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Realistic or Modern The Singular Tucula
sspky
ooof my bones
The city of Tucula, Nevada, was halfway between Crystal Springs and Majors Place, along Route 93. It was a desolate community surrounded by blue skies and miles of rough desert. The town had sprung up a hundred years earlier on the back of a silver mine that, to this day, still produced a modicum of revenue for the county.
Founded in 1937, the Bouldercrest Outpost was a training and research facility located about twenty miles west of the city limits. It was surrounded by thick, reinforced fences, heavily armed watch-towers, and a rotation of very serious men in uniform.
The locals just called it The Boulder, and they more or less kept their distance.
The nearest university of any reputation was located in Las Vagas, and Dr. Davenport had been a professor of astrophysics there for three years before he accepted a remote research position at a Tucula Mountain Radio Observatory. That had been in 1948, just after the end of the war, and in the year that followed, Dr. Davenport hadn’t settled in as comfortably as he would have liked.
There was something very wrong in Tucula. He’d become aware of the cities eccentricities pretty much immediately upon arriving when he’d noticed a pulsing background static on every radio channel. Then there were the compasses, which only sometimes never pointed north, and the thermometers, which very rarely ever rose above the freezing mark, despite the boiling summer temperatures outside.
These were peculiarities. The disappearances were truly concerning.
Professor Davenport had been slow to notice, at first. He had no reason to regard the absence of the usual clerk at the grocery store, or of that charming archivist he often chatted up at the town library. He supposed he had first begun to notice the trend when he’d stumbled in on Mrs. Parker, the local restaurant owner, bawling behind the counter one dismal morning.
Her daughter had been one of the latest in the vanishings. Parker had recounted the town’s sordid history to the professor between choaked sobs, and he had done his best to console her for the length of time required before he could make a socially-acceptable retreat from the entire drama.
It was only when his lab assistant, Scott Herbert, failed to arrive one morning, that the odd departures started to affect the professor.
He attempted some investigation of his own but found he had no particular skill in sleuthing, so after some deliberation, he reached out to an old colleague of his, one Mr. Yuri Kozlov, by post. He’d heard the man had taken to the private eye business upon his return from the war, and Professor Davenport thought that would make him perfectly suited for the case at hand.
He detailed the strange occurrences in one long letter and sent it off. After a brief back-and-forth, the two arranged for a face-to-face meeting.
Presently, Professor Davenport was back at the Littlestone Diner. It’s proprietor, Mrs. Parker, nowhere to be seen, but given the recent disappearance of her only daughter, the Professor tried not to think too deeply into her absence.
He placed an order of coffee with the waitress and settled into his booth, where he had a clear lookout at the dusty parking lot and highway beyond.
Founded in 1937, the Bouldercrest Outpost was a training and research facility located about twenty miles west of the city limits. It was surrounded by thick, reinforced fences, heavily armed watch-towers, and a rotation of very serious men in uniform.
The locals just called it The Boulder, and they more or less kept their distance.
The nearest university of any reputation was located in Las Vagas, and Dr. Davenport had been a professor of astrophysics there for three years before he accepted a remote research position at a Tucula Mountain Radio Observatory. That had been in 1948, just after the end of the war, and in the year that followed, Dr. Davenport hadn’t settled in as comfortably as he would have liked.
There was something very wrong in Tucula. He’d become aware of the cities eccentricities pretty much immediately upon arriving when he’d noticed a pulsing background static on every radio channel. Then there were the compasses, which only sometimes never pointed north, and the thermometers, which very rarely ever rose above the freezing mark, despite the boiling summer temperatures outside.
These were peculiarities. The disappearances were truly concerning.
Professor Davenport had been slow to notice, at first. He had no reason to regard the absence of the usual clerk at the grocery store, or of that charming archivist he often chatted up at the town library. He supposed he had first begun to notice the trend when he’d stumbled in on Mrs. Parker, the local restaurant owner, bawling behind the counter one dismal morning.
Her daughter had been one of the latest in the vanishings. Parker had recounted the town’s sordid history to the professor between choaked sobs, and he had done his best to console her for the length of time required before he could make a socially-acceptable retreat from the entire drama.
It was only when his lab assistant, Scott Herbert, failed to arrive one morning, that the odd departures started to affect the professor.
He attempted some investigation of his own but found he had no particular skill in sleuthing, so after some deliberation, he reached out to an old colleague of his, one Mr. Yuri Kozlov, by post. He’d heard the man had taken to the private eye business upon his return from the war, and Professor Davenport thought that would make him perfectly suited for the case at hand.
He detailed the strange occurrences in one long letter and sent it off. After a brief back-and-forth, the two arranged for a face-to-face meeting.
Presently, Professor Davenport was back at the Littlestone Diner. It’s proprietor, Mrs. Parker, nowhere to be seen, but given the recent disappearance of her only daughter, the Professor tried not to think too deeply into her absence.
He placed an order of coffee with the waitress and settled into his booth, where he had a clear lookout at the dusty parking lot and highway beyond.
clover-witch
New Member
The war was over. And business?
Business was booming.
As soon as returning sons and fathers settled back into their much more reserved occupations, the war-starved economy was experiencing a rapid recovery. Weddings were never short in supply, and babies were popping out left and right. These families were destined to prosper. Businesses, old and new, could finally thrive.
The optimism was contagious, even in the more rural parts of Michigan. Yuri Kozlov couldn't help getting swept up in it.
There are never a shortage of mysteries in small towns. Rent had been reasonable in Shortbridge, and though the people were a tad naive, they were welcoming. Yet, mysteriously, Mr. Kozlov's bills could hardly be met. He had learned why clients were few a little too late. With the landlords tapping their feet, he'd had to give up coffee, among other things, to make the rent. When was the last time he'd had a nice cup?
Kozlov's name was, however, known in some circles, and that was his saving grace. There were things that most private investigators didn't specialize in, things that moved in shadows and lived under beds. Some of it was hogwash, really. But there were some cases that kept Kozlov up at night, and neither poltergeist nor cryptid could chance bother him in comparison.
If a case didn't make money, stories of them could. Kozlov kept himself afloat with his paranormal reports which were, of course, regarded as fiction -- by most. As long as that meant he might have coffee again someday, so be it.
He would have continued until he couldn't anymore. That's simply how it would have gone.
Then, he received a letter. And then a few more.
Mr. Yuri Kozlov's abrupt disappearance from Shortbridge, Michigan was a mystery of its own. There was talk, which prompted theories, but no one really had any idea. Not one person could know that the man was stepping into Littlestone Diner in dusty Tucula -- except for a one Professor Davenport.
Kozlov removed his hat to reveal an unmistakable strawberry blonde as he entered, his tired eyes scanning the premises. The diner was hardly full, especially this time of night. There were few figures for his eyes to pass over, and soon they found their familiar mark. A gentle, almost relieved smile came to his lips as he spotted him. Fixing his scrappy coat, Kozlov approached Dr. Davenport.
"Davenport... my old friend!"
Business was booming.
As soon as returning sons and fathers settled back into their much more reserved occupations, the war-starved economy was experiencing a rapid recovery. Weddings were never short in supply, and babies were popping out left and right. These families were destined to prosper. Businesses, old and new, could finally thrive.
The optimism was contagious, even in the more rural parts of Michigan. Yuri Kozlov couldn't help getting swept up in it.
There are never a shortage of mysteries in small towns. Rent had been reasonable in Shortbridge, and though the people were a tad naive, they were welcoming. Yet, mysteriously, Mr. Kozlov's bills could hardly be met. He had learned why clients were few a little too late. With the landlords tapping their feet, he'd had to give up coffee, among other things, to make the rent. When was the last time he'd had a nice cup?
Kozlov's name was, however, known in some circles, and that was his saving grace. There were things that most private investigators didn't specialize in, things that moved in shadows and lived under beds. Some of it was hogwash, really. But there were some cases that kept Kozlov up at night, and neither poltergeist nor cryptid could chance bother him in comparison.
If a case didn't make money, stories of them could. Kozlov kept himself afloat with his paranormal reports which were, of course, regarded as fiction -- by most. As long as that meant he might have coffee again someday, so be it.
He would have continued until he couldn't anymore. That's simply how it would have gone.
Then, he received a letter. And then a few more.
Mr. Yuri Kozlov's abrupt disappearance from Shortbridge, Michigan was a mystery of its own. There was talk, which prompted theories, but no one really had any idea. Not one person could know that the man was stepping into Littlestone Diner in dusty Tucula -- except for a one Professor Davenport.
Kozlov removed his hat to reveal an unmistakable strawberry blonde as he entered, his tired eyes scanning the premises. The diner was hardly full, especially this time of night. There were few figures for his eyes to pass over, and soon they found their familiar mark. A gentle, almost relieved smile came to his lips as he spotted him. Fixing his scrappy coat, Kozlov approached Dr. Davenport.
"Davenport... my old friend!"
sspky
ooof my bones
It was uncomfortably warm outside, despite the late hour, and the steel fans situated around the walls of the diner seemed to do little to take the edge off. It would be a lot worse come morning, but already the back of Davenports pale blue dress shirt was clinging, wet with sweat, to his skin.
His jacket was hung up on the edge of the booth’s bucket seat, his sat resting on top of it. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his mid-forearm, and was presently fiddling with his gray tie when he heard the familiar voice call out his name.
An easy smile crossed his narrow face as he rose to his feet, extending an arm out to shake his old friend’s hand.
“Mr. Kozlov, you’ve made it,” he said, gesturing for the man to join him at the booth.
Dr. Davenport was a tall, wiry man, with a square face, high cheekbones, protruding ears, and a sharp, wedge of a nose. His tidy black hair receded somewhat into a widow’s peak and was flecked at the sides with gray. There were crows feet at the edges of his eyes, and a prominent frown-line between his brows.
His jacket was hung up on the edge of the booth’s bucket seat, his sat resting on top of it. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his mid-forearm, and was presently fiddling with his gray tie when he heard the familiar voice call out his name.
An easy smile crossed his narrow face as he rose to his feet, extending an arm out to shake his old friend’s hand.
“Mr. Kozlov, you’ve made it,” he said, gesturing for the man to join him at the booth.
Dr. Davenport was a tall, wiry man, with a square face, high cheekbones, protruding ears, and a sharp, wedge of a nose. His tidy black hair receded somewhat into a widow’s peak and was flecked at the sides with gray. There were crows feet at the edges of his eyes, and a prominent frown-line between his brows.
