Interlude: Militiavisits by Candlelight

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Who: The staff and residents of the Valhalla Inn with a special guest appearance by the Militia.
What: A lock-down. A shake-down. Some questions.
Where: The Valhalla Inn. Different locations will be designated by different subthreads.
When: Early Coardi morning and into the afternoon.
Notes: OOC Discussion
Warnings: None yet, but expect (subtle) threats, coercion, and general jackboot'n'blackbag shenanigans.

Rumour travels fast in Baedal; soon everyone in Mog Hill and beyond will know that the Militia are at the Valhalla Inn and no one is getting out. Official word is that this is strictly routine; protocol dictates Arrival Houses be locked down for evaluation after a City-wide crisis. It's still early morning. Outside, the sun is rising after a night of gentle rain. Birds sing and gorge themselves on dead monkeys yet to be cleared away. It's going to be a beautiful day.

Meanwhile, inside Valhalla, the Militia have firmly requested that every guest, every employee and every incidental visitor gather in the Common Room as they search the rest of the Inn. The proprietor and her staff are visibly unhappy about the event, but the closest they have come to voicing dissent is managing to call for the Sheriff. Still, so far the gentleman who seems to be in charge of the proceedings has been nothing but curtly polite. The Militia works fast; they have gone through the whole place in less than an hour and are now, as they say, ready to take interviews. These will be conducted one-on-one in a different room of the Inn. Most individuals who arrived after the creature invasion are sorted out and escorted outside of the building. Some, however, are not.

None of the Special's agents or their more thuggish companions say so, at least not out in the Common Room, but it is evident that their search turned up something.

Comments

[tothelastbreath]

Fresh out of one ― what's that word they're using for it here? ― interview and straight into another on a whole new world. The irony of his situation does not escape Allen as he enters the room without fuss, presenting the Militiamen with what is probably the youngest face they'll see today. He comes to stand by the chair, carrying himself with a practiced sort of good posture quite uncommon in youngsters nowadays, and a collected air that doesn't speak so much of calmness than simple readiness.

"Hello―" The briefest pause. "―sir. How may I help you?"

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

"Hello." The man in the chair returns the greeting with needless cheer. Never mind that this day has gone on forever and he is likely to have conducted over a hundred of these little interviews before it is over. He likes his job. Nothing wrong with that, surely. "How good of you to join us. I'm Special Militiaman Ben Powell, please hand your CiD over to my associate here and take a seat. I am confident that we will be done with this in no time at all."

[tothelastbreath]

No verbal answer, but Allen does comply readily enough. He passes his CiD (it hasn't been tinkered with, nor even used much) to the assistant with a nod, before casually drawing the chair back, perhaps a fraction too far than absolutely necessary, and taking his seat.

"Allen Walker," he offers politely enough, though the lag between Powell's introduction and his own suggests he doesn't believe it necessary ― they probably know his name already, or will soon from his CiD.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

"Yes, quite." The Militia are indeed in the business of being in the know, but Powell still smiles at the introduction. It's not the sort of smile that reaches the eyes. "So, mister Walker. How has life in the City been treating you?"

[tothelastbreath]

"I haven't had time to find out yet," comes the blandly polite reply.

In other words: I spent all of last week helping someone else do your work for you, arsehole.

"But I'm glad they sent someone to check on us, now that the city's already getting back on its feet."

By the way, you're late.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

You scamp. There is no obvious change in the Agent's posture or expression to reveal whether or not he picks up on Allen's disapproval. The genial and gentle face stays ever on.

"Well, mister Walker. Who do you think sent us here?"

[tothelastbreath]

At this, Allen cocks his head a fraction, rather pointedly. Does it matter? Wherever the place, whatever the circumstances, there is always a 'they'.

Nevertheless, this is a question Allen would like an answer to as well, so he hedges, "I wouldn't presume to know, Mister Powell, but I'm guessing the government sent you, or perhaps the Twelve Point Divinity. They did seem rather concerned for their people's welfare, after all."

You know, what with those gods of yours putting in a personal appearance, after the threat's already been contained, to exercise their godly powers on a rehearsed speech. Some deities you have here, mister.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Don't be ungenerous, Allen. Just because you didn't personally see the gods moving among men doesn't mean they weren't there. Mysterious ways and all the rest of it.

"A good answer and they are concerned, it's true. We're a lone island in the sea and while some individuals in power don't always recognize it," he says in an almost conspiratorial tone, "Others know that what affects one affects us all."