A few minor preparations later, and Levis stood resignedly in front of Charlene's door.<br/><br/>Her white collared shirt had been carefully arranged into a display of haphazard distraction, buttons attached out-of-order and sleeves pushed back to her elbows. The fashionably-loose dress pants, a uniform dark grey, had been intentionally scuffed around the knees and the left hip. Her appearance may have been extremely contrived, but years of practice had eliminated any obvious hints; she looked for all the world like a young woman who had been stumbling around the city streets for the past two days. Even her hair, usually maintained with an almost compulsive precision, had been loosely tangled and allowed to hang in limp hanks around her shoulders and upper back. Levis wondered if she had ever matched the mortals quite so well in terms of dinginess. The pristine half-moon specs and garnet stud had been carefully pocketed as well. The angel often donned a pair of simple pearl studs for this soft-faced and heavy-chested figure, but they might be out of place just this once.<br/><br/>Seconds before the sound of footsteps stopped in front of the door, Levis practiced her smile. Should she smile? Probably. It was a useful tool for disarming, and certainly even Charlene would feel defensive at such a late intrusion. Make it honest, but not too eager. Soft? No, that wasn't going to incite the feeling she needed from the woman. Depressed, or sheepish... either of those would most likely work better. The angel tried on the smile and made adjustments the way a pre-teen girl tries on an awkwardly-fitting dress for the first time, trying to find something that made it less unbearable so that it could be worn for a prolonged period of time. If she was coming to the woman's home and more or less forcing her presence, she would need to appear more...<span style="font-style: italic">approachable</span>than she usually did. The word was accompanied by a thick distaste in her Victorian mind, something that would have been more appropriate alongside the word "gangrenous".<br/><br/>The door clicked and opened a little, revealing a set of dark eyes that quickly flickered up into her own, widening with easily-read emotion as the door swung open. The hastily-practiced smile spread over the angel’s full lips, her thin brows tilting in little hillock of concerned innocence.<span style="font-weight: bold">“Ah, Charlene… I’m – I’m so sorry, but…”</span>the words, a speech roughly constructed and totally unrehearsed spilled from her mouth, the feminine octave of her voice sounding just a bit strange to her ears: of course, it always did when she first used it post-switch. She allowed her shoulders to slump, as though she were no more than a dejected schoolgirl, her graceful arms hanging loosely by her side… all highly calculated, of course, right down to the slight thickness of her voice that implied recent tears.<span style="font-weight: bold">“May I stay here for tonight? I… I got… kicked out.”</span>Levis had always thought that particular vernacular was strange. “Kicked out”, as though someone had used a boot to remove her. Honestly.<br/><br/>The woman’s wet hair and lack of proper dress made it clear that she had recently bathed and had no intention of leaving her abode for the remainder of the night; at least, not to go anywhere civilized. Levis had to stop a grimace from freezing on her face. This situation became more and more improper with every new development and it showed no signs of –<br/><br/>The angel’s large eyes widened, the carefully-constructed expression of defeat and depression replaced with a very honest one of awe. Of course, the most inspiring version of “awe” for Levis was little more than a mortal would use when realizing that they were not, in fact, out of peanut butter. By the Grim’s boney knickers,<span style="font-style: italic">when</span>had<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>happened?<br/><br/>For the past couple of years, her circlet had been above-average (as befitted a Level Eight): chased white gold and lined with platinum, with an elegant setting of one large centerpiece flanked by two smaller stones on either side. The metal itself always had a vaguely braided or worked cast to it, something that was different than most mortals; Levis believed it had been at least two-hundred years since she had seen it. However, what she had<span style="font-style: italic">never</span>seen was the most obvious part of the delicate, hovering crown-piece. Charlene had always had “alexandrite” stones (Levis had been seeing them for far longer than they had been “discovered” by mortals, but he liked to keep up-to-date with the proper names) and they had always been a pale but vivid shade of green, no matter the light. They had never changed, but now… those were<span style="font-style: italic">pink diamonds</span>. Glittering and brilliant, with the gentlest cast of pale pink behind the white sparkle, the largest one would have been enough to blind her had it been real. A regular diamond would have been nothing quite so special: a Level 6, maybe, but the power fairly radiated from the mutated hue of the gemstone. She may have never seen a mortal who had a circlet with such settings, but the reason for the Supervisor’s call abruptly became very clear. The angel gulped, then yanked her eyes away from the space just above Charlene’s head, giving her own a small shake as though to clear the sparkle-spots from her vision.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Um… p-please,”</span>she finished somewhat lamely, tilting her head to the side so that a flutter of bang fell over some of her face. It would take a minute for her to get back into the mindset. Just in case that wasn’t enough, the sound of discord filtered down through the layers of apartment cubes, echoing past the carpets and insulation with an immortal resonance. Levis had been well aware of the demonic presence in Charlene’s domicile; she had also been sure that said demonic presence was well aware of<span style="font-style: italic">her</span>. It was thick tonight, though. Unchanged in quantity, but with a quality that whispered covetous thoughts and growled lustily over the newly-blossomed Level Nine.<br/><br/>She was starting to feel like a dog that had been given a rack of lamb and subsequently dropped into a pack of starving coyotes. A quiet thrum of power started to vibrate outward from her pores, invisible and untouchable, but heavy with promise. A warning.<br/><br/><br/>-------------------------<br/><br/><br/><span style="color: #BF8040">“Take it easy, <span style="font-style: italic">Your Majesty.</span>”</span><br/><br/>The voice popped into existence as the Prince neared the door. While it was recognizable as human, it had a quality that made it hard to identify beyond that: a sort of easily-forgotten, easily-camouflaged cadence that could have belonged to anyone, male or female, old or young. Either way, between Mathias himself and the three low-level immortals pinned beneath a weighted blanket of power, it was clear that the speaker was not in the room- as if to verify, a slight crackle from one of the fried speakers beside the main door identified it as the source. The machine still smoked lightly and was clearly non-functional, in fact was not even attached to a power source, but the soft voice came through with remarkable clarity.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF8040">“Stir up the sheep, and they’ll send the shepherds.”</span><br/><br/>A half-second more of static, and the lone speaker blipped back into a state of mortal disrepair.<br/><br/><br/>-------------------------<br/><br/><br/>Oliver allowed himself to be jostled and bumped out of the choking atmosphere, seeming quite agreeable about it considering the aggressive nature of the fleeing patrons. He ended up outside the door, and while most of the punkish lot headed immediately for the stairs, he turned to stare at the decrepit thing. A few more customers filtered out behind him, but once they stopped the young musician was certain that he could still hear voices coming from within, even over the din of coughs and wheezes.<br/><br/>A voice came from somewhere near his left shoulder, and he turned smoothly to face it, brows raising slightly in surprised interest. A woman about his own height, with a sleek head of copper-colored hair that starkly contrasted the rest of her monochromatic ensemble, had addressed him in a conversational tone. Oliver thought she had a decidedly stern cast to her face, but her lips broke into a winning smile and the opinion melted away as she extended her hand.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #008040">“Oh… um, th-thanks,”</span></span>he answered a little shyly, gingerly touching her proffered palm with his own. His sleeve covered it about halfway, but the exposed part was thickly calloused; his touch was feather-light, as though he were uncertain whether or not he should make contact.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0040">“I’m Vivienne. You?”</span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #008040">"O-oliver,"</span></span>he said quietly, face angled a little away but with a small, genuine smile on his lips, his limpid eyes maintaining a sort of unfocused connection to the woman's sharp grey ones.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0040">"Pleasure, Oliver,"</span>she replied with a smile of her own.<span style="color: #FF0040">"Shame that your evening had to start like that."</span>She looked him up and down briefly.<span style="color: #FF0040">"You don't look like you would normally play in a place like that?"</span><br/><br/>His smile faltered just a bit as the copper-haired woman eyed him over; her keen gaze was oddly calculating for such a quick appraisal, and he felt just a bit like a zebra being considered by a very polite lion. He finally noticed that her posh attire marked her a vivid contrast to the usual crowd of the dingy bar scene; the last time someone had come dressed like that, he was pretty sure several safety citations had ensued. At her question he blinked as though slightly surprised, before letting out an awkward little chuckle.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #008040">"Um... it's not... I'm not really, don't really play anywhere very regularly,"</span></span>one hand came up and scratched the back of his already-tousled chestnut mop, the sheepishly-optimistic words almost cut off before he could question her profession by the clatter of heavy objects from within.<br/><br/>His hand dropped from his locks and he turned away from the red-headed woman, eyes widening. He was sure that voices had come from inside not long ago, but he had been too distracted to notice if the owners had come out. Without thinking, concern quirked his brow and he took one long stride back toward the shoddy door, hand extending to push the still-smoking bit of wood open again.<br/><br/><br/>-------------------------<br/><br/><br/>Arjaâ’s fingertips flew over the wide stretch of screen, the long digits displaying a coordination and speed that she seemed unable to duplicate in any other way. The micro-glass, so thin as to be nothing more than color against the air itself, responded to her practiced motions and flickered rapidly with information; most of it was an assembly of pictures and associated blurbs of information, rather like dossiers. Of course,<span style="font-style: italic">these</span>particular dossiers didn’t just have the subject’s college major, criminal record and date of birth. They also had that one time Brian Avery Sander’s baby sister (two years younger, slated for death in a car accident within five years) put her gum in his hair while on the family road trip to the Grand Canyon, or when Dimitri Kreshnokov glanced at the valet’s hindquarters while leaving a business meeting. Anything, everything, relevant, irrelevant… everyone was reduced to nothing more than a few theoretical pixels that could display any dark secret from their life. Emotion, intent, reactions: nothing was hidden. How Emily Lanesburg felt when Tommy finally asked her to prom, all the way to Yvette Morrand cradling the body of her stillborn son as the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. The Tapestry Database could be described as “substantial” if one were given to wild understatements.<br/><br/>The Reaper Intern’s wide eyes somehow widened further behind her bottlecaps, grey-nailed fingertips gradually slowing to an almost-human pace as her pupils darted over the display. She had unlocked almost everything, as was protocol when instructed to “bring” it to the Supervisor, but sharp fluctuation of data in the 498th quadrant (her quadrant) had caused a spike of intent to shoot up her spine. It had been almost like a very, very intense and distinctly pleasant electric shock. However, as her dark optics absorbed the information like only the mind of a soon-to-be-Reaper could, any remnants of pleasant alerts had been promptly forgotten. Hastily she unlocked that troublesome file as well, and ran a brief scan for any more like it, hoping by the Grim’s own femur that she was the first to feel it. As the data instantly presented itself, Arjaâ felt her unbeating heart plummet straight into her shoes.<br/><br/>Forgetting the unlock code, the Intern spun on her clunky heels and broke into a run.<br/><br/><br/>-------------------------<br/><br/><br/>“Containment groups nineteen and twenty-four.”<br/><br/>Den’s hawk-like eyes narrowed, and though nothing else about his expressionless face altered it was enough to melt bones, freeze them back into an icy lump of flesh-covered bone matter, and then re-shatter it. The man in front of him seemed to take the full force of that calculated narrowing poorly, since his ruddy skin turned the shade of cement mix, but to his credit his knees did not buckle right there in the Supervisor’s office.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">”I expect to have all squadrons operational within seventy-two hours.”</span><br/><br/>“Sir, we – “ the man’s voice was huskier than before, as though his vocal chords were physically reeling from the blow of Den’s disapproval.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">”Send nineteen,”</span>he continued perfunctorily, business-like tone cold enough to be sub-zero.<br/><br/>Before the blanched informant could sputter an excuse, he was dismissed and the office was once more promptly emptied.