IC Contact

[witchsupreme]

Comments

voice mail;

[thelaughingmage]

Fuck I hate these things.

So, Capekiller losing 'is shit. Problem or spectator sport?

call;

[witchsupreme]

[ RING RING, you get a return call from the nice witch. When he picks up, he doesn't get a greeting. ]

My vote is on "problem".

call;

[thelaughingmage]

Wot's got my knickers in a knot's this 'stepping up' he mentioned. I think ol' Hank here's got a better handle on wot's doing 'round here than his bosses, and they're not real keen on listening to 'im.

[There's a contemplative pause.] I'm gonna try something potentially very bloody stupid. On the off chance it gets my brain eaten by a psychic, you'll find an infodump in your post in a couple o' days.

call;

[witchsupreme]

We both know that tangling with them is likely to get you turned into a gibbering pile of mental applesauce. Are these people worth it to you? If we get involved in this before we know what he was babbling about, we could potentially lose you. That's not a risk I'm willing to take yet. I have rules that I have to follow, and it's---with this, I can't step in unless it's do or die.

He doesn't sound stable. "Crazy" isn't a source that you can cite.

call;

[thelaughingmage]

I think I do know wot he's babbling about. Only way I'll find out for sure is to call 'im on it.

Majority chance is I just get ignored. Smaller chance I get something useful. If they turn my mind into custard...well, it wouldn't be the first time.

If I'm right, it's important enough to risk it.

call;

[witchsupreme]

It's your call. I trust your judgment. Which is probably the four most terrifying words that I've said to someone---especially you.

How long should I wait before I come after you, should you be left drooling in a dumpster?

call; this one gets magic-encrypted too.

[thelaughingmage]

Going on what this bloke's said, he's the only one of that lot with the first clue what's going on. Which means it's on us, Nico. We want to keep this shithole from falling out from under us, it is, as usual, our own bloody lookout.

You'll know it's gone pear-shaped if you get a packet full of intriguing papers in a few days. They won't kill me, they can't make me into someone I'm not, and if they want to scrape the knowledge out of me sodding 'ead, then they can go bugger themselves with a tetanus-infected straight razor for all the good it'll do 'em.