It feels like I've been buried underneath all the weight of the world. Who: Capitalism (laissez_faire) [Narrative] What: SAR mission ensues. Where: New York When: Winter, 1850. Warnings: None.
His fingers subconsciously curled, creasing the material in his pockets as a chilly blast of wind blazed down the road, temperatures plummeting as the sun set late in the morning. There were harsher winters in New York, but following a particularly warm autumn it was not pleasant weather to be braving.
Among the masses, Kevin Gallagher was an ordinary face passing down the busy, dirty streets; just a man in a suit beneath an overcoat, gloved hands buried inside the large coat's pockets, walking at the same hurried pace as everyone else toward a destination only he knew.
When he was in the heart of the financial district, though, people started noticing him. It was no surprise - since the popularisation of newspapers in the past few decades, it was the fastest way news could travel. And Kevin Gallagher, himself owning large shares in the newspaper publication industry, was a prominent figure in the financial realm; he was one of the wealthiest men alive and invested heavily in just about everything worth investing in. If they didn't know his face around these parts, they definitely knew his name.
The depression was over and the Communist Manifesto had been published; things were looking promising for Capitalism. Today, however, he was not here to meet with entrepeneurs and eager businessmen and sign paperwork with them - he wanted information.
"Mister Gallagher! What can I get for you, sir?"
"Just the usual; thanks."
A pot of tea and the newspaper, waiting for the empty seat across from him to be filled. When it was, there was no new information to be had. But Capitalism was not frustrated, nor impatient - he was only speeding along the inevitable. What he wanted, he would get.
"'e's just a lil' boy, about yay high," the scruffy-looking man said, the height indicated by his hand no higher than his waist.
"Very light hair - blond, almost white-lookin'. 'e comes by from time t' time, but this ain't 'is part of town. 'e's a slippery lil' basterd - if I see 'im again, 'e's yers."
He left the read newspapers on the table and the coins beneath the saucer. With a nod toward the barista he stepped back out into the cold again.
As he made his way down the footpath, his pace slowed down a little as he heard something snapping beneath the sole of his shoe. Turning to look behind him, over his shoulder onto the floor, he glanced at the insignificant smear on the pavement before turning back to watch the path ahead.
It was just a matchbox, flattened and tattered, with a couple of broken matchsticks inside.