RPG
Introduction
Outcross: The Letter M
After a grueling ten hour flight from Chicago's O'Hare, the bulk of my energy had been spent communicating with my cab driver and trying (largely in vain) to keep track of the narrow streets as he whisked us along. The last thing I could handle, now, at this ungodly hour was a vision but I knew deep down as I ducked under the police tape at London's Convention Centre that this was precisely what everyone else (besides me) wanted.
I was barely into the lobby before someone plucked at my elbow. The badge on his chest identified him as a DI, and the knowing glint in his eye told me what his next three words would be.
"Are you Outcross?"
"Yes."
"You're Twenty?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to London. Good to have you here."
I blinked four times in quick succession. "Where's the body?"
Yeah, I could have answered that myself. There was the white sheet from all the way across the room, near the elevators. The small, tired-looking American girl crossed the floor until she caught a whiff of blood.
"Ehh .. "
The DI walked with me, knelt, and made to pull back the sheet.
"No! Wait. No, it's fine. I'm good, really good. Don't need to see it."
"You don't need to see it? Have you already seen it?" the man's eyes practically lit up. Yeah, he expected a vision, maybe for me to start glowing or something.
What this guy didn't realize was that the legendary Twenty wasn't all that legendary. It wasn't precognition that made me flail my arms and stop him from showing me the wounds, it was the fact that my stomach was thinking only of half-cooked meals of cheap airplane salmon.
"Uh. No. But I read the texts on the way over. Raped; fourteen stab-wounds to the chest and face with one gunshot wound to the kneecap. That's different. She was found in a public place like all the others .. which isn't different," I swallowed bile a few times, and took a few purposeful steps away from the body. "The letter, though. Where's the letter?"
The DI waved over a crime scene tech, and fetched me both a pair of plastic gloves, and the evidence bag the letter had been delicately put in. I unsealed the thing, and pulled it out, shaking it open delicately.
"Dear Benjamin Stanmyre .. "
Dear Benjamin Stanmyre.
I think you wish to believe that your wife was a good woman who would have gladly died for you, and for your two children but I am sad to announce that this is not the case. She started out most noble when I arrived on your front doorstep at 152 North Westin and suggested an impromptu journey downtown, doing so much as to plead I take only her, and not "Marsha" and "Tim". What lovely names those are.
She continued this facade as we neared London proper, but her nerves wore out quickly when I shot her in the knee for insulting me. Your wife screams very loudly, and cries with a dry, hacking familiarity I wonder if you know of? I grew tired of her ceaseless wheedling, as it echoed something terrible in the backseat of my car, but thankfully I am a patient and gracious man. Our night was not yet over.
I got to the stabs, halfway down the second page. At this point in the night, they hadn't even reached the Convention Center. Each strike of the knife took a full paragraph to detail, and each description would match perfectly with the medical report. My fingers were starting to tremble. Shit.
I couldn't read past six, and skipped to the bottom.
Sincerely, M
"Where's the car?" I asked softly, fumbling to put the letter back in its bag.
"We have it. Don't worry, it's being looked after."
"Who else is here, of ours?"
"Near is speaking to the press. Debonair is floating around somewhere. He did work on the rest of this lot, here," the DI said, pointing to the rest of the men and women with badges who were supposed to be there. "And me, I'm your contact in the city, at least for the moment."
"And who are you?"
"Brian."
"Nice to meet you, Brian."
"God-awful timin', ain't it? You've not been off the plane for an hour, have you? Oh, look! Here comes Debonair, now!"
"Wonderful."
Debonair -- or Debbie, as I was so fond of calling him -- was a member of Outcross who, like myself, had an unexplained "ability" of sorts. While I had varied intuition that was about as easy to control as a hurricane, he boasted (and I do mean boasted) the extremely useful talent of being able to persuade just about anyone to do anything.
Well, it was just as useful as it was annoying. When you first meet him, it's the most overwhelming. Two years ago when we first encountered each other, he had me immediately convinced that he was female (in my defense his hair is quite long), he was the daughter of the Prime Minister, and that he was quite gay. The latter I found to be true.
Since then, there will still be little moments where he'll make some offhand comment that I'll reply to with a bright -- "really?" before realizing that I have, again, been had.
No more, though.
Here he is, ducking under the police tape just as tall and stringy as I remember him. His hair will always, always need to be cut, but tonight he's wearing something new -- a stylish brown jacket, and a scarf he probably stole from his mom. Here we go.
"Hey, Deb."
"Hullo, Twenty."
We don't shake hands, we don't hug, we don't high-five. He stands next to me, and we slowly, as one, turn to look at the body.
"Nasty business, isn't it?"
"What? Oh, yeah."
"Are you, you know. Picking anything up from it?"
"No," I admitted. I wanted to grab Deb and Brian and everyone else by the shoulders and scream -- "IT DOESN'T WORK THE WAY YOU THINK IT WORKS!" but I managed to control myself. "I might have to look at some other stuff. Maybe the car, they found. I thought for sure reading the letter would spark something, but I guess not."
"Maybe you're too tired. Just off the plane, aren't you?"
"Yeah. My suitcase went on to the hotel. Hey, you live around here, don't you?"
"Oh, of course. There are flats on the first floor here, you know. It's not just a concert hall. They give me and my mum free concessions whenever we like."
"Really?"
He gave that small, stupid smirk.
"Good Lord, I swear one of these times I'll -- "
Debbie is saved from a verbal smackdown by the blip sound of my phone receiving a text. Giving the kid a sour stare, I fish it from my pocket. Text from the Administrator.
"What's it say?"
"Hold on .. " I scrolled through, frowning. "I just got a new contact. Regional specialist. Goes by Vyral. I'm to meet him tomorrow morning. Do you know anything about him?"
"What, Vyral? Never heard the name before. Maybe he's just joined on?"
"Can't have. They wouldn't have made him my contact on something this high-profile," I glance back around at the scene, and sigh. "Speaking of high-profile, how did the security cameras not catch this guy on film?"
"I've no clue. That's your department, isn't it?"
"It should be everyone's department," my phone goes back in my pocket, and I snap a bit -- when was the last time I slept?
"Go on, get out of here. You're useless without sleep. Catch up and meet your contact tomorrow. Oh, where is your hotel exactly?"
"Uh. Abbey road. The London Marriott."
"You know what Marriott starts with, right?"
Good grief.
"Yeah, Debbie. Thanks. It starts with the letter M."
Rules
This is an invite-only roleplay. You can read, look, ooh, ahh, but just keep that first part in mind.
To all the viewers, things are going to jump around a lot. This isn't a very cohesive plot.
To all the viewers, things are going to jump around a lot. This isn't a very cohesive plot.
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On the crux of higher education, and already solving international mysteries, Debonair's 'talent' is in persuading just about anyone of just about anything.
The comparatively gritty city-kid; with the addition of a photographic memory.
Vulpes played by XavierDantius32
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Places in Outcross: The Letter M
4 postsLondon
"Welcome to London."
1 postsCovent Gardens
Come, stay for a while.
1 postsThe London Underground
"Watch your step!"
0 postsLondon Bridge
It's quite stable, now, thank you.
0 postsCanary Wharf
Business is as business does.
1 postsTrafalgar Square
Have some fun!
3 postsBBC Television Centre
The sprawling headquarters of BBC London, and one of the epicenters of information for the entire world.
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Activity
- 12 posts here • Page 1 of 1
OOC Notes
Covent Gardens was always a hub of activity in London, but today it was a different sort of activity. The white and navy of police officers was dotted around the normally bustling pedestrianised streets as yellow tape was drawn across, setting up a hasty barrier as the CSI and forensic teams descended. I leant idly against the wall underneath a hanging basket sprouting colourful flowers.
“Hey, mate?”
Glancing to the side, my eyes fell on a man of around my age, maybe a few years younger. He was dressed in a zip up hoodie and jeans, and looked quite cold. It was certainly that, hence the fact that I wore my heavy-but-stylish black coat and striped scarf. Winter was drawing in. I idly wondered whether London would be so utterly crippled by a few inches of snow as it had been the year before.
“Yes?” I adjusted my hair (I do that a lot) and gave the guy a once-over.
“You got any idea what’s going on? I heard there’s been some sort of murder, right? I want to know, see, so I know what it’ll do for business.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Something like that.” I confirmed, “And can I ask what ‘business’ is?”
“Ah, well, it’s magic ain’t it?”
“Ma... what?”
“Street performing. I’m a magician – want to see a trick?”
“Ah.” I really didn't, so I shook my head. Covent Gardens was well known for its multitude of street performers, from magicians, to jugglers, to dancers. I remember encountering a golden-painted mime at some point in the past... “I’ll pass, thanks. Oh, and thanks for the offer. I’d appreciate it”
“What?”
“You were just offering to grab me a hot chocolate from the Costa down the road?”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
The man frowned, blinking slowly. “Oh, yeah. I won’t be a tick.” He said, turning and heading down the street. He rubbed his head, as if disoriented, as he went.
Okay, so maybe that hadn’t been necessary. But it was cold, dammit!
_______________________
“So you say you knew the deceased?”
“That’s what I said. And why you’re here. You really need to ask?”
“Alright, alright, I was just confirming.” I sighed, steepling my fingers and leaning forwards in my seat. I examined the man sitting opposite me in the pub. A familiar zip-up hoodie around a youngish looking face, hazel eyes, dark slightly messy hair. It was a small world. “Did you notice that your friend was missing before they were identified?”
I could guess the answer. The guy hadn’t known when I’d sent him on a hot-choc run the previous day, and according to the other dozen street performers I’d spoken to it was normal for friends to be AWOL for days at a time. It wasn’t exactly a full-time occupation for most people.
“No. Or else I would’ve been more concerned when I spoke to you back at the scene, wouldn’t I?” he replied, folding his arms with a frown.
Damien, his name was. Damien Scot. Street magician, seventeen - the same age as me. Damien had been friends with the victim; identified by a number of the others who worked Covent Gardens by her distinctive style of dress. Leah White, eighteen – a busker, singer and guitarist; she’d apparently been quite pretty.
That being back when her head was still attached to her body, and all. I could never say that M wasn't thorough ...
“Okay. Sorry.” I said, “Well, when did you last see her?”
“Why are you asking? I thought we were just having a drink because you recognised me and wanted to return the favour for the hot chocolate. You’re hardly the fuzz, you look the same age as
me.”
And there it was, the problem with being seventeen and trying to investigate a crime. Everyone eventually picked up on the fact that you were seventeen, and trying to investigate a crime.
“I’ve already explained to you why I’m asking, and you thought it was totally reasonable.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now could you answer the question?”
“No, I’m pretty sure you ... I don’t ... what was the..?”
Bugger. Well, that had been a long shot. “I’ve got a personal interest. I’m following a few cases like this. Call it a hobby. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it’d be really great if you could. I’ll buy you another drink?” I offered, smiling hopefully. Sometimes you had to fall back on old-fashioned ‘being nice’.
“And a bag of pastries from Greggs.”
“A muffin.”
“Deal. It was three days ago, Wednesday. The night before the police found her. We were heading home, seeing as it was getting dark, and there weren’t many people, and the few that were there weren’t interested in magic tricks or guitarists. It was around the corner from where they found her. I’ve already told the police.” Damien frowned, as if thinking particularly hard. “Did she have her guitar with her, when they found her?”
It was my turn to think. I'd spoken to the police, and examined the body (not that I was any sort of expert there, but I figured it was worth a look, just in case). I didn’t remember any sort of instrument case. “I don’t think so.” I replied eventually, “That might be worth following up.”
Damien folded his arms. “Now you owe me a drink, and food.”
“I never said that.”
“Really?”
“You must be imagining it.”
“Oh...”
A pause.
“Nah, I’m messing with you. Come on, I’ll buy you that muffin.” I said, grinning and flicking my fringe aside, in an entirely suave manner. I'm not a total asshole, after all...
“Hey, mate?”
Glancing to the side, my eyes fell on a man of around my age, maybe a few years younger. He was dressed in a zip up hoodie and jeans, and looked quite cold. It was certainly that, hence the fact that I wore my heavy-but-stylish black coat and striped scarf. Winter was drawing in. I idly wondered whether London would be so utterly crippled by a few inches of snow as it had been the year before.
“Yes?” I adjusted my hair (I do that a lot) and gave the guy a once-over.
“You got any idea what’s going on? I heard there’s been some sort of murder, right? I want to know, see, so I know what it’ll do for business.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Something like that.” I confirmed, “And can I ask what ‘business’ is?”
“Ah, well, it’s magic ain’t it?”
“Ma... what?”
“Street performing. I’m a magician – want to see a trick?”
“Ah.” I really didn't, so I shook my head. Covent Gardens was well known for its multitude of street performers, from magicians, to jugglers, to dancers. I remember encountering a golden-painted mime at some point in the past... “I’ll pass, thanks. Oh, and thanks for the offer. I’d appreciate it”
“What?”
“You were just offering to grab me a hot chocolate from the Costa down the road?”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
The man frowned, blinking slowly. “Oh, yeah. I won’t be a tick.” He said, turning and heading down the street. He rubbed his head, as if disoriented, as he went.
Okay, so maybe that hadn’t been necessary. But it was cold, dammit!
_______________________
“So you say you knew the deceased?”
“That’s what I said. And why you’re here. You really need to ask?”
“Alright, alright, I was just confirming.” I sighed, steepling my fingers and leaning forwards in my seat. I examined the man sitting opposite me in the pub. A familiar zip-up hoodie around a youngish looking face, hazel eyes, dark slightly messy hair. It was a small world. “Did you notice that your friend was missing before they were identified?”
I could guess the answer. The guy hadn’t known when I’d sent him on a hot-choc run the previous day, and according to the other dozen street performers I’d spoken to it was normal for friends to be AWOL for days at a time. It wasn’t exactly a full-time occupation for most people.
“No. Or else I would’ve been more concerned when I spoke to you back at the scene, wouldn’t I?” he replied, folding his arms with a frown.
Damien, his name was. Damien Scot. Street magician, seventeen - the same age as me. Damien had been friends with the victim; identified by a number of the others who worked Covent Gardens by her distinctive style of dress. Leah White, eighteen – a busker, singer and guitarist; she’d apparently been quite pretty.
That being back when her head was still attached to her body, and all. I could never say that M wasn't thorough ...
“Okay. Sorry.” I said, “Well, when did you last see her?”
“Why are you asking? I thought we were just having a drink because you recognised me and wanted to return the favour for the hot chocolate. You’re hardly the fuzz, you look the same age as
me.”
And there it was, the problem with being seventeen and trying to investigate a crime. Everyone eventually picked up on the fact that you were seventeen, and trying to investigate a crime.
“I’ve already explained to you why I’m asking, and you thought it was totally reasonable.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now could you answer the question?”
“No, I’m pretty sure you ... I don’t ... what was the..?”
Bugger. Well, that had been a long shot. “I’ve got a personal interest. I’m following a few cases like this. Call it a hobby. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it’d be really great if you could. I’ll buy you another drink?” I offered, smiling hopefully. Sometimes you had to fall back on old-fashioned ‘being nice’.
“And a bag of pastries from Greggs.”
“A muffin.”
“Deal. It was three days ago, Wednesday. The night before the police found her. We were heading home, seeing as it was getting dark, and there weren’t many people, and the few that were there weren’t interested in magic tricks or guitarists. It was around the corner from where they found her. I’ve already told the police.” Damien frowned, as if thinking particularly hard. “Did she have her guitar with her, when they found her?”
It was my turn to think. I'd spoken to the police, and examined the body (not that I was any sort of expert there, but I figured it was worth a look, just in case). I didn’t remember any sort of instrument case. “I don’t think so.” I replied eventually, “That might be worth following up.”
Damien folded his arms. “Now you owe me a drink, and food.”
“I never said that.”
“Really?”
“You must be imagining it.”
“Oh...”
A pause.
“Nah, I’m messing with you. Come on, I’ll buy you that muffin.” I said, grinning and flicking my fringe aside, in an entirely suave manner. I'm not a total asshole, after all...
OOC Notes
10:27am.
As always, the guard had taken off early for his break. His condition wrought havoc with the guys bladder - diabetes, judging by the dozen or so sweet wrappers he recalled seeing in the guys pockets over the weeks. With a reluctant groan, I haul myself over the barriers and give the camera a ritual wave. Caroline Flinn - identifiable as an employee for British Telecoms by her name-badge, always pinned to her left lapel - was running late today. She crossed me on the third step from the bottom, rather than the fourth from the top. Even with my hood pulled snuggly around my head, the chill of the mid-winter air bites my flesh. Three degrees with a chance of showers this morning. As always, the complete 'weather timetable' of the day followed, right the way up until -5 at 2:00am. That shit was going to hurt.
The train arrived exactly on time.
Narrowing my eyes suspiciously at the train - it was never on time, I wait for the doors to open while a female voice reminds me to 'mind the step'. As if my plan had been to stick my head down there and have a peek.
"Hey!" I look up from beneath the cover of my hood with a raised eyebrow. The security guard was panting slightly, standing at the bottom of the steps. "You didn't. Pay."
"I know?"
The doors slid shut. Rolo - affectionately named because five of the twelve items I had recorded in his pockets had been exactly that - was left standing on the platform, red-faced and embarrassed. It was eleven stops from Dagenham Heathway to Mile End - about three hours, on the district line (actually 38.3 minutes on average, his mind reminded him). Id been sent a text (at 7:23am, of all possible times) by The Administrator to meet some ditzy yank chick.
Just my luck.
As always, the guard had taken off early for his break. His condition wrought havoc with the guys bladder - diabetes, judging by the dozen or so sweet wrappers he recalled seeing in the guys pockets over the weeks. With a reluctant groan, I haul myself over the barriers and give the camera a ritual wave. Caroline Flinn - identifiable as an employee for British Telecoms by her name-badge, always pinned to her left lapel - was running late today. She crossed me on the third step from the bottom, rather than the fourth from the top. Even with my hood pulled snuggly around my head, the chill of the mid-winter air bites my flesh. Three degrees with a chance of showers this morning. As always, the complete 'weather timetable' of the day followed, right the way up until -5 at 2:00am. That shit was going to hurt.
The train arrived exactly on time.
Narrowing my eyes suspiciously at the train - it was never on time, I wait for the doors to open while a female voice reminds me to 'mind the step'. As if my plan had been to stick my head down there and have a peek.
"Hey!" I look up from beneath the cover of my hood with a raised eyebrow. The security guard was panting slightly, standing at the bottom of the steps. "You didn't. Pay."
"I know?"
The doors slid shut. Rolo - affectionately named because five of the twelve items I had recorded in his pockets had been exactly that - was left standing on the platform, red-faced and embarrassed. It was eleven stops from Dagenham Heathway to Mile End - about three hours, on the district line (actually 38.3 minutes on average, his mind reminded him). Id been sent a text (at 7:23am, of all possible times) by The Administrator to meet some ditzy yank chick.
Just my luck.
OOC Notes
The next morning found me awake (if not a little murky) two hours before my alarm, sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed with a thick comforter wrapped around both shoulders. London's sunrise streamed in through the slider window and its off-white blinds reminding me cruelly that my internal clock still wanted it to be very early. Mrrph. Good morning, Marriott.
At that moment, the biggest thing weighing on my mind was the stupid television remote. I fumbled with all the colored buttons for a while before discovering the instruction card tucked cleverly in the bedside drawer. Oh. Right. When the television finally clicked on, I groped behind me for my glasses just in time to see Near's smiling, charming smile coming into view.
Near was one of those rare Outcross specialists who spent almost all of their time in the public eye. Some knew her as Kathleen Lesser, CBS reporter with short, curly red hair and bright green eyes while others knew her as Marissa Lieu from BBC evening news, long blonde hair and light blue eyes.
I was watching her be Marissa right now in a replay of last night's Convention Center coverage. Every hair was in place, her slight frame wrapped nearly against the cold in a gray peacoat, which made me (hair a mess, stuffed in some tangled sheets) feel rather savage. She held the microphone and spoke with the same confidence that any of our firearms specialists might have. What's she saying? I turned up the volume.
There was no mention of any letters from the rest of the report. Good. No one needed a PR specialist to understand that releasing the info on the letters would just cause a clusterfuck of panic, and copycat writers. I watched Near effortlessly reassure the viewing public that much headway was being made on the case, and that no one had anything to worry about. Sometimes I got chills at how easy it was for her to lie to people.
Another glance at the clock told me that I had a hefty chunk of time before needing to head out and over to Trafalgar Square to meet this Vyral. Last night, I had tried texting the Administrator for further information about this character, but there was no reply. And the Administrator always replied.
Guess I'll have to find out ..
I let the news report trickle into sports and domestic-related news, thinking idly about breakfast being held downstairs. All the complimentary breakfasts at various Marriott's started to taste the same after a while, but I knew I had to eat something, as today was going to be a very long day. Outcross was good for arranging food, boarding, that sort of thing -- but oftentimes, you didn't really have a choice for your diet.
Eh. Another thing was the fact that there'd be people down there. If I were to so much as open my mouth and say "thank you!" to the servers, I'd be branded as an American right away. Dialectic things weren't a strong suit of mine, and neither was blending in as an American in London. Tourists were one thing, but teenager snooping where she shouldn't? That was something else entirely.
Which was, unfortunately, why I needed Deb around.
Bzzzp.
My phone chirped, and I swiped it off the nightstand. The Administrator was texting me back. Was this some more information about Vyral, and the meet happening later on this morning?
Evidently not.
Hrnng.
Not quite. Throwing my phone across the room to the other bed, I shrugged out of the white comforter, ready to dig through my suitcase and start this stupid thing called my job.
At that moment, the biggest thing weighing on my mind was the stupid television remote. I fumbled with all the colored buttons for a while before discovering the instruction card tucked cleverly in the bedside drawer. Oh. Right. When the television finally clicked on, I groped behind me for my glasses just in time to see Near's smiling, charming smile coming into view.
Near was one of those rare Outcross specialists who spent almost all of their time in the public eye. Some knew her as Kathleen Lesser, CBS reporter with short, curly red hair and bright green eyes while others knew her as Marissa Lieu from BBC evening news, long blonde hair and light blue eyes.
I was watching her be Marissa right now in a replay of last night's Convention Center coverage. Every hair was in place, her slight frame wrapped nearly against the cold in a gray peacoat, which made me (hair a mess, stuffed in some tangled sheets) feel rather savage. She held the microphone and spoke with the same confidence that any of our firearms specialists might have. What's she saying? I turned up the volume.
It's a cold, gruesome scene here downtown London. Yet another body was discovered hidden in plain sight, 34-year-old Erica Stanmyre ..
There was no mention of any letters from the rest of the report. Good. No one needed a PR specialist to understand that releasing the info on the letters would just cause a clusterfuck of panic, and copycat writers. I watched Near effortlessly reassure the viewing public that much headway was being made on the case, and that no one had anything to worry about. Sometimes I got chills at how easy it was for her to lie to people.
Another glance at the clock told me that I had a hefty chunk of time before needing to head out and over to Trafalgar Square to meet this Vyral. Last night, I had tried texting the Administrator for further information about this character, but there was no reply. And the Administrator always replied.
Guess I'll have to find out ..
I let the news report trickle into sports and domestic-related news, thinking idly about breakfast being held downstairs. All the complimentary breakfasts at various Marriott's started to taste the same after a while, but I knew I had to eat something, as today was going to be a very long day. Outcross was good for arranging food, boarding, that sort of thing -- but oftentimes, you didn't really have a choice for your diet.
Eh. Another thing was the fact that there'd be people down there. If I were to so much as open my mouth and say "thank you!" to the servers, I'd be branded as an American right away. Dialectic things weren't a strong suit of mine, and neither was blending in as an American in London. Tourists were one thing, but teenager snooping where she shouldn't? That was something else entirely.
Which was, unfortunately, why I needed Deb around.
Bzzzp.
My phone chirped, and I swiped it off the nightstand. The Administrator was texting me back. Was this some more information about Vyral, and the meet happening later on this morning?
Evidently not.
EAT.
Hrnng.
Not quite. Throwing my phone across the room to the other bed, I shrugged out of the white comforter, ready to dig through my suitcase and start this stupid thing called my job.
OOC Notes
I don't think I really contributed much to the Outcross investigation those first few days. As I recall, I spent most of my time wandering around the business district of London with a worried look on my face.
London, it turned out, was just a bunch of concentric circles crawling with people. Either that, or my internal compass kept me whirling in tighter and tighter loops. The downtown district twisted this way then that, backtracking, hair-pinning, and just generally giving me and my phone's GPS a headache.
And it wasn't like I could ask anyone anything, either. Here I was, a lone American Specialist -- the second I were to open my mouth, my damn Midwest accent would tumble out and collapse, jet-lagged, onto the sidewalk.
" -- She might have left it in the CAHR -- "
The harsh, woefully familiar vowel sounds of my home country caused me to stop dead in the square. The place was running rampant with tourists, and here was yet another friendly-looking group with their cameras and passport protectors. Part of me wanted to blend into the group standing next to the bus, but the other part knew that the instant I were to step towards them, my phone would buzz, annoyed.
Fine.
I traced the main underground route (following bright red buses, basically) to the river. Quaint shops, cute couples, and a dark-haired girl scared to speak in a coat a little too warm for running scared in England.
Buh.
That was basically how every day went after Vyral and Deb vanished. I'd send texts to the Administrator with decreasing regularity; I found that whenever I figured something was of high importance, it generally wasn't. If I was supposed to be wandering around London by myself with no idea where to go or what to look for then hey! That was on the Administrator if anything happened.
Finally, finally, my phone buzzed.
The text simply read:
Chai? I turned a slow circle on the sidewalk. People bustled past me. I couldn't --
Oh.
Ten minutes later I was enjoying a steaming styrofoam cup of tea tucked against the wind talking to the shop owner, a sleeper Specialist who introduced himself (in the poshest accent I'd heard yet) as Eero.
"Thank you," was all I had to say.
"Don't thank me! Thank the Administrator. Prolly took pity on you at last, saw you bumbling around the city like a .. "
" .. Like a tourist."
"Eh, 'xactly."
Well, it was nice to know I wasn't alone at least. Not that a Specialist was ever truly alone, abroad, especially in a city this big. It was just a matter of when phones buzzed, and who had the nerve to walk up to someone and ask the magic question.
Are you Outcross?
Eero didn't ask me about the case, didn't ask me anything about where my partners had gone. He just let me sit there at a table in his shop and drink my tea while he attended to a light trickling of customers. It was these small acts of kindness that made doing all of this worth it.
Bzzt.
Another text, now, from the Administrator. An address. A time. A command.
I hadn't finished my tea, yet, but I rose to my feet out of habit.
"Take a left," Eero advised as I made to head back out into the city. "Station is two blocks down."
I didn't even ask. I gave the barest sliver of a smile, and then I was gone.
London, it turned out, was just a bunch of concentric circles crawling with people. Either that, or my internal compass kept me whirling in tighter and tighter loops. The downtown district twisted this way then that, backtracking, hair-pinning, and just generally giving me and my phone's GPS a headache.
And it wasn't like I could ask anyone anything, either. Here I was, a lone American Specialist -- the second I were to open my mouth, my damn Midwest accent would tumble out and collapse, jet-lagged, onto the sidewalk.
" -- She might have left it in the CAHR -- "
The harsh, woefully familiar vowel sounds of my home country caused me to stop dead in the square. The place was running rampant with tourists, and here was yet another friendly-looking group with their cameras and passport protectors. Part of me wanted to blend into the group standing next to the bus, but the other part knew that the instant I were to step towards them, my phone would buzz, annoyed.
Fine.
I traced the main underground route (following bright red buses, basically) to the river. Quaint shops, cute couples, and a dark-haired girl scared to speak in a coat a little too warm for running scared in England.
Buh.
That was basically how every day went after Vyral and Deb vanished. I'd send texts to the Administrator with decreasing regularity; I found that whenever I figured something was of high importance, it generally wasn't. If I was supposed to be wandering around London by myself with no idea where to go or what to look for then hey! That was on the Administrator if anything happened.
Finally, finally, my phone buzzed.
The text simply read:
CHAI.
Chai? I turned a slow circle on the sidewalk. People bustled past me. I couldn't --
Oh.
Ten minutes later I was enjoying a steaming styrofoam cup of tea tucked against the wind talking to the shop owner, a sleeper Specialist who introduced himself (in the poshest accent I'd heard yet) as Eero.
"Thank you," was all I had to say.
"Don't thank me! Thank the Administrator. Prolly took pity on you at last, saw you bumbling around the city like a .. "
" .. Like a tourist."
"Eh, 'xactly."
Well, it was nice to know I wasn't alone at least. Not that a Specialist was ever truly alone, abroad, especially in a city this big. It was just a matter of when phones buzzed, and who had the nerve to walk up to someone and ask the magic question.
Are you Outcross?
Eero didn't ask me about the case, didn't ask me anything about where my partners had gone. He just let me sit there at a table in his shop and drink my tea while he attended to a light trickling of customers. It was these small acts of kindness that made doing all of this worth it.
Bzzt.
Another text, now, from the Administrator. An address. A time. A command.
BE ON TIME.
I hadn't finished my tea, yet, but I rose to my feet out of habit.
"Take a left," Eero advised as I made to head back out into the city. "Station is two blocks down."
I didn't even ask. I gave the barest sliver of a smile, and then I was gone.
OOC Notes
"Hello?"
"Afternoon."
"Are you Outcross?"
"I am. Come in."
I did.
He called himself Cyclops; not for any resemblance to the towering monster, but for the magnifying lens held in front of both eyes by a metal headband. He was a forgery specialist and a master of calligraphy as well as a gem purveyor tucked all wrapped into one, tucked away in the top floor of a downtown London apartment. He lived alone. He had taste in sherry wine and thick, colorful carpets. I observed all from the small kitchen.
"How are you enjoying the city so far?" he rasped, reaching out to take my coat.
"Oh. It's good. Busy. I haven't had a chance to enjoy it much, thus far," I shrugged out of it, making sure to keep my phone with me however.
"Bloody terrible weather for that sort of thing."
This sort of smalltalk was what I was used to. It was always trivial, and always a bit awkward. It was best to just stagger through it. There was a job to be done in any case. Cyclops took my coat, hung it up, asked softly that I take off my shoes on the linoleum, and then he shuffled away, leading me down the narrow hall to his workroom.
Aha! There were stacks of reference books against the wall, cabinets overflowing with papers and diagrams. You could hardly see the floor from clippings and other paper items. You could hardly see at all, really. The light was so low in the room save for one bright desklamp -- that was where the illumination came from, and that was where Cyclops headed, at once.
I was here to inquire about the letters themselves. Deb, Vyral and I were growing increasingly suspicious that the letters were being written before the actual crimes were being committed -- a worrying occurrence, to be sure. The Administrator was having the items looked at closely, but they needed to be returned to evidence within the next few days -- I wanted to see the findings. I had to see the findings.
If I don't get a vision by the next time a body shows up ..
Well, I didn't want to think about that.
Cyclops slid onto the stool, and took up the letter with one gloved hand. "They're written calmly. Carefully. Embellished. Strange -- such a stylized hand, and I can't match it. Very frustrating, but very interesting. Whoever your man is, Twenty, he's good."
"Yeah," I licked my lips, trying not to think of the mutilated bodies. "Too good. Anything interesting about them?"
"Written with the same pen, if it matters. A very old-fashioned stylograph."
"Stylograph?"
Cyclops rummaged around a pile of folded maps, and procured a stylograph. It appeared to be an ordinary pen, but with a conical nib for the ink to run out of, rather than a flat one.
"Can you get anything from it?"
"Types? Brands? No. The flow is very, very smooth. I've examined the type of paper, however. Printed from a press in London itself."
"A sign? Does that help us?"
"You could look into it if you wanted, I suppose, but it's nothing concrete. Here."
Cyclops scooted away, beckoning that I step forward and into the light. I did so, reaching out with trembling hands, afraid to brush the edges of each paper, spread out so carefully on the bench.
"Well, alright. Not sure how much good it'll do .. "
I began to read. It was slow at first. Signed the same. Then I started looking at who each letter was addressed to ..
Dear Mr. & Mrs. David Engrall .. Dear Mr. Joasine .. Dear Mr. Benjamin Stanmyre .. DEAR ADMINISTRATOR --
.. What was that last one?
The words (real or not?) leapt out at me from the page, and slammed into my mind like a frying pan. My head jerked back from the force of the vision. Sights, sounds, feelings, sensations came in that rip-roaring tidal wave and I think I hit the ground, but I don't remember.
And then, a scream.
I saw Cyclops in this room, pouring over this letter.
Looking for clues. Reaching for another light.
I saw a tall staircase with white walls. Winding upwards. The only reason I saw upwards because I was falling; the world pitching this way and then --
A horrible, horrible taste blooms in the back of my mouth.
Trying to move my mouth, speak. Trying to.
A light.
No, no, no, no, NO!
It ended as soon as it started, but I didn't return to reality right away. At least, I didn't think I had. I blinked a few times, furiously before realizing that the room was dark and Cyclops was at my side, sitting me up.
"Th .. There's .. " I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think, I couldn't move. My phone was pinging on the table. It kept going off, shrieking, demanding to be picked up. Cyclops stared at me with three very wide eyes.
"There's going t .. to be another letter."
I felt very alone.
"And it's written for me."
"Afternoon."
"Are you Outcross?"
"I am. Come in."
I did.
He called himself Cyclops; not for any resemblance to the towering monster, but for the magnifying lens held in front of both eyes by a metal headband. He was a forgery specialist and a master of calligraphy as well as a gem purveyor tucked all wrapped into one, tucked away in the top floor of a downtown London apartment. He lived alone. He had taste in sherry wine and thick, colorful carpets. I observed all from the small kitchen.
"How are you enjoying the city so far?" he rasped, reaching out to take my coat.
"Oh. It's good. Busy. I haven't had a chance to enjoy it much, thus far," I shrugged out of it, making sure to keep my phone with me however.
"Bloody terrible weather for that sort of thing."
This sort of smalltalk was what I was used to. It was always trivial, and always a bit awkward. It was best to just stagger through it. There was a job to be done in any case. Cyclops took my coat, hung it up, asked softly that I take off my shoes on the linoleum, and then he shuffled away, leading me down the narrow hall to his workroom.
Aha! There were stacks of reference books against the wall, cabinets overflowing with papers and diagrams. You could hardly see the floor from clippings and other paper items. You could hardly see at all, really. The light was so low in the room save for one bright desklamp -- that was where the illumination came from, and that was where Cyclops headed, at once.
I was here to inquire about the letters themselves. Deb, Vyral and I were growing increasingly suspicious that the letters were being written before the actual crimes were being committed -- a worrying occurrence, to be sure. The Administrator was having the items looked at closely, but they needed to be returned to evidence within the next few days -- I wanted to see the findings. I had to see the findings.
If I don't get a vision by the next time a body shows up ..
Well, I didn't want to think about that.
Cyclops slid onto the stool, and took up the letter with one gloved hand. "They're written calmly. Carefully. Embellished. Strange -- such a stylized hand, and I can't match it. Very frustrating, but very interesting. Whoever your man is, Twenty, he's good."
"Yeah," I licked my lips, trying not to think of the mutilated bodies. "Too good. Anything interesting about them?"
"Written with the same pen, if it matters. A very old-fashioned stylograph."
"Stylograph?"
Cyclops rummaged around a pile of folded maps, and procured a stylograph. It appeared to be an ordinary pen, but with a conical nib for the ink to run out of, rather than a flat one.
"Can you get anything from it?"
"Types? Brands? No. The flow is very, very smooth. I've examined the type of paper, however. Printed from a press in London itself."
"A sign? Does that help us?"
"You could look into it if you wanted, I suppose, but it's nothing concrete. Here."
Cyclops scooted away, beckoning that I step forward and into the light. I did so, reaching out with trembling hands, afraid to brush the edges of each paper, spread out so carefully on the bench.
"Well, alright. Not sure how much good it'll do .. "
I began to read. It was slow at first. Signed the same. Then I started looking at who each letter was addressed to ..
Dear Mr. & Mrs. David Engrall .. Dear Mr. Joasine .. Dear Mr. Benjamin Stanmyre .. DEAR ADMINISTRATOR --
.. What was that last one?
The words (real or not?) leapt out at me from the page, and slammed into my mind like a frying pan. My head jerked back from the force of the vision. Sights, sounds, feelings, sensations came in that rip-roaring tidal wave and I think I hit the ground, but I don't remember.
-- however fond you are of your young Specialist, I fear that her time ended rather quickly. She tried to run, but despite her most champion of efforts, she was captured. Next time, I would advise finding yourself an American who has spent more time preparing herself for such --
And then, a scream.
Was I reading words, or hearing voices? Was I seeing things, or was I just hallucinating?
I saw Cyclops in this room, pouring over this letter.
Looking for clues. Reaching for another light.
-- my greatest pleasure to address you by your name, sir. Will you not do me the honor of --
Worse.
This vision was worse than the others.
I'm not seeing, I'm only
feeling and hearing.
This vision was worse than the others.
I'm not seeing, I'm only
feeling and hearing.
-- I struck her with the butt of the pistol, a bit too hard I'm afraid. Her skull was fractured before she fell, and she struck each stair solidly before reaching the bottom. Upon retrieving the body, I hooked a shoe under her chest and flipped her over. She was already gone. I decided to take her with me instead.
I saw a tall staircase with white walls. Winding upwards. The only reason I saw upwards because I was falling; the world pitching this way and then --
Oh God.
A horrible, horrible taste blooms in the back of my mouth.
Salty, like rust. Like copper. Dried blood.
My tongue. Like lead. Like sand.
My tongue. Like lead. Like sand.
-- She did not stir again until after we had returned to a more private place.
Help me.
Trying to move my mouth, speak. Trying to.
-- Piano wire does wonders as a binding tool. The more you struggle, the more it cuts into the skin. One thing that must be said for your young Specialist is that she is indeed persistent. Panic made her fight 'till her wrists bled. The blood moistened the binding, until she could slip one hand free.
A light.
Help me. Oh, for the love of God. If someone is there, please ..
HELP ME!
-- From the look in her eyes, I don't think she realized that there was quite so much blood inside of her. She had completely soaked the mattress before I could attend to other matters.
No, no, no, no, NO!
It's a vision. A vision, Twenty. Just --
It ended as soon as it started, but I didn't return to reality right away. At least, I didn't think I had. I blinked a few times, furiously before realizing that the room was dark and Cyclops was at my side, sitting me up.
"Th .. There's .. " I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think, I couldn't move. My phone was pinging on the table. It kept going off, shrieking, demanding to be picked up. Cyclops stared at me with three very wide eyes.
"There's going t .. to be another letter."
I felt very alone.
"And it's written for me."
OOC Notes
Cyclops handled the affair with remarkable poise. Once I gathered myself enough to stand, he gave me a once-over (perhaps to make sure I was myself?) before reaching out to squeeze both my shoulders in assurance. I licked my lips. He didn't say anything, really. I don't think he needed to.
I learned later that this old man was rounding off a lifetime of active service as a field Specialist for Outcross, so the sudden high-octane flash was nothing new -- but in the moment, all I could think about was the fact that I was alone in a cramped apartment with a guy who smelled vaguely of prunes, dust, and ink while a faceless killer made plans to very much make me bleed. Oh my God.
Snatches of the vision were still chasing themselves in my mind, but I think it was the dark that gave them cobwebs to spin into. Cyclops stepped away, rummaging in a nearby drawer. I watched him blearily, until he revealed a Smith & Wesson clenched firmly in one fist. The pistol's hammer was already cocked. Without no further ado, Cyclops wedged an arm through mine, and compelled me from the room out to the hallway. I had just enough time to grab my phone from the desk before the door snapped shut.
The Administrator had texted me six times in the span of forty seconds. By the time I shuffled dumbly to the kitchen, three more messages were received. At least the brighter light here caused me to be more aware. I scrolled through my inbox with shaking fingers.
Window? I turned my head. There was a plate glass window in the quiet living room, the entrance to which Cyclops and I strolled past. Oh. I hadn't even seen it. It was dark. Someone could have been watching from outside, or worse. Oops. The Admin had a nasty sense of humor. Stuff like this was going to get me killed one of these days.
Bad choice of words, Twenty ..
My temples started to throb.
When the Administrator said "call", he meant that I was to contact his secure line and speak at length about the vision. He never picked up, of course. It was more like an answering machine; great way to pass on messages to other Specialists if their numbers weren't preprogrammed into your phones. If Brian was on his way, then I'd have time to do so.
"My Control is on his way," I unstuck my throat, and addressed Cyclops, who was pacing the kitchen as only an armed, gnarled old man can. "He's a DI. I don't know where they're taking me from there."
Cyclops didn't ask any more questions. I think he knew the procedure at this point with events like these. I licked my lips one more time, dialed the call-in number, and waited not for a ring but for a --
Click.
"This is Specialist Twenty reporting a new vision. It was sparked by touching all the evidence letters in a row, chronologically. By the time my fingers left the third one, they closed around a new one. One that doesn't exist yet. It was addressed to the Administrator. I .. I .. "
Oh, I was used to it. I had rattled off (in fairly minute detail) other visions in the past, but none had been as graphic as this one. None had been about me. I faltered a bit in the middle, but I got out the information that I could remember, the information that was important. The words fell dully from my lips. I'm calmly, cooly describing the circumstances of my own death.
" .. The letter was not dated. This could be at any point in the future. All London-area Specialists are advised that, um. Whoever M is, he may be a lot more dangerous than we had first anticipated," I licked my lips one final time before ending the call. There. It's done.
Bzzt. I glanced down.
There were two light knocks on the door, and then it swung open on its own accord. Detective Inspector Brian Something (his last name wasn't important) stepped into Cyclops' apartment with an urgent but puzzled look on his face. The other DIs from the Convention Centre weren't with him. I hadn't expected them to be. I stared at Brian. He stared back.
Cyclops coughed into his sleeve, which jarred me from my stupor. I scooted back to the welcome mat for my shoes, jammed them on quickly as best as I could, exchanged knowing (fearful) glances with Brian, and then was out the door into the London evening.
Lord save me. I really am going to get myself killed ..
I learned later that this old man was rounding off a lifetime of active service as a field Specialist for Outcross, so the sudden high-octane flash was nothing new -- but in the moment, all I could think about was the fact that I was alone in a cramped apartment with a guy who smelled vaguely of prunes, dust, and ink while a faceless killer made plans to very much make me bleed. Oh my God.
Snatches of the vision were still chasing themselves in my mind, but I think it was the dark that gave them cobwebs to spin into. Cyclops stepped away, rummaging in a nearby drawer. I watched him blearily, until he revealed a Smith & Wesson clenched firmly in one fist. The pistol's hammer was already cocked. Without no further ado, Cyclops wedged an arm through mine, and compelled me from the room out to the hallway. I had just enough time to grab my phone from the desk before the door snapped shut.
The Administrator had texted me six times in the span of forty seconds. By the time I shuffled dumbly to the kitchen, three more messages were received. At least the brighter light here caused me to be more aware. I scrolled through my inbox with shaking fingers.
CALL.
CALL NOW.
REPORT
DO NOT LEAVE.
BRIAN IS EN ROUTE. LEAVE THEN.
SPEAK TO NEAR.
STAY AWAY FROM WINDOWS.
ALL OF THE WINDOWS.
THAT WAS WHAT WE CALL A WINDOW.
Window? I turned my head. There was a plate glass window in the quiet living room, the entrance to which Cyclops and I strolled past. Oh. I hadn't even seen it. It was dark. Someone could have been watching from outside, or worse. Oops. The Admin had a nasty sense of humor. Stuff like this was going to get me killed one of these days.
Bad choice of words, Twenty ..
My temples started to throb.
When the Administrator said "call", he meant that I was to contact his secure line and speak at length about the vision. He never picked up, of course. It was more like an answering machine; great way to pass on messages to other Specialists if their numbers weren't preprogrammed into your phones. If Brian was on his way, then I'd have time to do so.
"My Control is on his way," I unstuck my throat, and addressed Cyclops, who was pacing the kitchen as only an armed, gnarled old man can. "He's a DI. I don't know where they're taking me from there."
Cyclops didn't ask any more questions. I think he knew the procedure at this point with events like these. I licked my lips one more time, dialed the call-in number, and waited not for a ring but for a --
Click.
"This is Specialist Twenty reporting a new vision. It was sparked by touching all the evidence letters in a row, chronologically. By the time my fingers left the third one, they closed around a new one. One that doesn't exist yet. It was addressed to the Administrator. I .. I .. "
Oh, I was used to it. I had rattled off (in fairly minute detail) other visions in the past, but none had been as graphic as this one. None had been about me. I faltered a bit in the middle, but I got out the information that I could remember, the information that was important. The words fell dully from my lips. I'm calmly, cooly describing the circumstances of my own death.
" .. The letter was not dated. This could be at any point in the future. All London-area Specialists are advised that, um. Whoever M is, he may be a lot more dangerous than we had first anticipated," I licked my lips one final time before ending the call. There. It's done.
Bzzt. I glanced down.
GO.
There were two light knocks on the door, and then it swung open on its own accord. Detective Inspector Brian Something (his last name wasn't important) stepped into Cyclops' apartment with an urgent but puzzled look on his face. The other DIs from the Convention Centre weren't with him. I hadn't expected them to be. I stared at Brian. He stared back.
Cyclops coughed into his sleeve, which jarred me from my stupor. I scooted back to the welcome mat for my shoes, jammed them on quickly as best as I could, exchanged knowing (fearful) glances with Brian, and then was out the door into the London evening.
"Her skull was fractured before she fell, and she struck each stair solidly before reaching the bottom .. "
Lord save me. I really am going to get myself killed ..
OOC Notes
So it turned out that finding a single guitar in a city was exceptionally hard work. I tried asking around the Gardens to begin with – I figured that buskers would know if someone had turned up with a new guitar, and that they were the most likely to have found it. Apparently not, either that or nothing of the sort had happened.
Damien had, after some deliberation and a brief consultation of an old photo with a group of guitarist friends, identified the guitar as a ... shit. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and checked the note. There we go. He identified the guitar as a Yamaha F370, which meant absolutely nothing to me, but I assumed meant something to other people. The most I could tell from the photo was that it was black.
I was currently waiting in the reception area of the Metropolitan Police Station. Apparently Brian was expecting me – at least, that’s what the Administrator had said when he responded to my lacklustre report about a guitar, but hey, I had something!
“Mr. Walker?” Fake name. You couldn’t introduce yourself to everyone as ‘Debonaire’ after all. “The Detective Inspector will see you now.”
Finally. It had only been ten minutes, but I was impatient. I guess it came with the whole teenager thing.
Inside Brian’s office, I got the feeling that he felt slightly put out to be having a serious interview with a sixteen year old about a murder case.
“A guitar?”
“Yep.”
“And where did you find out about this?”
“One of the girl’s friends. Damien Scot. Said he’d talked to you, but he hadn’t mentioned the guitar ‘cause he didn’t think it was important.”
“I’ll take a look at the system and see if anyone’s handed a guitar in. You never know, in Covent Gardens it’s as likely to have been picked up by an over-eager tourist as by someone who’d just nab it for themselves.” Brian turned in his chair and started tapping away on the keyboard.
There was an awkward pause while I stared around the room. Lots of medals and certificates. I think I have a few certificates at home myself. GCSEs, mostly, though, so nothing quite as admirable as a veteran policeman’s various honours.
Still, I got quite a few A*s.
“You’re in luck.” My attention went back to the older man as he swivelled his monitor around. “Yamaha black guitar was handed into Agar Street police station three days ago by one of the RNLI folks from the Tower Lifeboat Station. Apparently they found it in the river while they were out on the water.”
I blinked. “That seems unlikely.”
Brian shrugged, “I’ll have it sent to the lab to see if they can find anything. Don’t hold your breath, mind. Forensics isn’t as flash as CSI would have you think.”
Nodding, I tapped my fingers awkwardly on the arms of the chair. “Right. So...”
“So at this point, you can leave it to the police.”
“No, see, that’s not-“
“I’ll report to the Administrator if we find anything. If he tells you, that’s his business.” Okay, so it was really obvious now that Brian didn’t like working with a kid. Just because he was actually a police officer.
“...’kay.”
Damien had, after some deliberation and a brief consultation of an old photo with a group of guitarist friends, identified the guitar as a ... shit. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and checked the note. There we go. He identified the guitar as a Yamaha F370, which meant absolutely nothing to me, but I assumed meant something to other people. The most I could tell from the photo was that it was black.
I was currently waiting in the reception area of the Metropolitan Police Station. Apparently Brian was expecting me – at least, that’s what the Administrator had said when he responded to my lacklustre report about a guitar, but hey, I had something!
“Mr. Walker?” Fake name. You couldn’t introduce yourself to everyone as ‘Debonaire’ after all. “The Detective Inspector will see you now.”
Finally. It had only been ten minutes, but I was impatient. I guess it came with the whole teenager thing.
Inside Brian’s office, I got the feeling that he felt slightly put out to be having a serious interview with a sixteen year old about a murder case.
“A guitar?”
“Yep.”
“And where did you find out about this?”
“One of the girl’s friends. Damien Scot. Said he’d talked to you, but he hadn’t mentioned the guitar ‘cause he didn’t think it was important.”
“I’ll take a look at the system and see if anyone’s handed a guitar in. You never know, in Covent Gardens it’s as likely to have been picked up by an over-eager tourist as by someone who’d just nab it for themselves.” Brian turned in his chair and started tapping away on the keyboard.
There was an awkward pause while I stared around the room. Lots of medals and certificates. I think I have a few certificates at home myself. GCSEs, mostly, though, so nothing quite as admirable as a veteran policeman’s various honours.
Still, I got quite a few A*s.
“You’re in luck.” My attention went back to the older man as he swivelled his monitor around. “Yamaha black guitar was handed into Agar Street police station three days ago by one of the RNLI folks from the Tower Lifeboat Station. Apparently they found it in the river while they were out on the water.”
I blinked. “That seems unlikely.”
Brian shrugged, “I’ll have it sent to the lab to see if they can find anything. Don’t hold your breath, mind. Forensics isn’t as flash as CSI would have you think.”
Nodding, I tapped my fingers awkwardly on the arms of the chair. “Right. So...”
“So at this point, you can leave it to the police.”
“No, see, that’s not-“
“I’ll report to the Administrator if we find anything. If he tells you, that’s his business.” Okay, so it was really obvious now that Brian didn’t like working with a kid. Just because he was actually a police officer.
“...’kay.”
OOC Notes
Brian kept shooting concerned glances across the cabin of the police cruiser as we rushed from Cyclops' flat back into London proper, but I was far beyond words. Once clicking my seatbelt into place, that had been the last physical activity on my list for a while. I sat there dully, my body roasting, coat off and wadded up in my lap, aching head resting against the cool window. I didn't dare close my eyes for longer than a millisecond, lest those images from my vision return.
The car's siren wailed, and I wanted to, as well. Who knows how much time passed? No longer was I so interested (in a politely puzzled sort of way) at how this part of the world moved. Now, bridges blurred into bridges, streets blurred into streets, and turns blurred into —
It was a thunderous physical jolt that jarred me from my stupor — a jolt so much like falling down stairs ("Her skull was fractured before she fell — “), that I know for certain that I screamed aloud.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” a voice soothed. “S’alright! Look!”
We had entered a crowded parking lot. Ahead, there was a large building built of glass domes and brown stone, perhaps seven or eight stories high. BBC Television Centre read proudly on its side. I twisted around in my seat. Oh. We had just gone over a speed bump.
“See? Here’s another one. I’ll take it slower.”
Brian coaxed the vehicle over the next bump. This time we did not jolt, but rocked slowly. He kept his arm on mine. My heart pounded.
We parked, I dragged myself out of my seat and walked down the sidewalk, sucking in the European air, hearing the hiss of traffic from the main road behind us. We entered this great glass dome without anyone stopping us, or questioning us.
Things in this city seem to be much huger on the inside than what they appear. This central circular block of glass, sunlight, and people was the most breathtaking thing I had ever seen. Time slowed down and I saw the Greek god of the son, Helios, staring at me from a fountain. I stared back, and for an odd moment I felt at peace.
Be strong, Little One.
Brian tugged on my arm, walking me on. I think I am going crazy.
“Where are we going?” my first words in ages.
“BBC One newsroom. Near is there.”
The dual doors of an elevator opened smoothly as we approached. I suspected it had been waiting for us. I stepped inside neatly, finding the wall as soon as possible, slumping against it.
“I need a bathroom,” I said flatly.
Once we ascended to the sixth floor, Brian pointed me to the direction of the restrooms. I staggered across snow-white carpet, and made it into the huge, white, clean and stainless steel bathrooms where I could be alone with my heaving breath.
The rows of stalls stretched on for miles upon miles — with a small American girl standing at either end, like conflicted bookends. Oh, no, those were mirrors. I stood there balanced between two worlds before I turned my head to the left, and caught sight of myself yet again, at much closer quarters.
You know those moments when you feel completely at a loss? That’s how I was. The lights in here were as hard and strong as anything you’d find at a studio set. I stepped closer to the sinks, repulsed and intrigued by my windswept hair, snarled bangs, cracked lips, greasy face. Tired. Oh, I was tired. I looked pale and stark as ever, like all the blood in —
— I doubled over, and threw up. I twisted the faucet head to rinse it away, and nearly collapsed onto the sink, my coat tumbling softly to the floor.
I heard voices outside, and then I heard the bathroom door swing open, and high heels clacking on tile.
“Twenty?”
Immediately, I straightened, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, and saw her in mirror, standing behind me with a fierce expression.
It was Near, perfect Near with her tiny body and golden hair, wearing an impossible skirt and elegant pink blouse. I said she looked fierce because she always looked fierce in her broadcast-ready makeup, eyes and chin so sharply defined, but her arms were around me in a second, and she smelled like flowers.
Seeing Near in person was rather dreamlike, always. She was always on a television screen, to my perception, giving reports on happenings in the middle east, or delivering some juicy tidbit about a celebrity — yet here she was, helping me stand, picking up my coat, chiding Brian for letting me out of his sight even for just one second.
I’m fine, I wanted to tell her. I’m fine.
But I wasn’t fine until I sat in the corner of the BBC One newsroom with Brian’s overcoat slung around my shoulders, a steaming vanilla mocha in my hands from Starbucks, watching Near pace by the television sets, arguing animatedly with whoever it was on the other line.
Brian had run out to get me something to drink. He stood close to my side, eyeballing every window, every doorway in and out of the control room with a hawkish, practiced air. I tried taking a sip once, twice, then a third time of my coffee — but it was just too hot. I let it warm my hands, instead, enjoying the smell.
There was a guy my age standing with his arms folded across his chest on the other side of the control room, down a few rows of consoles. The control room was dark, so I couldn’t make out too much about him. Looked fairly skinny. He was the only one in the room not shooting me anxious, pitying glances every once in a while. He was bent over his phone, texting idly, completely absorbed in that task as though not at all interested in what's happening.
“Who’s that?” I croaked.
“Vyral. Don’t know much about him, besides he’s a former Navigator, and the Administrator wanted him here.”
“Oh,” I looked down, fussing with the lid on the Starbucks. “I was supposed to meet him today.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“And what should I be worrying about?”
Brian’s expression was grim. “Just don’t worry about it.”
I rested my head against the back of what I think was a switching board. It was live, it was whirring, and for some reason that gave me some small comfort. My phone buzzed.
Near had finished with her conversations seconds ago, walking back towards where I was, waving Brian away from me. She knelt, reached up, and touched my cheek with one hand.
“Twenty. You listen to me,” she said, her green eyes (they were green now; they’d be blue later) severe. “Don’t worry about your vision. Nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand?”
But I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking past her, to Vyral, still in the corner, who I could have sworn just tried to stifle a laugh.
“I understand,” my words were tiny.
Near’s hand moved from my cheek, to my shoulder, which she gripped — hard.
“That was bullshit. Let me ask you again. Do you understand?”
“Yes!” I croaked louder, now, and for a half a second I believed it.
Brian’s phone buzzed, now. He scrolled through his messages, and then gave a sort of expectant grunt. “Debonair is on his way up. Security said he just got into the elevator.”
“Great,” Near said shortly, rising. She turned, and clicked her tongue. “Let’s hope he picks up his feet a little. We have a lot to cover, and not a lot of time to do it.”
I tried taking a sip of the mocha once more, and found it had cooled enough to make it safely down my throat ..
The car's siren wailed, and I wanted to, as well. Who knows how much time passed? No longer was I so interested (in a politely puzzled sort of way) at how this part of the world moved. Now, bridges blurred into bridges, streets blurred into streets, and turns blurred into —
It was a thunderous physical jolt that jarred me from my stupor — a jolt so much like falling down stairs ("Her skull was fractured before she fell — “), that I know for certain that I screamed aloud.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” a voice soothed. “S’alright! Look!”
We had entered a crowded parking lot. Ahead, there was a large building built of glass domes and brown stone, perhaps seven or eight stories high. BBC Television Centre read proudly on its side. I twisted around in my seat. Oh. We had just gone over a speed bump.
“See? Here’s another one. I’ll take it slower.”
Brian coaxed the vehicle over the next bump. This time we did not jolt, but rocked slowly. He kept his arm on mine. My heart pounded.
We parked, I dragged myself out of my seat and walked down the sidewalk, sucking in the European air, hearing the hiss of traffic from the main road behind us. We entered this great glass dome without anyone stopping us, or questioning us.
Things in this city seem to be much huger on the inside than what they appear. This central circular block of glass, sunlight, and people was the most breathtaking thing I had ever seen. Time slowed down and I saw the Greek god of the son, Helios, staring at me from a fountain. I stared back, and for an odd moment I felt at peace.
Be strong, Little One.
Brian tugged on my arm, walking me on. I think I am going crazy.
“Where are we going?” my first words in ages.
“BBC One newsroom. Near is there.”
The dual doors of an elevator opened smoothly as we approached. I suspected it had been waiting for us. I stepped inside neatly, finding the wall as soon as possible, slumping against it.
“I need a bathroom,” I said flatly.
Once we ascended to the sixth floor, Brian pointed me to the direction of the restrooms. I staggered across snow-white carpet, and made it into the huge, white, clean and stainless steel bathrooms where I could be alone with my heaving breath.
The rows of stalls stretched on for miles upon miles — with a small American girl standing at either end, like conflicted bookends. Oh, no, those were mirrors. I stood there balanced between two worlds before I turned my head to the left, and caught sight of myself yet again, at much closer quarters.
You know those moments when you feel completely at a loss? That’s how I was. The lights in here were as hard and strong as anything you’d find at a studio set. I stepped closer to the sinks, repulsed and intrigued by my windswept hair, snarled bangs, cracked lips, greasy face. Tired. Oh, I was tired. I looked pale and stark as ever, like all the blood in —
From the look in her eyes, I don't think she realized that there was quite so much blood inside of her.
— I doubled over, and threw up. I twisted the faucet head to rinse it away, and nearly collapsed onto the sink, my coat tumbling softly to the floor.
I heard voices outside, and then I heard the bathroom door swing open, and high heels clacking on tile.
“Twenty?”
Immediately, I straightened, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, and saw her in mirror, standing behind me with a fierce expression.
It was Near, perfect Near with her tiny body and golden hair, wearing an impossible skirt and elegant pink blouse. I said she looked fierce because she always looked fierce in her broadcast-ready makeup, eyes and chin so sharply defined, but her arms were around me in a second, and she smelled like flowers.
Seeing Near in person was rather dreamlike, always. She was always on a television screen, to my perception, giving reports on happenings in the middle east, or delivering some juicy tidbit about a celebrity — yet here she was, helping me stand, picking up my coat, chiding Brian for letting me out of his sight even for just one second.
I’m fine, I wanted to tell her. I’m fine.
But I wasn’t fine until I sat in the corner of the BBC One newsroom with Brian’s overcoat slung around my shoulders, a steaming vanilla mocha in my hands from Starbucks, watching Near pace by the television sets, arguing animatedly with whoever it was on the other line.
Brian had run out to get me something to drink. He stood close to my side, eyeballing every window, every doorway in and out of the control room with a hawkish, practiced air. I tried taking a sip once, twice, then a third time of my coffee — but it was just too hot. I let it warm my hands, instead, enjoying the smell.
There was a guy my age standing with his arms folded across his chest on the other side of the control room, down a few rows of consoles. The control room was dark, so I couldn’t make out too much about him. Looked fairly skinny. He was the only one in the room not shooting me anxious, pitying glances every once in a while. He was bent over his phone, texting idly, completely absorbed in that task as though not at all interested in what's happening.
“Who’s that?” I croaked.
“Vyral. Don’t know much about him, besides he’s a former Navigator, and the Administrator wanted him here.”
“Oh,” I looked down, fussing with the lid on the Starbucks. “I was supposed to meet him today.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“And what should I be worrying about?”
Brian’s expression was grim. “Just don’t worry about it.”
I rested my head against the back of what I think was a switching board. It was live, it was whirring, and for some reason that gave me some small comfort. My phone buzzed.
DEBONAIR EN ROUTE. NEAR HAS PLAN. STANDBY.
Near had finished with her conversations seconds ago, walking back towards where I was, waving Brian away from me. She knelt, reached up, and touched my cheek with one hand.
“Twenty. You listen to me,” she said, her green eyes (they were green now; they’d be blue later) severe. “Don’t worry about your vision. Nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand?”
But I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking past her, to Vyral, still in the corner, who I could have sworn just tried to stifle a laugh.
“I understand,” my words were tiny.
Near’s hand moved from my cheek, to my shoulder, which she gripped — hard.
“That was bullshit. Let me ask you again. Do you understand?”
“Yes!” I croaked louder, now, and for a half a second I believed it.
Brian’s phone buzzed, now. He scrolled through his messages, and then gave a sort of expectant grunt. “Debonair is on his way up. Security said he just got into the elevator.”
“Great,” Near said shortly, rising. She turned, and clicked her tongue. “Let’s hope he picks up his feet a little. We have a lot to cover, and not a lot of time to do it.”
I tried taking a sip of the mocha once more, and found it had cooled enough to make it safely down my throat ..
OOC Notes
I check my watch again. Ten minutes late. What a joke. Irritated, I snatch my phone out of my pocket and tap out a quick message to the Administrator: 'NO SHOW.' Hopping off of the railing, I shove my mobile back into the pocket of my jeans and take a final glance around the square. The mid-morning rush is wel under-way, and people are milling about everywhere carrying plastic bags stuffed with goods. A group of people not much younger than me slouch past with burgers pushed into their mouths, greasy paper wrapping glistening in the sunlight. I weave past the and make my way towards an equally busy side-street, a nice short-cut route back to the train station. I stuff my hands into my pockets. I'd never admit it but I was looking forwards to getting on another case again, a proper case, and the no show had left me a little disheartened. It would have been a nice change of pace, something more like the old days. Sour-faced, I barely glanced at the craggy-faced woman playing a violin at the corner of the square. A crowd of about twenty people had formed, the odd few tossing a spare coin or two into an open trunk. A labrador, dark brown fur, turned its head lazily to watch me pass it, huge hazelnut eyes glimmering. My mind turns back to Outcross. It's not that I miss being a Navigator, how could I? I just miss the excitement that went with it, even the comradary. I thought that this might have been an opportunity to recapture a little of that old magic. I guess that's not what the world has in store for me, though.
I brush past a short guy dressed in a purple anarak. He waves a paper, The Metro, in my face but I use a gentle hand to move it aside and offer him a polite, if insincere, smile. I take the left turn immediately afterwards and find myself instantly dislocated from the noise and bluster of the busy streets behind me. A sign, once white but now smeared with grime, tells me 'ACCESS TO SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY'. I walk past it and continue down the alleyway unmolsted. I come out the other end with the station looming in front of me. A bright blue streak of light with the stations name emblazoned in bright, striking white letters. I take the sub-way, wrinkling my noise at the sour smell that lurks in its depths. No matter how clean the glossy tiles appear that smell persists. It takes me a few minutes to push my way through the crowds. I get stuck behind an old lady, shuffling along with her bony hands wrapped tightly around the frame of her walker. Every time I try to edge past her another shape blocks the gap and I have to slip back into line. When I finally mount the steps at the other end the fresh air is more than welcome. For a second I find something ironic in thinking of the air as fresh, what with all the cars cramming the roads and going nowhere, exhausts blowing out hot air and the drivers letting off steam in the isolated enviroments of their vehicles. My frustration perisists though, and I amble my way into the station. This time I am forced to pay. It's too busy to go skipping the barriers, and the guards this end of the line are sharp and young. I press my Oyster card to the pad and, on the beep, shuffle through like so much meat on a converyer belt. I take the steps two at a time, too the irritation of a well-dresed suit, mobile pressed to his ear. I have a sneaking suspicion that if he were to lower the phone, I'd get the briefest impression of the phones ridge left on his cheek, right across where the capilaries in his skin have burst in a rose-blossom patchwork.
It takes precisely three minutes and seven seconds for the train to arrive. I didn't even glance at the clock. For once I actually counted. It's a calming technique I read on a newspaper a week or two back. It doesn't work. The train rolls in with a hiss of metallic brakes and a whoosh of air. People begin their vanity shuffle towards the doors whilst at the same time the people inside set their shoulders to push their way out. My phone vibrates. Distratced I pull it out as I join the surge forwards. The doors open, the mumblings of 'excuse me' and 'sorry' begin. With my hood drawn up over my head, I seem to generate a little field around me that the respectable, well-bred working community are reluctant to enter. I glance at my phone.
'RE-ROUTE. BBC TELEVISION CENTRE.'
The door closes and I rest my head against the glass. I have to pull back when the train starts rolling forwards, rubbing its grime across my head. I rub it off with my sleeve, and am left staring at a black wall of white tiles.
---
The television centre is air-conditioned to the point that, even beneath my jumper, I'm shivering. Near seems unperturbed though, instead she glances towards her phone every couple of seconds. I recognise her from the news, of course. Would never have figured her for the Outcross type. Now that I'm standing in the same room as her I can see it though. Calm, professional. The only clue to her anxiety is the severe look in her eyes. She's exactly the sort I can imagine the Administrator placing behind a desk. I realise that I've taken an instant dislike to the woman. I'm torn between feeling guilty or not. She's a bit clipped for my tastes, but my problem isn't with her. Not really. It's not even with Twenty, the mysterious American ditz that decided not to show too our meeting. Of course, thats not the whole story. Again, it's not her I'm really mad at, either. I didn't have milk for my morning coffee, I recall. Perhaps that was the catalyst that set off the day as a bleak, moody one. Settled beneath my big, black rain cloud, I turn my attention back towards my phone.
I find the message more numbing that exilierating. I know it's a bad day when a text from a pretty brunette girl can't shake my spirits up a bit. I guess it's because I'm stuck here. Nestled between a bunch of well-polished terminals with only a quiet and un-receptive Near for company, the place feels more like the kitchen of a youth offenders institution than the control room for the BBC's television centre.
I get the feeling it's going to be a long day.
By the time that Twenty arrives, band in toe, I'm so absorbed in trying to distract myself with my phone that I don't realize for the first few seconds. Not until Near clips her heels across to the door and starts speaking. Her voice sounds stern. The bells start ringing again. I slip my phoneback into my pocket, reply unsent, and take a few seconds to study the new crowd. I spot Twenty easily. She's short, dark hair. Not what I expected, but somehow, it fits. I can all too easily picture her standing at a busy junction, holding a map of London and scratching her head. Asking that red-faced buisseness man on the phone what way the sqaure was, only to receive a roll of the eyes as if she were talking another language entirely, before resuming chattering into his phone. I stifle a laugh. Yeah, I could see that all too easily. Arms folded across my chest, I move closer to the group.
"Debonair, huh? Did he take the scenic route as well?
I brush past a short guy dressed in a purple anarak. He waves a paper, The Metro, in my face but I use a gentle hand to move it aside and offer him a polite, if insincere, smile. I take the left turn immediately afterwards and find myself instantly dislocated from the noise and bluster of the busy streets behind me. A sign, once white but now smeared with grime, tells me 'ACCESS TO SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY'. I walk past it and continue down the alleyway unmolsted. I come out the other end with the station looming in front of me. A bright blue streak of light with the stations name emblazoned in bright, striking white letters. I take the sub-way, wrinkling my noise at the sour smell that lurks in its depths. No matter how clean the glossy tiles appear that smell persists. It takes me a few minutes to push my way through the crowds. I get stuck behind an old lady, shuffling along with her bony hands wrapped tightly around the frame of her walker. Every time I try to edge past her another shape blocks the gap and I have to slip back into line. When I finally mount the steps at the other end the fresh air is more than welcome. For a second I find something ironic in thinking of the air as fresh, what with all the cars cramming the roads and going nowhere, exhausts blowing out hot air and the drivers letting off steam in the isolated enviroments of their vehicles. My frustration perisists though, and I amble my way into the station. This time I am forced to pay. It's too busy to go skipping the barriers, and the guards this end of the line are sharp and young. I press my Oyster card to the pad and, on the beep, shuffle through like so much meat on a converyer belt. I take the steps two at a time, too the irritation of a well-dresed suit, mobile pressed to his ear. I have a sneaking suspicion that if he were to lower the phone, I'd get the briefest impression of the phones ridge left on his cheek, right across where the capilaries in his skin have burst in a rose-blossom patchwork.
It takes precisely three minutes and seven seconds for the train to arrive. I didn't even glance at the clock. For once I actually counted. It's a calming technique I read on a newspaper a week or two back. It doesn't work. The train rolls in with a hiss of metallic brakes and a whoosh of air. People begin their vanity shuffle towards the doors whilst at the same time the people inside set their shoulders to push their way out. My phone vibrates. Distratced I pull it out as I join the surge forwards. The doors open, the mumblings of 'excuse me' and 'sorry' begin. With my hood drawn up over my head, I seem to generate a little field around me that the respectable, well-bred working community are reluctant to enter. I glance at my phone.
'RE-ROUTE. BBC TELEVISION CENTRE.'
The door closes and I rest my head against the glass. I have to pull back when the train starts rolling forwards, rubbing its grime across my head. I rub it off with my sleeve, and am left staring at a black wall of white tiles.
---
The television centre is air-conditioned to the point that, even beneath my jumper, I'm shivering. Near seems unperturbed though, instead she glances towards her phone every couple of seconds. I recognise her from the news, of course. Would never have figured her for the Outcross type. Now that I'm standing in the same room as her I can see it though. Calm, professional. The only clue to her anxiety is the severe look in her eyes. She's exactly the sort I can imagine the Administrator placing behind a desk. I realise that I've taken an instant dislike to the woman. I'm torn between feeling guilty or not. She's a bit clipped for my tastes, but my problem isn't with her. Not really. It's not even with Twenty, the mysterious American ditz that decided not to show too our meeting. Of course, thats not the whole story. Again, it's not her I'm really mad at, either. I didn't have milk for my morning coffee, I recall. Perhaps that was the catalyst that set off the day as a bleak, moody one. Settled beneath my big, black rain cloud, I turn my attention back towards my phone.
I find the message more numbing that exilierating. I know it's a bad day when a text from a pretty brunette girl can't shake my spirits up a bit. I guess it's because I'm stuck here. Nestled between a bunch of well-polished terminals with only a quiet and un-receptive Near for company, the place feels more like the kitchen of a youth offenders institution than the control room for the BBC's television centre.
I get the feeling it's going to be a long day.
By the time that Twenty arrives, band in toe, I'm so absorbed in trying to distract myself with my phone that I don't realize for the first few seconds. Not until Near clips her heels across to the door and starts speaking. Her voice sounds stern. The bells start ringing again. I slip my phoneback into my pocket, reply unsent, and take a few seconds to study the new crowd. I spot Twenty easily. She's short, dark hair. Not what I expected, but somehow, it fits. I can all too easily picture her standing at a busy junction, holding a map of London and scratching her head. Asking that red-faced buisseness man on the phone what way the sqaure was, only to receive a roll of the eyes as if she were talking another language entirely, before resuming chattering into his phone. I stifle a laugh. Yeah, I could see that all too easily. Arms folded across my chest, I move closer to the group.
"Debonair, huh? Did he take the scenic route as well?
OOC Notes
Just leave the lead, they said. It's not important, they said.
Well that was a good day's work wasted, I inwardly grumbled as I crossed the street towards the BBC Television Centre. It was, come to think of it, the first time that I'd been here. I'd never actually met Near in person before, even though I'd technically worked with her on several separate occasions, she was always 'working' behind the scenes, keeping the public happy and thinking what we wanted them to think. I'd wondered if I'd recognise any of the actors or TV personalities wandering around the Centre, but apparently they all had better things to do than hang out in corridors or reception, and by the time I'd been escorted through the front of the building I'd seen very few people aside from what I could only guess were administration elves.
The elevator 'dinged', and I stepped out onto the right floor. By the sound of things - I could hear voices from the room nearby with the door open - I was the last to arrive. I hadn't even detoured this time! I had, however, received the text just as I was on the train in the opposite direction. Less than convenient.
"Afternoon, guys and gals, what've I missed?" I asked as I sauntered into the room, smiling cheerfully before the atmosphere of the room made it clear that a grin wasn't exactly appropriate. I blinked at the tension in everyone's faces -- well, everyone's apart from Vyral's (if anything had ever visibly worried him, I hadn't seen it) -- and dropped the smile. "Apparently something big..." I followed up, glancing awkwardly from Twenty to Near. Twenty looked like she was positively ill (but that might have just been travel-sickness, I could never tell).
Well that was a good day's work wasted, I inwardly grumbled as I crossed the street towards the BBC Television Centre. It was, come to think of it, the first time that I'd been here. I'd never actually met Near in person before, even though I'd technically worked with her on several separate occasions, she was always 'working' behind the scenes, keeping the public happy and thinking what we wanted them to think. I'd wondered if I'd recognise any of the actors or TV personalities wandering around the Centre, but apparently they all had better things to do than hang out in corridors or reception, and by the time I'd been escorted through the front of the building I'd seen very few people aside from what I could only guess were administration elves.
The elevator 'dinged', and I stepped out onto the right floor. By the sound of things - I could hear voices from the room nearby with the door open - I was the last to arrive. I hadn't even detoured this time! I had, however, received the text just as I was on the train in the opposite direction. Less than convenient.
"Afternoon, guys and gals, what've I missed?" I asked as I sauntered into the room, smiling cheerfully before the atmosphere of the room made it clear that a grin wasn't exactly appropriate. I blinked at the tension in everyone's faces -- well, everyone's apart from Vyral's (if anything had ever visibly worried him, I hadn't seen it) -- and dropped the smile. "Apparently something big..." I followed up, glancing awkwardly from Twenty to Near. Twenty looked like she was positively ill (but that might have just been travel-sickness, I could never tell).
OOC Notes
"Sit," Near commanded, pointing Deb to a nearby chair. There was something terrifying about her when she was in this state of blazing efficiency. She looked from Deb, to Vyral, sucking all the air from the room. "Listen very carefully. What I am about to say is of upmost secrecy. Brian and I are the only other Specialists you must speak of this to."
I knew what was coming. I didn't want to hear it.
"Twenty's had a vision. A new letter. She saw the victim, and how exactly the murder would happen."
I tipped my head back, fingers white, clenched tightly around the styrofoam cup, chugging the rest of the coffee, drowning my throat in vanilla, as Near went on. It was still hot, and burned my throat, but I kept drinking.
"The victim was herself."
I choked. The cup was empty. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and stared blearily down at my feet.
"Our goal," Near continued, "first and foremost, is to stop her from ending up dead. To do that, she can never be alone. More than that - no one can want her to be alone."
I looked up. Near was looking directly at me, with her odd stare - aggressive, empathic, and intuitive.
"The best way to keep something safe from harm is often to put it directly in the limelight," Near paused, a second, for effect, spreading her ams to the side. "Congratulations, Twenty. You are now engaged to Tom Mecredy."
"The Tom Mecredy? That guy is in Outcross?" my jaw dropped.
"Oh, please. We have dozens of media Specialists planted and prepped for this particular situation. Every time you see his face splashed across a front page, every time you hear a new album drop or a new court case filed against him, that's my work, and the work of his manager."
"Last I heard, he was in rehab, after breaking out for a fourth time," Brian put in. When we all stared at him, he added swiftly. "Not - that I look it up myself. I just, we hear things."
"Of course you hear things! That's my job, that you hear things!" Near beamed at Brian's staggered save. "
The more time I spend in Outcross, the more I realize my world is a lie.
"I'll make some calls, shoot some promos - tabloids will want to know where you are at all times, the news channels will be forced to do a lead-in story about the phenomenon. Your face will be all over television, magazines, and buses. People will want to know more about the American fiancé of England's most infamous bad boy."
I was tired, jet-lagged, raw, had thrown up recently, and could feel my coffee churning in my stomach. The idea of glitz and glamor felt so foreign, felt so wrong to me.
"Can I get cleaned up, first?" I asked hoarsely.
Near came at me, motioning that I should rise. I did so slowly, achingly, confused.
"Oh, we'll be doing more than that," she smirked, gripping me by the arm and pulling me towards the door. "You're in need of a, ah. Redesign."
I knew what was coming. I didn't want to hear it.
"Twenty's had a vision. A new letter. She saw the victim, and how exactly the murder would happen."
I tipped my head back, fingers white, clenched tightly around the styrofoam cup, chugging the rest of the coffee, drowning my throat in vanilla, as Near went on. It was still hot, and burned my throat, but I kept drinking.
"The victim was herself."
I choked. The cup was empty. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and stared blearily down at my feet.
"Our goal," Near continued, "first and foremost, is to stop her from ending up dead. To do that, she can never be alone. More than that - no one can want her to be alone."
I looked up. Near was looking directly at me, with her odd stare - aggressive, empathic, and intuitive.
"The best way to keep something safe from harm is often to put it directly in the limelight," Near paused, a second, for effect, spreading her ams to the side. "Congratulations, Twenty. You are now engaged to Tom Mecredy."
"The Tom Mecredy? That guy is in Outcross?" my jaw dropped.
"Oh, please. We have dozens of media Specialists planted and prepped for this particular situation. Every time you see his face splashed across a front page, every time you hear a new album drop or a new court case filed against him, that's my work, and the work of his manager."
"Last I heard, he was in rehab, after breaking out for a fourth time," Brian put in. When we all stared at him, he added swiftly. "Not - that I look it up myself. I just, we hear things."
"Of course you hear things! That's my job, that you hear things!" Near beamed at Brian's staggered save. "
The more time I spend in Outcross, the more I realize my world is a lie.
"I'll make some calls, shoot some promos - tabloids will want to know where you are at all times, the news channels will be forced to do a lead-in story about the phenomenon. Your face will be all over television, magazines, and buses. People will want to know more about the American fiancé of England's most infamous bad boy."
I was tired, jet-lagged, raw, had thrown up recently, and could feel my coffee churning in my stomach. The idea of glitz and glamor felt so foreign, felt so wrong to me.
"Can I get cleaned up, first?" I asked hoarsely.
Near came at me, motioning that I should rise. I did so slowly, achingly, confused.
"Oh, we'll be doing more than that," she smirked, gripping me by the arm and pulling me towards the door. "You're in need of a, ah. Redesign."
OOC Notes
Brian heaved a sigh as Near and Twenty left. I watched on with raised eyebrows and no small amount of amusement. Twenty, engaged to a drugged up party animal rockstar? I'd pay to see that reality TV show. While I suppressed a snicker, Brian turned to glance at me and the other guy, Vyral.
"Well, you two, that's it for the moment. This was mostly about getting everyone up to speed with the plan," the police agent paused, "I should introduce the two of you to each other. Deb, this is Vyral - one of London's local specialists. He knows this city better than any of us, so you'd be wise to listen to him if he gives you advice. Vyral, this is Debonair. He's a specialist because he can sweet-talk his way into almost anything without so much as a compliment, like Twenty's precognition, that's his thing. So my advice to you is the opposite - make a point to never listen to him without some degree of cynicism."
"Hey!" I protested, frowning. Just because I could be a dick with my abilities didn't mean I was .. most of the time.
Brian shook his head, "The administrator will contact the both of you with instructions shortly. For now I have to make sure I'm on call if Twenty gets into trouble." With a final nod to each of us, Brian turned and left the studio after Near and Twenty.
I watched him leave, still slightly peeved at the bad impression he'd given the new guy of me, but alas. Nothing to be done now. Turning to Vyral, I smiled as a way of greeting. "So I suppose now we're just expected to twiddle our thumbs until the puppet master gives us a tug, huh? And I thought I was making progress. You found anything so far? Oh, and it's nice to meet you, by the way. I'm not quite the arse that Brian implied there, honest. At least, I only am to Twenty."
"Well, you two, that's it for the moment. This was mostly about getting everyone up to speed with the plan," the police agent paused, "I should introduce the two of you to each other. Deb, this is Vyral - one of London's local specialists. He knows this city better than any of us, so you'd be wise to listen to him if he gives you advice. Vyral, this is Debonair. He's a specialist because he can sweet-talk his way into almost anything without so much as a compliment, like Twenty's precognition, that's his thing. So my advice to you is the opposite - make a point to never listen to him without some degree of cynicism."
"Hey!" I protested, frowning. Just because I could be a dick with my abilities didn't mean I was .. most of the time.
Brian shook his head, "The administrator will contact the both of you with instructions shortly. For now I have to make sure I'm on call if Twenty gets into trouble." With a final nod to each of us, Brian turned and left the studio after Near and Twenty.
I watched him leave, still slightly peeved at the bad impression he'd given the new guy of me, but alas. Nothing to be done now. Turning to Vyral, I smiled as a way of greeting. "So I suppose now we're just expected to twiddle our thumbs until the puppet master gives us a tug, huh? And I thought I was making progress. You found anything so far? Oh, and it's nice to meet you, by the way. I'm not quite the arse that Brian implied there, honest. At least, I only am to Twenty."
- 12 posts here • Page 1 of 1
Outcross: The Letter M: Out Of Character (OOC)
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Non-Canon IC Drabbles
by ViceVersus on Sun Feb 05, 2012 12:42 pm
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Non-Canon IC Drabbles
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Outcross: The Letter M
by ViceVersus on Fri Nov 26, 2010 8:11 pm
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Outcross: The Letter M
Most recent OOC posts in Outcross: The Letter M
Re: [OOC] Outcross: The Letter M
Hey all! Post coming from me soon.
Listening to "Where is My Mind" from the Sucker Punch soundtrack really gets me into that slightly disoriented, annoyed, yet politely puzzled place that Twenty is always in.
Listening to "Where is My Mind" from the Sucker Punch soundtrack really gets me into that slightly disoriented, annoyed, yet politely puzzled place that Twenty is always in.
Re: [OOC] Non-Canon IC Drabbles
This is a random scene between ViceVersus and XavierDanitius32, meant primarily to get the latter used to writing himself as a character in first person. What'll likely happen is that it'll be posted IC during the second part of Act II, when Debonair and Vyral will mostly be running around figuring out things about the guitar.
Near sent Twenty and Vulpes out on a date directly into the public eye.
This wasn't the best date I'd been on recently, I thought as I lounged against the supple leather of the booth, sipping gently from the frosty glass of coke. She'd tolerated my awful attempts at flirting with smiles and small laughs, but the hordes of crazy-ass people that dogged my every step, and the hulking man-mountains that were supposed to keep me safe kept getting in the way every time I thought we were starting to make a connection.
Ah well, I sighed. We'd made it to the resteraunt in one piece. The candle on the table was a nice touch, and the service had been excellent. Now, what to have? I glanced at the menu, before looking up at my date over the flimsy cardboard.
"What'd you like to eat?"
“Pizza. Probably.”
Don’t be a dick.
Being famous is exhausting, weird, since you hardly have to lift a finger. I think I would have been more partial to the clothes, the cars, the coastal mansions if the fact that I had seen a vision of my own murder hadn’t been the thing to spark all of this.
Vulpes was a lot quieter, a lot shyer than I had anticipated him to be. Maybe because, in America, the only way I saw or heard of him was something outlandish. I realized now that this was probably Near’s doing. Or his manager’s. It was all second nature to him at this point.
“How do you stand them?” I nodded to our left. Fangirls were swarming on the streets, pressing their greasy faces against the plate glass window, scrambling, screaming, trying to get the best view of what was happening on the inside. The restaurant’s soft, muted music compared to what hellish chaos was out there — it made me almost smile.
I grimaced. It was a stupid question. Rookie mistake. Although I was hardly a rookie at awkward first dates by this point. Hell, I could hardly remember not having an awkward first date.
"Honestly, I've learned to ignore them. They want someone I'm not. My stage persona is a carefully engineered facade."
He was practically hiding behind that menu. You’re being such a dick, girl. I let my fatigued, nervous, snarky-ass attitude soften a little.
“Look. I’m sorry I’ve been so bitchy lately. You don’t know what it’s .. actually!” I sat up up straighter. “Fuck it. You do know what it’s like. You’re one of the few people who understand what it’s like to run around chasing some carrot that the Administrator says you have to.”
I let a silence fall after that sentence. I waited for the guillotine to drop .. but my phone did not buzz. I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them.
“I know it’s taboo to ask this, Specialist to Specialist .. but I gotta know just one thing. Were you ‘famous’,” here, I gouged the word with those finger in-air quotation marks, “before Outcross got to you, or was the whole thing .. ”
I gestured feebly to the large, impassive guards sitting nearby. I didn’t have to indicate the crowd outside.
“ .. You know.”
I giggled softly to myself, dropping the menu to the table, the ghost of a smile flashing across my face.
"I messed around on youtube a bit. Posted a couple of covers with my electric violin. Looked like a Kiss Army reject in some of them."
Rubbing a sleep-hooded eye, I took another sip from the coke.
"Without Outcross, I'dve been one of millions. They must have sent Aftershock my way."
“It’s stupidly lonely, isn’t it?” I reached out and messed with the top to one of the salt shakers. “By all rights, I should be loving it. I get to travel the world, eat basically whatever I want, not get shot at .. mostly. But, like. It just, it sucks.”
I leaned in a bit closer to him. If it looked like we were going to kiss or not — the air outside on the street was probably rent with screams.
“I’m scared,” I said in a low voice. “You know my story, right? Crazy-ass precognitive visions? Well, they don’t come as often as they used to. And when they do .. they just,” I closed my eyes again, “well, like I said. It sucks.”
What good was there in lowering my voice? One of Vulpes’ thugs probably had a wire on him. Either that, or the Administrator was tapped into the restaurant’s security cameras. Maybe being “famous” wasn’t all that much of a change, after all. I was living in public, anyways.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I feel trapped in this little bubble of press appearances, I haven’t heard from Vyral or Debonair in days, and to top it all off, people are just screaming at us wherever we go. I can’t tell if they’re screaming, like, because they love us, or if, like, they want to rip our flesh from our bones. And I’m being serious!”
I glanced to my left at the baying wolves, trying to hide a small grimace as I leaned in closer.
"I can't begin to understand what it must feel like to know what you know."
I gulped nervously, reaching out to touch her lightly on the hand.
"We don't have to be here if you don't want to. I can take the hit for getting up and dashing out the back."
“Nah, it’s okay,” I stared at his hand. Like, stared at it. Probably more intensely than I should have. I forced myself to look back up at him. “Honestly? You’re the only Specialist my age who’s actually not been a complete dickwad to me since I got here. Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”
My hand under his hand curled into a fist.
“Every. Single. Freakin’. Time I see Debonair after a while, he does his persuasive thing on me. And I always fall for it. Like, hardcore. And I don’t even think about it. And then Vyral. I just met Vyral this mission, but he’s .. he’s like, an anti-Deb. If that makes sense. He’s always looking at me like he thinks I’m full of shit. And maybe he does. Maybe I am!” I huffed a loose strand of hair out of my eyes. “Oh, jeez.”
Near had taken care to transform me into some media queen — new clothes, new makeup, newly straightened hair. I had a tendency to wipe off all the lipstick out of annoyance, and wiping my eyes usually led to things getting smeared. The loose strand of hair made me realize that my hair probably looked like a mess.
I inspected my reflection in my phone. Well. Not bad.
“So. While those two guys run around town figuring out things, I am more than happy to be in the company of someone who — although they’re assigned to think so — finds me charming, attractive, and has put a fake engagement ring on my finger.”
I glanced down at the massive diamond. “Uh. When I say fake, I mean, like. The principle. If Near says the diamond’s real, gotta believe her.”
I withdrew my hand from his, and put both of mine in my lap, suddenly embarrassed at my outburst. “ .. Near kinda scares me.”
Good one, Tom. Good one.
I crossed my arms on the tabletop, looking up to meet her gaze.
"I'm glad you enjoy spending time with me. I'll try my best to make this fake-engagement the best you've ever had."
A broad grin broke across my face, a small giggle slipping from my lips. She was one of the most gorgeous women I'd ever had the pleasure to date, and this date was going rather well.
"I think she scares everyone. Anyone who says they arn't is lying."
“So all those models I see you with on magazine covers, all those stories of you being knee-deep in ladies, it boils down to a a lot of hair product and clever organization!” I gestured across the table.
Oh, wow, way to make him feel like a loser.
“And all the things you hear about Twenty, and her masterful understanding of Things to Come, and What Shall Pass .. you end up with a scared, confused American girl with no real discernible talents. I can’t even play the violin,” I made claws of my hands, and shook them, tilting my head back to the ceiling in a mock ‘whyyyy’ pose.
“You’ll have to teach me. Y’know, if I live that long, or whatever.”
I giggled again, scratching an itch on my jaw, idly glancing from her eyes down to the menu on the table.
"Well, yes. Although the photoshoots are pretty fun."
Shooting her a wink across the table, I smiled and continued.
"I'd be glad to. It's such a beautiful instrument."
“I played, like, baritone in high school? There’s a band at my college now, but since I’m gone like three-fourths of the year, it wouldn’t make much sense for me to make any sort of commitments at all,” I shrugged.
“There was this one time in Moscow maybe a year ago when Deb and I had to pretend to be a band? Like in this little run-down bar. I played guitar and he sang, and did his persuasive thing to the crowd. They were all so drunk that it basically worked, and we managed to convince these arms dealers not to remove our heads from our necks.”
"The baritone's nice, but I prefer the more synthy vibe you get from an electric violin. It's a nice versatile instrument. I can do acoustic if I want"
I smiled again, not quite sure how to react to her little anecdote. Guess that was the result of growing up in the sheltered south west of England.
"Well, at least you got to travel?"
“Yeah. Sometimes it’s great, sometimes it’s not. I was in a pretty decent hotel when I first got here, actually. It was like, in the center of everything. Probably the Administrator’s way of helping me not get hopelessly lost,” I grinned. “So, wait. You travel, don’t you? Certainly you have tours and performances and whatever, all over Europe, right?”
"This place can be confusing sometimes."
I sipped on the coke, watching the last of the ice dissolve into the liquid.
"I try not to travel too much, gotta keep up with school and stuff, but yeah. I did a couple of gigs in Italy earlier this year. And I played at a rock festival in Germany."
“I was in Italy, once, I’m told, but I was in the trunk of a car, so I guess it doesn’t count,” I grinned, flipping my menu open. “Or the boot. That’s what you call ‘em, right? Yeah, the boot.”
“Anyways, what’s Italy like when you’re actually there as a guest, rather than being dragged through it?”
I glanced at the menu again, still unsure of what I was going to eat.
"Italy is a beautiful country. I would recommend the island of Capri if you're ever there under more favourable circumstances."
“Favorable circumstances, when working for Outcross? Puh-leez,” I returned to the menu. “Alright. How does England do pizza? Keep in mind I’m from Chicago, where we know how to do deep dish pizza, and I mean do it right.”
"Well, you can't want to work for them forever. Maybe when we're done with them, we could go together?" I grinned, and met her gaze. "What suits your taste? They do a mean deep-dish pepperoni here."
Near sent Twenty and Vulpes out on a date directly into the public eye.
Dinner
VULPES
This wasn't the best date I'd been on recently, I thought as I lounged against the supple leather of the booth, sipping gently from the frosty glass of coke. She'd tolerated my awful attempts at flirting with smiles and small laughs, but the hordes of crazy-ass people that dogged my every step, and the hulking man-mountains that were supposed to keep me safe kept getting in the way every time I thought we were starting to make a connection.
Ah well, I sighed. We'd made it to the resteraunt in one piece. The candle on the table was a nice touch, and the service had been excellent. Now, what to have? I glanced at the menu, before looking up at my date over the flimsy cardboard.
"What'd you like to eat?"
TWENTY
“Pizza. Probably.”
Don’t be a dick.
Being famous is exhausting, weird, since you hardly have to lift a finger. I think I would have been more partial to the clothes, the cars, the coastal mansions if the fact that I had seen a vision of my own murder hadn’t been the thing to spark all of this.
Vulpes was a lot quieter, a lot shyer than I had anticipated him to be. Maybe because, in America, the only way I saw or heard of him was something outlandish. I realized now that this was probably Near’s doing. Or his manager’s. It was all second nature to him at this point.
“How do you stand them?” I nodded to our left. Fangirls were swarming on the streets, pressing their greasy faces against the plate glass window, scrambling, screaming, trying to get the best view of what was happening on the inside. The restaurant’s soft, muted music compared to what hellish chaos was out there — it made me almost smile.
VULPES
I grimaced. It was a stupid question. Rookie mistake. Although I was hardly a rookie at awkward first dates by this point. Hell, I could hardly remember not having an awkward first date.
"Honestly, I've learned to ignore them. They want someone I'm not. My stage persona is a carefully engineered facade."
TWENTY
He was practically hiding behind that menu. You’re being such a dick, girl. I let my fatigued, nervous, snarky-ass attitude soften a little.
“Look. I’m sorry I’ve been so bitchy lately. You don’t know what it’s .. actually!” I sat up up straighter. “Fuck it. You do know what it’s like. You’re one of the few people who understand what it’s like to run around chasing some carrot that the Administrator says you have to.”
I let a silence fall after that sentence. I waited for the guillotine to drop .. but my phone did not buzz. I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them.
“I know it’s taboo to ask this, Specialist to Specialist .. but I gotta know just one thing. Were you ‘famous’,” here, I gouged the word with those finger in-air quotation marks, “before Outcross got to you, or was the whole thing .. ”
I gestured feebly to the large, impassive guards sitting nearby. I didn’t have to indicate the crowd outside.
“ .. You know.”
VULPES
I giggled softly to myself, dropping the menu to the table, the ghost of a smile flashing across my face.
"I messed around on youtube a bit. Posted a couple of covers with my electric violin. Looked like a Kiss Army reject in some of them."
Rubbing a sleep-hooded eye, I took another sip from the coke.
"Without Outcross, I'dve been one of millions. They must have sent Aftershock my way."
TWENTY
“It’s stupidly lonely, isn’t it?” I reached out and messed with the top to one of the salt shakers. “By all rights, I should be loving it. I get to travel the world, eat basically whatever I want, not get shot at .. mostly. But, like. It just, it sucks.”
I leaned in a bit closer to him. If it looked like we were going to kiss or not — the air outside on the street was probably rent with screams.
“I’m scared,” I said in a low voice. “You know my story, right? Crazy-ass precognitive visions? Well, they don’t come as often as they used to. And when they do .. they just,” I closed my eyes again, “well, like I said. It sucks.”
What good was there in lowering my voice? One of Vulpes’ thugs probably had a wire on him. Either that, or the Administrator was tapped into the restaurant’s security cameras. Maybe being “famous” wasn’t all that much of a change, after all. I was living in public, anyways.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I feel trapped in this little bubble of press appearances, I haven’t heard from Vyral or Debonair in days, and to top it all off, people are just screaming at us wherever we go. I can’t tell if they’re screaming, like, because they love us, or if, like, they want to rip our flesh from our bones. And I’m being serious!”
VULPES
I glanced to my left at the baying wolves, trying to hide a small grimace as I leaned in closer.
"I can't begin to understand what it must feel like to know what you know."
I gulped nervously, reaching out to touch her lightly on the hand.
"We don't have to be here if you don't want to. I can take the hit for getting up and dashing out the back."
TWENTY
“Nah, it’s okay,” I stared at his hand. Like, stared at it. Probably more intensely than I should have. I forced myself to look back up at him. “Honestly? You’re the only Specialist my age who’s actually not been a complete dickwad to me since I got here. Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”
My hand under his hand curled into a fist.
“Every. Single. Freakin’. Time I see Debonair after a while, he does his persuasive thing on me. And I always fall for it. Like, hardcore. And I don’t even think about it. And then Vyral. I just met Vyral this mission, but he’s .. he’s like, an anti-Deb. If that makes sense. He’s always looking at me like he thinks I’m full of shit. And maybe he does. Maybe I am!” I huffed a loose strand of hair out of my eyes. “Oh, jeez.”
Near had taken care to transform me into some media queen — new clothes, new makeup, newly straightened hair. I had a tendency to wipe off all the lipstick out of annoyance, and wiping my eyes usually led to things getting smeared. The loose strand of hair made me realize that my hair probably looked like a mess.
I inspected my reflection in my phone. Well. Not bad.
“So. While those two guys run around town figuring out things, I am more than happy to be in the company of someone who — although they’re assigned to think so — finds me charming, attractive, and has put a fake engagement ring on my finger.”
I glanced down at the massive diamond. “Uh. When I say fake, I mean, like. The principle. If Near says the diamond’s real, gotta believe her.”
I withdrew my hand from his, and put both of mine in my lap, suddenly embarrassed at my outburst. “ .. Near kinda scares me.”
VULPES
Good one, Tom. Good one.
I crossed my arms on the tabletop, looking up to meet her gaze.
"I'm glad you enjoy spending time with me. I'll try my best to make this fake-engagement the best you've ever had."
A broad grin broke across my face, a small giggle slipping from my lips. She was one of the most gorgeous women I'd ever had the pleasure to date, and this date was going rather well.
"I think she scares everyone. Anyone who says they arn't is lying."
TWENTY
“So all those models I see you with on magazine covers, all those stories of you being knee-deep in ladies, it boils down to a a lot of hair product and clever organization!” I gestured across the table.
Oh, wow, way to make him feel like a loser.
“And all the things you hear about Twenty, and her masterful understanding of Things to Come, and What Shall Pass .. you end up with a scared, confused American girl with no real discernible talents. I can’t even play the violin,” I made claws of my hands, and shook them, tilting my head back to the ceiling in a mock ‘whyyyy’ pose.
“You’ll have to teach me. Y’know, if I live that long, or whatever.”
VULPES
I giggled again, scratching an itch on my jaw, idly glancing from her eyes down to the menu on the table.
"Well, yes. Although the photoshoots are pretty fun."
Shooting her a wink across the table, I smiled and continued.
"I'd be glad to. It's such a beautiful instrument."
TWENTY
“I played, like, baritone in high school? There’s a band at my college now, but since I’m gone like three-fourths of the year, it wouldn’t make much sense for me to make any sort of commitments at all,” I shrugged.
“There was this one time in Moscow maybe a year ago when Deb and I had to pretend to be a band? Like in this little run-down bar. I played guitar and he sang, and did his persuasive thing to the crowd. They were all so drunk that it basically worked, and we managed to convince these arms dealers not to remove our heads from our necks.”
VULPES
"The baritone's nice, but I prefer the more synthy vibe you get from an electric violin. It's a nice versatile instrument. I can do acoustic if I want"
I smiled again, not quite sure how to react to her little anecdote. Guess that was the result of growing up in the sheltered south west of England.
"Well, at least you got to travel?"
TWENTY
“Yeah. Sometimes it’s great, sometimes it’s not. I was in a pretty decent hotel when I first got here, actually. It was like, in the center of everything. Probably the Administrator’s way of helping me not get hopelessly lost,” I grinned. “So, wait. You travel, don’t you? Certainly you have tours and performances and whatever, all over Europe, right?”
VULPES
"This place can be confusing sometimes."
I sipped on the coke, watching the last of the ice dissolve into the liquid.
"I try not to travel too much, gotta keep up with school and stuff, but yeah. I did a couple of gigs in Italy earlier this year. And I played at a rock festival in Germany."
TWENTY
“I was in Italy, once, I’m told, but I was in the trunk of a car, so I guess it doesn’t count,” I grinned, flipping my menu open. “Or the boot. That’s what you call ‘em, right? Yeah, the boot.”
“Anyways, what’s Italy like when you’re actually there as a guest, rather than being dragged through it?”
VULPES
I glanced at the menu again, still unsure of what I was going to eat.
"Italy is a beautiful country. I would recommend the island of Capri if you're ever there under more favourable circumstances."
TWENTY
“Favorable circumstances, when working for Outcross? Puh-leez,” I returned to the menu. “Alright. How does England do pizza? Keep in mind I’m from Chicago, where we know how to do deep dish pizza, and I mean do it right.”
VULPES
"Well, you can't want to work for them forever. Maybe when we're done with them, we could go together?" I grinned, and met her gaze. "What suits your taste? They do a mean deep-dish pepperoni here."
Re: [OOC] Outcross: The Letter M
Posted a one-shot of sort, of Twenty wandering around London in her usual despondent, worried state. This time, an encounter from someone near home blossoms possibly into something offering comfort - but, of course, it is snatched away.
Re: [OOC] Non-Canon IC Drabbles
WILDCATS
(Twenty)
For a period of three full days or so, the airwaves were deathly silent. The last I had heard from the Administrator, I was told to sit tight. Someone was looking over M’s letters, and the DI assigned to the case were connecting dots as much as possible, but ultimately it meant that there was nothing for me to do. I got real lazy then. And I mean, epic lazy.
It was too late in the season for the outside pool, and the inside one was almost too warm, too bleachy, if that’s a word. I didn’t have enough pound coins to afford playing pool or paying for internet, so I amused myself by doing the two free things I could at the Marriott — watching TV, and eating.
The Marriott provided a host of interesting channels for its guests, along with buffet-styles meals. It got to the point where I would spend a whole night watching, I dunno German infomercials or strange British comedies, and then load up solely on plates of bacon and blueberries the following morning. I knew I had to get out of that hotel.
Problem was finding out where to go. All the major European cities start to look the same after a while. They’re old and busy and confusing and depending on the time of year, miserable to try and navigate. I’m sure I could have learned my way around London if I had sat down with a map and put my mind to it, but if I did that for every major city I’d ever been assigned to, I’d have a thousand public transportation networks all tangled together in my brain.
I usually did alright, I guess. I had an Oyster Pass for the rail, and the Administrator watching over me, so even if I did get lost, it wasn’t long before a humorless all-caps text got me back on the right track. At least the people around me spoke English, which made it drastically less of a nightmare to ask for directions, and much less bewildering to stand on a crowded street corner, and just feel swept away by all the noise.
When it came to deciding where to go in London, I guess I could have tried to get ahold of Deb, but pride made me turn to the stack of informative brochures by the Marriott’s check-in desk rather than him. Thinking myself some boundless maverick, I jotted down directions to some of the more tourist-friendly attractions in my area, preferring the idea of walking quietly through rather than being caught up with some sort of shouty guide. Soon, I left the Marriott wrapped in coat, scarf, passport tucked away, shoulder bag slung — intending fully to catch a bus and see Tower Bridge, but my general trepidation and uncertainty of my own hasty handwriting led me, I believe, to miss what I feel was the correct bus, and just begin walking towards the river.
There were people jogging, couples walking, school groups marching along the paved grass-side path. I was a fan of river walks, I guess, except it seemed like all the interesting things in the city were on the other side of the Thames. Oh well. It was still nice. I welcomed the relief from the rushing hiss of traffic, and if I walked at the right pace, the water looked like it wasn’t moving at all; instead, it was the world doing the turning.
I walked through a sort of river-side park with grass, wood chips, swings, and tiny modest bathrooms. A blot of color caught my eye. There was a young man sitting alone on a bench up ahead about a stone's throw from the largest slide, ankle crossed over his knee in a sweatshirt that looked suspiciously like Northwestern purple. Huh.
Northwestern University, of course, being one of the huge schools just to the north of Chicago, near the Gold Coast area. Ground zero was approaching fast, and I could have sworn it was indeed one of their school sweatshirts. He wore dark jeans to match, with bright white sneakers. I could only see the profile of his face, but he had thick curly black hair, and, I would have bet, a very nice smile.
Like any professional teenager, I went for my phone to do some spectacular pretend texting, flipping it open with a practiced swing, clicking aimlessly through contacts as I —
— Yes, it was a Northwestern sweatshirt. I saw the N splashed on the front, along with the Wildcats head. There was an awkward moment as I veered to the right, making a terrifyingly inelegant balance of pretending to have just caught sight of the man, and having been eyeballing him from about a hundred feet back.
“Hey!” I pointed, approaching, slipping my phone back in my pocket. He looked up — oh. I had his attention and I realized I had no plans on what to do with it. “I .. hi. I’m American,” like he couldn’t tell from the accent, dumbs! “Couldn’t help but notice your sweatshirt. Northwestern!” I pointed at myself with both thumbs, as though this gave me extra validity. “Go Wildcats!"
He stared blankly. I felt myself dying on the inside. "I’m from Chicago!”
“Oh! Yeah! Yes,” he touched his chest where the Wildcat was, as though remembering suddenly what he was wearing. "Awesome! I graduated there just this spring, actually .."
“Sorry, I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of stalker,” I said, not sorry, as I invited myself to sit down next to him. “But y’know. So far from home, I had to say something.”
“Right, right, definitely” he smiled at me the way that strangers smile at each other, but for some reason, it still felt a thousand times warmer than anything I had seen all week. “So where in Chicago are you from?”
“Kinda by Logan Square,” I made a vague gesture in the air. “I go to school around there. Well, I did. Now I’m here.”
“Cubs or Sox?”
“Cubs, baby."
“Damn straight," he nodded solemnly, awarding my mortification at calling him "baby" with a fist-bump. So. Are you, like, on vacation with family or something?”
Um. As he casually glanced around to see if there were any more people with me, I launched into one of my least developed skills — lying.
“No. I’m on .. I'm an, uh. Exchange. Student. At one of the schools here," I jerked a thumb over my shoulder in a general direction. "For a few months, yeah."
"Oh, neat,” he bobbed his head again. “How's that?"
"Lonely, boring .. ” oh my God he’s going to think you’re pathetic! “But really informative. Like, I’m learning things.”
“That’s cool!”
“All European cities start to look the same after a while, though.”
“Oh. So you travel a lot?”
“Yeah. I study abroad,” I lied quickly. Too quickly. Shut up.
“What are you studying?”
Okay. Slow down.Think about what you’re saying.
“Languages.”
I thought I’d get away with that one, but he said something jovially to me in French. I withered.
“Okay, look,” I glanced down at my feet. “I’m gonna be honest with you. I’ve just been feeling really homesick and just .. lame lately. Everyone I'm working with is just .. and seeing the Northwestern purple, and like, hearing someone talk like me, just, I dunno. I guess I needed it. Does that make sense?"
" .. Yeah," he said. And we sat. And that was all I needed.
“Jerr?”
I turned. I saw purple. An attractive woman in a matching Northwestern sweatshirt had strolled over. She had thick brown hair with blonde highlights, was prettier than me. My phone buzzed against my thigh.
“Hi!” she said to me in polite puzzlement. "Jerr" opened his mouth to introduce me to her, but I saw the glint of gold on their fingers, now, and I had already stood.
“I have to take this,” I said in a tone that surprised me. I reached for my phone and had it pulled out and open before I could even once look back.
Re: [OOC] Outcross: The Letter M
A note to Vyral - I had your character scoff a bit when Near mentioned Twenty's visions. Vy doesn't really buy this "abilities" stuff, which is realistic, given that his speciality is something based completely on realistic mental prowess.
-VV
-VV
Re: [OOC] Outcross: The Letter M
Hey, guys! Don't forget when you're posting Act II scenes 1-3 .. please make your "Location" the BBC Television Centre. I know it's easy to forget, so no big deal if you do forget, but just keep it in mind.
I'm excited to get this back off the ground again. Our outlining is in fantastic shape.
-VV
I'm excited to get this back off the ground again. Our outlining is in fantastic shape.
-VV
Re: [OOC] Non-Canon IC Drabbles
Posts written by Vyral, Script, and ViceVerses. As per the rules of the RP, they're all in first person, so I have announced which character is using which different style of font. The rest isn't marked, so use the initial few paragraphs as a guide.
It's still confusing as heck. I suppose this is more a log for posterity, rather than ease of reading.
Edited for matching tense, and so there is no overlap in action.
The Rose and Harp is a squat pub nestled amoung the maze-like streets of suburban London, a copper penny in a wishing fountain. Contrary to the name the pub smells slightly musty, with an overpowering odor of too-much-cheap-aftershave. The music, far from the enticing melodies of the harp is a collection of back-dated CD's ranging from the 70's until the modern age, most of which few people seem all that interested in. It is fair to say that the Rose and Harp is not a frequent stop for the young and rowdy, instead playing waystation to a generation of blue-collar workers.
It's for this reason (aside a few others, of course) that I've got this dour scowl on my face, back slumped against a wall while my friends chatter noisily, seemingly oblivious to my glaring - glares reflected by some of the establishments older clientele. CD (a name forced upon him, rather than chosen) is a lanky, ginger-haired whip of a boy with a a churlish, sarcastic attitude towards everything and everyone, and, irritatingly, pulls it off endearingly. CD is busy reciting the history of some band-or-another to Disco, a short kid with a mop of blonde hair that has grown unruly. Smartly dressed in jeans and a shirt he makes a stark contrast to my "city-kid" attire and CD's indie apparel.
I quick glance at his phone, aware of how dismally slow time can pass when you set your mind to disliking something. Twenty and Deb are already running late, and the trio of Navigators are seeping their way through their third pint of the evening. Then again, perhaps I should expect a flowery posh kid and a ditzy American chick to struggle finding the place. Hell, even I've never heard of it. The thought makes me scowl at an oblivious CD, who waves his arms frantically in the air, much to the annoyance of a near-by couple.
C'mon, London ..
I stood on the other side of the street, like a creeper, texting to look like I wasn't just staring. Was this place the Rose & Harp? Who knew. None of these smaller pubs were obviously named - not like in America where the title of an establishment was advertised in two-foot high neon letters.
.. Be a team player, yo.
I had lost Deb once we left the underground, but that was okay. He was probably hiding somewhere, just waiting for me to get mugged, or something. Well. At least here, I could be inside. And if it wasn't the Rose & Harp, I could ask for directions, after first trying to tone down my Midwestern whine.
I stumped up the front steps, fumbled with the door handle, and then stepped inside.
Dark. Everything was dark. Anyone inside would have seen a small, confused girl blinking a lot, and, as though on reflex, reaching for her phone. The mobil's bright screen messed up my vision even further. I could hear, smell, but not see.
Motion caught my eye. Someone was waving for me. Uncertain, yet trusting, I crossed the room. There were three of them; about my age, the third in the center doing the most scowling.
"Hey, Vy," I said, pushing hair out of my eyes. "Who're your friends?"
Once Twenty had disappeared in the crowd just outside the tube, I'd figured it would take anywhere up to an hour for her to get herself unlost. So of course, the gentlemanly thing to do would've been to go after.
Me? I detoured to pick up a bag of minstrels.
It wasn't like we were in a particularly bad part of London. She'll be fine, my mind said, further convinced by the addition of a mouthful of chocolate. And so when I finally turned up at the end of the street where the Rose & Harp lay, I was just in time to see Twenty tentatively wander inside.
Her uncertainty suggested she'd missed the artwork on the sign above the door, just about conveying something vaguely red and thorny perched over something that was probably harp-shaped at one point before wear and tear had turned it into a few gold splotches.
Stuffing the last of the chocolates into my bag, I sauntered up to the door and made my way inside just a few moments after Twenty. "Made it then?" I said cheerfully as I walked up behind her, flashing a grin and a wave to Vyral and his friends, "I was a little worried when I saw that bald guy with the weird tattoo following you with a camera-phone, but I figured you had it covered."
My jaw dropped. "Wh - rea - DEB!"
The last word was punched out loud enough to make other patrons stare. I didn't care, though. We both knew what had just happened. I turned back to Vy and his friends.
"Hi."
Smirking into the brim of my pint glass, I use my spare hand to gesture to a couple of empty seats as worn-looking as the pubs dubious sign. Before I can offer any names Deb appears from the dim backlighting of the pub and is greeted, sort of, by Twenty. I stick a finger into one ear, pulling a face of mock annoyance at her. CD and Disco simply grin lopsidedly in freakish unison at the two newcomers.
"Twenty, Deb, this is CD and Disco. Two fellas from when I was a Navigator."
"All right." They pair intone in unison, then grin and sink into muffled laughter. I roll my eyes, mirth quirked at one edge. The look of bewilderment plastered on Twenty's face couldn't make her look like more of a stranded tourist if she tried. Deb? Well, Deb was about as far in appearance from the pubs working-class patrons as he could get without being lynched.
"D'you two get a little lost on the way, huh?" I ask, straight-faced.
I gave another feeble wave to CD and Disco. All right? All right, what?
"Not lost. Just decided to walk .. slowly," I took the seat by Vyral. "Like, takin' it all in, I guess."
I unbuttoned my jacket to sit more comfortably, reaching up to tweak with the string of my passport protector; it was digging into my neck. Oh yeah. I was out of place.
"Looks like Deb had time to get himself something to eat," I scowled at his chocolates.
"What?" My words were slightly muffled by the minstrel I was halfway through chewing, and I hastily slid the bag away again like it were stolen goods. "I figured you'd be a while so I had time."
I grinned, "I had your back. From a few roads away." My coat and scarf were tossed haphazardly onto the back of a free chair on the other side of Twenty, and I sat with a relaxed sigh. "Anyway, bygones are bygones and all. Nice to meet the pair of you," I looked to Vyral's friends, "How's life, Vyral? You look really cheerful, let me guess - new shoes? Won the lottery? No! I got it, you found a penny!"
I snort laughter at Twenty.
"'Course. I'm sure that's how it went down."
I turn to Deb, who is half way through stuffing a plastic bag into his coat pocket. CD and Disco chuckle quietly to themselves and are only encouraged by the sharp glance they receive for their mockery.
"It's just the prospect of having to spend my evening with you that's draggin' down my spirits, Deb. That or the fact we'll probably have to drag your arse out of here when you fleece some bloke for his coppers," I snark, though it is half-hearted at best. I gesture to his slightly bulging coat pocket. "Aren't you going to share the love, mate?" I grin. "Besides, I'm sure the that is the least you owe Twenty." I glance at Twenty. "Ain't that right?"
"Sure."
What a perfect asshole.
"I have plenty of love for everyone, and some chocolate too if you're lucky!" I tease with a half-hearted wink, resignedly tossing the bag out onto the table. "The vultures may descend when they are ready."
"They look like flat Whoppers," I said absently, eyeing the pieces of candy.
Me? I'm not so disconcerted by the odd shape, and stretch over the table to swipe a few up.
"So, who are you guys finding sunny ol' London?" I ask, through a mouthful of minstrels.
"Not very sunny," I quipped, taking a piece of the chocolate and popping it into my mouth.
I think for a moment, before shrugging. "You know Revels, Vy? And how they all look pretty similar but if you eat the wrong one you want to spit it out but can't because you're in civilised company? That, but with different parts of London."
I looked from Deb to Vy, to CD to Disco. My mouth made a perfect "o" shape.
"Ha. Yeah, I get that." I pop another minstrel into my mouth absently. "Everything all right, Twenty?" I ask, bemused.
"Revels are more chocolate," I inform Twenty."They have random flavors, like coffee and orange. So if you eat the wrong one, it tastes nasty."
"Like those Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Thingies?" I said brightly.
"It's disappointing how frequently you manage to compare something in England to its counterpart in Harry Potter." I noted with a sigh.
"Wull - !" I flung out my hands, demonstratively, " - hey! It's either that, or, like, every public access made-for-TV movie about ponds, lakes, stairs, and people in bowler hats."
"Says the girl wearing a passport protector."
"Says the guy .. okay. I had something. Never mind."
"Stairs. Stairs are an England thing now? And lakes? Don't you have an entire area that's called 'the great lakes'?" I shared an amused glance with Vyral (or at least tried to).
"Yeah. They're big, and pretty, and full of freshwater," sitting in a crowded, dimly lit smelly pub an ocean away from home with people I didn't know who particularly didn't like me - far from cottages on lakes, from water skiing, from watching the sunset. It all hit me in a thunderclap. I was homesick. I hated all of this.
I took note of the drink in Vy's hand. "Oh, God. I can drink here."
"Technically I can't, but I find I can usually pass as eighteen. With a few choice words, at least," I said brightly.
"I bet. Did you pay for those?" I gestured at the bag of chocolates.
"Of course. What do you take me for, a total dickhead?" I paused. "Don't answer that."
Deb's comment got the first genuine laugh out of me all night. Hell, since arriving in England. It was one of those long, loud, freeing laughs and I felt much better after that. I loosened up. I leaned across Vy, and addressed DC and Disco.
"Bet you got some stories about this kid, huh?" I jerked a thumb in Vy's direction.
"Well, actually we do-"
"No. No, they don't. Not if they enjoy breathing," I warn, only half-joking. "As you know, I am flawless in every way. Hey. Anyways. Rather than being subjected to a drunk Twenty, do you guys fancy getting a train into the City? All this dim lighting is messing with my eyes. Besides, I can hardly see Deb's girlish good looks."
"And we can't have that!" I exclaimed, "I, fortunately, have finely honed the skill of ogling a handsome man even in the most adverse of visual conditions. Where did you have in mind?"
"Who uses words like that?" I swung back around to Deb.
"... uh, me?"
"You know you're just reinforcing your own stereotype, right?"
I folded my arms in a pout, "Well excuse me for having a vocabulary consisting of more than innumerable variations of '..huh?'" I jabbed.
I turned back to Vyral, done with Deb for now. "Yeah, sure, let's do something. Adventure is what I signed up for."
I shrugged at Deb. "Could show Twenty the London Dungeon?" I grin.
"Dungeon?" I slipped off the seat I was sitting on, buttoning my coat up against. "Let's go!"
"I'm not sure that would be morally justifi- Who am I kidding, let's go." Raising an eyebrow at Twenty's enthusiasm to get out of the dingy pub, I reached for my outer layers.
"Well, that was easier than I expected," I chime, tugging at the zip on my hoodie as I stand. "Try not to get lost this time, though, Twenty. I'm only letting you off the last time 'cause I didn't exactly, totally, er... pay."
"I'm all for seeing new things .. meeting new people. I mean, jeez. International flight, a few weeks out of classes, might as well make the best of it huh?"
There was the slightest hint of sarcasm in my voice. This kid was my contact Specialist in the city? He looked like the kind of kid who shrugged his way through everything, and got off on those pointed little comments.
"Oh, I won't get lost," I beamed with a severe sort of energy. I fell back from where Deb was, and wedged my arm (not caring if I met resistance) through Vyral's own. "See? You're escorting me now. Couldn't be simpler."
"And yet, if I did that, I'd get a slap. No justice in this world." I lamented melodramatically as I walked up level with the other two.
I stiffen slightly, but manage not to miss my step. "Well then, I guess we'd better be on our way, right?" I say. "So, what do you guys do when your not saving the world?" I ask.
"Go to classes. It's one of those big Universities where no one notices if you don't show up for like, a month or so at a time," I was in much better spirits now that I knew I was the one making Vyral uncomfortable. We stepped out of the bar and back into the street, and I was ten times more welcoming to London's ins and outs. "I'm a career insomniac, too."
"Oh, you know, a bit of this and a bit of that. I took tea with the Queen last month," I slipped the remark into the conversation casually, baiting Twenty as was one of my favourite hobbies.
My broiling frustration with being the butt-end of everyone's jokes finally armored me to a point where I could (arm-in-arm with Vy) glance over at Deb, and just give him a look. "No you didn't. I bet you don't even like tea."
I gave Vyral a mournfully pitiable look (that was, doubtless, entirely unpitied) as he ruined the setup. "You got me. I'm a failed Brit if there ever was one," I replied to Twenty.
[font=Arial]"Most of us are," I intone cynically. "Still, you've got us two to cheer you up. What could be better?"
"We've got two Navigators with us," I craned my neck, seeing if CD and Disco were still behind. "Why're we taking a train?"
"Just you?" I ventured, snorting, "No, that's harsh. Twenty makes good comic relief. And apparently a good armband," I observed, smirking at Twenty's limpet act.
I smirked back. "Can't lose me this way!"
"Would you want to drive with a me and you in the back?" I asked Twenty with a raised brow.
"That's .. probably .. not a good idea," a cab whisked past us, on the "wrong" side of the road.
It's still confusing as heck. I suppose this is more a log for posterity, rather than ease of reading.
Edited for matching tense, and so there is no overlap in action.
Vyral
The Rose and Harp is a squat pub nestled amoung the maze-like streets of suburban London, a copper penny in a wishing fountain. Contrary to the name the pub smells slightly musty, with an overpowering odor of too-much-cheap-aftershave. The music, far from the enticing melodies of the harp is a collection of back-dated CD's ranging from the 70's until the modern age, most of which few people seem all that interested in. It is fair to say that the Rose and Harp is not a frequent stop for the young and rowdy, instead playing waystation to a generation of blue-collar workers.
It's for this reason (aside a few others, of course) that I've got this dour scowl on my face, back slumped against a wall while my friends chatter noisily, seemingly oblivious to my glaring - glares reflected by some of the establishments older clientele. CD (a name forced upon him, rather than chosen) is a lanky, ginger-haired whip of a boy with a a churlish, sarcastic attitude towards everything and everyone, and, irritatingly, pulls it off endearingly. CD is busy reciting the history of some band-or-another to Disco, a short kid with a mop of blonde hair that has grown unruly. Smartly dressed in jeans and a shirt he makes a stark contrast to my "city-kid" attire and CD's indie apparel.
I quick glance at his phone, aware of how dismally slow time can pass when you set your mind to disliking something. Twenty and Deb are already running late, and the trio of Navigators are seeping their way through their third pint of the evening. Then again, perhaps I should expect a flowery posh kid and a ditzy American chick to struggle finding the place. Hell, even I've never heard of it. The thought makes me scowl at an oblivious CD, who waves his arms frantically in the air, much to the annoyance of a near-by couple.
Twenty
C'mon, London ..
I stood on the other side of the street, like a creeper, texting to look like I wasn't just staring. Was this place the Rose & Harp? Who knew. None of these smaller pubs were obviously named - not like in America where the title of an establishment was advertised in two-foot high neon letters.
.. Be a team player, yo.
I had lost Deb once we left the underground, but that was okay. He was probably hiding somewhere, just waiting for me to get mugged, or something. Well. At least here, I could be inside. And if it wasn't the Rose & Harp, I could ask for directions, after first trying to tone down my Midwestern whine.
I stumped up the front steps, fumbled with the door handle, and then stepped inside.
Dark. Everything was dark. Anyone inside would have seen a small, confused girl blinking a lot, and, as though on reflex, reaching for her phone. The mobil's bright screen messed up my vision even further. I could hear, smell, but not see.
Motion caught my eye. Someone was waving for me. Uncertain, yet trusting, I crossed the room. There were three of them; about my age, the third in the center doing the most scowling.
"Hey, Vy," I said, pushing hair out of my eyes. "Who're your friends?"
Debonair
Once Twenty had disappeared in the crowd just outside the tube, I'd figured it would take anywhere up to an hour for her to get herself unlost. So of course, the gentlemanly thing to do would've been to go after.
Me? I detoured to pick up a bag of minstrels.
It wasn't like we were in a particularly bad part of London. She'll be fine, my mind said, further convinced by the addition of a mouthful of chocolate. And so when I finally turned up at the end of the street where the Rose & Harp lay, I was just in time to see Twenty tentatively wander inside.
Her uncertainty suggested she'd missed the artwork on the sign above the door, just about conveying something vaguely red and thorny perched over something that was probably harp-shaped at one point before wear and tear had turned it into a few gold splotches.
Stuffing the last of the chocolates into my bag, I sauntered up to the door and made my way inside just a few moments after Twenty. "Made it then?" I said cheerfully as I walked up behind her, flashing a grin and a wave to Vyral and his friends, "I was a little worried when I saw that bald guy with the weird tattoo following you with a camera-phone, but I figured you had it covered."
Twenty
My jaw dropped. "Wh - rea - DEB!"
The last word was punched out loud enough to make other patrons stare. I didn't care, though. We both knew what had just happened. I turned back to Vy and his friends.
"Hi."
Vyral
Smirking into the brim of my pint glass, I use my spare hand to gesture to a couple of empty seats as worn-looking as the pubs dubious sign. Before I can offer any names Deb appears from the dim backlighting of the pub and is greeted, sort of, by Twenty. I stick a finger into one ear, pulling a face of mock annoyance at her. CD and Disco simply grin lopsidedly in freakish unison at the two newcomers.
"Twenty, Deb, this is CD and Disco. Two fellas from when I was a Navigator."
"All right." They pair intone in unison, then grin and sink into muffled laughter. I roll my eyes, mirth quirked at one edge. The look of bewilderment plastered on Twenty's face couldn't make her look like more of a stranded tourist if she tried. Deb? Well, Deb was about as far in appearance from the pubs working-class patrons as he could get without being lynched.
"D'you two get a little lost on the way, huh?" I ask, straight-faced.
Twenty
I gave another feeble wave to CD and Disco. All right? All right, what?
"Not lost. Just decided to walk .. slowly," I took the seat by Vyral. "Like, takin' it all in, I guess."
I unbuttoned my jacket to sit more comfortably, reaching up to tweak with the string of my passport protector; it was digging into my neck. Oh yeah. I was out of place.
"Looks like Deb had time to get himself something to eat," I scowled at his chocolates.
Debonair
"What?" My words were slightly muffled by the minstrel I was halfway through chewing, and I hastily slid the bag away again like it were stolen goods. "I figured you'd be a while so I had time."
I grinned, "I had your back. From a few roads away." My coat and scarf were tossed haphazardly onto the back of a free chair on the other side of Twenty, and I sat with a relaxed sigh. "Anyway, bygones are bygones and all. Nice to meet the pair of you," I looked to Vyral's friends, "How's life, Vyral? You look really cheerful, let me guess - new shoes? Won the lottery? No! I got it, you found a penny!"
Vyral
I snort laughter at Twenty.
"'Course. I'm sure that's how it went down."
I turn to Deb, who is half way through stuffing a plastic bag into his coat pocket. CD and Disco chuckle quietly to themselves and are only encouraged by the sharp glance they receive for their mockery.
"It's just the prospect of having to spend my evening with you that's draggin' down my spirits, Deb. That or the fact we'll probably have to drag your arse out of here when you fleece some bloke for his coppers," I snark, though it is half-hearted at best. I gesture to his slightly bulging coat pocket. "Aren't you going to share the love, mate?" I grin. "Besides, I'm sure the that is the least you owe Twenty." I glance at Twenty. "Ain't that right?"
Twenty
"Sure."
What a perfect asshole.
Debonair
"I have plenty of love for everyone, and some chocolate too if you're lucky!" I tease with a half-hearted wink, resignedly tossing the bag out onto the table. "The vultures may descend when they are ready."
Twenty
"They look like flat Whoppers," I said absently, eyeing the pieces of candy.
Vyral
Me? I'm not so disconcerted by the odd shape, and stretch over the table to swipe a few up.
"So, who are you guys finding sunny ol' London?" I ask, through a mouthful of minstrels.
Twenty
"Not very sunny," I quipped, taking a piece of the chocolate and popping it into my mouth.
Debonair
I think for a moment, before shrugging. "You know Revels, Vy? And how they all look pretty similar but if you eat the wrong one you want to spit it out but can't because you're in civilised company? That, but with different parts of London."
Twenty
I looked from Deb to Vy, to CD to Disco. My mouth made a perfect "o" shape.
Vyral
"Ha. Yeah, I get that." I pop another minstrel into my mouth absently. "Everything all right, Twenty?" I ask, bemused.
"Revels are more chocolate," I inform Twenty."They have random flavors, like coffee and orange. So if you eat the wrong one, it tastes nasty."
Twenty
"Like those Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Thingies?" I said brightly.
Debonair
"It's disappointing how frequently you manage to compare something in England to its counterpart in Harry Potter." I noted with a sigh.
Twenty
"Wull - !" I flung out my hands, demonstratively, " - hey! It's either that, or, like, every public access made-for-TV movie about ponds, lakes, stairs, and people in bowler hats."
Vyral
"Says the girl wearing a passport protector."
Twenty
"Says the guy .. okay. I had something. Never mind."
Debonair
"Stairs. Stairs are an England thing now? And lakes? Don't you have an entire area that's called 'the great lakes'?" I shared an amused glance with Vyral (or at least tried to).
Twenty
"Yeah. They're big, and pretty, and full of freshwater," sitting in a crowded, dimly lit smelly pub an ocean away from home with people I didn't know who particularly didn't like me - far from cottages on lakes, from water skiing, from watching the sunset. It all hit me in a thunderclap. I was homesick. I hated all of this.
I took note of the drink in Vy's hand. "Oh, God. I can drink here."
Debonair
"Technically I can't, but I find I can usually pass as eighteen. With a few choice words, at least," I said brightly.
Twenty
"I bet. Did you pay for those?" I gestured at the bag of chocolates.
Debonair
"Of course. What do you take me for, a total dickhead?" I paused. "Don't answer that."
Twenty
Deb's comment got the first genuine laugh out of me all night. Hell, since arriving in England. It was one of those long, loud, freeing laughs and I felt much better after that. I loosened up. I leaned across Vy, and addressed DC and Disco.
"Bet you got some stories about this kid, huh?" I jerked a thumb in Vy's direction.
Vyral
"Well, actually we do-"
"No. No, they don't. Not if they enjoy breathing," I warn, only half-joking. "As you know, I am flawless in every way. Hey. Anyways. Rather than being subjected to a drunk Twenty, do you guys fancy getting a train into the City? All this dim lighting is messing with my eyes. Besides, I can hardly see Deb's girlish good looks."
Debonair
"And we can't have that!" I exclaimed, "I, fortunately, have finely honed the skill of ogling a handsome man even in the most adverse of visual conditions. Where did you have in mind?"
Twenty
"Who uses words like that?" I swung back around to Deb.
Debonair
"... uh, me?"
Twenty
"You know you're just reinforcing your own stereotype, right?"
Debonair
I folded my arms in a pout, "Well excuse me for having a vocabulary consisting of more than innumerable variations of '..huh?'" I jabbed.
Twenty
I turned back to Vyral, done with Deb for now. "Yeah, sure, let's do something. Adventure is what I signed up for."
Vyral
I shrugged at Deb. "Could show Twenty the London Dungeon?" I grin.
Twenty
"Dungeon?" I slipped off the seat I was sitting on, buttoning my coat up against. "Let's go!"
Debonair
"I'm not sure that would be morally justifi- Who am I kidding, let's go." Raising an eyebrow at Twenty's enthusiasm to get out of the dingy pub, I reached for my outer layers.
Vyral
"Well, that was easier than I expected," I chime, tugging at the zip on my hoodie as I stand. "Try not to get lost this time, though, Twenty. I'm only letting you off the last time 'cause I didn't exactly, totally, er... pay."
Twenty
"I'm all for seeing new things .. meeting new people. I mean, jeez. International flight, a few weeks out of classes, might as well make the best of it huh?"
There was the slightest hint of sarcasm in my voice. This kid was my contact Specialist in the city? He looked like the kind of kid who shrugged his way through everything, and got off on those pointed little comments.
"Oh, I won't get lost," I beamed with a severe sort of energy. I fell back from where Deb was, and wedged my arm (not caring if I met resistance) through Vyral's own. "See? You're escorting me now. Couldn't be simpler."
Debonair
"And yet, if I did that, I'd get a slap. No justice in this world." I lamented melodramatically as I walked up level with the other two.
Vyral
I stiffen slightly, but manage not to miss my step. "Well then, I guess we'd better be on our way, right?" I say. "So, what do you guys do when your not saving the world?" I ask.
Twenty
"Go to classes. It's one of those big Universities where no one notices if you don't show up for like, a month or so at a time," I was in much better spirits now that I knew I was the one making Vyral uncomfortable. We stepped out of the bar and back into the street, and I was ten times more welcoming to London's ins and outs. "I'm a career insomniac, too."
Debonair
"Oh, you know, a bit of this and a bit of that. I took tea with the Queen last month," I slipped the remark into the conversation casually, baiting Twenty as was one of my favourite hobbies.
Twenty
My broiling frustration with being the butt-end of everyone's jokes finally armored me to a point where I could (arm-in-arm with Vy) glance over at Deb, and just give him a look. "No you didn't. I bet you don't even like tea."
Debonair
I gave Vyral a mournfully pitiable look (that was, doubtless, entirely unpitied) as he ruined the setup. "You got me. I'm a failed Brit if there ever was one," I replied to Twenty.
Vyral
[font=Arial]"Most of us are," I intone cynically. "Still, you've got us two to cheer you up. What could be better?"
Twenty
"We've got two Navigators with us," I craned my neck, seeing if CD and Disco were still behind. "Why're we taking a train?"
Vyral
"Just you?" I ventured, snorting, "No, that's harsh. Twenty makes good comic relief. And apparently a good armband," I observed, smirking at Twenty's limpet act.
Twenty
I smirked back. "Can't lose me this way!"
Debonair
"Would you want to drive with a me and you in the back?" I asked Twenty with a raised brow.
Twenty
"That's .. probably .. not a good idea," a cab whisked past us, on the "wrong" side of the road.
[OOC] Non-Canon IC Drabbles
The genius thing about Outcross is that the characters are based off of ourselves. This allows for organic, sharp-as-a-razor interaction that can play out separate from the main canon. Apart from that, it builds a greater sense of who we are through the prose, and is just a helluvalotta fun.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
[OOC] Outcross: The Letter M
This is the super sexy auto-generated OOC topic for the roleplay "Outcross: The Letter M"
Alright, guys and gals. Or, well, just guys. I'm the gal.
This might be the best place to discuss plot, random little vignette ideas and work out how coherently this thing is going to piece together -- because here's how it stands:
I don't know enough about London to make things happen.
I do have a plot in mind.
You guys know your characters, I know you both.
So what does that leave us with? A really odd sort of RP, right? It's going to be intensely collaborative at times, and just us off by our onesies at other times. So let's make it happen.
Because we are Outcross. :D
Alright, guys and gals. Or, well, just guys. I'm the gal.
This might be the best place to discuss plot, random little vignette ideas and work out how coherently this thing is going to piece together -- because here's how it stands:
I don't know enough about London to make things happen.
I do have a plot in mind.
You guys know your characters, I know you both.
So what does that leave us with? A really odd sort of RP, right? It's going to be intensely collaborative at times, and just us off by our onesies at other times. So let's make it happen.
Because we are Outcross. :D
