Mystery Machine (Anselm)

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

85th Day of Spring, 512 AV

Minerva was at home, tinkering. She had some projects to finish up for her classes, and the Gadgeteering lab at the University was in use for the rest of the afternoon by another group of students. As much as she'd begged and whined, she hadn't been able to get preferential treatment and commandeer the lab. So she'd brought some supplies and parts home, even though she wouldn't have everything she needed to finish her latest project. At the very least, she could make some progress, and finish it back up in the lab later on.

She was experimenting with hydraulics, and had a variety of beakers, vials, and tubes filled with water spread all over her table. She was working with a few types of simple pumps, measuring the rates of water flow compared to pumping speed, as well as using siphons and measuring their rates depending on the width of the tube the water was flowing through. She had a stack of paper off to the side, recording her measurements. Every time she finished one round of experiments, she had to measure the depth of the water in each beaker, and calculate the volume.

Once she mastered this, she might be able to build an Animated well pump, or maybe a water mill to power some of her other inventions.

Meanwhile, across the city, a haggard looking young man stumbled into Anselm's tent. He looked quite sickly, and coughed as he sat in the chair and tossed his five silvers on the table. "You're the seer, right?" he asked. "I need you to tell me about this..." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver box. It was a little bigger than a man's fist, and covered with strange little locks, clasps, and screws. The man looked up at Anselm nervously as he awaited his fortune.

[Anselm]

Anselm took a moment to observe the man before responding. Gaunt. Pallid. Dishevelled. Looks sick. Anxious about something. No, not anxious … frightened. He reached across the table to take the odd looking object from the man and noticed that the man's hands were shaking. His hand brushed the man's hand for a moment. Auras are sticky things. When they bump up against another aura, a little bit of it “sticks”. It's usually insignificant and soon dissipates. Especially intense emotions have a tendency to stick out prominently and stick longer. Dying is also an interesting thing. Especially violent dying. There is a moment, just before the end, when the person finally realizes that he's going to die, that there is no hope, that nobody is going to save him, that all his hopes and dreams and loves are slipping away and will soon be gone forever. Perhaps the main feeling in that final moment is disappointment. It was this feeling – the sad disappointment that comes as the last bit of life slips away – that was “stuck” to the man's hand. Anselm took the silver box out of his hands. “Where did you get this?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice. The man's nostrils flared and his eyes took on the look of prey being pursued. “I … uhm … that's not important. Just tell me what it does!” “There he is!” The shout came from somewhere outside the tent. The man's eyes grew big. He jumped up, knocking over the chair, and looked outside. “I have to go!” he shouted and ran off. A few moments later, two unpleasant looking men appeared at the entrance to Anselm's tent. One of them ran after the fleeing man. The other stepped into the tent. Anselm slid the silver box into a pocket sewn to the inside of his cloak. The man walked over to Anselm's table, placed both hands on it and leaned toward him. “Just one question, old man. Where's the machine?” Anselm had no doubt that this man was capable of violence. He placed a hypnotic suggestion in the man's mind: I have made a mistake. At the same time, he pulled his hood back and said, “Perhaps you have made a mistake.” The man literally jumped back from the table. Anselm's stringy white hair only partially covered the angry looking scabs on his head. Skin hung loosely from his face as though it was melting and about to drip off on to the table. His eyes were gray and empty and surrounded by deep black bruising as though he had received two shiners. A pus-filled sore stood out prominently on the right side of his jaw. It was leaking. “I have made a mistake,” the man said as he retreated from the tent and disappeared from sight. Anselm pulled the hood back up over his head and thought, Works every time. He closed up shop and went home, having decided it would be a good idea to not be in his tent when the two unpleasant men returned. And he was sure they would. At home Anselm took the silver box out of his pocket and placed it on the table. It had several gadgets and gizmos sticking out from all but one side, which he decided to call the “bottom.” He could see no obvious way to open it. He poked and prodded at it but got no response. Then he extended his mind to explore the box's aura and received a surprise. It was alive. Now that's interesting, he thought. A living machine. Who do I know who has experience with machines? It took a fair amount of legwork to find out where Tock lived, but he eventually found himself in front of her cottage. He knocked on the door and waited for the odd girl to appear.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Anselm would feel the box moving around a bit in his pocket from time to time, though it could have been his imagination. Yet the feeling was something like carrying a rat around, not knowing where it had been or what it might be capable of. For most people this would be quite disconcerting (of course, it was likely that it was usually Anselm that made others uncomfortable). When he knocked on the door, he would hear the sound of breaking glass, followed by a sharp curse. This would he followed by some grumbling, then some thumping and commotion as if something wooden were being banged about, followed by more cursing. Eventually, Tock opened the door, looking about three or four inches taller than she had been last time he saw her. The extra height was due to the contraption she was wearing. Two wooden pieces were fit under her arms like crutches, but they were connected by a metal pole across the back, and she was strapped into the device with leather straps across her chest and over her shoulders. Four wooden crutch legs held her up, hooked into the supports with joints, and springs to distribute her weight. She controlled the device with pressure to metal discs that were mounted on springs on the front end of the supports. It held her up off the ground, and if he looked down, he would notice why: her foot was broken and bound in a cast. "Fortune teller man?" she asked in confusion, looking past him up and down the street as if there should have been someone else at her door. Anyone else, considering that she had only met the man once and couldn't even remember his name (though it had been written on the sign in front of his tent, her memory was horrible with such things). "Whatcha want?" she asked. Gesturing to the collection of vials, pumps, and tubes cluttered across her table, she said, "Can'tcha see I'm--" she was cut off by the sound of a metallic clatter on the ground. She looked down to see the metal box, which had somehow climbed its way out of Anselm's pocket. Tock tilted her head to the side and peered down at it. What a curious little thing...? she thought. She pressed on the metal discs on her device, and commanded it to lower. The front and rear legs spread out from each other in a split, lowering her to the ground. She carefully adjusted her broken foot to avoid banging it on anything, and used her good foot to help support her weight as she crouched down to pick up the box. She then raised back up, pushing up on her good foot to help the device straighten back up and support her weight. "What's 'is?" she asked curiously, turning her automated crutches back into the house, and leaving the door open. She moved across the room, the crutches lurching and jerking with awkward movement. There was glass and water all over the floor on one side. She set the box on the table, pushing some of the glass work aside. It looked like a puzzle box. She'd toyed with such things from time to time, and always enjoyed them. Usually there was some trick to figuring out how to open them. Without thinking to ask Anselm's permission, she grabbed a screwdriver and started unscrewing one of the many screws across the box. It came out about an inch, then wouldn't budge anymore. When she removed the screwdriver, the screw wound itself back in, securing itself snugly in place once more. She stared for a moment, then her eyes went wide and she laughed. "Oy, a smart little bugger, ain't 'e?" she said with a grin, laughing eagerly as she tried another screw and got the same results. Finding out what was inside this box was going to be a challenge.

[Anselm]

Anselm followed the gadgeteer into her one-room cottage and closed the door behind himself. The place was a mess. Clutter everywhere. Just as he would have expected. Once she had the silver box on her work table, she appeared to forget that Anselm was there. Which he also expected. There was a slight smell of oil in the room. He was remembering what it was about her that he had found so irritating on their previous encounter. “It is obviously a machine,” he said in a raspy voice. “It appears to have at least rudimentary intelligence.” He looked around for someplace to sit and eventually settled on the bed. “And it is alive.” She continued tinkering, apparently oblivious to his remarks. “Also there may be a murder involved,” he added. “And by extension a murderer, I suppose. Not to mention two unpleasant men who I suspect are proficient in the fine art of hurting people.” He leaned to one side to get a better look at the mysterious box. “What do you think it is? A golem?”

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

"'Course 'e's alive," she said absent-mindedly as she continued to tinker with the box. "Ain'tcha?" she asked the box, patting its lid. She didn't need Auristics to tell it was alive; while she had no way to 'sense' the soul inside, she could simply tell by its reactions. The way the screws pulled themselves back inside spoke to her of personality. "'E's a stingy little bugger!" she said, giggling. "Don't wanna let us see what 'e's got!" She had enough experience studying Automatons in classes at the University to know this wasn't just a programmed response. The little box had an attitude. She didn't even look up at the mention of murders, simply asking in a distracted tone, "Ya think the box killed 'em?" It wasn't that she approved of murder. It was just that back home, it was a common enough thing that she'd become desensitized to news of it, as long it was a stranger and not someone she knew or cared about. The possibility of murder committed by an Automaton, if that turned out to be the case, was quite the curiosity. "Ain't what we calls a 'golem'," she said, correcting him. "Automaton. Livin' machine. Golems is bigger, smarter, more complex. Gots real bodies most times, usually 'uman, but can be an animal and still be a golem. Can even be like, a movin' critter on wheels, long as 'e's at least a little self-sufficient. But 'is 'ere, smart as 'e 'is, I wouldn't say 'e qualifies." She took out some paper and started sketching the device, taking careful measurements of its dimensions. She recorded all the numbers alongside the sketches. If she got enough information about how it was put together, she might be able to reverse-engineer it and deduce what the inner mechanisms were like. Then she started poking the machine to see what responses she could get. When she wasn't touching the screws, it ignored her at first. But once she poked and prodded it enough to start annoying it, a small metal rod swung out and smacked her on the hand to get her to stop. She laughed and clapped her hands, "Oy, 'e's gettin' mad at me, 'e is!" This was definitely more than just programmed responses. "Any idea what might be inside?" she asked. Opening the device would be challenging. Sure, she could just take a sledge hammer to it. But she didn't want to hurt the poor little thing."

[Anselm]

“The device is not the murderer” Anselm said. He walked over to the table and leaned over to look more closely at the machine. “Most likely the fellow who brought the device to me is the murderer. The aura of the murdered person's last moments was on his hands, not on the device.” He paced around the small room as he thought out loud. “Point one: As a working hypothesis, let us assume that the man killed someone to get hold of this device. That tells us that it is valuable enough to be worth killing for. Or at least the murderer believed that to be so. “Point two: Apparently the murder did not go unnoticed. He was pursued by two other men. One of them asked me about 'the machine', but not about the man, which suggests they were after the device. That tells us they are not the local constabulary. “Point three: The man who brought it to me asked me to tell him what it does, which implies that he himself does not know what it does. It also suggests that he is not the inventor of the device. Most likely he murdered the inventor.” “Point four: He brought it to me, a fortune teller. Why would he do that?” He stopped pacing and turned his gray, empty eyes to Tock. “I have a proposal. I propose that you remain here and continue investigating the device. I would advice caution in view of the fact that we have no idea what it can do, and it has shown that it is willing and able to defend itself against unwanted intrusion. For my part, I propose to look for the man who left the device with me. I would like very much to talk with him again. “But first there is a small matter you and I should clear up between the two of us if we are going to be working together on this little mystery.” OOC : There is the possibility that when Anselm leans over the table to look at the device, Tock notices an unpleasant odor wafting forth from him. Like rotting flesh.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

"Aura?" she asked, glancing up for just a moment. That was magic talk. Magic talk always got her attention. "Ya got aura magic, aye?" She didn't know anything about that kind of magic. Her specialties were building stuff magics. Then he started talking in points and logical processes, like a scientist. Now that was speaking Tock's language. Sure, there were plenty of people who would say that the eccentric inventor wasn't a 'logical' person. But that was because most people didn't know the difference between logical and rational. The latter meant someone with sounds judgment, which was certainly NOT Tock. But the former just meant someone whose actions followed a cause and effect relationship, with decisions made based on pre-set criteria and determined by the outcome of those criteria. Such as how Tock wanted to find out what was inside this box, and doing so required opening the box, therefore, she was going to do just that! She kept fiddling with the box while the Fortune Teller talked, scrunching her nose a bit at the smell wafting from him. Somewhere in the back of her energetic mind, she noted that the smell was not the scent of just someone who needed a bath. She had more important mysteries to solve at the moment though, so for now she just filed that information away for later. "Point five," Tock added, "men what is good at 'urtin' people is usually not good at much else but 'urtin' people. 'At means 'ey's gotta be workin' fer someone else." She tried unscrewing one of the screws, and holding it with her fingers while she undid another one on the opposite side of the box. She then grasped that one in the fingers of her other hand. She felt a slight tugging as they tried to screw back in. After a few moments, the pressure increased, and she had to let go with a yelp. It had almost taken off some skin! She grinned. "Point six," she continued as she turned the box around to check the clasps and dials on the other side, "ain't the box what's valuable, Guv. If'n anythin's worth killin' fer, it's whatever's inside 'is 'ere bugger. Someone what done enchanted 'im up wit' some mighty fine defenses. 'At means 'ey's tryin' pretty darn 'ard ta keep anyone out. 'At's gotta mean somethin'. Ain't the box 'imself what is valuable." "Point seven," she said, her head tilted over her pages as she sketched out the various dials on the box, "if'n the man what gave 'im ta ya didn't know what the box was, 'at means 'e don't know what's so valuable either. Which is ta say, 'e musta been 'ired by someone, too. Ain't no way 'at guy up an killed someone o'er 'is 'ere puppy, if'n 'e didn't even know what the box is or what 'e does. If'n 'e's valuable 'nough what ta kill fer, 'as ta be 'at someone knows why 'e's so valuable. 'At weren't yer guy." "Point eight," she paused for a moment, biting on her quill, going over some numbers in her head as she tried to figure out what the inner mechanisms might look like. "If'n the murderer guy didn't know what 'is is an' was 'ired, an' if'n the brutes what was lookin' fer 'im was 'ired, 'at means 'ey was both 'ired by different people. So's as 'eres gotta be at least two chaps out 'ere what is lookin' fer this. One what 'ired the murderer, an' one what 'ired the thugs." That was a lot of points covered, and it all made sense to Minerva. Though it did leave her wondering one last thing, "Oy, what 'matter' is we gotta clear up? If'n its about the box, I's keepin' 'er when we's done. Ya can 'ave whatever is inside, I jus' want the little guy. 'E's cute!" She patted the top of the box, and it thrust a spring-loaded panel at her, the metal snapping at her finger and making an irritated twisting sound.

[Anselm]

Anselm watcher her spar with the device for a few moments before speaking again. “It occurs to me, my dear Tock, that it might not be a container. Perhaps the device is itself the thing of value.” He sat down on the bed again. His hip was hurting more than usual today and it was making him feel irritable. “It also occurs to me that there might be some danger to us for merely being in possession of it. After all, at least one person has died because of this mysterious object.” He reached down to scratch an itch on his right ankle which resulted in a scab about an inch across falling on to the floor. He moved his foot a bit to hide it. “Perhaps it would be prudent for us to take measures to secure the device and to protect ourselves.” He was silent for a few moments, watching the girl continue her search for a way into the device. He was not altogether sure that she was listening to him. “Tell me, Tock, how difficult would it be for you to build a facsimile of the device? Not an exact likeness, but close enough to pass casual inspection at a distance. Having in our possession a double might prove useful if we need to create a ruse of some sort.” It briefly crossed Anselm's mind to wonder if he had been reading too many trash mystery novels. “I also wonder how susceptible your house is to a break in? I do not wish to be alarmist, but dangerous people are looking for this device and we already know that they are not above using violence to get hold of it.” He again lapsed into silence for several moments. “Be that as it may,” he continued, quite possibly talking to no one but himself. “If we are to work together on this case, you should know that I am a Nuit. Having this advance knowledge may save both of us some awkward moments.” He heaved himself off the bed and limped to the door. “I will leave the security arrangements in your capable hands, my dear gadgeteer. I am going to look for a man with death on his hands. Try not to get yourself killed while I am gone.” OOC : Let me know if you feel the story is moving along too slowly. Personally, I'm enjoying letting Tock and Anselm each bring to bear their own unique perspective on solving the mystery. Not too mention their wildly different personalities bumping up against each other. But I would be willing to speed things up.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

OOC : The pace is fine by me! Every story needs a little "development" time before the "action" time starts. When he mentioned that there might be danger just by being in possession of the box, Tock shrugged and replied, "Meh..." She was from Sunberth... she was pretty sure she could handle anything Zeltiva threw at her. Though of course, that very confidence could turn out to be her undoing. When he asked about making a copy of the box, however, she smirked and sat back, considering it. When she took her hands off the box, it grew still, though she could tell it was just waiting for its chance to make a break for it. "I'd need some silver," she said. "An' if'n ya want 'er ta be really convincin', I'd 'ave ta animate the copy too. Otherwise anyone what 'as magic ta sense it could tell the difference..." She paused and thought about that for a moment. It would take her a couple of days to make an animated copy, which seemed pointless. She could probably have this one figured out faster than she could animate a convincing replica. "But if'n ya jus' want somethin' what would pass at a glance, I could do 'er in wood," she said. "Take a couple 'ours, tops. Would just need a paint job, or somethin'. I got some paints 'round 'ere. I'll get 'er done..." "An' don't worry 'bout my 'ouse," she said, letting out a small cackle. "I done got... security measures, I do." As she said this, a slight scurrying sound was heard, though the source wasn't apparent. She grabbed some scrap wood and started taking some measurements to make the replica. While she was working, he mentioned he was a Nuit. This drew a glance and an arched eyebrow from her. "Aye?" she asked. She had studied a little bit about the Nuit in her Animation classes. "Oy, ya ever need patchin' up, jus' lemme know. I wouldn't mind gettin' my 'ands on one o' y'all. I's gonna learn ta make y'all soon 'nough." She grinned. While most people would be most uncomfortable around a Nuit, she just thought of it as a learning experience. Once he left, she quickly assembled the facsimile box. The basic body was just a couple of wooden blocks nailed together. Then, to make the silver coating the most believable, she pulled some silver mizas out of her purse. Laying them out on the table, she used her mallet to flatten them out with a series of hard, rapid strikes. Smooshing the metal gave her a set of very thin silver discs. She then screwed these onto the box, piercing the thin metal with the screws to hold them in place. She made sure to align the screws in the same places on the box as the original. After that, she added a few little gears and parts from the broken clock she had salvaged. Then finally, she took out the black and white paints she had bought when she made her own homemade chess set. She mixed some together to make a grey paint, experimenting with the mixture a bit until it was reasonably close to the shade of the silver box. It lacked the metallic shine, but it would pass a cursory glance. She used the paint to touch up the edges of wood that weren't quite covered by the metal. When she finally finished, she had a box that more or less matched the animated one. From ten feet away, a quick glance would easily mistake the fake one for the real one. Any closer than that, and a careful inspection would easily tell the fake. To add one final touch, she decided to add a bit of magic to the box. She set up a pair of Animation circles on the floor, and added a drop of blood. Using herself as the source, she began the brief ritual to create the Soulcore, binding it into the box. She didn't add any directives, any persona, or any muscle memory. She merely forged a primitive soul, and bound it in place. Once she was done, she tied off the weaves of spiritual energy for a partial awakening. Normally, a partial awakening would only be done if an Animator needed to test the construct; for example, a golem could be awakened in order to check its intelligence, or let it try out its programmed skills. If they proved inadequate, or the golem turned out not to be smart enough, it could be returned to the circle for another round of programming. In this case, the awakening served the purpose of binding the Soulcore to the box, so she could remove it from the circle safely. Without any persona or muscle memory, the Life Principle in the fake box was basically nothing more than the life found in a plant. It couldn't think, couldn't move, and had no programming. But it was technically alive. That way, if an Aurist or someone with the ability to sense life in some way came for the fake box, it would still detect as an Automaton with a simple soul. She sat the fake box next to the real one. "Whatcha think?" she asked the box. It flexed one of its hinges at her, making a disapproving squeak of metal. "Aww, be nice!" she told it. It squeaked at her again, stubbornly. oocI've marked off ten silver mizas for the shell of the fake box.

[Rayage]

TockJust to let you know that Miza are rimmed with a stone core as opposed to purely silver or gold. Only the very edges are made of silver or gold. Ahh, this is the mod in me coming out

-Enter Mysterious Bad Guy #1-

There was nothing like waiting, nothing like the flow of time that seemed to ebb in its stream when one eagerly waited for news. He wanted good news, but to prepare for any case he paced back and forth thinking what he could do. The nuit knew that he shouldnt have left it up to those fools. Overconfident muscle heads with no brains for themselves, what that really the kind of help that he desired to hire? The thought in itself was laughable, but what was even more laughable was the fact that he did hire them. Who was more foolish, the nuit or the men? He felt slightly disgusted with himself as he thought about their flaws compared to their merits. They were not desirable, and were only good at about one thing he thought, but they did have one point: they would do anything for miza.

Casting his gaze to the floor he looked at the alchemy circle. It was bigger than ones he usually used, but he had found that he could use bigger and bigger circles keeping the same amount of control over the alchemical flux. He had a bit of insurance to create while he waited. He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a bag of miza. Fishing out a handful of gold miza he set the rest of the bag on the ground as he walked up to the alchemy circle. Looking at the miza in his hand his eyes were drawn up to his surroundings, "This place isnt any better than Sunberth." he commented on the condition of the building, the city, that he was now in. In the wake of the Djed Storm everything seemed to have been toppled over. What an amazing and destructive force.

The building the nuit was in was ruined. Repairs have not yet reached the place he was in yet. For that he was grateful for the need of rest for humans. If they were not so inefficient then he knew that the city would be in a much better state now. it was a shame, but nothing he couldnt use to his advantage. The shabby house had the rays of sunlight shooting down through the roof giving the ruins of the once house a more ominous feel than anything as the shadows and light played in the room dancing off the dead face of the nuit.

Setting the miza on the ground he freed his hand from their weight. He had some work to do. Gathering some rubble from the place he carefully placed them in positive side of the alchemy chargers. He hadnt been in the city a day and yet he was thrown back to his old tricks. The all too familiar plotting and planning ahead, the manipulation, it was all coming back to him. Of course, this was all due to the excitement that such manipulation produced. He thrived on watching things go according to plan. If things seemed to not be going his way, then he would simply change it, manipulate the change of events to make things go his way. It was his art after all. He was an Alchemist; he was an agent of change.

Taking out a dagger he pricked his finger, allowing the ichor to seep out of the small wound. Separating five gold miza from the pile he pulled out the nuit worked quickly smearing his life essence over the coins in quick, fluid patterns. Sealing the pattern in a circle, which acted as a barrier, and adding a small dot on the very edge of the miza which would act as the trigger the small glyph was ready. Repeating this five times he now had five miza glyphed with small runes. Standing up he rearranged the rubble within the circle. Not that it mattered overall, it just mattered to him that everything was as good as could be.

Waiting for the ichor to dry on the coin, the nuit took one of them and placed it in the center of the alchemy circle. Taking a step away he went to the edge of the magic cirlce and bent down, placing his wounded hand on the makeshift keystone. As his ichor made contact with the circle he felt the immediate presence of power, something that always got him riled up and ready to do alchemy. He was controlling change, and that power tingled throughout his body, taking it beyond and seeping out into the very circle itself. His will alone controlled the energy and he had a very specific purpose for this exercise.

The alchemy flow was slow to begin with, but his will driving it to go faster and faster. the energy inched its way across the circle, coming from the founts, and being unimpeded by the filters which were not present. It weaved its way around the circle, the energy colliding into itself, djed mixing the properties of the rubble stripping its identity.

The nuit willed the flow to go faster, all his concentration now on controlling the alchemical power which was flying around the circle. The energy was now going around the circle faster than his eyes can track, but he still controlled it. A slight hum of power could be heard as the djed surged throughout the circle, going at near impossible speeds. This kind of speed the nuit could never have achieved a couple seasons ago. This goes to support his ever growing feeling that the more skilled alchemist can control faster going alchemical flux, that it is actually the speed in which the flow collides and is accelerated to that dictates the dramatics of the change in the target object.

Taking this mental note the nuit winced as he felt the mass go out of his control for a second, a spark of high velocity energy flying from the ring, colliding into a wall, changing its very properties. Luckily the small house was all made from this stone. Quickly concentrating again on the flow, he regained control over the circle with a little grunt, a bit of mental struggle. It was easy to lose control, but harder to gain it back. It took a couple chimes for him to have complete control again, his mind sharpening and controlling the circle again.

Mentally sighing he thought he better end this before he made any more mistakes. Willing the energy to the center of the ring he let go of his control over it as he raised his hand off the keystone. Taking a step away he watched the energy collide with the coin, and a small flash of power. This was his art, the art of change. Though, when he had a clear view of what happened, it looked like nothing happened. The gold miza had undergone no visible change. Smiling, this was good. The rune on the glyph stored his magic within. Going to the center of the circle, another glyphed coin in hand, he set it in the circle, retrieving the already charged coin into his hand.

OOC :

Hey, I have a little plan for the hired thugs. If Anslem wants to find them, perhaps they already caught the person who gave the nuit the mysterious box and they are bringing him to where Ray is? I would continue with it in this post, but its already long enough and I dont want to take over your thread you guys