O'Brien

Lieutenant Michael O'Brien of the West End Watch had known Alain for a year and a half. He was not his first contact in the private sector, as he had spent eleven years on the force - he'd be turning thirty-three shortly - but Alain was his closest contact now. They met frequently over coffee and scrambled eggs in Dockside diners to talk business, but he recalled how differently their first meeting went, before Alain became a private eye...

"Tell me again how Cain died."

"He was clumsy with his fire poker. We were talking business, and he managed to start a fire. He wouldn't leave, but I got out pretty quickly."

"And the bodies on the perimeter?"

"Couldn't tell you. I was worried about not burning to death."

"Uh-huh... Now what did you say your line of work was, Mister De Moore, was it?"

"Import security - and that's D'Mourir. It's French."

The dynamic had changed when Michael found himself less concered with what Alain had done, and more interested in how his black market experience could help the Watch. It would set the tone for their relationship later, as the young detective rarely explained the means to the Watch, merely presenting them with the ends.

"He's young and reckless," his wife often complained, and she was right. Alain had a habit of barreling his way into deep trouble, and in the past months his motivation became more mysterious. "You've got a child now, a family. You need to find a job off the streets - you don't belong there."

On that point, his wife was wrong, at least for now. Maybe when he got older he would see things differently, but for now, he knew his job helped him make a difference. There had been threats before, against himself and his family, but like all Watch officers who made it through their first few weeks following promotion, he invested in wards and other protections. At a glance, his West Old Temple townhouse was like any other, but anyone with wizard's sight would see it had become like Fort Knox over the years.

The last incident was a Mako who tried to bash the door down three years ago. When they went outside to check out the noise, all they found was a smoking pair of dragonhide boots.

The relationship between the Watchman and the detective was not strictly business. O'Brien followed the duels religiously, and often he kept Alain updated on rankings over their breakfast meetings. Alain had left O'Brien a bottle of scotch for Christmas, O'Brien sent him a bottle of wine and again for his birthday, and he suspected his wife, in spite of her reservations about the young man, had still let slip to him the day of her husband's birthday.

Both men were tight-lipped about their birthdays, generally reserved around others, though for much different reasons.

"You going to finish that?" Alain nodded to O'Brien's bacon. They were seated in a noisy diner, the East Corner.

The Watchman swore the young man had a black hole for a stomach. "Nah," he answered, and pushed his plate over with a grin. "But I'd appreciate you tellin' me what, eh... well, what's goin' on wi' the 'accident' business."

Alain looked up, around, then smiled faintly and shoveled eggs into his mouth. Had to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "Slowing down." The fork clattered back onto the plate and he raised his coffee for a long sip. He pursed his lips, thinking. "The gangs were easy, they got scared pretty fast... taking down rapists and murderers, it was all really a matter of just how far we were willing to go... but the larger groups have gone silent."

"The Wes' End killers are reorganizin', but we're already all over tha'," O'Brien replied, and began ticking organizations off on his fingers. "Black Wolf Guild's heatin' up, but tha's another thing we'll take care 'a in due time. Slavers are quie' - could be Brutin's return were a shock to the system for all'a them. Your terroris' buddies are done for, an' your so-called Benefactor's not done a thing so far 's we can tell now. Political activism's at an all-time low..." He grinned. "Hate to say it, Alain, but there's na' much for two gents like us to be doin'."

"Mm," Alain said, and sipped his coffee again. Another bite of eggs. "You've talked to your informants?"

"Twice this week," O'Brien nodded, and chuckled. "If we hit them up any more, we're likely to run outta money. They got nothin', lad."

"No new rackets?" Alain frowned.

"Not a one."

Sometimes their conversations went this way. Alain was itching for a fight for one reason or another, and the older, more experienced O'Brien had to convince him there were none to be had - and in truth, at least as far as he knew, there weren't any. There was always crime, there were always incidents, but things had simply gotten quiet. O'Brien enjoyed it, but he could tell that, on a certain level, the boy hated it.

"Now jus' what kinda crusade you on, lad?" O'Brien leaned forward and tapped at the table with his finger. "It aren't bloodlust - far as I know, you're lettin' tha' trigger finger get rusty. But your own way, you're always lookin' for some kinda fight."

Done with his coffee, done with his eggs, Alain lit a cigarette and stood up. He pulled a few bills out of his pocket and tossed them onto the table, and looked pointedly at the Watchman. "Because there's always a good fight to be had." With that, he turned and walked out.

O'Brien frowned at the boy's words... and shook his head as he paged through the bills. Sure enough, there was a note - 'We have a mole.'