The sky was a muted blue when I woke up, the sunlight soft on my face rather than harsh like it usually was. I groaned lightly as I rose from my makeshift bed, momentarily disoriented as I recalled that I fell asleep in a treehouse instead of my own apartment. I yawned and stretched out, then took a look around. It seemed like the girls were still sleeping, and at eleven in the morning on top of that. Saviors of the world with dark and secret pasts notwithstanding, I was extremely jealous of the kind of lifestyle that allowed them to sleep at such a late hour without worrying about being late to their jobs.

I debated whether it would be a good idea to wake anyone up. On one hand, it seemed kind of rude to interrupt someone's beauty sleep; I had been on the receiving end of too many such interruptions from my alarm clock to know how much it sucked. On the other hand, I needed a ride back home. I wouldn't be lying if I said I was antsy to make some headway on this article, even though I theoretically didn't have a time limit. Was this what every veteran journalist felt?

Pragmatism won out over politeness, so I steeled myself and walked over to the couch where Carol was sleeping. I reached out tentatively, then lightly touched her shoulder.

The reaction scared me. One second, she was snoring lightly with a contented cat smile on her face. The next, she had jolted out of her makeshift bed like a thunderbolt with her claws out, still wearing the cat smile, if a bit sharper and more toothy. I took two startled steps back, nearly tripping over my own sheets.

Carol looked at me quizzically, then at her raised claw, then at me.

"Oh jeez. Did I scare you? Sorry, it's just a reflex of sorts..."

I wasn't sure whether I should dignify that with an answer. Nodding seemed to work, since words failed me at this moment.

Carol retracted her claws, and then yawned loudly.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not going to claw your face off or anything, Sam...you should probably lower your hands or something..."

I blinked and looked at my hands. I didn't even realize I had raised them. I self-consciously lowered them and smiled nervously.

"Sorry about the whole thing. It's just, I need a ride home. And I also need to know where the Scarves HQ is."

Carol blinked twice. "Sure, sure...can I sleep for a bit longer first? I'm still kinda tired..."

"Sorry, but I want to get a headstart on this whole thing if I can."

"Alright, then. Let me just tell Lilac I'm going. She gets a bit scary if I go out without letting her know first."

A little over forty minutes later, I was dismounting from Carol's bike in front of my apartment building. The ride was surprisingly smoother and less nausea-inducing than it had been the first time. I wondered if she was concerned about my health, or if she was too tired to drive as recklessly as she did last night. The latter was a bit scary to think about, so I squashed that line of thinking before it escalated to nightmare scenarios.

"Thanks for the ride, Carol."

"It's nothing, really. You said you wanted to know where the Scarves HQ was?"

"Yeah, I was hoping to talk to Spade. I figure he should know something, since he apparently spent a lot of time with your sister."

Carol scoffed. "Yeah, sure, he'll talk to you, if he doesn't just kill you and dump you in a ditch first."

The sudden morbidity was staggering. "Uh, I'm sure it'll be fine?"

"Take it from me, Sam. Spade is mega dangerous. Last time me and Lilac saw him, he was still really mean and murdery, and that's when he was talking to the two people who could handle him. No offense and all, but you'd probably lose a fight to a wet kitten, let alone to Spade."

I shuddered internally, but I didn't want to look as if I wasn't confident about the meeting.

"I think you might be a bit cynical here. I just want to talk to the guy, not fight him."

"Are you like one hundred and ten percent sure about this?"

"Yeah?"

Carol stared at me for a few seconds before she spoke.

"If you're really serious about this, then I'll tell you. But you gotta promise you won't do anything stupid."

I smirked. "I solemnly swear that I will not do anything stupid and get myself killed. Cross my heart, probably hope not to die, and all that. Do you also want to do the pinky swear? 'Cause I can go for that if it makes you feel better."

Carol laughed. "Nah, you don't have to do that. You know the Magister's palace, right?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"After you reach that, you make a left and then just keep going straight until you hit a bunch of hills and an old, rickety bridge. You gotta go on foot the rest of the way after that."

"Alright, thanks. What are you going to be doing?"

"Eh, probably just fall asleep, then eat a bunch of stuff, maybe do a run in Dragon Valley. Don't worry about me, though. You still owe me that exclusive interview, Sam."

With that said, she revved up the bike, then popped a wheelie and did a 180.

"See you around, Sam!"

And she was gone before I could say anything. I could only wave at her fast disappearing silhouette.

Right, then. I knew where I needed to go. But I was hardly going to march up to the Scarves HQ with an empty stomach. The plan could be figured out when I actually got there and saw what I was dealing with.

I could swear the wind had just gotten stronger, though.

After taking a shower, it was now twelve in the afternoon. Fortunately, most diners that open around that hour were still serving breakfast. And I knew just the place.

I drove up to a diner called Archer's. It wasn't the best, as far as diners went. It was a small brick building that saw better upkeep than the apartment building I lived in, but it wasn't very impressive. It was a pretty drab building, actually; the most noticeable thing about the diner was the neon sign just over the entrance. Otherwise, it looked very similar to other buildings. It, however, was my favorite, because for a while, it was the only place I could really afford to eat breakfast at on a semi-consistent basis. And after a while, the employees tend to remember your face. That's always a perk.

I parked on the street, then walked inside. The interior had a cool, earthy feel to it; the floor was real, polished brown wood, as opposed to faux wood tiles. There were about thirty tables, fifteen on each side of the diner, and a serving booth with several stools in the middle. The diner also had fiber-glass windows. Right now, it was filling up with customers, and the buzz of chatter was abound in the air.

I sat at the service booth and waited patiently. The turtle behind the counter approached me.

"Afternoon, sir. Alone or in a group?"

"Alone."

He passed me a table buzzer. It said 12 on the bottom.

"When that lights up, you head to that table and a server will take your order. Enjoy."

It didn't take very long to be seated. I was already at table 12 in the span of two minutes, and a familiar bushy-tailed squirrel woman with a notepad, an apron and a pleasant look in her eyes had approached me in less than a minute.

"Good afternoon, Sam."

"Hi, Schera."

Remember when I said the employees would remember your name? As it so happened, Schera practically knew my name by heart after the first month or so of continuous patronage to Archer's. We became acquaintances, perhaps friends, and it was nice to see her around every so often.

Schera pretended to scrunch up her face in deep thought. "Let me see if I can remember...a bacon cheese omelette with a side of black coffee."

I smiled. "Yeah, that's it in one."

"Hah, I knew it! You should mix it up sometime, Sam. You're so predictable."

"What can I say? I'm a bit set in my ways."

Schera had finished writing out my order with a flourish. "So what's been going on with you lately? Still working the tabloids?"

I cringed internally."...uh, technically, yeah...but I've been working on an article since yesterday."

"You mean aside from that Golden Week thing that was in today's paper?"

"Yeah, basically."

Schera tilted her head. "What's it going to be about?"

"Ehh...let's say that I'm going to the headquarters of the Red Scarves to interview someone in the flesh."

Schera had a pleasant smile up to that point. She was now staring at me in utter shock, her eyes widening by the second.

"Wow. You sure know how to give a girl a surprise. Are you sure you'll be alright? I heard these guys were dangerous."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Schera frowned. "You shouldn't act so tough, Sam. I need to go to work now, but if you go through with this, don't be afraid to ask for help. I mean it, okay?"

"I'll try not to get in too far over my head. I like the food here too much."

Schera looked at me for a long second, then smiled. "You're probably not going to listen to my advice anyway. But whatever you're working on, I hope I get to read it someday."

And with that, she had disappeared into the atmosphere of the fast filling diner, shooting one last glance at me.

On the outside, I was smiling lazily.

On the inside, I was starting to wonder if taking up the torch on Barry's project was a good idea, and if I wasn't already getting too far in over my head.

An hour and a half later, I walked out of the diner with a filled stomach, the pleasant aftertaste of coffee on my tongue, a whole host of potential questions I could ask Spade, and a cold, unpleasant feeling somewhere in my head that the mere act of asking questions might lead to getting hurt. Or worse.

I sat in my car for a while and pondered. Several different people had already warned me away from the Red Scarves. The ex-Scarves especially had painted a picture of a psychotic and murderous assassin who seemed to solve all his problems by reducing them to pink mist. That was not encouraging, to say the least.

Was this article really worth the possibility that I might get shot, stabbed, burned, electrocuted and pummeled to death just for even asking questions? I mean, sure, tabloid journalism was not even close to world-changing, and a scant few respected the profession, but at least it was safe. I could keep my safe paycheck and continue to do my safe writing of safe topics. And maybe languish in safety. And maybe it'd be all right.

But then I recalled what a year of tabloid journalism had got me; an underwhelmingly mediocre apartment that I constantly wished I could leave behind, pulling double duty as a coffee shop barista while I wrote about topics that didn't necessarily interest me, the hundreds of awkward moments where I had to sheepishly amend my profession to "tabloid journalist", and the fact that I had to cheap out on a lot of stuff just to keep my checkbook in the black.

Ever since I went to college, I had been plagued with a distinct lack of initiative, had been too afraid to take risks. I had missed out on a lot of opportunities and graduated with decent but not impressive grades. I had then shopped around for journalism jobs, only to be rejected because I just didn't carry myself with enough confidence. And even now, I was languishing in mediocrity at the Avalice Times.

All because I lacked initiative and quality.

A cool, tranquil feeling coursed through my body. I tried to figure out what it could possibly be for a few seconds, but it was indescribable; the only thing that came to mind was 'good'. I gave up on trying to define it, closed my eyes, took a deep, slow breath and let this feeling take over.

I opened my eyes.

This feeling...it felt like the howling gales of a hurricane and the fiery inferno of a burning building, all rolled up into one. But instead of painful like you'd expect, it was soothing, calming even. It was something I hadn't felt in a long while, and I welcomed its presence like an old friend.

It was a song of storm and fire.

It was determination.

I slammed my keys into the ignition and cranked it as far as it would go.

The engine roared to life. It may have been my imagination, but I could swear that it was the roar of the dragon.

In this moment, all my doubts had fallen away, one by one. It may have been temporary, but I just did not care right now.

I got my car on the street and zoomed away to the Scarves' base of operations.

Hell yeah. I was doing this.

The road leading to the Red Scarves' headquarters was long and winding, and also bumpy. Carol hadn't said anything about that part, which was annoying. I could only hope my car didn't get a flat.

In all, it took half an hour of driving through a largely rural area with only the sky and a few natural implements for company before I came to the rickety bridge. To my surprise, there was a literal five-story parking lot building not five feet away from the bridge. From where I was looking, it was packed to the brim with cars of all models, from cheap brands and poorly maintained cars to high-end, practically futuristic cars. I was feeling kind of lazy, as I did not want to start looking for a parking space, so I just left my car on the side of the road.

From there, it wasn't a very long walk across the hills.

I gaped when I saw the headquarters.

The Red Scarves' headquarters were absolutely massive. It was mostly steel and wood from where I was standing, a huge dissonance compared to the relative emptiness of the rural area. In some ways, it was like a fortress, reminiscent of all these terrible TV shows where the big bad was holed up in his massive castle because of reasons, but outclassing all of them in sheer scale.

I felt like the scrappy underdog protagonist who was gearing up for an epic fight against the big bad. Except that analogy sort of fell apart once you thought about it for more than a few seconds.

I shook my head and walked to the entrance. The entrance was a set of wooden double doors with studded metal...studs. But it was blocked by, of all things, a serving booth manned by a single person.

Something about that felt off, somehow. You had an infamous criminal organization who would gladly slit someone's throat for a price and clearly had the funds to afford such an extravagant base of operations. And yet, there was a serving booth with a sign that said 'Contracts here'. If you had changed the sign to "Lemonade for 5 crystals!", it wouldn't have looked any different from the typical lemonade stand business. The only difference was that they had apparently embraced their criminal side to such a degree that they just didn't care.

I approached the stand nervously, wondering what to expect. The person manning the booth was a salamander, dressed in a muted olive grey outfit with (of course) a literal red scarf draped across his neck. He seemed rather young, perhaps about Carol's age or a year older. He was absentmindedly sharpening a knife with a grinding stone, but upon seeing me, he stared at me without saying anything.

"Hi." I tried to sound confident, but I don't think I succeeded.

"An eagle, huh? What would you have us do?" The salamander seemed uninterested in me.

"Well, I'd like to talk to a member in your organization, a man called Spade."

The salamander rolled his eyes. "Welcome to the club. What about?"

"I want to talk about a person called Coral Tea."

The salamander stopped sharpening his knife for a split second, then grunted.

"You're aware there's a price, correct."

"Yeah. What do I need to pay?"

The salamander looked at me. "One million crystals."

I gagged. That was well over three times what I made in a year.

"You're...what? I don't...is that for real?"

The salamander laughed at me. It was a harsh kind of laugh, like a desert wind blowing across the land.

"I should've figured. You're just another bandwagoner. All of you are the same; you all want Spade to personally handle your contracts, but you don't want to actually fork over the cash."

"But...it's important for-"

He scoffed. "Am I talking to a broken record here? Of course your request is extra important, like all these poor saps that came before you. Problem is, we don't run a charity here. We're not going out of our way to rob a bank, open your mama's throat, get you contacts in the government or talk to a member here because you 'feel' it's important. Feelings don't do jack shit for our business, especially when we literally have better things to do with our time. So I'll make this real simple so we don't waste each other's time. Money talks, bullshit walks. Pay up, or piss off."

"I don't have the money-"

"Good. Now we understand each other. Piss off."

Evidently, you didn't get to be a Red Scarf by baking cookies and being nice to your mother.

I silently turned away and walked back to my car, replaying the situation over and over and wondering if there was anything I could've done differently.

I was in a sour mood after that rude awakening, and the waste of time didn't make it feel any better. I rolled back into Shang Tu around 3:30, and I suddenly desired food with a bit of alcohol. I spent about three hours in the Roaring Dragon eating, drinking and generally feeling like a failure, and it was around 7 when I got back home.

As always, I locked the car and walked into the apartment building. However, unlike last time, I didn't need the keys for the gate; it just opened on its own. I shrugged; perhaps the lock was broken this time and the owner had to fix it tomorrow. But despite this logical rationalization, something felt wrong about the entire thing.

Everything had felt the same, but I was on edge up until I got to my apartment. I unlocked the door, then closed it behind me and locked the door and sighed out loud. I didn't know what had made me feel this way, but if I had made it this far without anything bad happening, I suspected that I didn't need to be worried anymore. I flicked the lightswitch to the hallway and walked to the kitchen.

I was jolted out of my mind and nearly tripped over myself as I saw a panda man with blindingly emerald green eyes sitting in my kitchen, absentmindedly shuffling a deck of cards and being bored out of his mind.

"I was wondering how long it'd take for you to get home."

I tried to regain some composure. "How on Avalice did you get inside my house?!"

The panda man stared at me as if I had asked a stupid question. "You know very well how I got inside. You might be asking the wrong question here."

"Okay, you know what, screw your semantics. Who are you and why are you in my house?"

The panda smirked. "I heard from the guard that you were looking for me, something to do with a person called Coral Tea. Which is interesting, because it's been years since I've heard that name spoken. So I took out a contract on you."

The matter-of-fact way that he mentioned taking out a contract on me, as if he were talking about the weather, chilled me so hard that my body was visibly trembling.

"You-you're Spade?"

Spade stared at me with an eyebrow raised.

"I, I-d-do you wanna kill me? Is that what this is about?"

Spade shrugged nonchalantly.

"Don't worry too much about it. If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be talking. Though, I did my research on you, Samuel Swift; you work for the Avalice Times as a tabloid journalist. The last person who was asking questions about Coral was a bear called Barry Allen, who also works for the Avalice Times. And according to the newspapers, he penned a duo article about the Magister's interview. Interesting stuff, by the way. I can only conclude that you two are friends, but what I don't understand is where you benefit from this. No offense, but judging from where you live, Coral's name is far, far above your pay grade, and there are less volatile subjects to cover. Why this one in particular?"

Why this one in particular, indeed…

"I honestly j-just wanted to make a name for myself. D-didn't like my job and all. What's it matter to you?"

"Have you spoken to Lilac and Carol?"

I blinked. Where did that even come from?

"...yes?"

"Are they doing all right?"

"Yeah, I guess. What's it to you?"

Spade smirked. There might have been a shadow of satisfaction in that smirk. "Good to know."

Spade stopped shuffling his cards and rose to his feet.

"I'll talk to you. But not here. We're heading back to the headquarters."

"Really? Just like that?"

"No. First, I'll knock you out. Then, I'll trash your place, make it look like a robbery."

My eyes widened. "What the-are you insane? No way I'm letting you trash my place on a whim!"

Spade sighed out loud. "That's why I wanted to knock you out first."

Then, in the blink of an eye, I went from indignant to stuck in a hold that I could not easily escape. I struggled to get out of it.

"Don't fight. It goes easier that way."

I fought anyway, out of stubbornness. But it took all of two seconds to realize that no matter what I did, I was screwed anyway. I blacked out in fifteen.

Now, Barry may be a good journalist. I respect him a lot. But I'm pretty sure he never got put in a sleeper hold trying to pursue a lead.