Just Your Average Time Traveller

Odd.

***

Okay. It's official. I'm in love with a fictional character. Of my own making. Seriously, though, am I the only one?

Actually, don't answer that question.

Also, this chapter is dedicated to @Lilac_petals for being so wonderful and supportive of this story! Welcome to wattpad!

***

Ben stood, leaning casually against a pillar in the shadows, watching the bar. The noise was enough to send ripples through the hard, stone floor. The raucous laughter seemed to draw memories from the safe in his mind, picking tenderly at the lock. But he mentally snapped the hairpin in half and threw it away. No melancholy tonight. Not now. He was awaiting a call.

The music from the bar, which was set mainly underground and made of some animal dropping and mud concoction, was of lyres, timpanis and drunken singing with the odd shriek of a curly-haired woman who he could see being tossed about by burly men through the window. She had a smile plastered onto her exotic face. Nobody else would be able to tell, but he knew the pain she was feeling inside. He saw it in himself every day.

Bzz bzz.

Quicksilver pressed the side of his Spectophone, which hung on to his wrist. Its aerodynamic shape and elegant face paled in comparison to the man who wore it. A voice rose from a clip-on speaker that curled around his ear. 

"Sir, we've covered sectors I035 K to M. No sign of the boy." Meran's nasal tones seemed to awaken a little of Ben's old self; the self he had almost mastered control of. Almost. 

"Thank you Meran, but keep looking," Ben said collectedly, his rich, velvety voice driving a pang of jealousy into Meran. He could tell by the now suddenly deeper tone of the man's voice.

He cleared his throat. "Ahem. Will do Mr Silva. I hope your operation, er, goes smoothly." And with that, the light on the face of the Spectophone was extinguished. The Stream Officers were useless in situations like these - they were of a lower rank for good reason. Silva smiled, lips twisting into something that he knew would have made many a woman swoon. 

He stepped out of the shadows, irrational elation lending him confidence. The amusement stayed on his face. He was an expert at this kind of thing. His mind thought independently to his body; no true feelings ever leaked out. Usually.

Silva neared two men brawling on the steps that led down to the bar's entrance. They were, astonishingly, around the same height as him, but built so bulkily that he could have sworn they were running for the Bodybuilding Awards. One stepped right up to the top step, kneeing the other, a blonde, in the chest. They both suddenly stopped and turned towards Ben, whose Armani suit must have looked alien to the men before him that were dressed in simple slave rags. They attempted to stare him down but, bored, he pushed through them with his fingers, throwing them both to opposite sides of the alleyway with ease. He laughed gently as they gawped.

The door was slightly ajar as he entered, the yellowy light of lamps all that lit this sinful place. The smell of blood and beer sent the barest of tingles through Quicksilver's arms. Tables were splintered in one corner, but the others were relatively in tact. A space had been reluctantly cleared for a wrestling match. The lyre player looked panicked as men with scantily clad women by their sides jeered at him and ordered him to speed up. His eyes wandered and rested on Silva. The music stopped. Suddenly, all eyes were on him.

He liked it more than he'd care to admit. His smile grew wider.

As everyone froze in their seats, eyes roving across Silva's immaculate figure, he sauntered down, meaning to reach the table on the far side where the bartender held a cup out to a customer in mid-air, eyes fixed on the stranger. The musky scent and questionably humid air made it feel like he was moving through custard. A tap on his shoulder stopped him.