[attr="class","doc2"]1059 WORDS HARLEQUIN DINAPOLI

[attr="class","doc"]There is a time and place for everything – mannerisms in one place differing from that of the next, company full of those of the higher class in the day and the street's most desperate urchins in the night, and a variation in locations during any specific speech based on its content. Occidental Park is, most certain, his favorite place in the rainy city, and the subject material that he covers with the most fire behind it is always preached to the mindless followers there. In certain times, as well, he thinks that he might like his occupation a great deal more should he have been given the opportunity to give all of his speeches there, and always of the same pressing topic: inequality and corruption of the country's legal and religious systems. However, it is because his profession is what it is that he finds himself limited in his ability to limit. The followers that listen to him there no doubt have his support, but their numbers are still small compared to that of the entirety of the city, and anyone who thinks to himself that it is wise to base their campaigns on a singular subject is doomed to be met with failure each and every time. There are promises to be made (promises that he will ultimately break) about other things, the likes of which seem trivial compared to talk of complete government upheaval, but what one man scoffs at, another lends his entire life to. The crowd in Occidental does not care for allowing adolescents not yet the age of eighteen to participate in presidential primaries, nor would they care much for raising city-wide taxes for the sake of maintenance of said city's more historical structures – but the ones that are gathered here do, and if he has ever been anything, he is a man that knows how to please through words alone. A simple gaze across the crowd can attest to that; there is a fair share of passiveness all across the blank slate they make, but the subtle grins and the brightened eyes of some reflect the budding of ideas and the blossoming of hope for an improved state of living in all. Or – most all, that is. He does not expect to win them all over to his favor. Just as there is a police officer who would love to mount his head above their crackling fireplace for every fifth young revolutionist that attempts to dig their way into his operation, there will always be those who are too hard to please, and many more who totter in their loyalty between he and his abundance of political rivals.

Harlequin is not that way. The doctor has brought her along with him today, as he does in most cases, and already, she's proven to work well beyond the expectations he had set for her upon her acceptance as his personal aid. The silence she cloaks herself in is off putting to most, but, he thinks, it makes him enjoy her company all the more. So rarely does he find a person who has anything of intelligence to say, and even while the things she does say when she opens her mouth are never stupefying in their meaning, the lapses of quietness in between allow him enough time to listen to himself talk – oh, how he loves to hear himself talk. The time for talking to this fresh batch of faces, though, feels to be coming to an end, his mental list of designated issues to cover on this particular afternoon having reached its limit. Before he's finished with the last, however, something in the furthest row (if one could truly call them that) of nameless faces catches his attention as it glints in the sun. It's a sight he knows well by now, and its presence, despite offering a great deal of internal surprise, does not elicit so much as an outward flinch. The black object moves an inch, and he takes a mental note of where he is in relation to the woman he'd cast his thoughts out to just moments before. If he's being forced to dodge a bullet, it would simply be more convenient in the long run to ensure that she, too, makes it out unscathed. “And so -” he begins, but the remainder of the empty sentence is cut short. There is no transition from calm to action; he launches himself from his podium at his fellow revolutionist in the same moment that a trigger is pulled, and the screaming that follows immediately in its wake buries a needless warning of “Duck!”

He lands on top of her with a flinch, palms slamming into the wooden surface of their mobile “stage,” but the pain is easily forgotten. It would be hard to think on when the sound of a bullet whizzing past their heads explodes in his ear, missing them both by what must be a foot and a half. Pathetic aim, the raven-haired man mocks silently, mentally calculating that, had he not moved, it would have only been his arm to suffer any sort of casualty. Still, if there is a second bullet to be fired through the air to ensure a kill, or at the very least a hit, it's certainly taking its sweet time sounding out. The lull – although, what with the way the crowd disperses in general pandemonium, he doesn't quite think one could necessarily call it a “lull” – allows him the time to ponder just who is shooting at him, although this isn't the time nor the place for that. Once he and his assistant are gone and their safety secured, he'll examine the film of this whole mess and have the culprit terminated immediately. Nikki, despite being an odd character, certainly has his uses in times like these.

“Harlequin,” X hisses, shifting so that less of his body weight is forced upon her, but not sitting completely up in fear that their attacker has not yet left the premises. It is protocol, not concern, that dictates he ask her his question, seeing as she'd never been in the line of shot to begin with – although, he supposes tackling her to the ground might have caused her to sustain minor injuries of her own. “Are you unharmed?”