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Jan. 5th, 2010 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3nanashiThe walk from Preventers Headquarters (L2 Colony Division) to Duo's apartment complex is long, but not prohibitively so. There's a regular bus route, but Trowa ignores that for the moment. Buses might be a more efficient way to cover the distance, but on foot is better for investigation.
Some of this isn't the best area of L2, but Trowa's not bothered. It's not the worst, either, and anyway you just have to know how to look like you belong. His oldest pair of jeans, threadbare at the knees and fraying at the cuffs; a jacket a little too big for him, the kind that might be a hand-me-down from an older brother or might hide a weapon (which in fact it does); hands stuffed in his pockets, and a bored saunter to the walk. He could be any wannabe street tough, skipping school or no longer in it, heading somewhere with no hurry. Not looking for trouble, not important, not memorable. It's easy to fall back into old skills and make himself a nonentity.
He almost walks straight past the church. But some instinct stops him, or some bit of architecture caches his eye; he halts, and studies the building, and thinks about Duo Maxwell.
It's probably a useless stop, but there's no harm in it. Trowa breathes in, and changes his posture a little, half-zips his jacket. It is too big, and that's to conceal the gun at the small of his back and the lockpicks in one pocket and the legal-but-barely knife in the other, but he also knows that it makes him look younger. A loose-jointed slouch and the right kind of walk (a little gangly, not too certain) makes the subtle shift from street tough to teenager.
It's a nice enough church. Small, but well-lit, and they've used the limited space efficiently. Up high, there's stained glass in abstract patterns. Only two exits visible from here, and the rear one might not lead directly outside -- the lower windows might count too, since this is a safe enough area that they're not barred, but it depends on how strong the glass is -- but there might be more he can't see from here.
That rear door opens, and a thin man emerges. The priest -- young, perhaps thirty, in cassock and collar. He coughs. "Can I help you, young man?"
Trowa's no good at faking smiles, and never has been, but he can make his body language and voice younger and unsure. "Hi? Sorry, I'm looking for a friend of mine."
The priest frowns. Father Harrison, the cards in each pew say. "I haven't seen... Were you going to meet him here?"
Trowa shrugs. "I dunno. He's not answering his phone or anything, but -- I was in the neighborhood, and he likes churches and stuff. I thought maybe I'd ask." He lets his voice rise at the end, tentative.
Father Harrison smiles hesitantly. "Well, I don't know if he's in the congregation, but I can try to help. What's your friend's name?"
"Duo Maxwell. He's kind of short, and his hair's in a long braid . . ." and Trowa lets his voice trail off, and keeps all inner reaction off his face, because Father Harrison just winced visibly.
Not at the name, but at the description.
Some of this isn't the best area of L2, but Trowa's not bothered. It's not the worst, either, and anyway you just have to know how to look like you belong. His oldest pair of jeans, threadbare at the knees and fraying at the cuffs; a jacket a little too big for him, the kind that might be a hand-me-down from an older brother or might hide a weapon (which in fact it does); hands stuffed in his pockets, and a bored saunter to the walk. He could be any wannabe street tough, skipping school or no longer in it, heading somewhere with no hurry. Not looking for trouble, not important, not memorable. It's easy to fall back into old skills and make himself a nonentity.
He almost walks straight past the church. But some instinct stops him, or some bit of architecture caches his eye; he halts, and studies the building, and thinks about Duo Maxwell.
It's probably a useless stop, but there's no harm in it. Trowa breathes in, and changes his posture a little, half-zips his jacket. It is too big, and that's to conceal the gun at the small of his back and the lockpicks in one pocket and the legal-but-barely knife in the other, but he also knows that it makes him look younger. A loose-jointed slouch and the right kind of walk (a little gangly, not too certain) makes the subtle shift from street tough to teenager.
It's a nice enough church. Small, but well-lit, and they've used the limited space efficiently. Up high, there's stained glass in abstract patterns. Only two exits visible from here, and the rear one might not lead directly outside -- the lower windows might count too, since this is a safe enough area that they're not barred, but it depends on how strong the glass is -- but there might be more he can't see from here.
That rear door opens, and a thin man emerges. The priest -- young, perhaps thirty, in cassock and collar. He coughs. "Can I help you, young man?"
Trowa's no good at faking smiles, and never has been, but he can make his body language and voice younger and unsure. "Hi? Sorry, I'm looking for a friend of mine."
The priest frowns. Father Harrison, the cards in each pew say. "I haven't seen... Were you going to meet him here?"
Trowa shrugs. "I dunno. He's not answering his phone or anything, but -- I was in the neighborhood, and he likes churches and stuff. I thought maybe I'd ask." He lets his voice rise at the end, tentative.
Father Harrison smiles hesitantly. "Well, I don't know if he's in the congregation, but I can try to help. What's your friend's name?"
"Duo Maxwell. He's kind of short, and his hair's in a long braid . . ." and Trowa lets his voice trail off, and keeps all inner reaction off his face, because Father Harrison just winced visibly.
Not at the name, but at the description.
