evillurks | Evening Visit

He sounds like a dying man, but from the way he does not let it stop him in his movements, he may sound worse than he actually feels. The sound is precisely what will keep him off the streets for a proper recovery time, at least. It may be a blessing in disguise.

The Shadow hesitates, papers in each hand. "Burbanks." He frowns in thought. On the one hand, it might be awkward to introduce her as a young Myra from another world and give the lengthy explanation he's already gone over with Harry. on the other hand, Harry and Burbank are the only agents left around who would know she's supposed to be a dead woman. "He-They're already set up for PINpoint communication, but..." The wheezing sigh has a gravelly sound to it, half a growl of frustration. "I suppose I'll have to make an explanation. If you'd prefer to go by another name, I'd understand, but Vincent already knows, and no one else is likely to think there's anything out of the ordinary about you."

"Right, you mentioned there were two of them..." Myra watches his hands move about the papers in a graceful fashion. "I'll pick a pseudonym, it'll save complications If you don't mind, I might even take a page from your book, and just construct a whole new person. I have a blank slate to work from, I might as well use it. 'Myra' will just be another call sign here, instead of an identity."

Cranston, Allard, Rettigue...a whole host of others. The Shadow had no identifying name beyond just that moniker he was known by, and it had served him very well from what she could see. It would behoove her to follow his example, especially someplace where she was a dead woman.

He has made use of both entirely fictional persons, such as Clarendon and Rettigue, as well as playing the role of men who truly exist such as Cranston. The first course is certainly an easier one, at least in the short run. The world has become a more complex one, and identities are not so easily forged, but as always he adapts. "That's fine, but let me know what it is. We might need to get you some identification." There is a hint of relief in his tone. Harry Vincent is better informed than Burbank is, in regards to the Nexus, and he's content to keep it that way.

"I'll still need to let them know there's a 'new recruit'." Again there is a trace of amusement, and he hands her a slim folder. Within are news clippings, typed sheets, and a few handwritten notes all regarding a drug ring. Some of the information is less obviously pertinent, but The Shadow has drawn out those obscure clues and made notes for his own sake. "We'd better familiarize you some with modern weaponry, too. Even the police carry .45's these days."

"Different tools for a different time..." Myra accepts the folder and starts to look through it. "I'll need a gun permit, ID...what about a Helen?" She keeps her eyes on the page. "Helen ...Menz. I imagine the Burbanks might be a bit surprised at any familiarity I have with the system. So even the cops carry those big ol' smoke wago..." She catchers herself using her own period slang and corrects herself. "Those guns? I took down a kid in the alternate world with his switchblades, are those still common too?"

The anachronism amuses him, but he's not above slipping into old slang every now and again. "Some things remain classics. There've been a few minor improvements, but the police are using what I've used for decades precisely because they're good." He reaches for the tea and takes a long swallow, still recovering from the coughing. "There are bigger and more dangerous guns, but they're also harder to carry and aim. A blade, on the other hand, will always be an easily concealed and handy weapon. They're around."

As she reads, he rolls the name around in his mind. "Menz. You'll need a birthdate." After a moment of rummaging in his pockets he finds a very ordinary, battered leather wallet, and tosses it to the table before her. The ID just inside is for one James Rettigue, aged seventy-four. If she adds two decades she'll have the more correct number, but his intention is simply to let her have a look at the information he'll need to put on it. He is not about to directly ask her weight or her age.

Myra opens the wallet and looks at the ID, running her hand over the flexible plastic with an almost curious look. She flips it over, and then looks back at the front, noting the birth date and the information she'll need to supply. The only time she ever makes a fuss over her age or weight, is to make the people asking embarrassed. Enough years of supplying said personal statistics and she considers the information little more embarrassing than revealing her eye color.

"We'll say 1958 for the year, I don't much care about the month or the day. As for guns..." Myra reaches to the holster at the small of her back and pulls out a small, gunmetal black Walther PPK .380. In one smooth motion, she removes the clip and clears the chamber before setting it on the table next to the teakettle. It's a smaller caliber, but it's certainly still in circulation, and reliable. "I'll need a permit for a concealed carry. I don't have a badge any more, and here I'm a nobody. The last thing I need is to be arrested for something like that."

He notes the examination, and sighs inwardly. He's aware she'll need some more practical experience in his world to keep from looking over things like modern stoplights and microwaves as if they were fascinating new creations. On the other hand he can see that one thorough look is all she needs for anything before accepting it as familiar, which means she'll adapt quickly enough to suit his needs.

The gun is picked up and glanced over briefly, but it is only a cursory inspection. "You may want to come up with a rough backstory, for practical purposes. It shouldn't come up right away, though." He writes the new name and year of birth on a scrap of paper, not entirely trusting his memory in the midst of so many trains of thought. "Are you up for... stealth work?" He's not entirely certain how to put that, but it is the aspect of what he does he's having the hardest time compensating for. Not that he intends for her to borrow his cloak, of course.

Myra would make for a rather short Shadow anyways, but she wouldn't be the first woman to abscond with his cloak and hat...

The gun is very well cared for, clean, and lubricated. It has a few scrapes here and there from occasionally rough handling, but it's otherwise in pristine shape. Compared to his automatics, if feels like a feather in his hands, but with the right aim, it more than makes up for the lesser firepower. Besides, it's elegantly easy for her to conceal on her person.

"Certainly." The answer to his inquiry is quick. She makes a mental note to purchase some softer soled shoes, as her usually quiet, Chinese slippers would be horribly out of place in any setting that would need 'Helen'. Already, she's setting together a rough back story for the new identity in the back of her mind, while she's committing his file on the drug ring to memory.

That's the sort of mental image The Shadow refuses to entertain, even if it did make a pulp cover once before.

He might suggest a larger caliber, later, but he knows all too well how attached one can get to what's been proven a reliable weapon in battle after battle. There was another man from a more modern year in the Nexus with whom he had just such a conversation, and was surprised to find him using very nearly the same model .45's he's relied on for fifty years. it was a reassuring revelation.

"My network has served me well, but there's always information I find too risky to send them after." He frowns, and his displeasure at having to send even someone as well trusted as her is clear. "I don't want to put you into excessive danger, but the kids I have working undercover can't seem to get at the higher eschelons. I've worked out their base of operations, but I hesitate to send anyone else to scope the place out."

Myra would just look frumpy anyways.

For the first time in their conversation, Myra pauses, looks up at The Shadow, and blinks with a mildly surprised look on her face. It's not the gravity of it, but the level of work that he's asking her to perform that has given her pause. Something he would normally set his agents to the side for, and do himself, he is asking her to perform.

"If you have a layout of any sort of their base, it'll help me get around more efficiently." The surprise on her face is gone now, replaced by a grave determination. This is the true Agent Reldon...or Agent Menz as she will soon be called. The light-heartedness is gone, packed away to leave only the training and efficiency of a Bureau agent. "I can keep an eye out for anything new. Who and what are your targets?"

That he is displeased at having to send out anyone to do this work is abundantly clear. His scowl only increases by the moment. He has been sorting through the papers all this time, drawing out other necessary scraps of information and gathering them in his left hand, but he pauses as she completes her questions. "I think they're about to move their base, which they do frequently to dodge detection. If I can just find where they're planning to move it to in advance, I can tip off the police and let them handle the mess." Under better circumstances, of course, he would be the one to rout them himself with a proper cordon of agents. That option has been dismissed. He is willing to let the police handle the shoot-out that's likely to ensue, but not willing to throw his agents into that fight if he can't be there to personally back them up. "Some will escape, and lie low for a while, and start up again later, but I should be on my feet again by then."

The Shadow scowls at the papers in hand so fiercely it is almost a surprise they do not burst into flame. From where she sits, Myra can see pasted together descriptions of several men, with photographs paperclipped to the edges. He has yet to hand them over, however. "I found them once. I can find them again. I shouldn't send you to do my dirty work. It... will just have to wait..." He begins a sigh that sends him coughing, and nearly drops the papers.

It isn't the injuries that's the worst pain of this situation, for him.

Myra can do little else besides watch with a grave look upon her face, and catches herself feeling something almost kin to pity at the sight of The Shadow. He deserved every ounce of this victory, and here he was being forced to hand it over. It would feel like a failure, and to Myra's knowledge, The Shadow never failed.

As his coughs start to subside, she pours a little more tea into his cup, but not enough to chance spilling if he decides to drink and another fit seizes him.

She sets the teakettle down, and her hand lays on her gun, picking it up along with her magazine, and holding them in her hands. Once he finishes coughing, she speaks.

"Whatever needs to get done, Chief, you just say the word." Quietly, without any sort of ceremony she puts the slide back into the gun and holsters it. There is no hidden meaning behind the action, she's simply busying her hands for a moment. "If it suits you, once they're on the run we can try to keep on their tails until you're set."

With an ending sound that is nearly a snarl, he thrusts the pages at her. The coughing has left him slightly paler from pain, and he's quick to reach for his refilled cup. The Shadow settles back in his seat wearily, with all the air of a man defeated.

"No..." He takes a swallow of tea, wheezing as he recovers. "No. This is more important than my ego." His tone shows a hint of bitterness, but it's quick to fade. In the grander scheme of things, he is overcoming his pride for the sake of the work, which he recognizes as bigger than himself. There is no failure here, even if he may see it as such.

"It's just spy work, but it's... very risky spywork. I need you to listen, and use a recording device." She may be quite impressed when she sees how tiny recording devices have become. "Just collect as much information as you can, hopefully some of it about the move. I'll get it into the hands of the police. But... it's not an easy place to get into, and things could go sour." In the pages he's given her are profiles of several men, two of whom seem to have pre-existing police records, and photos of a warehouse district from above, as if taken by plane. There is a sheet of thin plastic overlaying the photos, with various notes drawn on them, mapping out the probable interior layout. Evidently he's not quite sure which of three buildings it is, and has had to make educated guesses at the insides. Being unable to visit firsthand has robbed him of the thoroughness of research he'd like.

The Shadow watches her from over his tea, still catching his breath. His expression is almost sullen, and the dim interior lighting throws stark shadows across his features. He is a brooding, unhappy figure.

She nods as she takes the pages, and puts the names with the faces, and takes in the notes on each individual. Once she finishes, she moves on to the map, nodding as The Shadow speaks. Spy work is what she lives for after all, and while this mission has hazards she knows she's never dealt with before, it's still a facet of her forte. She won't be so easily concealed behind a mask, she'll need to summon every skill at stealth at her command, but she's had to sneak through small, cramped, lit underground passages many times without being detected, she hopes she's up for the challenge of a warehouse.

"Does there seem to be any specific head of power here? Or are they all about on the same tier?" Status might have a bearing on the amount of people around them, and also the types of conversation she can try to capture.

Myra notes the dark features and feels a small pit open in her stomach. She's never seen him in such a mood, and it's rather unnerving, though she doesn't betray the feeling as she watches him.

The Shadow has a significant temper, although his agents are rarely exposed to it. Frequent meditation and the mellowing effects of time have dampened it greatly, to the point where it is usually no more than a flash of the eyes.
His damaged lung has deprived him of his daily meditations for more than a week now, and that which keeps him from the tempering practice is an additional source of frustration in itself. The situation has him enraged, in fact, but a long moment of brooding quiet over his tea seems to help him regain some of his usual composure.

"No, not that can be easily gotten at. The head of power is overseas, and that's a game for a later date." His tone is level now, with an effort. "They're all more or less the same authority, the ones you've got dossiers on there. There's a lot of levels, like a pyramid scheme, but illegal on every tier instead of just the top." She may not know what a pyramid scheme is, of course, or at least not by that term.

"Do you want to speak to the kids working the lower level, to give you a better idea of what you're up against? We have a day or two of leeway."

The imagery of a pyramid gets her close enough to the concept behind the term.

"It would be helpful, yes." It would help her connect more with the generation also. She has no idea what kind of logic this age has brought with it, and it would help her figure out how someone might react to discovering her, dictating her own action in the situation. "It would help establish the Menz identity as well, but I would like to hear from them what the organization is like."

A day or two. She's getting a clearer picture of how quickly she needs to learn about this world and adjust. Her exploration on the new streets of New York will need to be faster and more efficient than some wandering shopping trip. Talking to the kids will help her significantly with the culture as well.

Their thoughts are moving very much along the same lines, and he finds himself making a mental list of the myriad things she needs to learn. Automatic transmission. Microwave ovens. ATMs... These pieces of technology have evolved gradually over the years, for him. He can't even remember the specific dates when some of them became a part of daily life. It's a struggle to work out what she is and isn't familiar with, even for him.

As if reading her thoughts, and with The Shadow one can never be quite sure that isn't the case, he gives a wheezing sigh and shakes his head. "I know it's too much too fast." He sips his tea and makes a further effort to bury the irritation that has been building for days. "I need to get out of the apartment. I don't think I realized until tonight how much it's driving me mad. I don't care if I have to pretend to be a feeble old man, I need an outing. If you're free tomorrow, I can give you some kind of whirlwind tour and lesson, and I'll arrange a meeting for you. Ms. Menz." He manages the faintest of smirks at that. Simply thinking of getting outside relieves some of the pressure of his frustration.

It would be a good opportunity to free him from the walls of the apartment, hopefully without any incident. A walk shouldn't hurt him, she hopes.

"A walk and some air should be good for both of us." She shifts, the thought making her realize the apartment feels just a touch stuffy at the moment, most likely from drinking the hot tea. She hasn't seen daylight herself for a couple weeks again, as she's mostly been moving at night to help avoid any trackers while she's been moving out of her apartment. "It'll give me time to do some research and a quick trip to the Nexus so I don't look too out of place."

It may be a slower walk than he'd like, and more riding in cabs or possibly driving himself, but it will put them both free of four walls.

The clausterphobia of the place she's sensing just may in some way be coming from him. It's a very spacious place, but the huge picture window that overlooks the city is of the sort that doesn't open, and the blinds are drawn for the night. No space is big enough to contain him comfortably for long, when he's used to moving freely about the city and from one apartment to another. The Shadow is feeling very thoroughly caged, and with restless mental powers, what The Shadow feels tends to rub off on those around him.

"Oh yes." He looks her over appraisingly. "Jeans would be fine, or slacks... or a dress, but it'd have to be a modern one. And you don't want to see how short the skirts go these days." In so many ways he has moved with the times, but that comment marks him as a very old-fashioned man indeed. "What time, tomorrow?" Should she look closely, although he tends to discourage that, he has not slept for a while. At least half a night's sleep might be in order for them both, first.

"How does 9AM sound?" Most shops open around then back home, she imagines they either open earlier or never close. Myra would probably love the novelty of a 24hr Corner Convenience store. She does the math and it's not too late, it allows at least a good night's sleep and then some if one went to bed promptly. Making a quick hop to the Nexus would hopefully only eat up a few precious hours of sleep, but she'd learned the stores there hardly ever closed, and the library was always open.

The Shadow has not gone to be promptly since he was ten years old, but his injury has been forcing him to catch sleep at fairly regular intervals. There is nothing like mild oxygen deprivation for wearing one out. He nods, and reaches for the PINpoint as it softly beeps. His earlier fit of anger has passed, or at least been forcibly stifled, and he seems himself again. "I'll be ready, and you can come here. If anyone asks, I'll say you're a niece or something..." His tone is mildly distracted as he reads the text across the PINpoint's screen, but once he has read it he merely puts the device aside again. Burbank's informational reports come in fits and spurts, feeding him in pieces what would ordinarily be saved for a batch report over the phone.

Myra nods and as he picks up the PINpoint, she fetches her emptied cup, leaving the remainder of the teapot for The Shadow to finish. She washes the cup and then puts it back in its cupboard before picking up her teacake and watching him from just inside the kitchen area.

"I'll only be keeping us up later, and I have some errands to run." She gives a small smile as she returns to the coffee table and picks up her own PINpoint. "I'll message you in the morning, right before I come over."

((I'm sorry, I quite literally fell offline and it wouldn't let me back on, last night.))

He notes her bustling about in preparation to leave with mixed feelings. It's been so good to just visit, to speak to someone outside his own mind and sort out a detail that's been preying on his mind. On the other hand, it's been a while since he slept, at least by his body's current demands. His work is not quite wrapped up for the evening yet, either.

"You know my hours." He waves a hand, and smiles very faintly. "But good night, and I'll see you in the morning, Miss Menz."

((No worries, I had not anticipated being away from the computer tonight.))

"I'll be seeing you in the morning, Chief." With a gentle smile, she activated the PINpoint and returned home long enough to drop of her teacake.

Evening Visit

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