There was something odd about all this. Being a private detective, Eduard had seen all kinds of unusual and strange things in the years he’d been doing the job, but nothing seemed to match up to this. A mysterious letter about a mysterious woman in, what he’d now discovered was, a mysterious bar. Yeah, mysterious was probably the best way to describe it.

Montag entered the warm refuge of the bar, exhaling deeply and wiping his face, wet from the rain. Not unlike a dog, he shook his head slightly from side to side, his dark hair tossing around as it dried itself into a more natural state, before he finally took in his surroundings. Smoke drifted around the bar from cigarettes, the faint smell of alcohol hiding under each breath he took, the low rumble of voices across various tables and across the bar itself ever-present. It was why the woman with whom he was supposed to meet was so noticeable, apart from her outfit of course, as she sat silently in almost complete isolation towards the end of the bar, quietly smoking a cigarette. Eduard narrowed his eyes slightly, pausing to look her up and down, as well as look at the space around her, before finally approaching. If she had any hidden goons or weapons lying around then she was doing a good job concealing them.

She noticed him shortly before he reached her, giving him this kind of uneasy and sardonic grin. He kept a straight face though, even as she began to speak, taking the seat next to her and closest to the middle and gradually sitting down.

“Don’t take it personally ma’am, I leave most people waiting.” He responded, looking to the woman’s face properly for the first time with a straight-faced but calculating expression. Amongst his thoughts, he did have to admit though, the woman was quite pretty. After a few seconds of silence between them, filled by the never-ending sounds of chatter and glasses clinking around them, he simply turned towards the bartender, calling out to her over the other noise around them.

“Hey barkeep, I’ll have a glass of whiskey with ice, thanks.” As he spoke, Eduard pulled out a slightly damp pack of cigarettes and a silver flip lighter from his pocket. Plucking out a cigarette from the almost-empty pack, he swiftly lit it and took a drag, raising his eyebrows questioningly at the mysterious woman as he did, before exhaling. “And you…?”

First ring of the day.... Second. Tenth... Vi would find her days working behind the counter varied very little day to day, and even less week to week. 11th glass... 25th.... 54th... Each of them following the same beats of life in the little get-away of hers. Sometimes they were filled with whisky, sometimes with wine. Sometimes the drunkard of yesterday would come in swearing off the sins of the night before; only to need repentance not hours later. No matter how much the day, the time, the person changed. At the end of it all, it was all the same.

Even when she heard the bell toll once; signaling the mysterious woman's arrival, she was unfazed in the uniqueness of the day. Listening close to her request as she sat alone at the bar. Vi's cloth in hand, removing the last smudge from a clean glass before working on the next. Already had she laid out a clean ashtray for the woman, should she so choose. But still she kept her ears open, in case she was needed for anything; drink or otherwise.

That time wouldn't come, however, until another ring just as unique let itself known with a shake of his hair. It wouldn't have been hard to wager who his pair was. The way he searched the bar and walked toward his caller told the barkeep all she needed to know about this arrangement. A second ashtray greeted the man as he sat. Continuing to work off to the side until he spoke up for her attention.

Her bright blue eyes raised, answering the call. Nodding along affirmatively, she had a pair of glasses already prepared. Able to serve the man no sooner than he was able to light his smoke. She stood, waiting to fill the next order. But kept her ears ready; not only to learn of his role, but her's as well.

The dark woman does not speak the entire time of Montag's approach and him sitting down. Only spares him a passing glance, but in that moment it's enough to confirm that this woman was indeed the one he was meant to meet. When he sits next to her and goes for his cigarettes, she moves the ash tray between them for better access. She then lifts her head up and begins to speak.

"It seems we're missing someone. That's a real shame. They'll find out this was not a deal that they can afford to miss."

She speaks for herself a moment, looking across the bar before finally acknowledging the man sitting next to her and the bartender across from her. She dotes her cigarette in the ash tray and straightens out her back.

"It's good you've come. Especially in this interesting time. Now more than ever we need people out in the field. But I shouldn't get too ahead of myself. My name is Mary. I am the bookie for the organization I represent. I hope you did not come here expecting easy answers, because I am not giving any. I will only tell what is necessary. For reasons that should be obvious."

The bookie glances around the room, and then her moving eyes land squarely on the bartender. She smiles a half smile, already devising a plan for Vi. An idea is taking shape in her head. She's taken a very sudden interest in this girl and she's going to take full advantage of it.

"You've run this bar for quite some time, in one of the roughest parts of New Haven. I am a person short tonight, and I feel starting with just Eduard here is not good enough."

The woman reaches into her coat pocket, returning with a white envelope with a dark red stamp seal on the center. She passes it over to Vi, taking another drag on her smoke afterwards.

"Here's your formal invitation to join into this, if you so choose to stick around. We don't just give these out to anyone, so consider this an honor. If you reject it, then take your leave please."

This was a surprising turn of events. Nothing earlier had been said about Vi being offered the invitation. Mary was taking her own course, entirely on her own gut instincts. Her serene grin on her face betrayed no doubt about her idea, and she seemed fully confident that Vi would take this offer and join in with Montag to become the needed number two. It was a stark choice, and it is made clear she would not accept anything less than a yes or no.

"Apologies. Don't mean to steal your spotlight, Montag. What exactly do you want yourself doing in this city? I wonder what pushes a man to take on a strange offer such as ours. Ought to get to know one another if we'll be doing business."

Mary is already pivoting back between the two people like it's nothing. Her sultry voice is an ear worm that can't be ignored. Her motives and intentions are completely unknown and untrustworthy, but one can't help but keep listening for more.

Eduard didn’t pay much heed to the woman ignoring his offer to buy her a drink but instead just sipped on his, savouring the taste each time the whiskey slid past his lips, the ice-cold liquid a refreshing contrast to the heat that filled his mouth from each inhale he took from the cigarette in his other hand.

But though he may have seemed disinterested, given all that, he paid keen attention to what this ‘Mary’ woman had to say, returning her gaze as she looked between him and the bartender while she explained herself. Even when the bookie’s attention was focussed on the bartender, who he was now realising was also important somehow, he kept an eye and an ear open for them, observing closely over his glass as a letter, similar to the one he’d received, was exchanged between them. Taking another drag from his cigarette, he furrowed his brow at Mary slightly. The grin that was spread across her face, verging on being unnerving, intrigued him more as to what made him and this other girl so special. Special compared to anyone else, at least.

He flicked the ash from his straight onto the ashtray in front of him before turning his head to Mary as she addressed him. He paused for thought once she finished talking, taking another long inhale from the cigarette until it had burned right down to the filter, before exhaling and extinguishing the cigarette on the ashtray, rubbing and twisting it idly until all the smoke from and around it had dissipated.

“At this point, any sane person in my position would have packed up and left this city long ago. I guess I’m just one of the few that can’t seem to escape it. In that sense, why I’m taking this offer is a complete mystery to me.” Montag spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, his eyes cast at a downward angle towards the bar as he hunched himself over it, pulling out another somewhat damp cigarette and clasping his lighter, which he’d left resting on the counter, again. He spoke still as he lit it, his words continuing to come out clearly even with the cigarette in his mouth.

“But, amongst other things, as a detective I want to know what exactly goes on in the underground world of this city. From a standpoint of curiosity and a desire to do some good, whether this city deserves it or not. And, well… as I said, other things.” He lit his cigarette again, it having gone out while he’d been talking, and took a drag as he sat up on his stool, looking to the other two. Though she’d talked to him in a fairly personable manner so far, Eduard felt more uncertain about Mary now than he when he only had her description on a piece of paper. Maybe that’s what was driving him forward at this moment though, uncertainty.

It all started with a note. A letter. A white piece of fine paper sealed with a red wax stamp over its center, keeping it closed. There was nothing inside of it, but another piece of paper, a message written on it.

“.You are of interest to us. If you want to put your skills to the test and make a difference in this world, come to the bar tonight. Alone. Tell anyone about this offer and the deal is forfeit. We are watching.”

Words of simple meaning, yet little context. Little explanation. Abigail could not even remember how it came to be that she was in possession of this letter. She just found it amidst the day, in the pocket of her long black coat amidst a few coins, pieces of cheap tobacco, dirty handkerchief, stained with the remains of someone else’s blood. She thought it was a mistake at first. Envelope was not signed, so there was little option but to open it, and so the letter inside of it addressed her by her name. Name which of course was not very rare or unique and was common among people who surrounded her; but the chance of it to be a coincidence was getting smaller every time she was to browse along the fine print of the letters with her eyes.

Questions started to swirl in Abigail's mind, and one thing was clear at this point is that there will be no answers unless she would attempt to meet with the woman described in that letter. She could of course ignore this note. Anonymous invitation via a letter - it is always a sign of either a coward or a person of a selfish motive; someone afraid to show up face to face for a talk was to be claimed either of two on the streets.

On the other hand. Standing there, near the docks of the New Haven with the view being opened - of the midday clouds being scorched with the blackness of the smoke rising from the working engines of ships and the cigarettes of the workers; in the dimness of the light covered away by the veil of the industrial mist; in the acoustic chaos of the metropolis cascade of voices to blend together into a single droning voice of no clear indication, direction and purpose; in the massive of the crowd akin to the sea of spasmic motions. In there - was she not to pray indirectly, mutely, subconsciously, in a vague and weak hope - was she not to pray for the sign? Was she not in an attempt to find the path? The path to walk on, the path she was meant to walk on, the path she thought she was walking on before in her life, and of which there were only shards and pieces remaining.

Was that really the answer to her prayers? Or yet another mere joke of cruel faith? There was only one way to find out, and it was at this moment that her thinking was disturbed by a nudge into her shoulder. She looked around and met a face - a dirt poor dock worker, she knew him. Face covered in bruises, hands rough and hard like the tools. Even without speaking, just a glance into his deeply set eyes was enough to figure out that there was another accident in the docks. With a sigh and a curse under her breath, Abigail followed the man. People knew she was good and what she was doing, and at the very least this will earn her some sort of dinner, if not the satisfaction of help to which though she failed to see any gain for quite a long time at this point.

***

When Abigail finally finished, It started to rain, and the trail of water pouring down onto the metropolis washed some stains of blood off of her hands and clothes. Port workers fed and gave her whiskey to warm herself up, which she did not reject. Very few in the whole America knew of her religious community origin, and the times were that warming oneself up with alcohol in the rainy evening was the only way to keep yourself from succumbing to the sickness of cold. She did not have an umbrella, or a hat, so the only thing she was able to do to protect herself from the train is to raise the collar of her coat up to cover her neck from the humid wind and the raindrops threatening to slip under it and send the chilling trail behind her neck. With the leather suitcase filled with various medical supplies in one hand and holding her coat around her neck with the other she went along the streets of the evening city, drenched and with her red hair dimmed and dangling around her face like the pieces of fur on the stray dog. And she looked like one either way, a uselessly wandering dog, hungry for a bone to bite onto or chase after.

Finding the bar in question was not easy, despite some instructions written in the letter - it was no easy task to read them in the darkness of a night under the rain threatening to make the fancy font of the written words to be smudged into wet ink spots. The fact that the bar was hidden under the bridge, looking from the outside perspective like another abandoned warehouse inhabited by squatters. Nevertheless the sight of parked cars around the place gave her some idea of the place being actually the bar in question.

Stepping inside brought little attention to her figure, aside from water dripping down her hair and her coat. The place was warm - and this already was enough for Abigail to relax somewhat in a light dizzy of the comfortable temperature - but also luxurious, compared to how it looked from outside that is, but still. The clouds of smoke were floating over under the ceiling of the place, like a sea of dark grey clouds, aimed to cover this place in the mystery, the visitors of the bar hiding the shapes of their faces behind it. Not being the nosy type, Abigail though still wandered looking over the crowd, noticing the types of people who would confuse her with the street dirt, as well as some of the said street dirt type of people as well. A mixed party, of mixed standards - a weird place indeed. She was looking for the woman in question though, and quickly she noticed her - in the company of a young man, chatting over with the bartender.

“Oei”, she said, approaching the woman - just right by the moment the man stopped replying to whatever question he was asked. Abigail’s accent is heavy, quickly to betray her Irish origins, if it was not to be done already with how she looks, “Ye must be the one?”, she asks placing the rain drenched envelope with a letter on the table, standing in front of the woman still and observing over her and the man sitting beside her.

Keeping her ears open seemed to be of a fortunate call on her part as her service seemed to be requested; just not in the way she had expected. Vi was used to the occasional request of waiting beside tables. Additional in-the-moment request of more alcohol was often a tried negotiation tactic between many of the secret deals where timing was everything. Even a lonely lad trying to hook up with a lovely dame might ask for one more last minute drink just to get a few more moments to try to woo the other party for personal gain. Of course, what topics one might discuss as she stood at the ready were never of her or any of her inquiry's concern. But that didn't stop her from keeping her ears open.

To actually be included, however, in her customer's private matters were a first. Vi's face froze momentarily, unsure how one should react to be given such a heavy choice. She thought about what words she should say. In what manner was she supposed to reply? This was nothing like how she operated, even in her back room; could she even manage-

A ring. Number 44 of the day, as her front door had let in another wandering spirit into her establishment. A split decision as her hand reached for the sealed envelope. Slipping it out of the curious woman's hands and onto the counter in front of her; an empty glass placed on top of it. A half-nod solidifying her decision, though her mind had already moved passed the moment. Already falling back into her business routine as the owner of the bar and finally addressing the woman who had just walked in. Already she had found her place confronting this meeting's leader; she wondered if this was the intended second gust. Either way though; it was clear how she already had plans to meet. Seeing the water from the soaked letter gather upon the bar, Vi had slid another glass nearby to her empty seat in preparation.

Vi had looked at the guests quite closely; but especially with herself seemingly haphazardly thrown into the group, she couldn't find a reasonable connection between them. Other than the group orchestrator, it seemed the man hadn't much of a clue either. As for what went on in the underground, even Vi could probably tell him more on that; but that just proved to show a greater divide between the woman's chosen cast of characters.

“Ooh, you’re so young looking but you already have the cynical detective but knightly virtue angle going already. Very nice. Or is this too early for those tropes to exist? Hmm. In all seriousness, I admire that conviction.”

Mary reacts to Montag’s idealistic statements with a sugary smile. Like a grandparent chuckling at their kid’s ambitions. She dots her cigarette in the ash tray to clear out dead ashes. Keeping the tray between the both of them so Montag could do the same.

“I have to say. I know quite a lot about this world, and many others like it. I think you’d be a great fit for our organization. In fact, the first assignment I have for you is really going to pull on that nice sense of justice you have there.”

Ending on a vague note, Mary moves her attention over her shoulder like she's expecting someone to arrive which just seems to happen right after with perfect timing. An interesting change in course, a new comer in black with shocking red hair is making her way across the bar. Mary watches the nervous arrival make her way through a seedy bar she most certainly did not belong in. Drenched in rain, an accented voice that seemed to come straight out of the 1600s. Mary hides her excitement that a new replacement has arrived. Well, this wasn’t the promised one but this priest would more than certainly do in her evaluations. The woman pats the free seat next to her with an inviting hand and gestures over to Abigail, beckoning her over from the crowded smoky saloon. “It seems someone has come to replace our previous number two. Congrats on the new promotion, Miss Abigail.” She waves, giving a faint smile and a more investigative look rather than a welcoming one.

“I am indeed the one for you. But not just one. Come meet Mr. Montag here, or the lovely Vi behind the counter there, eavesdropping in our talks. Don’t make a lady hold the entire conversation by herself, introduce yourselves to each other, you all.” In her mind, Mary notes she really hates hearing herself talk so much and disdain leaks onto her face. She already knew these characters very well, having bios gathered on all of them.

She pauses again to let Abigail join them, beginning to feel the expectations of three curious people all weighing on her. “Oh I’m so bad with introductions. I forgot if I even gave you all my name. It’s Mary, I’m an envoy for...well. We’ll get to that. I have a job offer for you all that I think you will not refuse. Before we get on to that, you should be focusing on each other anyways, I believe you’re all going to be working together for the foreseeable future.”

Her eyes glance over to Vi. “That includes you, wallflower. Go on and serve your new friends some drinks and introductions.”

The envoy seems to have no issue with the divergent cast of characters she’s assembled for her play, if anything she’s very pleased to have them all and is eager to start this ride. Like it or not, Montag, Abigail and Vi were all going to be dragged along on it. The world of the bar disappearing around them as focus goes to Mary and the reasons why they were all here.

Montag didn’t really know how to react to Mary’s response. In a way, it felt as though she was slightly patronising, but the sincerity of her words felt genuine enough for that not to be the overwhelming factor. And, after all, she was probably right in her evaluation of him, and it’s not like he wasn’t used to being talked down to. The mention of an assignment had him curious though, and he mulled over the thought of it silently in his head, sipping his drink and smoking his cigarette all the while.

Having not heard the ring of a new entry, Eduard seemed ever so slightly bewildered, having snapped out of a daze of thought and cigarette smoke, as a new figure suddenly stood by him and Mary. He looked up at her as she spoke, her striking and fiery red hair along with her more than idiosyncratic accent giving him a clear idea of where her origins probably laid. You didn’t need to be a detective to figure that out.

The silences between Mary speaking to each of them in turn drew longer each time she finished saying something, and though there was no tension in that, it was something they were probably all thinking, and something she quickly addressed. It felt almost like a family matriarch pushing three awkward cousins into saying ‘hello’ to each other. But, Montag guessed he was as good a person as any, necking the remainder of his drink and placing the glass back down on the counter with a contained bang.

“I’ll start then. My name’s Eduard Montag, but just Montag or Monty will do. Or, I guess, Eduard as well. I’m a private investigator, or detective, whatever you wanna call it.” He took a long drag from his cigarette as he thought of what to say next, smoking it right down to the filter before exhaling a long plume of misty grey smoke and extinguishing the cigarette on the ashtray between him and Mary. “I’m guessing I’m here for the same reason as you.” He gestured to Abigail. “And you too as well now, I suppose.” He nodded to Vi, glancing down at her letter on the counter.

“But that’s pretty much my story. Or as much as I wanna say for now. Nice to meet you guys though.” Montag didn’t really feel it necessary to say anymore about himself, or his past given how little he knew of these people, and how irrelevant most of it probably was to the situation. They seemed nice enough though, but he guessed he’d find out more fairly soon.

The water began to gather around Abigail - the rain water stuck to her like a clinging mass and in the warmth of the bar started to drip down her clothes and hair, forming a little puddle around her feet. Same happened to the envelope she placed on the table - a water soaked piece of once pretty and expensive paper left some traces of water mixed with ink; thankfully though the presence of herself was enough of a proof to the woman sitting before her that Abigail indeed is Abigail, one and only, the one invited, or as spoke later - the one promoted. Promoted from where to what was something to question, as the spotlight of attention - coming from the woman in charge of this operation, the said young man and the bartender girl - gathered on Abigail’s drenched shape in a heating focus of the gaze concentrated on her, almost erasial on the background in its intensity. Before replying to her own questioning mind though or to the woman, Abigail looked at the bartender girl, who placed a clear glass just beside the puddle of water leaving the envelope.

“Whiskey”, Abigail said, eyeing the glass, before adding a cough, clearing her throat from the humidness creeping through her neck. Taking a proposed seat she glanced over the gathered people, while fixing her drenched hair away from her face and a bit aside, allowing the water to drip down from it on the floor and aside herself, “Numbe’ two, ey?”, she asked the woman, puzzled by the phrasing, even though subconsciously curious about what kind of role she was about to take in. Listening to the woman talk was to give Abigail some introduction to the gathered company; even though the manner of Mary’s speech was to leave the floating gaps of meaning, leaking through with ambiguity and mist between the said words, resulting in leaving Abigail with more questions than any answers on what is going on here. Abigail felt wary of that, feeling some undertones she didn’t like about this way of speaking; but before she could wrap her mind about it, the young detective named Montag spoke up.

His face looked young, the voice of his matched the impression, the words that followed were too covered in a mist as they echoed across the bar, as if the ambience got slightly consumed by the sound of his voice.
“Nice to meet ye. I am Abigail. McCarthy.”, she says replying to Montag as well as participating in this weird scene of introducing herself to each other - it felt like a distant memory coming back in a new clothing - a same moment of introduction back in the sisterhood now away from home, away from the people of home, away from the green fields, away from the idea of home itself, cramped inside of the narrow streets and shady bar, in the veil of the cigarette smoke, spoke in whispers.
“I em.. a helper of sorts around ‘ere. Know medicine, surgery. Some.. languages too. Had a bit of a travel around. Not much to say”, she said of herself, not wishing to mention the religious side of her occupation yet.

But what was it her reason to be here, right here in the bar, the reason Montag referenced as he spoke to her directly? She didn’t know. He surely had some reasons - behind a cigarette there was a sharp glance, and that reasoning should’ve been shared between all of them.
What was hers? Why is she sitting here?
To find answers? Maybe. She nodded to Montag.
“Ye. I guess we all share the same reason to be ‘ere”, she said.
Thing is she didn’t know the right questions.

Mary noted with approval the two drifters from different worlds coming together as she instructed. It was fun to play with people's expectations, put them in odd situations. Amusing to see how they struggled to maintain themselves and their integrity under the looking glass. A cheap and easy way to get to know people quickly enough.

"Your accent Abigail. Very curious. You must be from the old world, literally and figuratively." Mary knocked back another shot glass of whiskey. "Good anchor point in this coming chaos. Montag should keep you close by, he seems the type to get caught up in bad storms quite easily." The true meaning of Mary's words and their purpose, only she knew. The weary look on her face and the serious tone she spoke in gave a great weight to those words.

"But let's move on to business. We've been jawing for what feels like weeks and we haven't even spoken on what we've come here for!" Her voice rose suddenly, impatience cracking out of her usual icy composure."

"A daughter of an up and coming politician is hosting a fundraising party. It's her first, and a lot of eyes are on her to be a good little poster child for her very important dad. That dad by the way is Thomas Arnault, the current mayor of New Haven. His daughter, Marie Arnault is the real focus for us here, and will be attending this party. It seems her dad did not pay off his debts to a gang that assisted him during the election. So some collectors are coming to make threats to him and blackmail, the usual mafia stuff. All you need to know is one very very important thing."

Mary finishes her spiel, took another shot of whiskey and a serious look to each person here.

"Marie Arnault is fated to die during this exchange. A stray bullet will hit her heart, unintended. She will die from her injuries in the night. Your job is to prevent that from happening by any means necessary. You will infiltrate the party in a manner of your own choosing and keep Marie alive. Think of yourselves as Miss Arnault's guardian angels."

Mary smiled at the metaphor, pausing a moment before realizing she had forgotten something else important. She quickly picked back up.

"Ah, yes. If you succeed in preventing Marie's impending death. Then someone else will have to die in Marie's place. You can choose who will be, by simply killing them. Or let the Fates decide. Don't be upset at what the Fates will choose, if you choose not to kill."

Mary had a smile on her face. She had just laid out a heavy burden of information that now the group would have to wrestle with, no doubt having dozens of questions erupting in their little heads. Such a perfect beginning for them, to descend on the journey that the Fates had already set for them...

"I'm assuming you both might have a question or two." She chuckled to herself, cupping a hand around her cheek and leaning against it, eagerly awaiting.

Nodding at Abigail when she introduced herself, Montag took a mental note of what she’d told him about herself. From what she’d told him, the two were quite different, but that wasn’t a bad thing. After all, two skillsets are better than one. Well, probably. His attention was quickly switched back to Mary though, as she began to talk again.

The type to get caught up in bad storms? Eduard gave Mary a curious look as his hands reached to take the final cigarette from his pack. What reason did she have to say something ominous like that? And this wasn’t some kind of joke, given the look on her face.

Opening his mouth slightly, he was about to ask Mary what exactly she’d meant, but was interrupted before he’d even spoken by her impatience to move on. And, though the question still bounced around at the front of his mind, Montag’s own impatience to hear what exactly Mary had to tell them took precedence over that. Instead he raised the cigarette up to his half-open lips and let it fill the space his curiosity had created, before igniting it with his lighter.

Staring at Mary, returning her gaze, he listened attentively while taking occasional puffs from his cigarette. He knew of Thomas Arnault, and had always had suspicions and traces of evidence that he was dirty, but had never managed to find anything concrete. Politicians always had ways to cover their mud-stained tracks. It was certainly unusual that he’d have his suspicions confirmed this way, but at the moment that wasn’t important.

What was even more unusual was the situation they were being thrust into. He’d guarded one or two people before, but never someone who was definitely fated to die without his protection, or him taking someone else’s life. It almost seemed unbelievable.

As Mary had suspected, a boiling pot of questions was bubbling away in Montag’s head, just as it probably was in Abigail’s as well. He leant his elbows on the counter and looked straight ahead to think, continuing to take a few drags from his cigarette as he cut and refined his questions down to a select few, before turning back to Mary, who had seemed to quickly switch back to her more casual and jovial demeanour.

“Yeah, I wanna ask something. How do we know what you’re saying it true? I mean, this seems like an easy way to get someone you don’t like killed and then have us pay the price for it. How can we be sure you’re not setting us up?” Montag paused to let the question sink in, taking another drag from his cigarette, before continuing. “And, if what you’re saying is true, why are we saving this girl? What’s so special about her that we’re defying the Fates to keep her alive?” As he finished speaking, he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, his gazed fixed on Mary as he waited for an answer.

“This land is already chaos enough”, Abigail replied to Mary’s remark; “and godless”, Abigail wanted to add as well, but decided to hold up on such a commentary still. Even though she was not sure if God was still there, anywhere on this planet at all, as the feeling of being abandoned possessed her the first time her glance laid onto the victims of the Great War, and this feeling only kept growing inside of her into the control over her sensation and perception of the world ever since. God was grace and love, and certainly neither she could find around. She could only find an empty gaze in people around, one akin to the one she got used to witnessing before herself every time she was to stand in the front of the mirror.

“Oei? Miste’ Montag attracts the storms?”, Abigail said in response in a joke of sort to the ominous commentary, a glimpse of what she felt about him was to be said in words by somebody else, a clear remark one would out under the character’s line for the better implication - and so it was something behind him that made Abigail to recall some people holding guns in their hands and driven by various feelings towards the various edges - Civil War had plenty of examples of any kind; and there was something in this young detective which made her feel the connection - a deeply rooted, hidden behind his somewhat careless, somewhat determent glance of the eyes. Nevertheless, Abigail had no moment to be able to continue this thought as Mary after a short pause started a short speech.
An explanation of why they were here.
An explanation which left Abigail numb on her mind.

What followed after the story she was often to hear amidst the common folk of the town was absurd. And not that kind of absurd she was taught of; it was not credo quia absurdum, it was a different kind of absurd - when each following word snaps the meaning of the previous one and in so they form a chain with no completeness - a sentence just crumbles and becomes a pile of useless garbage. Yet in this garbage of words something crept, and it was something Abigail felt was ready to look at her, through the words pronounced, in the gaps between the sounds there was something else, some other sound and some other meaning told to her, some other words in the unspoken language, some other in these gaps looking and watching. Abigail blinked a few times to allow her mind a bit of distraction in an attempt to process what was said - with a blink of her eye it felt like the whole world tensed up on her presence here: a sensation of her own existence being so heavy that it was about to create a massive hole in the being.
It felt so much like if she was looked at not only by Mary, but by everything.

She shook her head then. Of course. It is some sort of code.
Blinking again she managed to clear her head and concentrate back on what Mary was telling them. She spoke in riddles, yes. It was a code - a code to hide the true intentions, the true contractor of hers and their possible enemies. She got caught there for a moment, but she was not stupid. “"Marie Arnault is fated to die during this exchange. A stray bullet will hit her heart, unintended” - of course, it was a hit. Miss Amault was to be assassinated - as Mary said herself, the usual mafia stuff. Sadly to herself Abigail was not surprised by this. Mafia often was to do dirty, and she saw some of it with her own eyes.

Why to use this strange code was not clear to Abigail though, but Montag seemed to go with it naturally. “Fates”. Sounded like one of these occult circles, organized by the bohemian types dying of boredom after they’ve read the books of the kind.. Crowley was that name. She met the kinds like them seeking through slums, looking for people who would agree to come with them for money. Participating in some rituals.
Godless this land is.

“So ye ask us to save that girl...”, Abigail said, mostly to herself than to Mary, in order to assure herself of that thought. If anything it was something she would do everyday. Even though it was to come from some shady kind like Mary looked alike. She learnt and knew to not to judge those who ask for help.

“Wha’s that about choosing other to kill? Sounds like something mafias would do to hide their tracks. Miste’ Montag puts it well - sounds like some set up.”, Abigail finally asks. It is a question she asks, even though she has no intention in obliging this criteria.

Mary lets the two speak their peace, letting them air out all the words that had been summoned by her preposterous proposal while she would sip at her glass every so often.

“Truth is a funny thing. No one can have it but we all want it anyways. I am not asking you to raise your hands against anyone, but simply prevent the murder of Marie. My comment earlier was just a warning. That if Marie’s death is averted, then one must take its place. It could be some random partygoer. It could be daddy Arnault instead. It could be one of you. I have no idea! Isn’t that fun?”

Mary laughed, because she knew it was not very fun. Her hands had been washed of it. If only these two had any idea how much of a pain it was to get even this barebones agreement.

“You may choose not to kill, and let the die roll where they may. Or you may choose to, and make your own destiny. I will not choose for you.”
The envoy understood that she was not explaining enough, and doubted her ability to be able to fully explain everything. She herself did not fully understand the reasonings behind the objective either.

“This girl, Marie. Is the daughter of someone very important. That someone isn’t Thomas Arnault, but someone beyond this world. You may not understand it now, but things are changing in this city. Have you two ever heard the myth of Pandora’s Box?” Mary paused a moment, checking either side of herself to see if they were being watched as if what she said had alerted the attention of someone.

“Let’s just say, it’s been opened. This girl here. An innocent girl, just a 17 year old, about to graduate high school...She has been caught up in this mess. All you two need to do is make sure she doesn’t pay the consequences of something she had no part in and there are very powerful people who will reward those who do it.” She gestured to both Montag and Abigail.

Mary at this point, has given up on elaborating more, realizing that her explanations only birth more questions.

“Let’s get even simpler! You will both receive six thousand dollars each upon completion of this assignment. Nothing needs to be explained further now, I take it?” The woman smiled, confident in simple material need being enough of a motivation.

As Mary finished, Montag reflected on all that she’d just said. For once, the monetary gain wasn’t at the forefront of his mind, the six thousand dollars coming across only as a bonus incentive. He drew in another tainted breath through his cigarette as he tried to piece together things in his head. The fact that someone would die by either his or Abigail’s hand, or even that one of them could die by chance was enough to think about already.

And this “Pandora’s Box”, did that have something to do with New Haven? Was it New Haven itself? And what had the box released if it had been opened? As well as that, Marie Arnault being the daughter of someone beyond this world made things even more mind-boggling. But if she was really that important, it would make sense that the Fates would want her to stay alive. And on that note, who were the Fates? What were they? Obviously fate was a concept that he knew much of the basis of, and everyone had their ideas on it, but the way Mary put it almost made it sound as though these “Fates” were in control of it.

Eduard quickly pulled himself out of his mind and his thought process at that point though, realising he was falling into a rabbit hole of questions he couldn’t know the answer to just yet, and ones that Mary probably wouldn’t answer, at least for now. And, though much of his scepticism remained, what did he have to lose? Well, maybe he had a bit to lose, but this was an opportunity he wasn’t going to get again if it was real. It would be lost forever.

He turned to Mary, returning her smile ever so slightly for the first time, before going back to his normal straight-faced self.

“I accept the assignment. Just give me a time and a place and I’ll make sure I’m there. I have a lot of questions for you at some point though.” He gave Mary a relaxed, but somewhat piercing, gaze before turning to Abigail, finishing his cigarette and extinguishing it in the ash tray as he waited to see what she’d say.

“A warning you say, ey..”. Abigail only responded to Mary’s cryptic speech - further she spoke, the more her words sounded more obscure; and even though the job’s initial task sounded simple enough - save the girl from the bullet - the details which surrounded it, the various words and explanations made little sense. At least it made little sense to her, to Abigail. Fates and the chances that would choose to kill a person in stead of the saved one, it all sounded like something from a folk tale, a tale like her grandmother used to tell her when she was just a little girl. It sounded.. magical.

Magical like all these people who embraced the various occult knowledges and whom Abigail thought mainly as people with poor minds. Like of somebody who would willingly turn around and come back into the dark times with its barbaric and cannibalistic beliefs. Even though her own path of faith took a rather stagnant shape; rejecting the world of Christ completely in favor of magical circles seemed ridiculous to her. Especially for her, as for irishwoman, who knew of the stories of how Saint Patrick proved the primacy of Christ over the magical deities with his words. Abigail only frowned on the thought.

A proposition of money - a sum so large that many would think of it as a joke - went past Abigail’s ears as it didn’t matter. And in fact it really didn’t matter much to her as at least one vow she took - what seemed to her like if it happened in the past life - she tend to keep, and frankly that helped her to survive this long, enduring to material hardships and general poorness helped her to remain still on the ground. Unlike how it usually happens to people, with poor existence resulting in poor judgment. It was not the case for her - what puzzled her the most was another series of Mary’s obscure words and references to old legends. The girl opening the Pandora’s box, her father from another world. Who could be even more influential than a politician as important as the mayor of this city? She at least got to know that the girl in question was not actually Thomas Arnault’s daughter. Like if this information actually mattered to Abigail anyhow.

She didn’t like this all. Not only Mary’s explanations sounded confusing and somewhat dangerous - for a very strange and merely intuitional feeling sitting somewhere in Abigail’s guts, her mind and something else; there was something about her words which made them feel twisting the whole world around - but the whole proposal was not just fitting Abigail’s personality. At least as if in the way she would think of herself, before this very moment. Why would she be invited here? She is just a doctor and an ex-nun.

However Mary did touch the nerve of the redhead woman. Or rather she played with her originally noble and idealistic nature and conscience. Words like “innocent girl”, “caught up in the mess”. it made Abigail remember herself, young and caught up in the mess of the Civil War. The girl who did not survive the damages of that time, and somewhat remained there mentally, while her physical body moved away into America and started to live on its own. A usual story of an alive double living on its own, a ghost of the self presence existing without a real connection to anything around, but some mechanical appearance before others, before the one, before God.
Something she became. Yet she was here enough to help others. That Marie is just another girl, yes. And yet she is the girl to help. Abigail can do that.

“Aye. I agree on helpin’. But I ain’t no choosing anyone to die. If yer fates wanna do somethin’ - be it their sin to take on”, Abigail replied and in her mind she only added “and be God their mercy”.

Hearing through the responses from the two, Mary again felt a sudden need to laugh. She wasn’t sure why, but something was comical and a smile leaked onto her face as a result.

“Oh, took long enough.” Mary was exhausted from waiting for the pair to deliberate between themselves. She abruptly stood up from the stool, stretched out her arms and rolled her shoulders, like she had been still for weeks. She pulled her jacket onto her shoulders, fitting into it.

“Some last details. This is taking place at Thomas’s villa by the sea. A place called Meropis, really tacky. It’s near the Federal Shelter building for the homeless, because the gods enjoy their dark humor. Here’s a picture of the place and the girl. The party is at six o’clock tomorrow.”

Mary slung her purse across her arm next, and seemed about done talking. She glanced at the pair once again, potentially the last time. Instead of her usual impish face, she looked as serious as a statue. She glanced across the room, peering over into other conversations at a distance to examine for eavesdroppers before continuing with a heavy tone.

“Marie is going to die at around midnight. Likely from a wound she received a couple hours earlier. I am not sure when it’s inflicted. What I suggest to you both, is you find and retrieve the girl and get her as far away as the villa as possible. Yourselves included. Take her somewhere safe, and wait the night out.” She passed over a picture, a photograph originally black and white but had been painted over with by an artist.



“It’s the only photograph of the elusive girl. It’s from a incomplete still, her dad made her model for some fashion shoot. Only one photo left from it. I got an artist to paint over it with some careful colors, fill out some details.” Mary explained. “She’s short. Shorter than me. Just turned 18. Shy, likes to read. All I could find.”

The peddler let the two keep the photo. Adding a black and white one of the villa house, the planned location for the fundraising.

“Here’s Meropis. It’s said to be the most splendid house on the west coast, with a beautiful view of the ocean. Honestly, kinda hope it falls into the ocean if anything. I think it’s an eyesore.”



“Alright, I’m done talking. I’ve said too much here, and I think it’s time you both get prepared. Everything is set, just do your job and make sure Marie is not dead by the time the clock strikes midnight tomorrow.” Mary said, her eerie and off putting smile had returned to her face once again.

"Figure out what you're going to do. I don't really care what happens. As long as Marie isn't dead. But don't use that as an excuse to become a criminal. Best of luck, and may whatever road you take be a good one."

The black haired mystery mistress gave a final farewell before departing like a shadow fleeing the light, walking out the bar's exit.

Montag raised an eyebrow when he heard Meropis. Mary was right to call it tacky; why would any politician want to live in a place like that? It wasn't like Arnault was struggling financially, at least it was very likely that he wasn't. Eduard himself knew the area fairly well from his time with the police. Brutal beatings and stabbings were handed out there as much as canapés were in more affluent areas. That being said, the politician was definitely in the right place if he wanted to carry out dirty dealings. But the right place didn't necessarily mean a good place to be, especially in this case. And, as for "the gods"? He was tempted to ask what she meant by that, and whether she was being serious or not, but it seemed like the time they could be gathered for was wearing thin. And besides, the answer Mary would give would only lead to more questions, most likely.

As Mary adopted a more serious tone, in juxtaposition to her previously mostly casual and mischievous demeanour, Montag's instincts also went on the alert. If all that Mary had said was true, then his list of enemies would be growing, if it hadn't already. He instantly went to take a cigarette from his pocket, but memory was jogged as his fingers fell on an empty pack. He took it as a sign to pay more attention, and he quickly took a mental note of Mary's instructions, as well as the two photos thrust in front of him. She was a pretty girl, the young Arnault, and her more defined features would definitely make it easy to spot her quickly, even in a crowded area. The house, in contrast, looked dreary, though maybe that was the fault of the lack of colour. Still though, he found himself agreeing with what Mary said.

Eduard relaxed slightly as he sensed things coming to an end, his edge of paranoia from before almost completely vanishing. He took heed of Mary's final words to Abigail and himself, returning her goodbye with a small nod, with a thought of if or when they would meet again playing around in the back of his mind. Once she was out of sight, he turned to his redheaded acquaintance next to him, sliding the photographs her way.

"So, how d'you want to do this? You want to discuss a plan or strategy now, or tomorrow? Or are you someone who prefers to do these things alone." Montag questioned flatly, before tapping the two photos with an index finger. "We should destroy these as well. If things end up getting messy tomorrow, we don't want to be found in possession of these."

Meropis. Really tacky. If there was humor in Mary’s words it certainly didn’t strike Abigail much - the place was quite known to her; especially the specification Mary then gave - near the Federal Shelter, a place for the homeless of the city to find themselves a place for a night. She knew the place quite well, more well than one would probably think and too well for somebody to actually confess ever being around this area. A few nights of sleep there, more than a couple of nights of work there, treating wounds of people lost to the turmoil of the life that swept lives here and there on its way. Drunks, vagabonds, hookers, unfortunate folks, some who just got into the wrong place at the wrong time, psychos, war veterans, bandits and thugs, robbed and beaten and tricked immigrants. She all treated them there. Healed them, cured them. Fixed their clothes, masked their bruises, cooked them food. Almost automatically attempted to read them passages from the Bible, even though she could not make her mind up about what she can do.

She could not explain why, though. It had little to do with her devotion - or at least she thought so. How she felt was different, it was always that strange sensation of as if being stuck - a compassion she felt was somewhat stained and dirty, she didn’t like much of these people, they were miserable and they reminded herself of her own misery, and the misery itself seemed everlasting, yet she could not help but to pity them over where they ended up in their lives - quite often not by their own doing, just by a mere chance it seemed, or an evil doing of other people - and their inability to come back to where they were - and that if they even were somewhere in the first place.
Sometimes she felt that God had left this place.
Sometimes she felt that God is present here through her hands.
Giving them another chance.
She had little assurance in either.

No matter. Abigail looked over the photos presented - a photo of the house didn’t tell her much except for the house looking fancy. She barely could make a distinction between houses which all breathed luxury in them - and not that she cared much. A picture of a girl however picked her interest better - the girl on the picture looked indeed coming out of a noble family, it was seen by an interesting contrast of her young looks and sharp and smart glance aimed at the camera’s lens - a trait usually dulled by either lack of manners or wits; this one was certainly not the case. Even though Abigail was not sure how much of a “noble” she could speak of this girl - she certainly looked so. Such a pity she ended up being amidst the hammer and an anvil, pulled into her father’s shady business. That pity rose again in Abigail - the pity over people being swallowed by this injustice and misery - even those like this girl, Marie, who looked like she belongs to being a movie star. Light details to her portrait added by Mary only made this impression more clear: a shy girl who likes to read and probably daydream.

“Thanks”, Abigail replied and nodded to Mary as their contractor stood up and bid her farewell, coming to the exit from the bar, leaving Abigail alone with Montag - a person she agreed to work with, and a person she had to trust her -and this girl’s - life to. Same thought also was a truth for himself.

“We betta’ start it at least now”, Abigail replied to Montag after a moment of thinking, “Ye look like a detective. And ye say ye are one. I’d say ye better with.. thinking over how to help people out in screwed situations. But I am just a doctor girl, I nee’ to know how to act meself, to not to screw things up on me end.”, she said. Even though she might’ve seen blood and what she referred towards as “screwed situations”, she could barely think of herself as somebody who would come with some master plan. She then continued after a brief pause with a shake of her head: “Nay. We are in this togethe’ now. So we should keep so. Why comin’ up together in this place only to take separate paths after that?”, she asked with a sigh and looked around herself, more out of precaution than any actual suspicion.

"Do ye have any smokes by the way..?", she asked Montag then, with a tone in her voice sounding more tired than before. As if she allowed herself to relax a little after all this intense talking.

There's some quiet for a moment after Mary's departure. Both Montag and Abigail rightfully assuming the woman had left for good and was not coming back. It was such a good sendoff, dramatic and complete.

So it's jarring when the woman suddenly poked her head out between the two of them, as if she had never left and just repositioned herself behind them. They had not even heard her come up, it was so sudden and unpredicted. Mary herself too was probably surprised with the suddenness of her return.

"I'm such a fool! I forgot the most important thing of all! How embarrassing! I had made such a great impression and such a good send off and I have to come back like a fool like I left behind my hat! Ugh!" She is voicing what she perceived the others to be feeling, wanting to go ahead and get it out of the way so she could bring up what she felt was so important to return for.

Without prompt, two pocket watches are placed in either detective's hands. They are a faded gold color and look old. A small chain extends out the back of the device to be held by like a necklace or purse. Opening up the clam shaped instrument revealed it's a cracked pocket watch. Dusty and cracked, they looked like they had been out of use for decades. The arms of the clock both frozen in place, not moving, pointing at the roman numeral lettering that swirled around the hands in a circle. The time it was stuck at is 12:07'o clock in the morning, midnight. Once a moment has passed, the arms begin to tick forward like time had momentarily paused until the watch was opened, it rolls around the clock a few times, before settling accurately on the current present time. These watches must've been heavily modified, and felt strange to hold in one's hand. The feeling was as if something lived inside of it.

"There! That mark on midnight is when Marie is fated to die. It'll only work when you open it, so do keep it closed until tomorrow so you don't confuse the poor thing." Mary also spoke of it as if were alive and had feelings.

"I'm such a fool. Should've been the first thing I opened with. Oh well. Best not to dwell on these things. Now I'll be leaving. Pretend I still left on a good note for me." Mary gave a forced smile, as if to will the encounter to be less awkward through sheer force of emotion.

The diva left and it's easy to imagine once her face was turned that smile morphed into a frustrated scowl, pointed internally at herself. She took great pride in herself, and didn't like appearing a fool. It would probably be best to not try and acknowledge her sudden butting back in.

The clock is ticking. One day until death.

"Alright, if that's how you wanna do things. We'll stick together." Montag agreed, leaning back on the stool to relieve it of the tension he was feeling from leaning over the bar counter for so long. He looked over to Abigail to tell her he'd run out of cigarettes, but instead of red hair, his eyes fell upon raven locks. Mary's to be precise. He didn't let himself get surprised by her sudden appearance, the only sign of him being phased by the unexpected act being a slightly sharp inhale of breath.

He didn't even have time to say a word to her though, her voice showing a clear tone of annoyance at herself for missing this out before, and for impatience to just get it over with, lest she ruin her previously somewhat dramatic exit even more. Still, it showed that even a mysterious person like her was prone to making very human mistakes.

Then the pocket watch was handed to him, and another, almost completely identical in appearance, was handed to Abigail. It fit near-perfectly in his palm, and though he definitely wasn't an appraiser, it didn't take much inspection to tell that these watches had been made some time ago. At the very least, they weren't new. He turned it over and around, eyeing its features and worn-out appearance. He knew there was something more about this watch though, he wouldn't have been given it if there wasn't, and his suspicions were confirmed when he flipped open the cover over the watch's face.

The glass faces themselves were cracked, with dust layering over over the face and even in between the cracks as well. It definitely fit in with the rest of the watch's aesthetic. What was most interesting about the watch upon opening it up, however, was the time it showed. Though it wasn't too farfetched an idea for a watch this old and decrepit to be telling the wrong time, 12:07 in the morning was an oddly specific time, especially since the subject of the Arnault Villa Party was still fresh in his mind. It was for that reason that he wasn't too surprised when Mary revealed what the watch being stuck on that time meant. What he wasn't expecting, however, was for the watch to suddenly spring to life, as though it had just realised that it was telling the wrong time. Sprung to life seemed a particularly apt term as well. He didn't have Abigail's watch, but if it was the same as his he assumed it emitted the same warm feeling, almost like some kind of aura. He probably would've convinced himself away from his suspicions though, had it not been for Mary's intervention once again, her words almost humanising the object he held in the palm of his hand.

He stared at it with hard, dark eyes, almost like he was trying to force whatever might've been inside to show itself through sheer intimidation. He didn't look or pay any heed to Mary as she left, his focus very much on the pocket watch, though she probably would've appreciated that more than anything else, given how awkward and embarrassed she had seemed before. Its ticks filled his ears, each passing second a countdown the foretold fatality that they had to prevent.

After a long pause of silence and staring, Eduard finally lifted his head, blinking his eyes to refocus them as thought he'd been caught in a daze of his own making. He closed the lid of the watch and slipped it into one of his trouser pockets, making sure to tuck in the chain so it couldn't be taken without his knowing, and turned again to his new partner.

"Sorry, I was just trying to notice if there was anything different about these watches, apart from the obvious at least. But listen, I don't think it's a good idea to discuss planning here. It's too open, anyone could be watching or listening..." He took a quick glance around his peripheral vision and ahead of him, but not behind him. He didn't want to make it obvious that they were discussing something confidential. He took out the empty, and slightly soggy, cigarette packet from his pocket and swiftly pulled a pen over from behind the bar. He wrote quickly, and the ink smudged a bit when it came in contact with the water, but it was still legible. It read: "The New Haven Beacon, 32 Fairmile Road."

"The New Haven Beacon's a newspaper, and my office is just above their building. It's not big, and it's in a long line of other buildings, but it should be noticeable. Just go in and the staircase to my office is up the stairs to your immediate right. Don't bother the editors and workers downstairs too much though, they breathe down my neck enough as it is, so just go up as soon as you come in and knock on the door." It was the most that Montag had spoken to any of the new associates he'd met so far that day. After relaying so much information, he took a deep breath, hoping that Abigail had understood. Either way, she had the address.

The time had been about 8:45PM when he'd closed the pocket watch before, so by his mark it was probably about 8:50PM by now. "Come there in 2 hours. It'll be open, don't worry. We'll talk more then." He stood up purposefully, looking down to Abigail once more, in case she had anything more to say before he made his leave.