A thousand apologies would not make up for a lack of updates. I went from graduating college Cum Laude with a B/A in Sociology and minor in Criminal Justice to vacationing in Italy and then treading the very frustrating journey to joining the Military—and then the year 2020 happened.

But— I'm alive, my family's okay, got a furry terrible duo to look after, and s'ppose quarantine has its perks. I finished this damn thing and I do hope this chapter satisfies the lot of you. (It's been rewritten like three times and each version got bigger.) I've also been working on the next few chapters, so I hope to update a li'l bit faster. I can tell you that the next one is gonna be a goodie, y'all.

Mad thanks to radio_chatter from AO3 for being an awesome inspiration and having an absolute kickass playlist on Spotify.

Disclaimer: I only own a small collection of OCs and this cobbled-together plot. Everything and everyone else is simply borrowed. So, in short, please don't sue. I'm poor.

Enjoy and stay safe peeps!

-TK

~*IV*~

A Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress

"Get up."

Tristan started. A half-awake brain cell shrieked, I'm late! before its siblings shushed and wrangled it back into saneness. She hadn't slept in and wasn't late for school. Bloody hell why would she? It had been years since she graduated. Although—she frowned at the foreign surface pressing against her cheek. When had she dozed off? Or better yet, why was she on the floor and not in her warm comfy bed?

The brunette heard that voice again. It was a little louder but still sounded far off. As if the person was standing on the other side of the Lincoln tunnel. And if cotton balls had been stuffed inside her head. She could tell they were annoyed though. Had they been at this for a while? She found that opening her eyes was a chore—like weights had been tied to them. She forced them open with a tremendous effort, barely managing slits. All she could see were blurred shapes and a tall shadow at the corner of her vision. She felt more than heard that the shadow's foot was tapping ceaselessly.

Disorganized, woozy, the first name that came to her mind made her croak in surprise, "Becca? What are you doing here?"

Wouldn't put it past her older sibling for being a big grumpy pants. Although, she had no clue as to why Becky was up in Canada. Last she heard, her sister and brother-in-law had been allocated to the East Coast to tackle some big litigation that had come up. Newport? Or had it been Norfolk? Regardless, neither of them had made any mention of visiting before New Year's. Did something change?

Wait.

In bits and pieces, it started to come back. The bridge. The funny guy in red smacking into her. The river. The impact— I'm not in Montréal, that same brain cell whispered in a half-laugh, half-sob. I'm in Florence. She had hoped it to be all a dream, but alas her current soaked predicament spat on that. She lifted her head as a racking cough scraped like sandpaper up her throat.

Perhaps she took too long, or she was in the way of their path, but the stranger eventually chose to forgo politeness. She found herself nudged none-too-gently with the said foot. "Get up," they hissed, barely hiding their frustration.

"Ugh, okay, okay. 'm up. Hold your horses." It felt like a colossal task and her body protested every movement, but she pushed herself up with an exaggerated groan and a series of cracks. Something in her sternum popped, shortly causing her to double over with a hiss and clutch at her chest. Damn, she knew she was going to have one hell of a bruise later. Who knew a stupid belly flop or whatever could knock someone back so much?

Tristan used the back of her hand to rub away the fuzzies and turned her head only to be startled to find a ghost standing only a foot away. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest as she recoiled in alarm, "What the—!"

But then her cheeks started to burn in embarrassment. It was nothing more than just a lady with the unnerving complexion of a porcelain doll that seemed to always end up being the creepy entity in horror films. She wore a long-plaited dress with the traditional puffed-up shoulders one would see in typical Renaissance Fairs; (or well typical Renaissance given her current predicament) with sleeves that went all the way down to the wrists. However, unlike some of the other women Tristan had seen, her ears and neck were devoid of jewelry, and the material the dress was made of was nothing special— dare Tristan say it, even woefully mundane.

Her outfit would have made any goth or Sith lord proud though. From the skirts to the gloves and even to the lace hood that partially covered her face, the woman's attire was nothing but black. The only other color breaking up the sable floral design were tiny flecks of white and gold dancing up the front that seem to glint and shift in the sunlight. Yet, even with the lack of color and fancy accessories, there was still a sense of quiet grace to her.

"You fell," was all the lady said as she folded her hands and stepped back. It grimly struck Tristan funny, but the flat tone and the lady's overall attire made the declaration have the pomp and circumstance of a funeral.

She couldn't help but snort, mumbling something under her breath as she got to her feet with knees popping like firecrackers.

The woman's steel eyes narrowed with a tilt of her head. "What was that?"

Tristan ground her teeth both in exertion and irritation, "I said I didn't fall." Of course, they both knew it wasn't what she had said. There weren't enough curse words for starters, but she guessed the lady had the decency and politeness not to point that out. Tristan turned her head and spat out a glob containing river water and spittle. Ugh, she didn't even want to think what had been in that water. She leaned against a post, fixing the stranger an annoyed look. "I was push—"

A dismissive hand cut her off. "Yes, yes. I know. The innate details are irrelevant. But the end result is the same: you are now cold. " She turned on her heel, gesturing rapidly. Her voice had a strange tilt to it as she spoke. It was a rather odd accent and she couldn't exactly place her finger as to what it was, but Tristan knew it wasn't a local dialect. "We need to leave. Now."

Tristan's lips opened, closed, and then pursed as the woman began floating up the steps. It was a rare thing, but she found herself at a loss of words. Mainly, she wasn't sure whether to wonder what just happened or to huff and mutter rude! And the crazy woman wanted her to follow too? She shook her head and was of the mind to go in the opposite direction until she looked around.

There wasn't much to behold on this side of the river. There was the dock sure, and moored gondolas rocked gently against it. But besides that, there was only the wall shooting straight up and only the short set of stairs breaking its monotony; and following it with her eyes, Tristan could see that peeking over the low walls were the roofs of grey and red houses. She considered the possibility of snagging some low-lying garments off the faint cords that ran between the buildings. But the more she studied, the more she saw how bare they were; like glistening bones mocking her. Perhaps a blessing in disguise for most of the clotheslines were at least ten feet off the ground, with no ladders in sight, and Tristan's climbing skills subpar at best.

She could see that the sun sat just above the horizon too, slowly making its descent, and plunging the sky into a myriad of bruised purples, golds, and reds. The city's bells were softly tolling on the frigid breeze, signifying the last ringing of the day. They started at the farthest corners of Florence, each bell adding in their chord before falling silent, only for another to take up the melody. The same wind rising off the river brushed a couple of stray wet strands against her cheek. Judging by the number of tolls, Tristan figured it must have been late, making her painfully aware of the current predicament she found herself in.

The woman's annoyed voice floated down as her head popped up over the banister. "Are you coming or not?"

Tristan cast a glance upwards, her lips twisting into a grimace. At the risk of sounding paranoid, she'd make an argument that the ongoing situation was fishy. Better yet, too coincidental. Oh, she was no fool. She had seen the looks. Everyone else, save for Federico, had kept their distance. And even he had his moments of disbelief at times. In one way or another, they were suspicious, distrustful, uncertain. So, out of the thousands that lived in this city, why would a random stranger waltz up and offer to help?

Unless… She trailed off as a budding idea ran through her head. It sounded way too far-fetched, as in "Conspiracy" level crazy, but the more Tristan dwelled on it, the more it started to take root and sprout. Was there a possibility that she had been expected? Did this stranger know she was going to be here? She couldn't help but scoff. Why was she giving the notion so much credence? It sounded so damn silly! Nonetheless, her brows furrowed. The same thing could be said for time travel, love. The woman's hands clenched into fists for a moment before relaxing again before she raked a hand through her damp hair. Unfortunately, she really couldn't argue with that sentiment. The strange woman wasn't pinging her "Spider-Sense" as Brent colloquially loved to refer to it either. In fact, it concluded the complete and utter opposite: she could be trusted.

So that's nice she supposed.

It didn't stop her from shooting another dubious look though. She wanted something. What, though?

Does it matter? Just pretend you're in a Doctor Who episode and you're a hapless companion going on one crazy trip. Just one step at a time, Trish.

"But I don't even like Doctor Who!" she harshly whispered, a little louder than intended. For it caused her "Good Samaritan" to snap her head and stare in what could only be described as a hypercritical annoyance. Or worse, sheer contempt. Her puckered brow and glower gave the impression of asking what was wrong with Tristan before she shook her head in plain disappointment and disappeared.

The brunette rubbed at her face, stifling a dry laugh. This was off to a great start. Go, Trish, looking more like a loony bin every day.

Her humor died as quickly as it had come, and the hand dropped to her side as a storm of conflict washed over her. "I really don't have a choice, do I?" She whispered as a tiny shard of despair lodged itself in her chest. No, she could see already that she didn't. For what else was she supposed to do? Try to hoof it on her own? Jump back into the Arno and hope to float to some port to whisk her away across the Atlantic? Right, sure; if this truly was the year 1476, there wouldn't be mention of a New World for another sixteen fucking years. And even then, the Canada she knew wouldn't be there. Because it didn't exist. And wouldn't for centuries. The country she had been born in won't even have its first settlement for another two hundred.

She grubbily rubbed her eyes, gritting her teeth in anger. None of that, Trish. Tears weren't getting her warm clothes or answers, and neither was sitting here wringing her hands. A frigid wind rose from the river and its voice was that of an icy knife. It cut through her sodden clothes like they were butter.

"Dammit." The word condensed in front of her as she shivered. That settled it, she guessed. She rubbed her arms, once, twice, before hitching up her bag and started walking.

Like the ghost she was, her new "friend" materialized from the shadows of a closed stall as she ascended from the river. An awkward silence had descended upon them as they both stopped. They were like two cats in the same place sizing each other up. A brief image of hackles rising and puffy tails while the two of them were hissing and spitting made Tristan almost break out in soft giggles. Somehow, she managed to keep her mask in place. Keep it together you damn buffoon. She harshly scolded herself.

Out loud, Tristan cleared her throat, "Where to then?"

The woman coolly met her gaze. She hated to admit it, but those steely eyes made her uncomfortable. It was like being trapped in the same pen as a venomous snake. They were beautiful animals, but they were fully capable of ending it all if they weren't given the proper respect. The Pale Lady eventually accepted her olive branch with a subtle dip of her head and turned half-way to indicate with a gloved hand. Tristan wasn't sure if the shaking in her legs had been from the cold.

"I believe this bridge is the best choice. It is not far, and it is complete, so worry not about falling off into the river again."

She was too cold to snark a proper comeback, but she did send an indignant glare. The stranger made a poor attempt at hiding the bemused smirk before pirouetting in that annoying graceful way of hers. If this were to become a habitual thing, the brunette was turning around and willfully jumping right back into the river. While her Gift may have deduced the individual was trustworthy, it didn't mean she had to like her.

Her lips thinned until they were almost nonexistent as her eyes followed to where the stranger pointed. She knew that the Ponte Vecchio had been well-known for its shops and vendors and whatnot. A glance even confirmed that it looked to be just as crowded as she remembered it. Hell, it's where she had gotten some last-minute souvenirs for Mom, Becca, and, some of her friends. Or well, she frowned, it had been at least? A deeper frown. Will be? Best as not to think on it too hard, else she was going to make her head hurt from all the possible timey-wimey stuff.

But… why were they going there now?

The Not-Becca didn't answer her silent inquiry, but she acknowledged it with a wave of her hand in a "hurry up" gesture.

Tristan emitted a quiet harrumph under her breath but followed. She made a weak attempt to instigate warmth by wrapping her arms around herself as they walked. She admitted the woman was right— it was cold. It was an ache that seeped deep into her bones and every other second seemed to be spent shivering. By no means was it the cold and brutal Canadian winter she had gotten used to this past year, but it was enough to threaten her wellbeing if she didn't get warm clothes soon. She would have slipped her jacket on and wrapped her scarf around her face to at least combat the chill if she hadn't somehow lost them. Idiot, Tristan cursed herself. She should have never been on that stupid bridge.

She rounded the next corner and stopped for two reasons. One: her "guide" had disappeared; and two: there was a sizeable crowd ahead that blocked the street. Their hushed whispers were just loud enough to be heard as if spectating a sport. For a moment, she thought they were a mob of tourists and was relieved—something she couldn't believe she was hoping for. But reality came tumbling back when she noted the lack of baseball hats, Asian ladies, and hawkers shoving their selfie sticks into people's faces.

Still, she spared a couple of seconds to poke her head over to see what the fuss was about and found she couldn't see much due to the backs of men and women whispering and pointing. When a break eventually did occur, the sight of bodies just made Tristan even more confused.

There were a dozen young men strewn around the bridge. In an odd coincidence, she recognized some of their features. They were the same foolhardy youths running through the square from earlier. Tristan supposed in a twisted way she should thank them; without their help, she would still have had a puppy trailing along. Which, looking back with a wince, wouldn't have been too bad if it meant she could have been prevented from falling into a river and being at the whim of an insufferable tour guide. Her pride be damned for admitting that.

Correction— not bodies, for Tristan could see that they were very much alive. Some of the men had already sat up. Groggy as all get out and sporting all sorts of injuries, but alive. A couple of doctors in beaked masks were making rounds to the others with what looked to be smelling salts. The thought of the vile substance made her nose wrinkle. She didn't envy them on that one. One gentleman wearing a haphazard cap and a nasty black eye was roaring something about stolen money and was giving the typical Draco Malfoy 'wait until my father hears of this' spiel.

The brunette felt the presence of her escort at her shoulder and tried not to jump when she spoke. "Come, it is not far now."

Tristan turned her head, frowning. "What is?"

Like usual, her inquiry was left unanswered and as expected she was to just follow like a lost little duckling. She bit her lip and tampered the urge to throw her hands up as the woman's cloaked figure disappeared back into the crowd. But in the end, she inhaled, asked for patience, exhaled, and reluctantly fell in step behind.

For only a short while though, until she spotted that the woman had stopped again. Her arms crossed as she stared at Tristan pointedly.

It dawned on her that the woman's body language was expecting something from her. She furrowed her brows. Why did she have a sudden bad feeling about all of this? Following the woman's indicating eyes, Tristan squinted down the boulevard and spotted a sign with a needle and thread. A man, presumably the tailor, lounged at the counter looking bored and counting down the minutes until he too was able to go home.

The lady nodded her head towards the neat pile before staring pointedly at her.

Ah, that's why. Tristan did a double-take before squawking, "What-? No!"

One of the woman's slim eyebrows rose in dubiousness. "Do you not know how to steal anymore?"

A funny feeling tickled the back of Tristan's neck. Yet she scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. "No. I just have it where I don't want or need to anymor."

The stranger hummed as she too crossed her arms, fixing her a look as that slim eyebrow rose even further. She knew immediately what Not-Becca was trying to convey and rolled her eyes, scoffing.

"Really? Do I have to justify my reasoning?"

In response, she beheld Tristan with a cryptic look and seemed to stare for a long time before she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A gesture that eerily reminded Tristan of her mom asking for patience. Right before the chancla came out to smack someone. "Forgive me, I did not realize that stealing clothes was now beneath you. Do you have money to pay the man, then?"

She left room for a pregnant pause as if expecting Tristan to answer. When it became apparent there wouldn't be one, the strange woman's face hardened into that of a cold rock face. "No? Then, your sudden affinity for morality will get you nowhere, child. Either put aside your personal feelings or waste my time and freeze."

Warmth blossomed across her cheeks while her teeth came down with a large clack. Did she just call her—? Tristan fumed as a loathing that was hotter than lava began to boil through her veins. Who the fuck did Miss Hoity-Toity think she was? She wasn't much older than her!

Her companion offed any chance of an angry retort from Tristan as she pointed. "There!" A muffled voice drifted out of the shop. She didn't catch what was said, but she could see that the tailor became annoyed before turning and disappearing into his shop. To yell at whomever if she had to guess. "Now is your chance to prove that you have retained all of your talents then. Assuming, you have retained-"

"Oh, don't you worry missy," Tristan snapped, already moving 'Child', humph! "I remember."

Trepidation weighed her feet, though. Despite her teases to Federico, she had sworn she would never steal again. And there was no doubt the tailor was going to receive flak from an irate customer. However, much as she loathed to admit it, the insufferable lady was right— picking the high ground would not do her favors. It was a possible life-or-death situation. Besides… the person probably had funds to replace the set of clothes.

Good, you're learning. You can feel guilty later— when you're still alive, her father's voice murmured from the cell bars of a long-buried memory. Scowling she shoved it further back, but the sour taste remained. A frustrated sound emitted from deep in her throat, yet she lurched forward and snatched the pile. It morphed into a bulge as she shoved it under her shirt. The mob that was now starting to dissipate made the perfect hiding spot to slip into. No one spared her much of a glance as she hung her head low, prizes safely tucked from view.

She doubted anyone saw her, yet an old habit that refused to die led Tristan to turn several corners anyway, eventually stopping once she believed herself far enough away. "I can't believe you're doing this." She grumbled while slipping her prizes out. A part of her felt disgusted how easily it was for her to get back in the groove after all the years. But at this point she didn't care; her teeth were starting to sound like chattering bones in as the temperature started to drop drastically. Better to be warm and morally compromised than dying from hypothermia.

The brunette carefully set the pile down on a nearby wooden box, unfolding each piece of clothing with a quick flick of her wrists and laying them back down. Her prizes consisted of a vest-shirt combo thing, some pants, and what looked to be a cloak. Jackpot! A full outfit. She dropped her bag and couldn't peel off her own fast enough in exchange despite knowing they were going to be too big.

The vest and white shirt that went underneath it managed to fit alright with a bit of sleeve rolling and creative jury-rigging with bobby pins she scrounged from the bottom of her bag. The pants were trickier, for they were a little long in the leg and hefty in the waist—a feat, however, easily fixable with a trusty belt and the stuffing of extra pant leg into her boots. She could do nothing about her footwear sadly, but she at least removed her socks to get rid of the annoying squelching sound.

They were oversized, baggy, smelled starchy, and she knew they were going to itch to kingdom come later— but dammit if they weren't warm and dry. As she flipped the cloak around her shoulders and wrapped it around herself, she could practically feel the cold dissipating. She clenched and unclenched her hands in an attempt to get feeling back into them, for they had started going numb.

She flicked her eyes to a nearby broken window and stopped. Oh dear, she was afraid of that, wrinkling her nose. She looked as pretty as a waterlogged rat. And that hair, she brushed a single dyed strand away from her face with a bitter sigh before doing her best at combing out the rat's nests. While the one thing she didn't have was a brush, there was still a Plan B she had in mind. Finding her prize, Tristan made a quiet "eureka" noise before slapping a slightly damp beanie onto her head, tucking away all the stray hairs. There. While it wasn't perfect, it would at least not petrify anyone with her Medusa locks. She could even be mistaken for a boy if no one was looking hard enough. Tía Yesenia always did complain she had a face too boyish for a lady.

She turned and nearly jumped out of her boots when she found herself mere inches from the Pale Lady's nose. Ignoring her indignant reaction and muttered curses, the woman opposite her nodded in approval. "Very nice," she hummed. One of her hands came up— possibly to adjust her cap if she had to guess.

Tristan didn't give her the opportunity though. She jerked her head away, glaring. "Okay, I did as you asked. Now, it's my turn. For starters, who are you?"

Something flashed across the stranger's face, but she expertly wrangled it back. "Considering the clothes that you wear, I would argue you could consider me an ally." Her voice was even, controlled, but the same thing didn't reach her eyes.

"Am I supposed to take that as an answer?"

"For now."

Tristan sputtered. It was immature of her to throw a fit like this. Stupid or childish even, but pure frustration bulldozed those thoughts as she paced back and forth. She only made a lap before promptly throwing her hands up snarling. "Fuck! What help are you then? You expect me to follow you, trust you, but even after all of that and then some, you won't even give me the goddamn decency to know why?"

Her anger rose when she turned to find that the woman looked almost apologetic. The urge to tell her where she could shove her apologies was high, but then, the pale lady let out a sigh and averted her gaze, "You have many inquiries and for that, I truly sympathize. But I cannot answer them. For now." She emphasized the last two words, laying a hand on her shoulder.

It was probably trivial at this point; perhaps even petty of her to think about, but it took all of Tristan's willpower not to shove it off. "I have already gambled aiding you this much, but it was necessary to do so. I promise your questions will not go unanswered, but this is neither the time nor the place.

"However," her eyes locked onto Tristan's, and she swore that gaze nearly bored to her soul, "when you see the Eagle's nest, say the words of your birthright and he will help you on your way."

Tristan blinked. Just when she thought everything was making a little more sense, another jigsaw piece mysteriously appeared, jacking everything up. What the hell was this woman talking about? What words? He who? Her lips parted to ask, but the woman shook her head.

"You will know when the times comes."

Before the brunette could get a word in, the woman shoved something wet and spongy into her arms. "I went through much to get this into your hands. Do not lose this again. Defend it with your life. The Children of Cain cannot have it, or else everything we have worked for this far would be for naught. Do you understand?"

Numbly, she looked down at the heaping thing in her hands.

"My... jacket?" She breathed in disbelief. She thought she had lost it in the river! When—? How—? She furrowed her eyebrows, knowing damn well her escort hadn't been carrying it this entire time. Was this a joke? Besides, who were the Children and why did she have to defend a damn jacket from them? An almost hysterical laugh escaped her lips. What's a jacket going to do in that situation?

Almost like she was sensing her thoughts, the grip on her shoulder jerked bringing Tristan back to the present with a pained gasp. The woman's teeth were bared as she lurched her face closer. "Do you understand?" For a slender willow, her grip was scarily firm and full of claws. Enough to make Tristan wince and try to pull away.

"Yes," she gasped again, nodding her head fervently. She'd say anything to get this crazy woman to let her go. Even if she couldn't make heads or tails of what she was saying. "I understand!"

"Good. Let us hope so." The pale lady released her grip, looking suddenly older as she slumped slightly but her eyes never left Tristan as a sad smile spread across her features. "I truly wish this was under better circumstances, but until we meet again, Viator. And for what it's worth." She placed two fingers on her forehead. "I hope It was right about you."

And suddenly, Tristan's eyes snapped open and she doubled over, gasping. "What the fuck?" She hoarsely coughed. Through stinging eyes, she saw that her surroundings had changed. She was back on the Ponte Vecchio and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Her jacket was still clenched between her hands and her bag was on the bench next to her. How had she gotten here?

She looked on at the horizon, surprised to find that the sun was just about to disappear. How much time had passed?

Tristan then bit at her lip. She had always liked sunsets in Florence. The way it caught the delicate-looking steeples and the towers that, at the time, seemed ageless. But now, it was painfully clear how different the skyline was. Too alien. There should be a construction crane. And an office building. But there was nothing of the kind. She couldn't feign ignorance anymore.

She made a sound deep in her throat akin to a dying animal as she began to pace and chew her nails. Both were bad habits she knew, but the toiling feelings of frustration, confusion, and anger were making it difficult to think straight right. What was going on? Dammit, nothing made sense. She was in the past, there was that woman, and she said: "he." He who? Her brain ran like a hamster in a wheel— a never-ending circle of thoughts that seemed to crash upon each other.

There was a puzzle piece missing and the more she tried to jam it back in, the more she came into resistance. Between her waking up in that alley and her... what? Disbelief made the woman shake her head. She couldn't explain it, but she knew that fuzzy feeling meant that there was something more. But what!

It was then, guilt hit her like an eighteen-wheeler. How could she have forgotten? She ran hands over her face stifling a groan. The absolute last thing she had done before everything going to shit, was talking to Catherine over the phone. The redhead was probably worried sick right now. Tristan wondered what she had done upon realizing it wasn't a prank. Was she calling the cops? Or had she just hung up thinking her friend was being an ass again? She vehemently shook her head as she made another lap in her pacing. No, Cat would never do that.

She couldn't help the crazy train of thought branching into others. What about her mom? Her coworkers? Greg? Brent? Jemma? What about her cats? Who was going to feed them if she was stuck here or whatever here was?

Am I ever going to see them again? A half-sob slipped out as she grabbed her hair between her hands in anguish.

Thunk!

Tristan froze and let her hands fall.

In her distress, she hadn't realized her jacket had slipped from its precarious perch on the bench. But that wasn't what drew her attention. No, a thunk meant something heavy. She scrambled to rifle through her jacket. "Please be my phone, please be my phone…" She whispered, hoping, and praying something was going to go right for once. She clung to the last tiny bit of hope and ignorance she could as she envisioned the events in her head, digging around in the innards. Being able to call her mom, being able to get help. To go home.

But that fizzled as soon as a measly rough texture brushed against her fingers. She could practically hear the nails being driven into the coffin as her shoulders slumped in defeat. A… rock? Crestfallen, she pulled the strange object out of her pocket. She found it was about fist-sized and heavier than expected. Contrary to what she initially thought, it wasn't a rock at all, but rather a thick disk comprised of metal and glass. It was mostly smooth on one side and rough on the other; with grooves and notches too perfect to have been done by human hands. However, any other majesty ended there. The glass was shattered, and the once-proud golden hue was now a faded, corroded yellow covered with dents and scrapes that marched across its strange surface.

To Tristan's mind, it looked like the Hulk-child of a pocket watch. If a pocket watch had lost against an incinerator. She didn't know why the image popped in her head. There was no gnomon or arrow. Hell, there was even a lack of any comprehensible numbers or dashes. Instead, strange cuneiform-like symbols were engraved along the dial. There also appeared to be words etched on the smooth side, but they were so faded she could barely make them out in the low-light. It looked like Greek though.

She flipped it back over, its ridged surface catching the lanterns' light. Another damn mystery, another set of questions with no answers in sight. Just as bloody confusing as the last one. It looked to be bloody ancient and her "Spider-sense" willed her to keep it at arm's distance. Better yet, toss the bloody thing into the Arno and be done with it. Her hand started to shake at the implication of what this thing was. And despite its appearance, the corrosion of time did little to lessen how dangerous it felt.

Tristan squinted her eyes shut, slumping forward until her head was lying on the railing. So… This had been what the woman was talking about. This thing the so-called "Children of Cain" couldn't have. One hand curled into a shaking fist as she tried to rein in the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions. Now's not the time. She didn't need this right now. She had too much to do. She got clothes, but shelter? Food? Where was she supposed to find those? Not to mention this "he" the woman had mentioned. Or the Children of Cain? She had more than enough to worry about and this was not one of them dammit! But it was too late. Thick tears were already falling, and it became a fruitless cause to try and wipe them all away.

The brunt of her frustration and guilt turned onto the object still clutched in her hand. How had that got in there? Why was it there? But most important of all:

"What are you?"

~*End*~

TK's History Fun fact: While many felt baths were the reason why people got sick, (lol) Florence was pretty famous across all of Europe for its specialty soap shops during the Renaissance. See besides cleaning one's skin, they were also used as a sexual lubricant. The shops of Florence were only outdone by the scented bars offered by Venice. And again, despite not bathing, some noble families had little alcoves filled with hot water for the sole purpose of washing their hands and faces before meals. It wasn't unheard of to change clothes throughout the day. No doubt a result of the Black Plague.

Thank you for reading!
-TK