A/N: Hey, I managed to update something! In the process of breaking my hiatus, however, I have also broken curfew, my sleep schedule, and my plans for the weekend. So... whoops. Also check out my (updated) profile, to take a look at the progress of certain fics and some incoming projects coming up!

1920s slang index

lollygagging/lollygagger - idle, idle person
hit all the sixes - swell, amazing
glad rags - dresses, formal wear
high hat - snob
razz - made fun of
balled up - confused
heavy sugar - lots of money
breezer - convertible
dewdropper - unemployed man
torpedo - hit man

Lin Storm, Dante decides, is a dead man walking.

The blood-red door of the Mindsight club stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the commercial buildings on King Basilisk Avenue- the jeweled pendant of an otherwise drab necklace of a street.

Dante doesn't want to know what Lin has been doing to get a contact in the darker districts of New Orleans. Instead, he comforts himself with the knowledge that at this same moment, she's probably embarrassing herself in Santiago's presence, and he hers.

He sighs, re-adjusts the dark mask on his face. Following her specific instructions, he knocks three times and discretely taps the loose slat on the door, the one with a small etching of a serpent and a forked tongue.

A slat opens up in the doorway, and a pair of yellow eyes stare at him. "Password?"

"Thoughtspectre," Dante says.

The slat closes, the door opens.

Music greets him as soon as he steps in, unintelligible singing streaming through the curtains. Someone grunts from his left and he turns, seeing the yellow-eyed- and surprisingly heavily-built- man who nods at him and shows him the way.

A soft crooning comes from the in-house stage, too far for Dante to make out anything but a shapely form singing a song whose lyrics he couldn't comprehend. An orchestra around her accompanies her solo, the players just as entranced as those who were listening, moving along to the cadence of her voice.

He goes to the bar, sits down on a stool without any intention of ordering a drink, nodding to the bartender in greeting. The Mindsight club serves alcohol like any other speakeasy, but the joint itself is surprisingly legal and the business booming, despite the bloody history of King Basilisk street gangs and its station in the poor district of New Orleans.

Dante has heard of this fancy joint numerous times, but never has he actually had reason or time enough to step in it. Some of the lollygagging members of the Foundation had partied here before, the rich fat cats from Metz's higher social circles frequented the place since its establishment, and his old flame Grier who never liked the raucous and depraved nature of bars and speakeasies had conceded the Mindsight club's order and appeal of anonymity.

Everyone inside is required to wear a mask, except the staffers who wear veils. Dante himself is wearing the custom-made mask that he wore to Scarlett's deb a few years ago, a dark thing in leather, shaped over the swipe of his cheekbones and angled to resemble an eagle's.

A wise choice, it seems, as he spies a drunken partygoer passing by him wearing a gaudy full-face mask made of brightly colored beads.

"You orderin' anything?" The bartender asks.

"I'm not ready to get drunk yet."

The bartender smiles, although the squint of his eyes makes it look anything but friendly. "Ah, waiting for somebody?"

"A business deal," Dante says. "Got roped into it by a friend of mine."

"Distilled water on the rocks then, for the business man."

"Well aren't you the spirit of generosity."

"Depends on the occasion. Name's Leroy, by the way."

"Dante." He shakes the offered hand.

Leroy nods. "I'll get back to you in a mo'," he says, and goes off to serve a drunk hollering in the other end of the bar. Dante drinks the blessedly cool water and looks back to the stage, trying to make sense of the song.

Unfortunately, it seems that the singer has finished her set, the joyous applause of those still sober ringing around the room. She shimmies down from the stage as Dante tries to make out her features from afar.

"That's our girl." He turns around to see Leroy waving her down. "That songbird there is the pride and joy of the Mindsight club. She doesn't sing very often on stage, so feel blessed that you got here on the rare time she did."

Dante shrugs. "Would if I could've heard her. She was too far away."

"Shame," says a high, lilting voice behind him. "And it was one of my favorite songs, too."

Dante turns around and sees a woman with a veil on her face, her long dark hair pooling around her shoulders in an elaborate updo meant to resemble flapper's bobs. She stands balanced on her feet, even though she was wearing precariously high heels.

He raises his glass of water to her and motions for her to sit down on the stool. "I don't know about the lyrics, but the tune definitely hit all the sixes."

Her hazel eyes twinkle as she slides into the seat beside him, the glass loop earrings jingling with the action. "Well, aren't you sweet? Leroy, be a darlin' and get me the usual." She levels a thoughtful stare through her veil. "What brings you to Mindsight? Aside from the obvious."

"How would you know I haven't gone here before?"

"I'd remember anyone wearing a mask that daring." She flutters her eyelashes at him.

Dante knows when he's being flattered into complacency. That doesn't stop him from feeling pleased at the words of a pretty woman. "And what is your name, Miss?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. Club policy and all, as the boss insisted." Strange, he thinks, considering that if they were so concerned about protecting their staff's identities they might have made them wear masks instead.

"Shame," Dante says instead. "And I would've wanted to call you something other than songbird."

"People call me whatever they like," she says. "That doesn't mean I answer to every single thing they call out."

Dante also knows when he's being evaded. He summons up a polite tone then, shifts into a less threatening stance in his chair. "Well, what name do you usually answer to?"

The woman smiles, albeit hindered by the veil. "Gigi. Short for Gargoyle." Leroy hands her a Black Russian, the coffee content strong enough for the aroma to reach Dante.

"Dante Vale." Her gloved hand is small in his, but the shake was friendly.

"It suits you. Is it a real name, though?"

"You thought otherwise?"

She shrugs. "People come here and they put on their glad rags, put on their masks. Be someone else for a night." Her hand sweeps out, a contained gesture. "Fat cats put so much weight in their names that they decide to use another one to see how it feels."

On the dance floor, someone wearing a checkered half-mask performs a rather complicated-looking jive and slips, landing smack on his ass. The denizens laugh, and the sap joins in after a second, throwing his head back. With the special kind of determination accessible only to drunks, he gets up from the floor and continues dancing.

"Stage names, like yours." He cranes his neck and takes in the details of the club. The upbeat music, combined with free-flowing alcohol and gaslights placed in a pattern around the room- it seems like a fever dream. Dante thinks that if he were to look around hard enough, he'd find lotus flowers. "But why Gargoyle?"

"Because I'm a stone-cold bitch," Gigi replies, matter-of-factly. Leroy snorts behind her.

"Ain't that a truth." Gigi flips her hair throws a look over her shoulder, a reprimand which Leroy pretends to ignore but follows nonetheless, picking up the glass he was cleaning and moving to the other end of the bar to leave the two of them alone.

"Well, I'm guessing you'd need to be one to survive this crowd," says Dante.

"Oh no, baby grand. Not every survivor can be a professional menace to society like I am. Some of them are rich," she says.

"Somehow, I get the feeling that you mean a lot more than just charming people into staying here."

"And somehow, I get the feeling that you're more than just some high hat looking for praise from us working-class dames." Before Dante can protest, she stands up, the swanky black dress hugging her curves. "Now Mr. Vale-"

"Just Dante, please."

"Dante, then. By any chance, did someone named Lin Storm send you here?" He nods, surprised. She smiles faintly, as though there was a joke that Dante hadn't caught on yet. "Follow me, the boss is waiting."

It was all Dante could do to keep an eye on her as she expertly leads him through the crowd. He caught up to her as she leads him up the stairs, and into a curtained alcove. Gigi gestures for him to wait.

Dante barely had time to admire the view from the second floor when he hears footsteps. The yellow-eyed man from the door enters, followed by a grinning Gigi.

"Dante, this is the boss. Boss, this is Dante. You're all acquainted now," Gigi says. She turns on her heel and steps out. The yellow-eyed man scowls and closes the curtains.

"Dante Vale, at your service." He holds out a hand.

"Gar- Gareon," he rasps, accent thick. His grip is steady and firm. "Sitoplé, sit down."

The leather creaks softly- worn, but silent enough to be considered a luxury. The proprietor is a local, Louisiana born-and-bred. Singers and other staff are all working-class citizens who, despite living in one the red-light district of New Orleans, get to have a job that doesn't screw them over. The Mindsight really is simple in its excesses.

And devious, Dante thinks, staring at the proprietor in front of him, gleaming yellow eyes betraying nothing but business. They don't have any flappers here, and despite the alcohol the costumers had some kind of privacy in contrast with the staff, making them traditional and enticing enough to lure even the most conservative to this illegal joint.

Still, there was no Zhalia here in the first place.

Dante summons up a lazy smile and starts to talk shop with Gareon, all the while thinking up ways on how he could get back at Lin, and praying to whoever's listening to make her date more awkward than it had to be.

Technically, nobody's allowed back in the ring during off-season.

Anybody who wanted to practice their punches would have to do so outside of the gym, either with their own sandbags, in an abandoned factory, or on other people. It wasn't allowed because if a boxer got wind that someone was practicing, then others would also storm in under the pretense of 'practicing' or 'watching their opponents' and since a concentration of five or more boxers in an area will always result in a bet, pretty much means that a fight will go on. An unchaperoned fight, wherein anybody could be killed- and without the safety net of the flimsy permits and connections the boxing ring has, illegal and could result in a lot of unwanted deaths that irks the preppy bourgeoisie whose bets keep everybody happy.

And if the lams receive a noise complaint out of season, the ring will shut be shut down.

This doesn't mean that they'd have to stop, per se, just that they'd have to move to somewhere less legal. But that would take a lot of energy and effort which no one is industrious enough to do, so yes, technically, nobody is allowed in the ring during off-season.

But, technically, Caliban is Odysseus. In that he is Nobody. Not, Odysseus, with an all-important quest. God knows that he's had enough of those.

THUNK! The sandbag sways as two more punches follow. THUNK! THUNK!\

No, Caliban thinks. He's completely done with that mess. There are other people who'll do that now.

He viciously delivers strike after strike. The sandbag chain creaks noisily enough that it takes Caliban a few seconds to hear the footsteps approaching. Shit.

Cursing silently, Caliban moves to pack up his stuff. He thought he'd get to spend ten more minutes when he did the cursory glance around the area, but it appears he's been slacking off.

The door opens before he can take off his bandages. In steps a friendly face. "Relax, it's just me."

Caliban heaves a sigh of relief. "Dante, you ab-so-lute douchebag."

"Don't tell me you were afraid of doing something illegal?" Dante wiggles an eyebrow.

Caliban rolls his eyes. "Blow off."

"Maybe later. Need a sparring partner?" Dante was already tugging an extra pair of bandages on his hands.

"You realize I was serious about not getting caught here?"

"The dragon at the doorway'll deter or distract anyone."

He aims a punch at Caliban's left flank in lieu of answering the boxer's raised brow. Dodging easily, Caliban steps back at a left-right pace, avoiding the other three punches Dante sends his way before aiming for Dante's throat.

"How'd you- ugh- convince her to help you?" Caliban asks, in the midst of bending to avoid a gut punch.

Dante grimaces slightly as Caliban lands a hit on his right shoulder. "I got razzed. She set me up with a dame from Mindsight, but it turned out to be an actual business call. The date was just a ruse," he says, obviously touchy about the subject.

Caliban could almost laugh if he weren't busy avoiding the man's punches. He smiles instead. His friend had actually met a pretty girl that he regretted not going home with. Caliban feels pity for the hard-boiled detective who had the saddest case of blue balls he had ever seen, pity which was soon erased by the knowledge that there were a lot of people who would gladly relieve Dante of it if he so much as gave an inch.

Reason number 5 as to why Dante Vale cannot have a significant other.

Being one of the most respected moral authorities in New Orleans means there's no time for personal shit. And even if there was, one couldn't exactly share details about his mostly-classified life to anyone. It helped- or didn't, either way, Dante's not getting any- that the man was young, and handsome, and the ward of one of the most esteemed businessmen in New Orleans. And him being raised to be a gentleman did not deter any of the attention.

Reasons number 11, 23, 4, and 25, respectively, as to why Dante Vale cannot have a significant other.

"Oh-hoho. Did you wear the eagle mask?" Dante's glare says all he needs to know. Caliban hoots. "Always knew I liked Lin. Ow!" Okay, now that was going to leave a bruise.

Dante jumps back to avoid Caliban's retaliation. "She was actin' all balled up about it too, like she didn't have a damn clue about the whole thing."

A few more punches and the sparring session was over (Dante won, not holding back after the teasing, which- ow, his ribs…). Caliban asked the most pressing question.

"What are you here for, then?"

"Aside from paying a visit to a dear friend and esteemed colleague?" Caliban stares at him. "I need information that only you can provide."

"This isn't about Mindsight," Caliban not-asks, resignedly.

"No it's not. What do you know about the kidnapping on Kipperin street?"

"Lambert's kid, no ransom, technically a disappearance."

"Unofficially?"

Caliban runs a hand through his hair. "Off-record, the lams have listed it up as a lost cause, the ones behind the kidnapping are the Spirals, and the kid is gone."

"I already knew that," Dante says.

"That's all the talk going on here man, I'm sorry." Caliban holds his hands up. "That's literally all I can give you."

Dante sighs. "I know asking you this is hard."

"Damn straight. You know I got out for a reason."

"Yes, instead of gunning down people you're settling for punching them instead." Caliban opens his mouth to retaliate, but, upon finding no ground of the statement being false, closes it.

"Still, that's all there is."

Dante crosses his arms. "What do you really know?"

"Wait, why do you want to know?"

"A lot of heavy sugar is riding on this. Probably enough to find a cure for Metz."

Caliban lets out a low whistle. "That's… something."

Dante stares at him, unflinching. Caliban knows that look in his eyes. That look made him hesitate pulling a trigger on an easy and dangerous target and got him out of hell and into a less troubling life, the kind of conviction that moves mountains and is sung about in praises.

That? That is the look of someone who'll fight death if he has to. Mostly found in sacrificial types, not that common in suicidal ones and it only, only belongs to those who love so deeply- in Caliban's dictionary- insufferable heroes.

Reason number 1 as to why Dante Vale cannot have a significant other.

If the person was unfortunate enough to be saddled with this man, they'd need to constantly be in distress.

Caliban just hopes that whoever Dante ends up with, has a backbone.

He takes a cursory look at the room. "You didn't hear this from me, or anyone else."

"Agreed."

"There's a lot of talk and bets going about in the rings, but most place that the kid is probably dead in a river inside a breezer. And the people who put him there? For sure aren't the Spirals."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Silence. "Thanks."

"Least I could do."

Dante shakes his head. "You don't owe me jack shit for that."

"I don't. But I need to feel like I do." Caliban shrugs, packing up his boxing gear. "Otherwise, what's the point of me living a new life if I didn't have a purpose?"

Dante doesn't say anything. He turns back to the door.

"Oh, and Dante, one more thing." Caliban drinks from a water bottle before jamming it back into his bag. "I, personally, think that the midnight killer is a ghost story." He slings his bag over his shoulder, heading for the locker room. "But it's one worth hearing out."

"Did the midnight killer get him?" is the first thing that comes out of Sophie's mouth once Dante enters the library. He glares, an action she ignores in favor of serving tea.

She could hit herself for sounding so desperate. A better, classier one would've been "how is the investigation going?", or "tell me he's safe". Anything but opening with that.

"No." Sophie can practically hear the invisible not that I know of in there somewhere. She sits down on the pillowed chairs, just glad that Dante's one of the better investigators with actual manners and tact.

Speaking of… "Tea and biscuits. Take some, I insist. And do sit down," she says, watching as Dante walks around the area of one of the mansion's smaller libraries, "If anybody's got a right to pace around, it'd be me."

"Just checking for extra ears in the walls."

"Have you got any leads?" Sophie asks.

"I've all but reached a dead end. Everybody's convinced that this is the work of the Spirals but they're not exactly covert." He takes a sip of tea, because manners. "They work in secret, but their biggest plans are laid out for everyone to see. They like a spectacle." He takes another sip and stares out from behind Sophie, probably to see if there's anyone listening in behind her.

Rare are the times indeed that Sophie curses her intelligence and educated background. She can connect the dots all too well, and all too fast for her liking. "They're planning to kill him during the Mardi Gras celebrations," she whispers. "During my debut…"

"It won't come to that," Dante affirms. "We'll find him."

"But you don't have any more leads," Sophie point out.

Dante looks down at his teacup. " I have one left, but…"

"It's about the midnight killer and you don't know who has actual knowledge about it."

Dante raises an eyebrow. "That's a ghost story."

"And Lok just vanished into thin air."

"Fair point," Dante concedes. "What I know about the midnight killer is that apparently he's known to kill only in concentrated places, such as King Basilisk avenue, several ports, orphanages and the church. Nobody has ever seen him. He works alone, and despite the name, there hasn't been any evidence that he has killed people because there's no body to be found."

"And all of the midnight killer's victims are listed as high-profile missing persons in downtown New Orleans, and the only common thing about them besides frequenting the places you mentioned are a shady background."

Sophie sees Dante's interest grow. Good, she thinks. I know something he doesn't. It was a good thing that she decided to continue her own investigation before hiring him. While she could've done all this work by herself, she couldn't have much time before Mardi Gras, especially now that Lucas has her under deep bodyguard detail. In fact, Lane and Dellix are just outside the doors, waiting for her to finish. She only hired Dante so that he can continue searching even when she can't. And now…

"I know someone who might shed a little light on your situation."

"Then why bother me about this when you could've done it all yourself?"

Sophie tries not to show disappointment at being found out. She cups her teacup, the searing heat earlier now just barely heating the porcelain surface. "It's not exactly a safe place for me to go to…"

Dante sighs. "Of course it isn't. Is this a reliable source."

"Yes."

"How so?"

"Yeah, I defected." Den says, rolling down the sleeve to hide the Bloodspiral mark on his forearm. "And yes, my brother's still in there. But I ain't teling you shit, no matter what Sophie says."

"And why is that?"

"Cops ain't never did a good turn for us." He wipes the sweat from his forehead, leans back on a stack of shipping crates all slick-like, the image of a juvenile dewdropper. "Why should I do anything for them?"

"You're not doing them a favor," Dante says. He decides to nail him, on the one link that he is sure Den and Sophie share. "You're doing this for Lok."

The boy's eyes flash. Bingo. "What about him?"

"He introduced you and Sophie, didn't he? You three probably painted this town red. Breaking all kinds of rules, class, and social status, not to mention curfews. Probably taught Sophie not to be stuck up, which her family and friends would like to thank you by the way. And Sophie would've been the one to find you this job."

"Lok found me this job," Den corrects. "Sophie wanted me to work with Mrs. Lambert in the bakery. If this is blackmail, you're shit at it."

"It's not blackmail. Do this for Lok, Den. He might still be alive."

"And if he isn't?" he asks, nonchalantly. "Look, I have a lot of work to do, this cargo isn't going to move itself, and the boss man said these were supposed to be in the warehouses yesterday. There's a buncha last-minute shipment tomorrow and we need the space."

Den balances a huge crate on his shoulder ad walks away. Despite his bony frame, the kid could carry some weight. No wonder the spirals hired him as a torpedo despite his young age. Dante picked up two crates and followed Den's surprisingly brisk walk. Military?

"Did I say you could follow me?"

"Oh sorry, I didn't know you'd wanted to lug all these heavy crates by yourself," Dante says, turning back on his heel. "I'd just put this back then, if it bothers you so much."

Den's eyes widen. "Okay, fine, carry them."

They walk in silence. On the return trip, Dante asks, "Why are you so sure that Lok isn't dead? You're not even the tiniest bit afraid?"

An icy glare was his answer.

It took another trip before Den begun to relax in his presence, and another one before he decided to speak up. "I know he's not dead."

Dante almost drops the crates. "Christ, kid, if you knew then wh-"

"Nobody's supposed to know about it!" He whispers frantically, gesturing for Dante to keep his voice down.

Dante didn't pay them any mind. A couple of workers were still at the port, but all were too far away to hear whatever Den had to say. Aside from that, Lin was keeping a perimeter to make sure no one was snooping, and some of Dante's lookouts in the city were watching out for anyone who'd be likely to beat their gums on this matter.

They continue to load the crates back before Den looks to him. "Nobody's killed him. And he's safe for the time being."

"How do you know about this?"

Den looks around their surroundings. "The midnight killer left me a message. Said to keep my mouth shut, and to keep Sophie from doing anything rash, like calling the lams about the situation." This explains why he hadn't told Sophie, then. Dante stares at the kid, who probably has only an inkling of how bad the situation actually is.

Den glowers underneath his stare, looking very much like a petulant kid instead of a former gun for hire.

"Why would he be any safer with the midnight killer than the spirals? And how did you get the message?"

Den looks at him like he was the dumbass. "The spirals would've killed him in an instant. Lok was publishing something big, okay- he kept telling me and Sophie all about it one night. Next day I heard he's disappeared. That afternoon I took a leave from the docks and went to Mrs. Lambert, and when I went back there was a person waiting for me. Not the killer-" Den shakes his head as Dante opens his mouth- "no, but the killer's messenger, apparently. Said the spirals were out for Lok and his paperwork and that the midnight killer has him for the time being."

"That does not answer my first question."

Den scoffs. "Oh come on, even a dick like you ain't that unobservant. The midnight killer only goes after those who go after the protected sites, like Kipperin. You strike, I strike policy."

The cogs were turning in Dante Vale's head. Since the killer had Lok, he only had to find him and get the kid, and then give him under the full protection of the Foundation, better than what any killer had to offer. It was about time Lok got handed his father's legacy, and it would do to keep him out of trouble. If only he'd done this in time.

"I owe you one, kid," Dante says before running away. Den's eyes widen at the prospect of getting an in with the big leagues.

He tries to school his expression into one of indifference, but the giddy look in his eyes- that of a child seeking approval- betrayed the whole façade. "What could you get me that I couldn't find for myself."

"I don't know." Dante shrugs. "Think about it. Ask Sophie where to find me."

The sun was almost setting, and Dante wishes that he had worn something warmer. In order to throw off any trail, he'd had to walk from the city all the way to the end tail of the river. The sweat was starting to cool off in the twilight chill, and it left Dante shivering.

Still, there was work to do.

This part of the river forked away from the one that led straight to the city limits, frequented only by amorous lovers, shady dealers, lost tourists, or all three at once.

There were no fresh tracks in the soil, which means that the place hasn't been gone to in the past few days. Most people were busy preparing for the Mardi Gras parade back in the city, and thus had no time for any tomfoolery in the woods.

Mournfully, he remembers the Foundation's own float, the one that Montehue and the others would've surely finished by now, and the crate of booze that their contacts from the harbor would smuggle out to the speakeasy during the festivities.

The slight wind chill shakes him back to the past, and the work at hand.

He can see a faint car trail in the track, visible even with the dimming lights. Indeed, just as Caliban had said it would, the tracks veered off straight to the edge of the river.

Den had said Lok is alive, and while Dante would take his word for it… he was still a kid. He cupped some water in his hands and frowned at the chill.

Shit, does he have to…

He has to. Shit. Fuck. Damnit.

Sighing the same long-suffering sigh of the dramatic, Dante takes off his suit jacket, and laying it down on a patch of grass where he could easily grab it if he needs a quick getaway.

The familiar weight of the gun at his waist feels more real now, and he looks around to see if it was safe before removing the suspender straps from his shoulders.

It wasn't until he removed the second button on his shirt that he whirled hs gun at the treetops. "Who are you and what are you doing?"

"Are you really in the position to be asking those questions?" says a low voice. Amused. Maybe a woman? What the hell.

"Man with a gun," Dante sing-songs.

"Not the only one," the voice- definitely a woman's- replied in the same sing-song. Dante can hear the faint crack of the safety turning off.

"You didn't answer me." It was darker now, but Dante's vision was still okay in the nightlight. He can make out a faint outline, sitting on a tree branch, but if he blinked the outline will blend into the background.

"Well, I was enjoying the view, but then you stopped taking your clothes off and started pointing a gun at me." A soft rustling of leaves as she falls down the tree, narrowly missing the shot Dante took.

He lost sight of her. "Fucking-"

"Ah, ah, ah. You just gave away our position. And here I thought I'd get you all to myself," says the woman, who he still can't see. Dammit, how does one manage to stay quiet when hiding in the forest? No twig snapping, leaf crunching or anything.

"You have backup?"

"I don't have one. Unlike you and your friends down there in the river." Dante couldn't fire another shot without giving their position away, again.

"How about you come out, and we have a civilized talk?"

"Judging by the fact that you just tried to bump me off, I doubt this will be anything but civilized." A theatrical sigh. "But I'll come out. Try not to kill me, I'd hate for my last memories to be of the great Dante Vale being as experienced as a two-bit fish."

Dante considers this. "As long as you don't kill me, we have a truce."

"Big talk coming from the guy who fired first," says the woman, just as she steps out of the shadows. In the faint moonlight he could spy her outline… wearing trousers?

She says, "I wanted to make a scandalous fashion trend as well, but wearing short skirts is too mainstream," before Dante found out that he had spoken aloud.

From whatever light manages to enter Dante's eyes, he could see that the woman has, aside from wearing trousers, cut her probably-dark hair in a fashionable bob, and had a revolver in her right hand. She was wearing a domino mask, over dark brown or hazel eyes, he couldn't tell in this light.

Almost half-dressed and chilled, Dante is still unperturbed by the sudden events. "You know who I am, now state your name and address."

"Killer. First name, Midnight. And as for my address, I was rather hoping we'd end up at your place instead, but since you insist-"

"The Midnight Killer is a woman?" Dante says, taken aback. Women torpedoes weren't exactly rare, but they were not common, and anyone operating individually is unthinkable.

The Midnight Killer laughs, a soft purr of a sound. "The shock value is almost worth the sexism. Almost. Anyway, we aren't here to kill each other. We're both after who sent that," she points her revolver at the point where the tire tracks vanish into the riverbank, "and I have no qualms with you, so I propose we work together so I can get back to living my life." She dropped her voice an octave lower, persuasive. "Would you come with me, at least just for tonight?"

Moving past the initial shock, he registered three things: one, the midnight killer knew who he was, didn't consider him a threat and was offering to work with him; Two: she thought that Dante was going after Lok (which he totally was, until the point when Midnight entered and basically confirmed Den's assessment that Lok is safe with Midnight, and she's just playing dumb) and therefore did not need to be informed of Den's tattling; and third, and most importantly-

She was flirting with him.

Dante, with his sharp mind and intellect, processed this whole stream of information in the process of two very fast blinks.

Not missing another beat, he asks, "How can I be sure you won't leave me hanging?" He crosses his arms to further emphasize his point, and at the same time showing off the corded muscles of his toned arms.

What? He knows he's fit.

The midnight killer- Midnight, Dante resolves to call her- smiles a cat-like grin. It's strained due to the mask, but it's there, nonetheless. "Scratch my back, I scratch yours?" she says. "It's a long way down to the bottom of the river," she says, apparently non-sequitur.

She nods to the water, "I've already disposed of the witnesses, and that's less blood and paperwork out of your hands."

"Witnesses."

She shrugs. "One of them was a target of mine."

"Ah yes, these protected sites of yours."

"What of them?" Her features, or what Dante could make out in this light, were schooled blank as can be.

"I didn't know you killed for protection."

"If you must know, Mr. Vale," and fuck if that didn't sound familiar, "I'm very protective of my territory. Besides," she continues, walking away from the river and back to the city, Dante's suit jacket in one hand and revolver in the other, "The world didn't need those scumbags anyway."

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