With Such A People I Want No Peace (Sean)

As Nat-Geo revealed to Marcel an archeological discovery that may have been the kingdom of David, from the entrance the bell rang, but the aged managed failed to divert his eyes completely. This was too interesting, Marcel thought, to redirect me to one of the usual patrons. But as his eyes glanced over the tips of the magazine, he didn't see a hair style of any sweet old lady. This was someone different.

As the form slipped into the jewelry corner, his eyes returned to the findings of accomplished archaeologists. “Let me know if you need any help.” He said in an off-hand tone, too preoccupied in history to spark conversation with the new customer.

Didn't he take his time? Marcel could only notice the man through momentary glances away from his magazine, but he noticed the genuine curiosity from his atypical customer. Marcel didn't like to profile, he thought the concept was simple and too influenced by personal beliefs rather than observations. But didn't this man take his time, and in the jewelry section of all places. He wouldn't find a sapphire to present his partner in that stash of forgotten trinkets. Or maybe he would find one, maybe he would uncover that overlooked rose and pluck it from the tarnished vine of yesteryear, hold it tightly, and then, with grace, give it to that special one, the only one who could appreciate the gift as it should be. Ah, he stopped himself. Not right to profile.

His reading quota was reaching its daily apex as the sounding house alerted Marcel through notifying creaks in the floors that his customer was nearing the counter. The soft pang of the metal on the wood desk prompted him to reach and take the necklace.

“I'm surprised you found this. That is to say found anything in particular, the jewelry section always tangles itself up more so than any other part of the store.” With hands tightly enveloped with his second favorite pair of black leather gloves he felt for the texture of the metal. Through the fabric barrier he could caress the sharp edges and sense the soft bumped on the metal, the idiosyncrasies of the manufacture. “Well, this is defiantly copper. You can clean it with some vinegar and salt, it eats off the tarnish. Don't leave in too long, maybe an hour or so.” He handed the necklace back, an open leather-locked palm extended to his customer.

"I don't keep many customers beyond my patrons, I haven't seen you here before. I shouldn't be surprised, I only arrived here in January, I'm the newest thing in this store." A soft chuckle softened the mood, he didn't want to seem too weird, save all the face an antique store owner could.

So then came the look, Marcel was expecting it sooner than later. Everyone gives the look at least once, Marcel had come to expect this elephant in the room to come knocking with every new customer, and sometimes more than once with the crafty patrons. His attitude was towards this would-be dilemma was simple. Don't ask, don't tell. If they wanted to know, he would give them an answer, one with some fraction of truth. But the moment a power was known, an advantage was lost. Marcel had spent too long handling rouge students and power-abusive security officers to let this edge grow dull.

“I've been meaning to organize that jewelery section for some time now, but at this point I let it organize itself. You found something there, so it must be working in its own confused way.” Nothing so pinned up was so obviously an excuse to ignore his own list of chores. Let it organize itself, he should let it be the case for the whole store he thought to himself. Yeah, for one day, he smirked at the thought. This place was an incredible generator of dust, one day off meant triple the work the next day, if there was one aspect of sentience this story really had, it was its desire for disorder.

“I say always come to Taiga Memories with no goal in mind. Narrow thinking in a store with this amount of variety will keep you oblivious from what's waiting to jump out at you. This is a store for wanderers. You let the gift find you, not the other way around.” Yeah, real classy Marcel, he thought to himself. Put it on a bumper sticker, why don't you? Just burning time because you know Natgeo doesn't have anything else of value for your inquisitive eyes. Might as well shoot the breeze with the customers.

Actually, Sean Neville was more of a welcome wagon than he realized. So long as the store didn't fall apart, the patrons were more than a little slow on the new manager upkeep. More often than not they slipped up on his name, and although he never paid it any mind worth mentioning, it was nice to formally receive an honorable recognition.

“I do like it here. I've been around the block and seen a few sights, but there's a purpose to be had in an antique store. There's not much wrong to an antique store. No moral ambiguity, or ethical dilemmas, or political machinations to be found here. Even if you come in as a wanderer, even if you leave without buying a necklace or anything for that matter, you have left with much more. A simple pleasant memory, something that hard to come by these days. Or something like that. Actually, it's probably nothing like that, I've always been a bit of a ham.” He chuckled as he neared the ancient cash register, the true marvel of this store, a relic that somehow found the raw determination to work throughout the countless years.

Sooner or later, for new customers, Marcel would have to make an assumption. He always had to, otherwise it would bother him with every following encounter. For reasons kept locked under both mental and physical key, Marcel both loved and hated living within proximity to the Hammel Institution. It was a choice forced upon him, and while he eventually chose to stay, his chosen profession as the antique store manager was a tactical one made for this reason. Marcel estimated the amount of enthusiasm high school students had towards antiques, and it wasn't much by his guess. While this only covered a fraction of the meta population, it would diminish chances of meta encounter. Any meta in Pilot Ridge would be connected to Hammel, and Marcel wasn't looking for attention from that party. So, save for the innocent patrons, the newcomers would always eventually fall within the gaze of his mental inquisition.

Was he a meta? While there was only a few ways to tell with certainty, the assumption was all Marcel could work on. Asking for a blood test would only beg the question or just give it away, not to mention being totally inappropriate. These niceties between meta's was so different than before, Marcel thought to himself, sinking then quickly escaping an old and ill-preferred memory. Marcel would have to work with inductive reasoning for the behavior a meta might regularly show. Mannerisms, typical questions, speech patterns, but most of all cues to meta relation. Someone might just know about a meta here, Pilot Ridge was always the American hotspot for the bio-atypical human population. The word was enough a trigger pulled, so to speak. For now, the game would play in the background, a process both patient and tenacious.

“Czech Republic.” His response was short, Marcel caught himself just as the curt tone left his lips. History didn't suit him, but he wasn't asking that. Just asking an innocent question, Marcel reminded himself. “This is my first time in the United States. I used to travel a lot, though. I tended to drift. But you're a local, maybe even THE local. You know what's what in Pilot Ridge, I guess? I have a few friends here, not much more than acquaintances. A few friends back home, but I don't talk to them.” No, you don't, Marcel. Not a little, not once in a while, not at all. Period. Marcel had enough problems managing the guise in this new life, he wasn't about to chain and drag up those past lives from their brackish murky depths.

“I inherited this clunker.” If it was a car he'd kick it for good measure, but Marcel didn't want to destroy his favorite antique in the entire store. It was a profound constant, a survivor, a continuation of existence and permanence. It was manufactured long before the bricks were smelt for Hammel, or Hus, or even Kocher. The push button numbers had faded, some were gone completely. Elegant metal embroidery embraced the elongated surface, while small white tabs peeked out through cracked glass with each slow push of the numerical dial-buttons. “But I love it still, and now I'll get to use it again.” With a few pushes, a whirl and maybe even a crank or two, the price appeared on the cracked glass as $4.99. “Would you like a bag with this? I can get a gift box if you want, think there's one in the back.”

For all the aging metal trinkets in his store of all angular persuasions, Marcel was the sharpest, the one that could cut the deepest. Standing with a well-rehearsed smile he could operate with normality, while a portion of his mind was always in a clockwork panic mode, ever operating at a fever pitch to avoid contact. Leather can rip, fabric can tear, gloves are not perfect, these warnings were flashing neon signs on his brain. The first to show fear was himself, an argument with his father mutating into faltering hearts, mocking sirens, and the kind of confused screaming that's silent until days after, waiting to haunt in hours before sunlight.

Marcel could only do one thing with his Metapower, before any planning or stratagem of warning, deterrence, and reasoning. The touch, was always the same, from the first to the last, all equally terrifying, different only in time of exposure. The lessons learned were warnings, cautionary tales, prevention. He didn't need power training, there was nothing to advance, no experience that could make the fear touch any more or less potent. Learning to close in, the predatory tactics, the fear of fear induction, all were human ideas, anyone could learn how to stalk or threaten. There was no alternative power, no work around, no reverse effect for panic attacks, no remedy to extract like anti-venom from a cobras fangs. With his power alone, Marcel could only terrorize. Everything else was his humanity, and because of this, his humanity never fared very well.

“I'm not one for a social network. I like having the quietude of a lesser known store. I like not having fliers or posters, and not just because the previous owner forgot to advertise and I'm following those footsteps. I have an expected clientele here, most who like a routine and a chance separate themselves from the world. I'm here to help them along the way, and I don't mind their gossip, so long as they don't put me in the middle.” Turning to a closet behind the cashier desk, insulated hands turned the knob and opened a door so old no amount of polish could conceal the fractures and age marks on the weakening wood. Behind and on a shelf was a stack of gift boxes, small enough to fit in one palm, a square with green silk covering the frame, copper hinges in the back, and a faint smell of newness. Bought for those gift shopping, Marcel made sure these boxes were the newest things in the store, calling on a company contact given to him by a friend's friend. He turned back, still preforming his role.

And while he placed the box on the table with a delicate motion, he noticed Sean's action. A message was sent to Marcel, and it was received. He glanced down, back up to Sean, then back down at the bill again. Marcel said nothing, but for a moment kept still, his frame locked into place long enough to notice, but not long enough to be concerned. He took the bill with a frankness, and quickly producing the change from the antiquated register, he placed the change on the table, a few dollars, quarters and one nickle. He placed it with his hand faced down, pressed over the change. As he placed it there, he paused, his hand pressing down firmly over the dollars and cents. He tried thinking of the right way to say this, a worry brow developing on his face. There were many ways he considered, each was too either vague or too revealing. Eventually, he took a deep breath and relaxed. He placed his other hand on the desk. His eyes met with Sean.

“Here you go. I hope they enjoy it. I can't remember when I bought something like this for someone, I'm not very good about that sort of thing. But I can appreciate it. It means something, symbolizing your feelings. I could never articulate well enough for my loved ones, so this would work just fine. We can't always find the right words, can we? Sometimes we have to tell a message without the words, even when those words are as simple as yes... or no.”

From a relaxed smile then came a threatening gaze, a look Marcel did not give since long years ago in the dead of a Chinese winter, in a former life that growled like a cornered panther, uncovered claws ready to strike in defensive desperation. “It's the symbols I understand. Sometimes people don't take your words seriously enough, so you have to give them a sign.”

He let the tense air strain itself like plastic nearing the tearing point of its elasticity, then smiled, entering another mode. As quick as he showed one side, the other returned, no sign of the unnerving quasi-threat. He relinquished his covering of the change and smiled enough to show well-kept white teeth. “Have a nice day, and please come again.”