Futuristic The Editors | [Closed]

[Osthavula]

It was night, and time to close the shop. Ruth quickly arrange everything into to their corresponding cabinet, before she saw the most unexpected combination of her problems --- her brother Norberto carrying a shorter man that is her previous customer --- and she couldn't stop them entering the door. Her mind flew quickly to the fancy that if she had locked the door earlier and Norberto could bump his head on the glass a few times. It quickly floated back and she just decided to yell across the room, locking the cashier machine.

"What are you doing here and why is he here?"

A reasonable question.

Her brother looked her briefly in the eye, then proceeded to let go of Talon's arm. Talon didn't seem like he actually needed that much carrying, but his face was pale and sick. The fact was that he had a shock and vomited enough that he was dehydrated, but for now, the air of Klokklsby at least helped him to his senses. He could breath normal now but not strong enough to argue, just holding on to an empty cabinet and looked at the two of them. He didn't expect the two to be associated either.

Norberto took off his hat. Talon then saw some similarities --- not strikingly, but it was there --- facial features and hair colour that suggest they may be related. The handsome police spoke grimly, though, instead of being friendly. "He had a shooting near him so he can't stay in the hostel. He can't stay in our dormitory either. Let him stay in my old room."

"It is now a storage..."

"I know my bed is still in there. Let him rest."

Then, the brother walked very close to the sister and spoke lowly beside her ears. Talon tried to listen in, but frankly he was in no state of hearing. He just wanted a good night of slumber, his body demanded so while his mind wanted to wander still. His paranoia was there to make him believe he could hear another gunshot any second now.

Whatever Norberto told Ruth worked, though it did nothing to comfort her mood. After Norberto made a swift exit, the grumpy beauty then pulled Talon up roughly and mercilessly, practically threw him on a metal frame bed and just stood in front of him, arms crossed and lips squeezed in anger. At that moment, Talon didn't know what to react either. Her gaze was too strong for him to look back, so he avoided it, just staring into the proximity of her and said a light "thank you".

"Washroom is near the left outside your corridor. Breakfast is at the other side from where we came from, passed the parlour. "

"I ..."

"What's your name?"

"Talon." He wanted to make a name but was too late. Not like he forged a name card either.

"Ruth. I will tell my father you are here. Don't be nosy and don't make trouble. You won't find your normal amenities here but just try the buttons. You can do so much, can't you?"

She turned away and closed the door for him, from the steps going away and rising, she headed upstairs. The sound was very faint though, and then the room became very quiet. Eerily, with the light humming of tubes in the house. Talon imagined that the house itself was like an invention of sorts, and felt it wasn't far from the truth. He was surrounded by boxes and weird contraptions, after all. Before he could think any more of his adventure his mind cleared and he fell into the pillow, sank into a dreamless sleep in the odd lullaby of tubes.

 

[Osthavula]

Olympia was born for the stage.

It wasn't an overstatement and no one would think to argue against it. She had the looks, she had the means, she was pretty much brought up for the bright lights and red curtains and standing ovations. When she holds her scripts and takes the spot, Olympia became the designated person. What's more, after her breathtaking appearance erases all audience's sense of where they are, she delivers the voice that diminishes any distracting thoughts that are left. The world would have nothing save for her performance.

Therefore, on the stage at that very moment, there was no Olympia. Only the ever young vampire singing her climatic tone as her dully long life came to a fateful ending. The struggle as she tries to understand the changes, the closest to love that this beautiful creature can feel, the pain as all those fighting with the physical unquenched thirst was all too real. When the actor held her hand, she could feel his trembling. He too was deeply entranced with the role of the seduced soldier.

But Olympia was more. Much more. She spied the two journalists in the seats, she spied the people's emotion, she spied all that casted eyes on her. Of course, that would include Bernadette. It didn't need her effort for her to know who they are, but she didn't know why they are here, yet. Not breaking off from the melody of blood lusting, she circled in the chamber, hauntingly performed. Her eyes naturally wandered to the other audience.

No one she was looking for.

It was unfortunate.

The soldier came running, opening the casket the vampire lady was laid in. Offering the rose that now began wilting, Olympia gave one last shrilling melody before the vampire closed her eyes, face cracked with finally the hint of age. Together they sang for the first and last harmony. She was left alone in the casket, with the man closing the lid, covering her in a bed of floral.

Before everyone else finished mourning the vampire, Olympia flipped the trap door and left. In her dressing room, she started changing into another dress for the guest, powdering and changing her lipstick to a new shade. After every show, there would be a window of time when guests would come to visit. Not a terrible surprise that Bernadette would be the one coming to the backstage, but the songstress doubt that it would be for a mere autograph. The new girl was surprised instead, to see her ready in a black sequin dress nodding to her notice. "Come in."

The door opened.

Only this time, even Olympia was a little excited with a faint anticipation of what is to come.

 

[0stinato]

Through the door came a pair of journalists, Bernadette walking ahead of Hieronymus. When her eyes locked with Olympia's they flashed a quiet hint of old friendship, but, as soon as Hieronymus drew level with her, Bernadette adopted an air of passive acquaintance. She was not about to see let her colleague see the connection between her and Olympia.

"Oh, Mrs Carlyle, fantastic performance, but you needn't have me tell you this, of course," Bernadette greeted Olympia formally, the two kisses on the cheek. "I was wondering if we could have but a few moments of your time. You see, my colleague here, Mr. Hartley, was curious about writing an article on your performance, and the rest of the play of course. I would take the liberty myself, though it is certainly more Mr. Hartley's area. Still, it is good to see you again after so long, I could not resist coming to say hello."

It had, as a matter of fact, not been that long since Bernadette and Olympia had last interacted. But Bernadette had to keep up appearances.

"It's a pleasure to meet you again. I'm Hieronymus Hartley, in case you have forgotten since the last time our paths crossed. I do hope the article I wrote about you, hm, a couple of months ago was it? I do hope it was acceptable for you," Hieronymus said. "As Ms. Horowitz says, an interview with you would be very much appreciated. I'm a lover of theatre over other arts, and any writing I can do on it is sweet. Any sort of critique on a play will always have me intrigued. I would adore to write about The Bloody Chamber with your word in there of course. It will not take long, I have several questions formulated in my head already.

"It would also please me greatly to make headway in my own section of the newspaper, especially today. I had a rather unsuccessful interviewee earlier, one that I must tell you about later, Ms. Horowitz, and after that, a young man questioned me on one Orell Marlow... all in all, nothing eventful... just a few dead leads that led nowhere. So, as I said, it would cheer me up immensely to hear you."

Bernadette had been placid and accompanying while Hieronymus introduced himself and spoke about what he would like to talk about. Her attention was drawn to him when he spoke about needing to tell her of the interviewee. This admission struck her as a tad unprofessional. He might have spoken with her about this before, not in front of Olympia who was potentially his subject. She smiled at him when he said that, but the smile got stuck when the name Orell Marlow was introduced to the air.

Hieronymus himself finished speaking and was awaiting Olympia's admission or decline, but Bernadette's mind sprung into gear. Her head tuned back to face Olympia, but her own gaze was very different from Hieronymus' - she was searching Olympia's visage for any sign that she was equally offset by the Messenger's name. What business did Hieronymus have mentioning that so casually? Orell Marlow, the name a man he had been ordered to not write about.

Bernadette felt, for the first time in a long time, a tinge on uncertainty - here she stood, facing a potential breach in the case of the Messenger. If the Messenger was looked into by Hieronymus, it would not be long before he would discover much more than he could imagine. Bernadette forced that smile back to her face.

"Do you mind awfully if I take a seat, Mrs Carlyle?"

Osthavula

 

[0stinato]

There was no hierarchy in the Editors. It was a round-table structure, where every voice might be heard if it needed to be. No matter in which building the Editors sat to meet, under the guise and protection of their people, their employees or simply their own wit and subtle discourse, at what time of day, under what type of mood, no one spoke over another. Metaphorically speaking, at least - they interrupted each other plenty of times, some mouths being culprits more than others.

Inge Antolij had visited one of these buildings, but there was no meeting. He sat in his usual chair while his people waited outside the door. They were not to see even a facial expression if Antolij said they shouldn't. And now he needed perfect privacy. His fingers marched across the keyboard of a small PC, never wavering or making a mistake, and his eyes blinked only rarely. Upon the screen, a browser filled the pixels, unfamiliar to the eye of the layman. Behind the scenes, his IP address jumped every few seconds. One second it would have shown him on the other side of Cassiopia. In another second, across the globe. In another second, Oriyon. Antolij was everywhere, and if he was everywhere, he was nowhere. He typed. A message only meant for the eyes of Editors, and a message that could only be accessed by Editors.

This was the Editors' part of the Deep Web.

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[div class="Current ImagButton" style="Margin-left:15px;"]Antolij, I. - 06/09/2177

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[div class="Tags hidden" style="margin-left:5px;"]Interacting: @tag
Mentioned: @ Tag
Located: Location; Action
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EDITOR DISCUSSION REQUEST

I have now within my possession a wealth of information regarding a certain group operating within the city. My request is to meet with as many of you as will respond regarding our moving forward and involvement with this group. This is no small feat, and all Editor co-operation will be deeply appreciated. Should you attend, you will be asked your professional and personal opinions. We will discuss various stratagems for involving ourselves - or not involving ourselves - with this group, and will all act according to our own expertise and surface professions after the fact.
This request is a preliminary meeting, and more will be conducted should there be a need for them. Within this preliminary meeting, only surface information will be made available, as judgements on this information on my part will not be risked.
Below is the auto-agree tab. All information is encrypted unless your device holds the decipher key. If your device does not hold this key, every Editor and person beneath us will be informed of your position. If your device does hold the key, you will witness the information. Once you select this tab, it will display the meeting date, time and location. Clicking will also act as your giving consent, and as your promise to appear as requested. If you are unsure you will be unable to attend a meeting within the next month, do not click.

Click to Receive Instructions

This meeting will take place in two days' time - 08/09/2177 - at 6:38 PM, within the attic suite of the Old Theatre public house.​

You have now agreed to attend. Your input will be appreciated.​

I do not have to inform you the value of your contribution, nor the risk you take in non-attendance. Minutes will be uploaded as per usual, should any member wish to have their say after the fact. Apologies for absence must be sent within the next twenty-four hours, or absences will not be excused.

To Change is to Grow​

[/div] Original code by AgWordSmith (thank you!) and altered by yours truly.[/div]

Antolij allowed his large shoulders to rest against the back of the chair while he casually clicked his knuckled and rolled his neck. It was not a long bulletin he had posted to the hidden forum, but behind its placid exterior hid a domineering presence. For a few seconds, he did not move, but became almost too aware of the memory card in his breast pocket. It was a tiny little thing, something no one could detect on their person by its weight, but, again, it was not the physical weight of the thing that Antolij was being pressured by. It was the gigabytes of information stored upon its uninspiring self that Antolij could feel.

From four hours of perusing it the previous evening, Antolij had experienced something he had not ever come across before. A headache burrowed into his temples, not a headache borne of tension, stress, lack of this or that, but a headache created by the sheer amount of knowledge the slip contained.

He allowed his finger to tap his PC's screen, posting the bulletin to the forum. Every Editor and every person important to an Editor would get a notification of Antolij's activity on the forum. Antolij smiled in the light of his screen, and closed it down. When he was done, he got up from the safe room, returning outside.

"Ready to go," his accented voice was brief, but his three people stepped into line immediately. "I'll tell you the next time I need you. But, as soon as we are out of here, go about your own lives. I will see myself home."

 

[Osthavula]

Olympia remained professional the entire time Bernadette and Hieronymus were present, answering them in the usual charming manner. In truth, it felt routine to answer visitors, even though Bernadette was no stranger. She complimented Hieronymus on his previous article, but she honestly didn't care too much for the article itself. News article reflected how the readers prone to like, so they are different from what the writer genuinely thinks. So in truth, what Hieronymus honestly thinks mattered more. He looked simple, but Olympia wouldn't count on mere appearance to judge a man.

Or could she?

The routine and the perfume scent in the room made it musky and warm, and it all was made believe of a dream. Bright lights, reflective sequins on dresses, elaborate costumes and densely placed posters and glass bottles, containing cosmetics of all kinds. It made most people felt aloof, even to Olympia until the name Orell Marlow was mentioned, it was as if the morning clock sounded in her head. Bernadette's gaze was brief but it touched her skin as she determined to act normal. If Olympia had acted surprised, it would have been odd, so being the best actress she acted her part, to be a woman as naive of the matter as possible. But both women in the room knew the significance of that name, and now there was only one concern. Was there more to Hieronymus's knowledge? The singer couldn't be sure, neither Bernadette from the look of it.

"I'd be glad to accept another interview from our Capers of course. Orell Marlow, I believe that was the lawyer in the capital. I'd think that the young man meant to find Bernadette then?" She invited them to a small table surrounded by cushioned chairs, where a snack bowl and three glasses were prepared. Olympia held a tall bottle of caramel colour liquor from her own table, and offered to pour them some drink. The Marlow commented was like the simplest reaction to Hieronymus's words.

 

[0stinato]

With a quick adjustment to his jacket, Hieronymus took a seat. Bernadette soon followed, sitting with her spine rigid and lips forming a line. Olympia moved so smoothly, it was as if the air was water. Yes, still vampiric and seducing, she might have been able to win over a man or woman's heart even with a quick ruffling of the hair. Again, Bernadette slid her eyes sideways to her colleague, though he was busy taking out the dictaphone.

"Thank you," he said pointing briefly to the glass earmarked as his. "I won't take up all your time, so... I'll get on with it. This is recording, just answer naturally. I want to humanise you, make you accessible to the street-walkers who read the Capers."

Bernadette opted to keep more or less quiet, being an observer. As she raised her glass and tasted the sweet, ethanol liquid within. Her eyes did a quick sweep of the room; it was Olympia's dressing room, not just a dressing room. The mirror was completely pristine, and Bernadette wondered if her gaze would put a speck on its surface. Otherwise, the room had been imprinted with Olympia. What may have been clutter in anyone else's dressing room was made into an orderly collection. Makeup and other identity-creating products, reflected in the mirror, did not pay attention to their conversation. Bernadette recognised a bottle of perfume. She had the same one at her office. It caused a spark of happiness in her to notice a bridge connecting her world and Olympia's.

"Hm, so, sixth of September, twenty-one-seventy-seven. Hieronymus Hartley interviewing Olympia Carlyle," he sat forward a little, drawing Bernadette's attention. "Also present, Bernadette Horowitz," Hieronymus added, raising an eyebrow at her. "I imagine you'll interject with any curiosity of your own, Ms Horowitz?"

"I imagine I might," Bernadette said. "Anything that makes me interested."

"You're very welcome to. Anyway, Mrs Carlyle - Olympia - the 'Nightingale' that you are, I am certainly not surprised to have seen you in a staring role tonight. The seducing vampiress herself. How would you say Angela Carter's vision is upheld by your performance in The Lady of the House of Love?"

Hieronymus did not miss a beat with his questions. He was solemn, attentive and probing where probing was necessary. Although, in Bernadette's eyes, Olympia answered with poise so as to deflect the need for the probing questions. Hieronymus' performance was automatic, but not impersonal, and a few times he gave genuine smiles in response to answers. He asked such questions as, "You are never afraid to be risqué with your performance, and tonight was no exception, where does your courage come from when performing in such a fashion?" and, "You always mesh well with the other actors, what are your secrets regarding that?" and, "What, to you, was the mistress embodying?"

Bernadette watched both Interviewer and Interviewee and rarely involved herself. Her attention only wandered for a very brief second when her phone gave a startling buzz from within her own jacket. Inaudible but harsh, it hummed against her skin for a few seconds, but she did not reach for it. Some message, she could easily check it after. For now, she kept professional and sipped the liquor.

Osthavula

 

[Osthavula]

"The first and foremost thing, for me, is to remember that we are ordinary people, and we don't magically change into another person. I am very honoured and truly humbled to play out the work of Angela Carter. The most basic homework is to read her work repeatedly and also other people's analogy of her work. " Olympia began talking, the word flew naturally out of her like a well-known script that she practiced in private. "The first time you read to appreciate it. Then the second, to find things you haven't noticed before. Maybe I missed her reacting to a small thing, like frowning for a second. The third time, you put yourself in her place. "

She looked at Bernadette, smiling professionally yet noticing her wandering senses for a brief moment. Then her eyes wandered to Hieronymus, a quizzing eyes lingered on him, almost teasingly. He avoided her question, but she had other means to find out. Well, after maybe a needed conversation with Bernadette.

"I picture myself in her place. Same fate. Same location. But imagine it is me, not her. Not someone else. Then I might act differently, say different things. For example, what would my reaction be when I pick up the tarot card, and found that my fate would come to an end? Fear? Glee? Relief? That difference with the original character is more important to understand a character than similarity. Unlike the vampire woman, we are mortal. We feel love, we feel the emotion, and the thirst to fill our stomach became insignificant when it came to love. Yet, she cannot feel until she too become mortal. The long years of isolation is her norm and reality. "

Her make up had already changed from the theater paint to her normal cosmetics, yet at that very moment that enchanting vampire returned. In the corner of her lips, in the curl of her hair... In the depth of her eyes, sizing like a tigress to her prey.

"We feel cold to imagine the long walls of the lonely castle, the lasting of time. We feel the purest emotion and behavior out of reach and fearful. The characters that possessed such things..." Then Olympia returned, her smile once again friendly, her eyes narrowed, and her hand caressed the other, drawing an arc gracefully. "With that I can answer your second question. To honour the character and the original work, one must have the means to go far, to reach as close to inhuman as one can. In stage play a character is not just a character, they usually have one trait that out stage the others. Then just like playing a vamparic woman, you have to exceed your own character and your comfort zone. Knowing yourself, knowing the differences, and reach the distance. It's what every actor and actress do. I am grateful that I can be a part of it. The courage come with the job and responsibility, though it was by no means without enjoyment. "

There were light foot steps outside the door. It sounded like someone wanted to come inside but hesitated. Olympia went on talking about her observation of character interactions and her discussion with her coworkers behind stage, but she guessed that there were some activity of Editors that happened. She focused on the interview first, and used a familiar and light tone for the interview to avoid sounding too pompous. She was honest, so the interview came naturally. If someone had spent a lifetime like her to practice her skills, they would likely succeed in her place. No one knew more than Olympia that beside her looks --- somewhat planned by her family selecting spouses --- everything came with hard work and dedication. Olympia was still human, in the end. Sensitive, sentimental, yet strong-willed and logical all at the same time. It's the strength of being a human being, not to become only one entity of emotion like stage characters.

She made sure their glass were never emptied, and she too talked about capers, being aware of their work and position. "We wouldn't have what we have today without journalists like Capers that helped our voices. Theatre is a made believe place, but with words and photo you managed to make it travel walls." She remarked and complimented. "I too wonder what journalists think about us, outside of paper and ink. Or how the audience think of us. I try to listen as much as I can."

Would Hieronymus reply that?

The actress looked directly at him. The theatre workers all agreed that the Liar was more charming at work, when he was not physically snooping. Some might say he had some dedicated fans in Soso. That gave Olympia just a few more reason to be curious of him.

 

[Osthavula]

Ruth in her bedroom sat in a armchair lookign around. Her bedroom had the common theme of brass, since she tinkered most thing herself. The armchair she sat on was green checker cloth on top of welded machinery parts, the fireplace had gold ivy rim on stone surface and metal bed, the sleeping bed had brass fishes swiming along wood beams with silver seaweed and coral. In front of her she had her sketch book and charting pen and rulers. Just when she was adding another measurement, she heard a familiar heavy boot coming through the corridor. Immediately she threw down the pen, skirted around the chair, hoping over another small table, and opened the door in one smooth action. Andy stood outside waiting, evidently heard her big motion of, in his words, "jumping around".

"Papa!" Ruth spoke without hesitation or pausing. "Norberto brought a house guest to us. What should we do?"

Hearing his son's name, Andy didn't seemed too pleased. His already serious face became grim. "A house guest? I didn't get notified."

"Yeah, what's his name... Talon Marlow. Someone from a crime scene. Shooting.... Papa?"

Ruth looked at andy, bewildered.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." The father answered. "Is he well?"

"He is alright." Ruth blinked as if trying to make sure if she had seen an illusion. "He is in the storage room. "

"Take care of him."

"Take... Take care of him?" Ruth was expecting her father to say kick Talon out. Well, out of her own desire, but it was an odd reaction to her.

"Yes. And your mother and I will travel soon. "

Ruth immediately knew it was Editor's work. The parents don't usually travel together. They never take Ruth together either, being at the line of work, Ruth had to keep herself safe just in case something happen and a family member had to remain. For some reason, the girl felt a bit nervous in her stomach. Some would expect being at this line of work she should have gotten used to the risk, but the thought of losing someone she care was hard to get used to. Only, she stopped questioning too much. There is always people listening, Andy taught her. Even more so now they have a house guest.

So she only said one sentence. "Take care."

Andy nodded, and his rough hand pressed the top of her head gently, before he turn and walked towards his bedroom at the end of the hall. Ruth sighed when she was back in her cozy room, and the many tubes in the house sighed with her in the silence.

 

[0stinato]

Olympia was a woman who broke stereotypes. There was a stigma surrounding actors and actresses, a stigma that plagued many creatives. A half-baked everyman belief that a creative was simply someone whose academic skill was so lacking they had no choice but to escape to the arts. Such an idea was preposterous and despite Cassiopia's culture long overruling those thoughts for years, it made little difference to the set minds of the people of the new age. But yet here was a woman who shot all those points down. Her dialect, tone and content was just as good as her acting. Hieronymus found himself smiling as she spoke, partly because of her boundary-breaking speech, but also because his own job was being made much easier. Olympia was practically writing his article for him.

When she questioned the thought of a journalist as a human, instead of the journalist as a journalist, he sat up a little straighter, and glanced at Bernadette. In his mind, she had been extraordinarily quiet, and this made it difficult to place her in the hierarchy in the room; Hieronymus' mind worked on hierarchies. Knowing where he stood, who was above and below him... being tapped into this invisible, unspoken dimension gave him the ability to alter himself to fit the situation. But Bernadette was eluding this ladder-like formula, simply by not speaking, and just watching.

"Our careers," he said, referring to journalism and acting as he switched his gaze back to her, "are designed to work together. We talk about you, and you give us things to talk about. People read articles, are inspired to see a play, and are then interested to look up what a professional thinks. Interlinking chain, you understand. And, of course, within my own journalism, I find immense pleasure in personalising it to me. So whatever my thoughts are, you will most likely see them within the article I write about tonight's play. I wouldn't be worthy of the title of journalist if I didn't speak the truth."

"One must always speak the truth."

And what was that? A humorous reference or a ruthless jab? Bernadette's smile did not clear up this confusion, so all Hieronymus could do was nod and say, "indeed."

"I think it might be good to conclude there, unless you have anything further to say. Though, given your thorough answers to my questions, it seems that perhaps you've said everything I could ask for. Unless anyone thinks of anything further to say."

Bernadette raised her eyebrows with a smile.

"Nothing, thank you, Mr. Hartley."

Hieronymus reached for the dictaphone, sliding it into his jacket once again.

"Ah, thank you very much for your time, Mrs Carlyle. Now, you'll certainly see this article of mine in the Capers in a couple of days, that would be on the... eighth. Early in the morning, if you wish to read it, of course. Check what I think, what we both thought. What the audience thought. I have a few quotes from audience members, I gleaned them on the way in. You truly are a lighthouse of our time, plus a rare treat; you've almost made me forget about that horrible Messenger business this morning."

"Mr. Hartly, shall we leave her in peace for now? I'm sure she'd like to have some time to herself."

Bernadette got to her feet, buttoned her coat and extended her hand to Olympia. Hieronymus followed suit, but his own eye was much more on Bernadette's frame. Stiff. Robust, but brittle.

"Lovely to speak to you, Mrs Carlyle, as I said."

"It was kind of you to let us see you so soon after your performance. I'll get my colleague out of your hair."

The hierarchy was made clear by Bernadette's words - she was, or she thought she was, above Hieronymus. A hand on his back, steering him like a child, that was what it felt like. In fact, she did not put a hand on his back, but rather gave a firm blink as she held the door for him. She was indeed very brittle. She wanted to get him out of there.

"You're not much of an actress yourself, Ms. Horowitz, wanting me out so obviously," said Hieronymus dryly as he walked towards the door. Bernadette did not reply, but shook her head slightly, sweeping her hair from her face.

Osthavula

 

[0stinato]

If one was to watch Braithe try to operate anything in his apartment, one might imagine him to be an extra-terrestrial failing to understand a human system. Such was the thought of Volkovoi. The Russian had let himself into Braithe's apartment without a word, and stood watching as the blond man reached down and raised the door of the dishwasher, not activating it. Still, Braithe's index finger rested on one of the buttons, doing circles around the button's form. Volkovoi stood by until Braithe's head moved a minute fraction.

"Got word from Inge on the forum. I'll show you," said Volkovoi, his voice muffled by his beard and his age.

Volkovoi pulled out a medium-sized thin tablet and brought it to Braithe, handing it over as he took a seat on the other side of the counter island. Braithe remained standing. The only movement visible was his threads of hair which slipped glossily from his shoulders. His dark glasses were a bottomless pool. Volkovoi occupied himself while Braithe read by staring at the patterns in the marble countertops, following the threads of tint with his eyes.

"What do you reckon of that?" Volkovoi eventually asked.

Braithe did not raise his head. "Vague. Awfully vague."

"You'll go."

"Yes. If only to see what it is Inge is talking about."

Bratihe's finger jabbed at the tablet without a moment's hesitation, confirming his place at the meeting. Volkovoi anticipated this. In fact, it was impossible not to anticipate; Braithe, in Volkovoi's memory, had not missed an Editors' meeting ever, unless, of course, it was one he was specifically not supposed to come to. Well, actually, there was one time, a rare time Braithe was taken disastrously ill. Volkovoi had never seen Braithe suffer even so much as a cough before - or after - that illness. But the sickness had seen Braithe unconscious and bedridden for weeks. Volkovoi had been Braithe's only salvation, and as far as Volkovoi could work out, Braithe suffered some massively awful disease. It wasn't the flu, nor was it a the common cold. No, initially, it followed the same symptoms as fifth disease, only later it restricted Braithe inside his own body. His entire form seized up, paralysing him. All the while, Braithe lay there, exhausted, feverish and almost unable to keep up even the reflex to breathe. So bad was this that his skin once took on a horrifying grey-blue. The muscle tightening wore out his energy, starving him of his motor abilities.

But none of that seemed to have affected Braithe massively. There was no trigger that Braithe nor Volkovoi could work out, so Braithe's behaviour did not change. And the illness did not leave any aftermath. If one was to see him one day before and after that weeks-long illness, one would see no alteration.

Apart from that one time, Braithe had not missed a single one. And this was not out of devotion; this was out of paranoia. Braithe lived in a place where he could see everything, or, at least, metaphorically he could see everything. Just as he would watch the strangers in his theatre, he would watch the strangers outside his windows, hundreds of metres below him, trundling around Cassiopia and beyond. He needed to see everything.

The only way to be sure he didn't miss anything, then, was to attend every Editors' meeting. Volkovoi, despite acting as Braithe's perfect confidant, could not satisfy Braithe in terms of his eyes. He could tell Braithe anything and everything to the most intimate details and Braithe would of course believe and apprecaite him for providing the information, but there would be a pulling at his slender eyebrows, a frustrating doubt, the feeling that something, somewhere, is missing.

Such was now. Braithe tapped the screen to say he'd go to the meeting.

"You'll be there," Braithe said.

"I've planned around it already."

Braithe did not reply, and merely pushed the tablet back to Volkovoi. His head automatically turned to the big windows he'd been sitting in front of mere minutes ago. The light of the planet was killed by the light of the city, and those murdering lights reflected in Braithe's glasses. Volkovoi, from his angle, saw between Braithe's eyes as he took up the tablet.

There Braithe stayed for a good five minutes or so, hands supporting his weight on the marble and his head turned towards the city. Volkovoi kept his eye on Braithe's. And, while Volkovoi blinked in the quiet, Braithe did not. His eyelids remained static, as if they were simply ornaments on his face.

 

[Osthavula]

How is the relation of the two, Olympia wondered. They were friendly enough to come to Soso together, but from the conversation not the closest friends. She already had come up a way to talk to Bernadette alone, but still maintained her friendliness --- in the criteria of politeness --- and assured Hieronymus. "Do not worry, I will for certain read your article. In fact, you may have underestimate Capers popularity. " She point to the stack of megazine and newspaper on a shelf, neat as a block. Caper's newest edition lied on the very top of it. "We renew our stocks everyday. News and trend is a part of our work."

She smiled and added. "Not to mention the news focusing on Klokklsby. You may found some of your dedicated fans around Soso too, Mr Hartley. "

"And, Miss Horowitz? I may have a personal favour to ask. Something about the capital's fashion that a dear friend of mine wish to inquire." She said to Bernadette as they were about to leave, and looked apologetically to Hieronymus. "Pardon me for occupying your colleague, Mr Hartley, and please do not take offense. I'd love to talk more with you, but the topic I'm inquiring is within the privacy of womanly fashion."

Unlike Bernadette who could talk more freely, Olympia had to maintain her image. Still, even though letting them go would save much trouble, it was an opportunity to talk with another Editor, which in their secrecy was rare and risky. Her instinct told her something, news or changes, just happened. And her instinct was no ordinary woman instinct.

"I look forward to your new issue of Capers, Mr Hartley. "

And she need not verify with mirror that her smile seemed utmostly genuine. Even if Hieronymus was determined to hold ill feelings at that point, surely he would, at that moment, be distracted from it. Who was to say her friendliness was not genuine, too? She was, in circumstances or not, a dedicate reader of his articles.

 

[Osthavula]

"Quiet!"

Then came the hit on her back and her waist. She was violently flung into the closet space, the dust flew around her as her spine came into contact with the hard concrete floor. Then she looked up, to the familiar face now distorted with her own tears, not sure what to make of the situation she was in now. Before the dust settled on her hair, the man whispered. Then he picked up what was a piece of the wall panel, and sealed the space she was in. It was so dark, and the air was so dense.

Jane couldn't make a sound. She was frightened. And for someone with her past, she could still swear that it was the only moment in her life when all her senses was heightened to the extreme, like her body was ready, at that very moment, to die.

In the darkness that made everything seemed not existing, it was easy to think. Memory played like projector on screen.

Jane Clay, that was her name.

Not a fancy name, and the name suited her too perfectly. She wasn't the prettiest, as a child they often say her skin do look like clay. But what do you expect of a child who was poorly fed? Soon the father sold her for a bit of food. Not a very praised choice, but it happened still often enough. Poverty is a lasting and incurable plague in any human world. Clay-skin, they continued to call her, when she was sent to a laundry maid house. The master over there liked to display his power over his slaves, and the wife of his so paranoid that she often punish the maids. Jane had her bread taken so many times as a child, but had far worse experience growing up. Until one day, they finally call the police, claiming the girl had stolen the wife's gown. The police was only called after she was half beatened to death, her thin and brittle bones were shattered in her leg.

But it wasn't the police who did anything. No, they patted the dust off their hands and left. They knew the wife called them way too often to push blames, but instead of doing something, they chose neglection.

It was, the next day after the police came, a group of unexpected visitors came in the middle of the night.

To a holed-up someone who was just coming of age, the group seemed like creatures from fairytales. Someone who never read a book could never find the word to describe it, so little Jane thought that they were like one of those magical people. Could that yellow-shirted one breathe fire? The tall man, could he use those boney wings? It must be a dream, she thought. The master and his wife stood in the hall, with their face pale. The woman who had veiled her face started talking, very softly. It never did change, her tone and volume. But at the very end the masters and wife knelt on the floor trembling. They had lost more than their maids that night.

She spotted in the group a boy, around the same age. Unlike her, he wore clothes that her master would wear, good dark silk vest which fitted him well, and his hair brushed neatly backwards. He noticed her too, the already handsome face did not change while he looked. To her, it was a relieve that the first word came out of his mouth wasn't "clay-face". He didn't speak to her at all.

He turned and tugged on the lady's sleeve instead, and spoke. Jane thought to run away, back to the laundry maid's chamber. But she forgot that her limbs were now wrapped and bonded with sticks, and the people who came with her to see the comotion was already no where to be seen. The veiled lady loomed over her, dark veil adorned her as if she brought a fraction of the night air with her. And the lady spoke to her, a calming voice. Almost inhuman.

"Come with me. "

It wasn't a question. Jane Clay recognized that it was an order, ones that she received for most of her life. But it wasn't as bad as the master, she wished. That night she went with the lady. She came to know Siren. She came to know Francis Baines. Siren sold her to the same household Francis was working. She had a new master, and the master had a wife too. That wife asked Jane, one day, that she should become a governess for her children. That, was after they let her touch the library, and after she had grown into a woman. And, after the boy Francis Baines grew up too and became the butler.

Before he sealed her within one of the wall panel.

"Don't move, change your name, leave the house. Tell Siren. "

He whispered so, and his footsteps moved away quickly. Then, after some time, more footsteps came. She hugged herself into a ball, too scared to breathe. She heard them upstairs, and heard a loud bang. Even then, she was too afraid to cry.

Her lady, the master's wife, had disappeared. The children were sent away. All the staff dismissed, and Baines was away. There was only one person in the house.

She mourned, but she couldn't cry.

 

[0stinato]

“Ah, you require me to stay? Very well then,” Bernadette said, smoothing down a crease in the sleeve of her jacket. “I would be glad to help out someone so in the public eye. As you said, Mr. Hartley, we journalists and actors must work together. I assume you wouldn’t mind going and holding a taxi for us both, Mr. Hartley?”

Hieronymus blinked, on his way to the door. In Bernadette’s eyes, a shred of confusion crossed his gaze, but it vanished quite quickly. However, instead of being replaced with a look of acceptance, his gaze grew hard… which is exactly what Bernadette did not want to see.

“Hold us a taxi?”

She smiled, “If you wouldn’t mind, thank you.”

She advanced on him slightly, meaning he had to back off, through the door, which she shut.

“So, the fashion you wished to talk about?” Bernadette said confidently, loudly enough for her voice to penetrate the door. “Depending on the style you are going for - which, considering your gait I’d say you’d wish for sophisticated, yet coquettish? If I may say that? So perhaps Lady May is the brand that would suit you best?”

As she spoke, she reached for her mobile, secured in her jacket. If Olympia had taken off her Nightingale mask in favour of her Siren one, then she clearly felt something was going on. She kept up the façade of ‘feminine fashion’ as she checked the Editors forum… and yes, there was something new. She raised her eyes to the Siren, silently. Her own gaze was serious, and her back was straighter. This was hardly the Bernadette who wrote for the Capers - this was the Bernadette who was an Editor.

She raised the phone in her hand, screen outwards. What do you think?

Behind the door, Hieronymus wasn’t sure how to feel. With narrowed eyes, he stared at the door. It seemed they were talking about women’s underwear. Lady May and all - if Hieronymus had any say, he’d recommend a different brand to the Nightingale, but apparently he wasn’t allowed in this conversation.

Bernadette wanted him to hail and keep a taxi ticking over outside, so there was nothing else to do but that. Besides, skulking around out here… it wasn’t gentlemanly. Listening into a conversation about women’s undergarments, really!

So he quietly pulled from inside his jacket his dictaphone and left it beside the door, angled against the wall… so it looked somewhat accidental. Then, satisfied with himself, he turned on his heel, assumed his raised-chin appearance, and strode from the corridor.

Olympia smiled, and walked towards her vanity mirror. The light was so blinding that the cord behind them was barely noticable. The nightingale extended her hand and pull it, and though in this room they couldn’t hear, by common sense someone would be summon forth.

“The truth is, I have a girl who was close to me. Just recently she courted a boy from the capital, and she wanted an advice. Who better than the editor in the capital to ask for help?”

She said, and waited. Not even a minute long the door was knocked on, and Olympia opened the door herself. Behind it, a girl with wavy hair and a long yellow dress stared rather blankly at them, very confused as to what to do. On one of her hand that was raised, clearly, was a dictaphone.

“I found this…” The girl said. Olympia chuckled at the sight of it.

Bernadette raised an eyebrow at the girl and at what was in her hand. “Well well. I wonder whose this is. Is it… recording? Where did you find it?”

“Beside the door… Against the skirting board, Madam.” The girl answered gingerly. “I’m not familiar with this, so I’m not sure whether it is on or off.”

Then Olympia led the girl inside, and again wrapped her scarf around the lock, closing the door firmly. She took the dictaphone and handed it to Bernadette. “I believe you will be the best person to … Entrust it to. “

Bernadette took the thing from the girl, turning it over in her hand. It was an expensive model of dictaphone, perhaps more expensive than her own and one of its qualities was that there was no flashing red button to let you know it was recording. Apparently it distracted from the interview if there was one… according to Hieronymus at least. However, no flashing red light made it difficult to examine for its status. She had to decipher the dark screen to see if it was doing anything. When she was satisfied it was, in fact, recording - how uncouth of him to do such a thing - she pressed Stop and slotted it into her pocket.

“There. We wouldn’t want it to run out of battery, would we?” she said to Olympia. “I’ll return it… and I’ll have a word with him about this. To invade a woman’s privacy in such a way… he should be ashamed of himself.”

Bernadette was not under the illusion that Hieronymus had - supposedly - done this on purpose for the sake of masculine desire. But she had to keep up appearances.

“Well, now we’re private again, shall we discuss… more important things? You want advice about Oriyon?”

“Yes.” The girl answered, handing the phone to Olympia. She continued to talk. “We have a meeting next week, so I wanted to surprise him. I know the fashion in Klokklsby and Soso, but then I don’t know much about Oriyon. “

Olympia read the new message. Inge was up to something, it seems. But for what, and why? For one, any meeting between Editors with their cover is risky itself. Being in her position Olympia couldn’t risk to avoid it, either. She must be in the know.

How about Bernadette? Would she go too?

Both Olympia and the girl looked at Bernadette more solemnly than before. In this room they both showed their Editor’s face, and Olympia didn’t blink as she continued, wanting Bernadette to listen underneath her wordings.

“I must admit I do not know fully of Oriyon and its people. If Lady May would be a good choice, where to should we go to shop? I would ask you to help her shop....”

She searched in her mind a way to talk naturally of capital’s meeting. Even if Hieronymus did not leave his dictaphone, too long a silence in this room still might attract attention. Unlikely, but she was careful.

“Seems as if we need to be rather smart about the situation. Of course, I am always able to change my plans… and, of course, I know the ins and outs of Oriyon, I know the quieter places where we might be able to plan in peace. Some of them aren’t as physically nice, though there is a wonderful golf club that have exquisite little gazebos that are very private. It does seem as if there are irregularities arising,” in her hand she twitched her phone. “And we haven’t much time, it seems. A couple of days, which means we have tomorrow to organise the ‘outfit,’ as it were.”

“I see. It would be well. What approach should we use?” Olympia turned to the girl. “Collette?”

“I am not sure… I should show some hesitation for the invite, but I am curious… To his reaction.” Unlike her tone Collette didn’t seem as shy herself. She worriedly twirl her hair. “Should I be active or Passive about it?”

“I know I would take a more active approach. “ The songstress said, looking at Bernadette again.

Bernadette smiled slightly, “I’m passive, until I see what needs to be done. I see it pointless to make rash decisions. I want to see why he requests this, of course, just as you two do. But I will not be too active unless I plan first. Of course, to work independently is a silly idea. I would trust you both, if you would trust me. Just so we have a… fallback, in case things don’t quite go smoothly. I must admit, my emotions regarding our group have become rather sour since… the ‘Apollo’ situation. I do not feel completely correct… something is wrong. Inge has become… predatory.”

She was interrupted by her phone buzzing again in her hand. A small adrenaline spike ran through her - what was it? Another message from Inge? She opened her phone and looked, but it was merely a text from Hieronymus.

I have somehow misplaced my dictaphone - keep an eye out for it, would you?

The smile that crossed her lips was cold. ‘Misplaced,’ sure.

“Sorry about that,” she said, raising her eyes to Olympia and her companion. “If you two will indeed support me, I will do my utmost to support you. Of course, perhaps it is simply personal paranoia, though I have learned never to mistrust a journalistic instinct. I can book us a private are at the golf club in Oriyon for tomorrow, if you two will meet us there. We can go shopping and… plan an outfit. Project Lady May, perhaps?”

“Project Lady May, sounds good. “ Collette sounded gleeful despite she being completely composed. She had the skill of a fine actress, it would seem. “Thank you, Miss Horowitz. “

“I should say thank you too. I hope my knowledge would be of use too. “ Her finger finally moved to her phone screen, accepting the invitation. The date appeared and she frowned at it. Knowing Andy would accept it too… Her intuition was sounding an alarm. Which told her to believe Bernadette’s word as well. Something was on with Inge, and the messenger, and Baines…

Bernadette adjusted the lapel of her jacket and tucked her phone away, giving polite nods to the women. “I will let you know the details of where to meet - and don’t worry about Oriyon, it’s a lovely place. I will catch up with you very soon. Now, I must be off, before Mr. Hartley starts fretting about his… dictaphone,” she smiled. “Very nice to see you again, Nightingale.”

Bernadette left as primly as she had come, but with some satisfaction giving her walk more poignance. The manager tilted his head at her as she passed and she made her way into the dark, the wind picking up a little and dislodging some carefully organised hair. Hieronymus was only a few seconds walk away from the theatre. He had indeed secured a taxi, but was standing outside it. As he noticed Bernadette approaching, he gave a smile and walked a few feet to stub out his cigarette and discard it in a bin.

“Are you ready?” he said to her. “Oh - and I texted you. Did you get it?”

Bernadette’s own smile was watery. He was disappointingly unsubtle.

“Yes, your dictaphone. A very sweet girl picked it up and brought it into the Nightingale’s dressing room mere minutes after you had departed. It was on, though, so I turned it off to conserve its battery,” she withdrew it from her pocket and held it out for him to take.

To his credit, if Bernadette had not been surrounded with two talented actresses only minutes ago, she might have been convinced by Hieronymus’ performance upon receiving his recorder back. A half-smile, a relieved exhale, both were quite good. Not good enough though. There was a hidden scowl in his eyes.

“Not sure how I managed to… well, I’m just glad to have it back.”

They got in the taxi. Bernadette decided not to bring up the reason why it was on. Unless Hieronymus really was so uncouth as to attempt to record a discussion between ladies… surely it was about something else. She glanced sideways at him. At first, she thought he was asleep, his head back against the headrest. But his eyes were open, as attentive as they were when he was seeing the Nightingale on stage. She looked away. She would have to deal with him, she thought.

 

[0stinato]

One comedy show had finished. Another had come on. Then that had ended, but the torture was not over yet. A standup show was on next, with mediocre voices and less-than-mediocre jokes. The only decent one had a name that was too hard to remember, let alone spell, so the likelihood of hearing him again would be slim. Lois would never consider him, and Lull didn't have the energy to devote brain cells to that combination of consonants.

Eventually, unable to take any more, he heaved himself from his seat, discarding his practically-empty tea-mug in the sink. As he placed it down, its handle scraped against the overflow, dislodging a globule of grime. It trickled sadly down the mug handle and Lull did nothing. He just stared at it, as people stare at phlegm in their palm they didn't mean to sneeze out. There was no reason to sigh about this either - no matter how many times he attempted to clean the kitchen, he never got as far as the sink. He'd manage to clear the sides up to the kettle, at which point he'd award himself a break. Slap the kettle on, have a cup of tea, watch some documentary, fall asleep.

And these are the best days of our lives.

He scratched his nose. Put his hands in his pockets. Turned around and took the corridor to the bedrooms.

"Are you going to bed?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, okay. You're not angry with me still are you?"

Yes. "No."

"Oh, good, it wasn't my fault, after all."

"... Just... don't stay up late."

"Yeah I'll just watch the end."

Lull nodded - more to himself than to her, as she'd already turned back towards the television - and knew she'd definitely watch another hours' worth of crap content before she decided she'd risked enough. The way she walked through the apartment on her way to bed told Lull everything he needed to know. She walked slowly, and, if the floorboards creaked, she'd stop. Trying to sneak into bed late without waking him up.

Little did she know, he never slept easily.

He could lie still, quiet, deathly, with only the husky rattle of his breath to accompany him into that dark dreamworld, but dreamworld was always reluctant to take him. His mind would corrupt it, worries of reality sneaking into the land of restful bliss. If there was a train to take patrons of sleep to the dreamworld, Lull's introduction would crash the train. And what was the point of controlling these dreams of certainties of fire if he could not transfer that power to the real world? His walking-sigh of a dream body would float unhappily through, colouring a world grey. But such power was lost in the real world. Nothing was coloured only in graphite there.

Lois' pocketwatch... what was that? He wondered this while sitting on his bed, half-dressed, the sickly toothpaste irritating his tongue. Why had she felt it necessary to buy it? Although even questioning her intentions was a ridiculous waste of time. The answer was the same as always - because she wanted it. Lois was fuelled by whim and fancy; even her walk displayed the childish way she'd appreciate anything remotely visually pleasing. No - not appreciate. Want.

Lull inhaled ready to sigh, but the force of even breathing in caused a minor coughing fit. When he calmed down, he realised his phone had received a message. Must have come through when he was half-dying.

He lay down, not bothering to change his shirt, rolled over, and opened the message.

#[Number Redacted]​

Contract: 0058, SKULLFACE​

Complete on 08/09/2177, Old Theatre Inn, 6:00pm - 6:40pm.
Target: O. C., Female, Actress, the "Siren."

PORTRAIT​

Failure will not be tolerated, nor accepted, unless a reasonable excuse is present. Should this occur, proof is expected of this excuse. Otherwise, the onus is on SKULLFACE to succeed.
Complete contract and report back exactly 1 hour after completion.




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You would have to an idiot, Lull considered, to not recognise the woman in the photograph. No emotions arose in his chest when he looked at her. No fear of failure, no fear of being killed himself (should she have bodyguards), not even a worry of how he would go about introducing death to her. He went back to his nightly duties after reading through the contract, setting his morning alarms, pulling off his shirt, tossing it across the room, tossing his bra over there with it, struggling into his pyjama shirt, rearranging his pillows, rolling onto his right side, and began the long trek of going to sleep... it would take him three hours. Three long hours with only his blinking for company.

He sighed. He closed his mind.

 

[Osthavula]

Project Lady May was growing increasingly bigger in two ways inside Bernadette’s heart: on the one hand, the entire idea of the three of them undertaking a quiet, slightly underhand stance together was reminiscent of any childlike wish to ‘play spies’ and whatnot, so in that regard, it granted her a lot of pleasure. On the other side though, the more this project grew, the more it became real. After all, it was the brainchild of three intelligent women suspicious that the true secret society they were a part of was rotten from the inside. And, with each member of the Editors holding their own stakes, their own assets and their own power, it was a strong possibility that antagonism between members could result in real-world instability.

Bernadette raised a teacup to her lips. That was something the golf club was good at - it understood why people might not play golf. Indeed, Bernadette had not even walked in with clubs: she had simply announced herself, informed the reception that two ladies would be joining her, and swanned straight outside to her perfectly-chosen gazebo. Light-coloured, painted wood, the scent of a newly-constructed timber building, and the drifting heads of purposefully-planted wildflowers, if not for the occasional ‘thuk’ of a golfer, it might be an expensive garden of Eden.

They’d brought her complimentary tea, a few pseudo-posh biscuits, and Bernadette had doffed her summer hat in favour of the sweet shade as she prepared her tea. All the while, as her hands created the perfect blend of sweet, creamy and earthy, her mind calculated, plotted, revised and revised again. The only time the mist in her eyes parted was when she laid eyes on her companions.

Olympia sipped her tea and waited for Bernadette to start. She can, obviously, speak first. But her carefulness won’t let her do so. Collette had came too. The two of them looked quite different from themselves in Soso with the vintage dress. They had picked clothing in accordance with the capital --- Olympia looked like she work in Oriyon’s boutique shop, and Collette had a soft one-piece dress with a thin coat on. It was convincing enough that if she actually had courted someone from the capital. Unlike Olympia who looked at Bernadette, Collette seemed to be on guard with the surroundings, checking if anyone was listening in.

“Thank you for inviting me here, Miss Horowitz. I admire the club’s atmosphere.” Olympia eventually started, with a common compliment. She didn’t bother to take any tools either, knowing whatever “club” people had bears the social implication rather than just the names. “Collette said she hadn’t heard from him since, and she is a bit anxious. How about you? Do you have any plan?”

“In my mind the most important thing we must do is be cautious. But perhaps not as cautious as you are, Collette dear. Do pour yourself some tea, both of you, if you want it. I did prepare for your arrival. As you say, we must prepare ourselves. Now, I have given it some thought, and I consider it foolish of him if he was to do anything rash tomorrow. I would only expect him to perhaps continue the trend of behaviour he has been showing recently. Although that is no reason to not be on our guard. We must keep an eye on him… but perhaps not yet alert others. After all, among the three of us… we can be sure there is trust. That is, I have not seen proof of your allegiance to my side of things but,” Bernadette smiled and cupped Olympia’s hand, “I would never consider your trust to be in question. I have seen your personas change like the seasons on stage, but never have I considered you untruthful. And Collette,” Bernadette let go of Olympia’s hand and turned her attention to the other woman, “although we have not known each other long, if you are affiliated with Olympia I have no motive to go against you. Besides, your eyes have the… ring of concern. And no one in their right mind would not be concerned at a time like this.

“But, of course, we are simply a trio. We do not know what any others will be thinking. Of course, we can rule your husband out as a potential problem, Olympia… but… for the same reasons we should not act rashly… I doubt he will act like that either… but, speaking of rash decisions, I must take a moment to apologise for my colleague’s conduct yesterday. Rest assured I will broach with him the foolishness of his actions tomorrow. And, of course… try to find out why he ran his mouth about Marlow, and who spoke to him of Marlow. Given that was a subject he was warned away from, it’s awfully uncomfortable to see him chasing it,” she shook her head but her expression cleared. “Your thoughts, ladies?”

Olympia thought for a moment, planned out how much to give out. Normally, she shouldn’t give out to people her line of business and the state, but to her this very moment she was in a dire situation.

“Normally I would have heard of what happened with Inge, but I admit I was quite tangled up with issues of my business. Just recently I have lost some of my connextions, much more than I can afford to.” Collette nodded on the side. “I was lucky to have kept Collette and a few others in contact, but I couldn’t find the rest. To be honest, I’m puzzled. So you see, I might need some explanation on how Inge started to act after the incident.”

She decided not to talk about the guest her daughter let stayed over until she can trust Bernadette further. She seemed trustworthy, but sometimes it is not about personality and reliability.

“As for my husband, we don’t tell each other everything of what we do. We both are going to where Inge arranged to meet, but I do worry… First of all, I don’t know if my problem is related to Inge. Secondly, Andy was too important to act rashly. Gathering all of us in one place is risky enough. If anything affects Klokklsby… That is always Andy’s priority.”

Collette got herself some tea and joined in the conversation, looking less to the door, but still very much alert. “ Miss Olympia was very busy lately, so I helped if she needed anything. It was strange, but I thought there were some strange attention lately near Soso. Because of that I have been kept busy as well, having to resolve some conflict or two. Such problem grew less the further you are from the theatre.”

“So, can you fill us in?” Olympia nodded. “I can trust you, Bernadette. And I will confess that this situation is not making me comfortable.”

Bernadette gave her tea a sharp gulp and laid the cup down. Mostly empty now. As she listened, she watched the ripples in the lukewarm beverage.

“I can’t say any of that here - none of what you want to hear I can tell you. All I can say is… his self is different. The way he holds himself in the room. It might be ridiculous to base a theory off the back of someone’s physical presence, but if that isn’t enough to compare, his… position is different. He speaks like we should listen to him. You recall he became almost enraged when the question of the string of crimes in the East of Cassiopia was placed below Klokklsby’s development? He wished to address the former, yet was rather… aggressive when we finally got round to it. Again, they are speculations. But,” she smiled, “you can’t form a theory without a speculation. Of course… these are my weakest arguments. Anything else you need to know I will not disclose here. And anyway, the real reason we gathered is to discuss our Lady May plans. You say you are concerned, uncomfortable, Olympia. I say, listen to that instinct. If you are distrustful of a position, find a way around it. I will present myself tomorrow with nothing but my senses and I will keep an eye on everything I see. I personally don’t see taking action as something I should do. But - if you two need to make yourselves more comfortable, then certainly see to it. Don’t mistrust your instincts. I listen to mine at all times; they are a girl’s best friend.”

Olympia nodded. Her appearance still did not give away that she was having such fragile position. She was facing what could be the biggest crisis in her career, and Inge being strong in his opinion did not help. She herself and Andy’s business did not work well in his wish either. Andy will never back down --- though it was his father who stood firmed back then --- on the development of Klokklsby, and some would argue Olympia’s dealing would overlapped with Inge’s. Thanked to her business, some family of Klokklsby was populated. It played a part in the family business. Not that she had any intention to play against Inge.

“I will be careful, and bluff if I have to. But we all know how much we can bluff for that person. I will observe as usual. But I’d like something more than just instinct and reaction planning, at all times.”

She put down her cup of tea, and looked around them. It was a nice weather today, sunny enough for some people to play golf. No one was supposedly close enough to even hear them.

“I know after these words I will owe much to you, Miss Horowitz. But in case in the future, if me and my husband for some reason will be tied down and unable to act, I hope you can give a friendly hand to a few people I hold dear. You have met Collette. You might have heard of my daughter also, Ruth Carlyle. And Lorretta Guerra.”

Whether Bernadette will recognize Lorretta as a name, she couldn’t say for certain. But Guerra was a big name, Editors or not. Lorretta’s family was louder than her, in ways more than one. They had the history of being infamous, though laid lower in the new generation. Lorretta’s father went down in a loud bang with guns and a fancy black car, but he managed to let almost no one knew his precious daughter existed.

“I won’t ask for anything out of what you will be willing to offer, of course. But I thought in this moment we happen to meet each other to talk is a godsend. I understand if you won’t accept it, of course. I won’t be the only one with worries, and to anyone in Editors, this is a huge favour to ask of.”

Being the head editor of her part of the Capers, Bernadette certainly didn’t exist in a world where money was a luxury. Rather, she could afford luxuries, now and then. It wasn’t excessive, but she felt confident in giving Olympia a nod, “I’ll do what I can for them both. I trust I would be able to track them both down. If you like, I will keep an eye on them, though you can trust me with their securities, to the extent I can help them.

“You don’t owe me anything, my dear. All I ask is that, if you are to lean on me, I have the ability to lean on you when the time comes.”

Compared to Olympia, who had a world and a half behind her head, Bernadette held only a few things: her occupation, one of the most important pieces of her identity, and her wife. Other than that, most things were expendable. Money existed as a digital entity, her house was hardly an immediate concern, and even her position at the Editors was a bough she was not scared of snapping… in the past, at least, Bernadette never considered the consequences of the removal of an Editor member but after the Messenger’s demise… perhaps, she thought, she ought to consider her life as collateral for her position… which only made the weight on her heavier.

However, her weight was feathers compared with Olympia’s. Husband. City. Daughter. Her own life. Bernadette only worried about one person.

“I will be happy to see you ladies tomorrow - do remember what I said. Trust your instincts.”

 

[0stinato]

'Peace' was not a concept that was alongside the Capers' Head Cassiopia-affairs journalist on the morning of the 8th. Despite his usual well-prepared, exquisitely-dressed demeanour, his golden eyes displayed an entirely different state of being. Ravenous and sleepless, they ached in the morning sun. The dictaphone recordings were essentially next to useless. All he had were extremely vague inklings. Inklings of non-professional taping. Each part of the extremely long recording was now broken up into sections:

Patron_Interview :...........................00:00:00____00:04:15...........06/09/2177
Walk_to_Dressing_Room :..............00:04:16____00:13:28...........06/09/2177
Nightingale_Introduction :..............00:13:29____00:25:03...........06/09/2177
Nightingale_Interview :...................00:25:04____01:02:46...........06/09/2177
Nightingale_Close :.........................01:02:47____01:05:01...........06/09/2177
Afterwards :.....................................01:05:02____01:07:45...........06/09/2177

The recording break titled 'Afterwards' was the one Hieronymus was most irritated about. Two minutes and forty-three seconds of recording, before the 'girl' Bernadette had talked about had spied his dictaphone and delivered it to the hands of those who weren't supposed to know it was there. Next time, he reasoned, I'll put it somewhere no one will ever see it.

And, on top of that, those two minutes and forty-three seconds were filled with Bernadette's "Hold us a taxi?" then the quiet shuffling of him placing the thing upon the floor, faint footsteps of him leaving...

“The truth is, I have a girl who was close to me. Just recently she courted a boy from the capital, and she wanted an advice. Who better than the editor in the capital to ask for help?”

“I found this…”

“Well well. I wonder whose this is. Is it… recording? Where did you find it?”

“Beside the door… Against the skirting board, Madam. I’m not familiar with this, so I’m not sure whether it is on or off.”

“I believe you will be the best person to … Entrust it to. “

And nothing else beyond that. Within the snippet, the 'girl' must have entered, as there was a new female voice Hieronymus did not recognise. Bernadette turned the thing off, ending the long recording. The hour-long recording, uninterrupted. Certainly, there were sections of the recording where things were muffled, or there was too much interference to make out a few words, but there were reasons for that, of course. For one thing, whenever it was tucked in his breast pocket, the fabric of his jacket had done a thorough job of silencing sound that wasn't near him. Fortunately, the Nightingale's dressing room being so quiet counteracted that drawback slightly... but all in all, the recording wasn't scrap. The Nightingale's interview was in pristine condition, a result of the expensive dictaphone doing its job out in the open air.

He had sorted out the recordings as soon as he'd got home on the 6th - around 11pm - and had spent three hours on it. Two of the hours were listening to the recordings, mind blinded slightly with annoyance. Bernadette's actions with the Nightingale, securing herself in the dressing room with the actress for such a crippled reason as "we must speak about lady's underwear," were irritatingly suspicious. Her silence during Hieronymus' interview, yet her familiarity after it had finished... Hieronymus could not shake the feeling there was something else between the women. So much did he do nothing but think about the situation that his scolding of Chauntecleer's late return home was a half-hearted, "It's 2am, you foolish boy..." before his head tilted back slightly, weighed down with the cause-and-effect consideration of what that 'something else' could be.

Even now, early morning of the 8th, when his written-up interview with the Nightingale was set to be published in pixels and ink, his mind was still clouded with thoughts of his 'Afterwards' recording.

Sat in his office, he did not have that recording with him. It remained at home, living life on a nondescript memory stick along with the other three non-interview snippets. His dictaphone no longer held the recording - it was fresh today.

Putting the obsession over Bernadette's secrecy to the back of his mind, he stared at the screen of his computer. He had to go through the final check of his interview, and the other Cassiopia news gathered by the hive of journalists under his umbrella. A few major stories, including his own of course, graced the first few pages. There was a banner down the front leaf, set with the Nightingale's poster-image, an enticing offer to those who wanted to know what her semantics were like. Beyond his own though, were a few others, mainly focused on disaster and whimsy: "a children's entertainer suing for damages caused by a family's papillon", "Oriyon government official murdered in the Silverlake Lodge to the horror of Oriyon travellers, Oriyon investigator under police protection," "Cassiopia to lauch hot-air balloon station..."

It was fascinating how boring the news was when one's mind was...

was...

Oriyon government official murdered in the Silverlake Lodge... Oriyon investigator under police protection."

Hieronymus reckoned that was a lot of 'Oriyon' in one headline. With a slow hand, but a mind awakening like a kickstarted lawnmower, he scanned the page, seeking out the name of the journalist who had looked into that. Francisco Infante. Hieronymus knew where he was. No surprise to see his name - he appeared a lot when crime was involved. Likely, he didn't do all of the journalism personally, but it was worth a go.

Hieronymus wasted no time in taking the elevator. It was too slow and the last thing he wanted was to have to stare at his own eyes in the mirrored innards of the lift. Unsatisfied eyes, they were a hollow pit desperate to be filled. But, in moving down the stairs, he realised he fairly flew down them, weightless. The chase had begun, the chase for satisfaction and realisation. Nevertheless, upon strolling into the Crime department, he made sure to slow his pace a little, to return his chin to its haughty position in the air.

He knocked on the glass door of Infante's significantly small office, entered, and questioned him on the circumstances of the "Oriyon government official... murder... story."

"What is this in regards to?" Infante said.

"Potential follow-up with the investigator. I've... an idea there's potential for success there..." no matter how much Hieronymus tried to stay on track, his mind was pulling him away. "From the sounds of it... police protection and whatnot. Must have been a bad killing."

"Surely you should leave that potential story up to this department?" Infante said. He seemed incapable of talking without asking a question. Realising the journalist's defensive attitude, Hieronymus' mind returned to the here-and-now, and he fixed Infante with a more ravenous stare.

"Not really, no."

The short remark seemed to put a bullet in the conversation. A couple of times, Infante looked as if he was going to say something along the lines of "Why not?" but refrained from doing it. He didn't wish to give up so easily though, so stood up, moved past Hieronymus and called in a couple of desk-workers, busy at the hive as usual. From there, he proceeded to pull a bit of information from them: one seemed to have a better memory than the other, and reeled off information that was... semi-helpful. He didn't include the investigator's name (something Hieronymus didn't expect him to know) but provided which police force in the area responded, how far the forensics was set to go, and the fact that the hostel was still more or less in business. The other promised a write-up of his notes.

"I want that as soon as humanly possible," Hieronymus said to the second journalist. During the conversation he'd been thumbing in notes to his phone. "If this goes nowhere, I'll inform you. After all, we can't push the police to reveal things. I wouldn't do that, as much as I would be... curious. I suppose neither of you know where the investigator is, being in police protection? I'd expect a safe-house, or the like."

"No, it's police protection after all."

"Obviously," said Hieronymus, "and equally obviously is how little you even tried to pursue that point. Persistence pays, remember that, and put it to use. There are ways to dig for information without being obnoxious and overly-keen. That's why I think there's potential here. And since your article won't do that potential justice," he paused to glance at Infante, "someone else has to do it. Send me what you have now. Don't be idle."

He left not long after that, unable to stand in one place too long. He even failed to let his PA know where he was going, and rationalised that the poor man could work out his absence off his own common sense. This was not the first time Hieronymus had vanished without a word.

So hasty was Hieronymus in chasing the potential lead that he didn't realise that his body, which would usually be gasping and begging for its first hit of nicotine, was completely silent. He hailed a taxi, got himself comfortable, and his eyes were drawn to the whizzing views of the ground of Cassiopia, his city, where something uncanny lay festering... and to chase that was to chase a much bigger high than any cigarette could care to give him.

 

[0stinato]

A while away, across Cassiopia, one man's body was running solely off nicotine. Well, nicotine and sugar from a cereal-heavy breakfast. There was no shame in enjoying the quintessential 'frosted' nature of Frosted Shreddies was there? So he had done... after adding perhaps three more spoonfuls of the white sucrose to his bowl. Now that last part was where the guilt should have come from, if Lull "Skullface" could feel the emotion. But no, there was no thought to his gut, or pancreas, kidneys and teeth, as he flicked his cigarette end to the paving slabs from his position leaning against the corner of a block of apartments. He was half-secured in the shade of another block, and the space between them was what one might expect; dusty, heavy with murky smells, and avoided by most people.

So he abandoned it too. Slotting his hands into his trouser pockets, he joined a throng of people, one of whom was definitely smoking something other than tobacco. It was a mixture of a cigar fug and pot. Lull had never smoked a cigar; the entire stench of it always worked itself into his brain and gave him a headache. But the placebo effect of the hint of weed was slightly soothing. But he decided to break from the group and roam where he should have been going in the first place.

Getting a day's warning on a contract was hardly anything new. Although Lull liked a little more time to prepare, perhaps forty-percent of his jobs were given to him with a day's advance. But that was down to the Ts-and-Cs of hiring a hitman. At least, with this job, came the reassurance that the target was enough in the public eye that there was information about her. Yesterday was the information-collecting day. Lull had scrounged some useful titbits of facts about Mrs Olympia Carlyle, which were only added to by the portfolio of data on the actress offered up by the network he 'hit' for.

Lull wasn't Cassiopia's only hitman; on the contrary, there was a network. Its official name was The Crook and Shot, but only a fool would allow his tongue to be graced with the name. Fortunately, within Soso, there existed a public house that went by the same name, but of no affiliation with the network. Its sign was a shepherd's crook overlayed by David's slingshot, and it was very difficult to mistake for anything else: the pub had, over time, become less of an establishment meant to service the parched tongues of groups of mates out for a nice night, and more of a brothel. Infamy on a slightly illegal level covered anonymity on an extremely illegal level.

It was this network that filtered jobs through the system assigning them each a hitman, a thug, a thief, a carjacker, a spy, a hacker, an infiltrator or, as existed within a few greedy psychopaths in the network, an arsonist. Professional arsonist. It wasn't Lull's title, but he thought it sounded stupid. Indeed, Lull didn't speak his professional title. For all intents and purposes, he was "a proofreader who charges differing amounts of money depending on what he is proofreading, and how long it will take." That was bullshit, really. A cover provided by The Crook and Shot network. He wasn't a self-employed proofreader at all. Yes, he liked reading and wouldn't mind proofreading for, perhaps, extra income, but any more income would put his current income into question.

Lull sighed. The Crook and Shot wasn't the pub he was going to. It was the Old Theatre. Its name was a clue as to its position in the city, not because it was near to a theatre, but that it was essentially in the middle of everything. Established perhaps four-hundred years ago where, once, there was a theatre nearby, as established in A Comprehensive of Play-Spaces in the South-West, by D. Brookmyre and H. Hartley, to name one Lull had read, it certainly had not been expecting a city to emerge from the ground around it. That left the theatre in a rather odd position. It was too far from Klokklsby to warrant an easy trip by the Victorian minds who lived there, yet too far from Cassiopia's main network of city streets to be homely. As a result, it suffered. It suffered quietly and no one noticed or cared.

Well, a few people cared. The authors of that damn comprehensive to name two. If Lull could recall the heart-wrenching little passage meted out by the authors, it went something along the lines of:

"Considering the history of the establishment, and the age of its structure, existence and place on Earth, it was only natural that a sense of awe arose inside the chest of the average man when he knew he was standing where soldiers, creatives and noblemen once stood. However, the modern 'average man' has changed substantially, meaning that sense of awe has practically vanished from the psyche of the twenty-second century Everyman. As a result, the Old Theatre pub has lost its charm to all those who don't sense its value and history."

If two grown men were going to get sentimental about an old pub, they were insane.

Lull glanced down a wide alley that would take him to the pub. A few grassy patches existed only to outline the existence of newly-planted trees, and the rest was reddish brick, cornered by cream paving slabs. It stood and baked on its own, a little garden jutting out, where a few nine-tenths empty glasses of amber lager stood, warming in the semi-sunshine.

He walked on, coming to the gates of Cassiopia main's picturesque Lake Park, found the nearest bench, and lit up a cigarette as he sat down.

 

[Osthavula]

How many nights had it been that he would be woken up to unfamiliar ceilings? Talon rubbed his eyes to a dim room. The window beside him didn't lead to the street sight or scenery, but a strange device that sparked fire like a torch. It would look like a lamp, but the sparking wire was attached to other metallic objects that it couldn't have been just a lamp. There were sounds inside the wall like machines churning and turning, but luckily not noisy like factory. They must have been well oiled and maintained, and possibly some noise cancelling technique. He looked at the spark, mesmerized until someone knocked on the door.

"Are you up?" A clear girl voice called. "Breakfast is done. I'm showing you the bathroom and the dining room. "

The not-so-gentle morning call woke him up finally from his long daze. "I am up, thank you. " Sensing her impatient, he said again. "Thank you." And pulled out his last clean clothes from the bag. His leave from his rented room of Silverlake Lodge was too sudden that he never did unpack his belongings. All he could do to cancel his reservation for the week, and hurried out with the rest of the startled customers. The hostel owner could barely handle everyone's request to cancel or switch rooms that Talon couldn't bring himself to ask for the few coins missing from his refund.

The boy was also aware that he had his bed-hair and sweated face still, but all he could do was to smooth his hair as much as his hands were capable, and not speak when Ruth shoved a cup and brush in his arms. Unsurprisingly, the cup and the toothbrush's handle were of light weight metal. The taste of their maker was distinctive and obvious.

Ruth on the otherhand, had calmed down after last night's sleep. Her will was to continue to begrudge on the new person, but her temper had secretly subsided and her logic started to do its work. Her father was not a man to comment on things, but if he commented on a stranger, even wanting her to look after his best interest, then there was something more. Something related to Editors. The society was rarely threatened, and she really wouldn't consider this boy to be a considerable factor in their stability. In her deep thoughts she followed him all the way into the bathroom before she realized Talon was awkwardly pointing out her presence. She did what she did best --- slam the door after her leave and waited arms-crossed outside.

Their tension continued when they were sitting across the table, with Andy sitting on the main seat beside them. The man of the house greeted Talon, asked about how his stay was, grunted when Norberto was mentioned, and said nothing of the sort like how himself recognize his name. In the end, he got up and said to the young man. "I will travel to the capital soon. Please take care of my daughter."

"I don't need taking care of!" Ruth protested, the end of her hair falling into her cup of juice.

"I don't know how long I will spend there, so you two are the only one staying at home. Take care of the shop, and if you have to you can take a break. "

"The shop will operate as per usual. "

"Good. I must take my leave. " Andy took his hat that hung on the chair back, which mirrored Norberto in Talon's eyes. Leaving the two with their dinner, Talon and Ruth spent another minute where they ate in silent.

"So what do you do?"

Ruth asked. Talon didn't know how to respond. It was a question he would wish to avoid, if he can. "What do you mean?"

"What is your plan? Are you just sightseeing? Or what else?" She scanned his face. "You are not sightseeing from the looks of it. What is it then?"

"I don't really..."

"Help out then."

"Hm?"

"You are not paying rent, so you may as well do something. Make yourself useful. I have a watch to make, so you can at least look after the customer."

"If it is possible, can I not be in the shop? I don't wish to...."

Ruth now looked at him intensely, which he mistook as glaring and cut his bacon very unconfortably. In the maiden's head, however, she was just questioning why he wish to avoid attention today. He stuck out in the Klokklsby crowd for her and the locals, but he seemed to be fond of averting gazes. In hiding, perhaps? But why?

"Why are you hiding?"

"I ... What?"

Being his nervous self, Talon accidentally let the knife slipped from his finger. Was he too obvious? Ruth's questioning were surprisingly sharp to him. No doubt he still thought that he should avoid confessing to people openly, like his disastrous talk to the Caper's journalist, but at this moment he sensed that it would be an uphill battle for the girl across him. He didn't understand, but he felt she knew something more than she revealed, but as much as Talon wanted to keep his secret, it seemed impossible at that very moment. When the brunnette was visibly determined to dug up whatever he had.

"You are in hiding, so tell me why. Or are you going to have what is chasing you coming here and I don't know how to preplan? "

He could say nothing would be after him, but that would be a lie. He gaped, stunned, turned and thought with all his senses, but no good answer came in his mind. In the moment of frustration he sighed and told her he suspect there would be persuer, but there might not. Only to be beware of anyone working with the law, as well as anyone who claim to know him.

"You confided in my constable brother well. " Ruth swallowed her breakfast like she was revenging for her dirty pan.

"He only knew I didn't wish to stay in Silverlake Lodge, and had nowhere to go. "

"And he decided not to have too many stray people on the street for his good record. So, these people, how far can they go?"

"Em... They got my father killed. "

To his surprise and suspicion, the maiden's eye had a spark and a strange understanding, and took that word very well. "I see. So, no showing faces for you. What can you do?"

"I am... A researcher. "

"Ah. Which field?"

"Any assigned field, but mostly techonology and network..."

Ruth frowned at the words and Talon had shut his voice seeing it, but she nodded instead and started to clean up her plates, placing it in what looked like elaborated dishwasher. "I supposed you can help me brain storm ideas and do basic accounting. Can you cook?"

"A little..."

"Cook dinner when my parents are gone. Otherwise do a bit of cleaning every week you stay. Do that much and I won't take the rest of your time. Try not to get yourself killed. "

Without giving Talon anytime to response, she started explaining the device and mechanism she added to the house and the ones her father made. For someone understanding the modern technology from the Capital city, Talon found himself in awe of learning things he had never seen prior to his life. Ruth's invention was aggressively protesting to be involve with anything with internet or new plastic or materials , and so they seemed to go a long way round of anything existing in the capital, but they were so well made and done that it became their charm. Talon himself asked a couple of questions, and his interest paid off with Ruth showing him a smile as she explained further of her creation.

 

[0stinato]

People existed and breathed dusty air. The Silverlake Lodge was not difficult to discover. It existed near the lake, the lake - more of a glorified pond really - of Cassiopia. Taking full advantage of its site, it was the cheap version of a picturesque evening. Perhaps too popular for its own good though... people existed and breathed dusty air within its walls. One person had breathed their last here. Was the smell of the victim's breath tangible in the air still, or had it dissipated days ago? Perhaps it existed in a bubble, encapsulated in space and time, like air pockets in glass sculptures. A little sigh of death, and a terrible stain.

The thought got Hieronymus' systems fired up, until he was fairly dancing along the streets towards the lodge. His garb, consisting of a pressed white shirt beneath a brocade waistcoat of a royal blue, was, although modernised, tolerated in Klokklsby. Tolerated but in his mind it was glanced at with envious eyes... the gentlemen would pray, he convinced himself, to know who tailored the garments. In reality, that was not the case. In reality, Klokklsby was closed off to those who weren't its children... not physically but mentally. The behind-the-eye glance confirmed to the onlooker whether they were an In-party or an Out-party. There was no mistaking it.

But this was Hieronymus' city.

They could stare and trade glances, words, questions, remarks, all they wanted. Hieronymus strolled the Klokklsby streets armed with modern dictaphone and Georgian dress sense, and would counter the glances with smiles or "Good mornings." He would rake a jogging jump onto the back of a bench and feel its stability beneath the soles of his shoes as an appendage of his own.

Presence was his offense.

His walk was certain as he entered the Lodge, and he leaned on the reception booking desk, fixing the area behind with a glancing critical eye.

One of the people on duty - a man who held himself well, and even sported a rather quietly-elegant monocle - questioned him of his intentions regarding visiting: "What can I do for you?"

"Hieronymus Hartley, the local Cassiopia Capers personified," he said. And then, "The murder. Talk to me."

With a smile to accompany his eager-eyed half-scowl, he produced his dictaphone, thumb pressing 'Record' during the motion. He flicked his wrist, flourishing the thing, and leaned his elbow on the counter.

The monocle'd man - George Debenham by the notes texted to him - turned all his attention to Hieronymus, his eyes hardening a bit, "Please, a little more subtlety would be appreciated, as we are still doing business. May I say also, we've already been hounded by the Capers. Two days ago. It is not good for business for this to continue."

Hieronymus, who had lowered the dictaphone by this point and tilted his head sympathetically, nodded, "The least time I can take to get a further few private words from you, Mr. Debenham, will benefit us both, I daresay."

The Debenham considered, and relented, giving Hieronymus a gesture - follow me. On doing so, Debenham led him into a rather spacious office room, where the man took up his seat on the dominant side of the desk, offering Hieronymus the seat opposite. They exchanged formalities, with Hieronymus promising Debenham that he wasn't going to mention anything in the papers that might discredit the hotel. On the contrary, to have it up and serving customers again so soon was something to celebrate.

Hieronymus placed the dictaphone down, "You're happy to be recorded, I won't take more than ten minutes. I'm aware of the discussions that have happened here already, no fear. Now... I saw the guards as I came in, it sparked me to begin thinking about the security of the place. Given the lodge is the biggest hotel in Klokklsby, no wonder you have guards around. So--"

"Well, they turned out to be security guards of the victim, they're staying around in the bar still, but we're working on doubling our guards ourselves. I don't want you to misconstrue anything, I don't want to see an article based on anything but fact," Debenham seemed stern. Quickly, Hieronymus ran through what he could remember of the article that was to be published today. Under Infante's eye, it seemed to follow what Debenham was saying - fact, not fiction. "Police are still around, but mostly they're finished collecting evidence. They were not open to your previous reporters though. So I wouldn't bother asking them again. But do as you will."

"The bodyguards of the victim, okay. Well, if they're not affiliated with you, I won't ask about them. Not very effective though, were they."

Debenham didn't appreciate the quip, "The guards were in the building, the attack came from outside. It was incredibly sudden, unpredictable. I don't blame them."

"You're a fair man. A fair man. And your customers. I imagine you acted to keep everyone safe?"

"As far as I could, my staff and I moved people away. Evacuating wasn't an option so we had everyone go to their rooms. But obviously some people didn't want to stay, although no one else was targeted. I know these... killings aren't exactly uncommon, but I never expected to deal with one. The blow to the image of the hotel, and to the image of its safety is my biggest concern. We had to cordon the victim's room, that made one of the people in the room beside it leave. I couldn't blame them."

"Hope to restore your view in the eye of the public?"

"Of course."

Hieronymus allowed a melancholic smile to grace his lips. "If I can give the Silverlake a nod from the Capers, I'll do so. But, as you said, the facts will be reported. And the facts are that someone was murdered here. On the bright side though, if more murders occur here, you could be famous for a whole 'nother reason, how's that sound?"

Debenham smiled, but it was not a smile that reassured Hieronymus his joke had been accepted, "I think I am good with a normal and safe reputation, Mr Hartley. Please do give some kind words for us. Is that all?"

Clearly, he wanted to get back to work. Hieronymus nodded, withdrawing the dictaphone and standing up, shaking Debenham's hand, thanking him for his time. It was the necessary thing. The kind journalistic thing. Always be polite, slightly submissive, but always pushy. They exited, and Debenham got back to work. Hieronymus couldn't fault his dedication.

So. The victim's guards were in the bar were they? The fact there were guards was making Hieronymus increasingly doubt the victim was Talon Marlow, but there was no harm in pursuing a dead end; a dead end meant you know where to stop looking. And if the Oriyon victim wasn't Talon then... the other possible Oriyon individual was looking increasingly more likely.

Hieronymus whistled one note, changed a few settings on his dictaphone and placed it his inside-breast pocket. A long recording where he recorded every little detail was becoming commonplace for him, and it was astoundingly useful. Only during his investigations in the Lodge, he wasn't going to let it leave his sight.

 

[Osthavula]

Klokklsby was, you could say, quite prosperous today. It was not supposed to be big. In fact, it still operated like a small town like the historical ones near every mining site. There is a big something for everything at the centre --- Silverlake Lodge for tourist living accommodation, within it the biggest legitimate bar they have; Goldsmith restaurant, the biggest restaurant and cafe with stylish architecture and awestruck selection of magazines; Aesopia Art Gallery being home of paintings and its eccentric owner; and Klokklsby Library which housed not the latest books but the best maintained historical original and copies and anything with paper --- those were not all but you can name one name for each building at the centre of Klokklsby, then it spread away from there. Eventually, you have enough expansion that Klokklsby has many of the similar things and unique things clustered all together. They had never put a restriction of what can exist, so it never existed a line. You think it, you either find it or make it yourself. It is still growing, bold as a newborn calf, and fierce as a bull.

Andy sat on his bench with a pipe, musing on the district growing at his back. His smoke had dimmed, and at this point, the smell and smoke were barely noticeable. From his side came another man, older and darker, his beard white as snow and his skin was tanned nicely under the sun. He sat beside him, wiped the sweat with the tower on his shoulder, and laughed a good-hearty laugh.

"Not bad, Andy. It is looking good. Can't wait for his face when he sees it. "

Behind them was a short wall painted white, and behind that, a house befitting Klokklsby. It was built with mostly wood but decorated with bronze. Every wall was engraved with vines and leaves, and even the windows were of birds and flowers instead of the normal grid pattern. A house like this wouldn't be built with other buildings in mind, but it was a holiday house ready to host some rich man and his wife, and his wife's relatives and friends. Even the concept of it was very old-timey, but now once again in trend for the people with the bigger wallet. Andy wouldn't say he welcome them exactly, but they help Klokklsby financially. Just for that, he would design and build as many houses for them and take their money to support the district maintenance. A patronage, something he was awfully familiar of.

"But I can see you have more to think about. " The man beside him continued on with his word, a bit breathy after some labour work. "You don't talk much, Andy. But I can see something at least. You are proud of Klokklsby, and you can brag about it too. Ruth is taking your business after you, and your wife the prettiest..."

He looked up in the sky, said nothing for a while, as if his own thought interrupted him. But when his head came back down, he found his word again. "So, what are you worrying about then?"

Was his worry visible? Andy looked back at his friend, puffed at the smokeless pipe. Bradawl didn't look exactly worry-free himself. He was no old man, and he was younger than Andy, but his hair was already silver. Andy's father had recruited him, and truly Bradawl spent most of his life building Klokklsby. Were they old friends? Without a doubt. But Andy never once told him what was on his mind, and Bradawl never asked. He rarely asks anything at all now, after losing his own wife in a fire. Both Andy and Bradawl were the wordless kind, plus the years they worked together made them a bond that was hard to severe.

If that Bradawl would ask him, then Andy must have been very worried.

And why not? Andy spent his whole life with Klokklsby too. Unbeknownst to Bradawl and most people Andy knew everything with Klokklsby, having a hand in most buildings and had talked with all people starting the place, even the secret society and their activity within. That very society provided his grandfather and father opportunities with the place, but now when it was all left to Andy, he now discovered that someone might have opinions about it.

Inge.

It was nothing new. Having an area so free of control from anyone but the people living within, Andy and his family were ready to trample on a lot of egos and people's wishes, but Inge's proved to be a more troublesome one. He couldn't confirm himself with evidence that Inge had anything to do with the messenger's incident, but without the messenger's power, Inge held a fearsome portion of control in his hand. The messenger delivered information and Andy thought the messenger underestimate his own position at times. The messenger was a barrier for more than just a few people in the society.

Now the messenger was gone, his wife's connection was dissolved in a fortnight, his own men ran to try to figure out the situation, Baines was nowhere to be found, and the number of Editors in Klokklsby means that anything shift within them, it would impact on the district which they worked so hard to build.

Most importantly, though he was ashamed that he should felt that way and realized it was irrational in its while existence, Andy felt that if anything happened to Klokklsby, the responsibility would fall to him not protecting him well enough. He had to remind himself that although his grandfather was the one started it all, he himself had nothing to do with Klokklsby's growth. Klokklsby could lose him anytime. It was he himself who couldn't leave Klokklsby alone. It will recover after anything, so many people had determined to make it independent and resilient. Yet, he could not bear to think any harm should come to it.

And how could he tell it all to Bradawl? Bradawl wasn't even his real name. Bradawl was just a nickname they gave him for being an apt carpenter who had once stabbed a rival in his abdomen with a Bradawl. A respectable workman and a more respectable fighter. But he shouldn't have to worry about all that, nor would Andy thought to tell him. What happened among the editors should stay with the Editors.

"Oh, I see my son is coming." Bradawl stood up, wiping his neck and staining the towel with wood dust. "Teach him alright, Andy. I will just go back to work. "

He escaped. Bradawl son came, gave the gate and the bone of the house a glance, then gave Andy a wrapped up satchel. "My father's lunch, Mr Carlyle. "

Andy took it, placed the box safely in his own hands, then looked at Bradawl's son. It was a knowing look, which the son exchanged back.

"Any luck?" Andy asked.

The son --- who looked to be a normal schoolboy --- shook his head and left. Andy was once again left on his chair to ponder. To any passerby, he was just a muscular man resting mindlessly, his strong body made a convincing facade to cover his restless mind.

 

[0stinato]

Antolij delicately dabbed a napkin to his lips, moving his cleared plate a few inches away from him before looking through the window he was seated at. One storey above the ground, no one was looking at him and his privacy was secured. The only break in his ideal solitude was the few other people around him, talking low to others on their table. It was a restaurant, rather casual, but the atmosphere never tipped over the edge of imperfect. No one paid much attention to the bearded Editor beside the window; perhaps one person would glance at him on their way up the stairs as they were getting seated, as Antolij was the only person dining alone, but nothing past that.

He continued to watch the moving Cassiopia streets until a waiter began to clear his table, at which point he ordered dessert and a second sparkling water. After the water was ferried to him, he took his phone out. With nothing further than a blink, he tapped out not a text, but an order.

Lights off.

He then slotted his phone back into his pocket and waited a few minutes until he was able to enjoy his dessert in peace.

Two words, two seconds, two occurrences.

Near Lake Park, an entire section of buildings experienced a sudden power outage. It was not a difficult fix, and the time it would take to mend the situation mostly depended on how quickly the council would ship an electrician out to deal with it. The power outage didn't matter though. Its only purpose was to, concurrently, just as Antolij was separating a manageable mouthful from his slice of almond and apple tart, shut off the closed-circuit cameras in the area.

Doing the former was much easier than doing the latter. The former involved a mere duo of careful individuals targeting and interfering with amp boxes and lines that supplied the power to the stores and a couple of apartment complexes along the strip, something easily accomplished by practiced 'hoarde burglars,' but to interrupt the cameras required specific interference and frequency enhancement.

Of course, the underground was more than happy to provide Antolij their services... or, not happy, but... required to. Antolij had paid, of course, but the total was far less than would be expected. Especially for the Second Act, as Antolij had come to jokingly refer to is as. An ironic name, to be sure.

Ten minutes later, as Antolij was finishing his water, his phone announced it had a message.

S.

S for successful. No doubt any semi-skilled electrician sent to investigate and cure the power problem would realise the power had been tampered with, but subtlety was not called for in that regard. Antolij didn't care who did it, or how, so he merely put his phone back, paid his bill, tipped 7% of the bill's total, and left the restaurant, shrugging his coat on.

He sauntered, hands in pockets, his destination Lake Park. It was a ten minute walk or so from the restaurant, but Antolij didn't exactly have to hurry. As he neared, and saw the blue line of the 'lake' - really, far too small to be classified as a lake, but who was he to argue? - with Klokklsby beyond it, his mind counted through what would be the events of the evening. The meeting would be held, and some people would be absent... a mere two had not selected the auto-agreement, and had sent Antolij their condolences upon missing the meeting. One was out of the country at a wedding, the other did not specify where she was. But one member would be missing... for a different reason.

Antolij didn't smile as he entered the park. There was nothing to smile at. The weather was nothing special, the birds were not singing but merely making noise, and the premise of the meeting was hinging on one occurrence.

Antolij spied a man sitting on a bench near a fir tree, leaned back quite comfortably, with a thin wad of papers in his hand. It was evident they had been creased and re-creased, as fold lines distorted their shapes, creating a hunchbacked effect. A grey squirrel danced in the grass behind the bench, unassuming and uncaring of the ticking world around it. The Editor neared, coming to a stop in front of the man with a tattooed face. His watery eyes rested on the squirrel, but eventually lowered to the man who, although his body had not moved, was staring up at Antolij's countenance.

"Skullface."

The man did not move. His stare remained the same. Antolij took initiative and sat beside the man.

"I don't interrupt your business," Skullface said.

Antolij took a moment to flatten the collar of his coat and turned his head to Skullface. "The cameras are out for now, and they'll remain like that until eight."

"Mm-hmm." Skullface was reading.

"Less chance for complications."

"Mm-hmmm." Still reading. He flipped a page over.

"No others though. Just her."

This time, Skullface didn't say a word. His eyebrows raised significantly, but Antolij knew it was not because of what he had said. Antolij sat back a bit as Skullface kept reading, his eyes on the treeline. Reality was slowly settling in, and Skullface was certainly making the entire realisation painfully mundane. He was so deadpanned about the heinous act of taking a life that he was sat in the park of Cassiopia reading...

"You understand?" Antolij said.

"Yes, yes," he was impatient. "Can I read in peace?"

"What is it you're reading, out of pure curiosity?" Antolij asked.

"Murder mystery."

Antolij didn't remark on that. He dipped his head slightly, and remained sat for a minute. Eventually, he got up, neither of them exchanging a word further, and continued his walk into the park.

 

[Osthavula]

The day had finally come. After a longer kiss with Andy, Olympia left the house and joined with the other two of Lady May. There were some stares inevitably, but the presence of Bernadette seemed to have helped the passerby of being less nosy. Afterall, it was normal to see anyone working in Soso in Cassiopia and Klokklsby. Olympia had talked some pleasantries with Bernadette, as with Collette, but didn’t talk anything of much substance. Collette took it upon herself to talk about the developing to the noir movie club they had in Soso, and the movement of revival of vintage movie. Apparently, they were discussing the possibility of opening an official academy of anything historical and artistic. Something Andy would have liked in Klokklsby, Olympia thought but did not voice it.


And the day was pleasant, as they stepped into the park. The park was more of a decorated network of roads, but there was sufficient greenery. There were people tending to it, but mostly volunteers. Olympia had liked the part of the garden where there was a man-made stream with smooth stones pavement going across patches of flowers, but she remembered her daughter to prefer the shade of the trees on the other side. They now walked on one of the main roads of the park. It was working hours for some people, but since a lot of people in Klokklsby decide their own work time, there were enough people around the area chattering, walking, promenading. The tourist had sneakily taken out their cameras, but the experienced ones would hold the big vintage camera up their chest. One even asked to take a photo of them together.


Bernadette, dressed in a navy suit with a stiff collar, set to emphasise her eager eyes. Behind the pale blue eyeshadow though, her eyes were tired. Three hours had been knocked out of her sleep schedule by pure foresight. Her wonders, fears, suspicions, about Inge’s activity had got to her. Going to bed at 11 with Hobby, she’d attempted to drop off the precipice edge to the realm of sleep but, while Hobby breathed heavily beside her, Bernadette had to abandon the bed in favour of sitting quietly in the living room, head back and eyes closed, mind spiralling.


Her absence hadn’t been noted the previous day, so that was good. The last thing she needed was questions.


Walking alongside Olympia and Collette, one of the points in the triangle of Lady May, Bernadette felt a sense of camaraderie. Part of her shook its head at her trusting them so quickly. What else was there to do, though? If Inge was not an issue, she would lose nothing. If he was, it was better to have supposedly friendly faces around than anything less. Besides, Olympia and Collette were coloured as genuinely as Bernadette could ask for.


“I do hope we have nothing to worry about,” she said quite casually, putting her hands behind her back. “Though I can’t be sure, of course. I both hope that you feel the same, but also that you do not, for if I discover my feelings are right, we’ll have some weeding to do. And weeds are hard to get rid of.”


“If you mean the hope of nothing goes wrong, our feelings are mutual. “ Olympia replied, suppressing a frown. She felt too restless to be hopeful for a peaceful time, but at the same time thinking she might be paranoid. Most importantly, whatever Inge was planning for, whoever he was targeting, all these were unknown to her. Now without her connection she was blind and deaf, but at the very least she could keep up the appearances to others. For now, she chose to be genuine to Bernadette in hope of one extra help she could obtain. “I do have some worries, and I must confess I have trouble spotting out the weed that I thought existed.”


“Keep your eyes open, my dear,” said Bernadette, resting her hand on Olympia’s arm. “We’ll work it out.”


Their strides matched, and a duck flew overhead, making its way to the lake. A little haven in the middle of Cassiopia, a place where Bernadette of the modern convenience would feel just as at home as Olympia of the antiquated paradise. People existed on all spectrums, old to young, kind to cruel, good to evil, but the park didn’t care. It sprawled, and people enjoyed picnicking on its belly.


The park had, however, lost a tainted soul that may have weighed down the ‘cruel’ end of that scale. He had risen from his bench ten minutes ago, folding the papers he was reading into the back pocket of his trousers. Heavy material, they were, with several pockets. The left side-thigh pocket held cigarette rolling papers, filters and tobacco, wadded up and untidy. Above that, at the left hip pocket, his wallet. The right side-thigh pocket held nothing but a cavity and a zip. Self-created on the inside, opening the zip led to a gun holster, strapped around his thigh, which in turn held one of the firearms that allowed him to pay rent every month.


With the Old Theatre Inn in his eyeline, he leaned against the wall, reached into his left side-thigh pocket, and began crafting a rather bulky roll-up.


Andy who didn’t meet up with anyone had reached the destination way earlier than supposed to as usual. His worker outfit did not catch anyone’s eyes, so he casually rested before going up into the attics. Much to his surprise, he wasn’t the earliest. The other Editors greeted, but all waited in the room quietly. They all seemed to be deep in their thoughts. To appear to be minding his own business, Andy took out his pipe to bite on it, but didn’t lit up his usual leaves. The window wasn’t fully open after all, and without the smoke the air was already dusty enough.


Inge hadn’t made an effort to speak, his only movements being slight nods to people as they came in. He gave Andy such a nod, a non-verbal “thank you for coming,” before lowering his head to his papers. Time mattered. The meeting wasn’t supposed to start yet, so why talk? There would be plenty of time for pleasantries after the talking was done. His heart, deep in his chest and its beat silent to the world, pulsed impatiently. He turned a page over. He flipped it to the bottom of the pile.

The location wasn’t unpleasant by any means. A little musty, it could have benefitted from a going-over once in a while, but clearly the unpopular nature of the inn had caused the attic room to suffer. The tables were not anything to complain about though. Nor were they memorable. In fact, the room had only one interesting factor and that was the lack of natural light. Three quite harsh artificial white strip-lights adorned three of the four walls, and a fourth hung down from the roof join. To Inge, it was quite clear that these were the newest things in the room. Not new in the past year or two, but they hadn’t had too much of a chance to begin their irritating flickering yet.


Inge allowed himself to sit back in the chair, where he crossed his ankles. His heart, still impatient, was pumping harder, though he contained himself. A flush of anxiety went through his skin. He merely crossed his ankles the other way in response.


Upon moving from the park to the streets, to the one-car-wide road that led to the miniature plaza that held the Old Theatre Inn, Bernadette spied several people out in the front. They looked normal enough, but certainly not where she wanted to be going. Getting beers in hoodies and jeans, a couple giggling and smoking together, Bernadette in her suit couldn’t feel their eyes on her.


“Everything alright, my ladies?” she asked as they walked nearer.


The people in the casual clothing wasn’t ones that concerned Olympia. There were worse places in Klokklsby that she visited with disguises. It was Collette who seemed to be a bit uncomfortable, but also a little curious. They answered in unison to Bernadette that they feel alright, and exchanged a smile between them. The atmosphere shifted as they walked towards the designated location. Not only did the people near there not looked at the ladies, Olympia felt that they were intentionally avoiding their gaze. Did Inge pay them to do so? That little detail made the Siren quite unnerved. In fact, she would sit next to a pair of the smoking couple and join them if it could avoid the meeting with Inge at this moment.


She’d arrived. Hardly a hard target to miss, her face was well-known, particularly around Klokklsby. It was her dwelling. Yet she’d ventured from it this evening, away from that daughter, away from that son, and into the metaphorical crosshairs. He was to perform the hit at the Old Theatre Inn, such the place where he stood now, staring out and flipping the roll-up between his fingers. Public would be too obvious, even if that guy had said about the cameras being out. How did he arrange that anyway? Lull didn’t care. He remembered, but he didn’t care. Neither did he move. He stayed where he was, able at any moment to move after them if need be. Lull knew how to move to avoid ears; thieving to stay alive in his youth had seen to that. Of course, being an adult, and a heavy one at that, cursed him with inevitable noise: a heavy tread, a heavy breath… but both of those could be quietened. Silence a heavy tread by leading with the foot and keeping the weight on the back leg; silence a heavy breath by breathing purely from the lungs and ignoring the throat. Not even the weight of his short pistol and silencer could sway that.


Unknowing to the fact of the exact person making prey of her, Olympia entered the room alerted but ignorant. Perhaps one could be so alert that one became blinded, when every face seemed suspicious, and every room strange and hostile. There were enough people around them, and none of them looked friendly in the slightest. She felt the tension in the air, but reasoned it to the unlikely crowd upstairs. She felt the breath on her neck, but reasoned it to the draft from the open door. She felt the lighting in the room dimmer than it should be, and reasoned it to her own eyes still adjusting from the sunlight outside.


When one was so alerted, she started to doubt that she was paranoid. The same mechanism aid in her everyday life. To embrace the worst, and then to put on a facade of reason and naivety.


She should have trusted her instinct.


Because when she heard it, it was too late.


A few nonchalant steps, a reach into that thigh-side pocket, a left hand to the back door entrance of the Old Theatre Inn to prevent its giveaway slam, it didn’t take long for Lull to get into position. The silky hair of his target the Nightingale was visible, but the forms of the two others with her would be problematic to work though. He drew in a shallow breath to steady his body, stable as a barricade, bringing the pistol up. For two seconds, he judged the rhythm of her step then, when her back was revealed during her step, he shot. Four times, four silenced shots, loud clashes of noise being reduced to mere grunts of the pistol. At her reaction to the shots, he stepped backwards, his slight scowl unwavering, tucking the pistol into its holster on his thigh again. He swung the door shut, and walked.


He continued around the building, as if doing a lap of it, walking along the front of other buildings in the plaza area, finally lighting that cigarette, and entering an alleyway guarded by bollards. Thank god he had the nicotine and smoke to protect his olfactory senses from the stale stench of urine. He breathed in the nicotine deeply, held the lungful for a while, and exhaled it, tension exiting his body along with the smoke.


Collette gave chase. Or she would have, had she not walked in front of Olympia in caution of upstairs. She caught Olympia, who jerked at the pain but leaned herself at the stair handle, grin as she clenched her teeth and grasped on a wooden pillar. “No spine hit, fortunately.”


It was a fighter’s response more than a famous songstress. Collette looked at her friend palely, and looked at Bernadette. Lastly, she looked down to her palm that was dyed red. In one moment, she too clenched her teeth, pulled down her glove and tossed it aside, then asked Bernadette: “Can you send her to the hospital? I will attend the meeting for both of you.”


Whoever it was to aim more than harming Olympia, and to target whatever business she was running. Being a childhood friend she knew what was more important to Olympia. If anything, Collette should watch the Editor’s movement. They shouldn’t be kept in the dark in such crucial moment.


With a reaction like that of a heavyweight champion, Bernadette could only take a step downwards as her associate’s body took shots of… a gun. By the time Bernadette’s head whipped around, the door was practically closed. She couldn’t race to see who was down there: Olympia’s body rested heavily on hers for a few seconds, and it was all Bernadette could do to catch her. She didn’t try to have Olympia stand upright - the poor woman had been shot, but there was nowhere to lie her down…


Her eyes were wide when she rested them on the speaking Collette.


“The… hospital? Yes, I… oh, Olympia,” Bernadette said, and ripped off the jacket she wore, resting it around Olympia’s shoulders. “Where… did it happen? Can you walk? We must keep pressure on the wound…” her voice was rather steady, but her head was reeling with the reality. The danger had manifested, and it was their own lacklustre attitudes that had got Olympia injured. Or, at least, Bernadette blamed herself. He put an arm around Olympia, “I’ll try to keep pressure on the wounds, we have to get you outside before we call an ambulance. Collette… I’ll… try my best. I’ll get her safe.”

Collette nodded, and walked upwards to the meeting room. The room had heard some commotion downstairs, and someone had asked her what happened.


“Nothing that you should concerned yourself. “ She answered, shut the door behind her and joined Andy on the seat. From her expression, Andy knew something serious had happened. Should he go to check the outside? Where are the other two ladies she was with? But then Collette’s expression was strong and stern, as if she hushed him to stay as well. Suppressing his worry he remained, only biting on his empty pipe and observed Inge.


Inge’s eyes had followed her since she’d come in. What happened? someone had asked, only to be met with Collette shutting them down. Inge couldn’t read the situation - had Olympia been hit? Had something else occurred? He looked down at his papers, aware of the meeting time swiftly approaching. Almost time to begin. Olympia… Bernadette… and Braithe were missing. Braithe was no surprise at this point, he had a particular pattern. But Olympia and Bernadette… Olympia’s absence was, arguably, good. But Collette’s presence was the opposite. Inge leaned back in his chair.


“Stragglers can join as they come. We should get down to the proper business I gathered you here for,” he said, his watery eyes closed.


Bernadette escorted the injured actress downstairs, trying to put her hand over the one wound she had discovered. The blood was ruining the suit jacket, but at least this way less attention would be aroused. When they got to the bottom of the staircase, Bernadette bade Olympia lie down, on her front. Bernadette kneeled down with her and, after a brief whisper and apology, she pulled her phone from her trouser pocket. With one hand on Olympia’s shoulder, applying some pressure, the other punched in the short emergency services number.


“Cassiopia Emergency Services,” greeted the person on the other end. “What service do you require?”

“Ambulance, please,” Bernadette said. When she was put through, she began explaining the situation: “Olympia Carlyle has been shot, I’m with her inside the back door of the Old Theatre Inn. Please, send help, send help quickly.”


Outside the Inn, however, no one heard the gunshot with such rowdy environment. Norberto was securing his tie when he exited the plaza, right when the shooting happened and the hitman left. His eye brushed with him, for he was facing the Inn and right behind the Project Lady May. Problem is the hitman wasn’t at all running in fear, not any more than what his blue uniform could distil from the people around this area. He was unassuming when he pushed the door, his gun rest in his Holster and his steps were still merry. In his head, he was to join the meeting with the important Editors and nothing more. Instead he walked in on Bernadette calling on the phone, and a familiar person lying on the floor. The hair was familiar, but the suit and the likely bleeding had stopped him from recognizing her at first.


But it was no doubt his own mother. He pulled out his resting pistol and glared at the people in the front of the Inn, stepping inside in his most fiery manner. A few people gasped at his anger and him motion, and no doubt, his uniform. In two heavy steps he leapt in front of the waiter on the side, his voice irritated and rushed. “Who did this?”


The waiter, young and in fear, trembled in his shoes and wasn’t aware how the scattered glass skirted his soles. As he spoke, he seemed shocked by his own voice and feared the words he let out. “I ...I haven’t seen anything.” He then gingerly added. “Sir.” He looked like he was about to collapse.


In his relief, Norberto stepped back and exited the room, with no care of the puzzled crowd with their drinks. He stepped back to her mother and the woman beside on her phone, and waited till the call ended. “What happened?” He asked her, the anger no longer explosive but burn steadily in his tone.


“I’m not exactly sure, I… we got here, and we were going upstairs and suddenly there were these muffled shots. We decided to travel together because… well, we… had suspicions about a certain thing. I… can’t really… tell you much… I don’t know,” Bernadette took a breath to steady herself. “But I’m going to make sure she’s okay, she’s a jewel to the world and we mustn’t lose her, I’ve called for an ambulance and it’s on its way, can you help at all?”


“Have you seen the person who was responsible? The gunman, I mean.” He cursed internally for the official tone he adapted throughout the year.


“I saw this dark person, but he slammed the door, and then she needed support. I had to tend to her.”


“Dark skin? Was it a man? And how tall would you say he is?”


“I couldn’t tell skin colour, he looked dark from what I saw, but it might have been the light backlighting him that made him look darker. And, I’d say, quite tall, I think, I guess that’s why I think it was a man. I don’t know women who are particularly tall outside of high heels.”


“Can you see anything else? His hair, his weapon, anything at all.”


Bernadette closed her eyes… could she? When she had heard-- no, seen Olympia’s body react to the force of the bullets, she’d turned… and the door was slammed. Was there a brief shape of a gun…


“Definitely a gun, she’s been shot, after all… but I… I wouldn’t know what make even if I had seen it,” she said. “I’m a journalist… I’ve never found myself with that information in my head. But aside from him being a dark shape, I didn’t see anything, he slammed the door. Maybe he had kind of middle-length hair? But that was dark too.”


The door opened and in the light stood a suited man with silken blond hair whose threads seemed to be lifted and tussled in even the slightest breeze. Behind him, a tall, bearded man was accompanying him. The previously steady step of the blond man halted upon the scene he discovered inside.


“Be careful. Pull through,” said Braithe. “Excuse me.”


Bernadette could hardly move away from Olympia in the space, leading to Braithe, and the larger Volkovoi, moving past her and up the stairs. When they were halfway up, Volkovoi turned.


“Do as he says, Mrs Carlyle, and we’ll do our best for you.”


The duo disappeared into the meeting room. Bernadette turned back to the officer, then to Olympia. Was she okay? The actress seemed to still be breathing, a feat Bernadette could not say she could do.


“She’s a tough woman,” Bernadette observed. “A tough woman.”


“I didn’t know the situation was so dire.” Norberto said grimly. Pressing his fedora down, he was ready to head out and so his job, but before that, he turned to Bernadette. “May I have your name please?”


“The situation…? Oh… I’m Bernadette Horowitz, I write for the Capers.”


“You have my gratitude, Mrs Horowitz.” He raised his hand to the rim of his hat, and headed outside. His mother seemed to be in safe hands, and their entire family knew how strong Olympia really was. If anyone could survive a shot to the back, it would be her. In the meanwhile, he tried to remember the scene as he walked near, and he recognized a couple on the chair. They haven’t left, nor have the bum in his card box, nor have the sweeper chiselling down old posters. The trail hasn’t run cold completely. The policeman went up to the couple, greeting them and reassuring them he was not here to accuse them. That, and the siren behind him was of ambulance instead of police car.


“But have you seen a tall man of medium length hair came out from the Inn?”

 

[0stinato]

Collette’s arrival began the inner workings of Inge’s mind. It was apparent the deed had been done, but her willingness, calmness and stability in the room gave nothing away. He moved his papers around, sitting forwards. It was time to begin the meeting, and damn the rest of the world from his mind.

“I wish to speak to you all in relation to the current criminalities of Cassiopia and its surrounding cities. Over the past three months, since the 16th of June, I’ve realised the similarities between the darkness of Cassiopia with the darkness New Neptune experienced almost two decades ago. From perhaps the mid twenty-thirties, New Neptune had a similar issue that I’m anticipating Cassiopia having now. Quite well buried, as I’m sure you’d expect, New Neptune is now no blacker than any other city in this country, but in the twenty-forties and -fifties, it was a hive; drugs, black markets, hired thugs, everything was arranged out of the public eye, below the law. Some even thought the law was involved, and cases began emerging within New Neptune and Oriyon. This is where the most compelling evidence comes in--”

Inge allowed himself to stop as the door opened. It was Braithe, late, unsurprisingly. He did not say a word - no apology or phrase to excuse himself - but merely took up a seat on the left of the table. In the quiet, he looked across at Inge, but his eyes were hidden behind his black glasses.

“Thank you for joining us, Braithe,” Inge said. “Your presence means we are missing… Mrs Carlyle, Mrs Horowitz and Mr. Norberto Carlyle. I’m not willing to wait. As they are not here, the usual disciplines will be enacted. I take it no one is aware of their locations?” Inge raised an eyebrow and waited a moment for anyone willing to explain their absence.

Volkovoi, sat next to Braithe, removed his glasses and polished them, but the two latecomers said nothing.

Seeing Inge seemed to be expecting a reaction, Collette with her extraordinary skills act as naturally ignorant as she can be, looking at a modern-suited man across her who just shrugged at her. Andy who honestly did not know, silently sat with his chin resting on his hands, just waiting for Inge to continue his speech.

“That’s a shame,” Inge said. “But, to continue, as to make as much use of the time we have. As I was saying… the cases within Oriyon proceeded mostly untouched and, unfortunately, the majority revealed very little. However, the cases in New Neptune were each shut down prematurely. Every one that begun was closed with no results, for different reasons. I fear that Cassiopia will be swept by this same phenomenon of human creation. That would not only impact Cassiopia as a whole, but it would threaten our position as the, forgive me for being so dramatic but, the gatekeepers of this city. We’ve faced our own problems in the Editors, including many brushes with crime. I would not be alone in this room to fear the consequences of a network similar as New Neptune’s used to.

“What I suggest is that we move first. Look into as many of the New Neptune cases, and why they were shut down, find parallels in Cassiopia’s crimes, destroy the core of it. Now, with the two absences of Mrs Carlyle and Mrs Horowitz, I feel we are missing two very valuable assets in this investigation. Mrs Carlyle, and of course you, Mr. Carlyle, are the Klokklsby window-pieces. Of course, with you here Mr. Carlyle, I rely on you to take the lead in the Cassiopia - or Klokklsby-centric - crimes. Braithe, you have quite the expertise in public relations, and I know you see a lot, especially with your partner there. Unfortunately… Mrs Horowitz I was going to pin the most emphasis on looking into the New Neptune revelations. However, as she is absent, we shall have to apply this to someone else. Mr. Arris, Miss Johie, I’ll put this on the two of you,” Inge nodded at two other Editors. “But we will discuss this much more before we begin anything. Now,” Inge cleared his throat and raised his head, opening his hands, “your opinions, everyone?”

Andy frowned slightly at Inge’s speech. He sat at the head seat like a general in war, when the enemy he pointed out against might threatened some of their own members. “First of all, Mr Antolij. You’ve mentioned that Cassiopia had similarities with the old New Neptune, and that you have evidences. I’d like to hear about the further details. Secondly, New neptune and Cassiopia existed on different bases. The former was a port city that rely on commercial success, and the crime happened due to the population gathered around its prosperity. The latter, however, built on and run on the people who desire to have the distance from the capital and the government control, which on the official paper often marked as criminal with minute evidences. That is why on paper Cassiopia’s crime rate had always been high. To target the core, as you said…”

He looked at Inge with a fierce look, differed from the normal quietude he possessed. His grandfather was the one who started the building of Klokklsby, which today was the area which Inge mentioned. No one knew as fully as Andy how crime played into Cassiopia’s development.

“Would be aiming at the building of the area from its base. Assuming such crime circle does exist, how will you go against it without disturbing too much of the area? Do not forget that many of our own members take part in the activities you just mentioned. “

“The difference between the ‘activities’ and this potential crime threat is the control. We all know the Siren’s inclusion, for one example, in crime, but the difference is we know about that. We have footholds. That’s what I believe will give us power over this potential threat, but if if makes its bed here before we see it, we are finished as a society. In terms of sorting it out, Mr. Carlyle, I direct you to the omelette-and-egg saying. Cassiopia has many facets, the one that you are most passionate about being Klokklsby. Yet if you let your passion stand in between Cassiopia’s future and our actions, you cannot be an Editor. Do not assume I want Klokklsby gone, of course I don’t. Cassiopia is a sum of its parts, of which the Editors exist to overlook the whole, not its parts. Klokklsby is a place where crime does happen. But at the moment, this is crime that does not surprise us. I am afraid that, if we encounter a seed of crime we cannot stop, our city will be stranded. We won’t act now, Mr. Carlyle. I won’t wish to ever be the force that bulldozes the hard work put in by your family line. Sacrificing half of Cassiopia to save the other half is not an option for me, for any of us. What is an option, though, is simply to discuss it in terms of hypotheticals. Research first, act should we need to. Research won’t destroy your borough will it?”

“Research won’t. “ Andy replied, his voice chillingly calm. “Cassiopia had began with the Editors. Klokklsby was built by Editors’s collective work. But it is more than just my family’s. It now lives beyond just us, Mr Antolij. We are no rulers but the inhabitants of it, though we still have members in every location and every field. I don’t mind looking into it, but my concern was not the research but the action. Once again, I’d like to hear of your evidence of a crime group with enough force to combat Cassiopia building up. “

Inge listened to Andy with a gaze unwavering. Around the table, others watched. Their minds were their own, no one could predict what they were thinking. Volkovoi sat as quietly as Inge, his own eyes moving between the two men in their battle of minds. Braithe was lifeless beside him, absolutely static.

“Cassiopia is much older than the Editors. It was put on the map, that is, it became much more powerful and influential with us here, if that is what you mean. Generations of Editors before us, and everything became stronger with Klokklsby’s construction. But Cassiopia is older than that. You are right to be worried about its future if we were to act,” Inge raised his head slightly, tilting it. “And I cannot claim I have any evidence myself. All I have is my knowledge of New Neptune’s problems, versus worrying emergences I am becoming privy to that seem to follow the trends that led up to New Neptune’s issues. This is why I am equally reluctant to act. I am simply seeing crimes that seem to be worryingly out of our control. Murders, arsons. Nothing completely tragic has occurred as of yet, but my knowledge of New Neptune’s past is raising within me premonitions of something more. Mr. Carlyle, if you don’t wish to see the takeover of Cassiopia and Klokklsby, I highly suggest you investigate patterns of crimes. I’ll be on the New Neptune side of things. If this all amounts to nothing, we will be no worse off. As to not waste time, I am incredibly open to us taking on other responsibilities also. Consider this a sub-project. I do not want my words to influence every Editor to my side. I simply want to cause a ripple that may end up protecting us all.”

Collette suppressed a smirk when he mentioned murders. Not that she had the evidences, as the two man so crudely demand, but her instincts told her if Inge was not behind the hired hitman, he would be standing by and smoking cigars while it happens. No matter what, Olympia not being present could only work towards his favour. Andy had gone quiet since Inge’s explanation sounded reasonable so far, but his gaze was far from convinced or defeated. He continued to observe Inge and the rest of the people.

Seeing how Andy had stopped, the gentleman across Collette spoke up. “So, why are we all gathered here, then? If you already had the people that will gather the information in mind, why the elaborate invite to gather us all here? We all put our covers at risk for this meeting.”

Inge looked at the man, his eyebrows raising slightly. “I wanted to discuss this potential crime threat, and what we can do about it at this early stage. I don’t trust people if I cannot see them, and to be in person is to be able to discuss things much more in-depth. This way, anyone I have suggested work in suggested fields can content my arguments, as Mr. Carlyle has done. We have discussed together in minutes what would take hours to do outside of a meeting. And, as you are doing here, contending my suggestion. I thank you for your logic, though,” he said.

“He isn’t wrong,” this was Braithe, whose head had moved minutely.

“No, cover is an issue, I agree,” said Inge. “But we risk that every time to have a meeting. This is one such meeting, in which we will discuss much more than my reasons, should there be a call to. If there is no disagreement to the roles I have placed upon those present at the moment?”

Braithe, and Volkovoi, remained quiet, Braithe still and Volkovoi staring at the empty space just behind Inge.

That silence was broken in an instant. The man nodded with a grin on his face, a little silly looking. “I see. If there is a crime ring though, I don’t mind if we take advantage of it. We always recruit people on our side, right?”

So innocent was his tone that Collette didn’t know how to react, and before she knew she had already glared at the man. The man, whether of pure ignorance or masterful disguise, took no notice of her gaze.

Inge nodded slightly, “To an extent, if we can gain control over it, I’d be willing to… take advantage to an extent. But I’m sure a lot of people here can agree we have to keep our moral line intact, and we’ll have to consider each others’ moral compasses at the same time. Recruiting is another matter, much more complicated, of course… but it’s not a bad idea, Mr. Ott. As long as we have the biggest thing on our side - control. Thank you for that. Any other comments?”

The topic seemed to be fine with everyone else. Ott said nothing, Braithe and Volkovoi said nothing, Carlyle said nothing further either. With the silence, Inge led the rest of the meeting through. So as to not waste the time, Inge went through several other issues on the agenda he’d written up, but throughout the rest of the hours, his mind became increasingly tied to the fate of Olympia.

Part-way through one of the Editors’ explanations about the increasing profit margins of Soso’s major entertainment areas - to which Braithe gently interjected his own views - Inge felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Certainly, that would be the confirmation of the hit.

He slid it out nonchalantly, excusing himself quietly, and opened the message he had received.

Target remains alive, has been checked into Cassiopia General with multiple bullet wounds. Hitman to be questioned and disciplined.

After ten seconds, the message vanished, all trace of it wiped from Inge’s phone. His heart was pumping slowly, his skin felt grey. But he tucked his phone away arranged his jacket, and re-joined the conversation. Braithe’s voice, it’s hollow but husky tone, entered his ears again. The world turned. Inge’s brain ticked.

The hitman wouldn’t be disciplined by the underground, he decided. The hitman would be disciplined by him.

 

[0stinato]

The Silverlake Lodge bar reminded Hieronymus of scenes from several pseudo-historical novels he'd read over the years. Written in the modern day, the authors made attempts to root their tales in soils of past-times. Georgian, Victorian, images of a rococo stair banister, endless references to wall sconces, mirrors and chairs populating rooms, making reflections of patrons more numerous than the patrons themselves. Broad gestures of sweeping generalisations, draping a scene with a fabric-thick backdrop. So many missed the intricate details that remained the same over time. The authors could learn a bit by spending some time in the Lodge bar.

He walked nearer the bar with a slow pace to take in the situation. A man sitting at the bar had his coat undone, and deep, deep bags beneath his eyes, and he was slowly draining a glass. There was a trio of loose threads emanating from the hem of his coat. Scuff marks on the lower legs of the stool he was slouched upon. The man next to him had, in the shadow of his jaw, a little wound. Shaving mishap? Probably. The usual, anyone would see these wherever they went. These intricacies weren't rooted in the Klokklsby artificial era, but they were universal. No way to make a character more concrete, Hieronymus decided, than to demonstrate the small things they might fail at.

The two guards - what to look for in their appearance? Hieronymus assumed navy or black clothes, quite identical to each other, large men, ties, concealed weapons. The thought of the last part made him smirk a slight bit - concealed weapons, that was a necessity for Klokklsby. Be it a poisoned spike on the outside of a ring, a silent blade slumbering within a purse compartment, a firearm up the sleeve, bullet deployed in some intricate fashion Hieronymus couldn't even conjure up... perhaps these men he was looking for had every single one, and more.

Klokklsby always got his imagination fired up. As he settled at the bar, for a few minutes he forgot his supposed goal in favour of contemplating what the guards would have.

Eventually, he was pulled back into the real world by the bartender, politely interjecting and asking what he'd like to order, please, sir.

Hieronymus blinked, "Oh, I'm sorry, pardon me staring into space. I'll... gin and tonic? Something simple."

The bartender nodded, and went away after payment, allowing Hieronymus his space to daydream again. But he didn't get to fully indulge in his mind, as he noticed two guards who fitted almost the exact image of what he had dreamed up. Only they were, somehow, dressed heavier than he originally thought. Upon spotting them, he pulled his dictaphone out of his pocket, accepted his gin and tonic gladly from the bartender, and made his way towards the guards. They didn't seem to respond to him approaching, so he caught their attention with the loud lowering of his glass onto the table.

"You boys don't mind if I ask you a few questions about your dealings with the lodge, do you?" he asked.

With their attentions on him, one of them straightened his back slightly and looked at him. In their eyes, the hazy mix of alcohol and a bit of tiredness congealed. "Well, you won't be the first one to ask," the guard said. He pulled out a chair next to him, offering it to Hieronymus. He gave them a smile and sat with them, placing his dictaphone on the table.

"I won't keep you, although judging by how long you've stayed here after the fact, I'm sure you won't mind. I want to ask just a few questions, get a bit of background about this. So, as I understand, you were here with your client from Oriyon, who was he? It was an assassination, yes? He was prepared for something, given his hiring of you, so who was he?"

"Have you missed the news paper or something?" one of the man laughed, leaning back in his chair and abandoning his half-drunk glass of beer for a few seconds to turn to Hieronymus. "He was a big shot. But not business big. He was the far cousin of some government official, starting his own business. He had little to tell besides his relation though, but he thought he was some grand royalty reincarnate. Pissed off a lot of people I hear."

"It's assassination but it was from outside," the guard on the other side said, "Not our fault. But our boss sure don't think so. At least we have a good few days here before going back, and the owner said he will give us drinks for free."

Hieronymus smiled, realising the free drinks would be Debenham's way of appeasing the public, "I represent the Capers, so yes, I've read the papers. Thing is, I would rather hear such important details fresh myself. I take it he has been around a long time, if he is angering so many people?"

"He was not very smart with his mouth," the first guard said. "Just the other day he shouted at us and everyone heard. One of the neighbouring people came arguing with him for us. A sweet old fellow. "

"The word he used though," said the second.

"Hard to think he is some relative of some rich dude, eh?"

"Well just because you got a full wallet doesn't mean you did well in school."

"After this one you won't have wallet or school, you idiot."

Hieronymus watched the two speaking tipsily to each other, both seemingly forgotten about the dictaphone mere inches from the journalist's hand, quietly recording as the journalist indulged in his gin and tonic. As he swallowed the mouthful he had, he could quite comfortably cross off the possibility of Talon Marlow being the murdered individual.

"So, gentlemen," Hieronymus said. "So disliked even one of your neighbours overheard, perhaps I should talk to that neighbour. Which room was your client in, so I might find the neighbour? I must be thorough in my reporting of this, as the more I can help the lodge maintain its reputation, the better. They're gifting you free drinks, after all. Which room was he in?"

"Just that one," the guard pointed to the ground floor across the garden, past the little steps and through some open hallways. There was a door with stoppers and rope outside the door. "The police are done but they are still cleaning it. The neighbour is on the right of it"

"But then didn't he move out?" the second queried, glancing into his empty cup. He seemed quite dismayed it was now a cavity.

"Oh, I think he moved to the top floor."

"Yeah, he didn't feel safe. Not after some people shot our guy from the bushes outside."

Hieronymus' eyebrow raised. "Still cleaning it? Hm, I thought everything was back up and running," he took another sip of his drink, and considered that he didn't need to interrupt the police. Infante's team had talked to them, pulled out as much as they could from that side. So, the neighbour upstairs. Hieronymus had already decided Talon was not the murdered man, therefore the case was inconsequential. But there was still the question of the Oriyon 'investigator' as Infante had worded it. As he thought, the two guards discussed the murder, in all its grisly detail. One of them theorised he remembered seeing gristle on the carpet. That was lost to Hieronymus, but not to the dictaphone.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Hieronymus said. "I'll let you get back to your business."

He left his goodbye at that, swallowing down the rest of his drink and leaving with a thankful smile. He swept up his dictaphone, tucking it away, and aimed back for the lobby, so that he might exit into the garden and up to the rooms.

 

[Osthavula]

"Hanshaw." The call came from outside the door. Lorretta let her eyes adjusted away from the bright vanity lights, slipping a powder compact in the hand of the woman in front of her. Then behind the door, another girl whom she worked with a smirk. "There is a man who called you. He is waiting at the back door. "

A man? Working at the backstage, Lorretta never got any attention let alone a gentleman visitor. There was only one face that emerged in her clouded mind, and for once, she found it to be true. In the darkened alley, the light only splattered on the fedora, then dotted the brick pavement. But she would recognize that hat anywhere. Her heart jumped merrily, but also worriedly. "Hello." She said, immediately regretting her choice of word. Did she appear too distanced? Too formal? Should she had called his name?

Norberto turned towards her, the face hidden from her in a mask of shadow. "Lorretta. I thought I should tell you this. My mother was shot."

It took a good minute before Lorretta could even grasp the concept. "Was... shot?" She repeated.

"She is alive, I think. I didn't see her to the hospital. It has been a few hours and the trail is a bit cold, but I still can get him. But I didn't know what to tell to Ruth. You always have a way with my sister, so I'm asking you, Lorretta. Can you take care of her?"

"Of course." Lorretta reacted, holding a hand that was going to reach his. The shadow was still hiding his face and his thoughts from her, and the rest of the story still seemed enigmatic. The breeze stirred the dust in the air, brushing her frock and his grey gloves. Uncertainly she added. "Of course. Don't wear out yourself. I will go to Ruth. You should get some rest. "

"I am fine. "

Then, like pondering and regretting his word of choice, the tall shadow of the constable leaned down, reaching around her shoulder, with the fabric of his coat tickling her cheeks. "Thank you." He said, releasing her of the bound and disappearing into the night. A coldness woke her from the dazzling thoughts, which she reached with her finger. A tear. But it was not hers.

Then she remembered her promise. Ruth. She should go to her and be her company.

Then she can think about what significant this brings.