A/N: Holy cows, I didn't think it was almost a month since I updated this!... (sorry)
3.6 Where They Went Separately
Camelot State University campus was dotted with grand old buildings of external limestone and internal mahogany, neat green yards dissected by walking paths. Semestre classes just concluded, so it was nearly deserted. A few clusters of foreign students, a staff member or two – indoor cleaners and outdoor landscaping. Flowering crabapple trees, and a distant troop of prospective students on tour.
Arthur sat on a low stone wall outside the admin building, breathing and observing. Waiting.
In spite of his promise to be one-hundred-percent available for anything, he hadn't been contacted by either of his family members with any request at all. Connecting to his father's office assistant hadn't gotten him any further than repeated placations composed for the general public.
Percival had promised to let him know if anything came into Records on Trooper Emrys' deployment – and he'd hinted that Uther had left orders for the same thing. Morris promised that he and Della would make every effort to keep up the impression that Arthur had retired to the Pendragon estate for some unreachable time off.
Gaius gave him all the time off he needed, and made him promise to check in.
He'd wandered the admin building half an hour ago, marking staff still present. He could pick locks if necessary, but didn't prefer to wait or risk being caught off-guard at a time and in a place where he hadn't the time for proper recon. So he waited on the low stone wall, scuffed backpack of nondescript gray at his feet, equally scuffed biology textbook ruffling pages in the breeze next to him on the wall. No one paid him any attention.
When his count was down to two or three still left inside, Arthur shouldered his pack, tucked the textbook under his elbow, and pushed through the side door into the administrative building. Up a half-stair to the admissions office, which was next door to personnel – and everything smelled like furniture polish and gym equipment. Tiled steps tipped with durable steel in the stair-wells, and creaky old floorboards otherwise. A challenge.
His last stop on the campus, actually, since he'd already canvassed the Philosophy department obliquely for information on Morgause Renard, grad student and teacher's aid. Keeps to herself, doesn't socialize much, no boyfriend or any other romantic rumors connected. Better with one-on-one tutoring than standing up in front of the class. Decent scholastic record, no talk of a rising star threatening to eclipse all others.
Had Arthur known Morgana was pursuing a degree in philosophy? Or maybe she was just taking elective classes because… Well. She did enjoy arguing esoteric fine points.
Divert to investigate Morgana's standing at the university – mostly for curiosity's sake. The popular reputation he wasn't surprised at, but the recent trends were… troubling. Neglect of friends and hobbies, slight decline in academic work, a general sense of concern over a potential shift in focus. Used to be driven and ambitious…
Used to be?
Spends all her time with that teacher's aide, now.
Who had no memberships with campus clubs. No subscriptions to problematic periodicals – no subscriptions at all. No known affiliations, even the political ones that seemed a requirement for everyone on a college campus.
No recognition sparked for physical description of either shooter from Camelot.
So he kept his ears perked for the location of those two or three other people still in the building – on different floors – bent a couple of stolen paperclips to pick the door marked Records in gilt lettering on frosted glass.
Contact information. Names and addresses. R for Renard.
It was the work of three and a half minutes, and he locked the door again behind him, slipping out while the last person's footsteps still descended stairs above him in oblivious unconcern.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
"I need a new book," Martine told the roof of the tent, tan weatherproof canvas. She uncrossed and recrossed her combat boots at the ankle, shifting so the patterned tattoo around her arm started showing under the bottom of her t-shirt sleeve.
Freya didn't look up from her sketchbook, huddled at the head of her cot with her pillow bundled beneath her for padding.
"I got a Charles Gates in my ruck," Charley suggested. She was seated on the canvas flooring of the tent in her olive uniform t-shirt and her underwear, painting her toenails hot pink and shiny black. The whole tent smelled like acetone, and the fan droning in the corner wasn't helping.
Martine grunted. "I don't read Charles Gates," she said. "All that spy stuff seems so hokey."
"You said you needed a new book, not a good book," Charley pointed out.
"True…" Martine sighed, not yet ready to be convinced. "What kind of hero name is Lawrence LeClair, anyway?"
"What should his name be?" Charley shook back lanky dishwater-blonde hair and glanced at Freya, ready to include her in her amusement.
"Jack," Freya said without thinking – and immediately regretted it, because it made both other girls pay attention to her. Charley straightened and Martine rolled to her side to prop her head on her fist, elbow bent toward her pillow. "I mean," she added, flustered. "Jack. Is a good name for an action hero."
"She isn't wrong," Charley agreed easily.
"Whatcha drawing?" Martine drawled.
Freya knew they looked at her sketchbooks when she wasn't there. It was why she never drew the darker images imagination – or something – presented to her subconscious. She tucked her pencil into the pages, deep in the spine, and shoved it under the pillow beneath her. "Nothing. I'm going out for a bit…"
"Where?" Martine asked, shifting again like she meant to get up from her cot.
"Why?" Charley wondered, bending the applicator back to her toes.
Freya didn't answer, grabbing up her uniform jacket from the foot of her cot, glad now that she hadn't yet taken off her boots for the day, or down-dressed to shower – not truly necessary on a day without official duties beyond the wire of Camp George, but usually a welcome choice in the late evening hours when the showers were first-come, first-served.
Outside the tent she paused to breathe, clutching the stiff, dirty material of her jacket. It was hot – not unbearably so, since the sun had ducked behind the hills – but the air was free, out here.
After a moment she moved away, so neither of her tent-mates would notice and wonder at her loitering. She focused on tying the arms of the jacket around her hips as long as possible, to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone coming or going through Camp George. Better than on-post at home, since everyone here was busy or bored or distracted, and less inclined to focus on her – but worse in that square leagues of military installation were severely condensed for practicality and safety. Everyone so much closer together…
Freya headed for the mess hall, thinking to lose herself in crowds focused on eating and drinking and being merry.
"Hey, Freya," a male voice called, not far enough away for her to ignore or avoid. She spun instinctively even as she identified the one man who'd use her first name was the one man she trusted to.
He was pulling on his own jacket as he strolled up to her, adjusting the collar behind his neck, the stiff bill of his soft-cap sprouting awkwardly from the pocket on his right.
"What, are you cold?" she said sarcastically. Even though the jacket was a mandatory part of the uniform, no one wore it unless outside the wire on patrol or specific mission – or unless one of the officers noticed and gave an order. And most officers carried their jackets, too.
"No, I've got a choker coming in," he answered, giving her a wry grin full of layered emotion.
New person changed unit dynamics. Complicated his responsibilities of keeping them all safe while getting the job done and maintaining morale… And her situation didn't help with that, she was fully aware.
"Male or female," she said immediately, though he'd have said that next, if she'd given him the chance.
The grin shifted toward grimace. "Male."
"Can I-" she started, taking two steps toward the edge of camp, where new arrivals disembarked and were gathered into their assigned units.
He stopped her with thumb and fingers gentle on the bones of her elbow. "The short answer is yes…"
Her mind was catching up with her reaction, because the female barracks-tents weren't on his way to the embarkation field from… anywhere. "What's the long answer."
He breathed, and sympathy and concern lurked behind the deceptively charming-rugged good looks. "This guy's being sent to us to avoid criminal charges of a… sexual nature."
She stopped dead, and barely felt his hand drop from her elbow. Chills zipped through her, leaving veins stiff and cold. In spite of the fact that military training meant she could tie knots in any guy who dared touch her – one of the main reasons for her enlistment – sometimes the suggestion of such was enough to trigger involuntary responses.
"It'll be fine," Gwaine assured her hastily. "It'll be fine. You can give him a once-over and if anything, anything raises your flags, I'll bury him in the desert and they'll give his mum a folded flag and a Conspicuous Valor. Yeah?"
It was an old promise. Not made the first day he was promoted to sergeant, but maybe the second. When he learned enough of her history to appoint himself personal defender, and she learned enough of his to let him. It was like having an older brother and rarely she allowed herself to think, if he'd actually been her older brother, it never would have happened at all…
She forced her mouth to move. "You always say that."
"And I always mean it." He gave her a swift studying glance, zipping his jacket before smoothing down the Velcro flap. "They wouldn't catch me. Don't worry about my career."
"Okay," she said, not yet ready to be lightened up with jokes. "Okay."
"Come on." He led her toward the field, looking back over his shoulder a few times to make sure she hadn't simply stopped walking, at any point.
She was aware that the foot traffic increased in the area, reinforcements in crisp bright uniforms being led to their accommodations by their new squad leaders. Arrivals already received, processed, assigned – which meant they were late.
Gwaine knew it, too; more than once he slowed to ask one of his peers, "Emrys. Looking for Emrys. You seen Emrys? He's my choker…"
Wasn't that an unusual name? Almost… Essetirian.
"Yeah – check the boards…" they were told.
Gwaine dodged another group to divert slightly from the embarkation field to the central lane running from the field to the officers' headquarters, where the boards displayed maps and notices of one kind or another.
There was a single soldier standing still, gazing fixedly at something tacked on the nearest board, and Gwaine slowed, attentive to her reaction.
Choker, obviously. Clean and crisp, hat and jacket and bulging rucksack straining its tightening straps, and boots showing little wear – his feet were going to be a mess for a few weeks. The thought disconcerted her with its implied empathy, but…
He was slender rather than muscular, black hair curling beneath the back edge of the soft-cap, over his collar. He glanced away from the board, rather blindly toward the center of the camp… or toward the distant hills and waxing moon defining itself against the twilight-blue sky. He looked lost. He looked young, and lost.
She found herself shaking her head in answer to Gwaine's unspoken question. "He's not dangerous."
"Really?" Gwaine said, more surprise than disbelief – and the choker's attention was caught when she moved forward.
She didn't say anything, and his look – strong bones, full lips, expressive eyes – passed over her before catching on Gwaine.
"Emrys," Gwaine said. That's what the Velcro tag said, on the left-breast pocket of the crisp-new uniform jacket.
"Sir," he said, automatically – but none of his body language said anything about eager-anxious-scared. It said tired-numb-lost-young. Still recovering from some shock, hours or even days ago.
It said… damaged?
"You're with us," Gwaine said. "Show you your bunk first? Have you eaten?"
"Um," Emrys said, like he had no idea. If he'd eaten, he'd forgotten – such a detail insignificant in the shock of whatever happened.
Oh – the incident. Whatever charges of a sexual nature… Honestly, though, he seemed more like a-
Victim.
"Oh," she said quietly, surprised herself. "It was done to you, wasn't it? How'd they mix it up so you were the one accused?"
His eyes focused on her face, startlingly intense clarity, and it was too much. It was comprehension and recognition, because… She felt the ice of reaction beginning to stiffen joints and lock muscles.
"What?" Gwaine said reactively, though he was aware of her situation – and the choker's. Something like that would have been in the file. Something like psychic.
"You're psychic?" Emrys said to her, looking and looking and she felt exposed and vulnerable and it was unbearable.
She spun and fled.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
And she was a soldier?
A head shorter than him, slender and almost delicate in spite of the tough-soldier uniform trousers and boots. Fine features and a cap of dark curls – but it was her eyes that captured him, for a single moment. A heartbeat that lasted an eternity, and it felt like… it felt like…
Recognizing a friend in a roomful – a camp full – of hostile strangers.
Falling through an abyss of needing and wanting, and not having – landing solidly on the knowledge that he could meet someone else's needs, instead.
He watched her flee, and felt bereft, and it was a moment before he even heard the second-sergeant's voice, or felt the man's hand grip the strap of his rucksack over his shoulder to drag him stumbling from the busy row, back behind one of the more permanent-looking plywood buildings – single-story, single-room, but not a tent.
"Look at me," the sergeant commanded. "Look me in the eyes, right now."
Merlin was too astonished to do anything but obey.
"They said you were psychic," the sergeant said, and there was a hawklike quality to his intensity. "They told me to use that, and I will, make no mistake. But what did you see, about her?"
Merlin blinked. The journey had been bloody exhausting; he couldn't relax to sleep; he was on a different continent than he had been this time yesterday. A different mission, different companions, different expectations… he was still finding his balance, mentally and emotionally. "She said… what she said, it was true, only… no one knows that. No one believes that."
The sergeant shifted back slightly, giving him a bit more space from the intensity. Turning more thoughtful than accusatory. "So the rumors. That they made sure to pass along for my…" His gaze shift, and he rocked back on the heels of his boots. "Oh. Well, that explains why my unit."
Nope, still unbalanced. Tiredly Merlin said, "What?"
The man's lips quirked wryly under the scruff of beard no one had made him shave, to adhere to unit standards. "You come with a tag, mate. It happens – new guy transfers in, unit commanders and squad leaders need to know if he comes with issues. Guy's got a temper, girl's vulnerable because she's got a serious debt, whatever. They told me you tried to force yourself on a girl."
Merlin swallowed and looked down, and the earth tipped slightly beneath his boots. Yeah. Ever since Leon handed him off at the station, he'd been getting those sideways looks. The private trial had found him guilty and was spreading the verdict like road tar under the sun.
"Something like that should be confidential," the sergeant continued, his tone too easy and open and amused, under the circumstances. "Allegations of sexual harassment. Unsubstantiated by legal charges or a court martial, no guilty plea… it's all being swept under the rug. But in your case, means you can't prove your innocence, is that it?"
Merlin met his eyes, wanting to hope he could trust a stranger – but he'd trusted Arthur to believe him, and look how that ended.
"They made no secret of it like they should have," the sergeant said. "And they put you in my unit. So you should know – the girl who just walked away? Her case didn't go to trial either. That guy was guilty as hell and she won't tell me who. Even though I've promised her, no way they'd catch me…"
And they'd… hurt her. They'd thought nothing of hurting her, to put him in a unit where the reputation they'd made sure followed him would be… problematic.
Which was probably why she'd come with the second-sergeant to meet him, to see… to see.
"That's…" the sergeant said slowly. "That's… a little more serious than just… neglecting to salute a temperamental officer, or making a bad joke without looking to identify the guy behind you at the bar, or a prank gone wrong. That takes… significant insult to someone very high up."
"I think," Merlin ventured, hardly daring to hope he might have met companions who would believe him, "it might have been a deliberately manufactured insult."
The sergeant grunted, shuffling away in a dusty contemplative circle, and Merlin was strongly reminded of Scout Pendragon, a keen intuitive mind swiftly making connections before they even occurred to Merlin. He noticed that the sergeant's uniform – wearing the jacket instead of carrying it or tying it around his hips – was faded and dusty, his boots worn, his skin browned. A veteran, but someone willing to listen to the new guy in spite of the tag – someone who treated him like psychic wasn't really more significant than any other detail of his file. Blue eyes, black hair, one-point-eight metres, 72 kilograms…
"Are you any good?" the sergeant said, gesturing vaguely at Merlin.
"Am I any good at what?" he asked blankly.
"Being psychic."
Merlin met the sergeant's eyes again and – a wholly inappropriate vision of an extremely explicit sexual nature filled his mind's eye. He choked out a curse, lifting a hand like physically covering his eyes would help. "Bloody… hells!"
"Sir," the sergeant said, grinning wide like – that was on purpose and he wasn't sorry at all. "Bloody hells, sir. Yeah, I'd say you were better than half-decent. What happened – you ran into someone with a thing against psychics? Maybe someone was afraid you'd found out more than they wanted anyone to know?"
Something like that… "The case I was on," Merlin said slowly, feeling like the sergeant – Gwaine, the nametag on the jacket breast-pocket read, when he dropped his hand – was trustworthy, but not knowing it. "I was meant to discover details about a murder conspiracy, before…"
"Allegations of sexual misconduct," Gwaine said. "Demotion – deployment?"
Merlin nodded.
"Hm. Well, let's hope that's the end of it." He grabbed Merlin's shoulder again before he could decipher what the sergeant meant by that cryptic comment, and propelled him forward. "I'll show you your bunk, and the mess. It'll be a steep learning curve, and I really am sorry about that – but if you do your best for us, I've got your back."
And he meant it. However lightly spoken, he meant it.
Merlin thought he understood a little better what Arthur was talking about when he told him to believe in the mission, and not do it for one person. Maybe he'd been deeply disappointed by the first friendship he'd tried to brave in Camelot – in anywhere, ever – but that didn't mean the bigger picture didn't contain other worthy goals. And maybe someday, like Leon mentioned, if he salvaged his reputation yet again and earned some trust here with these soldiers… that might help fill the void.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The village of Otherstone told Arthur a very interesting nothing, as well as making some convenient implications.
No records of the Renard family, though that was what he'd found on Morgause's paperwork in the locked Records office in the CSU Admin building. No Morgause of any other surname here in Otherstone. No recognition of the physical description of Morgause, or either shooter.
The address provided belonged to an elderly woman with a plethora of cats who couldn't remember Arthur's name or purpose from one minute to the next – or a young neighbor or acquaintance with yellow ringlets - complained about junk mail, and burned her garbage in a rusty metal barrel down the corner of the garden.
Otherstone was a league and a half from Ealdor, nearly straight west across the fold of the White Mountain range.
Arthur stood next to the burn-barrel full of wet ashes and thought about skid-carts abandoned without their skids. He contemplated the majestic peaks looming over the town's backyard and thought of Essetir.
Psychics, and scouts.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The water-pressure in the shower tent wasn't great. Even with multiple outlets going at once, the sound of the spray emerging and splattering its way down to the grates underfoot wasn't loud enough to cover what usually turned into a group conversation. Freya wondered sometimes if the guys experienced the same thing.
"The choker is cute, right?"
"The choker is a psychic. And I heard he got in trouble for messing with a girl, back in Camelot. The whole reason he's here."
"Yeah, but he's shy – not creepy at all."
Freya's shampoo-plus-conditioner was standard issue. It smelled of nothing but clean, a far cry from aromatherapy. But she could smell the lavender and mint and sage and cucumber, mango-cherry-peony whatever, the other girls used in the shower stalls, with the soggy wooden lattice letting water and soapsuds and sand drain away.
"Maybe he messed with the wrong girl, is all. Someone's sister, someone's daughter…"
"Someone's wife?... Hey, can I use that lotion when you're done?"
Freya's showerhead timed out. The pressure lessened swiftly, and dribbled a moment longer before subsided to a steady drip. She wiped water from her eyes and reached over the wall of the stall to grab her towel. That, at least, was from home.
"Someone's wife? Hells, Martine."
"Hey, you never know…"
"Can you imagine being with a psychic, though? I'd never-"
Freya bent over in her stall, butt to one wall and in danger of thumping her head against the opposite wall, ostensibly drying her hair. No need to visibly remind them that they'd speculated about her psychic abilities more than once.
"Less than fifteen, girls, then the shower belongs to the guys – finish up, pack up…" The voice of the third sergeant of B-Company, tasked with supervising the females' shower-hour. She was nice enough, and she didn't know Freya's name, which was part of the reason Freya liked her.
"I'd have sex with a psychic," someone said, audacious on purpose.
Someone else added, more slyly, "I'd have sex with that psychic."
Freya left her hair dripping down her neck and wrapped her towel, sidling out to where she'd left her clothes tightly rolled atop her canvas shoes. Underwear up beneath the towel, then face away from the crowd generally to hook the bra in place.
"But he'd know what you were thinking the whole time!"
"That's the point, Martine – he'd know exactly what to do, and when to do it, he'd know what worked and what didn't-"
"He'd know if you were fak-ing," someone else sing-songed.
"You wouldn't have to, with a psychic!"
"Nah, it'd never work for me, I'm always thinking of other stuff, during. He's not as good as Eli – but he's better than Hector – I'm gonna be hungry after this…"
Giggles all around, and the last shower-head turned off. Freya focused on the draw-string of her from-home lounge pants.
"Just because he's psychic, Charley, doesn't mean he'd be good on the follow-through."
"Well, shy might mean he's a-"
He's a virgin, Freya knew.
"Virgin? Really? How do you know – hey, who even said that?"
"I'd give a virgin a pass, if I was you – they can be clingy."
"As if you had experience…"
"Hey, Freya, you should sleep with the psychic, if he's a virgin – I bet he even tells you he loves you when you're through!"
She fumbled her field-bag, dropping it on the wooden-grate flooring, which meant thousands of sand particles clinging to the towel, now. One of the clear plastic pockets was unzipped, and her soap-box slid free, the white cake popping out and skidding along the top of the grate before tipping into one of the holes.
Never mind. She abandoned it, shaking fingers holding the rest of the field-bag shut, trying to jam her damp feet into the crumpled canvas slippers they wore when boots weren't required, hugging the damp sandy towel to her t-shirt in her haste to flee. It didn't happen often, but when it did-
"Hey Chloe, no fair teasing Freya! Girl, wait up, I'll go with you-"
Freya shoved her way through the shower-tent door-canvas spread over a flimsy wooden frame – blinded in the particular brilliance of sun reflecting from sand and sand-colored tent-peaks – and blundered through the male soldiers loitering to await their hour with soap and water.
Their conversation, evidently, wasn't much different.
"What you do is, pick one to sleep with, then give her some reason to complain about you to the others, then the rest will leave you alone…"
"That only works for ugly guys, Hector!"
"The choker doesn't need dating advice, the way I hear it…"
"Shut up, JT."
She was nearly past them, through the group, eyes lower than collars and trying not to recognize voices, trying not to attract attention – and one was loitering at three paces' distance from the others. Quiet, contained – she looked up and met his eyes.
Deep blue eyes. Defined bones, full lips, intelligence and understanding and pain.
Psychic.
Immediately her brain splattered all her worst memories on the backs of her eyes – windows to the soul – and…
Not a flicker. Not an instant of shock or hesitation. Just that shy smile that seemed to assume rejection without holding it against her, or anyone.
Oh, you're good.
"Everyone needs their privacy," he said softly. "I respect that."
"And people always assume," she answered, diving through the depth of comprehension that left her breathless with its simplicity and immediacy.
The smile widened fractionally. Yeah, it can be tough. Especially meeting new people. Especially meeting new people when you carry a tag… like… that.
She wished she could help.
"Freya Douglas," she blurted. Gwaine didn't bother with the ridiculousness of role call under the heat of the season when he could see at a glance they were all present and accounted for. They hadn't been outside the wire since the psychic joined them, and she hadn't been assigned to any camp duties with him as part of the squad, yet. Maybe she had to find a way to let Gwaine know she wasn't averse to it.
The smile was definite. "Merlin Emrys."
And the other girls were coming out and the guys were shuffling in and she didn't look back but she could see him watching after her for another pair of heartbeats anyway.
And that smile.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur didn't tell his father when he returned to the capital. Didn't go to the Essential at all. Watched Morgana from a distance long enough to know that she acted like she was fine. Morgause was with her, the last afternoon, and instinct had him blanking his thoughts and slipping away.
No doubt if she was confronted, she'd have convenient and compelling answers for any and every question. He could manufacture those on the spot, himself.
He checked on his messages. At your disposal had translated into leave-Arthur-out-of-it, apparently. And maybe their father was willing to let the whole thing be forgotten, if that's what Morgana claimed to want. After he'd gotten a little revenge on the accused-presumed-guilty, that was.
And he checked on the investigation he and Merlin had been intended to pursue – unofficially, of course.
Officially the case was closed. The perpetrators killed in the commission of the crimes. No one bothering to follow up on the idea of a third party; though no connection between the shooters had been established, none had been investigated, either. No identification had been found on either body, and though stills of the cleaned corpses had been entered into record, no one had given further information to provide leads. No matches for fingerprints, no property rented – no hotel rooms – no turf-bikes for in-city transportation.
Oh, but the…
Arthur paused over the ballistics report. Again, no matches to other crimes on record – there wouldn't be, for professionals, and of course serial numbers were a dead end if one tried to trace a buyer, but.
Manufacturer. Was a name and location Arthur had seen before… heard before…
From Merlin. After the mission in Aravia, and the psychic had followed connections around a complicated web of tangential information.
Maybe he should return to Psych Ops and go back through that report, again.
"Finding anything?" Moreno asked, draping himself over one corner of the chest-high storage cabinet next to the desk they'd allowed Arthur to use.
"I don't know," Arthur said vaguely, closing the file. The chair creaked as he sat back; the linoleum was tacky under his bootsoles, and there was a faint tang in the air of salami from the sandwiches brought in and passed around for lunch. "Maybe. Maybe nothing…"
"Well, let us know if we can help."
The tone caught Arthur's attention, and behind the sneer and the scar he found sincerity.
"Nelson is kind of an idiot. But he means well and tries hard. And loves a job none of us want. So. Figure we owe you for saving his life, putting down those shooters."
Technically, the sniper had put himself down. And obviously Merlin had helped; but Arthur had gathered that the incident at the Hotel Essential that should have remained confidential, had leaked – or had been leaked, which was a different concern – with the result that Scout Emrys was persona non grata with law enforcement of every type. And Arthur couldn't counter the prejudice.
"Yeah," he said instead. "Thanks."
Moreno ticked a finger toward the file. "Need copies of anything?"
"Not today," Arthur said easily, standing and stretching and relinquishing the file back to this representative of the CCI.
"If you need it again, just ask." Moreno returned Arthur's nod of leave-taking.
As Arthur crossed the room where officials mingled with civilians – witnesses, informants, suspects – the hair on the back of his neck prickled a subconscious warning. Something he'd noticed, someone he'd glanced over… He glanced back through the room, letting himself out, and was unable to clarify the sensation – but out on the street it was stronger.
Arthur paused to one side of the entrance to the CCI building and shrugged his bag off one shoulder. Digging in a side pocket, he came up with a crumpled packet of cicalas, and sheltered the tip from the breeze to flick the lighter and inhale smoke.
He didn't smoke. But it was useful for loitering and looking around without seeming to look around…
The girl at the magazine stand across the street. Reminded him slightly of Gwen, though this girl was taller and skinny and young enough to make him wonder if she ought to be in school. And she was wary like a street kid might be – not a street kid with those shoes and that bag – but when her second glance caught Arthur still facing her way without moving down the sidewalk, she shifted her weight to put her back to him-
And she could still see him in the window of the shop behind the magazine stand.
Not quite a pro. Which made him wonder if he was meant to notice her, and overlook the…
Inhaling one last time, Arthur flicked away the butt of the cicala and strode away from the CCI building at a brisk pace. Of the eight or ten other people showing themselves on the street, let's see who's going to follow…
Maybe someone on a rooftop. Under the overhang canopy shading the CCI streetfront, and because the types of windows on the buildings across the street couldn't open, he wasn't worried about someone taking another shot. And on the move, in a very occupied street… same thing.
He jogged to the next block, turned a corner – turned another to keep heading east. Buildings three and four stories tall, no one was going to be able to watch and then descend to street level to keep following. And the possibility that he was being watched and tailed by a team, in the capital city, was a bit too paranoid.
There was a pub just down here – the Alley-Cat – where Arthur had been before. Knew it was good – dark and smoky and loud – he wouldn't be recognized as a regular, but he was comfortable enough to be overlooked.
And the comm-block was in the front corner to one side of the big window.
"Half-pint of whatever's on tap that's good," he called to the tender, pushing through the worn front door. "Use your comm-block?"
The bartender nodded permission and slid into a discussion-becoming-argument with the slight middle-aged drinker, heavily lined face and vacant expression, day-drinking at the counter, over what brands were considered good, and which were overrated.
He connected immediately with Gaius in the Director's office, in the battalion building on Fort Fuller.
"What?" Gaius snapped after the third warble.
"Pendragon," he said, to identify himself. "Any news?"
"Not as such, no."
That made Arthur wonder also, but if the Old Man wasn't going to volunteer information, it was probably need to know. And Arthur didn't.
"Found a connection." Arthur reminded Gaius of the detail from Merlin's report, filled him in with the pertinent information the CCI had gathered on the shooter's weapon. "What do we have on Zefsei Tech in Xinyu? Can I get a look at the transcript of Merlin's report, or-"
Gaius interrupted him with a decidedly negative grunt. "Best to straight to the source in this case, Pendragon. We sent Mason to cover that five and a half months ago, and if you're still on your leave of absence-"
Arthur's grin at the dry tone twisted into a grimace at the twenty-something young man that passed the pub. Twig-thin and losing the fight with acne, he didn't so much as glance at the neon signs in the pub's front window, but slouched into the corner of the trolley-bench, propping one foot sloppily up beside him so the bench couldn't be shared with anyone else arriving to wait for public transportation.
Except that he'd passed one other trolley stop already, half a block behind Arthur. And this stop was for a line headed back the way they'd come.
"You can be across to the mainland this afternoon and in Paris by nightfall," Gaius concluded.
Did the Old Man feel the same sense of haste that Arthur did? Their look-at-me trip around Europe delayed for the murder investigation – a murder attempt? - then canceled entirely in favor of banishing the asset to the armpit of the hemisphere.
"How shall I find Mason?" Arthur said.
"Check in with the Paris office first," Gaius said. "He's been working out of there since leaving Xinyu. And, Arthur… be careful."
Arthur grunted. His first instinct was to scoff – but that was something other people told him. Never the Old Man.
And the teen with acne let the trolley pass without getting on.
"As an item of passing interest," Arthur said. "I'm being followed." He described the two, and heard the scratch of Gaius' pen.
"Got it," the Director said shortly. "I'll relay the information to our team in the capital. They'll keep an eye out."
"Sir." Arthur disconnected, sauntered past the bar to lift his beer and take two swallows, then tossed down enough to cover the cost without raising eyebrows.
The bartender and the hunch-shouldered drinker barely paused in their argument regarding flavored beers, and Arthur headed for the back. Maybe the young man could lounge disaffectedly all day on a trolley-stop bench, but that girl was never going to loiter in the alley behind the pub, any time of day.
The back door, as he expected, had no window. He pushed through with a swift glance in the direction it was opening – daylight and rubbish bins and littered concrete – then began to turn to check his ten o'clock through five o'clock.
Violent and immediate movement.
Arthur ducked, but instead of flinching back, he slammed the door against his attacker – felt a sting of pain slip down the edge of his forehead.
The girl from the magazine stand stumbled back a single step, corrected her balance and her grip on the flick-knife, and came at him again, lithe and brutal and efficient. Her absolute lack of hesitation told him the same thing his reaction told her, and words were a waste of breath, at this point.
The blade swiped to make him keep his distance, drive him back, not risk giving him the advantage of a lunge he could deflect and then control. She wasn't giving him an opening to run, though, either, wasn't retreating herself.
The weight of his pack was a disadvantage, and he couldn't afford the seconds it would take the shrug the straps off his arms. He tucked his elbows and his chin, lifted his fists to protect his neck, and drove at her sideways with the bulk of the pack.
It was unexpected, and she faltered, just enough for him to scoop his left arm through the air, past her defenses, and clobber her at the side of her mouth. Twice, hard, then seize the wrist of the hand that held the knife, squeezing tendons to encourage the fingers to uncurl from the flick-knife hilt.
She recovered fast, and didn't try to fight his grip, instead dropping the knife to a neat catch in her other hand, dropping her body and her point of attack from chest- to gut-level.
He twisted, catching the stabbing motion on the sleeve of his jacket and kept going, angling the bones of her arm away from the natural swing of the joint – she lashed at him again and he lifted one boot to kick her away.
Half a second to catch balance again, to twist nearly in midair for the counterattack that would have been intuitive – but Arthur backed two steps, dipping his hand into a side pocket of his pack for the service weapon that had belonged to the owner of the empty desk at the precinct.
She froze wide-eyed as he pointed, thumbing safety and tucking his fingertip inside the trigger guard.
"So," he said, as conversationally as he could around his body's increased need for air. "Who pays you? Wouldn't be a size six with blonde ringlets?"
Her eyes narrowed, flicking from the nose of the gun to his face. "Shoot me, and you'll never know," she snarled. "Shoot, and a dozen people will call the robbies."
And that… was an Essetirian bit of slang.
He considered. Down the alley, around two corners, trolley-stop accomplice.
"Drop the knife and kick it over here," he suggested. "I can pull the trigger and be gone before anyone reaches their window." If he wasn't going to wait for authorities to respond, to clear himself of involvement officially – which could be done, but would take valuable time.
Her turn to weigh options, and he could tell she wasn't used to it. Too young to be very experienced, for one. He saw her decision in the same second she moved, hurling the blade at his head with enough accuracy to make him duck again, then darting down the alley – probably counting on distance and movement and his own disinclination to shoot someone in the back, to save her life.
Arthur pointed the weapon at the sky, and pulled the trigger. She flinched badly, scurrying for cover behind one of the garbage bins. He fired twice more – tucked the gun away in his pack as he jogged the other direction – and turned down the perpendicular alley away from the street the pub fronted.
Then slowed, looking back the way he'd come over his shoulder. The young man with acne would leave his post to see if the gunshots involved his partner – because of course they did – and both of them would have to flee the other direction, potentially alerting witnesses. And if Psych Ops Camelot office was looking for them…
Arthur stepped out on the street again, still glancing back, to find other pedestrians collectively disturbed. "Hey, did you hear gunfire?" Arthur said to the nearest man, brown suit-coat left unbuttoned. "That sounded close, right?"
"Probably nothing," the man returned, uncomfortable to acknowledge the noise or to be addressed, but aware of others now listening to them. "Lots of things can sound like that. A truck engine backfiring – a builder dropping a plank on the ground."
"Huh," Arthur said, moving away like he was in a hurry but reluctant to miss an opportunity of gossip and excitement.
"There's no construction going on around here, though," said a thin girl with glasses.
"It doesn't have to be construction, it could be-"
And no one was paying him more than casual attention. Arthur walked backward a few paces – no sign of either follower, or a new one – then turned to stride on, giving a few backward glances as others were doing.
Turn a corner. Turn another. Find a trolley and board it, and no one could follow him now…
Except. Who and why left unanswered would have him alert to the possibility of watchers at the train station, at the port…
What if it wasn't Merlin the sniper was after? Someone who knew psychic had effectively separated them, so Arthur would be vulnerable?
Arthur gave himself a smirk, watching the city slide away outside the trolley window. If they thought he depended on psychic, they'd underestimated scout.
Too bad he wasn't able to try for some answers, in that half-a-minute in the alley.
Well – maybe they'd try again.
