that was you.

he is, at the very least, a criminal by association, though his name itself remains as free and as innocent as any average citizen. it is only the effort of keeping his name clean in the public eye that he exercises any discretion in moving towards the rendezvous point, silently and half-heartedly rehearsing some excuse of an early morning jog should he be stopped. there is only the barely audible sound of boots against the cobblestone ground; even moosely is silent in his mind.

sunrises are an increasingly familiar sight, an oddly scenic byproduct of sleepless nights. his body doesn't quite thank him for the lack of rest it gets, but he could care less. the shadows shift and slant as the sun begins to peek over the rooftops; maddox clings a little closer to the walls as he moves now, contemplating the misfortune of having a familiar as obtrusive as moosely.


'have mercy. was hoping you'd not speak for like, a day, and spare me the misery.'


maddox leaves the silent conversation hanging in thin air, as he does all the time. there are other things that preoccupy him right now, such as the brown-haired man some paces in front of him, standing unobtrusively in the shadows. had he not been looking, perhaps maddox might have missed him entirely; but he likes to think of familiarity as a homing beacon. he's pretty good with faces.

"ah, you." it's not unfriendly, really, but he's just not as good with names. then, it strikes. his lips curve upwards into a grin. "why so sirius?"

that was you.

it is inadvisable to anyone with a sense of or inclination towards preserving ones life, but maddox seems more comfortable in the presence of the assassin. perhaps it is difficult to tell; he tends to carry himself with the ease and confidence of someone who takes everything in stride, unfazed by most; amusement seems to be the greatest reaction one could possibly incite, and panic doesn't really appear to be within his dictionary.

( save for the most extreme of situations, he doesn't really panic; the time some years ago that moosely threatened to start a livestock stampede across town notwithstanding. )

an almost imperceptible note of disgruntlement in kasimir's tone is enough encouragement; maddox barks out a short laugh, and internally, applauds the man for his composure. he makes a mental note to think of more puns. for now, he twists to look behind him, sees empty air, and turns back to kasimir. "yep, sorry to disappoint," he says, light-hearted, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "it's just me."

"so, any plans yet? fly in through a window? waltz in through the front door? wait, no, i suppose that's probably not a good idea."

that was you.

he seems to have a knack for maddening others. "he's, um, busy," comes the reply, a perfect blend of vague convinction and the undeniable fact that he doesn't really know what zephyr is up to right now. if he had known, the knowledge evades him for the moment. he turns his attention towards the target building, gaze critical -- a purifier's eye, hawk-like in intensity -- despite the grin that still toys about his lips.

"i would," he muses, arms crossed loosely, "but waltzing requires a partner." maddox pointedly leaves out the fact that he isn't a particularly avid fan of dances, and graces the assassin with a lull in banter. though, with how their previous mission panned out, and maddox's general tendency to ramble on when operating on precious little sleep, the pause promises to be only momentary.

but another matter is brought to mind -- walking in through the front door probably requires some level of disguise. a brief consideration ( not, in any way, thorough nor well thought through ); he reties his hair, sweeps it into a bun, removes his jacket from around his waist and shrugs it on; and scarcely a breath later, promptly gives up on any other form of disguise and looks, for a moment, at somewhat of a loss. "i'm not an illusionist," he says, mildly defensive, by way of excuse. "heck, no one's going to notice anyway."

that was you.

he takes a second to remember how to tie a tie, hears moosely's derisive snort somewhere at the back of his mind, and quickly sets to proving the familiar wrong. the end result: he supposes it could look worse. it's acceptable, but maddox isn't about to win any awards for being the best dressed; he can only hope that the security of the building doesn't extend to fashion.

"uh-huh, body language, right." from this vantage point, he tracks a civilian who strides along, memorising their movement ( secondary consideration : is he a civilian? take away the leviathan business, and he's merely a blacksmith predisposed towards causing trouble. ) disguises like this -- hiding in plain sight -- are not exactly new to him, if one considers the entire schtick of hiding one's life, but he's not about to toss away the advice of someone who has made this their profession.

maddox makes a mental note to send the witches from coven lontra cuore more cookies over the weekend, he suspects it is the only reason why they're keeping him around despite his sporadic visits.

he gives an easy smile; straightens the tie, rolls his shoulders back, remembers that there's a dagger tucked into his boot if an emergency arises. an affirmative nod. "lead on."

that was you.

"right-o, then i'll take care of--" he consults his memory for an answer, and moosely begrudgingly supplies him. "alessi and cavanagh." storm-grey eyes steady, narrow; he draws a sharp breath and focuses, feels the familiar brush of mana against his consciousness; he leaves it untouched, and thinks solely of the mission. a brief hum of acknowledgement -- he looks towards the clocktower in the distance -- it's plenty of time, which means that they'll either complete the mission with a comfortable amount of time to spare. alternatively, his familiar reminds, there's plenty of time for things to go horribly wrong.

he wonders what other witches say to their partners at the commencement of each mission, debates briefly between 'have fun' and 'good luck', and settles for an amiable, almost inaudible, "don't die."

his movements are light, lighter than the steady, purposeful stride of the businesspeople around them. they fall into line nonetheless; maddox keeps kasimir at the periphery of his vision, alters his posture slightly to mirror the other, and keeps walking.

'may need to' is interpreted as 'will need to'; he lets the crowd drift between them and his pace slows marginally -- mimics a gentleman a few paces before him who ambles towards a morning meeting -- as he adjusts his sleeve, scanning the room briefly. his eyes settle on a conveniently placed directory not too far off; he wanders towards it, not too fast, not too slow, a hunter looking for his prey.

that was you.

he walks with what he assumes to be confidence -- but not too much; he tempers a natural ease by mimicking the steady gait of the others -- briefly looking over the directory in a perfunctory manner, as though it is a sight he sees every day, and glancing over it is mere habit. he catches names and numbers, commits them to memory and prays this is not the time for his eyes to fail him. ( instead, he hears a long-suffering sigh at the back of his head, and his familiar dutifully remembers the floors and office numbers for him. )

the assassin goes right. maddox goes left. perhaps it would have been more convincing if he had snagged a cup of coffee on the way here to further blend in. no matter. he keeps his head down ( metaphorically ) and walks onwards. he is content to follow the crowd, up until it peters out slowly; maddox continues, continues pretending he has every right to be here, and strides on along.

the air beside him shimmers gently as he walks; he summons the atheneum interface, a barely visible holographic screen that hovers not an inch above his forearm. attention is bisected between the path ahead, beside, and behind of him, and the rapid scrawling of a rough map into the interface. there is, admittedly, a fairly large chance that it bears some degree of inaccuracy, considering the lack of any true scanning spells, but it's better than nothing.

he follows the trail of neatly arranged offices arranged in levels of importance, then alphabetical. no one seems to stop him; they are all engrossed in activities of their own, too busy to notice a mildly unfamiliar face amongst them. though, he supposes, they see a lot of unfamiliar faces every day.

up the stairs, turn right, then left; there is a door bearing a nameplate, and on it, neatly printed 'p. alessi'. the first meeting ( downstairs, he recalls a conversation heard in passing on the way up ) would have just started. he has a little under an hour to get what he needs from this office. a quick scan around: no one in sight -- safe. holding his breath, ear pressed against the door, he tries the handle. it opens smoothly, and he slips inside.

that was you.

the office is empty -- as expected, but he feels a rush of nonetheless. the athenuem interface is unravelled from around his arm, floating before him now; he lets his consciousness drift for a moment, and, satisfied that there are no errant strands of mana setting a trap somewhere, slides into the chair.

right. drawers. it's a methodical process, one hand carefully sifting through documents and letters, painstakingly returning each to its original position. the other hand scrubs across thin air, lines curling into coherence in a near-invisible script. the interface hums quietly with energy.

how much information is adequately incriminating? how much ammunition does one need? he thinks, considers, notices that the chair is, in fact, ridiculously comfortable. the transcription continues. here's to hoping his client can sift through the information himself -- maddox doesn't consider himself paid quite nearly enough to do a politician's job for them, though.

it is a cursory examination at best; probably requires a secondary snoop-through to find that little piece of information that will be alessi's undoing. but for now, it will suffice. he waits for footsteps to pass outside the door, and slips back out undetected.

cavanagh, to his knowledge, is likely in his office. maddox considers the possibilities as he moves along the corridor. almost freezes as two strangers move past, engrossed in a conversation of their own. he dips his head in greeting and walks onwards. one step at a time. where on earth is this office?