Thomas Nightingale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
signare) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-08-11 10:51 am
signare) wrote in undergrounds2016-08-11 10:51 am
OPEN
A. Brunch
It isn't that Nightingale doesn't enjoy the cooking provided for him at home. It's rather that if he doesn't get out of the Folly and away from it at least once a week he's afraid he might turn into one of Molly's sausages. His life has stayed relatively untouched for decades now, and as such, every now and again he needs a little variety to keep himself from going mad.
Even if such variety is simply taking himself out for his own meals every now and again. Not that that's quite how he had described things to Molly herself. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, after all. (Who knows what she might make for him to eat the next time if he did.)
And so he sits, in a modest but homey little cafe, with a plate of Eggs Benedict in front of him and a coffee to the side. Looking as much at home as he can, sitting there in a three-piece suit and tie, complete with handmade, hand-shined leather shoes. Beside him a silver-topped gentleman's cane leans as inconspicuously as it can against the corner of the table while to his other side lays the newspaper as Nightingale casually flips through it. He's looking for any sign of supernatural foul play written between the lines of the local news. A method that, until the newspaper itself goes out of print, has always proved itself worth the effort.
He pays no attention to the looks he is receiving from the next table over. He is certain if they want something from him then they can jolly well ask.
B. Office Hours - Redbright Institute
Nightingale's office is just about as impeccable as one might expect it to be. The desk is clean and neat, the bookshelves full but organized within an inch of their lives. The room is small and tight with the desk and the shelves but he's managed to squeeze in another chair for the odd student meeting that might occur. For the most part however Nightingale's extracurricular tutoring sessions happen outside of both the classroom and his office. Sometimes in a laboratory. Sometimes in a private area of the gymnasium. Sometimes out on the streets of London itself. (Sometimes if they're simply discussing theory, Nightingale's rather partial to doing so over coffee or lunch. He'll even pay, if the student is keen enough.)
Despite that, he makes himself available for office hours when he's got nothing scheduled, however. For the odd drop-in that might happen regardless. And for the fact that, given that his mobile is currently switched off where it sits in lapel pocket of his jacket, it's probably the easiest way for any of his colleagues to get a hold of him either. And don't even bother thinking of emailing. Aside from the mobile, the most technologically advanced equipment in Nightingale's office is possibly the ballpoint pen he's using to grade.
C. At the Scene of the Crime
To say that the current situation with the vampires represented a problem with the Redbright Institute's Outreach Group is rather an understatement. It is their mission to protect the city against supernatural threat, after all, not to mention keep the nature of the supernatural secret from the rest of the world as they knew it. Such things however are rather difficult when the vampires have essentially granted themselves free run of the city.
Nightingale stands silent by the scene of the crime. Or perhaps the scene of the dump. He can't be certain as of yet. He moves to crouch, carefully keeping his cream colored coat out of the worst of it and balancing his silver-topped cane across his knees as bends closer. Narrowing his eyes as he takes in the violence of the kill.
"Reprehensible," he mutters to himself.
It isn't that Nightingale doesn't enjoy the cooking provided for him at home. It's rather that if he doesn't get out of the Folly and away from it at least once a week he's afraid he might turn into one of Molly's sausages. His life has stayed relatively untouched for decades now, and as such, every now and again he needs a little variety to keep himself from going mad.
Even if such variety is simply taking himself out for his own meals every now and again. Not that that's quite how he had described things to Molly herself. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, after all. (Who knows what she might make for him to eat the next time if he did.)
And so he sits, in a modest but homey little cafe, with a plate of Eggs Benedict in front of him and a coffee to the side. Looking as much at home as he can, sitting there in a three-piece suit and tie, complete with handmade, hand-shined leather shoes. Beside him a silver-topped gentleman's cane leans as inconspicuously as it can against the corner of the table while to his other side lays the newspaper as Nightingale casually flips through it. He's looking for any sign of supernatural foul play written between the lines of the local news. A method that, until the newspaper itself goes out of print, has always proved itself worth the effort.
He pays no attention to the looks he is receiving from the next table over. He is certain if they want something from him then they can jolly well ask.
B. Office Hours - Redbright Institute
Nightingale's office is just about as impeccable as one might expect it to be. The desk is clean and neat, the bookshelves full but organized within an inch of their lives. The room is small and tight with the desk and the shelves but he's managed to squeeze in another chair for the odd student meeting that might occur. For the most part however Nightingale's extracurricular tutoring sessions happen outside of both the classroom and his office. Sometimes in a laboratory. Sometimes in a private area of the gymnasium. Sometimes out on the streets of London itself. (Sometimes if they're simply discussing theory, Nightingale's rather partial to doing so over coffee or lunch. He'll even pay, if the student is keen enough.)
Despite that, he makes himself available for office hours when he's got nothing scheduled, however. For the odd drop-in that might happen regardless. And for the fact that, given that his mobile is currently switched off where it sits in lapel pocket of his jacket, it's probably the easiest way for any of his colleagues to get a hold of him either. And don't even bother thinking of emailing. Aside from the mobile, the most technologically advanced equipment in Nightingale's office is possibly the ballpoint pen he's using to grade.
C. At the Scene of the Crime
To say that the current situation with the vampires represented a problem with the Redbright Institute's Outreach Group is rather an understatement. It is their mission to protect the city against supernatural threat, after all, not to mention keep the nature of the supernatural secret from the rest of the world as they knew it. Such things however are rather difficult when the vampires have essentially granted themselves free run of the city.
Nightingale stands silent by the scene of the crime. Or perhaps the scene of the dump. He can't be certain as of yet. He moves to crouch, carefully keeping his cream colored coat out of the worst of it and balancing his silver-topped cane across his knees as bends closer. Narrowing his eyes as he takes in the violence of the kill.
"Reprehensible," he mutters to himself.
C
"Oh, shit."
That was...messy. Horrifying. Disturbing, even, and the fact that it made Thomas feel hungry, and he was barely able to keep his vampiric features under the surface, only disgusted him all the more. He shouldn't have come here.
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"You there," he says calling out to the approaching figure. "Stop right there!" Whatever the man is, even from this distance Nightingale can feel that he isn't human.
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"What the hell happened?"
Thomas assumed he knew the answer already. Considering recent events, it was probably a vampire getting overzealous in their feeding. However, right now he mostly wanted to establish that he had nothing to do with...this.
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"I should think that it would be pretty obvious what happened," Nightingale points out, taking the look of the other man in, before kneeling once more. "Here," he says, and reaches forward, indicating but not touching an area near the body's collar, now entirely soaked with congealing blood. "This area of their neck has been ripped out. No doubt the victim died within minutes. It's a messy and cruel way to kill someone, and moreover than that, it's wasteful." Just look at all the blood on the body and the ground beyond. Nightingale turns back to the other man, narrowing his eyes at him once more and acting on a hunch, hoping that his instincts prove correct.
"Tell me," he asks the other man -- the vampire. "What does this mean to you?"
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Then the man began pointing things out, and Thomas, curious that he seemed to want him looking as well, moved closer. The smell of blood filled his nose and, feeling his fangs start to extend in a reaction to the powerful scent, Thomas shook his head, trying to focus on the task before him. The man called him over to look at a crime scene, not to lose control, and so Thomas forced himself to just look.
He had to admit, it was wasteful. It was bad enough to go around killing people, even worse to leave so much to spoil on the ground, meaning whoever did it would likely have to feed again soon. Assuming they were a vampire, he realized. So much violence had come from Islington lately that it was easy to blame his own kind, but they weren't the only dangerous creatures in the city, and some had no desire for the blood itself.
"There's way too much blood here. Either they were killing just for the sake of killing, or it was someone very new at this sort of thing, or this wasn't a..." Vampire, but he still hesitated to say the word itself, even though he couldn't think of why the man would refer to this as wasteful unless he was considering the possibility of this being the work of a vampire. "or this wasn't like the other crimes around the city lately."
Which didn't completely discount the possibility of some psychotic vampire on a killing spree, it just struck Thomas as odd that a vampire would do this. It would be like a mugger running off leaving the victim's jewelry and cash scattered on the ground. Unless, of course, they were new and had now idea what they were doing. That was always a possibility.
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"Indeed," he replies to the other man. Taking note of the fact that he had not mentioned any creature by name, vampires included. Well. There's more than one way to be absolutely clear that he knows exactly what the other man is and he's still asking for -- indeed, valuing his opinion anyway.
Nightingale turns to Thomas once more and says, in somewhat more of a hushed tone than before, "Tell me, would you have done something like this, before you knew any better? Might you know of anyone who would?" He might have been on to something about using the vampires as a cover-up, after all. They'll need to do testing.
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"I...maybe. I don't think I ever was quite this messy." Though that might just be a refusal to acknowledge the full extent of what he'd done, and either way his initial feeding had resulted in bloody corpses. "Although if I had done something like this, I'd probably have been hungry enough to try to drink the blood anyway, even after it had been spilled."
Of course, he didn't know anyone who would do this now. If he did...Thomas shook his head.
"No. If I knew anyone this out of control, I wouldn't just leave them to do...this if I could help it."
If he knew any vampires that would do this, either they'd be young and out of control, in which case Thomas would want to get them help, or they'd be one of the ones following Raymond Harris's lead, in which case Thomas likely wouldn't spend too much time around them. As for other things that could have done this...well, no, he didn't know any individuals of any other species specifically who would do something like this.
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He turns to the vampire at the mention of not leaving someone to do this, however. It's a curious statement, and Nightingale would know more of it, if he could. "Not if you could help it," he repeats. "What would you do then?" he asks. "If this were a vampire that you were aware of. I was under the impression that your kind were given the veritable go-ahead to do whatever they so choose. Including such things as this." He raises an eyebrow inquisitively.
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He wasn't sure. He hadn't really thought it through that thoroughly before he'd said something, and like the man pointed out, vampires were allowed to do that now.
"I don't know. We were given the go ahead to do...whatever, but I think vampires going out of control is idiotic, and it's going to lead to people in the know trying to kill us, and people not in the know hiding inside all night because they know people who go out end up dead. I know I'm not the only one here who thinks that, either. I'm not exactly the most influential vampire around, but maybe I could try to talk some sense into them?"
That last part didn't sound too sure. His main tactic of persuasion was to try to be sexually appealing enough that they wanted to do what he said, so that was probably what he'd try. Or maybe use reason, that might work.
B
At first, she didn't realize he had come back from retirement, though. She couldn't be blamed for not connecting the two immediately. They haven't worked closely on the Outreach Team, and even for a witch, his situation is... odd. Natasha hasn't seen or heard of anything quite like it. Assuming family had made more sense, at first, than believing he was the same person.
She is a quick woman though. She figured it out eventually.
And she has to wonder a little what he thinks of her presence here, if he thinks of it at all.
Tonight, she wanders in during office hours because with recently becoming a senior team member, she felt more responsibility to touch base with other members. To know who they were, and what they brought to the table. There is something both odd and oddly gratifying about it, finding her place here expanding. And, from her perspective, growing relatively quickly.
She knocks at the door, regardless of whether or not it's open, pausing in the threshold to his office. "Hey," she says, words very faintly accented. "Mind if I come in?"
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"Please," he replies, his own accent old-fashioned, proper, and a bit out-dated in the sense that no one but someone's rich old grandfather -- or someone pretending to be someone's rich old grandfather -- might speak like anymore. Unfortunately for Nightingale, that's just how he is. "Please," he says again, "come in. Sit." He moves to clear the students work from his desk, taking in the measure of his companion out of the corner of his eye. Natasha, if he's not mistaken. They have spoken once or twice before, but never quite so intimately as this.
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"I'm not interrupting then?" she asks as she steps inside, her eyes moving meaningfully over the stacks of books and paperwork on his desk. A small smile tugs her lips as she does. She's not particularly invested in analogue— and actually younger even than him—but it reminds her of some of her tutors from so long ago.
"Grading?"
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"How can I help you, Ms. Romanoff?" he asks, taking his seat again as he moves the stack of grading aside and regards her across the desk with sharp, grey eyes. There has to be something -- such a visit isn't a common occurence after all.
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Especially because she doesn't have a specific reason to be here. Her goals today are more general.
"Help might not be the word I'd use," she says, her tone warmed by a faint smile. "It struck me the other day that we've never really spoke. Not more than in passing. I suppose I thought I'd come by for a real introduction."
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"Ah," he replies. "Yes, quite. I suppose I'd never considered that we hadn't been formally introduced." He'd rather just peripherally known most of the team, and generally kept himself to himself. It seemed to work for mostly everyone the best that way. Seemed being the paramount word there, of course. "Forgive me."
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He gestures at Natasha herself. "I suppose a congratulations is in order, then. How are you finding your new position treating you?"
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"It's nice to feel like I'm making progress. I wasn't sure that would happen at first."
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Don't worry, Natasha, he would never pry. He knows how hypocritical that would be of him, all things considered. He's all for polite conversation and to let that be that.
C
Joscelin moves closer to examine things when he realizes he's not alone. A human is crouched next to what remains of the body, his smell disguised by the stench of the carnage. Ah, dinner. The boy falters and steps back, looking for a suitable hiding place until he can do the ambush properly.
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A waste, all that blood. Whoever had done this, he wonders whether that was the point of it. A kill for the sake of the hunt, rather than for the sake of survival. Leaving the victim to bleed out in the streets, like a discarded toy. It's more than a waste. It's careless, leaving them out in the streets in plain view like this. Nightingale sits back on his heels again and tries to consider what possible motive they might have had. If there had been a motive at all.
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Or both. It wasn't uncommon for them to double dip.
He watches from behind a garden wall, waiting for the man's guard to go down. Ah, there.
Joscelin runs towards the man at an inhuman speed, a stick snapping underfoot.
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It isn't a very complicated spell but Nightingale knows enough to make it a powerful one when fighting against the vampire. With the flick of his wrist, Nightingale creates a shield between. No doubt the vampire will be able to crash through it but it can buy him a moment or two of preparation if the other should continue after him.