EggOfThePhoenix:Lost Tales
Timothy Reed
Timothy Reed played "Arthur Havelock, Private Eye", in a television series called Lost & Found. Onscreen, he found lost loves, lost fortunes, and lost pets, all for a sliding scales that meant he never had to turn away a client, and never seemed to get enough to retire. Offscreen, he lost his hopes of Shakespeare and Ibsen, and learned to accept the lot of a typecast actor.
The series was moderately successful, and though it never caught on in syndication, it was a cult favorite at conventions. Tim was invited to many of them, and even went to one or two, but was too bitter to enjoy the experience. Too many nights with the bottle and he lost his wife and son as well.
Eventually, he lost it all. His savings, his house and car, his self respect. He was freezing to death in a box near 15th Street when he was Found.
Now he is Arthur Havelock, his old existence lost. He has found purpose, hope, and even his lost youth. Sure, he has to go out and find what was lost, but it's an oddly satisfying job, and the benefits are... well, admittedly they're strange, but he thinks he is also finding his sense of wonder.
Janice Reed
"You again." The man sat on her stone bench, in her little square of garden. As usual, he looked like he didn't quite belong there.
"I'm afraid so," he replied, with a sad smile. "Necessity is a bitch sometimes."
"Have you ever, just once, considered knocking?" she asked, exasperated. Even this lacked heat, though. It was ground they'd been over too many times.
"Never mind," she conceded. "Not in your nature, blah, blah, blah. What is it you need this time? International finance? Biogenetic engineering? The airspeed of an unladen swallow?" Despite herself, she was a little curious.
"Something simple, this time," he admitted, not rising to her bait. "Who built the Mars Rover? The one that's kept on going?"
"Yeah, simple," she retorted, almost by reflex, as she started thinking about it. "You know, even imaginary fictional characters can learn to use the internet. Have you considered joining the 21st century yet?"
As usual, he ignored the question, and the questions behind it. Instead, he reached out and plucked a sprig of rosemay from a juniper bush.
"Here," he offered. "A little something to remember me by."
"You're daft and imaginary," she muttered, turning back to her door. She took the rosemary with her, though.
Will Robitaille
"Five minutes, Mr. Robitaille," the assistant announced, scarecely slowing on his way past the half-open door.
Will scowled into his coffee. Nothing but coffee in there either, dammit. Bad enough to be stuck as the quirky lab genius, without getting a reputation as a troublemaker on top of it. He'd had that already, thankyouverymuch, and it had taken him years to lose it.
Setting down his mug, he caught a reflection in the mirror, and whirled to find a man sitting in his comfy chair.
"Good morning, William," the man greeted him, looking as solid and real as some almost-perfect CGI.
Once Will recognized the figure, he relaxed. This again. He could handle it. Nobody needed to know.
"I need a favor from you," the man continued. "Nothing urgent, this time. After the shoot will be fine."
Despite himself, Will tensed. Some of those 'favors' had come close to getting him in big trouble, and refusing was somehow never an option. The last time he'd tried, he wound up standing on the dock while a tugboat drifted away, with no memory of how he'd gotten there. If he hadn't managed to lose the police... Ugh.
"Nothing that extreme this time, William," the man chuckled. This one might even be... mundane."
That chuckle again. This was why he wanted something stronger in his coffee cup.
"All I need you to do is go to a neighborhood in Brooklyn, get one of the lost-dog posters that's flooding the area, and take it to a bar in Staten Island. Nothing complicated."
"But why..." his words trailed off. The man was gone. Again.
"Five minutes, Mr. Robitaille," the assistant announced, scarcely slowing on his way past the half-open door.
David Reed
"Is the band here yet? We're almost out of time if they want a sound check before we open." David paused, waiting for the answer, still half in the kitchen.
"Yes, boss-man. Just parking their van. Expect the tromp tromp tromp of little feet any second."
"Thanks, Fuzzy. The produce guy just got here, so I'll be slaving in the kitchen for a bit, yet. Can you make sure they don't break anything we actually need?"
The muscular bartender laughed. "You still thinking about those roughneck places we used to work, man. This heres a respectable band. They play jazz and all that good stuff."
"Respectable bands show up on time," David replied, unmoved by the clowning.
Fuzzy shrugged. "Said they got lost. It happens."
"Not to me." David popped back into the kitchen without further comment.
Lost in the shadows, the older man sat and smoked a cigarette. Somewhere between the smoldering tip and the brm of his hat, the smoke vanished. Soon, he followed.
