that was you.

the explanation comes -- a runescripted trap -- and there's a flicker of curiosity across grey eyes. he's never learnt much about runescripting, and there is precious little he can glean from books in the library, some of which are not as willing to dive that far back into such ancient arts to truly develop an understanding. not from what he can find, at least, but he's not necessarily the most careful reader. he makes a mental note to revisit it when he gets the time.

enchanted locks, on the other hand, are something more within his knowledge. they aren't overly complicated, but just enough to warrant the exercise of caution when dispelling them. he reaches out, hands hovering the surface as though pulling apart invisible threads; the scope of a reset is larger than necessary for the task, so he reins it in, focuses on the two locks, and carefully unspools the enchantment. it doesn't take too long.

"all yours," he says, leaning backwards to let his partner have at the drawers. his attention turns to the documents instead, straightening up and, after a ( careful ) moment of examining a corner of the bed, claims it as a perch and begins to decipher the documents. ( in some corner of his mind, he can feel moosely peer at the drawers that his partner is opening, undoubtedly curious about what could have been so important. )

that was you.

he uncovers report after report, and for all his familiarity with the criminal underground and its workings, for all his voluntary partaking of such, there is a cold knot in his stomach that only twists as he reads on.

"maddox," sirius calls, and there is an uneasy note to his partner's voice that makes him look up quickly to receive the note, interface slowing to a halt as he processes new information. sirius - silvertongue - hired, reads the note, and maddox almost ( metaphorically; he does not quite stand up and simply leans forward ) trips over himself in his haste to pull up the list from before.

the interface moves forward, a single list of names ( seven, to be exact ) displayed clearly. one in particular stands out, highlighted in a faint blue glow. "he kept this list in his study," maddox explains, distractedly, mind whirring. "i'm not familiar with too many of these aliases, but i'm guessing, other assassins?" and, for now, he resists asking, sirius isn't your real name, is it?

but there is a problem that they face -- hired, reads the note, past tense. the situation escalates, he thinks, beyond merely political corruption; there is more. for a moment, his gaze turns analytical, critical, seriousness settling like heavy clouds before a storm as he regards his partner. he just can't quite figure out what it is.

that was you.

the question, the unknown, that concerns him the most: who is emerson? a corrupt politician, certainly, and by that extension, a civilian -- but no regular civilian knows the names of people like this, not neatly typewritten and stored in hidden bases of drawers, not to be selected and hired as easily as though one were simply arranging a dinner party. against his better judgement, he sighs, brushes the list of the interface, and returns to the documents.

( 'what happened to straightforward missions of just beating people up?' the moose's voice has an edge to it that is suspiciously close to whining. maddox doesn't really have a reply for him, and gives the mental equivalent of a shrug. )

he gathers up the documents in one hand, and at a gesture, moves to inspect the key. there is something familiar about it, he thinks, and in an almost off-handed manner, moosely offers him the answer. that guy on the train, right? the documents are forgotten almost immediately.

"this is, uh," he holds the key up to the light, turning it slowly in his hand, and as he does, a familiar crest is outlined in golden sunlight. "blackwood's, right?" the criminal overlord that they had assassinated -- he had thought the mission wholly unrelated. he looks between his partner and the key, somewhat at a loss with how to proceed with such a piece of information. ( and, just as he likes to say when reviewing manuscripts, the plot thickens. )

that was you.

he lowers the key once more, that knot in his stomach tightening to cold discomfort -- there are strings connecting these ostensibly isolated incidents, but the end destination, the big picture is still missing. he voices his sentiments, immediately, bluntly ( an understatement, in light of what kasimir says next ), "well, that sucks."

"we have been caught in a plot."

"that--" he says, and resists the urge to dive headfirst out of the window and forget that this ever existed ( but it's too late for that -- if he's been hired to do this, they know his name, and right about now he regrets not using an alias ). "--that sucks even more."

the key returned to its original position, still clutching his own handful of documents, maddox moves over to scan the documents silently. they are files on emerson's own allies ( or, so-called allies ). he paces the strip of uncarpeted wood that he knows is safe, and counts off what they know of emerson on his fingers. "he's got mafia ties," said with distaste, "a list of assassins at the ready -- hiring you, for what exactly we still don't know -- and is, as far as i know, a complete asshole who is probably going to betray his allies."

viewed in a particularly optimistic light, one may remark that whatever unfolds is likely to be an exciting story for a crime fiction novella, and that perhaps he should pitch the idea to alric over coffee one day. unfortunately, today, granted recent developments, is not such a day. "we need to--" ( breathe. ) "--get out and rethink this, probably." then, a realisation.

"shit. the schedule he gave marx may have been a lie."

that was you.

"well, he is not unjustified in his paranoia," says his partner, and maddox mumbles out something that has a tone suspiciously resembling a whine, or some petulant child.

"yeah, okay, good point, but still." he peers out of the window, on the haphazard chance of catching a glimpse of emerson or some other member of the household; maddox has a sudden vision of emerson pacing about the room not unlike himself, muttering nefarious plans under his breath, eyes alight with the feverish glint of a man driven mad with paranoia.

seeing nothing of note, he begins mirroring his partner in replacing the objects they had moved, the interface vanishing abruptly as he reorganises documents and slides them back into their respective folders. "leaving sounds fantastic." he speaks of it as though it is an absolute luxury, and there is a decisive quickness to his movements now.

the barrier, however, remains stubbornly in place even as kasimir rearranges everything around it. upon his request, maddox steps forward with a nod, eyes intent on the barrier. a wave of the hand -- the barrier resists for a moment before finally giving ( reaffirms his plans to look more into runic inscriptions eventually ) -- it unravels and vanishes. he lets the spell spread, the mana in the room settling back into its original state prior to their investigation. alas, he's pretty sure he cannot re-enchant the locks, and their circumstance doesn't quite grant him the luxury of double checking their condition, but it's not like he can do anything about that.

"done. anything else?"

that was you.

he waits for an answer, eyes intent, but there is something else that catches kasimir's attention, apparently. when his partner does speak, it is sharp with agitation, and maddox holds his breath without really knowing why. tension stills, freezes; he waits for further clarification. when it does come, neither relief nor relaxation arrive.

"what-- shit-- a letter?" he ends up echoing, confusion and tension alike sharpening his voice to a jagged edge. before he knows it, kasimir is gone, a red-haired phantom who sweeps out of the door. maddox, springing over the carpet so as to not disturb it, follows closely behind. he's not quite as light-footed as his companion, but he tries. sort of.

though, if a letter addressed to them is anything to judge by, emerson already knows that they're here. stealth is hardly a concern right now.

there it lies, an innocuous slip of white on a red doormat. "sirius," he reads, ignores the mention of his own name shortly after ( really, he should invest in coming up with an alias one day ), crisp and sharp like the letters on the surface. a deft movement and he unfolds the letter, holding it up for them both to see. "it has come to my attention..."

that was you.

the punch-line is, well, laughable. perhaps even more so, delivered in that flat tone. and laugh he does, a sudden, helpless bark as he clutches the letter in his hands. "this day just keeps getting better," he manages, collecting himself into some semblance of professionalism ( or as far as he normally goes ). and, suddenly mournful, albeit jestingly, "what happened to good ol' straightforward, 'beat them up' missions?"

still, he cannot simply ignore this predicament, nor can he write it off as some delirious fever dream and wake up peacefully in bed, blissfully free of the knowledge of political sabotage and treachery and mysterious connections to previously-thought-unconnected assassinations. ( he thinks, only partly joking, that this is the sort of thing best handled when at least half-drunk. )

"so we...go back to marx for now?" a ponderous question as he considers what to do next. after all, it isn't as if they can simply run off. there is also the issue of a reward: maddox doesn't see why he has to forsake his reward in order to fulfill emerson's new request, when they can probably just as easily get both. "then we plan an assassination, i guess."

he grinds his teeth, frustrated, gesturing as he speaks. "still leaves too many loose ends." what would the assassination of marx fulfill? the elimination of an enemy, a political seat left open and prime for seizing? but what of the mafia, what of blackwood? blackwood -- does this plot stretch all the way to mirrorlight's criminal underbelly? he fears the worst. "or maybe regroup and figure out this shitstorm before that."