Yesterday was more SiGMA conference and regulatory returns and too much to do, so I am late. I am so very late, like the White Rabbit. The prompt doesn't fit very well with any of the next parts for Lord Derby, so let's pop back in time a few years to this post and pick up Dax, Anna-Mix and Mr. Bendix :)
The Technician Anna-Mix looked like a sitcom's idea of a dotty aunt: she was wearing a jade-green jacket and a ratty fur stole, a white blouse with lacework around the buttons and tiny red-and-blue embroidered flowers at the cuffs. Her skirt was cut for a school-girl and sized for a plus-size model and only stayed up because she was wearing three belts around her waist, each sporting Death-Metal band logos. She wore stripey stockings that probably belonged in a fetishist's catalogue and blocky boots that, if they hadn't been daffodil-yellow, would have made a goth happy. Her gaze was the thousand-yard stare of someone who'd survived five years in a Viet-Cong internment camp: it was calm but in a way that made other people nervous when they saw it. Formication -- the sensation of ants running over your skin -- was only the start of it, after a few seconds you'd start patting yourself down, hunting for tracers or trackers, whatever it was that had locked that blank, black gaze onto you. There was a smell of coal-tar soap as you approached her, that gradually got replaced by something like freshly fried mackerel as you got closer. The fact that the air near her straight black hair, so sharply defined and lacquered that anime heroines would kick their pet rabbits in frustration, sparkled slightly as well was practically normal. "Anna-Mix," said Mr. Bendix, his voice cheery. Dax glanced at him, his eyebrows quirking in surprise: he thought that Mr. Bendix had bottled and sold all his emotions on Wesson Street years ago. That the cadaverous, gentlemanly, accountantly old man could even fake enthusiasm was worth paying attention to. "My dear, we've been waiting for you to make contact." People in the gallery moved away from them, subtle and unseen pressures causing them to want to see other paintings, or find a drink or the toilets. Dax stayed alert and on guard, and not just because Anna-Mix was looking at him. "The Needle is dead," said Anna-Mix. Her voice was light, just loud enough to reach Dax and too quiet to be heard behind him, and her accent wasn't quite flat. He fancied he could hear a guttural note, perhaps Dutch or Afrikaans.
"Oh, that's too bad," said Mr. Bendix without a trace of emotion. Dax had to glance at him again, unable to tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere. He remained unenlightened. "He's done a lot of good work." "He was a tattoo artist," said Dax, trying to be helpful. Neither of the others looked at him. "Everdream," said Anna-Mix. "He's a technician," said Mr. Bendix. "No artistry, but his work is elegant. Excellent even. Geometric." "Everdream has taken over the studio." "And Noura...?" "The Oni guide her still." "They will not like a technician," said Mr. Bendix. "Which is good news." Dax inclined his head, feeling that that statement was somehow intended for him. "We do not need to kill Everdream," said Mr. Bendix. He was meeting and holding Anna-Mix's gaze, and Dax was counting the seconds that he was achieving this. He sniffed; was that the chemical odour of Agent Orange drifting in from somewhere? Anna-Mix turned away, looking at a painting. Dax looked at it too: at first glance it seemed to be Lady Penelope Ascabant, but now he knew what he was looking for he saw an ox with gangrene in its back legs spreading up its side and rump. "One," she said, seemingly to the air. Mr. Bendix held out his hand, and, with a sense of dread, Dax passed him a single bullet, on which were engraved all nine thousand names of God.
Greg - had to reread the linked post to remember this one properly, but I'm glad to have done so and very pleased that you've chosen to return us to these three.
Fascinating scene. I hope you bring us back for another visit a little sooner than last time :)
3 comments:
Yesterday was more SiGMA conference and regulatory returns and too much to do, so I am late. I am so very late, like the White Rabbit. The prompt doesn't fit very well with any of the next parts for Lord Derby, so let's pop back in time a few years to this post and pick up Dax, Anna-Mix and Mr. Bendix :)
The Technician
Anna-Mix looked like a sitcom's idea of a dotty aunt: she was wearing a jade-green jacket and a ratty fur stole, a white blouse with lacework around the buttons and tiny red-and-blue embroidered flowers at the cuffs. Her skirt was cut for a school-girl and sized for a plus-size model and only stayed up because she was wearing three belts around her waist, each sporting Death-Metal band logos. She wore stripey stockings that probably belonged in a fetishist's catalogue and blocky boots that, if they hadn't been daffodil-yellow, would have made a goth happy. Her gaze was the thousand-yard stare of someone who'd survived five years in a Viet-Cong internment camp: it was calm but in a way that made other people nervous when they saw it. Formication -- the sensation of ants running over your skin -- was only the start of it, after a few seconds you'd start patting yourself down, hunting for tracers or trackers, whatever it was that had locked that blank, black gaze onto you. There was a smell of coal-tar soap as you approached her, that gradually got replaced by something like freshly fried mackerel as you got closer. The fact that the air near her straight black hair, so sharply defined and lacquered that anime heroines would kick their pet rabbits in frustration, sparkled slightly as well was practically normal.
"Anna-Mix," said Mr. Bendix, his voice cheery. Dax glanced at him, his eyebrows quirking in surprise: he thought that Mr. Bendix had bottled and sold all his emotions on Wesson Street years ago. That the cadaverous, gentlemanly, accountantly old man could even fake enthusiasm was worth paying attention to. "My dear, we've been waiting for you to make contact."
People in the gallery moved away from them, subtle and unseen pressures causing them to want to see other paintings, or find a drink or the toilets. Dax stayed alert and on guard, and not just because Anna-Mix was looking at him.
"The Needle is dead," said Anna-Mix. Her voice was light, just loud enough to reach Dax and too quiet to be heard behind him, and her accent wasn't quite flat. He fancied he could hear a guttural note, perhaps Dutch or Afrikaans.
"Oh, that's too bad," said Mr. Bendix without a trace of emotion. Dax had to glance at him again, unable to tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere. He remained unenlightened. "He's done a lot of good work."
"He was a tattoo artist," said Dax, trying to be helpful. Neither of the others looked at him.
"Everdream," said Anna-Mix.
"He's a technician," said Mr. Bendix. "No artistry, but his work is elegant. Excellent even. Geometric."
"Everdream has taken over the studio."
"And Noura...?"
"The Oni guide her still."
"They will not like a technician," said Mr. Bendix. "Which is good news."
Dax inclined his head, feeling that that statement was somehow intended for him.
"We do not need to kill Everdream," said Mr. Bendix. He was meeting and holding Anna-Mix's gaze, and Dax was counting the seconds that he was achieving this. He sniffed; was that the chemical odour of Agent Orange drifting in from somewhere?
Anna-Mix turned away, looking at a painting. Dax looked at it too: at first glance it seemed to be Lady Penelope Ascabant, but now he knew what he was looking for he saw an ox with gangrene in its back legs spreading up its side and rump.
"One," she said, seemingly to the air. Mr. Bendix held out his hand, and, with a sense of dread, Dax passed him a single bullet, on which were engraved all nine thousand names of God.
Greg - had to reread the linked post to remember this one properly, but I'm glad to have done so and very pleased that you've chosen to return us to these three.
Fascinating scene. I hope you bring us back for another visit a little sooner than last time :)
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