2plus2isnot5 — Roleplayer Guild

@TheUnknowable

Tamsen is a sweet woman; for the week or so that Connor’s been working her case, that much has been made obvious by the proffered plates of cookies and the small army of well-behaved cats that nuzzle his feet whenever he walks through the door. She always takes the time to ask how he’s been, and to enquire after ‘that strange young man’ she spoke to on the phone. Of course, it’s at that point Connor has to enquire which one because, as is implied by their profession and speciality, there’re a lot of ‘strange young men’ at Phoenix Security and Investigations.  

 Of course, Connor thinks, standing opposite the peeling olive-toned paint of her second story apartment door, even the sweetest people have secrets. 

Even the sweetest people tell lies. 

 He rings the doorbell, and she answers quickly – eyes crinkling in a smile as she greets him warmly and leads him into the kitchen, where he assumes his usual place in the chair facing the door at her small spindly table. She offers him tea, which he accepts graciously even though he hasn’t drunk much of the stuff outside of this apartment since he was eight years old, visiting Scotland on a family vacation. 

 As Tamsen busies herself with the kettle, Connor allows his gaze to shift, resting just outside the double glazing of the kitchen window. You can’t see much; it’s just a brown brick wall bordering the other side of an alley (which, Connor assumes, must be home to countless shady dealings.), but the first cracks of sunlight are visible. It’s morning, he realises with a strange, heady rush; a new day, despite what the grit beneath his eyelids and the exhaustion resting in his bones are telling him. 

 He looks up as Tamsen takes the seat opposite him, smiles as she sets down a heavily chipped mug decorated with a picture of a smiling young woman on it – it’s one of those custom ones that kodak stalls in supermarkets do. Cheesy, probably a gift, “Thanks,” Connor says, pulling it closer and breathing in the tweedy scent, “I like the mug – my dad’s got ones like these of me from when I was a kid, he likes this sort of stuff.”

 She chuckles softly, “Looks like me and your dad’ve got something in common then – it’s my daughter, Lucy. She’s a good girl, strong head on her shoulders like her pops.”  She takes a sip of her drink, then looks him dead in the eye, “alright then, out with it. I know that look – you’ve got something.”
 He glances down, down at the tea stained table, down at the crack in the tiles on the floor, down away from those, honest, kind eyes. For a second, he lets it not be real, lets the product of his all-nighter never have been found, lets Tamsen be a kind, elderly woman who’s accepted him into her home and is eager to hear about the results of her case, and nothing more. But then, the second ends, and reality comes crashing down, “Yeah, err, I do, actually,” he pauses, meets her eye once more, “Lucy Townsend.”

For a split-second, she looks stricken, but she schools her expression with ease. Luckily, Connor’s been studying faces long enough to catch it, and her words do little to mitigate its impact, “You mean my daughter?”

 “I think we both know who I mean, Miss Townsend.”

  She frowns, places her cup a little too hard on the table top, “Are you quite all right dear?” she leans over to try and place a hand on his arm, he jerks away. Any veneer of concern melts. “So, you figured it out, huh?”
“It wasn’t difficult, really,” he stands, moves conspicuously out of arm’s reach, pastes a cocky grin over his face, “well, maybe it was a little difficult. But still, nothing a couple of all-nighters and a hell of a lot of caffeine couldn’t fix. And to think – this was supposed to be an easy case, tracking down a rogue employee for a concerned shop owner. Nothing too invasive, just checking if she was okay.” 

He moves closer towards the door, subtle, so she doesn’t notice, too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions brought about by his revelation, “You accounted for everything. Take over your mother’s body using your power, use it to hire a PI to check on your ex, bypassing the restraining order she had against you. It was a good plan, if it weren’t for the mugs.”

 She looks up, somewhat surprised, all traces of her earlier demeanour gone, “The mugs?”

 He nods, a strange satisfaction blooming. It was a good spot, even he’s willing to admit that much to himself, “The mugs. Or, more specifically, the chips in the mugs. You see, Lucy, you’re not the only one who can lie, and your mom was doing it too, before you effectively body-snatched her that is.”

“I don’t- “

The satisfaction quickly fades though, “I hate to tell you this, really I- “and shit, this is starting to hit close to home. He swallows the emotion though, pushes it away to deal with later, and continues, “your mom’s got Parkinson’s disease, Lucy.”
 Her face is blank, eerily still. 

“It was early days. Just the shakes, at this point,” he nods to the thick crack in the kitchen floor – a river of white in the dusty rose tiles. “I’m assuming she went to the doctor after that happened. But she dropped things before that. A lot. And… her hands shook. Yours don’t.”
Lucy can barely respond. She looks numb. Connor’s heart aches for her. 

“H-how did you-?”

“She had a letter from her doctor, at the bottom of a drawer. After noticing the mugs and the floor, I went digging.”

Silence hangs. 

“You know,” Connor says gently, “you’re going to get in trouble for this, right? There’s not really anything anyone can do to protect you at this point. You-you went too far.”

 She nods. She doesn’t look at him.

“Why?”

 “I love her,” and from her voice, Connor knows she does, “I didn’t… I didn’t think it would- “she swears, loudly, “will I have to go to prison?”

“I don’t know, it depends on what the judge says.”

“Will you call the police?”

 He nods. And then, when she lunges towards him, hands stretched out in a last-ditch effort to escape, he does, after escaping through the door and locking it behind him. 

 He slides to the floor, where he finds that the green carpet is softer than the thoughts in his head so focuses on that instead. 

 For half an hour Lucy bangs at the wood with weak, frail fists. For half an hour, he ignores her.

 And then the police arrive, so Connor leaves, and now the only thought in his head is that Oscar is going to be pissed when he finds out what happened here. So much for an easy case that only really needed one man. 

Not much he can do about it now. He pushes it away, he gets back to work. 

 He gets a whole half hour in before something new comes up.

 His fingers are clattering over the, somewhat worn, keys of his keyboard as he works on his report, when the familiar crackle of the intercom cuts into the ‘alpha-wave enhancing compilation’ he always puts on in the background whilst he works. His earphones clatter across his, increasingly cluttered, desk as he pulls them out to listen.

The director’s voice is somewhat distorted when it comes through, but the words are no less clear, "Everyone, get to the break room.  We just got a job."

 Excitement stirs at the back of Connor’s mind, cutting through the dim haze that’s settled thanks to the golden combination of monotonous report writing, sleep deprivation, and severe caffeine withdrawal. 

 He stands, curiosity piqued, and makes his way to the break room. 

 The sight that greets him is… not quite what he expected. 

 Snow cones. Bright colours oddly jarring in the brightly lit, but still somehow grey-looking break room that Connor could swear hasn’t changed a jot since his first day, bright eyed and bushy tailed, working part time as what was essentially a clerical assistant. 

It takes him a second to register Chris’s presence in the room, and a few more seconds to process his offer of – “Snow Cone?”

 He blinks, before plastering a grin on his face – that’s how people react when they’re offered food, right? Chris, who Connor can’t help but sometimes refer to in his head as ‘the tech dude’, has always seemed like all right guy, as much as Connor’s encountered him so far at Phoenix, if a little antsy. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Connor says, grabbing one and taking a seat at the table near Chris, “thanks.” He tilts back onto two legs absently, the back of the chair coming to lean against the wall, “So, you got any idea what this ‘new job’s’ about?”

Name: Dawn  

Age: 21 (ish)

Appearance:  At 5ft 3, Dawn stands a little on the short side, something not helped by her somewhat... spacey demeanour. She has brown hair, and a matching set of brown eyes, which, paired with a lack of  any standout distinguishing features, mean that if someone where to be asked to describe her, they'd probably find it a little challenging. 

 Despite the somewhat 'blank slate' of her natural looks, she clearly cares about her appearance and personal style, often choosing to get up ridiculously early in order to do her hair and makeup every morning. Her style is somewhat girly and hippy-ish, as she tends to opt for floral summer dresses and lacy blouses whenever the weather allows, and chunky hand-knit jumpers when it doesn't. One item, however, that is always pressent on her person is the thin silver chain around her neck, although you could be forgiven for not noticing it, as she wears it tucked under her clothing, and often all that is visible is a faint glint about her collar.  

Hero Type: Meta (at least, as far as she knows)

Powers: Dawn can, to put it in its simplest terms, phase through 'stuff'. In somewhat more complex terms, she is capable of transporting parts of or her whole body temporarily to an alternate plane of existance which maps spatially onto our own. The plane itself is pretty much just a white expanse, and she can't stay there indefinitely, as doing so gives her excrutiating headaches, dizziness, nausea, and can, if she remains there too long (And we're talking at least a day here), even damage her nervous system. Movement in the other plane translates to movement in ours, meaning that by travelling through the other plane, she can bypass physical obstacles in this one.

Important info: 

- Dawn is being chased. She doesn't know why (well, she has some idea why), or by who, but she's certain that she is. 

- She's not really very good at the whole 'people' thing, and as such, frequently needs to have things spelled out for her, as she doesn't really 'get' subtext. She is not, however, autistic, she's just been on her own for a really long time, and as such, her social skills are a bit rusty.

- She has nerve damage in her left foot, leading to reduced sensation and occassional pains which she describes as 'being skewered through the big toe with a burning hot needle'. 

- You said you wanted people's bios to remain a mystery? Well, that's not a problem with Dawn, because up until three years ago, it's a mystery to her too.

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