~MOVEMENT I: THE CLOCKWORK MAIDEN~

The girl would look more at home in Citrea Viridia than she does in Omen. But even there, Nemesis feels, she would be on the receiving end of quite the menagerie of nasty looks.

Blond hair in a long braid, far too long to reasonably manage. Simple white dress tied with a purple sash; soaked in dirt and sweat. No shoes. Her feet are bleeding all over the cobblestones, red liquid splattering onto the steps of the bookstore.

Even Theory Hayes can’t let someone who looks like that be.

The girl is ushered in as Theory mumbles concernedly under her breath. Does this girl know how long it’s going to take her to remove all that blood from the carpeting, she asks, how she’ll likely have to keep Beaumort’s closed because of it, how much this inconveniences her at every possible angle?

Nemesis, in the meanwhile, waits for her to sit down so he can catch a glimpse of the soles of her feet. Despite the circumstances, he’d not like to become known as the sort of person who asks to see people’s feet, and the mere action of needing to look at them, all reason aside, makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Regardless, he gets the information he needs: she’s undoubtedly stepped on something sharp at some point or another, like a bed of nails or a massive cheese-grater (or, more realistically, she’s been running on many, many sidewalks). The bottoms of her feet are both lacerated, horribly so, enough that he feels a pang of pain simply looking at them.

“Who are you? Why... why did you come here? Where from?” He asks, without the force of an interrogation, but she still flinches at the questions.

“My name is Calisto. Or... Callie. My brother called me Callie. My brother - my brother told me I had to leave. He didn’t tell me why.” She frowns. “He looked scared. He never looks scared the way he did. And he told me to find an old friend of his in Omen, a guy named Apollinaire, but I couldn’t... and then... I don’t know why, but I needed to get somewhere fast, it was getting dark out.”

Nemesis grimaces. It’s certainly not the most detailed of testimonies, but he’ll work with what he can get. He doesn’t know of anyone by that name, but then again, Omen is a large city, and moreso to someone like him, who comes from a nation known for being remarkably rural. Even moreso to her, probably, wherever she’s from. Though she looks Acerbian, he doubts she’s actually from anywhere around the country - everything else about her suggests that she’s from a different culture entirely, and perhaps one that doesn’t exist.

“That’s alright. Apollinaire, you say? Your brother told you to leave? He was scared?” Perhaps the pace is a bit fast, a bit too close to comfort for an interrogation, Nemesis realizes, but he feels tense, unable to slow down.

She nods. “My brother and I live together - or, we did, for as long as I can remember. He said it was important that I never leave, or else something bad might happen... but then he kicked me out without a warning. He said it wasn’t safe anymore.”

That prompts yet more of a frown. “It wasn’t safe anymore? And then... you... came here? From where?”

“It was on an island. He had a boat there, ready, and then I made it to the docks here. I looked for Apollinaire, but everyone seemed more scared of me than anything... hardly anyone would help me. They all looked away or told me to get lost.”

As someone who was just recently lost in a new city, but with far more means than this girl, Nemesis can’t say he doesn’t sympathize. Still, something about the matter-of-fact way she’s saying it... it’s not that she doesn’t look upset, but she’s simply rattling off one word after another with all the emotion of the recorded announcements at the train station. It’s quite unsettling. “Then you’re all on your own? What’s your brother’s name? Did he tell you anything else?”

She shakes her head. “He didn’t tell me much... but his name is Art. I’m all on my own now that he’s gone…”

His frown only continues to deepen. This girl is simply far too close for comfort. “Don’t have a surname, Callie?”

“A surname?”

His eyebrows crease. “You know. The second part of your name. Your family name. Like her,” he points at Theory. “Theory Hayes. Given name Theory, surname Hayes.” Theory glares at him. He somehow gets the sense she doesn’t enjoy being pointed at.

“My name is... Callisto Burns. That’s what he told me.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know much. About anything. Just that I had to leave.”

Nemesis has to stare at her for a solid moment, before tipping his cap with a sigh. “Well, then. As I’ve said, her name is Theory Hayes. She owns this bookstore. My name is Nemesis Jones. I suppose that makes us formally acquainted.” He pauses, trying to gauge her reaction (at present, entirely indifferent, as though the significance of a formal introduction is entirely lost on her). “Theory owns this bookstore. I’m a private investigator, and I live here.”

“Just because I took in one lodger,” Theory says, voice low and perhaps threatening, “Doesn’t mean I’ll take another.”

“I’ll pay for her,” Nemesis offers immediately.

“You can’t possibly.”

“Try me.”

“Unfortunately, you and your inexplicable wealth have convinced me.” She sighs, running a hand through her sheet of black hair. “She can stay, for the time being. But I want you to find this Apollinaire character as promptly as you can. Having you living in my house is trouble enough.”

Nemesis sighs, somewhere between sheepish and tired. “Alright... though I can’t imagine I’m that bad.” Theory’s immediate shake of the head makes it clear that they differ on that point. “I’ll go looking for them tomorrow. It’s too late today.”

Theory begrudgingly seems to accept that, glancing at the girl with the closest semblance of pity Nemesis has yet seen from her. “Be careful not to get blood on my carpets,” she says, seemingly as a form of encouragement.

Callie, unsurprisingly, doesn’t seem encouraged, practically cowering as Theory turns off the lamp outside of her bedroom, leaving the two in shadow. Nemesis, trying his best to not seem as pensive as he’s been coming across so far, cracks a thin smile that he hopes is reassuring. Unfortunately, he’s never been the best at reassuring people, and Callie seems entirely unaffected.

“Scared of the dark?” She gives a shaky, nervous nod in response, and he chuckles lightly. “Me, personally, I’m not scared of the dark. I always liked it. Good for hiding in. But that’s the thing about it that’s scary, too, huh? See, though, being a private eye, the unknown doesn’t scare me so much as it entices me. I see it as a challenge. The things in the dark, they’re hidden from me, but I’m also hidden from them. Which of us is going to be found out first? I don’t intend for it to be me.”

Based on the look on her face, she doesn’t read him at all. And that’s okay. He knows most people are scared of the dark. “I’m scared of other things, though. Everyone’s scared of something, and if they say they aren’t, they’re lying to seem tough, and they’re rather bad at it, too, and probably not very tough at all. It might sound silly, but me, personally, I’m scared of flying. Like in zeppelins. It’s usually safe, but I find it so terrifying that I can’t even bring myself to get on. I got all the way from my hometown to Omen by train.”

She blinks slowly, and when she speaks, her voice is very slow, almost unsure. “A zeppelin... is a large, floating device capable of carrying passengers, constructed by imbuing a specially-made chassis with artificial features that modify gravity around it, creating the illusion of natural flight.”

Well, she isn’t technically wrong. “You sound like you’re quoting that from a textbook. Did your brother read textbooks to you, or leave you some to read?”

She nods. “He wanted me to know about the world, even if I couldn’t experience myself... but he was an inventor, so artifice was most of what he taught me about. It was what he knew.”

Nemesis nods back. Something about what she’s saying seems like a mystery - one begging a certain genius private eye to solve it - but perhaps that thought is a little rude to express out loud, even by his rather low standards. “An inventor, you say?”

“Yes. He was always tinkering with strange designs…” She glances away, not meeting his eyes. “...I’m feeling light-headed.”

“Understandable.” She’s probably lost a decent amount of blood, now that he thinks about it. Those wounds are bleeding a lot - off the top of his head, he’d say the amount is a bit concerning, but then again, he’s just a genius, not an actual doctor. He can only hope that the blood won’t attract the Automata Lex to the bookstore. “I’ll bandage those and you should get to sleep.”

They have a convenient spare room, but it’s not set up. She’ll have to use his bed, at least for tonight. That’s fine. He’s more than happy to sleep on the couch. After all this time, it seems welcoming in a way he can’t precisely put into words - at least, not ones anyone else would understand.

His sleep that night is restless, though it isn’t Callie he thinks of, but Elias.

He gets up early the next morning to cook breakfast. Callie sleeps in - probably for the best - but Theory is up unusually bright and early, or as bright and early as her somber demeanor will allow.

“Is there a reason,” he asks, slowly and carefully eroding an egg with a spatula, “that I have the pleasure of your company on this fine morning, my dear Ms. Hayes?”

“Don’t give me that. I know this is earlier than I’m usually out of my room. And you know I hate being called ‘dear’ and ‘Ms.’” She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to meet with an associate. Guy by the name of Geoff Calloway. Dealer in antiques, so I assume you’ve met him, but he has a lot of books come through his place.”

“Right, right. I’m sorry, Theory.” The apology is genuine. He has to admit that he was doing that specifically to get a rise out of her, but she’s far less okay with the idea than Elias ever was, and he knows better than to push his luck farther. “I have, he was as useless as the others, but... don’t you have enough books already?” He gestures down at the floor below, the Hayes family’s dimly-lit emporium of texts that he could never even hope to begin to progress in reading. “I mean, I know, ‘no such thing’ and all, but you have an entire bookstore.”

She shakes her head, uncharacteristically unoffended by his prodding. Something really must have happened, he thinks to himself. Could Callie’s appearance truly have shook her so much? No, the chances of that are minuscule. “I’ve read every book down there. I read faster than you, and I’ve lived here for twenty-one years now. I’ve had plenty of time. The only time I get new material to read is when people trade in books, or when I go to Calloway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, Theory, why not simply go to the library, like a normal person?”

Wrong question, evidently, because she visibly stiffens. “... I - can’t. Um. I can, theoretically, but functionally, it would be a rather... suboptimal idea.”

Before he can ask her for any sort of clarification on what is by anyone’s standards quite the ominous statement, she opens the door and steps down into the stairwell, and in another moment the bell on the door jingles to signify her departure.

Nemesis sighs and returns to his eggs.

Callie wakes up an hour or so later, and wobbles out of her room to sit at the lone kitchen roundtable, an oak piece with legs propped up by small stacks of books - of which there is, of course, no shortage in these parts. She’s dressed in some more proper clothing, a skirt, blouse, and tights - if he had to guess, Nemesis thinks it must be some of Theory’s old clothing, which must have been left out for her. He places breakfast on the table with a soft smile, at which Callie only looks mildly confused.

“Good morning. Did you sleep okay?”

She glances apprehensively at the breakfast. “I was alright, I guess... did you cook that?”

He nods. “I know, it’s a bit out of the skillset of a normal private eye - but, I assure you that Nemesis Jones is infinitely multitalented, as any genius should be.”

She stares him directly in the eyes. “Why do you speak about yourself as though you’re a narrator describing a character in a novel?”

It’s probably the last thing he’d ever expect to be asked so forthrightly. He has to take a moment to process, to well and truly confirm that she’d said that, and even then he can scarcely believe she’d asked it, and even his mind struggles to process the meaning. It is, by all means, a simple statement, and yet he can’t make heads or tails of it. Genius, indeed.

He stammers, “Well, erm - come again?”

“You call yourself Nemesis Jones. You describe yourself like you’re an observer.” She shakes her head. “It’s weird.”

He chuckles under his breath. “... that’s probably the strangest thing ever said about me. First off, I call myself Nemesis Jones because I am Nemesis Jones. Secondly - I assure you this is simply how I speak, and I believe you’ll find many others out there with my speech patterns as well. I am not... that strange.”

“If a fact is the weirdest thing anyone’s said about you, that’s probably a good thing.” She begins to work on her breakfast, leaving Nemesis to be vaguely perplexed at her words.

It takes him several moments - long enough for her to eat what must be an entire half of an egg - to formulate his reply. “You ever hear of that saying? ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’?” he finally responds. He doesn’t manage to hide his unsettlement quite as well as he would like to.

“Is that you admitting I’m right?”

He has to admit that, now that he thinks about it, it could easily be interpreted that way from an outsider’s perspective. “No. A normal person would have just said you were right, wouldn’t he? No need to get into all these theatrics about it, a simple ‘yes’ would have done the job.”

She puts down her fork. “A normal person would have, but you wouldn’t have? That’s what I’m understanding from this conversation.” And before he can formulate a response to that, she continues, “and you seem like you like needless theatrics.”

He has to admit it’s the best read anyone’s gotten on him in a while, and so quickly, too. He feels a familiar wave of frustration welling up in him, and he has to repress it carefully so as to not break his smile, which is already looking more nervous than he likes. He’s someone who prides himself on being quick - impossibly quick - and here he is, out-maneuvered by a strange girl who’s shown up at his doorstep.

Well, at Theory Hayes’ doorstep.

But, of course, in his life, he had been taught important lesson after important lesson. He’s nothing if not scrappy. Nemesis Jones is confident in his ability to solve any puzzle, to flip any threat on its head. And this will be no exception. Which, as he sees it, leaves him only one option.

“You’re sharp,” he admits, hiding the way his tongue half-refuses to say the words and the small but visceral feeling of hopelessness. He’s lost. He’s surrendering: that much is apparent. Surely to her, as well, if she’s as smart as she seems. “People like you are rare to come by.”

“I don’t know about that. Surely they’re not uncommon? Art was far smarter than I could hope to be.” At the mention of her brother, she seems subdued again.

“No, no, no, they’re of the utmost rarity. The world is full of people content to be average, Callie. People who wouldn’t even notice what you did, never mind point it out.” He smiles softly, the building animosity finally dispersing, giving him a renewed sense of ease and relief. “Until we find this Apollinaire fellow, what say you to this proposal - I don’t take on assistants often, but you’re more than qualified.”

“Assistants…?” She mumbles. “My brother called me his assistant sometimes, when he made me help with his inventions. Would you be doing something like that? I didn’t know you were an inventor.”

“I’m not, but I could be.” Even as the words leave his mouth, he has no idea what that means. “Er - I mean, I’m not an inventor. I’m a private investigator. People hire me to solve mysteries - lost things, lost people, more dramatic things, sometimes. Someone with your mind could make my job far more efficient.”

“An inventor solves a problem by devising a unique system, a tool, that will render the problem possible to overcome,” she mutters. “The problem of humans not being able to cross long distances over a short time was solved by the invention of the train. The problem of trains not being able to cross the water was solved with bridges and dirigibles. Conversely, a private eye solves a problem by finding a unique trail of facts. The problem of not knowing who committed the murder can be solved by finding a still-warm gun which has on it a fingerprint belonging to the murderer. They’re essentially the same thing - or at least, they share a common goal. That of inventing an answer to a problem.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Nemesis remarks. Internally, he adds that he’s unlikely to ever begin thinking of it that way, either. “I don’t wish to be an inventor. It sounds like such directionless work. I’m a solver, not an innovator.”

“Mhm,” she murmurs, seemingly agreeing. “Right. I’d be willing to join you for a time... until you get me back to Art, anyway. I can’t pay you myself, and I don’t know if he’ll be able to, so this will have to do as reimbursement for the time being?”

“Reimbursement?”

She stares at him blankly. He can’t remember when she last blinked, and it’s beginning to unsettle him. “Yes. You’re paying Miss Hayes so that I can stay here, aren’t you?”

Indeed, he is. A large sum, though not a concerning one. “Don’t sweat it. Really. I have more money than I know what to do with.”

“Is being a private investigator actually so lucrative? I had no idea.” Somehow, he fails to detect a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Is she truly that good at lying, or is she truly that ignorant? He’ll have to assume the former.

“Not really,” he answers with the utmost truthfulness. “There are many ways to get rich rather fast.”

“Like theft.”

He half-grins. “Yes. Precisely like theft.”

“Are you admitting to being a thief? I thought that was socially frowned upon.”

“It is, it is.” He sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m not a thief unless I need to be. Anyway, you can’t get the amount of money I’ve been tossing around unless you rob banks. That’s banks, multiple - did the math, I was curious, it’d need to be something like fifty to get even close.”

It’s not something that feels good to admit. Really, he’d like to part ways with this money as soon as possible. There’s better places for it than in the hands of one private investigator; plenty of people in the city are starving.

“I’ll optimistically assume you haven’t done that.”

He laughs. “Yeah, no kidding. I don’t think there’s even fifty banks in Omen… or perhaps that’s just what I want you to think.” He winks to emphasise that he’s joking - although, his carefully curated mess of hair, hiding a good bit of his face, might leave the impression that the was simply blinking.

Thankfully, she seems to understand it, though her response is so deadpan he can’t tell if it’s serious or not: “but people would know if you were robbing multiple banks.”

“Not if I were any good at it,” he chuckles.

She looks down at her plate. “... will you be teaching me to rob banks?”

He feigns being deep in thought for a moment. “Maybe I should do - no.” He stands up, carrying his now empty plate to the sink. “No, no banks. Just... I have a meeting scheduled today, actually. Something more boring. Lead on a case I’ve been working on for a while.”

“A case?” She brightens up, just a bit. “Is it interesting?”

“... Nah.”

Briefly, he sees his reflection in the water of the sink. He looks so alien to himself now, like a photograph of a stranger hung up on a wall somewhere. “It’s a horrid case. It’s just bloody sad. And it’s something that only concerns me.”

“How am I supposed to help with a case that I don’t know anything about?”

“Well... you aren’t.” He places one hand on the counter, feeling his knuckles tighten and tense. “This one is... a passion project. Not something that should concern you. I assure you, I’ll have some actually interesting cases to show you.”

“If you say so.” She seems nervous now. He supposes he might have pushed her away her somewhat. “Can you at least tell me what happened? A murder? A theft? A string of disappearances?”

“Aye, at least that much, I think I can divulge.” He sighs to himself quietly, hoping she doesn’t notice. “It’s a missing person.”

He looks away, staring at his hand. He can’t stand to keep looking at his reflection.

It’s a very pleasant temperature outside. Callie seems to be adjusting decently to the climate (though Nemesis hasn’t thought to ask her what the climate is like where she’s from). The one thing that seems to be inconveniencing her are the shoes. An old pair of Theory’s boots, they’re around a size too large, and if it didn’t hurt to walk with her scraped-up and bleeding feet to begin with, the three-inch heel certainly doesn’t help.

They make their exit from Beaumort’s, Callie stumbling over the doorstep. She trips immediately - Nemesis only just barely manages to catch her, haphazardly grabbing the front of her capelet to steady her to the best of his ability.

“Careful, careful. It’s awful hubristic of you to be up and walking at all with the state of your feet - don’t want to fall and break your nose, do you?”

She straightens up and dusts herself off, looking neither ashamed nor indignant - simply entirely ambivalent.

“I don’t want to break my nose,” she confirms, reaching up to carefully feel it, as if to make sure it hasn’t somehow broken in the time after he’s said that. “I have no choice, do I? If I want to join you on this case, I need to walk.”

Nemesis frowns. “Well, you’re under no obligation to. If you’d like to rest - in fact, I think you honestly should do, just so you don’t mess up your legs any further-”

“No,” she insists. “I’ll manage. I want to see what it’s like, being a private investigator.”

“It’s probably a bad idea,” he repeats, knowing full well that this would not stop him were he in her shoes, and likely won’t stop her either.

Immediately, she proves him right, stumbling forward. He follows her, concernedly hovering over her shoulder.

“A-at least let me buy you some shoes you’re more comfortable in,” he insists.

She glances at him. “... More comfortable… That’s a good idea. You’re right. I can just take off my shoes, I’m more comfortable that way.”

He shakes his head. “Very much not what I meant.”

“Why not?”

He pauses for a moment to take in her statement, before sighing. “... Lass, you can’t simply walk through the streets of Omen barefoot.”

“Why not?” she repeats. Her confusion is frustratingly genuine.

Nemesis sighs. He’s never had to explain the hard truth of social norms to anyone before. “It’s simply… I’ve no problem with it - well, aside from the risk of scuffing them up more, or stepping on a nail, or getting an infection, or any number of other horrid things - it’s simply not considered proper.”

“Not considered proper?”

“Not considered proper,” he confirms. “See, part of living in society is that people have standards. There are these rules. Call them what you want - norms, folkways, taboos. Some of them make sense - for instance, the idea that you should not stab people on the train is a generally sound one. I think the idea of needing to wear shoes on the streets is also rather sound, but then again, I grew up wearing shoes.” He shrugs.

“But at the end of the day, it’s not up to me to decide which ideas are and aren’t sound. If the majority of society sees something as taboo, you’ll face consequences, whether I want you to or not. And the majority of society does not appreciate it when shoeless girls bleed on their floors.”

She frowns. “Then as long as I stay outside and don’t bleed too much it’s fine, right?”

Sheepishly, Nemesis shakes his head. “N-no. Not at all, nowhere close. People will think you’re strange if you don’t wear shoes. Er, stranger than they would regardless.”

She tilts her head inquisitively, as if she doesn’t understand. “But what’s wrong with being strange?”

“Nothing, nothing! Some of my best friends are strange! I’m strange! But…” he lowers his voice. “You must understand, Calisto... Like it or not, if you’re strange, you have a target on your back. People don’t like strange people. It’s not… it isn’t safe, being strange.”

She seems to think over his words. “But I thought you said you were strange, sir.”

“Don’t call me that,” he responds immediately, almost as a reflex. “Nemesis is fine. Just ‘Nemesis’. And I am strange. But unlike you, I know how to be strange safely. I know how to defend myself. You…” And at this he looks at her more sympathetically. “... You’ve just arrived in a new city. You know nothing of the culture. You should minimize the impression you make, if possible. Just stick close to me.”

“If you say so.” Before he can object, she grabs his arm, and he doesn’t exactly have the heart to tell her to let go.

“But I’ll at least get you some more comfortable shoes, okay?” He smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring. “Something without that high a heel.”

She nods, and Nemesis leads her through the city. The streets, now that it’s daytime, are wide and sprawling, filled with people, automobiles, and the occasional pigeon. Callie glances around, wide-eyed, taking in the scenery.

“Is it always this dark here?”

“Of course. It’s under the Umbra Maximus, it pretty much never changes.”

“I suppose I knew that, but I didn’t expect it to actually be this dark here.”

So she’s from a place where the Umbra doesn’t extend to. That’s curious. “You’ll get used to it, promise.”

“How do you tell what time it is?”

“You wear a watch,” he chuckles quietly. “I actually quite like it. It hurts the eyes far less.”

She shrugs. “It all feels the same to me.”

Nemesis doesn’t know off the top of his head where any specific shops are, but it doesn’t take long to find a cobbler’s. After a brief time, they emerge, a new pair of flat, close-toed shoes in Callie’s size having been acquired.

Hes miles at her. “That feel any better?”

“It does,” she says. Indeed, she’s stumbling far less, and doesn’t wince whenever she takes a step.

“Good to hear.” He glances at his wristwatch. “I’d offer you lunch, but we should really be getting to meeting with my contact. They said to meet them behind the train station. It’s not far from here - two or three minutes’ walk.”

She frowns. “A train station? Is that not a strange place to meet someone?”

“Oh, because you’d know all about what is and isn’t strange, would you?” He laughs. “Joking, joking, joking. It’s a little peculiar, but it suits our needs.”

“If you say so.”

He’s beginning to get the sense that might be her default response to things.

“Come on, then.” He gestures for her to follow him. “This isn’t all that exciting, compared to most of what I do... and we should hope it stays that way, in all honesty. Let me do the talking this time, and pay attention to your surroundings. Even the smallest detail could be secretly important.”

“Okay. Pay attention to everything. Got it.”

He gives her a thumbs-up. “That’s the spirit! And also half of a private investigator’s skillset.” An oversimplification, yes, but he’s trying to be encouraging.

They round the corner, walking past the station and promptly entering a rather well-hidden alleyway. Fog rolls in, filling the alley to the brim. Nemesis can make out a human form, but he can’t see the details. His contact, most likely. It seems he’s late this time.

That’s probably good. He wouldn’t have wanted to make them wait.

Though he’s outwardly calm, his heart threatens to burst out of his chest. This contact is someone he had come to learn of through several strings of cryptic mutterings, some whispered hints from people he doesn’t particularly trust to have good intentions, and a couple of solved ciphers in borrowed books. It had taken a lot of effort, but this one he’s confident about, more-so than usual. They might know the things he needs to learn.

The person’s details are hazy and obscured. He can’t make out any clear features until he’s close, unsettlingly close, uncomfortably close. Close enough to reach out and touch them. Close enough that he can see his own face reflected in their glasses. The lenses seem to be mirrored. He finds it deeply unpleasant to stand here with the knowledge that they can see his eyes despite the fact that he can’t see theirs.

The contact is taller than Callie but shorter than Nemesis by a good bit, pale and with disheveled brown hair, dressed in a torn-looking long coat, a dirty shirt, and ripped trousers, eyes obscured by the mirrored circular spectacles, which sit on a thin silver chain. Something about them seems... fuzzy, almost, as if they’re out of focus, no matter how many times Nemesis blinks, and it doesn’t feel like it’s just the fog. The grin on their face is eerie.

“Nemesis Jones, then?”

He nods. “Nemesis Jones. And you’re Salem Riddle.”

Salem nods back, expression unchanging. “The one and only.”

There is something very unsettling about Salem Riddle, he thinks. “I need answers, and you need a private eye.”

“Well, ‘need’ is a strong word. But you’re here, so that’s great, that’s great. Something to celebrate, hmm?” Their teeth are sharper than any teeth should have any right to be. “And things are already falling into place. Wonderful, wonderful.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do and how much you’re willing to pay me for it.” There’s a low, intimidating current to his voice. “Don’t waste my time.”

“I’m not. Calm down, calm down.” Salem chuckles, and a wave of frustration runs through Nemesis. “Anyway, anyway, I’m just the messenger. You have somewhere to be, and it’s really important. So make sure to take some time off, okay, okay?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this a job, then? And -” he takes out his compass “- can you tell me about this?”

“I can, I can, but why would I want to? Those answers are far, far better to learn organically, and really, I believe in you, I do, I do.” They smile condescendingly at Nemesis.

Again, those teeth…

“Go where I say, and you’ll see, you’ll see. You’ll find your answers and you’ll satisfy me as well - so consider this payment, and the start to your journey!” They rummage through the messenger bag slung over their shoulder, hand Nemesis a piece of paper held in their hand, and turn to leave with a final grin back at him.

“Good luck, good luck. Not that you need it.”

As they leave, Nemesis notices his compass needles in disarray, swinging wildly and unpredictably in circles, as though short-circuiting. He stares at their retreating form, and Callie seems, understandably, to be at as much of a loss as he is.

The fog, curiously enough, seems to leave with them, dissipating into nothingness and leaving nothing but a disturbingly empty alleyway and the distant sound of the street.

“That’s not normal.”

It’s a bit of a strong stance coming from someone like Theory Hayes, who can herself no sooner be described as normal than the sky be described as yellow. Still, Nemesis, who can himself no sooner be described as normal than the grass can be described as purple, thinks she has a point.

“Good,” Callie mutters. “I thought it might have just been my lack of perspective.”

“Not at all.” Hayes runs a tense hand through her hair. “And they didn’t have any weird features? Your compass didn’t explode upon coming into contact with them?

Nemesis flinches at the thought of his compass being destroyed. “No, nothing of the sort. I got a scan of them, and the compass went completely mad. Whatever’s up with them, it’s confusing it, but if everyone I’ve spoken to has been telling me the truth, my compass can’t be confused.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “That can’t be right.”

“Are you doubting my memory?”

“Absolutely, I’m doubting your memory.” She doesn’t sound too serious. More annoyed.

“Everything he’s saying is true,” Callie speaks up. “He definitely remembers. He spent half an hour scribbling in his notebook about it. Like it inspired him to write a novel.”

“Not a novel. Just notes.”

Theory sighs again. “Right. Can we see those notes, then?”

“I don’t think it’ll do you much good…” he half-trails off, knowing she’ll likely not take that for an answer, and carefully removes his notebook - a thin leather-bound volume with a cord wrapped around it, the name ‘JONES’ embossed on the spine. Carefully, he opens the book, leafing through its pages until he gets to his entry on Salem Riddle, which he then passes to Hayes.

Her eyes pass over a detailed drawing, a separate detailed drawing of their face as Nemesis could best remember it despite the blurring, with a distinct focus on the teeth, and a diagram of his compass - plenty of motion arrows and slight line irregularities to represent blur, quite (in Nemesis’ expert appraisal) well-drawn.

Hayes frowns. “... You didn’t.”

Nemesis finds a light grin that can only be described as smug spreading over his face. “I did.”

“What did you…?” Callie asks, apprehensive and muttered.

Theory turns around the book so Callie can look at it. The page is covered in minuscule text, written in what can only be Nemesis Jones’s hand - a perfect blend of rushed and strangely elegant. It’s crammed into every corner, labeling the drawings and running into the margins.

Callie squints. “Sorry, is that…”

“The smug idiot takes notes in cipher.” Theory glares across the table at Nemesis, who simply smiles in response. “I can’t imagine how long that took to encode, but I hope you haven’t left your key just lying around the city somewhere. You know it’ll inevitably get back to you.”

Nemesis’ smirk grows ever-smugger. Her eyes narrow.

“It would, I suppose, be apt to hide the key to the cipher with which one encodes their notebooks, yes,” Nemesis says with a tinge of insufferable pride in his voice. “But perhaps someone out there, perhaps, bear with me here, a certain genius private eye, could come up with a better, easier solution. After all, Theers, there’s no need to worry about anyone finding a key if there isn’t one to begin with.”

Callie’s eyes widen, though it’s hard to tell what, exactly, she’s thinking. Theory looks as though she might just throw the cup of tea currently getting cold next to her at Nemesis with as extreme prejudice as she can manage. “You didn’t. You couldn’t. There’s no way you’d be able to do that.”

She hadn’t commented on the nickname, he thinks to himself. It had come out on impulse, and he’s shocked that she isn’t angered by it. “It’s not that outrageous when one considers what other people have done.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You can find your way around the bookstore, right? Surely that requires just as much mental faculty as encoding something in one’s head as one writes it. In fact, I’ve been doing this for so long it’s practically second nature. I reckon that’s how it is for you, too. It’s not that difficult, anyway. Just remember which letters correspond to which.”

Her frustration seems to abate, but only slightly. “You are... ridiculous, you know that? If I weren’t so devoted to my work, I’d dedicate the hours to decoding that entire book by hand. I’m sure I could do it. A fast cipher isn’t a particularly good cipher. You’d be safer just locking the book and eating the key the moment you were captured.”

“Whoah, whoah, whoah.” He frowns. “Who, exactly, do you think is out here trying to capture me? I’m a private investigator, not a spy. The amount of espionage I engage in is existent but negligible!”

She sighs. “Forget it. Forget it, just... be careful, Jones. Not everyone around here is as welcoming as I am.”

He thinks back to the time about a week ago that someone had accosted him while waiting for the train to inform him that the end of days was coming with frantic, flailing determination. “The world shall be consumed and the Ancient One will again return us to primordial sludge!,” the man had yelled. “We shall all be one again with all that is, as it was meant to be! We have drawn on the powers of the universe for far too long!”

He doubts that’s what she means, but for whatever reason, that’s what his mind immediately jumped to. He’s sure there are many other dangerous people around. For example, that kind gentleman Nemesis had tailed on the payroll of his wife for around three hours or so only to be thanked for all the hard work by being threatened at gunpoint. Somehow, though, the classic and perhaps slightly overdone danger of a revolver can’t begin to compare with the thought of primordial sludge. The Reverenti have strange ideas he isn’t sure he subscribes to, but at least they have one hell of a flair for the dramatic. He can really appreciate that in a quasi-cult.

“Aye, I’m aware. I know. People in my line of work go missing all the time,” he says, stopping his thoughts before they can get too far off-course. It would be wholly unnecessary and not even slightly productive for him to rank all of his encounters in the city by how well-executed and dramatic he thinks they were, but that’s direction in which his thoughts had been heading. Now, of course, that he’s said that, his thoughts are going in a completely different direction - but this lead has been crazy enough that he has to consider it progress. The weird people, generally, are the ones that know things.

“Good.” She raises an eyebrow. “That being said. You said this Riddle character gave you something?”

“Aye,” he mutters. Though he’s loathe to admit it, this entire conversation is beginning to render him quite exhausted. “Tickets. Theatre Obscura’s holding a show, in honor of the Baron’s passing.”

“You’re saying this strange bastard showed up just to give you free tickets to a play? No one gives away free things, that’s ridiculous.” She quirks said eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re going. Clearly either something’s up or Riddle is a lunatic.”

“Probably both,” Nemesis agrees, “But I’m going anyway. My job to sort out dodgy stuff like this, isn’t it? You don’t have to come with, either of you, but I think it’d be lovely if you did.”

“I will, of course,” Callie says calmly. “I’m your assistant.”

To that, he has to offer a small smile. “Of course you are. Thank you.”

Theory rolls her eyes. “Very well. I have nothing better to do, I suppose.” It's the barest excuse, almost cliché in its simplicity. Nemesis is sure he’s heard those exact words in a novel before.

“Right, I know that’s not really why you’re agreeing.”

She glares at him. “Just have to take every possible opportunity to be an insufferable smartass, huh, Jones?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Callie quietly adds, “You seem curious about it. There’s no reason to lie.”

“You too?” Theory asks incredulously. “You’re going to do this to me, too?”

“You’re a lot like my brother,” Callie says quietly.

Theory sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I sure hope not.”

She stands up, pushes in her chair, and begins to walk upstairs. Nemesis, even with his lacking sense of tact, gets the sense that this is the end of the conversation. “Play’s in three days, right? I’ll put some sort of formal clothing together, you two worry about whatever detective stuff you’ve got your overly long nose in and stay out of my face for the time being.”

"Private investigator," Nemesis corrects, too quiet for her to possibly hear.

“She sounds upset,” Callie observes.

“My nose isn’t that long,” Nemesis mutters quietly. “Is it?”

“No. But I think she meant it metaphorically.”

“I see.” He frowns, standing up. “...I’ll be in my room, if you need me.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Nah. Just... working, probably. That’s how I relax.” He glances down at his notebook. “... Writing, probably.”

Sometimes, when his mind gets away from him, writing things down is all he can do.