Feb 23 12:30:49 107 PA -Ahriman does a nice thing
From Chronicles
Here, the poverty of the northern Dregs has been largely replaced by the squalor of the south. The majority of the buildings look somewhat abandoned. Broken windows abound and the street is littered with refuse and waste, both human and animal.
The people here are an odd mix, though. While the majority are ragged and dirty, typical to what one would expect in this part of the city, a few look clean, scrubbed and artfully coiffed and dressed to look ragged and poor. The latter group can be seen around and entering a whitewashed building with no windows on the west side of the street, its front wall adorned with the painted silhouette of a naked woman.
That building, though, is the only one here that is not covered in graffiti. The rest have drawings and icons, gang signs mostly, though no one sign dominates. The only other building here with no broken windows is a prefab building, made of corrugated metal. The windows are covered with wire mesh, to stop vandalism or theft. On the door is painted a simple symbol in bright green: $.
The weather's a balmy 33f. Cold yes, but practically warm by comparison to the sub-zero temperatures of just a few weeks ago. Incongruous snow blows in from a clear sky, keeping the ground moist and the streets muddy and full of puddles. Cars have stopped, a few brave (and idiotic) souls still trying powered transportation, but in this Thursday night the most traffic coming to and from the pawn shop is on foot. A young couple's pace slows as they near the shop, the young woman falling back a step as her mate peers into the snow for that which cannot be seen. Anyone drawing near would feel it as well -- a vague sense of being watched. The general sense of unease that says they forgot something important, that something's wrong. Though the feeling is never quite enough to put one's finger on it, something about that shop turns the young couple away, hurrying into the night.
Sofiya is on foot, just wasting time as she waits for the clock to tick over. The pawn shop gets attention because it has shiny things in it, and she lingers by the window, considering an item there. The sensation of being watched does set her on edge, and she turns, looking around, her shoulders tensing. She gives the street a slow stare, a steady look to take in anything she can. With nothing in sight, she returns to the window.
"Lucky," comes a voice from the night, deep enough to be felt down o Sofiya's toes, "or good?" A black-dressed being stares pupilessly four feet behind her. He definitely wasn't there a moment ago. His grey suit blends into the whiteout by street light, and his black skin is silhouetted beautifully by the zephyr-streaked snowy air. Hands in his pockets, feet just less than shoulder-width apart, Ahriman seems at ease in the cold.
Sofiya spins on her heel, lifting her chin, bravado coming to the fore. "Both I hope." Her response is quick, spoken in an accent that is an odd mix of Kingsdale and Russian. She crosses her arms, staring at him. "I don't think I am who you think I am though." She shifts, a tiny hint of restlessness, before she halts it.
"Oh?" Ahriman asks, a little smile touching his lips. At first it seems friendly, but... "I heard of a girl, about your age, who caused a bit of a ruckus at one of the Clash domiciles. A suicide attack. Noble, to sacrifice herself. Pointless, to sacrifice herself." The black being falls silent a moment, his invisible gaze felt as a meaty thing that traverses her short form while his little smile remains undaunted. And he inhales, smile disappearing, as if a thought has suddenly occurred to him. "Of course, if you're not who I think you are, then you're nobody." Ahriman leans downm his black head descending closer to Sofiya to peer at her. He smells exotic, something spicy and alien, and the heat can be felt wafting from his skin from several inches away. "Nobodies don't live long alone in the dark, I hear."
Sofiya's cheeks actually pale at the words and she steps back, shaking her head. "You heard wrong. Your sources are not good ones, if they give you that type of information." She recovers some of her bravado, giving him a glare. "That girl was a runner, delivering a parcel. Nothing more. Nothing less. What was in the parcel was someone else's attack." She manages a jerk of her head, towards him. "Either way."
The black bring tilts his head to the right, eyeing her, and he grunts a 'huh.' "Then it is a shame she's dead. The truth is so often created by the winners, the survivors, those left to speak." Ahriman straightens then, reaching for his pocket to draw out a silver pocket watch trailing a bright chain. He flips it open, musing softly, "Why, imagine if she lived. This poor little human would not have a friend left in the world, after the war she started. Oh, some might agree with the bomb she carried, but they'd turn on her the moment they learned she didn't go up as a martyr. And everyone else, well they're busy losing their brothers and sisters to the fallout. I'm afraid that little girl would be quite alone."
Sofiya's cheeks are clearly white and she keeps the bravado going, barely. "Better if she is dead then. It would suck to have been someone screwed over by her boss, sent to be blown up and blamed for a bomb that wasn't hers, and not be able to tell anyone." Her eyes flicker to the watch on it's chain and them back to his face. "Better dead." She licks her lips, a nervous gesture, her gaze fixed on his face. "Who are you?" "For a while," Ahriman agrees, nodding twice. His head swivels left, then right, and he leans in close to peer at the small child. "Ahriman," he speaks, breathing the word as if it were magic. "Now," he speaks, straightening, "I don't know who would have sent such a device, but I do have a fairly good idea of whom it was purchased from. I imagine a few questions might be able to clear the name of one poor, dead little girl"
Sofiya returns the stare, almost steadily, despite the pale cheeks and the nervous swallow. "Depends on the questions. Who'd you think it was bought off?" She is defensive, giving away nothing for free, untrusting. "I mean, there are a load of people in this city that can build something like that. The person who paid for it, and sent the runner..."
Ahriman's black hand darts forward, pressing hot against Sofiya's mouth to quiet her tongue. "Say nothing," he directs, his three fingers pressed gently against her lips. "There may come a time when you will be asked by someone who can taste the truth whether you have ..." His words trail off, and the dark being frowns. "Snitched? Is that the word?" His hand drops, and Ahriman straightens. "Stay alive. Stay far away from this place. I know you. Others must as well. Do you know anyone not in the gangs? Go there." The black being peers down at his pocket watch again, and flashes a quick smirk before turning smartly to stride away, into the snow.
Sofiya's tongue is silenced and she stares at him with wide grey eyes. A slight nod at the word snitched and she stares after him when he leaves, complete confusion on her face before she shakes it off. The bravado returns, and she glances at the pawn shop window before she turns and heads towards Little Russia. Fast.
