SilverEye Continued

* * *

February 2nd, 3:51 pm

“Bonjour, SilverGuy.”

A French voice rolled over each syllable with precision and restraint. It came from the thin lipped mouth of a well-dressed man seated behind a massive desk. The elbows of his spotless suit rested lightly on the clean surface of his desk, and his hands were clasped beneath his chin. He examined his approaching guest with inquisitive eyes.

“SilverEye. And bonjour to you as well,” responded Brice, taking stock of his surroundings as he approached his host. A dozen less intelligent pairs of eyes examined him as well. Thugs were strewn about the room, some lounging on flour sacks, some leaning back in metal folding chairs, all quite large and unkempt. Brice wondered if they had ever been acquainted with a razor. Or antiperspirant.

“This is a strange place for you to set up camp, of all people,” said Brice, noting the stacks of various baking ingredients and a thin layer of flour coating all surfaces besides the desk.
His stiff host rose to his feet and moved methodically around the desk, not once detaching his glare from its subject.

“This pastry shop tends to be overlooked by… unretired company.”

“Desired. Undesired company,” corrected Brice.

The two men approached each other warily.

The tense atmosphere was broken when a sudden smile burst across Brice’s face. “Good to see you again, CopperTop.”

The Frenchmen released a quick, tight laugh. It hardly affected the shape of his face. He seemed as if he were laughing from behind a mask, unable to change his expression. However, the sound of laughter, stiff as it was, lifted the blanket of apprehension from the meeting.

“Good to see you remember me, SilverEye, and my old nickname. Please, call me Auguste.”

The thugs distributed about the room visibly relaxed. They had appeared comfortable beforehand, but now their demeanor digressed to lethargy. Some now seemed to be napping.

“It’s been a long time,” began Brice.

“Indeed, it has.” Auguste returned to his large leather chair. “Please, has a seat.” He motioned towards a dilapidated folding chair dwarfed by his oversized desk.

“Have,” corrected Brice. He placed himself, carefully, into the uncomfortable seat, ignoring the layer of flour. He noted that his eye level was now scarcely six inches above the desk’s remarkably clean surface.

“I was serious about what I said before. This place doesn’t really seem to be your… style.”

“I am not a stylist or decorator, monsieur. I must use whatever locations are most effective.” Auguste seemed to be having trouble not speaking French. His accent became more prevalent as he relaxed. “Now, let us go to business. Have you not come all this way to catch up with an old friend?”

“Yes… no, I mean… I came here with a special order.”

“Do you mean special, as in a wedding cake or something? I am sure Jimmy could have whipped it up for you without incident. He’s really quite good.”

“No, Auguste, I am insinuating that I require an item which only a connected man such as yourself could acquire.”

“Ah, I see, you need something special…er?”

“More special.” Brice corrected.

“S'il vous plaît. Well, I certainly can provide such service. What are the item?”

“Is.” Brice corrected him again. “The antidote to the Neurouturno toxin.”

For the first time during the meeting, Auguste’s thin lips stretched into a wry smile.

“Why yes, Silver, such a thing can be done to you.”

“For me,” responded Brice. “Merci. How much would you consider the agency indebted to you?”
“Oh, payment?” The Frenchman’s smile uncoiled farther across his face. “What is a little antidote between old fiends?”

“Friends, you mean.” Brice smiled back, hiding his uneasiness.

“Yes, of course.” Auguste grinned ever wider. “Friends.”

SilverEye

February 2nd, 7:54am

Brice's eyes burst open. His instincts shook him awake. He was in a hotel room. Clean. Empty. Something was amiss. He could feel it in his bones.
*Beepity beep beep boop boop*
His spy phone chirped to life. An incoming call from the agency. He retrieved the phone, opened it, disabled the self-destruct mechanism with a passcode, and held the receiver to his ear.
"Go."
"Hello Silvereye. I have a mission for you. Top priority. Top... danger."
"You never were great with words H."
"Sigh... anyway, there is a crisis in the works Silvereye. Your partner was poisoned yesterday during a mission in Hong Kong."
"Blast!", exclaimed Brice, suddenly becoming quite upset.
"Cool down Silver. You will need your head on you for this mission. There is an antidote for this poison, we believe, in the south of France. But you have less than twelve hours before the deadliness of the poison becomes too..."
"...deadly." he finished H's sentence. "I'll take the jet." He was already jogging briskly towards the grove of trees where he had landed it last.
"A crime lord is in procession of the antidote. He operates in Marseilles out of a small pastry shop called, ‘Jimmy's Fine Meets.’”
"That's a confusing thing to name a bread shop."
"Pastry's, Silvereye, there's a difference. Your partner is holed up in the Hotel 'Dang Wing Long' in Hong Kong. Good luck."
"No such thing." He tossed the phone into the duck pond as he changed his jog into a sprint. Moments later, the pond lifted several meters into the air, and the ducks enjoyed a bit of surfing.

* * *

February 2nd, 3:38 pm

The tiny bell on the pastry shop door jingled merrily. The man at the counter expectantly looked up. His eyes sparkled with anticipation. He had been setting out crème cakes inside the glass display counter, but now he snapped to attention.
“Welcome to Jimmy’s Fine Meets! We have lots of seats, and no one beats our… pastries.”
The man he addressed strode through the door and past the neatly arranged displays with confident swagger. His fashionable suit made him appear overdressed, though his pants were slightly rumpled from travel.
He responded, “Hello Jimmy. It is fine to meet you.”
“It always is!” cried Jimmy exuberantly, “What type of pastry can I provide you with today?”
“I see that you have many lovely breads-“
“-pastries.”
“Right, pastries.” Brice approached the counter. “However, I have a special order.”
Jimmy stared blankly for a moment. Then, leaning slightly forward, he responded in a hushed and slightly irritated tone.
“By ‘special’ do you mean a straight croissant, sardine filled choux, or perhaps a wedding cake?”
Brice slowly shook his head.
Jimmy’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He spun around and shuffled into the back room, mumbling to himself.
“…let a boss set up in the back, and everybody wants to see him. No cakes, no strudel s, no sales, besides his stupid…”
Brice stood in the empty shop for several minutes, pretending to examine the pastries within the counter but actually watching the exits. Finally, a stocky and gruff man in a dirty brown coat emerged from the back. He was unshaven with beady eyes and an extremely muscular build.
“You.”, was all he said, pointing at Brice with the index finger of one overly muscled hand and towards the back with the thumb of the other. He turned around slowly and began to walk menacingly into the back room. Brice quickly fell in stride behind the intimidating man.

* * *

A Flower Bloomed In February

A flower bloomed in February
And opened wide to see
There was no one there to tend it
No one, that is, but me

Its tiny fragile petals
A perfect violet hue
Bright color beckoned no one
Unclaimed by freezing dew

The world was flat and cold
Frozen all around
Any bees or flutterbys
Were under icy ground

But still it grew undaunted
Unfearful of the gloom
Flowers know their maker
All they must do is BLOOM