un_fallen | (no subject)

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Raguel is lurking.

He has a purpose, more or less, beyond staring at the lights high above in the devil's tower. He does come here just for recreation occasionally; he knows Rosse's office, after all - knows from the outside which window is hidden behind the solid-looking hologram. Sometimes he catches them as they tumble out of it, screaming, flailing for the safety of solid brick. Objects in space. The ones that fall alone are luckier, of course. He should know.

But there are other reasons for being here: business, not recreation. It just so happens that the alleyway beside Rosse's ridiculously large and ostentatious (to Raguel, anyway) building is usually crawling with leads. Maybe because it's very difficult to get to the transports without going through the alley. You'd have to go three blocks to avoid it, and time is always of the essence when someone leaves Rosse's office. Besides, shortcuts are so tempting.

He fancies himself as really pretty good at this lurking thing. Black blends well with the many shadows, and it's a chilly evening. Perfect.

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Hal Carson doesn't get as many phone calls these days. Not as many that are related to what he considers his real vocation, anyhow.

Politics.

When he got a phone call from Senator Fred Atwood late last night, therefore, he acted as fast as he could, doing the only thing he knew to do (and it doesn't count as a betrayal; Rosse wouldn't mind seeing Tam gone, either, so it's all right), which was to make contact and set up a personal appointment for the relaying of extremely sensitive information.

Extremely valuable information, too.

The meeting is over, though, and Carson flips up the collar on his coat as he turns down the alley -- best not to be seen.

(He has no idea that he resembles a bad cliché.)

There's a loud, clanging crash from further down the alley. Part of the way ahead is blocked by debris and a large, vaguely human-shaped figure.

"You know, everybody's got Tam on the brain these days," Raguel muses, stepping out into view.

"Tam, Tam. Tam-tam. Like a gong. Wakes you up, get it?"

What Atwood said to his former colleague Carson: Certain parties might be interested in seeing you stage a return to your former office. If you know of anyone who could help clear your way, I trust you'll pass on the information.

"No," Carson says. Blusters. "I'm armed. I'm warning you -- I'm armed."

Blusters; bluffs, too.

"Are you?" Raguel says, enthralled. It looks rather like his greatest dream has come true. Greatest in the last five minutes, anyway, as his attention span is short and no one's fallen through the window tonight.

"Nothing quite like a good fistfight. But you can use weapons if you want," he adds generously. And then, out of nowhere:

"You've been talking to Nicolas."

Carson's mouth opens; closes; opens, in a manner that rather invites a figure of speech about a fish caught out of water.

"I'm -- I have no idea who you're talking about. Now get out of my way, I have somewhere to be -- " Carson makes to push past the man.

This is unfortunately more difficult than it appears. The attempt to do so also brings him closer to Raguel, who takes his shoulder in the proverbial iron grip as the man plows into him. In this case, it's not so proverbial - if he squeezes much harder something will likely be dislocated.

"Goodness," he murmurs at Carson's ear, less than an inch away. "You could at least buy me dinner first."

Carson is too busy whimpering to answer immediately -- and too shocked that someone dared lay a hand on him to bother trying all that hard (or smartly, rather) to extricate himself. After a moment: "Let me go -- "

The last word twists up.

"You don't have any idea what you're doing -- "

"Actually, I do. Well, today I do. You've been talking to Nicolas Rosse. It's okay, we work together sometimes," he says, soothing. Jumpy, this one.

"Why don't you fill me in?" he suggests.

"Tam-tam."

Shaking his head slowly, minutely, side to side.

"You're a lunatic," Carson says, making to pull away. "I had business in that building, on the -- on the fourteenth floor, not that it's any of your business, and -- "

As though struck by a sudden epiphany, Carson's words come out in a rush. "Somebody's waiting for me, and if I'm not there in five minutes they're going to tell the authorities. And they have a trace on me. So let me go and I won't have you arrested."

"I know where you had business, because it's my business to know," he says, and there's a kind of rhythm to it that makes him almost sing the words.

"You'd really like to be sitting in the big chair again. I mean, really really. Kinda selfish, don't you think?"

Would Nicolas Rosse betray him?

Hal Carson thinks he knows the answer to that question.

And just like that, Hal Carson is convinced he's going to die, right here, right now. Or in the next twenty minutes or so.

"You don't know anything about it -- "

They're not going to get anything on him. Nothing for later. Even if there isn't going to be a later.

"Gabriel Tam is going to be stepping down in a permanent sort of way. You knew about it. How? I mean, I could find out, but I'd rather you told me. Less messy."

He sounds honestly curious. He shifts to take Carson by both shoulders - better for conversation, of course.

Again with the fish imagery: Carson is trying to wriggle out of Raguel's grasp.

"I don't know what you think you're talking about, sir, but that's enough -- let me go, or I'll -- I'll -- "

The alleyway is, of course, dark.

There is, of course, nobody around.

" -- let me go!"

Raguel laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"Maybe. Not yet. You're wriggly."

One hand flashes out, hits Carson in the face - hard enough to leave a bruise, but not yet hard enough to scar.

"Look, pal," he says reasonably. "You're not part of my job here. But justice is gonna be served one way or the other. I can make you a part of my job if you want, but I think you don't want." He grins.

"If you told Rosse, you can tell me. I like to research these things myself."

Carson's breath is coming fast -- because the blow was fast, and it hurt, and Carson believes that whoever the hell this is could do worse without much effort.

The kind of man, in other words, that Atwood had in mind.

"And you call this justice." He's obviously trying for wariness. It comes out as petulance.

"You aren't listening," he says, slowly and clearly, giving Carson a little shake on each word.

"Justice comes later. This is just the warm-up lap, round and around. Round and around. You've already tucked your tail under for Rosse, I can tell. Talk to me and you can go."

Well, he certainly seems sincere.

He seems sincere.

What you see in this business isn't always what you get.

Low, and fast, Carson says (or pleads), "You have to understand -- anything I might know -- there are cameras everywhere, no reason to think we're not being watched, it's not safe."

"Where, exactly, do you think we are?" he asks, with an amused glance at the side of the building. He looks back at Carson appraisingly.

"Or... actually, you don't know, do you?" He looks gleefully up at the window high above.

"Probably a reason for that." And with no further warning he unfurls wide, dark wings, grabs Carson around the waist, and takes off at an astounding speed.

Hal Carson doesn't currently have the mental capacity to think, And I thought I was going to die before. I had no idea.

Right now, Hal Carson is screaming. And wriggling.

"You'll want to hold still," he warns, but given Raguel's tight grasp around him there's little danger of Carson falling. Up, up, up, until they come to an unsteady halt just outside of Rosse's office and its sinister window.

"Nobody home," Raguel says, glancing in. "Call again, please." And he lets go.

His life doesn't flash before his eyes as he plummets.

The wind stings his eyes, though, and he squinches them shut, arms windmilling.

A pair of arms slip under his well before he hits the ground, but he might not notice the relative distance in his current state.

"There we go," Raguel's voice says, setting him down gently. "Wasn't that fun? Aren't you ready to have a nice conversation and some coffee?" He looks pointedly around the alleyway.

"Without the coffee, I guess. There's just no point without sugar, is there?" he rambles.

Carson's knees seem to want to give out. He's leaning against a wall, supporting himself with one arm, the other hand by his side and waiting, expectant, to catch the rest of his body when he falls.

And he's going to fall. It's just a matter of time.

After a long moment:

"Not here," he says, hoarsely.

Raguel takes a step closer.

"Yes. Here," he says firmly. "Where are you so anxious to go, anyway?"

He hasn't bothered to hide his wings away; rustling feathers tower over both of them, blotting out the stars.

If he ignores the wings -- they won't exist.

Clearly he hit his head, and he doesn't remember doing it.

"Somewhere we can't be heard."

"We won't be heard here," he says with confidence, then reconsiders.

"And if we are, it's by the type who would find out anyway, anywhere you'd choose to go. So you can drop that pretty chrome mask you're trying to keep on, along with all those ambitious lies you're making up, and start talking. Now."

He says it casually enough. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms, pleasantly attentive.

Carson's eyes shift nervously to the wings, and then to the side and away.

"You know who it's about."

"Tam-tam," he repeats, grinning, and gestures for Carson to continue.

"There are -- "

How to put this.

" -- people who believe that he's -- "

Not outlived his usefulness.

" -- worn out his welcome in his current position."

Raguel's eyes narrow.

"I don't think that's quite all of it. I don't think that's close to all of it. For that you could just hire a cleaning crew and shake out the dirt."

"That's just it -- there isn't any -- "

None that Carson and all his campaign were able to dig up. None since, Atwood says.

" -- otherwise it wouldn't have gotten this far, don't you see?"

His eyebrows go up.

"No dirt." He laughs, but there's no humor in his face.

"Provoking the leaders of a known militant revolutionary cult. Stockpiling and providing weapons for a system-wide war - publicly."

He takes a few steps away from the wall, staring around the alley as though it's full of rapt spectators and he needs to make eye contact with every one.

"Maybe public, my friends, is the problem. Public doesn't see what's staring it in the face. Not that all of it is public. Not mentioning his various associations with mercenary figures and other illegal... illicit... ill-advised... activities."

He's very close to Carson now, but not looking at him directly.

"The public doesn't see that, they don't care, but -- that legislation -- it's not good governance. And it will end in bloodshed."

Carson is speaking to Raguel's shoes.

"It's inevitable."

"Correct," he says darkly, "and I believe that's where I come in."

Carson glances up swiftly.

Nods.

"You've been tapped?"

He'll be good at it.

"Tapped. Tam-tam tapped. Suppose you could put it that way." He hums a few bars of something, but the tune is indistinguishable.

"Can't pretend you didn't guess," he adds eventually, chucking Carson lightly under the chin.

Carson flinches, moves back instinctively.

"Are we done?" Cold, and a little high-pitched.

Raguel snaps back to attention.

"Bored?" he asks, picks up Carson by way of a fist in the man's jacket, and tosses him into the wall of Rosse's building.

"Don't believe you were finished."

"You said you wouldn't -- "

He stops short before saying kill me; best not to give him ideas.

"Please -- "

"I don't think I said I wouldn't anything."

He kicks his way through the alley detritus to where Carson is slumped. Garbage and scrap metal clatters and bangs across the asphalt in front of him. Several pieces narrowly miss Carson's head.

"You didn't finish."

A hand comes up to ward off anything that might make it to his face.

"Finish -- what else do you need to know?"

"Schedules. Weaknesses. Defenses," he rattles off, still kicking his way over.

"So far all we've talked about is confirmations of old information. C'mon, tell me something I don't know."

Fred Atwood told Hal Carson one more thing.

"He's going to be in an open area. Soon. There's some -- thing -- for the Family and Life Support Center, and he's giving the keynote. Outdoors."

Raguel sighs and comes to a halt.

"Now where's the challenge," he asks, "if you're just going to fold like that?"

Carson looks -- squints -- up.

"I want to leave. Alive." Petulant.

"Ah," he says, noncommittal.

He reaches a hand down to the man, presumably to help him to his feet.

There's a good, long, hesitant pause before Carson takes it.

In one smooth motion Raguel hoists him to his feet. He stares into Carson's frightened eyes for a moment, appraising.

"See you around, pal," he says at last, and gives Carson a smacking kiss on the cheek.

There's a flash of bright, reddish light.

It burns.

One minute later, Hal Carson blinks, and looks around.

Nobody's there.

Which would make sense, really; nobody was in the alley when he came this way. But it's not wise to linger in the shadows, even on Londinium, where there are eyes everywhere.

He picks himself up, dusts himself off, and goes home.

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