The train ride was so peaceful he fell asleep halfway through. By the time the joggling motion of the tracks rocked him to sleep he was looking out his window to the ocean, watching as the waves crashed against the jagged cliffside. Oren admired the power of both natural forces. The unwavering strength of the cliffs to stand and endure. As well as the relentless attempts of the waves to bring it all down. Two great powers locked in an eternal battle. Neither side giving up. There was poetry there. Oren could tell that much at least, though he could never put it into words.

When next he opened his eyes, the train had left the ocean long behind. Down the aisle came a stampede of shuffling feet. The varied passengers of the express train flooded out into the station, spreading like a swarm.

"Excuse me," said the train Conductor standing beside him, "we have arrived at our destination."

"I can see that, thank you."

Ten seconds of still silence passed before the Conductor straightened. "You must exit the train along with the rest of the passengers."

"I'll go when they've gone."

"And why would that be?"

"I'm claustrophobic." Answered Oren.

"You're a what?"

"It means I don't like crowds. They make me anxious. The whole idea of being outnumbered is unsettling to me. When I find myself in such a situation I grow desperate to alleviate the pressure by any means. Now looking at this present case I see two ways we can go about it. One, I stay here until the buzzing swarm disperses itself into the city. Then I'll be on my merry way. That's a certainty. Or you can assert yourself, as you have every right to do and throw me out of the train. Send me stumbling into the thick of said swarm. Now you are free to do so, but I can make no guarantees on what will happen next. Do you understand me?"

Oren turned to face the conductor who took a visible step back. Fear dripped down the man's furrowed brow. Oren knew why. His stare was an unnerving thing. Or so he's been told. His eyes were depthless pools that rarely blinked. He had high set bulging cheekbones that made his cheeks appear sunken. His otherwise plain, clean-shaven face looked starved. The lack of eyebrows on him made it difficult to read Oren's expression or if he even had one at all. After a few grueling seconds under his stare the Conductor meekly nodded his understanding.

"Good." Oren reached out and tapped on the symbol stitched to the man's bronze uniform. "What's that?"

"It's a V." Stammered the Conductor, "A symbol."

Oren took a long-controlled breath, "Yes, I came to a similar deduction. But what does it mean?"

"You don't know?"

"Should I?"

"It's the logo of Vulcan Industries. They built this station. Even the train itself and all the tracks. You ever see a car on the road or an aircraft in the sky, that's Vulcan Industries. All Dust powered. A simple shard can keep this hunk of metal going through the night."

Oren's hairless brows rose in astonishment, "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. People say Vulcan has revolutionized transport here in Mistral just as the Cross-Continental Transit System has done for communication."

"Vulcan, Vulcan, Vul-Ah, yes. Marcus. I'm more of a fan of his other works."

"Other works?" The Conductor's inquiry was met with a knowing smile from Oren but nothing more. Despite the cool air being distributed throughout the train carts the graying man wiped sweat from his face, "If you don't mind me saying, if you're not so fond of crowds then I think Refuge would be the last place for you to be."

"Couldn't agree with you more. Unfortunately, I've been summoned." The Conductor squinted at Oren with a question on his lips. Oren recognized the look. He'd seen it many times before. "Whatever you want to ask, just ask it already."

"Less of a question more of a…You look familiar. Have you ridden this train before?"

"Never."

The Conductor shrugged in dismissal, "Perhaps it's just one of those faces then."

"Unlikely." Said Oren, "How many people do you see walking around with no eyebrows?"

The brittle laugh fumbled out of the Conductor's lips. "Can't say very many."

"Don't worry it happens to me all the time. Tell me, did you by any chance catch the thirtieth Vytal festival?"

"Hmmm…Yes, was that the one when-" his face froze with the sudden realization.

Oren clucked his tongue, "I'd say you recognize me now."

The Conductor backed away, almost bumping into the seats across the aisle. He pointed one trembling finger out the cart window. "The crowd has dispersed. You should leave now. Or you can stay seated if you wish to take the next ride out of Refuge."

Oren stood and stepped into the walkway so that he and the Conductor were face to face. "That's alright. I don't like to linger where I don't feel welcomed." He reached up into the overhead baggage space and retrieved his kit. A plain square block and six thin swords wrapped in a thick sheet. Oren slung the block across his back and sheathed the six blades into it. Two shoved through each side and two through the top. "A pleasure talking with you."

It took all the old Conductor had to smile back. Sparing the inside of the cozy air-conditioned train one last glance, Oren stepped out into Refuge station. The old Conductor was right. Vulcan had changed things. In Mistral, at least. Oren had been noticing it more and more. Few rode horses these days. Even combat was being revolutionized by the growing popularity of dual purpose weaponry. Oren had no love for the movement. He found mechanical weapons gaudy and insubstantial. Yet he couldn't deny the fact that technology seemed to be the inevitable path all manner of life was heading towards. A sour thought to mull over on his way out the station.

Before he even passed through the station gates, Oren could taste the city. Nestled as it was in the bosom of the Spine's horseshoe valley, Refuge saw little wind. The still air caused smells to linger. Oren had a sharp nose efficient at detecting unique scents. Perfumes were sweet like roses, blood reeked of iron, and shit smelled like…well, shit. But Refuge was an amalgamation. All of it: blood, sweat, metal, perfume, booze, piss, it all culminated together to create the odor that was the city. Too many things mixed together in too close a space. Oren wasn't sure what was worse, the smell itself or the fact that locals here could even get used to it. Swallowing down his disgust, Oren continued on.

The railway station led straight into the Administration District, Refuge's smallest district. Here the people raced about as if they were consistently in a hurry. Most of them being finely dressed government employees. They circled around the Citadel, where the local councilor lived and all big decisions were made. Oren considered heading there first, but after seeing the rush of people moving in and out of the tower's base he decided against it.

Instead, he secreted himself in with a caravan of traders on their way to the famous Bazaar to sell their goods. Oren stayed with the group, thankful for the large wagons for some protection from the growing masses walking the streets. However, when they neared the Trade District with all its chaotic glory Oren peeled off. He wandered around for a little, somehow ending up in the Flower District. At least it wasn't so busy during the day.

Sweaty and hot from the summer's heat Oren decided to get a drink. Seeing as there was a pub practically every twenty feet he chose one at random and made his way to the door. A bulky man in a tight black shirt and sunglasses stood guard.

"Hold it right there." Said the Bouncer, stopping Oren with a hand on his shoulder. "Clubs not open to the public for another couple hours. And not even a member could get past me, not with that arsenal on your back. What's a guy need six swords for when he only has two hands?"

Oren examined the hand gripping his shoulder. The finger nails were chewed down to the nub like a child's. "Can you really not control yourself?" he asked.

"What's that?"

"You'd think here of all places people would take better care of themselves." He locked eyes with the bouncer, "Have you nothing better to do all day? I bet your mind just wanders. Slowly, inch by inch those fingers move up to your teeth. Then it's like you're eating corn. What do you do with the shavings? Do you just leave them to collect here outside a prestigious club? No, that'd get you in trouble. You swallow them. Don't deny it, I can see it written all over your face. You eat your own nails. Now, I always knew this city was a host of travesties but never did I expect self-cannibalism. Even on this small of a scale. It's disgusting."

The Bouncer threw his other hand back but before he could even make a fist Oren took hold of the hand gripping him and with one savage twist wrenched it lose. Bones snapped and the Bouncer crumpled in pain. On the way down his face met Oren's knee. Teeth cracked and the man's head whiplashed. Oren stepped aside then, careful to avoid the Bouncer's clutching hands as he fell. There were a few startled gasps from the passing folk on the street but their moment of shock was short-lived. No more than eight heartbeats later they were walking past, business as usual. Only a few cast their curious glances his way. Oren picked up the Bouncer's gray tinted shades and after a quick inspection he put them on and entered the club.

The coat check lady smiled at him behind the counter of her little booth. That smile melted upon noticing the box impaled with six swords slung over the man's back. She called out to him. "Sir? Sir? You're not allowed in here with that. Sir!" He moved past, paying her no mind. Down the hall, a set of double doors awaited him. With both hands, he shoved them open. The first thing he noticed was the music. Soft and smooth. The source, a lone pianist on stage. There were just a handful of members scattered about the club. Heads turned and tracked him as Oren made his way to the bar. The bartender working there still had acne.

"Are you old enough to even drink yourself?" asked Oren.

The kid glanced around as if looking for help, but ultimately found none in the pinched expressions of the club members. "Ya-you don't belong here." He stuttered.

"Put that together all by yourself?" teased Oren as he reached the mahogany lacquered bar. Its wooden surface was polished to a mirror sheen.

The only other patron at the bar was an old man puffing smoke from a fat cigar. He wore a rich suit easily distinguishing him as some high society big shot from the Administration District like many of the other members. The smoke from the man's cigar wafted its way into Oren's face.

"Put that out." Commanded Oren.

The old man turned, noticing the newcomer for the first time. "Come again?" His voice was raspy from what Oren could only guess was years of smoking.

"I said, put that out. We're indoors and I have no intention of breathing that poison in."

The old man's cheeks grew red, "Who the fuck do you think you are, sport? You want me to put it out, I'll put it out in your bloody eye."

Oren's hand instinctively moved towards one of his swords but he stopped himself and sighed. "Now, you're old. Maybe you couldn't hear me properly so I'll repeat myself. You can either put it out right now and wait for the next month or two before those things kill you or you can continue smoking it and save yourself some time. What's it going to be boss?"

The man's wrinkled face quivered with rage. However, upon spotting the long straight blades on Oren's back he paled as white as a ghost. Biting his lip, the old man dropped his cigar in his drink and excused himself from the bar in a not so disguised rush to get away.

"What are you doing here mister?" asked the young man sweating behind the counter.

"The truth is actually quite embarrassing. Though," Oren leaned over the bar and whispered, "Can you keep a secret?" A nervous gulp followed by a nod and Oren continued. "You see, Sweats-Oh, you don't mind if I call you Sweats now do you? Thing is, Sweats…I'm lost. Supposed to be meeting with my cousin, but what's a man going to do, lost in a big city like this. Am I right? Now if I just sit and wait. I'm sure she'll find me."

By the time he finished talking another bartender had arrived. An older man with white gloves. He shared a few private words with Sweats before the kid scrammed like a whipped dog, leaving them in each other's company. "I was just beginning to like him too." Said Oren.

The new bartender smiled, "Get you a drink?"

"No, I don't touch it."

"Odd place to be then."

"Perhaps, but something tells me it will grab the most attention. She'll come scoop me up soon and I'll be out of your hair. Well… what's left of it."

The Bartender delicately touched at his combed blonde hair before smiling again. "Water then?"

"If you please. Oh and some little ice cubes if you don't mind. It's a hot one today and I don't want to end up like our pal, Sweats."

"Sure thing."

As the bartender went to the tap Oren turned to inspect the club. It appeared the bartender wasn't the only new arrival. Standing near the double doors was a small band of siblings. At least he assumed they were a band judging by the matching suits and the music cases they carried with them. The fact that they were siblings was obvious in their similar features. As Oren looked at them they threateningly unlocked their cases as if they were cocking a gun. With an amused smirk Oren turned his attention to the lone musician on stage. The man hummed to the melody of his piano, his fingers dancing across the keys.

"He's good."

The bartender slid him a clear glass of water with three perfect cubes of ice. "We all have our talents, Mr. Glass."

Oren Glass inspected the bartender with renewed interest. Each detail was a piece to the puzzle that was this bartender. The snazzy suit. Elaborate bowtie. Stylish suspenders. Those greenish blue eyes. The giveaway was the white gloves the man wore tucked into his shirt sleeves. Oren wagged a finger at the man, "You're one of hers. The Patron she called you. What was your name again?"

"Roland Teal."

Oren slapped the bar, "That's the one. I must say, that was quicker than expected. Did she have you on look out?"

"Actually," said Teal, "I had no idea you were here until five minutes ago."

"She didn't tell you? Wouldn't worry too much over it. Ira's never been the trusting type. I take the blame for that. I used to torture her when we were kids. Back then she had this nasty habit of chewing gum all the time. She'd just pop one piece in after another until it was one big wad of chewy goop. So, one day I took an old piece out from under her desk and chucked it in her hair. After, I convinced her that grease was the best way to remove it. The look on her face…especially when she found out I was the one who threw the gum to begin with. Man, she was furious."

"Can't imagine her taking that lightly. What did she do?"

Oren Glass slicked his fingers over where his eyebrows should've been. "Clipped them. In the dead of night."

"That's all?"

"Let's just say she threatened to clip more important things as well."

"Sounds like her."

As if on cue, the double doors swung open and in stepped Ira Glass. Her two body guards Alvaro and Ward were close behind.

"Beloved Cousin!" shouted Oren, raising his water in greeting. "As beautiful as ever."

Ira narrowed her gaze on him, fixing her cousin in place like a pinned fly. "Oren. You shouldn't wander." She joined her cousin at the bar, refusing to take a seat. "Roland, you remember my cousin."

A jaded smile, "How can I forget?"

"I apologize for my cousin's behavior."

He waved a dismissive hand, "No need."

Ira loomed over her cousin. "Oren…do you have something to say to Mr. Teal here?"

Oren pushed down his new sunglasses so that Teal may better see his eyes. "I apologize. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your man outside. He…well, he bites his nails. Frequently. Eats them too. Maybe guards all do that when they're bored. No wonder they keep their hands in clenched fists and behind their backs."

Ira rolled her eyes but before she could speak Oren drummed his fingers on the bar. "Why have you called me here?"

Roland Teal shot a glare at Ira, but she disregarded him as if he left the room. She kept her gaze fixed on Oren. "Because dear cousin, I have a job that requires your particular skill set."

Oren's smile made his emancipated face skeletal, "I'd hoped so."