Scion of Atlantis Ch. 03

I left the washroom, somewhat, despondent, and climbed the stairs up to street level. Cooley-Sail Square was a flat granite quadrangle bound on all sides by movie theatres, shopping malls, and in one corner the irregular towers of the OMNITV studio building. It was early enough in summer that the weather was nice and on the cool side, and over by the rectangular water fountain was a scattered array of tables where shoppers and retail workers alike sat, chatted and enjoyed the myriad food trucks parked all around. Advertisements for clothes, movies, stage plays, and local landmarks flickered above on screens attached to the oddly shaped, curving buildings around.

I glanced around. Rosalie said she would be up here, checking things out, but she wasn't in evidence, not at any of the tables and not among the people crossing the square. I didn't think that a blue-haired girl with a guitar case would be all that difficult to find, so I squinted and began scanning the far crowd, the people bustling past on the far sidewalk, bordering the streets that bound the square.

I was still peering around when I felt a shiver come up my spine, dread suddenly clawing at my mind. I could feel someone's eyes on me, my stomach lurching with sudden, sourceless fear. My head turned, and I caught sight of a person standing on the other side of a side street, focused entirely on me, ignoring the crowd weaving around them. They were tall, a good foot taller than anyone around them, and bald as an egg, staring at me impassively. They were wearing a grey coat of some kind, and it took me awhile to realize the black voids they seemed to have in place of eyes were, instead, a pair of small, round sunglasses. Their skin was a dull, unhealthy pale grey, and for a moment I thought I could see that they were talking, their mouth moving, but it was hard to tell at this distance.

I was startled out of my trance when something hit me in the chest, causing me to grunt in surprise and stagger back a step. I instinctively grabbed at it, and looked down to find myself holding a shoebox. Rosalie stepped up next to me, and gently pulled me away from the doors. "You're going to get knocked over when the next train lets out, if you keep standing in front of the doors like that," she admonished me, but when she looked up at my face, she frowned. "Are okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Maybe I have," I muttered in reply, scanning the crowd, but the tall person was gone. I shook my head, as if I could dismiss the memories, and looked down at the box. "You got me shoes?"

"Yeah, you can give your feet a wash in the fountain and then slip them on," she told me, as she wrapped an arm around mine and began to gently tug me in the direction of the tables. "Don't take too long, I feel really exposed out here. There don't seem to be any Harvesters, yet, but let's not play dice with fate. Besides, it's only a few more blocks to that place I mentioned."

Washing my feet in a public fountain wasn't exactly something I relished doing, but when I saw the brown, sticky stain I had managed to gather over the course of my journey, I managed to make myself do it. None of the people all around seemed to notice me at all, just treating me like I wasn't even there. A young boy in a Raptors jersey who was "tightrope walking" on the lip of the fountain even hopped down, walked around me, and resumed his journey on the other side without saying a word. I guess what Rosalie said was true. The shoes she stole for me were a pair of canvas high-tops, simple, comfortable and functional, after you got past the overpriced branding.

Once I laced them on, I stood and sauntered over to where Rosalie was sitting at one of the fountainside tables. At some point she had gone and picked up a fat city hot dog furnished with mustard and ketchup, and offered it to me. "Thanks," I said, slipping into another chair and gingerly picking up the dog by the napkin it came wrapped in, mindful of what my hands were just doing. The sweet sauces and salty, juicy hot dog tasted like ambrosia, and I found myself devouring it in short order.

"Thought you might be hungry, given you didn't even have time for shoes," Rosalie said with that crooked grin, before she pushed herself up from the table. "Come on, let's get moving. Soon we'll really able to rest, and maybe get some more of your questions answered."

I rose with her, tossing the hot dog napkin in with the tissue paper and assorted tags in the shoebox, and we headed for Elizabeth Street, one of the small streets bordering the square. I followed along behind Rosalie, taking the time to drop the shoebox in a trash can as we departed.

Elizabeth was a narrow, two-lane road with tall buildings crowded close around. Few companies advertised over this way, and although the road was still crowded with cars, the sidewalk wasn't as crowded. We followed Elizabeth north for a few blocks, until Rosalie found what she was looking for- a stubby, shabby-looking office building, an art deco edifice made of aged concrete. My companion ascended the steps to the little lobby, and I followed after, enjoying the puff of cool air conditioned air as I walked through the front door. It wasn't too hot outside, but I had been run off my ass since I woke up so anything was welcome.

The lobby was similarly ancient, tiled in dirty white and mint green, with only a brass-bordered directory of offices and a couple artificial plants for decoration. A filthy old man with white hair crouched in one corner of the room, wrapped in a dirty old trench and surrounded by bags and coolers as he silently watched us walk by. We moved past the elevators, and down a hall at the back of the lobby, passing office doors until Rosalie found what she was looking for- a clouded glass door labelled with "Marlowe and Prince, Barristers + Solicitors" printed on the glass in black-bordered gold letters, scratched and pitted with age.

"You felt a burning need to meet with your lawyer?" I quipped, even as Rosalie opened the door for us. She rolled her eyes, and gestured. "These people are special, like us," she reassured me, giving me a soft push towards the opening, "We'll be safe here, for a time."Rosalie led me into the dingy office waiting area, a small room with a row of chairs lining one wall, and a couple offices (with closed doors) leading off from that central hub. There was no receptionist, despite there being a reception desk, just one of those little desktop bells. Not even a note. Rosalie gave the bell a tap, while I sank into one of the chairs, and after awhile my odd companion took off her guitar case backpack to join me.

We spent a long, quiet moment. I realized I could hear the distant muffled muttering of people in conversation, but I couldn't tell if it was coming from this place or one of the other offices in the building. I glanced at the little end table, and poked through the stack of outdated National Geographics for a second, before giving a sigh. "Feels like we haven't had a quiet moment since we left Claire Street," I eventually remarked, to break the silence.

"It's been a busy hour, that's for sure," Rosalie added before glancing at her phone. I looked sidelong at her, as she tapped at her phone. I noticed how the loose strands of hair that managed to escape her ponytail fluttered in the air conditioning.

"I was really lucky to have you come by and help me with those men in black types, the Harvesters," I told her, "I don't think I've said it before, but thank you, for the rescue, the advice, the shoes and hot dog, everything." I leaned back, until my head touched the wall, and I breathed a huge sigh. "Even if I had gotten away from the Harvesters on my own, I would still be in a bind. So, yeah, thanks, Rosalie."

Glancing at her again, I could see that she was wearing a sad smile, as she put her phone away. "So, my next piece of advice is to never take one person's word as truth," she told me, "Right now the only person who's told you about all this is me, and you probably shouldn't trust me." She shrugged. "As for the thanks, don't worry about it. I got unlucky, and fell in with a bad crowd right after my first transformation, and... well, they weren't good people." She shook her head, as she pulled the guitar case into her lap, and by extension, mine as well, the neck of the instrument laying across my thighs.

She unzipped the fabric, and for the first time I really got a good look at it. It was a rich, dark chestnut acoustic, with a light spot that was almost orange near the soundhole, and shiny with lacquer. She ran a finger along the corner of the body, still smiling sadly. I was about to open my mouth to ask what was the matter, when the door to one of the inner offices finally opened.

The man to stepped into the waiting room was huge, in every dimension. I thought I was tall enough, just a shade under 6'1", but this guy was at least a hand taller than me, and obese enough to be almost three times as wide. His suit was a howling bright turquoise, with a similarly vivid orange tie, and he had rosy cheeks and a flushed complexion. He smiled at us as he took us both in, but it didn't give him a friendly aspect. I shivered as I realized that grin, with his beady dark eyes, gave him the aspect of a shark.

"Come in, come in," he said, his voice deep and sonorous, holding open the door for us, "Deepest apologies for the wait. My partner, Mr. Prince, and I, we do get so wrapped up in our little games sometimes. Rosalie, if I recall correctly? I never forget a client. And who is this young man, hmm?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but Rosalie spoke first. "He's new," she told him, as she zipped up her guitar case and we rose, "I've kind of taken him under my wing, for now, but neither of us are sure what he is, so we were hoping Prince had time to answer a few questions? I don't mind owing him a favour."

"Oh, a fresh little cub is in our midst, hmm?" the obese man, Mr. Marlowe I presumed from the names on the door, said as he ushered us into the inner office. It was a cleaner, cozier space than the waiting room, with stuffed leather chairs, and a big easy chair behind the desk that I assumed was Marlowe's. Seated beside that desk was a much smaller, slenderer man seated in a motorized wheelchair. He was muted compared to Marlowe's loud suit, dressed in a dark navy suit and crimson tie, and darker of skin as well, his complexion a warm coffee brown. He offered his hand, first to Rosalie, and then to me. Both of his hands, I noticed, were obvious prosthetics, and I only briefly grasped the cool material of the hand, afraid of breaking something. I realized after a moment that we had interrupted them in the middle of chess, at a late stage in the game. White had both knights and a rook but was having trouble pinning down black, which still had their queen in play.

"Welcome, both of you," this new man said with only the subtlest little smirk, as if he was keeping a secret. His voice was warm and soft, and while he didn't have Marlowe's predatory aspect, I had the impression that he wasn't a man to take lightly, either. He made the introductions as Marlowe shuffled his way around the desk to his own seat, the larger man dominating the room. "I am Wolfgang Prince, please feel free to use my last name as I know my first can be something of a mouthful. My partner, Jeffery, prefers to go by Mr. Marlowe, if you don't mind. I know you, Rosalie, but I'm afraid your friend is new to me."

This time I spoke up for myself, something about these two men making me want to assert myself, to show that I wasn't just Rosalie's junior. "Uh, yeah, hi, I haven't really picked out an alias, but, uh..." My eyes flicked over the room, looking for any sort of inspiration, and settled on Rosalie's backpack guitar case. Maybe I should pick out a musician's name or something? No, that'd be kind of lame and I need something I could stand to hear without cringing. "Well," I cut myself off, and offered what I hoped was a friendly smile, "It's nice to meet you anyway."

Marlowe just barked out a brief laugh, and Prince's smirk deepened, before he replied with "Likewise." After a moment, the smaller man gestured at the other two chairs in the room. "Please, be seated. Can we get you some coffee, or tea, perhaps?"

As Rosalie and I helped ourselves to our seats, Rosalie slipping her guitar off her shoulder and carefully leaning it against the desk. I gratefully accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Rosalie leaned back in her chair and slipped her hands into her hoodie pockets before offering her own reply. "That would be great. Decaf, please."

Prince's hand went to the controls of his wheelchair, and navigated himself over to a coffee station set up on a side table. Now it was Marlowe's turns to gesture, spreading his hands wide. "So, here you are, our friend Rosalie and the new foundling cub," he said, taking us in, "What can we do for you? You mentioned that you're not here to avail yourselves of our legal expertise."

"We're still trying to figure out what this guy's whole deal is," Rosalie replied, indicating me with her head, "I was hoping that Mr. Prince would be willing to hear out his story and give us some insight, since what happened to him is like nothing I've ever heard of."

Marlowe opened his mouth to respond, but it was Prince that spoke first, rotating his chair in place to look at me while he worked the little coffee machine. "Our friend Rosalie perhaps does not have the widest breadth of experience with our kind, but I am always interested in the curious and unusual," he offered, before looking back to the machine. "Go on, tell me your tale, and we'll see what we can make of it."

"Alright," I replied, before taking a deep breath. "I'm from out west. The very beginning of my story is probably pretty common. Came to the city for school, flunked out of university, drifted around a bit and wound up getting a lot of kitchen work. It wasn't too bad a life, I guess. I like cooking, even though my bosses always seem to try and grind all the pleasure out of it, and this city has a lot of really great music venues and stuff," I began, and was about to relate more about my life when I glanced over at Rosalie, who was listening with interest. I decided to err on the side of vagueness. After all, one of these guys could easily ask a few questions and find out my real name that way, and she had told me to be careful around them. "Rob, one of the dishwashers at my work, told me about a rave going down at an abandoned hotel in the Brewery district, just down from Unity Station. Really informal, had kind of a cool punk vibe, only ten bucks to get in, cheap beer and weed and maybe a cute alt girl to go home with." I shrugged. "Sounded like a good time, so I went, even if it wasn't my normal scene."

From there I moved on to the actual weird stuff that had happened. "It's all a little hazy, but I think there was some kind of fight," I recalled with a frown, "I remember very clearly somebody running across the dance floor, with maybe wings or a cape trailing behind him. The sound of breaking glass, screaming. Someone was thrown off a balcony. I ran down some stairs, I think to check on them, or it might have been to get away? And... that's it." I shrugged again. "Woke up in bed with an awful hangover, though it faded pretty quick once my adrenaline got going." From there, I recounted the events of the morning, encountering Aya in the mirror, the Harvesters coming to me door before breaking in, that crazy scramble through the subway station, meeting Rosalie, my inability to summon Aya again.

During my tale, Prince had wheeled himself back to his place beside the desk, and handed out the two coffees, but once my story wrapped up, he sat there, quietly, looking at me over over his folded, artificial hands. He took so long to respond that even Marlowe looked sideways at his partner, but before anyone else could say anything, Prince did reply. "Well, at least I can enlighten you on why you're no longer able to contact your grimoire," he said, lowering his hands to adjust his seat in the chair, pushing himself up by his elbows. "You have had a very singular experience, sir."

He paused again, collecting his thoughts, before beginning his explanation. "I don't know how much of this is true, or real. I do know it is not historical fact as a mundane individual would know it. Time is a lot more malleable than ordinary people believe, and it's entirely possible, through one kind of magic or another, for things to be erased so completely from the past that they no longer leave any tangible evidence. That is, possibly, what happened to Atlantis, and why it only persists in fable, myth and conspiracy theory." I added the little packets of cream and sugar to my coffee, giving it a stir while I listened attentively. "I have heard of the Scions before. A unique brand of magic, that, and the only reason why I suspect Atlantis truly existed at some point, possibly in a parallel universe. But I digress. You have inherited a very potent magic from whoever died at the party you attended."

Prince looked to one side, placing a hand on Marlowe's arm. "Jeffery, I'm going to be speaking for awhile, would you please fetch me a water bottle from the fridge? Thank you." The bigger man replied with a grunt, pushing himself up out of the chair and beginning the process of circumnavigating the desk again. I had to lean back to accommodate his shuffling by. When the larger lawyer was out of my view, I found Prince examining me very carefully, not saying anything, one hand on his chin. I was about to clear my throat, when finally he continued.

"My understanding is that Scions such as yourself possess extremely powerful magic, but only in the presence of things that, spiritually speaking, belong in their 'kingdom', that are 'theirs'. The reason why your magic faded is because of your distance from 'your' apartment, possibly even that you travelled too far from 'your' street," Prince told me as he scooted his wheelchair back and to the side in a slow arc, until he could reach a cabinet drawer behind him, one row up from the floor. He pulled the drawer open and began to search through the folders within. "You are strongest within your domain, sir, but weak outside of it."

I frowned, absorbing that. Glancing to one side, I found Rosalie giving me an odd look, before turning averting her gaze and mouthing some words to herself that I couldn't make out. The explanation felt... reasonable, given the evidence at hand. Clair Street was "my" street, "my" neighbourhood, just as Prince described, but the subway belonged to everyone. "But I can't return to my apartment," I explained, "The Harvesters found me there, and they're probably watching the place. If I return, they're going to be on me pretty much instantly."

Taking a folder into hand, Prince gave me a patient smile. "One would do well to remember the difference between 'can't' and 'won't', sir," he said, with the tone of a parent lecturing an amusing child, "There is very little you will find that you 'cannot' do. For example, you are fully capable of, say, upending my wheelchair, dumping me on the floor and kicking me repeatedly in the face. It is incorrect to say that you 'can't' do that, you simply 'won't'. It is a wise decision, to be sure- I am interested in helping you, for one, it would likely offend Rosalie and ruin the preexisting relationship she has with my firm, as well as the fact that Mr. Marlowe would likely throw you through a wall. But to say you 'can't' is simply wrong."

The door behind me squeaked as Marlowe returned to the room, sidling past me to crack open the lid off a cold water bottle and hand it to Prince. "Why am I throwing the young man through a wall?" he asked, grinning down at me a moment. He was obviously kidding, but I inwardly shivered. He definitely looked at though he enjoyed the prospect.