05-29-2014, 01:19 PM
Jensen was doubting whether the guy would show up or not when a four door mini pulled into the parking lot. The back seat was empty, as far as Jensen could tell, and the driver was otherwise alone. Of course. Its not as though they're going to bring a child with them. A wave of sickness threatened to unhinge his balance, but thankfully, not so much as a flicker could be seen behind the helmet's eyeshield. His brow sweat, though, despite the winter temperatures.
He kicked down the stand and dismounted while the contact emerged from the car. To the general witness, the circumstances of such a parking lot meeting was questionable, uncertainly. Although Jensen hoped that nobody in their right mind would imagine the proposed object of exchange.
Jensen paid for the gas with cash, and kept his visor down while he did, so the man at the station would be unable to forward credit card identity on to the illicit individual coming toward him. The man was smaller than Jensen thought he would be, but he had a head on his shoulders that seemed awkwardly large. Dark hair jut out from under the sides of a winter hat pulled tight around his ears. He was warmly dressed in a long, downy coat and wore old gloves. A gutteral voice reminiscent of northern DIII greeted him.
"Svane sent you?"
He struck out a hand in greeting. Jensen recognized the name from the tag on the gas attendant's shirt. He didn't reply but to nod his head yes and cross his arms. Jensen had no desire to shake this man's hand.
The man looked Jensen up and down and snorted a laugh. "You certainly are not cop.
" His accent undulated with mock harshness. Jensen shook his head no, and again, did not speak. His heart pounded warning in his chest, though.
"Then come. We go shopping. You buy something else to ride!"
His laughter barked as he turned, pointed a small device at the car and locked it up. Jensen looked side to side, and started to return to the bike.
"No."
The man interrupted, waving his gloved hands for Jensen to follow. "We walk."
It was a short, yet somehow eternal distance they walked in awkward silence. Jensen, with his white helmet striped by black and yellow barely acknowledged the man that had gone on to introduce himself as Baronej. Means to pay had to be proven, to which Jensen responded by flashing a folded over chunk of Custody dollars without fear he would be mugged for it. Unlike in the deal that bought him the motorcycle, he recalled with hidden grimace.
The building was closer than expected. It reminded him of the sort of place he lived before Doulou provided him with the loft; the kind of place young Katya still lived with that beast in the basement. The thought's resultant swelling of guilt was soon replaced with horror when he was led into the third floor.
He submitted himself to a big man with football-sized arms for a weapons' pat-down, which of course they found none, and nobody cared that he left his helmet on his head. The man in a white and yellow bike jacket and matching helmet was nothing to them but another customer. Like Baronej guessed, Jensen was definitely not a cop.
What was once the third floor apartments were now a series of endless interconnected rooms. A group of men playing cards did not look up as he passed by. The next room had a woman sitting behind a computer, diligently working on something. The next was a well-stocked kitchen, and a man with long blonde hair that kind of reminded him of Tony was making a sandwich.
Then there was the corridor itself. A man with a thick beard and burrowing eyes was seated at the entrance. A military-style semi-automatic rifle lay across his lap. Jensen picked up the pace and followed Baronej. Behind the anonymity of his helmet's chin bar, he licked his lips. The lack of air circulation beaded sweat down his neck.
The doors likely led to former apartments, all shut now like university dormitories, yet still bearing their original address numbers nailed in the wall alongside. Jensen shuttered to think how organized these people were. Of course Baronej was asking him questions. What did he want: boy? girl? young? pubescent? dark? white? Asian? They had every product under the sun, and if they didn't, it could be acquired in a matter of days. Baronej's flippant use of 'it' or 'product' shuddered Jensen's soul a mournful ache, but he couldn't save them all.
Baronej took his silence with a frown, and drummed his hands on his sides like a used-car salesman getting no where with a stubborn customer. "Fine,"
he finally broke the silence and waved Jensen to one of the doors. This one was numbered 3J.
In place of the peep hole was a flap that opened from outside, which after opening, Baronej peered in like a jailer checking on his prisoners. He waved Jensen closer, and pointed that he examine what was inside.
Somehow, Jensen felt his own feet carry him forward. He wanted no more to look through than to gaze through the portal into hell.
Jensen's fists curled up into balls at his sides. His bike gloves creaked under the strain, but he managed to not turn and slam Baronej into the wall despite how much he wanted to hurt the man for pushed product like cheap drugs.
Baronej winked, proud, then around Jensen for the doorknob and ushered him inside. Baronej would leave him in there, alone, but not before a word of warning: "You break, you buy."
Like a true car-salesman offering a test-drive.
Jensen swallowed, and turned in a slow circle. Technically, he was far from alone. The second Baronej sealed him inside, he drew the Wallet from one zippered pocket and sent a message to someone he prayed would help.
Are you busy? he asked of Connor. Because I really need your help.
While he waited for the reply, he crossed to one of the cots shoved against the wall. A small boy had sat up when Baronej's talking likely woke him. His feet dangled from the side, though they did not touch the ground.
"You want to play a game?"
he asked, tone sad and expectant. Jensen shook his head 'no' and went to kneel by the lad. He cupped the boy's head in his palms, and the glory that filled Jensen's soul crossed the divide into the child's. For a terrible, wondrous moment, all the boy's wounds, tears, and aches were his. Jensen's soul wept with sorrow; for the child and for humanity. The lad gasped, and immediately his eyes widened. Joy split his mouth into a smile. He was too young to understand, surely, what had happened, but he lept into Jensen's arms and hugged him as tight as those twig-like limbs could hug.
That little body broke his heart, and Jensen hugged him back as though he were comforting his own sons. Finally, he set the child back on his cot and spoke for the first time since arriving. "Are there others?"
he asked quietly, attempting to muffle his accent as he did. The child nodded emphatically and pointed at what Jensen thought was a closet door.
"Thank you,"
he said, and gestured that the lad get his things together, if he had any, and try to remain quiet.
Just before pushing open the door, a ding came from Jensen's wallet. Connor had written him back, but it was the boy's second question that gave Jensen pause: "Are you a super hero?"
Jensen thought for a moment, and finally shook his head yes.
He kicked down the stand and dismounted while the contact emerged from the car. To the general witness, the circumstances of such a parking lot meeting was questionable, uncertainly. Although Jensen hoped that nobody in their right mind would imagine the proposed object of exchange.
Jensen paid for the gas with cash, and kept his visor down while he did, so the man at the station would be unable to forward credit card identity on to the illicit individual coming toward him. The man was smaller than Jensen thought he would be, but he had a head on his shoulders that seemed awkwardly large. Dark hair jut out from under the sides of a winter hat pulled tight around his ears. He was warmly dressed in a long, downy coat and wore old gloves. A gutteral voice reminiscent of northern DIII greeted him.
"Svane sent you?"
He struck out a hand in greeting. Jensen recognized the name from the tag on the gas attendant's shirt. He didn't reply but to nod his head yes and cross his arms. Jensen had no desire to shake this man's hand.
The man looked Jensen up and down and snorted a laugh. "You certainly are not cop.
" His accent undulated with mock harshness. Jensen shook his head no, and again, did not speak. His heart pounded warning in his chest, though.
"Then come. We go shopping. You buy something else to ride!"
His laughter barked as he turned, pointed a small device at the car and locked it up. Jensen looked side to side, and started to return to the bike.
"No."
The man interrupted, waving his gloved hands for Jensen to follow. "We walk."
It was a short, yet somehow eternal distance they walked in awkward silence. Jensen, with his white helmet striped by black and yellow barely acknowledged the man that had gone on to introduce himself as Baronej. Means to pay had to be proven, to which Jensen responded by flashing a folded over chunk of Custody dollars without fear he would be mugged for it. Unlike in the deal that bought him the motorcycle, he recalled with hidden grimace.
The building was closer than expected. It reminded him of the sort of place he lived before Doulou provided him with the loft; the kind of place young Katya still lived with that beast in the basement. The thought's resultant swelling of guilt was soon replaced with horror when he was led into the third floor.
He submitted himself to a big man with football-sized arms for a weapons' pat-down, which of course they found none, and nobody cared that he left his helmet on his head. The man in a white and yellow bike jacket and matching helmet was nothing to them but another customer. Like Baronej guessed, Jensen was definitely not a cop.
What was once the third floor apartments were now a series of endless interconnected rooms. A group of men playing cards did not look up as he passed by. The next room had a woman sitting behind a computer, diligently working on something. The next was a well-stocked kitchen, and a man with long blonde hair that kind of reminded him of Tony was making a sandwich.
Then there was the corridor itself. A man with a thick beard and burrowing eyes was seated at the entrance. A military-style semi-automatic rifle lay across his lap. Jensen picked up the pace and followed Baronej. Behind the anonymity of his helmet's chin bar, he licked his lips. The lack of air circulation beaded sweat down his neck.
The doors likely led to former apartments, all shut now like university dormitories, yet still bearing their original address numbers nailed in the wall alongside. Jensen shuttered to think how organized these people were. Of course Baronej was asking him questions. What did he want: boy? girl? young? pubescent? dark? white? Asian? They had every product under the sun, and if they didn't, it could be acquired in a matter of days. Baronej's flippant use of 'it' or 'product' shuddered Jensen's soul a mournful ache, but he couldn't save them all.
Baronej took his silence with a frown, and drummed his hands on his sides like a used-car salesman getting no where with a stubborn customer. "Fine,"
he finally broke the silence and waved Jensen to one of the doors. This one was numbered 3J.
In place of the peep hole was a flap that opened from outside, which after opening, Baronej peered in like a jailer checking on his prisoners. He waved Jensen closer, and pointed that he examine what was inside.
Somehow, Jensen felt his own feet carry him forward. He wanted no more to look through than to gaze through the portal into hell.
Jensen's fists curled up into balls at his sides. His bike gloves creaked under the strain, but he managed to not turn and slam Baronej into the wall despite how much he wanted to hurt the man for pushed product like cheap drugs.
Baronej winked, proud, then around Jensen for the doorknob and ushered him inside. Baronej would leave him in there, alone, but not before a word of warning: "You break, you buy."
Like a true car-salesman offering a test-drive.
Jensen swallowed, and turned in a slow circle. Technically, he was far from alone. The second Baronej sealed him inside, he drew the Wallet from one zippered pocket and sent a message to someone he prayed would help.
Are you busy? he asked of Connor. Because I really need your help.
While he waited for the reply, he crossed to one of the cots shoved against the wall. A small boy had sat up when Baronej's talking likely woke him. His feet dangled from the side, though they did not touch the ground.
"You want to play a game?"
he asked, tone sad and expectant. Jensen shook his head 'no' and went to kneel by the lad. He cupped the boy's head in his palms, and the glory that filled Jensen's soul crossed the divide into the child's. For a terrible, wondrous moment, all the boy's wounds, tears, and aches were his. Jensen's soul wept with sorrow; for the child and for humanity. The lad gasped, and immediately his eyes widened. Joy split his mouth into a smile. He was too young to understand, surely, what had happened, but he lept into Jensen's arms and hugged him as tight as those twig-like limbs could hug.
That little body broke his heart, and Jensen hugged him back as though he were comforting his own sons. Finally, he set the child back on his cot and spoke for the first time since arriving. "Are there others?"
he asked quietly, attempting to muffle his accent as he did. The child nodded emphatically and pointed at what Jensen thought was a closet door.
"Thank you,"
he said, and gestured that the lad get his things together, if he had any, and try to remain quiet.
Just before pushing open the door, a ding came from Jensen's wallet. Connor had written him back, but it was the boy's second question that gave Jensen pause: "Are you a super hero?"
Jensen thought for a moment, and finally shook his head yes.