un_fallen | (no subject)

(no subject)

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 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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