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The Thunder of Coins - [Warbirds-system]

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Al took the napkin holding it close to herself she didn't want to scare or give too much away to the others gathered. Her eyes roved over the space looking for anyone out of place, anyone that looked stressed. She knew some of the signs, sweat beading on the forehead, shifting shoulders, eyes darting around. Her time spent fighting had given her an eye for tells, knowing when her opponent was going to throw a hook or cross or when they were about to give up the fight.

As Dawson passed her she took note of the slight bulge under his jacket. Was everyone armed besides her? It was fine, they wouldn't likely run into any trouble, the assassin failed and didn't seem to want to get involved directly. Though there was a thought in the back of her head. The assailant might see Dawson as an easy target separated from the rest of his wing. As she moved among the tables she found herself following a few steps behind her wing mate.

He was clearly having better luck than her. She saw him disappear around the pillar and she wanted to follow but was caught not wanting to spook the would-be killer but also not wanting to leave Dawson all alone.

She kept her distance, maybe too far away but she had to trust that he could handle himself.
 
If Al was feeling particularly under-armed in comparison to her teammates, she could be at least secure in the knowledge that the rest of the guests and staff seemed to be similarly unarmed: sure one elder gentleman wore a sabre of some kind and one of the waitresses was keeping her hand close to a small bump in her uniform that might come from a switchblade, but as far as she could see no one looked like they would go for a hit anytime soon – what she saw instead was worry and defensiveness. There didn't seem to be a fight coming anytime soon – but carefulness had served her will in the ring and did so now as she followed behind Dawson.

With the shorter pilot in the lead the duo made their way to the column that had caught Dawsons attention and for a change the gazes of everyone they passed were glued to Dawsons bloody chest instead of that of the redhead who usually accompanied them and got most of the attention. With his vest loose and the holster still hidden by the cloth draped over it loosely he made his way towards the column, the monstrosity wrought in steel, bronze and brass shimmering with the moistness of the warm air around them and covered by small growths that had begun to wrap and grow alongside it.

As they came closer the sheer size of the thing became clearer: Dawson alone wouldn't be able to wrap his arms around it – he would at least need Als help and even then, they would be stretched as these columns were holding most of the domes foundations above them in place. It wasn't cast in shadow so much as it was bathed in light, a hundred leaves casting their shadows upon it and small groups of butterflies settling down on it before taking off again, uncaring of the events unfolding beneath them.

But Dawson had no time for that, with narrowed eyes he took the column in, meter after meter, ignoring the filigree as his mind conjured beasts and monsters both, just waiting to pounce upon the pilot and his leader in a moment of carelessness. But it would find none and that was how Dawson found – easily four meters above: an opening.

Not in the dome, not in the walls, but in the column themselves. Small enough that it was hard to spot, half covered by a jungle plants vibrant green leaves, but all the more apparent as he took in the way this little hinge broke up the artwork around the column in the way it was opened: a single bronze leaf out of place among hundreds, just large enough to stick a finger through it: or a barrel. But even as he imagined a sleek grey pistol barrel sliding outwards, he saw that the hole was empty and the insides dark…

…it didn't take more than a few steps to confirm what his eyes were showing. The base of the column was solid – or at least range enough to seem that way, but if one were to reach up or climb upon a stair and hit it above the head level of most people: it range hollow.
 
Dawson did not acknowledge that Al followed him. Silently, he thanked her for backing him up. In the grand scheme of things, she would have been only a handful of meters away regardless. But her presence was reassuring. The thin man knew all too well he could be the next target.

As for being armed, Dawson was always armed. Always.

In the moment though, his eyes stopped on a leaf. A simple bronze leaf like so many others. Very beautiful, very Republican, slightly too high above the column, very... hinged. He froze. In other words, became even more still.

Clever. Worrying and clever.

Possible next steps swirled through his mind. He had to play this one smooth. He dared not take his eye off the opening. Results could range from losing the spot to another dart. He backed up with the same deliberate caution as his approach and grasped a nearby chair.

Closer now to Al, he turned his head slightly and whispered, "Up there. Cover me." He turned his head back to the spot.

Then he moved with purpose and speed.

The chair slid against the column seconds later. Up the chair and he knocked. The great column rang hollow a second or two after that. Up the column he climbed. Whatever method: the thicker plant stems, hand holds on the filigree, maintenance ladder steps. But up he went fast and cautiously.

He was looking for a hatch. Maybe at the hollow level. Maybe above. The details mattered less than that he would find the way inside. May the old gods help the assassin if the fool tried anything. Whether on his ascent or breaching, Dawson was ready to act.
 
No barrel greeted Dawson as he glimpsed into the dark hole that had been hidden by the hinged leaf, an opening barely larger than his palm – ever so easily lost between the ornaments and the actual plants, not a last minute addition – but a pre-planned notion that had been worked into the very structure of the building of the lack of a toppling dome was any indication. Maybe it was the humidity, maybe it was the nerves, but his hands were slick as they brushed over the metal, his shoes just inches away from slipping and taking him down again to his waiting friend and the small pile of furniture he had created to the worry of the remaining guests and staff who had watched him as if he had gone mad…

…only for the hollow ring of his hits against the column to send another wave of whispers into the air, gossip and speculations alike forming a vibrating mess of words that seemed to be ever in the background – without actually being understood. And still, for all he had feared – for all he might have hoped for, when he carefully peered past the whole he saw no weapon, no cold calculating eye – but instead a flickering light, a hint of a presence that was not coming from right in front of him – or above – but rather from below. He could see what must be some kind of ladder rungs worked into the inside of the column, having given the assassin a way up….and now a way down as well.
 
Dawson could not believe it. Really could not. This... this was a coordinated effort. Why would someone put this much effort into making, in essence, a sniper's nest inside a column? What purpose could this have been intended but something malicious? Methodical, planned, timed out months or even years in advance. The scale boogled the mind.

He took a breath but did not exhale. A shimmer of light flickered inside the column. Ladder rungs shifted in the shadows. If only for a moment. All more evidence of the conspiracy. But by then the light brought something else alongside it. That faint, instinctive feeling that someone was nearby. Inside the column, moving downward. Passing through or carrying a light source.

His first instinct involved shouting from the rooftops, metaphorically, and giving chase. But that had the obvious problem of following the perpetrator. A suitable entrance simply did not exist up there. No, this attack had truly be planned to cover as many scenarios as possible and minimize any risks. Many people would be stopped, or stopped long enough, by the obstacles, for the assassin to make a clean giveaway.

The assassin, in this case, had the misfortune of going up against Wing 3. Improvising, aka "making things up as we go along", came as nothing less than a significant trait to Wing 3.

The chase is on.

Dawson descended his makeshift scaffold and zipped over to Al. He whispered into her ear, that clipped business tone of his, "Target is moving down the inside of the column. I don't see a way inside from up here." He started looking around the room: elevators, ladders, fire exits, exits to the balconies. He turned back and whispered, "We have to intercept from below. We need a fast way down yesterday."

Dawson glanced at Mavis. He really, really wished all three of them were free. But quite frankly, Dawson would only entrust Arthur with Flight Officer Harper right now. Both in terms of competency and moral fiber.

He whispered to Al, "Chase is on, boss."
 
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Al watched carefully as Dawson climbed up the pillar and looked within. She was already looking towards the exits, fire escapes called to her. As her wingmate gave her the rundown she smirked a little. The chase was on, it annoyed her that they couldn't follow the killer, it would have made it easier. Calmly she slipped out of her slightly heeled shoes, now regretting not wearing her boots.

"Do we have any clue where that passage ends? A starting point for this fox hunt?" After waiting for an answer she rushed for the nearest fire escape. "Head down the main stairs I'll we'll try and catch them in a pinch..." she called out quickly opening the latch and sliding open the large window that opened out onto a terrace with steep stairs that lead down in a tight external box. Though this was so well designed that one would hardly notice that it was an exit made for quick getaway. Her plan was simple have Dawson go down the regular stairs maybe exit onto the floor and draw some attention maybe get their target to reveal themselves, giving Al a moment to slip in from the side and surprise their quarry.

She could sometimes be a clever girl.
 
Mavis washed the blood from her hands and knife in the bowl of warm water that had been delivered to her.

One cleaned, she leaned over and adjusted the cool compress that lay on Artie's head courtesy of one of the tea towels and a pitcher of ice water. The fiery redhead continued her checks, making sure her improvised field surgery stayed put and the bleeding was staunched as best as possible.

He's looking better, less peaky and breathing normally but that won't last forever. I'm confident that between the compress and the other towels elevating his neck he'll last until real medical professionals arrive. The tablecloth I had them drape over him should keep him warm.

The noblewoman gave one of Artie's hands a reassuring squeeze. "Doing great hon. Just keep on keeping on."

But now that the excitement was no longer life-threatening, Mavis had time to take stock of the situation as Dawling and Al stalked around one of the nearby decorative columns. There were a lot of questions and very few answers.

Judging from her wingmates, the assassin had attacked from the column. Coupled with Dawling not filling it full of holes, the assassin had already skedaddled. Which was a good thing, since it was likely that they didn't know that Mavis had by the Lady's grace kept Artie from the Reaper's icy grasp.

We're not out of the woods yet, they'll likely make another attempt when the medics arrive unless I can do something about it. But what?

Mavis racked her brains as the inexorable march of time was heralded by the ticking of a very ornate grandfather clock built to match the décor. The assassin wasn't an old-world Givrian or hired by one. Otherwise there'd be a duel and public declaration of exactly why Artie deserved a arm's length of live steel thrust into his heart. The man was a harmless fop. Ambitious yes, maybe he had stepped on some toes to get where he was. But not the type to get so far in over his head that he'd be desperate enough order a hit on himself. Asphixiation was a terrible way to go. No. This was both personal and meant to send a message. Jilted lover? Unlikely, this was a bit too extreme and grandiose for a tiff. Lovers' family? Possible. One with ties to a friendly forest at the least judging by the dart Dawling had shown her earlier.

If this was as personal as she was thinking, whoever put out the hit would want to watch. The noblewoman's cerulean gaze canvassed the room filled with her fellow bluebloods and people of means.

Which one of you is the culprit?
 
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The noises of the city hit Al as soon as she left the building for the fire escape, the sound of wagons and cars, the steady murmur of conversations far below and the wind blowing past the marble and column crown facades on either side of the street. A few doves were more than put off as she ran past them, flying away with fluttering cries, while the pilot took multiple steps at all, her bare feet finding purchase on the sparkling new staircase and making good speed as the chase was indeed on.

In comparison Dawsons route was easier, but not any less fraught with stairs as he rejected the elevator in favour of keeping an eye on the column, the steel and brass monstrosity extending further and further with no sign of any opening for at least another two stories – before disappearing in the floors of an indoor café. Even on this level there was nothing but a few chairs, some tables and a small huddle of employees that were standing closer together, throwing furtive gazes at your sudden and hurried appearance.

Questioning them was easy: after all Dawson was both clearly a guest, clearly agitated and so far they hadn't heard anything but that an ambulance had been called and everyone was to stick around in the building so far. By their word there was an entry to the maintenance shaft in the column on the floor below – but they also assured Dawson that the column was only hollow up to the next floor to allow for an access to the electric light. Something that had clearly been disproven without their knowledge.

Still, this narrowed things down and taken another staircase Dawson found himself in tastefully decorated corridors once more, the tall windows not only letting in light, but also giving grand view of Al sliding down an extendable ladder that had been artfully hidden in the nooks between two columns till his flight leader took it as a swift way down. With him on one side and her on the other, they could head for the entry to the column in a pincer movement…

…. that rewarded them with Dawson running near head first into a slightly worse for wear looking gentlemen, who recoiled and nearly fell over as he was getting supported by a mature looking brunette in the uniform of the serving staff. Her gaze fell upon Dawson with more than a bit of indignation and she was about to open her mouth for something sharp and cutting as Al barrelled around the corner from the other direction, the only thing between the two pilots the pair – the doors leading to the lavatories and of course the hidden outline of a hatch behind a large potted plant.

With both of the others eyes going to Als shoeless feet, the brunette seemed to be ready to voice her opinion on running in the hallways, her motherly features taking on the warning signs of an approaching storm… as the gentlemen pushed himself upwards again, a heavy cut suit in the local style and the elegant waved haircut of the gentry, unable to hide the faint but intentionally visible scars along his chin and neck that marked him as someone who had enjoyed Stratocracy surgery for more than just health preserving measures. And while money might be an explanation, the hint of a harsh accent that came out a moment later made sure to showcase that he was the real deal:

"There's hurry and then there's hurry. While no one is worse for wear, I would hope that you have a pretty compelling reason to be running around heedlessly like this.", glancing back from one of the pair to the other he added "Presuming of course you are not trying to corner me in my own building.", he added, trying to push himself to stand a bit taller and gripping his cane tightly – even if he was clearly still struggling to stand upright, holding his stomach with one hand, while the brunette had moved to stand slightly behind him – but still let him lean part of his weight onto herself, green eyes moving from Dawson to Al and back to the man with worry.


=] Meanwhile above [=​

Multiple floors upstairs meanwhile, Mavis continued the vigil that Al had begun, her eyes roaming the assembled upper class before her sharply – only for her attention to be caught by the sound of flesh hitting flesh as a stair toppled over and with it a body. She could recognize the man who had landed this ungently on the floor as the younger brother of one of the girls that often partook in her mothers' recitals, his pale blonde hair only dragging attention to the flaming red imprint of a hand on his cheek. Of further interest was of course the origin of this ungentle slap – which had just sat opposite of him, before he had leaned forward to tell her something, which seemed to have elected the response that saw him nursing bruise and pride from the floor as the tall and slender woman merely stepped over him and headed for the nearest bottle, pouring herself a glass of wine, before gulping it down as swiftly as water, not minding any of the whispers that cam from the rest of the room as she instead gazed towards Mavis… or rather: towards the man bleeding before her knees.

There were many complicated emotions in that gaze, shock, surprise – but not as much horror as one might expect, maybe even a hint of dark satisfaction. Whatever it was, it was enough for gaze upon Artie for a long-drawn-out moment…. before stalking over to the telephone. Her loose and simple elegant dress in the latest republican style doing little to hide the kind of figure that must come from lots of riding and with impatience she was shoving the staff aside as she was quite intend on her destination…
 
Mavis considered the unknown dark and curly haired woman who had just jumped up to be her current prime suspect.

Republican, judging by her accent, appearance, and apparel. I don't forget names or faces, so she's definitely a recent arrival to New Boromih and the city proper. New money then?

The redhead's lips quirked into a moue of distaste as the Republican woman made for the only landline in the room.

Now we can't have that.

Ignoring her first instinct to go for her concealed carry and shoot the phone while quipping a witty one liner, the noblewoman instead brought out something much louder than her silenced pistol to the party. An ear-piercing whistle rang out moments later, more than enough to get everyone's attention onto the Harper scion whose eyes were locked onto the woman's with the same intensity as when she was in a dogfight.

What used to be a finely manicured finger before the meatball surgery ruined it waggled at the woman. "Ah, ah, ah. Don't touch that dial."

"I get that you are upset. But please wait for the gendarmes to arrive unless you're wanting to dig yourself deeper, sister. If that's the case, then by all means, go right ahead and make that call."

The redhead shrugged innocently.

"Pardon my Givrian, but it is suspicious as all hell that you feel the need to do so now instead of after the constabulary interrogates all of us on this current unfortunate affair. Simply because now everyone will remark on not only on your slapping prowess, but the fact it happened after our host's incapacitation. So, take a piece of friendly advice and go cool your heels for just a bit longer. If you do need to talk, I'm willing to be an impartial listener for the time being."

Offer complete, the Givrian noblewoman glanced over to the quartet trio (odd, Elizabeth is missing) of Sanderson half-sisters who were watching everything like it was the entertainment event of the year, while enjoying...

Wait a tic, where'd they get those bon-bons?! I would have tried those too!

The eldest Sanderson, Winifred or 'Winny' to her friends looked at Mavis and knowingly smiled; moving her hands in her lap to point out the missing sister who was chatting up an employee...right next to the telephone.

Ah, the gossip girls are on the prowl. Well, If the woman doesn't take my advice, at least I'll be looped in on the grapevine later by hook or crook.
 
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Dawson shook his head. "No. Too much ground for us to cover. Best I figure we have to follow the column down. Until we find the entrance."

The last sentence was not yet finished when Al revealed her plan. Dawson couldn't help but be taken by her confidence and the elegant simplicity of her plan. Why bother trying to, say, organize a herd of cats (nobility especially) and stake out exits when you could be the hound? Pursue the quarry directly and flush them out from their holes?

That is why you are our commander, Al.

Dawson jogged to the stairs. Along the way, he stole a glance at Artie's prone form and nodded to Mavis. He would have preferred to be there with Arthur. Holding his hand. Reassuring him. But fate had taken Dawson elsewhere, and the thin man walked the path set out before him. He just hoped that everyone would survive the day.

The stairs proved the easy part of the journey. Even in emergency situations, a certain sense of decorum had to be maintained. Mainly for those of power: nobility, the wealthy, officers, politicians. Such people could be easily spooked and dangerous if provoked. Thus the jogged remained a jog and one of those well-appointed, business-like half-runs at that.

How I loathe them.

But once on the stairs, Dawson made good time. Running and jumping down the stairs would have been a fool's errand. No, no. Dawson descended the stairs in a proper, dignified fashion for his own sake. His polished dress shoes clacked on the stairs in a fine, fast tempo, but never fast enough to unbalance him. Nor prevent him from watching his surroundings or the dreaded column. One hand rested on the rail for support and helped him make quick turns.

A Stitch in time saves nine.

He would have laughed about the pun under better circumstances.

Instead he released the safety on his pistol, smoothed his vest over it, and continued walking. Dawson did not like the "paratrooper carry", that being a round in the chamber with the hammer cocked and the safety on. No, Dawson preferred having to pull the hammer and pull the trigger. Safer to carry without slowing the draw greatly.

And thank goodness for that. The cafe proved uneventful, if enlightening. Dawson picked up his pace down the last flight of stairs. A little too fast for his taste and that only came in hindsight. He had eyes on the plant, the hidden hatch just behind...

...when a large obstacle crashed into him. Or he crashed into the obstacle. Either way, an obstacle. That is until Dawson recoiled back as well and took in the two individuals. Before a word was said, Dawson had a bad, bad feeling about the pair. Which was not an unusual reaction to anyone with money. This after all constituted only one of many rodeos for Dawson. But these two... felt physically dangerous. Even the large man's affected demeanor did not alter that conclusion.

Dawson looked genuinely surprised at the whole incident. He smoothed his ruined jacket as the large man threw his metaphorical weight around. Eyes darted between the man and the woman. His demeanor shifted to polite listening. Most pointedly he did not look at Al or the hatch.

Why ever would you think we wanted to corner you?

But he did not say that outloud. Instead he cocked an eyebrow at the reference to building ownership and cupped his hands together. A polite smile plastered itself across his face.

"Truly sorry, gentlesir and lady," he replied in a business-like tone that read as polite but not sycophantic. "Dawson Loomis. A pleasure to meet you." He offered a polite handshake to both of his new acquaintances. "Even under these dire circumstances. Did I hear correctly that you are the owner of this fine building?"

The opening question was a probe. As much to test the values of the gentleman as to gather information. A straightforward yes-no question. A fairly standard opener. Of course Dawson had follows ups, tactful questions, and retorts to this verbal sparring. After all, decorum had to be maintained.

He did not know how Mavis did it. The whole ordeal just felt exhausting to Dawson. But persevere he did. Time remained of the essence!
 
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Al's bare feet resounded in the marbled space. Her soles hurt causing her to wince with every step. It would all be worth it if she can trap their would be assassin. A few people looked her way but she was focused on her mission. Her eyes looked up following the pillar down to the floor. Seeing Dawson out of the corner of her eye she moved on a path to meet up with him, hopefully trapping their foe. As she rounded the corner all she saw was a tall and board form that filled the hallway. Coming to a stop was a challenge, her bare feet on the smooth floor making it even more difficult. Thankfully Dawson make first contact. Al had thought to slip away in the confusion but the attendant to the older man clocked her quick stopping her escape.

As the man spoke, chastising the pair for running about, the flight leader looked away. Trying to look nervous like a child being told off by a teacher but what she was actually doing was trying to find the exit the assassin might have used and attempting to still track them.

Dawson was doing a good job distracting all they needed was a little more time to pick up the trail.

Unless the man was their killer. He looked too big to fit in the pillar they were looking for someone thinner, or more lithe.

But, she had limited time and chose to focus on the surroundings. Looking for some clue.
 
Upon the whistle piercing the soft whispers that made up the background noise – aside from Arties soft rasping – the woman turned towards Mavis with a slightly puzzled expression, her eyebrows rising high on her aristocratic features and fine lips quirking into the beginning of a frown, before those fine olive-skinned features relaxed by a measure. Something like recognition blossomed in those dark hazel eyes, features relaxing and body uncoiling a little – the tall and slender form being best described as athletic. Something that seemed to have been a recent trend in the Republic, most likely having come together with light and deceptively short dresses and skirts both allowed more movement than the older fashion trends and room to show off the pride one had in their ability to move.

Which of course wasn't the main issue, as the woman turned smoothly on her heels to face the blonde man, who was still pushing himself upwards, as her voice cut in smooth, loud and clearly trained for such volume and clear delivery: "As you have heard yourself Stephen, Lady Arr-père", the name was pronounced with utmost precision and none of the usually barely audible phantom H, "…has agreed to oversee our affairs on the coming dawn as impartial observer and by virtue of sisterhood of her mother's tutelage. As you are not known as a prodigy in the arts of fencing, I am willing to eschew the blade for the pistol of it brings you comfort. Ducal Code by two shots or your apology in tomorrow's paper. The later shall cease to be an action if my ex-fiancée breathes his last today and your slight over his dying presence becomes thus graver than a mere apology can justify.", she said simply, to the clearly stunned blonde, before giving Mavis a curt nod – and heading back to her seat.

One part of the Chaos was clearly averted – even if the rumours were picking up before her very eyes. Thankfully this was broken soon after – as the wide wooden doors opened once again and this time the long coated forms of the Duchies Gendarmerie swooped in, their signature felt covered shakos glimmering in brass and gold as they moved in with hands on their sabres and made way for a trio of emergency doctors, their short grey tunics laden with various bags and pouches as they headed for Artie, only stopping for a moment to ask for what she had done before things…

…well, they weren't over but they were out of her hand and slowly but steadily the guests were filling out of the macabre room once more, their names and addresses taken by the gendarmerie for later questioning – as soon as some actual officers would be present to do so. Right now they were securing the room and giving the doctors a chance to get Artie ready for transport into the hospital and well, that was it. You had done the best you could.

-

But while things were wrapping up upstairs, the encounter below had barely begun. Still, maybe it was Als inability to meet his eyes or Dawsons polite but unchallenging tone. The dark haired gentleman from the stratocracy was pulling himself upright – even if his stomach still seemed to pain him – or maybe it was for another reason that he grimaced and added after a moment "Anton Bârladeanu, Co-Owner. I presume you must be the Loomis that Artie mentioned when we were organising the welcome? Textiles family, wasn't it?", he added brusque – or maybe just directly, as he added "And yes, I have invested together with my more…. Colourful partner for this project. Suffice to say that without my money none of this would be standing.", with a grand gesture to encompass… well, the corridor and the lavatories, he fixed you with a more serious look and added: "But if I haven't lost my feeling of time completely all guests should at present be by another one of Arties grand speeches?", the slight roll of his eyes was barely hidden, just like the annoyance in his voice, before he added "I do hope that no one else is suffering from stomach cramps? It would be a shame to look for new cooks this early in the actual working venture."

And while he was answering Davis Questions, Al was keeping her eyes peeling on anything else that was out of place – and came up with little: the hatch looked perfectly sealed and closed, no key in its hole and no scratches or other signs of forced entry. And while the co-owner might seem to heavy set, quite a bit of this might be because of the multiple layers of textiles wrapped around him. The brunette holding him upright meanwhile looked thoroughly stressed out and was nervously staring at her boss all the time, even when Dawson spoke. Clearly not the easiest of situations to be in…
 
Mavis gamely ignored the byplay from the peanut gallery as she focused on the woman's (Archie's ex-fiancée!) challenge and the wording thereof.

Ah, so current dinner date insulted a dying man not to mention former lover. Yep, that'd be sufficient cause to invoke the Code. Points for also pronouncing my families name correctly. Dirty pool for invoking my heritage, as I'm bound by blood and oath. But why in the Lady's name does everyone declare duels always at dawn? I was planning on sleeping in tomorrow, but no, now I have to watch someone die before my cuppa.

The redhead nodded her head at the woman, the slightly annoyed look disappearing as the Harper scions' attentions were directed at the blonde man, Stephen.

"There has been a challenge," the clarion call of her voice rang out to everyone within earshot, her usual Neo-Borohimean accent gone in favor of her Givrian roots. "Pistols at dawn in the Ducal Gardens by two shots, bound to the codes set forth by the Duchy of New Boromih. The accused may forfeit via public apology, unless one Arthur Vesand dies before morrows first light. Does the accused accept the terms? If not, the accused will either render aforementioned reparations as stipulated or be marked forevermore by your perfidy to all present. So witnessed, Lady Mavis Viviane Harper, acting executrix of this grievance between..."

Mavis blinked and looked betwixt the pair.

"Apologies, we've seen to have skipped past introductions in all the excitement. Your names, madame & monsieur?"

That was when the doors were bodily thrown open and the noblewoman soon after had her hands full with the giving her reports to both the police and the trauma team...
 
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Al was getting more and more frustrated as the older man kept talking and talking. A man was dying upstairs and this man was just bloviating. Though it could be he was just distracting them. There wasn't any sign the panel being broken or forced open. Though wouldn't an owner have all the necessary keys to get in and out without needing force? On the other hand he seemed a bit bulky to be shimming up the pillar. However his coat and shirt seemed a little thick maybe he was thinner underneath. The actions of his assistant did draw her attention, constantly looking towards her boss, with a concerned expression. Was that for fear of his health or was there something else?

There was a feeling in her gut that there was something up but, she couldn't put her finger on it. Looking to Dawson she waited for him to keep the conversation going. Let him take the lead, though she took a step closer to him, just in case things went wrong.
 
Artie, you damned fool. Really?

This moment was not the first time Dawson felt more than a bit ambivalent about the Stratocracy. Givrians' stories aside, Dawson did not like the Stratocracy in so many ways. Culturally, governmentally, socially they felt like nothing less than a dark reflection of the worst excesses of Kubutian society. Kubutians could be a joyful people one minute and a hard, calculating people the next. Of course they had to be! Kubutia found itself sandwiched between larger, more militant societies for millennia.

Work hard, parlay cunningly, and most of all do not fight fair...

...maybe those gangster stereotypes have a grain of truth after all.

But the Stratocracy had no joy. Kubutians were pragmatic, but the Stratocracy treated everything as a resource. Their entire world revolved around the exploitation of resources. Resources to own and use and discard. Yes, as poor Mavis learned the hard way, even people proved fodder for the Butchers. Yet their very efficiency, bloodlessness even, made them among the most brilliant of scientists and industralists imagineable. Dawson had to remind himself that the Stratocracy remained a major trading partner of New Boromih... and his own company. A trading partner that, like it or not, always paid its debts.

And so, half-formed conclusions and prejudices alike bubbled in his subconscious. His conscious thoughts focused on a name and the surprise of this new, and unmentioned, co-owner. He couldn't say he had heard of the man, at least directly. Dawson did not move in Stratocracy-proximate circles. On the other hand, if this gentlemen was being honest, he now knew who had ponied up the rest of the cash for this temple of consumerism. In the moment, however, the business-like, neutral demeanor shifted to concern at the man's obvious discomfort, and the woman's very obvious stress. He nodded to the gentleman's questions about the Loomis business and continued listening.

His fading smile, however, did become a bit more genuine at the large gentleman's regards for the, admittedly quite colourful, Artie. Even if the man's thoughts proved less diplomatic over Arthur's eccentricities. Dawson pondered the answers to Mr. Barladeanu's other questions. His smile slipped. His face became grave.

"Stomach cramps do not appear to be an issue at present. Unfortunately, Mr. Barladeanu," he began, using the gentlemen's pronunciation of his name, "The situation is indeed far more serious. Mr. Vesand has been attacked and struck down during his grand speech!" Worry crept into his voice. His eyes moved back-and-forth between the man and woman.

"The assailants are unknown at this time. I feel very lucky to have encountered you. You may be in danger as well. Perhaps we should retire upstairs? I am sure the guests and staff alike would be heartened having the co-owner there. And give you a moment to rest." Dawson tactfully motioned to the gentleman's abdominal discomfort.

As a distraction, Dawson knew he could do this all day. The problem though proved as serious as this incident itself. Dawson freely suspected these two as the culprits. Certainly, others could be involved, but the timing made them the top suspects. No one would question Mr. Barladeanu moving about his own building. In fact anywhere within his own building. His assistant likewise would not arouse suspicion. He too would have most access to spaces within the building. Perhaps even having had a hand in the design itself. Very likely having a hand in fact. The gentlewoman, on the other hand, would be lithe enough to climb the column. But proving the issue became another matter.

Yes, he needed time. So he did the honest thing. The kind thing. His mother would roll her eyes, and his father would smile.
 
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"Francine de Dubois, daughter of Ambassador de Debois.", the woman said simply, her eyes and anger not leaving the man before her, whose face was switching between the bright red matching the hand print on his cheek and a pale parlour that only made it stand out more as he brought out: "Stephen Lambrey, usually above such challenges but if this harpy things she can impress a dying man who preferred money to her…", his words were loud enough to carry and if glares could kill, Mavis wouldn't have needed to wake up before dawn either, but as they could not Stephen merely spit out "I accept the terms."

Which was of course the last things Mavis got to hear in the room before getting moved out of the room, one of the inspector trailing her respectfully – fully aware of just who she was and keeping the interrogation short as it was. Things were on the move and what she needed to do now was to get home and wait for the investigation to find further information – or at least move downwards towards the foyer with everyone else now.

-​

Anton Bârladeanu was proving to be quiet the time consuming fellows in many ways, but both the darker thoughts of Al and the suspicious musings of Dawson were broken as the sound of quick running steps behind them could be heard, the softness of each step heralding the arrival of a boy in servant uniform. The same boy that Al had observed not too long ago in the floor above as she scanned the crowds of guests and servants alike. Now he was slightly out of breath, his dark hair slick with sweat and the darker skin tone of his mixed-Trubc heritage now more apparent as he came to a halt, young hands clutching a long pole usually used to light the gas lamps in the building or on the streets. Looking from one person to another, he quickly sketched a half bow before the Stratocracy businessman, before turning towards the woman in servant livery, calling out quickly: "Mother! The Boss has collapsed and the Greycoats are here! They want everyone to move to the Foyer and keep the staff for questioning!", he said quickly and with agitation in his face, only the presence of their other boss stopping him from throwing himself at this mother for sure.

Even if the boy was fearful, the one impacted most by the message seemed to be Bârladeanu. One moment he had been staring at Dawson with disbelief plastered over his features, the next he was sinking backwards poleaxed, only the firm grip of the staff woman keeping him upright as he groaned: "Artie you damn fool!", his words came out strangled, but then he was suddenly pushing himself upright, throwing off the hands steadying himself and then discarding his coat next, letting it fall to the floor to expose a broad set of shoulders and more bulging muscles than was accepted in polite society. No matter his stomach aches, he was clearly working up his anger as he shouted: "I knew that that individual was up to no good!"

Before anyone could stop him, he was already stomping off towards the foyer with only a grimace at every step showing his continued pain. From the back it was clear that he had the build of a ringer – or of a former stratocracy infantry officer – muscles his own or implanted building as he headed towards the Foyer – a few scrambled screams from ladies of fine society the only warning anyone got…

…before third wing came together in the foyer once more to find themselves observing a near comical scene: a heavyset Kubitan man in a not quite perfectly fitting suit was flying through the air and impacted one of the tables with champagne glasses, splinters flying everywhere as the guests being herded into the hall fled in all directions like ducks on a pond when a stone fell into it. The few patrol man present looked at each other, their sabres half barred and their grey coats swung back, but the imposing stratocracy banker was already upon his victim once more, grasping his jacket and pulling him upwards, pressing him against one of the steel columns as if he wanted to squeeze him to death against it: "DAMN YOU! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR!", he shouted into the face of the man, whose features were quite non-descript, aside from his quivering moustache and the grey at his temples.

But he wasn't helpless, not at all, his kicks were raining against the sides of Bârladeanu with precision and his fists were hitting the heavy head, even as he struggled for breath. A struggle leaving him with quite red faced – but still recognizable enough that Dawson was able to put a name to the face: Faraday. Alfred Faraday who, in his younger days, had been a bodyguard of one of his uncles and had in later years been something of a problem solver for his family business…and was currently getting the life squeezed out of him by Arties business partner.

A state that might have persisted for longer, if this hadn't been the moment, a clear "ANTON!", was shouted across the foyer, the voice aging, but still firm. Wheeled in one a wheelchair by hurried servant staff, with two further patrol man trailing behind her a stern – but at the same time frail – looking older lady had appeared on the stage. While Dawson recognized her immediately – and not only for this cake he loved – the other members of his wing might still recognize the features on her face, which they had seen not too long ago on Artie. Things seemed to freeze as Lady Vesand took the stage, whose nearly eighty years of life had not stopped her from holding on to the overall control of the Vesand business group and outliving her son. Hopefully the same wouldn't hold true for her grandson…
 
Al tightened her fists ready to throw down as Dawson kept talking. The mention of the hopefully failed assassination of the apparent co-owner made Al tense. Was this the moment the villain revealed themselves throwing away all pretense and gloating to the heroes? Al hoped it would be that. While they did their best, crack investigators were not in their repertoire. Daring fighter pilots, sure, rough and tumble fighters, had that in spades, but cops, most certainly not. And that was fine. Not everyone could be the best at everything.

She did get a quick resolution though not in the way she was expecting. A young man arrived delivering the same news Dawson had. The older Stratocracy man roared shaking off the cloak that obscured his form revealing a mountain of a man that even the best fighters Al had met in the boxing circuit would hesitate to fight. Thankfully the monster of muscle's ire was not directed at her or her companions. For now.

Al followed close behind, feeling like a support ship following in the wake of a massive airship. People cleared out of the way of the raging banker leaving a pocket of space for Al and presumably Dawson to pass through the crowds with little difficulty. That was until he pulled away from them with inhuman speed getting to the foyer and tossing men left and right like toys, Al even more relived that she wasn't involved in the melee. Giant mitts wrapped around the neck of a nondescript man lifting him off the floor. The much smaller man fought back with precision that showed training but, it seemed to do little to stop or even faze Bârladeanu. The Greys with their hands on their sabers made Al's eyebrow raise a bit. Thankfully that didn't seem to have the courage to even say a single word to the imposing figure. The wing leader stepped between them locking eyes with the would be assassin.

"I'd tell'em friend, unless you want him to pop your block off like a grape…" Her small attempt at good cop, crush your head like a tin can cop, was cut short by the arrival of a woman of power. Despite her frail appearance Al could feel the presence of authority with her.

Her eyes drifted over to Dawson, this was his world, she would follow his lead.
 
All Dawson could do was nod at Mr. Bârladeanu. The situation felt surreal to Dawson. How could others react but with disbelief? He waited a beat and let the large gentleman process what he had said. If, by some chance, Mr. Bârladeanu did not have a hand in this dreadful attack, he may well be truly in danger himself. Dawson glanced at the servant and back to the co-owner of building. The moment stretched on. Silence reigned.

Turned out the tension broke due to a third party. Dawson could not help but quirk an eyebrow at young lad. Dawson had not scanned the crowd, not really, and the youthful servant did not look familiar to him. His sudden appearance and agitation told volumes however. Thus Dawson slipped back into his more neutral, serious demeanor as the boy confirmed Dawson's story. Dawson, for his part, stood quietly, watching the large man, the lady, and her son.

What surprised him though was Mr. Bârladeanu's reaction. Dawson looked genuinely surprised at his near swoon and even moved to steady him as well. Before Dawson could assist, the big man had thrown down his coat and charged off. Dawson had... questions. Lots of questions. His eyes flicked amongst the gathered group.

This is going to get messy.

If only he had known. The next few minutes passed in a blur. Dawson remembered standing there. Then turning to jog after the well-muscled, dangerous-looking fellow. He gave Al a look. The sort of wordless communication that said, "I have no idea what is happening. Just glad you are here."

Keeping an eye on Mr. Bârladeanu's accomplice, such as she was, just did not prove possible. Given his previous words, accompanying Mr. Bârladeanu became the only reasonable course of action. Dawson did hope, however, that the woman would accompany them upstairs. His suspicious musings wondered if this all was a deflection. A red herring to cover their own tracks. The whole situation had turned from intense to chaotic.

But at some point, moments later, reality became clear once more. About the time that a familiar man took to the air. And not in a plane. Only against the column, red-faced, did Dawson recognize the fellow: Alfred Peabody Faraday. Why, Dawson had not seen the rascal in years. Big Al, as he was known in the family, had been a bodyguard and troubleshooter for his uncle Alonzo. What he had been up to the last few years Dawson did not know. Dawson mainly remembered Mr. Faraday as a constant background presence whenever his uncle visited. Big Al was vigilant, discreet, and good at his job.

Why in blazes is he here?

That initial bad feeling returned. An ache settled into his stomach. Had Mr. Faraday been behind this? Was the ire pointed at him a framejob to cover for Mr. Bârladeanu and incriminate, perhaps, even the Loomis family itself? Had Artie hired him? Dawson had a bad feeling. Normally, he would have intervened. Calm everyone down. Let the Greycoats deal with the investigation. Work the problem. But now he hesitated. Issues of incrimination, such as a Loomis intervening in favor of a known Loomis problem solver, could be interpreted in a rather unfavorable light.

I hate politics.

Mr. Bârladeanu's size did not prove a deterrent. After all many men and women too towered over Dawson. Size did not matter to Dawson. Al though, with her good cop routine, did raise a good point. Big Al could actually be in on the conspiracy. How Dawson did not know, and he did not have the time to consider.

Thankfully, he did not need to intervene. A voice he instantly recognized echoed through the room. He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Or perhaps just untensed. His face showed his relief the most. From worried to a real relaxation and a small smile. His eyes lit up.

His eyes met Al's, and he gave her a small nod.

Dawson may have been the only person moving. Felt like he was. Buttoning his jacket, he approached the stage and bowed to the matriarch of the Vesand family.

"Mrs. Vesand."

Formalities had to wait though. A man was being strangled after all. Dawson glanced over his shoulder at the two combatants and back to Mrs. Vesand.
 
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"This case going to be a pain in the ass, I can feel it already," the grizzled looking inspector muttered under his breath loud enough for the noblewoman next to him to overhear.

Mavis smiled wryly at the older gendarme that was escorting her down the steps into the foyer after her perfunctory interrogation.

"Trust me, Detective Muldoon, the day isn't over yet where this little attempted murder mystery we've all been roped into is concerned. At the very least the fallout of Madam Dubois and Monsieur Lambreys' little tête-à-tête in the Ducal Gardens will have the city coroner busy tomorrow as well. No love lost between that pair."

The man gave an exasperated shake of his head as he stated an oft repeated line, "Bloody nobles and their drama."

The redhead gave the man a mock hurt look. "Not my fault most of the peerage are a bagful of cats at the best of times, and thank you so much for lumping my family into that painful statement. While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?

The man looked horrified for the split-second he honestly believed that he had actually offended the redheaded noblewoman before Mavis laughed and waved him off. "Relax Detective, I'm just messing with you. We blue bloods do tend to make a nuisance of ourselves..."

The unmistakable sounds of fisticuffs intruded into their conversation as the redhead gracefully sidestepped being in the line of fire as a man went careening into one of the tables, but not before rescuing a flute of champagne from it's imminent demise.

"...like so." Mavis stated before taking a sip of her purloined champagne and calmly watching the carnage in front of her unfurl.

Hopefully this second act to tonight's entertainment would be over quickly. She had a duel to arrange, not to mention trying to suss out what in blazes what all of this drama was about if only for Dawlings' sake...which meant chaffering with the gossip girls. Joy.
 
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Lady Vesand wore her age with grace, hair neatly coiffed and arranged beneath a small but tasteful hat, in a burgundy that went well with the heavy coat and dress she was wearing – partly for warmth, partly to hide just how gaunt she had grown since Dawson had last seen her. Still, for all the frailty of her body, the dark green eyes peering at the assembled peerage and staff had lost nothing of their intelligence, her hands moving lightly as she gestures for Bârladeanu to let go of the Dawson-Troubleshooter in his grasp. Be it in respect for her age – the lady was rapidly approaching her 84th Birthday and had been a good friend of Dawsons grandfather back in the day- or because of the business ties that connected them: the Stratocracy banker let go of Faraday, grunting in disdain, but taking a step back to straighten his suit – a chance more than a few of the greycoats used to quickly move in between the two men, not quite drawing their sabres, but letting their hands rest on the pommels with little suggestion needed.

Faraday for his part had stumbled backwards, reaching up to rub his neck, each finger of the massive man before him having left a bruise on his skin. Rubbing over his greying beard, he could only curse out something about 'fucking strats' before falling silent, his eyes going from Dawson to the Lady Vesand and back to the Stratocracy man before him. Straightening his suit a little, he called out loudly: "Assault this is! Clear as a day Officers! I am just honest business man, minding my own bu…", he didn't get farther, before Bârladeanu lunged for him again: half-heartedly though as three officers were able to interpose themselves and keep him from lifting up the Loomis-man by his collar once more. Of course, he was far less worried about keeping calm and spit far too eagerly: "A honest businessman? You are a pest! A rat! A troublemaker following Artie on each step of his since he bought those stocks! I told that fool that he shouldn't and he went and did it anyway!"

Maybe that was honest indignation and anger speaking – or a colder calculus: either way the room exploded into little whisper and far too many eyes went to Dawson, with a few louder snippets proclaiming that his older brother had a bad end and who knew how this one would end. But before things could devolve into open shouts of what far too many people were suddenly thinking, Madam Vesand intervene once more and with a short gesture, she had herself wheeled forward and to Dawsons side, putting her hand on his elbow, her voice carrying loudly over the foyer:

"Ladies and Gentleman, I am quite sorry to see this presentation ending on such a sour note: especially as I know that my grandson would have loved nothing more than to see you all enjoy the wonder he had built for the people of this fair city. I am sure the Constabulary will have some questions to all of us – something that can be done later in the privacy of our homes, so we have a moment to calm our nerves." – such was the privilege of the cities rich and powerful after all – "I will now oversee the transportation of my grandchild to the hospital, I am sure Mr. Bârladeanu will be able to answer any lingering question on the building and construction you have. Now then, let us keep calm and befitting our station."

The last words were said with a little twinkle to Dawson at her side – after all the Lady Vesand had begun her life as a common neighbour of the Loomis family, learning spinning in her mothers textile factory, before marrying the Lord Vesand whose bank account had fallen on hard times.

At least she had been able to calm things down. Mr. Bârladeanu was moving as far away from Faraday as possible and it didn't seem likely that anyone would approach him with questions on the building anytime soon – meanwhile Faraday was getting moved to the side, neatly locked in by two greycoats on each side of his, their looks promising more than a few pressing questions in the close future.

Of course he wasn't the only one who was under scrutiny: with the bankers words, the audiences gossip and despite the public support of the grandmother, more than a few more or less openly suspicious glances where thrown in Dawsons direction. Something that might not have been overly worrying if it had been the eyes of the nobles only – but even Detective Muldoon was stroking his chin with calculation, glancing at Dawson and Faraday
 
The redheaded noblewoman was content to not interfere with the ongoing drama, busying herself with mentally organizing the rest of the day to account for tomorrows' excitement. Most people would be surprised how...involved official duels were. To be fair, the romantic image of two individuals clashing with swords, firearms, or bare knuckles instantly upon being besmirched did happen. But the vast majority of those were to first blood or unconsciousness, not death. Easily adjudicated by neutral party and settled quickly. However, Miss Dubois was looking to make a corpse of Mister Lambrey. Which meant having a counselor-at-law to cover the legal side, a notary from the Crown due to the nobility being involved, an armorer to inspect the weapons, a doctor to confirm death, the seconds for each duelist, and herself playing executrix. The Harper scion would have to arrange all of those people, the venue, and the weapons. Thankfully those wouldn't be that hard for her to acquire by tomorrow morning due to Papa's infamous predilection of conflict resolution via single combat. Mavis sighed at the loss of what she had planned to do with the rest of the day and tomorrow, downing the remainder of the bubbly in a pique of annoyance.

Then the pocatraça cast aspersions on Dawling.

HOW DARE HE! She furiously raged to herself, blueblood redlining for a split-second as every ounce of her being wanted to do nothing more than break the stem of the expensive crystal champagne flute in her hand off in his eye socket.

But it was too late as the djinn was out of the bottle, as evidenced by the ever increasing whispers and unkind looks that were being directed at her friend.

ENOUGH OF THIS FARCE.

Lady Harper took one step forward, fully intent on coming to the defense of her wingmate only to have Dawson subtly wave her off as instead the venerable Versand matriarch attempted to quell the furor. She was reasonably successful, but leaving was probably the best option for the Unluckies at the moment. Not to mention Mavis was quite tired of this hellhole.

And if I don't leave I might just finish off what Monsieur Bârladeanu started.

Mavis moved over to Al, "I bet you'd never had believed me before today that even high society shindigs end when the police crash the party."

The redhead gave her wingleader a wan smile. "So now is the opportune time to cut and run. So how about we see if Dawling needs any assistance with accompanying Lady Versand to the hospital? Because I would very much like some clarity about how a fancy dress party turned into a attempted murder mystery."
 
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Dawson's eyes narrowed. Certainly at Bârladeanu's outburst. But also before that at Faraday's outburst. Both displays felt forced. Like he was watching a play. He didn't bother to react. The crowds were doing that for him. His eyes flicked back-and-forth between the two men.

This too shall pass, as but a dream.

He did not want to ponder the level of storm that was about to break. Oh, he knew the Loomis family would weather the storm. For all their own fury, the Loomis family was tough. But first they had to notified. Let them release the hounds and hunt down the truth. Metaphorically and in reality.

Contact the Three. Contact Otti. Mom and Dad.

His Aunt Matildes knew a lot of people from all walks of life. They rivaled the upper-crust harpies. Some of whom where present in this very room. They would handle public relations. They were good. Scary good. As an "nobles and politicians hire them" good.

Times like this he did not know how his dad could work a crowd like he did. Family legend told that a rift between the Loomis and Grafton clans healed after his dad and Mr. Zasu Grafton got hammered on brandy. Apparently, talking for an hour while drunk, at a party, was his dad's specialty.

Otti, well, you have no idea how much trouble a lawyer can solve (and cause). Ex-adventurer and professional smartass. Thankfully, he only used his lawyering powers for good (of the family). Otti and the Law were old friends.

Mom did not need an introduction. Much like Madam Vesand, clever people did not dismiss her based on her appearance. Calculating, scheming, and damn good at business. Archibald inherited her brains. Dawson inherited his dad's heart.

Speaking of Madam Vesand, Dawson felt a hand on his elbow. But not before spotting another defender. No one less than Lady Mavis Harper looked fired up. Dawson motioned with his free hand, a subtle waving off sometimes used in noisy hangars. He appreciated her help. Now however did not the right time make.

Dawson turned his attention to Madam Vesand. He smiled at her words and moreso at the look that passed between them. She was a good egg, as his grandmother would say of her gin rummy card partner.

As calm descended, Dawson knelt down next to her. He offered her a hand, and as she took his, he layered hers with both of his own. "Thank you," he said quietly. Only now, mere inches from her, did his stoic demeanor waver. His face lined with worry. "I wish you and Arthur only the best, Madam Vesand. Now, perhaps, is not a good time for such, but I will help in any way I can. And..."

A tired smile crept over his face again, "...wonderful to see you. You look as radiant as ever."

After their brief conversation, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, stood up, and made eye contact with his wingmates. He motioned them over with his head.

Time enough.
 
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The former boxer was willing to let it all play out. Let the brute of a banker squeeze the life out of the assassin, fixer, Al wasn't quite sure there was something off in the room. As Bârladeanu let go of the man the hackles on Al neck began to rise. The Greys stepped in hands on their sabers though it looked as thought they didn't have any real intention of using them. That thought was proven true as the Stratocracy man lunged forward again. The former boxer tensed almost ready to interpose her body but, thought the better of it. The target of the aggression was picked for an attempted murder of a close friend of Dawson. She really didn't have any reason to stop him from getting beaten black and blue.

As she stood back she started to notice gazes being cast toward Dawson, whispers of his brother and the end he suffered. Where Mavis turned red, Al just let out a breath, rolling her shoulders preparing to have a fight. It didn't matter who it was, they were casting aspersions towards one of her friends, this couldn't be made to stand. However as Mavis was about to launch and Al close behind her, Dawson waved them off. There was a moment's hesitation as she looked to the crowd, he was her friend but that also meant standing up for him. When Mrs. Vesand started to speak everything seemed to calm down.

There was a slight sneer on her face as the rich and powerful were allowed to go home to recuperate rather than answer questions. If this had been her kind of party half would be going down to the station while the other half would be bolting for the exits. The benefits of being wealthy she guessed.

Al crossed her arms as Mavis began speaking to her.

"I would think the rozzers would be a mere annoyance to this kind of thing…" She said plainly but with a bit of a tone that belied her easy going demeanor. "And yeah, we should go with him. Looks like he could use the company…and well, not too sure about the 'Figuring out how this happen' bit but someone did put poison near my wingmates…and I'l like to find out who ordered it."

As she started walking towards Dawson she was stopped by a maid dressed in the uniform of the staff.

"Excuse me miss…" Al turned her head to find the woman carrying Al's discarded shoes. "Miss you left these, um…" The petite young woman paused for a moment to look up at the pilot. "When you um…went out the window…" Al took the shoes with a smile and a nod.

"Thank you miss…" She set them on the ground and slipped into them or tried to anyway. She found herself leaning on the young woman to finally get them on, causing the other woman to blush a little.

"I should be going then." Al nodded and headed towards her wing.

"What's the plan?" she asked looking to Dawson.
 
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Dawson rolled his neck and looked up at the ceiling. A sigh followed.

"Messy" summed up the situation so well. Dawson would like nothing more than to get to the truth himself. Simply put that did not look possible. The more he probed, the more incriminating the situation became. Sometimes the best thing to do was back off.

Don't have to committ a crime to be arrested.

But he did not trust the authorities either. The Greys had a... checkered track record. The initial investigation into Archibald's parachute debacle proved nothing less than a disaster. Which weaknesses among incompetence, overwork, ignorance, political pressure, and graft proved the most persuasive would never be known. But assuming that the innocent would be proved innocent was naive at best.

His rummations concluded, Dawson stepped up to his wingmates. He spoke quietly, "Thank you. Really, thank you both. The actions taken here today would be worth commendations if we were on duty."

His tapped his jaw with his fingers. "I would accompany Madam Vesand and Artie. But that would only look suspicious." He sighed again. "I am also worried someone will try to finish him off."

What to do. What to do.

"Okay, let us work the problem. First, let us touch bases with Detective Muldoon. Provide him what we know now. Let him secure the scene." He glanced at Al as he spoke. "Then, quite frankly, let's get out of here together. We will have time for formal interviews."

Left unsaid was that Dawson did not feel very safe right now. In fact, given his overall formal demeanor, he looked as on edge now as after the attack itself.

His jaw clenched a moment. "This is out of our hands. I'll contact my Uncle Otti. He can give us a lift to my parents' house. Everyone has been looking forward to meeting you two anyway."

"Wish I had a better idea. Thoughts?" Once the details were hammered out, Dawson adjusted his ruined jacket and led the group to speak to Detective Muldoon.

You were right, Otti.
 
Inspector Muldoon wasn't hard to find – after all he had moved to where Dawson and Al had just been minutes ago. Talking to him was of course a wholly different issue: when you reached the entrance to the maintenance shaft you found two greycoats standing next to it, one holding both hat and coat of the grizzled inspector, while the sound of his shoes on the ladder resounded in the darkness. With them eyeing you it seemed prudent to wait a little longer – at least till the man himself stepped out of the shaft, reaching out to grasp his hat and place it back onto his greying hair. Slipping into his coat, that seemed to swallow his wiry frame up more than it did anything to dress him, the inspector turned to face you. With sweat still on his dark skin he reached into his pocket to pull out a slice of chewing tobacco, not minding the looks of the greycoats as he flashed his stained teeth. "Lady Harper!"

He called in greeting before turning his gaze to the other two members of the wing "And friends. Dawson Loomis of Loomis Incorporated and Iron Jaw Al – quite the illustrious trio at my crime scene.", placing his hands in his coats pocket as he stepped closer he poked you verbally: "A Lady, a Man of Means and an Officer of the Duchess own Patrol. I am sure you know that we would have send someone to respectfully interview you tomorrow. We are currently busy with the staff and are most likely going to take some of the more interesting cases with us to the station.", that they might expect far less gentle care over there was of course clear.

"I would of course ask you to stay available for further questioning, but as the good Lady Harper saved your erstwhile host from being the first man in thirty years to die chocking on Sin, I am sure that none of you will try to skip town.", shaking his head he added "Would have been a horrible way for your host to go: seen it when I was still fresh on the force, someone must have felt smart hitting the history books, but why they want to style their murders after an ancient brotherhood of assassins is anyone's guess. Nobles you see: too many hobbies too little common sense.", he added, the joke not sitting a bit more comfortably as he was able to offer it back to Mavis.

"If you haven't anything that needs to be hammered immediately, I would recommend that you go home and try to give yourself a moment to decompress. A murder attempt is quite different from shooting and getting shot at. Believe me."
 
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