A New Face [8-25-07]

They call me Oberon.

That's because They have a high school dropout's grasp of Shakespeare and were trying to be clever. But I don't mind. I tolerate it because honest flattery is hard to come by these days. You couldn't imagine the filth that drags itself up from the grime of the street gutters in this city to stand up and declare themselves king of the Islands in this day and age. But Oberon still holds a lot of weight with folks. It's a loaded name, and it's got a lot of history tied to it. So when the dredge try to stand up and challenge the way things are, it's good to have a name that holds that kind of power.

It's not my true name. It's not even my birth name. But it does its job nicely.

I take a drag on the skinny black cigarrette I had imported from the West Indies and level my eyes on the nervous little pixie sitting across from me. He's new blood, and he is doing remarkably well, taking into account his heritage. He keeps his lips pursed white and his fingers interlocked, desperate to defy the fidgeting imprinted in his genes to impress me. I could have dropped a pin and pinpointed exactly where it had fallen on the lush carpet, it's so quiet. I can do that anyway, but it's a figure of speech. I've been told to start using them because I am, and I quote, "too forward," and it makes some people uncomfortable. Of all the dishonesty in this business, you'd think They'd appreciate a straightforward answer when They could get one.

I'm getting off track.

The pixie bites his lip, and the faint scent of blood wafts through the air. He's working hard to get my approval. I appreciate that, and I relent.

"Puck here tells me you're trying to break into the business."

"That's true.Yes sir.I-yes," he stuttered quickly, nodding carefully and unfolding his fingers only to fold them again, his body grateful for the small release of tension. A smile tugs at my lips, but I mask it with a drag on my cigarrette. I exhale the silver smoke, letting it drop from my lips in curling tendrils.

"He's also informed me of how helpful you've been on a certain raid that went down just recently."

His face brightens at that, and a small, timid smile forms on his lips. He briefly glances up at Puck, who is standing behind me, arms folded behind his back. I'm sure he's showing some reassuring gesture to the boy, flashing a confident smile or winking or some such thing, because the pixie's face opens up eagerly, hopeful. But my expression remains passive, unreadable, the same as when he walked in the door, and when he sees it, his smile shrinks and he looks down at his hands. He has high cheekbones and a large, thin nose that juts out of his face between two amber, frighteningly clear eyes. His badly tanned skin barely covers his bones, it's stretched so thinly across his face and neck. I can see nearly everything, down to the last sinew of muscle and length of bone. It's a common trait amongst pixies, and one they've tried nearly everything to eradicate. His neck muscles keep flexing themselves, and even with the boost of positive feedback I just fed him, he's intensely self-conscious.

He clears his throat nervously, his tail wrapped several times around the chair's leg. It looks like he's going to snap it clean off, it's wrapped so tightly. My skinny little black cigarrette has begun to ash, so I tap it gently on the crystal ashtray sitting on my red oak desk.

"You got a name, kid?"

"Quentin," He blurts out eagerly, leaning forward slightly. He's a lean bastard, all length and no width. His skinny shoulders lift the blue suitjacket he's wearing further up his slender neck, and a lock of hair he spent hours trying to pin down begins to slip down onto his forehead. "Quentin Tarslip, sir."

"Well, Quinny," I say slowly, taking a drag on my cigarrette. "I'm sure I'll be hearing much more about you.." I paused meaningfully, "..in the future." I excuse him with a glance to my office door. His face breaks into a smile that stretches from ear to ear, bright white teeth lined neatly in a row. He glances from me to Puck and back eagerly.

"Thank you, sir," he says breathlessly, bowing as he stands. "You won't regret this." Puck gives him a snug smile and shoos him out with the flick of one hand. He nods and crosses over to the door, flicking the knob open and glancing one last, grateful look at us before closing the door behind him quietly.

I take a drag on my skinny, imported cigarette and savor the taste of the smoke slowly.

"Nice kid," I say, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Awfully high-strung. Where'd you find him?"

"Peddlin' snuff in the blackhand district," Puck flopped into the chair, grinning that mischeivious grin of his.

"No shit?" I exclaim, tilting my head forward. "He ain't no mooneater, is he?"

Puck scoffs. "What, him? Not on your life. Cn'you see him trying to score a meatsack?"

I snort, amused at the image. "He'd probably get one outta charity," I remark. "Still, you know how those families are. They could use a walker like him. Why come to me?"

"What, are you kiddin' me?" Puck laughs. "You still don' get it. What faerie in 'is right mind would turn down the opportunity to work fer Oberon?"

I suppose it's true enough. He got such a kick out of it when he heard, he introduced himself as Puck when he finally met me. It's not what his mother calls him. I've been to her house. Had dinner with them. She's a nice lady.

'What's in a name?' They say. 'That a rose by any other name would somethin' somethin'.'

At least They try.

---

Pnelma's Pen