#dullahaunt

         ❛ No matter. I suppose we can do without the pleasantries tonight. ❜ Halfhearted is her energy that no amount of neurostims ( or brightening makeup ) can fix the exhaustion or brighten a tired face. Still, a kind smile stands opposed to the tall man’s overt coolness — doubtful it can soften an unwanted evening call.

          Eyes which can weep no more tick towards the blinds, beckoned by the ruckus outside. It is strange how a city not only has a smell, but a sound. Loud, obnoxious, but distinct. Years abroad cannot change home to one’s senses, though home is emptier as of late. A father laid to rest, a family in upheaval, and one woman trying to keep the threads from fraying any further. Acquiring Emil Kron’s services offers a needed distraction.

so here she is wearing assassin black down to the SYNLEATHER stiletto boots on her feet & hoped the additional research proved correct in that her target —— the little ‘dreamcatcher’ himself —— is predictable enough in his ROUTINE for her to do what she does best. 

& she scans the crowd.  KIROSHI OPTICS reaching out to grab & comb through identity database, looking for a man with a perpetually tired, thinness to him.  maybe a blazer because it is essential to look the part.  for the ensemble.  found you.  trickles down the sidewalk & circles the narrow edge, quietly stepping over a WAIST-LENGTH insert, sees just that among a few chattering corpo-fossils.  

> 𝚂𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚄𝙻𝚃𝚂: 𝙲𝙷𝚁𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙰𝙽 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝚂𝚃 > 𝙰𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: 𝚄𝙽𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽 > 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳 . . .

walks behind the man sitting alone like a snake in the grass, passes him & settles directly in front of.  multiple lenses of TECHGOGS flickering.

❛ ——your goose is cooked, ❜ whistles through teeth. glazes fingers over minted DECK absently, ❛ now listen good ; hit a panic button of any kind & i’ll kill us both. ❜

Wavy locks of chestnut brown hair messily pinned half back fall as a curtain about her crestfallen face. In public, she cannot drift into absent mindedness as she currently appears, counting the veins on the table’s wood surface as if the hand of a clock ticking to a sensible departure time. A nervous precision, an avoidance of eye contact, the preference to be left alone at a booth in the far back of the lounge. The end of a clandestine meeting in a place of mixed business, the bestowing of cash through handbags, a brief conversation with the only family that remains. 

Maybe it is a melancholic memory of this place dampening a fought for mood, keeping her weighted in her chair a moment longer. No matter the vibrancy of chatty patrons or a live band preparing for a second set, all she can think about is him. Three years past, and trice more since a beginning that never quite went anywhere until it was too late.

A taxi service is texted and a small sip taken of an unfinished glass of sparkling water. A weighted clutch grasped securely in one hand and silent vow made to not look right as she meanders through the tables, steps quiet in a pair of flats. But as every time before, she fails.

Most all seats are taken. A heavy smoker on one end. The bartender hustling on the other with an inky cocktail in hand. And there, in the same seat as years before, a pair of mismatched eyes stare right back at her. She blinks in disbelief, thinking it a cruel apparition set to disappear. It does not. 

Time rewinds, catching her in its loop, stretching each second into two as she stands listless in the walkway. A waiter sidesteps and she glances in her prior direction but it pulls right back with realization that she is not leaving, not anymore. A shy smile forms for being seen as she has felt unseen for many years. But any reservation is thrown with her first step. No text is sent with request to join him as she is already at his side, close enough to touch. Silence catching her in his stare, both hands gripping the clutch at her front not sure what to do. 

“kronut” = Day old and stale. Lost its chew. Hollow in the center….jk ;)

2077 Bri to an acquaintance asking about his services: “You won’t find a better man in the business. Yes, he’s a bit prickly. No time for chit chat, but considering his trade, you want someone professional. And he doesn’t care about your background, only your eddies, so he’s quite a good find for corpos. I quite fancy him actually. An interesting fellow.”

2080 Bri’s -very personal and spoken to no one- opinion: “His work and success I feel defines how everyone else sees him. That’s Christian Holst, the ECC’s top memory and documents forger. I knew Mister Holst too. A man with an intimidating stare that might suggest you are seconds away from wasting his time. So staunch a businessman, he cares for nothing more than making a profit and proving he’s the best in his trade. And he is. No discounts. No niceties. Christian Holst doesn’t let people in. No one would even know that he rebuilt himself from nothing. A hollow shell of man.

Somewhere along the way, he let me see him as Emil Kron. Sure, Emil Kron and Christian Holst are the same man. The former nearly all but lost to memory brokers. The latter the self-made success who pretends to be untouchable. Each are men of few words and the words they say are rather pointed. But I don’t think either mean any harm unless someone is asking for it. But I wouldn’t call him benign. I know what Christian Holst is equipped for.

But Christian Holst doesn’t laugh or smile really. Every night he returns home to an empty penthouse suite or a five-star hotel room to watch classic films he’s seen a hundred times over until he falls asleep, medicine taken, only to wake up and put his fine tailored suit back on to do it all again. He says he’s fine as such. Has all he wants. Not a deeper care in the world.

But Emil, he smiles and laughs in his own near imperceptible way. He likes to tease me, making me pout or confounded with another blunt question. Every now and then he’ll completely catch me off-guard and say or do something incredibly and unknowingly romantic and wonder why I am left spinning. He’s so ridiculously genuine that I never question his motives, unless we’re playing a game. Competitive enough to cheat, it seems. I know him as a most patient man. Attentive. Giving. Gentle. He’s my silly little everything and I’m so terribly fond of him my head hurts just thinking about it.

@dullahaunt​ : "I don't know how to dance." (from Kron) 

Another turn of the radio dial, a slow jazzy tune hits her ears with brass and keys. A rare mood overcomes her. The smell of baking bread. The promise of welcomed company. Energy buzzing from the anticipation of what could be a perfect day. 

The afternoon sun streams in through the bay window, closed to the noise of the city outside. Body sways and bare feet step and skip, traipsing with a ghost upon oblong panes of light that draw a pattern on the worn wooden floorboards. To be anywhere else, an old style cafe in the Latin Quarter or a fancy event to celebrate a product launch in a life long extinguished, but content to be here in her little private abode where no one can see her. 

The creek of the front door opening goes unheard, along with the creep of silent footsteps onto her noisy scene. But when she turns, only her smile grows — so what if she is caught being silly. A hand outstretches, held aloft in the air and swaying. ❛ Care to dance with me, darling? ❜ She exaggerates in lieu of a greeting.

Emil’s tall form remains as a blockade to the entryway. His expression as still as his body, but his eyes grow soft as they often do when confronted with her smile. ❛ I don’t know how to dance. ❜ His mouth opens and dust dry response tumbles out but not a complete shutdown as Brianne might expect.

❛ And who says knowing how is a prerequisite? ❜ Pouted is the protest against rules needing to be followed. Who is this woman who also followed. them? However, in this secret hideaway, all that matters is them. 

There stands Emil, snow clinging to his hair and a carry-on by his side. He has a bouquet of red flowers in his hand. They’re roses.

“I remembered,” he tells her, simple. He’s entirely aware of the time. “I still have three hours.”

It’s like a defense for the lateness, only he doesn’t need one. He should still be in Denmark on business, not here at her doorstep, her neighbor’s Christmas lights still winking on behind him, his hair shining yellow.

Snow falls and scatters white on his coat. He kisses her brow.

He lets her request what she wants that night, and he does not deny her.

She never unlocked a door so fast in her life. The late hour necessitating soft steps down the narrow entryway. But the terror of peeking through the eyehole and her heart palpitating nonstop is all blinked away the instant she sees Emil on her step. 

Speechless, she offers a greeting of wide eyes and brow furling upward in fond wonder of how he continues to surprise her. He was supposed be gone for another week if not two. He remembered, he tells her. She never once mentioned her birthday when he left after Christmas.

With his words, only a lighthearted huff of a laugh rides on the exhale of her breath that gets caught in the cold air. Her smile grows bigger under eyelids closing at the kiss he gifts her forehead. 

❛ This is, ❜ beyond words she can form, her heart overflowing, her head shaking in disbelief. 

A wind flurry whisks a good size clump of snow on his shoulder; white atop his black wool overcoat. It breaks Brianne’s thought, her hand reaching to dust it away.

❛ Oh dear. Hurry on in. I have a fire going. ❜ The door at her back pushed completely open. ❛ It’s dreadful out. Only going to get worse I hear. Thank goodness you weren’t stuck anywhere. ❜ A voice lost is now found tumbling out. 

The bouquet burdening one of his hands is exchanged into hers in the hall, his carryon halted at his side. ❛ For you. ❜ His voice pointed, as it often is. 

A bouquet of perfect ruby red blooms contrasts to the sorry state of outside. In the dim yellowed light glittered with muted blues and reds from the twinkling lights outside, her stare falls wistful upon them. She has not seen fresh cut flowers in years and never has she been given red roses, a gesture so overtly romantic that she can’t help but feel heat rush to her cheeks.  

❛ They’re beautiful. ❜ Understated, her disbelief in his presence lingering. Peeking back up at him, she finds those mismatched eyes quiet but soft on her face. She leans in, her heels lifting to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, nose lingering on the tip of his before she pulls back to speak. ❛ Thank you for these, darling. And for you, the best birthday surprise I’ve ever had. ❜

The kitchen beckons her to find a vase. He goes to the hall closet where a hanger awaits his coat. As always on his return, she asks if he’s eaten. He has. She was about to call it a night. Her long hair let down, dressed in a nightgown and long robe, her journal closed on the table waiting to be put away. But the fireplace still glows. 

A change of plans.

         SHE DIDN’T MEAN to sound so cryptic, to verbally self-loathe frustration. But it’s been a long day. She is tired, tired of the noise and trite conversations even if many think it is her forte. Everyone has limits. Limits which drove her for a breath away. She could ignore the sentry standing there; most in her company would. A child of a director, now a director herself, one learns to ignore the constant surveillance, the scanners and brawn, to carry on. But he is off-duty, judging partially by the wine in hand. How rude to not acknowledge him.

         Goro Takemura needs no introduction, no scan of the Kiroshi Optics. He is the elite, the top of his tier, and she remains impressed since the first time she crossed his path. That he scans her, she minds not. A smart habit, no doubt.