amicably_absent | (no subject)

Ambrose, even more than Glitch, made an effort to make himself inconspicuous when he went out into the public arena. He could cope with a large group of strangers he didn't have to address or acknowledge. He had more trouble in some ways, but walking the streets he could manage. He shrugged on his coat, enjoying the swing and heft of the cloth as he started out of the palace.

He hadn't walked this path, but Glitch had and he hoped that that might carry true. But if it didn't, he had left early and had time to let Glitch get directions.

He didn't have a wonderful sense of time, but he knew he needed to be there when the sun was directly over head. So when it was getting close, and the shadows were short and sharp, Ambrose slipped back to let Glitch wander up a side street where some people lurked. "Hello?"

They paused and looked to him, squinting with narrowed eyes. "What?"

"Can you help me? I'm a little lost." Glitch smiled at them.

"I'll say you are, head case." One of the men stood. "Central City doesn't have the time or resources for your type."

"My type?" He looked around as they all started standing up. Something in him vaguely and dimly rang caution.

"Your type. Murders. Rapists. Filth." One of them spat on the ground. "Taking food out of our mouths."

"Hey, what? No. I was a political dissenter!" He stood up straight, pushing his hair back. "I lost my brain for Queen and country."

Oh, well then," one of them said in an odd tone. "I suppose that makes it all right then. You better go about your business."

Glitch smiled, relieved that they were such reasonable, nice guys. "Hey, thanks!"

He turned to walk off again, already having forgotten why he had tracked them down to begin with.

Then something hit him in the back of the head. There was a flare of pain, thick and wet and sharp. His vision fuzzed and darkened, and he felt his knees hit the pavement.

"Be careful. Promise me."

Ambrose heard footsteps. He flipped up onto his hands, kicking backwards and slamming his feet into jaw and chin, head snapping back under the force of Ambrose's kick. He landed with his feet spread, standing over the man's fallen body before looking back over one shoulder with a dark, heavy look.

He ducked a second rock, spinning and dropping into the form stance, one hand out stretched, the other hooked over his head, fingers curled.

His eyes went wide as the gun was pulled out. He twisted as there was the crack of the shot, heat scalding through his coat and over his ribs. He was running forwards already, fly kicking the gunman in the chest, foot snapping up and down onto his chest, standing there he rounded the maneuver with a high kick, spinning to kick his boot heel into the third man's face.

He backed off, the three of them groaning. The remaining three men were looking at each other warily, and at him.

A few steps back, and he had enough space to get away.

He turned and ran, trying to get out of the city. Central City was dangerous. The Longcoats were waiting, ever waiting and the Longcoats were bad.

He had to get to the safe place. Where he wouldn't be hurt. The place with the coffin.

Dodging more people, quiet and dizzy, he slipped through the city and out into the field and woodlands around it.

He liked beaches. There was a beach down by the water. That would go to the safe place, he was sure.

Threaded | Flat

Quarter to noon, Wyatt sits in his office overlooking the bustling street down below. He sits waiting, impatiently scanning the crowds for a familiar face, a familiar glint of metal weaving itself through the crowd at an amiable pace and with a not quite steady rhythm, but a wholly unique rhythm, nonetheless.

Ten to noon, he makes his way downstairs past knowing smirks and slaps on his back. He's gained the respect of his coworkers over the time he's spent getting reacquainted with the station, and more and more, he'd like to believe, the other officers are looking at Glitch differently. Not as the headcased Advisor to the Queen herself, but as someone set apart from both those characteristics. As someone truly himself, and no one else's to define.

Five to noon, Wyatt stands vigilant outside the double doors of the station, eyes watching the crowds and never wavering. Ambrose is late. It shouldn't mean anything that he is, just because Glitch never fails to glide his way through these doors before the clock strikes. It shouldn't mean anything bad that he's late, but logic has nothing to do with the way his heart grows ever harder, constricting ever tighter as if to protect itself from an unforeseen blow.

Half past noon, Wyatt is pushing through the crowds down familiar roads and alleyways, telling himself that it's just another few steps, just another corner before he spots Glitch and everything will be okay. He'll just be distracted looking at puppies or whatever it is that's caught his attention this time around. A shop full of gadgets or trinkets or shiny things, or an apothecary with a new wonder drug, or a bakery. He sighs, pushing onward through the crowds, growing steadily more annoyed.

Within the hour, annoyance has turned to concern, and refusing to go back to work. In no time at all, his concern has grown into worry, when no matter where he goes, no matter what circles he runs in, there's no sign of Glitch or Ambrose.

Later, who knows how much later, he's running for the palace, heart racing in his chest like that of a tiny little bird. Frantic and fluttering and frail. There's a murderer loose. There's nothing suggesting he's still in town, but there's nothing to suggest he isn't when they have nothing to go by, and Ambrose is... Glitch is...