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Dr. Geoff MacNeilson

American born Irish treasure hunter who is continuously disgruntled and an adrenaline junkie.

0 · 304 views · located in Alternate post WW2 treasure hunting

a character in “Selling the 7 Wonders”, as played by BrazenWolfsbane

Description

Red hair, fiery temper, generally disgruntled and bitter, drinks a lot, has a foul mouth, and likes shiny things.

So begins...

Dr. Geoff MacNeilson's Story

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Character Portrait: Eugenia Averina Character Portrait: Dr. Geoff MacNeilson Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Caves of Germany, shores of France. They all sounded like this man was a hound for the old and valued that all sat beyond the cordons of the Reich- and so, game. She watched him light up and reckoned then he wouldn’t mind if she had another herself- while she had smoked regularly in the army before, chainsmoking had come to her naturally after a long night flying without a copilot in the dead altitudes over that dreaded German land. After her dishonorable discharge, she’d fled almost immediately with the Patriot, stopping only to see her father. In his office in downtown Moscow, Captain Averin was shaking from the cold and the waste of age alike, fire in his eyes as he told her, “Zhenya, do not come back until you’ve killed a thousand Nazis.”

She strode into the room and sidled into the seat as soon as she saw him do the same- to do so any earlier would betray her military instincts, which currently put this man, diminutive as he was, in the position of a superior. He went on to speak in English, leaving Averina’s brain to regear and catch up as he poured the drink and she took it, grateful for something stiffer to sip while the man talked. She rarely got this far in interviews, took it as a good sign. The drink burned a strong, robust and sweet burn all the way down, more flavor than she was used to. “This agreement sounds...” Damn, what was the word? And was he always going to switch out? “Favorable,” she said. There it was. “I ask you fuel Patriot, also. If we use it. And keep it in air... service. Is strong ship, but needs maintenance. I see it fair if you take portion of my stipend for this, say, £100.” She coughed a bit, drinking a bit more. “Was shot at when I leave motherland.”

He took a couple long puffs on his pipe in thought. "That's fine lass, though you'd know more about the damn thing than me. I'm better with the small personal equipment. I'm no fucking use with a goddamned airship. You point me at the fuel and parts and I'll see to them out of your stipend." He was curious however about why she was shot at. He took a long pull from the drink, hardly feeling it slide down his throat; it was so much smoother than the rot gut and rye he usually drank. "By the by why were you shot at leaving the motherland. I know the red army has a habit of executing those who run from a battle but those running towards the enemy border with a loaded airship?" He let the question hang there in the air and pipe smoke.

She shifted uncomfortably in the chair, feeling the lush surface accommodate her size and discomfort. A long pull of her cigarette put a temporary smokescreen between her and the archaeologist, enough to put her thoughts together. "Patriot is semi-rigid airship made to patrol border at Volga. Volga is border, then..." she felt her thoughts darken with that preternatural anger of the thought. "Stalingrad, run by fascist pigs. I maybe let go of steering wheel and let Patriot drift by wind over border a few times, see how they live. And I maybe open fire on team on Nazi cars." She finished her drink then. "Red Army was not happy in break of 'peace', and discharge me. With gunfire." She shrugged and put the glass down, drumming her fingers on the table in feigned composure. It still kept her up at night- they'd shown her how to live like a civilized human, and did better for her father: they'd sobered him up. And here she was, still in their coat and still with their ship. She wasn't comfortable revealing all this, in the end. "You, why do you seek artifacts? Is old things, and you risk your life. This isn't about money."

He took a few long puffs on his pipe, letting the smoke hang in his lungs for a moment before blowing it through his nose like an ancient dragon. "You're right lass, it's not about the money. It's about the thrill. I'm what some would call an adrenaline junkie. The thrill of the hunt and the excitement of the discovery. Rappelling down a rock face into an unknown abyss. Diving into a frigid lake after a 'magical' dagger with only a rudimentary rebreather strapped to my back." He shudders and smiles broadly, smoke still curling from the corners of his mouth. "The more crude among our profession could say I get off on the danger, but I call it addiction. Plain and simple. And of course the money is spectacular for the right artifacts. Some people will pay anything for any old crap I pull out of some rock."

She rolls the word around in her mouth a little bit, figuring it out. Adrenaline junkie. It's a term unique to the language, but adrenaline is a word that translates easily. This man likes war and adventure? She wonders at it. Well, he is older than she and still alive; if he has made it so far and is not a liar, then she will respect him. 'Get off' is a term she isn't familiar with but she comprehends quickly enough. Foul mouthed, small archaeologist will either be a very good beneficiary or a ruinous wretch. She shall see. "There are worse things to be a junkie for," she admits. "Tell me when we leave."

His eyes flashed behind the glasses briefly, it looked as if he’d finally found someone worthwhile. Then again, the last worthwhile person he’d found had left with half his shit, so he wasn’t putting much stock in that judgement. At least there wasn’t a ring sealing this deal. He stood and tapped the pipe out in the ashtray, dumping the ashtray into the fire before he spoke. “Tomorrow at noon, theres an artifact I’ve come across in northern Scotland. Now I know that’s not Nazi killing territory but it is being searched for by a not very friendly clan of local bumpkins.” He tucked the pipe back into its place, and cracked his knuckles again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run and you have an airship to prepare. Here, an advance on this months stipend.” He produced a wad of bills from an old cracked leather wallet and handed them to her. Tipping his head to her he left the room, assuming she could find the door herself. He slid back into his chair and continued with what he was doing before the Russian entered. Which was brooding, drinking, and looking at a fairly worthless crystal that he was going to sell to American tourists for a ridiculously marked up price.

Closing time came and he deposited the days earnings into the floor safe. As he stood his back made a rippling series of cracks, signaling the end of the day. “Lock up if you would Walter, I’m going home to prepare for tomorrow. Thanks for the help.”

“Of course sir.”

“STOP CALLING ME SIR YOU LIMEY FUCK,” Geoff roared in exasperation. Walter just smiled wryly and bustled Geoff out of the store. Rubbing his temples the Irishman didn’t stop grumbling until he reached his home. His house was across town on the edge of London. It was a slightly sprawling estate he’d taken over after the previous owner had disappeared during the blitz. Since the war he’d filled it with relics of bygone ages. The entrance was lined with floor length mirrors and ancient suits of armor. As he passed the mirrors he took a moment to look at himself, again thinking of who he’d become. He’d gone from a lanky freckle faced bundle of hair and fire into the image he saw before him. Standing at 5’6” he was wiry with tightly corded runners and climbers muscle in place of the usual lifting muscle or paunch his compatriots seemed to sport. His fiery red hair was kept cropped short on the sides and only slightly longer on top and combed back and to the left. He kept a perpetual three day beard, somewhere between full and scraggly. He was still freckled but because of how much time he spent outdoors they’d faded as he’d, unlike others of his bloodline, tanned. His chiseled angled features gave him his well-earned stubborn look, his jaw perpetually set in slightly forward position. As if he was jutting his chin out in defiance, which he usually was but that’s beside the point. But he noticed none of these features. What he did notice were the deep bags under his eyes from countless sleepless nights. The slightly bloodshot eyes from days spent drinking and staring at minute details of ancient objects. But what stood out most was a flaring red scar that ran along the underside of the right side of his jaw, to the center of his chin then across his neck towards his shoulder, disappearing under his cardigan. The scar ran all the way to just below his armpit, a souvenir of the last man who’d ditched him.
Snorting derisively he sped through the foyer into his study. Plopping down into his desk he poured himself a measure of rye. Taking a sip he started to pour over the collected documents on the artifact they would be searching for the following day. He’s already prepared his equipment, he was just making sure of the location now. Before long though he had slipped from the realm of the living into the land of dreams. Though his were conspicuously absent.

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Walter looked up from the statue he was dusting as the vested Russian walked into the store. "Ah, madam, master MacNielson is not here quite yet. But the gear is gathered there by the door. I shall assist you in loading them." He carefully placed the duster down next to the stature and slipped his jacket off. The shirt underneath was tight against the older gentleman's skin, revealing very young looking muscle structure. Lifting the parcels easily he slipped past the airship captain and started the loading process. Taking the bags and parcels from the store to the system with ease.

Geoff woke up with a start to the sound of the old grandfather clock chiming in the hallway, telling him it was exactly 11:37 am. He stood slowly and arched his back, the joints popping into place with a familiar fanfare. This was one of the prices he paid for falling asleep at the desk so often. Rolling his eyes he trudged up to his room, slowly rubbing the fog away. "Fucking shite," he'd cursed as he tripped over an old mace that had fallen across the path. He considered giving it a kick but somehow his sleep and booze fogged mind reminded him that would be a terrible idea. He stepped over it and continued to his room.

His room was, as with the rest of the house, dark and felt very old. There was a little used four corner bed in the center of the outside wall and lining each other wall were massive closets. The closets, however, we're just as little used as the bed as most of his clothes were strewn in separate piles across the floor. Passing by each one on the left of the door he selected am article of clothing from each. He threw each previous piece onto their corresponding and ever growing pile on the other side of the room. After a shower he dressed himself in a pair of tan pants tucked into brown leather climbing boots. His shirt was a stained white tucked into the pants and under a brown leather utility and climbing vest. He kept his red hair loose and slipped into a long leather trench styled coat as he started to leave the house.

On the way out of the place he passed by the busted grandfather clock. He knew it chimed at the wrong time but he had neither the time, skill, or inclination to fix the damn thing. The time it displayed though was correct, 12:29 pm. What time had he set to meet with the woman, what was her name again. He shook his head, neither really mattered, she couldn't leave without him and She relied on him for a paycheck. He strode out to the shed and opened the large double doors.

Within it was a steambike. The brass and copper piping that ran from the miniature boiler under the water tank gleamed in the sunlight. The wheel was mostly encased in a brass shell, protecting it from most kicked up debris. The back wheel was actually two smaller wheels side by side, as this model had a tendency to be finicky when it came to handling. These stabilized it just enough to make it relatively safe to travel on. Looped around the copper and rubber handles was a pair of goggles which he strapped around his head after blowing out the collected dust within them. He mounted the bike and after making sure his satchel wad in place he fired it up. The roar it made upon starting was deafening but settled down to a quieter series of hisses, pops, and metal clinking. He tore out of the shed, leaving a trail of steam and flying gravel behind it.

By the time he was there the cargo was loaded and it was 1:18 by his pocket watch. Sliding the bike to and halt in front of the Russian, Averina, that was her name. He knew he was going to eventually forget and call her something else, like Katinka or something.

"So lass, we ready to head out? "

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Geoff looked up slowly from the array of specialized climbing equipment and maintenance tools. Peering over the rim of his spectacles, as he’d had the various magnifying glasses on the right eyepiece flipped down, he raised an eyebrow at Averina. He had indeed been slightly motion sick for the first day and a half and that fact irritated him more than anything else. He was a respected treasure hunter and adrenaline junkie, why in the fuck should a little air travel bother him.

“Yes, yes, I am fine now.” He somehow managed to give his clipped yet functional Russian a slightly grumpy irish accent as he spoke. He took the spectacles off and gently set them down on the table in front of him and rubbed his eyes. The combination of the swaying of the ship and the small parts of in front of him were starting to strain his eyes.

Then in a particularly Geoff sort of way he clued in on the gin in the captains hand. He chuckled and sat back in the chair, motioning for her to sit in the chair opposite the table. He cast a lazy glass at the small array of empty or low liquor bottles on the clothes chest. “I’m always down for a drink lass, pour them. Salut!”

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Geoff rolled his eyes and smiled softly. She certainly was enthusiastic about her hatred of the Nazi fascists. As much as he himself hated the Nazis her hatred worried him greatly. He worried about her ability to pick her battles, she may simply ignore the obvious danger and dive headlong into it. Bringing herself, her ship, him, and more importantly their treasure, into the firing line.

Almost if on cue as he was downing his gin he heard the pinging against the hull. A veteran of the Second World War he recognized the pinging immediately. Automatic fire, and upon closer listening, from a German mp40 no less. The German submachinegun had a particular bark to it caused by the short barrel length that the bullet had to go through. What in the fuck were German weapons doing in fucking Scotland?

When Averina thrust the revolver into his hand he almost dropped his glass. “Just what in the FUCK do you expect me to do with this hunk of pig iron,” he sputtered as he fumbled with gun and glass. Sticking one in his belt and the other in hand he hurried after Averina. “You do realize that even though I fought I was absolute shite? Only reason I passed trials was because they fudged my scores because they needed linguists. Oh for fucks sake.” He tripped over the last step onto the deck and landed face-first on the deck, breaking his glass.

The bullet whizzing over his head told him his fall was fortunate so he was quite content to stay where he was. Sweeping the shards of glass before him to the side he crawled to the edge of the ship so he could get a view on what was happening below him. He wasn’t afraid, fear was something he reserved for highly social situations, his ex-wife, and running out of whiskey. Peering over the edge he finally got a good look at the men who were so rudely blocking their landing zone.

Ten or so Scottish rebels brandishing, as he’d surmised, German made mp40s. “Ten bloody bastards wielding German fucking guns. Its too hot to land or insert. I know a place a few miles up the ridgeline. There should be a natural shelf there tucked away.” More bullets embedded themselves into the railing, sending his head back below the railing. He crawled back to a stack of crates, leaning his back up against them. He thumbed the revolvers cylinder open to find it loaded and ready, typical of the Russians efficiency. He flicked the cylinder back into place and carefully placed the hammer back into its place, leaving his finger off the trigger. He had no intentions of using the damn thing if he could help it.