RE: Incident [TEXT]
05-27-2013, 09:45 PM
There's no need to announce your presence. Instead, you cross your arms and lean against the wall so you can watch the game.
The showdown is a disappointment: both of the hands have equal value, and the huge pot ends up getting split evenly. That takes a little while to count out and the murmur of conversation rises up. You take a glance at Kierkgaard, but either she's deep in thought or there's something fascinating on the front of that statue. She's barely moved since you came in.
Eventually the chips are sorted out and new cards are dealt out.
“Hey, Kierkgaard! Your turn!”
She turns to the table. “I'm not in the mood to play. Put me as all in.”
The one who shouted pushes a pile of chips to the centre of the table.
“What if you win?”
“All in again. And again until I lose.”
As she turns to leave, she notices you.
“Hello there. What are you here for?”
You peer at her from under your hat. You've heard of her, but never seen her for yourself. She's bare armed, like the sparkers out there, but for a different reason. Kierkgaard's a normal, and she makes up for it with muscle. As well as intelligence and a ruthlessness unparalleled even by the Red Queen, but the rippling muscle is the most noticeable. Her scarf hangs around her neck rather than covering her face, and a crooked smile is visible which her nose matches: it looks like it's been broken at least once. Her dark hair is worn in a plait braided with spikes.
Powers or not, Kierkgaard isn't someone you want to get into a fight with.
You have to moisten your lips to reply.
“I was told you wanted a runner, sir,” you tell her with a little faked gruffness. If she asks to see your face you might be able to get away with a story about a fire...
She laughs. “Sir? We're not the mercenaries. While I appreciate the sentiment, we don't use their words here. But yes - there's a message for-”
Kierkgaard stops abruptly, and you realise she's looking at you very intently. Her gaze is locked onto yours and for a moment you do nothing. Then her eyes narrow and, before you can stop her, two fingers snake out and lift the brim of your hat. Kierkgaard's expression darkens, but only for a fraction of a second.
“Let's not do this where we can be overheard,” she says pleasantly. Turning to the table, she motions at one of the players. “Hey, Shadow. Give us some privacy.”
A woman with wild blonde hair gets up from the table and unsheathes a couple of shortswords. Your eyes widen at the sight of the archaic weapons, but nobody else reacts with anything more than cursory interest. She walks up to the two of you, salutes to her superior, and sends a white flame running down the metal of her weapons.
That makes sense. Most sparkers with active (rather than passive) powers use their hands to visualise and direct their powers, but anything can be used. Or nothing at all, if you're focused enough. The best sparkers don't need to move a muscle to use their powers.
Without a word she uses the fire to sketch out a square. As she closes it, the sound of room is immediately cut out. Shadow resheathes the swords, salutes again, and walks back to the table.
“Now no one can hear us,” Kierkgaard remarks. “Alexus Silk. You know, the resemblance to your mother is surprisingly good. A little eerie, even.”
Stabs of fear run through you.
Kierkgaard watches the sparker resume their place at the table before putting an arm around your shoulder and forcibly turning you so both your backs are to the table. She motions behind her with her free hand.
“They might be loyal to me, but they're also curious bastards who can read lips.”
You don't say anything. You're struggling to get your heart rate under control.
“Six is gone, isn't he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Makes you wonder what he wanted with you in the first place. But you know what I'd really like to know?”
“What?” You glance at her, but she's looking at the wall in front on her.
“Why you haven't encountered an accident in some dark alley, somewhere. A tragic, fatal accident. These things happen all too often in our fair city.”
Even through two layers of coat you can feel her fingers digging into your shoulder. You let her keep talking. She obviously has something on her mind.
“See, your existence is essentially awkward. Tonight is an obvious example: somebody who previously wasn't an issue kidnaps you, and two indifferent factions become deadly enemies. All because of you. People are going to die, in all probability, and it's your fault simply by existing. When I first heard about you, my first reaction was to put a bullet through your head, and if anything that urge has only gotten stronger. Fortunately for you, Ms. Ashe wants you to keep living and I respect what Ms. Ashe wants. But that only goes so far. Don't get any ideas. Don't kick up a fuss, don't draw attention to yourself, don't try to benefit from your value. Do that, and if you're lucky that accident will find you before someone with a big idea does. Understood?”
“I think I get what you're driving at, yes.”
“Good.” She releases her grip on your shoulder and drops her arm back down. “In which case we need to talk about what you're going to do now.”
“Do you - do you still need a runner?”
“I do. But don't worry, this'll be easy.”
“Ah. Go on.”
“Observe: a red queen.” Kierkgaard points at the statue, still splashed with crimson paint. “Number 6 left that at the entrance for us to look at. I'm sure you know what he was getting at with that. I'm sure you also know how much Ms. Ashe hates that nickname, so you're not going to mention this particular detail. I'm going to give you the note. If anyone asks, you're delivering it to her. But once you leave here, go home. Sit tight until tomorrow. You've got lunch with her, at the Blue Rose. Lucky you. There's a three month waiting list for a table there, as I hear it. Bring the note. Don't fuck up. And remember what I said about taking advantage of your position. Any questions?”
For the majority of this oration Kierkgaard was looking straight ahead, presumably to irritate any lip readers. But now she turns to look at you. She's smiling, but only with her mouth. Her eyes are blazing with utter hatred and you have an uncomfortable premonition of that rictus grin being the last thing you see.
“N-no.”
“Then we're done here.”
Victoria Ashe. That's the name of your biological mother. While she's technically married to your biological father, Markus Daltroy, she chose to keep her name and prefers the use of Ms to Mrs. It's understandable. As you hear it, Ashe and Daltroy were rivals in a power struggle following the death of the previous leader of the mob. Each were evenly matched in terms of supporters and power. Rather than fight it out and risk weakening themselves too much, they chose to join forces. They sealed the deal with marriage. The way it's told they were actually crazy over each other, so it wasn't quite as unorthodox a solution as it appears. But it was still representative of the truce, so taking Daltroy's name could have been viewed as symbolic defeat. Hence Ms. Ashe.
Kierkgaard turns and snaps a signal at the sparker. The sound of a raucous victory over the cards suddenly greets you and you wince at the rapid departure from that eerie quiet. Kierkgaard, apparently unfazed, reaches over, rips the envelope from the front of the statue and hands it to you.
Once you accept it, she walks back to the table without another glance at you. You're no longer of any interest to her.
That suits you just fine.
The guards at the front door seem to have anticipated your arrival. There's probably a telepath somewhere relaying orders, but that doesn't matter to you anymore. The one with the buzzcut pushes one of the doors open for you. After you pass through it you hear the door shut and lock behind you.
There are a few outside guards who look at you with unconcealed curiosity. You ignore them and walk down the low steps of the Old Bank's façade. Crestbridge Street is reasonably busy this time of night, and you're contemplating trying to thumb down a taxi when you hear the yell.
You initially don't give the shout any attention, but a chorus of others join it.
Whirling around, you catch sight of Number 6 about sixty feet above you, falling through the air. You don't stare for long before a flash of yellow light blinds you, and you screw your eyes shut, hand shielding your face. Someone barks an order somewhere. When you look again several sparkers – winged and otherwise – are jumping from the roof of the Old Bank. Rather than falling, they carve through the air like swimmers in water. Fliers. Your gaze following their direction, you finally see it.
High over the city, somebody is gliding in lazy arcs with wings of brilliant yellow light. Their wingspan must be over fifty feet. And judging from the lack of splattered Six on the ground in front of you, it must be Number 6 who's doing it.
It won't take the mercenaries long to catch sight of this. Considering that they're the only ones who are legally allowed to use sparker abilities, as well the presence of the wanted criminal and the mobsters flying after him, this is definitely about to get interesting.
The showdown is a disappointment: both of the hands have equal value, and the huge pot ends up getting split evenly. That takes a little while to count out and the murmur of conversation rises up. You take a glance at Kierkgaard, but either she's deep in thought or there's something fascinating on the front of that statue. She's barely moved since you came in.
Eventually the chips are sorted out and new cards are dealt out.
“Hey, Kierkgaard! Your turn!”
She turns to the table. “I'm not in the mood to play. Put me as all in.”
The one who shouted pushes a pile of chips to the centre of the table.
“What if you win?”
“All in again. And again until I lose.”
As she turns to leave, she notices you.
“Hello there. What are you here for?”
You peer at her from under your hat. You've heard of her, but never seen her for yourself. She's bare armed, like the sparkers out there, but for a different reason. Kierkgaard's a normal, and she makes up for it with muscle. As well as intelligence and a ruthlessness unparalleled even by the Red Queen, but the rippling muscle is the most noticeable. Her scarf hangs around her neck rather than covering her face, and a crooked smile is visible which her nose matches: it looks like it's been broken at least once. Her dark hair is worn in a plait braided with spikes.
Powers or not, Kierkgaard isn't someone you want to get into a fight with.
You have to moisten your lips to reply.
“I was told you wanted a runner, sir,” you tell her with a little faked gruffness. If she asks to see your face you might be able to get away with a story about a fire...
She laughs. “Sir? We're not the mercenaries. While I appreciate the sentiment, we don't use their words here. But yes - there's a message for-”
Kierkgaard stops abruptly, and you realise she's looking at you very intently. Her gaze is locked onto yours and for a moment you do nothing. Then her eyes narrow and, before you can stop her, two fingers snake out and lift the brim of your hat. Kierkgaard's expression darkens, but only for a fraction of a second.
“Let's not do this where we can be overheard,” she says pleasantly. Turning to the table, she motions at one of the players. “Hey, Shadow. Give us some privacy.”
A woman with wild blonde hair gets up from the table and unsheathes a couple of shortswords. Your eyes widen at the sight of the archaic weapons, but nobody else reacts with anything more than cursory interest. She walks up to the two of you, salutes to her superior, and sends a white flame running down the metal of her weapons.
That makes sense. Most sparkers with active (rather than passive) powers use their hands to visualise and direct their powers, but anything can be used. Or nothing at all, if you're focused enough. The best sparkers don't need to move a muscle to use their powers.
Without a word she uses the fire to sketch out a square. As she closes it, the sound of room is immediately cut out. Shadow resheathes the swords, salutes again, and walks back to the table.
“Now no one can hear us,” Kierkgaard remarks. “Alexus Silk. You know, the resemblance to your mother is surprisingly good. A little eerie, even.”
Stabs of fear run through you.
Kierkgaard watches the sparker resume their place at the table before putting an arm around your shoulder and forcibly turning you so both your backs are to the table. She motions behind her with her free hand.
“They might be loyal to me, but they're also curious bastards who can read lips.”
You don't say anything. You're struggling to get your heart rate under control.
“Six is gone, isn't he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Makes you wonder what he wanted with you in the first place. But you know what I'd really like to know?”
“What?” You glance at her, but she's looking at the wall in front on her.
“Why you haven't encountered an accident in some dark alley, somewhere. A tragic, fatal accident. These things happen all too often in our fair city.”
Even through two layers of coat you can feel her fingers digging into your shoulder. You let her keep talking. She obviously has something on her mind.
“See, your existence is essentially awkward. Tonight is an obvious example: somebody who previously wasn't an issue kidnaps you, and two indifferent factions become deadly enemies. All because of you. People are going to die, in all probability, and it's your fault simply by existing. When I first heard about you, my first reaction was to put a bullet through your head, and if anything that urge has only gotten stronger. Fortunately for you, Ms. Ashe wants you to keep living and I respect what Ms. Ashe wants. But that only goes so far. Don't get any ideas. Don't kick up a fuss, don't draw attention to yourself, don't try to benefit from your value. Do that, and if you're lucky that accident will find you before someone with a big idea does. Understood?”
“I think I get what you're driving at, yes.”
“Good.” She releases her grip on your shoulder and drops her arm back down. “In which case we need to talk about what you're going to do now.”
“Do you - do you still need a runner?”
“I do. But don't worry, this'll be easy.”
“Ah. Go on.”
“Observe: a red queen.” Kierkgaard points at the statue, still splashed with crimson paint. “Number 6 left that at the entrance for us to look at. I'm sure you know what he was getting at with that. I'm sure you also know how much Ms. Ashe hates that nickname, so you're not going to mention this particular detail. I'm going to give you the note. If anyone asks, you're delivering it to her. But once you leave here, go home. Sit tight until tomorrow. You've got lunch with her, at the Blue Rose. Lucky you. There's a three month waiting list for a table there, as I hear it. Bring the note. Don't fuck up. And remember what I said about taking advantage of your position. Any questions?”
For the majority of this oration Kierkgaard was looking straight ahead, presumably to irritate any lip readers. But now she turns to look at you. She's smiling, but only with her mouth. Her eyes are blazing with utter hatred and you have an uncomfortable premonition of that rictus grin being the last thing you see.
“N-no.”
“Then we're done here.”
Victoria Ashe. That's the name of your biological mother. While she's technically married to your biological father, Markus Daltroy, she chose to keep her name and prefers the use of Ms to Mrs. It's understandable. As you hear it, Ashe and Daltroy were rivals in a power struggle following the death of the previous leader of the mob. Each were evenly matched in terms of supporters and power. Rather than fight it out and risk weakening themselves too much, they chose to join forces. They sealed the deal with marriage. The way it's told they were actually crazy over each other, so it wasn't quite as unorthodox a solution as it appears. But it was still representative of the truce, so taking Daltroy's name could have been viewed as symbolic defeat. Hence Ms. Ashe.
Kierkgaard turns and snaps a signal at the sparker. The sound of a raucous victory over the cards suddenly greets you and you wince at the rapid departure from that eerie quiet. Kierkgaard, apparently unfazed, reaches over, rips the envelope from the front of the statue and hands it to you.
Once you accept it, she walks back to the table without another glance at you. You're no longer of any interest to her.
That suits you just fine.
The guards at the front door seem to have anticipated your arrival. There's probably a telepath somewhere relaying orders, but that doesn't matter to you anymore. The one with the buzzcut pushes one of the doors open for you. After you pass through it you hear the door shut and lock behind you.
There are a few outside guards who look at you with unconcealed curiosity. You ignore them and walk down the low steps of the Old Bank's façade. Crestbridge Street is reasonably busy this time of night, and you're contemplating trying to thumb down a taxi when you hear the yell.
You initially don't give the shout any attention, but a chorus of others join it.
Whirling around, you catch sight of Number 6 about sixty feet above you, falling through the air. You don't stare for long before a flash of yellow light blinds you, and you screw your eyes shut, hand shielding your face. Someone barks an order somewhere. When you look again several sparkers – winged and otherwise – are jumping from the roof of the Old Bank. Rather than falling, they carve through the air like swimmers in water. Fliers. Your gaze following their direction, you finally see it.
High over the city, somebody is gliding in lazy arcs with wings of brilliant yellow light. Their wingspan must be over fifty feet. And judging from the lack of splattered Six on the ground in front of you, it must be Number 6 who's doing it.
It won't take the mercenaries long to catch sight of this. Considering that they're the only ones who are legally allowed to use sparker abilities, as well the presence of the wanted criminal and the mobsters flying after him, this is definitely about to get interesting.
Spoiler