Realistic or Modern 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 -

[mother of sorrows]

❍ THE BEGINNING. CHAPTER FOX CHASE.

© weldherwings.

 

[mother of sorrows]

Processing. . . .

STATUS: online

UNREAD MAIL: 43

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YOU GOT AN EMAIL FROM J. MARTINEZ . . . .

𝐓𝐎: j.navidson, a.dawson, a.guiraud, k.rivera, s.khan, l.bacsik, j.kang

𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓: IMPORTANT.

Please read this.

I don't have time to reply to any emails you will send to this. You have to call me. I've never seen a man die. In the last 24 hours, I have seen five. Vargas is a killer. I can't explain here and they will know I sent this email.

Jesus Christ, just fucking find me.


Steve Jobs RascalRoadkill tieflinq Colorless Spectrum Blobs AI10100

coded by kaninchen

 

[mother of sorrows]

a seal opens.

''Where's her body?''

The house is small. Small enough that Graham can hear every officer creaking around the place, even upstairs. Small and very clean; Graham takes note of that. With how the facade outside is peeling back like old skin, he through the inside was going to be lived-in decay. Instead he found old, but polished wooden floors, bleached countertops, an arranged leather sofa. The floral wallpaper is new.

No pictures.

The scene cleaners are going to be grateful to her, sherrif Graham thought with a morbid pity.

McKinney raises her head from where she's crouched, her summer-hay hair neatly packaged into a bun. She raises up from the cupboard she was rummaging through, and Graham has to swallow down a beat of irritation when she only sticks a crisp white paper under his face.

''In the bedroom.'' She says through a chew of bubblegum. ''Her name is Jennie Martinez.''

The sherrif takes the paper with a blank face, wondering if it's worth the fight to tell her to spit it out. He sticks his tongue into his cheek, reading instead.

'𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐙・𝟑𝟔 𝐂𝐔𝐁𝐀𝐍, 𝐅𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄

• Data analyist at Little Mountain Research Centre.
• No next of kin.
• Found dead at 6.43 AM by a police officer.'

A scramble of education, degrees, work experience from online archives follows, the paper neatly folded in half. The entire life of a woman, reduced to a few lines.

Graham walks past the door and slips a look through the crack.

He sees something dark and meaty, glistening on the bed, and he quickly glances away. McKinney keeps talking, drags a gloved finger along the line of a coffee table. ''Her employer got concerned when she didn't come into work the previous day. We sent Donovan over, and...''

The bedroom reeks. Graham shuts it with his shoe, the noise eaten up by the chaos of investigation.

''And there's no signs of foul play?'' The man says slowly, brow furrowed like crumpled paper.

McKinney's mouth goes flat.

For a moment, she says nothing.

''We know for sure it was a suicide?'' Graham tries again.

She shifts her shoulders back, eyes going upwards to watch the ceiling.

''Her employer confirmed she has hospitalized a few weeks earlier. Had some mental breakdown.''

They stand there. Neither Graham nor McKinney moves. Around them officers search like dogs, convinced they've already got their case written up. The distant crushing of cementing outside speaks of an ambulance pulling up, and one of them goes to fetch a bodybag.

remember: MAYBE THE TRUTH ISN'T WORTH IT.

A HINT.

© PASTA​

 

[mother of sorrows]

ladislaw bacsik.

''Ladislaw,'' the voice croaked through the hotel phone, grainy like brain sand. ''You have a bunch of emails, alright, and I can't reply to all of them.''

New York burnt around him. Not literally, though with the whisky prices, Ladislaw wouldn't mind if it did. Colors boil from every window and alley, cars screaming, rain splattering over the window pane like a bird erupting. He has no idea where he last saw Jordan and the room smelt distantly like a polite amount of mold; after a very productive night, the man has been reduced to laying on his rented bed like a skinning victim and clutching the phone with clammy hands, hairline soaked down in sweat. He's sick from travel and unwisely chosen seafood.

''What?'' He near-screams into the receiver. Notices he's being too fucking loud and lowers his voice, which isn't any actual help; his already slow dialect has fallen into a snail's crawl. ''Oh. Okay. Thank you.''

He's not even sure why he's thanking them. He throws his head back into the pillow, half-dragging the phone with him, feeling like his skull might throw up.

''Yeah. And Ashley told me to ask...'' The intern - whichever one it is this time - talks from thousands of miles away, at a different ocean coast, with hours difference. ''How the interview went?''

Ladislaw was sent here to meet a man. He was middle-aged, tan from work, with a missing pinky finger and an overgrown mustache; he sat by a profiling bed and beeping medical equipment, his dark eyes wet as he introduced his unconscious daughter. Her whole life is supported by a tangle of tubes and liquid, and the neverending flashes of lights.

''He thinks the CIA poisoned his daughter by radio waves.'' Ladislaw explains. There is a shuffling of paper on the other line, but it barely makes it past his swelling mind.

''Well, that's not right.''

There were more stories like this; Ladislaw once talked to a man who only barely survived his own decapitation, flying all the way to northern Oregon to get an interview. 'Felt like a bad headache that got worse,' the guy began thoughtfully, sitting in a plush chair and neck tied up in bandages. 'And before I knew it, my neck got split in half.' He'd shown Ladislaw pictures from the hospital, his neck a mess of flesh barely holding together. One good thing, the guy ended up marrying the surgeon who saved his life.

And when Ladislaw was still in uni, he crouched in the New Mexico desert to snap a shot of a burning barn. 'We are waiting for,' One of the little girls told him once he had stopped choking on dust, 'extraterrestials.' She had stumbled over that word proudly.

He had energy for them, at one point. Stories that got the bored part of America foaming at the mouth. These days, his editors sends them his way once per year, and it always gives him a hangover the next day.

''Uh. You'll see what I wrote.'' Ladislaw wipes his free hand on the cotton of his pants. The storm outside grows darker ominously, like a bruise spreading outwards. ''I'll get on those emails in... A second.''

He throws his head back on the pillow. He has no intentions of doing so tonight.

''Okay. Have a good night.''

The phone beeps away. He puts it back in its God given position and sleeps for dreamless hours. By the time Jordan revives him with a dark coffee in the morning, he's forgotten to charge his laptop before a six hour flight and his emails remain blissfully unread.

● ●​

This is his first mistake.

● ●​

It's an unfliching 11 P.M. Los Angeles pulses in the deceptively warm ocean air, the city laid up like a sleeping body along the shore, or a gutted abdomen weeping into the water. It reeks, it births, it exists in all its' glory outside; and Ladislaw, is quite honestly, getting fed up all over again. The bicyclists here are careless at best and vaguely murderous at worst, and even after just dropping out of the office he's been avoiding their war path. It took longer than he expected, because everything takes longer than he wants - left-over alcohol clung to his brain like dried blood and the receptionist wouldn't let him go without a chat, and then there's the newer ending horror of finding a parking place in the middle of town.

He does not read his emails. Half-way through the path to his desk he's stopped by Ashley - tall, smiling, highlights worth a couple of hundred - and asked to work over the 6 AM news.

The day dragged itself out into night regardless. Time passed.

And now he's home.

The flickering light of his apartment living room fought against the darkness; artificial light spilled into every corner in a headache yellow and Ladislaw had to press a hand to the wall to not feel stumble, blinking rapidly. Everything greets him the same. The small honey-brown couch, the coffee table held hostage by towers of books, a TV, a barely used kitchen; his home.

Ladislaw kind of wants to perish.

''Jesus Christ.'' He mumbles, dragging a hand down his face and disrupting his glasses. He's so exhausted he feels it in his bones, every thought coming to him limping and sluggish. Even the caffeine he had before only gave him energy enough to beat away typos in a script, and now he's crashing like a boulder into water. ''Fuck this shit.''

Sleep has never sounded so tempting; his suitcase is thrown into a corner with a promise to unpack tomorrow and only through the thought of being yelled at tomorrow does he grab his laptop, praying to survive another hour of work. It's not that it's too unusual for him to work late - but the flights have thoroughly killed him, and being bounced from city to city to chase stories hasn't done much for his awful mood. Ladislaw pushes out a dinner table chair with slowly draining patience, letting out a sigh through his nose.

The laptop whirrs like a creature in pain. It loads up with a ping, the screen devouring his eyes.

He clicks through an email, then the next. His mouse pokes through the titles with a resigned duty and he types up answers like a man executed. Words struggle past his worn out logic, like trying to walk through mud; meaning escapes him from more than a shallow observation. Fifteen minutes in, he's already pinching the bridge of his nose and has a migraine pacing like a wolf around the campfire.

This is when he makes his second mistake.

He does not read the title of the next email. He only clicks on it, instinctual.

His mouse becomes a circle. It turns, turns.

Drags out like the stretch of entrails.

And when the email loads, he reads it.

At first, he thinks he's sleep deprived enough to be making mistakes; but by the time he reads it thrice, he has wakened enough to sit back into his chair and stare.

This has to be a joke.

He gets those, sometimes. Spam mail that's wiggled through the filters. He leans back onto the table, too tired to be incredulous. Shock slips past him and he shakes his head, re-reading it. Vargas - the name sits in his stomach like old oil and he snorts, mouse going to the delete button. What bullshit. Where the hell do these people find him? Annoyance clenches around his chest in an iron grip, squeezing.

And then he glances at the receivers.

Ladislaw pauses. Frowns.

He releases the mouse, putting his face closer to the burning screen.

Names he recognises. Names he has heard before, even if thirdhand.

The annoyance turns into alarm. Something wiggling. Like the siren on a clear day, ringing inside the hidden parts of his brain. He is not shocked, but he knows enough to be concerned when he sees blood in the water.

He looks for his phone. Wrestles it out of his jacket pocket and flicks it open with a too-steady hand, typing in the number on the screen. He presses it to his ear, half cursing himself out for being so ridiculous to actually call. He waits, waits.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He clicks off. Calls again.

Waits.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His eyes flicker to the email addresses again. He closes the phone and puts it on the side, opening another tab.

Two names he immediately recognises; they sit on his shoulder like a heavy weight and he feels almost sick with them. He searches for the addresses in half-belief that he is wrong - but the engine spits out hits, news, confirmation.

Johnny Navidson. Killian Rivera.

''Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.'' Ladislaw mumbles, leaning back slowly.

Him and Killian don't work in the same company anymore. There is no reason for their names to be attached to the same email, unless it's them messing around. And wherever Killain is involved, there is something wrong. Almost daily chats have been reduced to weekly and then to monthly - even if they are still good friends, there is enough raw wounds around whatever Killian is doing that it makes Ladislaw see a bear trap in this whole email. And Navidson...

He's still in jail. Or maybe not - Ladislaw's hands twitch together, neurons churning.

Navidson is more a memory than a name. He remembers him much younger, unlikeable. A wake up call for the weight of what can happen if you don't keep your toes in line. Last Ladislaw searched for news regarding him, he had some court date or other; but like everything else, it faded into distant discomfort.

Why the fuck would anyone be writing these two?

Ladislaw bit the inside of his cheek. His heart-rate picked up, the anxiety of before returning like rocks tied around his ankles.

The rest...

Salma Khan. The name is vaguely familiar, though he doesn't know where to place it; another search brings up dead bodies and young women smiling from missing posters. Crime scene photos from police files. Blood, dark and sticky, spilt over low-quality photographs and yellow tape. He doesn't know her, not personally - but she must know the others. Ladislaw stares at the articles like something vile, like an animal that's dragged itself below his porch to die.

Alice Guiraud. Has Ashley mentioned that name before? It settles unpleasantly on him, like stepping into a room and forgetting what you went into it for. He finds a mismatch of words, blogs, rumors, but a quick scan tells him nothing concrete. Different publications. There is no real publisher or organisation behind that name and Ladislaw's face darkens, even more anxious than before.

Janna Kang. That name is...

A wedding photographer.

Ladislaw actually takes a double take at that.

He probably got the wrong address. Or maybe there's two people with that name - because all he gets is photos of receptions and bridal white. He bites through the searches one by one, but at the end he is so baffled he gives up. Whoever that is, he's not sure their real information is online.

On a.dawnson, he finds...

Nothing.

A concerning nothing.

No actual name to that address. No website. No articles. No contact information.

Nothing.

Ladislaw looks through all the addresses again. The email.

The sender.

He glances at his phone. It sits there, soundless, quiet.

He should delete this crap. Whatever it is, he's sure he doesn't want to have anything to do with it; it's probably another prank, or some bullshit to get a reaction out of some journalists. And even so, there is this warning bell - even through the greater knowledge that he should keep his nose where it belongs, a curiosity that chokes the disbelief out of him. Resigned, he opens up a tab again, searching for the address that sent the email. There is little result, but what tiny amount that pops up brings up another name.

Jennie Martinez.

And an article.

'𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄, 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄.'

coded by kaninchen

 

[mother of sorrows]

the sacrifice.

• 01
• 02

• 
  

  The place is in the middle of nowhere. A state best forgotten and a town struck by a staleness that sits in your mouth.
  
  There are buildings crept in by a depressing lack of care, with yellow grass stabbed through by broken bottles and wrappers. You see windows boarded up, glass stained by human grease. A rare local, shuffling through the quickly darkening gloom, more a mirage than a real person. It is not a lived in place and travelers pass through with a slight disdain, on a pilgrimage to better, more relevant towns. Here, there are only the woods; they sit at the edges of the roads like watchmen, their bark ink-black and their branches reaching out like greedy fingers.
  
  You would not be here, otherwise. Or perhaps you would.
  
  You received an email. A call. And they have dragged you out here, into a diner where there is only a group of weary, beaten-down truckers and sticky tables. It's small, but no one pays you any mind, except a young waitress drowning in her third coffee of the night. No one stands out here, in a town of drifters. Classic highway America.
  
  You aren't being watched.
  
  But you do have to wait - in regret or curiosity, a burning sense of justice or anxiety.
  
  Time passes either way.
  

  
  
  
• 
  

  tag

  
  
  

  
  

  right now

  
  

  
  
  

coded by weldherwings.

Spoiler: MOBILE.

The place is in the middle of nowhere. A state best forgotten and a town struck by a staleness that sits in your mouth.

There are buildings crept in by a depressing lack of care, with yellow grass stabbed through by broken bottles and wrappers. You see windows boarded up, glass stained by human grease. A rare local, shuffling through the quickly darkening gloom, more a mirage than a real person. It is not a lived in place and travelers pass through with a slight disdain, on a pilgrimage to better, more relevant towns. Here, there are only the woods; they sit at the edges of the roads like watchmen, their bark ink-black and their branches reaching out like greedy fingers.

You would not be here, otherwise. Or perhaps you would.

You received an email. A call. And they have dragged you out here, into a diner where there is only a group of weary, beaten-down truckers and sticky tables. It's small, but no one pays you any mind, except a young waitress drowning in her third coffee of the night. No one stands out here, in a town of drifters. Classic highway America.

You aren't being watched.

But you do have to wait - in regret or curiosity, a burning sense of justice or anxiety.

Time passes either way.

 

[Steve Jobs]

• .
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• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  click here

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  little dark age

  
  
  

  mgmt

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  J. NAVIDSON

  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  johnny

  
  
  
  

  Johnny gets an email and reflects on life after release. Still he chooses to answer Jennie's call and goes to the diner.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  "Fucking spam"

  is what Johnny would say had he never suffered the horrors of a big corporation. Except that he has. So instead of deleting the email, Johnny crosses his right leg onto his left and rubs the space where his ankle monitor used to be. It feels too perfectly timed. The same day it comes off is the same day he receives a story.
  
  Except it isn't a story.
  
  It is a distress letter; it is a warning; it is a death flag. His cursor hovers over the other recipients and his eyes crease at a few, familiar names.
  
  Ladislaw Bacsik, his unbeloved. Their frenemy-ship spanned more than a decade, one part due to his arrest and the other, Bacsik's disagreeable demeanor. Ten years can change a person, but nothing from the his research indicates that Ladislaw's ambitions extended beyond lifestyle articles.
  
  Not that there is anything wrong with that, Johnny reminds himself.
  
  If he had kept his head down, he could have spent the last decade living comfortably off local scandals and mid-level businesses. He could have found a better job, moved to another country, and even found a partner to settle down with. Instead, his barren inbox reminds him of everyone who drifted away.
  
  A cursory search reveals that his ex-fiancee married her high school sweetheart. His best friend had three children. His brother moved to France and never looked back.
  
  His mother still lives, but cancer left its mark. She looks twenty years older in the photos she sends him and his father makes it known that Johnny should have applied for furlough. Johnny doesn't disagree, but his heart overrides his regret.
  
  "You and your fucking messiah complex!" His former editor's words still itch the back of his brain--they burn far brighter than the indentations left by his ankle monitor.
  
  It is the burning that leads him to pore through the other recipients.
  
  K. Rivera comes up with a few hundred results; a few are connected to journalism--none of which reside in the United States.
  
  A. Dawson is another ghost with even less relevant results.
  
  Alice Guiraurd, he could understand in theory but not practice. Even if she started young, he finds it hard to believe. It is hard to believe that a person could translate online success to editorials--sporadic as they were. Are the days of being a coffee courier and a footstool for your editors gone?
  
  He pushes himself away from his desk and checks his phone for any missed calls but finds none so he sits back down to search the next name.
  
  Salma Khan, he regards in the same category as Ladislaw sans the dislike. Most of her work is cotton candy--meant to be consumed but not given thought. He has no love for listicles or gossip columns, but the murder case is something else. It is nourishment, poison, and medicine. It disappoints him that she's published nothing of note since those days, but one is better than none.
  
  Janna Kang feels like a mistype, but there are no other "J. Kang"s in either photojournalism.
  
  Had Martinez accidentally CC'd their wedding photographer?
  
  Johnny chooses to believe that's the case before moving onto the most important piece of the puzzle. Operating under the assumption that J. Martinez isn't a pseudonym, there are thousands living in the United States alone. A more refined search brings up one Jennie Martinez, found dead in her home. The police suspect suicide because there are no murders when companies are involved.
  
  Johnny keeps searching, but her presence is thin: thirty-six, Cuban (?), data analyst at Little Mountain Research Centre, and alone. He opens up a word document and begins writing about his life, his exploits, and his plans; but he erases everything. He rewrites and rewrites until it reads more like an instruction manual than a memoir. Finally, he locks everything in a spare floppy disk and hides it somewhere unknowable.
  
  Jennie left nothing more than a name and an email; he would not make the same mistake.
  

  ---​

  When Navidson arrives, he swerves into the parking lot. The rust of house arrest hasn't worn off so he ends up half an inch over the line. He leaves the car with a moleskin filled with acronyms and initialisms. Though the handwriting is neat, its contents are indecipherable without the disk. It's been years since he felt the air of a state other than his own; he wishes that he could relish the moment but ominous fog, dreary skies, and wind chill drive him inside.
  
  As the first to arrive, he grabs a table for seven,

  "maybe eight"

  on the off chance somebody brought a friend. He orders coffee with a weak smile before staring at the entrance. He stops himself from pocketing one of the utensils wrapped in a napkin because the chances of this being a trap are nonzero. He tries to tell himself it's residual paranoia but even he doesn't believe himself.

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  location

  
  

  The Diner

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  interaction

  
  

  Open

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  health

  
  

  Fully there

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  sanity

  
  

  There, but slightly paranoid

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡design by miyabi, coded by uxie♡

 

[RascalRoadkill]

When she gets told to fall in rank and get to snoopin', Augustin's just making dinner.

Trying to, anyways. She's easily distracted, and it's takin' way longer even without the racing mind. She's aimlessly stirring something; Augustin's nearly fucked this one up just about four times now, having to go back and forth between steps 'cause she's been forgetting to do the parts that were usually already done for her by the time she got to them. Typically Harlow did half the work, sped all this up.

That is exactly the distracting issue, and she notices most in little things like this rather than big ones. Harlow cannot. She ain't back yet. Might never be back. Augustin has spent enough time hunting around town and trying to call her office and trying to get over her own inherent suspicion of law enforcement to tell them- go fuckin' find her! She's spent enough time in tears over it, too.

Augustin stares down at thickening stew like it's supposed to hold answers, laptop left bright and open on the kitchen table.

Eventually, when she's done with her eh quality meal, she finally notices just how dim it is- must've not noticed the sun setting, flips the lights on, then sits at the table to peruse what's surely spam, spam, and more spam.

It ain't.

Well, one ain't. It makes her cautious on-principle; people don't usually get her direct email unless Augustin gives it to them. Usually, she'd throw them some side-account accessed only after going through whatever encryption she felt like and some VPN or another to boot with definitely not her real name attached, so this is strange. Real fuckin' strange.

Then, she actually gives it a read.

Initially, she skims over the other recipients to get to the content. It stops her cold- Augustin freezes, eyes locking on her screen, then pushes aside her meal to readjust and really pay attention to this. Sheer coincidence, it must be- but a search of the names only gleans her cursory information; others of her profession, all with their own varying degrees of infamy and experience.

And the sender… dead by suicide. Well, Augustin knows much better- first law of corporate-crushing journalism: if they say it's suicide, no it ain't.

Vargas is a killer.

Not of Harlow, she hopes.

She leans back in her chair, chin in her hands. Screen feels too bright to think. She looks away for a moment, foot tapping. Gotta make a choice.

If they know someone sent the email, then they’ll know to expect visitors. Or, hell, maybe not- it depends on how much ego they have. Maybe they think they’re so high up in the clouds that they don’t need to look down anymore.

Alternatively and more likely, maybe they’re as vigilant as Augustin is. She really has no way of telling- so she better assume the worst. Augustin must assume that they already know that her and the rest of the recipients of this email are going to stick their hands where they don’t belong.

Yet she can’t even assume that- can’t assume that all of them will even go for it, that is. Some might… even rightfully so, keep away from this giant red flag that screams danger at the top of its lungs.

That's when Augustin glances down to the container of medication with Vargas's logo plastered across the side. Nobody ever said cold turkey's a wise choice, but in this case- well, fuck it. Augustin trashes it and makes a decision.

Meet her fellow doomed, but trust none of them.

—​

Somehow, Augustin had a feeling the weather would reflect the situation at hand; chilly- she's thankful for her jacket, and foggy. Every light in town cuts through the fog, and a typically dark-dwelling Augustin has to squint at just about everything brighter than an afternoon.

When she arrives- in her handily unassuming, better-than-nothing vehicle, she lingers in her car for a minute. The chances of this being fake are definitely above none. Augustin's absolutely certain that she's taken every precaution over the course of her stupid career, and surely hasn't faltered now of all times. Though maybe Augustin's preference for anonymity is about to bite her- someone might not risk rendering a famed journalist missing, but they probably wouldn't hesitate for one that nobody knows the name of. Especially now that the one person that would really notice isn't around to do it.

Trust none of them. Tell no one, unless she gets her tangible, concrete evidence, and knows exactly who to give it to.

But Hell, she can’t even really trust the people she expects to do anything about it. Many times has she gone through the trouble of obtaining all this sordid information and getting it to the right people, only for it to fall through with a summary bribe that nobody knows happened, but everybody knows happened.

Or it’s her apparent hyper-vigilance talking again. Implied over vigilance. Every bit of it seems necessary to Augustin.

It’s not paranoia when it’s true down to the letter. She'll get through this when she's confirmed that nobody’s in anyone’s pocket, first.

Finally, she steps out- locks the car, takes a few steps away, then goes back and re-locks the car 'cause she can't quite remember if she did it- and goes inside.

There's only one other person here at a table meant to seat way more people than just himself, so… that's probably it. Augustin moves over, sits down rather heavily with both arms on the table, then eyes him without much of a word.

She bristles when it feels like something crawls along her hand- to him, there is nothing. Augustin peers down; nothing genuinely there, per usual. This is always worse when she’s agitated. Typically, she had her little woolen fingerless gloves for that, but it can't mitigate it completely now. Harlow bought ‘em, ‘cause Augustin got that feeling less whenever she’d cover it with something. Augustin had cut the top half of the finger covers off though, couldn’t really type or text shit otherwise.

Augustin squints and glances back up at him. If he's it, not saying anything will say much more than trying to fumble through an attempted subterfuge signal.

 

[Blobs]

searching.

Salma Khan.

nobody knows

somewhere in the states

answer here

outfit

https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4e/bf/28/4ebf28dcba5c46b9db2b11c5388715f1.jpg

click me!

https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4e/bf/28/4ebf28dcba5c46b9db2b11c5388715f1.jpg

interactions

name, name, name

tags

@ user @ user

Salma hadn’t won the lottery.

Salma perhaps should have realized her attempts were futile on the fourth scratch. Each scratch before that had drawn a blank; the promised 3 blaring out from the television set was a 5 on Salma’s lotto ticket, the 9 a 7, and the 4 a 2. Still, some deluded form of hope had possessed her to carry on with her desperate thumbing, the cold dime she held between broken red nails scratching at the piss yellow coloring of the powerball ticket.

The color peeled off in slow, grayish strips. Salma scratched harder. The tv- a 25 inch Sony, the platinum one, which was fancy and heavy and had nearly bankrupted Salma with the deposit- was humming ever so softly into the night, casting a silver glow throughout the living room.

It illuminated every single small detail: the crushed can of Diet Pepsi crumbled up on the ground near Salma’s foot, which grazed her stocking clad toes everytime she swung her foot up; the cold blue couch, silver light bouncing off of scratched wood embellishments and dimming on the little white doilies her mother had bought a week earlier; the knock off Dali paintings behind said couch, set in tarnished fake silver frames, bought from Jim’s Junk to cover up the small bumps and cracks set in the light purple wallpaper. The only light to see by was the tv reflection, and in the darkened room, it looked almost ethereal.

The clock struck 12. 69! the announcer on the other side of the television exclaimed. Salma finished scratching, and came face to face with disappointment. 17. She sighed and, to the backdrop of whooping and clapping coming from the television speaker, crumbled up the ticket and threw it behind her. It landed somewhere, hopefully the trash, but Salma couldn’t be sure.

Work was at nine the next day, which meant Salma had to wake up at seven to get ready by seven thirty, and on the subway to Manhattan by eight, and then transfer to the E to get to Broadway by eight thirty, and then grab a breakfast bagel and some overpriced shitty coffee for breakfast and walk into the cramped office of the Prescott Daily, while Adeline yelled about deadlines and font sizes and all the little nitty gritty bits of journalism that made Salma roll her eyes to high heaven.

Everyday followed the same format: wake up, suffer on the toilet, do her makeup and choose her outfit for the day (two tasks which, as the days passed by and she further solidified her time in that horrid period of life called Adulthood, Salma could no longer be too half assed to care for), head to the Prescott Daily, do the bare minimum amount of work required, bum around at Zara’s apartment for an hour, head home, and stay up until midnight, up until her parents had fallen asleep with their awkward silences and barely veiled disdain and Salma had a moment of peace.

The bagels were stale, and the coffee burned the inside of her mouth, and the articles Salma wrote were of the same, trite nature: sad middle aged suburban couples, typing out their sad middle aged couple problems which Salma would try to mystically solve for them over email, knowing full well it wouldn’t work and they’d send more letters complaining about their endless marriage problems. It was soulless, mind numbing, dulling Salma’s mind and making her office job stretch even longer. Sometimes, she just slept in her cubicle, waking up in short intervals to answer some call or toddle over to the breakroom for badly refrigerated lunch and to talk to Yazzie, who usually took residence by the strange yellow stain at the very back of the room. That was maybe the highlight of her day, if you didn’t count the times Lola the homeless dancer was on the subway and would amuse Salma by doing some trick or other on the poles.

She switched the channel. Star Trek reruns, x-rated movies, the Opera, Law and Order…Salma noted mindlessly as she flipped through the channels. There wasn’t much of note airing that night, not important enough to stick in her exhausted mind, at least.

She reached into her bag of chips- sour cream and onion, the superior flavor of chip in Salma’s eye- and, upon realizing there weren’t any more chips left but her stomach was still rumbling, she sighed. She hauled herself up onto her feet with a grunt. To the fridge then, and then to bed.

Her right leg tingled with electric shock, zapping up and down the limb. Asleep. She banged her foot against the floor once, twice, and thrice for good measure, and when the zapping had numbed down enough for some walking ability, Salma straggled over to the kitchen. The house they’d moved into- and by they, Salma and her parents- was big. Not too big that you could get lost in, big like those houses that could chew you up and no one would notice a thing amiss. But Salma’s house was big enough that they could have a guest bedroom and a flight of stairs and a backyard where her mother could grow squash and her father could sit to read the newspaper.

The kitchen was only a few feet away from the living room, divided only by a short burst of tiled hallway. Salma’s socks made a soft thump noise against the floor as she did her best impression of a tiptoe, then tripped and gave up. The kitchen didn’t have a proper door to it; instead, the archway was covered by a pair of long white curtains with red flowers designed onto it, giving a clear view into the kitchen proper. Sometimes, when the night was too quiet and the shadows too long, Salma would peer inside for a minute, into the deep dark, before reaching a tentative hand into the room to sneak against the wall and flick on the overhead light.

The light, after such a long time sitting in near darkness, was burning to Salma’s eyes, and she blinked away at the little spots that danced in her vision before walking into, and promptly bumping her hip, against the sharp corner of the kitchen counter. “Gah,” she intoned in response, despondent and lifeless. The sharp stab faded after a good minute, and Salma rubbed it a second before, discerning that there was no bruising, moved back on to the fridge.

Throwing it open, she was a bit disappointed at the quarry. Dried fish, beef and gourd, pickles, rice, all the makings of a proper meal, but that wasn’t what Salma felt like. She wasn’t too hungry, but just hungry enough that a small little snack would fill in the hollowed trenches of her bowels. A boring hunger for Salma. Nothing that called for a great meal of flavor and quality, but just some garbage that would go in and after a great deal of trying, come back out in the morning.

She grabbed a can of cream cheese. It was almost empty, but a few spoonfuls lay at the bottom of it. Salma grabbed the smallest spoon she could find on the drying rack and upon finding one that was suitable, dipped it in and began to eat.

The faint wail of sirens filled the air outside. Salma paid it no mind. The first couple of times had stirred something like excitement in her as she pressed her face to the window, wondering if something horrid was occurring. Not that she, you know, wanted something horrid to happen to her neighbors, most of whom were perfectly sweet and kind and who always said hi to Salma when she stepped out of her house in the morning. No, no, surely not!

But life had gotten so…boring. Monotonous. Salma needed something to shake up her carefully crafted routine. Something interesting to wake up to in the morning, to spy her neighbors gossiping about from their porches and on the trash laden street and that Salma could bite her teeth into.

No such luck though. No divorces, no elopements, no wedlock or run away child or anything. The sirens that swept through the neighborhood every few weeks were meant for the old folks in the local senior center whenever they faced a little medical hiccup- or a bigger medical hiccup, like that time Ms. Dempsey had a stroke in the small hours of the morning. She came back two days after though, still her old sour self who scowled at the little kids that played soccer on the street or the little boys that raced their scooters in the parking lot behind the church.

The Sanders Case might have screwed up her sense of interesting. Hunting down a serial killer that had kept New Yorkers on the tips of their toes, eyes peeled backwards- that had been interesting. Some old woman’s fifth cheating boyfriend wasn’t. Standing single file for cold coffee grounds wasn’t interesting. Sitting on Zara’s couch as her best friend since fucking forever talked over her and above her and at her but never to her wasn’t interesting.
Salma had finished the cream cheese before she’d even realized it, and was shocked out of her thoughts when her teeth hit the cold steel of the spoon. It made a clicking sound, resounding through her gums, and Salma held onto it. Let the shock tumble through her as she remembered hard punches to her face in an alleyway and blue lights flickering over and over again and the pure, untarnished feeling of victory for once and for all.

She realized she was being just a bit Strange and, begrudgingly, rinsed the fork off and threw the empty carton of cream cheese in the trash before sitting on the counter. Sleep was but a far off specter, close but not close enough. Salma closed her eyes and rested her head on the cold counter to beckon her further, but she declined. Roused herself up from her perch, and trudged to the living room and onto the couch. Again, she rested her head on a saggy blue pillow and attempted to drift off, but her mind was firmly set to awake mode.

Fuck it. Salma could have gone upstairs and gotten properly ready for bed: washed off a day's worth of makeup from her face, brushed her teeth, changed her clothes, and sink into the softness of her bed. Instead, she sat up and stared off into the darkness.

Sanders’ court trial was in a few weeks. To determine his prison sentence, the length of it, yadda yadda, all that jazz. It was to be expected, but what was irking Salma wasn’t the thought of Sanders and the blood on his hand and the way he tried to- no. No, what was irking Salma was the fact that, despite the two years of her life she’d dedicated to hunting him down, to stalking his every move and staring at the graves of the girls, she wasn’t covering the case. Adeline was covering it, for some reason, even though it was rightfully Salma’s.

She was a thief, in all manner of the word. She’d use Salma’s evidence, Salma’s work, Salma’s pride, and twist it in her claws for her own needs. Salma would be lucky if she got a single mention in that article. Adeline had overtaken her, becoming Prescott’s golden girl when that position was Salma’s.

It was stupid to get worked up over. The Prescott was a third rate paper, the only story of note from three years ago. They were running out of funding, which meant that sooner or later it would shut down and each one of its reporters and editors and laymen would be out of a job, including Salma. Adeline could be it’s star, Salma didn’t genuinely give a fuck! She could go on and find a better paper to work at- maybe even the New Yorker, she was good enough for that- and Adeline would just rot with the Daily Prescott and sink in the inky ocean of journalism.

It was always, always people like Adeline who got everything in life. Unworthy, undeserving, thieves and liars all. And people like Salma, good, honest, hard workers, were left to starve in the wayside, with naught but a scrap thrown to them.

Salma opened her laptop, and all but ripped the front side off. Her laptop was a pile of junk but it was sturdy junk, and it had cost a pretty penny, which meant that Salma, for all her rage, couldn’t quite decapitate it yet. Calmer, slower. She set it down on the coffee table and after a few minutes of whirring, she was logged in.

If she wasn’t going to go to sleep, she might as well get some work done. Check her email, finish this week's advice column, and look for a new job to get ready for the Prescott’s inevitable demise. Easy peasy. And tomorrow, if all went smoothly, she could take a long nap in her spinny chair, the silent typing of her cell mates lulling her into a deep sleep. Perfect.

Her email loaded. She scanned through each one briefly. Coupons, scams, website notifications, blah blah blah..and then one stuck out.

SUBJECT: IMPORTANT

Salma rolled her eyes. Probably Adeline, trying to scare her into meeting their next deadline. Then, she checked the sender, and frowned. Not Adeline? Jennie Martinez, in fact, and Salma knew no Jennie Martinez’s.

Spam. Salma should have deleted it- it was probably some insurance fraud, talking about how she only had fourteen days left to invest in so on and so forth or else her insurance would be taken over and oh no she’d have to pay for all her doctor’s appointments herself. Whatever. Normal, non strange, non interesting, and not important things.

Salma read the email. And as she saw the desperation with which it was written, the way the fear snaked off of the email into the night air, a tight knot formed in her stomach and she had to swallow air back into her from how hard she was holding her breath.

The night seemed so much quieter.

Salma clicked off the email. Clicked back on it. Refreshed the page, and for three agonizing minutes, her mouse turned into a loop and whirled and the page froze into a beige medley before reforming, the gigabytes bursting with code, and the email was still there. Real, and not a sleep addled hallucination.

Salma bit her lip and worried it. Was this a prank? A shitty prank, by some teens who wanted to give her the spooks? Surely that was it; Salma didn’t know why someone would send her an email like that. Maybe three years ago, sure. But she hadn’t done any serious investigative journalism in years, and besides, her name was no longer mentioned in the news besides the throw away court special that aired sometimes on the Judge and Jury channel.
There were others more suitable for this line of work. More famous, with more connections, and with so much more to gain. Especially if you were going up against Vargas. Salma didn’t know much about them- she knew they produced her moms Metformin. She knew about the rather unsavory rumors that followed the company, from how they (allegedly) collaborated with the CIA to orchestrate the crack epidemic of the 80’s and how they (allegedly) dumped all their cast off waste into the local water supply and all other bits and bobbles of horror Vargas had done in the past.

Salma didn’t know if any of it was true. Oh, she suspected, and to her that was basically the truth. In journalism though, suspicions were nothing without proof. And Vargas was very, very good at getting rid of any unsavory proof (again, allegedly).

Vargas was a killer, after all.

Six other people had gotten the email. She knew nothing of a J. Kang, and after realizing the J stood for Janna, still drew up blanks. A cursory search online pulled up Janna Kang in: sports, medicine, biochemical engineering, dance, and photojournalism- wedding photography, specifically. She had a really nice portfolio too, Salma noted as she scrolled through each photo. Wonderful use of light. But wonderful enough to help on what was seemingly a case of horrific corruption and murder? Only time had to tell.

Dawson drew up even more blanks. Salma racked her mind for every possible meaning for the A. Alisson? Amy? Anthony? Each combination drew nothing but profiles of smiling brown haired women with pearly white teeth and little brown dogs named Captain Snudgins or something, and none of them seemed to have any history of photojournalism. Or Salma got linked to soccer matches filled with sweaty athletes who probably smelt of axe body spray and pure depression, who also seemed to have no links to journalism at all. A. Dawson just seemed to be a dead end, a question mark, an empty space with nothing to color them in.

So far, not the most promising list of characters. A possibly fake person and a wedding photographer. Amazing odds.

Her mind buzzed when she focused on another name though- A. Guiraud. Alice Guiraud, the journalist messiah, with a mommy whose pockets were lined with gold and a wealth of “investigative” reports to her name. She’d gotten her start in high school (like Salma) and she was around her late 20’s (like Salma), but that was where the differences began to diverge. She’d gotten into fancy private schools and traveled the world with her french passport and had a little journalism blog that exploded into a huge one overnight. All “allegedly” by her own work.
Pah.
Salma, of course, had no proof, nothing to stake her claims on. It was all alleged, of course! And Salma wasn’t going to deny she showed talent and promise, because despite how badly Salma wanted to say Alice was a quack, she wasn't. She had a partial spark of talent to back up some of her horrid fame.

Still, the principle of it all seemed to be lost in the case of Alice.

Killian Rivera was a vaguely familiar name to Salma, but she didn’t know where. The news, maybe? A moment of confusion and a few searches online didn’t yield any more results- he was a dead end like Dawson, but where Dawson seemed to be scrubbed off the internet entirely, Rivera seemed to have all too many hits, all out of the US.

At the very least, she was semi familiar with Navidson. Prometheus Corporation, Project Eden, 4chan and a court date, all that jazz. She’d read his article, thought it was good, complained to her friends about how unfair the court trial was for him, and promptly forgot about the whole scandal a few months later as news coverage of it wound down and Salma got swept up into the monotony of schoolwork and actual work. Hell, she hadn’t even known he’d been released from prison.

Which begged the question, why the hell would this mysterious Martinez send the email to a former convict? She supposed he was convicted for a worthy crime, sure, but he’d been out of the business for what, ten years?

Bacsik was in the same boat as Salma, it seemed. Lifestyle writer, did a piece on weirdo alien cultists once. Cool stuff, dull stuff, annoying stuff. Typical lifestyle writer trite.

There was no..cohesive theme for whoever this Martinez had picked to send the email to. Salma knew not a soul on the list, and not a soul knew her. Maybe that was the same for all of them, which begged the question: why them?

Maybe she was just picking people off of the top of her head. The desperation, the pure panic in the email- hell, Salma would do that too. But that would have been friends or family, not reporters and fake identities and wedding photographers, none of whom knew her personally.

Salma re-read the email. I don't have time to reply to any emails you will send to this. Salma typed up a reply- are you alive- and deleted it. Retyped it again, this time a what? Deleted it again before finally settling on sending an ok back, which she regretted as soon as she saw that it sent.

That was a dumb move. Really fucking stupid. Like, winning the stupid award at the dumbass fair kind of stupid.
And Salma felt herself get…excited, over it. Vargas knew who she was now, knew who they all were, and would hunt them- her- down over such a cryptid email. This was a story, true and meaty and dripping off the edges with mystery, something she could sink her teeth into. Something to hold onto, and bite, and pull apart at the seams.

It was macabre. A person- six people- were probably dead. She’d probably fucked her life over twice. She didn’t know any of the prospective people the email was sent to, or if they were even going to show up.

But Salma was a journalist, through and through, and she’d never, ever miss a scoop.

*******
The town was tiny. Quaint. It could even be cute, in the right lighting, with the sun glowing in the sky and the birds chirping in the air.

Frankly, the lighting as of right now was non-existent. Gray clouds covered the sky like a sort of haphazard bandage, strangling what little light there was to glean. It was foggy and chilly and smelled like rain was on the way. Salma’s beat up ford bounced over the bump laden street (which was probably a safety violation) underneath the dimming streetlights, spaced out few and far between.

The place was almost abandoned, all covered up buildings and yellowing boards and the rare staring local. This far into middle America, Salma knew they probably hadn’t seen anyone as gorgeous as her in ages, but still! The staring could leave one with thinner skin frightened!

The diner was just up ahead, and looked as dead as the rest of the town. A beautiful corpse, Sleeping Beauty amongst the trees, all ready for Salma. She parked the rattling bag of bolts in the deserted parking lot- well, almost deserted. She could count two other vehicles parked a bit of a ways from where she was.

They’re here. Salma shouldn’t feel this excited over what may be the worst few months of her life, but still, a childlike giddiness gathered in her stomach and she had to tamper down on a full blown laugh, lest she scare the rats running about in the bush.

Salma had been on the road for a few days now, stopping only when necessary. She’d left her home right when her parents had woken up, suitcases all prepared and freshly primped for the long days ahead. Salma had run out of the house with a rushed explanation, but she doubted her parents minded too much. Hell, they were probably glad to be rid of their grown daughter for a while.

Salma looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was old, a couple days old, and if she thought too long about how it was seeping into her pores and caking her skin she felt a flow crawl descend from somewhere in her throat, so she ignored it. Her hair was a bit tangled, her clothes a bit rumpled, and her mascara was beginning to stick together, but overall, she seemed mostly fine. She took her handy dandy safety pin and stabbed the needle in between her eyelashes to freshen the look up a bit, and upon pulling away and running a hand down her shirt, concluded that she looked satisfactory enough to step out of the car and face the world.

The diner was all but secluded. There were the lone waitresses, one smoking at the front and one sipping coffee in the back. There were sticky menus, old and well used- by who? Salma would normally deduce it was one of the locals but honestly, judging from the state of the town, she wasn’t sure there were any locals. Still, she grabbed one, if only to skim it and see if there was something worth eating.

A table smack dab in the center of the room, seated only two people who just seemed content to sit there in silence. The table itself was probably meant for eight people, so that was probably it. Salma turned back to the counter to the sleepy teen manning the till, ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon meringue pie, took a deep breath, and walked to the table, excitement boiling in her all the way.

 

[tieflinq]

Alice is in New York when the email arrives. She hadn't intended to be - there was a press conference in Paris that she had been eager to attend, a beautiful linen suit waiting to be collected from the drycleaners, a date with a handsome-enough young man who would require only one or two more dates before he gave Alice unfettered access to the inner workings of la forteresse de Bercy. In short, she had had little desire to travel to America for at least a month. Well, at least a week. The date could be rescheduled, she supposed. But then her father had phoned and informed her that he had a reservation at Alice's favourite seafood restaurant and nobody else to go with, and then she was in Manhattan, licking black truffle vinaigrette from the tines of her fork while Papa told her about his latest merger.

There could be worse reasons to be in New York, really.

At one point in the evening, he asks about her work. He asks about 'that kid' that had vanished, and it takes Alice a second to realise he's talking about a middle-aged reporter with a wife and a mortgage. He means the man whose research is festering, unwanted and unignorable, on Alice's hard drive. She allows herself one final moment to enjoy the rich sea urchin bouillabaisse before she makes her excuses. "Papa, I'm hardly a - a sleuth. If he had been looking into corruption, finances, shareholders - eh, I could make something of it. But these... disappearances. They're hardly something I can do something about. It is impossible to imagine me freeing girls from the kidnapper's lair, n'est-ce pas?" Her practiced daddy's-girl pout and exasperated eyeroll prompts a warm laugh from her father, which is exactly what she'd hoped for. He always seems to favour her when she leans into the caricature of a mogul's daughter - a little Veruca Salt, a little mafia princess, nothing but blonde hair and air-headed ideals, something unthreatening and cosseted, content to sit and purr at his feet and dine on his expensive scraps. She has no shame in it, really. For every night that she wakes up in a cold sweat, breaking free of nightmares of her father's jowls drooping from her own cheeks, there are a dozen more like this, where she enjoys truffled langoustine and crisp champagne. These nights are more than worth the others.

She complains that her apartment will be cold and dusty, that he hadn't given her enough time to arrange for it to be prepared for her return, and he offers to book her a hotel. Obviously, she puts up a little resistance, but it's a token gesture at this point. When he leans through the window of her cab to kiss her forehead and say goodbye, he says, "Really, Ali. Think about the Vargas shit. You can't spend the rest of your life chasing after rich guys in suits. You're gonna start to look like a Commie." She must visibly balk, because he ploughs on. "Missing girls are the kinda thing that get people Pulitzers. Don't you want one of them, honey? Don't you think it'll make your old man proud?" There's nothing Alice can do but smile and nod, and he finally lets her pull away and start to roll up her window, offering his final words. "Tell your mother I said hi."

Alice does not yet know that she may never see him again.

Up in the hotel room, where everything is dizzingly white and bare, she stands on the balcony and smokes. Does she want a Pulitzer? Not particularly. If she gains a reputation as being one of those reporters, she'll be inundated with more of the same jobs, and she has no desire to spend the rest of her life writing articles that are published beneath greyscale autopsy photos and poignant high school yearbook scans. She wants to write about... something else. Something better. About men like her father, who funnel endless money into useless children and glossy wives. About men like her cancelled date, who spend days shaking hands with greedy tycoons and nights with their hands tight arounds throats and wrists and waists. She hates it. She hates this. Uselessly, just to have something to do, she stubs her cigarette out on the balcony rail, and then flicks it over into the night air. Maybe she just needs to go to bed.

Alice is sat cross-legged with her laptop cradled across her thighs. The bed is a monstrous thing, bloated with pillows and layers of thin cotton sheets like an expensive pastry, and she already feels herself sinking into the too-soft mattress as she scrolls through her inbox. There's nothing she particularly cares to read tonight. Her mother and father are both regular presences in her inbox - as is her agent, her account manager, and approximately zero friends. The closest thing to friendship that she finds is an email from her gentleman caller, and she promptly deletes that after the hotel wifi has loaded the attached photo of his alarmingly-red penis. Everything feels unreal, somehow. She is aware of a certain thinness of the air, like she's perched at a mountain summit, and a sensation in her skull that makes her worry that it might abruptly detach and float up into the ceiling fan. It is with this sense hanging over her, this bright white sheet drawn over her senses like a shroud over a corpse, that Alice sees the unknown sender that has somehow evaded her spam filters. Usually, this would be deleted with the same swift execution as Julian's engorged photo had been, but she decides to embrace the strangeness curdling around her and clicks Open.

Ah. Vargas.

What is it that they say about Chekhov's gun? An element that is introduced earlier in a narrative must gain some importance later on. She thinks about her father, about 'that kid', about the missing girls - and all the others, too, if the research she's been gifted is anything to be believed. Alice wonders if this is the gunshot, or simply the click of the safety being taken off. She spares no time for the other recipients of the email, having never cared much for the people she shares her industry with, and instead begins to look for flights - courtesy of her father's credit card, the number long-since memorised.

Don't you think it'll make your old man proud?

Alice doubts that Papa would be proud if he could see the diner that she now stands outside of, smoking a final cigarette with sharp pulls that burn her throat. No longer crystalline and strange, the air now clings to her greasily, almost tangible - almost tasteable. It's far too late to turn back, though she deeply wishes that she could. Her only hope is that she can tick a few boxes by being here and make an escape as quickly as possible. She could be on a flight back to Paris tomorrow. This could all be over very soon.

Flicking her cigarette butt onto the floor and opening the diner's door in one motion, Alice brings a sweep of smoke and smoggy air into the diner with her. It takes a moment for her to discern the difference between truckers and journalists, something which gives her a sense of anguish as she thinks of the besuited reporters that she is used to conferencing with, but once she's sure, she crosses the room to take a seat with them. Her eyes are dark and curious as she glances to each face in turn, belatedly recognising Navidson with a rush of adrenaline, before she decides to use her excellent manners to break the charged silence.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," she says delicately, her international-school-American devoid of any indication that she was in Paris barely 48 hours ago. "I hope that this will be a productive meeting for us."