Sarah Manning
Sarah is the owner of a sketchy urban pub known on the streets as "The Birdwatcher". The pub has a small collection of regulars who frequent it, but other than the regulars, they have a limited clientele—most people are frightened off by some of the shadier members of the regular crowd, as well as by the rumors surrounding it. There's talk about some crazy anarchist group that meets there, and a pissed-off-looking tweaker with a missing finger charges in there almost every night, screaming obscenities about the owner—something about the love of his life and a missing bag of cocaine and a suburban soccer mom, it's all gibberish really, the guy is tweaked into oblivion. Among the other regulars are a stern-faced ex-cop with a no-bullshit attitude and a clear chip on his shoulder, a fabulous collection of gay men who drink free on Friday nights, and a tall, scruffy man who carries a laptop everywhere with him and is rumored to be some big-time anti-corporate radical and a prolific hacker. They serve cheap beer on tap, a few bar snacks, and a selection of cocktails that may or may not come spiked with illegal substances. The air is always thick with various blends of smoke, and although the bartender—a heavily-inked woman with bleach-blond hair and thick-rimmed glasses—claims that they don't run any deals that could get the pub shut down, the word on the street is that they sell drugs out of the back room. Then again, there's also rumors about illegal firearms and homemade bombs running through that pub—you can't believe everything you hear, unfortunately. One night, as you're walking past it, you see the owner locking up for the night and approach her. "What really goes on in there?" you blurt out, and immediately feel embarrassed—you hadn't meant to be so upfront, you sound like a nosy prick now. She looks slightly annoyed and shakes her head. "If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn't ask. Now get lost." And with that, she turns and walks off down the street, disappearing into that steamy underworld that, while so unfamiliar to you, seems to be home to her.
Cosima Niehaus
There are a lot of hip, quirky little cafes and coffee joints near the college. You are walking down the street one day and happen to catch a whiff of espresso drifting through the door of "Le Mignon Chiot" and suddenly realize you haven't had any coffee all day. A bell on the door rings as you walk inside. The walls are plastered with what appear to be fantastically-colored posters filled with abstract forms and patterns. You mention them to the barista—a cheerful, nerdy-looking, blond-haired young man with an awkwardly-wide smile and thick-looking glasses—as you're placing your order, and he grins. "Those are actually pictures of the inner workings of various human cells as seen through a powerful microscope. I made those myself!" He seems very proud to be announcing this. And then, over your shoulder, you hear a female voice: "Please don't tell our customers exactly what cells those are, Scott—we want them to be hungry, not nauseous." You turn around and see a short, smiling girl with winged kohl eyeliner, cat's-eye glasses, and dreadlocks standing behind you. Your immediate impression is that she's very cute. Then you realize that Scott, the barista, thinks the exact same thing.
Scott giggles nervously. "H-hi there, Cosima!" he stammers, "How are you doing today?"
She smiles coyly at him. "I'll be better after a latte. Could you brew one up for me, please? I'd do it myself, but your lattes are just so much better—thanks!" And then, to you: "I'm Cosima, I'm the manager here. I hope Scott isn't putting you off, he's working on his microbiology PhD, can't seem to discern what's the best stuff to bring to work and what's best to leave at the lab..."
"No, no, not at all." You blush as you shake her hand. You catch a whiff of her scent—her jacket smells faintly of marijuana. "It's nice here. What does the name of the cafe mean?"
She grins. "Well, it's French for 'The Sweet Puppy'...I guess it's an inside joke with the puppy who helps me run this place..."
You are about to ask her about the puppy when the bell on the door rings again, and Cosima's face lights up. "Delphine! You made it!" She strides quickly over to the tall, blond-haired woman who just came through the door and kisses her—full on the lips. You feel the color creeping into your cheeks. You look away quickly, and find yourself face-to-face with the awkward barista.
"I know..." he says, smiling sadly. "She used to work in the same lab as me, never really seemed to notice me...but she noticed Delphine pretty quick, they're an item." You nod, unable to muster up voice for a response. Scott pats you on the shoulder. "Here...your coffee...cream's on the table by the window. Have a good one."
Alison Hendrix
On the surface, Gemma's looks like any other mom-and-pop family-run diner—checkered tablecloths, a menu offering all of the basics, a couple of specialties. But there's a lot of rumors about the couple who runs it—that the wife is a drunk, that the husband is having an affair, that there's yelling at their house every night. In your mind, though, rumors are just rumors—plus, you're hungry, and the french toast combo advertised in the window looks fantastic.
As you enter the diner, you are greeted by the waiter—a large, dark-haired man who smiles nervously as he offers you a menu. He recites a shaky greeting—"Welcome to Gemma's, where you eat with our family!"—as he seats you, and then you hear yelling from the kitchen.
"Donnie Hendrix! I told you, it's not 'where you eat with our family,' it's 'where you eat like our family!' How many times do I have to go through this with you? Can't you do anything right?"
The waiter, Donnie, cringes and nods in the direction of the kitchen, where a petite, dark-haired woman with stiff posture and a tight smile stands with her arms crossed. "I'm sorry, honey, I just—"
"Don't...even try it." she cuts him off. You half-expect him to try again to speak, but at the same time, you aren't surprised at all when he shuts his mouth and hangs his head. "I'll handle front of the house. You, go...into the kitchen. I'll handle this."
Donnie shrugs and walks into the kitchen. His wife stumbles slightly as she passes him, and he catches her and whispers something into her hear. She pushes him away. "Shut up, Donnie! Of course I can handle this! How dare you imply that I've been drinking today? I don't get drunk on the job—I am not a drunk! I am not an alcoholic and if you suggest that I am again, I will...I will...I will tell all the members of your golf club about last Halloween! Now, get into the kitchen, we can't keep the customers waiting!" He raises his hands in surrender and backs into the kitchen. She straightens her headband and approaches you. "Hello there, I am Alison and I will be your server today. Let me find a table for you..." As she directs you to a table by the window, you notice a slight wobble to her step.
There are kitschy flower arrangements and china plates arranged on shelves around the restaurant as decor. The entire place is spotlessly clean, but you can't help but to feel a bit uncomfortable as you sit—it's like the whole place is built on shaky beams and is liable to collapse at any moment. As you sit, Alison smiles tightly and folds her hands. "Go ahead and take a look at the menu, I'll go get you a cup of water and I'll be back to take your order."
At that moment, there is a loud, grinding sound from the kitchen. You recognize it as the sound of a garbage disposal running, and have no real reaction to it—but Alison seems extremely distressed by it. Her eyes widen and she rushes into the kitchen, screaming, "Donnie, what are you doing? I told you to never turn that thing on!"
"But sweetie, the sink's not—"
"Don't try to 'sweetie' me, Donnie! I told you not to turn it on! Leave it off, you hear me? Turn it off, right now!"
The arguing continues as you quietly slide your jacket on and make your way to the door. Maybe those rumors were true, after all—you're starting to worry that you'd find blood on your french toast.
Rachel Duncan
The Dyad is one of the most exclusive and elite high-class lounges in Canada. You can't even eat there unless invited by a member of the inner circle—mostly members of the corporate elite, with the occasional overseas diplomat or politician. You were invited by your friend, who is dating the high-rolling heir to a major pharmaceutical company—otherwise, you wouldn't even be able to get in. Even dressed in your finest formalwear, you feel quite underdressed, looking around you. The club itself is avant-garde in design with elaborate blown-glass chandeliers, polished black fiberglass tables, and velvet seat cushions. Every table has a living decoration of some sort—a bonsai tree, a terrarium, a moribana arrangement—as a centerpiece, and the room is filled with a soft blue light. The booths have cushions covered in a silvery velvet. In the Dyad, you literally feel like you've been cryogenically frozen and transported into the future.
At the door, you and your friend are stopped by one of the bouncers—a tall, blond man wearing a suit with an intense expression. "This club is exclusive. Invitation only." His voice is flat and monotonous.
"Let them be, Daniel...they're accompanying a personal guest of mine." The cool, professional voice is coming from an impeccably-dressed woman with a severe blond bob. She turns to you and smiles, and although it is a relief that she is not treating you with hostility, you are unnerved by how artificial her smile seems. "Welcome to The Dyad. I am Rachel Duncan, I hope you will enjoy your evening here." She nods to you and your friend as she speaks. "Please do take a seat and enjoy some cocktails and canapes...I must speak with my friend here for a moment, we will join you shortly."
Your friend's date nudges you. "Rachel Duncan is the owner of The Dyad and all of its affiliates...it's just business talk, we'll join you soon." Rachel extends her hand, and you shake it nervously. With that, you and your friend make your way to a table and sit.
It isn't long before you are approached by a waiter—a handsome, clean-cut gentleman with broad, muscular shoulders and a piercing gaze. "Good evening. My name is Paul, I will be your server tonight...allow me to offer you some canapes, Parmesan spoons topped with creme fraiche and caviar, courtesy of the house...may I offer you something to drink?"
You and your friend each order a cocktail and sit, waiting for Rachel to return with your friend's date. "Isn't this place amazing?" Your friend nudges you, casting a wide-eyed glance around the room.
Yes, it is amazing. But at the same time, there is something eerie about it...like everything is just too perfect, and there has to be something darker hiding underneath the surface. Without explaining yourself, you stand up and walk off in the direction that Rachel had gone in with your friend's date. Something just doesn't feel right.
You stop short outside of a door and prop your ear against it. That's the date's voice...screaming, blood-curdling screams of agony. And then Rachel's voice, as cool and professional as ever, and two more voices...something is definitely not right, but you can't make out their words...panicking, you turn around, hoping to get your friend and get out of there, fast.
But before you can reach your friend, someone grabs your arm and yanks you down a hallway. You aren't even able to say anything until the person dragging you along has stopped in the stairwell. It's Paul, the hot waiter. His eyes are hard. "Did you hear anything?" His voice is demanding.
"N-no! I heard nothing! I swear! I couldn't hear anything!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! Yes, I'm sure! Why do you keep asking?"
He stares at you long and hard. Finally, he sighs. "Look, I'll let you walk away from here unharmed. In return, you must never, NEVER say anything of what you saw here...you don't know me, you've never seen my face, you've never heard my name, you've never been into The Dyad or met Rachel Duncan...are we clear? If you jeopardize my mission by breathing a word of this to anyone—ESPECIALLY Rachel—we will find you and we will kill you, and your family. Are we clear?"
You stare at him wide-eyed. "What the hell is this all about?"
He shakes his head, sighing. "Damn Topside work...they don't pay me enough for this. Keep in mind what I said." He points you to the door. You leave, severely shaken, and resolve to never mention this night to anyone.
Of course, your friend won't shut up about it. The Dyad was such an amazing club, why did you have to leave so early? You missed everything! You just make vague comments about the stomach flu and change the subject every time.
Helena
As you are walking home from work, you catch a glimpse of somebody sitting in an alleyway, pouring packets of sugar into her mouth. She has a couple of Barbie doll heads sitting on the ground beside her. Her frizzy, bleach-blond hair and green overcoat are both in need of a wash, and you can't help but wonder if those flecks on her face are just grime, or—could it be?—blood. She spots you watching her and grins. "Come join me at my restaurant," she says in a heavy Ukrainian accent. You shudder and walk away as quickly as possible.
As you're rushing home, you can't help but to think, you're getting a sense of déjà vu with that hobo. You can't help but to feel like you've seen her somewhere before. In fact, you've been getting that sense a lot lately...
Suddenly, it hits you.