Careful, be careful; this is where the world drops off [Locked]

[silkandstone]

Den Varlis is in the park. He's sitting, legs crossed, on the bench he's designated as Christopher Clark's favored reading spot, leafing idly through a file that contains pages of notes and pictures of buildings and surveillance shots of faces, hard to distinguish upside-down. He's making no secret of his presence or the file's contents. There are

Comments

[sarkraticmethod]

Sark has spent most of his time over the last few weeks absorbed in finding out who sent those damn flowers. The CLF or whoever crucifying a girl is, apparently, just one more tiny blip of unpleasantness in a large assortment of them as far as he's concerned and does not need his notice. Bristow's been investigating it on his own, as if he's afraid of even sending the agents he doesn't like into it

[silkandstone]

"Ragnar Gustaffson Coeur de Lion, isn't it? Possibly a show cat in his past life. His name is ridiculous enough."

Den opens the folder again, leafing through the pages to one covered in neat, hand-written and entirely foreign symbols. He finds it handy, writing in his home language. It's a ready-made code with no cipher but a linguist's skill. "How do you do, Mr. Sark. Lovely weather we're having, wouldn't you say?"

[sarkraticmethod]

Sark can't help but tense at that. Knowing the location of April's grave is bad enough, but knowing his cat is another thing entirely. Rather than sound appalled or shocked, he chooses to sound bitchy and arrogant, given that it's his default state in situations like this. It always makes him sound like he still has the upper hand someone, or so he believes.

"Don't patronize me, Mr. Clark," he responds dryly, stepping forwards, but still not crossing over in front of him. Never let it be said that Sark doesn't keep himself in the position best suited for stabbing the opposition in the back. "I think we're far past the point of playing games. Tell me, was I truly so obvious?"

His heart is racing in his chest. How much else does Clark know? He cranes his neck to see the pages, but the language isn't anything he recognizes. The cryptography genius in him would love to spend hours pouring over those ciphers, however. Whether he'd get anywhere or not is another story, but he'd be willing to try. That's getting way ahead of himself.

[silkandstone]

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Sark. Patronizing you." The degree of sincerity in his voice makes the statement sound ridiculous. Den smiles up at him, an empty-eyed expression of cheerfulness.

"There's a bit of Paradise Lost that reminds me of you, you know. Well, actually, a great deal of Paradise Lost reminds me of you. But the bit in the twelfth book--''till one shall rise
Of proud ambitious heart; who, not content
With fair equality, fraternal state,
Will arrogate dominion undeserved
Over his brethren, and quite dispossess
Concord and law of nature from the earth;
Hunting (and men not beasts shall be his game)'."

His eyes widen, slightly, an expression that on someone else might seem like innocence. "Honest opinions, really. What do you think of the weather we've had of late?"

[rattle_thecages]

Rachel hasn't been back to the park since what happened over a week ago.

She spots Christopher Clark and considers just walking on by. There's something about him she doesn't like, and it's kept her at bay during their short interactions. Short because she keeps them that way.

Something about his posture, not to mention the files, gives her a moment's pause. Rachel's a curious soul. "You look like a man on a mission," she murmurs thoughtfully.

[silkandstone]

The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.

It's a quote he's thought of in irony several times in their previous conversations. Today, his blood is up, caution tempered by the sort of eagerness that he knows to keep a rein on. Patience. The cornerstone of success. Patience, patience, patience.

But there's something in her address and expression that tells him he won't have many more chances with this one. Maybe it's the eagerness talking. Maybe not.

"It is your turn now,
you waited, you were patient.
The time has come,
for us to polish you.
We will transform your inner pearl
into a house of fire.
You're a gold mine.
Did you know that,
hidden in the dirt of the earth?
It is your turn now,
to be placed in fire.
Let us cremate your impurities."

He looks up at her, snapping the folder shut with a warm smile. "Rachel."

[rattle_thecages]

Rachel listens while he recites the poem, one she has heard before and it is only now she has a sinking feeling while listening. She is careful. She is always so careful, never leaving anything ignored, especially not her instincts.

Her instinct is telling her he is not to be trusted.

"Mr. Clark," she says, not quite returning his smile. "I wouldn't have thought it was poetry you were up to. In any case I seem to always interrupt something."

[silkandstone]

"Life is full of interruptions. I've learned to make the most of them. Do sit."

He motions to the bench, his smile not altering an iota. His mask is more or less abandoned for time being--that one, at least. Christopher Clark. Sadly a short-lived persona, though he'll keep the name for now. "How have you been? I'm afraid I've been a bit distracted--I've neglected to retrieve my umbrella from you."