McKale trudged out of his/her bedroom looking decidedly ruffled. Both hair and robe were askew and tangled, and he/she was looking decidedly paler than usual. Jeffrey caught sight of him/her out of the corner of his eye and frowned. He shot him/her a quick nod before returning his attention to the task at hand; beating eggs for breakfast.
"Have you thought of anything yet, Jeffrey?" said McKale, slumping against one of the tiny kitchenette's counters. There wasn't much in the way of seats, just a pair of cylindrical stools that gleamed as cold metal is apt to gleam. McKale shot them a nasty look before shuffling slippered feet across the eating counter toward the stove. He/she glanced hopefully up at Jeffrey.
"I was not under the impression that I was to be 'thinking about something', miss...sir."
"Miss today, said McKale, folding her arms on the tabletop and snuffling her chin against them, I don't feel so well."
Jeffrey's ceased beating the eggs and tipped the contents of the bowl into the buttered frying pan. He avoided McKale's gaze. "You do appear less exuberant than usual, Miss. Is there anything I can assist you with?"
"No, no, Jeffrey, old chap, nothing to be done about it, she sighed wistfully.
"It, miss?"
"The letter. Yaidom,"she waved a hand dismissivly,"You know, the whole...thingummy, with the...what are they called, Jeffrey?"
"Basilisks miss."
"Thank-you, Jeffrey."
"Very good, miss."
Silence descended as Jeffrey battered the eggs with a well-brandished spatula. The eggs browned and fluffed, and Jeffrey pulled two plates out of the cupboard, scooping scrambled egg onto each. He handed one to McKale and returned to the 'dining table' with the other. McKale tentatively shuffled toward the stools, gripping her plate like a shield. She flicked her eyes toward Jeffrey, pleading.
"I apologize miss, I will attempt obtain better accommodations after breakfast."
"Thank-you, Jeffrey." McKale slipped onto a stool, squirming a little, before finally hunching over and...dealing with it.
Jeffrey cleared his throat, What is it that I should be thinking about, Miss?"
"Hm? Oh,"McKale swallowed a mouth full of eggs and wiped her mouth, A solution, Jeffrey. We're in a bit of a rummy position, what? We need to find Yaidom, and seeing as he's some dangerous killing-what's it, we cant, she downed another forkful of eggs.
"I believe, Miss, that we have found him. What we now need to do is...?" he trailed off, tilting his head to the side and arching a brow. What indeed. McKale had not stopped going on about finding these unusual persons throughout the far reaches of time and space, but she never specified what they were supposed to do once they were found. If it had been Erich that had written the letter, Jeffrey would have no doubts about the end means of their errand. But, as it were, Erich had not written the letter, and Jeffrey did not have the slightest clue what to do.
And, dash it all! He could very well have figured something out by now if McKale wasn't being so ominous about her little 'task'. Although it was not his position to say anything against her, he shouldn't be approving the usage of her watch anyway, if she wanted his help she should realize that he needed more to work with than what she was giving him.
"Oh, right,"McKale squirmed, setting her fork down beside her plate. He licked her lips and lowered her gaze to the counter-top, Yes, well."
"Miss?"
"Well, you see, Jeffrey, it's rather difficult..."
"Perhaps you could start with telling me who gave you the letter, Miss, if you find it relevant."
"Ah, well, no one of real importance. Wouldn't know who he was if I told you, so no sense wasting time with names, what?"
Jeffrey bit back an impatient sigh, If you would permit me to guess, miss, would that suffice?"
"Ummm,"McKale paused, tapping her chin. After a moment, she nodded, Very well, Jeffrey. Guess away. Dashed odd name, though. I don't see how you'll-"
"Is it perhaps Wilbur Winquist, Miss?" Thank Jove he remembered the name.
The color, what little of it was left, drained out of McKale's face. Her bottom jaw swung open, eyes widened to extreme proportions behind the messy fall of her bangs. Slowly, her features morphed from flabbergasted to...suspicious. She closed her mouth, drawing her lips into a thin line. Her brow narrowed slightly, and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth.
Jeffrey stirred.
It wasn't as if she knew he'd read the letter while she was out. Suspicion was a natural response to these sorts of situations. He took a deep breath, folding his hands on the counter-top, and prepared a lie.
He could not afford the truth right now. Not with a potential third-party joining their little household, entirely of his own doing.
"I do not know him personally, Miss, but an old acquaintance of mine introduced me to him several years ago. I remember they had similar handwriting, and the style of print on the letter was nearly identical to that of my acquaintance."
"Ah,"McKale's features brightened considerably, Do you perchance know anything else about this Wilbur Winquist of ours?"
"I regret not, Miss."
"Hm, McKale tapped her chin again.
"May I inquire as to why he's sending you on these 'errands', Miss?"
McKale's eyes widened frightfully once again. "Well, you see, I, she spluttered. Her brow furrowed and she chewed her lip in silence. Jeffrey waited quietly. Finally, she drew herself up, puffed out her chest, and slapped balled fists against her hips, I can't bloody well have the watch for free, what? Got to repay the ruddy bloke somehow."
Jeffrey's heart stopped. He took a few deep breaths, smoothing his jacket down and fumbling with the ends of the material, anything to distract himself with. "Does Mr.Winquist have a pseudonym by any chance, miss?"
"Pseudonym? Not that I know of. Why? On to something?"
Jeffrey frowned, Perhaps, miss, but one is not entirely sure."
"Will all candidates and sponsors for the Abstract Destiny's Synth 11 please make their way down to Bravo Bay. Repeat, all candidates for Synth 11, report to Bravo Bay.,"the intercom crackled loudly from outside the hotel room.
Jeffrey stiffened again.
"Good lord, Jeffrey. Is that honestly coming from outside the room?" McKale slid off her stool, casting it a triumphant, albeit wary, glance as she stepped away from it. She sauntered up to the door and wrung it open, popping her head outside, Think it's going to blare messages back and forth all night long, Jeffrey?" She wrinkled her nose, cursing under her breath, Dashed rummy place, this."
A slow smile crept over Jeffrey's lips. He slid off his chair, collecting the empty plates and forks. Languidly he scraped the remains into the trash and placed each in the sink with care. He turned, taking his time, and strolled across the room to McKale's side. His skin prickled with goose bumps.
"I will endeavor to request a new room for us, miss, if you desire."
"Oh, right-ho, Jeffrey. Bloody good idea. Leaving now, are you?"
"If you wish, miss."
"I wish indeed, Jeffrey!" she clapped her hands together, grinning up at him, Hurry back then, I'll just...ah...pack the bags then, what?"
Jeffrey winced at the idea, but nodded none the less, Very good, miss." He nodded his head in short farewell and slipped out the door.
"And don't forget to think about the thingummy!"
"Indeed, miss, I shall try to remember."
.:.:.::.:.:.
I had, of course, thought of a new possibility that may lead to a solution to our problem, but no force in the world short of that of god could have made me inform Miss/Mister McKale of it. I was quite shocked to learn that Wilbur Winquist shared not only a peculiarly similar style of writing, but also a similar taste and payment. If he had been Erich then I would have immediately ascertained the reason for Miss/Sir McKale's list of names and dates.
Erich Emmanuel Bishop, as I have stated before, runs an illicit business. The exact dubbance of said business if called, if I remember correctly, a brothel. Bishops brothel it not an ordinary one either, but contains only the most 'exotic and erotic', as he so crassly puts it. A list of unusual names, accompanied by even more unusual dates, could easily be mistaken for a series of persons Bishop desired to integrate into his selection of 'workers'.
But, as it was not Bishop who wrote the note and sent my employer on this less than favorable mission, I was left both confused and intrigued. I realized, then, that Wilbur Winquist and Erich Emmanuel Bishop were someone connected. And, perhaps, it was this connection that would lead me to removing my employer from this abnormal situation.
For now, though, it was my duty to attend the hatching and bonding ceremony of Synth 11 in Bravo Bay of the Abstract Destiny. And more than that, I had to formulate a plan.
McKale would not be happy with any valet who endeavored to bring unwanted guests into his/her home with the intention of permanent residence. I could very well be out of my job if I did not 'play my cards right', as the saying goes.
.:.:.::.:.:.
"Well, said McKale, to no one in particular, sitting across from the dining room with her legs curled up under her body, I suppose we'll just wait then."
The two metallic stools gleamed menacingly across the room from her. She glared back.
"Could get dressed, she continued, kicking her feet out in front of her and wiggling two sets of bare toes against the foot of the couch. Her clothes were rather tattered and ragged looking. Certainly not the sort of thing she's want to be seen in by anyone other than Jeffrey. McKale glanced over her shoulder at the door, chewing her bottom lip. She looked back down at her clothes.
Well, it wasn't as if she was expecting company.
bleepbleepbleepbleep
McKale jumped.
"What in-"
BLEEPBLEEPBLEEP
She shivered, thrusting herself out of the chair and wrapping her arms tightly over her chest, cuddling her robe closer to her body, What-ho?"
BLEE- *Ah, hello. Is Tierney McKale present?*
McKale jumped again. She span around, eyes wide, searching for the origin of the voice. Finding she apparently alone in the room, she quickly deduced that the voice had to be bodiless and therefore could be one of two things.
"Look, umm,"she squirmed, backing into her seat once again, Were changing rooms so, really, if you don't want me being here that's fine and dandy. We'll be out in half-a-minute, what?" she forced out a nervous chuckle, But on the other hand, if you're god-"
*What are blithering on about? This is Wilbur. Where are you?*
"Wilbur?" McKale blinked. She brightened a little, casting her gaze about the room. Still finding no one she directed her attention to the floor, What-ho Wilbur, old chap!"
*Do you have Yaidom?*
McKale's face fell, Well...no, not exactly. You see-."
*Do you require assistance in finding him? I'm sure I can risk sending someone...*
"No need for that, old chap, we found him, she curled her toes together, Its just...oh, sod it, I can't talk like this. Where are you? Not hiding in the closet or sumat-such thing, what?"
There was a long, silent paused, erred only by the quiet hum of electricity that crackled through the room. McKale wrinkled her nose at that too.
*Never mind where I am. If you found Yaidom, why don't you have him?*
"That's just the thing, Wilbur old boy, Jeffrey's inform me they're what's-its. Dangerous sort, those, turn you into rock or sumat when they look at you. Almost got petri-thingied myself, until Jeffrey barreled into me."
The silence returned. Then, simply,*Ah*
"So there's no sense in trying to nick him, what? Better to just skip him and pinch the safer ones."
*No, no* said Wilbur's bodiless voice,*I believe I have a solution...*