a light that never comes [closed]
Oct 25, 2018 23:43:13 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Oct 25, 2018 23:43:13 GMT -5
A fist slams against an oaken table, rattling a beer glass. "Whaddya mean you won't take the job?" the man across from Araceli snarls, half-rising out of his seat. His face is red with either frustration or alcohol, or a mixture of the two. Never a good combination.
Aracelis doesn't flinch. "I thought the meaning was quite clear," she drawls, examining her red-painted nails. "But I'll spell it out if I have to. I'm not a private investigator. I don't find missing persons, and certainly not for the paltry sum you offered." Aracelis wasn't cheap. Her services were premium and so they had premium prices.
The man quivers with anger. His eyes are sallow with sleepless nights. "You heartless bitch, this is my daughter we're talking about! She's five years old! I heard you can find anything, anyone, so please- please just-"
Aracelis exhales through her nose, taking a moment to observe her surroundings. The two of them are seated at the corner of a bar straddling the boundary between the slums and the commercial district. It was where she conducted her seedier negotiations, as no one asked questions here and no one snitched. The man had contacted her yesterday promising a "significant" reward for a job "too sensitive to disclose the details of over the internet," so she had arranged this meeting with high hopes. Clearly this one was a dud, though.
"Missing persons aren't my field of expertise," she replies at last, standing up. "My sympathies to you and your daughter. I hope you find her soon." She heads for the door.
But the man isn't about to let her leave. He takes two long strides around the table and suddenly his hands are around her throat, grasping, squeezing, with the wrath only a parent with a missing child could channel. Her vision swims.
tag: @open
notes: help a gal out
Aracelis doesn't flinch. "I thought the meaning was quite clear," she drawls, examining her red-painted nails. "But I'll spell it out if I have to. I'm not a private investigator. I don't find missing persons, and certainly not for the paltry sum you offered." Aracelis wasn't cheap. Her services were premium and so they had premium prices.
The man quivers with anger. His eyes are sallow with sleepless nights. "You heartless bitch, this is my daughter we're talking about! She's five years old! I heard you can find anything, anyone, so please- please just-"
Aracelis exhales through her nose, taking a moment to observe her surroundings. The two of them are seated at the corner of a bar straddling the boundary between the slums and the commercial district. It was where she conducted her seedier negotiations, as no one asked questions here and no one snitched. The man had contacted her yesterday promising a "significant" reward for a job "too sensitive to disclose the details of over the internet," so she had arranged this meeting with high hopes. Clearly this one was a dud, though.
"Missing persons aren't my field of expertise," she replies at last, standing up. "My sympathies to you and your daughter. I hope you find her soon." She heads for the door.
But the man isn't about to let her leave. He takes two long strides around the table and suddenly his hands are around her throat, grasping, squeezing, with the wrath only a parent with a missing child could channel. Her vision swims.
tag: @open
notes: help a gal out