hummingbird sister-slayer (cremnomys) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-05-26 22:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, elvira treveil |
people are dying, i close my blinds. all that i know is i'm breathing.
Who: Elvira Treveil.
What: Taking the scenic route to work.
When: Today, early morning.
Where: Commoners District Park.
Rating: PG.
Status: Complete narrative.
Posting about the weather on Emillion's communication network had not jinxed her plans for the remainder of the week. The morning rolled along as predicted, bright and breezy, the perfect weather for to take in the signs of spring. Elvira Treveil rose, as was her routine, to a sky dappled with the last stars before dawn. She dressed in her Sunday best for mass, like pastel camouflage for elderly ladies that attended with their white lace gloves for their wrinkled, bulging veins and cloying powder-rose perfume for their deteriorating sense of smell and monogrammed handkerchiefs to hold to their mouths as they shake heads. Somewhere below her, the EKP bustled about in the sewers, switching the night shift for the morning. Fellow early risers – joggers making their morning run or shopkeepers heading to open up in the Bazaar – chatted around her about the recent news. Deaths. Disappearances. Fodder for gossip. And this was routine to her as well -- all statistics and business to be analyzed and recorded. To the untrained eye, this was an entirely normal morning. But those who knew how and where to look might find something else entirely. Today, Elvira opted for a scenic route to the Cathedral as she often did in spring; and after her post gushing about the park, her choice was hardly unpredictable. Predictability worked in her advantage. Passersby became unknowing witnesses, able to place her in this time and place out of the corner of their eye. She made sure to nod at owner of the newspaper stand; she swept back the hair of a boy selling colorful pinwheels after she pretended it was his stubbornness that won her purchase; she smiled at the young woman peddling flowers and fruits, before buying a bouquet for herself, for the church. She was there at the park. She was there. With each step, each breath, she was undeniably and obviously there. There was no need to deny it. After all, Elvira had nothing to hide. Nothing except a slip of paper tucked into the cuff of her sleeve. While her compatriots busied themselves with patrols and idle chatter (about her supposed sexual exploits no less), she was waiting and watching and writing. She drafted up a message the night before, consolidating what she felt was relevant out of the information that trickled down to her. Using a basic but efficient code, Elvira transposed her chosen words into: HMohMzMhN54dj3bvpDLkQc2aT1RLUI27o4pxror4 It was a crude encryption, but Elvira saw no reason to stray from what worked well enough. Looping and curving, the nonsensical jumble of letters and numbers created a pattern, like intricate textiles from another century. Beauty in the code came from confusion and solution. Elvira stepped along a narrow stone-paved walkway, towards a wooden gazebo shrouded by trees. In one deft movement, she transferred the note from her sleeve to the fist clenched around her bundle of daffodils. As she passed a birdhouse, her heel caught between the cracks of the path, causing the knight to shift her balance. Throwing her arms out, she grabbed the nearby birdhouse, loosening her hold on the flowers and children's toy. Slipping her fingertips into the miniature door, she felt as the strip of paper fall out of her clutches. Birds sang chirps of encouragement and approval as she steadied herself. When she reached the gazebo, Elvira bent over to check the condition of her shoes, not a Fighter's footwear by any means, feigning concern over the scuffs. She muttered a quick joke about her silly clumsiness and considered faking another misstep, in case anyone was listening before setting off. It began to rain as she left the park. Her heart fluttered as she was now a note lighter though weighed down by her drenched clothes. (How did hummingbirds fly gracefully in the rain, she wondered.) One hand held her bouquet over her eyes as a makeshift visor, her fingers covering the obituaries section of the newspaper that wrapped the flowers. The other hand swung back and forth, grasping the pinwheel, as she trudged through the mud. She turned left at the gates and made her way to the intersection of Rue Verdante and 35th . While waiting for the lights to turn, she jammed the pinwheel the nearby trashcan causing it to get stuck at an angle along the top edge. A sloppy move – or so it seemed – that she had no time to correct as the traffic stilled for a moment and the pedestrians had their turn to cross the road. An aircab rushed by behind her, blocking the view out the corner of her eye of the small toy she left behind. Her mind worked in absolutes and the uncertainty of her profession stirred a part of her she was wont to ignore. Faith. Have faith. Elvira held her breath for a half-second but she didn't – she couldn't – turn back to look. People don't look twice at trash. |