Originally posted September 29, 30, and October 2
((As MacKenzie and Chance started getting closer, Rabid Squirrel and I discovered we had a really nice storytelling groove going. She's been a wonderful partner in collaboration. These series of snippets emerged from a mixed forum / in game RP regarding a group of druids out to kill Mac by her 22nd birthday and some missing memories. It may seem a bit hacked up, but I think it reveals some nice insights into the characters.))
May you never forget what is worth remembering
Or remember what is best forgotten
The warmth of her bubbled into his mind. Helena explained they would feel each other's presence with the meld she performed for them. Chance resisted the urge to speak with his girlfriend, to stretch his mind through the ether and distract her as she worked. He satisfied himself with feeling Mackenzie's thoughts as they flowed around the care she provided at Mercy Hospital, her smooth competency and professionalism. The young man considered what his mind felt like while he worked at the restaurant. Something akin to frantic panic, he imagined, jumping from moment to moment then sometimes putting out literal fires.
The tablet in his hands brought his mind back to the present, or rather a period of time some 17 years ago. He flipped his fingers and the pages of The Irish Times from 1994 flicked beneath his eyes. The articles revealed no clues, no hints as to a deeper reality of what may have happened. Seeing a car careening towards them, Siobhan O'Malley pushed her only child into a ditch to protect her from the accident that would claim the young mother's wife.
Young Mackenzie O'Malley had turned five that day. With her father out of the picture, the young girl found herself cared for by an uncle and aunt in the States the day after.
Chance flipped and gestured, tapping in a few notes. Mac's birthday fell on November 1, an event he had spent considerable time plotting a surprise for. "Birthday" appeared on the sheet, followed by "All Saints' Day" and "Halloween." His girlfriend's powers stemmed from her bloodlines and magic. Anything could be a clue, he supposed.
The driver had fled the scene, never to be found. The newspaper reported Siobhan's death ruled accidental, if surrounded by suspicious circumstances. The story faded from the public view almost as quickly as Mackenzie's family had pulled her out of Ireland.
His lips wrinkled as he considered a next step. After a moment of though, he tapped up an email, dispatching it with a smile. On a whim, he watched Rosemary's Baby as he waited for his girlfriend to get off of work.
--
"How long," asked Lieutenant Alejandro as he return the demitasse to its saucer.
"We'll leave in a couple of days and stay," Chance passed his hand, palm up, over his espresso, "as long as we can. Her birthday is November first. She believes that whatever this cabal is going to do to her, they need to do it by then." The well-dressed young man lifted his cup, sniffed the warm aroma, and then took a sip. "I was hoping a letter of introduction from the MCPD to the Garda Síochána na hÉireann would help smooth the way if we needed any help from the police. Roz wasn't able to help me. Her division has not always been on the best of terms with the Gardaí. Go figure."
"Things seem to be moving very quickly with this young woman, Chance. I haven't even had that opportunity…."
"I'm not fifteen anymore, socio," Chance interrupted a bit too sharply. "No. No, you're not. You're an adult," the policeman agreed. "As an adult and as your friend, one of you oldest friends," Eddie reminded, his bald head leaning over his coffee, "that I am concerned by what might be a repeating pattern in your life."
Chance leaned back in his chair, his blond head turning as he scanned the café, suddenly unable to match his friend's gaze. "Are you going to write the fucking letter or not, Eddie?"
The older man tilted his head and quietly hissed, deliberately setting down his cup before another sip. He rose to his feet slowly, reaching to pull his jacket from where it lay on the chair next to his. "I will write your letter, Chance," he said, his tone even, "I will contact the Irish equivalent of the SCIU to let them know you are coming. Our departments exchange small favors sometimes. I'm sure they will be helpful." He turned away, taking a step towards the door, ready to leave without another word.
"Eddie," Chance rose quickly, reaching a hand out across the table between them. "I'm sorry." He swallowed, mustering the strength to look his mentor in the eye. "I like this girl, socio. I love this woman. I feel it like a bright light in my mind, a pow to the chest. Nothing has ever felt like this." Eddie shifted his body to face the younger man, keeping his thoughts to himself for a moment longer. "She can't be," Chance struggled with the words, "She just can't be another woman I love that I have to watch fade and leave me." His head shook back and forth slowly. His eyes grew glassy. "It just can't happen again, Eddie. Can it?"
The police lieutenant returned his jacket to the chair and sat down, gesturing for Chance to do the same. He caught the waitresses eye and ordered another round of espresso. "What makes her special, socio?" He asked his young friend. "Tell me about her and, when you both come back from this trip, introduce me to her…."
--
The movies or television don't accurately show the grunt work of a detective. The hours of sloughing through records and reinterviewing witnesses in search of that one critical price of information get distilled down pulse pounding moments of witty dialog to meet a 52 minute window of audience attention.
Not for the first time in his short life, Chance gave thanks for the Internet and the advent of modern computing. He could trade hours spent in a dank, moldy basement at some clerk's office for time spent on the futon flipping through a high powered tablet computer as his lover slept beside him.
The symbol filled the screen. A bit of research revealed the significance it's elements. The mistletoe and oak spoke to the sacred elements of druids; the wolf's skull indicated the grove's age. Wolves had not been seen in Ireland for hundred of years. Chance had to shift his mind. To him a grove had always referred to a stand of trees. He learned it also meant a group of druids, a class of ancient Celtic society, practitioners of magic and sacrifice.
This juxtaposition of images belonged to the Sacred Circle of Beatha. The groves kept registries, membership roles. Based in the small town of Ballyboden, the grove had mostly disbursed after 1994. Chance could find only one registered member, one address. He typed off a request to his newly established contact at the Gardaí. He and MacKenzie would pay a visit to Aindrias Kane soon after they landed in Dublin. Chance wanted to know as much about the druid as he possibly could.
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