeed.
“I’ll be there in 10. Make sure Nate has his breakfast.” Connor said.
“I’m the OPSAT director for the world’s premier supernat-”
“You’re a secretary with a particular set of skills, Claude. Make him his goddamn scrambled eggs or I’ll scramble yours.”
There was a long pause.
“Salt and pepper?” Claude asked, his voice considerably softer.
“Please and thank you. See you soon,” Connor replied, then hung up. “Rowina, I’m gonna need about three catering cartons of the good stuff and one of your hot chocolate.”
“Oh! Of course, darlin’. Company meetin’?” Rowina cooed from the steam-belching machines.
“Yeah, that’s a word for it.”
Half a mile later, down King’s Court and across King’s Bridge to the north, Connor came to a stop before the military-grade gate that marked the outermost perimeter of the Avalon National Park’s administrative buildings. A young man with dark hair sat at the gatehouse, bundled in layers and sipping a steaming cup. Seeing Connor approach, he stepped out from the little concrete hut. Those who knew what to look for could see it in the way the young man stood: he wasn’t any park ranger.
“Security checkpoint, sir. Your credentials, please.” Connor, who had four cardboard jugs of piping hot breakfast beverage braced against his chin, shot a baleful glance at the man.
“You new here? Just open the gate, I’m late for a meeting,” Connor said gruffly, and the young fellow crossed his arms. Rolling his eyes, Connor rummaged in his pocket, pulling out his fist and flashing the finger to the shining crown of the Beacon Lighthouse.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” The guard asked, unamused, but his head turned to the voice in his ear. “What? You serious? Oh… y-yes, ma’am.” The guard returned to the gatehouse, and with a buzz, the razor-crowned gate slowly slid open. Connor smirked. He only knew one person who could so swiftly make a man’s spine slip out his ass.
“Thanks, mom,” Connor shouted in passing, tossing a lazy salute to the lighthouse as he stepped through the opening gate. “Have a good one, Steve,” he called over his shoulder to the gatehouse.
Ascending the gradual hill, Connor passed the familiar alpine lodgings that formed a semi-circle around the large circular courtyard, their MH-60R Seahawk parked neatly atop the spray-painted “H” neatly in the middle. Even if the rotors were running, there was more than enough room for people to drive and park their various duty vehicles. The occasional duty officer waved or nodded to Connor, all of them in their park ranger guise, just like Steve. Cutting directly to the main house and the great stone tower overlooking the sea, Connor saw the sardonic grin and golden hair of Sigrid waiting on the porch, cradling her Saber sniper rifle like a baby, her coffee tin dangling on one nimble finger.
“Mom?” She asked with a crooking eyebrow. Connor shrugged with a grin,
“I call it how I see it. Stop nagging me about my veggies and we can talk about a different nickname.” Connor ascended the wooden stairs, Sigrid opening the front door for him.
“Maybe once you eat your vegetables like a grown man, instead of a gun-toting baby.” Sigrid retorted.
“Listen here, you yankees steam everything, and it’s offense to everything good and natural.”
“And frying is so much better?” Sigrid tilted her head, talking and walking alongside Connor as they entered the lighthouse proper. Stepping into the metal cage of the elevator, Sigrid entered the code. Lurching faintly, the concrete beneath them slid away with a low rumble, and the elevator descended down into the heart of the Beacon complex.
“It is, but we’ll agree to disagree. Any word on the O-5 call?” Connor asked, looking sidelong to the valkyrie. Pursing her lips, her fingers drummed on the stock of her rifle.
“Not much. Sully was still getting the details when I hopped up to the nest. All I know is it has to do with another Division task force.” Sigrid’s cavalier way to discussing business details was as admirable as it was terrifying. Then again, she’d been in the fight since before the United States was a thing. Still, being called in about another task force was never a good sign.
“Well… double-fuck…” Connor sighed.
“Quite so, and swear jar.” Sigrid said with a wink as the elevator lurched to a stop. The grate opened in time with a steel blast door befitting a presidential bunker, revealing a utilitarian, yet oddly homey intersection of halls.
“You’re fuckin’ joking, right?” Connor said with a chuckle, but Sigrid already stepped out and hung right, vanishing around a corner.
“Swear jar!” Sigrid called, and Connor pursed his lips into as tight a line as they could go. Connor would bet that Claude narced to Sigrid. The orc might be too big for a trash can or a locker, but a dumpster would fit him just fine. With a sigh, Connor exited the lift and followed after Sigrid, weaving through the labyrinth of corridors, smiling at the occasional chalk drawing their protectorate members were wont to draw. It was stringently against regulation, but few among their ranks were brave enough to invoke the ire of the Valkyries en masse. Besides, Doctor Millar’s psyche evaluations insisted that the carefree chalk-graffiti was good for morale. To the left side of the wide corridor, the wall beveled in to a pair of old and heavy oaken doors, opened wide to show a conference room. Rectangular in shape, and relatively large, the back wall was lined with empty tables, already holding donuts, bagels, bacon, and scrambled eggs. Another table, baroque in make and hewn of mahogany, sat neatly in the middle, the winged-sword emblem of the Valkyries inset in white ash. Smirking at that table, Connor moved to the back and set down the thermoses of coffee and cocoa. His cup was already waiting; an enameled metal mug with the words “Probably Whiskey” stenciled on one side, “World’s OkayestBossDad” on the other, corrected with permanent marker by one member of their group, though Connor had no idea who, to this day. Connor filled his mug, piled a plate of protein and cholesterol, and found his seat. He brushed his hand soberly over the scored wood. It was custom for every member of the Valkyries to make their mark, and Connor found his; a simple C+A, something he had tacked on when he made it through Division preliminaries.
Connor shrugged out of his backpack, stretching and rolling his thick neck atop his shoulders as the Valkyries filed in. The last to enter was Henry Sullivan, the pursed pensiveness of his brow spreading to his forehead as he glared down at the tablet in his hands over a pair of spectacles. He already nursed a cup of coffee, and he had a bushel of rolled papers under one arm. They smelled of fresh printer ink. He looked haggard and bedraggled, and much like Connor, wasn’t really dressed for a proper briefing. Henry was in matching pajamas and robe, proudly wearing his East Texas University Alumni tee underneath.
“Mornin’ Henry,” Connor said over the rim of his mug, to which Henry scoffed.
“If only it was, Hoss. It’s been a shit sandwich since before the sun came up.” Henry mumbled, dumping the bundle of scrolls and papers haphazardly, without taking his eyes from the tablet. Connor paused, looking to Sigrid, who had helped herself to coffee and had taken her own seat.
“No swear jar for him?”
“He outranks me... and pays my salary,” Sigrid smirked in that way she did, cat-like and all dimples.
“Okay, that’s fair…” Connor muttered into his mug, sucking down a hefty chug of the brew.
“Hoss,” Henry called, and Connor looked his way. So far as Connor knew, Henry only called him that. “Open up a couple more chairs. The hellions are joining us for this one.” Connor stopped mid-bite, quirking an eyebrow to Henry as if he started speaking in Tongues.
“Fuckin’ run that by me again?” Connor leaned forward in his seat.
“Swear ja-”
“Eat me, Tinkerbell. Henry, you have a stroke or somethin’? They can’t even drive. Hell, they don’t even have all their grown-up hair yet!” Connor spat, a shower of half-chewed egg flying across the table. Henry sighed, leaning back in his chair and slowly removing his spectacles. Knobby fingers, broken too many times, rubbed his grey eyes and pinched his nose.
“I know, Hoss, but this is from the top. O-5 called for them by name. I’ve already sent Claude to fetch them from their rooms.” Henry leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he met Connor’s eyes. He truly looked… sorry.
“When we get everyone mustered, I’ll brief y’all quick and that’ll be it. This is the hand we’re dealt, Hoss. I’m sorry…” Henry lowered his eyes, and resumed to the work on his tablet. Grinding his teeth, Connor scrubbed his face and sat back.
This was turning into a “Probably Whiskey” morning.
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