10-20-2017, 01:47 PM
The next day
Natalie Grey was many things, but she was not usually late. When she didn't arrive for her appointment at all that morning, her father panicked. He'd spent years believing he protected her by keeping her away from Moscow - and more specifically, away from himself - and Sören was already sure he'd just overreacted. The girl had daddy issues, and she was also a staunch advocate of drowning all her woes in the bottom of a bottle. It spoke for itself.
But... Alistair Grey was an old friend. And the new tech fitted to Soren's eye socket itched a command to be tested out.
A tracery of red lines led the path to Natalie's Wallet. He tracked it through some shit-hole club with sticky floors and pipes running along the ceiling, abandoned at this time of day, and with locks brittle to the flex of a fist and a pulse of the runes. The trail led down, beyond the club, into the sort of secluded darkness a young woman would be neglectful to find herself in.
A dozen small orbs lit then faded down the path ahead. She was not here, just her phone. The battery blinked its death throws in a shadowed corner of the hallway. He stooped to pick it up, running the pad of his thumb over the crack in the screen. He flicked through the screens quickly. The phone was pretty clean; she'd only had it since she'd landed in the country. No messages, no calls - ingoing or outgoing. But there was a voicemail. Some drunk American boy. At 3am.
A hard smile hitched the corner of his lips. Perhaps this would be interesting after all. He lit a cigarette in the dankness of the tunnel, and connected the call.
Edited by Soren, Oct 30 2017, 08:20 AM.
Natalie Grey was many things, but she was not usually late. When she didn't arrive for her appointment at all that morning, her father panicked. He'd spent years believing he protected her by keeping her away from Moscow - and more specifically, away from himself - and Sören was already sure he'd just overreacted. The girl had daddy issues, and she was also a staunch advocate of drowning all her woes in the bottom of a bottle. It spoke for itself.
But... Alistair Grey was an old friend. And the new tech fitted to Soren's eye socket itched a command to be tested out.
A tracery of red lines led the path to Natalie's Wallet. He tracked it through some shit-hole club with sticky floors and pipes running along the ceiling, abandoned at this time of day, and with locks brittle to the flex of a fist and a pulse of the runes. The trail led down, beyond the club, into the sort of secluded darkness a young woman would be neglectful to find herself in.
A dozen small orbs lit then faded down the path ahead. She was not here, just her phone. The battery blinked its death throws in a shadowed corner of the hallway. He stooped to pick it up, running the pad of his thumb over the crack in the screen. He flicked through the screens quickly. The phone was pretty clean; she'd only had it since she'd landed in the country. No messages, no calls - ingoing or outgoing. But there was a voicemail. Some drunk American boy. At 3am.
A hard smile hitched the corner of his lips. Perhaps this would be interesting after all. He lit a cigarette in the dankness of the tunnel, and connected the call.
Edited by Soren, Oct 30 2017, 08:20 AM.
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