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  • Dresden and Molly


    Alistair Greene

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    Alistair stood at the edge of the circle, pulling off the glove on his right hand before he lifted it to rub at the back of his neck. He frowned a little as he did it - it didn't exactly behoove one to look terribly cheery at the scene of a crime. Especially one that was as particularly... gruesome as this one.

     

    The room was an apartment, on the fifth floor of a building that overlooked the Square. Despite the... protestations of certain attractive brunettes, Alistair and company wound up near Omenwich rather often. Which wasn't surprising, when you considered that it was something of a hub for magic users in the city - both the genuine magi (of the legal and 'illegal' variety) and those who just pretended to the craft. Even the OFL had given a sort of tacit approval to the place, largely because there needed to be a place for that sort of thing in the city. If you left people nowhere to go, you only made it harder to find that place when you needed to. It was sort of like the way the cops tended to tip their caps to certain criminal groups: sometimes, order, even of a sort you didn't necessarily approve of, was preferable to the chaos of a power vacuum.

     

    Frankly, Alistair hadn't had any of his people increase the pressure on the place. Actually, he'd eased up on the usual pressure they gave some of the shops like Fiona's, and cut back to just surveillance. He'd never had interest in mandating like OFL had that all mages had to work for them. They were going to be a place that offered help and training, the opportunity to do good... had to be that way. If they continued the whole jackboot thing, what made them any better?

     

    It did mean a certain amount of worrying, though. They had let more chaos in to mess with the order - and the literal Order, too. There was danger in that. But it seemed like the Right Thing to Do.

     

    Tonight, it was looking like the site of yet another Ritual Gone Wrong. Hm... they should come up with codes for these things, like the cops did. Or they could just call it an RGW... That was a thought, actually. Less confusing than 'a ten thirty-three', he supposed. The apartment was a mess. It looked like it hadn't been much before 'the incident', but it certainly wasn't much now. The threadbare couch had been knocked over, the folding table and chairs were broken into so many pieces... and then of course there was the jagged circle that had been scorched on the scuffed wooden floor and the yellowing ceiling, as though some hollow column of flame had been present just long enough to burn the outer layers, but not long enough to actually burn through the structure. It wasn't totally unheard of, of course.

     

    What was weirder, of course, was the meat that was spread all over the place. There were what seemed like a hundred chunks of some kind of meat littering the apartment, like something... meaty had blown up in the center of the charred circle. Most of it, unfortunately, was probably starting to turn rancid. Thankfully the apartment only smelled like the meat section of a grocery store and not a dumpster, so far. That would change soon enough - it was only as good as it was probably because the windows had shattered when whatever it was happened, letting in a whole lot of cold from the outside.

     

    Alistair put his gloves back on, crouching down and looking at one of the pieces of meat. Of course, the neighbor who'd called it in (after, reportedly, fainting in the hallway) had been sure it was a person who exploded. But the more he looked at it...

     

    [alistair]Is this... half a pork tenderloin?[/alistair] he asked finally, tilting his head as he frowned at the pink shape. 

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