<span style="font-size: 15px">"Of course, Mr. Wilde. I'm glad we've come to an understanding." The mortal was certainly a risk-taker, but MacClery? He had nothing to lose in this, whether it had to do with he occupation he was framing or the romantic subtext that had been exchanged this night. MacClery had no name, nothing to attach these activities to.. not anything in the official records anyway. Any written documents would've been shelved a century ago. Unfortunately for Wilde, he was unwittingly playing far outside his usual game. "I'll be looking forward to hearing from you. Have a good night, Mr. Wilde." A friendly conclusion, he gave the man a final handshake, thankful for the cold night to excuse the chill of his own corpse. It must've not been an issue as William hadn't a look of suspicion on his face the entire night, indoors or out. It would've been rather silly for someone to call MacClery out as a dead man anyway, he figured.<br/>
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Watching the youth walk up the alley, MacClery turned the opposite way, around a corner and out of sight. His next bit of business required him to venture deeper into Chicago's gutter. He'd come to a rusty, iron fence, acting as a weak barrier between him and a ladder beneath a faded sign. Down below, stepping off the last rung onto the side of the bowels of the storm sewer, the filthy, unkempt state of the brick walls was enough to make him want to cover his face with a handkerchief despite not having to breathe. It amazed him how those monsters made their homes in such environments as this, and he had nothing against them in particular.<br/>
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"Lawrence!!" Shrieked a seemingly frail woman at the end of the corridor, alerted to MacClery after the ghouled rats scattered. When he stepped close enough he heard her coarse voice ring as she pried open a makeshift gate to their cobbled hideout, "The Malk's here for ye!"<br/>
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Nosferatu, an especially estranged lot, and for good reason. However if only Prince des Moulins had used his influence to offer more.... hospitable accommodations for them, they'd have an easier time hunting, and living. For now they occupied the darkest corners of the city, and if it weren't for men like MacClery acting as a middle man, most would be flushed out by the Camarilla for being a liability to the Masquerade. Even their thralls were animals, rats and snakes that fled at the sight of anything other than their regnant. Eventually a hunched, skeleton of a man opened the heavy wooden door and shouted back in the first creature's face, "Then let'im in yeah!? Why don't ya go get food while you're sittin out here, make yourself useful!" MacClery uncomfortably squeezed past the woman, who was busy sucking up whatever spiteful words she had and allowed the two their meeting. What a delightful couple, MacClery thought.<br/>
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The room itself, past the gate and the door with it's lower half eaten away by water rot, was nothing more than a closet that had been further hollowed out, it's walls an uneven pattern of cement and packed dirt. Construction equipment lined the sides, remains of the hole's original use back when the tunnel was properly maintained. But the strangest part of all is that the whole place was set up as a mockery of an office, stolen furniture and all, down to a half-dying plant by a worn loveseat. Needless to say, MacClery would rather stand...<br/>
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"So! Did it work out? Ya got a good deal goin' on with that piece of work gravedigger?" In the lamplight one could get a good look at the man, face disfigured, an odd hunch on one side that resulted in a characteristic slouch, his body looked malnourished and as wrinkled as a sun dried prune. MacClery kept himself civil enough to retort, "Resurrectionist, and this will have nothing to do with graves. The blood will be in tact, though some coagulation from post-morte--" He was interrupted by a happily aggressive, "Don't matter! Anything's better than feast'n on the little critters day in and day out. What I'd give to get the good stuff, you could serve it to me in a toilet and I'd still drink it." There was a moment of silence on MacClery's part. "... Yes.. Well it'd be in your best interest to remember what you are giving for this.... In the meantime I came to pick up the documents I left last time." Typical weekly records they exchanged weekly made up most of their meetings, mostly the Nosferatu kept track of where big names traveled, the affairs of hunters and lupines, anything they could observe from the shadows. But in particular, MacClery often collected intel regarding the smaller clans of the Camarilla less keen on mingling with the primogen. His trade for a proper food source however was much more confidential, and exploited the individualistic tendencies of the Nosferatu, their ease of access to Sabbat activities. As of now, the Prince allowed activity as long as MacClery could produce results, something of which he trusted Lawrence to get into his hands. "Here here, don't you worry that Malk head of yours either sweetheart." The deformed mocked him, fishing out of his messy desk a bundle of papers held together by old paperclips. MacClery grimaced visibly at the sight of it, the files had seen better days, but he took it and spent a minute trying to reorder everything regardless. All while Lawrence leered at him with both boots resting on the desk's surface. "Don't let the ol' bat hit ya with the gate on your way out."<br/>
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Eagerly, MacClery exited, softly shutting the door behind him with the rearranged documents tucked away safely. The crone sat on an old chair, watching him like a hawk as he passed out the gate. He'd be lying if he said it didn't make him at least a little anxious. At least here he was too preoccupied being wary of the monsters that he wasn't bothered by the usual voices. It seemed the sewers too had their silver lining...<br/>
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He couldn't wait to be home, even as much as he dreaded the day ahead as dawn set in and the sky turned an ominous orange hue. MacClery felt parched, he missed the persistent scratching of the broken record and the necks of his ghouls. Besides, despite the troubling hours that awaited him, word from Mr. Wilde held promise, as well as their meetings to come.<br/>
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