R2 SE5: Favors
Dawn was creeping her way over the horizon, bursting through the last of the previous week's clouds with brilliant rays of pink and gold. The return of sunlight to the rain-soaked Prague was much like the return of a long-lost relative, and this realization was not lost on the few people and creatures that were out and about at this early hour. One such creature, though half vampire, was so glad for the coming of light (and therefore warmth and dryness) that he had to resist loosing an animalistic howl of joy. He had to remember why he was here, on the roof of St. Vitus, one of the many, many churches in the city sometimes called "Hundred Spires."
Beowulf sighed and laid back onto the shingles. Any minute now, she would be here. Had he done the smart thing by contacting her? Or was he just going to make both of them more miserable than they already were?
This wasn't a time for self-doubt, however. He reached into one of his several pockets and retrieved his customized cellcom. Clawed fingers pressed a few buttons, navigating the on-screen menus with as much expertise as any teen-aged human female, until he found what he wanted. A recording of the last call received on this cellcom. He smirked at his own habitual paranoia, for once glad about it. He hit the 'play' button and brought the device to his slightly pointed right ear.
"Beowulf," he had barked in annoyance. He'd been in a Sweepers meeting at the time.
"It is me," came a familiar voice. "We need to talk, Beowulf."
"As evidenced by your calling me," he had quipped.
There was a leonine growl, followed by "This is no time to be cute!" There was a sense of desperation, with traces of fear, in that sentence. Even earlier, as angry as he was, he'd picked up on it.
"...Sura, what's wrong?" He had lowered his voice, so the others around him, busy with the meeting, would not hear the concern in his tone.
"Something big, something...Something huge! You need to get the Sweepers to mobilize! We must warn the Slayers before it is too late! There is--"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down. Calm yourself a little."
"I cannot be calm! If you knew what I knew you would not dare suggest such a thing!" Now panic had seeped into his words. This man was spooked...No, deeply frightened.
"...Okay, I'm sorry...But you know how we work. They're not gonna march unless they have a damn good reason."
"So they will go and slaughter women and children on baseless rumors fed to them by the Church, and will not lift a finger on the word of their most trusted officer?!"
Now it was his turn to growl. He remembered that he had had to resist baring his teeth while there were people watching. "If you don't tell me what the hell is going on, I'm hanging up and losing this cellcom."
There was silence, and then a heavy sigh. "...Old friend, I cannot tell you over the air. This is something that you will not believe unless I say it to you directly, for then you may look into my eyes and know I speak the truth and not a crazy lie."
He had paused. Meeting a contact in the middle of all the tournament's insanity was likely unwise. However, this was no ordinary contact, and this contact was not only sincere, he was desperate. "...Fine. When and where?"
"As soon as it is possible. Can you meet me tonight?"
Another pause, this time to think of his schedule. "...Yeah. Any time after six."
"Seven o'clock it shall be. The roof of the church called St. Vitus."
"I'll be there."
There was a click in the recording, indicating that they had both ended the call. He hit the 'stop' button, then hit the 'rewind' button for a moment, never having to look at the cellcom once and keeping it essentially glued to his ear. Again he hit 'play'.
"--big, something...something huge!"
'Fast-forward'.
"--warn the Slayers before it is too late!"
More 'fast-forwarding'.
"--look into my eyes and know I speak the truth and not a crazy lie."
There he hit 'stop' for the last time, and brought the phone to his face to blankly stare at it as he thought about the conversation and his partner in it.
Kaliek Sura. Not only a proud son of Africa, but like Beowulf, a creature science called a 'werepire.' He was always the calmer, more collected of the two of them, never one to raise his voice or worry. In all the years he had known him, Beowulf never once saw him show any semblance of fear. So, what could have possibly shaken his childhood friend, and very valuable contact, so badly?
And then there was the meeting itself. Or rather, the lack of a meeting. Sura had never showed. If anything, he always arrived to a place early and scolded Beowulf for being literally seconds late. He considered it a great dishonor to invite someone somewhere and then not come yourself (as he frequently told the half-werewolf, who was often guilty of it because of his work with Sweepers, Inc.), and the one thing that ever DID get under the half-werelion's skin was hypocrisy.
Needless to say, Beowulf was worried.
The call had come on one of the days between Rounds One and Two in the tournament. When Sura didn't appear at St. Vitus by eight that night, he had gone out to look for him, fearing some sort of misfortune. He had managed to pick up a trail before the rain started, but it mysteriously stopped in an ally and he was unable to pick it up again. Perhaps his senses were getting confused by the many, many nonhuman scents the tournament brought in, perhaps Sura really had vanished into thin air. Either way, his friend and contact was missing, along with the apparently vital information he carried.
As much as he hated to admit it, he needed help. This was Sura, however...For Kaliek (and he was the ONLY one allowed to call him as such other than the werelion's parents), the only person from his past who would still speak to him, he would swallow his pride. Not just any kind of help would do, either. The best, and nothing less.
He heard the gentle flapping of leathery wings somewhere behind him, which ended with the soft click of boots landing gracefully on the roof. The newcomer did not move any closer, nor did they speak. As always during their meetings, they were being cautious, expecting a trap of some kind. Beowulf checked his cellcom's clock.
"You're late," he commented.
'No," a female voice corrected. "You're early."
He checked his clock again, and sure enough, it was out of sync and running fast. "...So I am," he said as he fixed it. Once done with that, he returned the object to the pocket it originated from, and motioned for her to come closer, all without facing her. "I'm not gonna bite."
She took a few steps toward him, and her scent came to him on a light breeze. It wasn't just her scent, which was usually a mixture of gunpowder and a strange musky perfume that he couldn't identify, that he caught. He wrinkled his nose. "You smell like sex."
She took a seat next to him. "...And if I do?"
Now the smell was stronger, and he caught yet another one. A very, very familiar cologne, much like the kind he himself used to wear before his sense of smell fully developed. Only one person he knew still wore it.
He sat up and faced her, staring at her hard. Without his trademark sunglasses on, he couldn't hide the mix of anger and disgust that shone in his orange eyes. "I can't believe this...You're still sleeping with the bastard!?"
Gray eyes matched his glare. "Surely you did not summon me here to discuss my sex life?"
"What I called you here for can wait a moment, Ileina! This is--"
"If tsat is tse case, I will leave. Your message said tsat tsis was urgent. I do not like being lied to." She stood up and stepped away from him, meaning to transform into bats and fly away.
"Wait, wait." He stood up and grabbed her firmly by the arm. "It IS urgent. But so is this...Vampire-to-vampire, you have to believe me when I tell you that it's wrong, all kinds of wrong that I can't even get into. You need to break it off. He's NOT what you think he his, and you're NOT what you think you are to him."
She snatched her arm away from him. "I know exactly what I am to him. Master cannot lie to me, our bond makes it impossible."
Beowulf felt his blood turn to ice, bile coming up into his throat. "...'Master'? You mean...Oh, Ileina, he hasn't...That sick son of a bitch hasn't released you yet?!"
The vampire hissed at him, baring her fangs. "Beowulf, I have always risked a lot for tsis...whatever it is we have! You must know tse danger I put myself in by coming here to speak wits you! If all you were going to do is call me and my Master names, why did you bother to ask me to come at all?! If you do not get to tse point--"
He could not battle with her about this. Not right now, at any rate. He had to think about Sura. "Alright, I asked you to come because I'm callin' in one of those favors you owe me." He brought out his wallet and dug through it until he found one of the photographs he kept hidden in its folds.
It was a picture taken back in Sura's homeland. It was the last vacation Beowulf could remember taking, and it was the last time he'd really had any kind of fun. That was reflected in the picture, his blue hair wild and his smile large and genuine, with a small touch of sunburn on his cheeks and nose. He was shirtless, and had his foot on the beast he and his friend had brought down together, a monstrous fire demon they had encountered roaming the savanna. His friend mirrored his stance and expression on the other side of the beast, his white, mane-like hair flowing majestically in the wind, contrasting with skin reminiscent of rich dark chocolate and glowing red-orange eyes. He was roughly Beowulf's height, and was slightly more muscular in build, covered in myriad scars that somehow ended up looking like a tribal tattoo pattern. More proof that the scars were intentional lay in the fact that they conveniently stopped at the neck and upper arms, perfect for covering with a t-shirt.
He pointed to Sura in the picture as he spoke. "He's one of my contacts...and probably the only real friend I have. He was here in Prague, investigating the tournament...He didn't show for a meeting that he arranged. I've been all over this damned city, and all I got was a disappearing scent trail. I......Please. I need you to help me find him."
Ileina's angry expression softened dramatically. After looking between Beowulf and the picture for a moment, she took the photo in hand and examined it herself. "...He is important to you?" she asked.
"...Very," Beowulf said honestly.
"Tsen I will find him. Tsere are a few Mercenaries eager for sometsing to do, and I will be helping tsem. Anytsing I need to know about him tsat tsis photo can't tell me?"
"Like me, he's a werepire. As his hair indicates, he's half werelion...But when he's anywhere but home, he keeps it cut short to avoid sticking out more than he already does. He sometimes thinks and acts like the cat he is, and he's not very social with other vampires for the most part. If werepires were classified the way vamps are, he'd be on par with your 'master'."
She continued to examine the photo after he finished talking, and for a while said nothing. He was about to ask what was up when she said, "So you DO smile."
He looked down at his feet for a moment, then returned his gaze to her. "...Ileina. Promise me we'll talk about you and Vladimir sometime soon. Without the conversation going thermonuclear."
She pocketed the photo and turned away from him. "Perhaps we will, if he doesn't kill me for speaking wits you first...I will talk if you do, too. About you and Master, and why tse two of you hate one anotser so. Witsout you dodging questions and dancing around tse answers."
"Deal...And thanks."
"Tsank me when I find this friend of yours, not before."
Ileina bust into a group of small bats and flew away, back toward the ruined section of the Twilight District, where her master undoubtedly slept and waited for her. As he watched her shrink into the distance, he sighed and mussed his hair.
"Stay out of this," Vladimir had told him when last they spoke, "and I will stay out of your affairs. Bother my Dark Child again, mention one word of any of this to her, and I swear I will bring the full force of my family to bear on you and the Sweepers."
In other words, if he and Ileina really did have the conversation they were threatening to have, it would be the start of the next Vampire War.
Ignoring that, he'd also dragged her even further into the mess of the tournament than she already was. She would be more noticeable if she was actually out there looking for Sura instead of just arranging some (very well planned and executed) explosions. Both Prewitt and Overseer Gregory IX wanted her caught, the only difference being that the latter wanted her dead and the former alive. The High Slayer was enraged over her stunts last round, and was more than tripling his efforts to catch her. If she was caught...
How long would it take the superpsychic to find out about her relationship with Beowulf? How long before he made the connection to the fact that the Sweepers were playing for both teams, outwardly helping the Slayers while running interference and occasionally providing shelter and support for Ileina and her Mercenaries (many of whom were either Sweepers or former Sweepers)? The uneasy working truce the two organizations had shared since the IFPE's inception would crumble, and being the lesser-equipped, lower-funded, under-staffed of the two, Sweepers, Inc. would surely be crushed. Many innocent people--employees and their families, men, women, and children--would die.
All for what? So he could chase redemption in the form of a (relatively young, he reminded himself) vampire girl who just happened to be the spitting image of his sin?
The sun had fully risen now, casting beams directly into his vampiric eyes. He cringed a little even as his inner wolf longed to loll its tongue and bask in the rays lazily. He reached into another pocket and retrieved his sunglasses, putting them on after taking a moment to clean them on the corner of his jacket. Safe behind the tinted glass, his eyes relaxed and adjusted to the world in shades of black and blue.
He stretched his legs and back, preparing for a run. Today was a big day. His job was to find last round's losers, and track them until he figured out how they were getting back onto the roster.
The half-werewolf, half-vampire took a deep breath, drinking in the smells of the city, and then leaped from the roof. He landed in a roll to reduce the shock, and that enabled him to take off, bounding with great strides. He caught a familiar scent and, thinking it might be a competitor, decided to follow it.
He'd leave all the worry, the self-doubt, the motive-questioning, the frustration, and the deep thinking for another time. This time was for working...For hunting.
* * *
The redhead and the smoker sat in front of the computer screen in the latter's unorganized, messy office, waiting for any kind of change to the list of competitors. Smokestack popped his fingers and neck as Maurice yawned.
"What, exactly, are we hoping to notice that we didn't before?" asked the Sweeper.
"Hell, anything. I'm hopin' we can catch the login data of whoever's editin' the list. Last time, we weren't expectin' a change. Now we're ready for it."
"...Digital stakeouts are so damn dull..."
"You'd rather be out there with your partner, huntin' down and followin' the losers, trackin' their movements?"
"Yeah, you're right. Nonviolence is more of my cup of tea." Maurice stood up and stretched. "Speakin' of drinks, got a coffeemaker hidden somewhere in this chaos?"
Smokestack's eye twitched. "'Hidden' is right. If I don't hide it, LAME will find it."
After a moment, Maurice returned to his seat. "Forget the coffee."
There was some rustling outside the room. Smokestack seemed to panic a little. "No, wait, don't--'
"COFFEEEEEEEE!!!"
The aforementioned robot burst into the room. "Coffee?! You have coffee?! Where, where?! Can I have some, huh, huh, can I have some?!"
Maurice blinked and stared at the creation. "Uh...No. I don't have any...Sorry?"
Smokestack closed his eyes, massaging his temples as he bit down on the end of his cigar. "LAME," he said slowly, "do you remember the chore I asked you to do an hour ago?"
The metallic creature saluted and said, "Yessir!"
"Well...Did you finish it?"
The robot nodded enthusiastically, the ball-cap nearly falling off his head. "Uh-huh, Uh-huh! I was on my way to tell you that I was done," he explained rapidly, "and I heard your friend here mention coffee, so I got a little excited, because you know how much I love coffee, and--"
"So you're done?" Smokestack interrupted, sparing both him and Maurice a rant about the wonders of a cup of Joe.
"Yep! It's uploaded to the main database!...Can I go get some coffee now?"
The ancient being stared at what was essentially his electronic, robotic, dysfunctional son for a moment before reaching into his back pocket, where his wallet was kept. He tossed the leather object to LAME, who caught it eagerly. "Don't spend it all, and bring back the change...Oh, and while you're out, get me and Freckles here some, too."
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!"
It was as if some great artist had 'cut' LAME from the scene, he was gone so quickly. Maurice glared at his companion.
"...'Freckles?'"
"What? Sounds better than 'red-haired wimp.' Would you have preferred if I called you that?"
The Sweeper scoffed and turned his chair away from the other judge. "I'd 'prefer' that you call me by my name. I get enough flack from my own company. I don't need it from you, too."
Smokestack noticed that his cigar was nearly spent. He tossed it into a nearby ash tray, grabbed a fresh one from seemingly nowhere, and lit it. "Kid, I'm jus' tryin' to toughen ya up a little. The world's a mean place, and it's gettin' meaner. You're gonna be the President of Sweepers, Inc. one day...unless your Uncle Jerry settles down and has a kid of his own, the odds of which are pretty much nil. You're sweet, and you've still got a rational head on your shoulders. Unfortunately, guys like you are the ones who get eaten alive out there. Sweepers, Inc. is pretty much the world's last hope for any kinda peace between man and monster...When the time comes, you're gonna need ta step up, and not worry about what yer called or not called."
Maurice looked over his shoulder at the other man. "...You SURE you're not as old as you say you are, and you and Beowulf were actually separated at birth or somethin'?"
The smoker chuckled. "I take it ya get much of the same from him?"
"Only every damn day. So...what was it you had your robot working on?"
"One of the few things he can do right." He leaned forward in his chair to be able to use the mouse and keyboard on his disheveled desk. He minimized the roster and brought up the tournament database. Several of the entries were flickering, indicating updates. "There isn't a lot LAME can do, an' the things he can do...well, he doesn't usually do 'em very well. But MAN, can he read and type fast. I had him put all our written data inta the computer, which very neatly organized it for us."
He opened the folder containing the profiles of the judges. Besides his own picture, there was a snapshot of Maurice that likely came from his driver's license, a photocopy of Nathan Prewitt's IFPE ID, a long-distance shot of Overseer Gregory IX, and a low-quality, cellcom-taken picture of the being they called 'the Shadow', the only connection they had to the mysterious fifth judge. Even her name was incomplete, listed only as her prefered term of address: 'Madam'.
Maurice groaned. "You either?"
Smokestack shook his head. "Zip. Nada. Nothin'. No visuals, no direct recordings of her voice, no fingerprints...We DO, however, have some info about her little minion here, and the transcripts of her conversations with the High Slayer and His Holiness."
"Real~y? Lemme have a look at those."
"Sure thing." The brown-haired man pushed himself away from the desk, cauing his chair to roll backward, giving Maurice room to manever his own chair in front of the computer. "Knock yerself out."
Teal eyes scanned the fine print on the screen. "...So...According to this, she was made a judge before we were?"
"Seems like it. That ain't all, either. Keep readin'."
The younger man obliged. He slowly scrolled down on the page, reading at a moderate pace, trying to be quick but wanting to make sure he didn't miss anything. "Wait. Us being made judges was her idea?!"
Smokestack nodded gravely. "She comes up with some decent reasons, but it DOES seem a little suspicious. And somehow, despite the protests of the other two...Here we are."
"Yeah, the Overseer objected to you, and Prewitt objected to me. But like you said, here we are. Considering neither of them have met her face to face, I'm curious as to what exactly she said that convinced--" Here he paused and stared at the screen. A second later, he shouted, "That SONOFABITCH!"
The smoker smiled knowingly. "I take it you got to Prewitt's little rant about you?"
Maurice chuckled wryly and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he was crudely imitating the High Slayer by giving him a posh British accent. He read from the transcript, "He's a sniveling brat, little more than an easily-swayed child. Not only is he the nephew of Jerald Broomstock, the bleeding heart that runs the joke that is Sweepers, Inc., he's in constant contact with the dangerous halfbreed monstrosity known as Beowulf. Between the two of them, his mind is full of poison and rot...He'd be more likely to defend a snarling, wretched demon than he would an innocent human!"
Smokestack laughed a little at his younger companion's voice-acting. "Typical Prewitt...Dick Plus One, with an attidute to boot. Seems to foget that he's a little on the young side himself."
"I just wanna know where he get's off insulting people like that...And doesn't he realize that I would NOT be defending a 'snarling, wretched demon' because I would be no where near said creature? I don't mind being called a coward--hey, the meek are supposed to inherit the Earth some day--but..." He sighed in defeat. "You know what? I really don't even care anymore."
The smoker smiled and clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit, kid." He began reading over Maurice's shoulder. "If it make ya feel any better, the Overseer wasn't nearly as nice as Prewitt was. Rants for a long while about how I'm defying God's natural order, how I need to be put outta my misery, how my city is a haven for pagans and criminals..."
"So he says when Vatican City has nearly double the crime rate of Coil City," Maurice commented, rolling his eyes.
"You can thank a certain resident for that, actually. He's a bit...Overenthusiatic with his vigilantism. Everyone else learned that real quick."
"Anyway, now I wanna see what you got on the Shadow. We've got ziltch, so..."
"Just hit 'back', an' the link should be right there in the judge's folder."
"Okay, I see it. Here we go..."
Now the screen was showing the part of the database dedicated to Madam's assistant. There were a few photos, but none of them were as good as the one used for Madam's profile picture, and in every one of them the Shadow looked different.
"So...It's a shapeshifter of some kind?" Maurice asked.
"That's the thing--I haven't got a clue WHAT the hell it is."
"Coming from you, that statement is somehow much more frightening than I think it should be."
Smokestack shrugged. "I've got guesses, but nothin' concrete. I doubt it's demonic, and while it looks kinda like a dark djinn, it can't be 'cause it moves around without any kind of luggage."
"It could be bound to that radio that she talks through," Maurice suggested.
"Nah. It's been poppin' up all over the city, and no one's mentioned it carryin' that radio. It was a nice thought, though."
"But the shapeshifter idea still stands?"
"For the moment, yeah."
"Why don't we just call in an expert or somethin'? I mean, if we identify that thing, we're one step closer to knowing who this 'Madam' is and what she wants with all of us. I mean, I can't be the only one thinkin' she's up to somethin', right?"
The smoker seemed to stare at nothing, lost in thought as he mouthed the words 'call an expert.' Suddenly he leaped from his chair. "Listen, I need ya ta do me a big favor. I'm headin' out for a bit. I gotta call an old friend...Call 'em 'an expert,' if ya will."
"...I haven't heard a favor in there yet."
"If Prewitt asks where I am, an' I know he will, bullshit for me."
Maurice stared at Smokestack. "Wait...You can't possibly expect me to LIE to a man that can read my mind!"
"Keep yer mind blank and stall until LAME gets here. He get's on Prewitt's nerves so bad that he'll turn around an' leave."
Almost on cue, the robot came into the room, humming a merry tune as he carried several trays of large coffees in one hand and his master's wallet in another. "I'm baa~aack! Turns out the coffeehouse across the street was having a buy one, get one free sale!"
"Great timin'." Smokestack grabbed both his wallet and one of the coffees. "I'm out. You two play nice, hear?"
The door shut behind him on its own. For a full minute, the redhead and the robot just looked at each other. LAME put the stack of trays down on the floor and removed the top one, which he extended toward Maurice. "Coffee?"
The Sweeper sighed and took one of the cups, smiling a little. "Cheers."
LAME giggled. "We're gonna be bestest frieeeeends...Imma call you Cuddles! <3"
* * *
The ancient man was now deep into the Twilight District. Gone were the ruined buildings and the scavengers that lived in them. All around him were the signs of a vibrant community, with countless shops lining streets clogged with construction workers, children at play, and many other nonhumans going to and fro. This was their sanctuary...And he was not intruding.
Quite the contrary. He felt rather at home here. Adding to this were the nods of respect and the shouted greetings he got as he passed by. Still, this was a dangerous place--the wars with the Templars had left many penniless and starving--so he kept his modified yo-yo in one hand, always ready to fight. It would not be the first time he'd been mugged, the attackers apologizing and begging for forgiveness all the while.
Thankfully, there was no such drama this morning. His black eyes scanned the signs above the shops, not worrying about running into anyone or anything. He knew they would move for him.
He finally found the shop he was looking for. There was no name on the sign, just a picture of a very old mobile phone (circa 1990's, he guessed) with lightning bolts coming from it. An 'open' sign hung in one of the windows, but he didn't see anyone inside except for the person behind the counter. Good. He needed the privacy.
Smokestack pushed the door open, causing a bell to ding, and stepped inside. The man behind the counter, who was alerted by the bell, turned to him. He was elvish, and must have been very old, for his raven hair was beginning to show signs of silver, and his bright green eyes glinted with wisdom and experiance. Those eyes drifted, as Smokestack predicted they would, to his forehead. After a moment, the aged elf came from behind the counter to greet him personally with a warm handshake.
"'Tis an honor to have one such as yourself enter my place of business. Tell me, what can an old elf do for you?"
"I need ta use one of yer phones. The kind techies an' psychics can't tap into, with long-distance capabilities."
"Those HAVE gotten popular as of late...For the wrong reasons, I'm afraid," sighed the man as he went back behind his counter. "You and I share the common goal of peace, and a common philosophy on how to obtain it. I wish I could say the same of all my customers. How far away is this 'long distance' of yours, exactly?"
"Across the Atlantic."
"You're in luck, then. I have one left with enough juice for a few hours. All my interplanitary phones are still charging, you see."
The elf placed a large, suitcase-like box that he'd gotten from behind the counter upon it. He spoke melodically under his breath, and the locks on the container clicked open, causing the lid to lift. The inside was black and velvety, adorned with glowing silver runes. Nestled in the middle of these various runes was a device almost as old as the one on the sign outside, a cellphone dating from perhaps the mid-2000's.
"Isn't she beautiful?" the elf asked with pride. "Run completely on magic, uses the mana waves surrounding us and our planet to communicate. Unless that psychic you're trying to avoid moonlights as a druid, your conversation will be completely undetectable. You can even call landline phones without worry."
Smokestack took the cellphone in hand, feeling the warm energy it emanated pulse through him. It felt friendly, familiar, comforting...Pure elvish, runic magic at it's finest. He didn't look it, but the proprieter had to be a mage of the highest caliber. "I really appreciate this..." he said, reaching for his wallet.
"Oh, come now," the elf said. "Don't be ridiculous. I've no need of money...I do what I do out of love for the craft. I only ever ask for payment to deter the dishonest. You, Honorable First, don't need to prove yourself to me or anyone else." He pointed to a door to his left. "The most private room in this building is the one through there, at the end of the hall. It may not be the most comfortable, as it is where I store my supplies, but I soundproofed it heavier than the others."
"Thank you." He couldn't think of anything else to say to the kind man, so he just nodded in respect before he went through the indicated door.
Smokestack needed to be careful, even here. The old elf would not betray him the tournament officials, and therefore the IFPE and Church, for what he truly was. But there were many in this district who would, in a heartbeat or less if some kind of payment or reward was involved. Of the ones who nodded to him or greeted him in the street, how many knew Runic? How many of them were believers? And of those that knew and believed, how many were desperate enough to turn him in?
All of that could be avoided, he supposed, by wearing a headband in public. But it would be suspicious of him to start doing so now, as he never had in the past. The last thing he needed was suspicion cast in his direction. There was also the point the old elf had made for him. If it was visable, he didn't have to do much to gain the trust of most nonhumans. However...
It had taken him a long time to earn the respect and trust of both the Slayers and the clergy. Even though he was the Elder of Coil City, the world's bastion for clean energy, new beginnings, and peaceful humans, it took a lot of effort to win them over. He'd kissed a lot of ass and taken a lot of bullshit from both of them, and he wasn't about to have it all undone by some idiot with the tiniest knowledge of Runic and a smidget of belief in Valdesh in need of cash. As the Creator's eyes and ears relatively close to the inside of both the Vatican and the IFPE, being found out would cause, as Smokestack himself often said, "a shitstorm of epic proportions." If he, Valdesh's First Disciple, could get so far without being noticed until now, what was stopping other Disciples? A witch hunt would ensue, and the deaths of many people, Disciple or not, would be on his hands.
It would also cut off their chance to find out the true nature of the relationship between the Church and the International Fraternity of Peace Enforcers, and what their true plans were. And the larger organization that ran them both, the High Office of International Affairs, would again be beyond their sight. He and the numerous other Disciples who had embedded themselves in all three as clerks, gophers, drivers, and even actual members (IFPE grunts and low-ranking clergymen), had worked far too hard for him to screw it all up now.
At last he reached the room at the end of the hall. He went in and locked the door behind him. The whole room buzzed with a kind of magical energy...The elf obviously kept his rune-drawing materials here. He plopped down onto the floor, propping his back against a stack of wooden crates, and began to figure out this unique phone.
The on-screen menus were thankfully very helpful and simple. There were only four options: "Call a cellular device," "Call a landline," "Call a computer," and "Call something else." He chose to "call a landline," and entered a number he hadn't called in more than a year. After pushing "call", he brought the phone to his ear and waited.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then he felt the device reaching out with magical tendrils much like fingers, searching for a mana wave to catch, making little whooshing noises the whole time. He heard a light chime, and felt the energy reach out far, far beyond where he sat; the phone had succeeded in catching one of the waves circling the globe. After another moment of silence, the other line began to ring.
And ring.
And ring. Smokestack's spirits sank. Perhaps she'd had to move again. Or, worse, she wasn't going to answer a call from him at all. But eventually, there was a click and a very groggy-sounding feminine voice said, "...hullo...?"
His heart both jumped for joy and shattered into pieces, hearing her voice again. "...Hey, Veronica."
"M-Mr. Stack?!" He heard some rustling, followed by what sounded like things falling off a table or desk. "I-is something the matter?! Did something happen?!"
"Nah, I'm fine...Sorry ta call ya so late. I know it's gotta be the middle of the night over there, but--"
"No, no, don't apologize! I fell asleep grading essays anyway. I should thank you for waking me up, haha!"
"'Essays?' What kinda essays do first-graders write?"
"You'd be suprised...The little darlings are getting smarter every year, I tell you!"
There was an awkward break in the conversation. Memories of their last conversation, the tears, the yelling, and the pain, seemed to hang between the two of them. As usual, it was she who spoke first. "S-so, uh...to what do I owe the pleasure of a call from--" Here she paused, presumably to check the caller ID. "--The Czech Republic?"
"I..." He had to choose his words carefully here. "V, I need you to do something for me. I need some information about Madam's henchie."
"Henchie? Madam? Wait..." Her light voice took on a darker edge. "Which 'V' are you talking to: me, or him?"
Smokestack closed his eyes. He'd chosen poorly. "Please, Veronica. Don't be like this...This is important, alright?"
"And I'm not?"
He sighed heavily. "Of course you are. Don't ever say that. I just...We can't use the usual channels to talk to him right now. Someone's blocking our communications to one another, an' if they can do that, they can just as easily listen to our conversations with him. I'm not willin' to risk the innocent Disciples and other believers in the city."
There was a long silence, this one much heavier than the last. He could hear her choking back tears. When she didn't respond after a minute, he said, "Veronica. When this tournament is over...I wanna see you. We can meet in my city, since yours is colder than a witch's ass this time of year. We'll talk...Talk about all of it, this time without the screamin' an' hurt feelings."
"...You promise? If I go to Coil City, you really will come there as soon as you can?"
"The instant I can. We'll just be Veronica Summerwind, the school teacher, and Mr. Stack, the engineer. None of the other stuff will come inta play. But right now...Right now, I'm Disciple Smokestack, and I need you to be Avatar Veronica. Okay?"
Again, there was silence, punctuated only by the soft whooshing the device continued to make. At first, he was afraid that she'd hung up on him. Then there came a laugh, a voice different from Veronica's. It still had a light, dancing quality to it, but was clearly masculine.
"I was wondering why the lines were so quiet. Here I was, thinking you were all mad at me or something."
He couldn't help but smile, hearing that voice. "Well, now ya know. We're bein' blocked from talkin' to one another, and we all thought it'd be smarter to find other ways of speakin' to ya. Guess I'm just the first to think of one."
"Aren't you always? So, what can I do for you?"
"I know yer not supposed ta interfere with what's goin' on an' all that...But somethin's been buggin' me. The Shadow...What is it?"
"...The fact you're having to ask me strikes me as a bit disturbing."
"That's what everyone's sayin'. But seriously, what is it? Not a demon, not a djinn, not a spirit, probably not a shapeshifter..."
"You're right about all of that. I taught you well. I myself have only seen the creature through your eyes, and from what I can see...It's not good."
"How so?"
"Let's just say...I don't recognize it."
Smokestack was flabbergasted. "You mean..."
"Exactly. It's not one of mine. And that, to be honest, frightens me."
He sat there in shock. He'd called his oldest friend expecting some kind of answer...But not that one. Instead of clearing things up and getting them closer to the truth, the mystery had only deepened.
Just who, or what, was 'Madam'?
