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Sir Edward Mitchell

Wh-where am I?

0 · 777 views · located in Incongruent Neighbourhood

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by XavierDantius32

Description

+++Interdepartmental Circular Level 9+++
+++Protected by Official Secrets Act+++
+++Origin: MoD ParaNorm+++
+++Dated: March 19th 2029+++


MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD


Sir Edward Mitchell, Director of ParaNorm research, Ministry of Defense.

Last seen: Sub-basement 12, MoD Whitehall.

Circumstances of disappearance: During testing of the Phase 3 Personal Relocation Device, nicknamed the Space Hopper. Upon taking up the device in question, Sir Edward activated it and vanished in what appeared to be a succession of lightning strikes, despite our position several hundred meters below ground.

Appearance at time disappearance: Sir Edward was as dishevelled as always, having just returned from a brief jaunt across the channel to intercept a group of cultists as part of Operation Angelus. His cropped brown hair was in disarray, blue eyes a-twinkle with anticipation. Unless it has been significantly altered by the device, his physique could be described as lean and wiry, deceptively strong and agile.

Clothing at time of disappearance: Sir Edward was dressed as he traditionally does, in a shabby grey-blue Armani suit, covered by a British Army surplus olive-drab greatcoat. He was wearing a pair of very battered black military-style boots.

Possessions at time of disappearance: One(1) pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, One(1) prototype PRD Mk3 (A small device about the size of a mobile phone, with a large red button on top, akin to the striker on a cigarette lighter. The centre portion of the device appears to be made of glass, and contains what could be described as a “storm in a bottle.”) One(1) Glock 31 Gen4 w/ extended barrel and holo-sight. Six(6) magazines of .357 magnum ammunition. One(1) gold-plated wristwatch. One(1) Marks and Spencer bath towel in blue-white check.

CIRCULATE, LOCATE, RECOVER





WANTED FOR QUESTIONING
WARNING: ARMED AND DANGEROUS


The picture on the poster depicts a typical hospital atrium, sparsely populated by patients and doctors. In the centre, a small girl pushes a heavily bandaged man across the chequerboard tiles, the strain visible on her pinched features. The man appears pale and haggard, patchy stubble sprouting from a once handsome jawline.

His visible hand seems to be missing several fingers, appearing oddly truncated beneath the swathe of bindings. A plaster breastplate covers his chest, speckled with aspirated blood.


BY ORDER OF THE NORTH PINES COUNTY SHERRIFS DEPARTMENT


Wanted in connection with a number of federal firearms charges and the possession of prohibited explosive devices. He may be travelling in the company of a girl between the ages of 16 and 18.

He may be travelling under the name Edward Mitchell. Although heavily wounded in a bear attack, he should be considered armed and dangerous. Sightings should be reported to your nearest police station by telephone on the non-emergency response number 101.

REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO CAPTURE: $10,000





SHOOT OUT IN DOCKSIDE MARKET
INTERIOR GUARD COMB THE CITY FOR MYSTERIOUS ASSASSIN


The newspaper is tattered and faded. Perhaps you saw it laying discarded on the curb, or fluttering on a dusty breeze. The front page is emblazoned with sepia-washed pictures, each one highlighting some aspect of a gruesome display. A burned out customs house dominates one, the bodies of dispatched guardsmen littering the ground outside it. Another shows blood-flecked passers-by, cowering among a sea of shattered glass. The final picture is an artist's impression of a man. Flint-hard eyes glare out of a scarred, waspish face. The once-handsome lines of nose and cheek are jagged and broken. Dark stubble covers his shaven crown, patchy stubble covering his jawline.

TERRORISTS SLAUGHTER INNOCENTS IN SENSELESS ATTACK


Not hours ago, a group of vicious murderers massacred their way through dockside. It seems that there were at least two different groups, one led by the man depicted above. Eye-witness reports confirm that he killed several of our heroic interior guard in cold blood, and triggered the explosion that decimated the market square. It is the duty of every loyal citizen to aid the guard in the apprehension of this violent terrorist. Any sightings should be reported to your nearest station.

So begins...

Sir Edward Mitchell's Story

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell
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The Yanks had never quite got the hang of making tea, Edward mused to himself. Probably stemmed from their intense dislike of its stereotypical consumers. The British. The brown, vaguely milky liquid sloshing in the cracked china before him was passable, but it definitely wasn't Earl Grey. He raised the cup to his lip and took a tenitive sip.

He reflected on how he'd arrived in this place. Must've been the space hopper, the small device resting on the table beside the cup. Through the translucent portion of the grip, lightning flickered and coruscated like a bottled thunder storm. "What did we stumble upon, eh?" He muttered to himself, glancing at the pretty waitress shuffling between the tables.

Ah well, he had tea and biscuits. What more could an Englishman ask for?

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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#, as written by Guest
The bright lights had come.

Odd, then, that they didn't see it. Not odd. Forever seeing things aren't there. Ignore it. Hide it... Hide! The whisper at her shoulder came as softly as a breath, but the pale face did not turn to see it. Others stared when she did, and she knew better. Instead she keeps her head down, hair drifting forwards over a face scrupulously studying the floor. She shifts past the other patrons of the cafe, stilling her own fingers- digits that itched to snatch one decadent biscuit from the plate of a gentleman too involved in watching the staff. A voice by her ear giggled, breathy and anxious, and she ignored that too.

She gave them nothing to look at. Nothing to see, just a slip of a girl, a woman, nondescript and clothed as much in grime as she was in cloth. It is a pair of crumpled bills that speak for her, pushed across the table that soon bares not only her weight, but the small, odd collection of belongings that tumbles forth from her pocket. Hair pins and a small doll, two elastic bands and a paperclip, half a chewed pencil... the list went on as she searched, filling the air around her with soft clicking noises as more debris followed, until her hand closed on her prize, something cradled tight in the palm of her hand... only then does she look up again, taking notice once more of those who surround her. Waitress. Man. Couple. Woman. She counts them all as she waits for the woman's return. Coffee. "Please" She adds under her breath, a mark of courtesy, an admittance of a life past, where words of kindness were as much a form of barter as the paper she now hoarded. "Please."

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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Edward eased back in his seat, propping his out-sized military boots up on the steel tabletop, the back legs of the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He picked up the china cup between thumb and forefinger, treating it as if it were the Queen's own china. He craned his neck back and glanced up at the streaks of fire tearing up the pale evening sky. Where had the device dumped him this time? What in the world was going on?

Running a hand through his shock of dark hair, he took another look around the tables. The waif idly wandering between the tables caught his eye. Everyone in this part of the city had been well-dressed. Business or military. The homeless here were clearly nocturnal, or shoved into dark alleyways and derelict buildings. Much like London then, he surmised.

This girl was different somehow. There was something beyond the disheveled appearance. A nervousness. Fear, perhaps? Deciding to settle the matter, he scooped up his last biscuit and slipped away from the table. Brushing crumbs from the tattered green coat, he approached her table, biscuit held before him. "Biscuit?" He asked jovially.

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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#, as written by Guest
The first sound of combat boots moving towards her causes a shock of alarm to rip through her body, an almost physical streak of electricity that runs from the base of her skull, to her stomach, and back. By the time the gentleman in question has reached her table, one hand is in the baggy, malformed pocket of the overcoat brown overcoat that hangs loosely from her frame. Fingers clasp something sturdy and strong. A reassuring texture beneath her finger tips as the flip-knife slides almost lovingly into her palm. To the thigh. a voice whispers Has done the same. Will again. Blood on him. The last comment causes an almost indistinguishable twitch, and for a moment she honestly considers it. She can feel the strength of her arm, the kiss of air against her wrist as she draws it forth, the warmth of another's lifeblood...

But she sits frozen, and the moment passes. The man does not flounder, grasping at his own wound. Not in this moment, not at this time, and as she looks at the biscuit as though it is some alien coinage, she unwraps her hand from the calming metal. Traveller. the other voice whispers, and she can almost see a shimmer, a disturbance on the edge of perception behind him. Clean. She licks her lips, and reaches within to find her voice, rusty from lack of use. "Yes." The hand that had cradled her weapon slips free, and opens itself to the sky, ready to accept, but her eyes are far from vacant. She watches. And waits. And does not trust for one moment, not even one. Another whisper raises the hair on the back of her neck, and she says; "Not from here."

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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He saw the twitch. He'd spent years of his life in impossibly dangerous places, where a threat could come from any angle, even one as small and innocent as this child. He braced for the strike, ready to react with an inordinate amount of force. That's how they'd trained him. If you're attacked, respond with as much force as you can muster to end the threat as soon as possible.

But the blow never came, and he dropped the biscuit into her open hand. He flashed her his best smile, a broad curve of glittering teeth, polished to defy every stereotype about the British and their teeth. "You're right, I'm not from here." He tapped the Union Jack patch sown into the sleeve of his coat.

"I find myself stranded on the wrong side of the pond. Thousands of miles from a good cup of tea."

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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#, as written by Guest
The moment the biscuit has landed in her hand, it is gone, stuffed wholesale into her mouth and swallowed within moments, as though afraid that he would demand the morsel back. She looks him over with more care, now, the shimmering shifting on the edge of her vision before she tenses suddenly, her eyes growing wide, before narrowing sharply. "Metal." She half murmurs it, but it drives her to action, however small. Feet clad in battered, mismatched trainers push against the clean floor of the cafe, pushing her back into her seat. "Don't like them."

It takes a moment, and a moment of clarity from the whisper by her ear to remind her that one such as this may not know what she... knows. She licks her lips again, glancing over at the waitress who was beginning to regard her with the distaste she had grown used to. "Gun." The word barely has enough strength to reach her own ears, but her eyes flicker over his body. She had not seen it. Could not see it. And yet the word sat against her ear, assuring her that he represented that level of a threat. Her toes dig in once more, as though it could drive her spine into the padded seat behind her, or, better yet, into the wall behind that. "I see you. Gun."

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She was a perceptive little scamp, he'd give her that. He stretched out and grabbed the cup and saucer, along with the mysterious device with its silver plated casing and the constant dance of light and shadow within the vessel. Setting them both down on the table in front of the girl, Edward settled into the chair opposite her as he smoothed down the tails of his coat.

"You don't miss much, do you?" He said with another smile. He wasn't sure how she'd got a look at the long-barreled firearm tucked securely under his arm. Edward was always careful to keep it out of sight. Living within the strictures of British law had taught him how incredibly boorish people could be about brandished firearms.

With a furtive glance, he pulled the weapon from his coat, setting it down on the table beside his tea. "See, it's here. I'm not going to hurt you."

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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As small as she was, it would be easy to mistake Aislynn for the child she appeared to be. Slight and frail, she nonetheless regarded the firearm with a measure of recognition, a frown forming on her features. "Not allowed. Queen and country." Whatever explanation she was about to offer was soon cut short, however, as the waitress wandered over, a hot coffee in a paper cup set on the table before the young woman. It draws a wide path through the paraphernalia that cluttered the otherwise spotless table, but for the moment she did not care.

As warm and bitter as the liquid was, it did little to take her eyes from the stranger before her and instead it gives her time to think, her head cocking slightly to one side as she puts the cup down, her gaze flicking to his right, and then, as though directed, to the silver case he'd placed upon the table. Another place. The voice whispered, it's usual anxiety tempered with an almost burning curiosity. Not home... not any home. She shifted one hand, unwinding cool fingertips from the cup, only to snap it back as though burned as that selfsame voice almost shrieks NOT TO BE TOUCHED! It startles her enough to leave her breathless, and it takes a moment before she can ask; "Not from here either..." her head nodding towards the device in emphasis.

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Queen and country raised another smile and the beginnings of a laugh, spilling from Edward's expressive face his eyes shining in the pale evening sun. "Wouldn't be a Queen or a country without it." He tapped the grip of the handgun, pushing it aside as he picked up the tea cup which had cooled to an almost unpalatable level, the watery brew worsened by the temperature.

As she drank, he took the opportunity to properly watch her. The flinching and nervous ticks, as if something was sat behind her ear, whispering away. Whatever it was, they didn't seem to get along. Edward watched her gaze drop on the device, and he reached out on reflex, drawing it towards him.

"Well, I guess you could say that." His long, well-manicured fingers drummed on the device, careful not to disturb the hinged metal catch that covered the top. "I got a little bit... displaced..."

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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#, as written by Guest
She heard him. Heard words... displaced, and stilled, green eyes looking intently out of a face that might have been pale beneath the general level of grime and grit. Her lips echoed the word as she digested it, before she shook her head, slowly and only once, her eyes remaining locked even as she did so. "Misplaced. Put down." A ghost of a smile touched the corner of her lips as she adds; "Toy soldiers", though the comment appeared to be aimed more at herself, at her own mind, than the man sat across from her.

There was silence around her for a moment, the whispers seemed to be almost entirely locked upon the flickering machine that he'd revealed, which, in truth, suited Aislynn entirely. "Got lost once." She comments, almost idly, nodding slightly as a whisper half-adds that she was still lost. Or found. The comment drains some colour from her features, and she looks at him from behind a curtain of her dark hair before she dares ask; "Why did you come?" Anxiety begins to knot itself tight in her belly, and almost reflexivly she counts the patrons in the cafe again, just in case. But they remain, the couple, the lady, the waitress... no suits, but his. No wandering eyes. Still... she shivers.

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She was a curious enigma. Was it ESP? Edward thought, recalling the hundreds of accounts he'd read in the dingy Whitehall sub-basement, the thousands of interview tapes he'd watched of wrinked gypsy psychics, magicians and druids and simple confidence tricksters. Most of it was bollocks, designed to take in the stupid. But sometimes, you'd turn up someone with genuine ESP. Something that niggled on the periphery of their mind. A supernatural sense of danger, of wrongness in the world. Those people often ended up working for the ParaNorm department. They made the best spies.

The toy soldier remark conjoured another chuckle, his fingers still drumming on the small device. "Not the first time someone's called me that. Last time was some sergeant in the SAS. I think he passed last year..." His voice trailed off as the introspection snagged him like a fishing hook in the undertow, pulling him down into a swamp of memory.

Her second question pulled him clear, shaking his head and tousling his mop of hair. "I didn't choose. It doesn't let us choose. Just a click and zap, you're somewhere else.

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#, as written by Guest
His commentary about one passed brings a slight frown to her features and for a moment she leans as though attempting to see around him before ignoring whatever it was that had drawn her attention. His last statement brings her attention back to focus upon him entirely, however and she frowns slightly as though she had not considered that there might be one tossed so haphazardly into the world.

She leans forward and takes a closer look at the thing, keeping her hands entirely clear as she does so, partly for fear of his reaction, but partly for the fear of her shrieking rebuke she'd receive if she put her fingers towards it again. She looks back at him eventually, reaching back for her coffee as she does so. It takes some time, and her gaze flicks towards her right as she listens... her voice, when it comes, is halting and nervous. "Not to be played with." A frown ghosts across her features, and settles there, deepening the lines on her forehead as it does so. "Why. If it doesn't know where to go?"

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He frowned. Faint lines drawn across his pale face deepened, his nose crinkling and disturbing the wire-rimmed spectacles that were quickly replaced with a reflex. To tell the truth, he didn't know himself. He'd only pressed the damn thing because he was incredibly impatient with the project. He had no time for the safety procedures the modern world threw in his way. He would have done better in Bletchley, however many hundreds of years ago it was now.

"I don't rightly know, that was the job of the boffins in the underground. Call it God or quantum mechanics, whatever takes your fancy. The reality is that when you press the button, it scoops you up like a tornado and spits you out somewhere else. Might not even be the same universe as the one you were in before."

He paused for breath, taking the final sip from the cracked teacup, setting it down on the saucer and pushing it to one side, with the menacing frame of his handgun.

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#, as written by Guest
She tenses as the teacup touches the edge of the handgun, letting forth that light rattle that announced the meeting of china and mettle. When he doesn't move to collect it, however, she relaxes slowly as she tries to collect the scattered pieces of her own mind, the memories that she had put out to pasture so long ago. Whatever memory it was however is drowned, lost in a sea of confusion and she blinks, bringing herself back to the current moment.

"The sky is falling." The words escape her mouth without her conscious thought, and they seem to surprise her as she hears them out loud in the air. She turns, keeping her coffee in hand and heads to the door of the cafe, pretending not to notice the flicker of relief on the face of the waitress as she does so. She looks back at him, returning to the seat and dropping herself back into her chair. "Did you see it?" Her teeth chew anxiously at her bottom lip... if she had seen it... if he had not. That was worse. Much worse. "It brought you to the day the sky is falling."

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He looked out the window again, the plate glass etched with the name of the establishment and a stylized cup of coffee, wisps of steam rising from the liquid. Beyond the glass, tendrils of flame licked at the sky, the burning wreckage of some massive battle held in orbit, tumbling aimlessly towards the surface. It did look as if the sky was falling.

He pushed his glasses back up his nose, he picked up the handgun and slipped it back inside his coat. His long fingers curled around the device, idly flicking up the cap to reveal the nondescript button set in a silver ring. He smiled at her again, settling back against the upholstery of his seat as his eyes met hers.

"I see the sky falling." It was troubling. Wherever he was now, some force possessed the power to wage war among the stars, and cause enough devastation to put an entire world in danger. What was this place? "Maybe I've got some purpose here. Maybe something chose me."

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#, as written by Guest
His words seemed to put some confusion back into her brain, and she sits silent for a long moment, slowly twirling the cup of coffee backwards and forwards across the surface. Slowly her fingers reach to the debris on the other table, picking them up one at a time as she thinks over not only what seemed to be occurring, but the entirety of his statement. "Fate, he means." She glances absently to the empty seat to her left and she does so with the utter conviction of one so sees someone there. She glances back to him them, his suit and wire glasses, as out of space as she is.

"You mean fate. Destiny. Yes?" She is directing it at him then, twisting to turn her back to the window and the world that seemed to be ending around her. It had been so long, the world had been so strange... why should it worry her now? Stupid, stupid to be afraid. Dead for longer... when they find her. She ignores the whispers, setting her jaw stubbornly as she does so. Now is not the time. She half glances over her shoulder before asking. "What would you do? With fate?"

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There it was. The ESP. Whatever form it took, it was always there gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. A distinct and separate personality revealing what her eyes couldn't see. He was sure she'd been marked out as a lunatic for most of her life, cast out for having such a wonderful gift. Or curse, Edward reminded himself. In many of the testimonies he'd seen, the gifted had been driven out of their minds by the whispers, unable to distinguish the supernatural from reality.

"What would I do with fate?" He replied, almost rhetorically. "Fate terrifies me. I hate the idea that my path has been defined before I've even taken a step." He looked down at the device in his hand, realization breaking over him like a relentless sea. He rested his hand in the middle of the table, flipping up the catch.

"But here--" His thumb hovered over the button, his other reaching out for hers. "--we can kill fate. This is truly unpredictable. An escape from whatever we're running from..."

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#, as written by Guest
For a moment, she seems to be thinking along the same terms, but his outstreched hand is met with a flinch and she turns her attention almost obsessively to the pieces of apparent junk that now, she overs over, her hands flickering from one item to the next before dropping it back into the drooping pockets of the dirty overcoat. She looks back towards him eventually, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Think to run." She nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Smart. But..." Coward. The whispers cut through her thought process cleanly, but for once she agrees.

"Not right. Not without..." She shivers. Without what? Knows nothing. Does nothing. Runs. She shivers, folding her arms across her chest. "Run with you? Don't know you."

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He smiled and pulled his hands back, folding them in his lap leaving the device standing in the centre of the table. It had been a bold move. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to risk using the device again. What if it dropped them off on a sun? Or a vacuum? Or more pertinently, a war zone. Edward wasn't one for risk management. He led by example, forging onward into danger whilst lesser men hid behind walls and armoured vehicles. If his life was snuffed out whilst bringing peace to this troubled girl, so be it.

His glasses had slid down his angular nose, magnifying her eyes in the round lenses. "Whatever's after you, I promise that they'll never catch you after this." He reached inside his coat, brushing his fingertips against the grip of the pistol, the gesture almost superstitious in nature.

"You don't know me?" His face took a solemn aspect, the lines on his forehead deepening. "I swore an oath to protect and serve. To fight against the darkness beyond the fragile walls of our world. It is my duty to keep you safe..."

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#, as written by Guest
Laughter, bitter and cruel, ripped through her mind as he swore her protection. It fought her, refusing to fade away into nothing and instead eating at the corners of her self esteem, her self respect, like hungry fish shown bait. The barrage hunched her shoulders, and knees drew up, pushing back the grungy folds of overcoat to reveal jeans that were now grey with age and use, worn and frayed and hanging around legs too slender for their cut. She folds her arms across her knees, binding them to her, and waits for it to stop.

When, at last, it seems the voices have had their fun, that their bitter humour has run short, she looks at him through flat, green eyes. "But don't know me." Best that way. Use it on you if he did. She shivers at the thought, feeling the accumulative weight of all of her nick-nacks and trinkets in her pockets, weighing her down, keeping her here. She takes another deep breath before considering his words; "Not me. For Queen and Country. Not your Queen. Not of your country." Her arms tighten a moment. "Don't owe me."

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A frown flickered across Edward's face, a momentary lapse in the genial mask he'd been holding since the girl began to curl up. He wasn't a psychiatrist, he had a working knowledge of interrogation and information recovery techniques, but nothing remotely productive or positive. Whatever was tormenting this girl, he had no weapon in his arsenal to help remove it.

"For all I know, my Queen and country might not exist in this place." He grimaced, brushing his fingertips against the Union Jack on his sleeve as if it were a religious totem. "It's unlikely I'll ever make it back home, but I can still serve my Queen by serving others."

It was if someone had rekindled a fire in the spry serviceman. A renewal of purpose. With a light in his eyes, he stretched out his hand towards the frail girl. "We don't have to use it--" he nodded towards the diminutive device. "--If there's anything I can do to make things right, I'll try my damnedest to see it through."

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#, as written by Guest
It takes an almost visible effort to loosen one of her hands from the death-grip it was holding on her knees as she regarded the man before her. There was an ache, deep within, one even the shrieking of the whispers could not erase or bury. Something within her chest twisted, squeezed, at the simple offering of his hand, his trust. It made her breath come harder, forcing it through a throat closed with emotion. One hand does free itself, the fingertips of her right hand resting, for a moment, on the fingers of his offered hand. It is not full agreement, or full trust. It cannot be. He doesnt know it hisses behind her, and she can do little more than agree.

She remains as she is for a moment before working to collect her thoughts, but finds nothing. She can hear other whispers, cries from outside the cafe, and at the corner of her eyes she sees a shimmer collected in the doorway. They should not go outside. Not yet. So instead, she asks what should have been clear in the beginning. "Do you have a name? Easier to know someone by name."

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The assent however small it was, mattered. Something was getting through to her at least. Through whatever storm raged around her. Through the light brush of her fingertips against his, he got a sense of her frailty and the massive battle of wills she must be waging against whatever tormented her. If a human agency was responsible for this, they had a lot to answer for. That thought made Edward smile. It'd been a while since he'd fired a shot in anger.

Drawing his hand back, he reset his spectacles upon his nose and cracked his knuckles. A bluff smile flickered across his face as she asked his name. "Sir Edward Mitchell of St Michael and St George at your service madam." He affected a half-bow from the chair, his coat falling open to reveal the dirty grey suit and the fraying holster belt supporting his handgun.

"Might I have the pleasure of your name, m'lady?" The loquaciousness of his tone was common of everyone in his line of work, an excessive degree of politeness which reassured the unwary and often immobilized the aggressive.

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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#, as written by Guest
She mouthed his name moments after he had let it slip onto the air, tasting it as though it was some new, unknown food arrived at the tip of her tongue. Ignoring his question for a moment she frowns, and mouths it again, before her eyes narrow slightly in suspicion which, despite herself, carries the vaguest traces of amusement. "Can't be of two Saints. Only one, a person of one place." Even as she says it, however, the whisper that carries less malice is edging closer to her ear, reminding her that she of all people should understand. She of the many places. Of no places at all.

"Aislynn." She says, then, letting a name spill into the air between them that she has not heard spoken in... she is uncertain how long. Time, memory, slide from her sometimes. Leave her grasping at whispers of cognitive smoke and trying her hardest to remember what the fire looked like, where it was, and if she was running to... or from it. Sensing her thoughts unwinding the hand around her knee curls, driving fingers into the delicate skin at the side of her kneecap, finding flesh easily through the ripped and worn jeans that do their best to protect the package within.

The blossoming of pain, however mild, brings her thoughts back into line and she is able to think, again, breathe again. "Food first." She says, a rare moment of decision entering her voice. If he is to be as trusted as he says, he can devote the energy to watching her back, the door, the windows, the others, the couple on the other side, the woman with her book... he can watch them, and perhaps she can, just this once, eat without fear.

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Character Portrait: Sir Edward Mitchell Character Portrait: Aislynn DeSange
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Aislynn. He repeated it to himself. Uncommon, unusual. Like everything about the girl before him, he thought to himself. "A pretty name." He declared to her, letting another smile roll across his face. The picture of reassurance.

Nodding to her, he got to his feet and crossed lightly to the waitress hovering near the cafe's tacky plastic counter top with as she looked with disgust at the frail urchin. "'scuse me ma'am." The picture of politeness, Edward slipped a hand into one of the many pockets of his coat, raising a rattle from loose change and ammunition as he pulled out a battered black wallet. Inside were a few tattered photographs and a roll of large denomination bills.

"Give the girl whatever she wants. This should cover it." He pulled out a couple of the bills and slipped them into the waitress's apron pocket. As he turned, he glanced back at the woman. "And--" He made this seem like an after thought, a trivial matter compared to the food he had just secured. "--Point that security camera somewhere else. We were never here." The last words were delivered in a hushed whisper as his momentum carried him back to the table.

"Everything alright, Aislynn?" He inquired with a genial smile as he dropped back into his seat.