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Post by BEATE-MAREN McCANN on May 16, 2011 1:36:48 GMT 1
1st November, 2008
Tag(s): Warren Sorrow It had been as she was working alone on a translation of a newly discovered portion of the illustrious Book of the Dead (or Book of Coming Forth by Day, more accurately), that some anonymous Agent had tapped her on the shoulder, handed her a piece of official BPRD notepaper, and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Bea McCann unfolded it unthinkingly, scanning the words without a great deal of interest – internal memos were usually diatribes regarding procedure or injunctions to work faster – but this one contained a single word that marked it out from the ordinary, one that her attention and her eyes became riveted on. Partner. The woman blinked down at the nondescript piece of paper, as though to be sure her eyes were not playing tricks on her. Being partnered usually meant one thing – a field mission was in the offing. Bea had never been ‘officially’ paired up with another Agent before; she’d always been a sort of tag-along wherever her skills were needed, and when there was no need of her in the field either her linguistic research skills were being put to work, or (even rarer) she was utilised in interrogation. The interrogation was rare indeed, mostly because capturing the things that went bump in the night proved to be difficult at the best of times – that and there profusion of those within the agency who adhered to the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ mentality. But this meant a project was in the works that needed her to be out and about, on the scene as it were, and it was relish at the mere thought that brought a grin to her face. It wasn’t that she was particularly cooped up, either – it was more that her own natural brand of fidgety restlessness was better pacified by action. After all, who had ever considered translation glamorous? It wasn’t, don’t be fooled on that score – squinting at ancient, half-destroyed texts got very trying, very quickly. The note was still in her hand, slightly crumpled but no less legible, the handwriting being Desmond’s clear script, informing her that there was a ‘Warren Sorrow’ on the way to meet her, and they needed to go to Room 17A. Warren Sorrow . . . that name dredged up memories from somewhere: in fact she was almost-positive she’d met him before, maybe even a few times. Hadn’t he been that tall bloke, the one who insisted on calling her ‘petite’? And he was arriving . . . had arrived half an hour ago. “Oh, damn and blast!” Bea exclaimed petulantly with a stamp of her foot – even though there was no other soul present to witness this fit of childish temper - turning on her heel to make a quick exit in search of the poor bloke who’d no doubt been wasting his time waiting for her to show her face. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried - the elusive man had pulled a disappearing act – and seemingly he was no longer in the HQ building, from what she’d been able to gather by asking others and scouring the place. Eventually, the Northern Irish woman had given up her fruitless search as a lost cause. But not before she had made her way up to the reception. The man behind the desk had blanched at Warren’s name, glancing quickly from side to side as though reassuring himself that the witch doctor wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby, before affirming that he had indeed arrived that morning. That was odd – the receptionist was the single most unflappable person she’d ever encountered. "Typical . . ." Bea muttered to herself, before catching the older man’s jittery attentions with a winning smile and a polite request for him to redirect her missing partner to Room 17A if he should pass this way. The answer she received was a vigorous nodding, and that at least pleased her – something passed off smoothly today. And so she took herself back down into the bowels of the secret organisation’s headquarters, to install herself in Room 17A and wait for gods knew how long. The meeting room itself was small, tucked into a forgotten corner of the building, containing only a metal table and a few mismatched chairs. It was a stroke of luck that the lights were working, though they had flickered when first switched on, as though dangerously leaning towards blowing out altogether and plunging the room into darkness. Miss McCann had settled herself into one of the chairs, legs crossed and fingers tapping along to some half-heard melody or another as she waited. The mission briefing file sat in lonely splendour upon the scratched surface of the table, a thick sheaf of papers inside. She idly skimmed through the precise writing, and so the time passed by quickly enough so that she would not be able to hazard a guess at how long she had been waiting – was it two minutes, was it ten, was it twenty? – before the woman was jolted back into an awareness of her surroundings by a sudden change in the rhythm that had been dancing through her head. The music had transformed from soft, flowing gentle notes to an altogether more chipper tune. This meant that someone else was humming, and she’d picked up on it. And hello! here was a knock upon the door. Dropping the notes back onto the table and fluidly rising to her feet, she took the pitifully few steps to the door and swung it open, revealing a Warren Sorrow who hadn’t changed a bit, at least not in looks. “Hi.” she greeted cheerfully, holding the door open to let him enter. “Sorry, they seem to have decided to stick us in a coffin.” Bea added with a hint of apology, a ‘coffin’ being the best way to describe this little box of a room. Thread Inspiration Song: Alphabeat - Fascination |
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Post by WARREN SORROW on May 16, 2011 1:42:31 GMT 1
There he stood, the elusive man in question. He'd been out and about with Ludmila, but not before literally frightening the pants off of the man at the reception desk. Such good fun. He was leaning against the door frame, his left hand resting in his pocket as he played with his needle subconsciously. He had been humming his tune, and the shadows had been stretching from the now dark corridor to meet his. The song hadn't even gotten to the good part before the door opened and a beautiful blonde woman appeared to meet him. "Mon Petit Bea..." he said her name with a devilish smile as the shadows immediately let go, returining to their former positions and lights flickered back into life. "It's good to see you again Mon amour." he added as he took her right hand gently, raised it up and kissed the top of her hand. He didn't let go as he entered the seemingly tiny room. "Huh... you're right. It IS a coffin. How rude. Here I thought we were a little more respected around here. Just cause we're not the Giant Red Ape means we get the broom closets. But oh well, there is business to see and people to be done. Let's get down to it. What does Manning want us to do now?" He sat down at the small desk and leaned back, getting comfortable.
He sat there for moment, waiting for an answer before lighting tapping his forehead. "How rude of me! I've never asked how you've been!" he leaned forward, resting his chin on his palms. "So... beautiful Bea, darling Bea, wonderful Bea! How you been doin'?' he asked sweetly, and smiling even sweeter.
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Post by BEATE-MAREN McCANN on May 16, 2011 1:44:58 GMT 1
He kissed her hand, as was his wont with practically every female in the agency (at least, the ones who let him away with such an archaic gesture), and her expression was a picture of resigned indulgence as she looked down upon his bent head. He didn’t release her, forcing the young woman to twist around to push the door shut; she managed it easily enough, but it was a rather convoluted movement. Of course, once he walked her a few steps into the room her fingers managed to slip from his grasp, whether by design or accident was not truly something to worry about, and he installed himself quite contentedly at the table. She sat down across from him as he agreed with her assessment of the ‘coffin’; but his remarks about Hellboy Bea couldn’t force herself to concur with. She found the demon to be, on the whole, pleasant enough. But there was no need to cause undue friction by saying so, and so the Siren simply passed no remark on the matter.
“Well, I’m certainly respected around here, so they must be punishing you.” She answered jauntily enough, a glint of humour apparent in her eyes.
“We’re going to Egypt to collect the Book of Thoth.” Bea stated succinctly, simply handing him the file as opposed to explaining it herself. The precise phrasing of the briefing would do a much more concise and quicker job than she ever could. Warren meanwhile changed tack abruptly, bemoaning his own lack of manners. Bea grinned at his antics, and her shoulders came up slightly into a non-committal shrug in answer to his effusive probing into her well-being. She didn’t know quite how to condense the daily grind of being a BPRD translator into an apt phrase, witty or otherwise, and so she merely opted to leave the challenge alone.
He read the notes without passing too many remarks, which struck her as unusual because the memory of him being a chatterbox was lodged firmly in her head. But there were more pressing issues with his current behaviour . . . or appearance, rather, that she wished to address. “Warren . . .” Bea began, having swept a quizzical glance over him, “Why’re you so wet?” she enquired, reaching over to pluck the wide-brimmed hat from atop his head, holding it over the centre of the table and giving it a gentle shake. This caused the clinging water droplets to fall onto the metal surface, sparkling like molten diamonds once they pooled upon the flat grey surface, serving to emphasise her point.
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Post by WARREN SORROW on May 16, 2011 1:58:27 GMT 1
“Well, I’m certainly respected around here, so they must be punishing you.”
Warren blinked a few times. "Oh thanks, really feelin' the love here." He said flatly, glancing up at her. Then he continued, "I just get back after bein' left outside of town, with it raining no less, I finally get here for my appointment, and then I get insulted. How rude." He said slightly sarcastically, clearly joking. He crossed his arms and tilted his chair back. "Book of Thoth... As in THE book of Thoth? As in Egypt, as in book of the dead??" He asked curiously, resting his feet on the table.
"I've heard that legend that goes with it. It's covered by a ghost that'd sooner have ya kill yer own kids then let ya have it." He said as a matter of factly. That'd explain why he was needed, he did deal with ghosts and spirits alot. "Ok, I'll do it. So, how're we gonna get there..." he thought to himself. There WAS alot of budget cuts thanks to the new defences that'd been slowly but surely installed over the past few months.
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Post by BEATE-MAREN McCANN on May 16, 2011 2:00:03 GMT 1
Warren was complaining in a distinctly lacklustre fashion about the treatment he had received so far today: apparently the lack of ‘love’ shown by the Siren had only compounded it. “You’re quite welcome.” She returned brightly, a buoyant lack of sympathy apparent in her tone as she mirrored his blank-faced joking. Like for like, sarcasm for sarcasm. “And ‘finally’ is most definitely the word.” Was the comment she added with a grin - he was fortunate indeed that she wasn't one of those sticklers for punctuality, otherwise the witch doctor would have no doubt received a tongue-lashing.
“Yeah. The Book of Thoth.” She echoed with a nod of assent, idly abandoning the hat upon the table as his comments about the myth and the Book’s link to murder distracted her attentions away from the article of clothing and her half-answered question about the dampness of his person.
“We’re flying I’d assume . . .” Bea replied, stating the fact that tended to be true with regard to missions. However, in the interests of clarity she took back the file; flicking through the pages, scanning each one for anything relating to transport, the woman could find no mentions of their travel plans in amongst the minutiae concerning the Book of Thoth itself. “That’s odd . . . it doesn’t say.” She commented quizzically after a minute or two, brow slightly furrowing as she stared down at pages that did not contain the answers she sought. It wasn't like their superiors to leave out something so vital.
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Post by WARREN SORROW on May 16, 2011 2:08:28 GMT 1
Warren sat there for a moment, tapping his index finger against the bridge of his nose and glanced back and forth. Then he stopped, his finger resting on his nose. "Hey, you got a mobile that I could use? I never trust the things, but I can set us up on a plane." he said as he looked over at the woman, reaching his hand out palm up.
Then he paused, "You don't mind going coach...right?" he asked with a smirk. He obviously knew more then he was letting on.
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Post by THE STAFF on Jun 20, 2011 0:22:55 GMT 1
 Closed out of respect of Sue's absence.
Closed on: 2011 June 20 by The Staff |
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