Ashes and Alleyways {Aya}

Cerise Mephistopheles —

A small portfolio of forged documents — all her own handiwork — tucked under her arm, Cerise Mephistopheles pushed her way through the busy streets of the industrial district she called home. She did have a drop to make, a client that had needed a permit from the technology administrator in the Justice Building so that he could… well, to be honest, she couldn't remember, and it wasn't her place to ask. To put a magnet on his roof or something. Didn't matter to Cerise; she was getting payed a healthy amount for the falsified documents and in the event that some peacekeeper actually cared enough to check up on all of the mad scientists that were found around Three, they'd find her fake satisfactory. And if they didn't, well, she'd learned years ago that the law enforcers liked to execute those they deemed 'wrong-doers' first and ask questions later. Seeing as corpses were unlikely to rat her out — and if they did, the authorities would be after her alias — she figured her odds of getting in any sort of trouble for her activities based on this one job were about sixteen thousandths of a percent.

She moved the documents to her front, where they were less likely to get battered by the crowds of people moving to and from their jobs, even though the maneuver made the twelve-year-old actually seem childish — an appearance that she greatly resented. It counteracted her steely gaze and regal stride, which usually did enough to add a year or two to her countenance, despite her youthful lankiness. Even so, her unfortunate age brought about limitations in her business; she was forced to adopt an alias and fabricate a persona, pretending she was merely the messenger for a much more authoritative and secretive figure known as The Fist. Who would trust documents that had been forged by a twelve-year-old; who wouldn't try to muscle away her goods before payment was delivered? She didn't always deal with the most scrupulous people — the illicit nature of her line of work basically mandated that most of her clients were the shady sort.

And this, in turn, dictated that a good number of her dealings take place in equally shady places, generally alleys or warehouses or the back rooms of factories. Neither Cerise nor her customers wanted to give away their places of residence; for security purposes, it was best that both entities knew as little about the other as possible. And, of course, nobody wanted to make under the table exchanges in a public place where anyone could be snooping and eager to report back to the Capitol for a pat on the head and a small sum of cash. The last thing the forger needed was to be ratted out by some random, and she was certain that the feeling was shared by those that required her services.

Self-conscious about how foolish she looked with the portfolio clutched to her chest and unable to take it any longer, Cerise readjusted the folder, moving it back to under her arm. Almost immediately, the portfolio was unceremoniously sent spinning away from the girl, thanks to some rogue elbow that had clipped her. The wind took it a short distance and another two pairs of feet knocked her work further away, into the entrance of some ally. Growling curses at those that had buffeted her — even though they were long since out of earshot — she stooped to pick up the document portfolio, which was now covered in the same soot that coated much of District Three. She righted herself, brushed off the ash to the best of her ability, and was about to move along to meet her client — even though she was half an hour early and the factory was two blocks over — when something caught her eye.

It was the helmet and neither the girl who wore it nor the trail of cigarette smoke that she emitted that caught Cerise's attention for more than a fleeting second. What was that, some sort of turtle shell? No, too smooth. Too rounded to be fashioned out of a bucket or a pot. Curiosity got the best of her, and though she normally avoided those who spent their days smoking and muttering to themselves in alleyways, Cerise couldn't help but move a little closer. But she wasn't about to strike up a conversation about the headgear; that would be weird and too straightforward. Instead, she brought up the thing she knew how to talk about best: "You got a license for those?" she gestured at the cigarette in the girl's mouth, knowing full well that there wasn't such a thing. But if she could sell the girl a forged paper that didn't exist and figure out what the deal was with her helmet in the meantime, then she'd score twice talking to this strange girl.

ooc — sorry it took so long!