on his majesty's behalf {kasper/pandora}

[rook]

k a s p e r |||||||||||||| l i b e r t i n e

lean into my side
never felt alive
call the chance and sigh
we will wait for this
we will wait for this

There is a tempest rampaging through the streets of District Six. Rain lashes down from the black skies, drenching the cobblestone pathways, whilst the wind screams around roof tiling and through cracks in the age-old architecture. It is a wicked storm, one that cascaded over hills and mountains from the sea, brewing into a maelstrom of magnificence. I admire the power of it. Nature is the only dictator that I bow to. The best part is that it's showing no signs of easing up any time soon. We are late into the night, or early into the morning - The sky shows no signs of light. Even the moon is shrouded by stormclouds.

I zip my raincoat up to the top, rebuffing my collar and hood as the wind does it's best to attack me. I stride into it, making gains upstreet towards the District Square. My eyes are low to the ground, watching as I place one boot in front of the other. I have found that in recent years, I'm not so bothered about standing in mud or doing a job in a dirty way. Manners used to define me, but circumstances have changed. I've been on the receiving end of blackmail, for once, and now I'm being pushed to do things for a different cause. I can't be fickle with methodology any more. I have to channel my ruthlessness in more primal ways, otherwise I'm going to be buried ten-feet-under, more than likely alive too. That wouldn't be pleasant.

The light is low, so I need not stick to the shadows tonight. I doubt I'd need to anyway, considering this is a low-profile task. Meeting someone in public hardly requires stealth or skill, it just requires professionalism. Act like nothing's wrong. Hide in plain sight. My only concern is the lack of people about. It's too late for anyone to be in the streets, and hardly any people are hanging outside bars and clubs on such a wicked night. It might look slightly more suspicious if we're the only people out in the streets. If someone were to see us conversing, it might draw attention. We'll have to move inside, I suppose. I'd rather not be out in this weather regardless.

I take a sharp left at the intersection, not needing to check for passing hovercraft when the roads are so dead. Rain lashes at my back. Despite my waterproofs, I am soaked. The wind whips cruelly at my cheeks, and I grind my teeth as I grow increasingly frustrated at the weather. It's my first time in District Six, and I have to say that first-impressions aren't great so far. I'm a long way from home; Cold, hungry, wet. My patience is wearing thin, but circumstance has tied me to this, and getting too angry isn't an option. I have to be more professional than ever.

I take out a scrap of paper from the pockets of my waders, fumbling to unfold it. The rain is near-horizontal with the wind, and my written instructions are sodden. I can barely make them out, but the house number is in bold enough font that I can make out '55'. It's enough to go on. More than I've had in the past, that's for sure. I shove the paper back in my pocket and start to glance at the numbers on each house as I stride onwards. They ascend in twos, odd numbered from thirty-one upwards on this avenue. It's all easy from here-on, yet it still strikes me as odd how empty the streets are despite the storm.

I reach fifty-five. My instructions were brief. All I know is where to meet them and what to discuss. I hope it's worth it. I'm not convinced that travelling all the way from District Four on-foot is at all a good idea when I am now an unofficial employee of the Capitol. I should have been flown in. I suppose they want to keep official mercenaries and unofficial filth such as myself separate. Understandable, I suppose.

I knock sharply three times on the door, waiting out in the open. I feel exposed, like there is a crosshair delicately balanced between my eyes. I shake the thought quickly, not wanting to become unnerved at hypothetical situations.

Hurry up, Pandora Blair, we have much to discuss.

lean into my side
never felt alive
call the chance and sigh
you see right through me

[ghosty]

[googlefont="Sacramento:400"]

Pandora Blair A piece of paper was all that floated through the door, earmarked with nothing more than an address, and holding a key. The heavens above were split open, and all the rain they held was coming down like a sheet. If I were making a guess, I could see maybe 50, at most, yards, and yet, I was pulling on my coat. Wanted to be gone from this house; and an address, no more than maybe a ten minute walk was a rope, dragging me away. The rain was nothing more than extraordinary, the power an unknown force, an army that could not be beaten. Yet still I walked into it, the unknown waiting for me.  Yet, an idea, a memory of no more than a month ago, floated, as if the rain on the ground were an ocean. Another letter, Capitol emblazoned seal, catching my eye. And my name, written, cursive, yet efficient. A rope tied for beauty, yet dictated by its' need. I didn't see that letter coming; it should have been burnt the moment I saw the seal. Echo's of my father's voice, "No one can know. If anyone knows, we're all dead." And now, the Capitol knows, and my heart did not stop beating, or a gun smashed against my face to drag me away. It was an offer that I could not refuse. Work for us, and your father will no longer be a problem. There was only ever one answer to that. Three letters, a full stop and a stamp. I didn't hear back again from them. Only the address, many moons later from my reply. I thought it was a joke, a cruel, cruel joke that only Cadmus could play. He's but a torturer, a figure too far gone to save. He is a murderer, and nothing more. He's got nothing worth saving any more. Might as well be dead.  Well, to everyone else at least. He already is for me.  The rain is lethal, no doubt. A house lowered below the ground, in a dip, water sitting ankle height and slowly rising. Yet I'm not here to help some poor bugger's house, here to make sure that they are alright. I'm on a mission, and nothing can stop me. Not even the rain, my coat sodden through, clothes stuck like glue onto my skin.  The cobbled street below my feet was slick, my footing almost being pulled away like some kind of trap. But this isn't the first time that I walked on such a surface. The only difference is the oil before was my own blood, not the rain that soaks me whole. The address was tucked carefully inside my pocket, sodden, ink run into a smudged mess. But house number 55 is where I'm headed. And there, I wait, just outside, back against the wall, hidden by the porch of an unknown house that the key to was endowed. And three taps, three knocks upon a wooden door, and I swallow. I'm about to meet my fate. I take a step, and I am next to the door. Another and I am next to him, as wet as I. "Did you honestly think that I would go inside, and let someone sneak up on me?" I roll my eyes, and placed the key inside the door, and turned it, my eyes closing, expecting the barrel of a gun. And what greeted me was the crackle of a fire, and the orange bathing it gave, two chairs, facing each other, opposite over a table. And paperwork. A ton of paperwork. "I'm Pandora, but I guess you already knew that." wc: six hundred and four made by ghosty, inspired by rook.

[rook]

k a s p e r c o w i e l i b e r t i n e

lean into my side
never felt alive
call the chance and sigh
we will wait for this
we will wait for this

I'm a ghost, open for business.

I decant my judgement before we step inside. This girl is slight but she's been called here on merit, just like myself. A spirit of her own making, banshee of District Six. These are her pridelands, and she stalks them with a confidence that I feast upon. Her name bounces on my lips, and it's so tempting to let my mouth move around the four syllables of Pandora Blair, but it's a black tabboo in a thin white winter air, and I don't want to poison an already toxic atmosphere. She draws satisfaction from her two-mile radius, her patch on this earth, she draws it like poison from a wound, thrives on it. I enjoy watching her, and I absolutely cannot wait to see what she can do.

I mean, let's be brutally honest, she's every little bit a murderer as I am. By definition, the books would say that you actually have to end someone's life to be a murderer, but I would disagree. It's something you're born with. We're not cursed with morals, you see. Well, not the ones that others are, at least. To take another life takes a power that cannot be forged in a sweatbox or brainwashed into someone. It's in the gut, at the very core of a person, you either can, or you can't.

I don't take pleasure in it. I'm not a bloody sadist or anything like that, good grief, no. I didn't enjoy killing my mother at all, nor any of those Peacekeepers that kept knocking and knocking and knocking at my door. Whilst it was a relief, it was by no means enjoyable. All that blood, it's nasty. I don't like mess. Yet I don't find it difficult. There's a difference between finding something unpleasant and finding something so mindlessly easy. Life's so fragile, you see. It's like a snowflake.

"Did you honestly think that I would go inside, and let someone sneak up on me?" She speaks, and her voice cuts sharply through the raging hailstorm around us. My eyes bury into hers, and there I anchor, letting a smile seep up the cracks in my skin. Truth be told, I was expecting her to be inside, in the warm, out of the storm, but I was wrong to assume. She's here on merit, I tell myself again. I don't see her as competition, nor a threat, but as someone I take great interest in. We are going to be working together, and I think I'm going to enjoy seeing her flourish like a black rose.

She produces a key, and in one swift movement unlocks the heavy door with a click. She moves inside, leading the way as I hang outside. My eyes stray to the rooftops. Vertical blurred lines march across the sky, shrouding the tips of the buildings around us. Nothing. I look left and right, down the alleyways. Again, nothing. I lick my lips and follow Pandora into the warth.

There is a roaring fire that I am drawn to like a moth. Such horrendous weather, I can't help but hang up my drenched raincoat and slip out of my sodden boots. Mountains of paperwork sit before us. I bite my tongue. I detest paperwork, but I suppose, like murder, it's an unpleasant task that must be done in order to progress with our objective.

"I'm Pandora, but I guess you already knew that." She cuts the silence again. Her voice is gentle, but has an edge to it. It's like the knife you don't see coming.

"Kasper," I introduce myself, "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Blaire. Shall we get started?"

I round the table and make myself comfortable in one of the oversized armchairs. The papers in front of us are profiles of Peacekeepers; all from District Six. This is the first task, the first so-called mission for our little gang of convicted criminals. That's the point of all of this - The worst of the worst, grouped together as one little suicide squad to do the dirty for those that are too afraid to get red on their hands.

Only this squad hasn't been assembled yet. Half the members haven't even been decided on. I know Pandora and I were some of the first. There are others confirmed, but a lot of names are up in the air.

"I take it your brother won't be joining us as of yet?" I probe. I know he has been considered.

lean into my side
never felt alive
call the chance and sigh
you see right through me