Vesdel remained unphased, leaning back in his seat and searching his addled brain for answers. This was all about the Darokin fugitive, so long as he wasn't a target he was in the clear right? Besides, he didn't fear for his own safety, this fugitive would have to be pretty creative to top the horrors he lived and died through.

"Heh Strhange? S'not strhange tha's jhust lahfe. Mimimisshes Assshby dihishappeared a chouple weheks bahk bhut so hass that Mahark boy at thhheh chotton mhill she keheps makin ahyes at, they prohhly juhst rhan off together. Ihf this fhugitive's weaahrin hisss thinkin cap youhoo prolly won't notishe anythihing just yet, he's proholly layin low. Buhut if I hhhhhear or sssee anythihin unussssual youh'll behe the firssst to know. I promise"

If he could he probably would have finished that off with a sly wink.

Just a couple of disappearances, huh? Maybe he wasn’t here yet? If he was, Bojan was sure at least a few people would have turned up dead, unless he had stuck to feeding on spirits, but, all the same, that was assuming he hadn’t fallen further into depravity . . . This would be so much easier if he was allowed to use his senses in town, but, no, without permission, that was impossible.

Oh, right. Vesdel Vivisan was still here, wasn’t he?

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Bojan apologized as he instinctively offered his hand out to Vesdel, “I was lost in thought for a second; that’ll be all, Mr. Vivisan. Thanks for your time - oh, and try not to wander around at night. He would probably be most active around then.”

Bojan would regret reaching his hand out to Vesdel, because it would probably be the most disgusting handshake he ever had. Like Vesdel was wrapping Bojan's hand in old burnt breaded chicken skin.

"Awww thahanks fer cahring mahte. Dontchu wohorry bout me.Ahve gohot mah ahye on the phatch of errgrehen trehes in tha pahark, looks like a nahce sphaht. Pleahessshure speakhing to ya."

He bent his knees downwards until he could reach underneath the table, fished out his accordion and suitcase, set them on the table and began packing.

"Hope ye didnae pahay toho much fer the shervihice. Rrrhotten bahstahrd." He was of course referring to the inn keeper who failed to bring them any drinks.

Hm?

Bojan wasn't visibly put off by the texture and feel of Vesdel's hand; although, he couldn't help but . . . -

"Likewise, Mr. Vivisan - take care, and remember: If you can think of or hear anything you think I might want to know, feel free to pay me a visit; have a good one."

Around a half-minute after Vesdel’s departure, Bojan Myaskovsky propped his head up on the palm of his hand and smiled to himself; it was a cruel, amused smile.

“Noemi?”

There was a moment or two of silence before noisy chatter and static, sounds that originated from the small metallic sphere housed in his left ear canal, played through Bojan’s head, and, a second after, Noemi’s familiar, hollow voice intoned:



“We’ll need an agent here to send one Vesdel Vivisan on his way,” Bojan said as he peered down at the hand he had used to bid Vesdel farewell.



“Yes.”

The two-way feed between he and his handler died shortly after, but that only brought a confused serving girl, who only recently came to be standing over his table, to Bojan’s attention:

“Um, sir?”

“Just set the drinks down,” he said before shooing her away. The rest of the night would be spent socializing, making friends (and enemies) with the people of Duland and confirming what Vesdel had told him. Poor sap was lucky to not have been eaten, himself. Assuming his target was in Duland, of course.

Night time was a personal favourite of Vesdel's. Sunshine was nice for perfectly healthy people, but he had to say, he much enjoyed the cool darkness of night over the burning bright seering heat of the day. It wasn't bedtime just yet, on his way to the park he planned on enjoying his walk (or hobble) and maybe even dip his feet in the pond before laying beneath the fragrant pine trees...

That's when he realized he was the only one out here. Why would someone say goodnight unless they were leaving too? Vesdel looked behind him through the inn window, at their seat. Bojan was still there, drinking.

"Sunnofa.." He muttered to himself.

He wiggled his suitcase and listened to the satisfying jingle of coins. No matter, it wasn't a complete loss. He'll get his information...for a price.

For the next day and a half, the fake detective, Bojan Myaskovsky, busied himself by cultivating - in record time, he would say - a local reputation of the sorts that would, without a doubt, go on to spawn an outrageously exaggerated legend some years down the line. Probably. For a whole thirty-six hours, Bojan appeared to be everywhere in the town of Duland, one moment he was helping a child look for its mother, and the next, like it was nothing, he was driving off a pack of feral dogs, and, at one point, he even started (and won) a barroom brawl with the odds stacked heavily against him. Along with his good deeds, too, did money flow, and it seemed that nearly every establishment was getting some of his attention, merchants were openly vying for his favor, in fact, and he happily gave it - to all of them. Limitless gold, silver, and copper freely given. At least, that’s what everyone thought . . . Unfortunately, reality would prove a tad bit harsher, and, upon his eventual departure from the town, nearly all of the money spent by Bojan would mysteriously disappear.

Well, that was the reward for greed . . .

Once night came, however, he retired to his rooms in the quaint, nameless inn to reflect on the day’s work. There were still some more things to do and entertainment to be had, but . . . As things stood he just couldn’t afford to be out on this particular night.


The night’s air was cool and a light misting was blowing in with the wind. Yes, a good, calm night following an unnaturally exciting, eventful day.

The next breeze held the sudden sounds of machinery: Metallic clanking, whirring and banging. They weren’t loud, but they were audible - a curiosity; then there were foot steps, uneven, one after the other, and each one was a tap followed by a pronounced thud.

The sounds persisted for nearly five minutes, getting closer and closer to the park, to the bench, before they stopped, a momentary pause, followed by a sigh, and, once again, they resumed up until the silhouette of a man appeared and stopped.

“Ah!” The silhouette gave a start and took a step back with its - his? - leg nosily compensating for the sudden movement. “O-oh, oh my - Good evening? You there, ah, um, I mean, can you hear me? You really shouldn‘t be here - ah, but not in this park - I mean, I really need to send you.”

Vesdel was relaxing on the park bench, sitting upright with his head reclined back, eyes closed, soaking up the feeling of the mist wafting over his face, inhaling the cool air deeply, lost in his own strange tumultuous mess of thoughts. The last 36 hhours had been unusually busy, he managed to obtain the means to repair his instrument and fix it, even stopped by the orphanage for a bite to eat. All in a good days work, he deserved this rest. He hadn't seen that Bojan guy in awhile though, wonder what that was about?

His thoughts were interrupted by an approaching clanking sound. It came closer and closer until it reached the park bench. It was a man who was somehow startled by him even though he was the one coming in his direction.

"Ah cahn haer yah but I cahn't unnahstahnd ya. What're yeh tahlkihing abhout?"

There was a momentary pause in conversation as the silhouetted figure took another few (uneven and shaky as they were) steps further towards Vesdel and into the moonlight. Just as his voice let on, he was a man, slim and slender, and not at all intimidating; he wore an unbuttoned, black suit over a scarlet, double breasted waistcoat; a white, button-down shirt and black trousers; and, at least on one foot, a laced shoe with the toes ending in a subtle, round point. Alarmingly, this man also appeared to be the source of the noisy mechanical sounds from before. With just standing, every odd second was accompanied by soft whirring or a clank, but larger movements, such as walking or lifting his arm, resulted in much, much louder sounds as his right arm and leg sought compensation.

With a white-gloved hand, the man pushed a pair of spectacles up the bridge of his nose and leaned in towards Vesdel to better look at him.

“I have to send you . . .” He repeated. “You’re dead, . . . and, um, it’s my job to send you to - well, you know, send you to wherever you’re supposed to go. You can’t stay here anymore. Just stand there, alright? I-I’m not very good at this.”

The man, a bit more confidently than he spoke, started walking towards Vesdel, and, once more, lifted his hand up, but this time it was to touch the vagrant musician rather than readjust his glasses.

“Don’t worry, I just have to touch you; it won’t take long at all.”

The man's story about him being already dead, didn't seen to concern him but rather intrigue him. He didn't believe it for a second of course, not without good cause or explanation, but if this man could explain himself he'd be more than willing to listen. He also didn't know they perfected artificial life forms yet, but there was no way they could program that level of social anxiety into an android. If he was real, just how much of him was mechanised? Hopefully his mind was still flesh and blood, otherwise this wouldn't work.

Mind you he had no idea why he was doing this in the first place. The man's presence caused him great unease, like it activated his fight or flight instinct, he felt threatened even though this man was hardly imposing, and he was in no condition to run so,

"Dehead? Johb? Cohould you pleassse exshpand on thaht a lihitle? Ahm naht quihite fahhlowing youh."

He put his hefty suitcase in his lap, and opened it revealing an even heftier instrument. Strapped onto his body it was like a 50 pound shield of metal and wood, but he wasn't going to use it as a weapon, especially not after he worked so hard to repair it. No, he was just going to play a little song and hopefully the man would tell him exactly what he wanted to know.

The man furrowed his brow, tilted his head ever so slightly, and, with his index finger extended, held up his left hand; he was just about to say something when the color bled from his face and he instinctively took a step back away from Vesdel.

“Y-you can’t . . . “

Horror cemented itself on his face and his tone of voice grew shaky, softer, and confused. He had felt it before the music even started and knew, too, that he could have fought it, once upon a time, but now, now he was too weak for that . . . Even for this, a low level voleur d’ame that barely knew what it was doing.

The half-man’s thoughts and freewill didn’t so much as die as become considerably more numb and open to suggestion; and his sense of urgency and fear subsided even as his mental and spiritual defenses crumbled to nothing.

“You died.”

Simple and straightforward: No nervousness, no anxiety, and especially no deceit.

“Sensemann,” the man spoke in Vesdel’s tongue without the slightest hint of accent. “Your people call us that and, like in the stories, it is our job to send the souls of the deceased on to their final resting place,” he explained, “and that is why I must send you.”

Once more, although considerably more sluggish, the man lifted his arm and regained his lost step from before, and made to advance further, unless Vesdel stopped him or asked more questions.

"Ssssso it'sss true then..."

Perfect, so that's the technicalities of it eh? The fine print if these reapers were to have a contract of sort. Even though he had died come back from the grave, being out of it didn't make you any more alive. They weren't joking when they said that death was permanent. So what was he then? A ghost? A more solid, physical ghost. That would explain why he needed more than just 3 square meals to stay...tangible. He'd been to Hell once and he certainly didn't fancy going back again, or being escorted by these reapers.

Instead tune seemed to pick up tempo and increase in volume, bouncing along on more chipper notes as his mood elated and the grin expanded on the better half of his face. No, that's right he'd been dead, he'd been to Hell, what was the worse that could happen now? He may as well have his cake and eat it too.

" Ahnd Whehere ahre all the hothhhher Sssssensssemahan son? Whehere do thhey cohme from? Ssssihing forrr mhee."

He was expecting a spectacular performance.

There was a brief mental struggle between the man and Vesdel's control, but the Reaper soon gave in and stopped, lowered his raised hand to his chest, and, once more, began answering Vesdel's questions - in what was surprisingly a very flexible tenor:



Accompanied by a cacophony of sounds, the man's right hand opened and closed, and muscles that no longer existed flexed invisibly; for a moment, he was somber and almost conscious of what was happening, and then it was gone and once more he was nothing but Vesdel's puppet.



His was a distinctly youthful voice, suddenly colorful and powerful, but not quite mature or booming; although the man was no lyricist, his voice was, at least, pleasing, and, with enough practice and training, maybe even marketable. Of course, he was a guide for souls and would probably never seek vocal training of any sorts. Assuming he survived this ordeal.



There was a sudden catch in the man’s voice as, subconsciously, at least, he realized something was wrong, and that he was sharing far too much information with Vesdel Vivisan. Already, he had broken enough rules to not just be expelled from the organization, but be very severely punished in other ways too; he would not have even gotten away with using Vesdel’s manipulations as an excuse. Both he and the Voleur d’ame were in quite a bit of trouble.

"HAHAHAHAHA RHEALLY!? ARE YOU SEHERRIOUSSS!?"

Vesdel couldn't believe what he was hearing. Real honest to goodness news about the afterlife straight from Death's employees was a rare gem, hard to come by and unbelievable, but now he knew it to be true! The realm in between bards sang about, that poets wrote about in his very own music conservatory, the Realm of Nothingness was an actual place, and the very source of the reapers pursuing him!

Of course he had no idea how to get to Purgatory, but he would find a way, and he bet a reaper's soul was much more nourishing than orphaned children and besides, apparently he would have his fill of reapers here, all looking for him, all coming right up to him. What was this an soul delivery service?

Inside Vesdel laughed at his own unfunny joke.

No, of course not. He'd have to be careful, he didn't know what he was going to do with this kind of information, why he even asked or how he planned to carry any of this out, but at this point he was just enjoying himself and his new friend.

"Suhuch a beautiful vohooicccce. Perfect!"

At this point Vesdel stood up and stepped a safe distance away from the reaper, still playing his music he gave his new friend his final instructions before he left.

"Forget our encounter and my face but remember my tune, meet me in front of City Hall tomorrow at noon."

After a few moments, it would be blatantly obvious that the man - no, the reaper - was not going to actually go anywhere and would stand there, a blank expression permanently held on his face, until Vesdel, himself, finally got the hint, and left. All and all, the Voleur d'ame's orders would be followed but there was some subconscious resistance to leaving the area. Regardless, once Vesdel left, the blank look faded from the man's features, and he gave a start, nearly falling over and to the ground.

"Oh." He stared over next the empty bench and scratched at the side of his head. He had been positive he felt the spiritual presence in the area, maybe someone drawn to the park, perhaps, but . . . No, it was empty. Maybe there was a fluctuation in the area or something, he decided.

There was a sudden electric tingle prickling the back of his neck that told the man that his time was nearly up and it had taken longer to get to the park than he had realized; it didn't sound right, but, well, things were what they were.

From the inside of his trouser's pockets, he produced a metallic, seamless oval and slid his hand across its surface, which, somehow, brought the lid across to reveal two metal bands, with the middle band dented inwards, and a couple of odd spheres with symbols in their middle.

It was archaic stuff, one of the first made, in fact, but the older technology had proven a bit more reliable when used in conjunction with his arm and leg than the newer devices made by Zaki Sa’id. Unfortunate, indeed.



Noemi’s hollow voice crackled and filtered out from the center of the device. She had been assigned to operations in the area by the before mentioned Zaki Sa’id to keep as few people as was possible in the know of what was going on.



What happened? “It isn’t here,” Basil replied and a shrug that Noemi couldn’t see accompanied his words. “Guess I’m still . . . Well, do you want me to keep searching tonight?”



And the device went silent. Basil stood there for a long moment before putting the thing away and then looked up to the night sky.

He really hated Bojan Myaskovsky.

Vesdel would learn to hate Bojan Myaskovsky just as much. The man had already lured him into a false sense of security by offering him drinks, and he even revealed his favourite snoozing spot to the man who was no doubt one of the reapers Basil sang of! Private detective my ass, son of a bitch!

He'd have pick one of his less liked spots to sleep in tonight, he had to rest up, he had a big show ahead of him tomorrow.



*****************

The toolshed behind the scrapheap wasn't so so bad. It was safe, secure, quiet and even comfortable with some of the bits of couch cushions and blankets Vesdel managed to snatch from the heap, and he even ate a proper breakfast! Using his freshly acquired skills, the inn-keeper suddenly had a change of heart and decided he did enjoy Vesdel's playing afte rall, even though he'd never remember it. Heck, Vesdel wasn't sure if he even needed food to survive now that he was some kind of ghost and all, but bacon, eggs, hash browns, and fresh fruit were still delicious dead or alive. What would make this day even better would be if his little machinated nightingale actually showed up for their scheduled appointment. Sitting on the bottom of the steps of city hall, he kept his eyes peeled and ears open for any sight or clanking sounds of his partner.