It's just another day; there's murder in the air. It drags me when I walk. I smell it everywhere.

[nowinprint]

{{OOC: Backdated to the morning after the Carnival's midnight show.}}

Dmitri is in The Coffee Shop, nursing something tall, strong and unsweetened as she watches the journals, specifically one post. Of course. People always die in Chicago. She's just... usually it's not her friends, in the night, so that everything's happened and done by the

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[crimeatthetime]

Jason isn't the only one prowling around Chicago.

Adrian almost killed a mugger. He had his hands around the man's throat and could feel little breaths hissing through the bastard's windpipe it gave under the demon's hands. Then the woman he'd 'saved' begged him to stop. He listened.

A bad habit of his.

Adrian is about ready to resort to brutalizing homeless people when something clicks. Bloodlust. Eagerness. Desire and purpose. He hadn't been expecting that.

It takes a second for him to orient on the dog. He's expecting a person, preferably male, preferably someone he can kill quick and be done. When he finally does home in on Jack, Adrian is left staring for several seconds. The person--dog, whatever--doesn't even have the decency to register as a supernatural human. Wanderers. Fucking wanderers.

Of course he'd have to kill a dog. This is just his life, isn't it?

[hey_capn_jack]

What with all the stuff going on in Jason's furry little head, it takes a moment for him to notice that there's a man staring at him. he looks around quickly, checking for the regular assortment of qualities - no one he recognizes, no one who looks like he regognizes him, no one... wait.

Oh, there's something in that look, all right. But damned if he can quite tell what. Maybe the guy's just not fond of rottweilers wandering around uncollared without an owner.

He sits down, letting his face slack into a friendly look and giving a few halfhearted wags with his tail. He's not a threat, really! Despite the fact that he'd kinda like to kill small animals right now. Tooootally harmless. Just a random very well-fed and well-groomed stray dog about whom you should not worry at all, Mr. Guy.

[crimeatthetime]

Ow. It's hard to remember that no, this is a human, a wanderer, not a amicable stray. Adrian crouches down and holds out his hand, his expression a mix of blankness and exhaustion.

"Hello, chucho."

He half-scoots forward to scratch under the dog's chin, running his other hand over its ears and half-way down its neck.

And then he grips the bottom of its muzzle with one hand, sinks his fingers into the flesh around its spine with the other, and wrenches in opposite directions. Snap-crackle-pop, glorious gratification, and there's a dead dog next to his feet.

Adrian stares down at it. "Sorry about that."

[hey_capn_jack]

It takes Jason a moment after Adrian crouches down to register that there's something wrong here, and a moment after that to put that particular tang his keen nose is picking up together with Demon! After that, the road from Demon to Demons sense species to He knows what I am is pretty instantaneous, but by that time Adrian's got his head and all he manages is half a "Mrouff-!" and an inner Oh FUCK before

[prince_stupid]

Hi Ves. Ragnar has been wandering the Kashtta, aimless and agitated. There is nothing for him to do here except wait. He doesn't have the energy to help Sark in any meaningful way. Ragnar's spent hours curled up close to the man, in between bouts of limping from floor to floor in the enormous building.

He made a promise to April. But what does that mean? He made a promise to Sark, as well.

Ragnar sits down next to a window and watches the city, murmuring to himself. "This is, perhaps, why cats and humans share so little real conversation in my home. The cares of humanity and those of the feline--similar, perhaps, but--"

What can he do for humans, anyway? He is the King of Cats.

[the_vesmier]

The Vesmier hears that, and... well. The noise seems to be coming form the direction of the window, which is unusual, but which is also where he's getting a distinct mental radiance of sentient life. He looks down, schooling his expression so as not to show surprise at the talking cat.

Which isn't so hard, really. It's not as though he has no experience of alien species, and being nonexistent on Gallifrey, cats qualify.

He approaches, leaving a respectful distance between himself and the stranger. Who is, he notes, apparently injured. As for the rest... he can surmise.

"You were a friend of April's?" he asks, gently. That part isn't surprising. She must have had many.

[prince_stupid]

"I am," he says. He doesn't look up to see who's addressing him. It doesn't really matter. "And of Julian Sark."

He bends his head to lick at a sore spot on his leg, then stops and stares into space after the second stroke of his tongue. Ragnar shakes himself, flinches, and stares out the window again. "And you?"

[the_vesmier]

The Vesmier nods. "Likewise," he says. "And assisting Torchwood with... what I can."

Talk to the nearly-dead and possibly-suicidal. Dump alien medical schematics into their medics' heads and take orders from them when not in a TARDIS. Attempt to rewrite the mental capacities of their sometimes-boss. Things like that.

"...I'm sure that, differences in biology aside, any one of the medics might be able to address those irritations," he says, gesturing politely to Ragnar's wounds.

[chimaerasaurus]

Abby... kind of expected the morgue to be the last place anyone in the Kashtta would go right now. Which is sort of why she picked it. It's hard enough to deal with the memories this whole thing brings up without having to try and be sympathetic with people that--really--she doesn't know.

She really has to wonder what she's still doing here.

"Oh. Uh. Sorry. I'll just--" Abby waves a hand over her shoulder and turns to go.

[der_weevilkonig]

Owen looks up sharply. Well, they... seem to be running into each other more and more often, don't they? Small building. Why she's decided to come to the morgue is an open question, though, as he somehow doubts she was looking for him.

"Come to leave flowers? Pay your repects to the body?" Under other circumstances he'd sound like a snarky bitch, but he hasn't slept and he really can't spaare the energy to make enemies right now. He just sounds tired. "Hell if I know what normal people are supposed to do in times like this. Anyway, I was just... finishing up."

Actually he was just finished, but apparently the morgue is not so private as he might have believed.

[chimaerasaurus]

"No, I just was..." She should have thought of that. Brought flowers or something. She should have thought that other people might want to do something like that. She shrugs, awkward, and looks away. "I didn't think anyone would be here."

[der_weevilkonig]

That gets her a thin smile with no warmth to it whatsoever. "Usually isn't. Unless you count the dead." He walks to the door, pausing in the threshold. "Like I said, I was just leaving."

Another two steps down the hall and he pauses, glancing back at her. It's not his business unless she starts stealing lab equipment, tampering with the cryosettings, or trying to raise the dead, but... he is actually aware that normal, well-adjusted people do not go to morgues to be alone when there are any number of fine unused offices that wouldn't have to be shared with dead bodies. It's just that in his case, he doesn't care so much what that says about him.

"There's usually a pot of coffee left out somewhere after a long night," he says. "Probably in the kitchen." It's less of an offer and more something dropped in recognition that she could probably use it and no one would have briefed her on it. She can follow him here or not. That's not his business either.

[stopdropanddie]

If you assume that Jack didn't sleep at all last night, you'd probably be right. After the little hunting party got together and found absolutely nothing, he spent a great deal of time, looking for potential leads on which way they might have gone. He's a fucking spy. Why shouldn't be able to track a carnival? It's not like they can move that quickly in a few hours.

Evidently, he was wrong and now he's at Ye Olde Coffee Shop, looking mildly dishelved and needing something strong, black, and fast. And God help you if any of that is off, because Bristow is not to be toyed with today.

Despite that, the minute he gets his coffee and notices Lang, he quite possibly softens about a milimeter, although it's not really noticeable. He joins her, because asking is for other people and says, without preamble. "I assume you heard."

It's really depressing when Dmitri is easier for him to deal with than his own daughter, but, well, at least Dmitri gets that he has the emotional range of a sea cucumber and doesn't... Flail at him for it.

[nowinprint]

Dmitri looks up quickly, momentarily startled - but, you know, it's Bristow. Bristow is stealthy like ninja. Or something

[stopdropanddie]

"No one does and likely will until Sark wakes up," Jack explains and his tone implies that he's not banking on Sark providing anyone with valuable intel any time soon. Half because he's unconscious and half because no one's going to grill him. Jack would, but Jack doesn't do things the way normal people do and it's not his call.

"There was a team assembled this morning to act on the only viable lead we had." He says that like it was his idea, because that's generally how it used to be, but Dmitri ought to know his standing here well enough to know that wasn't the case. "It was a dead end."

April's murderers are gone, Sark might as well be in a coma, and the three people who were with them arrived after the fact that everyone wants to know about. So really it's just a bad situation all around. Jack is displeased.

[nowinprint]

Dmitri sighs, picking up her napkin and tossing it back onto the table. It's a futile gesture, largely rhetorical. "That's Chicago for you. It's not enough to ruin everything, it's got to do it spitefully."

She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest and biting back a shout. Dmitri Lang does not sit around and feel sorry for herself or others - she gets loud, and she gets direct. It works out nicely. Except in situations like this, where there's absolutely no one to get loud and direct with.

After a moment she says, much more quietly and in the direction of her shoes, "Chicago is a hardball hard-knocks fucking heartless lambfucker of a city. And I really wish I didn't love it as much as I do."