Six Feet Underground - Six pieds sous terre [IC Thread]

Kyle

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Welcome to the IC thread for Six Feet Underground (Six pieds sous terre). If you are not a part of this RP, kindly refrain from posting. If you are interested in this RP, please see the OOC thread.

The different stories occur in the same time period (November 2019), but they may be posted out of order, depending on which episodes/scenes finish writing first. In short, this thread should not be read in order that the posts appear in the thread. Take note of the datestamps in front of each post. Links are also provided within each post so that you can be guided to the previous and next episodes of the same story.


Story Index
High Fliers (Hauts volereurs): Parts 1
 
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Character and Story Index
Participants
Author/Storymaster:
Kyle
Co-authors/Players: @Prydania , @North Timistania

Storylines and Characters
All characters are Kyle’s unless stated otherwise.

High Fliers (Hauts volereurs) - Part 1
Setting: 17th arrondissement, Saint-Casimir Precinct
Juge d’Instruction: [TBA]
Procureur: [TBA]
Brigade Criminelle: Brigade A
Chef de groupe: Captain Marc-Benjamin Lambeau
Détectives: [TBA]

Shooting Arrows (Lancer des flèches) - Part 1
Setting: 18th arrondissement, Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs Precinct
Juge d’Instruction: [TBA]
Procureur: [TBA]
Brigade Criminelle: Brigade B
Chef de groupe: [TBA]
Détectives: [TBA] Reynard Borgdal (Prydania), Kévin-Matthieu Dillon
 
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High Fliers
Hauts volereurs
Part 1
Next Part >>

Volereur Metro Station
Rue du Volereur
Saint-Casimir, 17th arrondissement, Saintes
12 November 2019, 0147h


The name and location of Volereur (“Flier”) station is interesting. Located on top of a hill, one can see the nearby slopes and plains down to the Saine river to the south. Now the hill is occupied by low-rise private residential developments inhabited mostly by middle-class families.

The Volereur hill was also once the boundary of the communes of Saint-Casimir and Sainte-Véronique-devant-Saintes. Both communes had since been amalgamated into the city of Saintes within the same 17th arrondissement. But the boundary line can still be traced via the Rue du Volereur, a northwest-southeast trending road, which now serves as the boundary between the boroughs named after the former communes.

The entirety of the metro station and the main entrance is on the Saint-Casimir side of the Rue du Volereur. There is a back entrance, facing the Rue de Dombasle, a two-lane street parallel to the Rue du Volereur. At the northwestern end of Rue du Volereur, two kilometres downhill, is Jeunesses (“Youths”) station on Line K of the Saintes Metro. The neighbourhood atop the hill is served by the Volereur station, on Line D of the Saintes Metro.

People say that Volereur was named because children used to fly kites from that low grassy hill, before it was turned over for development. The story might even be more macabre than the place being used for kite-flying.

During the Santonian Revolution, the noble army was defeated in the Battle of Sainte-Véronique-devant-Saintes on 21 July 1789. However, the outnumbered revolutionaries were unable to press their gains against the nobles and so had to retreat to Saintes’ first line of defences to the northwest, near present-day Villechien and Saint-Archambault. This allowed the noble army to reoccupy Sainte-Véronique-devant-Saintes and the Volereur hill.

It was said that the bloodthirsty nobles used to bring captured revolutionaries at the hill and execute them there. For the sadistic Duke of the Sologne, it was a blood sport: line up prisoners atop the hill, swing his sharp sword towards the prisoners’ necks, and see how many heads he can send flying downhill. The more heads severed in one swing, the better; the farther the heads fly, the better. The people practicing the sport were called volereurs des têtes… “head-fliers”. The Duke of the Sologne purportedly did it to scare into submission the defenders of Saintes and the inhabitants of nearby villages. News of his atrocities reached as far as the Pouilles and Bavière.

Nearby villages suffered the most. One day in autumn (some say it was spring), the Duke of the Sologne raided the town of Longjumeau, but the town had already been requisitioned by the Duke of Champagne two days before and so had been exhausted. Irritated, the Duke of the Sologne instead seized young men and teenagers from Longjumeau as conscripts for his army, but the youths refused to abjure their faith and fight for the nobles. The angry Duke of the Sologne tortured the youths of Longjumeau and executed them atop the Volereur hill. It was said that their heads flew downhill to what is now the location of Jeunesses station.

The beheadings at Volereur hill may partly explain why people who believe in the paranormal report seeing spectres of flying heads and walking headless people around the station. Others, including some historians, refuse to believe the story, saying that the atrocities committed by the Duke of the Sologne had been grossly exaggerated as propaganda, and that there is no evidence that such blood sport was practiced on the Volereur hill.

Even the neighbourhood’s inhabitants are split as to the veracity of the story. Many people from the neighbourhood believed the rumours about headless skeletons excavated during the building of the metro station, but none of them were reported in the newspapers; some thought they were merely urban legends of this area.

Thierry Beaudry was in the former camp. As a station security guard at Volereur station, he had heard of the many stories told about the station. He had also personally addressed some complaints by people who claimed they saw spectres of the dead in the station. Even though he hadn’t experienced any haunting – yet – Thierry believed in the stories: the Duke of the Sologne’s blood sport, the flying of the heads that led to the hill being named as such, the excavated headless skeletons.

Which was why Thierry hated the graveyard shift. Why does Volereur station need a night-shift guard? The station did not have one until recently. Previously, they just closed down the station. That was what Saint-Casimir and Jeunesses stations were still doing. But the stationmaster at Volereur started assigning graveyard-shift duties after learning that the nearby Sainte-Véronique station started doing so. However, the number of station guards were not expanded, and so one was taken out from the morning shift and then transferred to the graveyard shift. One. A lone guard at the station. Not even enough to cover both entrances.

This week, it was Thierry who was assigned on the graveyard shift. Four more days of graveyard shift guarding the dead-silent spooky station, staring at the dead-silent streets of Volereur hill. Thierry looked at his watch. 1:47 AM.

He sat down on a chair at the station’s entrance at Rue du Volereur. No way he’s going to sit in the middle of the dark station to monitor both entrances. The stationmaster ordered them to do that; but nobody, except for Lallande the brave guy, does that. All of them keep to the entrance at Rue du Volereur, where the street lights are on throughout the night. The street lights at Rue de Dombasle are turned off at midnight.

Thierry yawned. He was already thinking of asking for a transfer to Jeunesses station, which was nearer to his home, and where there was no night shift. But Jeunesses had no vacancy. Maybe Saint-Casimir? Does Sainte-Jeanne station have night shift guards as well?

Thierry’s train of thought was interrupted when he heard… something from inside the station. He straightened back up in his seat. Thierry hoped those were just mere trespassers or lost people who found their way into the station. He was reluctant to investigate. He did not want to see a flying head or a headless ghost.

After a few minutes, he heard soft footsteps. Going back and forth. “Merde.”

Mustering all the courage to look back into the dark station, Thierry opened his flashlight. He stood up and turned towards the station. He illuminated the area of the station immediately behind him. “Who’s there?”

The footsteps stopped.

The thing with Volereur station is that is wasn’t built in a straight line. From the entrance he was standing in, he couldn’t even see the station’s central concourse. To investigate further, Thierry had to go in from the Rue du Volereur entrance, walk through a short corridor, and then turn right to the station’s main concourse. In the middle of the concourse are the two sets of stairs and escalators leading to the station platform below, along with their associated turnstiles serving the Rue du Volereur and Rue de Dombasle sides.

Nearer to the Rue de Dombasle entrance, a short hallway at the far end of the concourse housed the station’s lavatories and control room, where the main light switches were. Thierry resolved to open the lights at the station. If these were trespassers, they’d be discouraged by the light; if these were ghosts, they’d then see the light and go away.

Before Thierry could take the next step, he heard the footsteps again. Scuffling footsteps. Faster this time. “They’re just trespassers,” Thierry muttered to calm himself down. His heart was pounding. What will he do if he saw the headless ghosts? He can deal with the living, but with the dead?

Picking up his flashlight and radio, he made the sign of the cross and plodded ahead.

Je vous salue Marie…”
Thierry had reached the end of the short corridor from the Rue du Volereur entrance.

“…pleine de grâce…”
Thierry took a cautious look to his right. Nothing but darkness.

Le Seigneur est avec tous…”
But the footsteps became faster.

Vous êtes bénie…
Thierry shined his flashlight into the concourse. Nothing was there. Nobody was there.

“…entre toutes les femmes…
Thierry fixed his light on the hallway he was aiming at. In front of the station’s bulletin board, beside the control room, was a dark figure.

Et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles…
He took a tentative step backwards. His flashlight could not clearly illuminate what it was.

“…est béni.
Thierry’s flashlight flickered. “Merde.” What a bad time to run out of batteries. As he turned off the flashlight, he heard a thump from the concourse. He hurriedly turned on his flashlight again, which thankfully still had some dim light.

Sainte Marie…”
Thierry focused his flashlight again on the hallway. The dark figure was gone. He needed to illuminate the station to end this all. Hopefully whatever force of darkness that was, is gone. He started taking steps forward, illuminating his path before him.

“…Mère de Dieu…
He entered the middle of the station and started his brisk walk around the periphery of the concourse.

“…priez pour nous…”
Thierry had reached the area of the turnstiles serving the Rue du Volereur entrance. He consciously avoided peering what might be hiding down the escalators and the station platform below.

“…pauvres pécheurs…”
A breeze blew in from the Rue de Dombasle entrance, bringing in the smell of… death? Thierry’s heart raced faster. All he wanted to do now is to open the station’s lights.

“…maintenant, et à l'heure…”
He had reached the far end of the concourse. He quickly turned towards the hallway. As he took the first step into the hallway, he felt something cold at his feet.

“…de notre MORT!
Thierry shouted the last word in profound shock as his flashlight illuminated what was beneath his feet. A headless body.



Thierry shrieked as he jumped away from the headless thing and fell on his butt. Leaving everything he was carrying, he scampered away from whatever that was, dashing towards the faint moonlight shining through the Rue de Dombasle entrance. As he reached the foot of the short flight of stairs leading out to Rue de Dombasle, he tripped over another… thing. Instinctively looking at the thing that tripped him, Thierry saw a headless body at his feet. The headless ghosts are trying to get him! “Mon Dieu, aidez-moi!” He shouted as he kicked that thing away from him and crawled his way up the stairs. As soon as he reached the darkened Rue de Dombasle, Thierry ran down the street, screaming all the way, waking the neighbourhood up.
 
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Shooting Arrows
Lancer des Flèches
Part 1
Next Part >>

Champ des Mémoires
outside Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs Metro Station
Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs, 18th arrondissement, Saintes
05 November 2019, 0844h


For a suburb of this size, Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs has an outsized subway station serving it. Located as the interchange of the Line K to Longjumeau and the Line E that serves Saintes’ périphériques (outer suburbs), Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs station can become very busy, especially on days when the Saintes-Saints-Brice Football Club plays games on its home turf. Colloquially shortened to “Martyrs” to avoid confusion with the similarly-named Stade-Saints-Brice station (which serves the football stadium), the town’s (and the station’s) name reflects the suburb’s role in the Santonian Revolution.

On Sunday, 18 April 1790, in the then-village of Saint-Brice-en-Saintais, rebel forces of the Dukes of the Sologne and Champagne massacred the inhabitants and the parish priest as they were celebrating Mass. The nobles also burned the church and the village. The outraged revolutionary Pope-King Thibault released the papal bull Et clamor Saintonge ascendit*, excommunicating all rebels – thus effectively using the Church’s resources for the Revolution and turning the tide against the nobles. Rebuilt in 1805, the village was renamed Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs (“Saint Brice of the Martyrs”) and a weeping angel statue l'Ange larmoyante erected at the village’s churchyard.

Long bypassed by the railway lines, Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs was eventually caught up with Saintes’ expanding urbanisation. Saintes’ subway Line K was extended to Longjumeau to serve Saintes-Saints-Brice F.C.’s stadium in 1988, while Line E connecting the périphériques passed through Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs twenty years later. For this big subway station, land was taken from the Champ des Mémoires (Field of Memories) dedicated to the victims of the massacre – a decision that met some opposition. Reluctant to relocate the station outside the village (where it will be practically useless), the adjacent old mairie** was given to the Métro, minimizing the land taken from the Champ des Mémoires. Now the rebuilt civic centre of Saint-Brice-des-Martyrs sits on top of the metro station, architecturally blending with the surrounding village centre.

The expansion also meant that l'Ange larmoyante was now located a mere 50 meters from the stations’ walls, in a leaf-littered unfenced field planted with birch, oak, and alder. And it was beneath this statue that the victim was found. Station security and spare police officers from the 18th arrondissement had already cordoned off much of the area, much to the curiosity of commuters. People from the Service de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale (SSJML), the country’s forensic service, were already surveying and documenting the scene.

Reynard Borgdal knew it was going to be one of those days. How did he know? It was the strangest thing. The way the sun shone off the pavement as he arrived at the scene. It was hard to explain, but he had a sense for this sort of thing. And the day usually got off to a bad start if the sun was reflecting as brightly as it did. He was forty-five, and this strange observation had remained a constant in his life. Maybe it was because the sun zapped him of some of his energy. Nearly two decades in Saintonge and he couldn’t shake a Prydanian’s preference for cloudy skies.

He grabbed the water bottle - mostly empty by now - and finished it off, before leaning back in his car seat to focus. Rey nodded to himself before stepping out, making his way to the crime scene, flashing his badge as a force of habit. All of the cops providing perimeter security knew him.

“We got an odd one today Lieutenant,” one of them remarked.

“When is it ever not?” Rey chuckled before approaching his partner, the younger Lieutenant Dillon.

Lieutenant Kévin-Matthieu Dillon was already at the scene, taking notes. The 28-year-old Dillon was a southerner, a transplant to Saintes. Standing six feet and two inches, he was nicknamed the “gentle giant” by fellow police officers in the 18th arrondissement for his height and his pleasant southern demeanour. But underneath that southern courtesy is a fierce, idealistic determination to catch criminals, a trait that led the former patrolman to be considered for the city’s Homicide Unit.

Lieutenant Dillon had just finished whispering something to a SSJML technician when he noticed his partner arrive. “Good morning, sir,” Lieutenant Dillon said. “We have another deceased right here. I’ll take you to where he is.”

As Lieutenant Dillon and his partner weaved through the security cordons and the busy SSJML people, Dillon narrated what he knew about the case. “The body was found by the caretaker of the Champ des Mémoires as he went to clean the area around the statue at 6 AM. He had already given a statement to me; he is cooperative and doesn’t look suspicious.” They reached the l'Ange larmoyante and the crime scene came into full view.

In front of the statue is the rigidly straight corpse lying on his right side, with his back leaning against the bottom pedestal. The statue of the angel looked like it was weeping for the dead lying at its feet. Judging from the appearance of the victim, he appeared to be in his late teens; and judging from his clothing, it was also obvious which football team he supports.

“Saintes-Saints-Brice kit,” Lieutenant Dillon remarked, without any hint of discomfort in his voice. “I’m an Olympique Nyonnais guy myself. That’s an angle we can certainly look into – fans and hooligans can get nasty. Saintes-Saints-Brice played against Côme FC here last Sunday, maybe he came from that game? Maybe he ran into rival supporters?”

Borgdal liked Dillon. He was friendly and pleasant, and also hard working and dedicated. He just nodded as he was filled in on the caretaker’s testimony and led to the crime scene. Dillon observed the victim’s Saintes-Saints-Brice kit and suggested out of control supporters of Côme FC. He liked Dillon, but he wasn’t afraid to tell him when he felt he was wrong.

He made a clicking noise as he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head.

The victim might have run into rival supporters, but this crime was… unusual. The grisly scene will unnerve most people. Most murders nowadays, like the ones hooligans commit, are accomplished using knives or guns or blunt objects. Not this one.

“We should have someone check the security footage for any Côme supporters who seem overly angry, just to cover all possibilities” Borgdal remarked. “But I doubt it’s rival hooligans. How many supporters do you know who bring a bow and arrow to a match?”

The fletched end of three arrows were sticking out of the corpse: one pierced the left side of the chest where the heart was, and two pierced the abdomen. The pointed ends of the arrows were sticking out of the back – hence the body’s odd positioning. From the arrows’ entry points, thick swaths of brownish violet ran down the shirt where his blue kit was soaked in blood; his blue shorts were also thoroughly drenched in blood. Rivers of dried crimson covered his legs, and his shoes were so bloody, its original colour could not be easily determined anymore. The victim looked like he was shot with three arrows.

Rey remained calm but he felt perplexed. Arrows? When was the last time anyone on the force ever dealt with a suspect carrying a bow and arrow? You...you just didn’t see it. Why would you? You’d stand out like a sore thumb in the city.

“Whoever did this,” Borgdal said to Dillion, “attracted no attention. Yet if you came through here with a bow and arrows, and took time to aim three shots, you’d be noticed. Just like that. Whoever did this...they did it at night when there was no one around to notice and identify them. Late at night. After the crowds from the match dispersed. Which poses another question. What was he doing here, after everyone had moved out?” he asked, pointing to the body.

“We need to identify this boy. He either knew his killer, or his killer knew him. Intimately. Either way, this likely wasn’t random violence. Following up on this kid’s our first step.”

“I think he didn’t die that way, or here,” Lieutenant Dillon remarked, gesturing to the position of the body. “He died standing up – look at all the blood running down his body. My hunch is that he was just dumped here.”
An SSJML technician was busy combing through the decedent’s pockets. From the left back pocket, she fished out a bloody brown leather wallet. Her eyes lit up when she opened it.

“We have an ID, madame?” Lieutenant Dillon asked her.
The technician nodded and went to Dillon to show the contents of the wallet. With her gloved hand, she carefully fished out the National ID Card. Despite the picture on the card seemingly taken a few years ago, the beaming blond-haired bespectacled teen in the identification card resembled that of the corpse.

“Brice-Sébastien de Contrisson. Lives in 798 Rue des Basses-Andes, Saint-Évrard, 19th arrondissement.” The tech made a mental calculation of the decedent’s age. “18 years old.”
“Bingo.” Lieutenant Dillon took out his phone. “I’ll make a call to the 19th. If he was reported missing, they should be handling it.”



*Et clamor Saintonge ascendit = And Saintonge’s cries go up [to heaven]
** mairie – Santonian for city hall/town hall/village hall

OOC: Post co-written with @Prydania .
 
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