paixaorpg | Passing on the Facts of the Matter [active]

Entry tags:

Passing on the Facts of the Matter [active]

Character(s): Zexion and the Prince
Content: "Ian" has some information for the Prince
Setting: The Café Ersesat at L7
Time: Let's say early afternoon
Warnings: None at the moment

Like Zexion had mentioned to the man on the message board (he hadn't gotten a name but no matter), it was easy enough for him to get anywhere in the city. He'd had to be more careful about where he opened up his portals lately but a conveniently abandoned alleyway nearby served that purpose well enough. And from there it was easy to simply blend into the crowd before heading the rest of the way of the way to the café.

Of course, he wasn't so foolish to come as he was. Instead he was going as "Ian" - the persona he went as most often. It was a fairly simply disguise as far as disguises went, really. Gone was the characteristic coat of the Organization, replaced by a a simple T-shirt and jeans. As for his hair - his one other notable characteristic - that had been pinned up out of the way and hidden behind a carefully laid illusion of light-brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail.

Unfortunately, between that and the fact the journal had only the picture of a book associated with it there was no way for the person he'd been talking to to recognize that it had been him they'd been talking to, but it would be easy enough to spot someone who was looking for someone and he had at least something of an idea of who he was looking for thanks to the journals.

But that was easy enough to deal with, as he took a seat at one of the tables. All he had to do was wait and watch. And in the meantime, he'd people watch.

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By the time the Prince had made his way to the café, his determination was beginning to waver, and the first tendrils of panic were beginning to set in. Perhaps escaping Paixao would not be as simple as he'd initially imagined. The thought filled him with dread: what would happen, meanwhile, in Babylon? To Farah? Most worrying of all was the question that went unasked within his mind: what would happen to him? So recently freed from his own demons and now marooned without his Indian princess to save him?

So it was that Prince was feeling particularly over-cautious as he approached the café, and found himself touching the hilt of his dagger again. The gesture comforted him slightly as he looked around, searching for an man whose description he had neglected to get.

What a foolish mistake to have made! He had assumed Paixao was like the Island of Time when this was clearly not he case, but he could not help it. His own experiences had instilled such a firm belief in Fate and Time that he could not shake the habit of expecting linearity. Paixao was just another challenge, another stepping-stone, and the Prince approached his current dilemma the only way he knew how: as an organized trial, pre-arranged and set up by a Destiny that had challenged him before.

[OOC: Sorry this took me so long!]

Luckily enough, the fact that he had neglected to get a description wasn't going to be much of a problem. Even if he hadn't noticed the man searching for someone he was more than able to pick up on the undertones of worry and concern lurking in his heart; that alone would have been enough to encourage him to speak to the stranger.

Of course, he didn't need to really on that alone. He had information enough to know that this newcomer was the man he'd spoken to and so, it was simple enough to catch the man's attention, raising a hand into the air in an 'over here' gesture.

Let the games (such as they were) begin.

The Prince, for all his scrutiny, didn't notice the man waving at him instantly: he had dismissed him earlier as being too ordinary seeming. Now, however, he was having misgivings. Ordinary...well, perhaps, but the closer Prince got the more he began to doubt it. The eyes watching him from that unassuming face were disturbingly perceptive. But although the intelligence behind those eyes alarmed him slightly, needling at the Prince's finely tuned intuition, it also ignited hope: this person, whatever his nature, undoubtedly had information. This person was information.

All the same, he thought it better to clarify things.

"Are you...?" More forcibly, he elaborated: "Are you the man I spoke to on the...device?" He glanced down at the strange apparatus he had managed earlier to attach, with some difficulty, to his belt: another mystery. It seemed Paixao was full of them, and it unnerved him.

"I am," Zexion answered with a nod. He wouldn't have been here like this if he hadn't been, after all. Not that he expected the other man to know that much, or even particularly care, but the fact of the matter remained. He was here because he'd promised to be, not because he wished to be. But again, these were things that had little bearing on the conversation at hand.

"Ian," he offered, by way of introduction before gesturing at the spare seat at the table. While he was perfectly capable and willing to hold a conversation while the other man simply stood there it would be more comfortable on the both of them if they were both seated.

The Prince shifted uncomfortably as the man--Ian--waved him towards a chair. Irrationally, he did not want to take it, but after a moment, approached and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

"I am the Prince of Persia," he offered, trying to keep his voice even. His current dilemma was not, after all, Ian's doing. On the contrary, it seemed that their situations were similar if not identical. "I would welcome any information you could give me on this place. Thank you again for your offer of aid. Few of my own people would give their time and knowledge as freely."

The Prince said this apologetically, to ease the atmosphere his own agitation was beginning to build, but suddenly doubted its veracity. Whatever time and knowledge this man gave him, it would come at a cost. Impatiently, he pushed this suspicion aside; it did him no good, as whatever price the man asked would be paid. The situation, after all, was beginning to look bleak, and the Prince could let no opportunity pass him by.

The fact that the Prince almost immediately crossed his arms upon sitting down did not escape Zexion's notice. Nor did the fact that what the other gave was more a title than a proper name. It seemed that there was something weighing heavily on the Prince's mind. Exactly what would, of course, have to come to light in its own time - he wouldn't ask for personal details much as he'd like to learn them.

"All the more reason that I should," he answered. It was perfectly logical after all. It may not be entirely without cost, but there was little reason that he shouldn't spread around some of the things he knew of the city. The more people who simply took him as little more than a friendly and helpful face, the better.

"For the most part, the city is as you see," he began. "A place that seems almost to exist to pull people to it from effectively anywhere. And there's very little reason as to why, or none I've found so far." There was a shrug that accompanied that sentence as if to say 'but what can you really do'.

At Ian's words, the Prince felt a small flare of exasperation. Ever since he'd arrived in Paixao, every person he had asked had insisted that his coming was illogical, a thing for which there was no explanation. This kind of thinking was unfathomable to him; it went against every instinct he had to believe that events occurred without Reason and that Destiny did not play a part. Of course, the Prince also believed (justifiably so) that Fate was malleable, and had proved it to be so, but even his escape from Fate on the Island of Time had seemed oddly pre-ordained, if not Destiny, then at least planned, arranged, set aside as an alternate possibility. Either way, the Prince could not--and would not--believe that Paixao had no Pattern.

"That cannot be true," he declared determinedly. "Perhaps it is, as you say, a city designed with a single purpose, but these arrivals simply cannot occur without rhyme or reason."

Having established this, the Prince pressed on with his next question. "The natives here...what are they? Somehow, they don't seem human. What is their role here? If Paixao exists as a trap, what part do they play in its mechanism? For this cannot be mere coincidence: if we are here, it is because someone or something wills it. And I for one would like to know who."

"I hardly said there wasn't a reason," Zexion retorted, letting a note of annoyance creep into his voice. "I merely said that there wasn't one that I've found so far. There may well be one hidden underneath everything else."

Which of course, wasn't far from the truth. There was a reason. But like a number of other things, that fact was one that he wasn't going to be mentioning. He knew it but 'Ian' wouldn't have found out that little detail. So he'd simply pass it by.

"The most likely of the people here to have engineered the trap of this city is known simply as Organization XIII."

"Organization XIII...?"

The Prince felt a wave of foreboding wash over him. At the same time, however, he also felt somewhat relieved: finally, a name; finally, some answers. Indeed, he felt as he had done when the Old Man had told him the tale of the Island--when he had been offered hope of escape from seven years spent running. This thought made him uneasy and he shook it aside. The Island of the Time was past, done; so why did it circle in his mind since his arrival to this land?

"I have heard some little talk of this organization...but nothing of great significance. Who or what are they?" Impatiently, he added, "Where are they? I have some questions I'd see answered."

Where were they? One of them sat no further than a table's length from the Prince, smiling out from underneath the eyes of 'Ian'. Not that he would be so careless as to admit to that, mind you. He was here to slide his way into people's good graces, not out of them.

"That's the problem," he answered. "No one's been able to figure out their base of operations." No one who wasn't part of the Organization anyway, and so it would remain. With the city as it was, secrecy was their best option when it came to flying under the metaphorical radar.

"Given the name of their group, however, I would assume that either the number thirteen in all or that they've chosen the number thirteen for its significance. As for the who and the what, however, you would do better to ask someone other than myself. I can tell you however that the Organization is know for wearing black hooded cloaks, but it's quite possible that they've stopped wearing them."

The Prince shook his head, more to himself than to Ian.

"But I do not understand...if they are so mysterious, how are others aware of them! What is their end game? Their purpose?"

Brows furrowed, the Prince gripped the edge of the table, needing to expel his nervous energy. Sometime during their conversation, he had come to terms with the fact that he would not be returning to Babylon as soon as he hoped; he had not, however, resigned himself to not being able to immediately vent his frustration.

"For how do they benefit, in bringing people to Paixao? The people here seem to be...trapped, but unharmed, untouched."

"Ask anyone on the street," Zexion answered, with a slight shrug. "They'll be quick to tell you that the Organization is neither unknown nor well-liked, least of all for their tendency to kidnap people off the streets."

As for just how they were known, it was simple. They had effectively been driven into hiding by all those who would seek to do them harm. So instead they simply slid back into the shadows to continue with their experiments and manipulations.

"I expect those who they've kidnapped and returned would be quick to assure you that they aren't harmless. But I don't know how they benefit from all this."

"They've taken people?!"

Deliberately, the Prince unfurled his clenched fist, staring unseeingly at the surface of the cafe table. As much as this news discomforted him, it also ignited a little shudder of hope within him. There were witnesses; there were people with more information--the trail did not end here, cold, leaving him with nothing to follow and nought but gnawing worry about Babylon to distact him...

"Who have they taken? I must speak to these people, hear their tales! Hear what they would tell me of this Organization and the members with which they came into contact. These...kidnappings, as you call them...they must be the key. They...they must be our reason for being here."

"They have," Zexion answered with a solemn nod. On more than one occasion even, and with little care as to how their targets might react to being taken from whatever they happened to be doing at the time.

There was a pause before he answered the Prince's second question. There was a choice to be made here. On the one hand, he could mention a few of the names of those kidnapped and potentially throw suspicion on himself for knowing the names of those taken, or he could instead point the other in the direction of those who might know.

"I'm not sure that all of those who have been kidnapped would be alright with me mentioning their names to you. After all, they may prefer to keep such things quiet. However, if you speak to Timon, he may be able to point you in the direction of those who would be willing to talk about such things."

Another dilatory obstacle! As frustrating as it was, it was also reassuringly familiar: a winding path to his goal, filled with traps and puzzles and battles, but a path he would follow nonetheless. He must; what else could he do?

"Very well. I understand your reticence." Still leaning against the table, the Prince pushed himself out of his seat, impatient to get moving. There was no time to lose. "Where might I find this Timon? The sooner I speak to these people..."

"I'm afraid I don't know where he lives." Perfect truth this time, for a change. But then again, it would hardly look suspicious for 'Ian' to not know that, given the size of the city among other things. "But he frequents the journals and message board; perhaps you could ask for him there?"

After all, given the comparative success he'd had on his last foray there he would expect the Prince to have little problem in returning in hopes of finding the next piece of the metaphoric puzzle. He'd want to keep an eye on whatever happened though. There was potential here, although he had yet to figure out just what kind.

"The message board has proved useful thus far..." He glanced around the quiet little café they were in before reaching for the device--Ian had called it a 'journal'--precariously attached at his belt. "Then I shall take your advice. Are you sure this Timon is...trustworthy? As you, I feel we should strive to make our information-gathering go unnoticed--and in that case, perhaps I oughtn't ask on the 'message board'."

The Prince stepped away from the table, one hand holding the device in a firm grip, the other resting on his Dagger-hilt. Standing, the Prince did not feel any more at ease; if anything, Ian's expression seemed more controlled and intelligent than ever.

"Is there..." For another moment, he hesitated. Something in Ian's quiet, rational demeanour unsettled the Prince the way no dagger-wielding assassin could ever hope to--so much so that he almost did not continue. "Is there anything I else I ought know?"

He did not doubt the truth of Ian's words, but he did, for some reason, doubt the completeness of his answers. Usually it would not be enough to make him pause, but his was a question Farah would have asked, and that was enough.

"If you wish to ask around the city instead, I won't stop you. But in city this size that could take quite some time."

If he were worried about the security of the message board, well, he had every right to be. Everyone in the city had access to that thanks to the journals so there really was no way of telling just who had read it. But he had shown the Prince one way to avoid that, although he had no way of telling if he'd taken that lesson to heart.

"Actually, yes," he answered after a brief pause. "It's not unknown for people - even people from the same world - to come from different times in their respective timelines."

Regrettably, Ian was right. The Prince had no way of knowing the size of the city, but he did not doubt it was too large for him to find answers as quickly as he wished. And Time was of the essence.

All the same, Ian's revelation made him pause.

"Different times? Then that explains..." Something of the buried scholar in him stirred. "That's...imagine all the knowledge I could bring back to Babylon! Of both the future and the past! There is so much that was lost to us...to have the chance to regain it--"

For although Paixao was an obstacle, it was also an opportunity. When the Prince thought back to the Island--the memories of it plagued him--he regretted not having explored more thoroughly, with more scientific interest. He had been blind; he had no intention of being so here.

"Thank you," he said suddenly. "Sincerely. I have been too distracted to be much sincere till now. But now...I begin to see that Paixao...is more than I thought. And as it seems I may be here some time, I ought to learn all I should of it.

"Oh! But where does one stay, in this city? As I mentioned earlier, I have no coin and none of this world's currency, thought it does not seem difficult to obtain."

He had not forgotten Timon, or the Organization Ian had spoken of. But charging blindly forward would be madness, a fact he was now able to recognize.

"No one knows if people who return to their point of origin remember their time here. And you'd have to find people who knew the past or future you were looking for. But if you could manage both, you could indeed bring a great deal back."

There was no shortage of uncertainty in both of those statements, true, but not enough to dismiss the whole thing as being outright impossible. Not even he knew the reason behind what people showed up in the city and what people didn't.

"You're welcome," he offered, with a polite nod. "As for where to stay, there's a number of places - you should be able to find them on the map as well. The most common will be marked as 'Actua Are'. As for payment, they too will accept anything in payment, provided it's suitable shiny."

"Actua Are..."

The Prince glanced about. The shadows cast by the chairs and tables of the café were only just beginning to lengthen and the sky overhead was only a slightly darker shade of blue than earlier.

"Well, there is some time till nightfall yet, and I think I shall spend it seeing more of Paixao. If I am to remain here..." He shook his head, resolved to think only positively. "I shall need some familiarity with the area. But I will attempt to contact this Timon, as you suggested. Ought I contact you, if I discover any information?"

Unintentionally, it emerged as a request for permission--so subservient the Prince wished he could take it back. He had only meant to ascertain whether or not Ian wished to be kept informed, but for an instant he feared he had accidentally volunteered far more: an alliance, when his last and only ally had ever been Farah.

Regardless of how it came out, Zexion was not willing to make a permanent alliance at the moment. Not when he know so little about the situation at hand. The Prince was, at the moment, an untested link in the chain. At the moment, there was comparatively little risk in using a weak link for this.

But down the line, he might come to regret that very thing. And so, there would be no permanent alliance here today.

"If you wish," he answered. "However I do have my own methods of finding information and I'm quite comfortable with continuing with those."

The Prince turned away, impatient and affecting nonchalance. "Very well." He placed a hand on the hilt of his Dagger again, feeling better for having done so.

The shadows on the pavement were even longer now, when he glanced down. If he wanted to see any of Paixao before night fell--and he had no desire to explore the city in the dark--he would have to leave now. The Café Ersesat: he committed it to memory before turning away, eyes already searching for the magical chariot he had taken here earlier. After all, he owed Ian nothing but the thanks he had already given.

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Passing on the Facts of the Matter [active]

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