#silas jackson

[pottermorena]

Character Sheets of Pottermorena member

Ryan Blake & Fane Alphonsine : @wiiwiipyon​

Escha Delphine : @moencabbage​

Lynn Ingham : @dhurain​

Aisling Noon Petchra : @neokirii​

Silas Jackson : @jejeun

Brendan/Vladimir : Dangokartika @ twitter

Erica Brighton : @lunacerra

[pottermorena]

all older version characters

left top : Silas Jackson, Lynn Ingham, Brendan/Vladimir

left center : Aisling Noon Petchra , Fane Alphonsine, Escha Delphine

bottom : Ryan Blake

art by @dhurain, colored by @moencabbage

[all-thingsstrange]

Saints of Gold

When the days are cold And the cards all fold And the saints we see Are all made of gold

Everyone at least knew of Mr. John Mitchell, even if not by name.  He was a local saint, a man who always attended church, who would do his best to help any man, a man who frequented hospitals and shelters, who spent his free time reading or praying.  He was a strange little man, with fair hair worn too long, and uncovered; with bright, intelligent green eyes; always in grey; rarely smiling.  But despite this, despite the odd first impression he made, despite his initially apparent reclusiveness, Mr. Mitchell was a trustworthy man.  

This is what Detective Silas Jackson had heard, anyway.  He stood on the steps of St. John Cantius and watched the people filing out of their service.  He didn’t understand why Catholics held daily services - nor did he care.  He was here to find one person, who, by description, would be relatively difficult considering the number of lean, fair-featured individuals - Polish, probably - were leaving the building to make their way to work, or home, depending.  

When your dreams all fail And the ones we hail Are the worst of all And the blood’s run stale

“Mr. Mitchell?” 

He was the last to step out of the church, and every physical description was accurate, right down to the grey suit, lack of a hat, and umbrella.  The man addressed turned toward him. There was something odd about him that Ogden couldn’t place a finger on, something... superficial? Artificial? But at the same time, there was something gentle in that face, a quiet sort of peace with himself and the world, reinforced when Mitchell gave a small smile. 

“Hello, detective, can I help you?” 

Jackson hesitated.  “You know me?” 

The man laughed softly.  “And you know me, I believe through the same person.  It shouldn’t be so surprising.” 

“No,” the detective answered slowly, “I suppose not.” 

The smile faded off Mitchell’s face.  “You’re here regarding that person, aren’t you?” 

Jackson couldn’t deny it.  “I’ve been investigating Mr. Bain’s activities for several months now.  I know there’s more to him.” 

“More to him?” The question was combined with a slight tilt of the head.  “What do you mean by that?” 

It was Jackson’s turn to laugh a little.  “I’m an officer of the law, Mr. Mitchell, I think you can guess.” 

I want to hide the truth I want to shelter you But with the beast inside There’s nowhere we can hide

Something crossed Mr. Mitchell’s face that the detective recognized as a mix of relief, and concern.  It was the look of someone hiding something, but in the manner of a man doing so to protect those around him.  Jackson became serious again. 

“Mr. Mitchell, it’s important that you tell me what you know about him.  It’s necessary for the investigation.” 

“He’s not in any immediate trouble, is he?” Mitchell leaned on his umbrella, still wearing that odd, defensive look.  

“I’m hoping you could tell me. I don’t know much about Mr. Bain - he’s a mystery, he doesn’t like talking, and he avoids any tail we can put on him. I was hoping... well, you two seem very similar.” He waited, and watched for a response. 

Sure enough, more concern now crossed Mitchell’s face.  He obviously didn’t like being compared to Bain, but how he knew him was still a mystery.  Finally, he sighed deeply, and gestured down the stairs.  “We shouldn’t do this outside the Lord’s house.  Shall we?” 

No matter what we breed We still are made of greed This is my kingdom come This is my kingdom come

“I met Bain in Europe a little over a year ago, now.  We were both approached by a certain man regarding a... business opportunity, let’s call it.  We didn’t like each other from the outset, but there was something about him that said that he was... similar to me, if in all the worst ways. And he seemed to see the same, or something similar, in me.  While we disagreed, we were... certain circumstances rendered us inseparable.  Over time we found a way to avoid contact, but we’re required to remain close.” 

Jackson listened to the story.  He didn’t believe it, not all of it, anyway.  It was told with the expertise of a man who had practiced it many times.  But some points did match what the detective already knew.  Bain had come from Europe about eleven months before, he had contact with someone - an “employer,” likely with mob connections - who had likely brought him here just to do their dirty work.  And, from his experience with Bain, it wasn’t hard to believe that the Scottish ginger didn’t get along very well with the soft-spoken man walking beside the detective.  

Still, even the gentlest of men weren’t above lying, if the reasons were right.  Jackson just had to figure out what those reasons were.

When the curtain’s call Is the last of all When the lights fade out All the sinners crawl

They spoke and walked for a long while.  Neither seemed to be paying attention to where they were going; Mitchell simply didn’t appear to care, while Jackson was much more focused on trying to learn something, anything, else about his companion’s relationship with Bain, with little success.  When they parted ways, Ogden didn’t have another ounce of useful information than he had when he began.  

He wasn’t finished with Mitchell, however.  If he wanted to continue the case, he had to know as much as he could about Bain.  So he fell back and tailed the grey-clothed man.  A library, a hospital, a few houses.  Nothing of real interest, until Mitchell came to a stop once again - outside of Bain’s apartment building.  

Intrigued, Jackson waited across the street.  The sun set behind the skyline, bringing the shadows in closer to the door of the building.  A church bell began to toll, one, two, three, four, five, six. Six in the evening.  

So they dug your grave And the masquerade Will come calling out At the mess you made

The bell had rung again - quarter past - before the door opened again. He was disappointed, but not particularly surprised, to see Bain step out, give a wary glance around the street, and begin his nightly stroll of the city.  He was unpredictable in everything except that he always, always, spent the whole night on the town.  If he came back, it would be between half-past five or quarter til six.  Sometimes he didn’t come back at all.  

What happened on days like that, Jackson didn’t know, and he hated that.  Bain was skilled at avoiding followers, and getting caught in the act of whatever trouble he stirred up on his nightly outings.  He was also very good about not having any witnesses to said outings; only once had someone reported him, and shortly after, came to the police station to apologize - that his accusation was some kind of joke.  When asked about his black eye, he made some excuse, but Jackson had an itching hunch about the truth.

Don’t want to let you down But I am hell bound Though this is all for you Don’t want to hide the truth

Jackson stood there all night, but there was no sign of either Bain or Mitchell.  At quarter til six Bain came back, as expected.  He saw the figure across the street, and while there was no possible way that he could have recognized the detective, Jackson still felt that the broad, lamp-lit grin, and the obnoxious tip of the hat, were meant for him.  

He kept waiting.  When the clock struck six his growing concern for Mitchell’s health reached a climax, but he waited ten more minutes before crossing the street.  He was in such a rush that he nearly ran over the man walking out of the building. He paused long enough to apologize, before recognizing him.

“Mr. Mitchell?” 

When you feel my heat Look into my eyes It’s where my demons hide It’s where my demons hide

The green eyes betrayed surprise, and for just a moment - just a moment the saint’s look felt like a glare of judgment.  He could have sworn he recognized the look, but for the moment he couldn't recall where he’d seen them before.  Then Mitchell relaxed, and smiled.  He smiles more than I expected.  

“Detective Jackson, what brings you here this early in the morning?” 

He opened his mouth, but any explanation would seem strange, at best.  So instead he asked, “Do you live here?” 

“I do.”  The smaller man had now had time to look him over.  Ogden wondered wheter there was a way he could tell that he had spent the night watching the building.  Apparently there was... something, because the look changed to something resigned and sad.  

“You’re here looking for Mr. Bain.” 

Jackson didn’t answer.  He didn’t see the need. 

John Mitchell appeared to be seeing something there, or hearing something, he couldn’t tell.  But whatever it was, it led to a small smile.  “If you’re willing to walk with me to church, I’d be willing to offer a few more explanations than I gave you yesterday.” 

They say it's what you make I say it's up to fate It's woven in my soul I need to let you go

“So you and Mr. Bain are being blackmailed -” 

“Coerced would be better.” 

“Coerced, then.  Coerced into working with one another?” 

“In a way.” 

“That way being Bain goes about this individual’s shady work, while you are Mr. Bain’s handler.”

“That is correct.” 

Ogden knew that he was still withholding something, but at least he finally had more substance to work with.  “You wouldn’t be able to give me the individual’s name, would you?” 

“No.” The word was solemn, and Jackson knew that whatever was being held against both Bain and Mitchell, it was serious.  He knew better than to press the topic with Mitchell, at least.  

Your eyes, they shine so bright I want to save their light I can't escape this now Unless you show me how

They were outside the church, now, and Mitchell crossed himself before turning to face Jackson.  

“Detective, may I give you a word of advice?” 

Jackson had a feeling he knew what the man was about to say, but answered, “Of course.” 

“The man you seem intent on investigating is dangerous, perhaps too dangerous for you.  And I do not mean Mr. Bain.” When Jackson didn’t reply, the strange man’s face fell a little further.  “Detective, believe me, I wish I could tell you everything, and I pray for the day when I can.  But as things stand I’ve told you everything I can.  Please.  There are some things too dangerous - and some too strange - to be explained fully.”

Don’t get too close It’s dark inside It’s where my demons hide It’s where my demons hide

Detective Silas Jackson watched the man climb the stairs toward the church doors, and continued staring long after those doors closed behind him.  He was trying to make sense of what Mitchell had said, and decide what the best direction would be the best to investigate from here.  But something kept bothering him, even as he put his hands into his pockets and began to walk away, toward home for some sleep after his night-long stakeout.  

“Some things too dangerous - and some too strange.”