that was you.

he knows there are easier ways to do this. "this", made in reference to : being perched on a precariously thin ledge; pressing his ear against the wall to hear; manually and furiously taking down notes on what is being said. it feels like being back at school again, though considerably more fun. perhaps he shouldn't complain. a pigeon flies close. closer. he spies a note tied to its leg, and stifles back a sigh.

instead, he does his best impression of wallpaper, plasters himself to the surface to the best of his ability, a feat made difficult by height and size. gingerly, he lowers himself into some semblance of a squat, curls up behind a pillar, and prays that cavanagh doesn't see him when he receives the pigeon. the interface winks out of existence, not a shimmer in the air to give him away. he doesn't breathe.

it feels longer than it is, and isn't particularly helped by the fact that moosely is gleefully counting down in his head. eventually, when his lungs start burning, cavanagh sends the pigeon on its way, once again closing the window and returning to his discussion. perhaps the gods take pity on him. the window is left slightly ajar, and sound filters out all the better.

the conversation is terse, spoken in tense, lowered voices. from outside, maddox can imagine the tension, thick enough to cut through, to suffocate; he waits patiently, summons the interface once more, and continues transcribing what he can of the conversation.

silently. "can't you be more useful for things like this? run around? listen to conversations? spy on stuff?"

( 'uh-huh, right, because you're the shining exemplar of competency.' )

that was you.

the slam of a door almost startles him into jumping off the ledge. moosely snorts. maddox re-evaluates his life. instead, he allows himself an inaudible sigh, and ducks his head out from behind cover for just a second to catch a glimpse of the room's occupants. he retreats before he can be seen.

in any case, they seem far too agitated to notice him right now. he catches names, dutifully notes them down -- titles the interface sheet 'davidson yells a lot with cavanagh' -- and contents himself with listening to their conversation.

( 'he's not very happy,' comes moosely's astute observation. )

"neither would i, if my partner in crime came bolting into a meeting that doesn't concern him, specifically to rant about the troubles that he got himself into." again, silent. he's going to want to take a nap after this mission; keeping the interface up and about is more arduous than he expected. how does julius do it? perhaps it is an issue of familiarity; his roots lie in purification, after all.

he listens to the conversation intently. cavanagh dismisses the others with what maddox assumes to be an impatient wave of the hand, and, voice drawn tight, draws davidson aside, practically hissing. on the behalf of davidson, who is stumbling over his own words in his haste, maddox winces. he takes down whatever is said nonetheless. pity does not get in the way of work.

they are practically at the window. why are they at the window? is there better ambience? are the acoustics for angry conversations best heard near large panes of glass?

don't look out, don't look out--

that was you.

when will they move away? please move away. but they do not move away. some terrible thought possesses cavanagh ( or davidson ) and they push the window open, muttering something about fresh air, which makes sense, because he does sound close to breaking down. had maddox been someone better, had either of the two men above been people better, perhaps the witch would have felt a twinge of sympathy, but as it stands, he does not.

instead, what he really wants to do is scream in frustration. what he does : he drops.

not all the way. he doesn't have a death wish. he catches himself with a gust of air instead, presses himself against the ledge below. in his minds eye, he imagines either one of the targets looking about suspiciously ( he doesn't look up ). "quite the breeze, today, huh," says davidson, strained, and cavanagh growls something maddox can't quite catch.

but, instead of planning his route back up to safer ground, as any smarter person in his situation would do, maddox sidles over to the nearest window, peeking in curiously. he's certain he won't get caught. who he sees, however, is no politician.

he raps on the glass with a knuckle. "sirius." no puns, this time, and maddox berates himself for the lack of it. above, he can hear footsteps receding ( it isn't particularly difficult, now that he's had some time to get used to the eavesdropping shtick; davidson is practically stomping away ). "if this is davidson's office, i think he might be coming down."

pauses, listens closer. "i think he's bringing cavanagh down too. they're like," oh, there it is. "sirius-ly mad." combo-pun. maddox has never been prouder.

that was you.

he eyes the dagger, though the gaze lacks the typical sharpness associated when one is surprised by a weapon; he takes it in stride ( which, he should, because no sane man tries to surprise an assassin without half-expecting to be stabbed ). but the mild exasperation is fuel enough for a grin, and his eyes glitter.

"find aleah, gotcha," he echoes back, flashes a thumbs up, and watches kasimir slither back into the air vents. acrobatics like that are, frankly, beyond him. maddox retreats behind the wall just as the door opens, and hauls himself onto the upper ledge, gathering the air beneath him for an additional boost. he's not about to waste any time proving to himself that his workouts have been effective by denying himself elemental help.

it is a task easier said than done. he knows aleah only by a brief description on the mission dossier; he has no idea where aleah has gone, nor how the other witch's familiar looks like. he can only hope.

checking cavanagh's office, it is completely empty, so maddox takes the liberty of sliding in through the window. for a brief moment, he looks up to consider the air vents, considers mimicking kasimir, but a quick calculation tells him that he'd scarcely fit. crawling through air vents is probably more suited for people of more nimble stature. a brief scan of the office, pitifully bare -- perhaps cavanagh is new to this? -- grants him precious little insight to any potential stash of secret documents. onwards he goes.

maddox consults the interface and its rough map, sliding out of the room and closing it behind him without any trouble. adjusting his tie and jacket, mildly rumpled from the venture outside, he walks along the corridor, slowly but surely making his way towards aleah's office. or, at least, where it ought to be according to the maps.

like cavanagh, aleah's office is occupied. thankfully, the one beside it is not. 'emerson', reads the nameplate, but emerson does not seem to be present. maddox strides on in.

there is only so much he can hear, squeezing himself against the wall. he spies a partially-filled glass; his eyes travel upwards to the bottle of scotch on the shelf, makes a gamble, and casually drains the remainder in the glass. there's really no shame about anything now. looking at the time, and the amount of alcohol actually left in the bottle, he doubts emerson would remember.

back to the basics -- he places the cup against the wall, and through it, filters the conversation. satisfied as one can be with hearing through a wall, he begins afresh the process of transcribing the conversation.

that was you.

for a moment, he is almost disappointed by the lack of activity. through the glass, he can only hear the softest scratchings of pen against paper, pages signed and flipped with more force than necessary. maddox settles into a more comfortable position, cross-legged and leaning against the wall. still no change. it's rather peaceful, actually. from where he is, he squints at emerson's calendar for the day: a bold red streak across the page complains of the block of meetings this unknown bureaucrat has to endure. maddox looks at the bottle of alcohol again, and somehow, isn't surprised.

a voice, low, something about it decidedly non-human, breaks the silence; the atheneum interface blinks in and out of existence, as though it were startled; the witch himself doesn't twitch a muscle. "you should not sneak up on your allies," he murmurs instead, in a voice barely audible. smoke-grey meets gold, he finds the feline familiar staring down at him from between the slats of the air vents. he trusts that the cat can hear him; he does not dare speak any louder lest he be heard.

privately, he tells moosely; why can't you be small and sneaky like that? it'd make things like this so much easier.

to which he gets only a disgruntled bellow and a pointedly declared expletive, and if the familiar had materialised, surely a kick to the stomach.

"needed the glass, anyway. i can't hear that well through the wall if he does start talking." maddox explains, barely whispering. he pauses at a hint of activity, and a grin grows across his face. "for times like now."

he hears the scraping of the chair's legs against wood, aleah's drawn-out sigh that threatens to escalate to outright frustrated screaming. terse conversation with himself is underscored by restless pacing back and forth. step one. "i told him--" two, three. "--absolutely useless--" four more, before he hears a sharp inhale of breath, and the man continues his tirade, probably directed at some unfortunate piece of furniture. maddox pities whichever hapless object has to endure this man's wrath. ( he hears something snap, and a low curse follows. goodbye, pencil. )

that was you.

the plot thickens. maddox stares at the familiar. "holy shit," he whispers. "i thought emerson was some random guy -- i didn't see his name anywhere, at least i don't think i saw his name anywhere -- but yeah, back to the point, holy shit." he is more or less talking to himself at this point, and by the time he looks up, the ocelot is gone once more.

damn. sometimes, he wishes he had that kind of style.

he abandons the wall, carries the glass back to the table and, with startling accuracy, replaces it, and pours in additional alcohol to mask traces of any tampering; the fact that he's now standing in the leader's room demands greater caution. maddox is suddenly hyperaware of how only a thin wall separates him and emerson, and wonders why he hadn't been aware of this sooner.

now, where to begin the search?

his eyes land on the table, or more importantly, the drawers. there is no better place to start, after all. he searches methodically, meticulously, flips through manila folders of unrelated files. a quick scan tells him that this information is peripheral at best, likely unimportant to the main case, and he makes a mental note to come back to it later if given the opportunity. but there must be something more. ( you don't grow up in leviathan without knowing how people keep their secrets. )

a false bottom at the bottom of the drawer; smoke-grey eyes glitter. the information on these documents he fervently transfers over. ( he'll probably regret the extensive use of atheneum magic later, he can already feel the slightest hints of a headache building up. ) he reads on, careful to rearrange the papers as they have been found. still, it feels like something is missing. some of the letters simply don't make sense; there's a code to be found somewhere.

why do politicians have to be so difficult?