View source for Logs:PrP:Emptied Streets - Ethan

{{ Log
| chars = [[Monroe|Monroe as ST]], [[Ethan]]
| summary = Part of the [[PrP:Emptied Streets|Emptied Streets PrP]]
| gamedate = 2022.06.19
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = Researching Dr. Leonid Carsters, the supplier of rare insects in Chicago's seedy underbelly, is investigated; a new clue develops.
| categories = 
| log = 
{{Warning|Type=warning|Msg=OOC Information: All information is considered Out-Of-Character until you learn it through In-Character means.}}
To say that Ethan did a bit of research before making this call would be a bit of an understatement. He read quite a few of Dr. Leonid Carster's papers, Googling to catch any terms he didn't get, which was a lot of them. He hunted around to see what bug enthusiast online boards existed, and even searched for bug enthusiast local clubs.

Then he sent a very polite email from a freshly created email address (me@etmarks.com was easy enough to create with the expenditure of about $9, along with a fake resume web page that he set up that names him as a recently accepted grad student at the University of Chicago specializing in insects, along with a couple of fake blog posts written up about his enthusiasms) saying he had some questions, not about *Dryococelus Australis,* which is his ultimate goal, but about *Lucanus Capreolus* or *Lucanus Cervus*...his pretext. Stag beetles are also a highly illegal thing to buy, it seems. He asked if they could set up a Facetime to talk about them, and was right on time for the call.

He is dressed, for this call, in something suitable for a grad student. A well mended and tailored-by-him gray business jacket has been thrown over a V-necked black t-shirt and jeans. He doesn't expect the fellow to see the jeans, but he pulled together the entire look anyway. He intends to spend this entire call making the fellow believe he is Ethan Marks, not Ethan Weaver; and that means feeling, as much as is possible, like Ethan Marks. Everything about his pre-labor was meant to make him as non-threatening and as interesting as possible, and seeding little hints that he has money to burn in a few careful places in those blog posts. After all, the bug smuggler won't want to talk to a guy with no money. The webcam is pointing at an area of his room that is covered with bookshelves, and he went to a used college book store just to grab a couple of likely things to shove on the shelf behind him, in carefully placed prominent positions.

When Ethan decides to run a con, he goes thorough.


The call is filtered through a pooled secretary, who consults with some sort of online index - he doesn't seem interested in his job, more in his phone, and the call is shunted directly to Dr. Leonid Carster's desktop. Seated behind a stately-looking edifice of education, that desk is itself imposing - the man, a lot more. Severe, angular features, cold and crisp eyes, he more closely resembles the insects he studies than the students he teaches. 

With a bored, nasally-toned voice, he grumbles, then seems to be reading a note on his side of the equation - perhaps a scrolling line of text beneath the window containing Ethan's broadcast image, and he looks to Ethan directly. "Ethan Marks, Chicago," he speaks, as if accusing Ethan of being from Chicago as a severe and notable deficiency of moral fiber. "You have my focus for thirty seconds - use them wisely." 

From offscreen, a stopwatch is raised into view, his left hand visible; there's a wedding band on his ring finger, the knuckle looking to have been broken at some point in the past, swollen and fusing the ring in position forever. The clock, it seems, is ticking.

 
"Oh, well, right down to business then," Ethan says, with his brightest, most friendly smile. "Guy in this club I'm in says you're the guy to go to if I've got a little money to burn today and a deep interest in getting my hands on something special. Was he full of it?"

Here's hoping the guy still has a pressing need to make some money. Getting him to blow past those thirty seconds shouldn't be *too* hard, but only if the dude doesn't wanna hang up right away. And hopefully the words will succinctly lay all the seeds he needs to lay to start convincing the fellow to give up what he wants him to give up.

 
There's a cool, detached reserve to the good doctor's expression, yet in his eyes is a subtle flare of interest at the keyword: money. "It's my understanding that some of the Chicago organizations," he says, his tone less nasal, more indifferent, "Can be brutal in their competitive edge requirements." There's a soft, almost-rueful smile, which is then brutally murdered as he regains control of his facial features. Exhaling hard through his nostrils, he sets the stopwatch aside and glances behind Ethan, then back into his eyes.

"Tell me," he adds, then gestures vaguely with his left hand, rolling it at his wrist. "If you happen to know a Jacob Fields, by all means.. make mention of my name." He glances back to the side of his screen. "He and I are old friends and can assist a young, enterprising enthusiast on their journey. He frequents 'Sally Port', down by the docks. Quaint place. You'll love it. Dress warmly and remember: tip your servers." He smiles, then seems interested in closing the call.


"I always tip, Dr. Carsters," Ethan says, earnestly, in a way that might make it unclear whether he's being genuine or catching on, his eyes widening a little. "My momma raised me right. Thank you, sir."

It's not perfect, but it's not a slammed door either, and Jacob might be a little easier to work on, especially with him right in the room there with Ethan.

He ends the call; he doesn't want to annoy the good doctor to the point where he kills the investigation entirely, and starts Googling Jacob Fields in Chicago. Even a casual look at a Facebook or LinkedIn page will probably prove at least a little helpful in understanding what makes him tick. Not that he doesn't have ways of doing that in person, too?but forewarned is forearmed.

He'll be making a trip down to Sally Port today though. He decides to research the location, too, eyes narrowing in thought.


 
Ethan's research into the bona fides for Jacob Fields has some solid, immediate results: he runs a local insect and arachnid competitive organization, 'Flight or Fight Club', operating out of a warehouse in the North Pier Docks, in Chicago, located approximately two blocks from a bar and grill, Sally Port, formerly a Navy bar until the mid-1990s.

Jacob Fields is an entomologist who has published six books and is editor-in-chief for a non-peer-reviewed periodical, 'Our Small Friends', based around the union of humans and insects. It contains very little of scientific value and could be considered a meme-based periodical, save that it has a fifteen-page section dedicated to trades, sales and exchanges - all insect and arachnid lifeforms.

A new lead, one much more local, has developed.


Ethan whistles softly at the credentials, and taps his fingers against the laptop. He shakes his head. No, he's not going to be able to do this one alone. A phone call where he was playing Brosef the Bug Buyer, he could fake. Fooling the local guy who runs a local club with some story about being at a local club is going to result in uncomfortable questions he's *not* ready to answer. He'll need Solomon there to chat bugs with the guy, and that means?he has to stop here.

He sighs in a bit of disappointment; it's always nice to come in all hail the conquering hero with the exact thing a friend has asked for?but on the other hand, the trail's still hot and it's *local.* It's not the worst thing he could have come back and offered.

And it might even be fun.

Shooting off an email to Solomon, he shucks off his jacket. He can stop playing the grad student for the day.
}}