literature

2. First impressions

Deviation Actions

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They looked awful.
          New clients always looked awful the first time Rose saw them, and it was always a different sort of awful. Yes, there were broad categories of awful, and she generally could classify individual examples of awfulness into the usual buckets, but the three girls sitting on the scratched and sagging stacking chairs in front of her desk were awful not just in the ordinary ways but in an undefinable new fashion as well. She’d expected that, more or less, but the strength and . . . alienness of it still took her by surprise.
          They’d trudged through her office door, herded by her favorite cop. Detective Blue had watched with his patented Scowl of Authority, copied from old busts of emperors and consuls in the art-history books, as they more or less wilted onto the chairs. He and Rose had exchanged the usual clipped chitchat, now down to a standard script and decision tree. Homeless, limited belongings locked in the closet downstairs for safekeeping, yatta yatta. She and Blue didn’t smile—that wouldn’t fit the script—but years of shared experiences had made them friends of a sort. He closed with the usual assurance he would be downstairs, then withdrew to loiter menacingly in case he was needed. Sometimes he was.
          The stage dressing was set, as it always was before an initial meeting, though with some differences. The file wallet sat on her blotter, flap open and facing her, bulked up with a stack of scratch paper in place of the actual contents the cheap suit had brought, which were locked in a filing cabinet elsewhere for safekeeping. Three modest sheafs sat in a row where she could peruse them, each with a small head shot stapled to the top. They were decent photos, just the sort one would see in a high-school yearbook, but the contrast between the grinning faces they depicted and the reality before her now was just short of heartbreaking. Fortunately, that was a barrier she long since had become inured to, and she slipped into her accustomed role smoothly.
          “My name is Rose Brass. Captain Rose Brass. But you can call me Ms. Brass.” Her tone was firm and brisk, neither too harsh nor too soft. “And you are Adagio Dazzle, Aria Blaze, and Sonata Dusk.” She made a show of looking down at the documents and photos before her, then looking up to match images to faces.
          All three faces looked unpleasantly stunned, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think her knowledge of their names was the cause. No, most of her new clients had just the same reaction, and she had learned how to play it up, just as she had with the visitor who’d brought her the case. Even clad in a powder-blue business suit and white blouse, a tall, sinewy middle-aged woman with a brass complexion and buzz-cut platinum hair stands out. A current-generation prosthetic arm and a black eye-patch—half-covering a network of scars as big as a hand with fingers spread—garnished that distinctive appearance with a faint air of raffish menace. Might as well make use of it.
          “I’ve been assigned as your case worker. That means it’s my job to work with you, but I can’t do my job if you won’t meet me halfway. Do you understand?” She sat back a little and watched as they exchanged looks.
          Adagio, by all accounts the ringleader, looked exhausted. Her bouffant hair was dirty and bedraggled, with only half the loft her photo displayed. The bags under her eyes looked bruised and puffy. Her arms hung loosely, hands resting open on her lap.
          Aria was a ball of rage, but it was a tired anger. Her hair still was bound up in twin tails, though the fancy star-shaped binders were gone, replaced with simple elastic bands. Her fists bounced slightly on her rigid thighs and her eyes were narrow and glittering.
          Sonata looked bewildered. Her roostertail was gone, letting her long hair fall loosely. She hugged herself and trembled compulsively. Without warning tears would begin to track down her cheeks, only to stop just as suddenly after a few moments.
          They weren’t wearing the fancy costumes in which they’d performed that fateful evening. Nor did they have on the flashy street clothes in which they’d arrived at Canterlot High. Instead they wore torn and ratty hoodies, jeans, and sneakers, the uniform of the homeless teen. Whether they even possessed that other clothing any more was a question for another time.
          When no immediate answer was forthcoming Rose leaned forward again. “Meeting me halfway starts now.” Her tone was even, almost conversational, but her good eye hardened just a bit.
          Sonata stared mutely. Aria bared her teeth. Adagio finally sighed and rubbed her forehead, then spoke in a near-whisper. “I guess it’s better than what we’ve gone through since . . .”
          “Since the Battle of the Bands,” Rose finished. Her prosthetic forefinger tapped the middle stack of forms. “Yes, it is. At this point you have nowhere to go but up. If you cooperate.” She paused and looked each of them in the eye. “I mean that in the sense of collaborating, like a group of authors or composers working on something too big for any one of them to finish.” They winced, and she checked off an item on a mental list. Some people clung to things they’d lost; others didn’t want the reminders. It looked like these three fell in the latter camp.
          “I’m not your mother. I’m not here to tell you to clean your room or sit up straight. I’m here to answer questions and open doors and fight for you when you need it.” Rose took a breath. “I won’t lie. It’s a big system and it doesn’t always work as well as it should. I’m not superhuman, and neither are you—any more.” Most of that speech was straight off one of her standard scripts . . . except the last couple of words. They had pretty much the effect she wanted.
          Both Adagio and Aria suddenly stared at her, eyes round and frightened. Sonata blinked owlishly. A moment later Aria recovered her bravado and shot to her feet. “How—”
          “How do I know you’re not from around here?” Rose’s artificial hand moved to rest on the bogus file. “There was a lot of interesting reading in this. For instance, I know you hold no citizenship anywhere in this world—and you hold no citizenship anywhere in the world you came from, since you were punted out of it before modern ideas of nationality and citizenship could develop there. In short, you are stateless persons.”
          “Can we go home?” The voice was thin and fragile.
          Rose started, then looked over at Sonata. “No, honey,” she replied in a much softer voice. “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
          “Why not?” Aria looked forlornly defiant. “It’s not like we can do anything any more.”
          “The same letter informing me you have no citizenship there also informed me you are outlaws and exiles. That sentence has not been remitted. You’re still banished.” Rose did not tell them it had been centuries in the other world, nor that the banishment might be lifted depending on how things went in the future. The one would be too disheartening, and the other she was “earnestly requested” not to mention. Since she agreed with the reasoning behind the request, she was more than willing to go along with it. Besides, now that they’d lost their magic, she wasn’t sure returning them to a world where it was endemic would be doing them a favor.
          Aria sat back down, deflated. Adagio lowered her head and stared at her hands. Sonata’s vacant stare didn’t change.
          “I also got another letter asking for any charges against you in this world to be dropped, because you’ve been punished enough already. That took some doing, but the good news is, you’re off the hook.” Rose forbore to mention exactly which princess had written that letter. She doubted her audience would be properly appreciative.
          “Now. The first step is to get you three off the street and into someplace safe where you can sleep at night and get three square meals a day. The trouble is, you have no family or friends who could be tapped to serve as guardians. Since your whole background is classified ‘secret’, for obvious reasons, you can’t be placed in a shelter or halfway house with other residents. So about the only choice we have is to put you in a foster home. Even that’s going to be tricky and way outside the zone.” Rose gave them a level look. “It isn’t ideal, but there is no ideal solution. If there were, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Eventually I figured out Amphorae doesn’t have to chronicle every bit of the sirens’ progress; it only has to cover highlights of the early stages. That leaves plenty of room for other stories—both additional events during this period or further developments afterward. I’m not sure I will write many or even any of those stories. If my scenario sparks ideas, though, I’m open to the possibility of continuations or additions by other writers.

On to 3. Home sweet home
Back to 1. Prologue
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