RE: Incident [TEXT]
06-06-2013, 10:33 PM
The Voyeur is unsettling and asks for too much, and the Lady, while always a delight, isn't the person you really need to be talking to right now. Unfortunately. No, that would be Aaron Alence. You pick up the phone and dial.
“Who's this?” An accusatory, rasping voice oozes its way out of the receiver.
“Good morning to you too, Aaron. It's Alexus Silk, that's who. Have you had breakfast yet?”
There's a stern silence. And then:
“The usual place. Fifteen minutes.” He starts to cough as you hear the click and resulting silence of the phone returning to its cradle.
A lot of things can be said about Alence, few of them complimentary, some downright alarming, but at least he's straight to the point.
The 'usual place' is about ten minutes walk so you head straight for the door. The corridor, elevator and lobby are all cloaked in a peaceful gloom. Most people who have to be anywhere have already left for the day. You don't meet anyone on the way down.
As you step out into the street, blinking rapidly in an attempt to deal with the sudden influx of sunlight, it sounds like the city and all of its traffic is out in full force. Business as usual. In spite of everything, you're feeling a little bit optimistic. There's a pleasant breeze blowing through the street as you walk which seems to agree with you.
You briefly stop to buy a copy of the morning's Victraedis Gazette (headline: SIX TAKES TO THE SKIES) but don't take the time to read any more than that.
A brisk pace ensures that you enter the appointed café of dubious sanitariness a few minutes later. Glancing around, it becomes apparent that your informant isn't here yet. The clock on the wall seems to be saying that you're a little early, so that's fair enough. You slide into a booth. A waitress appears in short order. She seems a little wary in spite of your smile. You order a stack of pancakes for yourself, plus the full fry-up and a cup of coffee for Alence. The usual.
Once she's gone you turn your attention to your newspaper.
There's a few surprisingly decent photos: two big ones on the front page, one zoomed in on Number 6 in flight so the detail on his mask is apparent, one zoomed out to show the full extent of his wingspan against the skyline, and some smaller ones where the story continues on page 4. Not much is said about the entire incident apart from noting that Number 6 is apparently now capable of flight, and that he saw fit to leave his emblem up in the sky. The reporter seems to have picked up on the Old Bank fitting in, but that's the point where the facts break down and it becomes hazy speculation. The Red Queen isn't mentioned in any way, nor is a hostage or kidnapping. That doesn't mean that no one realised those things were involved, but it's still somewhat comforting. If anything the writing is a few unenlightening facts padded out with speculation on Number 6's identity and objectives, his past crimes and quotes from law enforcement about how his actions are reprehensible and how they're going to catch him any day now. As well as a few of the spook stories about the Old Bank thrown in for flavour. The photos are the only thing of value in this whole article.
You realise someone is standing next to the booth. You look up from the paper and Aaron Alence grins at you. One of his front teeth is chipped. As far as you know it's always been like that.
“Nice shiner,” he says as he sidles into the seat opposite you. You reflexively touch two fingers to the bruises around your right eye. You'd kind of forgotten they were there. Would explain why the waitress was looking at you like that.
“It's what I get for objecting to getting sapped,” you say.
Aaron Alence is theoretically very noticeable. In practice he seems to vanish from sight entirely once he starts his nonchalant trademark sidle. You suppose it would be fair to say that he's large, but he isn't tall enough to be imposing and ends up having to make up the rest in width. The result is... squarish. He seems to live perpetually in a tatty coat striving to evoke contemplations of Locke's Socks and Theseus's Ship, with the added headscratcher of whether any sane designer would put that many pockets on anything and, if so, how much coercion was required. A receding hairline and a five o'clock shadow contribute to the air of shabbiness, but his eyes are bright and quick, if generally narrowed in suspicion. He's persistently untrusting. That's just Alence. Somehow the effect wraps around and he's oddly difficult to dislike. Just don't leave him alone with your wallet or jacket.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Whose toes were you stepping on?”
You shrug. “Doesn't matter. It was a minor misunderstanding. All sorted out now.” That's true, more or less. The misunderstanding was yours, although you can't really be blamed for it.
He's stopped from asking more by the serendipitous arrival of the food, which serves both to distract him and silence him for a few minutes while he appreciates it. You start on your own pancakes, but you're pondering how to go about this. If you confront him with withholding the rumour immediately you might be able to guilt trip him into revealing more than usual, but he might also deny it and then clam up completely.
How do you want to approach this conversation?
“Who's this?” An accusatory, rasping voice oozes its way out of the receiver.
“Good morning to you too, Aaron. It's Alexus Silk, that's who. Have you had breakfast yet?”
There's a stern silence. And then:
“The usual place. Fifteen minutes.” He starts to cough as you hear the click and resulting silence of the phone returning to its cradle.
A lot of things can be said about Alence, few of them complimentary, some downright alarming, but at least he's straight to the point.
The 'usual place' is about ten minutes walk so you head straight for the door. The corridor, elevator and lobby are all cloaked in a peaceful gloom. Most people who have to be anywhere have already left for the day. You don't meet anyone on the way down.
As you step out into the street, blinking rapidly in an attempt to deal with the sudden influx of sunlight, it sounds like the city and all of its traffic is out in full force. Business as usual. In spite of everything, you're feeling a little bit optimistic. There's a pleasant breeze blowing through the street as you walk which seems to agree with you.
You briefly stop to buy a copy of the morning's Victraedis Gazette (headline: SIX TAKES TO THE SKIES) but don't take the time to read any more than that.
A brisk pace ensures that you enter the appointed café of dubious sanitariness a few minutes later. Glancing around, it becomes apparent that your informant isn't here yet. The clock on the wall seems to be saying that you're a little early, so that's fair enough. You slide into a booth. A waitress appears in short order. She seems a little wary in spite of your smile. You order a stack of pancakes for yourself, plus the full fry-up and a cup of coffee for Alence. The usual.
Once she's gone you turn your attention to your newspaper.
There's a few surprisingly decent photos: two big ones on the front page, one zoomed in on Number 6 in flight so the detail on his mask is apparent, one zoomed out to show the full extent of his wingspan against the skyline, and some smaller ones where the story continues on page 4. Not much is said about the entire incident apart from noting that Number 6 is apparently now capable of flight, and that he saw fit to leave his emblem up in the sky. The reporter seems to have picked up on the Old Bank fitting in, but that's the point where the facts break down and it becomes hazy speculation. The Red Queen isn't mentioned in any way, nor is a hostage or kidnapping. That doesn't mean that no one realised those things were involved, but it's still somewhat comforting. If anything the writing is a few unenlightening facts padded out with speculation on Number 6's identity and objectives, his past crimes and quotes from law enforcement about how his actions are reprehensible and how they're going to catch him any day now. As well as a few of the spook stories about the Old Bank thrown in for flavour. The photos are the only thing of value in this whole article.
You realise someone is standing next to the booth. You look up from the paper and Aaron Alence grins at you. One of his front teeth is chipped. As far as you know it's always been like that.
“Nice shiner,” he says as he sidles into the seat opposite you. You reflexively touch two fingers to the bruises around your right eye. You'd kind of forgotten they were there. Would explain why the waitress was looking at you like that.
“It's what I get for objecting to getting sapped,” you say.
Aaron Alence is theoretically very noticeable. In practice he seems to vanish from sight entirely once he starts his nonchalant trademark sidle. You suppose it would be fair to say that he's large, but he isn't tall enough to be imposing and ends up having to make up the rest in width. The result is... squarish. He seems to live perpetually in a tatty coat striving to evoke contemplations of Locke's Socks and Theseus's Ship, with the added headscratcher of whether any sane designer would put that many pockets on anything and, if so, how much coercion was required. A receding hairline and a five o'clock shadow contribute to the air of shabbiness, but his eyes are bright and quick, if generally narrowed in suspicion. He's persistently untrusting. That's just Alence. Somehow the effect wraps around and he's oddly difficult to dislike. Just don't leave him alone with your wallet or jacket.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Whose toes were you stepping on?”
You shrug. “Doesn't matter. It was a minor misunderstanding. All sorted out now.” That's true, more or less. The misunderstanding was yours, although you can't really be blamed for it.
He's stopped from asking more by the serendipitous arrival of the food, which serves both to distract him and silence him for a few minutes while he appreciates it. You start on your own pancakes, but you're pondering how to go about this. If you confront him with withholding the rumour immediately you might be able to guilt trip him into revealing more than usual, but he might also deny it and then clam up completely.
How do you want to approach this conversation?