Imperfect Memories - Parchment (Part 2)

Posted on 06 Dec 2024 @ 4:42am by Lieutenant JG Montgomery Vala

1,007 words; about a 5 minute read

Previously on Parchment...

He carefully set the cup down and picked up the small piece of parchment. It was thick and of a good quality. Like the sort he used for his research notes. Indistinguishable in fact.

Hairs stood on end as a shiver ran down his spine.

On it was written an address and a time in a plain, no nonsense scrawl. Nothing else.

Rh’vaurekorn shifted uncomfortably in his chair then pocketed the note. The address was only a short way away, and the time was this evening.

Questions raced through his mind and fought to be answered, but they all essentially coalesced into two: why a note and who had sent it?

He grabbed his tea and drank another sip, not enjoying it nearly as much as the first.

Then he paused. The tea. The saucer. The note…

He jumped to his feet as a few things clicked together.

He had to find that waitress.

And Now the Continuation...

The scrape of his chair as he abruptly stood cut through the normally sedate surroundings of the tea garden. A few patrons gave disapproving glances, but it was not enough of a disruption to take them away from their late morning comforts.

Rh'vaurekorn glanced around quickly, attempting to locate the enigmatic waitress who had left the note. His eyes went from one server to another, but none fit his, admittedly brief, impression. He cursed internally, then strode swiftly inside, seeking out the maître d' - a tall, wiry-haired man in a sleek black surcoat, his demeanor as rigid as his posture.

"Ihhai," the man said with a practiced tone of deference. "Is something amiss?"

Rh'vaurekorn waved a hand, keeping his voice level despite the simmering tension in his gut. "Not quite, but I am looking for one of your staff. A waitress. Brown hair, green apron, and an accent from the northern provinces." The description felt weak as he repeated it aloud. His gaze searched the man's face for recognition.

The maître d' frowned faintly. "We have four staff at your service today, ihhai. None match that description. And green aprons…" He let a ghost of a smile pass over his lips. "Are not part of the uniform at D'Tan's Rest."

The reassurance hit Rh'vaurekorn like a cold splash. "I see," he said, though he clearly didn't. With a clipped nod, he turned and left the café.

Back outside, the bustle of Ra'tleihfi closed in. The scent of freshly baked osol twists and market spices mixed with the acrid tang of hover traffic exhaust. Voices rose in competition - hawkers, vendors, the occasional outburst from a street argument. It wasn't difficult to disappear in the Mhiessan t'Charain district. The waitress, if she had been more than a momentary figment, was long gone.

He stopped in the middle of the street, his sharp green eyes scanning for something, anything - a clue, a trail. But all he saw were blurred faces and indifferent city walls.

For the first time in years, he felt exposed.

He started walking.

The city had always felt like a familiar puzzle - a lattice of districts and levels he knew well enough to navigate without thought. But today, the streets seemed to conspire against him, twisting and folding in unfamiliar ways. He turned down narrow lanes, the high walls of buildings closing in as sunlight became a rare visitor.

Every noise, every flicker of movement in his periphery, drew his attention. The green apron became a phantom, vanishing into corners just as he approached. A part of him knew it was futile, that whoever she was - whatever game was being played - had outpaced him.

He cursed again, this time aloud. It echoed sharply in the alley.

And then he saw it.

The body lay at an unnatural angle beneath the faint glow of a malfunctioning street lamp. The green apron, unmistakable now, was torn and stained. Her face, once kind and soft-spoken, was twisted in a rictus of terror, her pale skin contrasting starkly with the pool of dark red spreading beneath her.

Rh'vaurekorn approached cautiously, his pulse quickening. He crouched beside her, careful not to touch the body. His sharp eyes traced the deep, precise wounds across her torso. Too precise. This wasn't a mugging gone wrong. This was deliberate. Surgical.

There was no sign of the note, but her hands were curled as if clutching something before she died. He reached out and opened her fingers carefully, finding nothing but a faint smear of ink on her palm.

Looking up, he noticed a flicker of movement in the alley ahead - a shadow darting between the neon reflections. He rose and sprinted, boots hammering against the uneven pavement.

The pursuit lasted less than a minute. The shadow melted into the labyrinthine alleys, leaving him standing alone, breathless and furious.

It wasn't until much later, after the authorities arrived and began their tedious questioning, that Rh'vaurekorn finally returned his attention to the note in his pocket.

The address.

It wasn't far. The time was nearly upon him.

As he walked, the city seemed to change around him, the familiar streets taking on a sharper, more menacing edge. He passed beneath the towering spires of Ra'tleihfi's skyline, their lights blinking like the eyes of watchful predators. The address drew him deeper into the district, into its quieter, older heart where the buildings loomed closer together and the crowds thinned.

The building he sought was nondescript - a single metal door flanked by faded holographic advertisements. He stood before it, feeling the weight of unseen eyes.

Taking a steadying breath, he reached for the panel beside the door. The entry code was scrawled faintly below the time. He punched it in.

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a dimly lit corridor that smelled faintly of machine oil and damp stone.

After a moment's pause, he stepped inside.

To Be Continued…

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