halfblindjustice

[halfblindjustice]

[halfblindjustice]

Damn it.

Alan crouched a bit lower, making sure he was almost completely out of sight--he didn't need to cast a shadow where it might be noticed in a situation like this. The last thing he needed was to spook the policeman and get shot at, especially since no one was going to take his side in some trial or another. That was the way of things. Alan hated it.

But he didn't hate this man... Sebastian? Could have sworn he'd heard the name before. He gave it a little thought while he moved down a ways to the edge of the roof, gauging distances like a cat getting ready to pounce, with that one sharp amber eye. It was a miracle he could still do that, actually, considering how shoddy his depth perception was.

He didn't have enough time to think on it. Leap before you think. Trust your instincts. His instincts told him to side with Sebastian.

The next few seconds were a snap in time. Alan jumped from the edge of the roof, landing with a clatter on the fire escape with both hands on the rail--which he then vaulted over, sliding a few feet down the brick wall just long enough to push himself off and land on the cop's shoulders (losing his hat in the process). The officer buckled like a ragdoll under the unexpected weight, and Alan was quick to strike the back of his head with the butt of his pistol. A small splatter of blood and the poor bastard was unconscious.

He was a lawman. Alan wouldn't kill him without witnessing a reason.

Still crouched over the man, Alan glanced up with a raised soot-smeared brow in Sebastian's direction, lips parted to speak, huffing out a breath. "Comstock really canna spare us a moment of privacy, aye?" he said, voice low and obviously coloured with an Irish lilt, still holding the bloodied gun--but aimed at the cobblestone.

Red Hands [Sebastian | closed]

Sebastian kept the blade close to his jugular. Even the residential districts were seldom empty for long. People went out on breaks, older residents went about their business, most of the women hadn’t yet gotten used to their sudden equality with men and were, unfortunately, still staying at home to run their households, which meant they could spot him. Unlike the cities on the ground, they’d have no fear of entering alleys, no matter how dark. Aside from the Vox, Columbia was almost entirely without crime.

Say what you want about Comstock, but the man knew how to run a dictatorship.

"Sssss-Sebastian, I swear I was going to tell you!”

"Go ahead." The Vox lieutenant kept the serrated edge gently biting into the soft flesh of the man in the bowler hat’s neck.

"I was- he, the Chinaman, the one Fink’s imprisoning. George Lin, I think. He’s being moved, sometime around four. I don’t-"

"Hey! Put the knife down!”

Sebastian scowled and yanked his captive forward, wrapping an arm around his neck to keep the blade close as he backed up away from the interrupting policeman.

"Back off before I slit him open!" he snarled, retreating deeper into the alley and keeping Ramsey as a human shield against the raised gun. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

[halfblindjustice]

31. Ooh… It’s painfully, I think :D

[halfblindjustice]

Alan would have had to admit that he wasn't a very good storyteller--unless Sleuth was there. Then he was a lot better at getting animate, and remembering all the details. A good friend was handy like that.

The café was, in fact, quite nice--it had that warm, homey sort of feel to it, wooden walls and muted browns, chalkboard menus and a Prospitian barista behind the bar, who smiled at the pair as they came in. "Welco--oh, Alan!" She exclaimed, grinning in surprise. "It's been ages! I thought you'd forgotten about us down here."

"How could I?" Alan laughed. "I'll take a mug of whatever dark coffee ye have on, luv. Ah, goldie?" He tipped his head toward the board, smiling. "The chai latté is nice fer this weather, if I can make a suggestion."

Hardcore parkour! Kammy admittedly missed hearing about those stories. Perhaps she could sit Alan and Sleuth down one day, make them tell her about a few of their escapades. Perhaps Pickle would like to hear them as well!

"Really!" She confirmed, her eyes alight with joy. "Pickle is the best moirail I could have ever asked for! He’s such a sweetheart." Hearing Alan’s next comment made her giggle— it was very fitting indeed. "And a pair of cute alpacas!" Following his gaze to the hanging sign, the blonde assumed they had reached their destination. Thanking Alan as he held the door for her, Kamora stepped inside, and waited for him. "It’s really nice in here!"

[halfblindjustice]

[What Alan thinks of just about everything]

[halfblindjustice]

Clever.

Alan watched with interest from the shadow of a chimney, shoulder pressed to the bricks; from his vantage point he could see the tops of their heads, the flash of a knife, the quick maneuvers. And, focusing, he could make out what was being said. It was faint, but audible. He slowly crouched lower so he could better hear, assessing the situation.

Was he concerned that someone was going to die? Yes. Did he consider such a murder justified...? Probably. If the man pinned to the wall was the kind of character indicated by his bigoted language, Alan had no problem watching him bleed out like a slaughterhouse hog. He'd even give the killer a round of applause for taking out the real trash of Columbian populace.

When appropriate.

He squinted, holding his breath. There was a fire escape nearby; it'd be easy to climb down, to catch the man before he left the alley. But first, he wanted to wait and see what God had in store for the false prophet's child.

Red Hands [Sebastian | closed]

Sebastian got him in the alley. 

The street was on the quiet side- a residential area with fairly few businesses, it was abandoned during the day. The European loudly tripped and fell close by the entrance to an alley, yelping in apparent pain with an American accent that was just shy of over-the-top. As expected, the man in the bowler had simply had to backtrack for a moment to aid his fellow citizen.

"Are you all right, sir? Did you fall?" The man asked worriedly, holding out a hand and helping Sebastian up. Grunting, Sebastian complied.

"Fine, fine, thank you." Sebastian waved him off, forcing a smile on his face. "Better than you."

The handle of the serrated knife thunked into the man’s forehead, dazing him enough for the sniper to grab him by the lapel and forcefully shove him into the alley.

The man got one solid punch in at Sebastian’s ribs, but ribs were meant to absorb impacts like that. The sniper’s knee jerked up and hammered his guts in a sharp blow, driving the breath from him. One fist blooded his nose enough for the Italian to wrench him up against the wall and press the blade to his throat.

"You have not been doing as you’re told, Ramsey.”

[halfblindjustice]

"Well now ye got me curious," Alan chuckled, settling in comfortably with a returned arm around his best mate's shoulders. God, he'd missed the simple pleasure of familiar company, especially Sleuth's. Nobody put him at ease quite like the carapacian slewfoot--and in his favourite place, with his favourite detective, how could he feel any more comfortable?

Of course, before talking, he snapped and swatted for a cigarette, snatching one with a grin, though he used his own match to light it. "The streets are as awful as ever," he said, "but that ent surprising! Just keeps me busy, too. It's good." He exhaled a puff of smoke and waved his free hand a bit before picking up the glass in front of him, giving the whiskey a gentle spin. "Good to be back. Had to follow a paper trail fer some inter-planetary smuggling operation, aye? Busywork, a lot of travel."

He shook his head, amused. "Ye know, I feel like I have been so busy, but there really ent much to tell fer a story! Maybe that's a good thing. No news is good news. Caught up with miss Kamora, touched base with Deuce--her casino is doing well! Glad to see her making an effort to stay clean." He beamed. He really was proud. "Aye, right, what is this news, mucker?"

=> PS: Talk to the Irishman

Sleuth put his arms out and presented himself at the uproarious laughter. Yankee bastard, yep. In a bar full of Irishmen, he was certainly the Yankee. And as the patrons went back to their own drinks and conversations, Sleuth turned his attention to his moirail with a gleam in his eye. “You cover the first round,” he said with a wink, “And I’ll get two and three. Been just swell, Mick, been real swell.”

He put his own arm around Alan’s shoulders, pulling him a little closer and giving him a solid shake. Nodding and grinning he repeated, “Been real swell. Somethin’ tells me this is gonna be a grand year, Alan, and I’ll spill the beans on the whys but not till we’ve wet our whistles.”

Taking a cigarette from his pocket placing it to his lips, the usual action he took before big news, Sleuth rapped his fingers on the wood of the bar. “Till then, how about you fill me in on your side of the fence? I’ve been tied up in all kinds of red yarn, you know, and it don’t show for much once the knots are untangled so I know a lot about nothin’. How are those streets lookin’, Mickie?”

[halfblindjustice]

Alan was listening for particular information--times, places, mostly. If he could work out when and where the worker in question was going to be moved, then maybe he could spring the poor man. Maybe he'd get him out; maybe he'd talk him into joining the fight. Either way, he'd make sure Fink didn't ruin another life. He'd seen that too often already.

Hell, he'd lived it.

Something else caught his attention, though. He filed away a port mentioned, and the vague time 'dawn', for later; his interest then shifted to the tail one of the men seemed to have acquired. That was... unusual. He was a good tail--he gave distance, he was patient. And that was why Alan was curious. A hand in pocket...

He slipped one into his own to find his watch, stealing a one-eyed glance at the ticking face. He didn't have long before he was supposed to meet up with the courier, but... He swore under his breath, pushing away from the chimney, worn-out boots muffled on the shingles as he crept along, tailing the tail in practiced silence. If something was to happen to the man responsible for his potential freed prisoner, he needed to know for sure just what and when.

And who.

Red Hands [Sebastian | closed]

Blending in was easier for Sebastian than most others. Sure, so much time in the sun had tanned his skin, but his affected American accent and cheerful demeanor was always sufficient to deflect suspicion. He couldn’t blend in the same way the darker members of the Vox could- he couldn’t direct his eyes to the ground, hunch his back and slip under their noses with a servant’s appearance, but he could just as easily blend among them. That was his strength.

Which at the moment, was more than enough. Leaning against the corner of a shop, newspaper hiding most of his face, keen ears listening in where they weren’t wanted oh-so-casually. Heretics and chinaman, what else?

If what the two men were so openly discussing was even marginally true, it confirmed Preston E. Downs’ suspicions about the loyalties of the man in the bowler hat. Which was, happily enough, the confirmation Sebastian had been waiting for.

Setting down his newspaper, he gave the man in the bowler hat ten seconds of a head start before he strode after him. One hand slid into his pocket to grip the handle of a serrated blade.

[halfblindjustice]

We will send you to whatever god you wish.

[halfblindjustice]

Red Hands [Sebastian | closed]

There were certain advantages, Alan knew, to being of his particular heritage and class. Certainly not as glamorous as the advantages held by those fortunate enough to be born pale and american, common and wealthy. Alan was none of those things, except for pale, though even that was spoiled by the freckling so abundant in his complexion. So he faded into the background of society. That was his advantage. He was... nobody, really. Little more than furniture.

So, of course, little regard was given to an Irish soot-covered chimney sweep sitting against the bricks atop one of the stores, eavesdropping on a conversation below.

He had been simply trying to get from point A to point B without drawing attention--he was supposed to pick up a package not far from here, for the Vox--but then he'd heard a snippet of conversation and his sense of justice burned through. The words heretic and chinaman, among others. He tugged his black newsboy cap down a bit over his hair, shading his eye from the sunset as he listened.

He was focused enough on it that his awareness of the rooftop itself was faded; he did, however, leave his hand resting on the grip of the pistol on his belt. He was waiting for particular details. Some poor migrant worker, something about being shipped down to Fink's prisons for... some petty thing... some nothing. Unjust. For no reason but race, he knew--just an excuse. Had they no shame? He scowled to himself, shaking his head.

[halfblindjustice]

tommygundiplomacy replied to your post:Mickiieeeeee

Miccccckkkiiiieeeee!!

muuuuckerrrrrrrr!!

[halfblindjustice]

take a look : https://www.facebook.com/teamfreefun

[halfblindjustice]

Mickiieeeeee

muckerrrrrr.

[halfblindjustice]

what is the name of your faceclaim?

[I believe his name is Bobby Creighton? Though it’s one particular photoshoot in which he really looks like Alan. Also, I do a bit of ‘shopping on him, haha]

[halfblindjustice]

happy quadrant day to the best detective i know! haha!

[halfblindjustice]

Alan...!

aye mate? what is it?

[halfblindjustice]

[Just wanted to do a quick 'shop of what Alan's damaged eye looks like under the patch]