And finally, she rested.
The moment she woke up, Eiko Takashima knew things were weird.
She was lying on something that was hard, warm, and slightly angled. In fact, her feet were hanging off into space. Her face was warm, her eyelids had light shining through them, and her hands felt oddly heavy. She then remembered that she was wearing the BREAQER gauntlets, and then the memory came flooding back.
Eight Months Ago:
“Madame,” the great grey eminence thundered, “your corporation has not gone unnoticed. You have accumulated too much power and wealth for someone like you,” and here he sneered, “to be allowed to go unhindered. You will sell stock in your company, you will allow us to change it as we will, and you will stop this ridiculous idea that your corporation should help people instead of making greater profits! If you do not, we will break you, we will destroy your company, and then, just to make it perfectly clear to everyone what happens when you defy us, we will have you killed. We’ve done it before.” Click to continue reading.
The capitol of Andoran was bright, warm, and had a great and open plaza called the Field of Concord. Mostly used for mercantile pursuits, it also had a number of places where performers would play, some prepaid and some professional buskers.
Juliette d’Aubigniy was one of the latter. Her instrument case lay before her as she played her fiddle, sang, and danced (sometimes one, sometimes two, and a few times all three at once). She had gathered a rather decent crowd, her auburn locks swinging about as she performed, and she was pleased with the amount of money she had made.
The call had come on Marishka’s phone, and so there she was at the Model Cafe again. The place was mostly empty, even the usual drunks gone. Anatoly didn’t seem that angry, just nodded to her as she walked in, and gestured towards the back.
11 PM on a Friday night in November in Boston was typically cold. Today, however, was unusually warm for the time of year, and The Night found herself glad she no longer sported a full-head hood. Good for secrecy; not so good for the heat.
Sophia Rothman looked up at the production assistant. “I’m trying to get this pyro working, Jen. The shoot starts in half an hour, and if this doesn’t go off, friggin’ ponytail-boy’s going to have his ass in a major bind.”
“I know, I know, but this guy says he knows you from a long time ago. And, uh, he’s kinda sounds like he’s part of a Family, yanno?” Jen was born-and-bred New Yorker, and if she said that? There was one guy it could be, and she tried not to let the fact her heart felt like it had turned to ice in her chest show on her face.
I slipped in the window, which had been left open for me. The crime scene had been processed; the coroner’s on-site prelim completed. The only person in the room besides me was Detective Sergeant Patrick Mulligan. I knew Mulligan – he was an honest cop who admitted that sometimes, a costume could handle things a uniform couldn’t. At the same time, I was not on the Boston PD’s list of approved people to call in, which meant that he wasn’t sure the PD could handle it. Or there was another reason. A call on the way over to my contact in the coroner’s office confirmed it for me.
I looked out over the city. Dark and full of history, and full of darkness under it. The birthplace of liberty and revolution… and the Irish Mob.