Lady In Red(Martin)

Sometimes... there were just things you had to do. Like go in the garden and get rid of the dandelions before they proliferated all over the lawn with their flying seeds. They looked quite fun when they were blown in by the winds, but soon afterwards you were stuck with a whole lot of new weeds to take care of. Just like that. Sometimes things needed doing most certainly.

Thats why Martin wore a suit today. A black suit, complete with dark-Bordeaux tie on a black shirt. He had taken this one from the high-priced segment at a store at the heart of the city. It was adorned by a mildly-well known name of the New York fashion scene. An emerging designer the salesman had said, just right for the barely-beyond teenage customer with big pockets. The cut subtly hinted at the lightness of his form, the apparent weakness, that was just as superficial as his attention for the other side of his window, and had an in woven pattern that gave it something quite avant-garde. To Martin it was just a black suit, a tie and fitting leather gloves. A disguise for one of his masks. A mask he wore at social gatherings like this one. Upper class.

His business at this event? The very reason why he wore this mask? Because there were things he had to do tonight. Just here. At this very place. An upscale Jazz-Bar at the Hudson river. Windows looking out on the lack, murky waters, that were stained by the refuse of a city and a hundred ships that traveled here every day. Even in the night there were lights, tall shadows on the water and the faint humming of engines in the wind. The air that moved white curtains of the establishment in an almost-crystal breeze. For New York. The smell of gasoline was just a distant memory in this breath of the world. Barely tainted. The small figure, standing darkly clad against the white of the moving cloth was enjoying it quite a bit. If he would just have the time and opportunity to devote more of himself to it, that might even have enhanced the feeling.

The smell of salt warranted the small delay in fulfilling his function, but not its deliberate procrastination. At switching faces. Masks. Take a breath, breathe in with me... Silence of the sea, I welcome you. Wavesounds moving lazily up to his point of observation, from whence he now turned, reluctantly, to have his eyes and ears caught by a person singing to the melodies that were performed on stage. That voice. He knew it. It meant something. He moved through the people, flowing along, to find the place where this sound, that thing, that was an iching, burning memory, came from. Moved from. The pattern for the evening was shifting, he noted with some regret. But there were more pressing things then meeting with someone who had to give him important information right now.

He had to find a bit of important information of his own. All alone, the young seeming one, among the bigger fish that needed neither water nor salt. Both of which were essentials to him and his work. Flowers rarely grew without. Or with too much. His blue eyes were scanning with unusual accuracy. Over the people. Through the people. Flowing through the masses. A dangerous fish. Doing things. Hunting.

'Ain't no sunshine when hes gone' The melancholy of the song caught up with another nondescriptly suited person, that was, in imitation of an unspoken rule a young appearing chronomancer also followed, dressed as to fit into the surroundings. Unlike Martins', the attire was little strange enough though, to discourage conversation attempts, but nowhere near strange enough for permanent engravement in the depths of memories. A fake mustache did the rest at obscuring a face. That none of the people present knew. And that he had taken great care of showing no one in this city for fear someone not quite of the right kind to do would take notice. In a city this size an almost ridiculous notion, but nobody knew when or where guarding oneself would become necessary.

He was the one who had requested a meeting with the person that was known to some as Stone, Stein to others. A young man with interesting blue eyes that looked quite dull and ordinary most of the time, but could, as his employer had quite vividly claimed, change at an instant. A boy he is by looks, but he is very dangerous. Watch out for him. These had been the words. And today he had requested a meeting with Mr Stein through some very informal channels. Some would even call them questionable. And his contact in Romania had assured him that the message was delivered and he would attend. But Mr. Stein was overdue. By two minutes now. There was nothing to worry about, yet. But if the boy ran, that might mean trouble finding him. People that certain client wanted were always found during some stage of their life, most often the sooner, but it was much better for his reputation if he did not loose the target. A meeting in a crowded environment had been a risk in the first place. A calculated one. Before he would kill a child, he need to assess the situation himself. But Mr Stone was two minutes late, despite his quite empathic message. This was a very strange thing. And somewhat sad. It looked like he might have to kill him.

The prospect, though nowhere near revolting, made him slightly less embracing of this job. A crack, as his trained mind noted with some accuracy, in his emotional armor. Mr Stone was a danger to some very rich people. And he was someone working for very rich people. It was a good bar. Good music, good location. He would enjoy this evening no matter if Mr Stone had just run into a traffic jam (unprofessional since avoidable, tsk, eliminate stray thoughts) or actually found out something he should not yet suspect.

Deceit was a dangerous game. He was quite renown for playing it well. And he was sure he was not the only one that played in this city.

* * *

'Ain't no sunshine when hes gone' She had quite an amiable singing voice, the young boy with blue eyes noted as he passed through the crowd with a practiced effort. An invisible effort that took him quite near the stage. Close to it he stood. And he was hypnotized. The woman singing there in a red dress carried features that were... familiar. So familiar.

Transfixed he stood. Staring into headlights, that face, that he knew was important, tried so hard to remember, not noting the end of her song, her untimely disappearance from stage, but only the flow of his thoughts, as his wrecked brain tried to recollect the pictures of the past into an order that was determined by actions that lead up to one another...

Down the rabbit hole he went, staring into broken mirrors, seeing a refraction of himself. Belododia. The name had something to do with her. Meant something. Romania. There it was. Fighting. He and her. Side by side. An invisible war. Fragments. Thousand different pieces. Enough for some general information. She had not come back with him from that mission. Why he could not tell. It was lost. And without some time with his book, he was not going to know much else. Only pieces of his masks remained in this future. And he knew she was important.

“Watch where you're stepping, Mister.” The voice that interrupted Martins silent processing of half-a-year of memories, maybe more, was quite annoyed. And it carried an accent he could not place. Something from around. But noting from around Romania. He had been in Romania. Warring there. Ringing. Bells ringing. Church bells? “'S'cuseme” He heard his voice speak words that were almost inaudible. A mingling of consonants with an apologetic undertone. He did not look at the person he had supposedly bumped into. But he was somehow glad that his lack of focus at this particular location had brought about nothing worse than a bump by a stranger.

He ha dto find the girl. Hey. He had to. He detached himself from the voice, not even noting whether it was still speaking. It was unimportant. Everything else as unimportant. Just the girl. He felt his masks shift. Professionalism was creeping in. The ice was there, just beyond sight. Ah... welcome old friend. Its so good to have you back. Long time no see. Yes. It was true somehow. Somehow it was always true. His eyes shifted. He was another person. Bumped into a few conversing self-important couples. And did not care. Aim, lock, fire. They were of no concern to him. Posed no threat. They better not.

People. People everywhere around him. Some in more casual attire than others. Some amusing themselves. Some listening. Some just being there to be seen. Some here, some there. People everywhere. And the lady in the red dress was nowhere to be found. For a second Martin stood in shocked silence as he realized that he might be chasing ghosts. He. Chasing ghosts. Btu then there were… hands on his back.

He spun around quite rapidly, not caring that his elbow just so happened to bump into the back of another guest leading to pained hisses from behind him. Someone had actually touched him. Dangerous things, these gatherings really were. He was just lucky that his clothing covered most of his body. His skin. Who knows what might have happened to the touchy-feely person that had just done the unspeakable? As the world settled from the spinning, he saw indeed a person rushing through the crowd. A person in a red dress. Another second of silence followed. Of standing there in the middle of the crowd and just waiting. He had seen a ghost indeed. A ghost of the past.

And so he rushed forward, almost dashing after her, just barely slipping by the limbs of others that were here- Risking contact any minute now. Just risking himself. The crowd was unaffected by his errant behaviour. They were just as they were. Talking. Laughing. Spinning webs. He was different. Things were moving all around him. The lady in the red dress. Where was she?

Running. Not away from here. To the target.

There she was. He was almost relieved as he saw her talking to another man. This one was important. Or thought himself so, judging by his bearing, by the way people gravitated around him. And he was speaking to the woman he wanted to have a long chat with. Very good. He kept her from moving out of sight totally. And he presented him with the most perfect opportunity as well.

The lithe man in his black suit had no problem making a circle of three out of their circle of two, nudging them both slightly away from each other with a friendly, apologetic smile directed at the man. “Please excuse my interruption.” Oh so light was his voice, just carrying its message to their ears. Then he turned to the woman. The one he knew. “I just wanted to laude your performance on this evening.” He even managed an appropriately impressed tone. “It was very moving.” Oh and the fact that he completely ignored the host… it was just coincidence, yes? Blue eyes on red cloth. There was nothing erotic there. Just cold interest. Despite the words. His masks were speaking. And he was just ´beginning to wonder what to do with the man.

The pictures, they swam. Ripples in a pond, just sending the world=standing upside down. Like you hanging from the ceiling? Come with me. Journey. Farther. On the inside. Development goes===on? Come. His hand was raised, halfway. Between casual, between decisions hanging over them. The sword of Damocles. That hand.

"I think we are acquainted." Yes? We are?

Wonderful that the other had decided to leave. How much coincidence? How cold that young stare was. As if he had known all along. As if he was knowing. All along. (In the past they had always known as well) Welcome to the future:= IDENTITY

Lightly his almost touch on her flesh, just cupping around the arm in such a way, that there was warmth transmitted. Heat, intensely burning on that interactive level they were now facing: Intimacy. Without touch. Feel my HUMANITY (just to make me feel better); not though, the final step in the taking, not that. Not destruction. This was, after all, just interaction; a reciprocal illusion of their minds crossing in the infinite of possibilities. This was not yet... complete.

For completion meant certainty meant stillness meant death. Equations of equity. So his hand was transgressing on her arm, but only slightly, surreptitiously some would have said, by giving of nothing more then infrared radiation. An ideation easily forgone. There would be no traces here. Just dancing on the edge of death. A melodramatic tune. Wont you remember me? Wont I remember you? A thing of...

shatterings.

His face parting in that almost-smile, that bit of knowing. What... what made you do it? Just... the fact that I can be... different. The other hand grasping, once, emptily the air, then, with a flourish, the mustache. Yes, that half-smile said, yes. I am not who I think I am. I am an image of your minds profession/confession/condition. I am what you think I am, just, projective spaces...

Shifting. The stance, as if there was something younger underneath these clothes, something more boyish. Just rests of glue remaining in the face of the piece that was slowly disappearing in one of his pockets. Just lowly abandoned. An identity. Feel like you got the core of the onion? Speech shifting too, another dimension. Intimate, personal the address. "I think you know me." Which one I mean? Which part of me?

The warmth of my hand, cupped around your arm maybe. The warmth of certainty? Just an illusion. We are, after all, only images of our expectations of each other. IDENTITY=void; Fatal ERROR 101; Failure to compute mean value