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.~{:--------------:}~.
Recon Report
Regarding one 'Dr. Michael Morbius' and his letter to 'Ms. Amelie Chevalier' in the autumn of 1964:
The letter itself seems fairly self-explanatory, if enigmatic as a whole. Written on stationary paper (not notebook) commonly found in New York City, there is nothing remarkable about the page and a half, nor the envelope and stamp. Written in black ink from a ballpoint pen, the handwriting is upswept and angled, telling of a confident hand, but not hurried, as told by the lack of trailing edges on his letters. There is a formal air to his phrasing, slightly off, denoting that the writer is not a native French speaker.
Researching the name that was given, there is an express ease to find information attached to that name. Almost too easy. Really, anyone could fine the following:
*Michael Morbius was born in 1929 in Greece
*His name appears in a list of alumnists at three separate institutes of higher education.
*This information is available readily because he is noted as a Nobel Prize Winner in 1948, in the area of medicine for his work with blood-born illnesses.
*His name is noted as having worked for the reich as a scientist. What remains unclear.*His name appears in numerous articles, papers, citations, photos and whatnot that one would expect for someone of that profile.
*His mother died during WWII, and he never married.
*He is wanted for questioning concerning in the murder of his lab partner and childhood friend.
*There is record of him legally boarding a boat set for the United States in the 50's.
*After that, there is almost no trace of the man aside from (humorously enough) he applied for a New York library card recently.
Recon at the address that was provided seems pretty humdrum. It's an apartment building in a fairly nice part of town, but nothing astounding one way or another. Very mediocre with a number of other individuals living in the building. The apartment itself has a number of windows that are not draped and seem to be the apartment of a very devout bibliophile. Books stacked upon books stacked upon books and filled shelves. There is a very bookish, tall young man who is often in and out of the apartment, often accompanied by a male visitor—there are several. The name on the lease is one 'Mr. Lindon Mills', who is a librarian at the New York City Library.
There are no precautions on the apartment aside from normal locks on the door and windows.
The meeting was eventually accepted, but only after Amelie had gone through her merticulous research, pouring her gaze over every last little bit of intelligence she could get her hands on. It had been odd enough to get the letter, let alone addressed in such a way that it would actually reach her (although she'd always kept an ear out for anything or anyone sniffing at the trail of her 'first' life). Someone who knew her father, or at least 'of' her father would have to be of very specific circles and that was plenty to alight her curiousity.
Her returned reply had been rather straightforward, if not a little more 'innocent' then her actual thoughts. The words she'd written back were of suprise, reflections on horror and a willingness to meet anyone who might have shared common ground. They'd outlined an address for a small cafe in New York, along with a date and time.
The woman herself however, was far more concerned than the 'character' who had written the reply. Morbius' own history was concerning, if only for the fact that large parts of it so resembled her own (albeit with a little less…elegance in the concealment). Moreover, she knew first-hand what her father's research had lead to, what people would do for the very same gift that was her existance. Such motives invited suspicion when the slightest hint of 'immortality' could be a hugely corrupting influence.
She'd go to the meeting, but she had every intention of sitting away from the spot and watching for a time first. And she was going armed.
Naive to find someone worth knowing who was in any way 'normal' in New York, who had such prestigious connections as her father, a 'safe' space like a caf%<233> would make sense. After all, what more could a 40-something year old woman do to protect herself from a man who somehow knew of her father back in the old country under less than ideal circumstances. Naive. Very naive.
People come and go as expected from the cafe. Men, women and children. Others walk past on the sidewalk together, going about their lives. Among them, a man in a beaten trenchcoat and hat, his head bowed and the cuff of his jacket worn, but not terribly unseemly. The coat isn't terribly unusual for the weather, nor the scarf wound around his neck and covering his chin. Mediterranean black waves of hair resting scattered around his shoulders, there is a momentary glance at the sign above the door before a gloved hand pulls the door open and steps inside. Prompt and on time, Morbius pauses a moment before taking a secluded table, away from the rest of the patrons as best he can. He didn't like meeting in public spaces because of this charade, but honestly, it may be for the best as far as forcing one to not cause a scene. He stays wrapped up for the most part, ordering himself a pot of tea, but two cups for someone he's waiting for. Well, that's polite. He reaches up and tucks a short, black and blue feather in the band of his hat. That was to be the indicator.
Amelie had been there for about an hour before the man turned up. A little down the street and with her hair pinned back to make it a little less obvious from afar. Those inhuman eyes of hers were hidden behidn a pair of dark glasses and she'd been browsing the small book store the entire time while she watched. Ordinarily she'd have considered observing the whole thing from afar through the sights of a rifle, but there truely was a part of her that intended to investigate if the whole thing didn't 'stink' too much. With the ticking of the clock, she's apparently running about six minutes late when she finally moves in, perhaps just enough for the man to wonder if she was on her way at all…
Then the young woman simply sits herself down across from the doctor without a word, pulling her glasses from her face. Sure the hair was different, the designer dress and her coat weren't exactly the fashions of twenty years ago, but that face looking at him was recognizable from any photograph the man might have seen of Amelie before her 'death'.
Promptness was something that Morbius tried to live by, though he understood that there were those who didn't. A nervous woman going to meet a stranger? He expected time in between, though he had hoped that wouldn't be the case. If wishes were horses, though.
Tea arrives and he doctors it quickly while he waits, keeping his head down, though from the laxness of his scarf, the lower half of his chin beneath his nose looks very pale. Lips pouted slightly, as if swollen, or perhaps hiding something behind them. A body sits down across the way from him rather suddenly and calls his attention upward; eyes swallowed by a sea of crimson red flash from beneath the brim of his hat to search over Amelie's face. "I am sorry you—" The accented voice begins, delicately, then halts. Uncertain for a moment, he squints. A slow-dawning curiosity prickles around his senses. "I'm sorry, but, perhaps, did your mother send you?"
"Dr Mobius," the woman speaks, no effort given to hide her accent in the slightest as she regards him with those eyes. The eyes were the only thing different, easy enough to overlook at first glance. Soft brown had become amber in her irises as she looks him over. Every last visual detail of him and of their surroundings is collected by her senses before she leans back in her chair, hands folded under the table and seemingly resting in her lap. "What is it you are looking for?" Straight to the point it seems, perhaps a clue enough in itself, or maybe he truely believed he was speaking with her father's granddaughter rather than child. "Noone has gone looking for Amelie Chevalier in a very long time."
That was curious, wasn't it, now? Curiosity was one of Morbius' several most notable flaws and lead him to ruin more times than once. The soft ticking of the metronome of thought which plagued many men and women of scientific urgency. The drive to know and understand. But that color could be a play of light, couldn't it, now? There was more, however. The air very nearly vibrated with it. "No? Well, I imagine that stranger things have happened. Currently, /I/ happen to be looking for her, actually." They could go around in circles like this, OR Morbius could play ball. He gives a little. "I am hoping she can point me in the right direction with some important work her father did."
"My family's work has brought a lot of people nothing more than misery and death," Amelie says slowly, still looking closely at the man. There was plenty 'off' about him, and it certainly coupled with what she'd observed during her recon. Having all the jigsaw pieces didn't always mean one knew what the picture was beneath however.
"Just what is it you're seeking, what do you hope to do with this knowledge?"
"Yes, well, that is the unfortunate outcome of living in a country occupied by villainous dogs," Morbius murmurs, somewhat on the terse side, feeling the sting of that nettle from this far into the future. His eyes lower a moment and hands smooth out the tablecloth briefly as he recomposes himself. "Scientific study is not good or evil; it simply is. It is only in the hands of men which something as pure as it can becomes a tool used for misery or for outstanding benefit." Hard as iron and true as a ringing bell. Whatever else is happening here, the pale man across the table believes those words as he looks back toward Amelie.
The 10,000 dollar question. What is there to gain. Well, whoever this woman is, Morbius seems to accept her as an envoy of sorts and levels with her. "I have reached the limits of conventional science in our time. The mystic arts, ah," He exhales a breath and glances down to the tea pot in a searching manner, showing some inkling of frustration. "It's beyond me, still. The complexities of that language are like, well, like attempting to learn the intricacies of Japanese calligraphy at the age of 50 after only using English letters. Alchemy," Morbius' tone lowers with that word. "Is the middle ground. I believe it is the missing link between science and magic. I am a doctor and a scientist. I heal people with what I learn and more specifically, at this moment," Morbius comes clean, taking a step off the ledge because what other choice does he have? "I'm trying to cure myself."