Average height, but an athletic, muscular build with dark curly hair and brown eyes - image to follow

Name: Helmut Kürten

Gender: Male

Age: 30

Nationality: German

Appearance: Helmut is about 6’1" with an athletic body. His hair is light blonde, and his cut is short. Helmut’s skin is pale white and looks quite sickly. His overall appearance is relatively lean; one would assume he has not eaten or slept. His whole body is adorned with scars from his time during the war. As well as having piercing blue eyes.

He wore a white shirt with holes and stains in his casual clothing. Dark green overalls covered the shirt and looked equally as ratty. He also wore black combat boots that he had worn during the war.

He wears his old soldier Outfit with a helmet and gas mask during his hunts.

Personal Effects: A pair of pistols ( Steyr M1912 pistols), A bible, A rosary with a cross on the end, and a pair of trench knives.

Background:

What is your job: Formerly a soldier with the 54th Infantry Division. Now, he is a painter.

Backstory: Helmut was born in the city of Fehrbellin. At a young age, he was reticent and shy. He mostly kept to himself and played his made-up games to keep himself busy. He kept himself busy with drawing and painting. As a boy, he was skilled at using pencils and brushes. For most of his childhood and teenage years, he was a loner. As a teenager, his paintings and drawers were quite disturbing. The images depict grotesque violence and horrible-looking creatures. He sees some of these in his dreams and the waking world.

As the Great War was beginning, he was drafted into the war. During his time, he participated in many battles. While fighting in the Battle of Mărășești, his company was stalked by a group of vampires. With him being the sole survivor. During the carnage of a brutal battle, he was significantly injured. One of his legs was blown off, and there was a large amount of shrapnel in his body.

After the war, he returned disillusioned and suffering from immense PTSD. He returned to painting, drawing what he had seen during the war, his dreams, and hallucinations. At night, he would go out and hunt creatures of the night. Living in Munich as a painter.

Name: Aleyn Deyne
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Nationality: British(Manx)
Appearance: Aleyn
Personal Effects: Pocket watch, Colt Model 1908 Pocket Hammerless, combat knife, flask(Filled with gin), A locket with a portrait of his family and a lighter

---

What is your job Former Soldier
Backstory: Born on the Isle of Man in Douglas and the first of four. Aleyn had a normal life growing up in Douglas and grew close to his family. He was planning on being a craftsman like his father and inheriting the family business. It was while working at his father's store when he would meet his future wife, Paaie Hendull. Which the two were married in 1908 and moved out into the countryside. There, Aleyn would have three children and live a happy life. Then World War One reared its ugly head. Aleyn was among the first to be drafted for the war and would greatly miss his family while deployed on the continent. Four years on the Western Front proved to be a challenging experience for him. After seeing the horrors of war, and would fight in several battles. The biggest being the Battle of the Somme and he would later fight in the second battle of the Somme.

When the war was over and Aleyn was sent back to Britain. He was allowed to leave the army and return back to his home on the Isle of Man. Joyfully returning to his family, he thought that life would return to normal. That only lasted two months, for one day as the family was having dinner. The only warning they had was two loud knocks on the door before it was forced open. Soon a creature attacked them and Aleyn tried to protect his family only to be sliced up and tossed aside. Knocking him out, and the next thing he knew, he woke up in a hospital. Turns out one of his sisters was going to surprise Aleyn and his family with gifts that night. She would find him barely alive and rushed him to a hospital. When he inquired about his family, Aleyn was told that only he survived, and he was devastated by the news. He was not sure of what attacked his family, and he sounded kinda crazy about how he described the attacker. Aleyn tried to find any information he could find about what killed his family.

So far into his search, Aleyn could not find what killed his family, and it was during a bout of drinking alcohol at his home that a message came for him. A letter that told him that he was invited to a meeting of the Nachtwache. Curious about who would invite him and the nature of the meeting. Aleyn would travel to Germany to find out more about this group and see what they have to offer him.

Name: Masako Yamamoto (山本正子)
Gender: F
Age: 23
Nationality: Japanese
Appearance:
Personal Effects: Aside from normal everyday clothes, Masako possesses a fully-equipped nurse’s chatelaine, a lighter and pack of cigarettes, a flash, a small bottle of laudanum, and a combat knife. She has tentative plans to purchase a pistol.

---

What is your job Registered Nurse with the Japanese Red Cross
Backstory: I was born in 1900—that is, Meiji 33—perhaps two or three weeks after that year’s Hanami. I do not actually know when I was born, exactly, which I must admit is the greatest disappointment my father probably found in me. I can say that I was born at my father’s work, where my mother was visiting him after classes had finished for the day. I was told growing up that this was an omen of my studious nature. I performed well in school; from the beginning to the end, I was one of my father’s best students. Certainly, I imagine this was helped by the fact that my teacher followed me home! But I always found the praise from hard work attractive, and further enjoyed most of my studies then.

I must have gotten my will to be studious from my father, as my mother was always more concerned with tradition and with my grooming than these academic matters. I still do not understand, to that end, how they became married, but my mother always suggested to me that my father had only ever become more liberal-minded in his time as an academic. I remember that they often fought, as my mother felt my education should not come at the expense of my potential as a mother myself, while my father was particularly delighted by my interest in the sciences, and only ever disappointed by my lack of a sense for literature. In that time, I learned English from my father, who was an avid reader of the latest works on education, many of which were written in that language, while the others often were translated into it.

I had, when I was younger, accepted that my mother had already made up her mind on which sorts of men she wanted to see me with; two of her closest friends had sons, and it was my understanding that I had a choice between the two of them and only the two of them. I got along particularly well with the elder of the two, named Katsuo, and it was felt with great excitement by both of our mothers that we would marry soon after our primary schooling. But as we grew from children into young people, I felt as if we grew apart, though I do not know if he felt the same. “It is only natural that people change,” my father told me then, and so at this point I understood better how he felt about the matter. He did not want his young daughter to be married so soon, imagining that I would instead, after completing primary school, go on and continue my education, to become more than a wife and mother, but rather, at the very least, a good wife and wise mother, as it was said. With such encouragement, to my mother’s outrage, I chose to study nursing under the Red Cross with my father’s support, rather than to follow Katsuo around on whatever path he chose. If the two of us should reconvene in our paths, my father imagined, then he would surely approve of whatever we chose to do, but he firmly refused to insist upon any relationship, despite insistence from my mother and from Katsuo’s.

For my ability in English, I was delighted to have the opportunity to serve as one of the youngest nurses in the squad sent to Southampton. My father greatly encouraged that trip abroad, while my mother was beside herself. Little did any of us know that we would be asked to remain for the entirety of the war! I will admit, then, that this time awoke something within me. I imagine a keen mind must be inclined to thinking on its own, and if this is the case, then my own was left to its own devices. I was young and silly then, and at such a time in my life as I was, I learned a great many things there. If my mother should ever learn how I came to know the German language, I would imagine she would die on the spot, unless she managed to induce me to kill myself first, so I will ask that my writing of my experiences abroad not be shared outside of my confidence.

Although the majority of the Prisoners of War we cared for in our time in Southampton were of no consequence to me, I found myself picking out several of the most dashing, and considering what I might do. I told myself and my fellow nurses, then, that the extra time I devoted to the injured among these dashing sorts was to learn the German language, so that we might better be able to care for them. I did make good progress with the language, but I cannot say that this was the only product of my time among them. By my second year around these—shall we call them crippled gentlemen?—I found myself perhaps more bold than sensible. Although my fellow nurses said nothing of the matter, perhaps for at least one of them also considered a fling as I did, the surgeon indeed took notice when I turned entirely red as one of the new men in our charge requested me to care for him by name, despite us having never been introduced. He presumed, in a sort of kindness to me, that it was simply that I was better with German language than any of my fellow nurses. But I will admit that I did care for him as I cared for some of those other handsome fellows; after all, I had found that I greatly enjoyed going “above and beyond” in my care.

I suppose it is poor form to say that I enjoyed the war, but my experience was surely more lovely than most. The stress and activity of my work and the sort of entertainment I could access, both in the forms of the United Kingdom’s extensive scientific literature and in the nonetheless handsome forms of the crippled Germans in our care, brought me to feel almost mournful when I was on my way to return to Japan. To go from intensive medical work and intensive leisure to a possible quiet domesticity felt entirely unacceptable to me. I remember, as I sat in my bed on the way back, thinking of ways to prolong my time in the service. How fortunate I was that Russia was in shambles and that our country was engaged in a massive intervention! I had no sooner greeted my parents than I announced that I would be departing north shortly. My mother screamed at me then, while my father stood in stunned silence. But I had already enlisted to go there, and it could therefore not be helped, even as I then felt a sense of remorse for abandoning them so soon after my return.

The Siberian Intervention, I suppose, was less excellent than my time in Southampton, but despite the unpleasant material conditions and good reading, I made up for this with socialising—of the normal kind, to be clear. That is not to say, though, that I did not maintain my previous hobbies. At the time of my departure to Siberia, I had known a number of Germans, a Hungarian, two Englishmen, a Scotsman, two Canadians, and an American. By the summer of last year, when that disappointing announcement of our withdrawal from the intervention came, I realised in my tally that whoever I married would not be my first anything. I had known, in addition to those previous fellows, a particularly handsome Cossack, as I learned he was called, a Buryat fellow, two Yakut gentlemen in rapid succession (they called themselves Sakka, as I recall, and needed only a bit of patching—it was their visit where I was almost caught!), one of my fellow nurses (on several occasions, actually, we slept together specifically to stay warm, but found ourselves enjoying one another’s company more than I had imagined I would), five or six Czechoslovak legionaries, perhaps twelve White Russians and one Red, if I recall, out of my own curiosity and as an odd sort of kindness to him, for he was to be executed when the Whites returned, and a significant number of our own soldiers—enough of whom, anyway, that I cannot recall all of their names, though for a certain number of them, I believe it is because we had both drunk far more than we ought to have. I admit, writing it, that I make it sound as if I were immensely promiscuous, but disregarding recurring incidents, I rarely engaged more than a few times a month—twice in a week, at the very most.

But when that conflict ended, I could not bring myself to return home at all. I wrote a letter to my father, saying that I intended to immigrate to America. But instead, I boarded a ship heading to Germany—a place I imagine few who know me would bother to consider—intent on finding one of my old flings to perhaps help me find some nursing work in their area. Perhaps fortunately, it is unusual to see an Oriental woman of any sort in this part of the world, and I had managed to track down several of them. So it seems, I sound like a Southern German when I speak, and not a proper one at that. Munich is home to not one, but three of my old flings! Werner, Julius, and Eduard are their names—sadly, only Julius greeted me warmly. Though I could not stay with him, on account of his mother, he was kind as to give me directions and assistance in finding temporary employment while I made arrangements to become properly certified in accordance with German law. While modelling for artists is by no stretch of my imagination anything I would have ever done under normal circumstances, with how fascinated they are to have a “genuine Oriental subject,” as they say, I would be silly to try and find other temporary work. Artists are, even in such a case, stimulating enough company that I cannot find myself too disappointed. But I still look forward to when I can return to my nursing work, and find more situations as I have in the past to enjoy excitement in work and leisure at once.

Name: Cornelia "Nelly" Hacke
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Nationality: American (German Heritage)
Appearance:
Personal Effects: Gris-gris, matchbox, bottle of rum, worn flat cap, heavy worn overcoat, bone-handled hunting knife, pocket change

---

What is your job Beggar
Backstory: Nelly was born in New Orleans to a pair of German immigrants - her father was a dockworker while her mother did some tailoring as a seamstress when more money was needed. They lived a humble life, with a small but modern house not far from the docks. They did not live in excess, but they never dipped into poverty. Nelly's mother taught her instead of sending her to school. Like many Catholic mothers, she primarily taught her from the Bible and did the same for Nelly's little sister, Anja, when she came around.

Stable as they were economically, life was far from perfect. Nelly and Anja's father had a penchant for drinking, and when he drank, he found a penchant for violence. From a young age, Nelly learned how to read her father. Not just his expression, but his schedule. Sundays irritated him, made him feel like a failure in the eyes of God, so she locked Anja and herself up every week after church. Bigger boats sailing in meant he'd be too tired to go to the bar after, which meant they'd be safe. She got good at it. Good enough to protect her family.

Until she was twelve years old. It was a Sunday. She and Anja were huddled together in their room, waiting with dread for their father to come home from the bar. When he did, there was yelling. It wasn't angry, though. It was...absolutely jubilant. She couldn't keep Anja from racing downstairs to see the man twirling with his confused wife in his arms. He was so exuberant, so full of life. It was happier than any of them had ever seen him. The happiness was infectious. Soon Anja was dancing with her father while her mother laughed in the corner.

That evening was more joyful than any that had ever taken place in that house. They had gumbo instead of fish, told each other stories into the night. Anja fell asleep in her mother's arms in front of the fire, who eventually took her to bed, leaving Nelly with her father. She wasn't sure what it was about him - the slight smirk that played at the corner of his lips, the unprecedented sharpness behind his eye. Something about him struck Nelly with the sudden unwavering belief that this man was not her father.

She didn't tell her mother. She didn't even tell Anja, not at first. Instead, she slipped into the bed her and Anja shared to try - and fail - to sleep. They woke up to the sweet smell of baking. Cake waited on the dining room table in place of grits, with both their parents sitting at the table, silently waiting for the pair. Nelly had her suspicions immediately, but it wasn't until she was sat across from her "mother" that she was sure. The woman had that same smirk, that same sharpness. Her mother was not her mother.

Nelly slipped away as quickly as she could while still avoiding suspicion. She packed her and her sisters' things, explaining to the younger girl that they were leaving. Anja was confused, upset. Explaining it only caused Anja to grow more upset - to the point of drawing the people pretending to be their parents into their room. Nelly kicked their bags under the bed, quickly spinning a lie about hitting her sister to explain the tears she was shedding.

Nelly didn't end up leaving that night as she'd planned. Anja refused, and she couldn't bring herself to leave without her sister. The next morning, she woke up to find Anja already awake, staring at her inches away. The sharpness had been unsettling in her parents' eyes. Seeing it in little Anja's sent a stabbing terror into her heart. On her lips played that malicious smirk. That day, they had cake. They had gumbo. And when night came and the things that weren't her family were sleeping - or at least mimicking sleep - Nelly slipped out of her bed and turned on their gas stove.

The house burned, and, as far as Nelly knows, whatever they were burned with it.

There was no funeral procession, no second line. Nelly didn't have any other family in New Orleans. No one to bury her dead, no one to take care of her. So, she took to the streets. There's a lot a kid can learn on the streets of New Orleans, especially one as observant as Nelly. The stray dogs taught her how to fight, like a cornered animal without restraint. The rats taught her how to worm her way into tight places she oughtn't be in to snatch up things she oughtn't have. And cats taught her how to weave through a crowd without anyone paying her any mind. Her ability to snatch wallets and watches as she did was something she taught herself.

It's that last skill that'd lead her to her Gigi. She was weaving her way through a crowd, slipping hands into pockets. One of her marks had an envelope - not too thick, but there was something with some weight inside. Jewelry maybe? She was about to open it when she saw something that made her pause. It was addressed to her: Nelly Hacke. It shocked her enough not to notice when a figure approached her, grabbing her by the wrist. Looking up, she found a heavyset old woman with a stern face.

Nelly never understood why Gigi took her on as her ward rather than turning her in. Maybe Nelly's quick hands impressed her. Maybe she pitied the kid. Hell, maybe it was simply Nelly's last name; Gigi always seemed amused to have a girl named Hacke helping her con people. Gigi was allegedly a psychic, a fortune teller gifted with foresight. She was a fraud, of course, something Nelly discovered early in her tenure as the woman's assistant. However she'd managed to get Nelly's name, it wasn't the spirits that gave it to her. Many of Nelly's duties had to do with spying on her Gigi's clients. Hiding atop confession booths with a glass cup, sneaking into bars to hear them drunkenly spill their secrets, slipping into their houses to find any clues as to what to bring up at their next session.

As fraudulent as her sixth sense might have been, Gigi was still a spiritual woman. She taught Nelly of Vodou and the Loa. She also helped teach Nelly how to spot and avoid what she called the Otherfolk - that which appeared human but were not. The things that took her family weren't the only kind. New Orleans, as a city of the night, had plenty creatures of the night pass through, things pulled from folklore and bedtime stories. Under Gigi's tutelage, Nelly developed what could only be described as esoteric street smarts. Nelly learned how to spot them, how to avoid them, how to take notice of strange happenings long before they became deadly. She was witness to a lot - after all, few pay attention to folks like her, begging on the street.

Nelly couldn't say she was surprised when they came for Gigi. She'd been slipping, becoming soft, guiding the Otherfolk's prey out of town with her fortunes instead of keeping to herself as she'd taught Nelly to. In the end, Gigi suffered the same fate as her family - wearing that same smirk, same sharpness. Nelly left the very night she realized Gigi had been taken. She'd planned on leaving town, maybe going North. As such, she took her Gigi's coat. Slipping her hands into her jacket pocket, she found one final trick from the old fraud. Inside was the very same envelope she'd snatched from Gigi all those years ago. Same writing, same weight to it. Opening it, she found two tickets: one from New Orleans to England, and another from England to Germany, the first leaving in a week, the second in a month. Inside was also a matchbox from some German cabaret.

Gigi didn't have a gas stove, but she did have a lot of high proof liquor. Enough to set her little shack ablaze. Nelly kept a low profile the following week until her ship was scheduled to depart. The journey to and through Germany was long; Nelly managed to scrape by begging. She didn't really have anywhere to go after the second ship dropped her on German shores - she tried tracking down extended family, but never really had much luck there. Her resources were few, after all, and there weren't many interested in helping a homeless woman find her family. She was panhandling in Munich when she got it: an envelope dropped into her hat. She didn't get a good look at who dropped it into her hat, but when she dug inside, she found an invitation. An invitation to a cabaret - one with the same name she saw every time she needed a light.

Name: Finley Drake
Gender:Male
Age:37
Nationality:british
Appearance:
Personal Effects:


And a small pocket knife. And playing cards, and Small brown Journal with pen.

---

What is your job soldier turned treasure Hunter.
Backstory:Finlay Drake was born in 1886 into a well-known and respected family in England. As a descendant of the famous explorer Sir Francis Drake, it was only natural that he would carry on his family's tradition of travel and discovery. From an early age, Finlay showed a keen interest in history and archaeology, spending much time studying maps and artifacts.

When World War I broke out, Finlay felt it compelled him to serve his country and enlisted in the British Army. . He proved to be a brave soldier and was promoted to a respected leader. But the dangers of war befell him, and he returned home from the battlefield a changed man. Although he did pick up rather good aim.

After the war, Finlay struggled to find his place in the world. He yearned for the thrill of adventure and the excitement of discovery that he had experienced during his military service. Remembering the tales of his ancestor's exploits, Finley decided to follow in Sir Francis Drake's footsteps and become a treasure hunter.

His travels took him to Munich, where he had heard rumors of a long-lost artifact that was said to hold great power. Armed with his knowledge of history and his natural instincts for exploration, Finley set out to uncover the secrets of the past and make a name for himself as a renowned treasure hunter.

Name: Sonja Marie Wickler (née Brandt)
Gender: Female
Age: 46
Nationality: German
Appearance:

There are lingering traces of a once-beautiful youth remaining on Sonja's face. Her hair retains it's golden hue towards the ends, though dulls with threads of grey the closer it reaches the roots. Smile lines and crows feet mark time's affect on soft, loosening skin, their friendliness thwarted by the much more severe and prominent frown etched permanently between her brows. She remains an imposing figure despite her age, standing at nearly 5'11 she's taller than most and has a sturdy frame hidden under layers. A modest and practical woman in both appearance and demeanor; her clothes are always clean and pressed, but plain and several seasons out of fashion. A pair of pearl earnings, a simple gold wedding band on her left hand, and a small silver watch bound to the left wrist with a blue velvet band and clasp are the only adornments she allows herself.

Personal Effects:
Sonja's wardrobe is never complete without a hat, a pair of gloves- silk in the summer, leather in the winter -and a medium sized dark carpet bag that serves as both briefcase and handbag, carrying her many necessities;
- A leather-bound journal
- Italian and English translation dictionaries
- A silver lighter two inches long and one wide
- A pair of reading spectacles
- A tin flask filled with a clear and strong alcohol
- 2 pens and inkwells, one black one blue
- A red lipstick that appears completely unused
- 2 needles and spool of thread
- A spare set of stockings
- 2 scarves, one silk one wool
- A handful of hat and hair pins
- Identification papers and a few hundred marks

Her late husband's Mauser C96 remains in her possession, but rarely leaves it's locked hiding place in her office.

Trade: Private Investigator
Backstory:
Sonja was born the fourth and final child of the once-affluent Magdeburg Brandt family in 1877. The family’s hardships started shortly after her birth and most of Sonja's life and early memories were that of a particular sort of impoverishment: Completely dependent on the charity of distant unseen family in far off places and sparse remains of an old inheritance for survival. Neither of her parents worked, instead clinging to their pride and memories of wealth that she had never experienced. All while surrounded by true the destitution of their neighbors. While she hardly had the words to describe it at the time, her family’s combination of ego and ignorance grated and shamed her.

In the late 1880's, the Brandt matriarch contracted tuberculosis. As her mother faded, Sonja's father turned further towards drink. Both brothers fled to find their own fortunes elsewhere. When it became apparent even from the outside they could no longer manage themselves, the community her family had always scorned came to their aid. Each day a different family would come with a dinner, hot bathing water, or clean laundry. More often than not, Sonja would follow them out again, desperate to flee the suffocating remains of her family. Among the squalid dregs of Magdeburg's lowest class she developed a sense of solidarity and identity.

At 19 her mother finally passed after nearly a decade of sickness. The end of her life also meant an end to the charity that had kept the family fed and housed. The generosity of her distant relatives had reached a limit when all that remained of them was a drunk widower and young woman old enough to work for herself. Sonja wrote to them all in desperation. Out of her dozen letters, one responded. A great aunt that had come to her mother’s modest funeral and found Sonja fetching and clever enough to be deserving of a final piece of kindness: A proper education abroad. Within six months she was packed and on a train to Zurich.

She had been intended to stay only for three years, taking music and art classes at a small woman's university. However, one evening while accompanying a group of friends to a marxist rally on the steps of the University of Zurich, she met Michael Wickler. Six years her senior, he was well traveled from a short time in the military, and working towards his doctorate in law. What began as a clumsy attempt to recruit Sonja to a cause gave way to a handful of dates and soon enough, an engagement. Sonja was practical enough to know marriage was the ultimate goal of her education, but Michael saw things differently. He charmed her with flattery and encouragement, gave her the words and understanding for what she had felt her entire life, and incessantly pushed her to continue her education. Under his pressuring she eventually found herself enrolling in the University of Zurich herself. After two rounds of degrees, first in the natural sciences, then another in law, the couple finally returned to Germany as Mr. and Mrs. Michael Wickler.

They made their start in Munich, where Michael had friends, family, and ties, and were able to start a firm in only a few short years. Sonja's interest in her husband’s work matched his own. They took cases for unions and renters, jobs that paid less but offered greater fulfillment. Most days were spent in the too-small poorly-lit office working in silent tandem. Officially, her role was that of secretary, but it was rare for a document or letter to be sent out without being approved by Sonja's discerning eye. Michael found himself embroiled in the SPD shortly after they'd established themselves, through connections he'd made in Zurich. At first Sonja had merely tagged along; taking minutes of meetings and refreshing pots of coffee for the groups of mostly men. Except for one way, when day a contingent of women joined them, identifying themselves as the Munich BDF. In them, Sonja found a cause she could call her own, and thus began her work for woman's suffrage.

Then the war came. Micheal was sent off with the rest of the reservists, and never returned. Sonja moved to live with her sister-in-law, Ada, an agreeable woman married to a police captain. Their four children were all grown and gone and Ada was grateful for the companionship and one less empty room. Without Michael there was no more law work, and Sonja threw herself into political activism to compensate for the loss of both. The SPD's agreement to the war became something of a betrayal in Sonja's mind, and her politics continued to veer left, to the MSPD shortly after it's formation, and eventually the KDP.

Towards the end of the war, she began work in an ammunition's factory; and more importantly it's respective union. For two years she re-immersed herself in the working class she believed herself championing. That career was cut short too, after the strike in 1918, followed by the end of the war. Shortly after, women were granted voting rights, and her work for the BDF was no longer needed as it centralized itself in Berlin for more global affairs.

Hardly content to live as a retired widow before reaching 50, Sonja found her own way of occupation. Over her two decades in Munich, she'd accumulated a number of contacts and friends within different spheres of the left-wing movements in the city. Her unique experience, education, and temperament positioned her well to continue aiding the communities that had been abandoned by their government. Her first job was for the union she'd been a member of during the war, a simple case of wage theft. They hadn't expected a woman to investigate, nor deliver key evidence directly to the police captain as well as every union-sympathizing lawyer she knew. From there, one paid favour led to another, and while the pay was as irregular as the work itself she eventually managed to begin renting out a small office in a squalid district of the city.