A
Anguissette
Guest
Original poster
Rattling up the dual cables from the landing below came the 8:15 Mail Coach to the Nest. The Coach was a blue wooden box in the shape of an inverted pyramid, steps up three of the sides bearing boxes upon boxes of mail gathered from the Land below. The fourth side of the "coach" bore a set of old teak bench seats filled with the morning shift; senior, regular and junior postal inspectors (the proverbial Nestlings). Normally they spent the trip up bonding over their homelives and talking shop. Teams who worked together tended to sit close together, and the climb into the sky was customarily the gentle social ritual to fire up the shift to face the day.
Not today.
This morning the morning shift sat around the very outside of the passenger area, two and even three to a seat, murmuring quietly to one another. In the open ring at the centre sat two young ladies; one tall and lanky with short wispy dark hair and an interesting taste in fashion, the other every bit the martyr to fashion that her friend isn't. Her flaming red hair trailing behind her, the woman in the blue gown kept her hands folded primly in her lap and her head high, blithely ignoring the fact that they are the cynosure of all eyes.
Truly Minerva could barely keep a straight face for excitement. While Thomas and she had made a pact to find the true identity of the Falcon and make their name by telling his story, the budding young reporter had hardly dared believe they would be able to bluff their way onto the Coach. Yet bluff they had, and their aerial ascent to the Nest was proof in itself. "Who do you suppose they think we are?" she murmured to her androgynous friend, then nodded solemnly at her response as though she had reported seeing their supervisor disgracing himself privately. She let herself contemplate the mental image of the famous Jack Byron in a lacy ensemble before she caught herself drumming her fingers nervously against the edge of the seat. This was not how a successful reporter behaved. Or... whatever she was pretending to be.
That thought lingered as the Coach made its final approach and she laid eyes on the alien construction that could only bear the name, the Nest. The thin cables that ran across the city were thicker here, the thinnest thicker than her arm. The thickest were the size of the Coach, criss-crossing one another in an immense Gordian Knot that symbolically tied the city together. Atop it, woven around it and in some places hollowed into it was the organic construction that was the Post Office. The Coach whistled up towards a black pinhole that seemed far too small but progressively grew into a cavern that the whimsical might fear held some kind of giant spider creature. Only the whimsical though. Which Minerva certainly wasn't. Yep.
The redhead's secret arachnid fears proved entirely unfounded when the coach landed in the main atrium. Instead the two aspiring journalists were forced to face something far more terrifying for someone in their position; a welcoming committee.
"Ms Peeler," said the leading man in a navy blue trenchcoat with silver buttons, using an anonymous euphemism often used by the Cloaks. Behind him the new shift filed away into the hallways, but three inspectors with the ineffable air of seniority remained to speak with them. "Thank you for coming. I assure you the Nest will cooperate with your investigation provided you do not interfere with the day's business. The Mail Must Flow." The way he said it, that was more than a phrase. It might be a litany for the Nest and Minerva made a mental note to include that prominently in her copy. "I understand you have some questions for us. Tell me, how can we assist the Inquisition?"
The Inquisition? They were up here impersonating the secret shadow-shrouded Inquisition??! Her mind a swirling vortex of dank cells and corporal punishment, Minerva gestured to the colleague who stood so blithely beside her and hurled her under the metaphorical Coach. "I have a number of questions, and we would like to look around. My colleague has the tally of questions coming directly from our investigations, so she shall begin."
As she followed their guide, Minerva turned her head expectantly towards the tallest female reporter from the Golden City Post - but only so far as she could keep all three Inspectors' faces in view. She had a gift for ferreting out what people would prefer to keep hidden about themselves, and they had used this kind of back and forth play in their collaborations previously.
Of course, the last time they hadn't been impersonating the secret police.
Not today.
This morning the morning shift sat around the very outside of the passenger area, two and even three to a seat, murmuring quietly to one another. In the open ring at the centre sat two young ladies; one tall and lanky with short wispy dark hair and an interesting taste in fashion, the other every bit the martyr to fashion that her friend isn't. Her flaming red hair trailing behind her, the woman in the blue gown kept her hands folded primly in her lap and her head high, blithely ignoring the fact that they are the cynosure of all eyes.
Truly Minerva could barely keep a straight face for excitement. While Thomas and she had made a pact to find the true identity of the Falcon and make their name by telling his story, the budding young reporter had hardly dared believe they would be able to bluff their way onto the Coach. Yet bluff they had, and their aerial ascent to the Nest was proof in itself. "Who do you suppose they think we are?" she murmured to her androgynous friend, then nodded solemnly at her response as though she had reported seeing their supervisor disgracing himself privately. She let herself contemplate the mental image of the famous Jack Byron in a lacy ensemble before she caught herself drumming her fingers nervously against the edge of the seat. This was not how a successful reporter behaved. Or... whatever she was pretending to be.
That thought lingered as the Coach made its final approach and she laid eyes on the alien construction that could only bear the name, the Nest. The thin cables that ran across the city were thicker here, the thinnest thicker than her arm. The thickest were the size of the Coach, criss-crossing one another in an immense Gordian Knot that symbolically tied the city together. Atop it, woven around it and in some places hollowed into it was the organic construction that was the Post Office. The Coach whistled up towards a black pinhole that seemed far too small but progressively grew into a cavern that the whimsical might fear held some kind of giant spider creature. Only the whimsical though. Which Minerva certainly wasn't. Yep.
The redhead's secret arachnid fears proved entirely unfounded when the coach landed in the main atrium. Instead the two aspiring journalists were forced to face something far more terrifying for someone in their position; a welcoming committee.
"Ms Peeler," said the leading man in a navy blue trenchcoat with silver buttons, using an anonymous euphemism often used by the Cloaks. Behind him the new shift filed away into the hallways, but three inspectors with the ineffable air of seniority remained to speak with them. "Thank you for coming. I assure you the Nest will cooperate with your investigation provided you do not interfere with the day's business. The Mail Must Flow." The way he said it, that was more than a phrase. It might be a litany for the Nest and Minerva made a mental note to include that prominently in her copy. "I understand you have some questions for us. Tell me, how can we assist the Inquisition?"
The Inquisition? They were up here impersonating the secret shadow-shrouded Inquisition??! Her mind a swirling vortex of dank cells and corporal punishment, Minerva gestured to the colleague who stood so blithely beside her and hurled her under the metaphorical Coach. "I have a number of questions, and we would like to look around. My colleague has the tally of questions coming directly from our investigations, so she shall begin."
As she followed their guide, Minerva turned her head expectantly towards the tallest female reporter from the Golden City Post - but only so far as she could keep all three Inspectors' faces in view. She had a gift for ferreting out what people would prefer to keep hidden about themselves, and they had used this kind of back and forth play in their collaborations previously.
Of course, the last time they hadn't been impersonating the secret police.
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