Golden City Prequel: Earning their Wings (Anguissette x Nemopedia x Joan)

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Anguissette

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Rattling up the dual cables from the landing below came the 8:15 Mail Coach to the Nest. The Coach was a blue wooden box in the shape of an inverted pyramid, steps up three of the sides bearing boxes upon boxes of mail gathered from the Land below. The fourth side of the "coach" bore a set of old teak bench seats filled with the morning shift; senior, regular and junior postal inspectors (the proverbial Nestlings). Normally they spent the trip up bonding over their homelives and talking shop. Teams who worked together tended to sit close together, and the climb into the sky was customarily the gentle social ritual to fire up the shift to face the day.

Not today.

This morning the morning shift sat around the very outside of the passenger area, two and even three to a seat, murmuring quietly to one another. In the open ring at the centre sat two young ladies; one tall and lanky with short wispy dark hair and an interesting taste in fashion, the other every bit the martyr to fashion that her friend isn't. Her flaming red hair trailing behind her, the woman in the blue gown kept her hands folded primly in her lap and her head high, blithely ignoring the fact that they are the cynosure of all eyes.

Truly Minerva could barely keep a straight face for excitement. While Thomas and she had made a pact to find the true identity of the Falcon and make their name by telling his story, the budding young reporter had hardly dared believe they would be able to bluff their way onto the Coach. Yet bluff they had, and their aerial ascent to the Nest was proof in itself. "Who do you suppose they think we are?" she murmured to her androgynous friend, then nodded solemnly at her response as though she had reported seeing their supervisor disgracing himself privately. She let herself contemplate the mental image of the famous Jack Byron in a lacy ensemble before she caught herself drumming her fingers nervously against the edge of the seat. This was not how a successful reporter behaved. Or... whatever she was pretending to be.

That thought lingered as the Coach made its final approach and she laid eyes on the alien construction that could only bear the name, the Nest. The thin cables that ran across the city were thicker here, the thinnest thicker than her arm. The thickest were the size of the Coach, criss-crossing one another in an immense Gordian Knot that symbolically tied the city together. Atop it, woven around it and in some places hollowed into it was the organic construction that was the Post Office. The Coach whistled up towards a black pinhole that seemed far too small but progressively grew into a cavern that the whimsical might fear held some kind of giant spider creature. Only the whimsical though. Which Minerva certainly wasn't. Yep.

The redhead's secret arachnid fears proved entirely unfounded when the coach landed in the main atrium. Instead the two aspiring journalists were forced to face something far more terrifying for someone in their position; a welcoming committee.

"Ms Peeler," said the leading man in a navy blue trenchcoat with silver buttons, using an anonymous euphemism often used by the Cloaks. Behind him the new shift filed away into the hallways, but three inspectors with the ineffable air of seniority remained to speak with them. "Thank you for coming. I assure you the Nest will cooperate with your investigation provided you do not interfere with the day's business. The Mail Must Flow." The way he said it, that was more than a phrase. It might be a litany for the Nest and Minerva made a mental note to include that prominently in her copy. "I understand you have some questions for us. Tell me, how can we assist the Inquisition?"

The Inquisition? They were up here impersonating the secret shadow-shrouded Inquisition??! Her mind a swirling vortex of dank cells and corporal punishment, Minerva gestured to the colleague who stood so blithely beside her and hurled her under the metaphorical Coach. "I have a number of questions, and we would like to look around. My colleague has the tally of questions coming directly from our investigations, so she shall begin."

As she followed their guide, Minerva turned her head expectantly towards the tallest female reporter from the Golden City Post - but only so far as she could keep all three Inspectors' faces in view. She had a gift for ferreting out what people would prefer to keep hidden about themselves, and they had used this kind of back and forth play in their collaborations previously.

Of course, the last time they hadn't been impersonating the secret police.
 
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The appearance of the Nest held something poetic to it. The nest of a bird from which eggs hatched and then flew out to their destinations. As a child Thomas had countless stories that she imagined about the Nest. It was quite easy, after all.

And now she stood in the middle of this construction. Lines zipping past her left and right, the sound of the pulley hard at work. It was all much louder than she had imagined and so much more hollow. The Nest turned into the iron embrace of a mother gone.

“She?” A nervous round man from the welcoming committee wrung his hands. Eyes suspiciously scanning Thomas. The female threw up her chin a little. They had many reasons to be suspicious of them, but her gender was the last thing that was wrong.

“Yes, she,” she spoke, loud and clear with hands on her hips as she blew them over with the fact. What the shocker in the story was went past her. They had been given a gentle clue by Minerva.

The group fell silent again. With Thomas trying to bask out whatever ounce of femininity and authority she had and the committee waiting for the questions to come. The round one became the red round one, or more amusingly; the Tomato. Coughing and chuckling he tried to apologise, suddenly growing very nervous under the scrutinising eyes of the reporter, or what he believed to be a cloak member. Thomas certainly did enjoy putting these doubters to shame.

“Right. My questions!” the female snapped out of her thoughts, quickly feeling around her pockets for the notebook. “So, where to start,” she mused to herself as she fished the object out. Quickly giving a scan to her questions Thomas nearly fired them out on a rapid speed, but held herself back to scan for Inquisition appropriate questions, whatever that could mean.

Straightening herself up Thomas scraped her throat as she snapped her eyes back at the committee again. The Tomato flinched and the reporter decided that she enjoyed this position they believe they held. A second career as a cloak member didn’t sound too bad at this moment.

“Right,” she repeated, snapping her notebook shut. “We actually wish to see your archives, right?” Thomas turned towards her colleague for confirmation, excitement barely holding in. Should she have explored how far her fake authority carried her? Perhaps, but Thomas wasn’t known for her tact and patience.


OOC: Late notice, but thought I should make a mention of it anyway. Due to the secretive nature of the Inquisition names aren’t usually used for safety measures. Codenames are used in place, in Marianne’s case this would be Wings.
 
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Marianne was late, and she knew it. As she made her way the rest of the short way to the Coach, her mind flashed back to the shoplifter she had taken a moment to stop. That moment had been extended as she had had to chase him down, and by the time she had caught up and cuffed him, she had known without a doubt that she was going to end up late. Her assigned partner had thankfully agreed to take the shoplifter in, with a promise to meet her at the Nest later, or she would have been even later.

Now, as she approached the Coach, she could see that the one she was supposed to be on had already gone up. Crap. Guess I'll just have to explain I was delayed...they should understand.

She approached one of the other Coaches, already preparing to explain why she was late and where her associate had gone. However, as she began her explanation, she was met with far more resistance than expected. The woman watching the door at first flat-out refused to let her on without an explanation, but as she pushed, the frustrated brunette let something slip that she shouldn't have.

"You can't be the Cloak, all right?!? The Cloak's already gone up, and her associate with her, so don't think you can fool me!"

"...Wait, what?"

Marianne frowned, and the woman froze, realizing what she had let slip. She moved to shut the door to the Coach, but Marianne moved forward, planting her foot in the door as she fished her credentials out of her pocket and presented them. The brunette's eyes went wide, and she hastily opened the door back up, stammering out apologies. Marianne didn't care. Somebody was up there pretending to be her, meaning they were getting full access to any information the Nest had to offer. She brushed off the apologies and took a seat, ignoring the stares from the few work crews on their way up.

This is already shaping up to be one hell of a day...
 
Though surprised by her companion's capricious change of focus, Minerva nodded and backed her up without an instant's hesitation. "Right! There's no time to lose, we can ask our questions on the way. Good thinking Ms Peeler." A sharp look from the second committee member as the redhead mentally slapped herself upside the head, then threw him a knife-edged smile that dared him to object to the two women sharing a name who could hardly look less alike.

"Ms P-" he began, and she cut him off as she headed for the main structure with a determined gait.

"No relation. Shall we?" The pseudo-cloak clapped impatiently, "The Falcon isn't going to apprehend himself, and we suspect he must have allies in the Nest to explain his string of heists." Green eyes narrowed suspiciously as they went from the committee to the busy trenchcoats that serviced the whirring cables behind. No one seemed to be paying them attention, but that didn't mean much in these untrusting times.

The pompous lead inspector with the silver buttons harrumphed and followed her gaze before nodding stiffly. "Very well. I am quite certain you are mistaken, Peeler. The staff of the Nest are dedicated and loyal." He lifted his chin, his voice rising, "but the business of the Inquisition cannot be permitted to interrupt the day's business. Follow me, your ladyships." He bowed with tangible insincerity and led the way into the inner sanctum.

The walk to the archives was short, but the three senior inspectors were forced to endure a rapid-fire barrage of questions about the pattern of thefts, the victims and the nature of the goods stolen. Some of it might be information an Inquisition agent might be expected to know, but Minerva gave them precious little time to respond, taking key notes on a small pad of paper in her left hand.

Following their rotund guide through a small wooden door with a brass handle, they found themselves amid teeming stacks of whispering pages, the scent of ink and old parchment thick in their nostrils. As well as, what was that?

Minerva's nostrils flared, and she spoke with the soft reverence the space seemed to demand. "Feathers? Is someone keeping pets in here Lead Inspector?"
 
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While the goal was to uncover the Falcon, Thomas saw a chance in digging through the archives and look for some juicy gossip. What about the archive of contrabands that The Nest was rumoured to have? Or the many documents of secret exchanges? The reporter could feel it in her bones that there was so much more to uncover besides from a petty thief.

While Minerva worked down her questions Thomas took a look inside of The Nest. A circular building with elevators working to the top to reach the roof and its cables. While the outside had looked impressive and complicated the inside was much simpler, dark halls with carts rolling around and the buzzing sound of the sorting machine. Everything was wide and spacious, so that the dense crowd of traffic could zipp past with mathematical precision. Workers pushing said carts to and from the sorting machines and to the elevators, others loading in and out batches of mail that they had gathered from all around the city. It reminded her of a beehive, everyone had its assigned task and focussed on said task, while trying not getting in the way of another. Complicated and buzzing with life.

They were led to a door on which Thomas noted a sign reading: ‘Restricted entry for unauthorised persons.’ following with the mention of an article in the legislation. One Thomas didn’t pay much heed to and didn’t have to pay any attention to either. Blessed was the duo for the ignorance of the committee.

Letting themselves be led to a flight of stairs, they climbed up towards what the archives would be. Long storages bending across the wall and circling around the middle. It was a fusion between a maze and a library, and scoffingly Thomas thought of the pain the administration had to keep their archives up to date while having to climb to the very uppershelf.

“But it sure is a popular theory, not?” the female chirped, immediately diving into one of the many cabins to nose through its paperwork and whatmore. “That the Falcon might be one of you guys, or has ties,” she continued, slender fingers quickly rattling their way through stacks of papers, realising to her delight that they were ordered systematically by year and department. That made the dig for some juicy gossip so much easier!

“With how they seem to evade the Clo-- I mean us and always happens to slip right past your guards as well,” mindlessly Thomas continued to speak, a trait she was known for, endless chatter, but at least she corrected herself to stay true to her improvised act. “Though,” and here she paused for a bit, pulling out a file as she turned her gaze over to the round one.

“We can exclude some already based on mere… observations,” she pursed her lips, deciding to reign herself back. She didn’t want to earn herself a scolding, or worse, waste this beautiful chance because of a lack of tact.

“Question, who is this Madam Rouge? Three transactions of hundred golds in a week.” The Falcon was somewhere in the back of her mind already.
 
Unlike the pair of journalists, Marianne would have no welcoming committee. Instead, after she stepped off the car, she spent a few precious moments hunting for somebody who might know where the impersonators had gone. Eventually, she located an inspector discussing something quietly with one of the workers, and as she approached, he glanced at her with narrowed eyes and held up a hand towards the worker.

"Who are you?" he demanded, and she pulled the badge from her pocket, holding it flat in the palm of her hand. His eyes went wide, and he murmured something under his breath.

"I hear I'm already supposed to be here, along with my associate," she stated flatly, tucking the badge into her pocket. "Where would they have been taken?"

"Ah...I believe I heard they were going up to the archives. This way, Ms. Peeler." The inspector's face still pale, he hurried off. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the worker staring after them, and with a faint sigh, she shook her head and followed the inspector.

The walk to the door was silent apart from the noises of the days work around them. At the door, she paused briefly to let the inspector unlock the door, and was somewhat taken by surprise when he spoke up.

"Your associate...where are they, if I may ask?"

"Delayed." Her tone was firm, inviting no questions.

"Ah." The inspector still seemed curious, but he stepped away from the door, holding it open. "After you, Ms. Peeler." She hurried through, her eyes going to the long staircase. He closed the door behind them and stepped in front of her again, moving up the steps with the unhurried ease of somebody who had ascended them several times before. She followed.

By the time they reached the archives, the journalists and their committee were not visible from the entryway. They were, however, audible, and Marianne held up a finger to quiet anything the inspector might have said.

Which direction is that coming from...?

"Miss, if I may?" The inspector spoke quietly, and she turned to face him, noting the slight smile in his eyes. "I know these archives much better than you do, Ms. Peeler, begging your pardon."

"Of course you do," she murmured, allowing a faint smile to show on her face. She lowered her hand and gestured to the shelves in front of her. "After you, then." Once again, he began moving, and she followed in silence.
 
Where Thomas saw a beehive, the Inspectors saw a metallic shrine to their God and perhaps Marianne saw a maze hiding her impudent impersonators, the inside of the Nest reminded Minerva of nothing so much as a gigantic version of the loom her sister used, with multiple flying shuttles whistling high up into the sky on the dark metallic thread. She watched them hungrily, imagining the reports and messages racing away up to the Embryo. One day she was going to be like that, the redhead vowed to herself. She was going to pull herself free of the cloying mud of the Land and whistle off into the Sky, where they weren't satisfied with mediocrity. Until then she would have to keep sending up her stories like a tribute to the Pioneer in the sure and certain hope that one day they would win her a place there.

Stories like the Falcon's, that captured the public eye.

Though there were other secrets to be gleaned up here, and her friend seemed to be on the trail of something else noteworthy - unless they were somehow related? "A hundred golds is exactly the sort of target the Falcon hits," she mused aloud. "That and the secrets of the powerful." She eyed the committee members keenly. "I can't imagine how he keeps targeting them so unerringly without an agent on the inside, but with your cooperation we are prepared to assume all the Nest's inspectors are incorruptible unless there is no other conclusion to be reached." She spreads her hands then taps her fingers together twice and smiled.

"Let's start with this Madam Rouge," she said, unrolling a piece of parchment on the table. "Which days did you say her consignments shipped? Which are marked delivered, and which were intercepted?"

Working with fellow "Cloak" Thomas and semi-willing committee members, Minerva worked to assemble a concise roadmap of the contents, deliveries and wealthier patrons sending their valuable goods by Cable. There were dozens of secrets there that were extremely suggestive - just why was Augustine sending a string of rubies to a Miss Challing in the Land? - but the redhead peered intently through her spectacles and focused on the patterns she was sure were there. Even the Falcon couldn't hit every load that flew through the air, but if the answer was there it still eluded her.

She needed more data, and looked up past the largest committee member's shoulder to where Thomas was hot on the heels of her own investigation.

"Do you have anything Ms Peeler?"

She accepted the folio of records from the second inspector, one ear on her colleague as she began to lay them out beside her shorthand matrix.
 
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The dark and large archives were like a mountain of gold in the eyes of Thomas, ecstatic and bright as she flitted around documents uncovering scandal and shame. Dutifully she answered Minerva’s questions when she came upon them and the committee was too slow to answer, giddy like a schoolkid who for once came to class well prepared.

“Funnily the shipment is always paid in person!” Thomas chirped as she carelessly flitted through the papers. “Does your wife know about this? Do you even have a wife?” she curiously asked the round one who got even redder now, stuttering something incomprehensible that she ignored. “I suppose that they don’t trust their own services well enough,” Thomas continued to muse as she threw aside the payments to Madam Rouge. That was a delectable scandal to be explored later.

Reared back by Minerva the reporter continued to look for the Falcon, slim fingers picking up documents that revealed what spots in the city were popular for raids and races. Comments such as ”why you still use the West side corner around the watertank is beyond me,” and ”you sure like madam Rouge a lot, particularly at the end of the month,” were thrown around at random as she continued her way around, soaking in all of the information she could.

Ducking into another alley of archives the female then came to a hall where there was another pair wandering, seemingly searching for someone or something. One a tall and lean woman, seemingly a mere shadow in the dim room due to the colour of her skin, and another nervous employee leading the way. Quick to think Thomas retreated quickly, making her way over to the red head.

“How I ever so hate to cut a meeting short!” she called, hastily pushing her colleague to move towards the entrance. “There are so many obligations all condensed in one day. Come now, Ms. Peeler, off we go or the boss won’t be happy,” a nervous laugh escaped the usually confident tomboy who hoped that the Cloak hadn’t seen her like she had seen the other.
 
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