[d20 Modern] Forgotten Realms of America

Three Weeks Ago...

Through the glass, he could see for miles.

Los Angeles was swathed in the black cloak of night, and the multitude of small lights were mere pinpricks in its cloth. In the darkness below, things crept through the streets and sewers of the city - things unseen by most. Things with sharp teeth and claws, things with a hunger and a need. There always would be hunters, just as there always would be prey.

He moved across the room, bare feet making no impression on the thick carpet. As to the man, little made any lasting impression on him, either. The expensive furniture, the priceless works of art, the breathtaking view of Los Angeles, the silken robe he wore - none were of any true value to him. What he held to be valuable would probably be alien to most people.

He flicked his robes behind him and settled onto a pile of thin pillows. A silver metallic rectangle sat on the floor in front of him, its lines sleek and modern. Casually he lifted the top to reveal a keyboard and screen. Reaching forward, he tapped a single key. The laptop sprang to life and began to cycle through pictures of people and lines of data. Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed - so fast that with each second a dozen faces flashed by. The man took it all in, his eyes staring at the screen unblinking. Until something caught his inner eye.

This one.

The screen stopped on a single picture, and reams of personal data began to fill the screen. The man nodded, and he might have smiled if his lips would allow him to. But he hadn't smiled for... some time. He motioned, and once more the screen began to flicker with images. Young, old, human, elf - it did not matter to him. The quality he sought would not show on their flesh.

This one.

He stared at the picture, and again nodded almost imperceptably. There were many more in this city then he thought, if he had found two so soon. Perhaps he might find all of them here. If not, there were other places where they could be found.

Predator or prey, it made little difference in the dark.

*************************************


May 4th, 2002 4:05 PM

Law Offices of Mills, Dunn and Prasher
Hitchcock Building
1700 Sepulveda Blvd. Suite 1200
Westwood, California

The waiting room is well stocked with the usual assortment of magazines. Time, Entertainment Weekly, Popular Magic, and a few others sit on a glass table surrounded by a dozen comfortable chairs. A glass window dominates one wall, showing a 12th floor view of downtown Westwood. In the distance, the buildings of UCLA can be seen as well. Occasionally, a perky blonde opens a door at the far end and calls a name. Those who answer - yourself included - are what could be considered an odd collection. Elves, dressed in designer business suits; a dwarf wearing a mechanic's uniform for Magic Mufflers (and smelling of grease and car exhaust); a human with a small notepad that he writes in constantly and perhaps obsessively. People come and go, and none of them ever look happy when they leave.

Regardless, each of you are here - waiting for your appointment, at 4:00 PM.

OOC: Please describe yourself - what you're wearing, etc. The others in the waiting room (the elves, dwarf, and human - are here as well). If you can find a picture of your character (modern, of course) feel free to post it!

The Young Elf sitting near one corner of the room looks around at the people gathered in the room, perhaps staring a little too much in curiosity. To anyone who looked back, he merely smiles and looks away. Andrew is not used to people, especially not ones who aren't talking to him about the next project, or an upcoming experiment.
He is an Elf of around average height, maybe slightly smaller, with deep green eyes and badly kept brown hair. It's clean, but it has clearly been shown neglect, and it has obviously been cut roughly purely for function. His skin is pale, much paler than you would expect any normal person to be, probably due to spending years of his life inside buildings shut off from the outside world. The clothes are equally functional, and look like they have been hastily bought in a Department Store Clearance Sale. Grey trousers, white shirt and a dark red tie make the attempt at appearing formal come off badly. The coat he was wearing (for it is now hung over the arm of the chair) is a long brown trenchcoat, which again might look like a bad attempt at seeming presentable, were it not for the fact he bought it because it reminded him of his Labcoat, which doesn't provide much in the way of protection from the elements.
After looking around for some time, he picks up some of the magazines on the table and casually leafs through them, before sighing and putting them back on the table. He then reaches into a small plastic bag resting against the leg of the chair, and retrieves a copy of Nature, and begins to read. On the front cover of the magazine, in red lettering, the words read Nanotechnology: Making Molecular Wiring.

Sitting slouched over in a chair near the door is an athletic-looking human with a shaved head and thick black eyebrows. His deeply tanned skin and distant eyes look like they've seen nearly fourty years of life... even if the man has barely known half that.

He wears a worn, black leather jacket, faded jeans with holes in the knees, and a black sleeveless t-shirt. Not that color is really a factor anymore. These days they're more dirt than fabric. Layer upon layer telling the story of where he's been like rings in a tree trunk.

When he came in, he had a wadded up piece of paper clenched in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He's long since finished the cig, putting it out on the armrest of the chair he plopped into and flicking the butt onto the floor. You wouldn't think he'd be very patient, but there he sits. That distant look in his eyes is a little discomforting. Whether it's the smell, the eyes, or the attitude, most people would just assume steer well clear of him, and that's probably just the way he wants it.

Whisper:

Simon Coville stood in the waiting room, having given up his seat to the last person that entered the crowded room. Leaning his 6’2” human frame against the wall, Simon scanned the waiting room. His blue eyes, hidden by dark sunglasses – even inside, were looking for threats or potential threats – a carry-over from his former employment. Camera, odd bulges in jackets or shirts, nervous eyes or hands, all of these things represented potential problems. The point wasn’t to intently watch them, the point was to be aware of them. What are they wearing, what are they doing, and sometimes even more importantly what are they not doing are all questions that a security specialist should ask.

Impeccably dressed in a well-pressed white shirt, blue suit, and silver and blue tie, well polished shoes and well-groomed hair (short, dark brown hair for those noticing), dark California tan (some would assume from golfing) and black leather briefcase against the wall beside him, Simon looked every bit the attorney awaiting an appointment.

Not one for casual conversation, Simon hadn’t talked to anyone but the receptionist . . . yet. Conversation was a distraction, and distraction could get you killed in his profession. It was also a necessary evil . . . especially if someone wanted a job.

The perky blond (who introduced herself as Tammy) opens the door and looks at a clipboard.

"Mr. Muldoon?"

The dwarven mechanic grunts and stands up. He sets down a magazine and waddles over to the woman, smelling of oil all the way. Tammy smiles and escorts him inside.


Whisper, as you smoked in the waiting room, one of the elves across from you wrinkled his nose in distaste. His eyes flashed to the 'No Smoking' sign next to the front door, and back to yours. It was almost amusing watching his jaw open as you ground out the cigarette. You can feel his gaze as you stare into the far wall. He is youngish for an elf, and trying desperately to grow some type of moustache (perhaps he is not a 'full blooded' elf). This is what he looks like:

Maybe some slapd$*# redneck with a chip on his shoulder would have put up a stink for being stared at, but Whisper didn't care. He wasn't about to spoil a paying opportunity on this pubescent half-breed.

Instead, he'll simply reach into his coat pocket, pull out his pack of sigs, and twirl the box in his hand. All the while he stares at the same wall, watching everything and nothing.

As each of you waits for your turn, the front office door opens. A human woman enters and closes the door quietly behind her. She is dressed casually, wearing a UCLA shirt and blue jeans. Her long black hair is tied in a loose ponytail that reaches almost to her lower back. She looks around briefly and then heads to the receptionists' window, where she signs in. She then finds an empty chair and sinks into it quietly.

The elf she sits next to turns and gives a brief smile. On some it might seem polite or friendly, but the elf seems to almost turn it into a condescending sneer. The woman leans forward and grabs a magazine and begins to leaf through it.

OOC: Tori, you think that the woman is quite nervous - but trying her best to hide it.

The receptionists door opens once more, and Tammy peeks her head out. She adjusts her fashionable glasses and looks down at her clipboard.

"Mr. Colville, Mr. Connal, Ms. De La Cruz, and... Uhh... Mr. Whisper?" The last is more of a question. Tammy looks through the room, a slightly dazed and questioning look on her face.

As each of you rise and step forward, Tammy smiles and scribbles something on her board.

"Right this way, please." Tammy then leads your group into the office proper.

The Law Offices of Mills, Dunn and Prasher are surprisingly empty. There are a few employees moving to and fro, dressed in a casual manner that you don't normally find in a business office. You see a few computers, desks, and chairs - but everything has a temporary look - as if they could be boxed up and moved within a few moments notice. There are no pictures or artwork hanging in the halls, either. Perhaps a bad sign.

Simon, walking through the hall, you pass by an open office where the door is slightly ajar. You only had a brief glance inside, but what you saw almost made you stumble - if you weren't so well trained, that is. Sitting on the desk you saw what looked to be a box of shotgun shells and a long bladed survival knife. Very odd indeed.

Tammy stops your group in front of a closed door. She smiles in a vacant sort of way, and knocks on the door. Once, twice, then three times in a rapid succession. Perhaps a code-knock of some kind. A muffled response comes from the inside, and Tammy dutifully opens the door.

This office is slightly different than the others. It has a more lived-in feel that is unmistakable. A huge map of the world covers one wall, although there is a great deal of odd handwriting that mars it in various places. The other walls have pictures of happy and smiling people - mostly dwarvish. Sitting behind a large mahogany desk, you see the probable reason for it.

Aiden Marshall, the person you have come here to see, is himself a dwarf. He is dressed in an expensive and well-tailored business suit, his hair and beard are perfectly trimmed, and his fingers are covered with a variety of gold and silver rings. He transfers a cigar from his hand to his mouth, and smiles while looking at each of you.

"Welcome, welcome," says Aiden, his voice the rough timbre you expect from dwarves. He turns to the receptionist. "Thank you, Tammy. No interruptions for 20 minutes, sweets." Aiden winks at her as she closes the door.

Aiden jumps off his chair and extends his hand to each of you (which he pumps enthusiastically).

"A pleasure to meet you, a pleasure indeed. Let's get to know each other, shall we? You first, if you don't mind. My dear mother raised me to be quite shy." Aiden sits down and leans back in his chair, puffing away at his cigar. His smile is broad and friendly, although perhaps a bit too... pleased with himself.

Andrew begins to feel a little uncomfortable. The friendly and happy attitude he is experiencing in very different to the matter-of-fact discussions and flat-toned speaking he has been used to for so long (he does not pick up on how pleased the dwarf is, having too little emotional contact to compare it to). But nevertheless, he feels a need to speak.
"Err, umm...Mister Marshall...I believe...I think that you already know who we are, or we would not be here. But...alright. I am Andrew Connal, an elf from the island of Orkney. I am an employee of Electrovisual Incorporated, devloping electronic equipment such as minaturised radios and computers. That's about all I can say. But now...if its alright...I'd like...I'd like to know...why are we here?"
After talking, Andrew now feels very uncomfortable, as he is not used to having so much personal attention, even from one person.