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Casey Jones · (09-09-2013)

Dust covered the office, but from the smile on the face of Casey Jones, you’d have thought he’d invested in a top-story office in the Empire State Building. He moved slowly around the room as he peered into the drawers and brushed the dust-covered, battered old couch.

“It was the best we could do with such short notice…” Dax Robinson said in his naturally bitter and angry voice. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of a room; it reminded him of an old, musty book, the sort that has been in a person’s family for years and years, yet has barely ever been opened.

“It’s perfect” Jones beamed, turning to Dax ecstatically. Dax’s eyebrows shot up instinctively in surprise.

“Uh, are you sure, I mean it’s a little bit dusty…”

“It’s absolutely wonderful Dax. I presume the previous owner sent his blessing?”

Dax paused. The screams of terror and anguish of Dr Reuben Williamson that had been the office’s previous inhabitant filled his head, and he had to supress a smile as he remembered the events in their entirety.

“Uh…” Dax began.

“That’ll be all, Dax” Jones said, cutting him off quickly, the smile not leaving his face. “I know where you are if I require anything further”

Dax nodded his head and exited the room, leaving Jones on his own. Carefully, Jones brought his finger to the dust-covered cupboard. The office was of a reasonable size. The state of dilapidation could not be denied; there was no way that the office had that much longer left in it. It was, in essence, similar to an old farm dog. It had obviously served its previous masters well, but it was also apparent that it would either have to be either knocked down or risk waiting for it to fall down. Jones stared out the window briefly; the view was perfect. He could see the vagrants outside in the dusk, clinging onto hope as desperately as they clung onto the bottles that provided their lives with fulfilment and warmth. He smiled to himself as he turned to the heavy briefcase that stood perfectly in line with the couch. Lifting it carefully to the desk, he positioned himself behind the desk and sat down gingerly in the rickety, barely still standing chair. Kade Gaspari’s attack had taken a lot out of Jones, and although he denied it to the children, he was still feeling it. He had managed, after hours of trying, to reposition his nose somewhat (albeit at the expense of his glasses), but he still needed professional medical assistance.

Jones carefully snapped open the briefcase, and the volcano of papers inside erupted out onto the table. Pictures of various men and women came into Jones’ view. Some alive, some dead. All targets. The alive always had something to give. The dead always had relatives to, shall we say, communicate with. If he believed in karma, Jones was fairly certain that he’d have to live his entire life looking over his shoulder. His trade had caused him to make a small number of friends and an overwhelming number of enemies. The Children knew that, and were willing to fight the enemies to the death, just under the instruction of him. He picked up a file gently and watched the contents spill out onto the table. The picture of a unique looking woman caught his eye. Her hair was an interesting cross between raven black and fire red. She had a look on her face that oozed violence and focus, crossed with undeniable sex appeal….not that that would be a focus of Jones himself. The name at the top of the file read Alexandra Callaway.

Eli had told him all about Alexandra Callaway.

She had come to him for help because nobody else could; it was a familiar story. All of Jones’ clients came to him because no one else was willing or able to help. Word spread like wildfire, especially in an organisation such as the one that Jones (as well as Callaway herself) was an active member of. A quick glance of her information told him a lot; she was cold, perhaps a consequence of being left alone in foster care, with no family member to look out for her. Her father could never hold down a marriage for too long, not allowing her to form key relationships.

Yes, Jones was sure he could help her.

Looking at the mess of files on the table again, he reached for another paper. This time a pink haired woman appeared on the top of the file. The file was labelled with the name Micah Jacobs. A quick look at the information listed again told Jones vital information; Micah, or Minxs, as she otherwise went by, was remarkably protective; something that probably stems from the fact that she was an orphan very early in her life. She’s the head of her family, but she displays almost childlike tendencies, again stemming from the fact that she never really had a chance to grow up. The file stated that she was currently close with another member of the roster, Mr Radio. She depended on him, whether or not she’d like to admit it. Again, Jones was fairly certain of a way he could help Micah Jacobs.

Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out a battered leather-coated book with an ominous red mark staining the front. The corner of the journal was dog-eared like a philosopher’s most treasured possession, and as he opened the book, the familiar smell of must joined the aroma of the room. He turned to the most recent page and, on the left hand side of the book wrote ‘Alexandra Callaway’. Directly parallel to this, on the right hand side of the page read ‘Troy Turner’. Under this, on the left hand side of the page Jones wrote ‘Micah ‘Minxs’ Jacobs’. On the right was written ‘Chris Macbeth’. When Jones made an appointment, whichever side the name was on, he carried it out. Callaway and Minxs would be graced with his services, and, equally, but perhaps in a different way, so would Macbeth and Turner.

As he dropped the journal to the table, he heard his door open. He turned around in time to see a old man with a kindly, full face open the door.

“Hello there! I am a friend of Dr Williamson’s. The name is Dr Brooks” he said kindly, smiling warmly at Jones, a gesture that he responded.

“Oh, good evening Doctor” Jones replied, his voice thick with intrigue. He considered for a minute, before he decided that it was best to waste no time. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is your speciality?”

“I’m a general physician” he smiled, pleased at the younger man’s interest. Upon hearing of the medical doctor’s profession, Jones’ eyes lit up like fireworks on the 5th November.

“Oh, I believe we have much to discuss. Please, come on in…” Jones said, a smile crossing his face as he shut the door behind the doctor and reached up to his wounded nose gingerly.

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