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the universe is grand, but life is grander

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Sonja Wickler


When Sonja turned to examine the young woman her face remained impassive, even as her eyes lingered on her pooly cut hair and worn clothing. "Just so," She agreed in response. "I'll have to count my many blessings today." The corners of her tightly pressed lips turned upwards ever so slightly, but not into anything that could be called a smile. "You have our thanks for your efforts fraulein." She finished before turning her attention to Temple again.

"If you give me the name of your contact I'll be on my way to examine the police records." Her gaze again looked over the small group. "Along with anyone else who wishes of course."
Puskurunuwa


Puskurunuwa had come to the barrack huts during the dead of night. In the dark it was still easy to slip past the soldiers. Not that it mattered in the end. He'd only just begun his search when sirens started blaring and the camp emptied out entirety, just as large shadows passed behind dark clouds. More air raids. Nuwa left his concealed nook between a desk and the wall. Not that it mattered in the end. His family wasn't there, and prisoners weren't being held above ground anymore. Assuming it had even been the city’s soldiers attacking them in the first place. There had been men in uniforms, but with the city in such desperate chaos...

The rear entrance of the hut took him outside, to a large clearing. Nuwa’s eyes widened as he sprinted closer to the mass in the center of it. An airship. A real, proper airship on the ground and so much closer than the mere glimpses between the clouds he'd seen before.

"Looks a lot bigger down here." He muttered, mostly to himself, while surveying the area for any remaining soldiers. There were none to be found, no one watching the anchoring ropes, or watching the gondola’s entrance. So small, compared to the balloon rigging above it.

Just imagine swinging from the ropes of that thing in the air...

Nuwa knew Kypros wasn't really beside him, chatting in his ear. It was all in his mind, a figment of his imagination that he'd conjured to comfort him since they'd gotten separated half a week before. The knowledge did little to reduce the shock that came when the voices spoke on their own accord, unprompted and unbidden.

It’d be like real flying.

The ghost of his aerial partner finished the thought and Nuwa smiled at the memory of their shared dream. Real or not, Kypros’ echo was at least solace for the panic making Nuwa’s heart race.

"Would get a right smack on the return," He whispered in response, as though Kypros was indeed beside him. He pointed out the slack on the ropes, the divots in the bladder to demonstrate his meaning. "It's not quite ready to go yet. Filled and in the air you wouldn't be able to stick the landing."

We'd catch you.

The smile faltered as easily as it came. Nuwa cleared his throat and shook his head in an attempt to relieve himself of the distraction. It was hardly the time to reminisce, the sounds of panicked rioting were only getting louder. Without waiting for input from a ghost companion or his own better judgment, he climbed into the airship's gondola. There was quiet shouting to the right so he veered left to be greeted by a room full of panels, levers, and buttons. It all looked rather important for the purposes of getting off the ground and completely beyond Nuwa’s understanding.

More footsteps prevented him from doing anything foolish so he exited the cockpit through a second doorway and found himself in a corridor. One long window spanned almost the entire length. For now it only displayed the flat ground of its landing pad but once they were airborne... The idea almost gave Nuwa enough excitement to forget his panic, and the approaching footsteps. Almost.

With renewed speed, he scanned for a place to hide. Upon investigation he found the ceiling panels opened- but were stuffed with strapped canvas bags filled with what felt like soft fabric. He removed three, and kicked them under a bench, in hope they wouldn't be noticed before takeoff. It was a tight fit, but Nuwa hoisted himself into the small alcove, and folded himself behind more of the bags before closing the panel behind him. Only when it clicked shut did he consider whether or not he'd be able to open it again from the inside. It was too late for anything to be done however, as brisk footsteps approached, only to fade just as quickly. All that was left to do was wait until they were in the air. If he made enough noise to be found once they were already in the air he could hardly be tossed off the side, right?

You're going to leave us here?

Nuwa nearly gasped. Her voice. But it couldn't be Stelia whispering to him, even less than it could have been Kypros, because Stelia was still on the gravel by the docks; an officer's boot at her neck, her face draining into the same pale grey as her unblinking eyes and- A choked half sob escaped his throat. The sound was real enough to force him out of the nightmare and listen for any sign his presence had been noticed. There was nothing, except-

We’re supposed to stick together, why aren't we coming with you?

Nuwa shook his head; as best he could in the confined space. He wanted to argue. He had looked but was met with fire, and gunshots, and screaming, and he...

You're running away

We waited for you Nuwa

Did you even try?

A deep, reverberating groan interrupted the twins' torrent of accusatory whispers. Nuwa blinked in the dark, unaware of how much time had passed. The sound finally gave way to a more gentle whirring of machines, and gradually, Nuwa felt the bags shifting around him. With nothing solid to hold on to, he slid along with them, eventually ramming into the wall of the alcove with a thump loud enough to make him wince from the resulting pain and sound. More footsteps came and went along the hallway below him: louder, and and with an urgency that had been lacking before. The ship was alive and beginning to move.

Nuwa was going to leave Inbur.

He cringed at the thought, anticipating more admonishment from ghosts, but they remained silent. There was only the hum of engines and hissing of pneumatic pipes.

Feeling braver, he let the exileration wash over him. Puskurunuwa Petrides was going to fly out of Inbur.

The mix of fear and excitement quickly overcame good sense and Nuwa found himself attempting to shuffle on his back along the ceiling, fruitlessly kicking in search of a loose panel; desperate to catch a glimpse of the ground disappearing below.
Sonja Wickler


Each passing winter had a greater effect on Sonja's constitution. This one still hadn't fully arrived, but the chill of morning mist was enough to stiffen her fingers even underneath thick gloves. She'd left her bag at her office at least, prepared for a long march to find the group from the night before, allowing her to keep tightened fists in effort to prevent numbness. The graveyard was completely deserted aside from the group from the cabaret, most rested and renewed for the day. She wondered what sort of sight they made; a strange collection for a funeral party. The closest one last night's victim was to have, she supposed. It was unlikely anyone would come forth to pay for a proper service. A shame they didn't even know her name yet. Sonja flexed both hands and began massaging the tension out of the knuckles on her palm, shifting her focus to Temple's recounting of the night's discoveries. Ghost stories were one thing, but police ignoring evidence to tidily ignore murders was a real, worthy case. So long as the foreign nurse was believed to be more trustworthy than the police.

"I'm familiar with Munich police records." Her reservedness of the night before was gone, replaced with a brisk urgency to end whatever this mess was. "I'd like to see them for myself, check for any commonalities as you say." She gave a single quick nod to Temple before continuing.

"For now, I believe the only connection we do have on the victims is that they are from the city's most vulnerable populations. While perhaps not a glamorous task, it may be worth the effort to seek out some hovels in the area. Our victims may have friends looking for them that wouldn't reach out to the police." Her lips pressed into a hard line. "They deserve warnings if nothing else."

Only when she finished speaking did the throbbing in her fingers subside enough for Sonja notice the morning cold stinging her cheeks. She tucked her chin into the scarf at her neck and hoped for quick agreement on their course of action, if only to get out of the chilling weather.


Sonja Wickler



It wasn't the sort of place Sonja would typically put herself. Though that could be said of most places she found herself lately. Her path followed that of information, or justice, on days she was trying to convince herself of virtue. The cabaret bar filled with smoke, music, and the light sounds of dancer's shoes on the stage was not an environment made for the likes of Sonja to enjoy. Perhaps when she was younger the dancers wouldn't have sounded so needlessly risque, the whispered conversations less vacuous, the drinks worth buying. But she had become an old woman, an unpleasant reminder of time’s effect in places of the young living fast in a perpetual present. She kept herself small, waiting at the far side of the bar, ridged and ignored well past the show's end. From there she remained watching as a handful of guests made their way to a side door, easy to miss but for the muscle guarding it. Only when the disorganized queue had all but disappeared did Sonja stand, invitation in hand, and followed suit.

She still wasn't the last to enter. A youthful eastern woman stumbled in just as Sonja had divested herself of gloves and overcoat, and folded them over the back of her chosen seat. The majority of the diverse group were quite young. A handful looked barely more than children; the easterner, a wisp of a soldier, two small girls, and a foreign urchin. Sonja's frown deepened; attempting to puzzle out some unseen commonality amongst the invitees before the Englishman began speaking.

More of their group made their introductions after the welcoming. Some to the room, others to neighbours. Sonja simply watched, attempting to commit faces to memory. At least three performers among them. A good number of soldier's too, she suspected. The urchin spoke in an accent impossible to place, and the holy man remained as reserved as Sonja. Her right hand itched to find her journal and mark observations down, but she was reluctant to bring any attention to herself. Instead she accepted an offered drink of port, only to spin the glass between her fingers. It didn't take long for their group to divide, a handful choosing to take the initiative to investigate the graveyard that very night. Sonja only waved a hand in goodbye at their parting. The only mysteries she cared for remained in the small smoking room.

It eventually quieted again for Temple's story. Further fanciful nonsense, but Sonja listened attentively all the same, eyes distant as she searched for some hidden metaphor that might infer the “Night Watch's” alignment or ambitions. Ungodliness, ghosts, demons, and priests. Metaphors or no, there was a commonality there at least. Though it seemed unlikely for Catholic propagandists to select an Englishman as their spokesperson.

Eventually, when it became clear no further light would be shed on the invitations' backers, Sonja stopped spinning her untouched drink and stood. "I thank you for a most interesting evening Mr. Temple," She began with the up-most politeness as she tugged her gloves and coat back on. "and greatly look forward to what the light of day sheds on your peculiar investigation."

Her smile was tight, but genuine enough from curiosity if nothing else. She gave a final nod to the others that remained "Adieu, until the morning." A knock on the door, and it was opened by the bouncer on the other side, allowing Sonja to pass towards the exit and Munich streets.

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