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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 4795895" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Wild Hunt: Part 14 – Apocalypse Remix</strong></p><p></p><p>It was clear that not fitting in at Club Apocalypse was a liability. Jim-Bean’s drink had been spiked for precisely that reason.</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean recovered by the time they had purchased new clothes. It was past midnight when they returned to the club. </p><p></p><p>Hammer bought himself a new tailored suit, all black. It was modern and stylish, without looking too much like a Fed. Archive wore a magical practitioner’s garb, complete with robe and wand. He looked like a cross between a grungy street preacher and a deluded Harry Potter fan. Jim-Bean wore what could only be described as a pirate costume of darkest red. </p><p></p><p>“The manager of Club Apocalypse,” said Archive, “is Robert Hubert. He’s the guy in those pictures. His background is hazy. He graduated from Bard in 1960. That’s it. There’s nothing else in Blacknet on him. Hubert’s an enigma.”</p><p></p><p>They passed through the front door of the Club as before, with Jim-Bean “persuading” them to see his way. </p><p></p><p>“The killer’s got to be Hubert,” said Jim-Bean when they were inside the main dance floor. “The owner of this place hasn’t aged, he’s been around everybody famous who has died, and the drug overdose happened here. We should just raid the place.”</p><p></p><p>“I want to talk to him first,” said Hammer. “But we’ll have to get past the bodyguards.”</p><p></p><p>“The real bodyguards,” said Jim-Bean. “Not the pretty boys at the front door.”</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean was back to his old self, his protomatter body having processed the PCP out of his system after he gulped several glasses of water. He marched up to the private area of the club, the Green Bar. Two bouncers stood before him.</p><p></p><p>“Federal agents,” he said, flashing his badge. “I want to speak with the owner.”</p><p></p><p>“He’s not speaking with anyone he doesn’t want to speak to.” The bouncers shook their heads. “Your badge is no good here.”</p><p></p><p>“Fine,” said Jim-Bean. He squinted at them. “Let me be a little more persuasive. Why don’t you let us in?”</p><p></p><p>The bodyguard smirked. “That might work at the door, but it won’t work here.”</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean looked puzzled for a moment. Then with an elaborate sigh, he reached for his Glock. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard—“</p><p></p><p>There was a cold, clammy grip on his shoulder, as if a coat rack had accidentally caught hold of Jim-Bean’s jacket. When he turned, the man in the photos was standing there with one hand on his arm. Only it didn’t feel like a hand, more like a dead tree branch, completely lifeless and cold.</p><p></p><p>It was Hubert. He had prominent, high cheekbones, a narrow chin, a long face, and a heavy brow. His features were distinctly Aryan, as was his tousled blond hair. He looked twenty-five, but his skin had a somewhat plastic complexion to it.</p><p></p><p>“Gentlemen, that’s not necessary. I can introduce you to the owner.”</p><p></p><p>Hammer relaxed slightly, moving his hands away from his shoulder holsters. “You mean you’re not the owner?”</p><p></p><p>“My name is Robert Hubert, but you can call me Belial.” He flashed a humorless, plastic smile that didn’t show in his eyes. “Follow me please.” </p><p></p><p>He waved them on. The bodyguards parted to allow the agents access.</p><p></p><p>Through the double doors was the Green Bar, a large, finely-decorated art-décor bar that was packed ear-to-ear with celebrities and their entourages. It had a small dance floor, a quarter the size of the main one. Belial led them past another set of double doors, which opened onto a small bar with several tables, finely but sparsely decorated, most near-empty. As soon as the doors closed, the rhythmic beats of the dance floor were instantly silenced.</p><p></p><p>An exquisitely coifed and tanned older man dressed in a white suit sat at a table in the center of the room. He sprang up as soon as he saw the agents.</p><p></p><p>“Gentlemen! Come in, come in! It’s so good to make an acquaintance of Agent Blade!”</p><p></p><p>Hammer flinched. How did he know Blade?</p><p></p><p>“Oh, that’s right, he died.” He looked sad for the briefest of moments. “But where are my manners? I’m Stephen Alzis, the owner of Club Apocalypse. Please, have a seat, drinks are on the house.”</p><p></p><p>He gestured to chairs at the table. There were precisely three empty chairs.</p><p></p><p>The agents slid into the seats.</p><p></p><p>“We’re after the SoHo Killer,” said Hammer, staring sideways at Belial. </p><p></p><p>“Oh, right, right, the incident. And you…” Alzis’ eyes widened. “Oh you don’t think…” he snickered. “You don’t think Belial here is the killer?” He laughed, shaking his head. “You Majestic-12 boys can really be quite foolish, you know that?”</p><p></p><p>Archive leaned forward. “How do you know about Majestic—“ </p><p></p><p>Hammer glared daggers at Archive. Archive clamped his mouth shut.</p><p></p><p>Alzis seemed amused. “I know everything that goes on in my Club, and quite a bit more that goes beyond it. It seems we’ve got a new designer drug on the streets, a drug I didn’t authorize. It’s called Coca Loco. At first I thought it was the Tong Shugoran, but frankly not even the Tcho-Tcho are that stupid. And they can be pretty stupid.” He patted Jim-Bean on the shoulder. “Am I right?”</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean blinked. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but he didn’t like it. “Uh…so you know who the killer is?”</p><p></p><p>Alzis smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with wholesale murder. But I do object to the massacre of my clients. I mean, I have a reputation to uphold, and these people pay good money for my protection.” Alzis seemed indignant. </p><p></p><p>“What does this have to do with the killer?” asked Archive.</p><p></p><p>“Do you have a dog, Mr. Grange?” </p><p></p><p>Hammer stared at Alzis. “No.”</p><p></p><p>“Good. I don’t like dogs. Can’t stand them. Always barking, tracking things down, eating the souls of people who look too far back in time. Terrible things, dogs. You asked me if I know who the killer is, but maybe you should be asking yourself. You know who the killer is. You met him. You saw him walk through a gate. And every time someone walks through a gate, they come out somewhere else. It just might not be where or when or where they expected.”</p><p></p><p>“Morton,” said Archive. “Dr. James Morton, the guy who walked through the gate at Centurion Computing Systems’ headquarters.”</p><p></p><p>“Bingo,” said Alzis with a smile. “The same scientist hired by Walter Morrow to stop the Tindalosians from killing him. Looks like that didn’t work out for him though, did it? I’d check with his ex-wife, Melissa Morrow.”</p><p></p><p>“Why are you helping us?” asked Hammer.</p><p></p><p>“Consider it a little exchange of favors,” said Alzis. </p><p></p><p>“Your help comes with a price,” Hammer said flatly.</p><p></p><p>“Everything comes with a price,” said Alzis. “Everything.” He stood up. “Except the drinks. They’re on me. I’d move quickly if I were you, Morton won’t wait much longer. Have a good night gentlemen and good luck in your hunt.”</p><p></p><p>And with that, Alzis stood up and walked out.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 4795895, member: 3285"] [b]Wild Hunt: Part 14 – Apocalypse Remix[/b] It was clear that not fitting in at Club Apocalypse was a liability. Jim-Bean’s drink had been spiked for precisely that reason. Jim-Bean recovered by the time they had purchased new clothes. It was past midnight when they returned to the club. Hammer bought himself a new tailored suit, all black. It was modern and stylish, without looking too much like a Fed. Archive wore a magical practitioner’s garb, complete with robe and wand. He looked like a cross between a grungy street preacher and a deluded Harry Potter fan. Jim-Bean wore what could only be described as a pirate costume of darkest red. “The manager of Club Apocalypse,” said Archive, “is Robert Hubert. He’s the guy in those pictures. His background is hazy. He graduated from Bard in 1960. That’s it. There’s nothing else in Blacknet on him. Hubert’s an enigma.” They passed through the front door of the Club as before, with Jim-Bean “persuading” them to see his way. “The killer’s got to be Hubert,” said Jim-Bean when they were inside the main dance floor. “The owner of this place hasn’t aged, he’s been around everybody famous who has died, and the drug overdose happened here. We should just raid the place.” “I want to talk to him first,” said Hammer. “But we’ll have to get past the bodyguards.” “The real bodyguards,” said Jim-Bean. “Not the pretty boys at the front door.” Jim-Bean was back to his old self, his protomatter body having processed the PCP out of his system after he gulped several glasses of water. He marched up to the private area of the club, the Green Bar. Two bouncers stood before him. “Federal agents,” he said, flashing his badge. “I want to speak with the owner.” “He’s not speaking with anyone he doesn’t want to speak to.” The bouncers shook their heads. “Your badge is no good here.” “Fine,” said Jim-Bean. He squinted at them. “Let me be a little more persuasive. Why don’t you let us in?” The bodyguard smirked. “That might work at the door, but it won’t work here.” Jim-Bean looked puzzled for a moment. Then with an elaborate sigh, he reached for his Glock. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard—“ There was a cold, clammy grip on his shoulder, as if a coat rack had accidentally caught hold of Jim-Bean’s jacket. When he turned, the man in the photos was standing there with one hand on his arm. Only it didn’t feel like a hand, more like a dead tree branch, completely lifeless and cold. It was Hubert. He had prominent, high cheekbones, a narrow chin, a long face, and a heavy brow. His features were distinctly Aryan, as was his tousled blond hair. He looked twenty-five, but his skin had a somewhat plastic complexion to it. “Gentlemen, that’s not necessary. I can introduce you to the owner.” Hammer relaxed slightly, moving his hands away from his shoulder holsters. “You mean you’re not the owner?” “My name is Robert Hubert, but you can call me Belial.” He flashed a humorless, plastic smile that didn’t show in his eyes. “Follow me please.” He waved them on. The bodyguards parted to allow the agents access. Through the double doors was the Green Bar, a large, finely-decorated art-décor bar that was packed ear-to-ear with celebrities and their entourages. It had a small dance floor, a quarter the size of the main one. Belial led them past another set of double doors, which opened onto a small bar with several tables, finely but sparsely decorated, most near-empty. As soon as the doors closed, the rhythmic beats of the dance floor were instantly silenced. An exquisitely coifed and tanned older man dressed in a white suit sat at a table in the center of the room. He sprang up as soon as he saw the agents. “Gentlemen! Come in, come in! It’s so good to make an acquaintance of Agent Blade!” Hammer flinched. How did he know Blade? “Oh, that’s right, he died.” He looked sad for the briefest of moments. “But where are my manners? I’m Stephen Alzis, the owner of Club Apocalypse. Please, have a seat, drinks are on the house.” He gestured to chairs at the table. There were precisely three empty chairs. The agents slid into the seats. “We’re after the SoHo Killer,” said Hammer, staring sideways at Belial. “Oh, right, right, the incident. And you…” Alzis’ eyes widened. “Oh you don’t think…” he snickered. “You don’t think Belial here is the killer?” He laughed, shaking his head. “You Majestic-12 boys can really be quite foolish, you know that?” Archive leaned forward. “How do you know about Majestic—“ Hammer glared daggers at Archive. Archive clamped his mouth shut. Alzis seemed amused. “I know everything that goes on in my Club, and quite a bit more that goes beyond it. It seems we’ve got a new designer drug on the streets, a drug I didn’t authorize. It’s called Coca Loco. At first I thought it was the Tong Shugoran, but frankly not even the Tcho-Tcho are that stupid. And they can be pretty stupid.” He patted Jim-Bean on the shoulder. “Am I right?” Jim-Bean blinked. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but he didn’t like it. “Uh…so you know who the killer is?” Alzis smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with wholesale murder. But I do object to the massacre of my clients. I mean, I have a reputation to uphold, and these people pay good money for my protection.” Alzis seemed indignant. “What does this have to do with the killer?” asked Archive. “Do you have a dog, Mr. Grange?” Hammer stared at Alzis. “No.” “Good. I don’t like dogs. Can’t stand them. Always barking, tracking things down, eating the souls of people who look too far back in time. Terrible things, dogs. You asked me if I know who the killer is, but maybe you should be asking yourself. You know who the killer is. You met him. You saw him walk through a gate. And every time someone walks through a gate, they come out somewhere else. It just might not be where or when or where they expected.” “Morton,” said Archive. “Dr. James Morton, the guy who walked through the gate at Centurion Computing Systems’ headquarters.” “Bingo,” said Alzis with a smile. “The same scientist hired by Walter Morrow to stop the Tindalosians from killing him. Looks like that didn’t work out for him though, did it? I’d check with his ex-wife, Melissa Morrow.” “Why are you helping us?” asked Hammer. “Consider it a little exchange of favors,” said Alzis. “Your help comes with a price,” Hammer said flatly. “Everything comes with a price,” said Alzis. “Everything.” He stood up. “Except the drinks. They’re on me. I’d move quickly if I were you, Morton won’t wait much longer. Have a good night gentlemen and good luck in your hunt.” And with that, Alzis stood up and walked out. [/QUOTE]
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