Journalistic Integrity: Volume I- The Bodak's Globe

by VesuviusBlotch

Rhapsody Gossip is a sorcerer. By day, she's a journalist, researching the criminal underbelly of magical society to write for the Global Link, centre of all sorcerer news around the world. At night, however, she's an Anodyne, a mage who fights crime on her own terms. This is her and her friends' story and their battle against evil in a crime-torn England. (M-Rated for a reason.)

3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Gossip," welcomed Twain tersely, "Come in."

Rhapsody broke the thankfully brief eye contact and walked past her boss into the office, Twain closing the door behind her. The room was as it always was, ordered neatly and organised to the last detail. Thick and thin books of all textures and materials lined the mahogany shelves in the corner, lending a slight classical flavour to the place. In a way, it reminded Rhapsody very much of Twain herself. Old-fashioned, severe and sometimes, just a little too spic and span to be tolerable. Speaking of Twain, she was the same as ever, too. Slender, silvery black hair tied into a bun, unremarkable clothes that blended in disturbingly well with the dull brown of the surrounding wallpaper. Clutching her papers close to her chest, Rhapsody began to approach the visitor's seat or the 'Torture Chair' as some of the mages deemed it. She didn't sit in it. Firstly, because she didn't want to and second, because Twain hadn't offered it to her yet. Twain was many things. A stickler for politeness was one of them.

"You're four minutes late, Gossip," said Twain blandly, gliding around Rhapsody towards her desk, "Were you detained or just inept at timekeeping?"

Rhapsody bit her lip, her ire already curdling, but fought down the irritation and watched Twain snatch up her glasses impassively. "Detained, ma'am. I had a bit of a run-in with some…" she hesitated, "Friends! Friends in the corridor. They were very, uh, insistent I stop by. We had some things to discuss. Work stuff." Rhapsody nearly rolled her eyes at how stupid that sounded. Twain was peering at her, those angular spectacles and enlarged eyes giving her the uncanny look of a praying mantis readying to pounce.

"I'm sure you had no other choice," Twain said at last and lowered herself down into her chair with no small amount of elegance, "Candour and Yellowbelly, wasn't it?"

"That it was," confirmed Rhapsody and noticed Twain's pale lips purse slightly.

"I see. I wasn't aware you knew them."

Rhapsody frowned, secretly wanting to tell the old bag that her social life was no one's business but her own. But she was aware of the story she was holding and had painstakingly laboured over for the past few weeks, and decided it was best to answer politely and swiftly. Hopefully, Twain would get bored of the topic and move onto more journalistic matters. "Oh, I didn't. I just got acquainted with them today."

"Making friends when you were supposed to be in here? With me? I see, Gossip." Twain blinked and didn't say anything for a while, then outstretched her arm, gesturing to the guest chair, which Rhapsody responded to with a raised hand in refusal. She needed to be in full possession of her wits and sitting down would make her feel trapped or at least under pressure. Nodding, Twain beckoned for Rhapsody to come nearer and having no other choice, Rhapsody did so, handing her boss the story she'd written. If it was the same routine as always, then it entailed Twain reading over it once for content and twice for correction. During that time, Rhapsody often wandered over to the bookcase and pretended to be immersed in a random tome, when in reality, she was cautiously keeping an eye open for Twain's reactions and little tics she did when analysing something.

They'd been here at the Global Link together for ages, but were separated by two sturdy office doors and the even thicker, almost impregnable barrier between work and pleasure, the barricade that halted any progress beyond a employer and employee relationship. It was almost surreal, whenever they actually met face to face or held a conversation. It felt unnatural. It was like bringing two incompatible elements of the universe together and waiting for the inevitable catastrophe resulting from their meeting to strike. Rhapsody was a liar if she claimed that she'd never once desired to speak with Twain outside of a professional setting, because she remembered their first meeting and her finding the older sorcerer so mesmerising.

That Verity Twain had been obliging, kind and fascinating. The way she'd carried herself, so full of poise and sophistication, yet so kind and good-natured, had struck Rhapsody, who at the time, was very nervous about beginning at the Global Link. They were close, Twain guiding her around, telling her the ins and outs, dishing out bits of advice and sharing the best of stories. But over time, they drifted apart. Rhapsody still didn't know why. Or how, for that matter. Twain had grown colder, distancing herself more and more. Suddenly, she didn't have the time to spend with Rhapsody and had run short of stories to tell. Nothing major had changed. Neither had been promoted nor demoted. So when it came to explaining it, Rhapsody was lacking in any coherent or sensible reason as to why their relationship was now nothing but a thick, freezing thing and if Twain kept on with her side of things, it'd stay that way.

Twain cleared her throat. Rhapsody blinked. She was getting too engulfed in the past. She handed over her story and Twain's eyes lingered on her as she adjusted her glasses. When the older woman's eyes flickered down to the first page, Rhapsody quietly stepped away and headed for the shelf, still keeping an ear out for all the tell-tale hums and grunts that meant either disapproval, agreement or marvel. It was usually the first. As she reached the bookcase, Rhapsody let her fingers trace the bindings of the ones on the top shelf, remembering that she'd flicked through, or imitated flicking through, all of them. None of them were very interesting anyway. The only one that had really caught her attention was one about Monster Hunting, but she'd acquired that out of work anyway and saw no need to re-read here, especially in the stifling atmosphere that she'd been thrown into now. Even if it was a classic slice of sorcerer literature. There was a bizarrely enticing charisma about the way the Monster Hunter books were told by their respective narrators, the Monster Hunters themselves, a kind of charm that Rhapsody admitted she failed to grasp. Not that she was trying to emulate it by any means, but a bit of inspiration from your idols was worth it. Most of the time.

So instead of selecting that, Rhapsody scanned the second shelf down, the one she wasn't so familiar with. These were even drearier upon first inspection. Grey gloomy grimoires and burly beaten blocks that passed for reading material adorned the aisle and honestly, none of them remotely appealed to her, but Twain coughed a little to her right and Rhapsody plucked out the first random tome that her hand rested on and deposited herself in the reading chair, which despite its plush purple shade and soft surface, crept Rhapsody out no end. It was probably the screaming visages carved into its armrests. Gargoyles? Trolls? Whatever they were, they were ugly and misshapen and reminded Rhapsody yet again of the olden taste that festooned the room. She stole a final glance at the other gargoyle in the office, Twain herself, and observed her. She seemed enraptured by Rhapsody's story, but Rhapsody didn't let the impression fool her. Twain was scrutinising it to the highest degree, as was her reputation, to weed out any and all errors. Rhapsody returned her attention back to the book, and nearly flinched when she first took a proper look at the front cover.

It was untitled. There was no writing, no title that she could read, but there were markings, engravings carved deeply into the binding. It was a strange material. It reminded Rhapsody of the same substance often cast into battle gear and magic armour, although it was reasonably sporadic these days, and welders or tailors skilled enough to interlace it even more so. But it wasn't the unnervingly smooth matter that made up the binding that struck her. It was the hollowed skull fused into the cover. That was creepy enough in itself, but chills danced down Rhapsody's spine when she realised it was definitely not a human skull. It was too squat, the jawbone, what remained of it, was too flat and the jutting teeth were fanged and sharp. Inhuman. Th closest thing it resembled was a goblin or an extremely overweight troll. Maybe it was both. A Goll? A Troblin? She was becoming distracted again. There were several cracks and punctures in the skull's cranium and a pointed symbol, six spikes impaling a circle, painted on in dried, ancient red. Rhapsody wondered if it was blood.

Faded as it was, that red stood out like a beacon and slowly, the room around her blurred, became out of focus. On the other hand, the book sharpened and the scarred leather or whatever it was now seemed to be brand-new and freshly wound. The red brightened, no longer the claret shade of parched vintage wine, but a shining vivid scarlet. It filled her vision, her surroundings eaten up by the ravenous red until there was nothing but her and the blinding light of the ruby world. It throbbed. Everything was as a heartbeat pumping with heat and energy and blood and life. The book was gone. Vanished. Snatched into oblivion. But the skull stayed. It was mending. Teeth were rushing out of nowhere to fill in where teeth were lost. The holes were healing up, white bone forming like the delicate weaving of a spider's web. It was near complete. Suddenly, the eye holes were filled with fire and the jaw finished repairing and opened of its own accord and the image prodded Rhapsody into blinking. The terror snapped and she refused to stare any more into the visage's maw of madness.

Rhapsody willed it to stop. And it did. As she clamped her eyes shut, the red began to disperse, the blackness beating it back. After an age, she risked a look and the void of scarlet had dimmed to nothing, the skull was broken and shattered and the thick leathery exterior had returned. It was bound once again. She didn't just mean the volume in her hands either. Whatever dark magic was floating around this book was undeniably strong, but it was old and had no doubt weakened with the passing centuries. Any untrained Sensitive would be lost by now. Lucky for her, she'd been stuck with these powers for over a century and instead of moaning, had devoted many days to harnessing and refining it. Many agonising, despairingly harrowing days. Reluctantly, she averted her eyes and put the grim treatise back on the shelf, relief palpable when she was no longer touching it. Well, she reflected, that was some surreal shit.

"Gossip, come here," someone said and Rhapsody felt snapped out of a haze, like a dense smog had just been smacked away by this person's voice. She glanced over at its source and- Oh yeah. Twain. The Senior Overseer was staring at her, eyebrow arched expectantly. All the familiar feelings of claustrophobia and anxiety came prancing back and Rhapsody ground her teeth, cursing herself silently for not just sitting down and twiddling her thumbs. Regardless, she obeyed and travelled to the desk, a little grateful to put some distance between her and that crazy book. Although it begged the question: what the hell was Twain doing with something like that? Was she hoarding it for her own sinister purposes? Was Rhapsody's boss a dark arcanist in secret? Or might she just be keeping it safe, away from all the greedy and corrupted sorcerers who'd kill for such a ledger? Rhapsody didn't know how much Twain saw, but it was best to keep it to business for now. Then again, knowing Twain, was that even a good idea?

Nevertheless, Rhapsody stood and faced her boss and her boss rose, ordering the papers back into a neat bundle. She clenched her jaw, finding the right wording. "I've read it, Gossip. A…fairly enjoyable piece, I must say. Still room for improvement, though. There's always room for improvement."

"Well, what's wrong with it?" asked Rhapsody, instantly chiding herself for how petulant she sounded, but Twain ignored it.

"Oh, there's nothing inherently wrong with it. It needs a bit of cutting down and some of the language is a bit flowery, but it has potential, I'll give it that." Hesitating a little, Twain removed her glasses and plucked out a handkerchief from her pocket, cleaning them, "You'll have time to polish it. On Evaluation Day, as you know, I will call in the journalist whose story is chosen to be distributed to all the other Sanctuaries and if you are not chosen, you'll be told. Clear?"

Rhapsody resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, ma'am. I'm aware. I have been working here for over thirty years, you know."

"I know," Twain replied and Rhapsody got a hint that the woman was coldly reminiscing those three decades and remembering that she and Rhapsody didn't get along that well. It seemed every year of that time showed through in the ridges on her frowning face.

"Well, what tips can I improve off, then?" Rhapsody asked and Twain donned her specs again.

"Overall, it's a competent piece, Gossip. You stick to the headline matter admirably yet put just enough time aside for the arguably more boring factors like sorcerer politics. Readers will appreciate that. It'll make the more exciting parts stand out more. No obvious errors that I can see. I'll keep it with me overnight though and return it to you in the morning with annotations. Is that fine with you?"

Rhapsody didn't really have much of a choice. "Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent," nodded Twain with little to no enthusiasm, "One or two pointers before you walk out on me though. This section, hang on, let me find it…. Here." She showed Rhapsody the page in question and with a perfunctory tap with her pen, pointed out the relevant paragraph. Honestly, Rhapsody didn't know whether to be surprised that Twain's pen wasn't in Temerity's thieving hands by now, or to be completely unsurprised at which part of the story was apparently flawed. She played it cool, though.

"Oh, what's up with it?"

Twain appraised her as if the answer was obvious. "Of course, in terms of spelling, grammar and punctuation, it's a masterpiece. Although I'd expect that from any sorcerer, or mortal for that matter, above the age of twelve. You're nearly a hundred, correct? Don't let it get to your head."

"I'm a hundred and twenty," muttered Rhapsody but Twain spoke over her.

"It's the subject you're talking about."

"Remnants?"

"Indeed. Your lack of knowledge is obvious from the outset. Phrasing it eloquently won't make it better. You don't know a thing about them, save what you've heard from fable and history, and that apparently is nothing at all."

Biting her tongue, Rhapsody shrugged, emitting nonchalance as best she could. "Say you're right-"

"I am."

"-Well, who does, then? They've been around for centuries. But no one's ever been able to study them properly outside of a Soul Catcher because of the danger of possession."

"You'll have to research more into the topic, Gossip," said Twain, "This is not enough, I'm afraid. Everything else needs a simple tune-up, but that's the one weak point that's bringing you down. If you hope to accomplish getting your story into the official Link, you'll need to conduct further forays into Remnants, their history and nature. Not just describing in detail how dark and dangerous they are and referring to the last two Outbreaks."

"Well, what can I do?" inquired Rhapsody, more as a show of her bubbling anger than a genuine question, "I can't just find a Remnant, let it possess me to understand the experience and politely ask it to leave again! Besides, I don't know anyone who's been possessed before and if I did, they wouldn't remember."

"Not necessarily," said Twain smugly, "Certain sorcerers can recall sensations. Little bits and pieces of feeling more than what they were. Unfortunately, it drives them mad, when their quest to reclaim it often ends in failure. Suicide is a common option. Not always, but it happens."

"That makes it even harder, then, doesn't it? Not that you'll help me or anything!"

Twain's eyes glinted and Rhapsody quickly backed down. "On the contrary, the Link's resources are yours. But only as they always are. Feel free to frequent the library for anything. The Chief Librarian is a solid source of assistance in many fields."

"The Chief Librarian's an idiot," Rhapsody spat and promised to scold herself later for blurting that out. You don't poke a wounded predator with a stick, in case you get mauled, and Twain looked about ready to maul right now.

"I see. Well, that's your choice. But like I said, Gossip, it is ultimately my choice as to which piece makes it and which ones don't. It's a matter of 'if' not 'when'. There are several others that are very auspicious, especially Flash and Jagged's. I believe my eye has been lured to theirs on more than one occasion."

Oh, you bitch. That got her, she had to admit. Twain was aware of the bitter rivalry between Rhapsody and the other two journalists, and although she refrained from commenting on it, it appeared Rhapsody had riled up enough to get her to actually tease about it. It was time to shut up and back down.

"But by all means," declared Twain, motioning to the door, "consult your friends Candour and Yellowbelly for any advice. I wish you luck in that most arduous of tasks, Gossip, I really do. Maybe you can tell Yellowbelly to try and shut up that colleague of his every once in a while, and while you're at it, tell said colleague to stop stealing my pens. Or that man you hitch a lift with before and after work every day. He's clearly interesting enough to have seized your attention."

Rhapsody reddened. "We're just friends," she said, and Twain scoffed. It didn't become the prim and prudish old woman, and that made it worse.

"I'm sure. Now please leave, if you don't mind."

"Fine!" She didn't care about the petulance this time. So much for taming the dragon. It'd breathed an inferno at her and now she was scampering away to escape any more of its fiery wrath. It just wasn't worth it. She barged through the door and out into the corridor, noticing several sorcerers were beginning to exit their offices themselves. The end of the day was in reach. But Twain wasn't done with her yet.

"Gossip, wait a moment," she commanded, although she phrased it softly, like a suggestion. Although it was one Rhapsody had every intention to refuse to adhere to, she stopped walking, turned around and faced her boss anyway, eyebrows raised in anticipation. Twain didn't look so angry anymore. More like rueful. A trace of regret was evident in her eyes, but when Rhapsody met them, she fought it away and out of sight. It was almost admirable, how she shifted her expression so quickly.

"What? I need to go now, ma'am. The Head Overseer doesn't like us common folk in the building after seven."

"It's about your partner," answered Twain, "Your ex-partner, I should say."

"What about it?"

"How is he? Do you know?"

Rhapsody scrunched up her face. At this stage, politeness was irrelevant. "I don't have the slightest idea. I haven't even seen him for a year, not since he packed up his belongings and left. To be honest, I don't care."

Twain kept impressively impassive. "I see. Well, it's telling of your sterling character that at the moment, you can keep up with other journalists who have their other halves working on their pieces with them."

"Wow. Thanks," drawled Rhapsody, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"But it's impossible to do it all on your own. You'll need someone with you, eventually, to feed you ideas, to inspire you. Even if it's just a quick read-over what you've done, it's important to have someone at your back. You understand that, surely?"

Rhapsody wasn't in the mood to talk about this. Twain's desire to seek out a suitable candidate to be her partner had been annoying from Day One and had just got worse. To be fair to her, her determination was commendable, and her last partner had definitely been the best one thus far, but if it took Twain that long to get her a guy who she could even bear to be in the same room with, Rhapsody considered quitting the job after the next payday to get away from enduring another three decades of incompatible suitors. That was another thing. Coincidentally or not, they were all guys. It felt like Twain was trying to act as a matronly matchmaker and whether that was inadvertent or not, it almost made Rhapsody retch.

"I guess I'll just have to manage on my own for a while, ma'am," Rhapsody replied, "Oh, and never fear. I won't stay here forever. Bet that makes you happy, huh?" With that, Rhapsody turned and left. She shoved her way through the gathering masses of eager co-workers clamouring to go home and get a good night's sleep or a good night out with the lads or lasses. Knowing today's luck, she'd bump smack bang into Jagged's massive form and be trapped by Flash's massive ego, but it seemed, as she twisted the doorknob to her office, she was fortunate. She hadn't brought up the tome of horrors, but she was certain that thing had no business being there. Storing it away in the recesses of her mind for later, she entered and immediately shut the door, cutting off the hum of dry conversation.

No wrapped up was she in the boiling rage that was lacing her mind, and the worry of the possibility that she'd jeopardised the success of her story, that she didn't notice the man in the corner of the room for a full eleven seconds as she busied herself with getting her things ready. Arms crossed, leaning against the filing cabinet; hair black and effortlessly charming despite its unkempt state and his clothes casual yet worn with pride informed her who it was. When she did realise he was there, she desisted, huffed and looked at him fully. He was grinning. She wasn't feeling like returning it, so she sighed and continued loading her handbag the essentials. His grin was so bright, she could see it falter even out of the corner of her eye. He uncrossed his arms and stood up straight wandering over to her. He didn't offer to help her get ready. She appreciated that.

"Bad day, I'm guessing?" he tried.

"Right first time. Well done."

Somehow sensing her temper, and yet characteristically smoothly, Quillon Snitch's grin found its way back and he chuckled. "However!" he clasped his hands and rubbed them earnestly, "It's all over now. Need any help?"

"Fine, thanks. Don't think you've offered to help me before now, though. What's with that?"

"Well, I doubt I've ever seen you this mad before. You look ready to tear off someone's head at the neck! Although I can't imagine where else you'd tear it off at."

"That sounds more like a reason why you'd want to stay away from me."

"Au contraire, Mademoiselle, you of all people how much I adore dealing with danger. Dicing with death! Juggling with my jugular."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

Quillon playfully tilted his head and smiled. "Help you?"

"Yep."

"When you've just finished organising your handbag?"

"I still need some things."

"No, you don't."

"I don't?"

"Nope. Nothing at all."

"How'd you come by that, then?"

"So it's true?"

Rhapsody let her eyes roll. "Yes, it's true."

"Well, I just figured it out. We've known each other long enough for me to memorise everything you take to work in that bag."

"Maybe I forgot something."

"Maybe you're just creating excuses to throw me off."

"Damn."

"I've just observed you arranging said bag with the tell-tale precision you always do. Nothing you usually have is out on the desk or on the floor or in this delightful cabinet I've been leaning on for the past few minutes. The last thing you always put inside is your pen, lovingly tucked inside the side-pocket, within easy reach but out of sight and safe from outside influence or heaven forbid, damage. I just saw you do that and you didn't get flustered afterwards, which means you haven't forgotten anything."

Rhapsody was speechless. "Flustered?"

"Yes, indeed."

"I get flustered?"

"Oh dear. Did I cross a line?"

"Seriously?"

"Seems a bit of a poor choice in hindsight." Grimacing, Quillon watched Rhapsody shove some notes into her desk drawers and nudge past him to deposit some papers into the file trays in the leaned-upon cabinet.

"I'll bloody say it is!"

"I'm awfully sorry."

Rhapsody shut the cabinet tray. Hard. She locked it out of habit, despite theft being laughably unlikely, and turned to stare at Quillon with the most deadpan expression she could humanly muster.

"Escort me out of this hellhole, and I'll forgive you," she told him and he looked down, nodded and she glimpsed the grin threatening to form.

"Your wish is my command!" Quillon announced and pounced upon the door, holding it open for Rhapsody. She walked through, gracing him with a curt nod, and he closed it and followed. No use locking it. The caretaker always scouted round and double-checked everything. The masses of mages had died down a little, with one or two forgetful employees rushing back to their office and such, but they were too preoccupied to pay a whit of attention to Quillon and her. Good thing, too.

"No one's recognised me yet, then." Quillon whispered to her, getting unnecessarily close to Rhapsody. She didn't mind and treated herself to inhaling the scent of his 19th century aftershave he was obsessed with. It was just so remarkably Quillon of him. She'd told him that before, in those exact words, and the resulting silence and raucous laughter that erupted from him and the furious blush that emerged from her were enough to stick to memory. She wasn't making that mistake again.

"You know, not everyone knows who you are, Quill," she informed him and he didn't even bother to play the mock shock card. He was so absorbed in keeping his face hidden. For someone who was a bit of an egotist, he despised attention in the spotlight. It was just one of those war hero things, she reckoned. "In fact, I'd say the majority of mages who do know you don't actually love you to death."

"Ouch. Well, that stung."

"Sorry," said Rhapsody, this time meaning it, "Today was a shit one."

"You can tell me, you know," Quillon prodded softly. He was always inquisitive, but never to the point it became too irksome.

"I know I can, Quill. I just…want to get out of here first."

"Alright," nodded Quillon, watching her as they descended the stairs, "I can resist gossip for a few minutes."

They marched down the staircase in silence. It was a comfortable silence but telling. Quillon's mind was ticking away and Rhapsody couldn't read him. She might've if she put her mind to it, but he was her friend and invading her friend's thoughts was not just unethical, it was tough to do. His psychic defences were too strong. Yet another perk of battling in a centuries-old war and retaining your sanity whilst doing so. But she could read expressions and she could deduce that Quillon was insatiably curious. It was the way he clenched his jaw from side to side, nibbled his lip as though it were a tender morsel, peeked at her every time he thought she wasn't paying attention. In all fairness, it was of Quillon's endearing qualities, his penchant for perfectionism. It came in handy when applying it to solving cases, breaking down clues and hunting down leads. But at the moment, all it served was to make the awkwardness hanging in the air all the more viscous.

By the time they'd reached the bottom of the stairway, Rhapsody felt suffocated, ironically enough, by the space Quillon was affording her. He was keeping his distance, knowing she was on edge, but it was annoying. Was that selfish, that she wanted him to fuddle and dither over her state of mind and well-being? Maybe a little. At least they were on the ground floor now and a stone's throw from the exit. Rhapsody glanced around, wondering if Temerity or Diego were still there, but she did so as discreetly as possible, so as not to arouse Quillon's suspicions.

"Looking for someone?" Quillon asked. Never mind, then.

"Yeah, a couple of friends," she replied bluntly, hoping to shove the matter aside until they were far away from the place, but Quillon's impish grin told her he wasn't about to depart the subject.

"Friends, eh? Do please tell me why I'm only just hearing about these friends of yours."

"What, I can't have friends that you don't know?"

"Of course, you can, but I doubt you've ever spoken about anyone here positively. Except maybe the doorman and occasionally, the caretaker."

Rhapsody frowned. "The doorman? You mean Hercule?"

"Oh, is that his name? I can never remember."

She shot him a glare as they strolled up to the receptionist's area. The receptionist, as timid and aloof as ever, nodded at Rhapsody and graced Quillon with a reproachful look that Quillon acknowledged with a casual smile. The two of them walked on before they were stopped.

"You know it's his name."

"Do I? He only says one or two words to me, so he doesn't exactly leave the best impression."

"Seriously? I mean, he's the one who lets you in here all the time. Not many others are that willing to let the friend of an employee in just because they're dressed smart and have a silver tongue."

"Don't forget the heart of gold."

Grunting, Rhapsody hoped against hope that Quillon wouldn't start anything as they approached the pair of doors marked EXIT on the scraped metal handlebar. As always, it was manned by the sorcerer named Hercule. Roughly six and a half foot tall, shaggy black hair and wild beard, he reminded Rhapsody of a dejected Viking warrior who was trapped in a suit too small and put in an environment too unfamiliar. But he was polite enough and took the time to make conversation with anyone and everyone who was passing through, provided that they, of course, wanted it. Knowing the misery-guts that colonised the Global Link, Rhapsody sincerely doubted that Hercule's efforts were rewarded often.

"Evening, you two," greeted Hercule, giving a slight bow which earned an eye roll from Quillon, "Everything all good?"

"Fine, thanks," Quillon answered, cutting into Rhapsody's much less taciturn reply, "Just heading out."

"Oh, anywhere special?" Hercule asked and Rhapsody winced at Quillon's stare. Not good.

"Not that it's any of your business, mind, but yes. We are. We're out to change the world, my good fellow. To seek out new oddities and extremities. To find out what makes our universe tick. We'll bring you a thesis of our findings, is that acceptable? Although it does depend on if you can read, of course."

"That's enough, Quill," spat Rhapsody, uncertainty splashing with cold anger. She didn't know why he was so callous to sorcerers sometimes. He'd been alive nearly two centuries more than her and yet she found out more and more secrets and truths nearly every day. One mystery she had yet to crack was why he poured disdain down upon Hercule of all people. True, Rhapsody didn't know him the doorman a whole lot, but he was nice enough and didn't look at her with veiled contempt or worse, barely concealed lust.

"Didn't mean to pry, Mr. Snitch," Hercule said apologetically, "Hope you enjoy your night out, then. Oh, Miss Gossip, sorcerers Candour and Yellowbelly left about five minutes ago but expressed their best wishes to you on your encounter with Senior Overseer Twain."

"Thanks, Hercule," Rhapsody said, aware that Quillon was already darting through the exit, "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"You won't," said Hercule with a tight smile, seemingly oblivious to both Quillon's rudeness and his wordless departure, eyes firmly fixed on Rhapsody, "I'll be visiting my mother. Won't be dooring again until Friday, I'm afraid."

"Oh, how is she doing?" asked Rhapsody, ignoring Quillon's beckoning just outside. Last she'd spoken with him, Hercule had told her his mother was suffering from some bizarre magical disease. Liquid-factor something or other. She couldn't rightly remember as he'd been understandably reserved at the time.

"Worse," replied Hercule grimly, "According to our local Vitakinetic, she's entering Stage Three of the rot. Unless we cobble together enough serum, the Vita said she'll wither away like a wilting flower within two months."

Rhapsody sighed, partly in sympathy, partly in annoyance as Quillon was waving madly for her to accompany him, blissfully snubbing the odd looks he was getting from passers-by. But she had enough decorum to keep up her talk with poor Hercule. Even if she was running late with this evening's Anodyne errand and her patience was waning. As her mind skimmed over the ways she could cut short the conversation without offending the man, something clicked. She might regret in the future, but not in any way that stood out.

"You know, Hercule," said Rhapsody at last, licking her lips, "I'm friends with Professor Gizzard. Maybe he can help fix you up with something to help your mum."

Hercule didn't look relieved at the option of help or flushed with emotion at the kindness of Rhapsody's offer. He just looked strangely impressed, thick bushy eyebrows arched. "You know Professor Gizzard?"

"Erm…yeah."

"Excellent," Hercule muttered, seemingly still in awe, but he snapped out of whatever haze he was caught up in and regarded her again, "That's very generous of you, Miss Gossip. I'll have to speak to you on Friday about seeing him and getting some treatment."

Despite herself, Rhapsody frowned. "Friday?"

"That is when I'll be back at work, remember."

"Not now?"

Hercule chuckled gently. "Not now. Mr. Snitch seems to be very…insistent that you go with him. I don't want to keep either of you waiting."

She blinked, nodded and went on autopilot, weaving a path round Hercule's huge form. She hadn't even noticed how close he'd been standing to her. The image of his small smile stuck in her mind. She didn't know why it was, or why an unwelcome chill danced down her spine at the thought of it. She did know it clashed with the warm buzz in her belly and she forced her attention back to the outside world. As Rhapsody passed through the doorway into fresh, cool air, Quillon unfolded his arms in waiting for the second time that day and led her away. Rhapsody decided straightaway that once they were securely inside Quillon's car, the two of them were going to have a little talk.

Author's Notes: Apologies for the slightly later uploading time. Also, I've been unable to put as much as time as I'd like because of an upcoming Drama performance exam for sixth form (college) and shit's got real pretty quick. This'll mean that I won't be posting anything more on this story until after the 28th of March (the exam day) but I'll keep writing and be back with a bang come April hopefully. Thanks to you all for reading so far. I know it doesn't seem promising if I've bailed after only three chapters of a mega-story but life can invade our hobbies in the most unexpected forms. Next time: We meet more of the undesirables plaguing England's magical community and get to see some of our protagonists in action along the way...