The picture was only a few months old, but even then, detective Norman Daniels was having a hard time accepting the fact that it was a picture of a 23 year old girl—Marie Hammel, one of the employees who had worked at Chatsky's.
There were more lines on the round, plain face than should be there for her age, though he wondered in the back of his mind whether it was just harsh lighting that made what lines were there more marked. Hammel's expression was one of apprehension, and her mouth was twisted into an uncomfortable smile—the reluctant picture-smile one gave when they hated having photographs taken of themselves.
She's certainly not going to be a trophy wife, Daniels thought, staring at the image. Wispy, shoulder-length brown hair fell in bone-straight sheafs, ending in a very blunt cut. Her hair was economical but not very flattening. The type of haircut one has when they want the look of long hair, but don't want to deal with the troubles of having to do much with it.
Her hazel eyes sent a clear message: Get me away from this camera, I don't want to be here.
Like many college graduate students, her eyes had gone bad; in her case, midway through Junior year of her undergraduate studies. According to her file, she had been on Ganymede at the time studying ancient architecture (Ganymede housed many of Earth's salvaged relics), and cultural history. She wore contacts instead of glasses.
Daniels himself was convinced she had nothing to do with Chatsky's burning, nor did he think any of her fellow employees were at fault; but he would wait until all the cards were laid on the table before passing a final judgment.
"Probably some stupid kids out on a joyride," he muttered. "Maybe small-time yakuza out for some fun."
There had been eight total employees at the little shop, with a man named Jose Garcia as the head manager, and Amanda Doyle and Bernard—"Bernie"—Alford as the two shift managers, of whom one was always on the job. There were five more employees.
He had not heard anything from any employee that he had talked to—he hadn't managed to get a hole of Charlotte Cunningham or Ryan Torrey, yet, though—of anything involving discontent, recent firing, or usual precursors to arson committed by employees.
Daniels was at his desk, at the Patmos ISSP office. He was a tall, sallow man with hollow cheeks and dead eyes, and a somewhat unpleasant disposition. He had the look of an ascetic, and his white hair was sparse on his head. He also had a few back door ties to the yakuza, so if this investigation leaned that way, he would shut it down if he could.
Setting the papers down on his table, he leaned back and glanced over his shoulder, at a thrashing woman being dragged in, screaming every last obscenity in English and Spanish she could think of. He couldn't understand half of it, but it was the usual—that they had no right to drag her in, that she was practicing an honest trade.
It would be a very long week.
Two hours after Guns of Navarone ended and I sunk to an all time low in my Valentine's hating rut, Charlotte appeared at my apartment with her boyfriend, an Indian guy named Arjun, about whom I had heard much and seen little. By all accounts he was a pleasant guy, and I was happy to see my friend, who stepped right into my apartment as she was greeting me, and then started ranting about "The fucking son of a bitch who burned down Chatsky's!"
Arjun just smiled at me and I laughed; this was typical pissed off Charlotte. She was harmless, but loud. None of our friends would have her any other way.
"Do y'all want something to drink? I'd 'a thought you'd have had something to do," I said, gravitating automatically towards my fridge.
"I was scheduled to work today, but since work isn't there anymore—we thought we'd come and visit you so you wouldn't get lonely." Charlotte plopped herself down on my sofa and stared at the television. It was now a black and white movie, and she was staring at it critically. She tended to mock my fascination with history, as I mocked her fascination with physics. "Drink? Sure."
"What're you watching?" Arjun asked, coming to stand next to the couch, as I bent over, and got out three beers.
"You want one?" I asked, holding up a bottle of Negra Modelo. "Uh...I think it's Schindler's List, but I'm not really sure. I wasn't really watching it."
I tended to prefer older movies, but there was one that had come out within the last twenty years that I enjoyed: It focused on the SS; it was called Totenkopf. The only problem was that it was made to be dead accurate—I didn't want to watch it on a day that I wanted explosive gratification.
In other words: It could be very dry at times, since it focused on political schematics, and I wanted to see people get blown up—a correlation could be drawn between that and the fact that I abhorred Valentine's Day and wanted it blown up.
Once everyone had a beer and was situated—I perched on a bar chair and Arjun and Charlotte took the couch—we set to watching the television. Charlotte grabbed the remote and changed the channel to a movie involving unrequited love and the back streets of Paris. It was a recent movie with a fairly well known actor, one I enjoyed.
"So have you even gotten a shower yet, Marie?" Charlotte cut in, after chatting animatedly with Arjun in Hindi. I'd always wondered where she learned the language, since her family was from Nigeria. She wasn't Indian—she was black, as far as I knew and by all appearances, but she spoke it like a native anyway.
"Does it look like it?" I asked dryly, with a smile on my face, sticking out a foot and wiggling my fuzzy-purple-sock covered toes.
"We're going out," she declared.
I finished my Modelo and set it on the counter. "Where to? Everything'll be packed. Shit—I can't get blitzed—I have to talk with that damned detective tomorrow." I scowled bitterly.
"Detective?" Arjun asked, staring at me with concern.
I nodded. "Yeah, about the whole Chatsky's burning business. He says he wants to ask me a few questions about it. Have you gotten a call from him yet?" I was referring to Charlotte primarily, though it was possible they would also contact the people close to the employees as well, which would put Arjun on the detective's call list.
"No," Charlotte said, and then dug in her purse to find her phone. "Oh, it's off." With a sheepish laugh, she turned it on, and when she did, a bell-like ring signified that she had missed calls. "Ooh—three, all from the same place. Is his name Norman Daniels?"
"Yup, that's him."
"I better call him back," Charlotte said, and put the phone to her ear.
"So what kind of questions does he want to ask?" Arjun asked, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees.
"I dunno, when he first called me he got some basic information, like my name and what I'm studying in graduate school, and my normal schedule. He didn't ask me what I had done yesterday, I guess he'll ask me that tomorrow."
Charlotte talked to the detective for a few minutes, and began to answer her own versions of the questions Daniels had asked me. It only took just those few minutes, and when she hung up, she sighed.
"Why would anyone burn down Chatsky's?" she asked, but none of us had an answer.
They ended up staying at my apartment until seven o'clock, when I kicked them out, telling them that they needed to go do something special together for Valentine's and not worrying about making sure I wasn't forgotten.
"I'll order out Chinese. Y'all need to go somewhere nice—what about that Greek cafe down there on Wednesday?" I said, waving my hand dismissively, as they walked towards the apartment stairs, heading to their car. "I'm boring company, anyway. It's Valentine's Day!"
So, I ordered out for Chinese food, and settled myself down to watch more movies. I should probably have studied my German, or perhaps read a bit of the assigned book on Byzantium, but I didn't feel like studying.
In another part of the city, below a skytrain's monorail, was a wide Old European-style square inside of a rectangle of buildings, "decorated" with stands of bright souvenir-selling kiosks, and tourists mulling about with cameras hung on their necks and loud Hawaiian shirts—not that many people even knew where the term "Hawaiian" even came from anymore. In the middle of the stone-floored square was an copper commemoration statue, which was ever so slightly oxidized.
Overhead, the Martian sky was clear and cloudless, and it was a temperate 80F. This part of the city was the Patmos' Polish sector.
Which would make one wonder, in such a pretty place, why a ghostly, ethereal man was walking in their midst.
People who were even somewhat cognoscente would turn to stare in what they hoped was a discreet manner, but didn't escape the man's notice despite their best efforts. Something about his bearing set them off, and one mother made a half-frantic grab for the hand of her child.
He walked with his back ramrod straight, though his head was bowed and his face shadowed; the only visible part of his natural body was his head, crowned by nape length, gray-white hair. His hands were tucked neatly into his pockets, and he wore a black suit and tie, with a dark gray point collar shirt underneath. His gait was quick.
In fact, the only thing that seemed to tie him to reality was the rustling plastic grocery bag hanging at his wrist, at which people stared in wonder as he passed, quickly heading towards a small alley between two buildings and disappearing from sight.
As Vicious navigated the back streets of Patmos' Little Warsaw, he slowly relaxed. Though he knew he walked a fine line living as he did, in plain view of "normal people" it also gave him a measure of protection the underworld did not afford; that of the fact no one knew who he was and that anyone who did ran the risk of exposing themselves if they approached him.
Times were changing. Mao's predictions had come back to haunt him—of course, Vicious had never afforded the old man any particular hate, he was simply an obstacle to be removed. Vicious doubted Mao had ever really understood that—his dying statement had only served to drive that point home. At the time it had caused him to smile.
The Syndicates were moving further underground, as the political climate was changing.
As much as he was loathe to admit, the way of life he knew was evaporating at an alarming rate. The ISSP was under intense investigation, under charges of corruption and taking bribes. The syndicates were being brought to task—not under murder charges, but in a haunting nod to past times, under charges of tax evasion.
And yet they still insist on trials? What a farce. Even these fools here knows they're guilty, but for those idealistic bleeding hearts...a pretense must be made. They're convinced there must be some "good" reason for one's actions.
His face twisted malevolently. It was almost certain that he was not known to be alive by the syndicates, or by anyone else, or else someone would have already come for his head. Or else they were far more intelligent than the idiots he had always contended with. It had been two years since his final confrontation with Spike, since it had all come to a head and crashed down upon his shoulders.
He had intended to die that morning, to end it all, with the rising sun. His goals in life were accomplished, his vendettas carried out.
But, like everything else that he could remember, it had not happened the way it should have, and he was still alive. He had more pride in himself than to die like a dog, and kill himself, which left him stranded in this life with no direction or clear purpose. This gnawed at him rabidly. He didn't know if Spike was alive or dead.
His apartment was small, and had no central heating or AC. Otherwise, it was comfortable. It overlooked the square, though he was not one for that kind of ambiance (this specific feature had been a matter of chance), and if one could ignore the skytrain it was more than livable.
One might wonder where Vicious got his money: He was not a poor man, by any standards, and the Swiss banks of old were still in business. Since the money was not tied to him by name, and beyond the reach of the yakuza (Not for lack of trying, however), and as the bank's financial policies still functioned according to the laws of its former country, it was still his.
He was aware, however, that the central government and its investigation was pressing upon the banks to release information on yakuza accounts—and he imagined that it was making his former colleagues squirm. It was lawful for a certain kind of judge—when there actually was a Switzerland still in existence, it was a Swiss magistrate—to order the banks to lift its security, and that would prove disastrous.
There were other technicalities involved, and some depended on the ability to present definitive proof of illegal activities—a laughable requirement, to Vicious—but it was still unsettling. It was something to which he would have to turn his attention in the near future.
But as to immediate position; the best place to hide from enemies was in the place that you were least expected. For a man like Vicious, whose patience was nearly infinite, like, as the Van would say, a snake in the grass, he had made do with the situation at hand. If he were to be forced into this compromising position he would at least do it in a way that garnered something other than revulsion in him.
He was not, of course, interested in any living thing around him, but the physical surroundings were more appealing than a broken down, dank back alley, as would be in Tharsis or Onsen, on the west side. Perhaps more fitting and familiar, but hardly better. As frigid as Vicious may have been, he was not without tastes.
There was little decoration; though what was there was comfortable. A fairly spacious living room with a coffee table and a couch, and a flat-screen television on the opposite wall (This had come with the room, left by the former inhabitants), a bedroom big enough for a double bed, and a shower/bathroom combination attached to the bedroom. A white-tiled kitchen seemed spotless—he rarely used it, so that was the reason. There were also two closets and a walk-in laundry room.
It seemed monotone; since Vicious had little experience with decoration, it was mostly beige, cream, and white. The apartment was mainly utilitarian.
Vicious set the grocery bag on the counter and took the contents out: Some odds and ends, and various foodstuffs. He had developed something of an eclectic appetite during his time in the higher ranks of the Red Dragons, and his purchases reflected it. He was facilitated by the range of grocery stores in the area.
While Spike had been perfectly content to eat whatever was handed to him, provided it wasn't toxic (and even then some concessions had been made), Vicious' standards were placed a little higher if he could help it.
What had been said on the street had been only somewhat surprising, as Vicious was not a man to be easily shocked: Apparently, Chatsky's—the coffee shop where he'd been last night and by some ugly brat had been told to vacate—had been burned to the ground.
It was something of a pity, it was the only even approaching passable coffee venue he had yet found within a twenty minute walk. After deciding that the conversation between the two clerks had some relevance as to himself he paid more attention to their chatter: They were thinking it was arson, and that the ISSP was starting an investigation.
He put the food away and walked into his bedroom. Boredom was not something he had ever been accustomed with, and it made him somewhat bitter and short-tempered. He had very little he enjoyed, and anyway much of it was now out of his reach.
There was another window in his bedroom overlooking the square; for a moment he paused and looked down at the milling crowds. During the day it was fairly loud, and during the night it was nearly quiet.
He sat down on the bed after sharply jerking the shudders closed. He had never trusted peace, he knew it to be a lull before the storm and an invitation into complacency.
Something egged him incessantly in the back of his head; but he couldn't put his finger on it, and that irritated him.
Second chapter is done...what do y'all think about Vicious' personification?
RR!