Incident [TEXT]

J-jeez Kierkgaard is intimidating.

And Six! I half expected him to flat out disappear with his assassin-monster. I wonder if the flier's a powered decoy, or if he's just a big show-off, or planned this or something.

Ditch the mobster get up as soon as you're out of sight of the mobsters at the bank, don't want it to be confusing any mercenaries that are sure to be on the way.

Stay un-noticed, get home, get some food, get a shower, get some rest. The goals.

My guess on the news report is state-censored newspapers.
As for the Myriad, the Myriad finds YOU, right? Maybe the gyroscope sends out a signal when you spin it or something.

Number 6's illuminated avian wings may be lighting up the entire scene better than any spotlights, but most of the action will probably be too far away to see properly. Whatever. Wherever you find mercs, you find reporters. You can read all about it in the morning paper. Better to just get home.

You break into a stride, dodging the gawping bystanders. As soon as the guards outside the bank vanish from sight you tear off the scarf and throw it in a nearby dumpster. The coat almost follows, but it's a good fit on you and excellent quality. No point in wasting it. Instead you peel it off and carry it over your arm.

Glancing up at the sky, you can see the Queen's fliers have reached Six. He's finding it hard to manoeuvre with wings so large, but flashes of yellow light seem to be keeping the fliers at bay. You wonder what exactly the nature of those flashes is: not lightning, nor flame, but they're obviously attacks of some kind. How is Number 6 creating the wings? What exactly is his power?

Your thoughts are interrupted by two things happening at once: the yellow light vanishes suddenly, leaving you a little blind before your eyes readjust to the darkness, and somebody up in the sky screams. If you had to judge, you'd say they were falling...

In the dark you stand and listen, but there's no accompanying thud after the scream dies out. Could be that you're too far away to hear something like that. Or maybe someone caught them.

You wait, but the sky is dark and the night quiet.

You walk for a few more minutes before the next flash of yellow. The flash rapidly blooms into wings, which slowly circle around the sky. More light appears, burning lines into the darkness above the city. Number 6 casually etches his emblem where everyone can see it.



But instead of the '6' that usually takes place as the pupil of the eye, he scores 'VI'.

A few more bursts of yellow to dissuade the dark specks that must be fliers, and then the wings vanish again.

The emblem remains.

“Too gaudy for my tastes, but I guess it gets your attention.”

You freeze. Part of the reason for this is that you were surprised, but also because your brain instantly latches onto the idea that Number 6 is speaking and is standing behind you right now. In the following rush of fear you manage to realise that this isn't the case: the speaker simply has a Riisneian accent.

That's it! You smile and the apprehension vanishes. The accent you couldn't place in Number 6's voice! Riisneian!

You exhale and turn, mildly triumphant for all of a second.

“Oh, shit.”

Esser grins at you. Number 6's monster is leaning against a wall in an alleyway in front of you. His white coat is splattered and smeared with something dark, which is to say nothing of his stained mouth and teeth. You gag a little at the smell.

“I hope I didn't scare you too badly.”

As you watch he pulls off the white coat and lets it fall to the ground. The clothes underneath are simple and dark, but do nothing to hide the spurs of bone, bared muscle or even the giant, yellow eyes blinking at you from places where eyes shouldn't be. You can't say much about the eyes where eyes should be, as he's wearing a broad blindfold. His legs are revealed to be a tangle of bone and muscle that seem to end in two feet not unlike the kind birds have, if stretched vertically and lacking any skin. You just stare.

“Listen, I know I don't look too great right now. This isn't the first impression I wanted to give, nor was the growling monster deal back in the bank. I was feeling a little... strained, let's say.”

You back away.

“What do you want?”

“To offer a warning and a service, as well as make a request.” Esser scratches at his chin with a partially extended claw.

“What warning?”

He sighs. “Six is acting oddly. He never meets with anyone personally until they've been recruited. No exceptions. Until tonight, that is. And did you notice those tricks of his?”

“Tricks?”

“With the lighter, for instance. Sleight of hand. A small thing, but I think he was hoping to impress you with it. That and the entire setup, of course. You're not the kind we recruit, even if you had any proof of being a sparker, so I'm just sitting here and wondering where he's going with this.”

“So – what? You're warning me that Number 6 is dangerous? Really? I worked that one out a while ago!”

“He wants something from you. I have no idea what he's thinking, and I know him better than anyone. Look-”

He hesitates, and his voice drops. He even leans in a little.

“As far as I know, Six has only killed one person with his own hands. I don't know the full details, but he was crazy about her. I'm worried that if he gets too fixated... we might see a repeat.”

You stare blankly. You're not sure what's more terrifying: that the murderer is speaking with what sounds like genuine concern, or that the madman is probably going to kill you himself.

“W-what's - what's the service?”

“If Six does get dangerous, I will protect you from him. If you need to contact me, paint this on a wall somewhere.” He reaches over to his coat and withdraws a card rectangle, which you take from his claws with a shaking hand. The only thing on it is a squat isosceles triangle with two thick lines beneath it.

“Don't let anyone see you do that. It's my personal symbol, and only people with my consent can use it.”

“How d'you enforce that?”

He just smiles with those disconcerting teeth. You don't press the point.

“Two out of three. That leaves the request.”

Esser straightens up.

“Don't mention this conversation to anyone. Don't confront Six about the person he killed. And don't mention me to the Myriad, should you find them. I can't stop you doing any of those things, and I don't intend to threaten you to make sure you don't. But this is how I would prefer it.”

Silence. You're too busy trying to calm down and work out a way to react to all this, and Esser has nothing else to say.

So what now?

SpoilerShow

I'm not really satisfied with this update but I'm not sure I ever am.

I have to say I loved the "sense of danger" you managed to cultivate here. The card dealer portion was exceptional, and Kierkgaard's discovery was particularly engaging. I sort of wish that her description was given when we first saw her - it certainly would have heightened the anticipation of our encounter, but maybe it fits better where it's at, given the story as a whole. Regardless, I'm greatly enjoying this!

Thank you so much! That's incredibly encouraging. :D

As for Kierkgaard's description, I agree with you. I kind of wanted to give the impression that once you see Kierkgaard, there's absolutely no doubt that that's who it is. You walk into a room with her in it and you just know. But a bit of description would have helped that, certainly. Not to mention it was kind of awkwardly placed when I did get around to it.

Give him a big hug.

----

Thank Esser. Maybe he's not such a bad guy. But ask: 'Okay, if we don't want a repeat of whatever it is Six did, I'm going to need to know what it is he did. If I'm not asking him, that leaves you.'

Oh, joy. The terrorist is trying to impress us. I suppose it's too much to hope for that they DON'T already know where we live.

The request doesn't seem unreasonable. Especially since he's offering "don't get killed by Six" as a free service.

Not getting killed is a good thing.

SPEAKING OF KILLING if we aren't too intimidated we should really ask if the whole killing Dupont thing was a one off hit or if they routinely kill off sparkers and just don't claim credit for them. Meeting Esser as he's murdering someone is surely one hell of a first impression.

Regardless of what Six's goals are what he's seemed to have accomplished so far is to start a gang war. It'd probably be a win-win for us if either or both factions were to be wiped out, but the inevitable collateral damage is not so nice.

“I guess I should thank you. This all seems quite generous,” you say at last.

Esser shakes his head.

“I'm not doing this to save your life. I'm doing this to prevent Six from taking it.”

It's no more than you would expect.

“You said you were basing this off something that happened before - what exactly happened last time? What are you trying to prevent a repeat of?”

“Last time... last time is barely relevant. I don't know why I mentioned it.” Esser shrugs, but his nonchalance is a poor cover for his discomfort. “Six killing you is a worst case scenario. That's what I want to prevent. It's possible he's not as broken as I think, or that he'll lose interest in you once it becomes obvious that there's nothing special about you. Or that I misinterpreted his actions and motives. The probability of any harm coming to you from Six's direction was already small. My interference here and now simply means that your safety and Six's sanity are assured. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Is Number 6's sanity that much of an issue?”

“No.” He smiles grimly. “Not while I'm here.”

It's odd. You assumed Esser was just a bodyguard who carried out the occasional assassination, chosen more for the intimidation factor than anything, but this seems to be a little more. Both Number 6 and Esser clearly spent time in Riisneia. Possibly both born and raised there. Could they be related? That said, Riisneia is a big place, virtually an entire continent. It could just be a coincidence that both Esser and Number 6 have a similar accent.

Like you really believe that.

“While we're talking... what's the deal with Dupont?” That gets his attention.

“What about him?”

“Does Number 6 often kill sparkers?”

“Oh. No - Dupont is a special case. He's Myriad.”

“Does that really justify his murder?”

“Yeah, it kind of does. Six might have given you the impression that he didn't know much about the Myriad, but he's run into them a few times. Not their base of operations, obviously, but the people running it. I might just be biased because they think Six is an abomination that needs to be destroyed, but they're not good people.”

“How so?”

“They prey on vulnerable sparkers. Homeless, abused, in poverty... the Myriad sweeps along and promises to make it all better, as long as they sign a contract binding them into their service. From that point on they're completely in their power. And they do help. Every advantage that can possibly be given is conferred upon the lucky sparker, and then they're put into place to worm their way into positions of power. The Myriad has its claws in every organisation or institution with power in this city, and all their pawns are incredibly grateful towards their 'saviours'. I killed Dupont because he was one of the Myriad's headhunters. He deserved it. I only kill those who do.”

You grit your teeth. You kind of want to like this guy because he obviously cares too much about someone who isn't worth it, but you hate killers. For more than the obvious reason. And you really don't like killers trying to justify themselves as if it somehow erases the act.

“Nice try, but no. You killed Dupont because Number 6 wanted you to.”

“That's true. I killed Dupont because Number 6 asked, but I don't regret it because he deserved it.”

“What right do you have to judge?”

He laughs, but it's more bitter than entertained. “None at all. I don't have a right, but... There was a serial killer in this city, about two years ago. Do you remember?”

“Two years ago? I... don't think so.” Where is he going with this?

“Really? Odd. The entire city was in panic, and the newspapers were going wild with it. But after eight victims and two months the killer stopped suddenly, and no one knew why. The case was never solved.”

“Ah, I think I see what you're saying. You stopped them, right? You killed the killer?”

“No, but...” Esser rubs the back of his neck and looks down the alley behind him. “Never mind. I don't know why I brought it up. I should really be going. Good night, Silk. Good luck with finding the Myriad.”

He picks up his coat and dons it again. Without waiting for your response, he crouches and jumps at the wall, which he scrambles up. In a matter of seconds he's vanished from sight. All without making a noise bar, the slight rustle of cloth.

It doesn't really make sense, but you're happy to chalk it up to sparker shit and leave it at that. You want to go home.

So you do.

The lobby of the apartment building is dead when you walk in. The clock on the wall gives you a good enough reason: it's 2AM. The rest of it is kind of a haze, but you vaguely recall getting in the elevator, getting to your door, having a shower, eating something (you don't recall what and you don't care) and pulling off enough clothes before you fall into bed to sleep comfortably.

And so you sleep, briefly, blissfully unaware of tomorrow and all it promises.



END OF CHAPTER ONE

SpoilerShow

Next chapter: packages! Secret organisations! Fancy restaurants! Cold cases! Ominous countdowns! Rampaging velociraptors!* Get it all here, and nowhere else!

*Chapter 2 may or may not actually contain all or any of the aforementioned items. No refunds accepted.

_ INTERMISSION

You awake, shivering, in a cold sweat.

Nightmares. It's no less than you expected. You close your eyes and Dupont looks right back.

You wipe the perspiration from your forehead and look at the moonlit walls of your room. It's still night, but you don't feel like going back to sleep straight away. You can feel the dead waiting for you beyond the veil of dreams. It's not welcoming.

Should you try and sleep anyway? Or should you kill some time until you feel calmer?

Wait a bit, shake it off, reach over for those pills you may or may not have. (or take a drag if that's your only drug of choice), sit for a moment and think it through. Then try and go back to sleep. And dream.

If you're up, you're up. Might as well get something done. How about reading the note you're supposed to deliver tomorrow? If it's just a loose note you won't even have to do anything; if it's sealed like an envelope you can steam it open and then apply some adhesive to seal it back up when you're done.

_ INTERMISSION

Yeah, there's no point in trying to sleep immediately. You'll only go straight back to the nightmares.

With a groan you manage to sit up, and gingerly touch the areas that ache the worst: just below the ribs on your left side, and your right shoulder. Nothing broken as far as you can tell, but there's an impressive dappling of ugly yellow and purple in both areas. You can feel a black eye forming to boot.

Untangling yourself from your sheets and scouring the floor for your coat nets you the packet of cigarettes and the matchbook. You wander out into the lounge. Ignoring the table in the middle covered in accounting attempts and playing cards, you walk over to the window and push it open. You lean out of it.

The match lights against your nail on the first attempt, which is cheering. That never happens.

Less wonderful is Number 6's emblem, which still blazes in the sky. From this angle it looks a little skewed, but it's still clearly visible, as are the fliers darting around it. Probably mercenaries trying to put it out. Your guess is that it'll fade with the daylight. Having it up then would be like fireworks in the sunshine. Pointless and just kind of crappy.

You suck in the smoke and let your mind wander.

Dupont's murder. It was his niece that contacted you. What was her reason for choosing you? ...Ah, right. “You're both called Alex.” It's a lousy reason, but it's the kind of random choosing from the phonebook you've come to expect. Alex Dupont... no, Alexander Dupont. Right. You know who killed him (Esser, acting for Number 6), and you know why (he had items that were necessary for finding this stone cube, and he worked for the Myriad which apparently made him scum). But why the death threats? That never got explained. You never even saw them before Dupont kicked the bucket. It's unlike Number 6, but that could be the point. As far as everyone knows, Number 6 had nothing to do with any of it. Well, that's sorted now. You got dragged to the station for questioning, but the police seemed satisfied that you weren't involved. Dupont's niece even apologised. She tried to give you forty for your effort, but you refused it on the grounds that you didn't do anything. You kind of regretted that afterwards.

What else? Victoria Ashe. You never opened the envelope you're meant to be delivering to her. Maybe you should. You're curious as to what Number 6 has to say, especially after his actions towards her. She probably wouldn't like you reading her mail, but what's she going to do about it? You don't want to have lunch with her. You don't even want to have to look at her. You don't care how good the food is going to be, or that she's paying. Seeing as you don't even know what time you've got to be at the celebrated Blue Rose, you're assuming some goons are being sent to pick you up. Maybe you can just give them the envelope and tell them to beat it. Ha.

Speaking of envelopes, you picked up that empty one in the Old Bank. 'Virtutis In Numeris'. Your grasp of ancient languages is weak, but maybe you can find a way to translate it. Or match up the motto and crest somehow. There are books about heraldry, right? You're interested in who would be sending messages to important bank managers about the time of the Old Bank closing down. Especially when they're the kind of person or people to stamp their stationery like that.

Not that it's relevant to anything. Still.

And that serial killer, two years ago. You have your suspicions about what Esser might have said if he'd let himself talk. You also have a feeling you were recovering from an acutely broken heart about that time, and much to your embarrassment you think you might have spent about two months mooching around the apartment and feeling sorry for yourself. You weren't particularly interested in the papers at the time. That would explain how you missed all the excitement, pathetic as it is.

Damn. Two months. Were you really that torn up about it?

You spend a few minutes dwelling on the stories they told you when you woke up the both of you with your bad dreams. And how beautiful they looked in the morning light, before they woke up.

Then you stub out the cigarette and go back to bed. You guess you can't escape bad memories, either in waking or dreaming. Might as well get it over with.


You're standing in the morgue again. There's a crowd behind you, whispering. You're too scared to look back at them.

But if you can't go back, you have to keep walking. You don't want to walk forward.

You do it anyway.

There's the table, the white sheet, the body under it. The doctor waiting to make the big reveal.

You don't want to see what's under the sheet. You can't go back, you can't stop walking.

You can't see his face, but the doctor looks at you.

You try to tell him not to lift up the sheet but you can't talk, you can't do anything but walk.

You stop in front of the table with the body on it.

The whispering gets louder. Are they talking louder or are there just more of them? Or are they closer?

The doctor reaches for the white cloth.

you don't want to see you don't want to see no no no please no

The whispers might as well be screams.

He starts to lift the sheet.

please no you don't want to see this anything but this

Somebody places a hand on your shoulder.

It's just a dream.

There is no sheet, no doctor, no whispering. Just a dream.

You open your eyes, and the morgue is gone. You're still dreaming, but...

You can feel sand between your toes. You remember this place: the beach. When both of your parents were still alive, you all came here. You were seven. It was the best day of your life.

You stare out at the waves, at the setting sun. You suddenly turn around, afraid that they might be here too, but you're alone. Somebody built up a bonfire.

As you turn back to the sea you think you see somebody standing in the water, far out. But just for a moment. And you thought they looked like a knight. That doesn't make any sense, though. There weren't any knights in this memory.

You stay on the beach and watch the sun set for the rest of the night.

_ INTERMISSION END

SpoilerShow

Yeah, this was just a recap. Reading isn't necessary, which is a grand thing to say at the end of a post. I didn't see Whimbrel's command until I'd finished so we'll probably look at the note at the start of the next chapter, which should happen tomorrow. Thanks for reading.

CHAPTER TWO


You open your eyes to sunshine streaming in through your window. Even from this position you can see the cloudless, brilliantly blue sky. It's cool enough now, but around midday the heat is going to be unbearable.

Extracting yourself from your sheets is an exercise made more difficult by bleariness and pain: the latter because your bruises somehow seem to have gotten worse in the last few hours. Fortunately another shower sorts out the former, as well as the residue of the night's sweating.

Indeed, by the time you're pulling on the jacket of a powder blue suit you're feeling almost human.

You adjust your tie in the mirror, and stare at yourself.

Kierkgaard said you looked like... her. The big giveaway is the hair. She isn't called the Red Queen for nothing. Most people think the redness of it is fake, or at least artificially emphasised, but you can testify that it probably isn't. 'Red hair' tends to refer to something that's closer to orange, but this stuff seriously verges on crimson.

You run a hand through your own and contemplate dyeing it again. For a while it was black, but it looked ludicrous when the roots started to show through and you kind of gave up on that one.

You examine your eyes, your nose, even attempt to glance at your profile in search of some glimpse of the Red Queen, but it's been too long since you saw her last. It's coming up to seven years now. Seven years since...

The morgue. You dreamed about it last night.

Shaking your head, you walk over to the window and look out. As you expected, Number 6's symbol is gone.

You think about your options.

You need to be at your office to accept Number 6's package sometime this morning, as well as be around in the eventuality of someone less criminal wanting to hire you. But it's still early. You could probably do something else first and still get there in time.

One option is to seek out one of your informants. The ones that deal in general rumours can usually be expected to part with their information in exchange for breakfast, as long as the juicier snippets are greeted with cash. It might be worth it just to confront someone about this rumour that you're a sparker. You're kind of sore that no one wanted to share that one with you.

Alternatively, you could look up the newspapers of two years ago. You have a card for the archive's reading room, and if you requested the papers by telephone they could be waiting for you by the time you got there. It's idle curiosity more than anything, but looking at the murders might tell you something about Esser.

Or you could just go straight to your office. Or do something else.

Whatever you do, you're definitely going to have a look at Ms. Ashe's note and buy a morning paper. The paper you can pick up while you're out, so that leaves the message from Number 6.

It's not sealed. At all. No adhesive or anything, just the tab of the envelope has been tucked inside of it. There's a single sheet of paper inside. The note has been written using a typewriter, but Number 6 appears to have signed it with his emblem. It reads as follows:

Ms. Ashe -

On the night of the 18th of June I kidnapped your progeny, broke into the property known as the Old Bank, the deed of which is in your name, and when agents under your orders had my bodyguard and I surrounded we escaped with ease. You may have seen my flight over the city and, if not that, perhaps the mark I left.

You may interpret these actions as insults or threats.

I assure you that this is not the case.

Rather than stirring up enmity, I am proposing an alliance. The aforementioned actions served only to impress upon you that myself and those I command are both capable and worthy of your attention. You could say that this was a show of power. That I released your progeny once your agents arrived and that I left without bloodshed are both indications of goodwill. I hope you will accept them as such.

Before you disregard my proposal out of hand, I would implore that you consider both of our positions. You are in charge of an impressive number of sparkers and yourself have not inconsiderable powers. I intend to make this city of Victraedis a safe place for those who possess so-called 'Unnatural Abilities', free of the fear of death and persecution that currently characterises the lives of such people. You may have built yourself an ivory tower above that kind of fear, but I am sure you remember how it feels.

There are no doubt many under your command who sympathise with this ideal, and the greater the strength of support for this, the less blood that will have to be spilled to achieve it.

Whichever side you choose, even if you choose no side at all, Victraedis stands on the precipice of great change. Better to move with the current than against it.

Yours sincerely,

Number 6

Well, that's... that's certainly something. You return the note to the envelope and tuck the tab back in.

What do you intend to do now?

I say we go berate an informant.
We'll probably want to go to the archives or the library after we get the information about our current job.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Call up someone you should be able to trust, and set up a meeting with them.

Before you leave, make sure you're prepared. Keep your cigarettes with you (maybe refill the pack if you're running low). Of course you should take a gun, and the gyroscope (both should be someplace they are not easily taken). You may have the more "investagatory" stuff at your office. (listening devices, fingerprint collection, etc).

If you trust your informant enough, you could send them on an errand. Call up the archive and request the papers, and then ask the informant to gather the information on your behalf. Maybe entice them with the opportunity to look up something on their own as well (if they don't have their own access). The info you get may not be a detailed as if you investigated yourself, but if your informant is good they should be able to pick out the key ideas and info around the murders at the time.

If the meeting goes well, and it's on your way. You might want to scope out Dupont's office again. If he's a member of the myriad like Esser said, there may be some clues present on how to find them. (though it's probably a crime scene, if the police are there in force then stay away - don't want them tying you to anything)

(if they are there in force, see if you can ID who the higher ranking officers are that are present. The myriad takes care of their own and has officials high up in every branch. I'd bet they'd want to make sure they were the ones heading the investigation.)

You briefly consider asking one of your informants to go to the archives for you, but you instantly dismiss the thought. That's the kind of tedious leg work that's just insulting to ask of others, especially of the kind of people you want to keep on good terms with. You'll do it yourself later. You're not keen to return to the scene of Dupont's murder either: Number 6 implied the package would have everything you need, and the place will be crawling with police. The death happened last evening, so the forensic team will be present in full force now we're in office hours.

You spend a little time loading your gun and securing your shoulder holster. You shouldn't need it, certainly not for a friendly meeting, but better to have it just in case something comes up. The gyroscope ends up in your pocket again, out of lack of places to put it, and the cigarette box (seventeen remaining, plus one smoke bomb and one razor blade) finds its way into your inner jacket pocket. It feels entirely too familiar and comfortable against your ribcage.

Those items addressed, you pull your address book off of a bookcase and lean against a wall to leaf through it. For reasons you never really made clear to yourself, you wrote down descriptive codenames you made up rather than the actual names of the people in here. Three leap out at you: the Lady, the Ex-Cop and the Voyeur.

The Lady probably isn't the best choice. A popular dinner guest and conversationalist in wealthier circles, her speciality is gossip. She's happy to talk to just about anyone as long as they have something interesting to say, which is probably the only reason the two of you are on speaking terms. However, it seems unlikely that a rumour about someone pretending they aren't a sparker would ever reach her ears unless they were either wealthy or powerful. You are neither of those things. Not to mention her tastes are expensive, and buying her breakfast at the sort of places she expects to eat at would likely wipe out Number 6's advance payment. That said, she is always very obliging, very pleasant company and possibly the only one you know who is knowledgeable enough about the ebb and flow of power in this city to recognise traces of a secret society. Like the Myriad, for instance. It might be worth asking her about that.

The Ex-Cop is a better choice. An old friend of your dad's who got kicked out of the police force for his kleptomaniac habits, he has his ear to the ground where criminals are concerned. Most of his friends fall into that category, after all. He's probably the person you're most angry at for not cluing you in. He's kind of shady, but he'll be content with the fare available at a greasy spoon.

The Voyeur is shadier still. You don't ask her about what is that she does, exactly, partly because you doubt she'd tell you and partly because what few indications she's made about it make you distinctly uncomfortable. The Voyeur is much less of a friend. Interactions between the two of you are purely business. If you want anything specific she will demand payment, either in cash or information, in terms that make it clear that she's used to these kinds of transactions. As far as you can tell, scandal and dirty little secrets are that commodities she deals mostly in. She has never said so but you're quite certain she knows all about your parentage. It stands to reason that other rumours about you would catch her attention, especially concerning a crime as severe as hiding powers. You've never seen her eat so you won't have to buy breakfast for her at least. You also know one or two facts about Number 6 now that you might be able to tempt her with, if you feel comfortable betraying his (and perhaps Esser's) confidence.

Who do you call?

SpoilerShow

Noted for posterity and transparency: previously I said Dupont died in the morning. I don't like that very much so that's now been retconned and he died in the evening.

The Ex-Cop is your best bet. If the Voyeur is really interested in your history, you'll probably end up running into her anyway.

Also, the ex-cop may know some info about the killings a few years back, in addition to any rumors about you. And it may be worth asking him about any officers that he knew when he was on the force that had abilities. If any of them managed to rise in the ranks surprisingly quickly, you might be able to ID a Myriad member.

Also, pancakes.

Ex-cop. He's the least expensive, especially if you can strong-arm or guilt-trip him into giving you free information--since he's the one we could have most reasonably expected to hear this rumor from in the first place.

The Lady we probably want to get in touch with later [Informants are expenses, aren't they?]

As for the Voyeur... it might be risky to go dishing out the dirt on Six at the moment for a few reasons.

At the moment it might be known that he kidnapped you last night, but you can reasonably expect that not many people know he also hired you last night. Considering the Myriad apparently wants to destroy Number 6, it'll make your job a hell of a lot harder if that little fact gets widely known.

Six also said he'd know when you've completed the job, but he didn't say how. Bad idea to try to talk behind someone's back when you're not clear on how they're keeping tabs on you.

It's possible that the Ex-Cop never even heard the rumor about you being a sparker in the first place. He is an Ex-Cop after all, so who even knows how many rumors he's picking up from his old cop buddies. It sounds like something that the cops would want to keep on the down low until they have some real evidence anyway.

The Voyeur is probably the better choice. She seems to have a wide variety of informants, and even if she can't tell you anything about the rumors of you being a sparker, she might be able to tell you something interesting about The Myriad or Six.

(But keep in mind not to let anything slip about the sparker rumors going on around you unless you're totally sure that she already knows. Giving away that sort of free info to someone like her is pretty much the last thing you'd want to do.)

SpoilerShow

I finally got around to reading this adventure and I enjoyed it very much! Keep up the good work Whoosh!

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?

This is a guy who probably still has some chivalrous notions. He won't ride to your rescue, but he also probably doesn't approve of someone beating on a lady. If you can make him feel like your injuries could have been avoided had you known the rumors, it may grant you the right amount of guilt and sympathy needed to get the info you want.

Start of with something like "Actually, I did find out something interesting last night. Turns out a rumor's been going around about me being a sparker. Some people didn't like that. Took a few blows to convince them otherwise."

Hopefully that would be both direct enough to get his attention, and cater towards his "get to the point" attitude. Too much subtlety is probably lost on Mr. Alence. If he doesn't say anything (or if he doesn't outright deny it) then follow up with a question not too accusatory, "Is there something you haven't told me, Aaron?"

If he opens up to give you info, try and go with that. Ideally you'd like to know where the rumor started, or at least where he first heard it from. If he denies it, don't push him. Segue into the next topic by mentioning that you've actually started investigating some prominent sparkers, and how you think they might be connected to a string of murders a couple of years ago. Ask him if he recalls anything about the murders. You can also ask him if he can think of any officers from his police work days that seemed to have things a little too easy, maybe some that climbed the ladder quicker than others. If he gets curious as to why you're asking, try to dismiss it for the most part "just a little conspiracy" but you could tell him you think it has to do with six (maybe just tap the picture on the photo).

Of course, if you can, try and hit those topics regardless of what he says. Maybe also ask what he knows about the Old Bank, and what it's really used for (could give you a bit of ammunition when you have to meet dear old mom). Heck, while you're at it, maybe ask him if he's heard anything about the Red Queen, what she's been up to lately. (maybe get a feel for if he knows that you were kidnapped last night, try not to let that slip though).

If he asks for something in return for more pressing information, don't be afraid to shell out a few bucks (it's part of the reason you came here after all - saved some money on a meal to get a bit more info) Maybe leave it as a "tip" and walk away afterwards, letting him pocket it.

ALTHOUGH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE IF I'D HEARD ABOUT A CERTAIN RUMOR BEFORE OTHER PEOPLE STARTED ACTING ON IT.

Pass the paper over the table. Ask him simply; 'What can you tell me about this?'

"Actually, I did find out something interesting last night. Turns out a rumour's been going around about me being a sparker. Some people didn't like that. Took a few blows to convince them otherwise."

Aaron pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowers it.

“That's a rather serious accusation to have floating around,” he says carefully.

“And you know what's strange, Aaron?”

His eyes dart from side to side, as if sensing a trap, but he succeeds in keeping his voice normal as he replies.

“What?”

“I was told that this rumour has been around ever since I brought in that pyro a few weeks ago. I think we must have spoken at least twice since then. The first time, that's understandable. It might not have gotten around to you yet. But after that? You'd think it would be the first thing off your lips, what with my dad being an old friend of yours and all, and the accusation being as serious as you say. What do you think, Aaron?”

He doesn't speak.

“And here's the real clincher. You see this?” You point to your black eye. “Yeah, that? If I'd known what people were saying I might have avoided this. So if somebody knew about that rumour, but declined to tell me about it, I think that makes these lovely bruises their fault. So how about it, Aaron? Is there something you haven't told me?”

He licks his lips nervously.

“I, uh, cripes. Okay, okay. I might have heard something. I'm sorry. Honestly.”

You look him in the eye. His gaze darts away, suddenly finding his plate interesting indeed.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Uh...” Aaron shrugs, then picks up his fork again and resumes eating, talking between bites. “It's kind of a big thing, to be hiding powers... and I – well I didn't think you were one, it's just-”

“You weren't sure. And you wanted to make sure, huh?”

“Well-”

“Because if I didn't know that people suspected I was a sparker, but I actually was, and then I let something slip... would you have sold me out, Aaron?”

He looks up immediately, eyes wide. “Well, I, uh, it's not, er...”

You sigh and close your eyes. When you open them, Aaron looks no less mortified.

“Never mind. Don't answer that. To be honest, it's no less than I expected. But I had hoped for better … so let's just say that you owe me.”

Aaron blinks, but wastes no time in asking the obvious question.

“What do you want?”

“I just want information on a few things. Anything you might have heard about them, bullshit or not.” You toss the paper down in front of him. “Let's start with this.”

Aaron's shoots you a distrustful look, but obviously eager to atone he dutifully examines the paper. “Number 6? What do you want to know about him for?”

You debate brushing off the question, but a vague answer would probably be better for restoring the lack of good will around here.

“Something is going on. Stuff like the emblem in the sky: that's obvious, but there are more subtle indications. But we'll get to those in a minute. What do you know about what happened last night?”

“There was some kind of fuss in the Old Bank. You know the one? On Crestbridge Street?”

“I know it. What about it?”

“I heard a load of people turned up and went inside, about half an hour before the emblem appeared. All of them were wearing red scarves over their faces and wearing these big coats. There are a lot of conflicting reports about who they were. Some think they were part of Six's army, others say a special branch of mercenaries or police. They looked too organised to be just ordinary rabble. A few have said the Red Queen was behind it, hence the red scarves, and they seem to back that up with claims that Kierkgaard was there. You know who she is? Right hand-”

“I know who Kierkgaard is. Anything else?”

“Not about the Old Bank. As soon as Number 6 started up his light show most of the red scarves just up and left again. No idea what went on inside, just that Number 6 must have been in there. Maybe he got flushed out? Do you think that was his base of operations?”

“Doesn't seem likely. You'd think he'd have some other people in there with him, and from the sounds of it only Number 6 and the red scarves left. Not to mention it's kind of conspicuous.”

“It might be obvious, but nobody goes in there. Hiding in plain sight and all that.”

“You've still got the problem of no one appearing to enter or leave. It's hard to run a headquarters with no people in it.”

“Yeah, well, do you know why the Old Bank closed down in the first place?”

“You know?”

Aaron looks incredibly pleased with himself.

“'Structural Instability.' A problem with the foundations was discovered, something that went unnoticed when it was built. Word is they found a whole load of tunnels beneath it – like ancient streets that got built on top of. One major issue is that they led just beneath the vault, which wasn't exactly secure. So what if somebody found another way into the tunnels, and drilled up a bit: you'd have a place no one would ever think to look in, as long as you didn't mind of the possibility of the place collapsing around you. How about it?”

It's a good theory. Too bad that you know it's crap because the Old Bank was so obviously abandoned.

“Interesting,” is all you say. He looks a little hurt, so you reach for another topic. “You said that some people thought the Red Queen was involved in the events last night. Mercenaries and Number 6's sparkers kind of make sense, but why would she have anything to do with Number 6?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe Six did something to piss her off. They're both kind of clandestine, and apparently have a large number of sparkers at their command. Faction warfare is far from impossible.”

“I guess. Say, do you know anything about those murders a couple of years ago?”

“A couple of years ago?”

“Yeah, serial killings. Lasted about two months, eight victims. I was out of town at the time, but apparently I missed a circus.”

“That'd be the Black Arrow Killer. What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Like I said, I missed it completely. Method of killing, links between kills, suspects, whatever.”

A crooked smile starts to form on his face.

“What? Why the smirk?”

“You don't know anything? Not even how they found the victims?” An expression of morbid glee has spread over his face.

“No... how bad was it?” You're starting to feel a little nervous about this. Aaron seems to be enjoying himself. Apparently two years is long enough for the horrific to become just a horror story.

He leans in closer, and in a conspiratorial whisper, he tells you.

“They were eaten.”

“What?”

“First, he decapitated them. Every crime scene, there would be a head sitting on the side, looking at their chewed remains. After that, he just went to town. Sliced off muscle, dug out the heart, the liver, most major organs. Then he'd crack open the bigger bones and suck out the marrow.”

“He ate them... raw? And all at once?”

“I guess they don't actually know for sure that he ate them, but there sure was a lot missing from the corpses. And a teeth marks here and there. None of the removed remains ever turned up. They say the killer left a mark at the scenes, painted on the wall. The police did their best to keep it under wraps. Didn't want an copycat killings, I guess. But I heard that it was a black arrow of some kind.”

“Pretty messed up, huh?”

“Yeah. Makes you wonder what kind of person could do that kind of thing.”

You don't say anything for a little while. Aaron continues eating his breakfast, apparently completely unperturbed.

It's Esser. It has to be. Why else would he bring up the killings? And he's a Warped Sparker. Literally monstrous. Who better to fit the bill of cannibal? And...

Your mind flashes back to last night. There was blood all around his face, all over his hands. Shit. He ate someone. Who? And why? Why now, after two years? Why the hell did he do any of this?

“Are you okay?”

You look up, and Alence is looking at you with something approaching concern.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks for your help, Aaron. There was one more thing...”

As you look on Aaron tenses, his gaze suddenly fixed on something outside the window. You turn to see what it is. There's a small group of smartly dressed people walking towards the café, but while a little strange that doesn't strike you as cause for alarm.

You turn back around to ask Aaron what his problem is, but he's already gone. You slide out of the booth and see him at the door.

“Aaron!”

He only pauses only long enough to spare you a questioning glance. You throw down enough cash to cover the food and dash out after him.

As soon as you're through the door you slam into one of the people that scared off Alence. You stumble, spitting out an apology, and they grab your shoulder to steady you.

“Was that Aaron Alence?”

You ignore them initially, whipping your head in the direction that Aaron went in. You were too slow. Or he's just too good at evading pursuers. Either way, he's vanished. You turn your attention back to the person you slammed into. He smiles amiably at you from behind darkened glasses. The rest of the group are looking at you with guarded interest.

“Yeah, that was Alence.”

“I haven't seen him in a while. But you were in a hurry. Did he lift your wallet?”

Even though you know he can't have, you instinctively pat your pocket.

“Not this time.”

He nods. “Are you Alexus Silk?”

“Yes. But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

He nods again, and smiles a little more icily.

“I'm Detective Sergeant Redford. My colleagues,” he looks at the other people in the group, “are here to bring you in for questioning concerning the murder of Alexander Dupont yesterday evening. I'm aware that you went through that yesterday, but there have been one or two developments which make a second round necessary. I'm sure you understand.”

“What's wrong with a phone call?”

“You weren't answering.” An innocent enough reply, but everyone here seems on edge. Four officers seems a little unnecessary as well. Unless...?

The image of Esser smeared with blood springs to mind again.

You're keenly aware that the morning is wearing on, and with every passing minute it becomes increasingly likely that you won't be around to sign for your package. At the same time, you don't seem to have much of a choice about going along with the police. Even without considering the uneasy alertness of the people they sent to bring you in.

Nevertheless, they might grant you a small request if doesn't delay them too much. The obvious choice is to ask to go to your office to check for the package, but you have a bad feeling about this and it might be worth taking some measures to protect or at least inform yourself. If you can think of anything.

What do you say?

SpoilerShow

I realise I still haven't acknowledged Coldblooded, which is terribly remiss of me, so: hello! Thanks for reading! I'm glad you enjoy this adventure and I hope that will continue to be the case. :D

The end to this update isn't really a proper question; I just wanted to stop this horrible behemoth of an update somewhere before the writing got really out of hand. But if you do have any input, feel free to give it! :>

More noteworthy is the fact that the first post now has a fanart section since this adventure has amassed no less than three pieces, each of which are pretty kickass. Go take a look if you haven't seen them yet.

Probably better to go with the police and just forget about the package for now. It's inconvenient, but it still isn't worth the risk of letting the police find out that you're doing work for Number Six, especially considering all the rumors that have been going on about you lately. Let's just go with the nice policemen for now and worry about picking the package up from the post office or wherever later.

Funny how the note Six left said they were going to leave without bloodshed, and yet Esser appears to have eaten someone. Wonder if things didn't go according to plan, or if the victim was someone not related to the Red Queen's forces. Maybe it's related to these guys, but you can't exactly ASK "what developments"--well, you could, but they're unlikely to answer given that you're being brought in for questioning.

I wouldn't ask to go to the office--if the package or the courier IS there, the police might take an interest in it.

The number of guys is probably because of that stupid rumor, especially if the "developments" were sparker shit. It might be a cover to question you about your kidnapping, considering the police apparently have an eye on you it's entirely possible they picked up on that happening.

It's also possible this is Myriad related, if they really do have operatives in positions of power, well, the police are a natural place to have someone stationed.

Good thing you don't have anything incriminating on you. A legal firearm, some smokes, wallet, and the apparently important toy.

You might wind up missing signing for the package, but you don't really have a choice. Part of not being a criminal involves cooperating with the authorities [as much as it is safe to do so, anyway]. Look on the bright side, though: if it winds up taking an inordinately long time you might get to avoid lunch with Ashe!

Try not to give them trouble, the police already watching you, so you want to leave a good impression. Cooperative, law-abiding, and definitely not a threat [or a sparker]; that's how you want them to view you.

Best to be affable about it.

“Of course. Shall we go?”

“Certainly,” says Redford. “Follow me.”

As the five of you head away from the greasy spoon, the others who haven't spoken fall into formation around you: the detective sergeant in front, one on either side of you and one at the rear. They're probably all sparkers, but you can't really ask what kind without sounding like you're trying to size them up. Which you are, but you'd rather not make it obvious.

They pause by a black car parked partly on the pavement, but only so that they can bundle you into the back seat. Two officers in the back, again flanking you, and two in the front. Redford drives.

You're not tempted by the silence the rest seem keen to enforce.

“Can I ask what happened last night that makes all this necessary?”

“No,” Redford replies curtly.

“It almost seems like you think I did something. Am I a suspect? That's not too strange, I suppose. Not only do I not have an alibi, you can place me at the scene of Dupont's murder about the time it happened. I even admitted it right off the bat. Isn't that marvellous? I bet you're all patting each other on the back for that one.”

“You're not being arrested.”

“Not yet.”

“Is that so? Any reason why we should?”

“No. But innocence doesn't ensure protection from the law. Justice is blind, after all. Maybe you think you've got something on me. I wouldn't know. I'd certainly like to.”

“That's not what 'justice is blind' means.”

“I like my interpretation more.”

He snorts and doesn't reply.

And so, despite your best efforts, silence reigns. You stare out the window instead. Fortunately, in some respects, as you suddenly realise something is off.

“Wouldn't it make more sense to go down Leif Street?” You ask as the car turns away from said street, taking you away from the Victraedis police station. You feel a stab of uncertainty as you realise the detective sergeant never showed you a badge. Nor did anyone else in this car, despite his claims. Just as your panic reaches the point where you consider attempting to dive out the door, Redford speaks.

“There was some unrest last night on the east side of the river. Leif Street leads straight through the worst hit area, so we're taking a slight detour. The Special Ability Branch are still cleaning up.”

“The mercenaries were dealing with it? Aren't riots more the business of the police?”

“First thing: Special Branch are not mercenaries. I have no idea why people call them that.”

“Yeah, sure. That's certainly the company line.”

“Second of all: it was sparkers. Didn't seem planned, but they were supporters of Number 6. That damn symbol in the sky set them off. Normal people rioting are bad enough.”

“I didn't hear anything about any unrest.”

He nods.

“Good. Special Branch are doing their best to contain it, which becomes a lot easier when you have an entire unit devoted to illusions. They're not intending to act like it never happened, but if they can keep it quiet now they stand to prevent the mess spilling out into other districts.”

“And yet you're telling me.”

“You're not a sparker. Not to mention the situation should have completely cooled down by the time we're done with you, if it hasn't already. At that point it doesn't matter who knows.” He shrugs.

You don't like the sound of that. Purposefully covering up the unrest seems like a poor choice. You didn't think Number 6 had that much support either. This entire situation makes you feel like you've badly underestimated a lot of things. The rest of the journey is spent in contemplation.

Thankfully Redford did seem to be telling the truth, and the circuitous route did indeed take you to the police station. From there it's merely a matter of going inside, emptying your pockets and being shoved in an interrogation room with a paper cup of water.

You've examined the wood grain on the table for the seventeenth time before someone comes in. Looking up at the noise, you see the police officer who questioned you yesterday. She drops a file on the table and sits down opposite you.

“I'm DCI Rosemary Drake. We talked yesterday.”

“I remember. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I'd just like to ask a few questions first. Clarify a few things, if that's alright with you.”

“Of course.” You don't really have a choice.

“Thank you. Regarding last night, did you speak to Alexander Dupont at all?”

“No. He was still alive when I found him, but didn't seem capable of speech. By the time I'd returned from calling emergency services he was dead. Or at least insensible. I didn't want to touch him to find out.”

“Had he moved at all during that period?”

“Yeah, he had. I remember thinking that maybe he had tried to crawl somewhere and passed out before he got very far. He was lying on his front. Previously he'd been on his back.”

“I see. You didn't talk to him on the phone before you arrived?”

“No. His niece said he would be expecting me at about 7PM. I didn't see any need to call in advance.”

“And you had never spoken to him at any other point prior to being given the case? You didn't know him from anywhere else?”

“No? Should I have done? The first time I saw him was when he was dying. Unless we had a very brief and inconsequential encounter I forgot about, I suppose. That doesn't seem too likely.”

“You say the niece told Dupont to expect a private investigator. She would have told him your name then?”

“I guess. No, wait. No...” You reply slowly, thinking about it. “No, I remember her saying that she'd told Dupont to expect a PI as soon as he got home from work, just after she'd found out about the death threats. At that point she hadn't decided who she was sending. I remember because she chose me for a completely inconsequential reason. We were both called Alex, or something like that.”

“So what you're saying is that there is no possible way that Alexander Dupont could have written your name in his own blood as he was dying?”

You blink at her.

“What?”

Well, I certainly can't imagine that Esser or Dupont would (or could) have written such a thing last night, or that the police would have seriously let you leave for the better part of a day before deciding to ask you about it.

Which leaves only two real possibilities: One, she's just trying to psych you out and see if you'll slip up anywhere. The other, much more frightening possibility, would be that the police are trying to plant evidence against you in order to put a suspected sparker behind bars.

Either way, there's not really much that you can do right now besides deny it.