Every Little Thing

[Muirgen]

Imogen did not understand at all, why the Captain seemed so suddenly willing to forget all about sending her off to see to Alisdair, much less forgiving of her presence when he'd ordered her off already! But the moment he took Malcolm's hand, the Captain seemed to become almost... Amiable. If she did not know so much better, she might very well have agreed with him, that the Captain 'doesn't seem so bad.'

She watched curiously, this strange, miniscule dance of the near-imperceptible, all hanging on a hair's breadth in a single handshake. Imogen could not help but wonder if the Captain felt the callouses on Malcolm's hand as she had, and in return? What was it that Malcolm felt in the Captain's grip? She had never touched the Captain's hand with her own - what must that feel like? What callouses and sweating lines, what heat or anemic cold was in the Captain's palm?

Malcolm knew.

Somehow, some way, Malcolm knew. She could see it. Imogen knew Malcolm, and though she did not understand, she could see there was an... Exchange. Something happening between the two men on a level she simply could not see, even with her preternaturally powerful eyesight. And when the men parted ways, her grey-eyed gaze followed after the Captain for some moments, wondering what in the world she had just witnessed. How intriguing, her new friend Malcolm was! He was kind, and unafraid to speak with her, and he shared music with her as well! Imogen smiled sweetly as she turned to Malcolm, who seemed so positively at ease.

"I must tend to Alisdair this morning. He is not... Not feeling well." This was truth, though not all of it of course. All the truth, she could not tell; Alisdair's orders forbade her. If Malcolm pressed her further, she must lapse into silence whether she would or no. She hoped he would not press - Imogen had no wish to not speak with Malcolm, and so she continued on blithely.

"After he feels well again, he may or may not wish me to attend meetings with him today, though this day I think not. The future Duchess will be arriving this afternoon, and he often leaves me aside when she visits. If he does not give me orders otherwise, I should have a night free to myself." Imogen hoped dearly that Alisdair would leave her no orders - surely she could see about a dinner for Malcolm, if she did not! Malcolm, her strange, mysterious - and only - friend...

"What did you do to the Captain, Malcolm?" There was absolutely no note of accusation or anger in the tone of her voice. And despite the ratcheting of the pain receptors in her head to the point her entire body began to tremble almost imperceptibly, there was nothing else of note in her voice but the uncomplicated and curious innocence of a child. Imogen had absolutely no idea a droplet of blood had begun to form and fall, ever-so-slowly, from her nose.

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm listened closely to the woman's words, his tired smile not leaving his face for a moment. "I imagine so, he's a busy man and you two had a busy night, I'm sure." Then she said something that physically caused him to frown and gaze at her with curiosity. "The... future duchess?" He asked, rubbing the back of his neck. I swear to God... why is so much intel missing from this job? Last time I take a client on some random recommendation... He thought, chiding his poor choice of job. "Forgive me for my ignorance, but... I hadn't realized he was to-be-wed yet," Malcolm explained, slipping his glove over his hand once more. "What good news, I suppose." He wondered, though, what would happen to Imogen if Alisdair were to marry somebody... would the relationship be more open? Or would Imogen be turned into a common house servant? Evicted? "I agree, though; it would be rather nice for a day off. I'm sure His Grace keeps you quite busy."

Before he could voice a legitimate question about the future duchess, Imogen managed to beat him to the punch. This girl didn't miss a damned thing... But Malcolm was a practiced liar. "I simply like to be around people. As you've noticed, people warm up to me quite easily. Giving respect trades off well with receiving it, so long as you don't degrade or shame yourself in doing so. People are simpler than they like to think, I'm no exception," He observed with half-honesty. It was true, he was far from a complex man, he was just one with many secrets, one which hid behind the clouds of lies and deception required of him since his early youth. "So I guess I just charmed him... You know, a good magician never really reveals his secrets," He pointed out dismissively.

Something about her suddenly seemed off, but he couldn't place it. He was so unfocused that he couldn't tell she was trembling so slightly. However, what he didn't miss was the blood droplet forming at her nostril. He supposed that information on the young duchess-to-be would have to wait. "Imogen, are you okay?" He asked, leaning in to get a closer look at her face, "You're bleeding. Do you need to lie down?" The man questioned as he ran through options.

After she answered, he would help in whatever way she would allow, but before they left, or arrived at Alisdair's room for that matter, he had to learn at least a little bit. "So, what's the future duchess like? Is the marriage arranged, or do they have some kind of... history?" He asked curiously, seeming to make small talk rather than pry into the business of the house.

 

[Muirgen]

Any other woman in the world might have noted and taken umbrage with Malcolm's use of the word 'busy' in so many different contexts. The implication that she and Alisdair had a 'busy night,' he was sure; or that His Grace 'kept her busy,' would likely be taken in the worst - or at least the most lewd - possible way by most ladies. Imogen though, being only a few months old yet in this strange human world, might never acquire the sense of cynicism and pride such a connection in the language might make in the mind of a true woman born.

One thing she did note though, was that her new friend lied to her - or at least went far out of his way to avoid telling her the truth. The inflections of sarcasm and cruelty in the human language might be beyond her, but Imogen was programmed to read Alisdair's every least gesture with the most exquisite care. And now by her own choice, she had begun the cataloguing and archiving of the Archivist, whether he would or no. So yes, that he avoided telling her the truth of what he had done to the Captain was the kinder interpretation of a lie, and what Imogen quite deliberately chose to believe of her new and precious friend. That did not lessen her new and sudden distress. He had a secret then, he did not wish to tell her. Imogen's head tilted slowly, pale grey eyes scrutinizing Malcolm's face for several long, silent moments.

He did not trust her with his secret? Oddly enough, that knowledge sent a surge of agony through her head that made the nauseating, near crippling pain of her continued and deliberate disobedience seem a dim, dull discomfort. Something tickled at the corners of her pale grey eyes. Small beads of waters formed, coalesced and fell unhindered down her cheeks, just as Malcolm told her she was bleeding.

From her eyes!? That was the first drips she felt after all, her fingers hastily reaching for her eyes, obviously surprised and unsure of what was happening, perplexed at why there was water on her fingertips. The true blood finally tickled the sensitive top of her lip and, just as shocked, her fingertips pulling back shining and scarlet red.

"I have to get to Alisdair," she said in all honesty to his question of concern, turning on her heel swiftly. It seemed that Malcolm would follow her though, asking his questions about the future Duchess of Argyll. Even as Imogen swiped at her nose with the back of her sweater sleeve, she could no more resist answering Malcolm's questions than she could Alisdair's orders.

"Her name is Lady Jane Wyeth, the only daughter of Lord Morgan Wyeth - of Wyeth Enterprises of London." She moved quickly, the agony in her head lessening with every step though the trembling would not cease, not until she crossed the threshold of Alisdair's suite.

"The marriage is... Well of course it is arranged. One arranges a wedding, do they not Malcolm? There are a great many arrangements, yes?" Not that Imogen was allowed to be a part of any of them, of course.

"Lady Jane has forbidden me from helping though, with the wedding. I did offer. I am very good at organization and scheduling," Imogen continued without the least hint of pride, resentment or irony. "She told Alisdair she never wanted to see his 'fuck doll' anywhere near her again, and so it seems I'll not be helping with the arrangements."

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm watched curiously as she moved first for her eyes. Had Imogen not reacted as such, he wouldn't have seen the glint of water which she wiped away. He shook his head, must have been an accidental reflex. She quickly fixed her faux-pas and reached for her nose, leaving him all the more curious as to why her thoughts went directly for Alisdair. "Oh, uh, yeah, okay..." He said, following after her. As she answered his questions, he rolled his eyes, "Of course it was arranged as such, I meant was it planned by somebody else? Did her father put her up to it, or... Never mind, it isn't important." Toward the end of her response, he realized that if it was against anybody's will, it was Alisdair's. It seemed that Jane was pushing for the marriage, but he cared little for the politics. The hierarchy did not concern him in the slightest, as he lived outside of their sphere of influence. To be honest, with the severity of the slave trade and the state of the slums in the nation's cities, he figured there would be more important issues to deal with if he were to play any heroic role.

"I'm sure you're quite the master at organization, you seem to have such a clear head." Wait, did she say 'fuck doll?' He knew her services to Alisdair were likely not innocent in nature, but at the same time... Something about her naivete made him think that she wasn't quite left without choice in the matter. He was curious what would happen to her when the wedding was over, but he only needed one thing to start with.

"When's the wedding supposed to be? Have they mentioned?" He asked, knowing that they would be coming up on the Duke's room any minute. He had to get away before he was seen walking her there, especially if the man was awake, so as soon as the question was answered, he would nod and explain that he hoped she made it back safely, but he had to work. He'd only just started, after all, and the house had much for him to do. As he resigned to his office, he locked the door behind him and sunk down into the chair at his desk. His fingers drummed the hard surface after he turned off the lights in the room and groaned at the throb in his head. He had access to the systems, but not the personnel files or any of the house's direct personal information.

Who was Imogen? If she were no more than Alisdair's consort and sex slave, then how was she so complacent? She maintained her mental independence just fine, she showed no signs of reservedness, she didn't flinch when anybody was near her, she didn't even seem to have Stockholm Syndrome. Alisdair was getting married and she wasn't jealous or angry, at least not outwardly, it was like everything was just fact and she could do nothing but accept it. Admirable? Perhaps. He turned on his monitor and watched as his keyboard was displayed on the table in front of him and he got to work on his actual job. If he didn't do what he was hired to do, then he wouldn't be able to stay inside the house so easily. Something was wrong in the manse - words like 'disappeared' were accepted as commonplace, bleeding from the nose caused Imogen to go running to Alisdair rather than the infirmary or to a doctor... Or even to lie down and sleep.

Within the next several days, he would have to leave the house. Though he hoped the mission would only take a few weeks, it was shaping up to seem like it would take longer, and he had to get his affairs in order to make sure it went off without a hitch. A new technopath, considering his last was a the shittiest informant he'd ever come across, was first on the list. Then he hoped he'd be able to find a trustworthy psychoportationist with enough skill to help him, as getting around this house was difficult enough, but he'd have to split the pay with whoever he called in and it wasn't going to be cheap...

 

[Muirgen]

"In the summertime Malcolm. This is all I know. Lady Jane wished a summer wedding... " She held her hand over her nose, fingers pinching the bridge tightly as she tried to stem the flow of blood, but mostly only managed to make her voice sound so strangely nasal. Imogen had not missed the exasperated disappointment in her new friend's voice because of her answer on wedding arrangements, and she vowed she would understand what human nuance of his words she must have misinterpreted. She was fair to convinced, the English language had to be the single most complicated, convoluted and impossible language to ever be borne into existence...

But that would have to wait for another time, figuring out all the nuances of "arranged" to share with Malcolm. He was already moving away quickly the moment she told him what she knew of Alisdair's and Lady Jane's pending nuptials - which was, of course, probably a very wise move on Malcolm's part. Alisdair would be ill-pleased to find any of the household staff but the Captain and his guard so near to his rooms. Imogen waved farewell to her new friend with the hand not covered in blood, though she was certain he did not see her, before sprinting toward Alisdair's door.

Blessed relief struck her hard the moment she stepped over the threshold, silently padding on bare feet across the floors. The sudden disappearance of the agony in her head nearly brought her to her knees, and if Imogen actually needed breath? She might have drawn all she needed for a blessed sigh of relief. Still, her own non-human version of relief coursed through her body on waves of her artificial hormones, slowing her breathing and the beating of her bio-electrically engineered heart. Imogen peeked toward the bed and smiled, realizing Alisdair was still quite unconscious. He stank as all drunks do in the morning, of stale breath and unwashed body, the scent of old alcohol oozing through their pores, but these were all things a human woman might care about - they disgusted her not in the least.

Imogen slipped into the large, marble-lined bathroom, removing her own clothes swiftly, washing the evidence of her travels off her bare feet in the tub before slipping on the night clothes Alisdair most preferred. The thin, gauzy material was never meant to keep anyone warm or comfortable, but to be a treat to the eye of whatever man or woman might enjoy the sight of all that moved beneath the white, translucent cloth. The creature who emerged from the bathroom, dressed just so, her auburn hair let down about her shoulders with a glass of water in one hand and a pair of green pills in another, bore no resemblance at all to the bloody-nosed, disheveled female who had rushed in only moments before. The only thing to mar the picture perfect look of the wanton nymph as she crawled on her knees over the bed, was the parallel lines of bruises darkening to a deep and angry purple around her neck.

"Alisdair, dearest... " Imogen smiled softly as she bent to kiss him awake, soft pecks of her lips along his cheeks, even when a noxious breeze of alcohol and morning breath washed over her face.

He snorted loudly, then groaned a terrible growl. Bloodshot eyes finally opened wide and fell on the angelic face hovering over his, several seconds passing before something like recognition softened that hard, feral stare. Alisdair winced as he sat himself up against the upholstered headboard, holding out his hands for water and pills wordlessly.

"Good morning," she whispered, straddling his legs as he swallowed the pills and leaning forward to kiss his throat just as he liked, with long passes of her lips.

The pills went down hard, but no matter - the effect was almost immediate. His own raging headache disappeared as all the detrimental effects of profound dehydration and alcohol poisoning simply vanished, and Alisdair smiled as he finished off the glass of water. His long, fine fingers traced the lines of his Imogen's throat, to the hollows of her collarbones. "Did I hurt you last night?" he asked, the expression on his face inscrutable.

"Now now, all is well Alisdair," Imogen crooned softly, giving the Duke of Argyll precisely the answer he needed to hear as she pulled the covers down.

 

[BKenScout]

"It has to be here somewhere..." He muttered, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard, eyes glued to the screen. Hours of digging, not one person in the files named Imogen, not even a birth record in the public file. Taking a break, he decided to branch off his search and close it to checking only the house's history. "Joss... Joss... Joss who?" He asked with more than a little bit of irritation - the first name would be too broad, wouldn't it? Depending on the previous archivists, the records could be far out of date, might not even contain some of the lesser employees, but... He sighed and gave in to the ambiguous search, resulting in a list of just about everything that was ever entered into the records with those four letters appearing consecutively. Luckily, it was narrowed significantly when Malcolm filtered to only personnel and started narrowing it one department at a time. Joss wasn't one of the previous archivists, nor was he a member of the landscaping staff. He wasn't a server and he wasn't a chef or a maid, but there was one file, a simple outlined one on basic information for a kitchen hand. Joss Avondale, young, bright, seemed that notes in the interview said he had quite a bit of potential, too. In red print, at the bottom, it stated 'Expelled.'

Another word to add to the list then? Disappeared, vanished, expelled. Most of the other files used the word "fired" or "released," which was more commonly stated for workers who are laid off or positions that become obsolete, but to have something so significant be so obviously shrugged off was strange... With a full name and records to cross-reference, Malcolm started to sift through the public's items again. Joss Avondale apparently, after his departure from the Cavanaugh manse, could only be tracked to a factory line, a more than common place for slaves... But, he had been an employee, according to the personnel record. The factory was under the name of a Cavanaugh subsidiary and it wasn't until well after midnight that Malcolm was shutting his equipment down and left the office to return to his room.

Over the next few days, he saw little of Imogen, but he'd also been busy on his own, tracing lines to and from Joss as much as he could, getting his research compiled and downloaded, and then making preparations to leave the house. He grabbed his black long-coat, buttoning along his right breast, and pulled the waist belt tight. He stiffened the collar to keep at bay the wind that would surely be blowing. As he departed, a guard meant to ask his business, but had little care for it. Malcolm was barely a servant and his credentials showed that he had free opportunity to come and go as he pleased, so long as his work was getting done. He waved his farewell to the man at the door and pulled his hat over his head, the force of the wind causing him to stumble only slightly at first. Then again, when was the wind now billowing? It wasn't too far to town, but Malcolm took a taxi service. At one point, his father had told him once, they had roads that seemed to be built of light, ten lanes wide on either side in some cities, but Malcolm had yet to come across a single place in his lifetime that wasn't using the old paths paved so long ago that they could hardly be considered safe. However, pepole had to get around, and once inside the city, the subways were always running and walking was always an option. Sometime before Malcolm stepped out of the car, the rain had started, coming down in cords and dowsing anything that didn't find shelter within moments.

Malcolm took out his pad and powered it on and it instantly produced an automatic barrier around it, water bouncing away from it within only an inch of the device. It was a relatively basic technology, but if the item were dropped, it was protected and the rain was kept out of its ports, so it was quite a good design choice. Malcolm started sifting through screens as he walked, letting it direct him to the address he had set out for this morning. First, he stopped at a small apartment under a different name, grabbed one of his kukri and sheathed it just behind his lower back after removing his belt and opening the trench coat. Next, he watched in a mirror as his hair shifted from the usual brown to a short, black military cut. Soft cracking and popping noises sounded as his bones and muscles readjusted themselves, now making him two inches shorter than he was. Crimson streaked through his hair at even intervals - a style that had been in and back out again so many times in the last century that it was almost as funny as it was irritating. Finally, he holstered a pistol to his hip and checked that he was still tall enough for his coat. He had a few options for completely 'reinventing' himself, but usually he tried to keep the changes minor. It didn't hurt, but being in a different skin was always so surreal and the shift took immense concentration.

Malcolm, or 'Hiro' as he had dubbed this particular face when he started using it years ago, looked around the cramped apartment. His apartment was a sty. Given, he didn't do much maintenance and only staid from time to time, but still... The one-room was an absolute mess. He already missed his lavish room in the keep, approached the window of the 53rd floor and staring out at the city. The rain fell with a loud, monotonous tone against the pane of an old building. People still lived, day-to-day, in places like this one - old buildings from an era forgotten that have just been restructured and maintained for so long that nobody can agree on whether it's still an 'original.' Lights from cars, buses, and the ever-common motorbike blared through the sky's tears. Transportation was such a strange beast to tame. It had spent years being improved upon, but new ideas rarely strike and in recent decades progress on anything non-military had ground to a near halt. At least, it did here. Neon signs filled the street as well, however, only adding to the mosh of colour created by the vehicles' lights.

His clothes hung a little bit looser than when he entered the building, but it was far from being one of his bigger changes. His face had contorted to a new form as well, but nobody in the busy street - hell, none of his neighbours - would have noticed had he entered and come back out looking so different. Taking a breath of the smoggy, wet, thick air of the town, he started now for his destination. They called this 'part of town' the Factory District and it only fooled those who never stepped foot in it. A lousy attempt to hide the fact that the city has effectively produced its own slum, rampant with crime caused by those who somehow had less than the workers who lived there.

Many were employed by the factories and plants, but some were considered more 'indentured servants' - given cramped, shit living quarters with others like them. Worse still, with the feudal hierarchy as outdated as the Middle Ages themselves, those who were looked upon unfavorably by certain 'barons' and 'lords' were given a fate of slavery outside the houses. Some were forced to live the rest of their lives without a tongue on an assembly line or manning some monotonous machine. They had no life left in them, not one of them cared to push back, at least they didn't seem to have any desire for it. They were cheaper than Androids and those who didn't know them or their story were... less than sympathetic.

The fog and dust in the air only grew thicker as he neared the heart of the district, the high rising factories. He stepped through the doors of one which seemed almost random, as they were left with rather meager security measures, and kept his eyes peeled. Clearing his throat in an attempt to catch the attention of at least a few of the workers, artificial or otherwise. A quick assessment of each face and he didn't quite see Joss, but considering he could already tell several of them would be unable to speak, he simply sent out a missive, touching the mind of each organic being in the room.

I'm looking for Joss Avondale. Or one who was Joss Avondale. I know this is your assignment, front and center before a foreman comes by... Please. The plea was less than sincere, and honestly, Malcolm was more than willing to remove the head of any who tried to stop him. This was the world he lived in and he'd be damned if it was going to do anything but bend entirely to his will.

 

[Muirgen]

Imogen did not know the words to describe how she felt, those days she did not see Malcolm. She did not even understand as she sat there on the window seat, her head leaning against the glass as she looked out on yet another dreary, rainy day as grey as her eyes, that she was moping. Her failure to understand this did not make her any less mopey. She breathed against the cool glass, fogging its surface beneath her lips. Before it disappeared, she wrote a single letter, "M," and then it was gone.

Rather like the man himself. She had been fortunate the morning she last saw him - Alisdair truly was preoccupied with the arrival of Lady Jane that day. When he was done with Imogen's body and feeling more himself with the medication she gave him, he truly did forget to give her orders to do or be anywhere in particular that day. And so left to her own devices, she gathered her groceries, made a special order for the shrimp for Malcolm's dinner - yet she could not find him again. For days now, at best there was a passing glimpse, and then no more, almost as if he were avoiding her.

Imogen ran over their last conversation in her mind, far more often and thoroughly than was humanly possible, wondering what she might have said or done to cause offense. She could find nothing, but that did not mean there was nothing. She was aware enough of her shortcomings in linguistic nuances, to know she might never guess what she may have done...

And so she moped. The Captain did not seem to mind - Imogen's current mood kept the Duke's favorite plaything from the nuisance wanderings that plagued his perfect sense of order about the Keep. The Duke did not seem to notice at all, being far too busy entertaining Lady Jane. The household staff had learned all-too-well it was far wiser to keep Imogen at arm's length, no matter her unfeigned, almost child-like charm - Joss Avondale had been an object lesson for them all.

But all Imogen knew was that the man who shared his music and his conversation had no time for her anymore, or simply did not wish to speak to her anymore, and she did not know why or what she must have done. So she moped.

**********​

From Malcolm's right came a response - but perhaps not the one he was looking to find. 'Who the hell are you, psi-freak?'

A few pairs of eyes looked up from the filthy, grueling work, but returned almost immediately to the dust and the fires they stoked. Yet a single pair of defiant blue eyes, almost glowing from the filthy face, glared right at Malcolm.

'And why should anyone here give up Joss to you? They've already taken every damn thing we have, or ever had - what are you going to do? Kill us? Or are you here to spy for the Court?'

It would be impossible to say whether the tall figure that straightened up to face Malcolm was male or female, so filth-caked was every last inch of skin and nondescript, utilitarian clothing. Defiance flashed in those eyes though, and an abiding, implacable hatred, and the grip on the shovel shifted and hardened. No one of the other 'workers' moved to those thoughts though, as they had for Malcolm's.

'One of the Duke's boys then? Didn't get enough joy destroying Joss the first time around, come back for seconds? Piss off, 'fore I take your head off with this damned shovel.'

 

[BKenScout]

"That's a new one," Malcolm said out loud, meeting the icy gaze of the responder, "Psi-freak... I like it, could try psi-frick though... I rhymes; I'm a sucker for limerick," He mused, looking to the ceiling for a brief moment, as though he was talking to himself. His head tilted slightly as he looked to the other man or woman or whatever, his brow furrowing in thoughtful concentration as he sucked the inside of his cheek. "I'm not here to take anything from you. Well, nothing material or emotional, I promise you that. And believe me, if I was here spying for the Court, you wouldn't know I was here. If I wanted to kill you or hurt you, I'd have done so by now. Making my status as a psychic known is a fairly dangerous action, especially with a mass missive, but to be honest... If I thought I was in any danger, do you really think I would have done it? No. So squeeze that shovel all you like - if you make the slightest move, you're going to regret it," He explained calmly, opening the side of his coat to show the handle of his kukri and the grip of his pistol.

"Life's hard for all of us, I promise Joss is safe with me. I'm not taking him anywhere, but I've no ill intent toward him. I have it on good authority that Alisdair, that is, the Duke of Argyll, is the reason he's here, no? The documents I found left much to be desired on the... for lack of a better term, his terms of departure from the manse. So I've come to collect information for myself, as my own connections are wearing thin with my patience and I was quite ill-informed by my previous contact. He's been sacked. I believe that by gathering my own intel, I can at least be sure I answer all of my own questions. At least for this."

At the final question, Malcolm actually laughed out loud, placing a hand over his abdomen for a moment and shaking his head. "The Duke's men? The Duke's Men? My god, the Duke's men don't even ask about Joss. No, I actually have access to his file, they wouldn't ask a single question even if they could. Please, what the hell would the Duke want with Joss after sentencing him to this? For all intents and purposes, this poor guy has been wiped from the face of the earth. I honestly don't even think he can be classified as a slave anymore... It's far worse. In fact..." Malcolm grinned, "you may like why I'm here, you've certainly already started helping me."

Looking to the rest of the room, his gaze rested on the filthy person before him again, "Were you all sentenced to this by him? For what I assume are trivial, self-righteous reasons from His Majesty the Duke of Argyll?" Yet again, Alisdair's title was said with the utmost sarcasm, "Maybe not all of you... But just looking around, I'm already sure that I'm not doing the wrong thing on this... To make this most simple, Alisdair isn't long for this world... He's very sick." Malcolm wasn't lying, Alisdair could easily be diagnosed with a number of mental disorders. "He's angered a lot of the wrong people. No successor, at least not yet... Quite stressful times have befallen Castle Cavanaugh." The assassin shook his head, running a hand over his hair, "Anyway, I'll ask once more, where's Joss Avondale?"

 

[Muirgen]

"Leave 'em alone," the soot-covered creature snarled, slamming the shovel head into the concrete ground with a resounding clang. "They're not going to talk with you - too damned broken, too damned scared."

"And it's 'His Grace,' the Duke of Argyll, not 'His Majesty' - or hasn't anyone learned you a thing yet?" The voice was low but soft, but the disdain dripping from that tongue was loud, and clear, and utterly impossible to ignore. "You think you're going to be doing the killing then, huh? Righting all the wrongs of the nobility, yada yada yada, son on and so on, blah blah blah. It'd be a damned miracle if you got within a hundred yards, psi-freak or not."

An enormous wad of soot-colored phlegm landed right next to the newcomer's boot. "Oh, and shove your threats straight up that tight ass of yours. You think you're gonna cut me with that blade, shoot me huh? Heh... Yeah, you might kill me, but in the time it takes you to pull that bright shiny gun of yours? The alarm light of every single foreman, supervisor, slave handler and guard in this whole blighted place will suddenly have his PDA alert lit with your face, location and underwear size in an instant. You'll be dead in seconds, your body shoved with mine inside one of these furnaces and not a damned person in this whole world to care."

'Except Joss... '

Without a doubt, the bravado in that voice masked a genuine fear, a true worry, but one shoved way deep down and masked by several thick black layers of grime and soot, and a whole lot of attitude.

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm grinned widely, "You're feisty. But a bit presumptuous," He pointed out, crossing his arms and letting his coat fall back around him. "Right the wrongs? You honestly think this world has even one true crusader left? Fuck no. I couldn't care less what he's doing here," He half-lied, "It's not my job to free all of you. That's your job, if any of you actually want to be free. No, I'm in it for the money. I've been offered quite a hefty sum for his head, and I'm sure I'm not the only one to receive the offer, but I'm damned well the most qualified. Nothing drives men for the greater good anymore. Hell, if there weren't so many digits on this payout, I wouldn't even be in Glasgow anymore. But there aren't many places in this world that are any better; trust me, there's nothing else beyond those walls. That's cute though - you think the guy with the gun and the sword is a knight in shining armour.

"Alisdair has already corrected me on his stupid title. It's sad how tightly he clings to that, really. The man thinks he's a god, and seeing this shows me that it won't be too hard to kill him when the time comes. Not to mention, my job is fairly cozy right now." His voice trailed off as the sooty... man? Woman? It. Yes, it, for now... spat near his shoe. Malcolm looked down and shrugged, kicking some dust over it, "How... dignified," He muttered, quirking an eyebrow, sniggering as it sprung into its own threats. He actually took a step forward and leaned in, meeting the other's face, "But which face will they know? This one?" He asked, making a slightly pained expression as his eyes turned blood red and his canines extended only slightly, enough to protrude from his lips, and his hair turned to a bright silver, spiking from his head. His eyes rounded back out and his flesh became pale. "Or this one? They'll go vampire hunting!" He exclaimed almost excitedly, laughing, "Geeze, I never get to use this one... Started working on it a few years ago, my god it's probably the biggest waste of time ever... But it sure does scare some of the more... sheltered targets, I suppose. It's so much work creating an image from scratch." Finally, with some small pops and cracks, his expression was distorted back to Hiro. "Give me a few days together and I could look like you too... That's a fun one, people start to really freak out when they think you're going to assume their identity. The hardest part is the voice, though. Do you know how hard it is to reform your own vocal chords? It's ghastly," He mused a bit arrogantly.

"You could include that I'm a metamorph in that little alert of yours, but honestly... what would be the point? You'd really only draw attention to this cozy little place. The work's hard, but at least it isn't being constantly watched. You guys have done a good job getting the supervisors to turn a blind eye to it. Most of these places have constant eyes and far too much attention. I commend you for playing nice long enough for it." He sighed and stretched his arms up, twisting slightly as the vertebrae popped all along his spine. "Oh, that's feels better... Anyway, I'm sure it's handy for all these folks that you're a technopath - they don't need to call in engineers and people with actual qualifications to get the work done... That is, if I read your threat correctly..? Back to the topic at hand, I'm looking for Joss as part of my investigation into Alisdair himself. Somebody very close to the Duke mentioned him in passing a few days ago - and it's a bit unnerving how often the term 'disappear' and its variants are used nonchalantly. Sometimes the best ways to drive a knife through somebody is to tear them down from the inside. This connection might be a very useful one if I play my cards right."

Once more, he looked around the room, trying to see if he could pick out Joss' face from the workers in the area, but none of them seemed to be him. It was rather convenient that in his time of need a technopath presented itself... The question was how willing would it be to help him? Not to mention that this one's own vendetta may be a bit false. The possibilities were endless - if he collected a third-party, disconnected systems-meister it would be a rather simple, monetary relationship they had. That worked, it was always perfect. But those guys were never in quite so much danger and therefore they didn't always work so hard. Case in point was going to be Malcolm's next visit, that bastard. There wasn't an assassin alive who liked loose ends and the previous technopath was as frayed as they came. The one standing before him seemed personally invested, which made it a rather promising prospect, but also a liability. If things started to go south, it might panic and bail or get too heated and blow the operation. There was always an opposite side, but to be honest Malcolm would take what he could get.

"Now tell me where Avondale is. He's not getting hurt today, not when you're obviously quite protective of your herd here. He's very useful to me, as are you. And if either of you hate Alisdair as much as you claim to, then I'm sure you've some stakes in my operation. It's far from personal to me, but that'll give it a nice, logical balance don't you think? I can even try to make it a painful death, if you'd like," He suggested with a casual shrug. "I honestly don't give a fuck - my employers said that as long as he dies, I get paid. His bride-to-be may have to go too, it'd certainly leave the heir's identity quite a controversy, which is the perfect cover for me getting my ass out of Glasgow."

 

[Muirgen]

"Fuck, you talk a lot."

If Malcolm's metamorph act fazed the soot-covered figure before him, there was precious little there that give it away. "So, let me get this straight, break it all down to fifty words or less: you're an assassin, somebody somewhere wants the Duke of Argyll dead (shocker that), and you want to talk to Joss for some reason. Oh, and somehow you think a technopath is going to help you out too - is that about right?"

The dark figure laughed, and shook its head with a blindingly white smile in that ebony black face. "And you may as well stop looking around right now, Joss isn't here. I do know where he is though, and I can take you to him - but you and me are going to get a few things straight first."

The shovel was leaned up against one of the furnaces as soot-covered gloves were removed and tucked up under one arm, revealing surprisingly pale, small and slender hands. "We got a few rules to get down, a few requirements 'fore you go and hike 'your ass out of Glasgow.'" The figure snorted with laughter, hawked up another glob of black phlegm and spat it aside.

One finger lifted meaningfully. "First, nothing bad happens to Joss. You are going to front the money to get him moved, now, and it's not negotiable. This is first, foremost - or you can sod off."

Another finger joined the first. "Second, we'll take a quarter of your haul - and don't even bitch. You're getting two for one, and that's a damned nice bargain right there."

"Third, and final - you do what you want to the Duke. Quick, slow, bring the pain all you like, I don't give a damn. Do in that bitch Lady Jane too." The figure shrugged mightily, its complete indifference to the fate of the scion of Wyeth Enterprises made physically manifest. "But you will not harm Imogen, in any way. Clear enough?"

 

[BKenScout]

"Straight shooter, I can respect that," Malcolm replied, his previously sarcastic and over-inflated ego finally flatlining to one of real business. "You have demands, as do I. I'll agree to your terms, but if your loyalty is, for even one moment, questionable... You get one chance, do you understand? I don't talk a big game. I am the big game. I've outrun so many police forces I can barely remember what my original face looks like," He stated. It wasn't a complete lie, but it was also true he'd never actually killed somebody using the face he was born with. As Malcolm the Archivist, he used it, but when Alisdair died, he'd be somebody else. "Second. This mission is your priority. Nothing else. Fuck, I can get you both out of here with me, if you want. That's not expensive. But neither of you is leaving until I do, and we're going to be in the shit until we're so far away that neither of us can screw the other over.

"Lastly. Done. Lady Jane? As good as dead. I'll front the money for moving Joss, but he doesn't leave until I do. If you're not leaving with us, then we'll decide how to arrange it," He explained. "Hope it's agreeable, you'll get your full payment, twenty-five percent for full cooperation." Malcolm's expression turned somber at the true final request, What makes you think I can guarantee the state of the house's employees? He asked himself, keeping the thought silent as he searched the other figure's eyes for motive, but found none. Imogen was certainly unique, but why?

He weighed the last condition for a moment before nodding, "I swear that I will, in no way, hurt Imogen. I've already noticed she's something special..." He crossed his arms; what made her so unique? "If we have a deal, then I guess it's time to speak to Joss?"

 

[Muirgen]

"I guess it is." The figure turned, leaning the shovel against one of the furnaces before whispering in the ear of another soot-covered laborer. He nodded, peering over his shoulder toward the stranger in their midst before returning to his own work.

"Come on then." Swiftly the figure wound its way through the pipes and shoots of the furnace floors, leading Malcolm on an unsurprisingly circuitous route that led beneath the ancient streets above their heads. Sunlight was obviously not a familiar sight on these concrete, brick and dirt pathways, lit forlornly with flickering florescent light tubes. The grinding, humming, screaming roar of machinery was as ever-present as the dank scent of moldy dirt and the shine of black waters on the walls, puddling under foot. And there was, of course, cameras at most every causeway - the soot-covered figure barely seemed to notice or care, though it and Malcolm were the only two figures to be seen in the entire quarter mile of tunnels they traveled.

The elevator door was set in an immense concrete frame worthy of a bunker, but slid aside easily enough for the pair. The button pressed would not take them high enough to yet hit ground level, and the hallway upon which it opened was virtually as filthy as the furnaces below - well, perhaps some shades a lighter grey at least. Numbered metal doors lined the hall closely, and the figure made its way to the one marked "124." A soot-covered glove reached for the handle, ignoring completely the electronic latches as if they simply did not exist - but hesitated, hovering in the air for just a moment before the figure turned on Malcolm. There had been no conversation the entire way and, while hardly what anyone would call a 'comfortable silence,' there was no discomfort either.

These words, however, were pure steel. "I'm going to warn you right now - don't you pull any of that red-eyed vampire shit on Joss. He's been through hell, and I give a damn for payment or getting back at the Duke - you set him off, and I'll make sure you never get out of here. Clear?"

The figure did not wait for Malcolm's response, but turned back to the door and pushed it open easily.

The apartment within could only be generously called 'cramped.' There was one large living space that, by all appearances, doubled up as a living space as well with cushions that could have been meant to be used as a couch as well, two small 'beds' of a sort set side-by-side. There was a book shelf along one wall, holding a surprisingly well-kept array of rag-tag antique paperback books, a tiny kitchenette and a door that led, presumably, to a bathroom. A figure stirred on one of the couch-beds, wide blue eyes set in a pale, darkly bearded face peered up over the tattered blanket, widening further still at the sight of two figures there.

"Joss... Joss don't worry, this guy's all right, he just wants to talk to you. Wants to offer a job, and he's going to get us out of here, all right?"

The figure stepped further in, closing the door swiftly behind Malcolm and pointing him toward the empty couch bed impatiently.

Joss sat up slowly, tentatively, pulling the blanket up with him to his neck, his eyes never leaving Malcolm's face. His hands shook visibly. "Magda... ?

"Yes Joss, it's all right, I promise. He knows Imogen, and knows how we can get to her. You understand what I'm saying, Joss?" The words seemed to mean something to Joss, or at least the name. He stopped shaking and, for the first time, turned to Malcolm with something very like curiosity in his eyes. The figure turned back toward their guest. "I'm going to take a shower - you talk to my brother, and you talk to him nice. I'll know if you don't." There wasn't another word before Magda turned on her heel - the question of gender at least, answered with a single name - and slipped into the tiny bathroom, barely larger than a shower stall itself.

Joss' long, dark hair was a wild, umkempt mess, giving him a near feral look as he looked over the newcomer in this tiny apartment. "You've seen Imogen?" he asked almost suspiciously. "Is she all right? He hasn't hurt her, has he?" For his very own reasons, Joss did not have to give the name of the man who might hurt that beautiful, utterly unique creature.

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm nodded, his hands clasped together behind his back, an even, measured stride following close behind the figure leading him to Joss. The difficult "terrain" of the industrial complex not hindering him in the slightest as he lithely kept up, unimpressed by the disgusting accommodations of the quintessential slave house. There was little light, and it was all artificial. Malcolm could still feel the thick dust that filled the air. So much so that he sneezed at least twice on the way to the elevator. It didn't help that he worked in a dusty library for hours a day and his nose was already exposed to too much dust. The psychic's hat was pulled down for most of the walk as well, even if the technopath kept the cameras off of them, he didn't trust it entirely, so he hid Hiro's face as well as he could. He saw no need to speak yet, but he began taking inventory of their route, watched the buttons pressed, but wondered if the technopath was doing it for pure aesthetic.

They passed door after door... Did the figure beside him live here? Were these the quarters for the slaves or just another apartment complex in the slums? The population was packed so densely down here that some incomes could only afford underground housing. It had its benefits, but it also cornered the tenants in the events of emergency. Evacuation was far from safe, but the people made due. Before opening the door, he was issued a warning, to which he simply shook his head.

"Don't tell me how to handle business," He said sharply, clearly more anxious about what he was going to find in there than offended about being told how to do this. Would Joss be turned into one of those mindless monsters..? The tongueless slaves lacking any motivation or curiosity... Lobotomized... It would just make it so much harder. Once inside, Malcolm took off his jacket - the place was likely barely half the size of his apartment. His quarters outside of Castle Inveraray were by no means large, either. There was no judgment on his face as he scrutinized the living space, hanging up the coat and fixing his shirt. This made his pistol and short blade easily noticeable, but he made no movement for them whatsoever to dispel any worry over them. In this area, they were for protection. But later they would most definitely be weapons.

The sooty figure now had a name: Magda. Malcolm watched her walk out, giving only a slight nod to her order. Finding out she and Joss were siblings explained a lot, that was certain. But it also made her less intimidating and mysterious, working in Malcolm's favor as her 'orders' lost a little bit of weight. He was at work right now, not day care. That wasn't to say he would be rude or hateful to Joss, but it did mean he wasn't going to baby the man. A little part of him was truly curious what she would look like clean - or at least rinsed off.

The psychic sat down on the empty couch-bed and looked to Joss, giving the man enough time to process the situation and ask his questions. "Yes. Yes. I'm not sure..." Malcolm shook his head, "I haven't seen much of her - only worked for the house for a short while... Spent a lot of time looking into you, Mister Disappear," He noted, planting his hands on the edge of his seat as he looked Joss over. The man certainly had let himself go. "She's a strong woman... From what I've seen, no matter what Alisdair does to her in their free time, does not affect how she behaves beyond that. She's maintained a curiosity that I don't believe I've ever seen from somebody in her position. I apologize, Mister Avondale, but I'm not really here to talk about Imogen... I promise you that I'll not bring harm to her, but I'm here about the Duke.

"He's going to die. So will his fiancée. I'll be getting the two of you out of Glasgow, with me. But I need to know more about Alisdair... If it isn't too much to ask, I'd like you t tell me about him. If you're comfortable with it, I'd actually be able to benefit greatly from you showing me." Malcolm began to remove his gloves, "But only if you're okay with it, alright, Joss?" He asked, all of his words slow and carefully chosen as he held out one hand, "I just need you to hold onto that and think of him. The unconscious will do everything else... it'll show me whatever it, and therefore you, thinks necessary. It could be a memory, a series of memories, or just general information on him... It's hard to say. It might even be a dream or nightmare you've had, or a dreamlike situation that your mind creates with relation to who he is. The more you're willing to show me, the more helpful it will be. But if you're not comfortable with it, I won't infringe on you. If it would help, I can explain how it works afterword, okay? Remember, this is entirely up to you. The only stipulation is that if you are willing to do this... There is no lying. I don't mean you aren't allowed, I mean that your mind will not allow you, I'll be witnessing the very rawest of information available on the duke himself that your mind has to offer. I promise it won't take more than a few brief moments, but you have to focus on only Alisdair during it; if something else distracts you, I'm warning you now... I'll see it, and I don't want to overstep the boundaries, but I have no control over that." Malcolm wanted to be sure to explain all of the risks and how absolutely consensual this situation would be, "I'll look conscious, but I assure you, for those few moments, I'll have no awareness of this apartment or what you're doing. It's quite compromising for me too, as you'll be fully aware, you'll just have to concentrate." He had to be thorough about this; the psychic didn't want Joss revealing personal information if he wasn't comfortable sharing it. What Malcolm left out was how that loss of focus might affect him (Malcolm) were Joss to make a mistake and think of something else. It very well might be harmless, but it could also be quite compromising.

 

[Muirgen]

"A strong woman?" Joss' head tilted curiously as he let the blanket fall down to his lap, peering at Malcolm, his pale eyes narrow slits of curiosity now and not fear. It did not seem to matter that this stranger in his apartment was not here to talk about Imogen - that was where his focus went unerringly, whether his visitor would have him do so or not. "You don't... " He shook his head swiftly, frowning as he looked at Malcolm's offered hand, as if to clear his thoughts. "Right... Right... "

He sat up now, as straight as he might ever become again. With the thin blanket fallen away, the full extent of what had become of Joss was, finally, crystal clear to anyone but a blind man. His spine was bent at an unnatural angle, as if he were born with a curved spine. His legs twisted up beneath him and, were Malcolm observant at all, a pair of canes leaned against a far wall.

"I will try to give you what you wish. Magda likes you. I trust her. She's never wrong about people, even if she isn't a telepath like you." Without the least hesitation now, and with an almost child-like trust, Joss took Malcolm's offered hand in his own, his eyes squinched up tightly as he did his very best to think only on the current Duke of Argyll. Joss did not worry about lying, or not lying - he could not have done so (or at least not well) anymore anyway.

**********​

The pictures in his mind's eye shifted, changed, to images Malcolm would have certainly recognized even if the perspective came from a man who was, in all likelihood, a good four inches shorter. The images cascaded like a waterfall over Malcolm, a moving picture that was as immersive as life itself. The image was of the grand dining room. Any number of beautiful, glittering personages, sumptuously dressed, confident and smiling milled about the enormous mahogany table while a four-piece string ensemble played ancient concertos. The Duke stood at the head beside... Well in truth, Joss knew no other way to describe her beyond an angel of light, unspeakably beautiful, glowing with a gentle luminescence that both defined and outlined her impossibly exquisite features -

- Floating by Malcolm's vision now, a still photograph of Alisdair in his private rooms as he poured over scrolling text on his holo-screen, waving dismissively as Joss set down a tray of food on the side of his massive desk...

- Flowing past them now, dousing them with cold fear was the image of Alisdair's eyes as Joss showed the angel how to create homemade pasta in the kitchens, most all the other kitchen help cringing and looking to the floor, praying they would not be seen or blamed...

- Cascading from a great height as he screamed and screamed, the sick wet crack of broken bone filling the air as Alisdair nodded to the Captain with a perfect and abiding trust that this disappearance would work as well as any that came before...

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm took a deep breath, Your sister has an odd definition of the word 'like.' He noted with a small laugh, trying to clear his mind. These exchanges were always a little dangerous, but in fairness, the psychic had a feeling that Joss had lived a life harder than he. At the very least, there was still more to come for him, but Joss was left here with only the cold presence of Magda and the helpless body that seemed like it was almost salvaged rather than originally inhabited. Of course, even the best psychics couldn't possess somebody. There hadn't been a Sojourner since The Flare and even that was simply rumour. A power of such magnitude couldn't exist and if it did, how could somebody like that die? It would make them immortal. Simply impossible. Still, Malcolm watched intently as Joss reached for him with naught but trust and a part of him wondered if that trust was well placed...

Too late. Anybody watching would see Malcolm's entire form go rigid, completely unmoving as his eyes flitted about whatever scene was before him. It took immense concentration to stay focused on Joss' conscious mind and not simply see everything that the man had to offer. When the other participant was willing, Malcolm could see absolutely anything he wished, whether or not the person before him could consciously recall it. However, he had a job to do and Joss' mind was of no real intrigue to him beyond learning more of Alisdair.

From the eyes of a cook, Malcolm watched the extravagant party of the Duke. He had no control of the scene before him, it was a memory, not a metaphor. Some unconscious minds would show him dreamlike sequences, but memories were better. The raw emotion and first-hand account... Even if Joss missed a few of the details himself, there wasn't a thing Malcolm would. It was as though he was there, just without control, and the woman sitting beside Alisdair was none other than Imogen. But here, he saw her in a slightly different light. She wasn't just a beautiful woman who seemed to randomly pop up about the house with a childlike sense of wonder... To Joss, she was something far more. Something almost divine. Magda's concern for her set on Malcolm's mind even more heavily now... Was she interested in the woman's safety because of Joss' clear feelings for her, or was there something more? He resolved to think on it later and focus on keeping Joss safe from his own mind. The scene around him whirled away, replaced by a freeze-frame. Here, Malcolm could move... He could sit still on any one space until he was ready to advance to the next, so he made sure to look very closely at everything he could. That song... Given a few more minutes, the psychic could have placed it, but it was hardly significant now.

Alisdair's holo-screen was his first destination, but the screen was blurred with nothing legible printed on it. Of course Joss couldn't catch a glance of the scrolling text, it wasn't in his direct line of sight... What was Alisdair working on, then? Malcolm strode over to the cook who set a tray on the desk, examining his features. It was quite obviously Joss, but he seemed in perfectly good shape, if a bit frail. Clearly he wasn't from a good family, even before everything must happened. He likely didn't eat much despite a position in cuisine. There was little to work from here, but it showed that, like any other wealthy man, Alisdair had little interest in being grateful for the things that came to him without effort on his part. Malcolm waved dismissively, just as Alisdair was, and he was moved to the next image.

This one came with true emotion and Malcolm's heart thumped spastically inside of his chest. He shut his eyes and waited a moment as the feeling washed over him... Once Joss' consciousness had moved on, he could feel himself regaining control, squelching the fear and replacing it with defiance of his own. He glanced around the room... Many of the kitchen staff members averted their eyes or pretended to work on something else... Alisdair's gaze wasn't just one of determination and fury, it held jealousy... The man had more insecurity than Malcolm had thought, but he knew nothing bode well for Joss here. Again, Imogen appeared. Juvenile as she was, it was impressive how much she adored learning. She didn't just play, she wasn't simply around for others' amusement, but she was a growing, inquisitive being. It begged the question as to how an adult like her could be so childish. She was fascinated by everything, though Malcolm could not see why, even women he'd known with similar personalities would show disinterest in something. That's what experience brought. How could she be an adult with so little experience at all? Next.

The real Malcolm, the one sitting across from the cook and grasping his hand, began to hyperventilate as the wind blistered around the mental version. He was in Joss' body again, trapped within as they fell, down, down... Roderick and Alidair stood on high as Malcolm physically flinched and cried out in voiceless pain as he hit the floor. It was as though he were asleep on the bed and his arm fell, causing him to experience the same feeling and jolt from rest. That would be the last scene, he knew, but the pain triggered him as well. There was no picture, but Joss would be the one experiencing Malcolm while the psychic tried to regain control. The two-way door was not always a choice and Malcolm's own conscious spread as he struggled within himself.

"Edan, please, don't leave us here..." A young girl's voice pleaded. It was joined by a boy who sounded at least of the same age group.

"You're the only one who can hold da back when he's like that..."

A sinking feeling would enter both Malcolm's and Joss' stomachs as the dark scene was lit by a faint glow through a high window. A crescent moon hung high in the air, just out of reach in the dark apartment. The silhouettes of two small children and a slightly larger, but more confident figure could be made out as their voices sank even lower. A man's cold reply came next, "No... I can't stay... I'll come back, I promise, to get both of you out... But I'm only putting you all in danger like this. Malcolm," it said, addressing the small bow as he stooped down, placing a hand on his shoulder, "You have to take care of our sister, buddy. Don't let anybody know what you are, they'll get scared, just like they are of me... That's why I have to go. You can hide yours more easily... You know da is only like this because of me anyway. If I go, things will get better, and I'll come back when we can be safe..." Guilt washed over both of them as the figure named 'Edan' rose and left. It was not a first-person scene, therefore it was what Malcolm referred to as a 'paraphrased memory.' One which was fabricated, but equally significant and true to life. It was one he had made himself as, despite being unable to stop it from happening, he could prevent it from overcoming Joss entirely as both were thrust back into the apartment, fully aware.

A mere five to ten minutes had passed and Malcolm took a sharp inhale, watching Joss and shaking his head. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen, the fall caught me off guard and the shock broke my focus for only a moment." There was genuine worry in his voice and he hoped it would be interpreted as worry for Joss' well-being and not his own fabricated memory being too revealing. He knew what Joss would have experienced, but not how he would have perceived it. One thing was for certain, however... Alisdair would be executed for his crimes. The hit placed on him was more than justified and, quite frankly, Malcolm was sure that he was only the most recent in a line of hired assassins. It seemed that Alisdair put much trust into his guard captain and underestimated his opponents quite easily. Joss was still alive, though he was quite positive that the Duke did not think it so.

 

[Muirgen]

Joss gasped, yanking his hand back to his chest awkwardly, as if Malcolm's touch had burned him. "It's... All right... " His eyes were wide, wondering, trying to fathom all the young man before him had truly done. He was not entirely unfamiliar with that sensation, the knowing that was outside everyday human thought, the impossible, sometimes disorienting sight that did not come through merely mortal eyes. Joss did not understand all the particulars of the children in this man's memory - he did not have to. What he did understand was all it meant to have siblings, that relationship born of birth and years spent together, day in and day out. The secrets, the hurts, the love - there was no other relation that could compare.

He should know.

The bathroom door slid open, a puff of steam preceding the slight figure that emerged, towel-drying with two hands at the short-cut shock of brilliant red hair on her head. Out of her soot-covered work clothes, one might wonder how it could be someone so slender could pass for a man, day in and day out. Beneath the over-sized men's t-shirt and the baggy pants tied precariously at her waist, Magda most closely resembled the nearly malnourished young woman she truly was.

Wet crimson hair stood out from all angles of her head as she tossed her towel over a shoulder, pale eyes peering curiously at Malcolm on her floor. A deep frown creased her pale face, painted so generously with a constellation of freckles.

"Joss, you all right?" Magda asked, doing nothing whatsoever to hide her obvious suspicion of the telepath in what passed for her "living room."

The young man nodded, unfolding his broken limbs as best he could. "Yes, fine Mags - just a bit disorienting is all." He did not mention the flash of Malcolm's life he'd caught, the memories - whatever it had meant to the telepath, Joss still could not tell what that meant to him. He would hold it close, think on it. With his body broken and twisted now, Joss had learned much of patience, and consideration, and the life of the mind. Beyond his memories of Imogen, it was all the solace he had left.

Magda stared at her brother, eyes narrowing for a moment thoughtfully. "All right then," she said finally, if a bit reluctantly. Bare footed, the young woman crossed to the "kitchen" - a journey that took her all of five steps. She slid open a metal door in the wall, removing a small tray she set lightly on the counter beside her.

"So, did you get what you needed there?" she asked the stranger in her home, dipping the tip of one pinkie finger into one of the small vessels, lifting it to her lips to suck off whatever it was that clung there. Magda's pert freckled nose wrinkled in distaste, but she found a spoon anyway. She picked up the tray, walking toward Joss' bed. In a move so obviously well-practiced, settled onto his mattress cross-legged, the tray resting easily in her lap.

She set the spoon into the gruel that filled most of the small tin bowl, lifting it to her brother's lips. Joss opened his mouth shakily, accepting what his sister offered gratefully.

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm watched closely as Joss replied, weighing his options before deciding to do nothing. He nodded his head finally, "Good. I'm glad you're okay," He responded, rising to his feet just as Magda entered the room. The psychic made sure that all of his weapons were re-equipped before he pulled his coat over his shoulders, taking his time as he buttoned it down, letting Joss recount the events of their encounter how he saw fit. He was a good man, or so he seemed on first impression. Weighing heavily on Malcolm's mind was how Joss even survived that fall or how he was retrieved. Who found him and how? It couldn't be anybody but Magda... Where had she come from though? Did she work in the house before? How did she find her brother before it was too late? Too many questions, it didn't matter right now anyway.

"I think so. I hope we'll stay in touch; as I said, having you on my side would be very beneficial. I need to know everything from his planner if you can get in at all. Just tell me what you need and I'll set it up," He said, fixing his coat's fastenings finally and letting out a long sigh. Magda propped herself up on Joss' bed and began to feed her brother. "Keep in touch. It's not easy to send messages that aren't easily intercepted on the grounds, so we'll need some kind of system in place."

He crossed his arms pensively, "I've got a place outside the factory, it's pretty quiet there, totally paid for... If you two could get there, I'd be happy to let you stay. The problem is that I don't know how closely they watch for you guys out here. I know leaving wouldn't be easy, and then I don't know if they check rosters... I managed to walk right in, so they must be at least fairly relaxed..." His brow furrowed in concentration, "I should get going soon though. I don't know how often I can leave the house, but having a schedule of departure would look a bit suspicious too. I don't need Roderick or one of his cronies tailing me at all."

 

[Muirgen]

Ensconcing Magda and Joss was no small matter, not even with two powerful technopaths now riding on Team Malcolm. They could get there to Malcolm's place of course, but ensuring they did so undetected was difficult with the still-broken state of Joss' body. The Captain's painful "ministrations" had been anything but kind, and medical care far too slow in coming, far too little and far too late. Not, of course, that his injuries were completely beyond treatment - they most certainly were not. Therapy and treatment - even in these post-Fall times - was more than sufficient to untwist his bent and broken limbs and spine. What was too far from his grasp, and that of his twin, was the funds to make it happen.

But not anymore.

The list of what the twin technopaths needed from Malcolm to get into the Duke's planner was precious little: a remote drive, 'net access from his apartment and a hardline at the keep. Alone, and at such a distance, Joss and Magda likely could not have made any connection at all. But together, with Malcolm inside and providing the link? Not so impossible at all - most particularly as Magda suggested Malcolm see about a job somewhere in the keep for a young woman, changing beds or cleaning toilets - whatever was needful. She could be a thousand times more useful to Malcolm inside, than she would ever be holed up in that apartment. Malcolm would need far more than access to a day planner. Security cameras, alarms, lighting and emergency notifications - there was no end to the trouble a true technopath could make for Alisdair's forces if she'd truly a mind to, and a damn good reason.

**********

Imogen wandered the library stacks without any apparent aim or purpose, quiet and beautiful and as seemingly haunted and lost as a shade. The desperation was there, just beneath the surface, were anyone able to read the so-subtle expression of her otherwise elegant and untouchable ivory face. She might have wept, but Imogen did not yet know she could do so. She was afraid, terribly afraid, anxious in ways that were difficult for her to experience, for the simple reason she had so little understanding herself for these strange feelings.

Malcolm was gone. She had asked, subtly, she hoped, among people she felt most sure she could trust. Whether this was true or not, Imogen might never be capable of knowing, so new and innocent was she to anything even remotely related to intrigue or deception. That the man she most wished to see right now, the man who filled her thoughts near obsessively at the moment with worry, was a master of both? That would have never - not once - have occurred to Imogen in all her wondrous and child-like innocence.

She was afraid though. She did worry. She feared her new friend had 'disappeared' because of her again. He had been seen, after all, by the Captain in her presence. Malcolm had left the castle without a single word of warning, that he intended to go. Not, of course, that he owed Imogen any sort of reason or excuse for his comings and goings - but that did not lessen her anxiety in the least.

 

[BKenScout]

Malcolm ran over their to-do list in his head a couple of times before leaving. Business was business and their requirements were rather small. He knew he'd have the funds, considering he didn't have to split with his original technopath anymore. This shouldn't take long at all, he concluded, closing Magda's door behind him. Getting back out of this place wasn't too difficult and his next destination was one that wouldn't take more than a little bit of navigation to reach. Henrick lived underground too, but in a slightly higher-end apartment. The costs for energy underground were less pricey, but the rooms could afford to be larger and if you didn't care for light or being in view, they were absolutely perfect. It was too bad for the assassin's technopath that privacy wasn't always a great thing to have. The rain was beginning to die as Malcolm made his way down the stairs to the first sub-floor. He called for the elevator, checking the halls for cameras. There was one about fifteen metres away, facing his back. He pulled his hat down a little bit farther to hide his altered face as the carriage doors dinged and opened, allowing him on the platform that would take him down to twelfth sub-floor.

Just as the doors opened, a frantic man was jamming the 'up' button to get into the elevator. "Henrick!" Malcolm exclaimed with a grin as wide as his face, clapping his former technopath on the shoulder and starting to escort him back to his room. "You didn't have to come greet me on the top floor, you knew I was gonna be here. You almost missed me!"

"M-Malcolm!" He squeaked in surprise. Of course he was watching the security footage when he noticed the psychic on his way down, but he thought he'd get the other elevator for sure. Luckily for Malcolm, Henrick wasn't as good at this 'technopath' thing as he claimed to be. "I-I was just going to get in touch with you so I could help you with work," He explained quickly, nodding frantically. "You know, there's a lot that goes into these things... especially when the boss man gives us a job so big! It takes a lot of work to get into something like that."

Malcolm nodded, "Of course, of course. I came to talk to you about that, Henrick." The two entered apartment 1206 and Malcolm looked around casually, making sure to keep Henrick far from the door. "Nice place for an underground property, property... Things must be pretty quiet around here. I've never lived underground," He lied, "But I imagine the parties from other floors barely carry to the next room, eh?"

Henrick started to visibly shake, "Y-yeah, that's true... Rarely do I hear anything from my neighbours... But that's because they aren't loud, I'm sure that it's not too soundproofed as a lot of people think!"

"That's probably true, the grass is always greener, hm?"

"Exactly!" The technopath agreed. Wires ran all around the rooms in a surprisingly organized manner. There was at least one terminal in the wall of every different chamber and then a master computer, complete with about 6 screens in Henrick's work room. Of course, that seemed now to be more for show or personal use.

"What was the rush to get out, Henrick?" Malcolm wasn't afraid of any cameras in here; Henrick would never subject himself to potentially being on the other end of surveillance.

"Look, Malcolm, I swear I wasn't trying to get away from you o-or anything... It's just... A job like Cavanaugh? Are you nuts? You're going to get anybody involved in this killed!"

"WHAT?!" The assassin flared, slamming his fist against the wall, for effect. "Well if we were in danger, then my god, I wouldn't have taken the job in the first place!"

"Oh, c'mon, man... Everything's got some risk, but that's the fun. This... This is all risk. You never gamble unless you know you can win!" Henrick threw his hands up defensively as Malcolm took a few steps toward him, pressing his forearm to the technopath's throat and pinning him to the wall.

"If you've so little faith in me, you never should have started working for me. Cavanaugh is an arrogant fool... He's high-value, sure, and his security is tight, but you're not new to this. A little bit of a challenge is supposed to be what we thrive off of!"

"Look, dude, you just don't understand, alright..? I-I want out of this one... C'mon, you know I'm good for it, I'll do anything else, but don't touch a Royal like that... I don't want to end up in a mine without my tongue or something... I don't even know what that prick does to people who cross him!"

Malcolm actually laughed at that, releasing Henrick, "Fine, fine... You can be out, that's your choice." Henrick seemed truly relieved at that as Malcolm took a single step back and the tehcnopath rubbed his neck to relieve the pressure that had been there a moment before. "Besides, I know what happens to those people. One of them had a crush on Alisdair's little... plaything... Whatever she is," He mused, wishing he had a more pleasant term for Imogen, "And he was pushed off a cliff. Assumed to be dead, really, but he's just really twisted up; the guy can't even take care of himself anymore. That Captain for his guard is one weird fucker, I wouldn't want to cross them either." Henrick smiled and nodded.

"Th-thanks, man..."

Malcolm nodded, "Don't mention it... I'll call you for a different job if I'm still in town after this one," He promised, "Mind if I stay for a drink or two before I go back to work?"

"Oh, uh... o-of course," Henrick said, heading for the kitchen. Malcolm took off his coat and hung it up, listening for the clinking of bottles as he pulled his pistol from its holster. He pulled the hammer back until it clicked softly. All sound from the kitchen stopped as Malcolm rounded the corner only to find Henrick standing there with his own gun already. "B-back off, Malcolm... Like you'd just fucking let me get away without doing this. You can't make me, now get the fuck out of my apartment! You won't ever see me again, I swear it, I'll just leave."

Malcolm stared coldly at the pistol, nodding, "That's a good one there... Where'd you get it? I don't know many technopaths that equip themselves like that." He grinned, "Let alone know how to use them." He still held his own pistol at his side.

"Shut up and put it down!" The psychic nodded slowly and complied, crouching down and placing his gun on the floor, kicking across the tiled floor to his new adversary, still not wavering.

"Like I've not had a gun to me before," Malcolm said, rolling his eyes as Henrick approached.

"Come on, we're just gonna go to the door nice and slow and you can leave the complex, I'll be out of Glasgow by tonight," Henrick promised.

Malcolm nodded, taking a step back, letting Henrick move faster than he was. Three... Two... One... Like an amateur, the technopath got within arm's reach. Malcolm quickly stepped forward, pivoting as the surprised opponent fired off a round in his panic. The psychic aimed a punch directly into Henrick's solar plexus, landing square in his gut. Grabbing the technopath's head, he drove his knee forward and blasted him back on his ass as he coughed and sputtered in pain, holding his gut as his nose began to run with crimson. He pointed his pistol up at Malcolm, really shaking now.

"BACK OFF!!" At this point, Malcolm knew the trigger wouldn't be pulled again before he grabbed the man's wrist and slammed it into the counter beside him, causing the gun to clatter to the floor. His free hand drew his kukri from behind him as he threw his body weight into Henrick's chest, straddling him to the ground as he gently pressed his blade to the man's throat.

Malcolm sneered, leaning forward, "You fucking idiot." Henrick was clearly hoping for some last minute dialogue as he readied a retort. The psychic didn't give him a chance, pressing more firmly and then whipping his blade to the side, opening the technopath's throat nice and wide. Blood began to spray across the room, dousing Malcolm too. He stood, looking his shirt over in disgust. "God dammit, Henrick..." The psychic pulled the wet shirt off and dropped it in the sink, rifling through drawers until he found a lighter. It only took a few minutes once he took a dried corner of the fabric and lit it. He made sure the fire didn't spread and was very grateful that it didn't get on his pants. The pool wasn't running toward him too quickly either, so his boots stayed clean. Next, he headed for the shower, which was a little less accommodating than the one in his chambers at Alisdair's. He only had to find a black shirt in the close that fit, and once he did, he put on his jacket and headed out. Nobody would care what happened here. It'd take at least a couple of days for anybody to even know it happened. Malcolm didn't need to accuse Henrick of not only being incompetent, but providing false information was unforgivable in his line of work. Maybe the technopath was no liar, but he was a loose end and clearly not smart enough to verify information before relaying it. If he didn't want in, he shouldn't have even tried to help in the first place.

By the time Malcolm made it back out of the complex, he looked to the sky and that intimidating giant the Sun actually had the balls to show his face today. Sunny days didn't mean what they had before The Flare. While nobody alive today could remember it, they still knew why their world was in shambles, and so pleasant weather was taken with a grain of salt and bittersweetness. However, after stopping quickly at his apartment and leaving his weapons behind, Malcolm made sure to change shirts again, finding one that would look just like his uniform. He turned back into the 'Malcolm' that the guards would remember and Imogen would recognize and headed back to the manse.

He stepped passed the guard leisurely, giving them a wave and a small smile, "Afternoon, fellas. You're doin' a great job," He said. To be honest, if people asked him what he did today, Henrick's murder was the farthest thing from his mind. That wasn't important and it had been inevitable anyway - Malcolm was just getting it done before somebody else did. He hummed a memorable tune as he walked down the hallways once more. Did he really have to go back to the office though? He'd told Magda he would get everything in place for her over the next few days and see if he couldn't get her a way into the house less temporarily. Would she want a position that was live-in? That wasn't likely, with Joss in his current condition. Malcolm couldn't risk giving them an advance though, even if it could help Joss; it was a real gamble. If they split, then he wouldn't have the funds for a technopath left.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice Imogen as he continued to wander. Whoever she was talking to would go 'isn't that him..?' as he passed by. But he only half-heard whatever they were saying.