The Shadow

The Shadow's gifts are sent out in the very early morning hours of Christmas day, by PINpoint. It is his last task after a long night of stalking the streets with Myra, averting a house robbery or two. He may have kept an agent working past midnight Christmas Eve, but this year no one can call him Scrooge (although they may blame Myra's player for the subject heading).

Courtney and her uncle Aloysius receive a nice tea chest with a selection of teas, and a book on the art of fighting with the Katana. It's never too early to learn a new weapon skill.

Victor receives a sumi-e painting set, with a proper ink block and brushes and a book on the art itself, and a bag of very good coffee beans.

Sarah Branigan receives a basket of baking supplies, a small assortment of teas, a bag of very good coffee, and a small jade sculpture of a rabbit. He has no idea what animals she likes, but he's more appreciative of her putting up with him on the medical front than he's willing to say aloud.

Metody receives a tiny knitted black stocking, appropriately sized for use as an ornament, and a very real human skull. Sometimes it's best not to ask, but The Shadow does have a collection of extremely odd trophies from his cases. Whoever the skull belonged to was dead some decades before The Shadow encountered his skull, at least.

Burbank and his assistant receive a huge fruit basket (so much of what they have to eat is whatever keeps well), and a stack of movies on videotape.

Ichi receives several bottles of sake and a warm, soft sweater, which he will find unexpectedly on the kitchen counter. Whether he's even aware there's a holiday seems debatable, so it may just be a pleasant surprise.

Harry, who knows his chief just well enough to anticipate the strange fit of generosity and beat him to the punch with a small gift earlier in the week, receives a mug full of subway tokens and money marked 'cab fare' to augment his more recently regained mobility, a few oranges, and a sweater.

Myra, who will likely sleep late after he's kept her up diverting burglars, will find a store-bought stocking on her couch. It contains a small can of mace, a plastic keychain that's meant to turn one's keys into a makeshift weapon against muggers and the like, extra ammunition for her Walther PPK, tea, and a small jade sculpture of a tiger. It's a strange assortment to be sure, but very clearly thought-out all the same.

Thanksgiving is a day to count one's blessings, a day to relax with family and friends, and a day of indulgence. Alone, in a spartan uptown apartment, The Shadow celebrates in his own way. Very few crimes are committed on this day. In his most casual clothes, the aged crimefighter stretches out on the couch, idly peruses a few books, and sleeps. He's very grateful for a rare day of rest.

Had an agent taken down last night. Not one of the inexperienced ones, either. On the one hand, it's tragic. I always feel personally responsible when an agent is killed. On the other hand, this confirms some serious suspicions. It was a dangerous investigation, but the way he was killed hints at some very ugly connections in the government. The implications are chilling.

The Shadow has been splitting his time between the Sanctum and the apartment of James Rettigue, but only one of these locations is a place for guests. The coffee table is a solid mass of paperwork, although there are signs of order in the form of stacks. The furniture is sleek and black, modern even for its time. One wall of the living room is dominated by a tall picture window that overlooks the city, but the curtains are half drawn. From the kitchen the scent of fresh coffee drifts, but The Shadow is not used to entertaining. The spartan feel to the place, broken only by his paperwork, does not give a welcoming feel.

Deep in the hold of a freighter, bound eventually for eastern ports, The Shadow composes messages and recieves information regarding crime in New York. Already he has had to warn Burbank that his absence may run longer than expected. The trail he has picked up is leading him not merely to a seaport, but to points further inland. The crates that have aroused his suspicions are marked 'Afghanistan'. The road ahead promises to be long and difficult.

He is not technically traveling as a stowaway, at least not in the traditional sense. The face he wears mirrors that of a man currently held by his agents back in the city. One of the few on board trusted to the secret drug trade operations, this man has provided him the ideal cover for the journey. The man whose face he wears belongs in prison, but his punishment will be a tricky political affair, involving forein policy and extradition. For the time being, he must remain under watch, as his release to the proper authorities would destroy The Shadow's cover. It is an awkward situation in every aspect.
There is little more than a skeleton crew aboard the ship, as most of the real work happens in ports, and is done by men there. Modern freighters require few hands, guided by computers and well-charted courses. There is little for the men to do, from day to day. The Shadow spends much of his time among coarse men, who while away the hours in smoking and card games. The second-hand smoke burns raw in his left lung, and he finds coughing unavoidable. He has convinced the other men this, and his own reluctance for a cigarette, are due to his coming down with a cold. Illness is usually quick to spread in such close quarters, so the other men are glad to avoid close contact with him. This suits his purposes ideally, sparing him from more exposure to their smoke, and buying him ample time for his private communications.
It is a miserable trip, all the same.

It's an unpleasant thing to argue with yourself from half a lifetime ago, even if there are other subtle differences I haven't had opportunity to note yet. Clearly my sense of humour has improved. Still... he spoke to me in Russian, and if memory serves, I have a good idea what he's currently gotten himself into. I'd probably snap too, in such a situation.

Was I really so dour?

Have I really become that.. personable with Myra?

Alone in the darkness of the Sanctum, The Shadow watches the writing fading beneath the single blue light. With a sigh he crumples it in a gnarled hand and drops it neatly into the unseen waste basket. Back to business. There's Myra's courier jobs to line up, and a greater task he'll need her on when the time is right.

The Shadow has been back in his own world for several days, but he has yet to see any duty on the streets. The combination of grave warnings from the doctors and nurse Branigan, combined with an awareness that he still wheezes after any form of exertion are enough to persuade him to take rest. The Shadow's form of rest, however, may not be quite what the clinic staff had in mind.
The apartment of James Rettigue, sleek with black furnishings and little decoration, is nearly as good as a second Sanctum. He would prefer the familiar, dusty elegance of the abandoned Cranston Mansion for his recovery, but this is a working vacation. There is a luxury here, in that the black suede sofa is long enough for even him to lie out at full length. It is here he spends much of his days, papers and books within reach on the coffee table, PINpoint in hand. It sees almost constant use for text communication with Burbank. The phone is also close at hand, thanks to an extended cord, because sometimes it is easier to give instructions and recieve information in a more personal fashion. The task of coordinating agents, even as expanded as his network has become, to cover for him is a more laborious task than his usual work. He sleeps erratically, as has become his habit, and forces himself off the couch to stretch and make coffee and occasionally food. Just once, when things seem quiet for an hour or two, he dons black garments and visits the Nexus for the sake of preserving his own sanity and patience.

Somewhere amidst this life-devouring stream of work, he finds a few moments here and there to write notes, bundle together borrowed books, and PINpoints them home to their respective owners. ( He appreciated every visit... )

When the thank you letters are done, he returns to his work, and his private worries over Myra.

Temporarily unavailable.

(Locked to Friendslist)
In Nexus Clinics. Would appreciate reading material of any kind.

Not a word, Allen. Not one word.
(/Lock)

June 17, 1986, AP-Bronx County, Manhattan, New York
On the morning of June 17 police were summoned to the home of the Al-Rahman family to find all four family members dead within. The call was recieved at 7:26 AM when neighbors noticed the front door hanging open, although evidence indicates the attack occurred overnight. The neighbors reported hearing no noises during the course of the night, and there does not appear to be gunplay involved, although the interior of the home was liberally marked with graffiti. Racial epithets and 'go home to Libya' were painted repeatedly throughout the house...

I will catch these murdering bastards.

((Following this.))

The elderly Shadow may seem, at times, to have mellowed. His social graces tend to vanish when it comes to work, however. Myra's PINpoint flashes a message around dawn, the day after their brief chat in the Nexus.

Scout mission successful. Report in as soon as available.

Whatever he has found, apparently he wants to discuss it. Urgently.