gabriel_tam | (no subject)

The Tam quarters on Londinium are just that -- quarters. They're fine and spacious, assuredly, but they're an apartment, they're not the estate, and they're certainly not a home.

This doesn't mean that they're not outfitted with the best in cryptography and call protection, of course. Andronicus Crowley would insist on it, even if Gabriel and Regan Tam did not. Multiple dedicated source boxes, multiple screens, mulitiple hubs, all protected to the standard that Crowley and Gabriel use themselves in their offices.

The Tam quarters are spacious, and they're not home, but the light in the rooms is close to that of the Tam estate: all soft yellow, near-ambient, illuminating every corner with only the barest and least threatening shadows. That's enough to make the Tam quarters livable.

Even now, days after the initial news, the blue light projected from every screen in every room is enough to tell anybody who might be watching, even assuming that they could with all of this protection:

Something is not right.

Gabriel stares at the screen in front of him, at the words that say in English and Chinese Transmission Ended, and he can't stop himself from focusing on the second word --

(this is the end)

-- before he forcibly snaps himself out of it, and stands.

No. There is a way. There has to be a way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

aj_crawley

"No," comes Crowley's voice, tight and angry from the console in the next room. "No you do not get to tell me that's 'classified', because if you try to wrap me in a legal loophole, I will walk all over you. I have proxy for next-of-kin, and you don't have to tell me where they're being held, but under the Full Disclosure Act, I have - oh don't you fucking dare - "

"Fuck."

It's a little strangled, this time.

From:

regan_tam

With a Cortex console, there's no real equivalent of slamming down a phone receiver. Touchscreens just don't slam right, unless you're throwing them across the room, and that makes subsequent calls difficult.

Regan's sharp jab at the screen is a pretty good attempt, though.

"Damn it," she mutters, glaring at the source box.

"Never heard of them, ma'am. Can't speak to that, ma'am. Gŏu pì."

Regan wasn't swearing this much when they started making calls. (Regan, in fact, never swears this much.) But that was four hours ago, with nothing to show for it but frustration.

From:

gabriel_tam

He's the only one in the apartment who isn't swearing at the moment, but it's not out of lack of desire.

Gabriel is pacing the floor, having just completed his most recent 'wave to a law academy colleague of his who had accepted a position with Interplanetary Police, and who had been truly sorry to inform him that there was no record of any such arrest.

"They can't have disappeared," he grits out. "I know for a fact that even secret prisoners must have some record--"

He's trying hard not to think of a too-bright room and his own 'unofficial' presence within. There's no time for that now, not when River and Simon--

Every second counts.

From:

aj_crawley

Every second counts, when River and Simon -

Some people - don't do well with locked-in spaces.

Crowley stalks into the living-room, jaw taut with anger that's doing a fair job of tamping down the panic. He pauses at the main screen and switches it on, setting a timer to flip through newsfeeds, before reaching for a slim black folder and thumbing through it for more contact details.

There's a moment of silence, each of them regrouping for the next inevitable frustration.

"Mal'd better not have lost them."

From:

walk_ins

The main screen behind Crowley's back is flickering with gaudy colours and strategic lighting. Some manner of red carpet event is being covered, and an overdressed reporter is gushing away beneath the muted music. Abruptly, her practiced smile gains a few hundred watts of flattering admiration, and she flits through the light crowd until her hand closes on the arm of a very expensive suit.

"So tell me..."

But the volume is very low, and the Tams aren't paying much attention to some society broadcast.

Nothing to see here.

From:

gabriel_tam

"He won't," Gabriel snaps. "Don't even think it."

He can almost hear Mal Reynolds' voice ringing in his ears, over a series of conversations.

Simon 'n River live under my protection.

Here's how it is. They been livin' on my boat...I consider 'em both my friends 'n more.

When you love somethin', you go to the ends o' the ruttin' 'verse to protect it.

There is not a hint of doubt in his voice when he says,

"He'd die first."

Right now, Gabriel Tam is counting on that.

From:

aj_crawley

"I know that," he snaps back, and then, catching himself, takes a deep, slow breath.

And then slams his folder shut.

"I'm going to 'wave him. I don't - we're not going to get anywhere trying to get the Feds to tell us anything, and we don't have t- River'll..."

He slides his sunglasses down, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'll wave him, we'll find out where they're keeping them - I can get there faster'n just about anyone, and I'll go in and pull them out myself."

Resolved, he slides the folder back into his case and heads back towards the Cortex hub he's appropriated for the past four hours, waving a hand in the direction of the newsfeed en route, hoping to skip past to the next one.

(He never could stand red-carpet reporters, and Wanda Chen isn't going to tell them anything useful.)

Nothing happens.

From:

regan_tam

Regan follows his look, and frowns at the screen.

"Oh, don't tell me the feed-flip's broken."

Such a stupid thing to feel like the last straw. It doesn't matter; it's just one machine, and they weren't getting anything useful from the newsfeeds anyway. But nothing has gone right all day, nothing has helped, and this... well, it just isn't even a surprise, any more, she thinks, and starts to push herself to her feet to follow Crowley.

From:

samael-diablo.livejournal.com

"...to share with you, Wanda. So kind of you to say so, however."

Wanda Chen's tinkling, flirtatious laughter fades into the background noise. The picture doesn't even flicker but there's a pause, just a small one, and the immaculately-dressed man currently taking up most of the screen adjusts his (perfect) tie and gives a (perfect) smile.

"Hello, Crowley," says Nicholas Rosse.

From:

aj_crawley

Crowley had been on his way back to his console.

Crowley had looking a little better, taller, walking with purpose.

As he stops dead in his tracks, and slowly starts to turn around, he seems to be trying to hunch himself smaller - don't mind me, little old me. He stares at the screen for a few moments, and he isn't quite gaping, because he hadn't known Nicholas Rosse, but he had known that voice. And he knows that face.

"Hngk," Crowley manages after a moment. "Hi, boss."

From:

gabriel_tam

Gabriel, on the other hand, knows Nicholas Rosse. Rosse Advertising's deals with Bett Pharmaceutical and Dunsmuir Excel were industry legend during his time with Birnam, and he's well aware that Rosse had been spotted in conference with Carson's chief advisors.

That little piece of information had gained them the support of Martinpur Select, among others.

But he also knows that Andronicus Crowley is more than the CEO of Bentley Aeronautics --

(There was a battle, in Heaven - Crowley's a demon)

-- and so it takes only one word, one single word

(boss)

for Gabriel to turn chalk-white and stare at the screen, in turn.

He doesn't even notice that he's moved to put himself between the display and Regan; it's automatic, below the level of conscious thought.

From:

samael-diablo.livejournal.com

Rosse's gaze moves to Gabriel and his wife and the smile remains in place as he nods, smooth and courteous.

"Good evening, Senator Tam. I don't believe I've had a chance to congratulate you."

From:

gabriel_tam

Years of social training and business instinct override shock, and later he will be thankful for it.

"Mr. Rosse." Gabriel smiles cordially at the screen, still half-shielding Regan as he draws her closer to his side.

"Xièxie nĭ. We're certainly pleased to be able to serve the Alliance as best we can, although of course there are still those who might disagree, of course."

It's not unlike walking a tightrope, although this one's deadlier than most, he's sickeningly certain.

From:

regan_tam

At the word 'boss,' there's a moment of utter blankness.

(And, she's wondering somewhere behind the startlement, how is Rosse managing this? Turning a newsfeed into a call, you can't do that, there are frequency safeguards and configuration disjointment...)

And then she realizes -- because she knows Crowley is a demon, though parts of the story never quite made sense to her, she does know, but she doesn't really think about it, because demon is complicated and confusing and straight out of science fiction but Andronicus Crowley is a label she can handle -- she realizes what 'boss' means here.

And she thinks, stupidly, Oh.

Oh hell.

And then she realizes that Gabriel is trying to shield her, and it's noble but it's pointless, because if the devil (such a ridiculous, outmoded concept) can get at them through a Cortex screen it's not as if standing in front of her is going to do anything, and anyway she'll be damned if she'll let him face this alone. She's already done that far too much.

So she lets her husband draw her closer, but she doesn't let him hide her, and she lifts her chin and offers Mr. Nick Rosse a carefully calculated, cordial smile that doesn't look strained at all.

From:

aj_crawley

Oh, fuck. Oh gāoyáng zhōng de gūyáng.

That's the joke of the business world. You can see a man's name on the front page of the economics section every day for twenty years, and never once see his face.

Oh fuck, oh f- no. He will not panic.

Yi, er, Crowley counts, eyes closed behind his sunglasses, san, si...

"Long time, no see."

From:

samael-diablo.livejournal.com

Rosse's attention is still on the Tams.

"We are certain that you will be an upstanding servant of the Alliance, Gabriel," he murmurs, and if there's something a little chilling behind his we and behind the word servant...his manner is flawless, and the arrogance nothing more than that which is customary for Nicholas Rosse.

Nicholas Rosse, whose official networks cover the Core and whose unofficial influence cobwebs all the way out to the Rim.

Nicholas Rosse, whose name carries a lot of weight for a construct that signifies, in the end, nothing true at all.

Nicholas Rosse, whose brown eyes dance as he looks back at Crowley; at and through in a way that renders the sunglasses nothing more than vanity.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

From:

gabriel_tam

It's not the first risky and delicate situation he's been in -- and there's very little he wouldn't dare at this particular moment.

River. Simon.

With no more thought to it than that, Gabriel steps out onto the edge of the abyss. His smile is sharp, showing teeth, although not too many. Suŏyŏu de dōu shìdàng , after all. All that's proper.

"I do intend to do all that I can," he says smoothly, politely. "I'm certain you've heard the speeches and discussions, of course, given your position, so I won't bother to repeat any of it now."

A beat, which practically sings with tension.

"I'm afraid we are somewhat occupied at the present moment, which I suspect you may already know; after all, I can't imagine that we would receive the benefits of such an extraordinarily effective method of communication without there being a reason for it."

From:

regan_tam

When you don't know the ground -- when you don't know what's solid and what's quicksand -- you tread carefully.

Unless Gabriel's been doing a hell of a lot of theological study with Crowley in the free time he doesn't have, he doesn't know the ground any better than Regan does. Which is to say: not at all, not in any way that matters.

This is why her polite expression has just gotten rather more fixed, and her fingertips dig into Gabriel's arm.

If you're going to play checkers with the devil, she thinks at her husband as fiercely as she can, for the love of God don't TELL him that.

From:

samael-diablo.livejournal.com

The silence drags on past the bounds of politeness.

And then Lucifer Morningstar laughs; the dark quiet laugh that's never really changed in all his ages of existence.

"Gōng xĭ gōng xĭ, Crowley. Your little puppet's got balls."

The smile that he gives is just as sharp - and very, very insulting.

From:

aj_crawley

"Yes," he squeaks, eyes flickering towards Gabriel. It's a good thing Crowley doesn't technically need that heart, because he thinks that little stunt might have just caused it to stop entirely.

Slowly, a terrified rictus of a grin on his face all the while, he edges forward a little.

"So."

He coughs loudly.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?"

From:

samael-diablo.livejournal.com

"I'm doing you a favour, Crowley," Lucifer says brightly. "I advise you to store this occasion away and treasure it."

From:

gabriel_tam

He's silent now, as is Regan, by his side. This business, whatever it is, isn't theirs; this deal isn't for them to negotiate.

Together, the two of them stand, and watch, and listen, taking in everything that they can.

From:

aj_crawley

"A favour," he croaks.

His hands, he realises to his horror, are twisting nervously in front of him, knuckles cracking in the thin fingers; he balls them into fists and shoves them in his pockets, caring nothing for the sleek line of his suit.

Crowley tries to look - to sound - grateful, but it isn't particularly easy. Not when you know better than anyone that a favour from the devil is often no manner of favour at all.

From:

samael-diablo.livejournal.com

"Valuable advice, more than anything."

And abruptly the danger is gone and it's just Nicholas Rosse's face, perfectly composed, continuing as though everyone involved is looking as relaxed as he is.

"We wouldn't want you to go and do anything stupid."