The man now trying hard to think of himself only as “James Banner” sat in the small, hard, wooden chair in the little restaurant that specialized in hot beverages and pastries waiting for the worst to happen. The men in white suits in question, and their awkward helper in a much less nice white suit, had just collected their food and drinks and moved through the little shop looking for seating of their own in which to consume their treats.
...fuck… he thought.
This was not what he wanted, not any of this.
‘Tj’Chin’Ker was tired of these men trailing after him and his friends. It had gone on long enough, and needed to end. He dropped his right hand down from the tabletop to reach for one of the bone daggers he had nestled into the lining of the fine woolen coat that Elgin had provided him with. His hand froze before it could complete the trip into the depths of that fine coat when he heard the dulcet laughter of one of the two women who had been sitting at the far table together, knitting and talking in low tones to one another.
They had, by his reckoning, wanted nothing to do with anyone else in the establishment. Not with himself. Not with the older man who was busily tapping away on the projected squares of light sent from his datpad to the table surface at which the old man sat. Certainly not the attentions of the men who had just walked in.
The two women were just enjoying their own company, and had no idea of the dangers that pressed about them all. Not those offered by the zealots, nor those of “Banner” himself.
They laughed and found joy in one another’s company, and in their weaving tasks, and possibly in the food and drinks they had purchased from the young man at the counter.
And none of that took into account either of the two women having expected, nor having to endure the threats that now floated about them.
Neither had the old man playing with the light runes either, for that matter.
They could, each of them, have gotten up from their bedding this morning with the intention of returning to that bedding at the end of the day. And here he was, about to throw their lives into a charnel pit.
His older siblings had been yelling at “Banner” for years to grow up. And while he didn’t know if he had actually achieved any real kind of maturity, ‘Ker would admit that a little forethought and consideration could be mistaken for real maturity in the right light. If one was willing to look at it from the right angle. Maybe if enough ale could fog his vision properly.
With a sigh, as the men passed where he sat, James Banner thought of his lovely, brown skinned, ebony haired little wife, and her career as a nurse back in North Angle-Land, where once the Picti thived. With his right hand, he brought the mug of hot qahveh up to his mouth and sipped at the bitter, dark and absolutely lovely brew.
He let the heat wash over his senses, and through his body as he looked down at the now mangled and torn apart pastry. His fingers grabbed bits of the brown, bready shreds up from the napkin on which the remains rested, careful to not ruin the rune he had cast, and stuffed a few into his mouth.
The heady taste of the pastry was an unexpected joy. The flavor was sweet, and warm, with hints of floral notes he didn’t readily recognize. Were he to try to describe it to one of his siblings, the conversation might amble along as: “It tastes like the first kiss that ever meant anything to me. Like the smell of my wife’s hair in the morning. It tastes like the purr of a beloved cat sleeping on my lap. It tastes like brown gravy looks, steaming on a plate on a cold day. It's cherries playing in a butter bath and shadows with orchids singing to me in the night.”
But, knowing his siblings as he did, they might answer; “That’s babbling stupid. Boy, that can't be right, have you taken a blow to the head? Are you ensorcelled? Someone, get the irons…”
“Family…” he muttered under his breath as he took another bite of the torn apart mass of chocolate muffin guts.
In the periphery of his vision, he saw the men all settle at a table parallel to his own, and while his keepers were enjoying their pastries and drinks, the disheveled man, his unkempt mass of hair bobbing a flipping about as he moved his head in little jerks and twists of quick motion as he tried in vain to find that “scent” that was maddeningly dancing just out at the edge of his perceptions.
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...James Banner sits in the Black Cat Coffee shop waiting for the gift he had ordered for his ;ovely young wife to finish at the jeweler’s shop just a block or so over... He thought, over and over again, willing the image through the pastry rune, and from there to the woven web of Glamour strung about the little shop.
All the while ‘Tj’Chin’Ker, son of Rhinyon’Ata of the ‘Tj’Shae, hid in the shadows he had spun about the small establishment hoping the men chasing him would have left on their own after being served. But now, he knew, he would have to slink away under the pretense of the disguise he had created.
He saw as he let his gaze casually shift to his left to the window and the street outside, that each of the well dressed men following his trail had taken out various devices that were so popular in this era. None of these men had the implanted versions of the datpads that most of the younger people he had seen since coming across the ocean now sported, though Ellen had told him that the implants were very popular amongst the younger staff, as well as those she described as “tek savvy.”
He wished he had asked her what “tek” was, but he resigned himself to file that under “that was for another time, this is now.”
As each of the white suits started to interact with their devices, as well as with each other, James finished his muffin, threw back the last of his qahveh, proud of himself for not choking on the hot liquid. And then stood up with a stretch that he thought fit a man of his implied height, weight, and age would have used, and set off toward the door.
As he stepped through the door, there was a commotion behind him, the clattering of a chair falling, and the creak and squeal of other chairs being shoved aside.
With a half turn of his head he saw the large, long fingered hand of the tall, slovenly dressed man streaking towards his head, and threw himself through the door as fast as he could, pulling the metal framed, heavy glass door closed as hard on the man’s hand and wrist as he could manage.
There was a crack, and the wrist turned in a direction it was not meant to go, at a place along the arm's length that had until now lacked a joint, and the beginnings of a scream sounded as the tall man saw the bones of his left arm shatter in the steel frame of the closing door.
Without a pause, ‘Ker ran west down the sidewalk, and leaped to the crest of the roof of a loudly humming vehicle driving south on the little cross street, his odd rubber soled shoes cushioning his landing on the far sidewalk. A loud trumpet of complaint came from the humming vehicle whose roof he had just pushed off from, leaving a noticeable dent. As he flew past the sign that hovered over the intersection that read Sheppard, he briefly wondered who raised herd animals in such a dense city. And how.
And then, with little more thought on the matter, he ran on.
Behind him, in the din, he could hear the running steps of those men now chasing him. He didn’t turn back to look at them. That would have slowed him down, and as he knew who and how many they were, looking would just scratch a useless, self destructive itch.
It was still early in the day, and the sidewalks showed few people on them, and the cold winter morning air tickled his nose as he made his way along the storefronts. Whatever it had been that had tipped off their “hunting hound“ didn’t matter now, as he had now been flushed from hiding, and was on the run. The chase was all that mattered, and winning that chase was foremost on his mind.
He could feel the bone knives in his coat, and wanted to take them up, and face his pursuers, but being outnumbered in daylight was different from being outnumbered at night. The shadows to hide in, and the paths to circle back on to confuse just didn’t exist here and how. This was going to be a different kind of chase than the ones he sometimes took such great delight in, this would be odeous work.
A nasty buzzing insect sound whizzed past his right ear, causing him to flinch slightly to the left as he ran. It was not enough to make him stumble, but it did make him step wide toward the street. Ahead of him, a man moving a large sign in front of a shop dropped the signage with a clatter and fell to his knees, a metal barb lodged in the hollow of his poor old throat.
As ‘Ker passed him, leaping over the prone form, he noted the spreading pool of blood. Another five wide, running steps brought him to another cross street, and while no humming carts moved to block his way, he still chose to leap across, just in case.
Finding his stride, he had just passed another tall, metal pole on the sidewalk, wondering if he could use it to reach the roof of one of the shops he was running past, in hopes of losing his pursuers.
Then an ear splitting roar rolled down the street, almost bowling him over as he ran with its volume.
He didn’t turn back to look at them. That would have slowed him down, and as he knew who and how many they were, looking would just scratch a useless, self destructive itch.
He wouldn’t turn back to look at them. That would have slowed him down, and as he knew who and how many they were, looking would just scratch a useless, self destructive itch.
The roar sounded again, and Banner jumped up, grabbing the next metal pole as high up as he could manage, his feet swinging wide over the street in a broad arc.