Float Proper

It begins on a Tuesday night, beneath a gibbous Innsmouth moon. Stepping past the network of crime-scene tape, I navigate across the puddle of still rainwater mixed with blood, tiptoeing along the outer rim of the carnage. Behind me, Church Street lights are humming their low, deep halogen tune. The stench hits As soon as I'm within spitting range of the poor bastard sprawled against the alley wall, shoved between the bricks and the dumpster. Scanning across his broken body, I count the slashes across the fabric of his shirt, running the putrefaction against six years' worth of police experience. Slowly, the old instincts kick into gear. It's like the good old San Diego days all over again. "You know who ain't stuck on crime scene duty?" Officer Lord offers, as he silently stalks out of the shadows. "Fucking Kelly and all the other bumpkins. Us city folk, we just gotta put up or shut up." Lord fumbles with his lighter, finally managing to puff at his soggy hand-rolled cigarette. I could do with a chat and a drag. [[What's with the stiff?->Lord talks about Jo Muntz]] [[How's it hanging, Lord?-> Officer Lord]]

I turn to the body, squinting against the streetlight to make the most out of my night vision. Inching closer, I step over the puddle of filth and blood, leaning into the dead man's face. "Left the poor sucker just like I found him. He's all yours." Officer Lord says, crushing his cigarette. It's obvious that Bill hasn't even othered with drawing a chalk outline and that the precinct's photographer hasn't even come around yet. Everything about this screams sloppiness. Then again, how many stiffs has Innsmouth even gone through, not counting the ocassional drowned fisherman that washes up out of the Devil's Reef? Looking over Jo Muntz's corpse, I can see that the left side of his throat has been ripped open in one big chunk, clumsily ripped off. Something long and crooked sticks out from the mess, set at an awkward angle. Blood has pooled down his shirt, making the silk cling on his skin, pressing the tattered fabric against the gaping wounds on his side. In his left hand, Jo is still holding onto a jagged piece of something that looks a lot like glass, seeming to almost glisten in the faint moonlight. Something is sticking out of his right hand, a shock of colorful threads snaking between his clenched fingers. An all-too familiar, steady thrum rises from the back of my head, like a headache coming on for the first time since you came here. 'Witchy shivers', grandma used to call them. Slowly, the scales seem to lift from your eyes and you see Jo Muntz's magnled corpse, covered in a latticework of glowing red lines: they converge toward his coat pocket, a point of red that beats so much like a heart. Scanning across the lining of Jo's raincoat, I see the outline of a cheap matchbox, peeking out shyly against the fabric, stowed away like a heirloom. [[Take the patch of fabric->Take plaid fabric]] [[Take obsidian knife->Take obsidian knife]]

Officer Lord takes a deep, hearty drag off his cigarette, releasing a plume of smoke as thick as November fog. "You want some free advice? Never marry a Swamp yank." he says, gritting his teeth. Officer Bill Lord is a Louisiana beat cop, bound to Innsmouth by the fetters of marriage, held together by streetwise grit and cheap tobacco. Five years ago, a black police officer would have been laughed out the door. After First Landing, however, priorities changed. Now it was the entirety of mankind against the Strangers From The Sea. I check my watch against the thorough webwork of crime scene tape and the neat pile of cigarette butts laid out between Bill Lord's feet. From the looks of it, he's been here for at least 45 minutes. Perhaps he's seen something. Then again, I've got time to waste. [[What's the skinny, Bill?->Lord talks about the murder]] [[What about the stiff?->Lord talks about Jo Muntz]]

"Anonymous tip. Sounded like it came from a nearby payphone, maybe the one in Fall Street. Witness didn't stick around for me, that's for sure." Lord points at the mangled body stashed in the shadows. "You ask me, this was a hit. You don't have to go to anywhere near as much trouble if you just want a sucker dead. Someone wanted to make an example outta Jo Muntz." Lord crosses his arms, leaning back into the wall. "That, or he finally stuck it to the wrong drownie's wife." he shurgs "Not that I'd know about any of that." Officer Lord is oddly quiet, seeming to count the discarded cigarette butts. Maybe I could glean some more gallows gossip out of him. Or waste some more of my time, while I'm at it. [[You know, I have been out of the Innsmouth loop...->Lord talks about drownies]] [[What's new, Bill?->Lord complains about everything]]

"I thought you were from San Diego; that's drownie central, isn't it?" Lord grins knowingly. I shrug. San Diego is one of the largest Deep One land colonies, one of the major sites from First Landing day. Look out of Point Loma on a good day and you could see R'Lyeh, outlined against the face of the moon, almost beckoning. Take the wrong turn at night and you could find yourself in Carmello Street, caged in by the sheer press of Deep Ones, your nostrils filled with the fresh scent of salt-water and raw fish-meat. "They're freaky, I'll give them that. Freaky enough they got us so scared we went colorblind." Lord snickers, winking. "Clouds and silver linings, am I right?" I nod, even as I'm fighting back the gnawing fear that I'll have to check the body sooner rather than later. Bill Lord doesn't seem anywhere near as concerned. [[What's new Bill?->Lord complains about everything]] [[Turn to Dead Body->Dead Body]]

"New? In fucking Innsmouth? You got to be kidding me." You feel as if you're just pushing your luck now. Duty calls. [[Turn to Dead Body->Dead Body]]

The piece of black glass is trickier: I could pull it out, but then I'd probably slash Muntz's finger clean off and even Officer Lord wouldn't let that one go. Reaching for a pen in my shirt pocket, I stick the cheap plastic tube between Muntz's fingers and apply just enough pressure to slowly pry the fingers apart, grasping the piece of jagged glass in my hands before it's clattered to the pavement. I wince, as the edge bites into my skin with uncanny ease. Something cold and wet slithers across my brain, like a long dark shape snaking across my spine. Somehow, I know that this is not just a jagged piece of glass, but a kris, the kind used in ancient sacrificial ceremonies. I stick it in your pocket, well away from view. [[Remove tooth->Remove Tooth]] [[Take matchbox->Take matchbox]]

The drumbeat in my head rises, reaching a crescendo as I slip your fingers in Muntz's inside pocket. Reaching inside, I place the small red thing in my palm. It glows, but with the kind of light I can only catvh when you're well in your 'Witchy-Shiver'. It hums, but its tune can't be heard by human ears. Looking down at it, I can almost trace the outline of veins and valves, pumping in my hand as if it's almost...alive. Already, I can feel the midnight groginess slipping away. My heart begins to beat faster. I don't know what this thing is, but it's called a Puffer-Heart. It's told me this much. No, that's not the kind of thing you could trust any man with. Silently, I pocket the Puffer-Heart and let its strange glow suffuse your body. [[Remove tooth->Remove Tooth]] [[Take matchbox->Take matchbox]]

You move your hand just so, shifting your body so Officer Lord can't see. Pinching the small bit of bone between your hands, you twist and turn, slipping it silently out of the mangled mess of red. Even in the dim moonlight, you can see what it is: a tooth, long and crooked, almost as long as your pinkie. You've seen this sort of thing before, rows of them infesting the mouths of angler fish in natural history books. For a brief moment, you imagine those rows of crooked daggers sinking into Muntz's flesh and ripping it away in long, thin strips, reducing his veins to confetti in an instant. Against your better judgement, you pocket the tooth. How are they going to know it's gone, anyway? Then again, it never pays to underestimate even those country cops... [[Take the patch of fabric->Take plaid fabric]] [[Take obsidian knife->Take obsidian knife]] [[Check his inside pocket->Take Puffer-Heart]] [[Take matchbox->Take matchbox]] [[Talk to Officer Lord->Report to Officer Lord]]

Reaching in with the tips of my fingers, I tear the small matchbox out of Joe's fabric lining and flip it open. It's a cheap kind of matchbox, the kind you'd find in any cheap dive-bar. Across the front, in cheap print, I can see the words 'Bristol Witch', a seedy little place where Innsmouth fishermen like to steal away to so they can get away from their wives. Pulling up the flap, I notice something that's been scrawled on the inside, in clumsy cursive. I'LL SEE YOU IN CHURCH -MICA I pocket the matchbox, just in case. Who's going to even notice it's missing? [[Remove tooth->Remove Tooth]] [[Talk to Officer Lord->Report to Officer Lord]]

"What? That piece a' shit over there?" Lord says, puffing on his cigarette. "That's Muntz. Jo Muntz." Lord searches my face for the slightest hint of recognition. "The fish stick? Come on, the man's been on the precinct's payroll for years!" The term brings something to mind, but little else. Fish sticks are the perverts, the weirdos who go out of their way to reach the dank places where the Deep Ones like to gather and get some fish fillet on the side. Round these parts, they're a dime a dozen. "He was our man on the inside, when it came to the Marsh family and their screwey little Church by the water. Can't say I liked the guy, but nobody deserves to die like that." Thunder rumbles across the Heavens above. I watch Lord, as he fumbles with his matchsticks. Might as well make the most of this small-town gossip. [[When was this phoned in?->Lord talks about the murder]] [[You know, I have been out of the Innsmouth loop...->Lord talks about drownies]]

"Found anything interesting?" Officer Lord says, as my approach stirs him out of his reverie. "Or did they drag me halfway through dinner into the streets over nothing?" Lord wouldn't like it, if he knew what kind of awful mess he's been dragged into. Maybe I could bless him with ignorance, just this once... [[50% of homicide work is waiting on the meatwagon...->Waiting for the meatwagon]] [[What if I missed something though?->Looking around the scene]]

"Hey, don't take it too badly; all's well that doesn't end in paperwork, am I right? Now settle your ass down, meatwagon's bound to come around." I lean against the wall and I'm about to bum a cigarette, when I notice someone lurking at the edge of the alley, poking their head through the shadows. I jab officer Lord with my elbow, when I notice that the figure's looking up, having caught wind of us just now. So much for the element of surprise. The figure bolts down across the alley, slashing across the rainwater puddles. I shout for them to stop, but that just makes them run even faster. [[Bill, move your sorry ass!->Lord makes an excuse]] [[Suspect's making a run for it. Call for backup!->Go after the figure]]

"Knock yourself out, city boy; I wouldn't bother, if I were you." My eyes trail down across the alley, just noticing the congealed puddle of blood dripping into the nearby sewer grate. Someone seems to be lurking at the edge of the alley, poking their head through the shadows. I motion them to come closer, ony to see the figure's eyes shoot up, as if only now realizing that we're even there. The figure bolts down across the alley, splashing across the rainwater puddles. I shout at them to freeze, but that just makes them run even faster. [[Move your caboose, Lord!->Lord makes an excuse]] [[Freeze, Innsmouth PD!->Go after the figure]]

Bill Lord sprints for a good twenty seconds, before skidding to a halt, bent over and struggling to catch his breath. "I can't...I can't do it! You go ahead without me!" he shouts hoarsely. No matter; I can chew Lord's ass out after I've got the suspect in hand. [[Go after the figure]]

I pull out my gun and order the suspect to freeze, but the order doesn't even register. Then again, when does that ever work? I catch a glimpse of the figure just as they slip into the pool of streetlight, a hunched man rushing into Fall Street, weaving past the cars rushing down across it. To my left, there's Newbury Street. If I can cut into it, run fast enough, I can get ahead of the perp and cut him off. Then again, maybe just bolting across Fall Street would be the best option... [[Run through Fall Street->Go into Fall Street]] [[Try to cut ahead->Run Into Newbury]]

Fall Street is almost deserted at this time of day. I cut straight across it, feet pounding down the asphalt, when I hear the faraway screech of tires on the rain-slick road, coming closer. Looking toward the source of the noise, I barely have time to register the reefer truck speeding towards me, the too-pale face of the woman at the wheel as five tons of metal come howling at me. Jump and I could end up splattered across the windshield. Fall back and the perp gets away. [[Dodge the Truck->Dodge the truck]] [[Push forward->The chase continues]]

The farmer's market stirs in Newbury Street, with vendors already setting up their makeshift stalls across it. Jumping over a cart, I run over a carefully stacked bunch of boxes, push past a Chinese man screaming abuse at me and skid across the rain-slick tiles, nearly falling on my ass. I catch sight of a taxi idling by the side of the road, its driver an Innsmouth man through and through. Hiw jowls seem to quiver as he snores on the wheel. If I peel rubber, I could get to the suspect in no time flat. Then again, I could make it on foot. I haven't even broken into a sweat yet... [[Driver, follow that man!->Now it's a car chase]] [[Run like Hell->The chase continues]]

Slowly, I cock the gun and order the suspect to freeze, finger resting on the trigger. The sound's enough to scare him nearly stiff. He's still jittery, but it seems like the worst of the fight has gone out of him. Checking the suspect over, I can see his hunched back, his thin shock of hair, catch a glimpse of something glistening against the skin on his cheek. He turns, ever so slowly and the eyes seem wrong, the way his limbs twitch like a cheap wind-up toy. He pants and I can see the barest whiff of slat-water, spraying out from the gap between his shirt collar and his neck and I know I shouldn't make him turn around, not for all the money in the world... [[Don't shoot->The chase continues]] [[Turn around, hands where I can see them!->First Transformation]]

"It's okay, cowboy; we'll get the bastich" Officer Lord says, smiling knowingly. I eye the man angrily, sizing him up, wondering if I could risk punching him straight in his pearly whites. My first murder case in Innsmouth with your only live suspect has gotten away, leaving me with nothing to go by but a bunch of scattered nonsense. If I were a smart man, you'd just let the trail go cold, write up a report and let the beat cops handle it. They didn't send me off to Innsmouth to make waves now, did they? Then again, Momma didn't raise a smart man. Somehow, I know I'm going to have to see this to the bitter end...

Making a sharp turn into Broad Street, hot on the suspect's heels, I suddenly realize that the second pair of footsteps has suddenly been cut off. There's only the pounding of your feet, amplified in the enclosed space. Looking around, I realize that there is no sign of the suspect. Just like that, he's vanished, gone into thin air. I check the dumpsters, wondering if he could have slipped into one of those, but I know he couldn't; the man was too broad, too muscular to sneak in there, at least not without making any noise and he couldn't have just leaped into the air and scrambled up the fire escapes, could he? There's the faint jangle of metal on brick and I know that I could just look up into the mesh of fire escapes, search for that hunched figure against the moonlight. But if I had too look at that face... [[Look Up->First Transformation]] [[Leave Broad Street->Suspect gets Away]]

"Whuh...what?" the taxi driver says, shooting bolt upright as I get into the passenger side. I flash him your badge and order him to follow the suspect. "Sir yes sir!" he says, as ten years of cop show conditioning kick in and the driver revs up his engine, peeling rubber as he shoots into Fall Street. You only barely notice the approaching sound of screaming tires across the rain-slick asphalt, catching sight of the charging reefeter truck when it's too late, a woman's too-pale face behind the wheel. The crash happens in stop-motion, in a shower of broken glass and the press of crushed metal. I'm thrown against the passenger side door with monstrous force, head smashing into the plate glass. Consciousness slips away from me even as I fight it and before I know it... [[...I'm dreaming->The Dream]] [[...I'm awake, two minutes later, with the driver screaming abuse at me->Suspect gets Away]]

The suspect turns slowly, a strange fin bristling across his head. He hisses and his mouth is a mess of needle-like teeth, poking out from tattered, ruined gums, his lips torn and bleeding. I see the flesh peel away, flaking like dandruff, silver scales glistening beneath, pitch-black nails click-clacking as they unsheathe from his fingers. The suspect seems to slip out of his clothes, his skin, his hair, eyes popping out of their sockets like a movie extra abandoning his cheap rubber suit, as he unfolds in all his terrible majesty of rippling muscles and clashing teeth and he stares down at me, the thing stares down at me and hisses, hot spittle splashing across my face and I know it's a Deep One, I've seen a thousand of those things before but never like this, never quite as angry as this. The thing chucks something at me, but there's no time to dodge it. Something cold and full of jagged edges crashes against my head and I crumble... [[...and dream->The Dream]] [[...and collapse in a heap->Suspect gets Away]]

It beats, in the darkness... A stolen heart, forged in the place outside of reality, molded by inhuman hands, carved from the heart of black basalt rock. It hungers, for the Moon... Not a tool; never a tool. It's a weapon, a thing borne from the need for annihilation, for magical destruction, calculated genocide on an unprecedented scale. It aches to sow horror beneath an alien sky... Deprived of its promised potential, it has waited. Cheated from the carnage it was made for, it has suffered the attention of its caretakers. But the binds are slipping away, The seals are slowly withering. Soon, impossible horror will come to this place, beneath this alien sky... [[Suspect Has Gotten away->Suspect gets Away]]

Before Lord has even seen me, I reach into the vice-like grip of Jo Muntz and carefully pry away at the torn bit of fabric from between his fingers. It's a small square bit of plaid fabric, like a shirt pocket, possibly torn during the struggle. A small bone button's still hanging on by heavy black thread. It's a sloppy thread-job, done by a man. I should really stop tampering with the evidence. Then again, who's going to notice a few more baubles missing... [[Take obsidian knife->Take obsidian knife]] [[Check the inside pocket->Take Puffer-Heart]]

I jump out of the reefer-truck's way, watching it howl down across the street, taking a sharp turn into Pierce. By the time I've caught a glimpse of its license plate, it's already halfway into Water Street. A string of curses is about to bubble out of my chest, when I notice the taxi idling by at the edge of Newbury street, its driver half-asleep on the wheel at the end of his shift. Looking across Fall Street, I can see the perp's outline, barely sticking out against the darkness. [[Commandeer Taxi->Now it's a car chase]]