Ctrl+Alt+Charlie

He’d kept his back turned to the talking woman, having figured the question wasn’t directed at him. It’d been months since he’d last seen or spoken to Charlie, and given the fact that they’d only interacted once or twice in person, it took him a minute or two to recognize her voice. It wasn’t until she called to him by name that he turned to face her - and felt dread replace the momentary surprise when she referenced the night he was still trying to forget. 

“Uh-… Hi, yea. Yea, I tracked it down, thanks. Sorry for… Y’know.” He trailed off vaguely, hoping she’d realize he was apologizing for not having informed her at the time - and for her text messages that he’d selectively ignored thereafter. Because what the hell was he supposed to say?… ‘Yeah thanks I found the kid with his throat slit in a cemetery?’… It was better this way; better that she didn’t know - even if she didn’t realize it.

“Do ya need help with yer lights or somethin’?” The werewolf asked abruptly, hoping to direct the conversation as far away from that night as possible. “I can help.”

While it was true that the first time she’d met Quentin hadn’t exactly been under favourable circumstances. But it was exactly because he’d been there to help her while she’d been close to falling right out of a tree that the hacktivist felt that she owed him big time. 

“Yeah?” She asked, her curiosity not wavering - something it seldom did at its peak. “Who was the guy you were tracking down...if you don’t mind me asking?” She pondered aloud, lifting one shoulder as if that would somehow render the question more casual and less intrusive.

From what she remembers from his texts, Quentin had needed her help tracking down the GPS coordinates of a Cellphone he was tracking. Given that it had seemed like a bit of an emergency at the time she hadn’t pressed for details. But she was definitely keen to know more about the situation now. 

Yet there were somethings, particularly in the car maintenance department that she still struggled with. Which is how, the hacktivist found herself at an auto parts shop, feeling like a fish out of water . She'd spent almost thirty minutes looking for the right headlights to replace the ones that were no longer working. But which ones was she supposed to buy? Was each one different depending on the car make and model? Or was the type of headlights just universal? Confused, Charlie continued to pace up and down the aisle, reading the labels and type of bulb aloud as if trying to decipher a code.

“Halogen, Xenon, bi-Xenon, LED, LED Matrix...”

She'd also been remarkably unsuccessful at flagging down shop personnel to ask them for much needed assistance. So running out of patience she approached the nearest human being she could find.

“Hi…excuse me, sorry, but um, would you know which type of bulb one would buy if they needed to replace an existing pair of headlights that decided to suddenly give up? Asking for a friend.” She added, as if that in any way saved her from sticking out as the complete noob in a car parts shop. As said person turned to respond the familiar face immediately registered with Charlie.

“Oh! Hey, Quentin! Fancy running into you here. D-did you ever manage to track down those GPS coordinates you’d had me look up for you? Were they any help?”

There was nothing that bothered Charlie more than glitches. While troubleshooting the technical kind was a major part of her career of choice, the fact that her own mind felt like it was plagued by one lately had her feeling incredibly off beat. It was like someone had reached into her brain and messed with the internal wiring or overwritten some sort of original code. How else could one explain the unusual gaps in her memory? 

For quite a few weeks now she’d been obsessed with the questions troubling her mind in relation to that night she’d met up with Cami - a night that was supposed to be about indulging in some authentic creole cuisine. At least as much as she remembers...but that dinner never happened. Instead, all she could remember was rushing home ridden by angst she couldn’t explain. 

And Stefan...something about Stefan kept coming to mind but the hacktivist had not the slightest clue as to why. 

After having spent another unsuccessful evening trying to retrace her steps around Jackson square to no avail as far as recalling her memory went, Charlie tried her luck again for perhaps the hundredth time at Rousseau’s hoping somehow, just somehow, the familiar bartender would be there to cover her regular shift.  In the mean time, assuaging her troubles with a glass of wine didn’t hurt either. Though she couldn’t quite figure out if she was drinking to remember or drinking to forget. Either way, she perched herself on a stool at the bar, ordered a glass of merlot and sheepishly made eye contact with a fellow bar attendee figuring she could try her luck at asking around. 

“Hi...um, sorry I don’t mean to interrupt your happy hour but um...would you happen to have maybe seen a tall green-eyed blonde, who occasionally offers philosophical advice to those who haven’t otherwise found inspiration at the bottom of a glass of sazerac. Goes by the name Camille O’Connell?”

‘Okay, I don’t feel as bad about the coffee runs anymore. Does she give you unsolicited fashion advice too?’

He snorted at that. It wasn’t so much amusement as it was the realization that Lydia did that to everyone. Somehow, it made it feel a fraction less personal, a tiny bit less demeaning. “She tries. I don’t let her git too far. Give ‘em an inch, they’ll take a mile.” He warned her with a shake of his head. He shoved the last quarter of the muffin into his mouth just as Charlie replied to his request for her number… And instantly understood the mistake he’d made.

Porca miseria! She thought he was asking her out.

“Nonono, I mean-… I didn’t mean-…” He stopped, a coughing fit ensuing as he felt a few muffin crumbs travel down the wrong pipe. His throat felt irritated and dry as he grabbed for the coffee, gulping down too much, too soon. “Y e s , I want yer number, but- not…” Quentin trailed off again, mouth agape. Not cause I’m interested in you? Just cause I want your skills in my back-pocket?… “Uh, sure, I mean yeah, what- whatever.” He amended awkwardly, feeling heat creeping up his throat. He couldn’t backtrack now, there was no way to correct for her assumption without causing offense. So he waited as Charlie fumbled in search of her phone, and pretended to take sudden deep interest in his surroundings. Fuckin’ Hell.

She'd sworn she'd tossed her cellphone in one of the pockets of the anorak jacket -- now sporting streaks of forest soil from the fall she'd taken earlier. Yet it wasn't until she'd checked the back pockets of her jeans that she realized she'd been sitting on it all this time. "Hah! Found it!" Crap! Charlie tried to suppress an outward cringe when she realized she was going to be handing him a warm cellphone to tap his number into at that. 

The hacktivist placed her phone down on the table, and picked up Quentin's when he slid his own over to hers. And for a moment she pulled a blank. The digits of her own phone number suddenly evading her memory like it was the answer to some trick math problem or something. Crap crap crap! 

To her chagrin, he'd finished adding his number in within seconds and was now looking back at her expectantly. It took that last push of anxiety to coax her mind to recall the digits of her own cell number which she finally managed add in. 

His appetite was starting to build up with the conversation, despite himself. Mindlessly, Quentin grabbed the muffin and started tearing the wrapper off the bottom as she spoke. She spoke a lot… Which, while he’d already discovered its tendency to irritate mildly - was a good thing when he wanted to eat. “Why not? If you’re good at what you do…” He asked, part of him resenting the idea that Carol could be considered such a catch in terms of employers, all because of her position in society. It reminded him too much of mob hierarchy, it rubbed him the wrong way. Quentin couldn’t help but think of his own mom though… Was she be proud of him? All cleaned up and working for a mayor? Or did that cease to matter after all that he’d done to survive?… He shoved the thought back to the recesses of his mind.

“Uh-… Lydia. Not Carol, Lydia… Her daughter.” He corrected in a mutter. It wasn’t a job he was particularly proud of, but for a second there he wondered if following Carol around would’ve been maybe a fraction less irritating than it was to trail after Lydia. Probably. Still, when Charlie mentioned coffee-runs he had to think twice. “I’d pro’ly quit.” The bodyguard offered, between mouthfuls of the muffin. And that’s when it occurred to him - If she worked for Mrs. Lockwood, there was a chance he’d be seeing her around. And, given that he was constantly pouring over newspapers and websites for any Mob-related headlines back in Chicago, maybe someone with Charlie’s technical skills could come in handy. He had to keep his tracks covered, after-all. “Actually-… Can I get your number?” Quentin blurted out abruptly.

She’d all but inhaled her drink and muffin -- watching him consume his made her wish she’d gotten herself two muffins. But she figured she’d be home soon enough; which after the day she’d had she was actually really looking forward to. She wanted a hot shower and some sleep. Nature, she decided, was not going to be her thing. Had her parents done a better job of filling her childhood with a few camping experiences here and there, she might’ve had a better chance. But as things stood now she didn’t feel equipped to be out in the woods alone. 

“Oh! Lydia...” And just like that she was done envying him. “Okay, I don’t feel as bad about the coffee runs anymore.” Charlie figured she’d probably take at least a hundred more coffee runs and lunch orders over following Lydia around. “Does she give you unsolicited fashion advice too?” She asked, folding her hands over the table. For as long as she’d known the red head, the hacktivist had not managed to earn any stamp of approval. And God knows she’d tried. 

All thoughts about Lydia scattered and flew from her mind like a flock of startled birds when Quentin asked her for her number. Now that was a curve ball. Not only because just hours ago he’d seemed so disgruntled by her that he’d came off as if he’d just wanted to leave her up there in that tree. But also because no man who either wasn’t a distant cousin or otherwise desperately forced into interacting with her by her Mom, had ever made any ventures to acquire her number. “R-really?” The surprise involuntarily blurted out of her own mouth. Realizing how lame that was she immediately tried to amend. “Ah-I mean...yeah! Sure...why not!” Charlie began fumbling with her own pockets in search of her cellphone. “Was just thinking we should do this again some time...well, maybe not the tree part...but...um...y-you know...darn it! Where did I put that phone?”

‘The mother, the politician, the legend’. 

He couldn’t help a snort at that. So she had a sense of humor... “Is that what your legends look like?” Quentin can’t help but ask, fingers curling around his cup. Carol was no legend to him. A smart, driven woman but then - with the power she held and the opportunities at her feet, couldn’t most people achieve the same?… 

“Uh-… Not like, tech security. It’s- physical stuff.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Like, personal security. For both, yeah.” He didn’t like the word ‘bouncer’ any more than he liked the word ‘bodyguard’. “It pays well…” Quentin added, almost as if he had to explain his choices. “I hope she pays you well.” He added, momentarily wishing he had other skills with which to employ himself, the way that Charlie clearly did. Instead, he was forced to rely on his body and his fists in a way that would undoubtedly fail him one day. If a bigger brute didn’t get him first, then the PTSD certainly would. He thought about it every day.

“My legends? ...” Charlie moved her head from side to side weighing the thought. “Well I mean my mom does go around blabbing to anyone who’ll give her the time of day that her daughter works for the mayor of the French Quarter...” Never mind the fact that said mayor could barely remember her name on most days, she added silently. “I’d say she qualifies as something of a legend. Not every day that someone like me would get the opportunity to work for a politician. Definitely one of those small fish in a big pond kinda deals, if you know what I mean.” Carol, was definitely a whole lot more than something. She was a tour de force. She had a commanding presence, a certain regality and cut-throat approach she both was compelled to respect and fear. 

The hacktivist chugged down the remains of her coffee--savoring the heat while she listened to him explain what his position in the line of security entailed. “So...you follow Carol around?” Made sense to some degree anyway. I mean when one was a public figure, security measures naturally came with the territory. Though Charlie found herself making a face when Quentin said he hoped she was paid well. “Heh, let’s not even go there. I usually need at least a glass of wine and a half before I’m ready to discuss my intern-level earnings. I bet coffee runs or having to fetch your supervisor's lunch wasn’t in your job description.” She muttered, envying him for that fact. “Well technically it wasn’t exactly stipulated in my job description either, but considering I’ve been using my bachelor’s degree to get baristas at coffee shops to spell my superiors’ names right for more than half the time over the past two years ... let’s just say it puts food on the table and keeps a roof over my head.”  

“Town hall?” He echoed, followed by; “So for the mayor?” Did that mean that they both worked for Carol Lockwood, then? It wasn’t too surprising, Carol employed a shitload of people. It hadn’t occurred to him that Charlie would return the question, obvious as it was in hindsight. 

“Nothing.” He blurted out automatically, an instinct borne of giving as little information as possible to people he didn’t really know. But almost as soon as it was out of his mouth, Quentin realized it was both stupid and unconvincing. “Uh… I mean, I work for her too. The mayor. Security.” He mumbled, sliding the banana muffin from one open palm to the other restlessly. “An’ for… A club.”

Charlie paused in the act of chewing a bite of her banana chocolate chip muffin, when Quentin blurted out an awfully quick and suspicious denial of doing anything for a living. Then just as soon, changed his tune. 

“Yep, Carol Lockwood. The mother, the politician, the legend.” She couldn’t help keep the note of sarcasm out of voice. The hacktivist immediately found herself wondering whether any of her experiences working for the mayor compared in anyway to others.  

[Quentin]: thanks i'll pay you back for this I swear

[Quentin]: 893-675-5558

[Quentin]: I dont know he was trying to text me when someone stole his phone and i havent heard from him since. it's not like him to contact me so i'm worried

-----------------------------------------------------------

[Charlie]: Np! I'll see what I can do.

... 10 mins later

[Charlie]: Huh weird.

[Charlie]: I managed to track the GPS coordinates of this phone to somewhere near Washington Ave, near Lafayette Cemetery.

A year ago Charlie had set out to tackle her new year’s resolutions by regular visits to the gym, visits that had fizzled out, mind you over the months. As had her initial efforts of trying to follow a diet. This year, the hacktivist had decided she was going to skip hopping on the resolution setting bandwagon all together. Which is why the blonde had unabashedly decided to grab a few beignets when she’d gone out to fetch some coffee. 

The moment Charlie entered through the glass doors of her department office, she noticed that someone had made themselves comfortable at her seat. The knowledge of which made her skin go all prickly with discomfort. It was never a good omen to have someone else meddle with her work station. She frowned at the familiar cascade of red hair over the backing of her office chair, the impatient tip-tapping of sharp heels. As she neared her own desk, she watched the occupant in her chair swivel around in a manner that oddly reminded her of a villain with a master plan. Considering she was instantly struck by an impending sense of doom when she recognized who it was, Charlotte couldn’t say she was that far off the mark. 

“L-Lydia? What are you doing here?” The instant she met the scrutiny of those hazel eyes, the blonde found herself rethinking the beignets. 

She’d refused his money and Quentin was left staring at it on the table, lips setting into a hard line. It was difficult not to resent that, despite knowing that Charlie was just trying to be nice. But it was the past beating through his veins, still so close that he could feel it even as he picked up the coin, felt the metallic contour between his thumb and forefinger. He’d had to rely on  c h a r i t y  in the past, he never wanted to be there again.

Still, he tried to push past the sentiment when she returned with a coffee and a muffin he hadn’t asked for. It took him a moment, a bite-back of his pride before; “… Thanks.”

But if he’d thought silence would be a good idea, he’d clearly miscalculated the degrees of awkward that ensued as he sat across a very wide-eyed blonde, fingers curling around his cup of coffee for warmth. “You can-… You can  t a l k .” He offered finally few minutes later, hating that it sounded part-way order, part-way plea. As if emphasizing the latter, he shifted in his chair, scrambling his mind for conversational topics that he hadn’t used in a very long time. Small-talk wasn’t his forté. “Uh… So do you have a job? Or… Somethin’?” Why the hell did people even ask that anyway? What did they care, at the end of the day?…

She’d taken advantage of the lapse in silence and took a generous bite of the muffin. If her stomach could talk it would probably go on to aggressively express it’s gratitude for finally being fed. How long had she been up in that tree? Now that she’d thought about it, she’d lost track of time. Two? Maybe three hours, she figured. Though right then she was using the acute sense of hunger to gauge that, which probably wasn’t an accurate measurement anyway.