When Smile judged that they were sufficiently far away from the garrison, she finally turned to converse with her companion. The few people walking around in the high noon sun were careful to take wide berths around them - leaving them ample space to talk by the trickling of the fountain.
“He spoke the truth. He is greatly angered by the conditions in this town, but I suspect he had his suspicions of the heresy before I led him down that trail.” Logan nodded.
“He had as many religious works as he did books on the military. I don’t think he’s overly conservative - we should take his judgment into consideration and investigate the Administration.” Smile’s mask bobbed up and down in agreement. She then turned to walk, only for Logan to continue: “His reaction to my mask and his identification of me… what can you tell me about that?” She turned back around to cock her head sideways.
“What does it matter? We are Ghasts - it is not unusual for tempers to flare around us.” Perhaps it was only due to their friendship that he thought her a poor liar. He saw right through her and she knew it.
“Before he identified you, he was angry. Then he enjoyed our conversation. He found me attractive. But after identifying who you were, he was frightened. Nauseated. Melancholic. The telltale signs of a veteran who has experienced a great deal of trauma.” She spoke with no emotion, as always, and as practical as that was, he found himself wishing she would give him an analysis. Knowing she would not, he had no choice but to nod and accept that for what it was - a loose observation.
“Thank you. Perhaps when you meet alone, you can get him drunk enough to open up about it.” Logan grumbled and led the way to the East - towards the smell of cooking meat and brew; the signature scent of an inn.
“His trauma does not concern us. We are here to investigate this case - nothing more, nothing less.” She spoke more sternly than he’d expected of her. Or was this her way of supporting him - sparing him details she imagined he wouldn’t wish to know?
Sensing that their conversation had come to an end, at least in regards to the Captain’s nerves, Logan advised: “Right you are. So, Eye… how would you like to go about this? I’m sure you’ve got preferences. I’m not used to the cloak-and-dagger stuff. I’ll do torture, but I can’t move in public without the mask. Subterfuge isn’t my strong suit.”
She knew, of course, what he was referring to. She’d seen his face on more than one occasion and despite not feeling one way or another about his disfigurement, he was correct in his assumptions it would be a hindrance to infiltration. She spoke barely louder than a whisper: “Torture is not an efficient method of extracting information. We will not be using it - not now. I would like you to investigate the town; survey what you can from afar. I will infiltrate the Service and we will speak to the Administrator together.”
Logan stopped before the tall doors of the brick tavern. “Smile, nothing you’ve said so far goes any way to explain why I needed to come with you here. You are doing most of the work and I’ve got nothing to contribute… what’s going on?” She cocked her head in that infuriating manner again.
“I’ve no idea what you mean. Let us leave personal matters out of this for now.” He found that something had to be off about Smile. Did this have anything to do with the Captain? Or was this a personal matter - a matter she saw fit to involve him in, yet not confide with him? He wasn’t a stranger to dragging her into compromising missions launched on his own behalf, but it had been years since the last time. Why now? Though he still did not agree with her subterfuge, he nodded - satisfied she would tell him when the time was right for it.
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Logan had had to use his entire reportoire of threats to strongarm a room for the two and only then, he had gotten it by flashing his gun at another traveler - forcing him to evacuate the town under the duress of an immediate execution. He hadn’t intended to go through with it, but it had served its purpose and finally convinced the unhelpful tavern boy-wench to rent them a room. The fact they’d even try to say no to a Ghast was beyond him - unheard of for all his years traveling Cradle; another sign that something was seemingly amiss in the town.
As a hand of the Governor, their authority was absolute. ‘No’ should’ve been one of the last things in the dictionaries of these people when it came to speaking with Ghasts, yet it seemed everything had been made slightly-more-difficult for the pair. Even something as simple as ordering food had been met with “W-we’re o-out of s-starches”. An odd answer to an order of a steak, but at his insistence, he had been allowed to make the order and had been told it would be delivered to his room at sunset, just when Smile was departing.
It had been years since last he had seen her without the mask and the hood. Respectfully, he offered to leave the room, but at her insistence it was important he saw her clothing in order to identify her swiftly, should anything happen to her. Therefore, he had been fortunate enough to lay his eyes on her carefully bound shining silver hair, her smooth, young skin and those precious gray eyes. She was not much younger than himself - a couple years, at most. But he still couldn’t fathom that eyes as wise as hers were born anywhere in the same century as his own, black bead and the red Logoric brand.
She was powdering her delicate, already-pale chin and had clasped her emerald amulet along with the pearl earrings by the time he turned around to look at her. The lavish, fluffed blue dress was as impressive as the armory she had inside the damn thing and would be certain to raise some eyebrows as she partook in the service. She saw his mask staring at her through the tabletop mirror and questioned, as mutely as ever: “Is it acceptable?” For a moment, he was glad she couldn’t see his face nor feel his emotions.
“More than so - as beautiful as ever. The Governor doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Not even as much as a smile. Only a short nod.
He stepped up from their bed and walked over to zip up the back of her dress. “Do you have to keep up the suppression even when we’re alone?” He asked through a chuckle. But a brief glance to the mirror told him that she wasn’t suppressing herself. Her gray, lively eyes were staring at him with a most curious expression - as if pained. Her lips moved as if wishing to speak and before he could withdraw his hands from the zipper, she had grabbed hold of his hands and wrapped them into a hug around her neck.
“Logan…” She began.
Panicked knocks on the door disrupted the disorienting moment and, when Logan looked back to the mirror, she had already resumed the suppression - departing from the surprising hug. He hadn’t had whiplash before - the symbiote wouldn’t allow it. But this was definitely the closest he’d ever gotten to it.
“S-Sir Ghast, y-your steak! I-it’s ready!” The sniveling, acne-ridden tavern-boy spoke from outside their door before sprinting down the hallway.
“Smile, what the fuck’s going on?” He asked her once again. To his dismay, she was already rummaging through her small purse to verify that she had all her necessary equipment. Without ever facing him, she spoke: “I do not know what you are talking about, Logan. I am going now, but I should be back in approximately three hours. If not by four, the protocol is to search for one-another.” He was fiercely irked to be dismissed once more and this had begun to get on his nerves. But even the Grand Torturist couldn’t make the girl talk unless she wanted to. He finally relented and opened the door for his associate to grab the plate of charcoal-seared meat by the door’s step before watching her wordlessly wander down the hall.
He had never been well-versed in the feminine gender, nor with Bravelle’s Blessed Gifted. He couldn’t tell which influence was causing him such great difficulties of understanding, but he was angered enough to wish to generalize. To boot, as he sat between his companion’s tall stacks of beauty-products and attempted to consume what should’ve been a rare steak, he felt an undeniable pungent taste irritate the back of his throat.
“Of course it’s fucking rotten…”