Scene #9229: Office Call

Owner	Pose
Distortion Dets.	-Faded Print Watchtower- 'For the Eyes of One Father Waters Berislav' reads the back of a folded letter, carried within an unmarked envelope. Both the recipient address and the contents of the letter are typewritten. That's how a letter is presented to him, by Chance or Gamble, either of the precious Yurodiviye scamps; as the last step in some convoluted chain of transport from the letter's origin. Waters Berislav, Your name is one that has come to my attention more than once. I know you to associate with some of the Outsiders who paid witness to the aftermath of the recent disaster in District Nine, an event I have had my own reasons to look into, as I do with other occurrences like it. I know that before this, you have been establishing your own presence here, that associates of mine have kept eyes on associates of yours, and I know some of your reputation, amongst both. Each of the reasons that your name has come to my attention is, as well, a reason that I wish to talk with you over. My name certainly hasn't. I am Moses, a Fixer of the Seven Association, but I write to you as a representative of nobody but myself and my own. I reach out through channels of you and yours, this 'Watch', in the best faith I can muster, that my business is information, and that this mystery is one I cannot ignore. Something sick is in the air, and you may have answers I do not; perhaps I have ones you lack. I intend to ask of the things you have seen, the thoughts you have upon them, your methods, and whether you and yours could assist my efforts. Find me at my office. Det. Moses, Office Operator Moses' Office PI Services Plätzchenstrasse 22-10 14-N Hersteller Ortsteil The letter is signed by hand, in a nearly unreadable scrawl. P.S. Send no reply by mail. I have no reason to trust in the privacy of what reaches my doorstop. . . . It was a dark and stormy night, here in the city. Springtime thundershowers fill the skies of District 14's Nest, raindrops and footsteps blurring over the fresh puddles. With the rolling blackouts, the greater tension at security checkpoints, and the apparent hush of the crowds of sidewalk-bound pedestrians, it's fitting for the City to have grey, stormy clouds hanging down from on high. Thunder cracks, wind blows, and lightning flashes alongside streetlamps and car headlights, illuminating a hazy view of the city streets. Were it not for the shiny lacquer of rain holding in the dark of the skies, the fact that District 14's buildings are all, universally, made of glaring white marble and bleached concrete would be blinding. However, with the night's quiet shrouding, travelling on through feels like sneaking backstage from some satire of paradise. From the long, frustrated lines at the warp gate facility downtown, with tired customs agents slacking on triple-checking entry permits, through main streets and tramlines out to quieter boroughs of the Nest, crowds diverge and the sounds of rain, thunder, and wind start to win over vehicles. Once road signs, bus stops, and newspaper boxes indicate passage into the Hesteller Osrteil- the Manufacturer Quarter, it's obvious that the borough isn't as industrial as its name implies; it doesn't even look like it ever was. The stark-white streets are tree lined, which offer precious little shelter from the rain with branches just barely budding, and tightly packed old townhouses or small commercial establishments take up the footprint of the ongoing blocks. Mazelike, few cars weave through the streets at this hour. Of a mildly curious note, however: even in the storefronts that have electricity, and aren't shuttered, no video screens are present, nor do any of the posters or window-plastered flyers use photographs in their design.
Distortion Dets.	Undistinguishable blocks eventually lead to the right address for this Moses' Office establishment, as does a subtle placard up the steps of one of the townhomes. Painted wooden doors are the first real change in the structural color of the entire Nest, and the one that the Father finds in front of him at his destination is a pleasant forest green, with warm electric light slipping out the glass transom. Knocking on it is quickly followed by the roil of distant thunder, barely muted, and the sound of deadbolts unhitching and door chains dropping. Standing just across the threshold, instinctively trying to block further sight within the building, is Detective Moses- though, near certainly, she doesn't match whatever idea of the letter's sender Berislav might have formed in his head over the interim time. Tobacco smoke slips from her lips as she speaks up, not to the Father, but glancing back over her shoulder- "Ezra. Put a pot of coffee on. Our meeting is here." A muffled, bright, "Coming up~!" carries from somewhere further within, as Moses finally looks to properly address her guest. Evidently, Moses isn't alone inside. "You are him, I presume? Father Waters Berislav," she says, cadence practiced and curt, like she's reciting notes, but a soft scratchy rawness to her voice. "Outsider, coalition director, gunman, and preacher. Stop me if I'm mistaken on your titles, I've read reports, but truth doesn't live just on paper. Was your trip here uneventful enough? Do you believe you were followed?" After a moment's pause, Moses seems to realize she's standing in the way of Berislav's entry. Heels softly click against foyer tile as she backs up, and scans the whole of him with her eyes. There's an eerie sense that she isn't quite looking at him, but as to what, the woman doesn't elaborate. As if suddenly she realizes the forgotten pleasantries, "... Ah, right. How tactless. Come on in from the rain. We'll chat in my parlor. My assistant and I had a fire going already." Her pipe made it back to her lips somewhere in that sentence, and a slow exhale of smoke follows her raising up a hand for the priest to shake. "Moses, at your service. Tell me what you see, when you walk the streets of this world."
Father Berislav	The scamp in question is duly thanked and surreptitiously given the last leftover cookie from the potluck. Berislav takes a seat at the bar close to the window (lighting is a privilege spare power can't be given towards), puts his glasses on and reads with the help of filtered-through sunlight. . . . With service over for the day, Berislav arrives at the office not in his cassock, but in an outfit that seem to flaunt the rain--or would, if not for his navy umbrella. With one hand in the pocket of his pink rib-trim jacket and one holding up the umbrella, his passage through District 14 might be called leisurely if not for the way his silver eyes fix intensely on the buildings. What secrets are contained within? What will or mania is spoken in bleached white tones? His expression might be described as one of placid concentration as any pedestrian would have--if not for the fact that it doesn't reach his eyes to wash out the suspicion that resides there. Berislav quietly interrogates the District; it's part of the City, and thus it must have some repugnant quality, some abuse, some theft or exploitation which it obfuscates with the legitimacy of this institution or that practice. This continues all the way to the Office, and so of course he must have seen the distinct lack of photographs or video footage. His knock is polite; when Moses answers the door, he blinks owlishly, then procures the letter from the pocket of his brown slacks to make sure he has the address right. The contrast of the pink jacket, the brown slacks, the sneakers and the white-blue swirl-print tee might make her just as confused, if it weren't for his hair and his eyes matching descriptions of him perfectly. Ezra. Put a pot of coffee on. Our meeting is here. Berislav looks up from the plaque near the door. You are him, I presume? Father Waters Berislav. "That's me, yes!" He offers a bright smile in exchange for her professional curtness. "The trip was fine... hm... followed, no," he says, gesturing behind him with a flick of his eyes. "But followed and watched aren't the same thing, after all." Come on in from the rain. We'll chat in my parlor. "Certainly," says the priest, closing his umbrella and stepping inside, leaving it by the door. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Moses." His handshake is firm, his palm callused from hard work. More than that, there's something hard just beneath the calluses. "I suppose what I see when I walk the streets of this world is sin," he says, following her further inside. "The City makes war on its people," he says, "Sometimes invisibly, sometimes very visibly--though it's rare that it doesn't try to absolve itself somehow. 'Your friend shouldn't have stayed out so late to be found by the Sweepers,' 'your mother would have been safer if she'd steered clear of the Index,' and so on." "I see a place where it's very difficult to do good and very easy to do evil, and a concerted effort to insulate the people whose fault that is from justice."
Distortion Dets.	From preemptive research, or info gleanable along the way, or just the murmured thoughts Berislav can hear from associates who've been in the city longer, there's a lot of darkness in this Wing. District 14- run by N-Corp, Nagel Und Hammer, has a bit of notoriety even amongst the Wings for a harshness with which it polices itself. The most commonly seen and known product it founds itself on is that of canned experiences- mass produced consumables that implant someone else's subjective experience; you name it, from piano lessons to suicide, and it's sold out of convenience stores and vending machines across the district, and out across the city. Slews of arbitrary crimes are strictly enforced by the corporate police, especially amongst what brushes up against a monopoly on perception. Video, for instance, isn't permitted; photograph publication discouraged, music taxed, and on and on. A whole Nest, built to look the endless same, founded on reselling life to the masses. 'But followed and watched aren't the same thing, after all.' A short affirmative noise. "Hm. Yes. Be careful, at that. There's a lot of eyes on you Outsiders." Moses points up at her own, flat, grey, and tired, saying 'mine too'. Moses leads Berislav into the parlor- really, all she does is open an interior door she's already standing next to, and quietly slips inside. It's as cozy as one would expect for a room called a 'parlor' instead of something less fancy, with patterned rugs, wood paneling along the walls, and a scattering of upholstered furniture and side tables. A fire is indeed flickering away in a grated hearth, and a few half melted candles are still lit around the perimeter, leftover evidence that the rolling blackouts are still effecting them. Pipesmoke- sweet, almost sickly so, clings to the air. Touching furniture or decorations reveal a tangible cheapness to most of the items within the room. The image of classy comfort is only surface-deep. "Sin." Moses repeats, once she's seated herself in an armchair. Another sits diagonal to it, more casual than the sort she'd sit a client down in to listen to cases. Something seems to relax in her posture, a level of guarded she's only now letting fall. She takes a long, long drag from her pipe. "Would you pardon me for answering my own question?" "When I look out on the street, at the people who pass me by, or the clients who come to my door, I see something similar. Only, I must warn you- I may be quite insane." A sardonic little 'heh' sounds out, almost more of a cough. "Sin. I like your term for it. I see the scars of it, around. Maybe you'd agree those are more visible, no? It certainly becomes so." She gestures towards him with the end of her pipe, a slightly freer movement, just a momentary queue for response before she catches breath again. "Unfortunately, I do mean that quite literally. You've heard of this 'Pianist' by now, surely- its only the strangest thing to happen since the blackouts, no? But have you heard of the call center here in District Fourteen, wherein a half dozen employees swelled up, and up, like carnival balloons, until they popped? Have you heard of the firm whose workers all picked up a peculiar fascination with the sky, until some drifted away, and evaporated?" "Six days ago, I was called in to investigate those 'Balloon People', after the second of their employees popped. Four days, the latter. That 'sin' is being made visible, Mister Berislav, wrought into the distorted flesh of people outside. There's a link, too much all at once for there not to be. There has to be a link, between all of those events, and ones yet to happen. When I look out on the city," A sharp inhale breaks her flow, her shoulders tightening under her draped jacket; enough to remind her to unfasten it from her shoulders and drape it across her chair's arm.
Distortion Dets.	"I see that distorted flesh, the things being carved into our world, before it makes itself real. Not a person I pass by is free of it, Mister Berislav," she says, trailing off, to stare right into the priest. Half focused eyes pass over his face and arms, staring not at his features, but looking for those traces she's mentioned in near-metaphor, within him. Sign and symbol of the strains on him, representative imagery of what he's grasping for and what his fingers just can't meet. A small 'hm' follows. "Not even you. That is what I investigate here, as of- hah, now, I suppose, I've never declared it so formally. This phenomenon, this conspiracy, this... something, at the roots of why any of this is happening." It certainly seems as if she'll continue her speech on and on, with an ever-more desperate intonation, when instead, a back door to the parlor slides open. "Coffee's ready, Detective~! rings out, as Ezra backs into the room. Towering, compared to both Berislav and Moses alike, the blonde woman carries a cheery smile on her face as she carries in a service tray. Setting it down between the two others only takes her swiping up an empty rocks glass that sat on the sidetable. She hums as she starts to pour. "Oh! Detective, we're out of the real stuff, didn't notice till I was head-deep in the pantry. So... we've got decaf chicory! Cream? Sugar?" She looks to Berislav. Ezra knows already how Moses takes hers. "Ah... decaf.." A pout. "Thank you, Ezra. I suppose we'll have to pick more up soon. Why don't you introduce yourself?" "Sure thing! I'm Ezra!" ". . ." "Fixer Grade Three..? Moses's sidekick? Big ole' badass-" "Say it's nice to meet him, Ezra. Be polite." "Oh.. oopsie... It's nice to meet you, Mister!" Ezra doesn't even ask to shake his hand- she takes it in both of hers, gloved, at even the awkward angle, and vigorously shakes, with that same smile on her face.
Father Berislav	Berislav takes a seat in the chair opposite Moses, giving a nod as an answer to her question. He's interested to hear what she thinks--she must see something herself, to start with a question like that. I may be quite insane. Berislav smiles sadly. I see the scars of it, around. Maybe you'd agree those are more visible, no? The priest nods. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably at the mention of the events at the call center and the firm. But... That 'sin' is being made visible, Mister Berislav, wrought into the distorted flesh of people outside. He nods again--that seems to be his conclusion, too. Not a person I pass by is free of it, Mister Berislav. Cold, hard, unfeeling metal in brutal edges suggests a face, but stops short of any expression more human than mechanical determination. In one metallic hand, there is a flaming sword; in the other, a smith's hammer. Across the body, the signs of that hammer's passing exist; where it has struck, soft lines are hammered into the pitiless shape of a weapon. All of it is glimpsed through a curtain of smoke extending before him, as if the ground between him and Moses were a furious inferno. Berislav smiles sadly. "My flesh was distorted a long time before I ever knew there was a City, Detective." The hammer's head is cold, the metal which is his body already quenched. To bend it out of shape now, after it's already been worked, would take an incredible force to achieve. Coffee's ready, Detective! Cream? Sugar? "Yes, please!" He likes just enough cream and sugar to soften the bitterness, without erasing the aftertaste. A little more than a splash of cream, roughly one lump of sugar. "It's nice to meet you, too, Ezra," says Berislav with a warm smile. "I'm Father Berislav--oh! Haha." His handshake is less firm with her, for having not expected it, but not unpleasantly dead-fish. "You certainly have an infectious disposition, don't you?"
Distortion Dets.	A series of nods is encouragement enough, following Moses' tirade, to the merit of having called the man out here. The guarded posture doesn't return afterwards, replaced instead by a somewhat satisfied unburdening. Still- the detective is tired, twitchy, and that ever-rough detached, as she converses and rants and does her best to act the personable host. Sharp, metal edges caught in the firelight- Moses' thoughts stir, staring uncomfortably long in Berislav's direction. He's hardened, armored against things. A draw towards protection? Guardianship? He's sharpened, too. War? Having been made by someone's hands? A hammer, so... the hands are his own? It's near-complete, the whole of him as this war machine. A slow blink, and she redirects to look out at the fire, smoke still hanging heavy around the two of them. 'My flesh was distorted a long time before I ever knew there was a City, Detective.' "It would certainly seem so, Mister Berislav. I'd ask you what being wrought of sharpened iron may mean to you, if you had the time and comfort to let me make notes." She leans back, and blows smoke out, slow and almost whistling. Ezra, meanwhile, eagerly fixes up the priest's coffee- or really, coffee-like hot beverage. It's more bitter, but still full bodied, and mostly, with the incessant rain outside, it's warm. Ezra does, however, need to be stopped from adding more sugar than would be desired. Moses takes hers black. 'I'm Father Berislav--oh! Haha.' "A father? You've got kids, Mister? Tell me their names! Do you carry little picture rolls of them in a wallet?" "It's apparently just a title, Ezra. Like 'Detective'." Moses hasn't subbed it out for his name, however, despite her slightly formal tone. "Gooootcha. So I can just call you Father, right? Right, Detective? Heheh..." Ezra lets go of his shaken hand, letting her now-freed-up arms swing a little at her sides, as she tries to find a standing position that feels natural. None really come- so she fidgets. 'You certainly have an infectious disposition, don't you?' "Awwww, you think so? All the grannies at the community center are always saying stuff like that too, you know. Bunch of sweethearts..." She looks Moses' way, instead of just at the priest, to verify the little praise with a nod from her boss. When Moses gives it is when Ezra really beams. "Hey, have you ever tried pottery, Father? If power's not still so fussy next week, there's a class on it I'm gonna take with them! They'd be all over you if you were there!" Read: Ezra wants to feed Berislav, a kind younger man, to a group of retirees who might adore him. Moses coughs. "We're still on business, Ezra." "Ope! Sorry!!!" "Anyway- Mister Berislav? Your... coalition, is that the term you want it called, here in our City? Pitch it to me. Your mission. Your methods." She sits forwards, alert again, clearly hoping to hear, instead of anything in particular, just enough of a reason to attach herself to efforts like it. It's transparent in her actions, and that the two of them are in the room together. She just wants to hear it, first. Ezra takes a step closer to her detective, and nods along, a hand placed at the back of her chair as she too stares Berislav's way.
Father Berislav	I'd ask you what being wrought of sharpened iron may mean to you, if you had the time and comfort to let me make notes. "You weren't kidding about seeing it," Berislav answers with his brow lifted in surprise. His train of thought is interrupted by the sight of Ezra's generous hand with sugar. "Ah! That's plenty, Ezra, thank you," he says, catching her before she adds too much. "--where was I? Ah, yes. 'Sharpened iron...' I have the time and the comfort to do it today, if you'd like," he says, pausing to take a sip of not-coffee. "But your letter made it seem like there were other things on your mind..." Gooootcha. So I can just call you Father, right? Right, Detective? Heheh... "Assuming Detective Moses entered the priesthood, she'd be 'Mother,' or 'Reverend' as she preferred." Berislav senses enough mischief from Ezra to suggest 'Mother' first and leave out 'Elder.' Hey, have you ever tried pottery, Father? If power's not still so fussy next week, there's a class on it I'm gonna take with them! Berislav lights up, lifting his cup towards her. "That would be delightful," he exclaims with a bright smile. "It'd be fun, and a great way to meet new people." He's probably used to being thrown to crowds of retirees. We're still on business, Ezra. The priest restrains his enthusiasm and nods. "Pitch it to you..." "Our mission is to radically change the environment of the City. We want to make it easier to be kind here, and more difficult to be cruel--to make it more difficult, also, for the City to wage war on its most vulnerable. Our methods..." "There's only so much I'm comfortable divulging in detail, but I can provide the broad strokes. You've heard of the Trideag Association by now, I'm sure." Another sip. "I support their mission of making the City a better place, but find their methods too shackled to the City's infrastructure." He pauses, and a smile spreads. "A... Finger could move in ways an Association couldn't." "We're in the early stages, still, but, we're working on building ties with the community, providing support to them and showing them ways that they can help each other survive outside of the City's abusive hierarchy. While we build with one hand," he says, lifting his cup, "We protect and... excise, shall we say, with the other." "It's a combination of building mutual aid networks and making contact with more militant types who can protect the City's vulnerable against the predations of those with something to lose from the end of that exploitation."
Distortion Dets.	'You weren't kidding about seeing it,' Tired, she raises up her eyes, as if to try and meet his eyes while still missing them. "Not in the slightest." A puff of smoke pulls her back out of that fixed expression. 'I have the time and the comfort to do it today, if you'd like,' "I'll make note of all you say here, regardless. If it is relevant to you, to this, don't hold back." 'Assuming Detective Moses entered the priesthood, she'd be 'Mother,'' The grimace Moses makes at that is deeply unamused. An exchange of glares between her and Ezra- and a small, too-innocent smile from Ezra, turns into rolled eyes from the detective. "Place any ideas in the head of my assistant and it's your neck on the line, Father." "Aww, but Detective, wouldn't it be f-" "Your neck." Somewhat playful of the two of them, somehow. 'It'd be fun, and a great way to meet new people.' "Auwh, they'll just eat. you. up.!!" She bounces on the front of her feet, before quickly stopping, so the shelf-top glassware and ornamentation in the parlor not dislodge itself at all. Instead, she places her hands into a silent clap, and grins, toothy, bright, and saccharinely innocent at the priest. Is there mischief in that, too? Probably! 'A... Finger could move in ways an Association couldn't.' Moses sighs. "I have the luck of being a career Fixer, Mister Berislav. I know more than most about the shortfalls of what an association can and cannot, or would and would not, do." She breathes, and, with traces of venom, I know the leeway of Syndicates, too. Be cautious when praising them." "I run this office, but I am licensed, and I do report to the Seven Association, Mister Berislav. Not about this, of course. I'm here to talk for my own stake, not theirs." Gently crossing one of her legs over the other, a posture change that feels more like tightening a seatbelt than easing off, she blows out a shaky breath of smoke. "I don't trust that Outsider Association. That you're making your place outside it is a reassurance. Tell me the detail some other time." There'll be some other time! "You aren't the first to want those better things for the City. I've seen it. I've- I try, too, I hope." She pauses, and her expression softens, as if she's decided against saying something far more cynical. "... I can't not hope for similar. Something is different now, isn't it? In whether that just stays as words." 'While we build with one hand, we protect and... excise,' "Sword and hammer," Mumbles the detective. Rain pounds on the windows, while wind gnaws at the seams in the glass, as if it could find a drafty route inside to steal warmth away. "Mister Berislav. If I were to say I'd like to see some of your efforts first hand, what would you say? And if I were to say I'd like favors- as transactional as need be, from your associates, in the work I myself do? Investigating this- 'Distortion' is the word I pen in my case files, -this phenomena, and solving the occurrences when I can. Would you and yours answer?" Moses' expression is a cold neutral- but Ezra stares over her, with a faint, excited and pleading look.
Father Berislav	I'll make note of all you say here, regardless. If it is relevant to you, to this, don't hold back. Berislav nods and sets his cup down, half-finished. "If you had met me when my world first unified, you'd probably find me more or less the same, in terms of my demeanor. I've always loved people," he says, and, with a brief glance towards Ezra, "And community." He smiles. Sadly. "But, unfortunately... however unique the City may be, it isn't unique in its ability to make an industry out of cruelty; to automate it away and render it as a fact of life instead of the ugliness and naked violence that it is. By comparison to the City, and many other worlds, my own is practically a paradise." "I wanted to fight that ugliness I saw out in the Multiverse by nurturing the goodness in people, leaving places more whole than I found them." A sigh. "I underestimated how hard the gardeners of sin would fight back." "That was when I realized the approach that was necessary. To make kindness easier, we have to nurture it, yes." His expression hardens, and his eyes are like the steel of the machine she saw a moment ago. "But we also have to destroy evil. To that end," he says, "I've made myself not only into a weapon, but a weapon of a specific kind." The hammer. The hardened edges. "I've hardened my body, inside and out, become the 'gunman' you mentioned, and more, to use the world's overwhelming violence against it. In me, every soldier's rifle, every policeman's unfeeling baton, every mercenary's explosive, resides, to be turned back on the people who think that they aren't murderers and abusers, only because they do what they do with penstrokes and money. I answer systemic violence with its ultimate end: real, physical violence, terrifying in its certainty of purpose." The flaming sword. The steel mask, recognizable as human only faintly, permanently set in its unflinching, unfeeling resolve. "I would be unrecognizable to the Waters Berislav of years ago. Distorted in flesh, certainly. To know that I'd been under the knife to make me a more effective killer, he'd decry me as a butcher; say that I've perverted the faith. But I've made my peace with that," he says, sighing through his nose. "I've even made my peace with the fact that I might be cast into fire, at the end of days, for the lives I've taken. If giving up my place in Heaven means the end of Hell on Earth, I'd face that fire gladly." The fire at his feet.
Father Berislav	Something is different now, isn't it? In whether that just stays as words. "It is," he says, with absolute certainty. "The fall of that Wing has meant hard times. We'll be sorely tested. But we'll also have an opportunity to put our share of beauty into the City." If I were to say I'd like to see some of your efforts first hand, what would you say? Berislav smiles again. Warm and hopeful. "I think all of that is very much doable," he says. "In the first case, you can find us in District 12's Backstreets. I'm told that these 'Distortions' happen to the City's most stressed," he says. "So... I'm hardly surprised to hear that some recent victims include those working at call centers." "A trusted associate of mine feels that what we're doing may be key to solving these occurrences--and I'm inclined to agree. I can think of six people, immediately, who'd be interested in helping you, plus myself, of course." "It's likely there are even more--those are just the first who come to mind."
Distortion Dets.	'By comparison to the City, and many other worlds, my own is practically a paradise.' "Other worlds. I've never left this City, and yet it's still as if I've seen dozens of worlds here. And the others, out there, Outsider worlds, are a paradise in contrast? What a cruel joke." She lets out a huff, and a thin smile. As if it's funny. "I'd like to see that for myself some day." 'He'd decry me as a butcher' As Berislav continues, Ezra makes a nigh-imperceptible glance Moses' way, who doesn't catch it. Breath slips out of the taller girl's lips, and her fingers flex open, closed, open. Then, smiley again, "Hey, here, Detective, let me just squeeze the coffee tray back past you-" Ezra takes it, the pot and tray, and shuffles out the way she'd entered, with a low whistle. 'I've even made my peace with the fact that I might be cast into fire, at the end of days, for the lives I've taken.' "How peaceful does that feel?" Moses mutters, under smoky breath. Something troubles her. Thank you for elaborating. I have a better idea of the man in front of me, now." 'But we'll also have an opportunity to put our share of beauty into the City.' Exhaled, quiet: "And excise rot, I presume? I don't doubt we'll both be elbow deep before long." 'In the first case, you can find us in District 12's Backstreets.' A pulled-thin smile. "A journey like that isn't one I can accept casually. If I'm ever called to where it proves convenient, I can keep that in mind. I would dearly like to talk to the associates you mention, however." She sips her now-cooler chicory coffee. "'Doable'. That's a spot of good news." Picking up a pad of notepaper, and a pocketed pen, Moses scrawls numbers down onto its lines, and presses them Berislav's way. "Our Office line. Ezra keeps tabs on it, she'll recognize your voice if you need to pass word here. Good for you and yours to have. I'll be in contact, too." Once more, the last thing Moses remembers to do in the exchange of formality is stick her hand over to shake- agreement, not introduction, but still something to feel like this bit of cooperation is sealed. Her hand trembles, nervous or uncertain, as he takes it- it didn't before. "Stay however long you need. The storm won't quiet down, but the fire is still warm."