Taboo Subjects, PLOT POINT! (One reply MAX)

[Antonio Leto]

December 30th, 1889. 2 p.m.

The room in which the press conference with the Mayor was being held was quietly abuzz. Reporters stared ahead vacantly as they waited for the man to make his appearance, fidgeting in minor ways. Pens tapped against blank notepads, fingers picked lint off of knees -- little things that provided casual insight into susceptibility of mankind to the ravages of boredom.

When the door to the side of the little stage with the podium opened, all the murmurs came to an abrupt stop. Grips on pens tightened as Mayor Leto stepped onto the platform, smiling courteously at the assembly.

Upon reaching the podium, he spent a few dull moments putting his notes together and marshaling his thoughts. Then he looked up with another smile, and began. "As you may know, the sewage system's remodel is going as planned, and there have been no setbacks so far. We can still expect to see it completely finished in all neighborhoods by May. Just in time for summer, hm?" The joke fell flat, earning only a few weak chuckles. "The city is also looking at pulling a financial plan together to re-cobble the streets in the Town Centre," he continued, blandly.

As the speech went on, reporters wrote down a few notes, but mostly they glanced at each other curiously, wondering if he would ever address the slaughtered Wonder found in the square.

When he made his closing statements, it became apparent that he wasn't. "So, I would like to now open the floor up to questions."

There was a brief silence. Tongues were burning to ask about the Wonder, but there was a palpable sense of danger in deviating from the chosen subject matter of the conference. Finally, a tall, bearded man in the middle of the crowd raised his hand. "Mr. Mayor, do you plan on addressing the Wonder found dead in the Town Centre?"

The Mayor's smile froze briefly before he answered, smoothly, "It was an unfortunate circumstance, and I'm looking forward to helping this city move past it and into a brighter future." He smiled again, but the answer he didn't give was more clear: The Wonder in the square was history, dead and buried. There would be no more questions about it. The world was going to forget.

Finally, someone raised their hand, and he nodded graciously at them. "Are you planning on recobbling the streets in North Kesky?"

The tension from the room eased, and the Wonder was not brought up again. Jimmy Walters was dead and buried. He'd never existed at all.

~

John Harker, or, as he would be come to known by his colleagues in the weeks following the incident as The Idiot Who'd Brought Up The Wonder, was told by his editor that the newspaper would no longer be in need of his services, and his column was reassigned to another reporter. When he tried to find work at another publication, he found himself stonewalled at every turn. It was a clear enough message to him, but clearer still to the other reporters in New Venice:

Be careful the questions you ask.

The death of Jimmy Walters never found its way into any legitimate publication. Every newspaper for weeks had front-page features on the sewer system and the new streets, and nothing more.


OOC: If your character is reacting to this event or its fallout, please reply here once. Spin-off threads between characters is very much encouraged!

[Clara Grayson]

There was a certain curiosity in noticing what was not present. It had always been the case, really. People rarely noticed circumstances they viewed as normal, strange as it sounded. Clara herself found herself following suit; when a thing was present, it was taken for granted and ignored. It was as soon as it disappeared that people took notice of it. It was this she had felt, listening to the press conference. She'd expected, hell, everyone had expected the mayor to discuss the dead Wonder boy. For so long she had campaigned that Wonders were people too, and so this snub shocked her deeply.

She had known of John rather than known him personally, but that did not make his dismissal any less tragic. She herself did not write news for the papers but columns, editorials and opinion pieces and reviews. Even those were rare and occasionally never printed. Clara paid close attention to the media and so had oft read Harker's name in the byline. Freedom of speech until you disagree with those in power, she mused darkly.

She longed to send a story in, at least of what she'd heard, but she was no fool. If no story had been released as of yet, not even an official statement, she had a snowball's chance in Hell. All she would accomplish was making a fool out of her pseudonym. Besides, she hadn't seen the scene itself until after the body had been collected. Recluse as she was now and then, it was a wonder she'd heard the same day it happened. Blood had still seeped through the dirty snow, however. It was difficult to remove that.

She walked slowly to the spot the murder had happened, as if treading on bones. Clara knelt in the slush, and when she rose, a single peony lay where the boy had died. Her dress was soaking through and dirty, but she paid it no heed. "Bullocks," she swore angrily, crying, and said it again, louder. This was murder, no matter the victim. Murder!

[Alexander Cross]

December 30th, 1889. 11 AM

In the penthouse of the Cross International building sat the man in charge. His hands resting on the desk, fingers together as if in deep thought. The reports of the coming press conference were laid out in front of the man. Alexander looked up to his assistant. His eyes boring a hole in the man.

"Give me a full report of the coming conference." Alexander said, He was done reading it again, he wanted to hear it come from his subordinate, testing to see if the man knew the schedule.

"Yes sir. Mayor Leto is scheduled to start the press conference at two o'clock pm today. He is going to avoid any and all mention of the wonder slaying in the town center. He wants to stay on the topic of the rejuvenation of the town center and area surroundings. There is nothing else he wants to report on his own, and any questions about the Wonder murder will most likely to be quickly and curtly addressed and overlooked without question." The Aide stated, standing at attention like that of a solder.

Alexander was very disappointed at the performance in the town center earlier in the month. The wonder would have made a nice addition to the catalog. The stranger the wonder was, the more he could raise the price overseas. Many wealthy "investors" would pay dearly for their own little freak to prance about their other dictator friends.

"Right, let us proceed, and be sure to remind Mayor Leto what is at stake if he is to deviate from that agenda." Alexander finished, turning around. He may not control the mayor, but he sure as hell was going to make sure the man stayed on a path that Alexander wanted. The man bowed and walked out, certain to comply with the boss' orders. He knew what would happen if the Mayor was reluctant. Not just the Mayor alone would suffer for any blunder today.

December 30th, 1889. 3:25 PM

Alexander looked at the people that sat around the conference table. There was his Aide, the major editors of every major paper that operated locally in the area, and the representatives of the national papers. The boss touched his fingertips together and looked at the men.

"Gentlemen, I believe we know the situation we have here. I do not have to state the massive mistake made by this reporter Harker. I know you had no limits on the questioning of the Mayor, but you all know which subjects he would rather not discuss." He looked at each and every one of them as he spoke. "Let me make this perfectly clear to all of you. I want no mention of Jimmy Walters. Period. I do not have to explain what the consequences are if I am not obeyed. I have made myself clear. You are all dismissed." Each man stood and left in a mass exodus. Alexander scowled.

"Bring me John Harker."

January 10th, 1889. 2 AM

John Harker hit the ground with a smack. The burlap sack obscuring his view of anything beyond the rough fibers. His hands were bound, and he was drugged surely with some kind of tranquilizers. The sack was ripped off his head, and smelling salts shoved under his nose. He awoke fully with a spew of vomit. The tranquilizers were strong, and the residual feelings made his bowels turn.

The reporter was sharply kicked onto his back, the dust rising in the lantern light like a thinning smoke. Above him stood a man with an impeccable suit and tie. He looked taller than his six foot two frame as the man peered down at the tied person lying in a pile of his own vomit.

"Your awake. Good, I have been meaning to meet with you, Mr. Harker. I assume you know who I am." The man said, crouching down next to the victim. Harker nodded in fear, and Alexander nodded back. "Yes, good. Now it has come to my attention that you did something very distressing at the press conference a few weeks ago. You asked a taboo subject. I believe that the subject was not an acceptable question, I am correct." The man nodded again, tears streaming from his eyes.

"You went and spoke up about something you shouldn't have. You see, normally that would not be a problem. The exception in this case is that the subject you brought up gets in the way of my plans." He looked down at the man. "Now you may not know, but I do not tolerate insubordination to my plans." Alexander stated, removing the revolver from his pocket and blew the brains of the late John Harker across the dusty ground. He wiped off his hand and gave the clean up orders as he walked away, knowing full well Walters would never be spoken of again.

[Cyrus Wise]

Cyrus perused the news paper, idly. He was looking for something in particular, news on the dead boy. Terrible thing, that was. Most people, your average every day citizen depended on the local rag for information. It's what wasn't in the newspapers that interested him the most, more often than not.

Smoke drifted lazily from the end of his long-stemmed wooden pipe. He scanned the pages of today's, yesterdays, the day before, last weeks... Nothing. Not even a goddamn obituary. He shook his head, tossing the paper aside, resting his forehead on his fore-finger and thumb. His study wasn't much to look at, a fireplace, a wall of books, a table... The modling and such, of that was grand. But he never really took any notice to the frumpery that everyone else did. It was a nice room, a nice house even, but that's all it was to him. A room, in a house to think things over. Nothing more.

"Why would no-one take notice? Why would they just brush you to the side lad?" He mused to himself. He stood from his arm chair and moved to his writing desk, pulling out a file. Simple, thick brown paper holding an assortment of documents. Autopsy, police report, crime scene photo's, witness statements... All for not. Not a single shred of evidence to point in any direction.

"Bigger picture, mate..." He muttered. "What is it that you're NOT seeing...?"

Normally he wouldn't care two ways about it, but something about this stank of conspiracy and secrets. And he loved himself a good conspiracy. Made him very rich, and therefore, very happy. There was one person he COULD go to, but he'd prefer to leave that for a last resort. He hated owing that woman any favors. Good woman as she might be, Tanja Vasquez was, after all, technically the competition. They'd pulled jobs together, yes, and often were free with there files back and forth. A lot of his jobs would be for not, if not for her stepping in with the right information; but so was the same for him and her. Coming to her for a favor was... Well, truth be told it was embarrassing.

"Borhs!" He called out the door, not taking his eye's off of the file. "Borhs, send a runner to Miss Vasquez. Set up a meeting" His eye's narrowed on a picture of the boy, an above shot of him splayed out. To himself: "We're gonna catch you, you silly little bastard."