Before A Life Of Luxury... - Carmen/Flag
(This started out as a free-form RP between Carmen and Myself. It ended up as a prequel to the "La Vie de Luxe" and "Hiatus" RPs ... even if it does have a bit of a cliff-hanger ending. )
He had been told to "lay low," which wasn't a problem. In fact it often seemed that the people of this world simply just did not see those that did not want to be seen. In a former life, Flag had honed his ability to hide in the shadows; to lurk in those places just outside of vision. He was a master of stealth as It was a required necessity back home, but here? All he had to do here was just step away from the spotlight and ignore those in the wings.
Flag used to find a sort of enjoyment in hiding as he did, but now that there was no challenge to it, he didn't care. In fact the ease of it made him aware of the mental fog that the people of this realm refused to clear. He didn't complain about it at first - as it was better than the glaring radiance of an existence denied to him - but now he was discovering bit by bit, that he missed portions of his old life.
The only exception to this monotony was a rogue in red. A shape-changer that balanced on a thin line of perceived peril as she play a game of "cat and mouse," where the only real loss would be her freedom... which was something that he kind of doubted she ever really had in the first place.
He let his eyes wander from his obviously re-gifted "book of the occult" and land on Carmen as she sat across the table. She was looking at a small hand-held screen while flashes of emotion barely surfaced on her sculpted features. He didn't know what she was concentrating so hard on, but the simple act of it added to his theory that (if she calmed down enough) she would have been a good sorceress.
He would never tell her that though. Her ability to go totally overboard with power was more than evident in the alternate timeline where he had stolen and destroyed the time machine that she had somehow gotten her hands on. He sighed as he dismissed those thoughts. There was no point to them as nobody else knew that this had happened. How would they? They never experienced it.
Flag had allowed his thoughts drift into pondering quantum mechanics - a topic that he wouldn't have ever considered had he not accidentally found himself the victim of it - when he suddenly realized that she was now returning his gaze. Had she said something? He blinked back in awareness and spoke.
"I apologize. Did you say something?"
Gradually, Carmen lifted a brow. Knowing her company, she mildly entertained the thought that he may have been recalling a spell of sorts, but she also knew his glances were rarely without purpose. Having caught him unaware, albeit accidental, the thief gave herself a brisk, congratulatory smile before speaking.
"You were staring," plain was her statement, "I stared back."
Few, and far in between, were countable moments where VILE's leader found herself outside of the game and surrounded in complete silence. Her hedonistic nature, as unorthodox as the term may seem in her case, translated to nights out in loud, jarring cities that swallowed her more readily than they would ever hide her. But here, in the afterglow of a successful heist, the woman many knew simply as "Carmen Sandiego," was now cloistered in one of her organization's abundant safe houses.
The old monastery at the border of Austria and Italy was well situated among wineries. During World War II, it became a sanctuary and makeshift hospital for wounded soldiers; today, but a few monks remain. The abbey ran under patronage of a nearby town, along with sizable donations from a family that owned the local vineyard. To the monks, the aforementioned family often had friends in the area, tourists, if one may call them. Occasionally, such friends required the services of the monastery's underground caverns where (along with its mythical links to natural passages within the Alps) modest tools, barrels of wine, and old volumes of books were stored.
Carmen asserted respect among her acquaintances, and while VILE was allowed to hide at this place of worship, in exchange, they must not mar it. As the lower grounds of the monastery was widely believed to be haunted by one of St. Romedius' disciples, most guests (even extreme kleptomaniacs) exercised extraordinary self-control.
How the thief came to be alone in the stony library with the sorcerer, she could not recount; but she felt safe, for although she knew little of him, it was significantly more than he had revealed to anyone else.
"Would you like some Grüner Veltliner?" she inquired in her natural contralto. The Austrians are well known for wine from these grapes, and although they are slightly sweeter, Carmen considered them her second favorite, next to Riesling. She wanted to open a bottle from the nearby vineyard, but good drinks must be shared, and with friends, "Two-thousand nine was a brilliant year."
When she pronounced the name of the wine, he dismissed it as one of the vast many words that he didn't (and would never) need to know. Because of this, the significance of the year was totally wasted on him.
"If you say so."
He had momentarily returned to his book and then gave up on it altogether. Much to the disdain of whoever it was that gave him the book, He found It was just another pile of contrived trash written by someone that had smoked something funny... Just like all of the books that he had been presented with thus far (and that was a great many).
Flag couldn't hide that he spent half of his life in a metropolis of a library. He had treated the books that he pulled with a respect that was utterly lost on those caught up in the digital age. The manner in which he returned them to their homes on the shelves was a world-class demonstration in precision and yet, this practice paled in comparison with how he treated the only book he owned.
His journal was a strange thing, bound in leather and held close with a clasp that was both triangular and circular in shape. The twist mechanism that locked it was simple enough, but nobody other than he could mange it. This was demonstrated by how quickly he locked his book and placed it in his old fashioned shoulder bag.
He hadn't forgotten Carmen's question - nor her unspoken allusion that hinted towards her desire to do something other than observe his study habits - and began preparations for going out into public. As he pulled his long, sliver hair aside to clip his felinoid ears back (later to be hidden under the separated layer of hair) he gestured towards the door.
"I wouldn't mind some fresh air."
"Good idea," Carmen put her tablet away. It was a small satellite device that neither looked nor acted like a chameleon, but was nicknamed after the color-changing lizard because of its ability to communicate with a variety of other devices. Moments ago, it gave her access to police feed so she may better judge the safety of her position. Feeling secure, she cemented her attention on present company.
Approximately three years ago, Carmen arrived at a safe house in County Down, Northern Ireland after a successful exchange of merchandise. Believing the place to be secluded, she was rather crossed when she discovered a note pinned to the headboard of a pinewood frame. Written in odd handwriting, the message beseeched its reader to aid a friend, a loyal one, to be discovered at specified location. While her instincts pulled her towards ignoring the request, the letter was written in a way that her curiosity could not refuse. Whoever had inked it knew enough of her to illicit compliance.
Following the instructions, she found a humanoid creature, one equally as confused about their meeting. They must have spoken then, and reached a mutual confidentiality, but her memory of events immediately after was vague. The creature was Flag, and the thief felt that was all she needed to recount.
Getting up and putting on a cashmere-colored coat, she walked to the library's only entrance and called out to a monk in German. She had to warn them she was coming up, as women were not often allowed here, and as a cardinal rule (perhaps specific only to this monastery), younger monks must turn away.
Leaving the library, she walked steadily and with her eyes cast downwards as a symbol of reverence. Only until they were fully outside did she inhale audibly.
"And I forgot the wine," she lightly arched her brows to dispel the mistake. With a listless gesture, she continued, "There's a cemetery nearby, have you seen it?"
Now the strange word that she had used in the tunnel made sense to him. It was another word for wine, or more accurately, a convoluted brand naming for a type of wine. He signed slightly at the annoying Terran habit of naming absolutely every tiny detail of everything. She could have just called it "wine" and he would have agreed to it then.
Now that he realized that she was inviting him on a tour of the graveyard, he could use a drink. Although Sivoans didn't bury their dead, they too had ceremonies for remembering the deceased. The practices of which disturbed the displaced sorcerer on a subconscious level since none of these rituals were performed for his mother.
Flag's only real memory of the woman who birthed him was of the site of her crumpled body fading off into the distance as he peered at it through iron bars. Sure there were people around, but they just continued on with their business as though they didn't notice the whole disturbance that had just taken place...
"No," He cut his own thoughts off, "I have not."
He stepped aside and allowed Carmen to lead the way, mentally preparing himself to accept whatever fascinating tale it was that she was about to tell.
She began to walk, flowed, at a leisurely pace down a road where horse-drawn carts had made grooves into sections of dark cobbled stones. As she led her present accomplice to the gravestones, images passed through her mind like droplets of rain. Puddles dotted their path, and when her own angled reflections shot frigid glances back in her direction, she saw not herself, but Carmen Sandiego. This infamous version of her had grown into an entity; a name and a person that encompassed an idea so fastidious, it would evaporate the moment it was challenged. Why had it not been challenged? Had she made too many friends?
"Are there rules to the type of magic you may use in Sivoa?" her question seemingly rose from curiosity, but she spoke with benign intent. While the thief preferred tangibility, her open-mindedness extended as far as the imagination would allow. She had once thought, perhaps childishly, about finding a way to rid herself of all emotions. It seemed ideal, but she settled into the notion that veiled sympathy was clearly one of her best features.
A stark contrast to the liquid ardor that was Carmen, Flag just marched along behind her. Oblivious to the rain, the puddles, even the gravestones to some extent. He was about to let his mind drift back to solving the ongoing puzzle that he had been working on when her question came flying out of left field.
For a moment he just blinked at her, his brow slightly furled at the intention of the question. How had she known about his magic abilities? Moreover, why didn't she simply assume that he was a loony and interested in occult matters like everyone else did (or did they)?
"Some...." It was out in the open now. "Why do you ask?"
Quickly, her eyes darted downwards. The answer to that question, even in thought, evoked a rare slip of self-condemnation. Inside a soft breath, her confidence returned; along with a satisfying smirk.
The simple truth was a deeply rooted desire to disconnect from things that she once belonged to. ACME's files were being digitalized systematically, and certain information once restricted to cabinets of paper must now be eradicated before they are searchable by inquisitive fingertips. That, however, was not what she had told Vincent Fumigalli, and it would not be what she revealed to Flag, not yet.
"I don't like the C-5 Corridor," she said, justifiably, "It changes the game, too unfairly," her pace slowed, "I've had research done on the feasibility of its destruction...," her voice trailed then strengthened, "And I happen to think your skills are perfect for parts of this." Three more steps after that sentence and she stopped walking.
"We're going to take ACME Tower; as quietly as possible, of course."