Mockingbirds

By Tauni and Willowfly

A/N:

So here's another multi-chapter fic from the crackernchinkinc! This is a darkfic (I am Willowfly btw, so whoever knows my stuff shouldn't be surprised). In the authors' notes, I'll talk like this...

And I, Tauni-the-awesome, shall talk like this (this is how I spoke in We Got This Far, so it shouldn't be too confusing! I hope we entertain you all with our plottings, because we sure have entertained ourselves!

Ok, so enough from me and miss "awesome" over here... on with the show!


Prolouge: Perfect Dark

The soft ruffling sounds of paper echoed gently in the small, vacant room. A lean man stood by a dirty cracked window, using the muddled light that filtered through the old plate of glass to look at a neat, crisp pile of clean white papers inside a manila file folder. His hair was short, precisely cut and slicked back slightly, looking almost black beneath the dying light. His face was long and narrow, interrupted by a pencil thin beard and mustache that traveled from the top of his ears, down to his chin where it took a slight detour to his bottom lip, and then back up the other ear, the mustache bridging over the thin lips and connecting to the beard, under his slender, long nose. His eyes that had a strange light about them, striking silver blue, set deep within his skull, the hollow look of the dead behind his thin, expressionless brow and sharp cheek bones. He was clad in a black, formal suit, the expensive materials looking soft and fine even in the dreary room, and the tie that adorned his chest gleamed a steely blue to match his eyes tone to tone. His shoes where a shiny black, not a scuff nor mark to mar their finest leather, speaking volumes to his obsession, obtaining the unobtainable. Perfection.

The man narrowed his steel eyes for a moment, his mouth curling up in a small sneer and then used a pen he fished out of his pocket to underline something before turning the page and reading the next. Every now and then you would hear the scratching of the pen or the rustling of a turning paper echo through the room but that was all; no breathing, no shuffling of feet or fabric; just pure, deadening silence.

Then a soft knock on the door, three taps, and his head shot up, snapping the folder closed with a simple flourish of his fingers. "What do you want?" He called, turning his body to face the door across the room, the window behind him casting his body into shadows as the light, no matter how weak, radiate from around him. His voice was not deep and did not rumble, yet held an air of commanding authority.

"Sir, Wilkins just came back with more photos." Came a timid voice through the door. The man raised his eyebrows, gently surprised his orderly had returned to him so soon.

These creatures, he thought as he turned his eyes back down to the closed manila folder that was stamped "High Priority" in blaring red upon the cover, are supposed to be rather elusive.

"Send him in." He ordered smoothly and turned around again to face the window, looking out of its age encrusted panes to the lively city below. The city was on the move, always on the move, always having to be somewhere, be somewhere now, at this moment, no time in-between.

Which is why he hated this city. He hated coming here and smelling its polluted air, watching its scurrying people, feeling its filthy streets and upbeat manner. The very thought sickened him down to the bones.

Sadly, a lot of contracts tracked back to the city, like his bounty thought they could escape here, run away from their problems and hide behind this wrenched city. But, truthfully, it was easier to find them here, easier to track people when cameras were everywhere, easier to kill when killings happened every night. New York City was the easiest place for a hunter to finish the job.

The hunt is more challenging in the wild. In the arctic hunting creatures of fables, creatures of children's darkest nightmares, shadows on the walls, creatures that strike fear in the hearts of the native people, fill their legends with terror. But he has seen them in all their reality, looked into their blazing eyes, felt their breath upon his skin as the death blow was dealt, their blood warm upon his fingers. They were real, and everyday he was reminded by their heads mounted upon his walls, creatures people only saw in the city zoos and rare footage, waiting for his eyes to feast on them.

Another knocking, this time five sharp raps and the door opened without invitation. A skinny little man walked in, head held high on his thin sloping shoulders. In his bony hand he held several pictures, finger prints smeared all over their glossy veneer. Smiling a toothy grin, the filthy, ragged man presented his prize proudly to his employer.

"Caught'em offa Center'n fifth," beamed Wilkins haughtily, his grating, boyish voice brandishing that infamous New York accent in all its blazing glory. As the man looked slowly through the photos, his grey and rotten smile only grew. "'E t'augt 'e could hide in da shadows" he sniggered. "Obviously 'he's nevah heard'a da K-39 shuttahs on the new Dymra camera, sees right throu' d'os shadows an' onto 'im!" He chortled a few times, a sickening animal sound that broke through his nose in a high pitched wheeze.

The man looked up from the pictures and gave Wilkins a sharp look, eyes narrowing and lips tightening slightly. Yes, New Yorkers, what strange and annoying people. Wilkins widened his eyes and shrunk back, his long neck seeming to disappear when his thin shoulders rose, and his nervous giggle snapped from his lungs. With a long suffering sigh the man looked back down at the pictures, glad to have the opportunities to do so in peace and quiet.

"Where was this one taken?" he demanded coldly after a few moments, directing his gaze over to the picture at the top.

"Oh, uh, juss one block 'way on sixth, 'e looked like 'e wanted ta go somewhere but changed 'is mind halfway through!" The boy took a step forward and nodded as if to reassure himself that the information was correct. "'E turned right 'round 'an went back undah ground aftah that."

The rich man hummed as he shuffled through the pictures one last time before nodding and tucked them into the file. His hand then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a crisp white envelope.

"As promised, your payment."

Wilkins' grabbed the envelope with sticky fingers and the man held back a snarl. Always in a hurry, always.

The boy tore it open greedily and flicked through the sharp green bills before closing it and folding it once, slipping it into one of his huge, grungy pockets. "Well, 's good doin' business wit ya. You got mah numbah if ya need mah services 'gain" he called, turning on his heels and leaving the room.

Not even a proper goodbye, the man snorted inwardly, what have they been teaching these street rats? The man rolled his eyes in distaste, the feeling of city smog thick within his lungs and turned back to the window, the sun now fallen to the west without a trace of light to penetrate the air.

A ring, sharp and to the point, came from his pocket and he, as if expecting this ring long before it came, slid the phone smoothly from his pocket and flicked it open with practiced ease. "Yes?"

"Mr. Watergate, I am assuming you received my package."

The man looked down to the manila folder before replying, "Yes, I received it an hour ago."

"And did held all the information you required?"

"Yes."

"Good. When do you suspect you will have the specimens contained?"

"Less than a week. I will call you when everything is ready."

"I look forward to hearing from you, Watergate."

"And I you, Bishop."