The City, the War and the Arcana - a story with magic, murder, mystery men and dames

[Paka]

The City is a sprawl of War-inspired industry with all of the pre-War touches that made it a beautiful and mysterious place to live. There are thousands of places between abandoned alleys that aren’t on any tourist pamphlets, the secrets and glories that happen when pavement meets paranormal.

Boroughs hold immigrants from every possible culture from Egypt to Poland, all holding on to their old world roots with both hands while the City works its magic on them.

The War was a gallant fight against evil. Some call it fascism, some see it as a war against Mad Occultists. Entire boroughs of the city are without young men. Broken veterans beg for change on the streetcorners. Those who come back don’t talk about it with anyone outside the Veteran’s Lodge. Those who waited for their return, the sons, mothers, wives and brothers of the veterans, wonder if this gallant fight was worth the price.

The Arcana weaves its tendrils around us, the City and the War. It is the gargoyle that seems to blink its eyes from the corner of your eye. It is the forgotten subway stations, forgotten stops where no City-Train has ever screeched to rest. It is what they won’t talk about at the Veteran’s Lodge, even after many drinks. It is the summoned beast at the Gentlemen’s Club and the Monsters Under the Bed. Arcana is always an eye-blink away, all you need to do is open your eyes.

The Black Hats were heroes before they went to the War. They couldn’t just put on crimson fedoras, fishnet stockings or flowing capes after returning home. The men and women who founded the colorful squadrons, leagues and societies of heroes now dressed in uniform. Black fedoras, dark trench-coats and smoking .45’s are the modern symbols of their heroism if it can even be called heroism anymore.

Fedora-Punks seek to continue the bright, shiny, pre-War heroism that’s now draped in black. Some are the children or even side-kicks of the original heroes and others were inspired by the capes, cowls and bright tights. They prowl the roof-tops, doing battle with the City’s horrors, villains and thugs.

The Occult Mafia watches over Arcana and makes certain they get their cut. If they trust you they might send a door man to make sure your ritual isn’t interrupted. If they don’t trust you around the balefire and brimstone they might break your fingers to stop you from drawing a circle or just give you a stern warning. Hedge-Tricksters from the hills, Hermetic Wizards from broken towers and Witches and Warlocks from busted covens use the O.M. as an underground railroad across the pond and into the City. Playing the Arcanna is a dangerous game, don’t think about going in, casting a ball of fire and getting out in a hurry. Every spell comes with a price and if no piper comes to collect the O.M. surely will.

 

[Paka]

Dramatis Personae

Max Steele – Private Eye with skin like…yeah, you guessed it – Steel and a checkered past in the meta-human community

James Lexington – Loyal butler of the late Pharaoh, who died a tragic death while fighting crime. James has decided to take on the mantle of the Pharaoh himself, fighting crime and thwarting evil.

Blaze – Tough street-kid who leads local gang of orphaned kids, makin’ their way on the City’s streets best they can.

The story...

The radio says a doozy of a snow storm is going to hit the City soon but for now the wind's just blowing hard and cold; tossed away newspapers dance in circles. Bums huddle around fire-lit steel drums while more respectable folk hustle to get to the warmth and security of their homes and family. It is a bitter cold, even the beat cops are shivering under their leather coats.

James Lexington still lives in his late master’s mansion on the East Hill. He keeps the ancient Egyptian relics dusted and the study warm while the lawyers settle the estate. After the will is read James isn’t sure what he will do. For now he does his duties as a good manservant by day and by night prowls the City’s streets as the Pharaoh, the mystery man alter-ego his late master adopted to fight crime.

James took up the mantle after his former employer’s death, doing justice, hoping the caped and cowled lifestyle won’t kill him as it did his predecessor. He lives in the deserted gothic mansion, built in an era when nobles wished to live a separate life from the lower classes with walls to keep them apart. Not too much has changed.

The doorbell rang. Odd, I didn’t hear a car pull up, James thought, checking the peep-hole. A young man in a nice dark blue suit is at the door. He is looking over his shoulder and his hand is under his jacket, holding his stomach, as if in pain.

James opened the door, “Can I help you?”

The muttered the word, "Pharaoh," and passed out. In the young man’s hand is a business card:

Max Steele
Steele Investigations

555-7777

“Damn,” James proclaimed to no one in particular, dragging his body in from the cold, into the mansion’s warmth. He placed the young man in the couch and did his best to tend to his wounds, although James’ knowledge of such things was superficial at best and the wound was buried beneath the folds of the three piece suit, now covered in blood. The stranger’s body is long and lean, muscled like a swimmer, his dark hair in a sharp widow’s peak.

James fetched a glass of water in case the visitor came to and a bucket, in case he felt sick. Despite his lack of medical skills he was fairly sure the young man’s wound was to the gut and he might feel ill. Taking the blood smudged card in his hand, James called the number.

The office for Steele Investigation is in the old Hammett Building down on 33rd and Moore. Shirley, the only secretary in the office was getting her desk tidy, preparing to leave for the day when the phone rang. From the back office Max said, “Shirley, get that for me.”

Shirley took a deep breath and answered the phone. “Steele Investigations, how can I help you? I GOT IT, MAX!"

"Yes mam I am looking for the owner of Steel Investigations,” James Lexington responded.

Shirley barked, "Owner, Ha. May I ask what this is regarding, sir?"

“Well, I think I may have a mutual friend of his that I'd like to talk to him about."

"Mutual friend...aha. Boss, someone's on line one who don't want to tell the secretary nothing. Should I forward over to the executive suite?" Shirley responded, making sure the words executive suite were dripping with sarcasm.

Max replied, “Make sure it isn't a bill collector."

Shirley sighed. "Is this regarding any outstanding debt, sir?"

"No mam, I do not work for any collection agency.”

Shirley relayed the message. "He says he's legit. You takin' it or no?"

“Yeah, I got it but don't go any where,” Max picked up the phone and said, “Yeah, Max Steele here. What do you got for me?"

"Mr Steel, I need to ask for your help."

"Yeah.... What’s up and who are you?" Max asked his soon-to-be-client.

"Sorry, I am James Lexington. I have a person here who has your buisness card and nothing else." James went on to describe his mysterious visitor.

Max listened, shaking his head, not recognizing the description. "Mighty cold to be traveling without anything less... but I got the picture."

James continued, "He seems to be wounded, and I cannot rouse him. I was wondering if he was a friend of yours, and if you would like to come get him, or if I should take him to a hospital?”

"Nope, don't know him.” Max shrugged and asked, “How bad is he, bad enough to bleed to death?"

James replied curtly, "Sorry I am not a physician but he did pass out at my door."

Max shook his head. "Yeah, well we will have to bet he is then."

"I am sorry. I am not quite sure what you mean."

"I'll meet you at the hospital," Max replied, getting his shoulder holster on and then grabbing his jacket off of the coat rack.

"Which one?" the butler asked.

"By that question, I will have to bet you are rich. If you were poor there would only be one choice.

“Are you paying?” Max inquired.

"I guess I am. Then I shall see you at Eastside shortly."

“Fine, be there soon," Max said as he hung up his phone and turned to Shirley. “Shirley, be a dear and look up what ya can about about James Lexington. Thanks. Gotta go…work stuff.”

Shirley retored sharply, “I’d better get overtime for this , Max.”

Max said, “Yeah, honey don't you always,” as he closed his front office door and walked out into the cold streets of the City.

 

[Horacio]

Wow, nice beginning for a pulp story!

Details, please For example, what rules are you using?
d20 Modern? M&M?

 

[Paka]

Blaze was playing stickball in the street with her gang when she saw Max heading towards his car. She walked away from her crew of misfits and delinquents for a moment. "How's the night treating you Max?"

Max smiled. "Hey, Kid, it's alright. You shouldn't be out tonight."

Blaze shrugged. “Where should I be?”

“What about Mother T doesn't she have anything setup tonight?" Max said as he lit up a cigar.

“Mama T? I guess but the Dodgers are taking tolls,” Blaze responded.

"Well, I guess your taking a ride with me." Max opened the door of his old Chevy, inviting Blaze some evening education, recreation and shelter. “Maybe I could use you tonight."

“Okay but can you spare a buck?” Blaze asked, looking back at her boys and girls.

"Never, but I got one for ya, anyway." Max handed her a fiver.

She took the sawbuck over to the kid with the stick and conferred with him. The kids left the game of stickball unfinished, off to spend the gang’s newfound wealth.

Together, they drove to the East Hill Hospital.

 

[Paka]

Game Details

System: Unknown Armies - homebrew setting, some homebrew rules but nothing too extensive nor complicated

Medium: WebRPG (on-line chat game with friends scattered across three states)

 

[Paka]

When James returned to his visitor’s unconscious body he found the couch drenched with blood. Blood was dripping onto the floor and the man’s face was deathly pale. The blood, the man’s seeming lack of a pulse, the thought of cleaning it all up later all gathered together and James vomited explosively into the bucket he had thoughtfully put next to the visitor earlier, before calling Max Steele. I thought he would use the bucket, James thought, gathering his nerve.

After gathering his wits again, James found that the hand the strange, wounded man had in his jacket was no hand at all but a recently severed stump, cut at the wrist. The gore and violence of it made his throat fill with bile again, but his heart was hardened against such terrible sights and he placed the man in the estate’s silver Rolls Royce as gently as he could.

Meanwhile Max and Blaze make their way to the Eastside Hospital. Max is preparing Blaze for her evening’s duties as his back-up. “We’re headin’ to the hospital to meet someone I don’t know.

“When we get there, you try to phase into the woodwork for me if he doesn’t see us right away. Just watch me for who I talk to.

“Be careful and I might need you to filch his wallet of anything goes wrong.”

At the hospital emergency room entrance, Max and Blaze separate. Blaze goes into the waiting room alone, keeping Max in her sight and Max looks around until a silver Rolls Royce pulls up to the door driven by a nondescript man with brown hair, brown eyes, in a brown suit. His passenger is a young man who looks bled nearly to death.

“I’m Max, this is the boy?”

“Yes, Mr. Steele,” James replied as Max grabbed the young man as if he were a rag doll and carried him through the ER’s doors. Blaze is positioned in a corner, watching the ordeal as Max enters the front door. Max is a tremendous man, six foot, eight inches in a rumpled suit. Max would blend into a room if it weren’t for his size. The giant walked through the lobby, demanded attention and forced any passersby out of his way.

While waiting for a nurse Max frisks the boy, looking for a wallet but only finding a matchbook. “I fear the wounds are rather severe,” James was saying as Max entered. “He is missing a hand and he has a wound to the gut.”

“Yeah, he’s kinda messed up, especially for a meta.” Before turning to the nurse, Max looked at James and said, “So what are you, Mr. Lexington, another rich guy from the eastie?”

The put the newcomer on a gurney and roll him into the nearest operating room. Max continued to follow the body. The little unnoticed girl in the lobby watches, making sure no one followed the body in.

The nurse stopped Max before he could go any farther, her head reaching about his belly button but her demeanor demanding attention. “Sir, if you could wait out here, we will want to talk to you soon. Thank you.”

Max looked at James and then back at the nurse. “Which sir are you talking to, lady?”

James turned to Max. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am James Lexington.”

Max’s concentration was on the nurse. “Excuse me, lady, this guy in there is a relative.” After delivering the lie Max turned to James and shook his hand.

“Pleasure.”

Max flashed his Private Investigator license. “Now lady, let us past.”

James stepped between Max and the nurse. “Mr. Steele, they are professionals. Perhaps its best if we wait and let them work.”

“Yeah, but they aren’t paid to watch out for anyone who wants to snuff him.”
The nurse eyed the investigator’s license with open suspicion. “Why don’t you just wait until,” and her sentence was cut off as a doctor mentions a high caliber gunshot wound found on the patient’s body, “until the police arrive, sirs.

“Snuff him?” she asked.

“Sure lady, they come to finish him off, you can handle it.
“Me, I’ll be havin’ coffee.”

The nurse, a tough old black woman with big eyes and hair in a tight bun, looked up at Max and asked, “Should I get an officer for the door, Mr. Steele?”

James turned to her, “Ma’am, Mr. Steele is very concerned for his relative. Perhaps we could just stand outside the room he is in?”

In response to her question Max responded, “I think that would be wise.”

The nurse nodded and called an officer from the down the hall to watch the door.

They grabbed seats within sight and hearing of the operating room, while Blaze crept out to the Rolls.

The doctors and nurses were frantically trying to get the patient stable, pouring transfusion blood into his veins. His gunshot wound damaged some organs and the exit wound out the back was big enough to drive a Buick through. The doctor’s shriek was quite clear. “What the are these…gills?”

Max thought about gills, spun the word through his mental Rolodex. Gills = Atlanteans…hauty, badass in a tumble and trying to get recognized in the United Nations as a country in their own right. Word of what they were doing was all over the City papers. King of Atlantis fought alongside many of the great super-heroes, the mystery men who were now Black Hats. Max wasn’t sure if the King had joined them or not.

Max stopped a nurse, “He may be Atlantean! Get a specialist!”

“We’re already calling a meta-human specialist in, sir,” she responded.

James looked around the lobby, listening to the doctor’s struggle for the patient’s life and he noticed an old friend. James Lexington had been a manservant in the City all his life. He knew servants, doormen, janitors, cleaning women and other such folk all over the city. Rufus is among them, a hospital janitor, keeping the Eastside Hospital clean as a whistle. Max excused himself from Max’s presence and approached his old friend.

“Good evening, Rufus, how are you?”

“Fine as rain,” Rufus responded, “This weather could be better. Cold gets right into my bones.
“How are you doing up on your hill?”

“The weather is rather bad. I am doing well, although the house is a bit lonely. But perhaps that will change when things get straightened out.
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor, Rufus?”

“What kind of favor?”

“The room with all of the commotion, could you just keep your eye on it for anyone suspicious going in?”

“I’ll do what I can, but I do have work to do.”

James said, “Understood, appreciate it.”

As James and Rufus spoke the emergency room went frantic. The doctors, guided by a specialist on meta-human anatomy, attempted to keep the patient alive.

Max looked at the matchbook from the guy’s pocket that he scored while carrying him into the hospital. It had Moon Lounge written on it, the name of a bar downtown, ritzy.

When James returned Max nodded towards the emergency room. “It seems our boy might not make it.”

Mr. Lexington grimaced. “Sorry, Mr. Steele. Yes, I noticed there was some sort of commotion going on. Any word?”

“He’s Atlantean, probably anyway…losing vitals. So, what do you have to do with the meta community?”

James looked at the operating room’s closed doors. “An Atlantean. Interesting. I wonder why he came to me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was wondering. Did he say anything?”

“I think he was looking for someone I know, Mr. Steel. He only said one thing…” James hesitated, wondering how much to tell. Mr. Steele had a good reputation among the cape and cowl community but it was a lot to offer a stranger.

Max prodded, “…and that was?”

James looked around the emergency room, making sure none were within easy hearing. Once satisfied James looked Max in the eyes and said, “The Pharaoh.”

Max had heard of the Pharaoh, occult detective who ran with the meta-human crowd. “But what would he be doing looking for a set of detectives?” Max asked noone in particular.

The patient’s vitals beeped with a terrible rhythm and then stopped. Despite their attempt to jumpstart his body back into a working beat, the man was too far-gone. He died. A doctor, still thinking that Max Steele was a relative, informed him of the death with as much sorrow and bedside manor as he could muster. “We’re going to have to ask you to stick around until the police arrive to take your statements. I am sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry about your relative, Mr. Steele,” James offered.

“Not really my relative, just said that to get in,” Max admitted.

“Of course.”

Blaze poked around the car, a glory of wood paneling and modern engineering. IN the glove compartment she found only the insurance and registration. Blood soaked the passenger side seat, making it sticky. She was hoping for some money, a hidden gun…anything, really.

A shadow moved across the dashboard and Blaze noticed a man behind the car, writing the license number down. He was in a dirty trench coat and a hat that covered most of his face. The hand that holds the pencil is missing a few fingers, making his grip awkward.

He approached the driver’s side and his hand reached for the handle as Blaze attempted to hide from him, see what he was snooping around for.

He noticed her and began bellowing. “What are ya doing in there, kid?” Now she saw that he was missing an ear and his face was a mass of scar tissue. “I’m a cop. Get outta there!”

Blaze bolted through the opposite, passenger side door towards the emergency room lobby, leaving the strange scarred man behind. While running into the lobby, she nimbly dodged around a number of men entering the hospital.

One of these men approached Max and James and smiled.

Max said, “Bucksby, how’s it going?” just before James could say, “Mr. Bucksby, can we be of service?” Max’s eyebrows rose, noting that James knew Bucksby.

Detective Randolph Bucksby was easy to spot in the papers. He was in the Powers Division of the City Police Department and Powers = Press in this town. Bucksby gave them both a big grin. “The Butler and the Private Eye, well, we know whodunit, don’t we?” The detective laughed at his own joke, the only one to do so as Blaze sprinted by. “Whoa, kid, watchit!”

Blaze’s face is dirty, has a caddy hat on, mis-matched socks and an over-sized jacket. She runs by them and makes sure the goon from outside isn’t chasing her down. After that she re-groups, makes sure no one is nearby to hear her talk to Max, seeing the detective, she holds her tongue.

Max looked over at the detective, a man he knew from his old days on the Watch. “Who do you wanna talk to first?”

Bucksby smiled again, not a pretty sight. “Hang out, gentlemen, we should have us a talk.” He walked away to see the victim, leaving the unlikely trio in the lobby.

 

[Paka]

Wow, nice beginning for a pulp story!

Details, please For example, what rules are you using?
d20 Modern? M&M?

Thanks, hope the rest of the SH isn't too dull.

Hope I answered your question, anymore questions?

 

[Horacio]

Thanks, hope the rest of the SH isn't too dull.

Hope I answered your question, anymore questions?

The story hour begins really good (and I know a bit about story hours ).
Another question... will there be nazis? A pulp story needs nazis!

 

[Paka]

The story hour begins really good (and I know a bit about story hours ).
Another question... will there be nazis? A pulp story needs nazis!

Alas foul Adolf, I knew him well, Horatio.

Funny, you should mention Nazis. I had them in the original write-up of this setting but ended up taking them out. I decided the City, while certainly modeled after post-war late 40's, early 50's U.S.A. isn't the U.S.A. at all and Nazis would be too real a villain.

While pulpy, this setting is more on the noir side of the tracks but who am I to split hairs. Max Steele is pretty close to a Man of Bronze, if Doc Savage had been written by Raymond Chandler or Dashiel Hammett.

Anyway, read on and I'm flattered to be another facet of your addiction.

Thanks for the comments and please don't be shy with comments or questions.

 

[Paka]

City Police Department Interview Transcript
Atlantis Files

Interviewer: Detective Randolph Bucksby
Place: Eastside Hospital, Nurse's Station
Interviewee: Max Steele

R.B. - Max, what has it been...how many years?"

Max - Not long enough.

R.B. - Right, right, I'm just a no-good sellout and you're doing the GOOD work out on the street with your dick licsense. I got the picture. How are you related to the dead fish in there?"

Max - He showed up at the rich man's hous, Mr' Lexington's. He handed the guy my card then passed out.

R.B. - Nurse said you claimed a relation.

Max - Yeah, just wanted to baby sit him. In case someone came to finish it up.

R.B. - So, you handed him your card? He's a client?

Max - Nope, never saw the guy...but it looks like he was looking for me.

R.B. - Too little too late. What kinda heat you packin' nowadays, Steele?

Max - Someone just tried to break into the richmans car.. .maybe it's related. Heat? A .44 and my right arm.

R.B. - Right, silver rolls got broken into...I'm sure its a conspiracy.

Max - This is the Eastside. From the description the guy sounded like Daddy Longknives.

R.B. - Don't leave town, Steele. We're gonna want to make sure he wasn't trying to tell anyone you shot him. Okay? where can I reach ya if I need to?

Max - You know where.(Handed me his card, see Envelope A)

R.B. - Daddy Longknives...you been listening to fairy tales. They were dead when you were still an orphan in a warehouse. C'mon, Steel. Thanks for your cooperation. I'll be sure to put it in big letters in my report. Couldja send the butler in after you go?

Max - Sure dick... I mean detective.

R.B. - You know, Max. The trouble with losers like you is you culdn't hack it on the force and so you'll always have it out for successfuly John Q. Law's like me. Keep makin' your cash takin' dirty pictures of husbands gettin' their lollies behind their wive's back. Makes no matter to me. But when it comes time to help the law, you remember where its at.

Max - Yes, sir.

Notes: Steele and I were on the Watch together back in the day, went through the Academy together, graduated the same class. Nice to know we still don't get along.

I think he and the Butler are up to something. See Butler's file.

Randolph finished typing the report and looked it over in the deserted office. Sure, his last speech never happened. He never said that and only barely had the courage to type it outta fear of Steele finding out about it. But he wrote it anyways.

A guy's gotta feel tough somehow.