07-28-2013, 07:56 PM
(A few days after the events of The Baccarat Gala )
It was that same night that Hood found his lighter missing. And not much later that he received word that someone had tried to gain entry to the Atharim compound under the mansion. It wasn't hard to guess who it was, and that suspicion was confirmed later that morning when he received his next task. One of a half-dozen Atharim hunters tasked to tail the fellow for the foreseeable future.
It had proven a simple task so far, although the Atharim hunters weren't quite as used to tailing someone as Hood was. Another valuable skill he was now forced to impart on them. At least they were quick learners, watching for any sign of illness. A worrying thought, that was...they had assured him that it wasn't some sort of bio-weapon gone awry, and he was prone to believe them as it didn't fit their MO, but it was still odd.
Then he received word from some other Atharim big-wig. They had too many of those...too many Chiefs, not enough Indians, as some would say. It was another example that he needed to fire up his old clunker desk-top more often, but it wasn't that often he had any need to bother with the world-wide-web.
Naturally, there was more to his computer set up then just some simple old desk-top. He knew enough how to throw off the trail, so to speak; even if someone managed to track his IP through a dozen or so countries to Moscow, they'd still end up at one of the near-by apartment complexes, where he had installed a laser-comms-link between that router and his home. If someone came hunting him, they'd end up in an elderly Russian couple's home, who had no idea the device was even there. Of course, if it came to that, it wouldn't throw them off for long.
The email was straightforward and to the point; two Atharim hunters, new to Moscow, would be jumping in the deep end, after a pack of Rougarou. The odd part was the desire to take one alive, and odder still, that he was asked to find a safe place said creature could be stored, alive. Too many Chiefs. Luckily, he'd already done some exploring of the service tunnels that were left in the area from when the massive apartment blocks were still standing. The sub-basement of one of the demolished buildings was both still intact, and still accessible from those tunnels. A fine place to store some damnable abomination for whatever it was they had in mind.
Knowing that he would have company coming was less then appealing, but a necessary evil...it was, after all, why the Atharim had set him up with so fine an abode to begin with. He had little choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.
That day, he put some small effort into organizing things for the two new arrivals. Cots were set up; he slept on a cot himself, so if they were expecting beds, all the better. Didn't want them getting too comfortable, after all. Next, and more important, was sectioning of the fridge. And more importantly, the security of his beer fridge and liquor cabinet...not much effort there, as he left both locked anyway. Metro dogs could only dissuade so many would-be burglars after all.
Once the main floor was squared away, he lifted out the floor panels to reveal the trap door to the basement lock-up and bolt-hole. Down the ladder he dropped, and flicked the light switch to reveal another, less purposefully finished sea-can. Work benches were installed along one wall, with bullet press and ammo station, neatly organized tool chests for all his gun-smithing tools, and small locked cages with all the bells-and-whistles to mount onto firearms. Forward grips, collapsible stocks, laser sights, reflex scopes, etc.
The wall opposite the benches were floor-to-ceiling lockers and weapons racks. They were far from full, but he made a point of acquiring something new every few weeks. A variety of shotguns and smgs, a small selection of long-arms and assault rifles. The place smelled divine (of weapon oil and gunpowder). And in the floor at the far end, was another trap door, which dropped down into the old service tunnels, where motion sensors and CCTV offered early warning against anyone moving around down there.
Locks were inspected, as was the booby-trap on the trap door from the service tunnels, then he headed back up. He had no idea when these visitors might arrive, and had no intention of letting their schedule rule his life, so he locked up and made a short trip to a nearby market, where locals sold home-raised chickens (live or butchered) or garden-grown vegetables. These were stocked in the fridge.
With those last few loose ends tied up, he let the team tasked with following that Jaxen twit know he would be indisposed, then took up sitting on the porch, a beer in hand to await either these 'guests' or the damn dogs that had taken to living on his porch.
Edited by Hood, Aug 3 2013, 08:10 PM.
It was that same night that Hood found his lighter missing. And not much later that he received word that someone had tried to gain entry to the Atharim compound under the mansion. It wasn't hard to guess who it was, and that suspicion was confirmed later that morning when he received his next task. One of a half-dozen Atharim hunters tasked to tail the fellow for the foreseeable future.
It had proven a simple task so far, although the Atharim hunters weren't quite as used to tailing someone as Hood was. Another valuable skill he was now forced to impart on them. At least they were quick learners, watching for any sign of illness. A worrying thought, that was...they had assured him that it wasn't some sort of bio-weapon gone awry, and he was prone to believe them as it didn't fit their MO, but it was still odd.
Then he received word from some other Atharim big-wig. They had too many of those...too many Chiefs, not enough Indians, as some would say. It was another example that he needed to fire up his old clunker desk-top more often, but it wasn't that often he had any need to bother with the world-wide-web.
Naturally, there was more to his computer set up then just some simple old desk-top. He knew enough how to throw off the trail, so to speak; even if someone managed to track his IP through a dozen or so countries to Moscow, they'd still end up at one of the near-by apartment complexes, where he had installed a laser-comms-link between that router and his home. If someone came hunting him, they'd end up in an elderly Russian couple's home, who had no idea the device was even there. Of course, if it came to that, it wouldn't throw them off for long.
The email was straightforward and to the point; two Atharim hunters, new to Moscow, would be jumping in the deep end, after a pack of Rougarou. The odd part was the desire to take one alive, and odder still, that he was asked to find a safe place said creature could be stored, alive. Too many Chiefs. Luckily, he'd already done some exploring of the service tunnels that were left in the area from when the massive apartment blocks were still standing. The sub-basement of one of the demolished buildings was both still intact, and still accessible from those tunnels. A fine place to store some damnable abomination for whatever it was they had in mind.
Knowing that he would have company coming was less then appealing, but a necessary evil...it was, after all, why the Atharim had set him up with so fine an abode to begin with. He had little choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.
That day, he put some small effort into organizing things for the two new arrivals. Cots were set up; he slept on a cot himself, so if they were expecting beds, all the better. Didn't want them getting too comfortable, after all. Next, and more important, was sectioning of the fridge. And more importantly, the security of his beer fridge and liquor cabinet...not much effort there, as he left both locked anyway. Metro dogs could only dissuade so many would-be burglars after all.
Once the main floor was squared away, he lifted out the floor panels to reveal the trap door to the basement lock-up and bolt-hole. Down the ladder he dropped, and flicked the light switch to reveal another, less purposefully finished sea-can. Work benches were installed along one wall, with bullet press and ammo station, neatly organized tool chests for all his gun-smithing tools, and small locked cages with all the bells-and-whistles to mount onto firearms. Forward grips, collapsible stocks, laser sights, reflex scopes, etc.
The wall opposite the benches were floor-to-ceiling lockers and weapons racks. They were far from full, but he made a point of acquiring something new every few weeks. A variety of shotguns and smgs, a small selection of long-arms and assault rifles. The place smelled divine (of weapon oil and gunpowder). And in the floor at the far end, was another trap door, which dropped down into the old service tunnels, where motion sensors and CCTV offered early warning against anyone moving around down there.
Locks were inspected, as was the booby-trap on the trap door from the service tunnels, then he headed back up. He had no idea when these visitors might arrive, and had no intention of letting their schedule rule his life, so he locked up and made a short trip to a nearby market, where locals sold home-raised chickens (live or butchered) or garden-grown vegetables. These were stocked in the fridge.
With those last few loose ends tied up, he let the team tasked with following that Jaxen twit know he would be indisposed, then took up sitting on the porch, a beer in hand to await either these 'guests' or the damn dogs that had taken to living on his porch.
Edited by Hood, Aug 3 2013, 08:10 PM.