death_dawg

A note has been posted on the bulletin board of the main room:

To the agents of the Shadow Angel Detective Agency:

Witnesses will be needed for a post-mortem examination. I will be the operating room of the basement lab, this afternoon.

Jacquel

It's been a while since Jacquel has used his stills, and in some ways, it does not quite surprise him that his first subject at the Mansion is the odd little woman who held him in such reverence and fascination when she figured out who he is on their first meeting.

Her body was so covered in blood that he barely recognized her at first, not until he cleaned off the corpse, washing her down carefully in the basement lab which he'd been scoping out as a potential workplace. He'd found a foot-operated dictaphone which he's been tinkering with for weeks, getting it to work. Armat's body lays on the slab, naked, head propped with a foam block under her neck.

The room is colder than it usually is and Jacquel is covered with a pale blue surgical cover-up over his shirt, vest and slacks, a cloth cap covering his head and protective goggles over his eyes. He's prepping the saws and scalpels he's going to need, laying them out on the same work table that holds the dictaphone.

Title nicked from Septic Flesh's "Anubis". So, looking for the folks in the Agency. Warning: Medical/post-mortem stuff.

Arriving here is the closest thing to arriving in what would become Cairo, Illinois that Jacquel has experienced in the millenia he's seen: it is an odd experience, to say the least, but he's adapting. It's how he's lasted all these years and he's ready to adapt to this place as well: death might not hold any grip here, but one never knows when his services might be needed, and he's been seeking out a corner in which to set up his workshop.

But for the moment, he's sitting on the back porch, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun and nursing a beer: not quite as good as the stuff that was invented in the land of the Nile, but good enough, and there's a few spare bottles beside him on the porch step, in case he has company. The sunlight feels good on his brown face, and he is at peace.

Primarily for Dean, but if someone wants to tap him, feel free to tap his typist. Title snitched from "Anubis" by Septic Flesh