The Story

[scooter]

Chapter 1: Flying Away

The flight from New York took three and a half hours. To Miles Lyrican, it meant three and a half hours of unbidden and unwelcome reflection.

The images came scattershot, exploding into his consciousness in bursts of realization: the faces of both enemies and friends that he'd left behind...the feel of his heart pounding too heavily as he hid behind lampposts in Central Park...the staccato voice of the televised news anchor breaking into the daytime talk show program, echoing down the jetway behind him as he boarded, just beginning to breathlessly describe the sparse details they'd received of the "disturbance" on the Queensboro Bridge heading onto Roosevelt Avenue. By now they'd discovered not only that they'd lost him, but that the salient parts of his files were overwritten with a digitized copy of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique - wasn't one of his favorites, really, but given its pressing need at the time, one could hardly be too critical of that weird switch to G minor towards the end. With that and the unique quality of the trip over from Manhattan, he wasn't worried about being followed, though he scanned the faces of the others on board by habit, just to be sure. Nothing obviously out of place, and no one on board read as an air marshal. Good.

In an effort to break the second-guessing his reveries were prompting, and again, partly out of custom, he was listening in to conversations around him. He guessed that the girl in the NYU hoodie a few rows back was referring to him in mentioning the words "refugee from the eighties" with a giggle. Like she would know. The casual ecru jacket, fingerless black leather gloves, and dark wrap-around shades didn't necessarily help him blend in, but he found the outfit a perfect blend of utility and style - enough that he'd made it a sort of signature look. It wasn't likely he would be inconspicuous anyway, given his height. Luckily he'd ditched anything actually incriminating into the path of an oncoming Long Island Railroad train once he was sure that the pile-up behind him had gathered all the pursuers, so there was nothing else about his appearance to gather any unwanted notice; his blond hair was more unruly than he would have liked, but he explained that and the leftover jitters he exhibited as he boarded to the flight attendant as a fear of flying. She'd been very attentive to his needs as a result...extremely so, in fact. Enough so that he checked as she retrieved his tiny pillow near the end of the flight, confirming the absence of a ring against her cappucino-hued left hand.

"We'll be arriving soon," she practically purred. "Business, or pleasure?"

"Please," he couldn't help but quip. After a shared laugh, he offered, "Bit of both, really," with a slight shrug. The actual plan was to head immediately to an apartment he'd set up a year or two ago on St. Roch, just far enough away from the tourists so that he wouldn't be annoyed by them, but close enough that he could disappear into them if a problem arose. There he had a stash of equipment to replace that which he'd disposed of. He felt naked without it. Beyond that --

"Mmm, lucky you..." she said with a smile slightly warmer than professional under liquid brown eyes. "I'll be back in Newark tomorrow. So I'll only have, ah...one night in town."

He still felt naked, but in a more positive sense. "Oh?" was all he could say.

"Mm-hmm. I'll see about getting you disembarked with first class. Wouldn't want you to suffer any more anxiety about your fear of flying. Oh, and --" she bent down to the aisle floor -- "you dropped your napkin."

He hadn't. He immediately lifted the corner to reveal part of a phone number.

"Thank you for flying with us..." she said, leaning far forward to add in a soft whisper: "Mister Lyrican."

As the plane slowed to a stop at the gate at Louis Armstrong Airport, he was already at the front of the cabin, waiting for the door to open. It had been three and a half hours. The time for reflection was already over. Miles was back in it again.

[WolfofWords]

Brigid Fitch walked through the New York office, noting the chaotic atmosphere. She smiled a little to herself. She knew she had been called in about the Roosevelt Bridge incident and that meant that she was still considered hot shit. She knew that she was young and she knew that she was a habitual line-stepper. It pissed people off but still, she had climbed. She was a damned good agent and she prided herself on that. She did not match those scrambling around her. They wore suits and power dresses and she was in jeans and a peasant blouse. She walked past a protesting secretary and pushed her way into the Director's office.

"What's going on and how is it now my problem?" she called out, not particularly caring if she was interrupting.

"Agent Fitch," Director Fisch said in a decidedly bored tone that nevertheless betrayed actual surprise. "You took your sweet time getting here."

"I was caving at Bisevo," Fitch said with a shrug.

"Odd choice for a vacation," the Director said. "No beaches? No islands?"

"I burn easily and I don't like staying still," Fitch said. "Anyway, it can be hard to get a signal down there."

"Not for us," Director Fisch said. He was a notoriously dour man, devoid of anything resembling a personality. One could mistake his body type as 'dumpy' but actually observant people would know that the Director still kept himself fit. "Nice clothes."

Fitch did a little spin. "You like?" she asked. "It's not like there's a dress code for field agents."

"You could show this office a modicum of respect, though," the Director said.

Fitch gestured at her outfit. "This isn't respect? What about this isn't respect?"

"You're wearing the belt buckle," the Director said, eyes narrowing.

"It has great sentimental value," Fitch said. "It's always part of my look."

"The belt buckle fashioned out of your father's old pair of brass knuckles? The father in prison for acting as a mob enforcer?"

"See? Extremely respectful," Fitch said. "I even wore a wig for you." She pulled that off of her head carefully, jet black hair giving way to her natural red hair. The director's eyes held an absolute absence of tolerance for nonsense so Fitch dialed it down a bit and sat down. "Tell me why I'm here."

The Director sighed. "You no doubt have seen the press about Roosevelt Bridge? They don't know the half of it. We need you to track down one of our own. We need to have a word with him." He tossed a file across the desk which Fitch immediately snatched up and started flipping through.

"Miles Lyrican?" Fitch asked and let out a whistle. "Sounds like fun. He's in the wind?"

The director picked up a remote. "Well, he replaced most of his file with this," he said. He clicked the remote and music started to play.

"Is that Berlioz?" Fitch asked which earned her a look from the Director. "What? I know some things about music. Cute. I would have gone with something more punk but cute. Somebody who does something like that has no intention of coming back. So what are his intentions?"

"We're not exactly sure," the Director said. "That's where you come in. Bring him in alive. Willing if you can, unwilling if you have to. Don't make this any more of a spectacle than it already is."

"I always get my man," Fitch said. "Any leads yet?"

"Not as such," the Director said. "Start with Bert Williams. Drum up a lead. Get going."

Fitch looked skeptical. "Do you think we can trust Williams?" she asked.

"I'm not sure we have a choice and Agent Williams definitely doesn't," the Director said. "Try to use a light touch. I'm sure you know what they call you around here."

Fitch laughed. "War goddess?" she asked with a smirk. "No. I'm sure I know what they call me. So unimaginative. I'll check in when I can."

"Good," the Director said. "We're counting on you."

[CrazyCraftLady]

Suburban Hospital,
Bethesda, MD

Bert was, mostly, quietly sitting in the hospital room, with his laptop perched precariously on the bedside tray Veronica was oblivious to.

He’d been told that Ronnie might, or might not, be able to hear him. In the back of his mind, he had the idea that if he just sat there and talked to her he’d say the right thing, and here eyelids would flutter, and she’d croak something snarky and sarcastic and everything would be all right. He’d almost convinced himself of that while splitting his time between her hospital room and their father’s.

That was the first night. There was no second night for Dad.

It was hard to keep optimism up after that. So he found that he had less and less to say to his sister. At this point he was still there daily, but he was mostly sitting with his laptop and, not working exactly, but doing enough to keep things going. Just sitting next to the mass of bandages which covered a good portion of her face and the left side of her body. Pink tipped hair spiking up ludicrously from the other side of her head.

At least scanning his emails for things that were urgent. Keeping things going with clients. Doing what he could, rescheduling what he could, passing along what he couldn’t to other contacts in the business. At least he could run a few scripts, and let his corporate clients know how secure their systems were against basic hacks.

So, no constant string of chatter. Still, he tried. He didn’t talk about work – he never would talk to her about work if she were conscious, and there were too many other ears around.

He didn’t want to talk about Mom. They had long since, he thought, said everything they would ever feel the need to say about her. But still, he couldn’t help but compare.

“It’s not like that with you,” he had found himself saying. “This is trauma, not cancer. The doctors say that once” (he couldn’t say ‘if’, he wouldn’t) “you wake up, your brain will” (not might but will) “be relatively intact. There’s some trauma, but you will still be yourself”.

That was a lie. It was optimistic crap, and it was a lie.

“Come back to me kid” he’d said.

Then he’d shut up again. If she could hear, would she realize that he’d said ‘me’ and not ‘us’.

So he’d gone back to sitting quietly. Focusing on his laptop. Looking for leads. Occasional news story had briefly caught his attention – a traffic hang up in New York seemed a little… whimsical. An upset in the NCAA. That thing in Nova Scotia which had popped up oh so briefly, seemed poised to hit the mainstream news cycle then vanished without a trace.

There were distractions here in the hospital as well. That nurse, who was just a bit too young and too pretty to be real (honestly, Kyle, you’re a college educated professional, why carry yourself like a Los Angeles waiter who’s ‘really’ an actor). That too pretty nurse who he’d overheard saying something about waiting for a drug test result which seemed to be about his father. That, at least, had given his a distraction. He’d immediately done a little social engineering (without consciously planning it, even) and gotten Kyle’s password, which had allowed him to log into the hospital system and see… that the results weren’t in yet, and that the lab would likely take days to weeks to get the result back. What he couldn’t see was why they had run the tests in the first place. Was it routine? Was there something about the accident nobody had told him?

There was probably some reason no one had talked to him about making arrangements, besides the fact that he couldn’t even think about that now. He didn’t have the cycles to plan much. He hadn’t even had the clarity of mind to keep his usual, slightly paranoid, altertness about him.

He realized that, suddenly, when he recognized the woman who sauntered, almost casually, into the hospital room

He stood up, suddenly. Part of him reacted to her reputation (more than any personal knowledge). That part couldn’t decide whether to flee, or to stand protectively between her and his unconscious sister. The rest of him tried to play it cool, but only managed a little camp. “Fitch, I presume?” He said.

Then the real kicker. Veronica finally stirred, just a little, and croaked almost inaudibly, “Leave us alone, Ms Fitch” she said. “Bert doesn’t know anything about Mr. Lyrican.”

[Glitter]

Patrolling the street - New Orleans, LA

Officer Laurent Patrick sighed after ending a call with his mother. She was again pushing for him to go spend what was a likely to be excruciating afternoon with her and her friends. She had been after him for years to embrace his Creole heritage, marry a nice Creole girl, learn the language to swell the numbers. It had been old years ago.

Officer Mark Bordelon, driving their patrol car slowly down the street, laughed. “What’s she want you to do now?”

“The usual. Tea, history, girls. I’m half tempted to take an extra shift just to have an airtight reason to miss it.” Laurent ran a hand down his face, “I think she’s even angling to get the Grande Dame herself to show.”

Mark whistled, “Oooo Madame Etienne. Nah – she hardly ever leaves her estate by the cemetery anymore. I think you’re safe, from that at least.”

Just then a call came in alerting all the cars in their area to proceed to a fire to set a perimeter and provide assistance. Laurent checked the address as Mark hit the lights and siren, “It’s an apartment building.”

“Ah hell.”

Other emergency vehicles was converging from all areas, Mark paused at an intersection to let a laddertruck barrel through before turning to follow. The fire captain on the scene waved them to a position to use the patrol car as a blockade just up a side street. Thick black smoke and bright orange flames were billowing out of the windows staining the bright blue sky. They parked the car and took a moment to assess the scene. It seemed like mostly the top two floors of the building but that was bad enough.

Two ladder trucks were already deployed and several others were setting up. Streams of water were going up in the air and streams of people were rushing out onto the street. The first group of ambulances was pulling up just beyond the fire vehicles. Popping the trunk, they pulled out several traffic cones and caution tape and quickly sealed off the street.

The next several hours were crazy busy, full of smoke and water and people. Mark and Laurent spent most of it doing crowd control and redirection but were involved enough that their powder blue uniform shirts were now damp and smudged with soot.

When the fire was finally down to several small pale gray columns, the mass of emergency personnel and interested onlookers started to thin. Laurent turned to see their Lieutenant approaching.

“Officers Patrick and Bordelon, the Pretty Boys car, how did you hold up here?”

Mark laughed and blotted his dark forehead with a handkerchief, “Not so pretty at the moment sir but the crowd over here wasn’t so bad.”

“Hold the line for another half hour or so, then check in with the fire chief to see if they still need you, if not go on and head off-shift.”

They acknowledged and as the Lieutenant turned to go, Laurent spotted someone signaling from the tape line. “Be right back,” he said to Mark. The blonde man in the cream jacket and wraparound sunglasses smiled anxiously at his approach. “Hello, I’m Officer Patrick. Can I help you?”

“Can you tell me what’s happened?”

“Yes sir, the apartment building burned. Looks like the top two floors at least.”

The man sagged slightly, “The address?”

Laurent gave it and the man took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Do you know someone there, sir?”

“No, I had an apartment there.”

“Ah. I’m sorry sir. Here’s my card and if you’d come with me, we’ll talk to my lieutenant and see what we can do.” Laurent lifted the tape and ushered the man through.

[scooter]

Chapter 5: Into the Night

The officer was completely polite, which wasn't what Miles was used to; perhaps things ran differently in New Orleans nowadays with respect to the cops. It was clear, however, that rather than acting out of pure concern, he was doing his job, which was to determine the origin of what would certainly be discovered as arson. Miles instead went through the usual charade that agents must, from time to time, when in front of the police: he knew nothing. In this case, however, it wasn't much of a charade.

Lyrican mulled his options. He could get to another cache he had in the city, but that was going to take more time and effort. He'd need a hotel room, which couldn't be as easily made secure, and which would likely require some alternative identity. He felt like a sitting duck - more at the whim of forces rather than at the helm.

"'Zat a friend of yours?" said Officer Patrick, in a somewhat low and suspicious tone.

Lyrican turned slowly. A midnight blue Lexus had pulled up behind them, driven by a familiar south Asian flight attendant; the dying embers of the fire danced in her eyes, deep and chocolate-colored, though she looked only at Miles. Her face didn't immediately betray an outward emotion; it was a look that Lyrican associated with professionals.

Both men walked over to the car. "I heard about what happened," she said, her voice full of concern as she projected familiarity for the sake of the cop. "I came as soon as I could." Miles couldn't help but be impressed. She was good at this.

"Yes," he said, playing along. "Thank goodness you're here."

Patrick saw that all was well, at least from the expected point of view; he had his statement, and Bordelon was summoning him away, with an additional snide remark about seeing his mother. He needed a shower and a decent drink. "You have my card, Mr. Crowley," he said in his deep Cajun rumble. "I'll be in touch if I need more information."

They drove away, Miles in the passenger seat. "'Crowley'?" she asked.

"I didn't tell him your name, either...Lakshmi."

She smiled appreciatively. "Very good..."

Tensely, Miles responded. "So, where are we headed? To finish the job that your arsonists couldn't?"

Her demeanor grew serious. "Miles, that wasn't us!"

He raised one eyebrow. Now he was thoroughly confused. "Then who --?"

"We need to get somewhere safe," she said, turning onto the highway, nervously checking the rear view as she did. "Did that other officer mention the name 'Madame Étienne'? This is going to get complicated."

"Forget 'going to get'," said Miles, clipped and stern. "It is complicated. And that's got to stop now. Who are you working for and what --"

Unexpectedly, her right hand reached over to cover his -- gently, tenderly. "Please. Please. I'll explain everything. But we need to get somewhere safe. You were right about The Organization, and you know they have agents on this now. And I know you don't have any reason to trust me...but we're in danger."

[WolfofWords]

Fitch started moving closer to the girl who had mentioned Lyrican's bed, suddenly less interested in what Bert had to say.

"What did she mean by that?!" Fitch almost yelled. "How does she know about that?"

"What did she mean by what?" Bert said as he seemed to instinctually move between Fitch and the girl. "She has a head injury among other things. She doesn't know what she's talking about. Eyes on me."

Fitch reached for something and saw Bert flinch. She liked that wary look in his eye. She had almost touched the holster hidden at the small of her back before she thought better of it. She had driven too far just to shoot her first potential lead. Besides, it resulted in way too much paperwork. The spies in the movies did not have to do any paperwork. Paperwork was for people like Bert Williams. Fitch looked from the girl to Bert. Fitch was here for Bert and only as a means to track down Lyrican. She slowly formed a professional yet predatory smile.

"I did come for you, Mr. Williams," Fitch said. She left the 'agent' off on purpose mostly as an insult but also because they were in the middle of a hospital. She regained her composure. "Let's talk. Let's talk about Miles Lyrican."

"I'm going to call the doctor over to look at this innocent young woman," Bert said. "then you and I can talk. You can hurt me all you want just not here."

Fitch quickly and carefully weighed whether Bert was trying to play her or not and determined that his concern for the girl in the bed was genuine. He was shaking but it was the shake of real trauma and not the shake of a liar. She backed off.

"Fine," she said. "I wouldn't want your secretary here to interrupt us again."

She gestured grandly for Bert to go ahead which sent Bert running to get a doctor. She stared at the girl for a moment and got an odd chill up her spine. Was it empathy or something else? She glanced quickly at the chart and winced at the description of her injuries. She was not a monster. At least she wasn't one most of the time, just a damned good agent. She then reminded herself to follow Bert to make sure he did not simply flee. A doctor and two nurses rushed into the room as she slipped out. She easily grabbed Bert and shoved him into an empty room. To his credit, he seemed to a be bit more compliant now that he was away from the girl.

"Talk, Bert," Fitch said. "and talk quick. Miles Lyrican has gone rogue and I am on the clock getting him back. I've already lost time tending to your precious feelings."

"I haven't worked with Miles in a little while," Bert said. "I'm out of the loop so I don't have a clue where he is." It sounded genuine but they both worked for the Organization, lying came easy when you did it enough.

Fitch smirked. "They always have to go the hard route first," she said. "How many times do I have to hit you to change your answer." She had not gotten to use her fists in a while. Too long if you asked her.

"I'm telling you that I don't know," Bert said. "If Miles is in the wind, he is in the wind alone as far as I know."

Fitch sighed. "You have heard how many submission holds, I know, right?" she asked. "I'm dying to try out a new one that is guaranteed to make you spill your guts or snap some tendons." She knew for a fact that Bert lacked in the combat department and she knew she could take him in an instant.

"I don't know!" Bert said sharply. "I'm in the middle of a family emergency and I would appreciate you having the courtesy to leave me in peace to deal with that."

"I'm happy to leave if you point me in the right direction," Fitch said. "I need a direction, Bert. Just point."

"I have no idea where Miles is," Bert said. "but if he really has gone rogue, I want to help you. Give me a little bit and I'll find a lead for you."

"That's more like it," Fitch said. "I knew that we could be friends. Let's get you back to your laptop and get me some answers."

"But you don't need the laptop, Bert," a voice said from the doorway. "I know where Mr. Lyrican is and I can lead you to him."

It was Veronica Williams.