| The combination to open any safe, made by anyone, is always C4 |
[Jan. 21st, 2010|03:03 pm] |
Who: Fiona Glenanne and Michael Westen
Where: An "undisclosed location"
What: Fiona making plans. This will probably involve explosions.
Warnings: It's Fiona Glenanne. She is not a safe person to be around. Neither is Michael Westen.
A resourceful woman, when suddenly transported to an unfamiliar world, can find a number of ways to make money. Some of them are even legal. Not that Fiona Glenanne has tried any of them.
The legal ways just aren't as much fun, after all. But she's a particular sort of woman, and selective, so she's limited herself to ... well, the sort of things Michael Westen wouldn't object to.
Except for perhaps the crate of semiautomatic MK46s she'd liberated and sold to a much better home, but honestly, some boys just don't deserve that calibre of toy.
Little by little, job by job, she's managed to leverage enough funds together to get the hell out of the UK. Away from whatever crazy splinter of the IRA would think it would be a grand thing indeed to blow up a traitor to the Republic of Ireland, one and indivisible, even though the man she'd turned in used patriotism as an excuse to murder children, and cared nothing for the weeping mothers and fathers of Ireland.
Wherever Michael Westen is, he doesn't seem to be in the UK. But wherever he is, she'll need to be able to find him without constantly looking over her shoulder.
And ideally in a place that offers a plethora of shoe shops. |
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| One man, one man alone/In that outlandish gear |
[Nov. 19th, 2009|06:08 pm] |
WHO: Fiona Glenanne and Riordan Byrne
WHAT: Drinks and conversation
WHERE: The Sign of the Weasel
WHEN: Soon after Fiona's arrival
WARNINGS: Language, likely.
A lovely little shop with thick walls and patrons who tend to go curiously deaf in the vicinity of private affairs, he'd said. The description reminded Fiona of certain pubs she'd known in Dublin. Pubs that catered to Provos or tolerated them. Or some other splinter group of the lads. Who was had said that the first item on any Irish agenda was "split"?
As she'd been warned in that painfully bright website, Fiona had found a wallet in her purse with a few pound notes and a British Airways American Express card. Dear God, if I've replaced a flight attendant, I'll need to buy some teeth-kicking heels, and then find someone who deserves to see the soles up close and personal, Fiona thinks. More prudently and immediately, however, she uses the spoils to buy a brimmed hat and a carefully chosen set of cosmetics, suitable for any quick disguise she might need. Just in case.
Back in the UK, only minutes away from Ireland. Her shoulders twitch as she enters the Sign of the Weasel. Another world this may be, an assertion she accepts as a working hypothesis for now, subject to proof, but she'd spent a dozen years and more running with the IRA, and she knows there are plenty of Irish "patriots" who wouldn't hesitate to blow her up if they ever learned what she'd done to Thomas O'Neill. Any excuse to go after a "traitor" to the sacred cause. All the while proclaiming their allegiance to the Republic of Ireland, indivisible, because murder was more fun if you could wrap yourself in a flag and sing century-old songs all the while.
Patriots. Ha.
Ireland should never be big enough for such men as that.
Riordan Byrne, whatever else he was, didn't seem like that sort of man. A wee gombeen, perhaps, fond of a couple of jars every evening, but better that than a terrible fella.
As her eyes adjust to the change in lighting, she looks around for Riordan Byrne. |
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