- Day 1 -
-- "Crossroad Blues" --
I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city,
And I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
So proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
-Carl Sandburg
Rita Schultz (Bloble)
Chicago, 1932, 4:23 PM
It's a gentle train. Nothing like the iron beasts that took you out of your home, or towed you across the sea, ripping you out of gentleness. No, this train is slow and steady, the last of dying breed that puffed its way across the tracks. In some small way, as it lets you out into the station, you could sympathize.
You know exactly how it feels.
You've long since mastered the art of ignoring the stares that your wedding dress gives; or did you never notice them to begin with? At least in this city, people leave you alone, enough that a small space opens in the crowd around you. The paper in your hand, in that moment, is the only thing that seems real.
Its solidity is oddly reassuring, and you take another look.
It's a short note.Alveare
Five in the afternoon
Don't be late
Reading the English on the station signs gave you little trouble, and you could see a map on the attendant's desk, so finding your way didn't appear like it would be terribly difficult. There was always the option to examine the stores within the station, but-
Ah.
You didn't exactly need it, did you?
----
Josephine "Joe" Huang (Leftovers)
Chicago, 1932, 4:30 PM
You lowered your bat.
The man on the ground looked like he was going to say something.
You raised your bat again, and he fell silent. It was hard to blame him, considering his friend wouldn't be walking any time some after the number you pulled on him. You'd decided to find this Alveare place the best way you knew how, but you'd be damned if you asked some buzzer for help, so here you were.
With honest folk.
"Fucking chinks."
He caught your eye and winced, a hand pressed to the bruise that was already forming on his side.
"I'm sorry, Miss Chink, ma'am," He was practically spitting by now. "We ain't got money to give to a basket case like you."
Pretty odd, considering they were the ones who tried to jump you, but alley rules made it easy to fudge the details. Still, it was up to you to get the goods here, or, well...
Laying him out with a double hitter could always come first.
----
Angelica Alvey (Satehi)
Chicago, 1932, 4:52 PM
The clock by the fountain told you five o' clock was closing in.
You'd never been here before, but you'd been to plenty of cites in the past years, enough that they seemed to blend into each other, over and over again. They had the same manic energy, even if they were all a little different from each other.
That's why it was a little strange to see an old man sitting on the fountain bench, feeding the pigeons that gathered around.
It was a little island almost completely swallowed by the chaos around you, but for all that, you two were the only ones in the concrete square.
Alveare had to be close by, whatever it was.
You could look, or you could ask.
----
Roy Wickham (Arkturus)
Chicago, 1932, 4:29 PM
Hate.
It burned in your chest like a little flame, searing a brand onto the pavement with each step. Probation, they'd said, and a few vacation days. A little slap on the wrist and all would be well. They could smile all they wanted, you'd have the last laugh-
You breathed out through your nose, nice and slow.
They'd taken everything from you.
Months of work, of models, of theories, all in their grubby little hands, leaving only the sketches in your head. You didn't want to think about how far you'd been set back. But it was only a setback, because you'd make them pay for it even if you had to sweat so hard you'd bleed.
An idle glance around the station calmed you down, a bit.
The layout wasn't bad. There was a small cafe, a bakery, a newsstand, and an attendant's desk. A hotdog shop, too, if you wanted a heart attack in a bun.
Naturally, the trains were what got your attention. There'd been a bit of a holdup before you'd gotten off, and now you could see why.
You'd come in on a steamer, a Nebula design. Nothing fancy, nothing like what you'd been working on, but even through your hate you could grudgingly acknowledge it.
The other train in the station was old-school, running on coal and sheer determination. They'd been almost completely removed from the rails, but here she sat, the last of her age in all her wrought-iron glory. In a way, it felt like she was sticking it to companies like Nebula, and in your current mood that was something you could celebrate.
You had some time to kill before you headed to find this Alveare, at least.
Would you grab a bite to eat, or get out now? That was the question.