Futuristic The Editors | [Closed]

[0stinato]

Cassiopia

City of Entertainment, Media and Culture. With ties to the Capital city of Oriyon, Cassiopia boasts a healthy economy, popularity and a certain amount of debauchery. Its famed attractions being the culture-heavy Soso, also doubling as the city's coy red-light district, and Klokklsby, a district populated by those whose technology is rooted in the nineteenth century, it is no wonder the name of the city is a common word to hear.

The Editors occupy Cassiopia, a secret society that hovers its gaze upon the whole city. The society contains a handful of intelligent and influential people, each one occupying a different job. Law can only go so far, and The Editors keep the gears of the city turning smoothly. But - with the arrival of new and powerful technology in The Editors' hands, numerous questions lie before them: what to do with it? who to show it to? how will it change the world?

However, while The Editors are set to keep the city going, disruptions are occurring in Cassiopia's underbelly - its crime underbelly. Blackmail and huge threats put the professional criminals, hitmen and lawbreakers at risk. And, when you stand on the side of the criminals, it is impossible to stand up against blackmail. Slowly, the criminal world is becoming the toolbox of one member of the Editors.

 

[0stinato]

With ears to the ground and eyes to the sky, the Cassio-Capers Daily - one of Cassiopia's favourite news outlets - was never blind to the world. The Cassio-Capers Daily, referred to by many as simply 'the Capers,' was not simply a newspaper for Cassiopia though. It handled country-wide information and news, going to great lengths to produce content that was both eye-catching and informative. In its past, it had had plenty of attention as both a broadsheet and a tabloid, so much so that its identity was pegged somewhere between the two. It was, perhaps, louder than a broadsheet, but more aloof than a tabloid. At its helm stood the daughter of the daughter of the son of the cousin of The Capers' founder, and below that daughter were several names the paper and its readers had come to be familiar with.

Finley Arizona, Bernadette Horowitz and Hieronymus Hartley were the main trio an aspiring journalist had to compete with if he was to make his name in the Capers, as the three of them knew the paper as if it was their own child. The readers knew their names too, though for different things. Finley Arizona carried the financial news so strongly and confidently, a man unfamiliar with the goings-on of the economy might even find it interesting to read. Bernadette Horowitz focused on news outside of Cassiopia. Because of this, she had her own team, and she herself travelled widely around the country and even beyond. Conversely to Bernadette's role, Hieronymus Hartley's interests were very much centred on the city and its surrounding boroughs. He also had his own team, though was equally as enthusiastic as Bernadette; he would be eager to travel to wherever there might be something happening... as long as the event caught his interest.

If the event bored him, he would send someone else, not wanting to waste his time. However, it was not uncommon for his interests to extend beyond the world of journalism; imagination would come into play, and fantasy was not uncommon to discover in his writing. Several times, his news stories had been more 'story' than 'news' in the sense that the majority of the tale was either glorified or rife with hyperbole. As such, within the offices of the Capers, dotted around Cassiopia, he was referred to as "the Liar." The majority of the time, the title was derogatory, but it seemed Hieronymus took it in his stride, rather liking the infamy.

His main office was situated in the Capers' headquarters just outside the heart of the city. Bernadette's was situated here too, but Finley's was in another branch. It was this office whose door had a plaque which actually announced Hieronymus' infamous title:

Hieronymus "the Liar" Hartley

It did seem he was surprisingly proud of it. Either that, or he used it as a solemn reminder to avoid accidental fabrication... but people always assumed it was the former reason. With his reputation, people couldn't see the latter being true at all, not unless they were either naïve or new to the company. Of course, neither the daughter of the daughter of the son of the cousin of the original owner of the Capers, nor the Editor-in-Chief, appreciated Hieronymus' name at all, and, when it was beginning to be used, were incredibly firm that Hieronymus must not use the appropriated title in a public place. He must never write it in his articles, he must keep to the truth much closer, and he must not treat his title as a joke.

It was a fact Hieronymus had to reiterate to every employment candidate if he saw them. Because he'd meet them in his office, they'd have ample time to view his plaque, and so Hieronymus had to take measures to explain casually that, "it's a joke within the office, it doesn't really work outside here though. No one will know what I was talking about if I was to reference it..."

That usually did the trick.

"... And, of course, you'd be assigned to either Miss Horowitz, Mr. Arizona or myself if we were to bring you on board. You seem to be most enthusiastic about Cassiopia goings-on, hence why you were assigned me as your interviewer, since Cassiopia is my area... but we couldn't promise anything," Hieronymus tilted his head as he spoke to his interviewee, leaning on his desk as he did so. "Before I let you go, do you have any questions? For me, for the company, for... anything really. Except don't ask me for my autograph, you can't have that," he smiled warmly. "I'm joking. Any questions?"

His interviewee, done up in a suit jacket that Hieronymus would peg at costing - hmm - roughly £40, cleared his throat. Hieronymus raised his eyebrows expectantly, though the action was mostly hidden behind his quintessential mask. Today, as most other days, it was a simple one, black with a few sparkling studs around the eyes and temples. People would notice it and be rather distracted by it the first few times they met Hieronymus, though after a while it became a mundane look for him. The journalists he worked with hardly noticed anymore.

The interviewee asked about travel. Earlier in the interview, Hieronymus had made sure to question him on his ability to travel, but apparently the man wanted more.

"Where would you wish to be travelling to?" Hieronymus asked. "Within Cassiopia is very easy, since work-hours cab fares are paid for by the company, provided you don't exploit that system. So you can pretty much go anywhere in the city instantly."

"I mean, travel outside of the city. I'm originally from New Neptune, so I know New Neptune more than I know Cassiopia at the moment. But I'd be willing and happy to travel beyond the city."

Hieronymus kept his golden eyes on the man as he let a sigh out quietly. "As you initially stated, you'd be most interested in Cassiopia news. That's why I was assigned to see you today. If you were in my group, you'd certainly find yourself travelling around Cassiopia and rarely beyond. Of course, it's not unusual for some of my people to go over to Miss Horowitz, or vice-versa, or even to go to Mr. Arizona's aid. But if you were looking more at travel beyond Cassiopia, Miss Horowitz is the person you want to be in touch with."

"Right, yeah. How will I contact her?"

"I'll organise something for you, would that be simpler? Contact you once I know she has an opening and she can give you a second interview, if she accepts your CV and references," Hieronymus said, his warm smile completely gone and replaced with an empty smirk. When the interviewee agreed, Hieronymus ended the interview, punctuating his, "thank you for speaking to me today," by standing up. They shook hands, Hieronymus walked the man to the door, continued the empty, cold smile until the interviewee was out of sight, and finally returned to his desk with a heavy sigh.

Waste of his time. The guy obviously didn't know what he wanted to do, and wasted his time when the guy should have been speaking to Bernadette. Hieronymus let out a growl of derision as he reached for the copy of the man's CV. He stared at it, a half-snarl distorting his lips, before crumpling it and tossing it towards the bin on the far side of the room. As if powered by God, it fell in squarely and Hieronymus took this to be a sign; not even the high-and-mighty Lord wanted that man to be hired.

Would Hieronymus contact Bernadette? Yes - yes he would. Would he tell her of his interviewee's intention? Yes - yes he would. Would he organise - or let Bernadette organise - a second interview with the guy? No - no he would not.

He sat back in his seat and practiced the phone-call he'd make to the guy: "I'm afraid Miss Horowitz does not wish to see you, given that your area of expertise does not cross over with hers. Yes, yes, very sorry, very tragic. Oh, and sir? Your jacket's a cheap piece of tat, get a new one."

 

[Osthavula]

Klokklsby, the district was as surreal as the Soso area, people dressed in period clothing and dispose of the ordinary wear. Old brick style buildings which were built recently, brassy instruments that were made in modern times, people took extra effort to make sure this place looked and felt like another place, another time. For many, for the tourists, Klokklsby just stopped at that.

But for Ruth Carlyle and her family, it meant so much more. One, two turn of the wrist, she put down the screwdriver in her hand and inspected the device in her hand. Then, as she flicked the switch beside the password, the device turned its rings and shells like planets and revealed a compartment within. It closed the same way when she flicked the switch again. Rather satisfied with it, Ruth looked up to her shop. The rays of sunlight came comfortably through the many window panes, making the brass and gold shone with a bright aura, while the wood floor and walls warmed and reddened. She stood a moment just to take in the scene. There were only a few people out on the street since most people were at work. It was all very serene and quiet.

The bright light perhaps dazed her, that she didn't see what the customer who went in the door was like. After the bell at the door toll, then she noticed something unusual. A coat of blue and white. Then it was his hand, metallic. A shelled metallic arm. Ruth Carlyle scowled and hissed, literally, in the manner of a cat. The customer jumped, for a moment bewildered at what was happening.

"Is this how you treat a customer?" The boy frowned back. Well, he wasn't that young, about the same age as Ruth herself, but his face still has it's boyish feel to it. His hair was part mid-way and it fell on the side of his face, in the sunlight appeared to be light brown. Then his shirt, a thin black t-shirt inside the white and blue coat, and his white trousers made him painfully obvious in the victorian-esque shop here. Now, he stared at Ruth uncomfortably. Not that he didn't notice the hostility of people's gazes towards him on the road, but to be so rudely treated in such close distance specifically was different.

"What's a capital city man doing here?" Ruth asked back, pulling her device and shove it under the counter, her hair flew in her action. "We don't welcome people like you."

"What did I do?"

"Well, you didn't even try fitting in. And the rest of it, you can ask your people and police. What's your story? Got lost? Looking for a revolutionary cause?"

"I am just trying to ... "

He stood there gaping his mouth, seemingly angry but at a loss for word. He looked at the brunette grabbing all her tools in a box, and after a while he approached closer, feeling unjustly accused. But a part of him did accept her claim.

"Very well. " He went close in to whisper. "I... Where can I find a sketchy person? Like, people who might know the underhand of things?"

"And what makes you think we know?" Ruth's stares were increasingly scary. She turned away, the oil-stained cloth in her hand nearly slapped on his face.

"Of course not, like, but..." Something seemed to have come back to his mind, what seemed to have left him temporarily with Ruth's words. "I won't talk, and I can pay. I'm just looking for someone that would know the strings. "

She looked at him and flinched away when his mechanical hand was reaching for her arm. "Back off with you rubbish gadgets! Just look for a reporter, will you? And stop wearing that hideous jacket, you'll get shot if you keep going."

"There is the police..."

"By the police."

"... Alright. " The boy raised his hand. "Where can I get one? Your clothing... Ah." He noticed why she flinched again and blushed while he looked away. "I'm not, looking at there... Just..."

"Outside turn left the third shop, now go!" Ruth grabbed a device behind her, a ticking clock with one sharp beak and two metal legs and two sharp metal wings.

"I will go..." The boy turned away, fast walking through the door and secured the door close behind him. Then it was back to Ruth staring at the windows, noticing the cloth was still in her hand and started polishing the cuckoo clock.

 

[0stinato]

Trains were awful. Pricey, stinking and over-saturated by human body-heat. Look there, one man dozing off to sleep, arms folded across his chest, shirt pulled taught against his underarm sweat patches. And in the next car over, a baby was weeping. At least this was the place to get off.

As far as it went, Lull "Skullface" Lyster - so named because of his facial tattoo of the features of a skull - kept his complaints to himself. The train was as uncomfortable as it was because it was necessary. All necessary things were unhappy things. To stay healthy, a human body had to take in certain amounts of consumables, certain amounts of protein, dairy, carbohydrates, vegetables. Lull liked some of those things more than others, but it was the ones he didn't like that were the chore to have. And when the body was done with food, another necessary action had to be taken, one that didn't even bear thinking about, least not on the stairs out of the station. An involuntary shudder rippled through the body of the man as he climbed slowly away from the carriage of sweat and breath that was the train car.

He was back in Cassiopia, and couldn't tell if he was glad about that or not. Seeing as where he'd just been was the capital, a place even lousier with people, perhaps Cassiopia wasn't bad, comparatively speaking. If anything, there was a comfort to be found in Cassiopia; the comfort of home.

Lull's walk home took him, step by step, second by second, away from what he'd done in Oriyon. If any everyman was to glance at Lull's face, or even engage him in conversation, they'd be speaking to a rather focused albeit tired man. Most likely, he'd comment on his own exhaustion, and humour his conversational partner while they reiterated their own stories of tiredness, and would carry on the conversation, fully aware it was a dull, boring, go-nowhere exercise to do so.

The last thing they'd think was he'd killed someone.

That was what the journey to Oriyon had been for. The details of the person who'd had a hit placed on them Lull hadn't bothered to read in the dossier. All he knew was it was a female. He knew the gender, occupation and where to find them, and the most appropriate time to kill them. As far as Lull was concerned, he didn't need to know anymore.

So at a quarter to one, he'd stepped onto the high-speed train to Oriyon, got off at the third stop in the city circuit, walked amongst the people for twenty-five minutes, even stopping to buy cigarettes, and stopping again to check out the huge city library, before heading to an apartment complex.

The lady worked as a nanny, which was convenient. She would be found dead nowhere near her own home. Lull had not entered the complex, but hung around outside, beyond the reach of camera lenses, and waited. As soon as she came in sight, he acted, casually withdrawing a silenced short pistol from his thigh - through a specially-crafted release in his trousers - and shooting. One - two - three - four to the chest, in the space of two seconds. When she fell, he was already gone, blending back in with the crowd in Oriyon.

That had occurred less than an hour ago, yet Lull had already almost forgotten it. The dire train was much more in the forefront of his memory as he trudged through Cassiopia, taking his usual route. Why did people have to... have to... exist? And get in his way?

As he walked, he kept a careful eye on the time. It was policy to report a done job exactly an hour after it was completed. He checked his phone, coming to a stop to focus. Lois had called, yet the vibration of her call had gone unnoticed - apparently, the inside pocket of his jacket was not a good place for him to feel a vibrating phone.

He called her back, and it took a few seconds, but she answered.

"Oh, hi, I phoned a little while ago. I guess you didn't get it."

"I didn't. What did you want?"

"I just wanted to say, or, ask, if I could go to Klokklsby, but I didn't get through to you so I just headed out myself. I'm in Klokklsby now, but it's okay, I'm wearing that cardigan with the netting, and the hat with the netting. I shouldn't get bullied... I hope not..." she sounded distracted.

But Lois' attire was the least of Lull's worries. His hand tightened around the phone and even his jaw tensed. "I did tell you to tell me if you were going somewhere before you went."

"I tried..." came the pathetic whine.

"No no no no no, if you don't get hold of me, you don't go, it's simple as that. How the hell did you get out there anyway? Who took you? Did you use public transport?"

"I got a cab, it was fine."

A cab. Expensive and dangerous for a woman alone. "Lois, listen to me, you don't go if I don't say it's okay. Do you understand me? And cabs are really fucking expensive, you know that?"

"Wasn't that much, only, like £20, it was fine."

"Twenty--" Lull forced his mouth to close as he bit back a curse. "I want you home by four, you understand me? Lois?"

"That's only an hour!"

"No," Lull said. "That's irrelevant. Four, Lois. Four. Get that fucking cab back, who cares about the fucking money."

"Okay, that's fine, I can do that..." she was clearly not understanding his sarcasm. Lull hung up without saying goodbye, cursed through gritted teeth and carried on his way, glaring at nothing. Was she stupid? Was she fucking stupid?

 

[Osthavula]

The silver doorbell shook again, this time gently. A woman stepped through the door, the jewels in her hairpin and her dress, along with the dark sequins, all twinkled like stars under the day sky. Her hair was curled extensively, in the manner of people in Soso. "Good afternoon. "She greeted. Her face was powdered with blush, and her lipstick dark, but they didn't mask her timidness.

"Lorretta! "Ruth circled the counter to embrace her. "It's so good to see you! Ah, that stupid brother of mine is not here yet. "

"It is fine." Loretta smiled and put her just-as-jewelled handbag on the counter. "I just thought I should come by. Your mother is currently on stage and they don't need me there."

"How's the show? Was it full?" Ruth turned on the tap and the water boiler, the boiler screeched puffs of steam into the room. From the rack, she took two porcelain cups and put it in front of Lorretta. Which Lorretta took happily and selected a herbal tea bag to put in.

"It was full. Some of them sneak out of work, and even the private seats were full. "

"How about backstage?"

"Everyone was there. Well, Becky even brought extra. "

"Davidson?"

"You know that." The theatre girl chuckled. "How about you? The shop seems empty."

"Well, we don't have girls singing or taking off their stockings here. Just a person from the capital."

"Oriyon? You don't think...?"

"Well, for someone trying to snoop, he is very careless. " Ruth put an earl grey tea bag in hers and dropped two sugar cubes, started stirring impatiently. "He straight up asks me who knows information. Investigating, perhaps?"

"That is strange. "

"I told him to find a journalist."

"You didn't!" Hearing that, Lorretta gasped. At first, Ruth didn't understand why she reacted this way. Then as the gears in her head started spinning, she understood who it might lead to and she too gasped, holding her head for the realization. There is one journalist in this area, one that would probably cause more trouble than good. One who much prefer talking than not talking, and writing than not writing. The speaker of all things... All things.

"Oh, Lorretta... I hope not."


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"Excuse me."

Talon bought himself a dark jacket and a scarf. He did peruse all that is there in the shop, but there are very few that he is comfortable to wear. Had he stay longer, the shop owner will give him a floral top hat for free. But he has yet to find a journalist, and the alley didn't help with his sense of direction. In confusion, he stopped a man who was beside him. He wore a blue fedora and suit, but it was indeed the most home-felt modern dress to Talon. It wasn't before the stranger turned that he saw his badge. Cassiopia's guards.

"Yes?" The guard smiled. He honestly looked too dressed up and casual to be a guard, but his badge couldn't lie. Talon gulped in nervousness.

"Good day, Sir. I want to find the local journalists here, where can I go?"

"That will be close to the train station. Go there, walk to the main street and all the way to the right. Are you a visitor? You can call for one of the cabs if you want to be faster and less tired. "

"Thank you. And, uh, also..."

"Hm?"

"Do I look too much like a visitor?"

Talon pulled his new coat uncomfortably, and only then he noticed the price tag was still hanging on the inside. The guard smiled, and pull out a card from inside his ironed suit jacket. "Feeling self-conscious, yes? It is hard for the outsider to act local, but it is a tourist place and most people understand. If you get in any trouble, just ring up the police hall and ask for Carlyle. "

"Carlyle. "

"Yes. My name is Norberto Carlyle. Just tell them that and they should help. "

"Okay. Thank you."

"No problem."

Norberto turned and walked away, and even in his walk, it was hard to believe he was the police. Talon turned the other way and followed the advice, to the main street, and called for a taxi.

"Where to?"

"Em, I wish to find a journalist."

"The capers?"

"...Yea, the ... capers."

The name of the place was a little bizarre, but the taxi drove smoothly for him to the building. Out the window, he saw the people in bustles, in top hats, even some with the exaggerated renaissance wig. It was no comfort zone for him. But slowly he understood the charm. Cassiopeia was a different world, a dreamland. One could easily forget where they are from. Reading the card Norberto gave (who still use calling card nowadays?), he tucked it in his pocket and threw out the piece of newspaper the shop owner stuffed in the coat.

 

[0stinato]

As if powered by clockwork, whenever someone walked through the doors of any Capers' building, the receptionists would look up and one of them would greet the fellow with a, "Good morning/afternoon/evening! Welcome to the Cassio-Capers Daily office, how can we help you?" Today, at the front desk of the main headquarters, the same thing happened, only the usual greeting was graced by a rather unfortunate nasal addition.

"Good afternoon, welcome to the Cassio-Capers Daily main office, how can we help you?" said she, rising from her seat. Her associates, either side of her, offered their smiles before going back to their respective tasks. Behind them, the name of the paper glinted, large metal letters reflecting the light. Once one walked in, there was no mistaking where one was. The name of the paper was everywhere, if one cared to look. By the coffee machine - placed there for clients - was a stack of coasters. "C C D" adorned them. It was a proud paper but, as the daughter of the... etc, said, "Hopefully not arrogant."

Poor lady never knew herself and was constantly paranoid about it. Unfortunately, she got different feedback from the two who served at the main headquarters. One said it "could be toned down a bit," while the other pushed that "it's necessary to be proud of your brand."

No prizes for guessing who said what.

The receptionist said her greetings to a young man who arrived, and, once given the information that he wanted to speak to a journalist about Cassiopia, tilted her head, causing curled locks of a burnished and uncomfortable redness to tremble above her shoulders. Her hairstyle did nothing for her, and only served to accentuate the length of her neck.

"A journalist. Usually, people come because they have something they want to give to our journalists. You have no appointment, so I will have to make an enquiry. You would be best suited to speak to Mr. Hartley, he is the head of the news about Cassiopia. Though, as I say, you have no appointment. According to his schedule, he is supposedly free at this point, but I will have to enquire. Please, may I see some identification before I contact him?" she was presented with some, which satisfied her, and she noted down the important details:
Talon Marlow, 23, Researcher from Oriyon.

"Please, have a seat, this won't take a minute. I'm sure you understand if he cannot see you."

The receptionist attacked the phone with her nails and, within a few taps on the touchscreen, was dialling directly through to Hieronymus. Going through his PA would be a goose-chase, hence why this system existed. In reality, Hieronymus was the last person who knew his own schedule. His PA and the main receptionists had it on file (his PA practically memorised each week as it came) but Hieronymus did nothing of the sort.

"Yes? What is't?"

"Mr. Hartley," the receptionist, despite having the issue of an irritating voice, was always respectful. Never a bad word, nor a step out of line. "There is a young man from the capital at reception wishing to speak to a journalist about Cassiopia. I would take it that you would be the one to speak to him."

The conversation carried on, the receptionist pausing while listening to the journalist, and answering his queries. Yes, it seemed his want to speak to a journalist was for occupational reasons, yes, she was sure the young man would understand if there were news items that shouldn't be talked about. She reiterated Talon's information over the phone, thanked the journalist on the other end of the line, hung up, and exited the desk.

"If you would care to follow me, I will take you up there. It can be a bit of a maze with the elevators, and I'd hate for someone to get lost," she smiled at him and turned on her heel, hopping nimbly into the elevator despite her heels. From the elevator to Hieronymus' office, five minutes was spent travelling. The receptionist informed Hieronymus' PA, and left, leaving Talon in the PA's hands.

"Right this way then," the PA said, pushing aside a pile of paper. He led Talon the last little way and knocked on Hieronymus' door, opening it as he spoke. "Mr. Hartley, the visitor is here to see you."

Hieronymus, stood up behind his desk, offered a half-smile and a raised eyebrow at the new face.

"Come on in, Mr. Marlow," he said. "Let's talk."

 

[Osthavula]

As soon as he arrived in "Capers", things felt different. The building is modern, and although some do still dressed extravagant, the manner of the workers was of that he familiar with in Oriyon. Systematic, efficient, and sometimes in itself feel superficial. In the five minute travel, Talon felt calmed enough to threw behind the memory of Klokklsby.

That is until he saw what was on Hieronymus's door.

Hieronymus "the Liar" Hartley

That was the plaque on the door, so proudly represented. It wasn't just out of Oriyon's practice, it exceeded what he expect of normal human being. Would someone willingly brandish the name as the liar? After he went in, the journalist, or who he thought to be the one, wore a mask as if this was a theatrical play. Accompanied by his golden eyes and a rather peculiar aura, this man was no ordinary office worker.

"Come on in, Mr. Marlow. Let's talk."

At least he sounded professional for now.

Talon pulled the chair and allowed himself to sit down. Then another look, he wasn't sure this was a good idea anymore.

For one, he only judged from a few shreds of evidence that his father's execution was tied to Cassiopia's people. Exactly who? Exactly how? He couldn't tell, that's why he is here to consult a journalist who would know the working of things. But how can he be sure that they will be on his side?Who gave him the idea anyway? The nasty shopkeeper girl? Why is he even here?

Then, if anyone found out what he was going to do, what trouble will he get in? It was too late to regret that he hadn't tried too hard in his life, and now he has no one, nothing left behind. Just unanswered questions.

He took another look at the masked man.

"Mr Hartly." He began. "I'd like your help in investigating something. Activities in Cassiopia that may lead to Oriyon eventually, up to the court."

"An Orell Marlow, sir. "

Talon gulped again.

"Surely you have heard of him?"

 

[0stinato]

From a rather unsurprising-looking young man came forth facts of such weight that Hieronymus was forced to sit down. Orell Marlow - yes, the name was important. But from where was it important? Hieronymus leaned forward on his desk, eyes fixed on Talon's. The way he said the name, with such certainty and such force, such familiarity, such normality. This told Hieronymus two things: most likely, this Talon Marlow was related to the subject in question, Orell Marlow, and that this young man was no stranger to asking such questions. Despite his nerves - which were probably a product of the situation - he had some degree of confidence to even suggest that one of the top voices in the Capers would... help investigate.

He rolled the forename around in his mind, curious about it, and found he was drawn to the left side of the room. The more he chased the thought, the more he suspected he finally worked out what significance Orell Marlow held.

Without a word, he stood up and walked to one of the many bookcases in his office. Files, cardboard backs facing outwards with multiple people's handwriting on the spines, decorated the one he stood in front of. He withdrew one, his back to Talon, and opened it, scanning his eyes across the first page within.

"So your investigation," he said, "sounds of personal interest to you. And your mention of court complicates matters a lot."

He read as he spoke, re-familiarising himself with the article he never published, the information he never released, one of the few stories that would never see life outside of its cardboard prison. Orell Marlow - the Messenger.

"The problem is, I don't know who you are, and what you want. From what I've been told, your name is Talon Marlow and you are from Oriyon. I have nothing else to go on," Hieronymus slid the file back neatly, tilting his head when he was satisfied the shelf looked like it was never touched. He returned to his seat, eyes serious and posture relaxed. "If you wanted to access anything as serious-sounding as you are suggesting, I would need to be presented with a warrant, proof of your identity, and proof you are legally allowed to perform this... investigation you are conducting. You seem honest, I wouldn't assume you are conducting anything without consent from both the law, and perhaps under the advice of a lawyer... though I cannot be sure. You understand my predicament, I assume. Even if I knew anything about Orell Marlow, who from what I gather must be related to you, I couldn't legally release it to you, even if I wanted to."

He sighed.

"I don't recognise the name too closely, and it's certainly not a name one would forget in a hurry. I do have methods of finding things out, of course. That is what a journalist does, and that is what I do. Only acting without legal terms is complicated, and I am in no hurry to jeopardise my position... I don't simply mean, I am afraid of losing my position in the Capers. No - acting without legal terms could land us both in jail, depending on what we - you - are investigating. But; if you did acquire all the necessary documents I'd need to see, including permission from the Capers, I'd be obliged to help you. You've come from the capital to Cassiopia, to my land. I will give you praise for coming to the right person, I do make an intrinsic effort to know every inch of this city.

"We can make this simple on ourselves; if you tell me what you're comfortable with revealing about Orell Marlow and your investigation, Mr. Marlow, I'll pledge my support to you the instant I am able to. If something is going on in my city, I want to know what it is."

He gave a playful smile to Talon.

The cogs of his mind were racing though. Yes - the name Orell was alien to him, and he'd been truthful to the core that he didn't recognise the name. If Talon had said 'the Messenger' though... that was something Hieronymus did know about. Everything he knew was shrouded in a veil of discomfort and unhappy thought; the whispers of awful action were brought to his attention by some of his team. How they knew about it, Hieronymus didn't know. But, upon uncovering the bare minimum information, he set out to discover more. It sounded sinister, it sounded deadly and terrifying. But his exploration was short-lived. The story - that story in particular - was to never be published, by order of... someone who wished to remain anonymous. But the Capers' daughter of the daughter... etc, and the Editor-in-Chief listened, and warned Hieronymus away from it.

By that time, Hieronymus had already contacted... someone. Someone who delivered on his promise and delivered Hieronymus a discrete folder containing bountiful scraps of information on the Messenger. Hieronymus, aware he could no longer pay this person for their information out of the Capers' pocket, paid out of his own, resentfully and regretfully. The payment was delivered and Hieronymus was left with nothing but a folder full of silent shouts, and a provider with no name.

Back in his office, in the real world, Hieronymus readied a fountain pen and twisted it around his fingers, "Only what you're comfortable with giving, Mr. Marlow," he said. "We'll work on it from there."

 

[0stinato]

Having thirty-five minutes to kill before she was set to call a taxi to take her home, Lois tottered around Klokklsby, gazing with eyes of a childish sheen at the intricacies of the architecture of each building. She took particular interest in the shops - that was what she was here for, after all - because they were all so different. Some of them had displays in the windows, while some were cubby-holes, accessible only by traversing a side-street and discovering the door. There seemed to be no two doors the same. And the ground was difficult for her in places due to its cobbled nature, so she stuck mostly to the pavements, dodging people.

Was it her imagination, or were they scowling at her? She was sure they were, and her face quickly reddened until she realised why - they'd all witnessed her talking on the phone, on the phone, of all things! And it was still glued into her left hand as she walked, hanging her leather handbag off the crook of her elbow. As soon as she realised, she stuffed her phone clumsily into her bag, offering the people around a sheepish grin. None of them seemed to be understanding. And why would they be, it was government technology. They were probably afraid it'd brainwash them if they got too close.

Even her attire wasn't up to their standards, she suspected. For one thing, the make-up on her face was clearly not contemporary to the era these people were trying to convey. So that was a big problem. Her dress was quite passable, she thought, and, paired with the cardigan with ruffled cuffs, she was confident in her top-half. Hat seemed okay too, perhaps a bit... worn. It was a charity-shop pickup, so she had no idea if it was Klokklsby-made. It probably wasn't.

Partly to get out of the sea of judgemental faces, but mostly because she spotted a beautiful... something in a window that she wanted to look closer at, she hopped her way into a store without looking at the name. Immediately, she began to inspect the window object, without even looking around. It seemed to be a pocketwatch, at second-glance, but there was something different about it. She narrowed her eyes, inching closer, entranced almost, but still couldn't tell what it was.

So Lois looked up for help.

She spotted two ladies at the counter talking. They were dressed like the people wandering purposefully outside, all different shades of browns, blacks, some gold here and there. In her none-too-period shoes, make-up and shy smile, she felt a little out of place... but what's the worst that could happen? At least this time she didn't have her phone out. No, that was hidden within the thick sides of her leather handbag. And that handbag was quite convincing, she told herself.

"What is this? In the window here? I saw it from outside, I know it's a clock. But it doesn't look ordinary, what is it?" she said, unaware of how much like a child she sounded. If Lull was here, he'd have pointed it out for sure. "I've not been in this shop before, it's nice. I guess you make all this yourself, you must be very clever. I couldn't do that, my hands don't do what I tell them to sometimes."

She smiled, slipping her handbag onto her other elbow.

 

[Osthavula]

Talon's eyebrow furrowed as he heard Hieronymus explaining what he required. More and more, he saw this as a hopeless feat and the wrong route, as his father would call it. He thought for a good while, in a manner people his age usually won't do, and took off his visitor card to place it on the journalist's desk. Then he took out his wallet --- leather and years-worn --- and took from it a shiny card with his photo on it. He placed it next to his visitor card, looked at the masked man solemnly and nervously. He posed like a stage actor before one must recite a line.

"I must confess, Mr Hartly, that if you expect an investigation through the regular law procedure I have to stop wasting your time. I am here in suspect of matters that law did not work as it was supposed to. To protect the good, execute judgement and to weed out the corrupt in our society. That, is what my father and I believe what the law should do, but the law cannot detect its own flaws. Not this time."

With his index and middle finger, he slid the card a bit further, pointing on his name. His photo looked younger, happier. Not the sullen he had on now.

"My father, Orell Marlow, is a promising lawyer and judge of the high court. I've no doubt he made a lot of enemies and he had kept me in the shadow, to protect me. So when things had gone irregular there was nothing I can do."

His breathing went irregular too, like pressing an animal from running under his chest. Talon took a deeper breath, looked at Hieronymus for one more time, then took out from his jacket a piece of paper --- grey, distinctive paper. Newspaper, but couldn't have been too old. The picture of the elderly man arrested was in colour and the guards around him in such number that you'd thought he was highly dangerous.

"I grew up in Oriyon, always had been. But when I was organizing his remaining documents, a lot of it is Cassiopia related. That struck me as odd. Not only that, he was executed, as the newspaper said, of a high sum of money being illegally kept and manslaughter to keep his record silent. He is a man of strict habit and strict moral, now you tell me, why would he even need the money and why he would have the need to keep in close contact with Cassiopia? I suspect someone is providing him information. He had been found, and someone pressed the charges on him. Someone in Cassiopia, and forgive me saying this, but in Oriyon we all know that many people in Cassiopia are disgruntled of the capital, with the government and the law."

Saying that much in one go almost took his breath out of him. He had kept it in him for long. He didn't know who to trust, and he realized it was a great risk to tell it all, but he had no one. Being on his own, trying to figure it all out, and putting his life on the line, these all weren't in the requirement of his job. He was never taught how to handle matters like these, and whoever his father work with Talon reckoned they abandoned him. Otherwise... Why was his father left with such disgrace and was executed so naturally with zero objection?

"Now, I have said much, Mr Hartly. If you will not go with the case, I would rely on your discretion and carry on alone. If someone marked me as a target to kill, the blood shall be on you since I never disclose it to anyone else. But, if you are willing to help me, to look into the matter and explain how these data all relate...You have my utmost gratitude and two third of my inheritance. It's a large sum, and I'll never use them."

"I'm a simple man, like my father."

His throat gave way, cracked due to dryness. The young man swallowed, embarrassed, but refused to tear his gaze away from Hieronymus Hartly. Afterall, all his remaining hope lied here, with the man titled "liar" on his office plaque.

 

[Osthavula]

Well, Ruth did not need Lois to speak up to notice her looking at the merchandise and coming into the shop. One two customers entered before Lois, but it was obvious who is not a local of Klokklsby. But, seeing that she actually took an interest, Ruth only impatiently straightened her back and was about to speak...

"Ruth." Lorretta pressed Ruth's hand as if to remind her.

"Right." Ruth took a pause, she must have seemed too honestly grumpy for Lorretta to remind her. Now she talked in a volume lower than she would have talked. "Welcome to Credne's Emporium. First of all, thank you for the... Compliment. I believe you too have your craft, and mine is clever handwork for a living. Secondly, I believe you are talking about our pocket watches which are made to request. We personally craft all of our items."

Then she slid the lock switch underneath the counter and opened the compartment where a small session of glass cabinet was placed. Through the thick coloured glass one could see her leather gloved hand took out another pocket watch. This one had the ornament of celestial bodies, unlike the one in the window which were of machinery drawings. The common thing is the chain, and all the important parts were all there, the transparent clock surface, the metal body which concealed the insides, and turning clock hands --- this one is even prettier than the one displayed in the windows, a hollowed gravings clock hands linking to a silvery star.

"These pocket watches are designed for travelling. So you have very basic things, small portable blades." Ruth took the end of the chain and used the hook to hook the blade out. "Like a compact knife. Then, our customers favourite. You must have noticed that it is a little thicker than normal pocket watch. You won't see the lines from afar, and the decoration masked it. But..."

She turned the patterned ring outside of the clock face and flipped it around, now slid the back slap upwards, in the end, tugged the metal chain. The back of the watch flipped open.

"Lo, secret compartment. It's not enough for a lighter, but coins, fare for transport, photographs, folded maps. We don't recommend anything melts like a chocolate or mint, but even if you store liquid it won't leak or damage the watch. The way to open them is customed since we don't want all of our customers to learn to open each other's watches, but the compartment is the same. "

Her thumb nimbly closed the back, pushed back the piece that was slid out, and her index turned the ring. It now looked like just a thicker, but heavily decorated pocket watch. Nothing out of the ordinary, and can pass to be any custom-engraved pocket watches in shops of Klokklsby.

"And because it is custom-made it takes usually a few days to a week to make if you order it. Cheaper if you use brass instead of silver and gold, but I personally recommend brass. Too easily stolen if it looks too expensive. If you want to just store photo, we can make the behind to be glass or crystal as well. "

When she was explaining her product to a customer, all her worse attitude was gone and she had her hand on her waist, quite proudly presenting the watch to Lois. On her side, Lorretta was smiling like a painting, and slid her lace sleeve on top, revealing a silver watch on her pale wrist. Her voice was quiet, calming, comparing to Ruth's more energetic voice hers was almost drowsy.

"I have something of similar design too. " She said to Lois. "I can't recommend Ruth enough, she is the best crafts smith you can find in this area. "

 

[0stinato]

Was that... a threat?

It seemed as though, in one phrase Talon said, he was threatening Hieronymus. Diligently taking notes, his eyes narrowed as he realised what the young man was insinuating... so distracted was he by the epiphany that he found himself unable to spell 'government.' The mistakes got under his skin, accompanied by the threat, and he looked up only after carefully printing that tricksy word correctly. He gave a smile, one much, much different to the one he'd offered mere minutes ago.

"You operate this investigation under the radar, your position is delicate. I will make this very clear to you now, as you don't seem to have understood me the first time; I cannot act outside the law. Given your investigation does not adhere to common laws, nor many other moral codes I will be unable to assist you... which I find a shame, because I certainly would have the capability to be useful. Plus, such an interesting thread in the world..."

Hieronymus raised his hand, index finger and thumb seeming to caress some invisible thing stuck in the air.

"...yet I cannot pull it."

And his hand lowered back to the desk. For a few seconds, his eyes focused on nothing - it pained him to let something like this go. An opportunity for... for fun, for enjoyment, for-- but no, no, certainly not.

His youth was for messing around and taking risks. To an extent, his adult life had been the same deal... but that was until Chauntecleer came into it. A fragile boy, growing into something that resembled Hieronymus' bad traits more than his good; that was what that boy was becoming. There was no choice of pulling this thread in the world, not when it could disrupt so much... his life, and the life of his son.

"Mr. Marlow," he eventually said. "I will not use up any more of your time. Keep your investigation, keep your father's inheritance. It's a true tale of woe you've told me this day - my condolences by the way - though I cannot help you. I advise you pursue your investigation elsewhere and, as a payment of sorts for the story you've told, I won't make a move to inform any law enforcement of your... below-table investigation."

His smile melted a few seconds later, his eyes locked on Talon's.

"And if you truly believe your blood would be on my hands, you are sorely mistaken. I am merely conducting an interview, doing my job within ethical means, and asking you for the necessary paperwork to do my duty as a citizen and weed out corruption in the world, within the law. I am not the one trying to make illegal dealings with journalists, nor the one standing up against the whole jurisdiction system of this country, alone. If this investigation ends badly for you, it is your own causing. I don't say this to protect myself; I tell this to you because this is what you are. Alone. I warn you now; you're an intelligent child, don't waste your life when there are other methods."

Hieronymus stood taking up his notebook and pen. The two objects accompanied him as he moved to the door, which he opened while looking at Talon.

The cheerful smile returned beneath the mask, "Thank you for the tale, Mr. Marlow. I'll keep it safe."

 

[0stinato]

A lot of what Ruth was saying Lois didn't really understand, but a lot of it made sense. Blades made small and discrete for travelling - spooky, anyone could be carrying one! - and every pocketwatch of the sort she had taken an interest in opening its own way. Surely, in order to manufacture such a watch, even if each one was made-to-order, it would require a huge amount of variables for combinations... but this is not the thought that crossed Lois' mind. Far from it, she was considering what she'd get in her own one.

Lois was a girl who never knew where the edge was, where the boundary was. She had crossed it today, and been harshly scolded for crossing such a line by Lull. But the thought and memory was already long gone about that. But the watch demonstrated another flaw she had alongside this one; she was awful at talking herself into things. By simply imaging what she might want in her watch, she was assuming she'd get it... this, coupled with the lack of boundary, she was already wondering if she had enough on her card to pay for it.

Ah, but, it turns out boundaries existed at least somewhere in Lois' peripheral, for she found herself wondering the cost of a pocketwatch in brass only. Gold and silver might be too expensive...

"So, like, let's say... I think you talked me into it, I really like it. But I'd not want a gold one, that's too precious, I'm not as good with my hands as you clearly are... I mean if you can make all this, you must be, like, really used to intricate things."

Lois glanced around, taking in the rest of the shop once again, but her eye was not drawn by anything other than the watch. Credne's Emporium... she'd have to write that down somewhere. If she was making an order, she'd have to find the place again. Though she doubted she'd simply walk past the window without realising it was the same shop when she next made the trip into Klokklsby; if it had caught her eye the first time, it would continue to catch her eye the rest of the time.

"So can I make an order for one of these? But I'd not want to hide anything in it, could I get one with a picture in it? Or somewhere to put a picture? In brass probably, I don't want it to be too expensive. Can I order one please? How much would it be? You said it'd be a few days too... would I have to come back and get it?" she laughed, "That isn't a problem, I can have my brother bring me here next time to pick it up. How much is it?"

Even when her own voice mentioned her brother, her brain failed to engage with the concept of him, with the figure of him and his mind. Her entire life was distracted by the glimmer of the watch, distracted by the novelty of it. It was pretty, and that's all Lois really knew.

 

[Osthavula]

Talon watched quietly, as Hieronymus rejected his offer. He didn't say a thing when his expression changed, nor when his hand lowered as if a thread was let away. He may have been too excited when he said 'blood on your hand', for one. In his defence, he knew his life was on the line, whoever did away his father life will do his life easily. If only his disappointment weren't directed at himself, at him believing for a very brief second it would work, and he will finally have someone at his aid. The only thing to do, though, was to stand up and looked straight at Hieronymus, and holding his jacket, to bow deeply in the manner he knew Klokklsby people do.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Hartly. In mine and also my dear father's behalf..."

He looked up, straight into his eyes.

"We thank you deeply for willing to keep it silent."

Why did he mention his father again? It felt genuine and right at the moment, but it choked his throat up fast and wet his lashes. He must continue this investigating alone, and though his father would much prefer he to just ignore it all and go back to his job and live his life in the unknow, Talon cannot do. Orell, in his wordless and strict self, was all that he got.

He should say farewell, but his voice wouldn't start. Instead, his took his ID, nodded his head towards the journalist as a goodbye and left the office, wiping his tears and stopped the rest once he was outside the door. He felt he was a child again, like a boy. Just like when he wasn't allowed to tell his father a proper goodbye. Just like when he wasn't allowed a funeral for his own safety.

Just like when he saw the one news celebrating his execution in front of the television, people in talk shows cheering for it, protestors outside the law court who were happy to see it done...

Talon couldn't remember how he got out from Capers, nor how and where he walked. He was back in the streets of Klokklsby, and the surrounding still felt like a dream. A foreign place, and foreign people. Somewhere, his father's enemy was here.

But, where?

He stood like a lost child, and he didn't recognize any of the places. Then, after a long while (with many stares from the people), he remembered and took out the card. And he took out his phone to dial.

Ring.

"Yes, Klokklsby Police Station. "

"Hello, can I just ask how can I get to a hotel from..."

He looked on the side.

"The Silverlake Lodge?"

"That's the hostel, sir."

"Oh... Em, thank you. "

"No problem, sir. "

He hung up the phone. Now he not only felt like a child, he also felt like a child who's been banged on his head upside down in his infant time. He checked the hostel and booked for a week, and spent the rest of his time in his room doing nothing but lying on the bed.

 

[Osthavula]

"45 pounds. I promise you what you get will be worth that price and then some. " The brunette shopkeeper was going to put the sample watch back, but noticing Lois's eyes couldn't leave it she left it on the counter for her to admire. "Of course, there are ways to lower the price down, if you want. Many of our customers would provide a metal item which we can recycle, then..."

She pressed the buttons on her calculator. Not a small, digital calculator, of course, that'll be absurd. This thing was as big as the smallest typewriter one could make, and the digits showed in the little round windows of the machine turned with satisfying metallic clicking sound within. It first showed "4" and "5", then the first digit turned again, stopping at "0". Ruth smiled at Lois, seemed to be waiting for her reply.

"Wait, Ruth, darling." Lorretta spoke, pointing at the watch. "The blades."

"Ah yes. " She widened her eyes and tapped the machine again. "If you rid the blades, that's another fiver off. "

The machine clicked again, this time the second digit rotated to show "3", and the first digit "5".

"How's that? A pocket watch with a window at the back, perhaps with a frame too? Write down your preferred patterns and name, and pick it up anytime after four days when the shop is open. You won't get a fairer price, ask around. "

It was true. The Carlyles made just enough money to make a profit, and with the idea that some of their product should remain affordable their price was the best bargain for the poor. In trade, they got a good reputation and have their money back with the more luxurious items. Like if they ask to add a jewel in their custom designs. Those with jewels certainly can afford to pay some extra.

"Also, take this card. Call the number if you wish to inquire anything. "

 

[0stinato]

As much as it was a shame to let such a thing go, there was nothing else Hieronymus could do. Explicit orders to not write about the death of someone important in Oriyon, the warning against writing anything about the event at all was watertight. It was the only threat that had got into his head; even the one about not putting the words "the Liar" in his articles was shrugged off. Hieronymus just didn't do it because he had an image to uphold.

On returning to his desk, he found himself scowling. The death wasn't even written about in this office. He wasn't put on it - probably because it was Oriyon news - but neither had Bernadette written on it. Rather, he found himself recalling it was Finley of all people who had done the honour of writing an obituary. Why not Bernadette? He tapped his pen on his desk, but the answers were beyond him.

Perhaps it was best to simply put it out of his mind. Move on with his day. To punctuate the thought, he called through to his PA, asking him what else was on his schedule. As it turned out, not a lot; the afternoon was mostly free, he simply had to edit and proof-read a few bits and pieces from some of Bernadette's team, but they'd come through in an hour or so. Best to just get on with his own articles in the meantime.

As much as he tried to consider his subjects and words for the day, his mind kept wandering back to that young man. As he'd left the office, his spirit had gone, he looked devastated. Hieronymus didn't look closely, but perhaps he was even crying... he had been so confident. And yet it was over, did his investigation stop with Hieronymus' decline?

The reaction that set in was not one of guilt or fear for the boy, but a sense of unease. It crept up his spine, into his chest, and he sat stuck to his chair, equal parts irritated and uncomfortable. Minutes passed... his desktop went into screensaver... until Hieronymus couldn't stand it anymore. He retrieved a cigarette from the pack in his desk, opened the french doors hidden behind heavy curtains, and escaped the stuffy room onto the balcony. He wasn't too high up, but high up enough that he felt isolated enough to gather his wits.

The cigarette helped somewhat, the nicotine coating his system within seconds. Soon, he felt a lot better, not quite so trapped. His eyes graced Cassiopia as he smoked, all of it that he could see while leaning on the railing of his balcony. Over there - the station with tracks leading off into the distance. Over there - the main shopping area of Cassiopia, rife with scuttering tourists keeping the economy afloat. Over there - Klokklsby and its brown buildings shimmering. Hieronymus watched the smoke melt with the air as it left his lips. He was up here, and people were down there. Someone could be getting stabbed in a Klokklsby alleyway and he had no idea. He could get called out in two minutes to speak to the mayor about vandalism. The Soso theatre could collapse without warning.

Everything balanced on points in life, even he did. So fragile, he needed a perfect blend of contentment to stay upright. The cigarette was righting him up a little, but it wasn't enough and he knew it. Still, he thought, as he dug his fingernails into his palm, a moment of pain to denote the seriousness of his internal vow, he had to consider what was right. Chauntecleer was at stake. Hieronymus had to remember that.

For the rest of the time, he smoked peacefully until the cigarette burned down. Upon taking the last drag, he underwent his usual ritual - look over the balcony to see if anyone was watching - no one was - and flick the end into the empty air. Not his problem anymore. He didn't want cigarette ends cluttering up his balcony, and bringing it inside to sit on the ashtray would make his whole office fuggy.

With his new cleared mind, he retreated back inside, awoke the dozing PC, and got to work. Distraction was the best cure... well, distraction and a bit of nicotine.

 

[0stinato]

"So £35 if... I don't have a knife and I give you something metal? I don't really want a knife no, I'd be afraid to hurt myself, I hurt myself on a butter knife once. And I don't think I have any brass things. Or if I did I'd not be able to take any I don't think. My brother likes keeping things so if he had brass he'd not let me take it, definitely not. So that's something... £40? Right? I'll do it, please! Have you got a pen?"

Lois carefully printed her name in capitals - just as Lull had trained her to do. Her handwriting otherwise was unpractised and messy, but in capitals it wasn't as bad.

LOIS LYSTER. FRAME UP TO YOU.

"I'll just leave the frame up to your choice 'cause I don't know what looks good. Um... so £40? Do you--"

She stopped herself from asking if they take debit card. Likely she'd be met with the same scowls as she was outside when she was obliviously carrying her phone around... best not. Best pay with the cash she had. If she did that, she reckoned she'd have enough to get home with the taxi. Yes, that would work.

She fished out a twenty and two tens, giving them to Ruth with a smile, and took up the card.

"This is so exciting, I don't know if I've had something made-to-order before, other than food. I'm quite allergic to a lot of things, so I always have to have special orders. No gluten, no dairy, no... something else I think... I don't know, my brother has it memorised. You said come back in four days, okay."

To remind herself, she wrote 4 DAYS on her calling card, and slipped it into her handbag. Four days, she could occupy herself in that time. She'd look out clothes she could wear with the watch, and locate a picture she could resize to fit inside the watch.

What should it be a picture of? Her and Lull? Or just Lull? She wasn't sure yet, but she was excited to make that decision. It'd involve a lot of photo albums, digital editing, she'd have a whole day ahead of her playing around on the computer for the sake of a new item.

"Thank you very much, I have to get home. I'll make sure to call you if I need anything."

She gave a brief and uncertain bow before making her exit, happily tottering along the cobbles. Her handbag slipped this way and that on her elbow as she walked towards the edge of Klokklsby. No way she could call for the taxi to pick her up from where she was... not in a modern car. It was a strange, somewhat intimidating place in that regard. Would people throw stones at cars if they passed? She didn't think the Klokklsby people wouldn't do that... so she just made her way towards Cassiopia actual, just in case.

She didn't quite realise the taxi had pulled up until it honked at her, do deep in her head she was. She got in, continuing to daydream, only repeating her destination - home - like clockwork... and she gazed at the passing Cassiopia landscape like a panorama photo until she got home.

 

[0stinato]

Skulking around backstage of his theatre - colloquially known as the Soso Theatre for simplicity - was not something rare to find its owner Braithe "the Czech" to be doing. Ordinarily, actors and actresses would ignore him, as would stage-hands, musicians and the lighting experts. They were used to him, standing against the wall and occasionally moving his head. As he did, threads of hair passed across his suit, catching the light fantastically. But it never bothered Braithe; his eyes, covered constantly by dark glasses, were well-protected from the glints and glimmers.

He was at the theatre again, watching and not talking as the stage-hands prepared their evening play. It was an adaption of Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber in which three of her stories had been knitted together. Obviously, its namesake, The Bloody Chamber was to be performed, in between The Erl-King (which came first) and The Lady of the House of Love (which was to be performed after the title play). Braithe never hung around to watch the performances; that is to say, sometimes he would be in the audience, but he would not watch the play.

He would watch the people.

He was not a well-known figure amongst the everyday public, but to critics and journalists he was a pot of gold. But, as everyone knew about pots of gold, they came at the end of rainbows, and the ends of rainbows were too elusive to be found. Braithe was the same, he never gave interviews, and was never around to be hounded for one when a critic was looking. Many critics and journalists praised the theatre-owner as a plan to entice him out originally. When that didn't work, some turned to slander, but even that failed.

No reaction, none at all. Not even a letter begging they stop, there was nothing from Braithe, or from the Soso Theatre. Their numbers in the audience suffered during those times, but after the papers stopped slandering the theatre, the people forgot about the baseless accusations and returned in full force.

If one was to watch Braithe closely when he sat watching the audience from his booth on the edge and above the stage - a difficult feat, considering the gloom of the theatre at the point of performance - his lips would be seen moving. In fact, Braithe was engaging in a little process called echolalia. It was certainly something he did on purpose. He wanted to take in the words of audiences, to gauge the opinions of the world without engaging in proper human contact.

However, Braithe was not staying around tonight. He had other plans. It was an hour he stood watching the stage-hands. No one offered him anything, no one engaged him, and none of them stuck out to Braithe. When he left, it was likely they noticed... but said nothing.

Braithe took the back exit, returning to his car. He had played with the idea of having a private driver, but he didn't trust someone with that much intimacy. So he drove himself through the streets of the city pre-rush-hour - which took 15 minutes longer than usual to get through - and managed to get back to his apartment building. It was a prestigious-enough place for someone of Braithe's status to live. It wasn't overly-expensive, but believable. A room with a view of the city, just as Braithe liked.

Although his apartment seemed more like a show-room apartment than anything. Everything was in its rightful place and every surface was dust- and smudge-free.. almost. As the door closed, two strands of Braithe's hair were trapped in it. As they were pulled away from there rest of his hair, he didn't notice. They drifted in the trap, moved only by Braithe's walking away. He placed his apartment key down on a kitchen surface, drew himself a glass of water and spent a few minutes drinking every last drop. The city air dried out his throat, and the city water upset his tongue, but what was there to do?

The only thing he fetched to eat that afternoon was four slices of wholemeal bread and margarine, which he took through into his dining room. He ate with the chair facing the window and the plate on his knee, staring out at the world, eyes unblinking behind his dark glasses.

 

[Osthavula]

Lorretta just leisurely leaned on the counter whilst looked at the transaction went down. No one noticed how she subtly blinked when Lois said she was hurt by a butter knife. She was not worried that Lois would notice too. The way the customer spoke, the customer smiled, and so in awe, as if she was looking through a window to the world like a child. The girl must be very sheltered, no doubt. And it wasn't that Lorretta ever wished she was in such life. But she worked at the theatre, at the music hall, at places where girls of misfortune would be lucky to end up in. She stared long, at the back of Lois when she left, wondering what could happen to the girls she was familiar with if they had someone to shelter them. Would that mean good? Bad?

She was going to ask Ruth, but after she turned her head and saw Ruth already making a line graph of a watch, she smiled and mentioned nothing. Taking her jewelled handbag she said a quiet goodbye and was going to head out the door.

But smiling at Ruth's concentration, she didn't notice she was going to be bumped in the head. Her head ornament dangerously scratched the glass, and a saving hand grabbed the door before it made a harsh collision with her forehead. Lorretta looked up, to the big shadow cast from a fedora, and a handsome face looking down at her closely, with an expression of concern. Her face shifted to a beautiful pink her blush could never ever recreate.

"Lorretta. ...Lorretta?"

"Ah, yes. Norberto, sorry. "

The blushing lady stepped backwards, letting the police through the door. No one spoke a word, and it was after Lorretta in her confusion couldn't decide to look or dodge Norberto's eye contact, he spoke again, still in his worried look. "You came again, Lorretta."

"Y, yes. " She swallowed, heart pounding out of her chest.

"You know, you don't have obligation to come here. I've said to my parents..."

"I want to be here." She spoke out, with a little fear that he would send her out. Or not understanding the situation. Or not understanding her. Despite her fear of him understanding the nature of her intention as well. The little conflicts in her just wouldn't agree, clamouring behind her head. "I came here on my own will, Norberto. "

"Yes, yes I understand. " He then took off his hat and looked at his sister charting on papers. The two maiden became really good friends indeed. "Sorry that I spoke out. "

"Oh, you are as dense as a cow!"

Unexpectedly Ruth spoke out, gave an angry stare at her brother who clearly, well, did not understand a thing. Then she turned the paper over, started to wave her pencil circularly again.

"If you are this dense, you might as well clean the street instead of talking. No one needs you here anyway, and the foreigner comes way too often here. "

"Foreigners?"

"Today a man came, it seems."

"From the capital, said he wants to know who knows 'the strings' of things in Cassiopia. I sent him to Capers."

"Wait, Ruth. Is he asking for the Editors? Give me the description."

"She told him to buy some clothes so..."

"Why would he care anyways! He is way too happy showing the road to them, and he should be happy if it all breaks out and Klokklsby gets ruined, he can get his raise in the police and get his title at Oriyon!"

Ruth's voice echoed in the little emporium, and she wasn't going to back down staring at her brother who did the same. The air was heated but frozen at the same time. Lorretta desperately tried to break the tension, but only failing. It wasn't the first time this happened. It won't be the last either.

"Even for a sister, there is a limit. "

Said Roberto, grimly pressed his hat on and walk out.

"Ruth." Looking between them, Lorretta seemed nearly teared up. Ruth, now that her brother's presence was gone, seemed less upset. She waved outside to gesture to her friend that she was okay, that her friend should chase the one who walked out. With hesitation, Lorretta left. The bell swung after the open door frantically.

Then the shop was eerily quiet, that you could hear a faint resonance of the metal from the corners of the shop. Ruth brushed her brown hair behind her neck, pondered what pattern should she make this watch of this time. Would a simple one for the modern folks do? Or a more ornate one worthy of a princess? Pencil swiped on the paper, the soothing sound rid her mind of any more distraction. This continued all night, until her father came, and pulled the cord of the lights.

 

[Osthavula]

The blinds were down, and Talon didn't bother to lift it. The door was locked, and he intended it so. The bed was mostly made, and he didn't bother to even climb inside the quilt, merely lied flat on top of the bedding and remained there, not moving even the tiniest inch. The light outside the blinds subtly changed, but in the room, it was the same dimness and the aged smell, as if the hostel was left uninterrupted for the passing of time. In the stillness, Talon watched at the nothingness directed to his ceiling, let the time passed by, leaving no trace at all at his consciousness. He was empty. The room was empty. The world, was empty.

Then there was just the slightest flicker of a light. Of a scene. Like a cut of the motion picture of the past. A bright, idyllic scene of him, of his father, playing in the place. He thought perhaps finally he dreamt.

But no, it just took time for him to noticed the shock that penetrated his thoughts and his body. It was so close in proximity that his next action was to cover his ears and lied flat on the bed and waiting for a delayed sensation of pain.

Which never came.

He was busy reminding himself that a good list of people would have liked to clean up their trail after they laid harm on his father, so it wasn't until the outside started to have chattering and screaming that he understood it wasn't happening to him. He hopped off the bed and carefully peek his head out the door, and saw that the room next to him had a gathering of staff and screaming people. He had to squeeze between them, and looked at the shattered scene next door.

The first thing to note, was that that was the first time Talon every looked at a violent scene. They never allowed him to look at his father's execution, and he was a researcher worked in close space that could never cross path with a crime. Secondly, he never tested his immune a dead man's scene.

So when he saw a middle-aged man in his Oriyon government uniform lied motionless on the hardwood floor --- drenched in the vile liquid that would have sustained his life, but now leaked like oil out of a machine from his neck --- he vomited. The most lively thing in the room was the plant by the window, welcoming the breeze from the window. It seemed very innocent as a watcher in this scene, not a care that the window was likely where the bullet came from. Bullet, surely. The wound on his neck would suggest so.

The heavy tapping of leather shoe soon sounded amidst the noise of the crowd.

The behind of Talon cleared off though he was unaware. A hand pulled him straight, and a familiar face took a look at him, now much more grimly and furrowed and covered with a handkerchief. "It's you. Why are you here?"

Talon pointed at his room door. Norberto jumped back as the boy threw up once again.

 

[0stinato]

Very few people stayed in the Capers' main office past six o'clock. The reception shut down at seven, so even the three receptionists were gone by the time Hieronymus and his PA were set to leave. Usually, they left together, speaking fluidly on the goings-on of the day, the PA usually reminding the journalist of his events the next day, though on this evening, Hieronymus waved his PA away, professing his need to remain in the office for a few moments longer.

"I'll wait for you out here."

"No, no, go on home," said Hieronymus, blinking into his PA's eyes. It was not an invitation to leave - it was a request. A request the PA mercifully got. Yes, he wasn't an idiot, that man, and closed the door with a muttered affirmative. How long had he been in Hieronymus' employ now... perhaps... no, even as he tried to remember, no date sprung to mind. No figure in years, months or even days. It wasn't important, and he was now alone with his curious thoughts...

Those thoughts, they outlined the circumference of a deep pit Hieronymus could only imagine the depth of. The folder - the folder - sat unassumingly between thicker ones, and the air in the office drifted warmly around slumbering walls... the anxiety was in one place and one place only, and that place was Hieronymus Hartley's mind.

He crossed to it, extending a hand, fingers ready to flip the thing open and get to work, but he couldn't touch it. The depth of the pit in his mind's eye... it awoke uncertainty. The same emotion he'd felt when the Editor-in-Chief had denied him to write about it. Why.

Why.

The journalist escaped with the question rolling around in his head, leaving an oleaginous mess in its wake. Home was the only salvation. It would comfort him, take him away from the city, the big gaping hole in the world that he did not know how to bridge, nor where it came from.

He had the notes he had taken from Talon's discussion in his jacket though, right alongside his chest. He couldn't leave them behind... nor could he put it in the folder. These were not notes on the Messenger, these were notes on Orell Marlow. Who said they were related? Hieronymus certainly didn't, and neither did Talon.

"Mr. Hartley, there you are. I was afraid you had gone home already, though Mr. Micals said you were still in your office. I hope I'm not intruding on a private thought?"

Hieronymus looked up at the voice, though frowned noticeably upon Bernadette's mention of a "Mr. Micals," before he remembered she was referring to his PA.

"No, no, it's fine. I sent him home, I had a few things to... ah... catch up on. Can you believe, one of my team thought it was satisfactory to send me a 800-word article? Ghastly. I've written to him asking for at least double the length."

"Always the slave-driver, are you not, Mr. Hartley," she said. Despite her being a couple of inches shorter than Hieronymus, she owned the scene; the cream of her shirt matched the walls, the blue necklace offsetting her against the background; she didn't blend in nor stand out, she made the scene work to her standards. All he could do was tilt his head at her comment - to answer affirmatively would earn him a badge he felt he did not deserve, and to answer with a negative was simply not an option.

"Though, you are more lax than I am, so perhaps I am the slave-driver?"

Again the dilemma.

"Not at all, you simply-- we simply do our jobs... it can't be helped if we dance to different symphonies as we do that."

"You're quite right, quite right. And - although an offer of a symphony isn't on the table - the offer of a creative night might be," she smiled. "I've arranged to go to the theatre tonight, though the Soso area isn't quite somewhere I am familiar with. I would love to take someone, simply to feel more comfortable. I've been to the theatre often enough, though I have always taken somebody. Last time I did take Finley, though this time I would like to extend the invitation to you. I apologise I did not ask ahead of time, though if I know you, and I make sure to, you are never shy to make a decision in a moment."

She offered him her arm - a move of a lady who knew the man's arm would cover it. A trip to the theatre? In Hieronymus' head, something told him this wasn't simply an act for Bernadette's pleasure... it went deeper than that. On top of all that, she called Finley... well, Finley. Not "Mr. Arizona," yet she called Hieronymus...

Hieronymus let his guard melt a little bit and took her arm. This was Bernadette; she made even the most confident man second-guess himself. The dark-blue irises with which she captivated the stoniest heart were unwavering, though they did sparkle with a contentment when Hieronymus laid his hand atop hers. He knew the traditions of old, the antiquated, male-lead he had to take. Those traditions never died - they were alive and well in Klokklsby after all.

They had to abandon their position to enter the lift but, as their journey to Soso got underway Bernadette told him all about the details concerning the play she had booked to see. Her enthusiasm, though pegged at a certain height so as to not drop the masquerade she held, was certain. Hieronymus felt at ease in a moment, and she didn't even seem to mind when he excused himself in a taxi to phone his son to explain his evening plans.

"Will your son be following in your footsteps? You're a very capable journalist, I would only expect the same from him."

Hieronymus gave a smile, an uncertain glance, "I doubt that quite strongly. He has never quite shown any particular thrill or talent for prose, nor poetry, or any of the sort. He has a creative streak, though that cannot be attributed to me."

"To his mother?"

"Perhaps. I don't know his mother, or his father, I adopted him, you understand."

"Oh, of course you did, of course. Yes, he is a young man now, you'd have been very young to sire him yourself."

Hieronymus laughed, "Very young, scarily young."

"It's a modern acceptance now though, of course. For example, the Nightingale who we'll be seeing tonight, she had a child quite young. And she made something beautiful of her career."

"Oh, so she did, I wrote about her."

"You did," Bernadette said. "You did."

 

[0stinato]

Whoever romanticised the idea of killing-for-money was a joke. Such relentless mockery of his occupation, look at the games, look at the media. They never let up. So, in the eye of the uninspired youth who couldn't form his own logical ideas, a hitman walked around in a suit, snuck into parties and was made a sex icon purely by his leather gloves... hitmen took the opportunity, but didn't forget to plan, hitmen lived lavishly, surface-level occupations to cover up the dirty reality, with a wife, dog, nice car.

Yes. Sure.

Lull took post out of the locked box, locked it again, and glanced at every word as he scaled the three flights of stairs to his apartment. No penthouse for him. No, certainly no penthouse, wife, dog, car. Lull travelled via public transport and, as a result, had upon him the label of 'the public.' Certainly, his appearance scared away the premonitions that title brought with it, but he was a commoner through-and-through. A working-class citizen. The epitome of pedestrian.

The news the envelopes brought was nothing but dour drivel he would scan over all night in the peripheral vision of his dreams. That is to say, he'd worry about it. Lull threw off his hoodie as soon as he got back and opened a window. Even if he left the place immaculate when he left, there would be something amiss with the stench of the air when he came back. Other people's cooking, or some unknown source of stale foulness in his own apartment, he couldn't be sure what it was but he knew it annoyed his nose.

He settled by that open window, when the light was dimming and smoked out of it, tapping his ashes out into the empty air, as he sifted through the letters. None of them occupied him for very long, so afterwards he turned to a book, which he continued to read as he awaited Lois' return.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's Cancer Ward. A subject he wouldn't normally read, written by an author he adored... it was a book he was willing to submit to. Thankfully, Solzhenitsyn delivered on the promise he'd made Lull in his other books and provided his speciality; groups. Just as Shukhov had his group of hard-working men in the 104th, Rusanov had his fellow men's Ward 13 cancer patients. For a self-confessed misanthrope - why else would someone willingly kill? - Lull certainly enjoyed Solzhenitsyn's speciality.

So much did he fall into the dark corner of the story, by the time he abandoned the book in favour of a bathroom visit, it was darkish outside. Worrying. Very.

However, it was a needless worry; Lois was entering by the time he exited the bathroom, her usual fumbling for the key in her handbag a cacophonic melody behind the door gave that much away. So Lull opened the door for her, she said hello to him, came in and collapsed on the sofa.

"That was a long day!" she said, voice muffled from her position. She didn't stay face-down in the cushions for long though; Lull made her take her hat off before she ruined it, and ordered her to change her dress before she ruined it. They weren't cheap - well, not for his monthly budget - and Lois needed something to wear in Klokklsby.

"Can we have soup?" she asked. "I want tomato soup."

"Fine. Fine. You want bread too?"

"Yeah."

"Fine."

Lois occupied herself with the television, which Lull could hear from the minuscule kitchen as he slowly prepared the meal. It would have been happily cheap, if not for Lois' bread. Gluten-free white bread. It had to be white bread. It couldn't be simple gluten-free brown bread which was cheaper, oh no, it had to be white. It had to suit Lois' tongue.

Though, in saying that, he didn't care for brown bread either.

Lois always had to eat soup carefully. She had got used to that by now, mercifully, so Lull trusted her to transport the food carefully from crockery to face and settled back with his own. Tomato soup, simple, affordable, and drowned in pepper so badly that, even as he was finishing off the tepid dregs, it heated his throat. His surroundings were equally tepid; the television depicted a "comedy" panel show Lois enjoyed with comedians Lull didn't recognise, spouting obvious jokes with about as good a delivery as... some delivery company with a bad reputation. Lull smirked at his own brain; there it was, the infection of the obvious.

Still, if this was all it took to be a comedian these days, perhaps Lois stood a chance of getting in the scene. That was what she wanted to do, ever since some stranger working in a fast-food place said she'd make a comedienne. Lull didn't remember what she'd quipped about, but it was enough to entice a laugh from the middle-aged, minimum-waged worker. He was too busy internally debating over whether he should get dessert...

There it was though, since three months ago, Lois had a drive in life. A drive that Lull wasn't sure about. Comedians, in this day and age, were awful, by his ears. He chewed the crust of his bread with a repetitive champing as he regarded the jokes. Lois laughed every time, Lull didn't laugh at all. Why did she aspire to be one of those stains? Well, he couldn't say no. She might actually make money if she was good enough.

"Let me take your bowl," he said after a while. She handed it to him, eyes enthralled by the screen.

Perhaps just to distract her from her heroes, Lull asked about her day. Why had it seemed so long, as she'd said?

"Well, I sat around in here because I couldn't call you and then I went out. I know you yelled at me, I won't do it again, but I went out."

"Mmhm."

"So first I went to a shoe shop, but everything was really metallic. They had shoes and the heels were just metal, that was really weird, though I suppose I've seen it before. Only they were, I think, really metal all the way through like, metal heels, like, metal soles? Really heavy, I don't think my feet could lift them. They had ordinary shoes too but I can't remember any of them."

"You didn't buy anything did you? There?"

"No, they weren't very nice anyway. And expensive. I... didn't buy anything... there. I mean, I went out to go shopping. To... buy things, I bought a few things..."

"Like?"

"Well, one thing. I didn't have time to go many places because you called and made me come home."

Lull paused his duty of washing up slightly, letting his hands come to a rest on either side of Lois' bowl. The pause lasted around twenty seconds as he stared into the water, the scum of the water forming rings around his wrists.

"I didn't make you come home, I asked you to come home in a certain time. I gave you time to stay out when you shouldn't have been out to begin with. I don't at all like what you just said."

"Right well, I didn't get to go to many places... just to the shoe shop and then you phoned."

"Yes but you still had about an hour, didn't you, and you didn't even come home until it was already dark."

"Oh, I did phone the taxi at the time I thought I should, but it took ages for it to come, then the traffic was bad. Everyone was going to Soso, he said, so it was really difficult to get back, that wasn't my fault."

"Right, fine, benefit of the doubt. Ask next time. And before you say I didn't pick up my phone, ask me the night before. It's not hard, Lois," Lull had to resist the urge to slam down the bowl in the drying rack. Even so, it clinked against plates rather harshly as he slotted it in. "What shops did you go to then, before you came home?"

"I went to a jeweller's but I didn't have money left... I mean taxi money obviously."

"Oh god, the taxi... How much did you spend?"

"Well, it was like a tenner each time for the taxi--" she was cut off by Lull grimacing, a painful, guttural sound that made her next words hesitant. "Then... like... paid, like... forty-five for a pocketwatch..."

"Forty-five pounds?! For what? What?"

"I don't have it yet, it's getting made now."

"You... tell me again."

"I... well, okay, I went into a shop and I saw this really nice-looking pocketwatch, and the lady said she hand-makes them, and makes them to order so they're always different. And she showed me the one I liked, and said she could make one for me. She... took the knife out of the design and I only got it in... either brass or bronze? Because it was cheaper than silver or gold so--"

"Surely not out of pure solid gold, that's a stupid idea, gold-plated surely? Jesus. Jesus, Lois, Christ. Forty-five..."

"No, wait, it was forty. I was wrong. It was forty because they took the knife out. I have to pick it up in four days' time."

Lull, by this time, had pulled his hands from the water, dried them, and was now massaging his forehead to relieve the onset of a headache. Well, she'd bought it. Too late to say no.

"What even made you buy it? Who just buys a pocketwatch, and where the hell will you even wear it? You hardly have pockets anyway. I can't believe you just... bought shit again. Why can't you just... be fucking responsible with money? I can't take this..."

"She talked me into it, the girl I saw. Who said she'd make it for me, she talked me into it."

Lull looked at her - grey eyes like his own, tinged with a ring of blue next to the pupil, wide and pleading him to believe her. She looked down upon meeting his gaze, her fingers fussing with the back of the sofa. Fidgeting like his did.

"I was just looking at the display one..." she sighed. "I thought it was really nice, she talked me into it. Said it could be made how I wanted, said she could make it so I could put a picture in it or something... I thought it was nice, she was really nice too. I didn't really think."

There was so much to believe about what Lois said, but Lull had heard it all before. He advanced on her, leaning over the sofa, "Take me with you when you pick it up, I want to talk to this girl. And I suppose if you spent... sixty quid, you don't have jack shit left to waste anymore now, do you?"

She shook her head. Turned back to the television and drew a pillow onto her lap for comfort. Lull in the meantime, scowled away in his bedroom. Who was at fault - the girl in the shop? Or Lois?

Why be narrow-minded? It could easily be both.

 

[Osthavula]

Bright lights adorned the several mirrors in the dressing room, making the indoor as bright as the burning day. Olympia looked into her vanity mirror in search of any irregular on her make up, but as usual, Lorretta did a fantastic job, and the stage make up is still so pigmented that hardly anything natural was seen. She heard the door open behind her after a few knocks, and one of the girls gingerly spoke.

"Miss Nightingale, your husband is here. "

Andy? What is he doing here?

Olympia sent the cute little pigeon to get him, while she gave the final effort in making her hair proper. A few firm knocks, and Andy walked inside and waited. He rarely had been to the theatre backstage, but he wasn't awkward or comfortable. He was perfectly confident surrounded by power and dresses and perfume, and completely unmoved by any of it. She smiled, remembering how she said he could fit right in Soso Theatre with his suit and hat. Truthfully, though he would fit Soso, Soso would never fit him.

"Isn't everyday that my husband would visit me before stage." She said, walking towards him and wrapping one of her fur scarf around the door handle, blocking the lock hole and muffling the sound. Her girls knew better than to prive, of course, but better safe than sorry.

"I have heard something." Andy took of his bowler hat, and accepted her kiss on his angular cheek. Then he spoke lower, lower than birds cooing to each other. "You were looking for the boy. But he was gone. "

This changed Olympia's expression. Andy smiled to the solemn expression others rarely seen, but she was more focused on her complains. "I thought we agreed to not meddle in each other's business."

"He was important in yours, I know. But he has his part in mine too. His connection had certain information. His boy, if you remember."

"Well?"

"After..." He hinted with a dark glance. "They are nowhere to be found. I took liberty to see if any of yours was to be seen, but..."

"Most of them are kept in the dark, even if you find them." Olympia leaned on him, and pull his tie loose. It was tightened to the brim, and his shirt buttoned at every single button, but it would be abnormal if someone like him walk out the backstage being this... properly dressed. "But if too many of them vanished, it is worrying. I have my reputation, and I am to blame if they disappear."

"Now, this is not your fault." He cupped her face with concerned, and with his finger smoothed the frowning. Olympia sighed but accepted his affectionate comfort. She continued on, "I know, Andy. But I did not do what I do just to have something unexpected happen to them. I will try to track them after the show. "

"Don't. They are watching."

"I'm responsible, Andy. I made sure their whereabouts and I am not going to just let..."

"Then let your girls join my men. It will be safer for them, and less eyecatching. We can't afford anymore attention now."

"I live for attention. "

"Then you will have it. On stage. "

"You never watch me anyway."

He bowed to give her a slow kiss, then brushed the hair he messed back in its place. "I do, sometimes. I promise."

"You are my husband, you know. You can watch it in places other than the shadow. "

She did become more gentle as the talk of business transitioned into lovebird's talking, and She pulled down the scarf from the handle and gave him one more exchange of kiss. The romantic moment did not cloud her thoughts, but in the safety of her own thoughts she admittedly felt glee to accept the help. They never asked much in their dealings in the editors, though they have an idea of what each other do. The idea of helping each other to such extend was something new.

But it also implied how dangerous the editors were in their situation. They lost one of the key member, not like they will announce that piece of information to every member. Most of them, including Ruth and Norberto, won't know that anything had changed. But now they have a void to fill in and a new structure to mend. She honestly doesn't know how much risk they are in. She was not let it on all the information, as do with most of the key members too. To keep each other safe, most willingly be kept in the dark. Most, but she had to be more than the nightingale in the spotlight. She is also a wife. She is also a mother. She is also an editor.

After Andy left, she prepared again for the performance. The unworldly beauty in the mirror could almost fool Olympia that she was indeed inhuman. A vampire woman ready to seduce a soldier but failing to make him her prey. They said no one in the theatre could fit the role better than her, and although it was compliment to her singing she felt it more than that. There was a reason why she was the hungry and preying vampire woman instead of the girl in the bloody chambers. She was never the curious side, but the side in the know. And she never had that sort of innocence.

She heard the finale song of the last scene, and ready herself towards the stage. The workers looked at her with admiration did not know a fraction of what she was capable of.

 

[0stinato]

It was mere moments after his father ended the call that a scrawny, navy-blue coloured figure locked the door of a converted farmhouse. After doing so, he abandoned the key within the dirt on a hanging basket that adorned the porch and stole out into the evening air. With a plaid scarf around his chin, hands in his pockets, and flat-cap gripping his head, he fought off the chill as he walked. It was a few miles to Cassiopia central from the house, but the boy knew he had time. If his father was going out, it meant he would not be back until after midnight. He would not get found out... and even if he did, he suspected his father would not question his absence. There were certain things they both considered to be correctly kept in ignorance.

Within forty-five minutes, he was in the rougher parts of Cassiopia, the evening chill now completely warded off by the exercise and the warmth of the city. Somewhere, a police light was flashing... red-blue-red-blue... off the side of a pollution-stained building.

The curiosity of a criminal can never be satiated, a curiosity Chauntecleer found himself giving in to. A few steps brought him closer to the flashing, though he made sure to walk against the wall. He kept his hands tucked away, and held his head down, adopting the casual look of a passer-by. No police tape had been erected, so it was a free-walk zone as far as Chauntecleer's curiosity was concerned.

Only his eyes moved, as he crossed - open doors set the scene for a cold vision. A police officer entered, blocking Chauntecleer's view somewhat, but his form could not seal the view entirely from Chauntecleer's eyes. Redness, a warmth against the cold, burned fiercely against the floor and body of some stretched-out figure... it was a killing. So they would put up police tape, that was certain. Chauntecleer picked up his pace before an officer could corner him about his being there. Why, Chauntecleer might be done for trespassing on a crime scene or, worse, picked up for questioning as a witness. Both were ghastly things, but one was a dangerous thing.

Chauntecleer was a thief. A thief under the employment of Cassiopia's crime ring. It had no official name, it didn't need to have one. If it had one, the risk of its discovery was trebled. No, best to work under no moniker, that was something Chauntecleer had learned. Without a name, loose ends started to appear. But those loose ends worked to the ring's advantage.

A drug-dealer on the street might be part of the ring, he might not. A robbery in Klokklsby may have been orchestrated by some facet of the ring, it may not have been. But the general consensus in the underworld was that, you could operate in crime as an individual, but it was "better to be inside pissing out than outside being pissed on."

Crude language, but effective language all the same. It was that very phrase that had Chauntecleer initiated into a little gang of thieves. The way they operated was simple: break in, bring out the target, or, rob valuables, and return them to the gang's leader. It was her who dealt with the underground ring, and her who broke whatever the equivalent to 'payment' was.

However, thievery was not why Chauntecleer was in town. No, he was not on a job. He simply wanted a night out. Meet a few people, perhaps catch a few digits... he knew where he was headed.

Possibly as far away from Klokklsby as possible, there was a holo-bar. It was, essentially, a place that showcased admittedly rather cheap holographic technologies as a way of bringing in customers. In essence, it was a novelty bar, a place whose attractions outshone the drinks by a long way. But - it was a good place for tourists. And where there were tourists, there was opportunity. Most Cassiopia regulars ignored the holo-bar now, favouring places with better conversation, better alcohol and, most importantly, better music.

Its catch was that there was an entry fee, which Chauntecleer reluctantly paid. It was a painful amount of money to part from, though it left him with enough to afford a few rounds, just in case he got talking. His first move was to seat himself firmly at the bar, ordering an Irish cream, and flashing his ID when prompted, as if robotically. It was muscle memory by now; he was merely 18, on the cusp of adulthood.

As usual, the drink was poorly made - too much whiskey, but Chauntecleer dutifully choked it down without too much fuss. Truly, he was waiting for the alcohol to accompany him on the night's adventure, to lend him that spark of confidence that didn't come too naturally to him. Some of Hieronymus' confidence had no doubt rubbed off on the lad, but his own well of it was rather lacking. He poured alcohol into that well, hoping to draw from it later.

When he had finished half his thumb-printed glass, he took it up and went wandering around the bar. A few people were watching the holographic dancers, secured inside their neon tubes, with unraised eyebrows. These were the people Chauntecleer pinned as being either Cassiopia residents, Cassiopia regulars, or tourists who'd been lounging in the bar since it opened.

It was a young night, barely 9 o'clock and there was no one else to talk to, so he approached the people. Two were a couple, so Chauntecleer left them well alone, plumping instead for a group of three - two men and a woman who were discussing something idly.

"Do you mind if I change the dance?" he asked. This question was like a toe in the water.

"Change it?" said one of the men. Perfect.

"I'll show you," Chauntecleer, with a grin, knew he had picked the correct group. Non-Cassiopians. Ideal. With a swig from his glass, he approached the neon tube and tapped it three times with his fingers, prompting a keyboard to appear on the cylindrical surface. Typing on it was somewhat awkward, but its auto-fill feature was heavily abused by drunk patrons; type in the first letters of a name of a dance, it was bound to show itself in a list.

Chauntecleer picked his favourite - for the dancer, not the music - and the hologram inside, her curves and hair switching tones from a soft green to a haughty orange, did not even hesitate before she began to dance to the music. Her shoulders led, her hips led, her head led, her feet led, every body part got its turn during the song.

"I'm guessing you're not from around here?" Chauntecleer said as he turned to them. None of them were too bothered by the hologram, except to visually nod at the tube, mentally noting the technique required to change the song. Chauntecleer smiled, and lapsed into conversation with the group, finishing his drink. The entire thing, despite being badly-constructed, supplied him with enough of that much-needed confidence, and he began his night well.

 

[0stinato]

"There, look, there's our Nightingale," Bernadette had not broken the golden rule of silence up until the point where Olympia first appeared on stage. With all her presence, she outshone even the decorated stage. Every eye followed the pattern of her walk, the movement of her lips, except Bernadette's. They were observing Hieronymus. All he did was incline his head slightly, but not a word did he speak. In the shadow of the Nightingale, Bernadette's lined face broke into a faint smile before she looked at the stage once again.

There was more than simply her visual presence to notice though - all audio had ceased in the room. At least, the audio of the people. Where there may have been an undertone of human noises - coughing, fidgeting, the odd sneeze maybe - was smothered. Entrancement filled the air as Olympia's form waltzed through her lines. Bernadette followed her with a judgemental stare. How was she doing? What may a critic say, if he is not drunk on her vision? Again, her eyes moved to Hieronymus - what would her companion say after the show?

Hieronymus' golden eyes were not as static as Bernadette expected. Indeed, they moved with a rhythm. Though when the Vampiress cried in distress, Hieronymus, along with the entire audience, stiffened slightly, as if they had each been gifted with a sharp, hard breath none of them wanted to give up. But regardless, his eyes kept moving.

At the play's close, the spell on the audience took a moment or two to lift. When it did, it seemed even the air was warmer to breathe. After the usual applause and epilogue, Bernadette made no effort to move from her seat while the rest of the line filed out.

"What are your thoughts? Especially on the last play, I noticed you were watching rather intently," Bernadette smiled at him, a smile Hieronymus didn't get the meaning of; it was not a happy smile, nor a contented one - it was a smile of expectation but equally of doubt.

"Well..." Hieronymus adjusted his mask and looked back at the stage. "Were those curtains damask, d'you think? Not the stage curtains, the ones in the scene. I've been meaning to get some damask curtains myself... I haven't had the ability to yet."

"And the Nightingale? Your thoughts?"

"Oh, ravishing, really. A veritable angel, born for the stage. She has quite a range. Quite funny too, I might add: the way she looked at the boy when he was collecting the cards... did you see her then? Her eyes were lasers. Very funny."

Bernadette stood, correcting an invisible crease in her clothing. "I could arrange for us to speak to her. You could make a critique of her performance. She is a lady who deserves a nation admiring her, you see? I trust you would be both fair and honest if you did?"

Hieronymus' placid expression retreated for a scowl to take its place. "Of course, Ms. Horowitz. Of course."

"Then come along, my dear. I will try to allow us to see the lady herself, if she will have us, of course," she offered another smile to him, and led him into the foyer. Outside, many people thronged together, some in groups, some in pairs, some groups joining together to form super-pods of chattering people, each of them speaking about the play in their own timbre.

More than once, Bernadette had to remind Hieronymus that he was supposed to be following her - the man made attempts to move off to speak to members of the public, especially those who recognised him. Once he got away from her quite completely, somehow ending up on the opposite side of the foyer. Bernadette, a much less recognised face than the guisard, had more trouble moving through the crowds to retrieve her colleague.

"Mr. Hartley," she said.

But her raised voice was not raised enough and too late did she realise Hieronymus had his dictaphone pointed at a willing candidate who was giving their opinion, full of 'um's and 'ah's, to the journalist. She had to touch his arm to arrest his attention, but could not coax him away until he had thanked the person for their words, and had tucked his dictaphone away securely in his jacket.

"I was researching, you cannot write an article without research."

"Now is not the time," Bernadette explained. "I would not want to take up too much of the Nightingale's time, I am sure she has a lot to do," she turned her attention to a man behind the ticket counter. She asked for the manager, who came out minutes later. "My name is Bernadette Horowitz, I was hoping to speak to Olympia if she wouldn't mind my visitation? We've spoken briefly in the past regarding her plays and such. My colleague was considering writing a critique of her performance and the play."

"Not without research, I wasn't," Hieronymus said.

"Yes so... we'd like to speak with her if we could, for the sake of this research." Bernadette attempted to twist Hieronymus' words.

"Mrs Horowitz and... Mr. Hartley, I presume? The Capers."

"Indeed," said Bernadette. "I am glad you recognise my colleague."

"I will check for you," said the manager, and went off. In the interval during his departure, Bernadette turned another smile to Hieronymus who, again, seemed to miss the meaning, because he simply smiled back. He took it warmly when it was not intended so.

Eventually, Bernadette and Hieronymus were led, by the manager, through a few corridors of the theatre towards the dressing rooms. Hieronymus now did not dawdle, but kept pace, his eyes reflecting some vision of a hunt.

Osthavula