Post by Barnaby Cuthbert on May 21, 2005 13:05:41 GMT -8
Wednesday, May 19, 2005
Seattle Washington
A rooftop near the International District
The weather had been a mirror for my emotions all week. At the moment, it was a patient, but persistent, heavy tumble of water drizzling down on the metal and glass and gritty concrete, but that could change, as this night had proven, at any time. From minute to minute I could have seen the stars of a nearly clear sky, shadowed streaks of cloud scudding by in front of the tallow moon, or just minutes later have heard the roar of a dark squall of piercing rain, full of crackling darkness lit by lambent strokes of eldritch lightning that crawled along the bottom of the clouds like rippling white spiders and left hair standing on end.
The weather was unpredictable, it was eternal, and so was I.
Time check: 1:05, still hours before daylight, and I was already getting restless.
I wasn't ready to go into the International district yet, but I had run out of leads on paper, so like the wolf stalking the edges of another's run, I had taken to haunting the outskirts, watching who went in and out, and at what hours. I read papers, watched the news and called local real-estate brokers. I wanted to know who owned what, and more importantly, get closer to the truth about what owned who. I had kept me very busy, refreshingly so.
I needed something to take my mind off of... my mind.
All told, it had not been a banner week for me. Sure, I had gotten off with what some had considered a slap on the wrist, but I was not blind to the long term repercussions of that. The Sheriff now had a reason to hate me, aside from the brief insult to his clan-mate earlier because I had somehow out maneuvered him. The truth was, I hadn't done a damn thing but show up and present evidence far less conclusive than his standing should have been, but I somehow doubted that he would see it that way. Those who pull strings are usually loath to recognize the ones pulling them.
No, likely he would plot revenge, as Elders are wont to do, and somewhere down the line I'd have a wildcard coming at me from a direction I didn't expect about a slight I couldn't have cared less about. He'd fight fang and nail for his honor, while I'd parry and try to dodge out of the way for whatever asset of mine he declared war upon, up to, and possibly including my unlife, and those of my allies. I had one thing in my favor though, and that was that I didn't particularly hate the Sheriff. I didn't feel humiliated by him, only nearly pigeon-holed. That meant that when the time came for the inevitable retribution for my perceived lack of respect, I'd at least be clear-headed about the problem. From my encounter with him just before the trial, I felt that emotion would most likely cloud Jean Lionel's judgment, and it was by the corner of that crumbling ledge that lay my only handhold.
And it wasn't much.
I pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned off some of the moisture that had been collecting on the lenses of the binoculars before I continued scanning down the street for the two sedans that had just entered the district. There was a lot of money in the I-district, so a pair of nice imports was hardly unusual, but there were clues to follow. Seattleites seemed not to like to wear suits, and even down-town businessmen were just as likely to wear Dockers as Brooks Brothers, so two sedans full of suited men were a noticable oddity. With the binoculars at maximum magnification, I could only just make out the block they were traveling to, somewhere near an import-export warehouse, about four blocks from the Wing Luke Museum. I lost them as they went around the corner, but made a note on my map.
The warehouse portion of the I-district was bad. Filled with barely lit streets, slum tenement apartments and shack houses in between a criss-crossing clothes-line spider's web of back alleyways made parts of the Seattle Underground seem inviting. I hadn't gone visiting - yet.
A nearby gutter broke open on the rooftop I had chosen for tonight's stake-out, spilling water and detritus down the side of the building and I nearly jumped. A scowl made its way over my forehead before I could even determine what I had been so scared about. I was jumping at shadows because I was expecting him.
I thought about the trial. He had appeared to me during Ashland's opening statement, as if standing in judgment over the whole affair, smug but silent, nodding as evidence was presented, listening to the murmurs of the crowd when something particularly controversial was said.
Harvey. My invisible friend, proof of my madness. Charissma looked right at him in the courtroom, almost walked into him, and even with her sight, couldn't see him.
And of course, that was because Harvey is in my mind, a figment of my delusion. The walking symbol of the hole in my head...
…or perhaps, something worse.
Images from before, of the nightmares of torture floated to the surface of my mind, but I pushed that back down. I was mad enough as I was, I decided.
The weather changed again, turning stormy once more, black clouds blotting out the moon, pregnant with lightening; another storm coming with hardly any warning.
Crouching on the edge of the building in the downpour the city roared with white noise as the deluge picked up again, lightening boiling deep inside the rolling thunderheads.
I was almost used to it.
Seattle Washington
A rooftop near the International District
The weather had been a mirror for my emotions all week. At the moment, it was a patient, but persistent, heavy tumble of water drizzling down on the metal and glass and gritty concrete, but that could change, as this night had proven, at any time. From minute to minute I could have seen the stars of a nearly clear sky, shadowed streaks of cloud scudding by in front of the tallow moon, or just minutes later have heard the roar of a dark squall of piercing rain, full of crackling darkness lit by lambent strokes of eldritch lightning that crawled along the bottom of the clouds like rippling white spiders and left hair standing on end.
The weather was unpredictable, it was eternal, and so was I.
Time check: 1:05, still hours before daylight, and I was already getting restless.
I wasn't ready to go into the International district yet, but I had run out of leads on paper, so like the wolf stalking the edges of another's run, I had taken to haunting the outskirts, watching who went in and out, and at what hours. I read papers, watched the news and called local real-estate brokers. I wanted to know who owned what, and more importantly, get closer to the truth about what owned who. I had kept me very busy, refreshingly so.
I needed something to take my mind off of... my mind.
All told, it had not been a banner week for me. Sure, I had gotten off with what some had considered a slap on the wrist, but I was not blind to the long term repercussions of that. The Sheriff now had a reason to hate me, aside from the brief insult to his clan-mate earlier because I had somehow out maneuvered him. The truth was, I hadn't done a damn thing but show up and present evidence far less conclusive than his standing should have been, but I somehow doubted that he would see it that way. Those who pull strings are usually loath to recognize the ones pulling them.
No, likely he would plot revenge, as Elders are wont to do, and somewhere down the line I'd have a wildcard coming at me from a direction I didn't expect about a slight I couldn't have cared less about. He'd fight fang and nail for his honor, while I'd parry and try to dodge out of the way for whatever asset of mine he declared war upon, up to, and possibly including my unlife, and those of my allies. I had one thing in my favor though, and that was that I didn't particularly hate the Sheriff. I didn't feel humiliated by him, only nearly pigeon-holed. That meant that when the time came for the inevitable retribution for my perceived lack of respect, I'd at least be clear-headed about the problem. From my encounter with him just before the trial, I felt that emotion would most likely cloud Jean Lionel's judgment, and it was by the corner of that crumbling ledge that lay my only handhold.
And it wasn't much.
I pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned off some of the moisture that had been collecting on the lenses of the binoculars before I continued scanning down the street for the two sedans that had just entered the district. There was a lot of money in the I-district, so a pair of nice imports was hardly unusual, but there were clues to follow. Seattleites seemed not to like to wear suits, and even down-town businessmen were just as likely to wear Dockers as Brooks Brothers, so two sedans full of suited men were a noticable oddity. With the binoculars at maximum magnification, I could only just make out the block they were traveling to, somewhere near an import-export warehouse, about four blocks from the Wing Luke Museum. I lost them as they went around the corner, but made a note on my map.
The warehouse portion of the I-district was bad. Filled with barely lit streets, slum tenement apartments and shack houses in between a criss-crossing clothes-line spider's web of back alleyways made parts of the Seattle Underground seem inviting. I hadn't gone visiting - yet.
A nearby gutter broke open on the rooftop I had chosen for tonight's stake-out, spilling water and detritus down the side of the building and I nearly jumped. A scowl made its way over my forehead before I could even determine what I had been so scared about. I was jumping at shadows because I was expecting him.
I thought about the trial. He had appeared to me during Ashland's opening statement, as if standing in judgment over the whole affair, smug but silent, nodding as evidence was presented, listening to the murmurs of the crowd when something particularly controversial was said.
Harvey. My invisible friend, proof of my madness. Charissma looked right at him in the courtroom, almost walked into him, and even with her sight, couldn't see him.
And of course, that was because Harvey is in my mind, a figment of my delusion. The walking symbol of the hole in my head...
…or perhaps, something worse.
Images from before, of the nightmares of torture floated to the surface of my mind, but I pushed that back down. I was mad enough as I was, I decided.
The weather changed again, turning stormy once more, black clouds blotting out the moon, pregnant with lightening; another storm coming with hardly any warning.
Crouching on the edge of the building in the downpour the city roared with white noise as the deluge picked up again, lightening boiling deep inside the rolling thunderheads.
I was almost used to it.
