Making a night of it.

Rain, thick, heavy, unrelenting and unforgiving falls down around me, clouding up the windows of the car as I drive. Even with full beam, in this quiet part of town, visibility is no more than a few hundred feet. I signal to pull in, joining the sidewalk just outside a small, 24 hour convenience store, as I reach down to the driver's side compartment for a smoke, lighting it with the convection lighter in the car's dash.

Not even the radio has anything good on tonight.

I hold my head in my hands, trying to massage my forehead. These last few nights have been nothing if not a nightmare. I'm getting nowhere fast with this case and the missing Neophytes and everywhere I look, every avenue of investigation I tread down comes up empty. That slimy Laplace, with his inflated ego and degenerate little club, glorifying torpor as some kind of spiritual enlightenment. I know my faith, that 'aint it. He knows more than he's letting on, I'm sure of it, but I'll be damned if I can get anything out of him.

I open the glove box, taking my old, battered dictaphone and replaying his interview. The sound is a little muffled, a common side effect of leaving it in one's pocket, and my inquiries don't show up on the recording - but there's enough to get my mind working. I get the distinct impression he doesn't want me snooping around too much. Bad for business perhaps?

Maybe I should pay him another visit, outside of business hours. I kick my Auspex up, gazing around my immediate surroundings in an attempt to try and find my spirit guide. It's been a long while since I've seen Jezebel and I could do with her help now. Maybe I should just head home. Get some rest and come up with a course of action once I've slept. Hell, a shower wouldn't go amiss either. I reach forward, gunning the ignition back to life and signal to move off again.

Again you see a smeared reflection glare back at you through the running spider-web of rain sliding down your windshield. It washes away with the rain, though the glassy stare somehow lingers, outdoing the passing lights. Nothing's amiss at the office. No messages, nothing from Jezebel and no more leads. The trail's no warmer than it was after the hospital, but then again there's nobody sitting in your chair training a gun on you either, so swings and roundabouts.

[What's your next move? The obvious next stops are Jezebel, Laplace or your Sire]

Must be in worse shape than I thought. I shake my head, trying to get the illusion out of my head. It's probably just a trick of the light, headlights reflecting and refracting through countless drops of rain water - or stress. Is it any wonder I'm seeing things? I rub my eyes for a moment, before tapping the end of my smoke into the ashtray.

I reach over to the passenger seat, picking up an updated streetmap and unfolding it onto the steering wheel. Laplace's place is marked on it, in my own little shorthand. Might as well case the joint up for a while, learn his movements, it might even give me something to work with.

This time of night, the traffic isn't exactly heavy, especially in this part of town. I'm there even before the station finishies it's latest batch of comercials. I pull over, a few doors down from the house and kill the engine, even stamping out the cigarette to reduce any light. Kicking up my Heightened Perceptions, I keep an eye out on the house, trying to pick out any activity.

Spoiler:

A window on the second floor is lit up, but the light filters out of drawn blinds. There's talk in there, but you can't make it out this far away through glass. An hour passes and a lone woman, a mousy middle aged sort leaves the home and makes her way to a car parked about ten yards down the road. She doesn't notice you. If anyone notices you, they don't pay you any mind.