Emancipated and Quite Capable

To the casual observer, it might look like Jack was beating the fuck out of a punching bag some long-ago tenant had hung in a dusty corner of the basement. The casual observer would be right -- though Jack did have his reasons.

His day had started bad. His definition of bad these days involved waking up naked in the preserve, half a mile from his clothes and with a gash on his shoulder where something the wolf had tried to turn into dinner had taken a bite out of him instead.

Jack had a dim feeling he'd won in the end, but that didn't really make things any better.

Even once he was half civilized -- teeth brushed, dressed, full of coffee and ibuprofin, and profoundly grateful there was only one day left until he was back to sanity for the rest of the month -- his day did not much improve. He'd been working through memoirs written by thamaturgists of his world, in the dim hopes one of them would throw in an offhand and by the way, this is the secret cure for lycanthropy. The current one was by a Dr. Damian Thomas, and it was as frustrating as all the rest. Dr. Thomas was writing in the '80s; he was more interested in gossip about which celebrities were homosexual or wampyr than about actually discussing his work. But he'd apparently been well-respected at one point, so Jack dutifully trudged through a chapter discussing Thomas's work in founding the first school of magic in New Amsterdam.

And then Jack came to the passage, with accompanying pen-and-ink portrait, that sent him to the basement.

And what shall I say of the fifth of the founders?, Thomas had written coyly next to the sketch of a hollowed face Jack had once known as well as his own. He is so well-known that any discussion seems superfluous, and he's long since had his fill of publicity. Out of respect for his wishes, I will say only that he was deeply kind, that his money saw the university through some very rough times, and that his students are all better people for having known him. I speak, of course, of the notorious wampyr who introduced himself to me as Jack Prior, though he's had many names...

So Sebastien was in New Amsterdam, or had been fifty years ago. That wasn't a surprise, and didn't bother Jack in the least. But knowing his guardian been using Jack's name, as if he was dead and had no further use for it --

It was a good thing the punching bag was there.

[OOC: Open if you live in the house, or for phone calls/texts/etc. from others. Inspired by ad eternum by Elizabeth Bear.]

Even though they’d left London via portal early that morning, it was long after sunset Saturday before Jack and Sebastien were settled in 1901 Baltimore. Jack had forgotten how confoundedly long travel in this time took.

He supposed he had forgotten other things, as well. It was no matter. He was fresh from a meeting with a revolutionary leader he'd known while he was in school, and his head was full of ideas.

There were three others arranged around the hotel room they'd taken refuge in: the sorceress Lady Abigail Irene Garrett with her small dog on her knee; Mrs. Phoebe Smith, the noted novelist; and Doctor Garrett's servant Mary, whom Abby Irene had insisted be included in their councils.

( In which we meet our cast of characters, and make travel plans. )

[OOC: Taken and lightly edited from New Amsterdam, by Elizabeth Bear. NFI, NFB, and I apologize in advance for the many days of spam ahead.]

Jack scowled as he returned to Sebastien's hotel room and dropped his cap on the table.

"It's official," he announced. "Every bloody professor at the University of London is a moron."

"Hmm?" Sebastien asked. He was still distracted by the day's mail, but Jack's expressed anger was unusual enough to command his full attention.

( In which we learn what has Sebastien so distracted. )

If he was brave enough for war -- and Jack firmly believed that he was -- he was brave enough to explain he was going to war. Even if the latter prospect frightened him far more.

[OOC: And so Jack's final canon catch-up begins. NFI, NFB.]

John Nast, whom Jack kept having to stop himself from thinking of as Sebastien de Ulloa, still didn't sleep. He'd left need behind when he became a vampire some twelve hundred years before.

But he'd come back from his extended walkabout in India with the habit of spending a few hours a day in a meditative trance, which gave much the same effect. Jack found it unsettling; a still body with no need to breathe looked distressingly like a corpse.( Cut for length and wibble-osity )

Once all roads had lead to dead ends, he pulled out his phone and sent an angry little text to everyone from Fandom in his address book.

Sebastien has been wiped off the face of the earth. What the hell is going on?

[OOC: If you want to get the text, you did!]

Jack was doing nothing in particular in his hotel room when his phone rang. He blinked as he glanced at it, surprised to see Sebastien was calling. For one, he hadn't exactly been in regular contact these last few months. For another, Sebastien generally claimed the privileges of his age and relied on letters (or, when time was key, email), not the telephone.

But. He was glad to get the call, and they chatted for a few minutes about the recent disease on the island and what Sebastien had been doing in Mumbai. However, it was clear Sebastien had something else on his mind.

( Later in the conversation... )

And that, such as it was, seemed to be the end of that. Now Jack just needed to figure out what it meant.

[OOC: For anyone who'd call or go looking for him.]

There'd been no one to claim the murder victims' bodies yet, which Sebastien was sadly unsurprised by. The times may have changed, but families were no more eager to embrace scandal than ever. Nor was he surprised that the morgue attendant was so easily distracted into admitting him and his guests by a folded bill and a glib story.

The two men were far from the only bodies arranged in drawers and on marble slabs; the chill of the room lessened the stink somewhat, but Sebastien suspected the wretchedness of rot and cloying blood was apparent even to merely mortal senses.

The bodies were slashed and disfigured, throats cut and faces, hands, torsos, buttocks, and thighs sliced open like badly butchered beef. But --

"There are no bite marks," he observed, and felt a sigh of relief even if he didn't breathe one.

( Which only means a vampire did not feed on the victim by biting... )

[OOC: Follows this, this, this and this . Inspired by "Chatoyant." Preplayed with the amazing chose_humanity and icecoldfrost. NFB, OOC welcome.]

The doorbell rang just as the sun dipped below the horizon, interrupting the group's conversation.

Sebastien was not at all surprised by what he found when he opened the door.

"Hello, David," he said to the man on the stoop.

( In which David invites Sebastien out to play. )

( In which Jack frets. )

( In which Sebastien returns and further plans are made. )

[OOC: Follows this and this. some bits borrowed from "Chatoyant." Preplayed with the scrumptious chose_humanity, glacial_witch, icecoldfrost, and vanillajello. NFB, OOC welcome.]

Jack had been prepared for an argument with Sebastien over why he'd summoned guests to their townhouse, but he hadn't gotten one. It seemed as though Sebastien's main priorities were getting David to head off again and solving the murders -- in more or less that order.

It was unsettling, to see him so preoccupied. But it did make the day easier.

( Emma was walking into a conspiracy of murder and vampires, in another universe, of her own volition.... )

[OOC: Follows this. Inspired by "Chatoyant." Preplayed with chose_humanity, glacial_witch, icecoldfrost, and vanillajello, who all deserve pie, cake and/or cookies of their choice. NFB, OOC welcome.]