Who: Ben, open if wanted :D Where: His flat in Calais When: Monday evening What: Ben is still in shock
The day had got off to a damn good start, actually. For one, the power was back on, which was always good if you wanted coffee and some time out for reading. Naturally, he'd been worried about the people he knew had been affected by whatever fit of mass delusion had overtaken them, but the light going on while he was indulging in a couple of chapters of a dog-eared Alistair MacLean and a glass of Chivas Regal when he'd been suddenly plunged into darkness, the shock of which made him spill his drink.
Bastards.
However, this morning, all had seemed well. He'd been intending visiting Pawn again to check on her, but had been able to cancel the plans when she phoned him herself, telling him that her walls were definitely not moving in on her anymore, a fact the could confirm because she could actually see them again. After her, other people had phoned telling pretty much the same story; whatever it was that had bothered them (and, he had to confess, himself), had seemed to clear up. He'd worry about them all recovering together, just as they'd been afflicted.
Then, he'd got the message from Manx.
Fuck.
He didn't want to believe it... and it certainly seemed as though Manx had been affected by whatever the problem had been. But the message was sent after she'd recovered. He had no choice but to believe her, at least for now.
Persia was dead. Not only dead, but his body had been abducted, and Ben couldn't understand for the life of him why anyone would do that.
It frustrated him to have to hold back while other agents put necessary investigations and protocols into action, but he knew well enough that too many people peering over shoulders did nothing but hinder any investigation. And Ben wanted to know for sure what had happened and, more important, which fuckers had been responsible so that he could take his turn in taking them out.