You’re in your home when you hear a familiar, rhythmic tapping on your window. Standing outside on the sill is a raven, staring at you with beady, knowing eyes. You can see a familiar strip of paper wrapped around the bird’s leg. The details of your new mission are written inside.
You’re to gather intelligence on certain members of the Du Bois organization: the private, in-house accountants for both The Clarion Network and The Coronado Current. Your objective is to search for possible financial proof that they had something to do with either the death of the Premier or the disappearance of the Vice Premier.
The Shibata call to action is about as pretentious as the rest of the family – a raven, of all things, peering at Avery through her kitchen window like the ominous little death omen it is. Not an omen for her, though. An omen for the rest of the city.
“Come here,” she mutters under her breath after pushing the window open, the raven first hopping away before it finally lets her unspool the thin piece of paper from its leg. Hand on hip, she stares at the bird as it stares at her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Zero response. It’s like talking to her siblings.
Avery gestures the bird away with a wave of her hand. “Shoo, before you shit on my windowsill.” The bird shoos, a flurry of dark feathers that quickly melts into the night.
Avery is much the same when she leaves her apartment via the fire escape a mere thirty minutes later, kitted out for intel rather than for assassination; there’s a utilitarian bag strapped to her thigh with basic infiltration tools, and a belt with smaller, sleeker weapons. Her ceremonial blade stays where it lives, affixed to the underside of her bed. Its services won’t be necessary this time.
The nights are still cold this time of spring, the kind of weather that has you dressed in three layers when you leave and regretting your sweater by the time the sun hits its apex. Avery skims from rooftop to rooftop without much care for the cold, hair in a high ponytail and a black mask wrapped over the bottom half of her face to keep the soft clouds of steam from her breath in.
The city is still alive below her at this late hour, oblivious to the black-clad specter leaping nimbly from one gutter to the next, catching the railing of a rusty fire escape without so much as a creak of metal. As she runs, Avery thinks about the task at hand; it’s not worth reading into, the fact that feels like a milk run compared to missions she’s received in the past. Fumiko’s words are in the back of her mind, but only briefly: “If you’re genuinely interested in contributing beyond courier assignments…”
She’s not.
Avery genuinely considered refusing this assignment, or at least pretending she was too drunk to hear the tapping of the bird at her window. And yet here she still is: falling into line like an obedient dog, but more like a fighting dog brought to heel than one that enjoys its work.
Clarion News is both the logical and most dangerous place to start; she’s well aware the tall glass castle keep of a building is staffed twenty-four-seven, which doesn’t stop Avery but it does put her on a higher alert than it might otherwise. Even so, it’s easy enough to find a window devoid of light just a few stories up, as well as an unlocked window – because who would be crazy enough to try to get into the building this way?
Cameras are easily avoided with a keen enough eye, and Avery slips from shadow to shadow with nary an audible footfall on the ugly brown carpeting. It takes a couple of attempts before she manages to find the office of someone worth ransacking; on the corner, naturally, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. Avery pays the view no mind as she picks through stacks of files and folders, leaving everything as neat as she found it. There isn’t much here, which shouldn’t be surprising. The books are tidy to the point of sanitization, suspicious only in their lack of suspicion. Avery doesn’t have it in her to be frustrated. She only files those thoughts away for her report and moves on to the next place.
The Current is much less glamorous and far easier to infiltrate, with a lax scattering of cameras and a skeleton security crew. The corner office Avery finds here is also much less organized, which is actually reassuring – she can only hope these books won’t be as bleached clean.
Combing through the mess is annoying and methodical, with her leaving every file folder as askew as she found it. Fast food wrappers are moved gingerly from desk to chair and then back again, and a moldy half-cup of coffee is left untouched for more than one reason. This search is starting to look like it’ll come up as empty as the last before Avery sets her sights on a squat filing cabinet in the corner, barely concealed behind a chair stacked with archival paper prints. She moves it carefully and soundlessly out of the way, willing the teetering stacks not to fall, and crouches to unroll the belt of tools at her hip. She probably could’ve picked the lock with a paperclip and a hairpin, meaning her far more professional set of tools makes embarrassingly quick work of the budget lock.
The only sound Avery has let out so far escapes as a quiet hum of approval; these files have clearly been gone through time and time again, the edges worn and discolored by oily fingerprints and smudged ink.
Taking a half-step back, Avery spreads a couple of the files out on the floor in front of her, eyes rapidly scanning the lines and lines of figures even in the dim light. Once again, the damning evidence is in the omission; money poured into properties without clear use, addresses in districts neither business nor residential. It isn’t what she’s looking for – there’s still no clear evidence the Du Bois had anything to do with the assassination or the disappearance of the heads of office – but the carefully laid out addresses of a few family safehouses is a decent enough consolation prize.
So Avery hopes, anyway. As much as she’s never cared about being a good little soldier, she does have some pride, and that pride tells her it’d be embarrassing to come up empty when the stakes of this mission already feel so low.
Unfortunately, it’s the brief flashes of her compact camera taking snapshots of the evidence that alert the passing security. Beyond that, he’ll have no idea what hit him – a smear of shadow darting up from the corner, indistinguishable, finding exactly the right point at his neck to pinch and wait until two-hundred some odd pounds of muscle turn to putty. Avery manhandles him into the desk chair with an unceremonious grunt. He’s unlikely to have seen enough of her even to get a bead on her height, so she leaves him slumped over the desk as if in the throes of an unfortunate nap.
In another time she might’ve done more to discredit him – sprinkled him with the smell of whiskey, or put one of the rummaged, damning files in his hands while he was still passed out. Not tonight, though. This man is just putting food on the table; she doesn’t know the life he leads, how many kids he might have. She’s not here to penalize anyone for doing their job in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hopefully he’ll just wake up wondering what the fuck hit him, and go back to his beat too embarrassed to bring it up to anyone when he doesn't clock anything missing.
After a few more minutes of careful picture-taking, Avery replaces everything exactly where it was found, locks the file cabinet, and slides the precariously balanced chair of papers back into the divots the legs have left in the carpet.
As she slips out of the building the way she came and escapes back up to the rooftops, Avery heads for the designated drop point and idly wonders if the Shibata will be disappointed with her intel. She wonders if she would’ve brought them the useful stuff even if she’d found it. She wonders if they’ll think she’s withholding it even if she isn’t, even if she thought about it. That would probably be the worst, she thinks: that they’d assume she’s being disobedient, even when she wasn’t. Not that she hadn’t given them plenty of reason to assume that, anyway – it’d only be annoying in that she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of actual disobedience.
None of that really matters, at the end of the night. Avery leaves two rolls of film tucked where she knows they’ll only be discovered by the right hands and heads homeward, to a dark apartment that feels like her only refuge anymore.
