Argus had met a lot of liars in his time. I'll have the bank's money by Thursday, I swear. I'm not a member of the Milwaukee Worker's Union, honest to God mister. Sir, Private Schofield was the one who done drew a penis on your cap, sir.

The problem Argus held with liars was that no matter how many he crushed, there always seemed to be another to take their place. Some were better at it than others. Others couldn't tell a lie to save themselves. Fortunately, the solution was always the same: a gun, a knife, and some encouragement. After all, there was a lot of things in a man's life that he could always do without - his reputation, his possessions, loved ones, certain parts of the body - and if you knew which ones to relieve him of, before too long he'd be singing like a canary.

Barry Lexington, unfortunately, was not a very good liar. He was clearly a man of action rather than wits, and it was immediately apparent to Argus that he was stalling for time. The sudden pleasant change in tone, the poor excuse about the case files being locked up until lunch time, the smiling - these were not the markings of a broken man. These were the markings of a man who thought he had the upper hand.

He felt his revolver shift ever so slightly under his coat as Barry hurried out of the office, the holster brushing gently against his thigh like a lover's touch. It would be so easy to provide the Inspector with a little encouragement. A round through the back of the leg, then another in the arm. The Inspector was a big man with military training but adrenalin and discipline could only do so much, and Argus only needed to buy a few moments to pull out his knife and follow up. Yes, so easy. He crack him open like a chestnut, carve him up like meat, then he would-

Argus closed his eyes and slowed his frantic, ragged breathing. Whatever Lexington was hiding, it could wait. There were more pressing matters at hand - Taking a look at Atkins' office, for one. Interviewing witnesses. Contacting his handlers at the Bureau. None of which involved poking around in the affairs (or insides) of a roach like Lexington.

Argus strode back into the foyer. There was no trace of Lexington's accomplice, save for the station's front door swinging shut. The Inspector spun around the very second he heard the click of Argus' shoes on the ageing stone floor. Whatever the pair's exchange had entailed, it was clearly not for him to know. 'Did you get bored of my office that quickly?' he said, with a notable amount of venom. 'Geeze, good luck lasting that long in Arkham.'

'Well then, Inspector, for both our sakes I hope my stay here will be a short one.' he fired back. The Bureau's influence was powerful but even so it was not omnipotent, and he suspected that shooting a police chief dead in cold blood was something that Mills and Hanson couldn't just make 'disappear'. His irritation would have to be confined to verbal sparring, at least for now; until the moment the insubordinate little shit gave him causus belli to wage his own personal war against Lexington.

'Now then, I should trust that the files will be ready for me to review later this evening.' Argus idly twirled the pencil between his fingers. The journal was still open in his hand - Lexington, rather conveniently, had neglected to answer his query.'But the question still stands, Inspector: Who was there the night Dr. Howard Atkins died?

---

Ageing wooden police barricades lined the deserted University Square, showing clear signs of neglect rather than wear. These were not items that regularly travelled outside the confines of the station storeroom. If anything, it was an indication to prevalence of serious crime in Arkham: almost non-existent.

Lexington, although with great reluctance, had given up several names. Most of them were unknown, but a few were cause for concern; fellow colleagues and academics from Miskatonic whom had appeared as people of interest in the Bureau's dossier. Upon pressing further however, Lexington shut him out. 'I don't fucking know, Lichfield. He'd replied, trying to keep his rage in check. 'I don't know the life story of every fucking person in Arkham. Go talk to the bookworms over at the University if you want to know. Isn't this your case now, anyway?'

Now the University stood before him, its bizarre mixture of granite flagstones and ageing gambrel roofs giving it the appearance of a haphazardly built monstrosity; a Frankenstein's Monster of architecture, designed by a madman with no heed for modern stylistic conventions. His eyes wandered from the monument and the grisly scene below to the tallest window of the Tower, perhaps the only sane building in on the entire campus, its ancient stone spire reaching up to pierce the heavens like the spear of some titanic warrior. It was from that window that Atkins had plunged eight stories to the cold and unforgiving flagstones before, taking his secrets with him.

'Excuse me sir, but this is an active crime scene. I'm going to have to ask you to step back behind the barricade.'

The young officer had puffed his chest out and stood upright, attempting to project power he possessed neither the experience nor rank to wield. Argus gave him only the briefest of looks before brushing past him. 'I'll only be a moment.'

The officer remained still, flabbergasted that a stranger would so calmly and brazenly defy a direct order from a law enforcement official. It went against everything the Academy had taught him. 'S-sir, I'm going to ask you again: Please step back behind the barricades.'

'Stand down, Private.' Argus' tone changed as he felt the anger well deep within him. The meeting with Lexington had worn his patience thin, and he was in no mood to play games. 'My name is Agent Lichfield, Pinkerton. The Feds requested I take over the Atkins case.'

The officer placed a hand on Argus' shoulder. 'Well, Mr... Lichfield, I'm going to need to see some identifica-'

It was all the provocation Argus needed. Quicker than the Officer could react, Argus had spun and picked him up by the scruff of his collar, drawing his mouth into a snarl as he pulled him close. 'Listen here Private, I give the fucking orders, not you.' Argus hissed, almost more reptilian than human.

The officer froze with terror. The stranger's expression was no longer recognisably human but rather something more primal, something mankind fearfully left behind long ago. It was his eyes - eyes that burnt like fire, like an unstoppable inferno; but there was no warmth in it, no heat, just the bitter chill of void; like ice... Like death. The stranger's voice continued as a hoarse and terrible whisper:

'Do you think I asked for this? Do you think I wanted to come to this shit-stained backwater? No, I just go where the work takes me, and I just so happened to have the misfortune of winding up here. You want to see some identification? Here!' Argus reached into his coat and pulled out his identification, thrusting it in the petrified Officer's face. 'Here it is, Private. Now, I've had a very long journey to get here, I'm cold, I'm tired, and it seems that every single fucking person I run into is trying to stop me from doing my goddamn job. Get the fuck out of my way - and Christ Almighty, if you ever lay another fucking finger on me I will shatter every single bone in your hand, one by one. Do I make myself clear, Private?'

A choked gasp escaped the Officer's lips as he frantically looked around the deserted square looking for someone - anyone - to come and help him. Argus gripped him tighter and raised a fist. 'I asked you a question, son. Do. I make. Myself. Clear?'

'Y-y-yes sir, Agent Lichfield.' The terrified officer stammered - he'd only been on the force for three weeks, and he wasn't at all prepared to let this psychotic Fed send him to an early retirement. Argus grinned at him wickedly. 'Good.' He released the gasping officer from his iron grip before straightening out his trenchcoat. 'Now that we've reached an agreement, I believe that you haven't yet introduced yourself. What's your name, boy?'

The officer looked back at him with a mixture of fear and confusion. Every breath came quick and frantic. 'H-Hutchins, sir. Officer Hutchins.'

'Hutchins.' Argus said slowly, sounding every syllable. A thin puff of mist escaped his lips and hung in the air briefly before dissipating. 'You from around here?' Hutchins nodded.

'Well then, I hope you won't mind me asking you a few questions.' Argus tone made it painfully clear that this was not a request; it was a demand. 'Let's start off with the most important one: What do you know about Dr. Atkins?'

[Hr]

Officer Hutchins had cracked like an egg, but rather disappointingly wasn't the fount of knowledge that Argus had anticipated. He'd known Atkins, sure, even spoken to him on occasion. But Hutchins was at the Police Academy up north in the months leading up to his death; he'd only become aware of the late professor's erratic behaviour less than three days before the incident. As for the particulars of the case, Hutchins was simply on guard duty and nothing more. He didn't know what Lexington had discovered, if anything.

'I see. Well, thank you for your time Officer. Oh, and best we keep this between ourselves - that Inspector of yours isn't too fond of me, and I'd just hate to think of what he'd do to you if he'd found out you'd been fraternising with 'the enemy', so to speak.' He'd added. 'I can count on you... Can't I?' Hutchins had agreed. The young lad had, after all, nowhere else to turn now but Argus; he was in too deep to back out.

The next few hours were spent exploring the campus and its myriad of buildings, familiarising himself with the floorplan as the sun began to dip below the horizon. By the time he arrived back to the quiet hallway that led to Atkins' office, many of the students and staff at the University had gone home for the night.

Argus stood before the old pine door. Behind it, he knew, would be an integral part of the puzzle. With a final glance up and down the silent hallway, he pulled a small piece of metal from his pocket and reached towards the lock-

Without warning the door swung open, connecting with his head. The lockpick dropped from Argus' hands and clinked on the hardwood floor as he staggered backwards. Pain radiated from the impact point across his skull, and it took an almost inhuman amount of concentration not to cry out in shock. His left hand gripped his hat while the right shot down to the holster under his trenchcoat, dazed but ready to fend off however many assailants hid inside the office.

"The feeling is mutual, Dr. Dupree. For all the time I've seen your faces in my mind, finally seeing you two with my very own eyes makes me feel more..." Faye's voice trailed off, as if at a loss of words for once, though her face remained as calm and emotionless as before. Her eyes, resting first on Jeramiah and then on Emil, blinked once before resting once again on the doctor. "And no, there is no student of yours or the man of Stone that bears the name of Jeremy. But you will find him, oh yes you will, outside of these mortal walls. The Companions shall assemble, but it was only the learned ones that were destined first begin our relation."

The woman rose to her feet, her black hair falling onto her shoulder and partly covering her left side. As if nothing could stop her, she took one step towards Emil. Two steps, and three steps, standing only inches away from him. Her face was no longer emotionless, but caring; a smile forming on her lips as she stared him into his eyes. "If not a leader now, the experience of the Eonic Truth will give you experience. And there is much to be done, yes."

Her gaze shifted over to Jeremiah, her body standing perfectly still while her head moved, like an owl searching the night for prey. "There is not much I can tell you in detail, not here nor now. But what I can tell you is this; Dr. Atkins left clues for you too find, Doctor. You and his old friend, who already carried a small piece of the puzzle now solved. Go back to his office, before The Agent finds It and set the saving of your world in dire peril. It will lead you to a place, a dark and forsaken place that hides many secrets; both above and below the ocean. Your first trial lies there. And take this..."

A small amulet was placed in the hands of Emil, swiftly and without a touch. It was round, metallic of shape and texture, and a blue stone fitting its front side. "You will need it, all of you."

The sound of footsteps could be heard through the metal door, the voice accompanying it undechiferable for the two standing in the cell.



"A...another suicide?"

Once again the theme of suicide approached Jeremy, but this time it was not of a dear friend, nor something that happened long ago. The man told him it had only just happened the other day before. Did he know about it? In searching him mind fervently for answers to that, he found himself at a loss. He couldn't remember hearing of said suicide, so was it so that it had happened yesterday? The same day his memory has vanished from?

The thought made him sick, more because of the freakish nature of these events happening to him and less about the suicide itself. They happened, of course, be it a sin or not, it still made his skin crawl once he reminded himself that only a few mintues earlier he had told August Dupin about one.

"No...it can't be. I mean, no I can't remember hearing of that, Sir. I was probably at work when it happened, long shifts down at the Garage you see." Jeremy tried to sound normal, appearing as if striking conversation with the stranger when in fact he was scared. "Would it seem strange if I wanted to look? Not at the body, of course, but at where it happened. I mean, I too have appointment here, so it wouldn't be unapproriate to look at the scene when just walking by? We could go together, makes it less of a scene, right?"

Once again Jeremy found himself lying; lying through his teeth for a reason he found disturbing, macabre, filthy and devilish - but he wanted to look, to see if this death was akin to the one of his friend. He needed to look. Perhaps then would his desire to follow that voice in his head vanish?

The deep blue stone seemed like a hole in his palm to Emil. He looked through it, rather than at it, but could feel its weight on the skin and knew it was a real tangible object. Focusing his eyes he observed the strange thing more closely along the edges and the surface of the stone. A fetish of some sort? Or a key? It was by no means an object of extraordinary design. In fact, it was quite simple, like one of trinkets street vendors sell in the Orient. But the simplicity is what made it compelling, as it often happens when a man expects in his mind something of importance to be fancy, only to be given the opposite.

Are we to use a submarine? A crew of ladies and gentleman most mysterious and diverse going on an expedition? As the now tender Faye concluded the talk of their coming quest his mind played images, and her voice mingled with and was eventually replaced by visions of his imagination's make: whispering waves, cresting and breaking one on another; pale foam on moonlit black sands and shingle; the quivering surface of the endless ocean; ebony depths; chasms in the ocean's floor where the Kraken sleeps, stirring shells and bones; ruined pillars and antique runes carved in them; hollow citadels of sunken cities and their spires; a call of a solitary leviathan echoing from one statue of a bizarre god to the other. And a siren's song most sonorous.

”What may the purpose of this item be?" Emil asked nothing how Faye's expression indeed was changed: gentler now and... humane, smiling. He turned to the professor like a child being shy in front of a lady. My throat is even more sore now. And my eyes ache. Wait, someone's coming! ”I can hear footsteps without the cell. Someone's coming.”

He gave Faye another look and quickly put the amulet in the pocket. I've nowhere to run now, Steiner.

Man of stone? Steiner. Right, of course. Jeremiah nodded and, with that riddle answered, he allowed himself to focus on her words. Words that, coming out of an otherwise ordinary-appearing woman, were beyond surreal. Had he not been sure of her presence, he might've fancied her a hallucination, solely the answer to a desire to determine why she had brought August to Arkham just as Dr. Atkins had killed himself in such a gruesome fashion. Some of her words to Emil were... concerning, as one teacher looking out for a college student. Then again, he had not heard their entire conversation. It was possible the two were referring to some earlier dialog between them. It was, again, something to be addressed later, when his attentiveness was not imperative. Try to remember every word, try to look at the words from an angle. She was not quite straightforward, after all. A place with secrets above and below the water... a coastal city? This was true of Arkham, he felt, but there were other ways she could have described Arkham.

And figure it out before the Agent. If Lexington was back there in Atkins' office, it was sure to be a quite worrying affair, least of all how to explain why Dupree had chosen to return to the scene of a crime. That would be something to consider now, before they reached the office. It was unlikely to be heavily guarded, but to be caught would be disastrous.

Yes, the strangeness of it all intrigued him. It was ridiculous to say it wasn't, simply because his mind was switching to practical concerns. However, the fact remained there were people involved in this, at least one a student of a friend. Care was necessary. Jumping in would simply do more harm than good for all of them.

Emil had received some object, and Jeremiah peered over for a better look. Off the top of his head, it had no significance - no obvious symbols to be linked to an ancient culture, no curling script inscribed into its form to decipher. But if Faye Desdemona had it, it was likely important. Another thing to try to understand, on top of determining which town she likely was trying to reference. Perhaps start with referencing articles on known deserted cities? Perhaps she meant something else by forsaken, but it was a place to start.

It was then he heard the sound, and so did Emil, as he warned Professor Dupree. Right, right. How close? Sounded like they were still approaching. There was time to leave, if they didn't hesitate.

"Thank you, Ms. Desdemona." This was it. If they didn't wish to be locked up as well, it was time to leave. "Emil, have to leave now - and for the love of all that is good, take off that coat." Professor Dupree doubted that trick would work a second time, nevermind the actual theft. He strode to the door and opened it about a foot. Still not here, but getting closer. Fine by him. He opened it wider and gestured for Emil to get out. Once Emil did, Professor Dupree followed after, gently closing the door behind him and walking after Emil, trying to balance both stealth and speed.

He couldn't be sure he succeeded, but as long as they weren't caught right away, he might be able to excuse his presence as simply seeking a lost student - who he had now found.

Not to say anything of how lost he felt himself.

Frederick couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow when the man unwittingly mentioned a second suicide; or rather, revealed that the suicide he’d just been informed of was the second suicide within some presumably small period of time.

The man continued talking after a moment’s pause and Frederick watched and listened carefully. There was little else the man said that was pertinent to the first suicide he’d mentioned; but Frederick could tell that the one he’d just been informed of was setting the man on distressed edge, to the point of shakily asking if Frederick would help him get a better look at the scene of the crime. He’d not even been in Arkham for an hour, and already it seemed doubtful that a slow, peaceful recovery was in the cards for him; multiple suicides, supposed ‘unusual circumstances’ and locals understandably jittery and unsettled in their own right seemed to put a damper on that.

“In all honesty, I’d sooner not.” Unsettled himself somewhat once again, Frederick decided to be forthright, if still polite, with the man. “I’m not really here under the most pleasant circumstances myself, but besides that- Officer Bailey pointed me towards another part of campus to arrange my appointment, if you were curious about where to do that?” Right away, he pointed down south to indicate where the young man had directed him: “I’d sooner let them finish their work here before I see about prying, but if you’d appreciate the company regardless, I’m perfectly happy to provide it until we’ve made our arrangements.”

He couldn’t help but feel a little obtuse as he answered the man, but he felt he was making the right choice. Besides not wanting to make any more trouble than was strictly necessary for Bailey and the other officers working at the scene, he was of the mind that he could always return to examine the scene for any indication of those ‘unusual circumstances’ when it was open to the public. Perhaps it was down to some naive belief that the local police would have made progress enough to make any potential investigation of his own irrelevant; though perhaps it was also due to a wish to save the other man further distress by enabling his desire to see what was on the other side of the police line.

God only knew the thought of that mangled body and the fact it was such a short distance away was giving him the chills.

The townhouse on the corner of North Peabody and East Curwen was a welcome home away from home, a New England design in the very truest sense. The mock Tudor fascia, the arching shadows of the gable and the humble yet solid limestone of the floors - Sebastian could pull the curtains and halfway fancy he was still in Wakefield. With the heavy velvet curtains pulled aside, the weak mist-born sunlight filtered in; from his sitting chair he could make out the gazebo at the centre of Independence Square. Standing and crossing to the lean against the glass, he picked out the two young fellows sat talking in the shade. Each had books piled by them on the bench, and their suits looked respectable but faded; students at the local university, he reasoned, or perhaps fresh young academics.

"Your tea, sir." The staff had come with the house, or rather been hired by the agents Sebastian had contracted in preparation for his arrival. The service set was of course one of the first things sent ahead of him. Once the china cup was placed in front of him, Sebastian reached into his jacket pocket to produce a small medical bottle. As the remains of breakfast was cleaned away, Sebastian took his tea with laudanum and sugar, to coat the tincture's snuffy, bitter notes. By the time the cup was empty, Sebastian seemed to sit a little straighter in the chair, as if heavy bags were lifted from his shoulders. Then he retired briefly to his study, to apply a little colour to his face before he met the day. He was expecting a knock to come fairly soon.

True to Sebastian's expectations, a knock pounded on the front door: two short raps and then silence. When the door was opened, the man waiting outside placed the cabbie hat in his hands upon his balding head - apparently removed to perhaps scratch some itch, or to perhaps brush drops of melting snow from the shoulders of his brown wool coat. It didn't matter. It was already back in place as he stared up at Sebastian. His watery-looking eyes didn't blink at all as he said, "Sir Brotherton's ride is here."

With his initial message delivered, he turned and began walking down the pathway back to the road, apparently uncaring if the one who had answered the door followed him down. His shoes squished on the damp walkway but kept to the path, away from the slowly-melting piles of ice and snow that lined the walk. As long as the servants tended to them, the walkway was unlikely to freeze over. The driver could not have known that, but he likely knew the path was safe. Surely he had traveled it at least once. He walked to the sleek black car parked on the road. The back right tire, nearly worn smooth like the other tires, rested in a ice-lined pot hole. As the man opened the back door of the car for Sebastian to enter when he was ready, he did not seem concerned in the slightest. At worst, he simply kept flickering his gaze about the quiet road, focusing whenever a person or a car passed by and appearing to cringe whenever they came too close.

A soft rap on the door notified Sebastian that his driver was here, but of course this was not a prod to make him move. The aristocracy moved on their own time, and it was the place of the lower social orders to react to those actions. And besides, Sebastian still had to apply some toiletries (a delicately spiced cologne dabbed softly twice on each side of his neck), select the appropriate cufflinks for visiting a sanatorium (he had some stainless steel ones he felt were suitably 'sterile' for a medical environment) and a dozen more sundry little personal tasks before he seemed to feel entirely ready to face the world.

The man that emerged from the house - the door having been opened by the butler, of course - was apparently hale and hearty, wrapped up in a warm, thick winter coat against the winter chill. He walked with a silver-tipped cane and the wind caught his thin, light hair and tousled it gently. Of course, the colour in his cheeks was painted on and the pep in his step was chemical in origin. He trotted down the path to step into the waiting car, without saying a word to the driver, and slid in tight into the corner of the back seat, the furthest possible point from the open door. Waiting for the door to be shut and the driver to do his job, he reached into his inner pocket and produced a slim volume of verse he'd brought with him as a diversion on the drive up to the Sefton Ward. He ran his hand softly down the gilding on the spine before he cracked it open to peruse.

The driver closed the door after Sebastian and walked back to the driver's side. He jumped as a car nearly clipped him, though his surprise seemed only vaguely related to the proximity of the moving car. Once he got into his seat and started up the car, it was clear he had barely been affected. His driving was just as smooth as though nothing had happened. The first few minutes of the drive went in complete peace, and it seemed like he had no plans to bother his client - employer, perhaps, may have been better for the service he was expected to deliver. Sebastian was able to read in peace before the car rolled to a stop at an intersection, letting another car pass ahead to avoid an accident on the still-icy roads.

"I've passed by that house of yours dozens of times. Never saw anyone in it, until today. New in town, right?" His words did not end as much as they ran into each other like a shallow brook - not smooth enough to slur together, nowhere near distinct enough to be enunciated. "You'll probably have more luck than most once the doctors see what you're made of - whatever you're looking for. Just be careful - seems like the crazy's following the cold this year. Arkham's never had this much before, or so I hear." With the road clear, he continued driving, and threw out one last casual remark. "Sure would be a shame if you caught the crazy just after showing up, after all." The Arkham Sanitarium now loomed at the far end of the road. With the driver's words, it was hard to say if the looming was of a guardian golem set to protect the secrets within, or of a leviathan beast determined to devour the city's inhabitants.

No, hardly, but, seeing he had been born / In a half savage country, out of date; / Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn; / Capaneus; trout for factitious bait. Sebastian read his Pound before snapping it closed in response to the driver. He had served with men of lower standing, sat among them in the sanitarium and had little to do but talk. "I have recently expatriated, yes." A childhood of enunciation lessons and social pressure gave Sebastian's voice a clear, crisp tone, automatically aloof. Apparently that was enough of a response for the young Lord, and he turned his head towards the window.

He stared out over the frost-bitten landscape, the sprinkled snow across the fields of grass - but was the snow perhaps a little greyed? Not a smoke-grey, or even ash-grey; no, the grey was more like that of a flat, uncaring sea. It was as if the colour was being leeched from the soil, to the texture of an old, cheap oil painting. Eventually the driver spoke again and the Lord gave his token response. "The French have a word for it; foile a deux, the madness of two." Before long, the sanitarium was visible, a neo-Gothic presence that sat on the the hillside like a cathedral grotesque. It wouldn't have looked far from home in among the spires of an English mill-town; in fact, he thought he recognised elements of St. James' Medical University in nearby Leeds, with its protruding clocktower. When the car drew to a halt, Sebastian calmly waited for the door to be opened for him.

The driver, as expected, came to a slow halt right in front of the asylum's gates. While closed so the nurses could escort the milder residents around the grounds, arm in arm like old friends instead of caretaker or warden and patient, it looked as if there was a guard house of some sort. Thankfully, there was a man inside who watched curiously as the driver exited the car, strode around to Sebastian's door, and opened it for him. With that simple task done, he strode - no, not quite right, the driver was much too sturdy and heavy in his steps to call it such - to the gatehouse. His stoic expression melted into a yellowed grin, pierced by gaps of black and tissue-red, at the man in the gatehouse.

"Sir Brotherton has arrived to speak with Dr. Abott. Should be a note somewhere." The driver waited a moment for the man to confirm and then went back to the car while the gates were being opened to speak one more time with Sebastian.

"The car will await your return. I only move for two people: my boss, and the police - and I doubt they have much business around here." His expression had resumed its stoicism. Once Sebastian had exited the car, his driver closed the door none too loudly behind him and then trudged into the driver's seat once more to begin the wait in the cold. By that point, the gates of the asylum were opened, utterly still on their heavy-looking hinges. The guard kept glancing back at the patients, but the nurses seemed to have them under control.

"Sorry, mister, but ye'll have to go on alone. Can't leave my post - we get drop-offs once in a while, ye know?" He seemed nervous as he eyed over Sebastian's attire and posture.

"Lord Brotherton, actually. I am a baron, not a knight. The appropriate title is 'lord' when addressing one of my station." Though his face was stony, like some Classical bust with upturned nose, inside he was smiling like a naughty schoolboy. Why not have a little fun with the Americans? It wasn't like they'd spent winter Saturdays being instructed in the intricacies of the peerage, the familial lineages that stretched back to the Norman Conquest, or had the weight of history pressed down on their shoulders. No, they lived in a place without history; the past was something packed up in crates and consigned to the other side of the Atlantic, what was left being carefully sterilised and bottled for public consumption. He could probably tell them he was a Crown Price or a Mongolian prince in exile and have a good chance they'd swallow it. Or he could use one of the French obscenities Henri would grunt into him at night, see if they caught the meaning.

He disembarked a little slower than he'd gotten into the car; once the initial hit of laudanum had kicked in it, his bones would settle in a general numbness but retain some tokens of their stiffness and occasionally twinge as if to remind him. He would be functional for a good few hours before he needed another top-up. He stepped a little up the path when the guard to the asylum spoke to him first. "I understand, officer." An accommodating smile. "It is a brisk morning; one rather fancies the stroll, actually."

With his cane in hand, Sebastian ambled up the path towards Arkham. There was a characteristic all these old buildings seemed to get, these places of long, slow sicknesses, as if malaise seeped into the bedrock, the foundations, the walls and widows. If ever a place could be haunted, it would be places such as this. He half expected to round a corner and see the walking wounded of the Somme, brought across impossible gulfs of time and the separation of death to this very moment, to reunite with him like corpse-cold friends. Instead he saw the civilian sick, mostly in soft pyjama clothes and dressing gowns or thin overcoats to help with the cold as they took exercise in the garden or across the yard. One wing, he could tell immediately, was more secure than the other; thick iron bars in the windows on the ground floor and those higher up with thinner, taller, built for purpose. He found a likely set of double doors to take him into a wide lobby or reception area and crossed purposefully to the front desk and the nurse thereat. "Lord Brotherton. I understand Dr. Abott is expecting me."

The nurse looked up at Sebastian and checked her desk, looking until she found a slip of paper, typewriter letters sticking out boldly on the white sheet. "Lord Sebastian Brotherton? Please, a minute. I will fetch Dr. Abott for you." She took a second to re-tidy her desk before exiting the room through a door behind her desk. Most of the papers were left covered by opaque folders; after all, there were many patients about the sanitarium who came of equally prestigious families, or poorer folks who simply wished to be undisturbed by the outside world. Secrecy was important in such an institution.

Yet, in her speed to help Sebastian, she had left the note she had written peeking out from underneath a folder.



At that point, the folder obscured the rest of the memo. Disturbing it could be noticed, and yet the note hung there tantalizingly.

Sebastian couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the note about cousin Sylvester, he barely suppressed a shiver and think back to the Majestic. The memo, delivered to his room personally, warning him to stay away had addressed him as cousin - yet it could not have possibly come from Sylvester, surely? What sort of sanatorium gave telegraph privileges to the patients, a mental degenerate at that? And - hmm. His hand paused a little above the paper, hesitating before he could take the note to read fully. If Sylvester was committed here, then two whom did the family estate belong? Perhaps there was something about an attorney, a point of contact, a next-of-kin that would handle Sylvester's affairs while he was being cared for. He slid the note further out of the envelope to get the end of the sentence, regarding Sylvester's fate. A word crossed his eyes that at first he seemed to be incapable of understanding, as if the ink would not sit still on the page. Eventually something seemed to click into place and 'Innsmouth' congealed into legibility. He thought it sounded familiar, a word he had overheard but never seen, referred to darkly by the townhouse's kitchen staff when Sebastian had requested fresh fish for dinner one night. A kitchen hand had quietly joked that they could get a good three days of fresh fish off of one resident of Innsmouth 'so long as you held him down before you cut him', and the grim quip had been promptly disciplined by the cook. This seemed to be where cousin Sylvester's branch of the family had slipped after arriving in America, and likely where Sebastian would find the people onto whom he could offload his ancestral burden.

Ah, but this left him stood in the foyer of a lunatic asylum peeping most improperly. He stepped back from the desk and ran a hand along his left temple, playing the whole thing off as getting close to the cabinet behind the reception desk to smooth down a stray hair on his head.

Nothing. Nothing met Dr. Dupree or young Emil Günther out in the corridor of the Damned. The sound of stepping feet approaching them came from around the corner, further up the corridor alongside the muted whispers - or weeping - from its residents. The feet came closer, the eerie feeling of some on the hunt for the unlikely due ever approaching. But once it, whatever it was had come into view, the corridor was deserted; all except the black feather just hitting the floor.

"Dupree! Günther! Where in the name of Julius Caesar have you two been?"

Arthur Steiner stood in front of Dupree and Emil as they appeared in the end of the corridor, the one leading down to the reception. Arthur was walking in a rather rapid pace down towards the duo, his hands raised above his head in a irriated manner, much like his whole body language. "Dupree, I do sincerly hope that your cause of abscense is Herr Günther..."

The gaze of his eyes dug themselves deep into those of Emil, annoyance yet curiousity brimming behind them as he saw his face; their faces. His face changed, now an inquisitive look directed towards them. "...What is it? You two look like you've seen a ghost..."

"Wait a damned minute; the last time I saw you two, you were outside...Jeremiah, what was behind that door?" Arthur suddenly grabbed Dupree and Sigurd by their shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong as if he wouldn't allow them to dissappared another time.





"Right...I'm sorry, mate, it was rather silly of me to ask for such a thing anyway."

Jeremy shoved his hands deep into his pockets, clutching them tight as he felt the shivering come back to him from the dreaded circumstances surrounding him. But he had no right to drag...whoever this man was, into the mad thoughts that were starting to fill Jeremy's mind, especially when he flat out asked him to look at a body. He turned his head in the direction he was shown, then quickly shooting his eyes back at the man once he continued speaking.

"Yes, if it wouldn't be too much to ask of you, Sir. I've never actually been at the university myself, at least not in that section. I'm afraid I'd wander off aimlessly if I don't have any help, so your company is mutually welcomed." He shot the man a smile, if a tad forced as the winter cold was starting to get to him. His body was visibly shivering, although Jeremy himself knew it was mostly his hand, clung tightly to his thigh. Yes, it was better for him to shove his thoughts over to the arrangement of his, The Lie, intead of the horrible realities he was constructing in his mind that certainly could proved a form of madness.

Jeremy pulled out his hand - the one not shivering from cold nor fear, and reached out towards Frederick with a friendly face. Jeremy. Jeremy A. Velera, please to meet you. Terribly sorry for being so brash, Sir. And you?

The walk back to reception was haunting - hardly in the literary sense of the word. No in the way every step of Jeremiah Dupree and Emil Gunther seemed to be followed by the step of a third, just the slightest bit out of sync with their footfalls. In the way of a distant banging on an unseen cell door. In the unrelenting gaze of something invisible as the coat was disposed of, not in the trash but where any tired doctor may have misplaced it. In the siren song of Faye Desdemona, or something trying its damnable best to imitate her, trying to call them back.

A true spectre haunting them both.

It was hardly a wonder that Dr. Steiner worried, and yet Professor Dupree didn't have his voice back quite yet. It would be hers. He wished that meant Faye.
He owed Steiner some kind of answer, especially considering what needed to be done next. If he truly needed to enter Atkin's office, particularly under these illegal circumstances, the least he could do was speak. But to invite Steiner directly? What else might that invite? Himself, Emil, August, Jeremy - what might another cause? And more importantly, what might he be inviting into Steiner's life? Jeremiah's life was... negligible at times. What he did to himself, for himself, remained his own business. What he brought onto others, however, needed far more careful consideration. Outright dismissal could not be an option, however. Not against such concern and not against the travesty that awaited. And, preferably, before Emil could respond to his favored teacher without these concerns.

Dupree was a professor. He had a duty to try to keep the situation manageable. And only now did his voice return.

"Madness. What might be expected from a place such as this, I suppose." Not from the patient herself, but from the knowledge she carried. The promise of a world's end, an invasion of minds - any number of terrors to descend upon humanity, if these connected mysteries were discarded so casually. He hesitated. "Arthur, do you still have access to Dr. Atkin's office?"

Dupree was hardly the type to use the given name of his peers. There was a certain power and pain they held over others. Yet, here he was now. He glanced to the hand clutching his shoulder, then to the waiting students by the door, then to the older man at the receptionist's desk - a visitor, he was sure. Despite his proximity, Dupree made no effort to pull himself free and instead lowered his voice. It cracked on the first word and then no more. "He left something behind. Something about a place that hides secrets above and below the water?" Close to her exact words. He could not forget them if he tried. Perhaps Dr. Steiner would recognize the reference. They'd be able to find what they needed before the Agent - or worse, Lexington - caught them all.

Of course, failure could not be an option.

Emil looked through Steiner at the students waiting in line, thinking. How ironic this is. Or is it destiny? That his name, the one he's carried from birth, implies sinking, sinking, sinking... Fell into the world in a splash of red cries and immediately started sinking and does so to this day, professor Steiner. We all do, of course. Death being the bottom. But now we'll sink with him literally, too; towards that blurry place beneath the waves. The receptionist counted, slid some coins across the counter onto his damp palm one by one and dropped them into the drawer with a ring of dirty copper hitting copper. Money, too. They used shells as money before. Wonder what we could buy down there with a handful of shells. Oh, yes, hello mister octopus; is the sea weed homegrown? What about this bizarre disformed fish that does not belong to our world? What did you say? Oh, miss octopus tended to it. I see. Give me half a kilo! And don't mind the price! It's not every day that we are expecting the end of humanity, is it? Thank you!

Steiner let go off his arm as he went on talking to Dupree. Emil could feel the ghost grip fade from his skin. Stone grip, professor. Perfect. We'll need to counter strangle the monstrous tentacles of the deep sea. He saw the three of them on a ship and the rootless limbs of the Kraken -- or something worse -- flying all over them, dripping with ooze and salt water, cracking masts and the deck to splinters. Screaming seamen chopping and slashing at the slimy surface of the beast with their knives, sinking them deep into the poisonous blood that fuels the creature. The elderly man who had paid the receptionist held his key and suitcase. He remained still, so persistently still that he managed to peak the interest of the bored receptionist, and that was an achievement in itself. The stranger's pale face had a drop of familiarity in it, but Emil could not pinpoint its source. He kept standing, his presence not allowing the receptionist to return to his yesterdays' newspapers.

”Professor Dupree,” he said, turning his back to the strange old man; ”with all due respect, I think we can bypass the old fashioned access, if you understand what I mean.” His hands gripped an imaginary crowbar and jerked it as if to open some air door. It wouldn't be the first time I meddled with Atkins's office anyway. No need to be shy now. And we've already got an escape route covered. He remembered the steps he and Steiner had heard, those they chalked up to the police. Perhaps the same we heard in Faye's cell? Persistent bastards. ”This excursion ends soon, I hope,” he added, meaning the school trip to the madhouse. ”Most of them will retire to the dorms, it should give us more freedom to... roam.”

"Madness...of course. Dr. Gabrowski would be stupid to let somone who actually cares for these people in...wait, what did you just say?"

Arthur's face, just a few moments ago filled with curiosity, was now one made of confusion. His eyes staring down at Dupree - Professor Steiner was a tall man, quite intimedating to both new students and seasoned professors at Miskatonic -, shifting to look at Emil as the German student continued where Dupree had left off. The old man standing at the reception? Arthur didn't pay too much attention to him it seemed, only offering a brief glance before locking onto his colleague and student.

"If I had not been convinced that there was something incredibly strange going on these past events, I would have gotten you thrown out of the university and deported back to Deutschland yesterday, Herr Günther..." Arthur pulled out a handerchief from his pocket, wiping his forehead free from the beads of sweat dripping. Dr. Steiner, the man with the stone face and an iron will, was visibly shaken. Now the only thing remaining was for Hell to freeze over. "...but yes, that would be a preferable entrance. I think I shall have to tell you about our little...adventure of yesterday, Herr Günther and myself, but not here."

Arthur turned his head, looking over at the remaining group of students who seemed eager to get moving; the temperature of the whole fascility - The Eternal Prison of Lesser Men - had fallen quickly, and a few had been smart enough to 'forget' proper clothing. "Everyone! You are dismissed for now, return to Miskatonic and attend to whatever business you have until lectures resume after lunch. And don't you dare complain about colds or freezing feet, you all know perfectly well that it's winter!"

"Now what did you say about a place of secrets? Above and below water? I can safely assume you're not referring to Atlantis. Atkins dwelled more with the the abnormal cultures and religions; Ancient Greece is Professor Masters' area. So what could he mean by..."

Arthur started talking quietly to himself as he began walking through the reception and out into the cold winter air. A raven's kraa snapped Arthur out of his line of thought, his eyes locked onto the black messenger of Death fly away. "Come on then, let's not waste time. I have the nagging feeling that we'll not be alone there."

Next stop: Miskatonic University, where they would be met by more people, Companions, mysteries and madness, Agent Lichfield, and their next clue.

“It’s quite alright, no need to beat yourself up over it!” Frederick couldn’t help but feel a little guilty himself as he saw the man retreat inwards a bit after his response. He still felt he’d made the right choice in turning down the request, but he supposed it wasn’t a situation that most people knew how to react to; for whatever reasons he’d ended up coming to Arkham, he was still more mentally equipped to deal with the grim events at hand than most citizens would be.

The guilt didn’t last too long, however; making a quick recovery, the man continued. Whilst he still seemed shaken, it seemed mostly physical; despite his profuse shivering, weak smile and the slow trickle of sweat down his forehead, his voice seemed fairly focused, if still strained. Frederick supposed the man was stronger mentally than he presented himself; and that was admirable in and of itself.

“Frederick Hughes- pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Velera.” With that, Frederick took the hand that was offered to him; whilst he supposed that Jeremy wasn’t quite as skittish as he seemed, he also supposed that now would be an appropriate time to stop mentally dissecting him. Making a move to more pedestrian matters would help both of them, anyway. “As I’m said, I’m perfectly happy to accompany you to the other side of the campus- can’t promise I won’t get lost on the way myself, though!”

Well, maybe there was something to be said for keeping the analytical side of his mind active. Some well-timed humour could help put them both at ease.

Well that was a relief; the man, Fredrick Hughes he called himself, had a sense of humour and was willingly talking to Jeremy in a calm and friendly manner. He seemed to have left Jeremy's earlier request for investigating the scene of death and happily agreed to accompany him to where they both were going. Well, where Fredrick was going; Jeremy had no business in visiting Miskatonic, yet his macabre curiosity was pushing him to continue in his lie.

Perhaps he was trying to forget the uneasy truth August Dupin had told him, or maybe his troubling dream which he for now actually had forgotten about?

"Then we're in the same boat then, better to be lost together rather than alone. Now, after you Sir." Jeremy said to Fredrick with a more geniune smile, letting go of his hand and pointing in the direction they needed to go. Or so Jeremy thought, why else would he be pointing just where he was pointing? Was there some force which guided his hand, or was there a repressed memory which made him react in a similar way as before? Only God knew, for Jeremy certainly didn't.

---

---

The corridor standing in front of Jeremy and Fredrick was as empty and cold as Jeremy supposed whoever had jumped to his untimely death was by now, no blood left running through his veins to make his body function. He had seen it happen before, fellow soldiers dying slowly from losing blood from a piece of shrapnel, cutting into their heart or arteries all while the other men were forced over the top and at the Huns for King and Country. And what were they rewarded with? A shallow grave in Flanders and a "free" Ireland. Was it strange that Jeremy fought against said King and Country?

Jeremy's thought were dragged back to the corridor where Fredrick was starting to walk down the empty corridor, and Jeremy followed closely by him. Several doors lined the walls at either side, but they kept walking. A corner turned on to the right further down.

"So what did you say your business was here at Miskatonic?" Jeremy was making idle conversation with Fredrick, feeling his guard let down now that nothing strange seemed to be happening here. It was perhaps a tad odd that the school was as empty as it now was, but that could be explained quite easily.

The man Jeremy saw standing at the very end of the corridor further down on the other hand, seemed odd. Especially as he shot back from the office door knocking into his face. Jeremy froze, his hand held out to stop Fredrick from moving.

"I am no academician, but that lad there ain't no professor..."

"You know, I've never asked if you were a praying man, Dr. Steiner." The remark seemed to come out of the blue from Jeremiah Dupree as he glanced down the hallway. No one was bothering them - while the building was hardly abandoned, the few professors they had met did not find it peculiar that Emil had requested their assistance in retrieving an item from one of the other professors' office. No one questioned it, nor had they probed into which professor it had been who held Emil's possession (nor what that possession even was). Dupree had considered going to the library for a far-more legal investigation as to what place Faye Desdemona could have meant, followed by a visit to the school archives to examine Atkins' past research projects.

In the end, though, both Emil and Arthur seemed far, far too enthusiastic for Dupree's taste. Leaving them to their own devices and to be possibly caught by Lexington would be incredibly cruel.

"I merely ask because it may be worth acting as one right now." Sure, no one was here at the moment, no one to bother them, and no hint that their presence had been mentioned to the police, but that hardly eased Dupree's concerns.

---

---

"I am..."

The professor, the man of stone and Arthur, going by so many different names, kept his eyes locked onto something in the distance. Far down that corridor, the door to the late Dr. Atkin's office, and behind that? Only God knew, but Arthur Steiner's eyes told one easily that he needed to know too.

"Though that God moves in mysterious ways, sometimes so intricate that you simply cannot fathom His plan. Sometimes I wonder if He simply despices us, and leaves us in our own misery."

Arthur turned his head briefly towards Dupree, a brief hint of a smile appearing on his face. "We need no praying here, dear professor; I fear that God has permanently left this institution. Now, let us make haste."

---

---

"It all depends," Email said. "In the morning I usually am not, but in the evenings I sometimes am. Though I'm usually not sure what it is I am believing in. There's just something in the darkness that makes a man believe. Must be the stars. Or something behind them." No-one asked, but he replied nonetheless. We are acting as one, are we not?

Augers observed the firmament, made predictions based on it, and the insides of fowls spilled on the table. Emil thought wether they had their Faye and Atkins and sunken cities, whether a young student in boy's toga followed a couple of philosophers down the hidden corridors of villas and shadowy stoas. There are no old Greeks; you are all children. That's what the Egyptian priest said in Plato's story. Atlantis, of course. Could be it we're looking for. We sure are as ignorant as children in our quest, just like the Hellenes.

"Perhaps someone should stand vigil, there's always a prankster lurking around. Just in case."

The people they came across so far paid no attention to them, but that was surely just a streak of luck. There was no way such a crucial checkpoint of their quest would go flawlessly, was there? With an apprehensive burn in his stomach, Emil followed the professors, suddenly mutely hungering to see what was to come.

---

---

"I suppose." Dupree sighed. Hopefully, Emil had considered the idea of a lookout from reading about criminal activity as opposed to regularly engaging in it. "I volunteer as lookout. If nothing else, I would rather not personally witness this." Besides, perhaps he could play off his anxiety and guilty behavior as a result of the fact he had witnessed Atkins' demise personally.

He had witnessed a man jumping to his death and splattering across the sidewalk.

Even now, though, the fact still felt as if it were off to the side, something Jeremiah viewed with some small measure of horror and some large measure of detachment. He was sure he wasn't reacting the way one should. It didn't help the bizarre circumstances around his death that Lexington had pointed out to him. But what was there to say? He had seen what he had seen, and it was likely best to not mention to Emil and Arthur that he had missed such strange details. They wouldn't think him crazy at this point, but they might just worry about his competency as a lookout.

"You two go on ahead. I suppose if you hear me speaking - at least TRY not to look suspicious." Dupree wasn't sure how else to signal that someone was coming. That should work though, he hoped.

---

---

"I most sincerely hope that you're not referring to yourself when you speak of pranksters, Herr Günther. Dr. Dupree, good luck. We'll try to be quick about it."

Arthur gave a brief look at his two compatriots, nodding to each of them before taking one last look down the hallway. Empty. Not even the sorrow that accompanied Atkin's demise could be felt now. Perhaps it was for the best? They had better things to do that to grief right now. Arthur produced a key from his pocket, an old brass key, which fit perfectly into the lock. The door creaked ever so slightly, but it was open.

"I'll call if you're needed inside. Let us hope not." Arthur's words were short and precise, his voice tuned more so towards his fellow professor than it was towards his student, an inferior. The door was open, yet it was as if it was impossible to comprehend what was on the other side, as if a veil of darkness, perhaps ignorance had been put before Arthur's eyes.

It soon dissappeared as he stepped into the office.

It was if Arthur and Emil had been the last ones to inhabit the room. Everything, at least to Arthur's memory, was in the exact same places they had left it the day before. Papers, books, pencils, everything thrown around, left, right and center. Even the window was left open, the room was litterarly freezing over.

Except that the window was closed shut.

A chill went down Arthur's spine, and it was not just from the physical freezing air. Something was afoot, and he had no idea what it was.

"Well Herr Günther, it would seem we are in the exact same spot as we were 24 hours ago." Arthur's eyes met Emil's for a moment, the old yet energetic eyes of the professor clashing with the young and ever curios ones of der Deutsche Jugend. If he had believed it dejá-vu, this would have been less strange for him. "You two mentioned some place beside and underneath water? Then we should look for maps and any works he have...had about a city of that nature. I'll check the books, you look through the different papers and maps. Belgium and or of the East Coast, Dr. Atkins dreaded California."

---

---

"It seems like we are indeed," Emil said; "But it also does not. There's something here that was not yesterday, like..." Like that horrible gift the dead leave you when they die. They leave, but everything changes as if to signify their absence: the stranger light of lamps down the street towards their home; the books they had not finished reading; the windows they had left open; the clothes they were to put on in the morning but never had the chance to do it...Maps and clues they forgot to hide. "Well, you know what I mean, professor."

Emil looked around the familiar room. One more trip here and I might just call it home, he thought as he wandered around, looking through the same papers and drawers again. Last time he had been lucky breaking that drawer accidentally, but this time things were surely going to take a different course. Strange light now fell through the window in thin blades. Emil saw dust grains floating around, and his own breath in the chilly air.

"It sure is cold here, now that I think about it, professor."

Hah... Professor Dupree's face when I spoke of standing guard. He probably thought I was a hooligan or something. He knelt to check underneath an old dusty cupboard that now held but a few bottles of whiskey and brandy which Emil eyed thinking of warmth they could provide the chest with. A shot would be good now. He rubbed the dust off his knees. No, professor. Just the stories and articles I read and heard, about criminals and their ways. The mob. Cosa Nostra. Actually... Suddenly he looked around in wonder.

"Professor! Hey, professor." He walked to Steiner who was busying himself with another part of the office. "As cliche as it sounds, perchance there is a..." He stopped for a moment. "A secret passage of sorts. You know: pull-a-book-out-and-the-wall-will-open sort of thing. Or something behind the cupboard or the bookshelf over there. It does sound crazy, but this whole thing we've got ourselves into isn't any better anyway. It's worth a shot, no?"

---

---

"What is it, Herr Günther?""

Professor Steiner's voice came loudly from behind a set of book shelves, echoing through books, cobwebs and the ice-cold air that Dr. Atkins had left for them to investigate. A nagging feeling in Arthur's head suggested that Dr. Atkins, although a somewhat asocial person, had planned all of this; an elaborate quest for Arthur - and whoever fell into this sickly, yet intruiging puzzle to be solved. But so far, the Man of Stone had only found a nearly molding map of the East Coast, a city map of Arkham, nothing else.

"...Herr Emil Günther, you young man has read too many of these pulp-fiction novels that kids these days droodle over. You cannot seriously expect that all that mumbo-jumbo written about these gangsters is actually true? No, mein Jugend, such silly thing as a secret compartment is nothing but fanta...."

Arthur's usually confident voice stopped. His hand stopped as it traced over a strip, just peaking out from behind a bookshelf. Now this was not what he had expected, and he now felt the shame of himself eating his own words after having rideculed Emil. He let his hand slip further behind the bookshelf, feeling the strip become two and forming a square. The square had something round and something long and thin sticking out of it.

The square was a safe.

"Herr Günther, get Dr. Dupree in here, now."

Steiner was by no means a muscular man, but it was far from impossible for him to push the bookshelf out of the way to reveal the safe hiding on the wall. But as his loniness was blown away by his two compatriots, his hand reached for the safe.

It was already open.

He pulled out a single fragile piece of paper from the safe, reading a short series of numbers and letters written hastily with a shaken hand, barely readable. But there was more. An ancient-looking book lay in there too, previously covered up by the paper. Steiner reached for the book, but his hand was reluctant to touch it. But in the dim light, he could make out what the title was.

"The American Prophecy..."

---

---

Dupree knew it hadn't actually been very long at all. His nervousness had merely dilated the perceived passage of time was all. Emil and Arthur had only been gone for a few minutes (Arthur had a key, had Emil knew? What was he saying, why would Emil know, unless that was why Emil had so casually suggested sneaking in, knowing there'd be no real obstacle. Oh, he needed to talk with those two once they were safely out of harm's way.)(Though if she spoke the truth, that was not going to happen again for some time, was it?)
He cast his gaze back down the well-lit corridor, tiled and warm and even with the rows of doors a welcome contrast to their location earlier this morning. Everyone kept in their own rooms, not due to insanity but due to work, though it was arguable if there was a difference. Perhaps it was better to focus on the task at hand before his mind set on wandering too far, wandering all the way back to that cold room where answers lay if they could just untangle the riddles ensnaring them, and there it was going again. Focus. Watch. Try to ensure they weren't going to be dealing with police or fellow faculty. What was it she had warned them about? She had not used the word 'police' but...

Someone turned the corner of the hallway. Dupree didn't recognize him in the slightest. He seemed a tad on the older side - family of a student? Unlikely he was a student himself; most of their students came from decently well-off families, and the aged rarely had the funds to acquire a belated education. Dupree prepared himself for some casual - but audible - conversation, keep him from getting too close while Emil and Arthur finished up in Atkins' office.

The Agent. The two words from Faye Desdemona immediately sprung to mind, and horror followed as its rider. There was no physical evidence, but Dupree just knew he was staring at the person they had been warned about. If they weren't ready...

Plan discarded, Dupree backed away as stealthily as he could manage, keeping to the few shadows in the hall, until he reached Atkins' door and let himself in. The lock clicked after him- his decision -and he looked to Emil and Arthur. Arthur wouldn't understand - hopefully, Emil would.

"The Agent is here. We need to go, now."

---

---

Professor walked in just as Emil was turning to the door to call for him.

"The Agent is here. We need to go, now," said the professor.

"Well, professor, we better think fast in that case."

The last time he had to scoot from the office they had chosen the window as an escape route, but this time he felt unsure to try the same approach. The chill he felt in the air made him reluctant to go outside, and he felt as if the apprehension he felt came from outside, from the very cold of the universe, rather than from his own heart.

"Perhaps... Perhaps we can pretend I was lurking around, and that you've found me, like a proper morbid young rascal I am. The agent could buy that?"

What are you saying, idiot? It's as if you wanted to get caught.

"That was stupid. I don't know why, but I felt urged to suggest it."

He could feel a grain of panic in his chest, and it would have grown much larger had he not pulled himself together quickly. Whatever evil craft it was that tried its luck against him, it was faint and weak, and still distant. But it would creep closer before all was over, and he knew it.

With the departure of the fear, he found he was less afraid to approach the window. When he did, he saw a figure down there.
"Professor Steiner, look. The girl. The girl from the courtyard yesterday. At least looks like her, but I am not sure. The one who crept around the mob that stood around professor Atkins's body. What is she doing here, loitering around these premises again?"

---

---

The Agent?

Arthur had been about to open the book of an apparent eonic age, perhaps read whatever nonsense hid itself within the text of the book he had never heard of, when his colleague joined them with a warning. It sounded like a warning at least by the way Dupree announced this Agent's arrival, the same could be said for Emil. Arthur closed the book as fast as he had been to open it, though not certain of just when he had picked up the book from the safe. Had he touched it at all, such a memory he couldn't find in his right mind now.

He came out into view of the two others, the piece of paper in his hand and the book in the other. "Inspector Lexington? What would he be doing here?". His voice was subdued, yet his stare was as determined as ever before. He looked first at Dupree and the door, now the sound of feet walking with heavy steps down the wood foor outside audible to him, then at Emil and the window. "Perhaps, he would have no reason to suspect that we all three were sneaking in here unless you were the cause of the pro...The girl?"

It was indeed the very same girl who Arthur and Emil had spotted sneaking around the day before, as if looking for something. She had disappaeared from their view and attention quickly, yet her reappearance today only made the image from yesterday stand out more clearly. Arthur took a step forward...

Clack-clack...

The footsteps stopped just outside the door, which made Arthur stop dead in his tracks and turned around to look at the door. No, not look, glare at it, as if the Agent's presence was highly annoying to him. All was quiet for a second, before Arthur put the piece of paper into his pocked and marching to the door. "We can take care of the girl later. Right now we cannot allow anyone to hinder our search here. Not now that we have this." He said, holding up the book so that Dupree and Emil would see the book.

He stopped in front of the door, grabbing onto the handle, and opening it suddenly. Bang. Arthur could feel the door knocking into something. When the door stood wide open, it became apparent to Arthur what he had hit.

"Excuse me, Mister, but I was not aware that the Arkham Police Department was allowed to break into the offices of newly deceased professors. Especially not barely 24 hours after their deaths. Can I help you?"

If there was one thing that Argus craved, it was control. It was one thing to control ones psyche; ones actions; sometimes, perhaps, ones fate. But to control the external, the Other... That was something else entirely.

Argus thrived on controlling his environment - and all those in it. He likened himself to a puppeteer, delicately pulling strings to create movement; an extension of their will, physically manifesting itself beyond the realm of pure imagination.

The world and its inhabitants were much the same. All that was required was the know-how and slightest bit of leverage. Pull the right strings, and you could drastically change the outcome of events in your favour.

Of course, when one could not [i]control[i/], one had to [i]adapt[i/]. Argus loathed having to adapt to ever-changing circumstances. If anything, he saw it as a sign of weakness: Adaption was indicative of chaos, and chaos indicated that ones preparation was lacking; that someone or something was better than you were - and he refused to believe that anybody or anything was superior at his craft.

Although now, in this darkened hallway, Argus was becoming increasingly aware of just how much he was out of his depth.

You fool! How could you have been so have been so sloppy! The briefest urge to shoot his way out flashed through his mind, but he quickly dismissed it - such a blatant display of violence would cost him the case and draw the ire of Lexington; and as much as he enjoyed toying with the detective, he couldn't afford to give him any more reason to meddle in his affairs.

No, the only option available would be to play ball for now, until he could work out a course of action.

He straightened himself and his trenchcoat, focusing on the deliberate and elaborate movements of his hands - in part to take his mind off the urge to wince at the pain still radiating through his head; but mostly to distract those present from the polished shoe that subtly shifted to conceal the lockpick lying on the floor.

'Forgive me, gentlemen. I assumed that most of the faculty had gone home for the evening.'

He looked back and forth between the eclectic mix of men that filled the hallway. Some old, some young, each wearing expressions that ranged anywhere from fear and surprise to irritation and distrust. These strangers would have to be put at ease beforee he would be able to mould them in his desired image.

'I was hoping to have a moment of peace to study the site of the recent... 'Incident', but I guess unexpected company is never a bad thing. The name is Lichfield, by the by. I'm here on behalf of the Bureau of Investigations.' Although the introduction was considerably more friendly and casual than his usual MO, he couldn't afford to make any enemies - Or at least, not right this moment. He stood quietly, waiting for the assembled gentlemen to make their next move.

Now what in the name of God is going on here? This place is a madhouse!

Who thought that thought was irrelevant, because the though described the mood that was filling up both Jeremy's and Athur's mind right now. Arthur was having such thoughts, because the question of who this man was - this Lichfield from a bureau somewhere down in Washington D.C., Arthur wasn't aware of any men's clubs with a written permission from the President to do whatever the hell they wanted to do -, because he was sure as the fate of Rome as he knew that this wasn't Inspector Lexington. What was he doing here, and why now? It was too big a coincedent that he just so happened to knock on their door right as they were...making their own investigation into their associate's untimely death.

Jeremy on the other hand was having a mental breakdown, just from the sight of this G-man. "...You...why have I seen you before?" Jeremy said quietly to himself, yet audible enough for his newly made aquintance, Fredrick to hear. Jeremy had indeed seen him before in his dream the night before, in the No-man's land of the Dreamlands. He had been standing there, looking as confused as the rest of the group, though with a look of defiance in his eyes.

And when he thought about it, the man standing behind Lichfield also looked familiar. And the other man and student as well...This, this was simply a mountain of madness, piling up on Jeremy like a cloud of gas filling one's lungs with toxic gas.

"I see, though I would have preffered to be updated about the involvement of the federal police. Or however has an interest in a simple suicide-case." Arthur looked sternly at this Lichfield, his eyes never leaving his eyes, while his hand still clung tightly around the The American Prophecy. He blinked, but only once, while the two men standing further down the hallway were now coming into his view. "And you two, back there? Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Jeremy's foot set itself in front of the other. Then the other foot in front of the first. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Like a man headed for death-row, to the hang-man's noose or the electric chair. Jeremy knew he had seen these people before. The agent. The man of Stone. The professor, and the Student. The Teutonic Knight. It frightened him. A sense of dread, of dark and slimy fright clinging to his chest. But he had to keep going, towards his imminent fate, like the loyal trooper he was trained to be.

"I'm Jeremy Velera, mechanic of Ferguson & Sons motor cars, though that's irrelevant Sir. I'm a madman to say this, but have the Lady in White spoken with you? Mentioned my...Our arrival?"

Lichfield. Bureau of Investigation. They had hit the agent in the face, even if he might be the Agent they had been warned of. Dupree hoped the way his breathing had grown shallow was a detail gone missed by the others. Police were bad enough. He glanced to Emil first, as if unsure to be worried for the young man or of him. The revelations of the day thus far pressed heavily upon him. Surely a true delinquent would not be able to easily join Miskatonic University, nor would Arthur trust someone who was a danger, but there was that hint of impulsiveness. Arthur himself seemed to be perfectly aware of it and unbothered, which was a concern in and of itself, and why Dupree shifted his gaze to his fellow professor, awaiting his reaction and hoping they would curb the same impulsive quality that had brought them to break into their deceased colleague's office in the first place.

It was almost strange, the conspiracist being the keeper of others. It was often implied to be the other way around, even when Dupree argued he was perfectly sane. Then again, it was always a different story when police were involved. It was always a different story. He recalled the case similar to his own, she - he - they had been arrested, imprisoned, no one knew to this day why they had done it-
Arthur's response was about as reasonable as one would expect. No apology was offered, and that was all fine really. He was keeping the topic on the case itself, and not why they had been in there. Speaking of, Dupree finally saw the title of the book. Well. How had Atkins managed to get ahold of that? Dupree wasn't going to lie, he was actually rather jealous. Considering the author, it was difficult to get ahold of copies even with his credentials, and its reputation certainly preceded itself. It even half the things said about it was true, Dupree genuinely hoped he might be allowed a chance to read the book for himself, even if it might have been a factor in Atkins' death.

He then realized that Arthur Steiner was holding that book in front of a federal agent and debated to himself the merits of trying to slip the book out of Arthur's hand. Were it not for the likelihood it would only draw Lichfield's attention to the book if he hadn't already noticed, it might have been worth it. Instead, he focused his attention first on the agent, then on the two figures he noticed behind him in the hallway. While Lichfield was not particularly dressed for the part of a federal agent, these two were even less so. They also lacked the uniforms of the Arkham police; perhaps outsiders? But why? Dupree didn't recognize either...

Well. Maybe not. Jeremiah could feel it brushing on the edge of his memory, and it was a welcome return to the just-unseen pattern he knew wove around them all. The Agent's legal powers could be temporarily discarded, the illegal habits of his two allies mattered not, and Atkins' death was the first piece to bring together the others. Perhaps that was why he was not as fazed as he should've been? Knowing that all along, it lessened the disturbing and traumatic impulse into a fated action that, while tragic, had simply been unavoidable. And of course definitely keep this all to yourself Jeremiah by the Eye of God no wonder they think you addled at times.

Right.

Arthur called out to them, summarily trying to dismiss the Agent that Dupree was sure would now forever be baying at their heels as a cruel hound if not collared and leashed by someone else. And one of them introduced himself.

Jeremy.

Jeremiah could feel the slight brushing sensation immediately halt and, for a split second, it instead hit him as if a hammer had been taken to his skull, the bone left intact but the brain crashing into the encasement meant to protect it and crushing itself between unchecked momentum and the hardened surface, second-hardest material in the body.

"She did." He blurted out the answer before anyone had time to dwell on either man's sanity. "By name. It... was confusing at first." He glanced at the others, remembering they were there, and his shoulders tensed and drew up. "They're... supposed to be here," he offered as a vague explanation. He wasn't sure to who; did any of them particularly mind their presence? "I'm not sure if now is the best of times, but perhaps it will work nonetheless." At this point, it occurred that he wasn't sure how much Steiner really knew about what was going on. Emil, Faye had already marked him for this fate. Surely Jeremy had somehow been contacted too, either as a passerby in the asylum that offered none, or perhaps through the other means by which she had gained her knowledge in the first place. The Agent... probably actually did not know either, as Faye Desdemona seemed to consider him an enemy of sorts, if this was in fact the Agent. If not, then it was still unlikely he knew either. Steiner though? He was connected to both Jeremiah and Emil, and yet he tried to recall what, if anything, had been said about him.

Nothing came to mind.

If anything, the one whose presence ought to be surprising, Jeremiah mused, it would be Arthur Steiner. He was certainly a good ally at least.

"This all said-" He pondered the merits of inviting them all into Atkins' office, both for formal introductions and for determining what their purposes were for gathering here right now - beyond the obvious, naturally, it was bound to occur but there was still the question of why it was bound to occur. It might allow them to keep an eye on Lichfield and earn some measure of trust and belief of cooperation, even if Dupree wasn't terribly at ease around him, but he might be alone in that line of thought. "-perhaps we ought to move this meeting to somewhere quieter, perhaps with chairs? This is hardly the most comfortable spot to be, and I suspect we have much to discuss. Would that be right, do you think?" He had an office of his own. That might not be the best second impression to make, however. For now, see what everyone thought of the idea.

The initial shock and rush of adrenaline now abating, Argus began to notice the hallway spinning around him. The combination of being caught off-guard and the potential concussion he was sporting made it increasingly difficult to focus on the eclectic collection of men in the hallway, and it took every ounce of determination to prevent himself from instinctively bracing against the nearest wall. A drop of sweat slowly formed on his forehead, and his legs seemed to be off balance - was that due to the lockpick beneath his shoe, or the pain still radiating through his head?

The man from before spoke to him again, his own icy glare meeting Argus' gaze. Argus stared back unflinchingly, bar the small bead of sweat that rolled down his face and the briefest flick of his eyes towards the object clutched a bit too tightly in the man's grasp: A large leatherbound book, the words 'An American Prophecy' emblazoned on the front cover. Argus' eyes darted back up to meet his once more, but that cold stare belied whatever emotions lay behind it. Argus knew that he was key somehow, but it would not be so easy to get inside his head.

'I would have preferred advance warning before being sent out to Arkham, yet here we are.' Argus quipped back. 'It's not often that we have one of Massachusetts' finest perish in such bizarre circumstances, and I was told that time was of the essence. But, I digress. You've yet to introduce yourself, Mr...?'

One of the two gentlemen who had entered the hall stepped forward. The man looked like a nervous wreck, carrying himself as if some terrible and gargantuan tragedy were looming above him, threatening to swallow him whole. Speaking quickly and anxiously, he introduced himself as Jeremy Velera.

Emil came a bit forward to where the other men were standing, more so as to gather more information about them than to make himself seen and available; for indeed he made it his mind to remain silent for as long as he could. He thought, but not for a long while, about the secrecy men such as the agent dealt with within their field of work, and wondered whether they had ever before experienced anything like what they were about to. His thoughts then quickly shifted to the book Steiner held, which he found too exposed and saw it as nothing but a harbinger or their own doom, which would come as soon as the agent bothers to inquire about it. One of us has but to instinctively look in its direction and, just like the rich man who, threatened, first looks at where his safe is, reveal where his greatest concern lies. The agent is not the only one with sweat on his forehead.

"...the Lady in White spoken with you? Mentioned my...Our arrival?"

"She did."

"I know a better place," Emil said suddenly, breaking his personal vow to remain silent, which caught him off guard as if it were someone else who did it. "Professor Dupree, with respect, may I suggest a different place other than your office? You see, it would not be good for your or professor Steiner's reputation if students started whispering how you roam the school halls at night, with FBI agents following you. Rumours quickly become lies.... Mass will be served just about any moment now. It is Christmas soon, and Saint Nicholas Day today. Bishop is here to serve the evening mass, and with everyone attending at the West Church to hear his sermon, the Christ Church just across from us should be empty and quiet. Perfect for a group of pious men, professors and students who prefer to stay away from the rabble and reflect in peace...."

How he knew about all this, he could not tell.