The story veers left, sharply.
The story begins: http://www.livejournal.com/users/dcltdw/14481.html
This branch continued here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/shumashi/25706.html
Prolific sibling branch: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ricedog/1931.html
Silence permeated the room, the twinkling bells having long since announced the lady's departure, yet still the waiter stood motionless. A trickle of moisture beaded and sped down the wall and somewhere outside a boisterous party composed drunken odes to jaedian.
"Huh, you are still breathing. Had me worried there a moment."
With no response forthcoming, the proprietor frowned and moved further into the room. "What?" he prodded. "You're still standing; she tipped well, maybe too well. Is that it?"
"Her aura," the younger man finally choked out. "It's so sudden, and only when she's looking at you. Otherwise you forget. I'd forgotten."
"Well hurry up and do so again, I need you in the back. We're scrambling as it is."
With one last fearful look at the twenty, the waiter followed. His brain registered the now audible sound of machinery, and the cool air necessary to contain it restored his senses. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then slowly let the breath out.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked. "You know we're out of our depth. At least, I am."
"Well I'm not," the girl at the desk responded. "My stuff's all bopeepsheep configured, not top of the line - but equipment is only as good as it's operator. And I'm good - as long as she leaves her cell on, I can track her in the city. I might even get a sneak at the other one...."
"No," ordered the older man from the corner where he was stuffing an old suitcase. "We don't tip anyone to our presence if we can help it. If we haven't already done so. Here," he handed the suitcase to the waiter, ushering him to the back door. "In and of themselves they are not the problem," he explained quietly. "But they're harbingers of doom, and therefore pariahs. If they're here, it's for a reason; something bad is coming... and we're not prepared. So go; deliver this while I run uptown."
As the back door opened and shut twice in quick succession, so did the front. Only more quietly, the bells temporarily hushed. The abandoned bill, a barely legible "merastra" scrawled across its grim portrait, found its way into a pocket already occupied with some smelly cheese.