Rock 'Round The Clock (IC)

[Mooncake]

- Day 1 -
-- "Honky-Tonk Town" --

Hog Butcher for the World
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler
Stormy, Husky, Brawling, City of the Big Shoulders

- Carl Sandburg

James "Sonny" Luciano (Verg Avesta)
Chicago, 1932, 5:34 PM


The flashy gold neon shouted out the name as loud as the jazz roaring out from under the door. You could feel the light and heat bursting from under the door of Alveare, feet pounding on the floor, blood boiling in the veins, alcohol all but obviously being passed around in a whirl of chaos and pure fun. Yeah, this was definitely the place for you.

You pulled out the bronze key that sweet little number had given you at the train station, emblazoned with a bee in front of a honeycomb, and slid it into the keyhole. A little twist, and you were in ––

And, oh, what a place to be in!

The music roared over the dance floor like a wave, sweeping up the dancers in its wake. Pounding, tumbling, prancing across the floor, it dragged you into the room filled with the breathe of life. The door closed behind you, and you were pulled in to the midst of dark-suited men and red-dress dames, a black-boy band blaring out everything they had from the corner, pouring soul into this little shindig.

Buffeted by the crowd, you stumbled over to the bar, alcohol laid bare. It was the most brazen gin mill you'd ever seen - but then, this was Chicago, where you could get away with anything as long as you paid on time. Either way, you straightened up, blending in with these fine gentlemen instead of being pushed around like a rinky-dink hood.

The barman silently pointed you towards the wrought-iron stair when you showed him the honey-colored key, handling the glasses constantly pushed his way with a crooked smile, playing it up to guys and dolls, Palookas and McCoys alike as you walked away. Your entrance had slipped out of the hearts and minds of those schoolboys back there, and that was fine with you.

Climbing the stair, you found yourself face to face with an old man, who looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see him. Blinking, he held back for you, closing the door behind you and turning back to ask you a question, a thick Dutch accent making him hard to understand.

"Ah, my boy, do you still have that key of yours?"

It was a little hard to hear him over the jazz floating up from downstairs, but something was clearly up with this. There were no chairs, no tables, just a well-swept, empty room without even a window to see out from.


----


Rita Schultz & Alphonse Beauregard (Bloble and Mormarth)
Chicago, 1932, 4:13 PM


Union Station was a grand place. You had seen finer in books, but seeing it in person was a bit different... it was warmly lit, and the crowd of people contributed to its atmosphere, ducking in to seek respite or heading out to face the windy streets. Certainly, no one here knew you well enough - though, with your pure white wedding dress, it was unavoidable to have people staring.

You were used to it at this point, and soldiered on.

Passing a well-dressed man and a small, pale-haired girl shuffling cards with expert hands on the bench, you paused to look at the map. It was in English, but you had mastered that language long ago, and it gave you no difficulty. Unfortunately, even though its secrets were laid bare to you, they held nothing of much worth. There was no one to meet, save for... your eyes caught a flash of blue, and you turned to look.

It- it couldn't be.

A woman was staring at you, from the other side of the station. She was thinner than when you had last seen her, her skin paler, eyes bluer - but there was no mistaking it. It was, without a doubt, a woman you had known for only a few years, yet one you had known better than almost anyone you had ever met. How could you not? She was family... the precursor, Null.

As you stood there, nearly gaping, a crowd of travelers passed by, leaving the way empty, and you pale-faced in surprise.

Now, in the meantime, you were still shuffling cards with the small girl that had asked for a chance to play. Normally, you would have turned her down, but when she dangled what looked like a key made of gold in front of your nose, you just couldn't say no. The two of you were shuffling, and, to your surprise, she wasn't that bad.

Still, you clearly had the upper hand in the three rounds you had played. She had told you that you could have the key if you won best out of five, and you'd let her win the first one – just to build up some excitement, get her to thinking that you weren't as good as you seemed. Oh, yes, you had this in the bag. The two of you started to lay out the cards, the key tucked safely away in her pocket.

Then, on this little bench, came the moment of truth. You began to lay out the last three cards face up. For you, the king of spades, the king of clubs, and three jacks. In other words, a full house that was hard to beat by any means. You watched as she began to turn over her own cards, but you weren't worried. You'd made sure to very carefully put the cards that could chance your loss into her own pile; the highest card that this girl had was just an ace... an ace... of...

She flipped over a king of spades, and then a king of clubs, and then finished it off with three jacks of no particular order. The same five cards that you had drawn were mirrored on her side of the table – and you had made sure to see that she hadn't cheated.

How, then, could this happen?


----


Zachariah Bashevis (Nihilm)
Chicago, 1932, 4:28 PM


That picture in your pocket wasn't helping much. You squinted at it, and then lowered it a little. You'd left the station as soon as you'd arrived, quickly passing the girl who had tried to catch your attention with some flowers. Money was tight nowadays, and you couldn't afford to spend it on silly things.

Certainly, Maria would have liked them, but she was safely tucked away in the New York countryside, a place that had had choked down your dreams of the easy life.

The mob couldn't – ah, probably couldn't find you here, but it was better to be safe then sorry. The place looked close to the photo you had gotten, and there didn't seem to be anyone here at this "Alvère".

There was no need to keep risking it, so you casually walked over to the place, taking your time, looking like another normal joe in a city of the downtrodden working class.

Yeah, everything was dandy until you knocked on the door. As expected from the dusty, dimly lit interior, there was no response. You knocked again, a little harder, but you didn't want to push your luck.

After no response, you turned around and nearly ran straight into a poorly-shaven man. Stumbling backwards a little, you were about to apologize and move away before his strong hand grabbed your collar.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the big boy himself. Going somewhere, bub?"

This wasn't going to end well - at least there wasn't another soul around to serve as a witness; none except for those two big, hard-boiled guys drawing up close behind him. Looks like today just got even better.


----


Dr. Imani Chausika (Christemo)
Chicago, 1932, 4:56 PM


"Ow!"

You'd been minding your own business, walking down the streets with cane in hand, whistling Louisiana swing. Sure, the white boys you passed were staring at you like a dog that had learned to fly, but that was fine by you.

Either way, you were finding your way down through the town, checking out the scene, tasting freedom on your lips. It was only temporary for now; you had that sword hanging over your head, but if you played your cards right – and you always did – you'd be gone with the gold before the big man knew what'd hit him.

The only thing you had to worry about now was the little white scrub at your feet, desperately picking the papers he'd dropped in a stumble. Oh, yes, you knew exactly what kind of man he was from a glance. The shabby suit, honest face, harried look as he tried to keep his old books in order, and – oh, what's this? The glint of gold in his coat pocket.

Now here was a man who needed your special kind of sweet-talk.


----


Matylda Fiala (Leftovers)
Chicago, 1932, 6:12


The band was wrapping up another high-energy piece as you stood near the bar, your key clutched tightly in one hand. The party was getting hotter then ever, and it wouldn't be wrong to say that some men – hell, even one of the women – eyeing you up like a steak on display.

You could defend yourself, sure, but their eyes made you a little uncomfortable. The whole place made you a little uncomfortable, but you were doing this for something greater than yourself, and you pushed on. The bartender was giving you a wicked, easy smile that felt like oil on water, if you were pressed to explain.

He kept it up as you approached him, the cig in his mouth only adding to the smoke wafting to the ceiling of the room. He... well, to be honest, he seemed like a bit of a sleaze, his hands hard at work while his mouth let out a practiced patter, honeyed words pouring into the ears of his customers as honeyed liquor poured down their throats.

"Can I help you with something, doll? You look like you've been working – c'mon now, sit down, have a drink on the house," He smirked at you again, his eyes matching your own – although that might have had more to do with the high collar of your uniform rather than his inner gentleman. "Shoot at me, Molly. What's a ritzy dame like yourself doing in a place like this?"

Was this guy for real?

[Verg Avesta]

James "Sonny" Luciano
Alveare
Chicago, 1932, 5:38 PM

James was having a bit troubled time, having made his way through the speakeasy while remaining relatively unnoticed. Unlike New York, Chicago had hid most of its dingy trash underneath glitz and glamour. Nothing was laid bare, which was the way he preferred it. Staring straight down at all the rats after him was far easier. Not only that, but this place also differed from his current home of Miami Beach. It wasn't hot because of the sun, but because of the people: everywhere you went, everything seemed to be, well, fulll; bimbos and pikers all packed together like mules.

Combine that with the swanky music, and you had one hell of an intoxicating atmosphere. That was why, after climbing the stairs, James was a bit glad that he had been able to put distance with himself and the speakeasy. It wasn't that he didn't like, far from it: he just didn't want no distractions while working. Afterwards, he did plan to get jazzed with the rest of 'em.

Not to mention there was this old man to deal with.

"Ah, my boy, do you still have that key of yours?"

"And what if I do, rag-a-muffin?" James asked with a grunt, eyeing the old man suspiciously. "What's it to ya? If ya were planning to nick it from me, lemme tell ya, you're a bigger sap than you look. No offense, old timer, but this would be one wrong tree you're barking up against."

Then, with a hint of self-derision in his grin, James turned around and focused his full attention on the old man. Standing up and straightening his neck, he suddenly felt rather taller than he had initially seemed. It was one of those things he had learned from the streets: pick the way you walk, and you can make yourself look like what you want. Still, while James was no spring-chicken himself, his frame still had plenty of muscle to it, making him a somewhat impressive sight when he flaunted it.

"Unless you too are here 'bout the little something-something, in which case we're in the same boat," James continued. "And I still don't know nothing from nothing 'bout this whole shindig. Which, now that I think 'bout it, isn't much of a surprise."

With a sarcastic chuckle, James cocked his eyebrow at the old man.

"So, what's the happening, old timer?" he asked. "I've got enough years under my belt to not trust the first face I see. Ya understand."

[Mooncake]

James "Sonny" Luciano
Alveare
Chicago, 1932, 5:40 PM


The old man held up his veiny hands in dismay, his large beard giving him a bit of a comic look.

"Ah, no, no, my boy, I have no intention of stealing it. I would not need to take something I designed myself!" He let out a little chuckle of his own. His accent, now that you could hear it, had the peculiar changes that only someone from the German part of the world had – the mispronunciation of 'have' as 'haff', the 'w' becoming a solid 'v' – the man didn't seem very threatening.

Then again, the best never did.

His eyes lit up at your next line, and he stuck a finger up in the air in excitement. "Yes, yes," He clearly had a tendency of repeating himself; it was starting to wear on your nerves a little. "I was called here by telegram, three days ago. I had only met him once before, but, ah, yes, he made quite an impression!" He coughed, cutting himself off.

"'The happening' is quite simple, my boy! I need that key of yours to let us into the door." Well, he seemed harmless at least, though there wasn't a door to be seen save for where you had entered. "No, no, I feel the same way. You have my word I shall not steal your key." As an afterthought, the old man quickly swept his hat off of his head and extended his hand towards you.

"Yes, I am, as you say, forgetting my manners! I am Barca."

A simple handshake and a greeting, straight and to the point.

[Bloble]

Rita Schultz
Chicago, 1932, 4:13 PM

'Tis merely fortune.

What I believe may not change reality, but it can colour it. To meet her here is something I could not have fathomed, yet it has happened. Someone thought lost to me, and I lost to her. And yet, a long way from the place we once called home, we meet once more.

Why has this happened? As the strength leaves my arms and legs, pondering this question is the only freedom left to me. Did they send her after me? The tracks were hidden, but one could not call the methods perfect. Amateur enough, we were, that finding me would not be out of the question. Two years it took, but they could have found me here.

If so, then my life is over. As I reach zero, so too does Null appear before me. Once was a miracle, but escaping twice is something the gods themselves could not have accomplished, even with a living Hero to wield their weapons of war. These two wonderful, horrible years moved by so fast that I can barely recall them, but those days are crystal clear in my mind. There is no doubt as to the identity of this person. Instead, I shall doubt the circumstances themselves. Perhaps she does not bring demise with her. Perhaps it is hope.

'Tis merely fortune, I shall tell myself. She might not carry death in her breast pocket, so let it instead be the affection we once shared.

This dress isn't made for running, so I walk. Keeping steady while wearing such a cumbersome thing is an act I once found impossible, but I practiced it enough that I can glide across marble and wood and dirt without so much as soiling a single string.

In no time at all, I reach the destiny I cannot flee from, and meet it with a smile.

"Hello, Sister," I greet Null in the English I've spoken for two years. "It has been a long time."

[Mooncake]

Rita Schultz
Chicago, 1932, 4:15 PM


The woman smiled at you, sadly. It seems, from the delicate tracing of paler flesh around her neck, that she cannot speak. The woman that had loved you so was reduced to a mockery of herself – but, even so, she had something to show you.

Your sister handed you a cream-colored letter for you to slowly unfold, her cold hands lingering on your own like the warmth that you possessed could give her something more than what she led now.

Opening the piece of paper, you read it yourself. It was German, but the language had not left you after the years you had spent away. It was short, and it did not take you long to finish.

To the daughter that has so wronged her father's house,

Let it be known that your life has not escaped us. You, who brought ruin into the house of your loving father by the death of his only son, have been allowed to live free not from oversight, but from the ruinous and deceitful means of your departure which have brought such sorrow upon us.

You are, as charged by the great head of this house, to return to Germany of your own volition, upon which some leniency shall be granted for your actions. Failure to comply with the charges that your great creator levels against you shall be met with a swift response from the side of the just.

Make no mistake, you shall be punished. But, your father is a kind man, and upon the willing return that you shall no doubt complete, shall extend his hand in kindness to you once more.

- Roland Freisler
Als sie beendet, bringt sie lebendig

It had finally happened. What you had been dreading had come to a pass just as you had been on the precipice of further freedom. Was it fair? No, it surely wasn't; but it was as it was. The woman that was a shade of her former self, your beloved sister that you had thought long dead, looked at you in a quiet sympathy with her pale, pale eyes.

There were not very many options left to you, the last sister to truly be alive – but you could not waste the life that he had so valiantly fought to save, that he had held so far above his own.

[Nihilm]

Zachariah Bashevis
Chicago, 1932, 4:35 PM


Zachariah had already managed to start regretting ever coming here, it is but a fact of life that things don’t go right unless you make them go right and so far he hasn’t had many opportunities to make that happen. It hadn’t been long but the longing to go back to Maria had increased by the day on his train ride to Chicago. Only the thoughts of the money, the life he could give to Maria was keeping him from hopping on a train and heading back. Well that and the predicament he seems to find himself now.

Who could’ve guessed it would only take a knock on the door to get himself straight into trouble again. Zachariah found himself surrounded, the goons must have come from inside. They were seemingly unarmed, but threateningly approaching Zach. Was this all a setup by the mob? No, couldn’t be, not their style to lure me out if they knew where to find me already, though the possibility isn’t zero.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the big boy himself. Going somewhere, bub?"

They clearly knew I was coming, so this is unlikely to be your standard mugging either.

After looking around quickly to determine if there were any witnesses in the area Zach pulled out his pistol from underneath his coat before anyone managed to come at him, pointed it at the poorly shaven man and moved as to have the two goons to his side rather than his back.

“Don’t you two even think of attacking or your boss here gets it.” He waited a brief moment for the goons to stop enclosing in on him. “Now that I have your attention, can one of you clowns explain to me what is exactly going on here?”

[Christemo]

"Dr." Imani Chausika
Chicago, 1932, 4:57 PM

Now what, just what did we have here?

Some lil' white boy with tha kinda moola that ain't healthy to be carryin' 'round shady people. Like me. Might make mah day a bit better, depending on how good he is at being dragged along. Given tha kinda shabby rags he wearing, being dragged about might just be his job.

"Sorry thar, boy, didn't see ya. Mite needa give yoseff some sun else yo blend in wit de air." I said, sittin with mah jaw leaning against mah knee as i knelt down to his height, like a reel bootlick. "Nah just foolin ya. Lemme help yo sorry ass out, its mah fauht ta begin wit."

With a decent pace, I help 'im pick up his dropped paypa, hopin' not to cause a fuzz so that da kid ain't too scared nor too 'barrased ta talk a bit.

"So kiddo. Boyo. Amigo, whatcha game, whatcha name?" I said as da final papah joins his newly assembled stack, digging intah him with fake curiosity.

[Verg Avesta]

James "Sonny" Luciano
Alveare
Chicago, 1932, 5:41 PM

"The happening' is quite simple, my boy! I need that key of yours to let us into the door. No, no, I feel the same way. You have my word I shall not steal your key. Yes, I am, as you say, forgetting my manners! I am Barca.

At this point, James was rather glad that he had his key safely tucked away in the pocket of his jacket. The old leather jacket might have been heavy, but its numerous pockets were a great thing when it came to storing stuff, such as keys or, perhaps, brass knuckles. Of course, when it was combined with the shirt he had under it, the combination was... strange at least. He had bought the shirt from some Chinese merchant named Chun who had been visiting Miami a couple of years back. He had called it an "Aloha Shirt." Supposedly she was about to make a whole brand about them.

Didn't seem like something that'd stand the test of time. Still, James found it ironic enough to be following a trend such as that, so he stuck with the piece of clothing.

Still... he's a funny old bird, alright. James thought as he shook Barca's hand.

"Nice to meet'cha. People call me Sonny," James introduced himself. "I must say, ya hit on all sixes when making this key. The hornet's right nicely detailed. Interesting bauble, if nothing else."

He then chuckled and put his hand into the pocket of his jacket. From inside he draw a large case branded with a logo of a strangely-colored bird with a text that read "Blue Flamingo" under it. Opening it, it was revealed that there was a long row of thick cigars under the lid. After taking one and popping in his mouth, James offered the case to Barca.

"Care for a ciggy?" he asked. "If this bull session's gonna keep on any longer, might as well enjoy ourselves, right? Speaking of which... ya mentioned something 'bout a door. But, either I've gone right crazy, or then there's not one in sight. Care to enlighten me a bit?"

[Mormarth]

Alphonse Beauregard
Chicago, 1932, 4:13 PM

It was never a good feeling for a player to get played.

Doubly so if the player-player is, or at least appeared to be (I was growing increasingly uncertain), a child.

Here I am, relaxing inside a reasonably well-lit, warm-ish, bastion of architecture, out of the windy, cold hell-hole that some wise-guys decided to build a city around, idly going through my own, personal deck of cards, when some slip of a girl strolls on up and asks for a game.

Now, being the enterprising and discerning gentleman that I am, I smoothly declined her invitation.

Wasn't in the mood to go running ramshod over some bored little miss.

So of course she reaches into her pocket and dangles a golden key in the air, calm cool eyes brush over it, used to phony collateral.

Seemed legit enough.

All right, I said, If you're playing hardball.

So we sat down and did a few rounds of freakin Five Card Stud, a game that was going out of style when old Grandpa Beauregard walked God's earth.

Well, alright, maybe not that old.

Certainly wasn't in-style, at least.

So, anyway, back to the main point, we shuffle up, and deal out, I'd let her take the first one, don't wanna break spirit too early, after all.

And then I smoothly move in and take the next two, easy enough, right?

Next round's three-of-five, then I've got some key or what have you, should be worth something.

We deal out, I flicked up the cards with an easy hand, already knowing, from practical instinct, which they were.

Twin Kings and a Trio of Jacks.

The house was full, and soon, so would my pockets.

A temporarily-retired gambler was not precisely the most financially stable man of the world. But I had my ways.

I relaxed, highest card she'd have was an ace, had this round in the bag.

Cards flipped upwards, my eyes went flat.

Twin Kings, and a Trio of Jacks.

I looked at her, unamused.

"Far as I know, only one way to get this hand in one deck at one time."

I looked pointedly at her own cards, then back at her, "So I'll beg your pardon and ask what are you even trying to pull here."

Something was fishy, I'd been to all kinds of tables, the old blood in Atlantic City, the up-and-comers in Vegas, even the hard-nosed thugs here in Chicago.

But no one, no one ever pulled a fast one on me without me noticing.

[Bloble]

Rita Schultz
Chicago, 1932, 4:15 PM

And so the judgement falls upon those that fled from their creators.

Words yet escape me, so my body shall speak in my stead. I step forward and wrap my arms around my poor, dying sister, doing what I could not do when I last saw her alive. Let me share with you this meager warmth I've built up, for the life within my breast is not yet zero. Null, us doomed existences did little to deserve this, but you deserved it least.

That man's actions were only ever deliberate. To send you here as a messenger was his way of pushing mortality upon us. I dare not ask what he did to you, for even this surface atrocity is enough to darken the light of this day. This letter is a flourish, meant to warn me and watch as I either return like an obedient pet or run, so that he may set loose his dogs to chase after me. He desires entertainment, and my response shall grant it to him.

And yet, even now that the certainty of demise has been confirmed, I know that my efforts must be redoubled. To obey this man is to accept his lies as truth, and to paint over these past years with falsehood. You shall not have your way, man who I will never call Father. I promised him that.

As a weak resolve to keep fighting is formed, so too does the silence lift. For you, who has been silenced, I will speak.

Two years since I spoke proper German. Let this bladed tongue remain sharp.

"That man, who never once extended his hand in kindness to any of us... let him fester, Null. Let him pace in that cold mansion of his, the one he emptied with his own two hands. Let him rage and scream at the heavens, and direct his boundless well of hatred upon all but he who truly deserves it. Let him drown in his pride, Null. You need not stay on that sinking ship."

How to explain... how to explain to someone who was not allowed to escape, this new sentiment I've formed?

"America is a country filled with the weak. It is in the middle of a depression, where the common folk fight each day just to keep suffering through their lives. That is precisely why I chose it. The belief this soil holds is that one needs to fight, to struggle, and to suffer. It holds a belief that if today is dark and dreary, tomorrow holds the promise of sunshine. Even now, when the world seeks to crush them, these people fight harder. And I too believe that tomorrow will arrive, dear sister. All we must do is keep struggling."

[Mooncake]

Zachariah Bashevis
Chicago, 1932, 4:37 PM


The man smirked at you, seemingly unfazed by the gun pointed at his face. Unlike that man that seemed to be their leader, however, the two Brunos on either side had frozen, hands halfway to a nicely placed bulge near the backs of their pants.

"Don't play coy with me, Jeremy. You've run from the law long enough." The man walked forward, until he was level with your gun, then until it was flush against his chest. "The law doesn't make exceptions, Mr. 'Ashecroft'. We were told you'd be here, knocking on the door of this boarded-up joint and – just as we were ready to go – you come along and make it worth it!"

This guy was nuts. And a cop. Two things that, paired together, made a bad combination. Either way, you'd never used the name Ashecroft. It seemed like he didn't recognize you by sight; in fact, he had only known you by the place that you had appeared. If you played your cards right, you might be able to get out of this mess.


----


"Dr." Imani Chausika
Chicago, 1932, 4:59 PM


The young man seemed nearly paralyzed by your presence, something that struck you as a little strange – but you'd seem sillier things from white folk like him, so you took it in stride.

After seeing you pick up his papers for a moment, the young man sprung to action, hastily picking up the rest of his things while making sure not to touch you.

"So kiddo. Boyo. Amigo, whatcha game, whatcha name?"

The boy's face contorted, years of being pushed around contending with years of conditioned racism until, finally, the voice of authority won out.

"Erin J. Davies III, Junior Clerk at Nebula, First – " He cut himself off, just a little too late for you to avoid hearing a juicy detail. This young 'Erin' worked at the same corporation you were about to make a fortune off of. Looks like fate had smiled on you again; now you had a little bird to squeeze.


----


James "Sonny" Luciano
Alveare
Chicago, 1932, 5:44 PM


His grip was like an iron bar. It didn't hurt you, and he wasn't squeezing particularly hard, but you could feel the muscle rippling under his skin. For someone who looked so frail, it seemed that there was more to him than what met the eye.

He accepted the compliment with a cheerful smile, tugging on his beard as your hands separated. He had a vain streak, clearly.

"Yes, yes, I tried to match it well. They call this bar 'Alveare' – Italian for honey, as they say. It was only a gift, so I could not try my best."

He chuckled with you as you pulled out a cigar and offered it to him, raising his deceptively weak-looking arms. "No, no, my boy, I could not," His hand covered his eyes as the other reached for the cigar. "I could not possibly accept!"

...Regardless, Barca had taken the cigar and was comfortably rolling it around his mouth with practiced ease. He seemed a little reluctant to speak further, but your generosity had softened him up enough to speak.

"Before I do, my boy, I must make sure. You are known as James Luciano also, no?"

[Nihilm]

Zachariah Bashevis
Chicago, 1932, 4:38 PM

"Don't play coy with me, Jeremy. You've run from the law long enough."

The law? This man was a cop, a very confused one as well as the case may have been.

The man walked forward, until he was level with your gun, then until it was flush against his chest.

"The law doesn't make exceptions, Mr.. 'Ashecroft'. We were told you'd be here, knocking on the door of this boarded-up joint and – just as we were ready to go – you come along and make it worth it!"

It would appear I am being mistaken as Jeremy Ashecroft, somebody who was also said to be here at this time and date. Could he have something to do with why I was instructed to come here? Sadly this doesn’t help solve the matter at hand.

The air was frozen for a few seconds and the tension grew as Zachariah took a few seconds before answering.

“Detective you seem to be mistaken, I am not Jeremy Ashecroft, in fact I came here to meet mr.Ashecroft, but it would seem we were both misled. I have no ill will towards you, so I suggest we go on our separate ways before this turns ugly”

He made a gesture reminding the detective he was still the person holding the gun.

Hopefully the cop would see reason and this would end in a peaceful resolution, the last thing I need is to get a cop killer reputation the first day here.

[Mooncake]

Alphonse Beauregard
Chicago, 1932, 4:17 PM

"Far as I know, only one way to get this hand in one deck at one time. So I'll beg your pardon and ask what are you even trying to pull here."

The girl smiled at you, clearly not understanding – rather, pretending not to understand what you were saying. Pulling the cards back to her, she showed them to you again, and there it was, plain as day. There were five cards in her hand, two fours, a three, and a single ace. Your eyes hadn't fooled you, though. Something was clearly up with this girl.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Beauregard," You hadn't told her your name. "I was just having some fun." She smiled at you, beaming happiness that surely would have charmed a weaker man's heart. But you, you were well-versed in the deception people played, and were not fooled by her fake smile.

"I just wanted to see if you had something, Mister! But you don't, so it's not that fun. Here," She pushed the key over to you. "This is for that favor of yours." How on earth did she know about that? As a matter of fact, wasn't this going too fast?

"It'll let you in to Alveare. That's where they told you to go, right?"

This girl... this wasn't adding up. Something was definitely wrong with her, somehow. Your eyes hadn't lied to you, and the instinct you'd gained over the years sure wasn't either. This sweet looking dame was a viper in disguise.


----


Rita Schultz
Chicago, 1932, 4:17 PM


Her body is very cold. That is the first thing you realize when you close your arms around her small frame. Her heart is weak, like a dying bird, and pounds slowly against your chest. Her own, frail arms slowly encircle yours, and she leans into you, slowly at first, and then all at once.

Even though it had been many years, even though it was clear she was in agony, even though you had fled your house and abandoned your name, your sister had never stopped loving you, not even once.

"Let him drown in his pride, Null. You need not stay on that sinking ship."

She shook her head against you, holding you tighter. You both knew that there was no chance of escape for her, no matter how much she wished for it. In fact... you blinked. There was something wet falling against your shoulder, something warm and small. No words passed between you further, as your sister clung to you again, silently crying into your shoulder.

"And I too believe that tomorrow will arrive, dear sister. All we must do is keep struggling."

Null held on to you for another second, then two, then four, before finally letting go. Her pale blue eyes glistened softly in the evening light, but she smile at you, and gently touched your cheek. Even though she could not speak, you knew what she was saying.'

I love you.

Good luck.

With that, your sister drew away and made to leave. The dragon still called to her, and unlike you, she had no choice to answer. The punishment for her failure would be severe, but she would not – could not – bring you with her. She loved you too much for that.----


----


Zachariah Bashevis
Chicago, 1932, 4:41 PM

“Detective, you seem to be mistaken, I am not Jeremy Ashecroft, in fact I came here to meet Mr. Ashecroft, but it would seem we were both misled. I have no ill will towards you, so I suggest we go on our separate ways before this turns ugly.”

As soon as you'd said that, you knew you'd made a mistake. The detective's smile widened until it looked like his face would split in half. One of the half-bit goons in the suits though, signaled to his boss, and that smile promptly disappeared. He looked at you with narrowed eyes.

"Anyone who was going to meet our mutual friend is clearly not a man to be trusted. There's no reason to meet with the most elusive fence in Chicago unless you want to sell, or buy from him. Unless..." Ah – you got the feeling that he was about to jump to conclusions again.

"You wanted to kill him yourself."

You had absolutely no idea what this man was going on about, but as long as he thought you weren't a threat, you wouldn't have to worry about putting a bullet in his hide. He motioned for his sidekicks to put their guns away, and after a moment's hesitation, you did the same.

"Now, look here, boy. I can't condone any mobsters, any vigilantes, you understand, but if you're after this man to give him a nice dose of lead poisoning, I'll turn the eye, you got that?" His lines were straight out of ten cent pulp fiction – but if you could harness this delusion for yourself, it wouldn't be so bad. He looked above you, and smirked.

"Also, boy, I'm pretty sure you're at the wrong place. There hasn't been a soul here for twenty years. You're looking for," A grimace, even though the cop was speaking freely. "That little jazz club, Alveare."

[Leftovers]

Matylda Fiala
Chicago, 1932, 6:12

Never before had she been in a place so full of energy such as this. Oh sure, some of the busier days at the protectory might have come close in terms of activity, but that was a franticness born of sheer numbers; the air in this little bar veritably pulsed in a frenzy of sound, colour, and movement. It was an atmosphere that could sweep you off your feet the second you let yourself fall into its flow, as was evident by the sharp-dressed men and women dancing to the beat of a high-tempo swing; in a word, intoxicating.

Of course, that was no less due to the free-flowing alcohol that tinged the air with its distinctive waft. And at the center of it all, the man who doled it out like a priest offering the Communion wine to the ever-congregating clients. If not for the salvation of their souls, then at least for the next best thing.

That said, he was her best chance to get to where she was supposed to be. And that definitely wasn't near this whirlwind of raw emotion, to be eyed like Clara Bow herself had stepped into the establishment.

Though, as she moved closer, Matylda wasn't sure talking to the barman would feel much different.

"Can I help you with something, doll? You look like you've been working – c'mon now, sit down, have a drink on the house."

With narrowed eyes, a snappy reply was ready at her lips, but...

At a speakeasy like this, I don't think they would particularly worry about breaking the Act.

Considering that point, she held her tongue; and the pony-tailed barkeep, almost as if he knew her trail of thought, met her eyes with an easy smirk.

"Shoot at me, Molly. What's a ritzy dame like yourself doing in a place like this?"

Making a show out of straightening out her uniform, Matylda met the bartender's gaze squarely, her left arm holding the ornate key between the two of them.

"That depends on what this means to you."

[Bloble]

Rita Schultz
Chicago, 1932, 4:17 PM

"...wait."

A small thing. An inconsequential thing. In terms of worth, it has limited value.

To me, it might as well be priceless.

"Here," I take Null's cold hand and deposit something small into it. "Think of it, and remember us."

I shouldn't be giving it away. This is one of the few things I have that can keep me from zero a little while longer. And yet I don't think I could trade it for life, even if the alternative was death. You, however, are the only one who can understand the meaning as much as I.

"Tell 'father' this isn't his. It belongs to those who were left behind. And tell him that I'm keeping the dress."

A simple golden ring. The ring he gave me. Now, I know it's time to part with it. Take it, Sister. Do not forget the years we shared. Even if you should pass on, go knowing you are not alone.

"Good... goodbye, sister."

I burn that sad smile into my mind and turn away.

When I turn back, I know you'll be gone.

And I'll be staring at zero.

[Verg Avesta]

James "Sonny" Luciano
Alveare
Chicago, 1932, 5:45 PM

James chuckled lightly at the antics of the old-timer as he slyly took one of the cigars. While there was certain things that ringed alarm bells in his head, especially when it concerned the key that was the source of so much interest, James couldn't deny he liked the cut of this old-timer's jib. He was a funny old bird, sure, but James had seen weirder things during his life.

"Before I do, my boy, I must make sure. You are known as James Luciano also, no?"

That question, however, froze James up for a moment. His eyes locked with those of the old man, and for a moment, the jovial atmosphere around the middle-aged man completely vanished. James didn't like when people unknown to him recognized him before proper introductions. There were only few explanations in those cases, and when it came to here, only one explanation that was good. In other words, bad far outweighed the good.

However...

"I guess ya could call me that, old-timer," James said, lighting Barca's cigar with his rather beaten-up lighter. "James Luciano, Sonny, Miami Palooka... every name is right, I suppose. It points at the same man, anyways."

Now, lighting up his own cigar, James' jovial tone turned a bit more into steel as he continued speaking.

"But that raises a question, rag-a-muffin," James said. "Ain't not many people here who ought to know that name. So, what gives?"

[Nihilm]

Zachariah Bashevis
Chicago, 1932, 4:43 PM

"Now, look here, boy. I can't condone any mobsters, any vigilantes, you understand, but if you're after this man to give him a nice dose of lead poisoning, I'll turn the eye, you got that? Also, boy, I'm pretty sure you're at the wrong place. There hasn't been a soul here for twenty years. You're looking for that little jazz club, Alveare."

After this lunatic cop had finished talking, Zach gave him a big grin.

“I am glad we’re on the same page here and thanks for the tip, how about we forget this ever happened and move on with our lives?”

I hope this is the last time I have to talk to this guy again….

Zachariah took a look at where the man pointed and started moving towards the club, after a few steps he took a suspicious look behind him at the detective to make sure they weren’t following.

Now let’s see what all of this is actually about.

[Mooncake]

Matylda Fiala
Chicago, 1932, 6:14

"That depends on what this means to you."

The bartender grimaced, his easy face rapidly turning into a scowl, stacking cups and filling new ones as he peered at the key you had. There had been some other people with the key in hand, but theirs were slightly different from yours – for instance, there was no bee tending to its hive upon them.

"I don't know what you think you're," He breaks off for a second, and comes back to his sentence after a sudden swarm of old hands swirls around the master of the place, the scowl wiped off his face and the winning charm back in place. After a minute, the crowds die down enough that he is able to lean over to you, settling on a neutral expression.

"Look, doll, I've got people to serve. I don't know why someone like you got mixed up in whatever that guy's cooking, but he's upstairs with some fancy looking torpedo man. Now, why don't you just scram, ok? Whatever you want, I don't have a part in it."

He points you towards the wrought-iron staircase in the back and promptly turns his own back to you, fetching more glasses from racks on the shelf. It's only when you see his hands tremble a little that you understand why he had suddenly become so short with you.

Something wasn't adding up here – but it was too late now. You couldn't have turned back even if you had wanted to.



-------



James "Sonny" Luciano
Alveare
Chicago, 1932, 6:00 PM



Barca cracked his neck, a little shuffle to one side, a little shuffle to the next.

"Ah, good, good. I have to, " There it was again, that undeniably foreign accent. For such an eccentric Dutchman, he didn't seem as amusing as he had before. The blue eyes that had warmly twinkled were now as hard as steel. "Confirm it, yes? I have to confirm before using the key. Very tricky to separate between who knows and who does not."

He grinned at you, puffing merrily on his cigar.

"You know, yes? I am sorry for that. I have to be sure."

You uneasily complied with his next request, which was that the two of you move outside the room – but not before asking for your golden key. Suitably on guard, you followed, hand ever-so-lightly caressing that special something you kept tucked away to your side. Turning around and closing the door, the old man jabbed the key and awkwardly fumbled around with it for a moment before the click, swinging it open again.

That was all it was.

Nothing flashy, no words, nothing really major.

But, when Barca opened the door... the room had completely changed. Instead of the barstools it was smooth leather, black, comfortable. There was a glass table in the middle of the chairs and couches, elegantly rimmed with gold. A bottle of scotch – a good year, you absently noted – sat on the countertop, a plethora of crystal glasses surrounding it.

Barca looked just as surprised as you were, though for a different reason.

"I do not remember this," He tugged nervously on his beard. "This space is new. When I set it up before it was only stools."



-------



Zachariah Bashevis
Chicago, 1932, 5:20 PM

“I am glad we’re on the same page here and thanks for the tip, how about we forget this ever happened and move on with our lives?”

The cop raised his hands in the air, grinning, and shooed you along. You looked back only a few steps later to find him still staring at – when your eye caught his, the cop gave you a little wave and turned away, the two goons next to him following in his wake. Shaking your head, you started up again, gun in your pocket, eyes down. You weren't going to get into that mistake again, that's for sure.

You kept walking, heading towards the street that you had been pointed too. Unfortunately, life had a funny message to pass on to you, and it seems you wouldn't be getting your peaceful, uninterrupted way.

"Hey! Hey, you! I see you, palooka! Get 'im!"

A man in a dazzlingly-white suit ran past you, throwing his bag to the side as Franklins poured out of his coat pockets. Your eyes widened in disbelief – this much could feed you and Maria for a solid month! Only a second later a storm of roughnecks swept by, cleaning the money right off of the street, in hot pursuit... but they'd left that innocent looking case behind.

Might be more of the same in there, eh?