<strong>Hellion<br/>Quincy's, Brooklyn<br/>12:38 AM</strong><br/><br/>Hellion feels a tinge of wonder, somewhere in the back of her mind, as to when she's somehow decided that company would be preferable to the ceaseless solitude she'd come to accept as a natural state.  The spook in her had planned three different exits from her presence, though she found each more distasteful than its predecessor.  Medea's presence was a little exciting.<br/><br/>How ironic a contrast to her prior life as a counter-intelligence agent... she once had operated in deadly secrecy with no masks at all, but now that she hid her face behind a<i>physical</i>mask, she needed more than ever to be seen, talked about, and remembered.  She had to stir things up, to counter-punch the fear of Armageddon with a more righteous and personal fear-- godless, we must rise up to fight out battles again; if the people came for her with pitchforks or laurels, it was all the same.  They'd have to rise up.  They'd have to act.<br/><br/>All that's miles from where she is now, and she can see from the pinpoint pupils of D'Angelo's eyes that he's donned his own mask... he's masked the whole world, shut himself into a white room and blown his mind to pieces so that he can't recognize a single damned thing.  His facial muscles flutter subtly, and sweat darkens the trim of his pink cotton collar.  Beneath, a diamond-crusted gold chain twinkles, telegraphs the nervous dancing of his throat.  He's tweaked out of reality.  Probably fringing on an overdose.<br/><br/>His attention is like some kind of rampant, terrified creature, bolting from corner to corner of a tiny cage.  That cage is made up of everything around, but the corners seem to be Medea's crystal, Hellion's thighs, the blow on the tabletop, Medea's chest-- no one's eyes, no one's faces.  Sentences run together like the output of a wood chipper as he stares up at Medea and Hellion-- "Donnie, the boys.  They sent you huh.  They... Freddy's pissed, I know but... I mean I know.  I know he is but I'm gonna fix-- you shoulda seen what it was.  It was a mess but that kid ain't gonna bring no heat down.  He just--"<br/><br/>"Shut up, Angel," Hellion says, her voice rising with mock sweetness at the end of his name.  "You're strung out--" he's blinking almost constantly, and while his attention for one moment seems riveted to Medea, the next he's looking back to Hellion again, his lips fighting to hold back the pressure of unsaid words.  It doesn't require a PhD to see how terrified he is.<br/><br/>"Freddy's gon' kill me, man.  I'm dead.  I'm dead i'm dead i'm dead."  He lifts a gun from his jacket,  but before it's even visible in the red-lit club, Hellion's hand is closed on his.  "Angel," Hellion says softlyand she's gliding into the booth beside him.  "You don't have to be scared, now.  All that's over."  Almost tenderly, gingerly for certain, she guides his hand, leading it to the table where the gun lands in the dregs of one of the consumed lines, the white powder speckling the hairy, knotty knuckle of his hand, and leaves the short-barrelled .38 resting there like a forgotten toy.   "You just don't know it yet."<br/><br/>He nods, continues fishing into his pocket.  He hasn't looked at the gun, and doesn't appear to care for it any more-- it's left his existence, disappeared behind the mask outside his head.  "Angel," Hellion says softly, smiling, meeting his eyes with a dipping of her head so she can look up at a slant to his lowered face.  The gesture is universal-- in anger, it masks the face and makes one seem more menacing, as if readied for battle.  Accompanied with the right hunching of shoulders to make the body seem smaller, though, it's a submissive approach, a coy, coquettish ploy like a child asking for a candy.  Hopefully, some of her act is cracking the white-glazed surface of his consciousness.<br/><br/>"Angel, it took me a while to find you... we want to be your friends, and we want to show you just how much.  But... sweetie, you HAVE to tell us--" at this, she grips his arm.  Medea can see the muscles in Hellion's arm tense under the slick black material.  "What, exactly, have you done..?"  and she's tugging him up and away from the table.  She catches Medea's eye and shoots a purposeful glance toward the inert revolver.  As they rise to their feet, the unconscious woman beside Angel collapses into the red vinyl booth with a whine of complaint, but doesn't stir.<br/><br/><strong>12:58 AM<br/>Quincy's, back office</strong><br/>The music's less offensive, the smells less biological, but the cramped office is no less offensive. It reeks of the same cigars that Angel himself reeks of.  The room's little more than a closet; the fluorescent fixture overhead is down to one functioning bulb, and a faulty ballast seems to be causing that light to stutter wickedly... Hellion's first action, when the reinforced oak door swings open, is to reach for its switch... she finds it quickly, and the glaring, flickering light goes dead immediately.  The room's only light now is the glare of a blue-white fish tank bulb, distorted by a haze of greenish-brown algae and bubbling water.<br/><br/>Hellion's encouraging, motherly sort of mock-authority with the coked-up mobster is amusing, at least.  She listens more than she speaks, but when she does, she seems to direct him like a rail guiding a speed-frenzied train.  Once Angel's prattle strings together enough coherence for Medea and Hellion to sort out a vague sort of story, though, her tone shifts, she becomes more cautious and intent.<br/><br/>Evidently, some strange kid had visited him about a fire.<br/><br/>Hellion's outward reaction is minimal, but it's clear to Medea's trained eye that she's not happy.  Even the thought of the fire, discussing it, tenses her upper lip like she's ready to bite.<br/><br/>"Was it this fire?"  A tiny seam to the inside of her forearm unzips.  A fold of paper-- newsprint, ragged.   Names underlined with red pen.  The highlights are clear enough.  No photo accompanies this sidebar from the Post.<i>TRAGIC FIRE CLAIMS BROOKLYN FAMILY...  Wendy Nolan Parker, 33,  Britney Nolan, 7, and Joseph Nolan, 4, were in the upstairs bedrooms when... investigation into the disappearance of Michael Parker, Wendy's husband... Police have indicated that foul play is suspected. </i><br/><br/>Another torn page comes out of that tiny pocket in her sleeve.  "This is where you come in, Angel."<i>HARBOR BODY CONNECTS TO BROOKLYN FIRE INVESTIGATION... body was recovered near the mouth of the Hudson yesterday morning is that of Michael Parker... possible suicide, does not rule out Parker's role in the early morning arson that claimed the lives...</i>"Who was in that house?  The woman they haven't identified yet?"<br/><br/>Angel's sweating is profuse, and he can't seem to keep his hands or feet still.<br/><br/>The article has photos.  Small-scale reproductions of school pictures.  "Michael Parker wasn't suicidal, he was connected.  He worked the books for you and your buddies."  She tips her face, the mock-coddling having melted away.  "And why are you so scared you're going to die..?"<br/><br/>In his trainwreck of linguistics, Angel explains, and it's not quite pretty.  Some weird, homeless guy that was sniffing around the club.  He'd talked Angel into a corner, asking questions about Parker.  The thick out front had set in on him, but never managed to put a hand on the kid... now, word had come around to Freddy that questions were asked, and Angel was slated for a meeting.  Evidently, this was but an instance in a string of instances that would be put to rest, one way or another.<br/><br/>"So you're killing yourself with blow?  A preemptive strike."  She shakes her head leans forward.  Angel's in the desk chair, but she's on the desk.  Her silhouette against the watery light seems to smile as she speaks.<br/><br/>"Medea here is going to save your life, Angel."  Her eyes emerge from the black shape of her form as she smiles over to the woman beside her.  "She's going to give you some information that you can use to get leverage on Freddy, to bargain with.  Between that information, and the massive amount of money and junk you move through this building?  You're going to be just fine.  Understand?"<br/><br/>One black-taloned hand cups his subbled face, and she lifts it.  White crusts the rim of his nostrils.  "But you're going to take care of us, too.  You're going to give us information that makes our work easier.  And you're going to be very happy you did, Angel, because we can help you get to the top of your game.  The top of the world, Angel, like in the old days... when you were younger, and working with criminals had its rewards."<br/><br/>She laughs softly.  "Cloud nine, Angel.  You'll be back on cloud nine.  Are we clear?"<br/><br/>The face nods, the eyes flickering wildly in the skull.  "Yeah.  I understand."<br/><br/>Grinning, Hellion shakes his chin and purses her lips in an approving smile.  "That's right... now... when did this strange kid leave?"<br/><br/><b>1:30 AM</b><br/>When they reach the alley again, Hellion's mask slips right back onto her face.  The clanging of the metal door gives them the welcoming ether of fresh air-- as fresh as can be expected with its undercurrent of oil and pollution.<br/><br/>"That fire killed four people.  At least three, apparently, were innocent of all crimes but being related by marriage to a complete asshole."  She sighs and makes a running hop onto the fire escape, retrieving her trenchcoat, and returns to ground level with the same casual drama of fluid muscles.  "I'll have that information delivered.  You can thank me later."  She turns her gaze sidelong back to the lovely woman in Victorian-punk dress.  "I like to do favors."  The smile in her eyes is deviously coy.<br/><br/>The two set off through the grid of Brooklyn, their footfalls echoing like music to the accompaniment of a passing ambulance, in the direction of a residential neighborhood three blocks east.  The moon is watching them, laughing and huge and alone.