10.30 am

You have a case, Eoghan, old son.

How long has it been since there's been a case? Months? Probably that. It had been a time, lets put it that way, since th ' wee braincells had come together in conference and tried working together on a piece of confusing perplexion.  

Taking a break every now an' then, o'course, to ask Hospitality for extra shots of wexa juice and a couple of bales of Happy Crunch Bars. Ye can't have braincells tryin' their best on empty -whatever cells have, now can ye?

Eoghan Crawter, you whacked out shamus, he thought, stop wi 'the insane thoughts an' get on with it!

Yeah ...but if Tramore really is ...!?!

Conscience, don't make me come in there an' strangle you 'till you start chirping "Home of the Pixies" in falsetto, y'hear?

Crawter shook himself, and caught Revelin's enquiring expression.

"Helps me concentration," he muttered. "Sorta like callisthenics."

"Oh. Okay ."

Crawter glared at him, then looked frontward, at the modern flash of the FS9 building's exterior. The place looked new enough, Crawter half-expected to still see the builder's glaze wrapping. New enough that the grime from the street and surroundIng buildings hadn’t quite made a home on the brilliant colours of the signage, on the crisp lines of the architecture. It hadn’t yet blended into the surrounding hopeful hopelessness of the city.

“Something doesn't like me being here," he heard Revelin comment beside him, and Crawter looked at him once again, this time enquiringly. Revelin's face was still, thoughtful. As if he was contemplating something like fine art, or the sweet scent of flowers he had never come upon before.

Crawter could almost, however, hear the dimensional rustle of scales, shifting. He'd found out enough, over recent times, to know that this was the equivalent of the cat bristling for all it was worth -- in the face of that which it either instinctively feared or wished to intimidate.

In the case of a Sefillan Dragon, let alone th' clanlord of same, the effect was more like that of the scales catching fire around the edges, so the other party had a sneak preview of what at least one version of hell could be like.

Crawter suppressed the urge to go check if there were any fire retardant dispensers handy.

On the other side of him, Looming Figure Number Two was a deep dark ocean of calm waters compared to Revelin. Contemplating the building, now and then the helmeted head tilting as if examining the view without quite deciding how it truly should look.

Crawter realised he was holding his breath. Just before his cheeks ballooned out, he let the air go on an audible whoosh, which drew Securio’s attention. Now the reflective surface of the helmet filled with the fish-eyed distortion of Crawter’s figure, mirrored across Justice’s screen.

“I would attract too much attention, like this,” Securio stated with no inflection whatsoever. He looked around at the street scene in which they stood, nodded, said, “Yes,” simply.

The last sibilance of his voice had not quite faded before the uniform emptied, dropping down to the street at Crawter’s feet, the cloth puddling, the helmet softly landing almost with the hush of a sigh on the material.

If Porter the New Client had still been around, Crawter thought – surely th’ man would have had a heart attack by now that would have made the stats on the infirmary Top Croaker list look right rosy at the Body Bidders convention. But Porter wasn’t. He was comfortably detained back at Poralla Street with a couple of Revelin’s Sefillan brigade watching his every move.

In case he was a sly part of th’ game.

 Just in case he was around for noise alone.

 He looked toward his remaining companion. Who was staring fixedly at the building with jewelled eyes.

“Afore ye go all ‘grrr-rip-rend-destroy-massacre’ on me, Revelin,” Crawter murmered, “you remember what we’re s’posed to be, is that right? Ye’re not going t’ lose it over a slight touch of the willikers, are ye?”

Revelin seemed to come back into himself from a long distance away. He blinked, then said almost rustily, “Yeah. I remember. You remember when I said it was a stupid idea? We don’t look anything like –“

Crawter flicked a hand. “We’re new in th’ industry. We haven’t got our – image – right yet. T’will be as believable as a Sunday sermon, trust me.”

Revelin let Crawter take the lead slightly, before following with heavy steps, muttering, “And methinks you’ve been hanging around too much with that Neroas guy, Irish …”

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“FS9 -Your View To The Future!”

Blue letters from the channel’s slogan swept across curved lenses as a tall figure strode across the foyer, Kerav City sunlight sharpening his shadow so it danced across the glimmer-flicks laid into the floor, eclipsing them in order, sending them momentarily into dulled redness, before they brightened again once his form had passed them by.

Long sandy hair tied back to one flow down the back, enough of a beard to suggest distance from all the accoutrements of civilisation over the past few weeks, and just the barest hint of sweat as an alien contrast to the sterility of the air.

Third Wave looked up and around, eyes narrowing, then widening when he saw the newcomer, the oddity that had walked into the foyer of this pristine toss-together of chromex and deadbrains. He tapped Krane on the arm, where the opper was patiently waiting for an info-reader to record their assignment, and file their time. Made a gesture both understood as “I’ll be right back”, then headed across to where the man behind the face lenses had stopped, a cloth bag across one shoulder, a hand on his hip as he silently watched the screens lining one of the foyer walls.

The news from the morning on replay. Third Wave heard his own voice issuing forth, a muted warble.

Third Wave stopped, and said beside the other’s shoulder, “Don’t tell me the Ice Worlds of Ghanex went inta meltzone, Milos. Last I heard you say was they’d have to turn those hundred million year-old glaciers there into sludge surprise before you’d come into shacks like this!”

The other turned his head, eyes still hidden, mouth a self-deprecating quirk. “It’s been a while, Third Wave. Many moons skimming to their fate against the ring force around Khalima Prime, as they say. I think Ghanex still reflects into rainbows when the suns rise on Hopebringing Day. Me – I heard you were down here. Came to take a look.”

 “So – where’d you disappear to, man? The radar went dead on your vibe. Not a sign of Milos Rado anywhere among the known star systems, and some of the ones still acting coy.”

Milos took in a breath. “I had things to do. Journeys I hadn’t expected, that needed to be made.”

A long, thin, vertical strand of light appeared beside them. With a voice that seemed fashioned out of the whisper of a sigh, it said, “Identify, please.”

Third Wave grimaced, muttering, “Yup, the security’s on the ball, all right. Lower your lenses, Milos. It just needs to ID you. I’ll vouch for ya.”

 There was a slight hesitation, then a hand came up and pulled down the lenses, just to the tip of his nose. Milos looked straight at the security drone, and stared, unblinkingly, as his eyes were scanned.

 Then raised them, once the drone had left. Watched the light fade out with a slight smile.

Beside him, Third Wave murmured, “Any reason for the eye-colour change there, pal? Last time I saw ya, you had blue ones.”

“I felt – like a change,” his friend said softly. “This place have a commissariat where a guy can feed the starving demons within?”

Third Wave, still frowning slightly, nodded, and motioned Milos to follow him, whistling to Krane as they passed, the great figure of his partner following them a few steps behind.

 10.40 am

 “T’is a standard security drone sensor, my friend,” Crawter assured Revelin as they both watched the dance of light that flicked across their faces, then moved on. “If you’re not on any known Terran or Federation naughty lists, or someone the establishment’s had unfortunate dealings with before – things are of th’ rosy.”

“Naughty as in parking fines?” Revelin muttered. “Or – naughty as in ripping out a soul and playing it like a harp until it strangled on its own screams into the dark?”

Crawter blinked.

Looked at Revelin, as the sensor faded out and vanished. Revelin casually returned Crawter’s look with a “Yes? What of it?” expression.

“Bloody hell,” the Irishman muttered. “Er – we’re selling ideas here. Or, at least attemptin’ t’ look as if we are, in th’ pure and possibly stardamned vain hope that we find out just what in heck’s goin’ on in th’ burg. I don’t mind anyone having an impromptu reunion, but – could ye both tone the killing an’ maiming talk down to a non-level, guys?”

“Hard to keep things from you, huh, Eoghan?” Revelin remarked, now giving Crawter a patented Velsicar grin. The smaller man relaxed slightly, then looked up brightly as another drone came into view, this one showing the slightly flickering face of an enquiring staffer.

“Our 10.45 appointment,” Crawter said smoothly.

The face halted, froze into place, then a quiet toned voice said, “Confirmed. Level 4, suite 3.”

“Fair enough. Let’s be going, then,” Crawter said to Revelin now, gesturing for the other to follow.

Revelin, though, hesitated, eyes flicking towards a spot by a wall of screens.

“Someone else – is here,” he murmured.

“My fee rises based on gathering complications,” Crawter commented. “Better start th’ meter.” He then grinned broadly at the tall, silent man, and gestured again for them to get a move on.

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