RE: Incident [TEXT] (Hiatus?)
07-20-2013, 05:03 PM
You cough, a little embarrassed, and adjust your tie before nodding at the courier.
“Is that for me?”
He looks at you uncertainly. “If you're Alexus Silk, then sure.”
While you dig out your wallet in search of some form of ID, you take a sidelong glance at the other person in the room. She's flicking through a magazine, as you noted before, but her manner is distracted and she doesn't seem to be pausing on any page long enough to take in more than a few sentences. When she reaches the end of the magazine she starts again at the beginning. As you watch she pushes back a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her hand trembles as she does so.
Hell.
You also notice that the splodges of paint on her hands (and in her hair, and her face, and on her clothes) are relatively varied in colour: probably more of an artistic painter than a decorator.
The first useful thing you find in your wallet is your sparker ID, which states that you are not, in fact, actually a sparker. You're not obligated to carry it in the same way people with abilities are, but it's helpful to have on hand from time to time. You hand it to the courier. His eyes flick from the photo to your face, and then back again. He hands it back, and pulls out a clipboard and a pen from his bag.
“Thanks. Just sign here,” he says as he gives the necessary items to do so. You're just putting pen to paper when he speaks again.
“No offence or anything, but you're not exactly what I was expected.”
“The black eye, right? Yeah, everyone seems to be making a big deal out of that this morning.”
“Well, sure, but not just that. These are from Evelyn Murios, right? Even if you forget about the Murios family, she's kind of... you know. High status.”
He takes back his clipboard and proffers the bouquet of flowers, gripping it with both hands by the card box base the stems sit in. He's squinting slightly, with his head tilted, as if that might suddenly transform you into a socialite worthy of receiving flowers from Murios family members.
“Evelyn Murios sent these?”
That's... odd. You weren't really expecting that Number 6 would use his name, nor is the guise of flowers for the package really surprising (if a little disconcerting) but how does he know about Evelyn? And why use her name? Why not make one up?
“Yeah. Are you going to take them or not?”
“I suppose so,” you reply as you accept the flowers and ease them into the crook of your arm. “Thanks.”
The courier leaves. The woman casts her magazine aside and looks at you expectantly.
“Are you here to see me?” You sidle up to the door to your office and fish around for your keys.
She nods, and seems about to say something before you cut her off.
“Let me get settled down and then you can tell me everything.”
You swing the door open and stand aside so she can go inside, then follow her in.
“Please, take a seat.” You gesture at the desk crammed next to the sole window (chairs on either side, the more comfortable being for the client) and push around some of the clutter on top of a filing cabinet to make a space for the flowers. After a few seconds it becomes clear that this line of action is futile, so you walk over to the desk and try setting it down there instead. No, that's no good. If you sit down you won't be able to see your potential client for all the blue petals.
It ends up on the floor. The painter looks at them with some curiosity, but returns her gaze to you when you sit down opposite her and clear your throat. You pull out a pencil and a pad to give your hands something to do while you talk.
“Tell me about it.”
“It's my friend. She's missing, and I think – I think somebody took her. There was blood, and, and-”
A dry sob escapes her, and she claps a hand to her mouth. She sits there, trembling, her gaze fixed at a point on your desk.
“Let's start at the beginning. What's your name?”
She looks back at you, and slowly moves her hand away from her mouth.
“I, uh, I'm Katherine Logan.”
“And your friend's name?”
“Dominique Fabron.” She seems a little calmer.
“Thank you. That's a good start. You say she's missing, and you think possibly kidnapped – why haven't you gone to the police with this? They're much more qualified to deal with this sort of thing than I am.”
“Dominique... she's not exactly, ah, legal? I mean, she wasn't born here, and I think something happened in her home country that made getting out difficult, so...”
“She's an illegal immigrant, you mean.”
“Y-yes. I wasn't sure how the police would treat that, and even if they did help – I got the impression she was a, a fugitive, or something. I don't know what would happen to her if she got sent back.”
“Back to where?”
“Riisneia, I think. She's never said it explicitly, but she has an accent.”
Another Riisneian. That's the third one in two days. Maybe that's not too surprising. There's only a sea separating Victraedis and the eastern coast of Riisneia, and you get a lot of different types here. That said, the borders of that country are notoriously tight. If you want to get in you need a native to vouch for you, and getting out requires an excellent reason, a mound of paperwork and a nudge from someone inside the system. You've met one or two people who used to live there before, but three in two days is quite something.
Or maybe not. Coincidences exist, after all, and the first two Riisneians are clearly affiliated with each other.
“You said there was blood. Where?”
“At her studio. She's an artist – a sculptor! And she sleeps and lives there as well. I share the neighbouring studio with a few other painters, and most days I'll walk in and say hello. The door was unlocked this morning, like usual, but she wasn't there. But there was blood. And things had been knocked over, like there'd been a struggle.”
“Any enemies?”
“I don't think so. What enemies would a sculptor have? She mostly kept to herself.”
“Artistic rivals, maybe?”
“She's not that well known. Dominique is a fantastic artist, but I guess she was trying to keep a low profile. Because... you know.”
“When did you last see her? What was she like? Moody? Jumpy? Scared? Distracted? Anything like that?”
“It would have been last night. She forgets to eat, sometimes, so I bring dinner for us both occasionally. She seemed excited, if anything – she'd just managed to get a commission for some stonework. A character from some kind of myth, I think. I had a hard time getting her to stop long enough to actually eat something.”
You sigh and look over the words you scratched onto the pad.
“Are you sure there was nothing unusual about her? Had Dominique done anything in the past that seemed strange – did you ever see her with anyone shady? Did she have any Riisneian contacts, someone who knew about her past? Or anything else that would connect her to it?”
“She has a sister who lives in Victraedis...”
“Great. Do you have an address? Something I can use to get in contact with her?”
“I have a business card; Dominique gave it to me once, said to go see her if I ran into any trouble. Here,” she says as she produces the card from a pocket and hands it to you. You take it.
It's very simple, white text on black. Antionette Fabron. Consultant. Then an address on Kismeria Avenue, as well as a telephone number.
“Have you been to see her? I'd say this qualifies as trouble.”
“No. Dominique seemed kind of nervous whenever she was brought up. I think she might have been scared of her for some reason.”
“And yet she recommended Antionette to you. Very strange.”
“I – I suppose so.”
“Anything else you might want to mention?”
“Yes. I think – the tattoo. Dominique had one.”
“Go on.”
“It's on the back of her neck. It's two numbers: a long one, five or six digits, and then one written in ancient numerals above it. I know the one in ancient numerals was a two: II. I'm not sure what the other one was, but I think it started with a zero.”
“Did she ever tell you where she got it?”
“No. She kept it covered up most of the time. She doesn't like talking about it, and I didn't want to press the issue.”
“I see.”
“So. Will you help me?”
Will you accept? Or is there anything you'd like to ask Katherine first?
“Is that for me?”
He looks at you uncertainly. “If you're Alexus Silk, then sure.”
While you dig out your wallet in search of some form of ID, you take a sidelong glance at the other person in the room. She's flicking through a magazine, as you noted before, but her manner is distracted and she doesn't seem to be pausing on any page long enough to take in more than a few sentences. When she reaches the end of the magazine she starts again at the beginning. As you watch she pushes back a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her hand trembles as she does so.
Hell.
You also notice that the splodges of paint on her hands (and in her hair, and her face, and on her clothes) are relatively varied in colour: probably more of an artistic painter than a decorator.
The first useful thing you find in your wallet is your sparker ID, which states that you are not, in fact, actually a sparker. You're not obligated to carry it in the same way people with abilities are, but it's helpful to have on hand from time to time. You hand it to the courier. His eyes flick from the photo to your face, and then back again. He hands it back, and pulls out a clipboard and a pen from his bag.
“Thanks. Just sign here,” he says as he gives the necessary items to do so. You're just putting pen to paper when he speaks again.
“No offence or anything, but you're not exactly what I was expected.”
“The black eye, right? Yeah, everyone seems to be making a big deal out of that this morning.”
“Well, sure, but not just that. These are from Evelyn Murios, right? Even if you forget about the Murios family, she's kind of... you know. High status.”
He takes back his clipboard and proffers the bouquet of flowers, gripping it with both hands by the card box base the stems sit in. He's squinting slightly, with his head tilted, as if that might suddenly transform you into a socialite worthy of receiving flowers from Murios family members.
“Evelyn Murios sent these?”
That's... odd. You weren't really expecting that Number 6 would use his name, nor is the guise of flowers for the package really surprising (if a little disconcerting) but how does he know about Evelyn? And why use her name? Why not make one up?
“Yeah. Are you going to take them or not?”
“I suppose so,” you reply as you accept the flowers and ease them into the crook of your arm. “Thanks.”
The courier leaves. The woman casts her magazine aside and looks at you expectantly.
“Are you here to see me?” You sidle up to the door to your office and fish around for your keys.
She nods, and seems about to say something before you cut her off.
“Let me get settled down and then you can tell me everything.”
You swing the door open and stand aside so she can go inside, then follow her in.
“Please, take a seat.” You gesture at the desk crammed next to the sole window (chairs on either side, the more comfortable being for the client) and push around some of the clutter on top of a filing cabinet to make a space for the flowers. After a few seconds it becomes clear that this line of action is futile, so you walk over to the desk and try setting it down there instead. No, that's no good. If you sit down you won't be able to see your potential client for all the blue petals.
It ends up on the floor. The painter looks at them with some curiosity, but returns her gaze to you when you sit down opposite her and clear your throat. You pull out a pencil and a pad to give your hands something to do while you talk.
“Tell me about it.”
“It's my friend. She's missing, and I think – I think somebody took her. There was blood, and, and-”
A dry sob escapes her, and she claps a hand to her mouth. She sits there, trembling, her gaze fixed at a point on your desk.
“Let's start at the beginning. What's your name?”
She looks back at you, and slowly moves her hand away from her mouth.
“I, uh, I'm Katherine Logan.”
“And your friend's name?”
“Dominique Fabron.” She seems a little calmer.
“Thank you. That's a good start. You say she's missing, and you think possibly kidnapped – why haven't you gone to the police with this? They're much more qualified to deal with this sort of thing than I am.”
“Dominique... she's not exactly, ah, legal? I mean, she wasn't born here, and I think something happened in her home country that made getting out difficult, so...”
“She's an illegal immigrant, you mean.”
“Y-yes. I wasn't sure how the police would treat that, and even if they did help – I got the impression she was a, a fugitive, or something. I don't know what would happen to her if she got sent back.”
“Back to where?”
“Riisneia, I think. She's never said it explicitly, but she has an accent.”
Another Riisneian. That's the third one in two days. Maybe that's not too surprising. There's only a sea separating Victraedis and the eastern coast of Riisneia, and you get a lot of different types here. That said, the borders of that country are notoriously tight. If you want to get in you need a native to vouch for you, and getting out requires an excellent reason, a mound of paperwork and a nudge from someone inside the system. You've met one or two people who used to live there before, but three in two days is quite something.
Or maybe not. Coincidences exist, after all, and the first two Riisneians are clearly affiliated with each other.
“You said there was blood. Where?”
“At her studio. She's an artist – a sculptor! And she sleeps and lives there as well. I share the neighbouring studio with a few other painters, and most days I'll walk in and say hello. The door was unlocked this morning, like usual, but she wasn't there. But there was blood. And things had been knocked over, like there'd been a struggle.”
“Any enemies?”
“I don't think so. What enemies would a sculptor have? She mostly kept to herself.”
“Artistic rivals, maybe?”
“She's not that well known. Dominique is a fantastic artist, but I guess she was trying to keep a low profile. Because... you know.”
“When did you last see her? What was she like? Moody? Jumpy? Scared? Distracted? Anything like that?”
“It would have been last night. She forgets to eat, sometimes, so I bring dinner for us both occasionally. She seemed excited, if anything – she'd just managed to get a commission for some stonework. A character from some kind of myth, I think. I had a hard time getting her to stop long enough to actually eat something.”
You sigh and look over the words you scratched onto the pad.
“Are you sure there was nothing unusual about her? Had Dominique done anything in the past that seemed strange – did you ever see her with anyone shady? Did she have any Riisneian contacts, someone who knew about her past? Or anything else that would connect her to it?”
“She has a sister who lives in Victraedis...”
“Great. Do you have an address? Something I can use to get in contact with her?”
“I have a business card; Dominique gave it to me once, said to go see her if I ran into any trouble. Here,” she says as she produces the card from a pocket and hands it to you. You take it.
It's very simple, white text on black. Antionette Fabron. Consultant. Then an address on Kismeria Avenue, as well as a telephone number.
“Have you been to see her? I'd say this qualifies as trouble.”
“No. Dominique seemed kind of nervous whenever she was brought up. I think she might have been scared of her for some reason.”
“And yet she recommended Antionette to you. Very strange.”
“I – I suppose so.”
“Anything else you might want to mention?”
“Yes. I think – the tattoo. Dominique had one.”
“Go on.”
“It's on the back of her neck. It's two numbers: a long one, five or six digits, and then one written in ancient numerals above it. I know the one in ancient numerals was a two: II. I'm not sure what the other one was, but I think it started with a zero.”
“Did she ever tell you where she got it?”
“No. She kept it covered up most of the time. She doesn't like talking about it, and I didn't want to press the issue.”
“I see.”
“So. Will you help me?”
Will you accept? Or is there anything you'd like to ask Katherine first?