Dec 1934 – 10:30 PM

Alcatraz

Broadway

Sham shuddered.

No, that's not quite right.

Sham ached.

No, not that either.

Sham –

Not Sham.

Sham's vessels ached. All of them, even vessels totally removed from the chaos in Chicago and Alcatraz. Exhausted collectively, one might say, or uniformly fatigued. Thousands of people across the country had gone to bed early tonight out of a shared mental languor – an ordinary phenomenon, by all standards, but one that Sham was sure Huey Laforet would find fascinating.

After all, Huey had a keen interest in the nuances of how Sham and Hilton worked. The collective exhaustion of Sham's vessels would undeniably intrigue him should Sham report it to him.

Sham had zero intentions of reporting it to him.

Even if he wanted to report the phenomenon to Huey, there were far more important things to worry about at the moment. Like Huey's big experiment – Sham had done all he could to prevent it from happening in Chicago, true, but he hadn't done enough. Huey hadn't given him orders yet, but he suspected that any day now Huey would announce that the experiment would take place in New York City after all.

At most, Sham had only delayed the inevitable.

No – not inevitable. He had to believe it wasn't inevitable, and that he hadn't necessarily failed in Chicago. Even if Huey still planned on carrying out the experiment, Chicago was no longer a viable testing ground (it couldn't be, surely), which meant that Sham had protected an entire city from harm. That in itself was good, if not commendable.

He had also potentially put another city in danger.

Not so good.

But there wasn't much sense in worrying about it now. At least, not until he received new orders from Huey…which could happen today, or tomorrow, or sometime January next week. Plenty of other problems to worry about in the meantime, like what happened with the Runoratas capturing Nice, Miria, and Rail. Some mastermind Sham was – not only hadn't he foreseen it, he hadn't had a vessel present to keep an eye on them.

Having one vessel in Jacuzzi Splot's gang, therefore, was clearly no longer sufficient. The prudent course of action would be to claim another member as one of his own – perhaps that Nick fellow, since he seemed to be close with Nice, or maybe the little boy who followed Chaini around all the time. Or maybe he should choose someone as inconspicuous as possible, someone that Jacuzzi and Nice barely interacted with.

The more Sham thought about potential picks, the less and less willing he was to actually follow through with his plan. Maybe one vessel was fine and the capturing incident was just a fluke – or maybe he already had a young vessel in Manhattan who could simply join Jacuzzi's gang instead. Yes – a far more appealing option, that. Surely he had a suitable vessel nearby…

"Hey, Dragon."

Dragon propped himself with his forearms, and scooted forward on his cot despite the protests of his sore muscles. Pressing his forehead to the ice-cold bars of his cell, he lightly cleared his throat and asked, "You aren't asleep?"

"Lights out was only an hour ago," Firo retorted, his voice so weary that it immediately rendered his point pointless.

Sham internally scoffed, but decided against commenting. Dragon rubbed his hands in an effort to return feeling to them. "True, but after everything you went through today, I thought…"

Firo hesitated. "It's not as if any lasting damage was done."

"If we put aside your missing left eye, then I suppose you're right."

Again, Firo paused. "I won't say it doesn't hurt," he said, finally. "But the pain's not sharp or anything, it's just…dull. I'm otherwise completely fine."

Dragon rolled his eyes. "Liza's chakrams are vicious little instruments of pain – I should know, two of my vessels are still in the infirmary because of them. Not to mention, Ladd Russo punched a hole through you. I must confess, I fully expected you to collapse as soon as we left the yard."

"Of course I didn't." Firo's voice was clearer now, and filled with pride. Sham assumed he'd moved closer to the bars of his own cell to talk. "What do you take me for? Speaking of which, are Gig and the, uh…the other guy going to be okay?"

How unexpected. "I'll be fine," Dragon said. "Those wounds weren't fatal."

"Not you," Firo snapped. "Don't fool yourself. I still haven't forgiven you yet. I was asking about Gig and…that other guy."

Dragon curled his hands around two of the iron bars, shivering slightly. Too bad they hadn't been able to secure cells on the upper floors – he'd heard those ones were warmer. "You haven't forgotten that they're me already, have you? That they're my vessels?"

"Yep. That's right. I forgot." Matching sarcasm with even heavier sarcasm. Fair enough. "Look, I know they're you, but…they're still people, right? People with family and friends who'd miss them if they were gone. They're…aren't they still…?"

Oh. Oh. "I don't want to talk about that," Dragon croaked, grip around the bars tightening. "Let's not. It's been a long day. Let's not do that."

"O-okay, I—"

"Please." Was he begging? It sounded like begging. Dragon's eyes squeezed shut.

Over in the infirmary, Gig shifts in his sleep, whimpering –

– A boy studying his friends' faces claps his hands over his ears in one of Chicago's abandoned factories. "Wh-what's wrong?" Jacuzzi asks, eyes wide. "You should be asleep, did you have a nightmare? Are you homesick? You're not from Chicago like we are, I didn't—Um, d-don't worry, we're going back to New York as soon as we can, I'm really, really sorry—"

Shaft hunches over with a gasp, clutching at his chest with his left hand. A few feet away, Graham perks up. "What's this? A heart attack? A fit? Is Shaft about to be cut down in his prime? How sad…how unbearably sad! An affliction of the elderly afflicting our most youthful friend – wait, does that mean that Shaft has what they call an 'old soul'? Even in this most perilous of situations, I'm feeling envious, envious, envi – uh, Sh-Shaft? Sha—"

"–You're tense," Huey remarks. Past midnight, and only now returned from his dinner with Bartolo Runorata. Sham swallows, sweat running down his back –

"Sh- Dragon!"

One of Sham's guard vessels winced at the shout from where he stood on one of the upper levels of the East Gun Gallery. The guard next to him jerked his head up at the noise.

"I'll handle it," Sham's vessel called, already heading down the stairs with his clunky flashlight in hand. He switched it on as soon as he entered Broadway, even though it did little to pierce the darkness. Tried to ignore the way the guard's heart rate sped up. Never overreacted like this before. It's not as if it's something I haven't already thought about. Get a hold of yourself. The guard opened his mouth:

"Did I hear someone talking just now? Huh? Funny, it's past lights out and one of you freaks decides to be awfully loud all of a sudden."

Silence. A hush had fallen over the cellblocks before Sham had even reached the first floor. He walked forward a few steps into Broadway, stopping to shine his light into Gig's empty cell, and then Firo's cell adjacent to it. Firo lay nestled under his blanket, affecting asleep.

"Come on, I know I heard something. Anyone going to 'fess up?"

The light came to rest on Firo's head, and Firo rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows to glare at Sham with his one remaining eye – as if to say, thanks, asshole, now I'm awake. Sham couldn't remember if Firo knew this guard was one of his vessels or not – best to play it safe. He returned Firo's glare with one of his own, and swept his light over to Dragon's cell.

Dragon opened his eyes. Blinked at the light. Stared at himself through the bars.

Sham had the guard vessel turn back toward the East Gun Gallery. "Warden Johnston doesn't take kindly to talking, fellas," he said, pausing at the doorway. "Don't you forget it."

Then he was gone.

After a few minutes of silence, whispered conversations resumed up and down Broadway. By the time Firo elected to join in, Dragon's own heart rate had finally settled down.

"What the hell was that all about? You stopped responding all of a sudden."

Dragon shrugged, and remembered belatedly that Firo couldn't actually see him. "Apologies. I overreacted." Understatement. Normally he would have neatly sidestepped the question, instead of…whatever that was. True, he'd been deliberately avoiding thinking about his vessels for a while now. Firmly stuck to his mantra of "I'm not actually killing them," which had justified his vessels for years and years and excused him from having to think about his own existence too closely.

There was no reason to think about it. Sham hadn't killed anyone.

There was no reason to feel guilty. Sham's actions were justified.

There was no reason to curb the number of new vessels he acquired. Sham's existence was justified. He hadn't killed anyone.

He hadn't killed his vessels. This, he still believed. Had to believe.

But he had affected their lives irrevocably. This, Sham had come to believe; he wouldn't have even thought about such things had he not yielded to Ricardo in the first place.

Current belief: His existence was justified, but it was abnormal.

Unease was one thing, guilt was another – and he'd ignored that guilt as best he could, even as he scaled back the number of new vessels he took. Even as he considered the consequences of Huey's experiments for the first time. Even as he actively fought to prevent those consequences from happening.

Well, all right. So he hadn't ignored it, technically. He'd acted upon it and continued to affirm that he wasn't killing his vessels, because considering any other conclusion was not an option.

So…he'd acted upon his guilt but hadn't actually constructively thought about it? Not once? What a perfectly destructive way to live a life. How incredibly inimical. Perhaps his earlier upset wasn't so inexplicable after all.

"Dragon. Dragon. You still with me? Hey, is there something going on I should know about?"

Chicago, Sham thought, but how could he even begin to explain what had happened in Chicago? Of course, he planned on selling his knowledge to the Daily Days at some point over the next few days, but first he had to actually set aside time to properly parse the entire mess. Besides, Broadway wasn't the place to discuss such sensitive information. "Not necessarily. But that reminds me – I have some news about Isaac Dian that might interest you."

"Wait, Isaac? Is he out? Is he safe?"

"Mister Isaac has been reunited with Miss Miria, you'll be happy to hear." Dragon smiled a little, thinking back to the couple's embrace on the rooftop of Nebula's headquarters. "They're currently in Chicago, but they'll be back in New York before you're released."

"Really? You mean it?" Firo exclaimed. "That's – that's great! That's a load off my mind."

"Glad to be of service," Dragon said dryly. "Now go to sleep, would you? You can protest all you want, but your body still needs the rest. So does mine, for that matter." It was true; the mayhem in the yard had finally gotten to him; his legs ached, as did his left shoulder. Dodging Hilton's chakrams was a gymnastic workout in and of itself – and he hadn't even managed to dodge all of them, judging from the stinging cuts on his right arm.

"Yeah, okay. We gotta be up at six thirty anyways."

Dragon lay down and closed his eyes. After a few minutes, Sham turned his attention away from his vessels in Alcatraz and focused on placating Graham and Jacuzzi back in Chicago. Getting one of them to calm down was one thing, but getting both of them to calm down at the same time? Someone should give him a medal. Or at the very least, wish him luck.

An hour later, Dragon woke up at the sound of his name.

"-agon. You there?"

"I thought we agreed that we were going to sleep," he rasped.

Sheepishly, Firo replied, "I know. I tried. I'm so tired I can barely move. But my mind just won't settle."

"Try harder," grunted Dragon, and he pulled his blanket over his head.

"Hey, Dragon?" Firo slurred, not one half hour later. "This is going to sound stupid, but do your vessels all have the same heartbeat?"

Dragon rolled onto his stomach, folding his arms on his pillow.

"I mean, do your hearts beat at the same time?" Firo clarified, his voice drowsy. "Do you – do you blink at the same time, and breathe at the same time naturally?"

Dragon sat up. These were not exactly the sorts of questions Sham had ever expected to cross Firo's mind. The clumsy phrasing, yes, but the intellectual curiosity driving them? Hardly. Such lines of thought were Huey's domain.

"I could make my vessels inhale and exhale simultaneously if I deliberately thought about it," he said, after a moment. "Blink, too. But heartbeats? No, I wouldn't say that. My vessels may all share one mind, but their bodies are their own, affected by idiosyncratic individual physical activity. I don't concentrate about such things."

Sham concentrated. There they were - thousands of hearts beating across the country, pulsing at wildly different rates. He thought of how the guard's heartbeat had sped up, and dismissed the memory.

"I should have figured," muttered Firo. "Knew I was being stupid."

"'Not at all," Dragon assured him. "My existence is one not easily comprehended. Nebula's very own researchers have asked me far more ridiculous questions."

Firo's answering hum was barely audible. Dragon shook his head. "Now will you go to sleep?"

"Just one more thing. Then I will."

"Yes?"

"You're a lousy actor."

As far as jokes went, that one wasn't very amusing. What else was Sham if not an actor? He lied all the time, for one thing, and for the most part he had to be pulling those lies off. Renee hadn't realized that one of her researchers was a vessel, Misery hadn't caught on to the guards, Sham lied left and right in Chicago to orchestrate the incident in Chicago, and Hilton hadn't –

It occurred to Sham that Firo might be specifically referring to the incident in the yard. "Liza still doesn't know that Sham controls this body," he'd said to Firo then, as Dragon, and he'd played Dragon off as just another scared inmate. So, what, was Firo saying that he'd been unconvincing?

Dragon grit his teeth. But she didn't accuse Dragon of being me, so I must have fooled her. It was far too soon for Hilton to realize that he'd betrayed Huey. He didn't necessarily intend to leave her in the dark forever, but the last thing he needed was for Hilton to become his enemy. Not now. Not yet.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Firo?"

No response. Firo must have fallen asleep after all. Dragon grimaced, and rearranged himself under his blanket. He'd have to ask him in the morning.

February 1935

Manhattan

Only ten o'clock in the morning, and already the streets of Little Italy were crowded. This did not worry Sham in the slightest. The trio he currently shadowed cut a conspicuous sartorial shine, and unlike them, Sham was not restricted to one paltry body. The day when someone managed to shake Sham off their trail was the day Sham made Shaft eat his hat.

Arnold Belmont flicked his cigarette to the curb and peeled away from the wall as his three marks prepared to cross the street. Almost too easy. Firo's all-green outfit was eye-catching despite its muted hue, and one could hardly miss Isaac's straw boater hat or Miria's sunhat. Though certainly not outlandish headwear, such hats wouldn't be in season for months.

While Arnold actively tailed them, Sham used his other vessels in the area to keep an eye out for any and all suspicious activity. Kept surveillance on alleyways, shady looking men loitering on street corners, tracked automobiles moving a little too recklessly down nearby roads. He didn't know where the three were headed, but he'd see them safely there and back again. Whether they wanted him to or not.

Fifteen minutes in, Isaac and Miria stopped to admire the paintings of a certain art vendor who'd set up shop on the sidewalk. Arnold stopped at the street corner, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. Three smokes left. He took off his right glove and fumbled for his matchbox in his other pocket.

From his second floor window, Glen Durney paused in the middle of cleaning his glasses, having spotted a blur of green moving through the crowd –

Arnold looked up, just in time for Firo to grab him by his coat lapel, drag him around the corner and slam him against brick wall.

"You thought I wouldn't notice, asshole?" Firo snarled, breath hot against Arnold's neck. "Huh? Lemme guess, Melvi sent you?"

"I don't follow," Arnold said. Still clutching his cigarette pack in his left hand, he raised his arms into the air.

Firo's answering laugh was devoid of humor. "Don't follow? You've been following me for seven blocks! You might be just one guy in a crowd, but I could tell."

Ah, well. The jig is up. Arnold relaxed, and lowered his arms. "Thirteen, actually," he said, and Firo's gaze hardened. "And who said I was following you?"

"You—!"

"And for that matter," Arnold continued, "what makes you think that I'm working alone?"

Firo released him, reeling backward and past the building corner to look for Isaac and Miria in a panic. "I—who—"

"The art vendor," Arnold supplied, sticking a cigarette between his teeth. He withdrew his matchbox from his pocket and struck a match right as Firo went white. Arnold lit his cigarette, and ground the end of the matchstick against the wall. "Don't go charging after him just yet. After all, he's me."

Firo turned, and looked Arnold up and down. After a moment, he asked, "Sham…?"

"Guilty as charged." Arnold took a drag from his cigarette. Exhaled smoke. "Isaac is interrogating me on the finer points of pointillism at this very moment."

Firo's shoulders sagged, but his gaze remained accusatory. "So what's happening? Explain it to me. You said you wouldn't touch my friends, so is this you going back on your word, or is this you acting on Huey's orders?"

"This is an authorized vessel, I'll grant you that. However, Huey didn't order me to follow Isaac and Miria."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Let's just say that I have a personal interest in your friends' well-being," Arnold said. "Two months ago, Mister Isaac gave me some much needed advice. I haven't forgotten his kindness. When I heard what happened to him at the clinic…well, I thought it best to look after them, so to speak. It seems that you thought the same."

Firo pursed his lips, drawing his coat tight over his chest. "So…you really didn't have anything to do with their attackers? Nobody knew who they were but I'm sure that bastard Melvi must have sent them…" His eyes widened, and he grabbed Arnold's arm. "Shit, Melvi – Sham, where's he holding Ennis? He hasn't done anything to her, has he? I swear I'll kill him, that little—"

"Easy there. Take it easy, would you? You're causing a scene."

Firo swallowed visibly. After a moment, he released Armand's arm and took a deep, steadying breath.

"That's better. As for your questions – no, I didn't know that they were going to be attacked at any point. And no, I don't know where Ennis is."

Firo blanched. "But you're…you. You're everywhere. Liza told me Melvi was involved with Huey, and you're one of Huey's closest assets, so…"

Hilton? Since when were the two of them so chatty? This revelation vaguely worried Sham for multiple reasons, including the implication that Hilton knew more about Melvi and had possibly even been aware of him before Sham had.

Arnold raised his cigarette to his lips, thought better of it, and lowered his hand. "I learned of Melvi's existence the same time you did," he admitted. "When he pulled that stunt of his with the slot machines, I realized that I'd never seen him before. Not once. Apparently he's the leader of Time, but I thought that the Croquis family was in charge of that branch. I certainly don't have any vessels near him."

"Wait…you were at the casino?" Firo frowned. "Not even gonna ask. You know…I think Liza mentioned something about Hilton not having any vessels around Melvi either. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you're the same way."

"She said that?" Sham wasn't sure if he should feel better or worse at the news. On the one hand, it was a relief to hear Hilton wasn't so privy to Melvi's operations as he'd initially thought. On the other hand, such news was on the cusp of being alarming. Maybe Hilton had known about Melvi before him, or maybe she hadn't – it didn't matter. The point was, neither Sham nor Hilton had vessels close to him. No direct access to his plans or orders, his movements, or his actions. Nothing.

That meant Melvi must have joined forces with Huey only recently, but that didn't explain why Huey hadn't yet ordered the twins to move one of their vessels into Melvi's general vicinity. Huey hadn't even ordered Sham to give Melvi one of his vessels as an official courier, normally the typical procedure for Huey's prominent subordinates. Sham had previously assumed that he'd picked Hilton instead, but now…

Was Huey deliberately keeping him away from Melvi? Had he figured out that Sham betrayed him? But then, why keep Hilton's vessels away from Melvi too?

How had Melvi escaped my vessels' notice in the first place?

"…sure who the Croquis are, but she said Melvi 'stole' Time from them not too long ago so maybe that's why you didn't know about him until now?"

Sham snapped to attention. Idiot! Of all the times to lose focus. He'd learned more in ten minutes than he had all week, and it was thanks to Firo Prochainezo of all people. Every word the camorrista said was vital, and could not afford to be missed.

"As plausible an explanation as any," Arnold replied. He dropped his cigarette and ground the light out underneath his oxford sole.

Firo huffed at that. "I hate not knowing what's really going on, but knowing that you're in the dark about him too is somehow a million times worse. It still pisses me off, the way you used me back in Alcatraz, but damn it if it didn't give me some idea of what you're capable of."

He grumbled something under his breath, and then sighed. "Honestly, one of the only things that cheers me up these days is knowing that pretty much everyone hates Melvi just as much as I do. Liza, Ladd, the Gandors, the Runoratas…it's kinda nice knowing that some of the most powerful people in New York want nothing more than to smack that asshole across the face."

"Liza hates Melvi?" Well, well, well. Another pertinent piece of information that could come in handy – depending on why she hated Melvi. As Firo had just now alluded to, Melvi's general smug arrogance had endeared him practically no-one in New York – Sham included – but Sham wasn't so sure if Liza could be counted as one of those irritated persons. Whether a person was heartwarmingly kind or insufferably rude mattered little to Hilton in the long run. Hate was a strong emotion, and it was one Hilton reserved for those who planned to or had already done wrong to her Master Huey in any shape or form.

And hadn't Melvi already wronged Huey, by dint of overthrowing Croquis? Taking control of one of Huey's own branches without his permission certainly sounded like something Hilton might take umbrage with.

It also sounded like the actions of someone who couldn't be trusted. Melvi might be connected to Huey now, but that didn't negate the fact that he'd challenged his authority by forcibly taking control of Time. He had undermined Huey before, so there was every chance that he'd do so again – this time in an act of betrayal.

Betrayal…huh. Sham mulled the thought over for a moment. He had no doubt that Huey would anticipate Melvi betraying him, but still – if there was a chance that Melvi did plan on doing just that…

Perhaps he and I should have a little chat. See if we can't help each other out a little.

Arnold bit the inside of his cheek. Getting ahead of yourself, aren't you? Though Sham knew little about Melvi, the casino incident alone should have been enough to clue him in on Melvi's inherent serpentine nature. Sham had no business assuming that Melvi would cooperate with him on any level.

All he knew for certain was that the casino party was going to be an absolute Hell to oversee.

That, and he was dangerously out of the loop.

Time to fix that.

Arnold blinked, and glanced over at Firo – who seemed just as lost in thought as Sham had been, judging from his frown and downcast eyes. "This has been a most enlightening talk," Arnold said, "but I'm sure I've kept you from your business for far too long. I'm afraid I can't keep Isaac and Miria engaged for much longer as it is – they've realized you've disappeared and are asking for you quite urgently."

Guilt flashed across Firo's face. "Right, yeah – I oughta get going."

"If I may make another confession," Arnold jibed, "I expected you to show more concern for them throughout or conversation today. Yet you didn't mention them – not once. You weren't worried for their safety, even when they're out of sight?"

Firo shook his head. "You're the art vendor, right? So you've been watching them this entire time. There are probably more of you keeping an eye on those two than you've let on."

Arnold smiled faintly at that. "Why, that's an awful lot of trust you've allotted me just now. Should I thank you for it?"

"Maybe you should." Firo turned away from him, already moving around the building corner to rejoin Isaac and Miria. When Arnold made no move to follow, Firo stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Are you coming, or what?"

He shook his head. "I'll keep my distance as I have been thus far. I'll give you a proper goodbye once you find Isaac and Miria by the art stall. Ah, but, I should say that while this is an authorized vessel, the art vendor is not, so if you could keep my identity to yourself I'd much appreciate it."

"…Understood." Firo gave him a short nod, and disappeared around the corner. Arnold leant against the building wall, looked down at the spent cigarette by his feet, and reached into his pocket for his pack.

"I don't see him anywhere, Isaac! Where could he be?"

"Now, now, Miria, didn't you hear what – ah, what was your name again?"

"Basile Chapuis, sir."

"—Did this fellow Chapuis not say two minutes ago that he saw Firo step into a café down the street with his own two eyes?"

"I guess he did, Isaac…"

"And did our fellow Chapuis here not also say that he was an artiste?"

"Like Claude Monet! Louis Vitton! Yves Chaudron!"

Chapuis winced. "Actually, Chaudron—"

"And is it not true," Isaac boomed, "that an artiste perceives the world differently from we mere mortals?"

"An artist of the French persuasion! A class act!"

Isaac whipped around to face Chapuis. "And was it not Redon who once said that artists do not merely observe the world, they feel it?"

"'While I recognize the necessity for a basis of observed reality… true art lies in a reality that is felt,' I believe."

"Well, there you have it, Miria!" Isaac exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide and knocking into a large painting on display. Chapuis lunged to catch it before it hit the ground. "Chapuis here is clearly a true artiste, so even if neither of us saw Firo enter that café, Chapuis must have felt him enter that café. After all, he is French."

"He is French," agreed Miria.

Chapuis righted the display stand and heaved a heavy sigh. In the apartment building behind him, Glen Durney leaned out of his second floor window and watched Firo bob and weave his way through the throng toward the stand.

"Hey, there you guys are," Firo said, grabbing Isaac by his wrist. "So many people out and about today that I lost sight of you for a little bit. Good thing you two're wearing those hats."

"It's Firo, Isaac!"

"Why, Miria, it's Firo!"

"We were worried about you, you know!"

"Well, how was the café? We're dying to know, you know."

"Very French, no?"

"Non non, Miria, mon cher. Très parisien!"

Firo blinked rapidly, and then sent a cautious look Chapuis' way. "Café?"

Chapuis gave him the slightest of nods in return. "Excuse me, sir. I told them I saw you enter the café a few buildings down. Perhaps I was mistaken?"

"No…no, that's right. Sorry, you two, after all that walking I wanted a quick bite to eat."

"Oh, Firo," Miria gasped, patting Firo's shoulder sympathetically. "We forgive you. Don't we forgive him, Isaac?"

"That we do," said Isaac, patting Firo's other shoulder. "We forgive him with all our hearts."

"Amour!" sighed Miria. "Et amitié!"

"Guerre et Paix!"

Chapuis raised an eyebrow at Isaac, and clasped his hands behind him. "While I have enjoyed our little chat, I assume you have somewhere else to be?"

Firo jostled with Isaac for a moment, finally stepping in front of him to address Chapuis himself. "We do. C'mon, Isaac, Miria, get ready to get a move on."

As Isaac and Miria donned their gloves, (they'd taken them off in order to handle some of Chapuis' paintbrushes), Firo leaned in close to Chapuis. "Listen, will I get a chance to talk with you again before the party gets going?"

Chapuis shrugged. " I don't know. It sounds like you and Hilton are in cahoots, which means that she might notice if you and I seek each other out over the next few days. There's a chance that that could be bad for both of us, so I won't promise anything at present. I'm going to be at the party myself, though."

Firo's brows knit together. "Will I recognize you?"

"No, I shouldn't think so," Chapuis replied. "I can't guarantee that I'll be able to contact you when you're inside either. Until then, good luck."

With a few heartfelt thanks and good-byes from Isaac and Miria, the trio was off once more, weaving a colorful thread through the crowded streets. Arnold waited a minute and then turned the street corner to follow after them, passing by Chapuis' art stand without so much as a nod to himself. Moving forward was all Sham could do, for now. Moving forward without a clue as to where he was headed, greeting each new day as woefully unprepared as he'd been for the last.

Arnold steeled his shoulders. Basile Chapuis straightened his posture. Above them, Glen Durney gripped the windowsill more tightly as he surveyed the street below him; multiple blocks away, Shaft balled his hands into fists and a boy gritted his teeth next to Donny in determination.

Sham would weather the upcoming storm. He'd play his role as Huey's courier and Graham's lieutenant and try like hell to mitigate whatever damage Huey was planning to wreak upon Manhattan.

After that – who could say? The most Sham could promise himself was that he would never, ever allow himself to be caught off-guard again. Nice, Miria, and Rail's capture by the Runoratas had been more than unpleasant, and Melvi popping up out of nowhere had left Sham utterly cold with discomfort.

Never again.

If Sham was ever going to surpass Huey Laforet, he couldn't afford any more lapses in information.

Over in the Alveare, a man paid for his coffee, stood, and exited the restaurant by way of the honey shop. Once outside, he crossed the street and headed off in the direction of the Daily Days.

I think it's time I paid a visit to the Informer.

He'd sold them plenty of information before – it was only fair that they returned the favor, now, wasn't it? More than fair.

Time to level the playing field, Hilton, Huey. No more bumbling on the back burner - I won't let you have your way. That's a promise.

Written for karahigada on Tumblr, who'd requested a Sham-oriented fic that leaned on the bittersweet/angsty side. I immediately thought of writing about Sham destroying Shaft out of a fear that he'd grown too attached to that vessel, but that idea has been thought of both by ChancellorxofxTrash and TheWaterIsASham already, so I didn't want to encroach upon their territory. Plus, I still don't believe that I could write Graham well. The one paragraph of Graham dialogue in this was my first attempt at writing Graham, and I really can't say that I can do it with confidence.

There will hopefully be at least one more Sham fic written for karahigada, as an apology for how long it took me to write this subpar one. I decided that I had to reread the entirety of 1934 if I wanted to write a Sham fic, and that took longer than expected.

Probably Sham and Firo don't actually meet in February before the casino party; I expect that 1935-E will very well invalidate the 1935 scene from every angle. Still, I feel like this would have been a very useful and good conversation for Sham and Firo to have anyway.