canagliesz-blog-blog

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

If she thinks she should feel apologetic for bullying a complete stranger into fueling her secret agenda, it certainly doesn’t show on Sybil’s smile. Even satisfaction, or gratitude at the bare minimum, hardly passes over her expression as she crosses her arms loosely. I knew you’d come around eventually, is what her posture says.

“Not a politician, no.” Her response is belated, tossed away at the angle she’s pointed her face in. “But if I were, I’d be disappointed that you hadn’t heard of me.” But, she’s not a politician, and so she offers her name easily enough with a shrug of her shoulders. “Sybil Reisz. Charmed, of course.”

She’s gotten what she wants and so of course she’s relaxed a bit. Her smile is looser and a bit less simpering (a bit less sinister), and the squint in her eyes is just as easily accredited to harsh sunlight as it is to ulterior motives. But, rather than leaving the other woman space to introduce herself, Sybil ploughs on, stretches a hand out to indicate the crowd of children, huddled around a piece of the set—it’s a cardboard cutout of a very gnarled tree, painted in all black but somehow still covered in streak marks—and it’s fallen over.

They’re puzzling over how to get it to stand back up so it doesn’t fall over again. “I hope you don’t take offense at the role I’ve chosen for you,” she offers, as if that doesn’t contradict her entire premise, as if she hadn’t been singing the song of the actress for this role couldn’t make it and we’re desperate for replacements only moments prior. Or else, maybe it’s because of that fact that her smile seems halfway apologetic, and halfway grateful.

“And, as far as your credentials are concerned?” Sybil takes a step towards the children, turns to look back towards her partly-unwilling partner in not-quite crime. Her face is half-obscured by her parasol but the confidence in her tone is wholly audible all the same. “I have a good eye.”

She claps her hands and it catches the attention of enough children that her subsequent wave is enough to beckon the group into abandoning the fallen scenery and moving towards her. They chatter amongst themselves nervously, glancing back and forth between the two older woman in turn. —“Who’s this lady?” pipes up one particularly helpful child, and that’s all of the segue Sybil needs.

So she takes a step away, redirects the focus towards Kasumi. She retreats to the periphery of the group, but her eyes remain trained on the other woman’s face. Plotting something nefarious, maybe? Refusing to take responsibility for her actions, perhaps?

Maybe she’s just waiting to see if her eye was as trustworthy as she claimed it to be.

The woman demonstrates a level of comfort with her coercion that’s almost disconcerting, a confidence in her ability to tout the goal she’s attempting to reach that betrays experience. When she extends the script, Kasumi half expects to be asked to sign a contract in blood while this devilishly convincing woman cackles with villainous mirth.

…Improbable, but at least it would add an element of ridiculousness to the transaction that would make it feel slightly less sinister. Her request sounds simple enough, but still deserving of a certain degree of incredulity.

“Do you always ask random strangers to do you favors?” Perhaps a hypocritical question; after all, it often seemed as if that was the only way to get things done in this place, and Kasumi had recruited her fair share of unwitting bystanders on a lark. But the target of her scrutiny speaks with a deadly persuasion that inspires caution. “I have to ask: are you a politician?” Because you’d fit right in with that lot.

Despite her interrogation, Kasumi accepts the script, leafing through it and discovering that, lo and behold, her lines, cues and blocking have conveniently been highlighted. And even from a brief glimpse the script seems slightly…contemporary? “I’ve read Snow White before, but I don’t remember it being quite so…” Hammy. “…colorful.” Not to mention industrial, but the city didn’t exactly come with a fairytale setting, so what can you do but work with what you’ve got.

“You know, when I said I’ve played roles before, I meant something more along the lines of false identities. Blending in. Nothing quite so eccentric. So I’m not entirely sure what criteria you’re using to judge my credentials,” desperation, no doubt about it, “but…” Damn this woman for getting the children involved. Though her words say otherwise, she may as well have forced Kasumi into this position. What kind of monster would deny kids this opportunity?

“All right. But I think I at least deserve to know the name of the person I’m working with.”

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

Freelance event planner.

The thought alone is comical enough to make her laugh, but instead she shrugs knowingly, nods her head sagely. It’s what he says next that really catches her interest.

Really, was it that obvious? Sybil smiles loosely, tilting her head away while angling it to face him. “Oh, dear.” Whether she’s calling a stranger in a suit ‘dear’ or she’s expressing her own concern, it’s not quite clear from her face. From her ever-present smile. “Is it that obvious?” She gestures to her face, to her smile, but—she’s not offended, not in the slightest.

At least, it’s hard to think she is from how she looks about to burst into laughter. The refined, ladylike sort. “Don’t tell me it was the ‘wanted killer’ comment.” No, not possible. Sybil taps one finger on the counter in a way that could almost betray agitation. Nervous habit.

Almost. The tapping stops just as suddenly as it began, and she turns to look straight ahead. Her stare’s not so much vacant as it is absentminded. “Nobody is going to hire you to take care of their rat problem with that suit.”

It’s true. It’s a smaller scale, but exterminators, they dress to impress the crowd they’re targeting. Battered jumpsuits and runners with the soles peeled off are fine if you want to seem like you know moles, like you know termites, but what does a suit say you know? — Sybil leans back, looks first up towards the ceiling and then towards him. “Why don’t you come out and say it? I’m dying to hear what it is you specialize in.”

“A religious man? A religious man in a certain sense. You can say I take what I do very seriously, like a religion, of sorts.” It was probably the safest thing to say about his career choice. Anything else may be a bit too much. “You could always say freelance and it sounds even better. A freelance photographer, freelance journalist, that sort of business.”

So far, everything was moving satisfactory. Sure, he hadn’t gotten anything truly important out of this woman that he could jot down for later, but neither had Shalem. So both parties were at a good balance of information passed out. Maybe now was the time to try some enticing bait.

“But about my employment… you can say that I’m familiar with dealing with… pests, you see. Everyone needs someone to get rid of the vermin they’re unwilling to deal with. Not wanting to get their hands dirty, you know?”

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

Finding a kindred spirit in the back of a wholesale store isn’t the strangest thing that could happen to her, or might happen to anyone. So, she’s silent for a while, enchanted by the serendipity or else bothered by a flaw in the umbrella’s accordion fold.

She laughs. “You know me so well already.” She sounds too amused to be offended, and too fascinated to really expect an answer, but she spares him a glance nonetheless, lowers the umbrella to daintily prop it over her shoulder.

It looks comical, and that’s a way of phrasing it nicely. Whether or not it’s a hobby of his to strike up a camaraderie with complete strangers like this, she can’t say. Whether or not he’d say is a completely separate question. “Or rather, it’s people you know so well.”

What he saying, it’s all easy; nobody wants to be alone, nobody dislikes having fun. People are social creatures. She drops the teal umbrella back amongst its companions, presses her fingers to her face in contemplation. Her hand brushes first over a pale green umbrella, then a sky blue one. She can’t decide, maybe, but she’s not about to ask him for his opinion.

Because, out of all of the tropical colors, he picks the grey one. The thought’s enough to elicit a half-laugh from her, but she keeps her gaze locked on the styrofoam display all the while.

Brow furrowed, girlish pout, it’s a bit of a disarray on her face. It’s the sort of expression that says she’s taking the umbrellas too seriously (even for a maniac), or else— she’s trying to remember if she left the stove running. Something mundane like that.

“Is that what we have in common?”

She’d look good with an umbrella over her shoulder.

As it stands, the woman looks like a piece of performance art in action. A tiny, cheaply-made umbrella held aloft to protect her from the cheap fluorescents hanging over their heads. There’s probably a statement in there somewhere – man-made defences to shield you from a man-made world – but he can’t find it.

He’s too busy inspecting his own, a white affair with little tips on the spokes coloured red.

‘I think you don’t waste your time,’ he says instead, dodging her pleasant excuse me with what’s supposed to be a compliment. ‘And I think you go out of your way to be easy-to-read. Nobody wants to be friends with someone who tries too hard to be mysterious.’

He makes it sound like she doesn’t need to try… which might be true. He sticks the umbrella right back where it belongs. There’s no way for him to know.

‘So I guess what I’m trying to say is… you look like you like having fun. Even for an umbrella maniac.’ With her standing there, a little umbrella shielding her from a light that’s not even meant to hurt her. Like she’s got something to hide. Like she…

Just really likes being something to talk about.

‘Which is great, since I’m the same way.

　　　　　’Who knew, right?’

The next umbrella to come out of the bunch is grey.

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

So, there’s things to be glad about.

Red, for how different she looks, lines and creases around her eyes and faded lipstick, hasn’t changed. She cuts to the point of it, weaves her way through the pleasantries and formalities, says what’s on her mind—for once.

For once, right? Sybil’s smile is vague as she taps her parasol against the ground.

“That would be what people do, yes.” Putting thoughts into words is a grounding experience, and her expression curls, turns into something real. “If this is real, Red, then why should I,” why wouldn’t she, might be the better question— Sybil pauses, a moment. “Why should it matter?”

Red isn’t so special as she is because she’s different from people. In between the unspoken threats and distant flashes of blue from within the Transistor, Red is just as much a person as anyone else is.

Somewhere, there’s the shuffling of chairs and the squeak of rubber across polished wood. They’re changing an act despite the rain, despite the number of remaining patrons counting their numbers in the single digits.

The trumpets are out of tune, shielded from the rain beneath their awning. Sybil looks towards Red, spins her umbrella once. The tip grinds against the concrete. “Where would you go, Red?”

She spins it again. “Where would you want to go? Would you leave this city?”

No, she wouldn’t. That would be difficult to believe. “Because. It sounds like,” her tone changes, shifts in minute, indiscriminate ways as Sybil takes a step back from the conversation, “You’re asking for my opinion?”

More dangerous things have been said. “What would you like to hear?”

nah

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

Is there anyone who picks up their phone on the first ring?

It’s these sorts of questions that Sybil can’t help but ask herself, questions underscored by the name lighting up the display.

Asher Kendrell. The phone rings once.

... She could ignore it. It’s a very real possibility, not so much tempting as it is tangible. It’s been a month, two months, maybe even longer—and she hasn’t seen him anywhere.

Others, she’s seen. Others, they’ve found her. But Asher?

An entire month? What were you expecting?

A second ring.

There’s something to be said for the way her breath doesn’t catch in her throat, the way she looks at the screen and feels—not nothing, not an absence of anything, but—content, maybe?

She could ignore it.

She doesn’t have anything to say to him.

It rings a third time. ... Old habits die hard, and she’s always had a habit of letting the phone ring three times before picking up.

Something about making the other person wait? 

“This is Sybil,” she says, easily, too easily, fingers grazing over the surface of the phone. And it’s easy, all too easy, to envision Asher’s face, veins in his forehead sticking out as he sputters for words.

But faces turn to black pixels and syllables turn to words, words trip over themselves and turn to static. Sybil’s frown twists, and her fingers twitch. She finds a gap in the silence. “... I’ll call you back.”

Static fades into silence, then, but it lacks even a semblance of finality. Silence hangs, then, but there’s hardly anything comforting about it, hardly anything about the sixty seconds she counts in meters that rings true.

Three minutes doesn’t feel like three hours—it’s nothing so dramatic as that, but she figures it’s long enough.

Asher Kendrell is easy enough to find. The phone rings all over again.

“Have you calmed down yet?”

w-what did you say are you breaking up on me

The mobile phone sits in his hand, gleaming and new. Asher doesn’t trust it. Honestly, how could he, considering it probably came from the scientists, those mysterious captors slash benefactors in the sky.

He turns the phone over in his hands, but aside from it being slightly less advanced than the terminals and devices he’s used to, there doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary about it. And he has to admit he feels better with a phone on him, even though it may be rigged to track him or to explode, for all he knows.

He’s surprised to find the contacts list already full to the brim. A few seconds’ scrolling tells him he doesn’t know most of the names on the list. He isn’t sure how he feels about that, but – yes, there’s Dorian under P, or at least Asher assumes it’s him. He hesitates, then favourites the contact and tells himself it’s in case he needs to reach someone he actually knows.

And there’s Red a short way down the list, her name a single, cutting syllable. He stares at the three letters for much longer than is warranted, then scrolls past without touching it. What else would they have to say to each other anyhow? Only more venom, more pointless anger. (”But you don’t know his name.” She’s right, he wouldn’t know it even if it was on this list.)

He scrolls more, idly, barely reading the names now, feeling more alone with every stranger that passes by. R…E…I…S… …he almost scrolls past. Z… …he stops. He stops and stares. He reads the name three times.

He presses the call button. It rings, and rings, and rings.

When she answers, she sounds just like herself. He closes his eyes tightly, the words struggling against his constricting throat. “What the fuck. What the fuck.”

canagliesz

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

♪

♪ - How do you decide on your muse’s dialogue?

I think about the flow of the words first and foremost!! Like I try to think up a certain cadence for whatever Sybil is trying to say and then I’ll write sentences that match the syllable count I’m envisioning, and then from there I’ll switch out words that sound too ‘layman’-ish (sybil is a very pretentious speaker), mess with other words to get back to the right syllable count, and then I hit my head against the wall a few times and reread it to see if it still makes sense

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

Send the mun questions about their writing process.

♪ - How do you decide on your muse’s dialogue?  ♕ - What are 5 writing tips you’d give to beginners?  ✏ - Why did you choose your muse?  ☆ - How did you go about getting a grip on your muse’s character?  ♎ - What is one thing you love about your writing?  ✾ - What do you look for in other people’s writing?  ✕ - What would set you entirely off roleplaying with someone?  ✄ - Three phrases you use too much in your writing?  ★ - Wild card: whatever else you want to ask. 

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

“I hate to be the one to break it to you,” she says, voice flecked with the faintest hints of sympathy (or maybe it’s superiority) as she raises her head towards their sad, shoddy excuse for shelter from the rain. “But this is very real.”

And then, she smiles. It gets halfway to a laugh before she turns to look at Red.

She looks tired. It’d be a comforting sight for how familiar it is, if it didn’t feel so different somehow, and if the reason for any of it weren’t so easy to pinpoint why.

“Suppose it isn’t.”

There’s genuine sympathy, and then there’s clinical curiosity. Sybil’s always toed the line between the two, always asked after the issue in a way that makes it hard to tell: does this lady really care about me? The answer should be yes, in all respects, and most people are willing to stop thinking there. She must just be a very, very sympathetic person.

But Red knows her better than that. And Sybil presses on anyways, twirls her parasol once before continuing. “I’ll compliment your subconscious on the scenery. You’ve always been the creative type, but this? It definitely exceeds my expectations.” So, she would have expected something different, then.

It’s the opposite of pragmatic in that sense. “Should I be flattered that you wanted to see me so badly?” She lifts a hand, examines her nails and watches the way her fingers flex. It’s hardly a habit and all the more an organic action for it. “Because I am, Red, really. But what does that say about us?”

She shrugs. Out of the corner of one eye, she can see the Transistor flickering. Logic tells her that it’s a sad fake, a replica made of paints and blinking neon lights, but when Red is the one holding it, it’s difficult to not see it for what it really is.

What it should be. “Frankly, I don’t know that calling this ‘fake’ is really the pragmatic option.” But then, would Red have really had it any other way?

you also like to think that riding a motorcycle in stilettos makes you look like a badass eighty year old grandmother?

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

"Wouldn't I?" 'Contemplative' is the best way to describe her expression as, smiling, she plucks a new umbrella from the styrofoam display. There's a painfully garish moment where she's holding one miniature paper umbrella in each hand with all of the delicacy you'd expect from a debutante sipping fine wine, before she passes over the newer of the pair.

For his approval, of course.

"So put flowers in drinks instead." She pinches the umbrella between two fingers and looks at it like she's expecting it to provide an impromptu lecture on postmodernism. Scrutinizing, that's probably what the slight pout she's wearing is meant to be. "Wouldn't that be just as efficient?"

The neon blue umbrella is swapped for a new one that's hardly two ticks greener on the hue spectrum, but Sybil looks at it with the sort of squint that makes it seem like the color teal is completely new to her. The sort of critical eye that says she's really considering it, nonetheless.

But, considering what? "I'll ask." She taps the umbrella against her cheek, looks up towards the ceiling, with its too-bright fluorescent lighting. "Do I really strike you as that antisocial? Because, I'm flattered, really." She brings the umbrella up, angling it so it catches in the glare and, predictably, does absolutely nothing to diffuse the light.

"It sounds like you think you know better?"

He can’t really agree.

But Izaya smiles anyway, raising both his hands in clear surrender. He’s not looking for a fight.

‘Maniac. You got it.’ If he was really feeling pedantic, he could take things a turn for the cultural, talk about how maniac is more insulting in his locale than freak – but he’s not, and that’s not what this is. He even gets the feeling she’d enjoy the debate. And who wants that?

‘From what I’ve heard,’ he continues, smooth as anything, ‘They’re supposed to get women to drink more. Something about making the drink prettier.’ From the way he spins his little umbrella, holding it upside-down and just at eye-level – it doesn’t seem like he buys that. ‘Or they’re one of those things that’re supposed to remind you of a beach. Just in case going to a tropical bar wasn’t enough for you.’ He looks like he’s going to laugh, but he doesn’t.

It’s gonna take more than that.

‘It seems natural because it’s been around for so long. Just like how bars are always wood, and there’s never enough seats for you or your friends.’ He finishes by holding out his hand, like he’s asking for the woman to hand her own umbrella over. They could trade.

'But you wouldn’t know that.’

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

"This city suits you."

Sybil's response is slow to come, and held aloft by something that's caught between disdain and aloof. If it's a compliment, it's too genuine to be one. And, if it's an insult?

Her smile's overshadowed by the arch of her parasol. She could snap it in half right now. "Have you had the chance to look around, to really get acquainted?"

She knows he hasn't. There's only room for one thing on his mind, and if that small bit of consistency is meant to offer some sort of solace, the way that her smile warps towards grimace is all too telling.

Too far. Her parasol spins the other way. "I'd be happy to show you around," she says, gaze transfixed by the dust scattering in the neon lights. "But."

She's sure he knows. "As I'm certain you're aware."

The couple's stopped. The woman's got the heel of her shoe caught in a pothole, and the man hardly has time to say, just leave it, before it snaps off entirely.

She stumbles into the wake of the ensuing crack, and Sybil's smile is ever more distant for it. "I'm a bit busy."

How does anyone buy it.

That’s what he’s wondering as Sybil begs the tops of buildings for answers – or dishes them out, probably, figuring out the flaws of the world in a single thunderous glance. He’s not dumb like she thinks he is. He knows she puts an act on for anyone that isn’t him, anyone who’s made choices she’s deemed worthy of her time. But that’s what he wonders.

Luna barks again, startles the passing couple into scurrying away even faster. They find some semblance of solace by pressing close, sticking together.

You look at them and you know they’re honest. You look at Sybil – and you’re not sure.

His words come late, like lightning miles off in the distance.

‘Funny.’

It’s not.

His hand twitches at his side.

‘Nothing like the Process here. All those choices people think they get to make –

　　　　　‘They don’t happen.’

And all the better for it. This isn’t his city, but the people here, they’re more down-to-earth. They don’t pretend they can control every little thing.

… but the Process, it would definitely change their tune.

‘That something you want? You know what it did to you.’

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

Not unless she’s looking for someone.

The dog barks, sending shockwaves through the air. Sybil’s unphased by the sudden outburst for the most part, but it’s enough to stop her parasol’s twirling.

Looking for someone. “Aha.”

Whether she’s just caught onto something, or it’s the start of a poorly-formed bout of laughter, Sybil hardly manages to commit, and the syllables crash against the air before they can become anything meaningful.

It makes sense. She turns, halfway, looks back towards him over one shoulder.

Neck straight, chin up, shoulders hunched. It takes all of five seconds for her frown to deepen, but longer still for her to turn away. When she speaks, there’s something of a probing quality to her tone.

And yet, somehow it doesn’t make it all the way through to her expression. “Do tell. Just who would I be looking for?”

A beat. She hardly gives him a chance to hesitate before she’s already moved on. “Yes, you’ve caught me.”

She turns away, finally, looking back towards the flickering signs and dull streetlights. One burns out in the distance, just as a couple passes under it. Their whisperings of bad luck and poor superstitions carry through the haze, and Sybil sighs. “It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? Until this city becomes the same as Cloudbank.”

She’s looking at the sky, now. “Aren’t you looking forward to it?”

Her parasol twirls. It’s a familiar sight.

This isn’t Cloudbank, but Sybil’s just the same as ever.

‘Didn’t know some new scenery was all it took to change you,’ he comments, almost glad she’s not staring him in the face. She’s got these beady eyes – like a crow, or maybe more like a raven. They tell you she’s up to no good. ‘Didn’t think you were that shallow. My mistake.’

And so it goes. She’s looking awful fascinated with the signs spreading light pollution across their fair street. Half of them are for bars, and the other for dancing joints. She’s known for elaborate parties and drinking fine wine, pinky up; none of it suits her.

Red light bleeds down, giving her a sickly glow. Pretending she’s interested, though – yeah.

That’s Sybil for you.

‘Still. This place doesn’t suit you. What’re you after?’ He lifts his chin, marginally; if she were looking at him, she’d probably read a million things into it. Probably doing that anyway. She thinks she’s so smart. ‘You don’t waste your time. Not unless you’re looking for someone.’

Not something, ‘course not. Someone. He makes a gesture to Luna just a couple feet away.

She knows what he’s asking and she knows what for.

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

17 & 20!!!!!!!

17. Why do you love the person or people you love?

“What’s not to love? Humans are social creatures, you know. I’d say we’re all wired to love people simply because that’s the way it is. But what else are we going to do? Socialize with the ant people? People certainly make for more interesting company.”

20. What would you like to achieve before you die?

“Frankly, the thought hasn’t occurred to me. Why wait until before you’re about to die to accomplish the things you want? ...”

“It might have been nice to hear her sing again.”

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

1, 2, 7 :), 19.

1. Do you think that you’re a good person?

“Yes, I do. Is that so wrong?”

2. Do others like you? Do you want others to like you?

“Whether or not they like me, I’m sure I’m respected. I can’t say I’ve ever lost any sleep over it.”

7. Have you ever done anything that you feel to be very morally wrong? :(

“I would say ‘probably not.’ But it depends on who’s asking, and why.”

19. Could you ever forgive your worst enemy?

“‘Enemy’ is such an extreme word, don’t you think? But I don’t see why not.”

“—I doubt there’d be much left to forgive, in any case.”

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

4, 13, 16

4. How do you know when you’re in love?

“You just know.”

“Really, there’s nothing else to it.”

13. What could make you break your own moral code?

“Wouldn’t you agree that there isn’t much point to a code that crumbles in the face of dire circumstances? Personally, I’d say a person like that lacks morals in the first place.”

16. What would you consider a fate worse than death?

“Oh, I don’t know. Being alone forever? Death really isn’t so bad compared to everything else.”

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

Difficult Questions for Muses

(Please remember to use trigger warnings as and when necessary)

Do you think that you’re a good person?

Do others like you? Do you want others to like you?

What do you think others like or admire about you?

How do you know when you’re in love? (romantic or platonic)

Would you or have you ever killed? What would drive you to kill? 

Do you think that killing is ever justified?

Have you ever done anything that you feel to be very morally wrong?

Should all people be treated as equal, and have the same rights?

If you committed a crime, would you accept punishment willingly?

Is suicide ever the right choice?

Is euthanasia ever the right choice?

Is it right to have an intimate relationship with somebody you don’t love?

What could make you break your own moral code? 

Have you ever doubted your own beliefs? (Spiritual, philosophical)

Would you always be loyal to your loved ones even if they wronged you?

What would you consider a fate worse than death?

Why do you love the person or people you love? (romantic or platonic)

Do you agree with capital punishment?

Could you ever forgive your worst enemy?

What would you like to achieve before you die?

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

If this were anyone else, and any other scenario, she’d think he’s looking for something out of her. It’s not often that anyone goes out of their way to actively solicit her approval, and rarer still that flattery is their angle, but she’s familiar enough with the approach that if the situation were different, she might be reaching for her wallet.

Instead, she smiles modestly. “A person like me, you say?” Sybil offers him a sidelong glance, as if she’s sizing him up. “Well, a man like you certainly seems like he’d be more concerned with current events than with movie stars.” But then again, shouldn’t everyone be? Her unspoken footnote is accentuated with a lofty shrug. “That’s all. So, I couldn’t help but wonder.”

Call it a blind curiosity. There was nothing wrong with that, right? “Of course.” She laughs, again, and it’s less hollow of a sound this time. “It’s a shame that ‘independent contractor’ doesn’t hold the same appeal, hm? Would you consider yourself a religious man despite it?”

Well more questions to answer. Shalem could work with that. At least they weren’t too intrusive. Questions good enough that Shalem could answer without incriminating himself with any sort of problem.

“Wanted criminal? Are you implying something, miss? A person like you would have no reason to state such a term without any possible justification to do so. Unless you possibly think that you’ve done some sort of crime before. But then again, if it is a crime to look your best, then I guess we’re all criminals in the end, no?”

A bit of a humorous jest, Shalem let out an almost inaudible laugh. “But me? I found it more better for me in the long term to stay an independent. Don’t need to be on the beck and call for others, being able to decide for myself what to do. All that sort of enjoyable things, no doubt.”

[canagliesz-blog-blog]

“I wonder.”

And she does, really.

She wonders lots of things. Right now, as she turns around and takes two steps further below the awning, further away from the rain, she’s wondering if she'd tell Red, even if she did know. She wonders if that’s how she seems, if she’s approaching this city with the same dull listlessness that comes from a Red completely uprooted, a Red who’s looking for something familiar.

And what would be more familiar than one of her schemes? Sybil’s expression tilts into a crooked smile, and she shrugs her shoulders. “Should you even have to ask? Don’t you know me well enough by now?”

It’s a double-ended statement. She’s always banked on Red understanding, on Red taking the step down that same street, on Red connecting the lines between point A and point B. And for the most part, she’s delivered, she’s met all of Sybil’s expectations on that front. But, predicting what she’d do next? Imagining what sort of trouble she could be contemplating at any moment?

She doubts it’s anything so dramatic as being too terrible to imagine. “This isn’t Cloudbank, Red.”

It should be stating the obvious, but if anything, she only sounds tired. “Don’t we all deserve breaks every now and again? But I digress.”

I don’t plan on taking a break. Sybil turns to look back out at the rain, past where Red is standing. “What about you? If I’m the restless type, you’re in a class all of your own.”

the years have not been kind to you have they