04-21-2020, 09:07 PM
For now he left Nina to dig for information on Morven. Days had passed without communication, and he did not make any effort to seek her out. Silence was as good as failure, and in the meanwhile circumstance conspired to force his hand. One of Nimeda’s wardings had failed; worse, he had discovered the blame etched into her own palm when he discovered her in the dream. She was too frivolous a creature to expect loyalty, but the theft stung, stoking the ashes of a temper he did not often suffer the heat of. Thalia Milton had never seen his face, though he had supported her career for years now. He knew what she was.
And he would retrieve what she had stolen.
But he couldn’t leave Moscow, not while the headaches descended on swift and unpredictable wings, crippling him at inopportune moments. His legs dangled off the edge of the consultation bed, fingers curled over the edge. Ephraim had offered use of his doctors numerous times since the fundraiser, but though Paragon had planted the tech, he considered it a last resort. Morven would have been preferable, if the damn woman had not seen fit to disappear.
“Mr. Hart, sir?”
Sören’s gaze rose as the attendant spoke, then narrowed on the open door and unexpected arrival of Ephraim himself. The man’s smile was all sharp amusement barely concealed. He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket.
“I didn’t believe it was really you,” he said lightly. Sören only offered a grunt of dismissal. Ephraim chuckled and with the instruction of a gesture the attendant frowned, placed down his datapad, and left. “Still troubling you then?”
“Obviously.”
The man wanted something, that was clear. Sören’s mild-eyed stare could be enduring as a mountain, though. Life conspired, and there were fires within, frustrated and angry at the impotence, but he sensed Ephraim was needling him with intent. He wouldn’t bite.
“Run the numbers again. This time I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“The numbers?”
“The error code, Sören. Run it again.” He came closer. His hands were pushed casually in his pockets, but there was a light in his eyes Sören recognised. He’d seen it as recently as at the fundraiser, when the man had pushed through the crowds to witness the girl’s possession; that hunger, a little feverish. It’s twin had been glimpsed in his own mirror enough times, one of the reasons he had counted Ephraim as an ally to court when he’d become aware of him through the Network. But though such passion could be conducive, it could burn too. One of the reasons they had never fully trusted each other either.
Sören straightened, hands resting on his knees. The granite of his expression had not changed, but his insides flooded cold. His eyes narrowed. He’d barely used the eye since it had begun malfunctioning in earnest, which appeared to alleviate the symptom if not the source. Ephraim offered answers, but at the cost of admitting ignorance. He did not like the loss of control, but as the moment stretched on in stony silence he was forced to concede.
He felt the tech activate like a hum inside his head, widening his vision; acutely aware, now, of Ephraim watching him. Red text scrawled. The numbers he had seen while Nina had continued to bother him, and had written hastily on his arm amidst her distraction.
The 7 began to flicker and pulse, until it formed the letter P.
His stomach tightened. Ephraim smiled.
U followed. N. I. S. H.
“What did you do?” He snarled; slipped down from the table, towering over the smaller man, temper scalding. His fist clenched and the runes danced into a frenzy, spiking his vision dangerously.
Ephraim took half a step back, a little pale.
And then the only spike was the one driven hard into Sören's skull, buckling the back of his knees with the sudden and excruciating force of it. An arm whipped out to soften his fall against the table, but he still fell, driving his fingers into his face and roaring. The runes scattered like chaff to the wind.
When he could see again, blurred and painful, what he saw was the edge of Ephraim’s shoe. Hunched, breathing hard, Sören growled. Words passed overhead. He grasped for the power but it howled away, a storm too insubstantial to tame.
“--too much, maybe? Shit, man, you aren’t supposed to kill him.”
“Sir, perhaps you ought to--”
Ephraim crouched in front of him. He was vaguely aware of distant beeping. “Hey,” the man was saying. A finger snapped in front of his face, and had the runes deigned to respond, those fingers might have snapped clean off. “Hey, are you still with us? A little too much bite for a first try, but you rather looked like you might try to kill me.”
“I. Still. Might.”
“You won’t.” Ephraim smiled. He leaned in, and the slim silver necklace he wore was visible through the slit of his shirt collar. The hourglass. “We’re friends, Sören. I gave you your sight back, and a lot more besides, and in return I get data. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find viable specimens? It’s a commendable service to the cause.”
“I’ll gouge it out.”
“Wouldn’t make a difference. To me, I mean. Not so pleasant for you, I’d wager. Look, just think of it as an insurance policy. The world changes, and men like me, we need to change with it.” His wrist flashed as he checked a vintage timepiece, and then he stood and rose dizzyingly from view. The pain faded, but Sören could barely focus. His fingers clenched against the tiles on the floor. “Move him to recovery, would you. He should be fine. Couple hours maybe. Better make it the luxury suite, eh? And keep me posted.”
And he would retrieve what she had stolen.
But he couldn’t leave Moscow, not while the headaches descended on swift and unpredictable wings, crippling him at inopportune moments. His legs dangled off the edge of the consultation bed, fingers curled over the edge. Ephraim had offered use of his doctors numerous times since the fundraiser, but though Paragon had planted the tech, he considered it a last resort. Morven would have been preferable, if the damn woman had not seen fit to disappear.
“Mr. Hart, sir?”
Sören’s gaze rose as the attendant spoke, then narrowed on the open door and unexpected arrival of Ephraim himself. The man’s smile was all sharp amusement barely concealed. He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket.
“I didn’t believe it was really you,” he said lightly. Sören only offered a grunt of dismissal. Ephraim chuckled and with the instruction of a gesture the attendant frowned, placed down his datapad, and left. “Still troubling you then?”
“Obviously.”
The man wanted something, that was clear. Sören’s mild-eyed stare could be enduring as a mountain, though. Life conspired, and there were fires within, frustrated and angry at the impotence, but he sensed Ephraim was needling him with intent. He wouldn’t bite.
“Run the numbers again. This time I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“The numbers?”
“The error code, Sören. Run it again.” He came closer. His hands were pushed casually in his pockets, but there was a light in his eyes Sören recognised. He’d seen it as recently as at the fundraiser, when the man had pushed through the crowds to witness the girl’s possession; that hunger, a little feverish. It’s twin had been glimpsed in his own mirror enough times, one of the reasons he had counted Ephraim as an ally to court when he’d become aware of him through the Network. But though such passion could be conducive, it could burn too. One of the reasons they had never fully trusted each other either.
Sören straightened, hands resting on his knees. The granite of his expression had not changed, but his insides flooded cold. His eyes narrowed. He’d barely used the eye since it had begun malfunctioning in earnest, which appeared to alleviate the symptom if not the source. Ephraim offered answers, but at the cost of admitting ignorance. He did not like the loss of control, but as the moment stretched on in stony silence he was forced to concede.
He felt the tech activate like a hum inside his head, widening his vision; acutely aware, now, of Ephraim watching him. Red text scrawled. The numbers he had seen while Nina had continued to bother him, and had written hastily on his arm amidst her distraction.
The 7 began to flicker and pulse, until it formed the letter P.
His stomach tightened. Ephraim smiled.
U followed. N. I. S. H.
“What did you do?” He snarled; slipped down from the table, towering over the smaller man, temper scalding. His fist clenched and the runes danced into a frenzy, spiking his vision dangerously.
Ephraim took half a step back, a little pale.
And then the only spike was the one driven hard into Sören's skull, buckling the back of his knees with the sudden and excruciating force of it. An arm whipped out to soften his fall against the table, but he still fell, driving his fingers into his face and roaring. The runes scattered like chaff to the wind.
When he could see again, blurred and painful, what he saw was the edge of Ephraim’s shoe. Hunched, breathing hard, Sören growled. Words passed overhead. He grasped for the power but it howled away, a storm too insubstantial to tame.
“--too much, maybe? Shit, man, you aren’t supposed to kill him.”
“Sir, perhaps you ought to--”
Ephraim crouched in front of him. He was vaguely aware of distant beeping. “Hey,” the man was saying. A finger snapped in front of his face, and had the runes deigned to respond, those fingers might have snapped clean off. “Hey, are you still with us? A little too much bite for a first try, but you rather looked like you might try to kill me.”
“I. Still. Might.”
“You won’t.” Ephraim smiled. He leaned in, and the slim silver necklace he wore was visible through the slit of his shirt collar. The hourglass. “We’re friends, Sören. I gave you your sight back, and a lot more besides, and in return I get data. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find viable specimens? It’s a commendable service to the cause.”
“I’ll gouge it out.”
“Wouldn’t make a difference. To me, I mean. Not so pleasant for you, I’d wager. Look, just think of it as an insurance policy. The world changes, and men like me, we need to change with it.” His wrist flashed as he checked a vintage timepiece, and then he stood and rose dizzyingly from view. The pain faded, but Sören could barely focus. His fingers clenched against the tiles on the floor. “Move him to recovery, would you. He should be fine. Couple hours maybe. Better make it the luxury suite, eh? And keep me posted.”
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)