Poole was late. I told him to meet me outside of the King Pawn at noon. The large clock overlooking the area just chimed saying it was 1 o'clock and I didn't like to be kept waiting. The only thing interesting was seeing Prentice Mill looking rather rundown as he walked into the King Pawn with a pocket watch and several other fine things. I had heard the Atlantic Express was falling on hard times, but I didn't realize just how hard it had fallen. With the Rapture Metro and personal bathyspheres now, the Express was made virtually obsolete except by the poor who didn't bring in much income. Now Mill was down here, such a shame.

An influx of people meant they were getting off work for a lunch break and that's when I finally spotted Poole.

Stanley definitely looked like he was ready to leap out of his skin; for someone like him to wander around Pauper's Drop was something of idiocy, but I got a bit of amusement out of it.

It had been exactly two month since the deal with Stanley Poole regarding Sofia Lamb. He had a little trouble at first – getting the nerve to meet with Simon Wales – but progress was coming as he reassured me. He disliked my presence greatly and once told Sinclair that I reminded him of a hawk circling a field mouse. Sinclair got a laugh out of it since it referenced to the nickname he bestowed upon me. Sinclair still asked if I was going to tell him my real name, but that question was always met with a snarky remark.

As much as he would try to hide it from me, I already knew how his progress with Lamb was going, and so far he had just gotten his foot in the door being invited to Dionysus Park for Lamb's 'artist retreat'. Even had the blue morpho butterfly brooch to prove it. Pauper's Drop was practically buzzing with talk of it since it was free to the public. I had to give it to Lamb: She knew how to lure people into a trap.

I decided that Stanley had fidgeted enough and dropped down from the King Pawn sign. "Poole," I greeted simply, making the skittish man spin around to face me. "You're late."

"Ah... Hawkeye... You, uh, know how to make an entrance," He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck like a nervous tick. He was blinking quickly, showing that his anxiety was hitting its peak. The beads of sweat on his forehead were the telltale sign. Rapture was typical cold and the only sweaty people around here were the ones just getting back from Hephaestus. Stanley was someone who probably hadn't had an honest hard day's work in his life; if there was an honest bone in his little body.

"You're. Late," I emphasized. His fidgeting got worse.

"I-I know I was late… Um… the Express was…" He gulped. "A little full." I gave him a look that said I was not impressed. "I'm, uh, I'm in. Yep, yours truly is a member of the Rapture Family."

"I know. And I know about the art show. Tell me something I don't know. Or better yet, surprise me."

"O-Okay. Lamb is even sponsoring me to ink it while I'm here. Little does she know I'm going to be writing about her!" He gave a small laugh like he just told a joke. When he saw I wasn't laughing he coughed. "No sense of humor, okay."

"My sense of humor is fine."

"Okay, um..."

"You better get working fast. Ryan's breathing down Sinclair's neck. In response, Sinclair breathes down my neck and I breathe down yours. Understand? These tiny bits of information aren't going to cut it."

"Yeah! Yeah! I got it! I-I've been attending Wales' sermons. The stuff he talks about… They're all crazier than a box of frogs. Lamb sometimes attends and gives a few speeches to appease the crowd."

I nodded; glad that he was attending the sermons so I wouldn't have to. I was more than happy to let Sinclair talk my ear off instead of a pastor telling me I'm going to Hell and screaming my ear off. "Good. Keep it up. We need results."

Stanley made his retreat, nearly running into a welder from Hephaestus. The welder just missed when he swung his wrench at Stanley's head to knock him out. When he went to swing again, he stopped short, seeing the blue morpho butterfly brooch pinned to Stanley's overall strap. The man let out a curse and stormed off. Seems that badge has become a safety net for his scrawny hide. He only paused for a second to gaze at the women leaning out the windows of the Luxury Rooms, trying to tempt customers into coming in.

I knew the welder though… Charles Kempton. The tall, ginger man was way too smart to be just an average manager in Hephaestus. He was good friends with Bill McDonagh who called Kempton up when he couldn't figure something out. A good man in a shit place. I keep him on my list of essential people I could use should the opportunity arise.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I left the area letting my feet take me where they pleased. I ended up outside of the apartment building Grace and James inhabited. I hadn't seen much of them since I started working for Sinclair and I'm sure they were worried about me. I had gotten a few letters in the pneumo from Grace asking for a visit either to the apartment or to the Limbo Room. Something to ease her fears.

But I couldn't go see them. The last time I did, they were relentless in trying to figure out who I worked for. She had found out about the wound on my back regardless since I involuntarily winced when James hugged me tight. I shook my head and walked off before anyone could really notice me.

I returned to my cozy little apartment, hearing the wonderful sounds of someone vomiting into a garbage bin and arguments echoing down the stairwell. Something shattered in one of the apartments above me followed by a long string of curses streaming out of a window. I kept my hands in my pockets and a grip on my butterfly knife.

I barely was in my apartment five minutes before a knock on the door startled me. "Delivery!" A man shouted from the other side. Looking through the peep hole, I saw a large dark skinned man looking bored as he held a paper bag in his hands. I opened the door and he held it out for me to take.

"Who's it from?" I asked.

"No clue, ma'am. I'm just the delivery man." I frowned but took the package regardless. Giving him a decent tip, he departed. Pulling the paper off revealed a wine bottle. What the hell is Chardonnay? It was made in the year 1919. "Okay then…" I muttered and went back into my apartment, being sure to lock the door behind me.

I had never tasted wine before, having been too young to have it when I came to Rapture, not even for a church commune. My mother wasn't a believer so I never had a chance to taste the sacramental wine that the local bishop would have people drink when they received their blessings. 'The blood of the Christ' I think they would say, which to me sounded a bit morbid. Who would want to drink someone's blood? Vampires and cannibals drink blood, but to drink 'blood' during church? That just sounded like sacrilege. There was a lot of the Catholic-Christian-whatever-it-is religion that I just didn't understand, but I really couldn't say anything about the matter since I never went to a church service.

I wasn't going to start attending the religious ramblings just to sate a curiosity or stupidity. Stupidity killed the cat, curiosity was framed. On top of that: god forbid if Sinclair ever thought I was 'curious' about religion, I'd never hear the end of it. I'm almost never curious; all I want is information. Curiosity has little to do with my decisions. I get my information, give it to Sinclair so he can feel all warm and fuzzy inside and go home to sleep until early the next morning.

I was also surprised to find that Sinclair had taken the liberty to add wine glasses to my cabinets that I hadn't noticed before, not that I was looking very hard. So taking a seat in my sitting room with a fresh glass of wine in my hand, I took an experimental sip of the wine and grimaced. It was bitter, but sweet at the same time – almost reminded me of grapefruit juice. I finished off the glass and deposited the glass in the sink to be washed a little later. The wine was stored for a later occasion since I wasn't planning on drinking it much.

After a quick shower, I emerged from the bathroom dressed in a pair of brown trousers and the navy blue shirt Sinclair had bought me the first day of our collaboration. I draped my towel over my hair and started to make my way to the kitchen.

I heard a small ding from the pneumo positioned by the door, meaning I had received some mail, more than likely from Sinclair since picking up the phone seemed to be too much work for him. Stanley was downright terrified of me to even consider sending me a letter. I opened the small hatch door and found my letter sitting in the slot. Sure enough it was an envelope from Sinclair, but when I opened it, I nearly dropped the papers like they were on fire: it was a confirmation for reservations at the Kashmir where one of Cohen's performances was going to be showing – "Why Even Ask" performed by Kyle Fitzpatrick and Silas Cobb. The names on the reservations were Mr. Augustus Sinclair and Ms. Hawkeye.

I knew how much the reservations cost, but for Sinclair to book it and inform me... surely he had gone mad. What did he hope to gain by sending me these? I shook my head and threw the papers on the coffee table and went to make myself some dinner. There was no way I was going to the Kashmir.

I looked up from my meal preparations sharply when I heard a few knocks on my door. For someone to come around at this time was suspicious since I had no acquaintances other than Grace, but she was performing tonight at the Limbo Room. Opening a nearby drawer, I pulled out a long carving knife for some protection should it be a Splicer deciding to use what little smarts they had to lure me out.

A quick peek through the peephole and I sighed in both relief and annoyance. I opened the door and grabbed Sinclair's shirt, pulling him inside quick. I slammed the door behind us and growled, "Are you out of your mind?"

Sinclair gave an innocent smile and glanced around, completely ignoring the knife in my hand. "I see you settled in nicely," He commented taking a seat on the loveseat. "Did you try some of the wine I sent you? I hope it was to your likin'."

I ignored his invasive questions. "Sure, make yourself at home. Eat some hard candy while you're at it. I hope you choke..." I grumbled. I made my way back into my kitchen to dispose of the knife seeing as how I had no use of it. I could kill Sinclair with my bare hands if the need ever arose. Or kill him with that stick he uses to smoke his cigarettes that he's so fond of.

"I see you've found my invitation." He seemed smug as he picked up the discarded paper on my coffee table.

"Yes, I did. Is this some sort of joke?" I growled, throwing the knife inside its respective drawer. I walked back to Sinclair and stood so that the coffee table was in between us. "I mean really! The Kashmir? 'Ms. Hawkeye'!"

"Well you won't tell me your real name so I didn't know what else to write-"

"That's beside the point. The Kashmir?! You must be nuts."

"Or maybe I wanted to take my best asset out for some dinner. Treat her like a real woman an' not some duct-rat in my employ."

I stopped my ranting. "What are you trying to gain?" I asked carefully.

For someone like Sinclair, nothing is done without some sort of profit involved. People down here always said that Sinclair had a heart of stone which I was inclined to agree. The only thing that made this man smile was the sound of money in his pocket and the information I'd give him which was technically even more money in his pocket.

Sinclair inhaled a hit of nicotine from his Oxford Club and answered, "To know a little more about my asset other than what she does for me and what her nickname is."

"You're willing to be seen with a duct-rat in a high end restaurant just to know my name."

"Is it that hard to believe? I truly want to know who you really are, Hawkeye, an' if it takes a dinner at the Kashmir, well then I'll step up to bat. Don't make me start beggin' now."

I sighed and placed my hand against my forehead. Sinclair was growing to be more of a headache as the weeks went on and he seemed to enjoy his role as my glorified headache. It wasn't that I disliked Sinclair, but I didn't like him either. I tolerated him, more or less, like one tolerates a rash on one's bum.

But I suppose dinner at the Kashmir wouldn't hurt since it would save me from having to cook my own meal. And on the plus, it would give me a potential list of targets to scope out for information that would make Sinclair smile like the Cheshire Cat from Lewis Carrol's popular story Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

"Fine."

"I knew you liked me."

"I don't. I tolerate your grating-on-my-nerves presence."

"So you do like me."

I groaned and left him where he sat to disappear into my room to find something suitable to wear.

I hadn't exactly looked over everything that Sinclair had taken the liberty of purchasing when I arrived and frankly I would have been surprised if the articles of clothing actually fit instead of me drowning in a shirt clearly a few sizes too large tucked into a pair of brown trousers I had stolen from a working stiffs locker when I was still living from doorway to doorway. The shoes I had purchased with my first paycheck fit nicely since my old pair had taken a toll for the worst after the run in with the Crawler. I still wore the stolen items since I had grown accustomed to their fit and bagginess.

I pulled open the armoire doors and nearly stumbled back when I laid eyes on a few knee-length cocktail dresses that hung on separate hangers, each dry-cleaned, ironed of all wrinkles and ready to be worn. I pulled out the crimson colored v-neck cocktail dress and laid it out on the bed for closer examination. It was solid crimson with the material made out of a mixture of silk and chiffon. Simple beading decorated the bodice and a wide collar so that the material would rest comfortably off to the side of my shoulders. Sinclair clearly had more style than he let on.

I shook my head and pulled off the clothing I was currently wearing. Slipping the dress over my head, I smoothed it out once it settled near perfect along my thin figure. I didn't have the ample bosom as most of the women did, but I had enough for it to be noticeable and to stay out of the 'flat-chested' zone, but I had no curves to speak of – a side effect from nearly being malnourished. I retied my braid just so it draped over my left shoulder for some sense of style – at least what I thought was style. With the final touch of a little makeup Sinclair once again took upon himself to buy and leave in my vanity plus a small ruby hairpin holding a bit of my bangs back from my blue eyes.

My mother once told me (back during the brief moment she actually cared) that I had gained my eyes from my father who I had never met. He had left shortly after I was born to fight in the big war, but my mother talked of nothing but distaste for his decision to join the war effort and offer his life for our country. It was a patriotic act, so when my mother spoke ill of him I would ignore her, having a form of respect for the deceased soldier.

With a final sigh of defeat, I joined Sinclair once more out in the sitting room. "Well, well," He mused standing up and setting his glass of wine on the coffee table. It seems he had helped himself to search for the bottle and retrieved a glass while he was waiting for me to finish up. "Don't you clean up nice – You actually look like a woman."

"Don't overstep my good fortune, Sinclair. Just be happy I agreed."

"Happy an' content."

He gave me a small bow like any gentleman would and offered me his arm once he was upright again. I rolled my eyes and setting my hand in the crook his elbow, allowing him to take the lead out the door of my apartment. I locked the door behind us and was lead to a bathysphere station where Sinclair's personal bathysphere waited for us.

I wrung my hands as the bathysphere took us to the Kashmir. Sinclair's hand rested on my thigh making me swallow hard. "Everything alright, darlin'?"

"Sure, I'm fine. Just leave it at that."

"Nervous about being seen by others there?" He asked. I shook my head and focused on the wide open ocean. A whale swam over a section of the city, uncaring like it was part of the terrain. A school of fish darted away to avoid the bathysphere. All the while, we were getting closer to the Kashmir.