((Connected to this fantastic article; title refers to this story.))
"So ?e gets t?go ?ome early, while I?m stuck ?eah? Lovely."
With a brutal slam that nearly shook the entire eighteenth floor of The RhyDin Post offices, Michael M. Twert?s door was abruptly closed right in the face of his mousy assistant.
The high-pitched shrill that resonated within, while Darien Fenner had heard it twice already that week, was still oddly satisfying. Naturally he didn?t blame Twert for being gone, and truthfully had already expected him to have headed home to his luxury ? albeit tasteless - slice of paradise in New Haven hours ago. The building was already mostly deserted for the night, despite that the newspaper offices were never officially closed. But making a ruckus was one of the few ways Darien could blow off steam at the end of a very long day. Plus, there was the added benefit that the eighteenth floor always had the best coffee ? which Darien greedily helped himself to before riding the silent elevator down a level. Mazes of cubicles, now emptied of their editors and interns, were navigated with ease through the cluttered home of floor seventeen, not counting the stumble over the water cooler power cable that prompted a loud, accented oath. Of the three private offices on that particular floor, the Aussie once again let himself into the largest and most exquisitely decorated one. Out of habit he reached for the lightswitch, regardless that the room was already lit long before he left his desk for a coffee break.
"There's a typo on the front page," Alain said by way of greeting, from the corner behind Darien Fenner's desk. He folded up today's issue left-handed, tucked it under his arm, and retrieved his styrofoam cup of coffee. It was from this floor, unfortunately, and tasted kind of dodgy: he grimaced faintly on his next sip.
No excuse was offered, and if Alain had his way, how he got into this building and Fenner's office at this hour would go with him to his grave with countless other secrets. Fenner could guess why Alain was there. The Baron stayed in his corner, holding up the wall with his back, and watched the journalist steadily over another sip of his coffee.
"Always wit' th'dramatic appearances, uh?" It wasn?t their first meeting where one or both men had theatrically crept out of the shadows. Unassumingly, Darien wandered back to his ergonomic office chair, the extent of his etiquette exhibited in a sharp shove of one of the two studded leather seats stationed before the mahogany desk.
"So y'got my note," the journo muttered as he got comfortable and tasted the spoils of the eighteenth floor.
"This coffee's terrible," Alain muttered. C'mon, guy. Two non sequiturs in a row? He made his way to the chair and slumped into it a little more heavily than he'd meant to. Both men had probably spent the last eighteen hours awake and busy. "Yeah," finally, he replied. "I got it. And I appreciate it. It's as reliable as you claim?" He knew better than to ask the source's identity. The question smacked of small talk all the same. He wasn't far into the documents when his gut told him they were kosher.
"Reliable, yes. Trustworthy..." Darien let that word hang as he made a show of busying himself with arranging some last-minute editorials into a pile. As he closed a drawer, however, his uncanny habit of slamming things caused said pile to tip over just the same. He didn't bother restacking. "I didn't think a personal thank-you was necessary."
"Then how about a warning," Alain replied. He warmed the back of his right hand on the outside of his cup; his fingers flinched involuntarily. "Not to prevent you... but telling you what's coming your way now. Howe's not going to let this thing go, not ever, and I can promise you'll be on his next list of names. Whatever deals the bastard may make, and as you know, they're many... the one thing he never compromises on is revenge."
Darien's sigh was silent and short-lived. "Somethin' I've already taken into consideration," he admitted, finally discontinuing his fidgeting. After a few seconds, an amused smirk tugged one corner of his mouth upward. "You worried about me, DeMuer?"
"You've got a family now," Alain said carefully, before adding, "and I imagine more of a heart than you'd like anyone to know about. He'll exploit it."
The baron set his coffee down and folded his hands. His eyes drifted shut, allowing himself a brief moment of peace before he continued. "You should know what's coming next, as far as I'm able to plan. I'm bringing all this to the Governor, and pursuing a warrant. First I'm going to isolate him. You've done a hell of a job on that already. Then... I'm drawing him out."
To summarize, "It's getting a hell of a lot bigger, and worse, before it goes away."
The journo's expression remained diplomatically bland. "And?" he muttered, acknowledging Alain's words with practiced detachment. But despite the feigned disinterest, the capture of attention remained in his eyes.
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Alain saw the feigned disinterest, but he saw it was feigned, too. He got to his feet to let himself out. "He's doing terrible things, Mr. Fenner, and I intend to stop him. Letting you know is just the same professional courtesy you've extended to me today."
Halfway to the door he paused, adding, "If you find he's gunning for the ones you love... well. You know." The enemy of my enemy is my friend. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."
"DeMuer," Darien halted him, his gaze acute. He was careful about his next words, disguising whatever intentions he had meticulously in exorbitant egotism. "The road to Hell is hot. And the'ahs more than one cool head in RhyDin."
Despite the outward professionalism of his message, the silver-spoken indirect offer of aid was unmistakable. Ubiquitous or brusque as his and the Baron?s exchanges often were, and as disparagingly as the journo often treated him, Darien knew that Alain was a sharp enough bloke to discern that. Why the aid was offered, however, remained unexpressed, and the knowing grin that the journo exchanged with his guest seemed to indicate that his motivations were anything but altruistic. Still, even jackals now and again were known to share a meal. And for the time being it seemed at least that Darien had more use for him alive than otherwise.
Alain's head turned halfway to his shoulder. There was another upward kink in his expression. "I'll keep that in mind."
There was little that had been direct in the meeting, obscured by their secrecy and their ego's, but as Alain left, both men knew very well that a deal had just been struck.
"So ?e gets t?go ?ome early, while I?m stuck ?eah? Lovely."
With a brutal slam that nearly shook the entire eighteenth floor of The RhyDin Post offices, Michael M. Twert?s door was abruptly closed right in the face of his mousy assistant.
The high-pitched shrill that resonated within, while Darien Fenner had heard it twice already that week, was still oddly satisfying. Naturally he didn?t blame Twert for being gone, and truthfully had already expected him to have headed home to his luxury ? albeit tasteless - slice of paradise in New Haven hours ago. The building was already mostly deserted for the night, despite that the newspaper offices were never officially closed. But making a ruckus was one of the few ways Darien could blow off steam at the end of a very long day. Plus, there was the added benefit that the eighteenth floor always had the best coffee ? which Darien greedily helped himself to before riding the silent elevator down a level. Mazes of cubicles, now emptied of their editors and interns, were navigated with ease through the cluttered home of floor seventeen, not counting the stumble over the water cooler power cable that prompted a loud, accented oath. Of the three private offices on that particular floor, the Aussie once again let himself into the largest and most exquisitely decorated one. Out of habit he reached for the lightswitch, regardless that the room was already lit long before he left his desk for a coffee break.
"There's a typo on the front page," Alain said by way of greeting, from the corner behind Darien Fenner's desk. He folded up today's issue left-handed, tucked it under his arm, and retrieved his styrofoam cup of coffee. It was from this floor, unfortunately, and tasted kind of dodgy: he grimaced faintly on his next sip.
No excuse was offered, and if Alain had his way, how he got into this building and Fenner's office at this hour would go with him to his grave with countless other secrets. Fenner could guess why Alain was there. The Baron stayed in his corner, holding up the wall with his back, and watched the journalist steadily over another sip of his coffee.
"Always wit' th'dramatic appearances, uh?" It wasn?t their first meeting where one or both men had theatrically crept out of the shadows. Unassumingly, Darien wandered back to his ergonomic office chair, the extent of his etiquette exhibited in a sharp shove of one of the two studded leather seats stationed before the mahogany desk.
"So y'got my note," the journo muttered as he got comfortable and tasted the spoils of the eighteenth floor.
"This coffee's terrible," Alain muttered. C'mon, guy. Two non sequiturs in a row? He made his way to the chair and slumped into it a little more heavily than he'd meant to. Both men had probably spent the last eighteen hours awake and busy. "Yeah," finally, he replied. "I got it. And I appreciate it. It's as reliable as you claim?" He knew better than to ask the source's identity. The question smacked of small talk all the same. He wasn't far into the documents when his gut told him they were kosher.
"Reliable, yes. Trustworthy..." Darien let that word hang as he made a show of busying himself with arranging some last-minute editorials into a pile. As he closed a drawer, however, his uncanny habit of slamming things caused said pile to tip over just the same. He didn't bother restacking. "I didn't think a personal thank-you was necessary."
"Then how about a warning," Alain replied. He warmed the back of his right hand on the outside of his cup; his fingers flinched involuntarily. "Not to prevent you... but telling you what's coming your way now. Howe's not going to let this thing go, not ever, and I can promise you'll be on his next list of names. Whatever deals the bastard may make, and as you know, they're many... the one thing he never compromises on is revenge."
Darien's sigh was silent and short-lived. "Somethin' I've already taken into consideration," he admitted, finally discontinuing his fidgeting. After a few seconds, an amused smirk tugged one corner of his mouth upward. "You worried about me, DeMuer?"
"You've got a family now," Alain said carefully, before adding, "and I imagine more of a heart than you'd like anyone to know about. He'll exploit it."
The baron set his coffee down and folded his hands. His eyes drifted shut, allowing himself a brief moment of peace before he continued. "You should know what's coming next, as far as I'm able to plan. I'm bringing all this to the Governor, and pursuing a warrant. First I'm going to isolate him. You've done a hell of a job on that already. Then... I'm drawing him out."
To summarize, "It's getting a hell of a lot bigger, and worse, before it goes away."
The journo's expression remained diplomatically bland. "And?" he muttered, acknowledging Alain's words with practiced detachment. But despite the feigned disinterest, the capture of attention remained in his eyes.
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Alain saw the feigned disinterest, but he saw it was feigned, too. He got to his feet to let himself out. "He's doing terrible things, Mr. Fenner, and I intend to stop him. Letting you know is just the same professional courtesy you've extended to me today."
Halfway to the door he paused, adding, "If you find he's gunning for the ones you love... well. You know." The enemy of my enemy is my friend. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."
"DeMuer," Darien halted him, his gaze acute. He was careful about his next words, disguising whatever intentions he had meticulously in exorbitant egotism. "The road to Hell is hot. And the'ahs more than one cool head in RhyDin."
Despite the outward professionalism of his message, the silver-spoken indirect offer of aid was unmistakable. Ubiquitous or brusque as his and the Baron?s exchanges often were, and as disparagingly as the journo often treated him, Darien knew that Alain was a sharp enough bloke to discern that. Why the aid was offered, however, remained unexpressed, and the knowing grin that the journo exchanged with his guest seemed to indicate that his motivations were anything but altruistic. Still, even jackals now and again were known to share a meal. And for the time being it seemed at least that Darien had more use for him alive than otherwise.
Alain's head turned halfway to his shoulder. There was another upward kink in his expression. "I'll keep that in mind."
There was little that had been direct in the meeting, obscured by their secrecy and their ego's, but as Alain left, both men knew very well that a deal had just been struck.