View source for Good Luck with Your Murder Plotting

{{
| date=12/05/2018
| time=10:00 EST
| cast=
* [[Jamila]]
* [[Alma]]
| place_name=Alma's office in the [[Hall of Science]]
| place_desc=
The door opens inward to an office. There's a wooden desk next to a window.
some bookshelfs. a coatrack. Spangly twirly things hang from an articulated
desk lamp. Colorful pencils mixed with twigs and leaves fan out from a jar.
Next to the desk, a magazine holder is filled with lucite and wood parts for
making behavioral puzzles. Along one wall there is a bookshelf crammed with
books. One shelf is given over to poetry, fiction, myth, and history. The other
wall has enough space to lean a bike against. Sometimes there's dirt on the
floor there. The coatrack in the corner has scarves and things hanging from it.
some very garish ones too. A crank handle controls a clear plane of glass that
is set within an array of glass bricks. It is almost always open regardless of
the weather. There's no screen. A rectangle planter of succulents sits on the
windowsill. If you peek close you can see an artful display made of found
things. There's an ewer of water filled with rocks to put the water in easy
reach for a drink. Next to the window there is a magnetic whiteboard surrounded
by pictures.
| log=Wednesday morning, Dec. 5, 2018

Some texts are exchanged:

Jamila to Alma: Hey. Sorry I've been so scarce. We need to catch up.

Alma to Jamila: I'm in my office. Is now good?

Jamila to Alma: Sure. I'm on campus too, I'll come over.

It's Wednesday and Alma hasn't been outside much today. She's got so
much data! She would like more, but she can get maybe one or two papers about
the population dynamics and interrelated living things bounding and bounded by
the flights of crow... well, all of that. more. It's beautiful, but she is
still herself and maybe people would like participate in the Christmas Bird
Count, or at least the backyard count. maybe? After that buzz of her phone and
her reply, she walked out to the faculty lounge to heat up some water. Now she
has a thermos of hot water and a couple of cups with a box of sachets of all
kinds of things. plus baggies of loose leaf tea for picky people. She's
straining gen mai through her teeth right now becuase she's managed to lose her
favorite office tea vessel. She probably didn't break it?

Jamila arrives just a little bit later, a paper coffee cup in her hand,
steam rizing from the little hole in the plastic lid. She looks as stunning as
ever, her black leather satchel hung over one shoulder and her black wool coat
hanging open to show a slate-grey pantsuit and salmon-colored blouse. Once she
steps in, she shuts the door behind her and turns the lock before she even says
a word, then she turns to look at Alma and smiles. "Good morning," she says, as
she sashays across the room and sets herself down in a chair across the desk
from Alma.

Alma's gaze follows Jamila's fluid path through the office. A moment
passes as Alma tilts her head towards the door. She's listening the echoing
turn of the lock. She looks at Note, who is busy studying the results of her
work in the planter. She looks at the Window. At Note. Note doesn't seem to
care when she gets up to shut the window. "You first? Me first? I don't have
much for you beyond what I've mailed."

"You first," Jamila says as she lowers her satchel to the floor. She
draws one leg up over the other and settles in with her coffee clutched in both
hands. "I've only got a little myself, but it's mostly background information.
I'm curious what you've managed to turn up." She takes a sip of coffee and then
smiles.

Alma does that looking off into space thing that she does when she's
going through her memories. She's less agitated with curious energy, so it
doesn't take her too long. "I think," She considers whether that's the accurate
statement to state her current level of belief in the situation. Yes. it is. "I
think the latest I understand is that somehow Arthur and Aster found out about
this -- more in terms of knowing that we need some information. They dug up
information on the guy's family and some of where he's lived." Alma pauses, and
looks at Jamila. blank expression. "Look." slightly worried expression. "I out
and out told Arthur I think cat shifters exist because it is the height of
idiocy for anyone like Arthur, me, Aster... to even run the risk of being near
someone like that guy. Maybe I could have put it a different way, but I freaked
out a little and couldn't think of a way to warn him just how dangerous this
person is. I don't knwo what they've done with the knowledge yet. You might
want to limit what you tell me, or at least give me some guidelines on what to
talk about. It's a lot easier to know how to be discreet when it comes to, uh,
things like raids."

Jamila does that thing where she intently looks at Alma as she's
talking, only blinking once. When the conversation comes around to her, she
lids her eyes and lets out a light laugh. Her eyes open once more and she
shakes her head. "I presume that Arthur and Aster are willworkers like
yourself? That Bastet exist is not a very closely held secret, within the
circles that we both walk. Had you told some random human, then we'd have a
problem." Beat. "Have you revealed to anybody that _I_ am Bastet?"

Alma does that thing where's she's thinking, "Do I look like an idiot?"
What comes out is a mildly outraged, "Of course not! And, yes, they are
willworkers. I've been pretty careful about disclosing sources. Speaking of,
those two you me information for, do they know each other?" There's a little
wrinkle between her eyes, "Because I kept having to figure out who I can I say
knows what and, ugh." She comes back to, "I didn't learn much about dealing
with the horrible spirit thing. I asked one of my people," willworkers? "if
they knew how to exorcise that and they said it was not the same /at/ /all/. I
got told that ghosts are spirits but not all spirits are ghosts."

"So anyway, maybe it helps to know the name of something, maybe it
doesn't. I don't know what I can do for that guy, maybe someone else can try to
separate his real spirit from whatever otherwise maybe I can help his spirit
go..." She looks like she's tasting something gone sour. "I don't know how much
I can help. And Kai..." She trails off, unhappy. then her face changes to the
"oh!" of another idea hitting her. "I asked someone if they could find the
other dead body, but they wanted me to narrow down the search for them. I
can... make predictions for you, maybe."

<div class="ooc">
<<DICE>> Jamila rolls perception+empathy, difficulty 6<br/>

<<DICE>> 3 successes (1 4 4 6 8 8 9, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

Jamila's lips draw into a smirk at Alma's outrage. She watches quietly
while she listens, sipping at her coffee. "You have a lot on your plate, Alma,
I think you've done more than enough on this, and I really appreciate the
effort you've put into an investigation that is, at its core, mine." She lets
that sit for a moment and then continues. "Because you asked, I wanted to share
with you what I've managed to dig up on Michael. First, no, I do not believe
him to be Cherokee. He's from the Fort Peck reservation in Montana, and to the
best of my ability to determine these things, no Cherokee were ever settled
there. Pumonca tend to be very territorial and so, it seems much more likely
that his heritage is with the tribes that were." She pauses for a sip of
coffee, then continues. "The interesting thing that I found out in my digging
these last couple of months is that the tribes at Fort Peck actually dropped
out of the class action lawsuit against Mastodon because in the time between
the late 90s when the suit was brought and 2011 when the venue was changed to
the United States, their rates of cancer incidence fell to below the national
averages."

When Jamila says that their rates of cancer feel, Alma goes "Oh."
followed by a more emphatic, "Oh! A bargain. ...maybe." Alma takes a deep
breath. "I think you may be right about how much I have going on. It's
important to me that the murders stop." Keen stare. "I trust that you got this.
If you need..." Alma looks confused, "what people call divination." Alma looks
off while pondering that. "You can ask." She pauses again then, "No! Wait. His
mom. She's still here. Your people, if they can't help her, I can. But, I think
if you resolve this, she might naturally move on. If you can't, I have a
responsibility to help her. That. That is why I will follow up with you. Ok?"

Jamila nods. "Yes, that's what I'm thinking," she says. "The case is
likely to be decided in favor of Mastodon eventually. The change of venue was
all but a loss for the plaintiffs, because nobody wins against big corporations
in arbitration. Interestingly, an Adam Plainview is one of the attorneys
representing the plaintiffs." There's a long pause and then a curt nod. "Yes,
you can rest assured that I will be putting an end to the murders as soon as I
can." Another pause. "Just as soon as I figure out how to make that bastard
stay dead."

"Wait. You don't know how to make that bastard stay dead." Wait, what.
"He was dead? Do you know if he's..." Bolt from the blue! "I was dead once."
Huh. "How many times was he dead? Does it matter? Did he do some weird
thingbargain. I didn't. At least I don't think so. I don't think that's always
how it works." "Wait. You aren't going to put a stop to the murders until you
know how /that/ works." Very keen skeptical stare of disapproval. "That might
take a while." A contemplative look of accountancy, "I guess... I guess I'll
keep track of how many people die in what duration of time to see if you are
doing your job." Alma ponders that for a moment and then looks confused,
"Speaking of death... Do you remember the mass killing in Dearborn? The
students? If one of them hadn't passed on... If they are Muslim, how would they
want to be helped? How would you feel? Are there some essays on this I can
read?" Whiplash.

"You going to be keeping track of all the murders, or just the scary
ones that get put in the papers to scare white people?" Jamila takes a sip of
her coffee after dropping that one. "He was dead, or at least I thought so. I
saw him bleed out. But, it seems he was only mostly dead, since he's clearly
still around. I'll just have to kill him more next time."

"No, just the ones that fit the profile. And /I/ don't have to depend
on the papers. And I'm not white." She glares. "Kill him more next time. Maybe
separate his body parts. I don't know." glare glare glare.

"That won't work," Jamila says, her certainty suggesting that perhaps
she's already tried that. It's an interesting mental image to contemplate:
elegant graceful Jamila dismembering a big man like Michael Long-Claws. What
does that even look like? "Gotcha," Jamila says with a level ten eyeroll. "So,
only the scary murders. Got it." She takes another sip of her coffee. "A friend
of mine was _at_ the school when the shooting occurred, so yes, I remember it.
Muslims are not monolithic, and frankly, what I'd want and feel is likely very
different from what they'd want and feel, considering I'm Bastet." Beat. "But
the faith generally holds that we should rely on Allah alone to protect and
guide us, so if they were faithful, they'd most likely want you to mind your
own business."

Glare. "Someone asked for my help. I'm going to try and ask the person
what they want. I'm pretty sure it's not going to be easy. And ghosts are
generally disoriented to begin with!" Alma looks concerned. And then agnry
again, "...and I know Muslims are not fucking monolithic. I want
/perspectives/. I want to be able to talk to this person with some sort of
understanding that's better than I have now. I can do research. Having some
starting points might be useful." Her glare has drained down into a stare.

"I know very little about ghosts, but if a ghost is capable of having
desires for you to honor, couldn't you just ask _them_?" Jamila shrugs, and
then shakes her head as she scoots her chair back from the desk a little. Isn't
that the obvious choice? She grabs the strap of her satchel down on the floor
and then stands up, lifting that strap up onto her shoulder in one fluid
motion. Then she tips her coffee up to her lips and drains the last of it.
"Muslims generally frown on those who do magic," she says. "Probably a good
starting point." Then she spots a trash can and tosses her cup in it. "You
wanted to know what Michael looked like. He's big, tall, and has black eyes
that never show any emotion. Though, the last time I saw him, they didn't show
any _life_ either. So, who knows. Maybe he looks different now."

Alma gets exasperated. She can't stand when someone tells her to do
something she was already planning to do. "I already said I was going to ask
the person what they want." She huffs. "I'll see you around."

Jamila just looks at Alma for a minute and then shrugs and turns on her
heel--which today is a couple inches tall--and heads to the door. She pauses as
she unlocks the door, looking back over her shoulder. "Good luck with your
murder counting." Then she's gone.
}}