I was a Private Investigator.

That's what it said on my newspaper ads, that's what it said on my damn nameplate which was on my damn office door, and that's what I was currently telling myself as I stared down the line of guns pointed at me.

There was no good reason why any private investigator should be facing down gunmen, I mused, trying to steady my rapidly beating heart. Especially me, considering that I mainly took on cases of lost animals and family tree lineages. So I was honestly failing to see a reason that would justify why I as a P.I was even facing down one criminal with a gun much less an entire group of dangerous men with far more dangerous weapons.

Not that this hasn't happened to me before.

As of right now, however, I was probably going to die doing something completely unrelated to my current job description and it irked me. Along with the fact that I really had no good chance of escaping my fate I was beginning to get a bit stubborn in my mindset that for all extensive purposes I shouldn't die because PI's like me don't die in gun storms.

We should die in explosions.

And sure I might have stumbled upon a huge crime spree outfit but hey, I was more than willing to forget whatever I had seen if it meant I could at least get a few seconds to dive behind one of the stacks of crates filling this warehouse.

Which was another thing that irked me; not only was I going to die doing something that was not in my job description, not only was I not being paid for my time and the considerable risks to my health, I was about to kick the bucket in one of the most cliché settings out there. Right now I was about to die in a place that even Scooby Doo wouldn't go into, even for a box of Scooby Snacks. At which point I found myself mentally hoping that my life would begin paralleling Scooby's because I was sincerely hoping to get out of this mess alive.

The shuffling behind me signaled an attempt by the children to huddle closer together for some amount of protection. As one proceeded to bump into me from behind in his hurry to gain some amount of coverage from the one sided firestorm that was about to break out I remembered why I was in this predicament.

'That's right August', I reminded myself, 'If you screw this up you won't be the only one to die so start thinking buckaroo.'

I cleared my throat.

"So the Rangers last night huh? Damn shame they weren't able to score that last run against the Blue Jays. Damn shame."

And I proceeded to leap at the gunmen hoping that by some miracle Lady Luck would be attending to me tonight.

Electricity bills, the "oh so hated" apartment payment, the insurance costs for both my health and that piece of junk called my automobile, and that one lawsuit from the Wetherfords which apparently never stayed dead no matter how many times I reiterated I was not the one who trashed their car.

I sighed, clasping my head in my hands; Figured this was what I got for deciding to check my P.O box for once.

This happened way too often for comfort, no matter how many jobs I took on I never could muster up enough money to pay for all my necessary expenses. It probably didn't help that the need for private investigators centered on mainly catching cheaters.

A job I was not going to get involved in.

Yes, a desperately poor 25 year old was perfectly willing to find that magician for little Johnny's 4th birthday, but was apparently too damn proud to find out if that special someone was messing around with that handsome coworker of his/hers in the parking lot of the Waffle House. I had seen how these scenarios played out and it always hit a bit too close for comfort. Plus the outcome always ended up reminding me of one those apocalyptic ends of time movies where there's fire everywhere and blood is unrealistically flowing in the streets. Except it took place behind the Waffle House and instead of watching mayhem rain down from the comfort of your couch you had to watch it up close and personal so you could get your paycheck.

I tended to avoid the golden nest egg of P.I's everywhere and once taking out unfaithful lovers, the pool of reasons why a person would require my services quickly dwindled away.

I shifted away from my go-to depression pose and proceeded to lean back into my sorry excuse for a chair, staring at the yellowed ceiling and filed the depressing picture above me as another thing I needed money for, money which my job as a private investigator couldn't provide. Or perhaps I could just learn to live with the mold growing above me. A far cheaper alternative than the repairs that would eat a chunk out of the sorry excuse I call my paycheck.

Although, being perfectly honest, I never had enough money flowing in continuously for me to consider it a working paycheck. Sure I got paid, but more often than not I got the pay of a miscellaneous job worker. Which made sense since I happened upon the title of Private Eye and decided it was a better career name than 'I get Shit done' or 'Scooby Doo on Steroids'. This of course meant that people who needed a P.I were even more likely to pass me up. Which for the life of me I couldn't understand why, both titles were something I would look for in any self-respecting investigator.

Some people nowadays. Not respecting the classics.

Hence the current scenario, that of waiting for my three thirty to show up so I could possibly make enough money to pay off, at least, the apartment for one more month.

I should have realized that Life, especially mine, was never that easy. Because of course my Life liked to screw me over in every possible way for its own enjoyment.

For example, here I was, still in my dilapidated office waiting for a three thirty that still hadn't shown up even though the clock had hit four two hours ago.

I had already exhausted everything I could do to wait a bit longer. I had stared at my ceiling, I had stared at my phone, and heck I even considered watering the plant a client had once given me in an attempt to make my office more like a 'home'. I even checked the mail today. My mental checklist was complete and my office hours were officially closed.

I got out of my overstuffed chair, stretched, and resolved to call it quits. Clearly, whatever the person had needed done hadn't weighed too heavily on their priority list if they couldn't keep the appointment they had made a "mutual" friend set up with me.

It didn't sit well however. I had only stayed this long due to the nature of which the appointment was made.

I always followed the same basic procedure when setting up an appointment over the phone. You call during office hours. You state your name. You state how you found me. You then concisely tell me your concern or problem - I do not need your life story to determine whether or not I can be of service to you.

I decide whether you need to see me. The rest gets discussed in the appointment.

Partly, I always did this to double check if it wasn't a prank by some of those idiotic kids who were still smarting from the time I had identified them as the culprits of a parking lot vandalism case. Considering that they had been stupid enough to keep the spray paint cans and were also stupid enough to boast about their exploits to try and catch the attention of a lady like me I had nothing but the lowest opinions of them. Though sometimes I did look forward to the calls that would come in, if nothing else but to hear some of the answers they tried to come up with to the questions I asked. The other reason why by application process was so streamlined, besides being the professional thing to do, I wanted to see if someone else wouldn't be better suited for the job. I needed money but I wouldn't cheat someone else out of it. A trait my mentor had always praised me on, or rather the only thing he praised about me. So when I got the call last night I was surprised.

For one thing, they had called me at home. Not my office number, but my personal number.

Odd had nothing on this.

I had used every damn favor in my arsenal to make sure my home number couldn't be tapped and to make sure it wasn't registered with any organization, book, or other forms of listing. I had people that owed me favors in very high places who I was sure wouldn't screw up my request lest I blackmail them with the information I always had on hand.

Paranoia was my freaking lover and we got along really well these days. As such, only a select few knew my personal home line number and most of them had died over the years.

And you only called my personal number when shit had hit the fan.

So last night when that phone rang, as I was picking it up, I'd been fully prepared to spend the next few days dodging bullets, trying to track down the enemy this time around, and spending time evaluating who I could trust.

"Hey Nymph".

I didn't expect Jean.

"I have no idea who you fucking think you are. But you better lay off the act right now".

"Nymph, it's me, Jean. I need you to set up an appointment for a mutual friend y—"

"Bullshit. You are not Jean. So tell me how you got this number.

Now."

"Three thirty. And you'll get all your answers."

"Look here Jack—"

*click*

*beep beep beep*

I shivered.

The call was giving me bad feelings for so many different reasons and I wasn't missing the resounding implications of any of them.

Whoever had called had sounded like Jean down to his trademark gritty tone, down to his heavy breathing, and even down to the slight emphasis on the y in Nymph. It sounded like Jean.

And Jean was one of the few people who knew my personal number.

It was a shame Jean was dead.

I reasoned that whoever had called had known Jean. Enough to replicate his speech patterns, enough to know the pet name he bestowed on me, enough to know my number. Which was where the troubling thoughts I was having now resonated.

Nobody, should know my number unless I had handed it to them. Passing along my number to a stranger was something the trusted few I had given the number too wouldn't have done. Especially not Jean-Which meant they had picked it up somewhere.

Calling me in Jean's voice meant that they must have been one of the people who had raided his apartment in the dying days of Infiltration; only friends had known where Jean had lived. But if they had gotten the number there it meant Jean must have been getting sloppy in his work to leave it about, especially considering I had made him mentally remember it. Probably a reason he died.

Or perhaps Jean was what everyone said he was. A Traitor.

And this mysterious person X wanted me to meet a mutual friend

This didn't bode well since all the friends me and Jean shared were missing or dead. Frankly, I was not in the mood for reunions or zombies so I had been rather worried about what three thirty would bring along.

'Don't muse about this now August', I scolded myself. 'Do that at home where there's food. Not in this office of yours. Where the only answers you'll be finding out will be centered on how much longer that plant can survive without water. Besides it not like anyone could find you, your location was unmarked too, waiting this long was just indulging in some paranoia fueled Whimsy.'

I agreed with me mental voice stretching once more before putting my back to the door so I could turn around and grab my soft cow skinned cloak from its resting place on my chair. I brought the thing with me everywhere and even though it wasn't nearly cold enough for me to justify putting it on I still donned the outerwear.

It was one of the last vestiges of proof that I had from my time with Arachne, and I had always felt safer with it on me then clothed in the finest Kevlar available. This really just went to show that if I died I would rather do so in something I loved rather than a bulky vest which limited my already poor athletic skills. In short, I was a fool with a death wish but looking down at the tan color of the cloak and its rather Western Cowboy appearance I couldn't help but decide that I had my priorities straight. Besides who kills P.I's that look for lost animals? I nodded to myself that I was correct, and proceeded to mentally congratulate myself for putting on a coat since it was starting to get chilly.

Hold on.

Cold.

In July.

In New Mexico.

Shit.

"Took you awhile didn't it? Well I suppose that's the age settling in now, hmm darling? So how is my old friend Augusteine doing? So sorry that I'm late dear, I got distracted by some wannabe thugs in the alley behind your building and felt that I should inform them the way they were going about their lives was all wrong. Vandalism is going so downhill from how it used to be in my time."

I tried to slow down my rapidly beating heart as I turned around to see the speaker who had snuck up on me in the few seconds I had dropped watch on the entrance. Standing in front of my office door was none other than Lydia Demar Rechle, the woman who had once been my employer.

Before the Infiltration of Arachne.