“They still out there?” asked Donny.

Peering out the window, Frank could see the blue car down below, parked across the street, the two occupants inside offering no subtlety in their effort to watch over their building.

“Yeah…,” Frank replied with a sigh.

“Correct me if I’m wrong here, but they’re being intentional, right? They’re not just that incompetent?”

“Nah…someone’s playing games with us,” Frank assured him, for lack of a better term.

Turning around, he looked over at the people in the room.

Donny and the kid were there, of course, but so too were the kid’s employees, Germain and the other one. All were seated, though Donny had taken the opportunity to hog the couch all to himself so that he could lie down.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to apologise for the shoddy display we’ve given you since you signed up with us. Yes, technically you’re the kid’s people…”

“I still have a name,” Goodie stated.

“…but seeing as you signed and bound to keep all our secrets, I thought it only fair that we at least inform you about the mess our little agency’s found itself in.”

Germain snorted.

“Yeah-yeah, I know we haven’t exactly impressed you so far, but to be fair, we haven’t exactly had time to. You all’ve heard of those kidnappings going on, right? Well, we seem to be caught up in it, or at least snagged on the edge of whatever’s going on. My friend here’s little gift tends to pull him towards things that’re usually best left alone.”

Frank rubbed his chin, reminding himself that he had forgotten to shave again before going on.

“Reason we’ve been running around like headless chickens is becuase we’ve been trying to dig ourselves out of it. And…well, you’ve seen those idiots outside?”

“So, who’d you piss off?” Germain asked.

Without skipping a beat, Frank replied, “As far as we can tell? No one.”

Germain gave him a queer look.

Frank shared the look.

“Yeah, don’t know whether we’re coming or going. Donny got us the registry markings on their car, but it’s a fair bet that it’s either fake or a misdirect.”

“And seeing as we’re registered with you lot,” Germain interrupted, “we can’t exactly run off.”

Frank gave the man a mean grin, then said, “Which is why we thought it best to get everyone to have a sit-down and think on the matter.”

“Just go to the Kitty-Kat,” said Germain, “get the Lady to apologise to whoever…”

“Visited her yesterday,” Donny told him, “got the tail because of it.”

Germain groused, but said nothing more.

“Look, I know my opinion may not exactly be wanted here,” the Rodent started, “but have you considered running away?”

Reminding himself to be diplomatic, Frank overlooked the obvious opportunity to be snarky and replied, “We’ve tried it from time-to-time. Tends to drag us into trouble all the quicker.”

The Rodent stood up, looked from him to Donny, and then to the kid, then said, “Well, I don’t doubt that, but it seems to me that you and Mr. Cohen, if you’ll forgive my presumption, are the type who prefer fighting?”

“Meaning what?” Frank asked, a bite entering his tone before he could stifle it.

“Well, the type who prefer to fight tend to not be too cowardly. So, if you’d allow me to rephrase my original question, have you thought about running away like a coward?”

“What?!”

It was not only Frank who asked, the words coming Donny at the same time.

Even Germain found the interest to at least look over at the Rodent in curiosity.

“The hell does that mean?”

“People who ain’t think that cowardice is all about running or hiding.”

It was the kid who said it.

Frank looked at him, a confusion.

“Wasn’t always bit,” the boy replied, referencing the wolf.

“Then what’s it about then?”

“Cowardice is about running and hiding,” the Rodent answered, “Preferably to behind someone who’s bigger than whoever you’re running from.”

“So, you're saying we need to get ourselves into the pocket of some top hat?” Donny asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to talk.

Frank noticed Goodie wince, the shake his head.

“Uh…,” the Rodent hesitated, “that’s certainly an option…gentlemen, but…uh, maybe you might want to think about copying the boss?”

“What,” Frank asked, “hire more people? To what? Make an army?” he scoffed.

“Why not?” asked the kid.

“Well, for a start, who…,” Frank stopped himself. There were plenty of freelancers and wannabes in the city to hire. …but of course, it came down to money. Money was generally the go-to reason for anything and everything for Frank, and he mentally slapped himself for not first doing so now.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“We can’t afford it.”

“Not if you do it all at once,” said the Rodent, “but with your cut of that vase…if the boss chooses to sell it, and whatever you’re getting from everything else, you can begin to slowly expand this place?”

The plan had its merits, but Frank did not want to agree with the Rodent, so he looked to Donny for some support.

His partner took a puff of his cigarette, looked at the ceiling, then said, “The man has a point…and earning the scratch would keep us busy enough to not get involved in anything else.”

“Yeah, but I’d prefer a plan that did not leave us running ourselves ragged just to pay someone else. And that’s if the boy sells his spook?”

Frank looked to the kid, who just shrugged and said, “Don’t have any reason to keep it, unless you and Alex learned something?”

“Isaac couldn’t speak chinese any better than any of us, so he needs time to find someone who can.”

“Yeah, well, still don’t fancy learning another language. Probably sell it if you don’t learn something new, and if I do—and you intend on going through with Alex’s plan—you can take eighty percent of my cut so long as you put it to that end.”

“Well, that’s mighty generous of you…but we wait until Isaac comes through before we make any decisions,” Frank told him.

“So, more waiting, then?” Donny asked.

“Yeah,” Frank confirmed.

“God, I hate waiting,” said the kid.

“Yeah,” Frank repeated, as he looked out the window at the car below.

~~~

“Our initial estimates were that they would follow previous patterns, with the mid to low-tier agencies and partnerships disbanding—even with those not having directly been involved with the museum event. And that seemed to be the case, but for some reason, we’re seeing a lot of those groups now beginning to instead gather themselves and expand, purchasing the used assets of the fallen and more, though we have as yet not determined as to the exact reason behind this sudden turnabout…?”

Abigail smith tensed the muscles of her face to try and wipe away the fatigue besetting it, her eyes drooping slightly as the Michaelson droned on.

‘Who cared what the freelancers did or did not do?’ she wondered.

They were like flies: without end, and always buzzing around when they smelled an opportunity.

The city—or its people, rather—both hated and loved the idea of the freelancer, feeling far more for them in both cases than they ever did for the military, so there was always a slew of new recruits to throw into that grinder. So it was largely pointless to concern oneself with how many or few there were.

As was standard; all Department heads needed to attend a general briefing supervised by a rep of the Department of General Oversight and Interdepartmental Cooperation. An utter bore, only made important by the fact that the GOIC up front also acted as the representative for the Department of Budgetary Administration. So, unless you wanted to spend the next year tightening the belt, you showed up with a smile and a twinkle in your eye, even if you had to paint it there and staple the corners of your mouth up.

It would take another hour for all the others before her to get through with whatever they had to say. Mostly just general updates, with the odd proposal or two, all of it hot air that served to prolong this torment.

“Right, then,” Henry Blackburn, a rather short man whose hair was quickly thinning from stress more than age, said, “there anything else, or shall we adjourn for the day?”

“Yes,” Abigail said, raising her hand slightly, “I’d like to make a request for expenditure approval?”

“…alright,” Henry told her, his tone noticeably tiring somewhat.

“You recall the Goodwill boy?” She asked. “I would like your permission and associated resources to re-enact the same ritual to try and summon someone of greater knowledge this time, preferably someone with a scientific background?”

“You mean the ritual that cost your department an arm and a leg? Literally, in the case of your former head? No.”

“Well then,” Abigail then said, without missing a beat, “we’ve gotten word of contact with a new tribe along the west-coast borders; I’d like to setup a contact party to ascertain if they have any viable magics or resources that we may exploit?”

“No; west-coast can handle its own affairs.”

“Then perhaps we can revisit the Hollis affair? I do believe we’ve overlooked several areas that could prove to be of untapped potential.”

As he made to answer once more, Henry stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the woman across from him silently mouthing his exact words a moment before he said them.

“Ms. Smith, please do me the curtesy of allowing me to actually reply before you mock me…?”

Abigail held up a hand in apology.

“Now that we’ve gotten all of that out of the way,” he continued, “and I’ve given you enough leverage, what is it you really want?”

Before she could answer him, a knock came from the back of the room.

An assistant, one who quickly entered and quietly rushed over to Ms. Smith to whisper into her ear as he then handed her a note, which she took her time reading, several of the other members within the room rolling her eyes as she did so.

“Mind sharing with the class, Ms. Smith?” Henry asked, his voice tired.

“One of our friends in the market wishes to inform us about a possible lead they have on a haunted object. Would like me to procure it?” Abigail inquired.

Looking at her through narrowed-eyes, Henry studied the woman for a moment before uttering, “And is there any reason as to why I should believe that wasn’t all planned?” he asked sarcastically.

“Surprisingly, it wasn’t; or I’d have organised a better presentation of it.”

Sighing in frustration, Henry asked, “Details?”

“None; he just says he has a lead, and that it’s not an english speaking one?”

He had to think for a moment; well, not really, the people over at Higher and Abstract always went coo-coo over getting their hands on a ghost, but both he and Abigail both knew that, and he’d be damned if he would willingly give her anymore leverage in this conversation. Especially not right now, when her question would get her the most value for the asking of it in this public setting. Even if he should relent, he should do it later, behind closed doors.

“Look into it; if it turns out to be something of value, we can revisit the question…”

And then, second-guessing himself, he told her, “actually, don’t. You know who’ll pay for it, just…buy it.”

Abigail nodded, but said nothing, not wanting to add injury to insult.

Henry and her might have been on opposite ends when it came to how resources needed to be spent, but otherwise, she held no real antagonism towards the man.

“Now,” the man then said, raising his eyebrows at her, “can we get back to what you really want, Ms. Smith? So we can all go get some lunch?”

Though silent, much of the room showed their enthusiastic agreeance with the man’s sentiment.

After looking around at said reaction, Abigail retrieved three thick, near-book-sized folders from her the case beside her…

“Oh, good gods,” Henry cursed.

…and slid them over towards him.

He looked at her for the longest time, then, begrudgingly, looked at the cover of the topmost one.

“Frankenshteen? What’s that then?”

“Stine,” Abigail corrected.

“What?”

“It’s pronounced Frankenstine.”

“But it’s spelled…fine; what, or who, is it?”

“The particulars would best not be discussed out loud, not even here,” Abigail warned him.

Hendry studied her for a second, to see if she was being serious, or merely trying to inflate the supposed value of the file. He could read nothing from her expression.

Lifting it up, he then asked, “And this one’s pronounced?”

“Hide.”

“And I’m assuming this, too, is too sensitive to talk about here?”

She nodded.

The question, “And this one?” slithered past his lips as he moved to look at the last file, but drew back to be replaced with, “Captain America?”

“Stupid name, I know, but it’ll make more sense once you read through it.”

“Would I be mistaken in assuming these have something to do with that special project of yours?”

“Much of it is based on what he told me, yes,” Abigail confirmed.

Sighing, Henry, “Fine, I’ll read through these and have Dorothy get back to you by Friday.”

Abigail smiled. Once a project got Henry’s time and attention, unwillingly or not, it was rare for him to ever reject it. Even if only one of those three were given the go ahead, it would be a massive gain for her.

“Now, anything else, Ms. Smith, or can I finally eat at Joe’s”