Malrone Investigations
 | |
| The blinds are crooked, the chair squeaks, and the truth costs extra. | |
|---|---|
| Rain hits the window like a slow confession. | |
| Location Creator | Key_Citron_9096 |
| Archetype | PI Bureau |
| IC Owner | Vincent Malrone |
| Metroplex | Seattle |
| Neighborhood | Tacoma edge of Pyuallup |
| Background Count | 1 |
| Noise | 2 |
Description
Tucked into the upper floor of a half-collapsed pre-Crash tenement where Tacoma blurs into the scorched concrete scars of Puyallup, Malrone Investigations clings to the edge of relevance like mold on synth-wood paneling.
The building itself leans—just enough to make you wonder if it’s the wind or the structure giving up. The stairwell smells of stale soykaf, mildew, and something burnt weeks ago. A flickering mag-strip sign buzzes above the door, half the letters dead, spelling “PRIVATE–N–ST–GATIONS.”
Inside, the air is thick with secondhand smoke, old secrets, and something that might be desperation. Venetian blinds slash the room with light from buzzing neon outside, casting long shadows across a desk cluttered with real paper, obsolete credsticks, and half-drunk bottles of something strong. A cracked AR screen flickers on the wall, mostly static, except when Marla kicks it.
Out the dirty window, you can just make out the fractured skyline—Tacoma’s industrial stacks bleeding into Puyallup’s gang-run chaos. Drones buzz by like flies, and gunshots echo now and then, just enough to remind you what kind of place this is.
But inside? It’s quiet. Too quiet. And that’s when the real trouble starts.
Distinctive Features
The office of Malrone Investigations isn't marked by flash or chrome—it's defined by wear, shadow, and silence. The blinds are always half-open, casting slatted lines of light across a desk that's seen too many late nights and not enough cleaning. A permanent haze of cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a ghost that refuses to leave, even when no one's been smoking for hours.
In the far corner, a cracked AR terminal hums inconsistently—sometimes flickering to life with static-soaked memories from past cases. Most of the real data is kept in an old-fashioned filing cabinet: dented, locked, and filled with actual paper. Vincent swears the Matrix can be bought; ink on dead trees, less so.
A bullet hole in the front window has been patched with greasy duct tape and zero explanation. The desk lamp, soldered together from a broken drone, flickers when someone lies nearby—Marla never fixed it, says it’s more useful that way. Rain streaks down the inside of the glass on colder days, but no one’s sure if it’s a leak or just the city bleeding through.
Every item in the room has a story. Most are better left untold.
IC Information
Notable Associated Characters
Matrix Search Table
| Threshold | Result |
|---|---|
| 1 | Some old listings mention a PI named Malrone operating near the Tacoma/Puyallup border—no current contact info, and the site is offline. |
| 3 | The office shows up in a few shadowy forums as a place that handles “discreet problems” for the right price. Reputation: rough, but reliable. |
| 6 | An archived Lone Star file hints that Vincent Malrone was once a cop, dishonorably discharged. Multiple sources suggest his assistant handles Matrix work and logistics behind the scenes. |
Area Knowledge:Seattle Table
| Threshold | Result |
|---|---|
| 1 | There’s an old building near the edge of the Zone—half in Tacoma, half giving up. Locals say a “detective” works out of there. Most keep walking. |
| 3 | The place is called Malrone Investigations. Word is, if you’re desperate, broke, or both, they’ll listen. Power flickers, rent’s unpaid, but the lights stay on just enough. |
| 5 | The building’s survived gang turf wars, acid rain, and a few accidental arson attempts. No one messes with it anymore—not out of respect, but because bad things follow people who do. Some say the orc inside used to be Star. Others say he never stopped. |
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