[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/76wjMnfS/Untitled-design.png[/img][/center]
[right]In collaboration with([@PatientBean]) as Quill[/right][hr][hr]
[indent][color=808080]No answer. 

Elena let her knuckles fall while frustration simmered beneath her ribs with the elusion of surprise. The outcome felt inevitable, a script she’d half-anticipated since glimpsing the bakery’s polished facade through the taxi’s window. The place had been scrubbed to hell and back. Not just cleaned but erased. Like someone was trying to pretend nothing had ever happened, that the screams and blood and monsters had been part of some overactive dream. And honestly? Part of her understood the instinct. Survival often wore the guise of amnesia. Yet the practicality of it curdled in her throat. Denial required swallowing too many questions, something that she loathed to do. It just wasn’t like her to not ask questions. 

Pursing her lips, she found herself leaning on the door, eyes drifting out of focus as her thoughts circled back—not to the blood or the screaming, but to the man who’d sat across from her just minutes before it all started. The thing that had attacked him had spoken. That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? It had told him his name and things he’d never revealed to anyone.  It had told him he couldn’t run, because it was waiting. 

And then she’d offered mere platitudes, even went as far as dismissing him as simply not mentally all there. Proof, she’d demanded, as though monsters were paid to respect clinical thresholds.

A dull ache bloomed where Elena’s skull met tempered glass as she leaned into the pressure. Not penance, exactly—she’d made peace with being fallible at the beginning of her investigations. Still, what if his frenzied account hadn’t been psychosis but some type of prophecy? A rehearsal before the main performance, perhaps? The timeline gnawed at her: his subdued exit, the seventeen-minute gap before the bakery’s windows exploded, the thing’s laughter echoing all round her and the ones who’d survived the encounter. Correlation didn’t equal causation, her mind insisted. But her usual dependency on logic felt flimsy against the memory of his face. How raw and [i]specific[/i] his terror had been.

Elena opened her eyes to the smear her breath left on the door. What should she do now? 

In answer, there was the clicking of heels. 

Quill was beyond frustrated. She had done her job to the letter. She found the contact, set up a meeting, and the client didn’t show.

In her experience, this meant one of two things: either the client didn’t care anymore and the case was dropped, or they were dead. Given the nature of things, Quill assumed the latter. Which meant she was not about to get paid for the work she did.

So Quill did what she always did when she needed to vent her frustration: she went axe throwing. Sometimes you just needed to fling a sharp object at a target. And it helped. But as she worked through it, her mind raced back to the bakery. Out of everything connected to the case, all of those pieces fit into place. Except for the events of that night. She only just happened to be there at that time and witnessed the events that left two people dead and many more scarred.

So Quill returned. Something was nagging her. Perhaps she could get answers. From Freya or Freya’s father. 

As she walked up, she saw a woman looking into the window, almost lost in thought. She looked familiar, and it hit her that she was one of the people in the bakery from before. Quill walked up cautiously. [color=ba576c]”Hello? Are you okay?”[/color]

Elena didn’t startle at the voice, though its suddenness prickled the hairs on her neck. She studied the fogged crescent her breath had left on the glass before finally turning, a slow pivot that gave her time to school her features into something resembling composure. The woman standing before her wore an expression that hovered between concern and curiosity. 

“[color=#f9c2bf]Define okay,[/color]” the young woman said, peeling herself fully from the door, posture straightening. Her gaze swept over the woman before landing on eyes that held neither pity nor accusation. Recognition clicked. “[color=#f9c2bf]If you mean physically,[/color]” she continued, “[color=#f9c2bf]then yeah, I guess I’m fine.[/color]” 

“[color=#f9c2bf]I think I remember you, though. You’d brought the first aid kit, right?[/color]” 

Okay, normally people just said yes when asked if they were okay. This woman clearly did not understand the unspoken social rules. Despite this, Quill did feel a twinge of concern. Whatever was going through her mind was a kaleidoscope of unspoken trauma.

[color=ba576c]”I mean, are any of us okay, really?”[/color] She meant it as a joke, but couldn’t help but note how true it was. [color=ba576c]”I mean, I’d like to think I did more than ‘bring a medkit’ but that is a thing I did. I believe we introduced each other, but on the off chance we didn’t, I’m Quill. Wrong place, wrong time sort of deal there, but what can you do in this town? Mind if I ask why you are staring so intently into there?”[/color] She gestured to the bakery, noting how clean it looked. Like nothing happened in there.

Elena quelled the heat rising in her cheeks, willing her posture to remain neutral. Names exchanged? She couldn’t recall that occurring. Everything after the doppelganger appeared felt like it had been recorded underwater—muffled, distorted, and framed by adrenaline and the sharp tang of fear. Additionally, Elena’s own role felt laughably small in retrospect: a frozen witness, [i]unblemished[/i] till the very end. The word soured in her mind. Luck. And what a bitter aftertaste it wore. 

She adjusted her stance, the pavement’s grit shifting beneath her shoes. “[color=#f9c2bf]I, uh… don’t actually remember if names were exchanged. Sorry.[/color]” A pause, brief but heavy. “[color=#f9c2bf]My… friend had to be taken to the hospital, and, well…[/color]” Her voice softened as she added, “[color=#f9c2bf]My name’s Elena.[/color]” She offered it like a truce as though reconstructing a bridge she hadn’t realized she’d burned. 

Elena turned toward the bakery’s window, its pristine surface reflecting a funhouse distortion of the street.  “[color=#f9c2bf]And I guess I was staring because…I think I was just trying to figure out if it still felt like the same place despite all the—[/color]” Elena gestured vaguely to the spick and span of the place. Her arms then folded loosely across her chest, but it wasn’t defensive—more like she was just bracing herself. 

“[color=#f9c2bf]When I first walked in, it was warm. Smelled like matcha and butter. People talking, and laughing, going about their day. You know…normal stuff.[/color]” Her brow creased faintly. “[color=#f9c2bf]And now? It looks like everything was just... reset.[/color]”

Quill could see the bakery looked pristine and wondered why that was such an issue. Did Elena want the bakery to look like two people had died in it? But she could kind of see where she was coming from also. Quill took things in stride but she knew not everyone had as tough of skin as she did.

[color=ba576c]” I can only speak for myself, but what happened was tragic. But life has to move on. It doesn’t mean we forget the past or those who were hurt, and it doesn’t mean we pave over it. It may not feel like the same place anymore, but things change, for better or worse. The first obstacle is putting one foot over the threshold and seeing how you feel. And understanding there’s no [i]wrong[/i] way to feel about things.”[/color]

Quill did not disclose that she was instrumental in helping the bakery overcome the challenges and start anew, as it didn’t feel like the right time. [color=ba576c]” Would it help if I went in with you? If you wanted to, I mean. I have business inside.”[/color]

Elena blinked, the offer landing like a feather on a bruise. Quill’s presence exuded a quiet pragmatism, and it unnerved her more than hostility would have. Or, perhaps it was simply that a part of her felt that it would have been easier to understand. Hostility, rage, even fear, those were languages she could parse. But serenity in the face of an aftermath? That suggested a fluency in horrors Elena wasn’t sure she wanted to comprehend, despite her experience during the events of the Cataclysm. But could she respect it a little? Maybe. 

“[color=#f9c2bf]I wouldn’t mind some company,[/color]” Elena replied, unable to resist when she asked, “[color=#f9c2bf]but what kind of business do you deal in…if you don’t mind me asking?[/color]” 

Quill expected this and debated how to answer. [color=ba576c]” I’m an investigator of sorts. A fixer if you want to be simple about it. I get paid to fix problems. No one knows anything about my job if I am good at it. What happened here a bit ago wasn’t the usual for me, before you ask, but I've seen some shit. Handled the mess myself in there, if I am being honest. It’s why I am back here. I lost my current contact and am hoping the owner may have more work for me.”[/color]

Quill sidled up the door. [color=ba576c]” What about you?”[/color]

Elena’s brow lifted slightly, a subtle flicker of something between admiration and guarded wariness. It was a very Cloverfield job title, that was for sure. Vague enough to sound official, but specific enough to make people think twice before asking too many questions.

“[color=#f9c2bf]Ahh, you did that, huh?[/color]” Her tone carried no skepticism, only the keen edge of a researcher spotting a promising lead. Guilt’s fog had thinned, replaced by the crisp clarity of curiosity. “[color=#f9c2bf]That’s… impressive.[/color]” The compliment escaped unvarnished, surprising her with its sincerity. 

Quill’s role was impressive, yes, but also a bit unnerving.

Elena wasn’t squeamish, but her instinct had always been to watch the fire, not walk into it. She documented, she connected dots, she brewed things that nudged memories loose or softened the edge of a particularly bad one, but she wasn’t the one who lunged into messes with a first aid kit and a cool head. 

She was not like Quill. 

….But it would be cool if she could be, somewhat. 

Her own investigations had mostly consisted of small interviews, exploring neighbourhood legends, and looking over old photos she’d scoured for inconsistencies. Once or twice, she’d slipped into a condemned building to follow up on rumours, always careful, always quiet. Her magic, like her presence, was designed to observe, not confront. It was easier to pull meaning from patterns than to break them.

People like Quill stood at the center of things.
Elena, in comparison, hovered at the edges, scribbling in the margins.

At Quill’s return question, a wry smile tugged at Elena’s lips. “[color=#f9c2bf]Depends on the day,[/color]” she said, shrugging with a nonchalance she didn’t fully feel. “[color=#f9c2bf]Most of the time, I help my mom run a little tea shop on the South Bank. We mix herbs, sell remedies, and help people sleep or breathe a little easier there.[/color]” The admission felt simultaneously mundane and revealing, like disclosing she moonlighted as a mere librarian or something. Steam and cinnamon, not magic work. Yet the shop’s backroom told another story—jars labelled in her mother’s looping script, client intake forms tucked beneath the counter, the occasional visitor who stayed way too long with the excuse of “dreams they couldn’t forget.” 

Quill's eyes lit with a subtle dreaminess. Would that she could run a small business and pretend the world outside was not on fire. Connect with the community, build upon relationships, and provide people with a simple service of comfort.

But that was not her life. She knew she couldn’t do it. Life threw her into a blender and expected her to swim against the blades. So here she was, cleaning up after people’s messes and ensuring everyone else never knew what was going on.

[color=ba576c]” That sounds rather cozy. I’m a little jealous. I may have to stop in one day. God knows I could use a moment to calm down and breathe.”[/color] Quill scanned the street, wondering if it was weird of them to be standing outside for so long, gazing inward. [color=ba576c]” I imagine what happened isn’t typical for you either? I know there’s more that goes bump in the night, I was more hoping that there were people who never had to hear it.”[/color]

“[color=#f9c2bf]If you ever do stop by, the tea’s on me.[/color]” Her voice was soft, but sincere. “[color=#f9c2bf]Fair warning, though, it might make you remember something you weren’t planning to.[/color]” She held Quill’s gaze, letting the warning settle. It wasn’t a threat. Just honesty. The shop’s blends had a way of unravelling carefully knotted memories, coaxing truths to the surface like roots from wet soil. Some clients never returned after the first sip. 

At Quill’s next words, however, Elena’s smile faltered. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at the window again. The reflection caught both their silhouettes now—one angled and elegant, the other slighter, with her hands buried in her jacket pockets like she was holding something in.

“[color=#f9c2bf]Yeah,[/color]” Elena murmured, the word barely more than an exhale. “[color=#f9c2bf]Not typical.[/color]” She gnawed her lower lip, tasting chapstick. The admission that followed felt like peeling a scab. “[color=#f9c2bf]I used to think there were people who’d never have to know about that stuff, too. People who could stay… blissfully separate from it all.[/color]” Her brow furrowed faintly. “[color=#f9c2bf]Then the Cataclysm hit, and I realized that distance doesn’t mean immunity. It just means you haven’t been touched yet.[/color]”

She shifted her weight slightly. “[color=#f9c2bf]That’s... part of why I’m still out here, I think. Trying to make sense of it all.[/color]” Then, more lightly, “[color=#f9c2bf] So thank you for your offer. Assuming it still stands.[/color]” 

[color=ba576c]”Of course. We can take it slow.”[/color] Elena’s words hit the ramparts in her mind. The Cataclysm shifted everything. Quill had to admit it was good for business. People would rather pay others to handle problems than face them on their own. Still, it was darkness and taking too much of that led to danger.

Quill walked over to the door, waiting on Elena to make the decision for herself to step in or not. [color=ba576c]”Sometimes you need to rip the bandaid off, but sometimes you need to take it slow. Neither is better than the other. It’s just what you need at the moment.”[/color]

Elena’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag, a nervous tell she didn’t bother to hide.“[color=#f9c2bf]Slow sounds good, then,[/color]” she said after a moment. “[color=#f9c2bf]Although… the owner didn’t answer when I knocked, so we might need to find another way in. Like some kind of contact she left you, maybe?[/color]”

Quill had Freya’s phone number. She supposed she could call her. [color=ba576c]”I could, but I know there is a back way in. That’s how I got in last time. Either way works, it’s not like we have ill intent, yeah?”[/color]

“[color=#f9c2bf]Yeah… no ill intent,[/color]” she agreed. “[color=#f9c2bf]I mean, worst case scenario, we get accused of being nosy, which would be fair, just not inaccurate.[/color]” Her gaze flicked toward the alley where a back entrance might be tucked away, before returning to Quill. “[color=#f9c2bf]Lead the way, then. If it’s still open.[/color]”

Quill led the way towards the back door she had entered the last time she was there. She did a quick scan because she did [i]not[/i] need the cops to show up and ask questions. Once she was sure it was safe she checked the door. 

It was locked.

[color=ba576c]”Yeah that would have been too easy. Ok, don’t judge.”[/color] Quill took out her set of lockpicks and got to work. She didn’t use them often as she preferred using words to get into places she was normally not allowed, but sometimes it paid to be able to crack a lock open.

After a few minutes she heard the sweet click and opened the door. [color=ba576c]”Voila!”[/color]

Elena raised an eyebrow at the lockpicks, but to her credit, said nothing. Well….almost nothing. She couldn’t exactly help herself.  Something about the glint of metal between Quill’s fingers struck a chord. Tools like that weren’t exactly rare where Elena had grown up. After all, when on the southside, you either learned to jimmy a window open because your landlord was three weeks late fixing the front door, or you knew someone who could. But there was a difference between survival tricks and the kind of precision Quill seemed to work with, and Elena wasn’t sure if that made her more curious or more cautious.

“[color=#f9c2bf]Remind me never to get on your bad side,[/color]” she murmured, her voice teetering between dry amusement and genuine respect. She leaned slightly to peer past Quill as the door creaked open with a sigh. Elena took notice of the sunlight fracturing against freshly mopped floors. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and something beneath it—damp plaster, maybe. “[color=#f9c2bf] Uhh….non-amateur ladies first?[/color]” The grin that tugged at her mouth then was half self-deprecating, half invitation.

Quill could tell Elena wasn’t greatly comforted by her skillset, and she could hardly blame her. [color=ba576c]”Hey, a girl’s got to have accessories. Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.”[/color]

Quill took the invitation to go first and stepped over the threshold. The smell took over what should have been met with bread and pastries. Instead, it smelled polished, clean, like something needed to be covered up.

Well…duh.

[color=ba576c]” Suppose we should go to the front and make ourselves known in case someone is in here. Would really put a damper on our adventure to be shot accidentally because someone assumed we are thieves.”[/color]

Elena followed a half-step behind, her fingers brushing the door frame as she passed through, like she was half-checking for splinters or half-making sure it was still real. “[color=#f9c2bf]Yeah, I’ve had enough weird headlines in my life lately,[/color]” she muttered, the dryness in her voice a flimsy shield against the memory of tabloid photos from the Cataclysm’s aftermath: blurred figures fleeing collapsing buildings, her own face half-hidden in the corner of one shot, eyes wide and unrecognizable to herself. “[color=#f9c2bf]‘Curious Herbalist Gunned Down While Trespassing in Pastry Shop’ isn’t really the vibe I’m going for.[/color]”

She let her eyes adjust to the light, gaze moving across the blank countertops and neatly aligned chairs. A scene set, but no actors. Yet, one thing came back to her now that she was here again: The warped grin the thing wore when it peeled back its stolen face. Elena shuddered. Now, there was no sign of the thing, of course. The smell of lemon cleaner clawed at her sinuses, though. Elena’s eyes flicked to a spot near the far window, where she remembered crouching beside the child, Luciana, whispering useless comforts while chaos erupted around them. 

The moment had felt like being on the edge of a story she didn’t understand. And maybe, in ways she had yet to know, that was still true.

[/color][/indent]