The answer, if there was one, would have to wait until later. My hand hovered gradually toward the grip of my side-arm; the moment of sleeve brushing against shirt, brushing against unit badge, brushing against insignia, brushing against wind, against air and against the grain and fabric of the imagined code of conduct and interaction - the thread which so seemlessly threaded through the city's underworld and, to an extent, its less savoury flavours and tastes. As notice was made and heed was taken toward the impending ineluctability of justice and enforcement of order, I - the pistol raised to point black, my life flashing not before my eyes but on the plastered wall behind the tall one with the bandana; play - park, crayons, pictures, racing tigers, crystal castles in the sky, first kiss - bang, no! It was not a bang, but a click, a warning shot fired across my broadside from this mammoth ship-of-the-line. A reminder that I was no longer on the sunny side of the fence - that the world, in its entirety did not work nor play according to the rules set by suits, shapes and semblances of conclusion; that even this sand-box of co-ordinated chaos and structured lawlessness was entirely of its own creation and entirely without incident.
Mayor Derren had all but auctioned the city to the wealthiest of bidders, merchants and mercenaries with badges - hawks to the field as vultures to their meal. This was not was simply a suburb, a marina, a docks, nor a district - it is was an empire built in less than a day - a ball-game encouraged ever onward by a crowd of cheer and Gregorian chant from a time before now and would, if care was not taken, be lost not to the barbarians at the walls, but to the soldiers within. Preservation. Preservation of life. Preservation of structure - of code - of morals - of ethics - of law... of law. My newspaper reported on, always and forever, on the absence of each. Not because of ineffectual crafts-man-ship, under-paid architects or twenty percent cuts on each and every construction bill to the local Venetians; but because each brick of the wall, each card of the house and each dependant protectorate was being melted to sand on a distant shore for one of a handful of city-halliers, smelted to gold for their accountants or left to rubble and ruin at the expense of a conveniently under-priced budget. The fact that these people seemed to find a comfort in ensuring this balance of 'just-so' and 'just-right' was not simply illegal, but wrong.
Mention made, once, upon my arrival from the handful of residents gathered around.
Where I arrived to was as run-down to the eye as it was to my nose and mouth: a horizon of the smell and taste of cigar smoke and caffeine lingering just outside the cafe. The place itself, emptied earlier that afternoon; amidst the faux-shock of the commandeering of its real-estate. Armed, maybe. Dangerous, not at all. Soon to be under arrest, definitely.
It was around 19:36 when I received the call. An all points bulletin request for an individual known to the authorities only as 'suspect', in addition, a known associate of the borderline - criminal group known as 'Rain Dogs'.
My response was intuitive, quick, practiced and rehearsed, almost to the point of being
instinctual. "Communications check; one... two" toward the microphone of my comm-piece, wrapped around my hair and head like the Ouroborus. The communicative loop of my check being answered in kind by the voice on the other end, its tongue as quick and as sharp with its wit as the mythological beast's, "Lethe protocol initialised."
... it was code, a metaphor requesting a confirmation of the operative's of... my identity; my response was intuitive, quick, practiced and rehearsed, almost to the point of being instinctual, "Ready with the book."
"Challenge authentication protocol verified. Please proceed with mission at your convenience. Communicative support on - hand."
It was now or later; and I preferred now. Never before had I or any of the others come across this individual, at least, not in their reports, at least not... 'officially'. My mission set, my objective clear; dispatch toward and follow the individual and, if necessary, retain for further questioning relating to activities within the San Paro area.
A homeless man sat by me this entire time and just as I set foot to take leave, looked up with an almost knowingly expectant expression. What he said next, I can hear still if I concentrate: a gruff voice clinging to a semblance of coherence on a life raft of cigars and cigarettes, set adrift and almost drowning amidst a sea of age - old, stale dry whiskey and bourbon...
"I'm not all that hungry, but I've always wondered... what do the rats eat?"
[Picture thanks to Yevgeny Resetnikov of Digital Breizh].
Last edited by Ecks on Mon Jul 05, 2010 9:23 pm; edited 2 times in total
