It's Thursday, the 10th of May, 1923. A hazy dawn breaks over Arkham's French Hill, patched clouds allowing only a few sparse, pallid rays of sun across the tallest of Arkham's squat, crowded architecture. From the north end, the Miskatonic River babbles grey and cold. Gradually, a few residents begin to appear out in the narrow, choked streets, secreting along to their morning businesses.

Henry Mosser, a good natured veteran of the Great War, was said to have disappeared some time between the evening of May 7th, and the morning of May 8th. A squalid group of individuals with close ties to the missing man have joined together in a ragtag search party.

Comprising the search are Molly McDouglass, a volunteer homeless advocate; James Fredann, a writer and journalist; Buddy, a mysterious and bundled vagrant; Dante Alcoreti, an "accountant and broker", Professor Edward Jarvi, a grad student and archaeology professor at Miskatonic University; and Officer John Masters, leading the official police end of the search.

Molly McDouglass gathers the group together at her modest home on Dissey Avenue at 7 in the morning. Now shortly after 7:15, the group has all arrived, and is seated in her sparsely decorated, but comfortable living room. She speaks loudly from the kitchen, her normally soft Scottish accent amplified by her raised voice. "I think our best coorse is to split up into teams, an' report tah one another when we've fouhned anythen' that might be notewarthy. I've got some handheld radiohs, we can cover more grouhnd in teams than as one big mob. Doos that sound reasonahble, Officer Masters?"

At this last sentence, she pokes her head out of the kitchen momentarily to emphasize it with eye contact. Without waiting for a reply, she again disappears.

I thenk yew can lead Buddy, Mister Alcoreti, an' Professor Jarvi, maybe try tah sarch near Island Street. Someone thehr might know if he'd had any plahns recently. Mister Fredann an' I can sarch down by the rivar, in the sewerways.

She re-enters with a warm tray of flaky biscuits, and cut pieces of fruit, popping it onto a low table in the living room.

Some of the odder folks, no offense, Buddy, might hahve heard from him."

At this, she gives Buddy a warm smile.

Edward Jarvi

You don't think that's a bit premature? I mean, I certainly know it's very possible, officer, but we are still looking for a man at this point... aren't we?

All the same, Jarvi steps up to join the police officer's search party.

John Masters
What! Preposterous! If he'd just wandered off the wouldn't have assigned me to this case
"Yes... we must leave all options open. Still, if he is dead, we don't want to be wasting time asking about his whereabouts. We must explore both avenues

Dante Alcoreti

I certainly hope he hasn't up and gotten himself killed... Dead men don't pay debts.

I'm inclined to agree with the Professor, officer. Mosser fought in the Great War, and is quite capable of watching out for himself, despite his recent situation. When did you last speak with him Buddy?

I take a biscuit from the tray and settle comfortably into my chair, examining my new found companions.

@CKY: Does Buddy indulge in any illicit drinking and if so, would we have had any interactions?

A slightly flustered look comes across the woman's face.
"Well, we're very mooch hoping he isn't dead. Buddy, dear, help yoorself to the biscuits and fruit."

James Fredann grabs a biscuit, but holds it in his hand as he speaks, gesturing with it for emphasis. "Well we're not gonna find him sitting here. We need to get a move-on before he does turn up dead. Molly, I came here to help get this search party going, not to enjoy biscuits until noon. With all due respect to your biscuits, of course."

Molly blushes in clear discomfort. "Okay, well, James is right. I've got the radios. If thehre ahre any other coonsahrns, speak them now. Otherwise, we can teake our breekfasts to go.

Buddy

"Mmf," Buddy replies to Dante with a noncommittal shrug. They turn away to listen to the nice people talk. When they think Dante can't see it, they roll their eyes in his general direction.

Buddy knows Dante well. The one who puts little umbrellas in all the drinks he sells so he can overcharge on them later. The one who threatens to shut down Buddy's own still unless Buddy can cough up protection money. Who does he think he is?

As much as Buddy wants to see Henry again, Buddy wishes people like Dante weren't the ones spearheading the search for him.

When Molly offers Buddy biscuits, Buddy politely declines. They're worried of germs, you see. They'd much prefer to carry on chewing the gum already in their mouth.

(@cky: Dante doesn't actually sell alcohol. In fact, "technically" he doesn't actually do anything illegal. He handles accounting and collecting debts. But he would be in charge of protection money.)

Dante

Hmmm.... Buddy is as quiet as ever. Its odd that he's this involved with, well normal activity. I wonder what type trauma creates a man like that...?

Mr. Fredann is absolutely correct. Sooner we start, sooner we finish. Though I must inquire, what is your angle here Fredann? That of concerned citizen or intrepid reporter? Though I suppose time will answer that question.

John Masters
Biscuits! Damn it, should have acted quicker before we all decided to leave

"Fine... let's go then"

Dante
As we exit the small house, I quickly scan the street, looking for anyone or anything out of place. My dealings with the mob have taught me to be wary of my surroundings. Its the rudimentary details that make or break an accountant.

Stepping out, Dante scans for anything or any one out of place. Outside, however, the streets are placid, only populated by sagging old houses with vacant expressions, watching the party file into the chilly spring air.

James shoves his hands in his coat pockets.
"Check down on Island Street, maybe talk to the local soup kitchen workers. I think Samuel Mathis tends to know a thing or two, so that might be a good start. Radio us if anything develops."

James and Molly provide the party with a handheld radio, and move toward Mr. Fredann's bright blue Speedster.

Edward will accept the radio at this point

"Samuel Mathis... I wonder if Buddy knows anything about him. I suppose we'll find out when we reach Island street."

Professor Jarvi declines to ask too directly given the strange man's former vocalizations.

Buddy shuffles placidly in tow.

John Masters
"I'm going to take my police car instead. I'd get in trouble if I just left it here!"
I move toward the police car

Molly McDouglass and Mr. Fredann leave toward the north end of town.

The cold morning air blusters around the party, carrying the subtle wetness of spring.

The party files into their vehicles, and travels downtown to Island Street, near the soup kitchen.

Island Street is well known for being on the wrong end of town. Crime isn't overt, but a faint feeling of corruption worms its way through every alley and business crisscrossing the area. Strange men are often seen coming and going, and the local homeless population tends to be split between the doorsteps and backstreets of Island and small encampments in the sewerways near the Miskatonic River, seven blocks from Island.

As the party arrives, a line can be seen outside the soup kitchen, with as many as fifteen or so individuals, dressed in assorted tatters, and speaking in a colorful array of voices, all eagerly awaiting their breakfasts.

John Masters

"Does any of you know a certain Samuel Mathis? He's important to my incestigation"

(I say that to the people at the kitchen)

A few folks turn to gawk at the officer, but none immediately answers his query. A mumbling spreads through the kitchen-line, and after a moment a rasping male voice breaks above the drone.
"Sam's workin' the kitchen, right inside."

The line of homeless stretches from outside, near Officer Masters, to the innards of a squat, dingy building. Previously a diner, the soup kitchen holds many of the same furnishings, but each thoroughly grayed out with age. The checked tile floor is badly in need of mopping, and the inside is crammed with wooden bench tables, where more individuals sit and eat their meals.

Through the dusty glass, two individuals can be seen working behind the counter. A strongly built, heavyset man, of perhaps sixty years, and a weary wire-thin woman with thick eyeglasses of no more than thirty. The pair provide a stark contrast to one another, and are busy at work serving soup to the line.