Rain after the thunder. Literal. No cause for anything but mild annoyance. Another chance encounter that might change fate forever.
Chapter Nine - Good Publicity
He wished they were comfortable indoors right now with a stack of Solitan pine burning in the fireplace.
Grey clouds began to crowd as they did a few days before. It was as if the weather was self-aware and reflected their event almost in mockery. The time was one past twenty-two in the afternoon. Lunch at Hei seemed like a very much stretched prospect.
The Prospero Metropolitan Police had arrived at the scene, thankfully to no civilian casualties. It saved them the tragedy and paperwork, while for Roman and everyone else, a visit to the nearest precinct for immediate questioning.
The entire street was cordoned off. Beyond the yellow police line, much to Roman's displeasure, were news crews already present and ready. Specifically the one group of people he wished to miss at the time, but alas. The gunmen were taken into custody, and those that were less fortunate—which was a rightful case of self-defence, make no mistake—were swiped into blue body bags after the field coroners were finished.
The officers took statements from him, Neo, and Isaiah and they will be possibly contacted on a later day if the investigation deems it necessary; their stories then more or less confirmed by the bystanders whose life they had practically saved. Isaiah had even gotten a peck on the cheek from an older girl whose dog he had saved during the initial start of the gunfight, and he seemed to be receiving quite a lot of praise from the other bystanders.
The boy barely spluttered out a thanks to the girl before stomping away, face red as beet. Neo could only shake her head and offer an apologetic smile to the girl. And Roman flipped open his mobile—thankfully unscathed or else this would be his second just this month—and dialled in Hei's contact.
Hei was understandably upset. With each passing seconds of the call, he became more and more audibly livid.
"Stay put, I'm sending people to pick you up," he had practically growled before the call ended with him shouting orders in the background. And so they waited almost huddled together in fact as the sky threatened a torrent. Luckily for them, Roman knew the on-site officer who was in charge of the scene, and he had brought some food and drinks for them while the group waited for the pickup. Coffee for the adults; some water and fizzy drinks; chicken sandwiches and donuts. The twins had begun conversing once again with Ion and Isaiah as they ate—the latter aloof as ever, of course, but it was a good sign that Miltia and Melanie rambled while Isaiah listened. Ion darted his head back and forth at the other kids, whoever was talking, while nibbling on the chicken and bread that Roman tore for him.
Ten minutes later, and just before it began to pour, he could just make out the outline of three familiar vehicles showing up just outside the cordon. Problem was, of course, that they needed to get through a wall of media to go there. A wall that Roman had a feeling knew he was there and was waiting for when he showed the slightest strand of his hair. Well, he supposed it's just like a band-aid.
Neo noticed his sigh and nudged. Roman turned to his partner's Frown of Concern—trademark pending—and flashed a smile. Slouching, letting out a playful sighing. "Oh, well… if anything, this could help me climb up the party ladder…" Roman gave Isaiah a light slap on the shoulder and pointed to where their ride was.
It was enough for the boy as he began making his way there first, hands in pockets and mumbling something. Roman carried Ion; Neo had the twins' in tow.
As they approached ever closer—Roman bidding thank you to the officer in charge as he passed—the faint sounds of camera shutters turned into a clamour of reporters and newscasters, turning louder and more incoherent as they slowly noticed his approach. The white flashes of their cameras were immediate in irking everyone except Roman, yet even he was close to that point after a literal gunfight. Truly he wanted nothing but a drink and a hot bath, but for now, he must smile.
Some of the constables scrambled past them, attempting to part the blob of TV people in two as did Hei's men from the other side almost in tandem to make passage for their group. He heard a whine coming from under, the boy in his arms holding down both pointy ears while nuzzling into his shoulder. Roman frowned and held Ion just a little bit tighter. It didn't take any advanced parental knowledge to understand that the little boy did not want to be in this situation.
It was loud. Ion didn't like loud. The questions surely can wait for a bit?
Roman walked through the newly-created path, closely behind Neo and the others. One of Hei's subordinates directed them to one of three large, bulky, grey SUVs; middle of the convoy, currently parked to the side of the street. They were much more sizable than the one Roman had driven the entourage around in earlier. No doubt bulletproof up to a certain calibre by his estimates. One of the mobsters opened the vehicle's door to let them in: once again, Isaiah was in the very backseat, alongside a young boy well into teenagehood shouldering an arguably "antique" yet personalised semi-automatic rifle.
"6.5 Redmond?" Isaiah's counterpart silently nodded at his question. "Neat."
The driver would be upfront alongside one other guard—the one currently holding the door for them. There was enough room for Roman, Neo, the twins, and Ion to sit comfortably in the middle. The woman hopped in first with the girls, occupying the right side. They all waited for Roman, yet for a singular second, he simply looked at Ion and smiled.
"Stay here for a sec, kid." There was a whine as the boy was placed on the white leather cushions, as he noticed that Roman had begun to walk away, yet the man threw him a reassuring smirk and a wink. "I'll be right back, I promise!"
Some of the mobsters were visibly perplexed—those who hadn't escorted Roman Torchwick during business meetings before—yet most nodded, or kept up their guard, or simply uninterested. Yet Neo, the most used to this out of everyone else, could only roll her eyes as she began wrangling the boy who looked ready to jump out and run after Roman.
A breathe in. Roman adopted a smile not unlike that from before. Barely showing the top row of his teeth, tugging from the area around his cheekbone: it was something trained. Near perfect.
Turning around, he breathed out, and began walking back to the rowdy crowd of reporters, pushing and elbowing one another. Like a group of nesting hatchlings, mics stretched out and towards him like open beaks waiting to be fed.
"A comment, sir!" "Look over here, sir!" "Sir, what is your opinion on…" all melded into one incoherent mess of vocal anarchy. At this point of his career, Roman was no longer bothered by the flashing camera lights. Their rowdiness only increased as he got closer and closer, and once he was close enough, a line of Hei's subordinates separated Roman from the journalists. Roman looked to the captain-in-charge, a silent question on whether he's allowed to release some information or not, and they nodded after some thinking.
His above-average height was advantageous in this situation, as even if the wall of men did stand between him and them, Roman was still more than able to recognise many of the faces. A lot are those he had gotten acquainted with through all the Prospero municipal meetings that they reported, however, one stood out from the other. Almost struggling to keep up with all the pushing in fact.
"Mr. Torchwick, good to see you're well, sir!" he managed to boom out, a wheeze threatened.
This was Tristan.
By all accounts an intelligent young man very early in the second decade of his life, his ragged clothes and shaggy hair did not support that claim. Through no fault of his own. Three years ago Tristan was writing for a university project, and he was directed to Roman as a possible interviewee—the rest was history. His eyes seemingly lit up as he caught Roman's, pushing through the others to be frontmost.
Roman chuckled, leaning into his cane. "Well in body and mind, Tristan. Fortunately! I suppose you can take a man out of the marines but not the Bootneck out of him."
"It's good to hear, sir! Would you be willing to answer some questions?"
Any immediate response would've been drowned out by the rabble practically begging different variations of the same question. Instead Roman waited, glancing around, his smile ever present, amused. "I'm not sure what I can add that won't be revealed during the press conference, but I'll try nonetheless!"
"There were seven shooters, sir," the young man began. "Did you disarm them all by yourself?" Once he finished, his mic was extended towards Roman, just as more than a dozen others.
"With this limp?" Roman tapped his cane against said limb to stress. "It takes me ten minutes to leg up some stairs, you think I can take on seven people by myself?" A round of laughter followed the hyperbolic joke before Roman continued. "But, no. It was a combined effort between my partner and I to—" 'Take out' is a strong word… "—neutralise the assailants."
"Was anyone hurt Mr. Torchwick?" a different reporter quickly added.
"There were also children in your group, were there not, sir?"
"Yes, indeed. They are my wards—unharmed, fortunately." Roman briefly turned his face away to clear his throat. "My partner took a bullet, but her aura practically patched her up already. She's the embodiment of stiff upper lip!" he boasted.
Another wave of incoherent mess washed as they all spoke over one another. However, one the reporters managed to squeeze out, just a little louder to make the others go quiet, a sliver of a question: "Mr. Torchwick, what is your party's opinion on—"
It was something Roman was quick to cut. "Woah, woah, woah. Madam, please. Be on the topic at hand here…"
The reporter kept her face, lips pursed into a flat line. "I have not finished my question, sir? Would you be unwilling?"
Roman had the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't. "Well, 'unwilling' is a strong word, but I barely qualify as the New Labour's mouthpiece, now do I? I'm rank and file, simple as. Not that much different from when I was in the Navy: even the food's the same…" The joke earned some more laughs and Roman quickly continued before anyone else could interject:
"Look. I am sure the Metropol will be holding a statement after all the crumbs have been gathered. No doubt our city's finest will get to the core of the situation soon. They'll be much more able and qualified in their opinions of the shooting than I could possibly be. And if you're lucky, maybe there'll be an NLP press conference. Though I wouldn't bet on it for a grunt like me," Roman laughed before bidding farewell and turning on his heel.
Yet the blob still followed, still sundered by Hei's employees, as did their disordered questions layered upon one another like auditory mess. Shutters of apertures only added to their seeming biologically mechanical feel. The car door was held open for him and he hopped in. It shut with a quiet thud, finally silencing the rowdy reporters as they tried peering inside; the tinted windows made that endeavour impossible yet the flashes remained until they began driving away.
He looked over to Neo with a smile and she rolled her eyes. Ion crawled onto his lap, before promptly falling asleep. The others followed suit: exhaustion turning into a drowse.
Hi, ho! Sorry about being late. This was supposed to come out a week ago, but I had to go out of town last week and it throughly fucked up my schedules.
Looks like we're nearing the end of this arc. Just a bit more and we get slicey of lifey, and hopefully less slowburn.
Next chapter out on 3 September 2023.
Thanks for reading! And 'till next time, stay content!
