St. John burst out from the door down to the storage room and into the common room. Surprisingly, the room was mostly empty except for one man sitting at the bar. However, there seemed to have been a recent scuffle here; many tables and chairs had been knocked down. John did his best to right them before sitting down at the booth and ordering some stout. He was tired; it had been a long day.
While he waited, he turned towards the figure sitting next to him, a humanoid creature dressed in bulky metal armor and listening to music from a Walkman. "Pardon me, sir, but do you know where I could find a Miss Gabrielle LeBeau? She owns this place," he asked. He was so tired he couldn't even shout, just speak.

Christopher J. Richardson stared down with barely veiled disgust at the corpse lying at his feet. She'd been a young prostitute, a poor soul with no way to protect herself other than the dirty route.
She had been the third person killed by "The Immortal" Zodd Nosferatu.
Besides him, the detective known as Rorschach inhaled, smoking a cigarette. It was strange that the man didn't roll his mask up to smoke. But what was stranger was the composition of the mask itself; it was white with black spots that moved and roiled around on it like clouds.
Rorschach exhaled, breathing out a plume of smoke that rose into the air. Then he turned to Christopher. "So what do you think?"
The police officer raised an eyebrow. "Think about what?"
"Well, the murder of course. What do you notice?"
Another odd trait about Rorschach - for some reason he let Christopher figure something out, but then explain it better. In any case, Christopher bent down and looked at the corpse. It was the same as all the others - a person seemingly in the wrong place at the wrong time, always centered around Main Street. This was the second one in the Side Alley.
He peered closer at the wound. As all the others, it had been done with some sort of giant cleaver. The forensic scientists had discovered traces of iron dust on the wounds. And the wounds were, strangely, always centered around dismemberment.
As he looked over the young woman's body, he noticed something. It wasn't something very unusual, but as he saw it, the light bulb came on in his head.
"She's very strong-looking," he said. "Muscular. Built for fighting."
Rorschach chuckled. "She would've had to have been, considering her profession. But what about it?"
Christopher slowly stood up, the puzzle pieces finally fitting together. This case was starting to make sense at last. "The last case had been a construction worker going to work. He'd been very strong too. And Clay had had a past-time of boxing, so he was well-muscled as well."
"So?"
"This demon, this... this Nosferatu... he must be seeking strong people for a fight! He must be some sort of vengeance demon."
Christopher couldn't see Rorschach's face, but he could sort of feel that the detective was smiling. "Now you're catching on. But if he were a vengeance demon, why would he kill them if they hadn't done anything?"
Christopher's face fell. "Um... I... I don't-"
"Think, man," Rorschach interrupted, grasping the police officer's shoulder. "You said that the people who died were built for fighting. If Zodd is a vengeance demon looking for a fight, then what do you think they must have done?"
Realization crashed upon the constable like strong waves upon a beach. "They tried to fight back."
Rorschach smiled. "Bingo."
Christopher began to pace. "They tried to fight him. Foolishness of course, as he was a demon, but they had to defend themselves. The construction worker with his hammer, the young woman with a knife she had hidden in her boot. By trying to fight him, they'd only invoked his rage."
"Thus, he'll be searching around for more strong folks to massacre. Which could be bad, considering what's coming up soon."
"What do you mean?"
Rorschach turned aside to exhale, and then tossed his cigarette in a nearby dumpster. He then started walking out of the alleyway. Confused, Christopher followed along. Finally, Rorschach stopped at the front of Gambit's Bar, and pointed to a poster taped to the front window that read "Upcoming Wrestling Event This Week!!! Pro Wrestlers From All Over The Multiverse To The Terran Wrestling Arena This Weekend!!! One Night Only!!! BE THERE OR BE SQUARE!!!!!"
Christopher gasped softly. "Oh no. This is not good."
"Yup," Rorschach said, pulling out a bottle of brandy and swigging it through his mask. How does he even do that? Christopher wondered. "Our happy little demon friend will be drawn there like moths to a lamp. Worse still, we don't have enough time to cancel it. It begins in two hours."
"Two hours?! We have to get there and stop him!"
"I agree, friend, so we better hurry up and get there." With that, the two started to run across the crosswalk. Out of nowhere, a dark and sleek car with blacked out windows sped by, running the green light. It would have flattened Christopher if Rorschach hadn't held him back in time.
"Hey! Asshole! You just ran a green light!" the detective shouted at the car, shaking the bottle at it. The driver continued on speeding away.
As they reached the other side without any other mishaps, Christopher pulled out his walkie-talkie. "This is Christopher J. Richardson. A blacked-out Porsche - license plate 89E 7O1 - speeding, running green lights, and nearly harming pedestrians on Main Street. Send out a unit or two to pull him over. Over."
The officer on the other end responded, "We copy, sending two units to track and subdue Porsche 89E 7O1. Over and out."
As Christopher put his walkie-talkie away, Rorschach grabbed his hand. "Stop socializing and hurry! We have a mass murderer to stop!" And thus, the two ran along towards the Arena, the area where the event was to be held.

(OOC - Okay, you know what? Screw it. I don't care that the author of this RP is dead, but I see it as having promise and so I would like to try to continue it. Maybe Sundayakasha might even come back. Anyone else in this RP, feel free to join in.)

Jenniffer sat alone in the library, reading.
It was one of the only things her father allowed her to do. After one incident involving a rather attractive boy, she wasn't allowed to interact with any male peoples. She resented him for it. Then again, she resented him for a lot of things.
She could read, write, paint and mess around on her phone, but only for videos and pictures. Her dad had an app to watch her activities. She wasn't allowed to have any friends. She had quite a few crushes, since she was, after all, an 18-year old girl, but Father would make sure she never carried any of them out. Thus, she read.
It was one of those boring old 19th century books, about some random chick in a prim dress travelling around the USA and interacting with polite, handsome gentlemen. They were extremely boring, but they were the only things her father would let her read. Another reason for hatred.
Her father walked up to her. "All right, Jenniffer, your time is up. Let's go. Put the book back." He never let her check out any books; he was not one for the fine arts.
"Alright, Father," Jenniffer said politely. She got off the chair and walked over to the shelves to put the book back. Father went out the doors to go start the car up.
As she put the book back, something caught her eye. It was a very large book, big enough that it looked like it could be used as a doorstopper. It also didn't look like anything that a prim and perfect lady would be reading. Someone must have misplaced it onto the wrong shelf, she thought. Well, I'll just do them a favor and put it back on the right place.
She picked up the book. It was quite heavy, and she gave a quiet grunt when she hefted it off the shelf. The cover was made of what appeared to be worn leather, and it felt oddly warm to the touch. In ancient ink, a title was printed on the cover in French. It read, "Les Origines du Septième Coven". She happened to take Latin classes at her school, and was able to translate the title to "The Origins of the Seventh Coven".
The title sent a shiver down her spine. It sounded decidedly gothic to her. However, she got some sort of strange sense of foreboding while holding it. Was it the odd warmness? The way the cracked leather cover seemed to her to hold secrets that should never be known?
Outside, she heard her father honk the horn. Without thinking, she deftly slipped the book into her backpack. Her father would hopefully assume it was just another textbook; he hadn't done backpack searches in years.
She ran out of the library and got in the car. Her father scowled at you. "What took you so long?"
"I was putting a book back on the shelf it belonged on. Someone had misplaced it," she replied carefully, hiding her odd fear.
Father nodded. "Good girl. It's good to see you helping the community."
"Thank you, Father." You bastard, she added in her mind.
The car drove away back towards her home.

(OOC - your turn.)

Jane sped through the city on her neck rocket boosters, laughing like a maniac. "WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!" she screamed into the air.

Fortunately for the Vikings, Jane hadn't eaten enough sugar to be a threat. "Okay, okay, I'll go, and then fly!" She did a ellipse in the air and then followed the Vikings to wherever they would go.