Taskuhecate 2011/02/08(Tue)19:33 No. 280382 ID: c44286
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Cold.

Damp, soaking through clothes.

Grey emptiness, a hard surface beneath him, crushing his lungs. It was hard to breathe, each breath rattling in the air that was still. There was only the cacophony of sounds of city muted by familiarity. Cars, people, footsteps. Distant voices that blurred into a meaningless clamor.

At first, he was aware only of was the pounding in his head and the pain that radiated from his side. Slowly snatches, pieces of memory began to flicker in his mind, behind his eyelids. Brief phrases, wants, dizzying blankness. The left side of his face felt cool and wet—he forced his eyes open. It was dark; the alley where he lay was only lit by the faint glow of two streetlamps, one at the far street-end and the nearest flickering slightly so that he could only just make out his surroundings. Shapeless forms lay between him and the light, casting a harsh relief and he squinted, forcing stiff limbs to motion. He pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the grimy brick wall of the alley; a soft groan escaped him as he put a hand to his head. It came away sticky with a small amount of partially congealed blood.

Dammit. What happened. . .?

I was shot, the bullet glanced. Concussion, probably.

He didn’t know how he knew these things, didn’t ponder it. He let the hand drop, eyes once more drawn to the forms. Looking again, he could just make out ears, whiskers, a hand from a bloodied trench coat. A man, then—dead, most assuredly, as there was no movement in the alley save for his own. Not a threat, then. His eyes wandered, slipping down to the space between himself and the corpse.

A gun and, some feet away, a half-crumpled piece of paper.

As he shifted forward to grab the items, he could feel something in his pants pocket press against his hip, hard and unyielding. He let the thought slip from his mind as he took both items. The gun felt familiar, a comforting weight in his right hand, an old friend. A M1911 Colt. He looked to the note then—it was covered in grim from the ground, splatters of blood, and dirt.

(Read note here.)

Judas. . .? Jacks?

Only one name resonated: Jacks. He knew that name, and knew it well, though he could put nothing behind it.

Still, it bared another question: Who am I? Who is the dead man?

Only one answer came, however. A name, his own from birth and different from the others.

I am Phineas Reid.

Well, good, you suffered concussion but you're on your feet and thinking. This is a good first step.

You have a gun, now you really ought to check what else you got in your pockets. A wallet, perhaps? Maybe you're a cop, some kind of federal agent?

Or something else? We'll do what we can to assist no matter who you are, Phineas.

Mind that your gun may still have live rounds within.

Are you a wizard?

>>280382
Do you know where you are?

I think you might want to try to stand up.

>>280390

Holy shit I loled.

>>280382
You should probably try to go find some medical assistance. And possibly avoid any big hospitol where they might have to report gunshot wounds to the cops.

>>280391
what did I miss

I'm guessing it's too late to buy Jesus.

Taskuhecate 2011/02/09(Wed)15:16 No. 280569 ID: c44286
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The gun was carefully slipped into the shoulder holster that rested just inside his suit jacket, found by some sort of muscle memory. It was disconcerting to know such a thing so easily. Phineas swallowed, reaching out a hand to the rough bricks at his side, pressing against it to lever himself up, grabbing the hat that lay beside him and placing it on his head as he did—it fit perfectly. His side ached, probably only from the fall, but a more pressing issue was slight disorientation—and of course the lack of memory. It was strange but he could remember all basic things, could even remember bits of his childhood and so on, but recent events seemed to have faded away. Despite his efforts, the alley itself defined identification. Simply a grimy alleyway between two tall brick buildings. A large city then. What’s more, they bore likeness to the kinds of buildings one would find nearer an industrial area, and the smell of dirty water and smog supported such a thought. The nearness of voices and crowds, however, indicated that he was at the very least on the edge of the populace.

This is certainly not. . .a normal place, or situation. His eyes were drawn to the streetlight at the alley’s end. A sign. If I could only see a street sign, perhaps. . .

However, walking proved to be somewhat more difficult; he managed a few feet before he stopped, leaning against the wall again, world tilting. He could already feel the dizziness leaving him and that he could make it to at least a hospital, but another thought stopped him. Though finding medical aid seemed to be the best course of action for the moment, that would possibly mean having to pay and he had no idea whether or not he could do so, and beyond that. . . He had woken in an alley, with a gun and a dead man laying not ten paces from him. Perhaps it was best if police were not involved.

Only police and criminals end up in these situations, he mused, wondering all the more what he had been doing in the alley, who he was beyond his name.

His hand slipped into his pockets in hopes that something would be explained. He found no wallet but from his left pocket he pulled out a key and a wad of bills. It was old, rusted, and the small disk of metal plate with a room number and motel name etched into it seemed cheaply made. Morton’s Inn was a rather seedy motel, if one were to judge by the key itself.

From his right pocket he drew out a small flick-knife and a long, thin line of wire with a small wooden handle at each end—a garrote. Most assuredly not weapons of the average fuzz. Phineas’ ears folded back.

Probably criminal, then.

The knowledge was somewhat unsettling, but he shook it off. There was still the curiosity of the names, the note, and now the motel. He made another attempt, then, at starting down the alley, skirting the corpse, to find a sign. It stood across the street, down some ways, but he could just manage to make it out in the light of the streetlamps. Adams St. It held little meaning, but from looking in both directions along it, he could see that going right would lead him further into the industrial area, and going left would take him towards a more downtown area, where he could perhaps find help, or at least the room that belonged to the key.

I'm not an expert on these things but I'm willing to venture a guess that you, sir, are a hired killer. One would hope that the classier sort, at the very least, not some filthy street thug.
You need to find a place to patch up, grab a bite to eat, sleep some. By morning you will be either dead or a bit healthier. Perhaps this motel room offers such a sanctuary, and the cash should get you some medical supplies and food.
That said, heading downtown seems to be the better choice, as long as cops aren't out looking for you.

Well we might want to go check corpse in the alleyway, see if he's a cop. There's a big difference between a whatever-you-are killing a cop and killing another thug. If it's a dead cop... well, that means you're gonna need to anyway. Regardless, we might find clues about why he/you were here and such.

>>280548

you missed amazing wizardry.

>>280571
Yes. Also get your fingerprints all over that body in the process.

Taskuhecate 2011/02/10(Thu)19:13 No. 280821 ID: c44286
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Though the city called, the corpse still lay a few feet behind and something drew Phineas back to it, ignoring the dull throbbing ache at his temple. Rolling the body over with a toe seemed a natural enough thing to do and he did so, eyes narrowed slightly and hands in his pockets for the moment. The man’s face stirred only the vaguest feelings of familiarity, not nearly as much as the gun had. They had perhaps not been friends, then, but there was at least a faint thread of something resembling pity. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties at the most, his face youthful enough—stocky, but not heavy, his orange fur already matted with blood and street-dirt in the same manner as his somewhat threadbare clothing. He didn’t seem rich, or at all like a cop, and was likely some sort of hired muscle.

Even hired muscle have cash, thought Phineas, crouching down, elbows on his knees. And he certainly doesn’t need it anymore.

He worked carefully, threading his thin fingers into the man’s interior coat pocket and coming away with a few receipts for a diner called May’s, and a carton of Luckies. A smirk twitched at his lips as he pulled the carton free; he tapped out a cigarette, putting it between his lips, and transferring the carton to his free hand before searching the pants pockets as well to pull out matches and what was probably an apartment key. The matches were the kind given out at businesses and he glanced over it briefly. A cabaret, Lucky Sweet, the cover all done up with seductive reds and blacks in some intricate pattern he didn’t bother to examine further. There were still over half the matches in the small matchbook and he broke one off as he stood up, lighting the match as he did.

He cupped his hand around the small flame as he brought it up to the end of the cigarette, puffing lightly for it to catch before carelessly dropping the match to the ground. He took a slow drag, looking to the corpse one last time. “Thanks for the deck,” he said, making a lazy two-fingered salute as he started towards the mouth of the alley.

It had occurred to him that the city held far more possibilities than the industrial area and so he started left down the street. The lights were bright, only worsening the pounding of his head, but he gave little outward sign. The further down the street he went, the more populated it became with high hats and dolls. It was if the bright lights would ward off the undesirables of society. The thought brought out a sudden surge of disdain and envy, twisted tightly together, in Phineas despite that his own suit was easily as expensive as the most well-dressed owl.

He shook his head at the thought. Focus. Where the hell do I go now?

>>280821
Find the joint you got those matches from. Maybe you'll remember something.

I doubt that he'll be remembering anything by going to the place THE OTHER GUY got the matches from. Still, it's good to know that we didn't find evidence of him being a cop. Then again, i this kind of game where people are pitting killer against killer, you never know which way the arrow of blame will fly. Another question was, was he sent out after you, or you after him? Is/Was there something else you should be doing but have forgotten? I think your best chance of answers lies in trying to reboot your memory, or at the very least get as many clues as you can. And the best way for that is to start close to home, or, rather, AT HOME. See if you can remember the way to Morton's Inn. If you can't... well best try to figure out another way to get there.

(Also I want to take the dead guy home and make him all better, then feed him fresh tuna and milk to make him a fat comfy cat :3 )

>>280821
Phineas, head for either Lucky Sweet or Mays. We should get back to Morton’s as quickly as possible, but I doubt we have an address. The matches or the receipts should list an address for their respective businesses, so we can stumble there and try and find some leads. Someone did this to us, and we should damn well find out who.

>>280821
You need some rest and time to get your bearings. Try to find a cab and get to your motel. There might be clues in your room and even if there isn't it's probably a good idea to rest a bit and recover from your bruises. Once we see what's in the motelroom we can figure out what to do tomorrow.

Taskuhecate 2011/02/14(Mon)19:37 No. 281634 ID: c44286
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The night was damp and cool even outside of the alley, in the hustle of the streets. Phineas wasn’t entirely sure which way he trudged, only that he was nearing downtown with every step and that whatever answers he needed would most likely lie in that direction. The neon signs were light, painting the damp sidewalks in reds and blues, making the scattered and grimy puddles almost attractive—like colored film over a gas light. He largely ignored the chattering couples as they wandered down the streets, laughing and slipping into whatever destination they had chosen for the night.

It wasn’t until he was on his third cigarette that he found what he was searching for. The brightly lit sign of the Lucky Sweet leaned, somewhat tilted out into the street. Surely the manager could say the reason was so it would easily be read, but in truth, thought Phineas as he leaned against the adjacent lamppost, it was probably because he was either lazy or broke. Or perhaps both at once. The door stood guarded by a bouncer—a tough, burly looking man in a suit that seemed far too sophisticated for him. Somehow, Phineas knew he wouldn’t be stopped, and simply walked past him, pushing open the door to the cabaret and stepping in to take in the joint.

It was hardly a classy joint, though it did seem to try. Velvet curtains hung against the walls, and on the stage, in vibrant crimson with a sea of shadowed white tables before them. Colored lights illuminated the stage, devoid of dancers for the moment, and small candles and cigarette embers lit the tables. Still, even a shabby hole would still have a bathroom to check for injuries before he started to look for information. Thankfully, it wasn’t difficult to find, and it seemed that the injury was no more than a minor cut just above his temple. He simply washed it clean and brushed some hair over to hide it. He was much more concerned about finding clues.

I’ll have to watch my back, he thought, eyes narrowed as he looked at himself in the mirror. The stiff could have friends around.

He lingered a few moments longer, checking his appearance, brushing off the grit from his suit, before stepping back out into the main building—

—And nearly into someone. The woman let out a startled gasp, shying back a step in surprise at Phineas’s sudden appearance.

When she recovered enough to look at the man who had stepped out in front of her she frowned, an ear folding back almost warily. “Phin! Back so soon?” she asked; she then lowered her voice, leaning in slightly. “I mean, you already got Jacks’s money. . .”

"'Back so soon,' you say? Seems that I must have lost my sense of time somewhere. Among other things."

Sounds like you might be a debt collector for someone.

>>281634
So, Jack owed you money for some reason. Could be that was the wad of cash you have.

So either he could have owed you money for a task or you could be involved in organised crime and that's why someone tried to waste you.

In either case you should probably not let them know you have lost your memory until your relationship to these people becomes clear. Otherwise you don't have any clues on how they might react.

But you could tell her that someone tried to jump you and you decided to get back here to make sure lost any potential trailing trouble.

>>282886
Well, I mean, you do have money from some source on you.

>>282886
Well you probably have the money. Although it's a bit hard to be sure. Ask her how much it was this time, if she wonders why you're asking then tell her you just want to make sure.

Hmm, the Jack mentioned earlier is probably the Jack that was also mentioned on the paper. Has to be some way to get that blood off without damaging the writing underneath.

Anyway, you should probably ask her to call up a cab to take you to your motel. If you're lucky you might have keept a journal or something like that, should refresh your memory.

>>282886
Tell her not to worry about that. You'll handle it. Ask if anyone else knew about your chat with Thomas. Anyone left just after you did?

Taskuhecate 2011/02/20(Sun)15:07 No. 282910 ID: c44286
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Had an editing error in the original update, reuploaded.
>>282893 was the first reply to the original.
Sorry!


There was a scrambling moment for Phineas in which he took in the curvy cat in front of him—obviously more than a server, judging by costume and looks. She knew him, that much was certain, though how much she knew about him was another story entirely. Best not to let on anything. He leaned back with his hands lazily in his pockets, forcing a faint smirk, and said the first thing he could think of. “Back so soon, ya say? Must have lost track of time, doll.”

The woman quirked a brow but snorted in a rather petite way. “Didn’t you leave with Thomas?” she asked, chin slightly tilted down, towards her chest, almost as though she were wary of him. “Or did you come back just to have another of your chats then?” The last bit was said with a slight disdain that had Phineas wondering just what she was talking about.

Thomas? Must be that stiff in the alley, he realized with a slight cringe. We knew each other, but who stabbed who? And what the hell does she mean—‘chats’. . .

“Nah, but someone tried to take me for a ride. They got Thomas.” The lie slipped easily off his tongue and he didn’t stop to analyze it.

The woman paled noticeably, though she tried to hide it, tried to act unruffled. “They better not have gotten Jacks’s money,” she muttered. “The cathouse doesn’t have any more to make up for it.”

I'm... at a loss, really. Dealing with someone who knows you when you've got amnesia is only really helpful if you can trust the person, and we don't know if we can trust her. Ideally you'd find some close friend or romantic partner to clue you in on everything you're missing, but things are rarely that simple. At least, your lot in life isn't. I still kinda think that heading 'home' and seeing what clues you can find and what things spark to life in your memory would be the best bet. Who knows, you might even find an address book and find some actual close friends to help kickstart your memory. Then again, you do seem to be grasping some things quite naturally just by interacting with this chick... Something like muscle-memory for the mind.

>>282994
I agree, best bet would be trying to find out wherever 'home' is or at least some regular stomping grounds, which given the girl's reaction these aren't.

>come back just to have another of your chats then

Although, perhaps you do have 'other' buisness here?

Also, the fact that she commented on money means you may have been in the protection racket, or at least had some reason to be collecting.

Maybe you should inspect her for clues. Like, maybe her underwear is full of clues.

Actually if you could keep her talking you might learn more useful things. Ask if you can get her a drink?

>>425948
Last post before yours: 2011/02/21
Looks like you're a bit late there.

Actually, they're not. ^^ I'm going to be updating this again, so suggestions are quite welcome!

>>425971
Oh, cool. Time to catch up, then.

Taskuhecate 2012/06/26(Tue)05:17 No. 426235 ID: c44286
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He frowned lightly at that, going over the information and trying to piece it with what he knew. Jacks’s money? Must be the roll of cash in my pocket, then. Perhaps I’m in the protection racket? Maybe I even work for this. . .Jacks? Maybe. He shook his head with a sigh, trying to cast away the thoughts for the moment. He turned his attention back to the woman again; he needed information, and it seemed as though she was as good as any place to acquire it from.

“After all that excitement, I feel a drink would be good,” he muttered, flashing a very brief smile her way. “Care to join me?”

The suggestion only seemed to cause her to pale further and attracted the attention of one of the other women who happened to be passing by. She set an arm on her pale coworker’s arm with a frown. “Are you all right, Ruth?”

So her name is Ruth.

Ruth almost jumped at the touch, but forced a wavering smile. “I’m fine, Annie,” she said, pulling away carefully; Annie shot Phineas a rather disapproving look, but nodded and continued on her way. Ruth turned back to him then, nodded. “All right. Fine. Go grab yourself a seat and I’ll be around with drinks in a few minutes.” She didn’t allow any time for a response before she was gone, weaving through the crowd, presumably towards a bar that Phineas knew existed, despite the Volstead Act that passed five years ago.

There was a sudden ache in Phineas’s skull at that and he gritted his teeth. He cast his gaze about for a chair to sit in and found one quite near. He settled into it – something in him not really allowing him to slump in some undignified manner – and braced his head in his hands. It was strange, this ache that seemed to flare up whenever he touched some subject his mind seemed to want to remain forgotten. He shook his head.

It would be another five minutes before Ruth returned, just as nervous as before, but this time with a pair of drinks in her paws. She slid into the seat, almost reluctantly, and set the glasses down, one in front of herself and one in front of Phineas; she didn’t look up. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Phineas considered this for a moment, rubbing his uninjured temple lightly. “Perhaps. How much money did I pick up this time? I just wanna make sure it’s all there.”

“I’m not sure – probably around three hundred.”

The wad of cash had certainly looked to be about that amount and he nodded, thinking for a moment before asking, “Did. . .anyone else know about our visit, Ruth? Anyone leave just after us?”

She thought for a moment. “Carlyle knew, but it’s his money. No one else, really.” She frowned then, ears folding back slightly. “And Knox left a few minutes after you did, I think. Not sure if he went the same way you did – and really, he’s harmless, Phin. Couldn’t have been him.”

Knox? The name didn’t sound familiar, at least. He was getting tired now and this didn’t seem to be helping as much as he’d hoped. It seemed as though the Lucky Sweet was a dead end, at least for now. He was running out of options – May’s Diner, Morton Inn, or Thomas’s apartment.

Or, he supposed, he could try and find out more about this Knox, even if Ruth seemed to think he wasn’t involved.

Hit on her, dead-end or no.

Try shooting the shit with her for a few more minutes, see if you can come up with any solid leads. Failing that, ask if you can talk with Jacks.

Hmm.

Try Thomas's apartment?