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Date Posted: 14:06:16 07/22/03 Tue
Author: Ph0tog!
Subject: More Witchblade Game
In reply to: Lark 's message, "Re: Second Round of the Witchblade Game: ATTN ALL" on 07:17:50 07/10/03 Thu

Central Park was not an unfamiliar haunt for Hector Mobius—either by sun or moonlight. Tonight, though, he found this particular corner of it rather overcrowded for his solitary taste. Uniformed and plainclothes police swarmed the underbrush, on the hunt (however inexpert) for something. Large floodlights had even been imported in the ensuing time since the crime to aid in the search and reconnaissance of the scene’s surrounding area.

Disinterested in anything beyond his own quest—indeed, often blinded to anything beyond his own quest, his mind’s focus so narrow, its organization so pristine—Mobius set out through the brush to avoid the crime’s immediate environs altogether, thus eliding any unnecessary curiosity about his attendance upon this part of the city at this inopportune moment.

He slid past a large oak, skirting the violent halogen light from the imported floods. The tiny hairs deep inside his ears stiffened. He ceased any motion.

“Badge number,” a woman’s voice demanded, “and a good excuse for why I haven’t seen your face before.”

Mobius, on a whim (a whim that stunned him, so impervious was he to spontaneity) turned to face the voice. An officer (detective, he intuited) faced him. He could have run. He could have fought. Instead, he provided a valid badge number, slipping into the guise of an easy familiarity with her, as though they were friends—as though he would like them to be something more.

“Stinson,” he introduced himself with an uncharacteristic slow smile, “and I’ve never seen you’re face before either.”

She bought the careless command of his voice, his unintimidated demeanor, his casual disregard of her authority.

“Let’s have your badge number, Detective.”

She complied. “Any luck over here,” she asked. “You’d think,” she quipped—they were brothers-in-arms now—“a head would stick out…like a sore thumb.”

Something inside of him felt generous toward this woman, familiar. She moved with a grace and efficiency—a knowingness—that he admired wherever he found it. She was a woman who could keep a secret. And that, he knew, was something valuable to possess. And so he made a gift to her. “The head is not here,” he told her, truthfully. “He’s taken it with him.”

She nodded her head in agreement, the clues coming together to prove his assessment correct. “You a profiler, then?” she asked.

But the night outside the ring of unnatural light had gone dark, and his momentary whim sated, Mobius was beyond the edge of the Park in an instant, headed deeper into the city. But he was not alone, the whisper of footfalls not an echo of his own reached him within the hectare of his escape from the park. He stopped his run.

“You aided my lady,” Ian Nottingham’s voice came to him. “For that you have my thanks.”

“And for the marks of violence on your person?” Mobius asked, the taunt mild, but sincere.

“I seek answers, not retribution, in return,” Ian promised.

“For now, at least,” Mobius finished the thought.

“Yes,” Nottingham agreed. “For now.”

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