Covent Gardens was always a hub of activity in London, but today it was a different sort of activity. The white and navy of police officers was dotted around the normally bustling pedestrianised streets as yellow tape was drawn across, setting up a hasty barrier as the CSI and forensic teams descended. I leant idly against the wall underneath a hanging basket sprouting colourful flowers.

“Hey, mate?”

Glancing to the side, my eyes fell on a man of around my age, maybe a few years younger. He was dressed in a zip up hoodie and jeans, and looked quite cold. It was certainly that, hence the fact that I wore my heavy-but-stylish black coat and striped scarf. Winter was drawing in. I idly wondered whether London would be so utterly crippled by a few inches of snow as it had been the year before.

“Yes?” I adjusted my hair (I do that a lot) and gave the guy a once-over.

“You got any idea what’s going on? I heard there’s been some sort of murder, right? I want to know, see, so I know what it’ll do for business.”

I raised an eyebrow, “Something like that.” I confirmed, “And can I ask what ‘business’ is?”

“Ah, well, it’s magic ain’t it?”

“Ma... what?”

“Street performing. I’m a magician – want to see a trick?”

“Ah.” I really didn't, so I shook my head. Covent Gardens was well known for its multitude of street performers, from magicians, to jugglers, to dancers. I remember encountering a golden-painted mime at some point in the past... “I’ll pass, thanks. Oh, and thanks for the offer. I’d appreciate it”

“What?”

“You were just offering to grab me a hot chocolate from the Costa down the road?”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

The man frowned, blinking slowly. “Oh, yeah. I won’t be a tick.” He said, turning and heading down the street. He rubbed his head, as if disoriented, as he went.

Okay, so maybe that hadn’t been necessary. But it was cold, dammit!

_______________________

“So you say you knew the deceased?”

“That’s what I said. And why you’re here. You really need to ask?”

“Alright, alright, I was just confirming.” I sighed, steepling my fingers and leaning forwards in my seat. I examined the man sitting opposite me in the pub. A familiar zip-up hoodie around a youngish looking face, hazel eyes, dark slightly messy hair. It was a small world. “Did you notice that your friend was missing before they were identified?”

I could guess the answer. The guy hadn’t known when I’d sent him on a hot-choc run the previous day, and according to the other dozen street performers I’d spoken to it was normal for friends to be AWOL for days at a time. It wasn’t exactly a full-time occupation for most people.

“No. Or else I would’ve been more concerned when I spoke to you back at the scene, wouldn’t I?” he replied, folding his arms with a frown.

Damien, his name was. Damien Scot. Street magician, seventeen - the same age as me. Damien had been friends with the victim; identified by a number of the others who worked Covent Gardens by her distinctive style of dress. Leah White, eighteen – a busker, singer and guitarist; she’d apparently been quite pretty.

That being back when her head was still attached to her body, and all. I could never say that M wasn't thorough ...

“Okay. Sorry.” I said, “Well, when did you last see her?”

“Why are you asking? I thought we were just having a drink because you recognised me and wanted to return the favour for the hot chocolate. You’re hardly the fuzz, you look the same age as
me.”

And there it was, the problem with being seventeen and trying to investigate a crime. Everyone eventually picked up on the fact that you were seventeen, and trying to investigate a crime.

“I’ve already explained to you why I’m asking, and you thought it was totally reasonable.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now could you answer the question?”

“No, I’m pretty sure you ... I don’t ... what was the..?”

Bugger. Well, that had been a long shot. “I’ve got a personal interest. I’m following a few cases like this. Call it a hobby. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it’d be really great if you could. I’ll buy you another drink?” I offered, smiling hopefully. Sometimes you had to fall back on old-fashioned ‘being nice’.

“And a bag of pastries from Greggs.”

“A muffin.”

“Deal. It was three days ago, Wednesday. The night before the police found her. We were heading home, seeing as it was getting dark, and there weren’t many people, and the few that were there weren’t interested in magic tricks or guitarists. It was around the corner from where they found her. I’ve already told the police.” Damien frowned, as if thinking particularly hard. “Did she have her guitar with her, when they found her?”

It was my turn to think. I'd spoken to the police, and examined the body (not that I was any sort of expert there, but I figured it was worth a look, just in case). I didn’t remember any sort of instrument case. “I don’t think so.” I replied eventually, “That might be worth following up.”

Damien folded his arms. “Now you owe me a drink, and food.”

“I never said that.”

“Really?”

“You must be imagining it.”

“Oh...”

A pause.

“Nah, I’m messing with you. Come on, I’ll buy you that muffin.” I said, grinning and flicking my fringe aside, in an entirely suave manner. I'm not a total asshole, after all...

10:27am.

As always, the guard had taken off early for his break. His condition wrought havoc with the guys bladder - diabetes, judging by the dozen or so sweet wrappers he recalled seeing in the guys pockets over the weeks. With a reluctant groan, I haul myself over the barriers and give the camera a ritual wave. Caroline Flinn - identifiable as an employee for British Telecoms by her name-badge, always pinned to her left lapel - was running late today. She crossed me on the third step from the bottom, rather than the fourth from the top. Even with my hood pulled snuggly around my head, the chill of the mid-winter air bites my flesh. Three degrees with a chance of showers this morning. As always, the complete 'weather timetable' of the day followed, right the way up until -5 at 2:00am. That shit was going to hurt.

The train arrived exactly on time.

Narrowing my eyes suspiciously at the train - it was never on time, I wait for the doors to open while a female voice reminds me to 'mind the step'. As if my plan had been to stick my head down there and have a peek.

"Hey!" I look up from beneath the cover of my hood with a raised eyebrow. The security guard was panting slightly, standing at the bottom of the steps. "You didn't. Pay."

"I know?"

The doors slid shut. Rolo - affectionately named because five of the twelve items I had recorded in his pockets had been exactly that - was left standing on the platform, red-faced and embarrassed. It was eleven stops from Dagenham Heathway to Mile End - about three hours, on the district line (actually 38.3 minutes on average, his mind reminded him). Id been sent a text (at 7:23am, of all possible times) by The Administrator to meet some ditzy yank chick.

Just my luck.

The next morning found me awake (if not a little murky) two hours before my alarm, sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed with a thick comforter wrapped around both shoulders. London's sunrise streamed in through the slider window and its off-white blinds reminding me cruelly that my internal clock still wanted it to be very early. Mrrph. Good morning, Marriott.

At that moment, the biggest thing weighing on my mind was the stupid television remote. I fumbled with all the colored buttons for a while before discovering the instruction card tucked cleverly in the bedside drawer. Oh. Right. When the television finally clicked on, I groped behind me for my glasses just in time to see Near's smiling, charming smile coming into view.

Near was one of those rare Outcross specialists who spent almost all of their time in the public eye. Some knew her as Kathleen Lesser, CBS reporter with short, curly red hair and bright green eyes while others knew her as Marissa Lieu from BBC evening news, long blonde hair and light blue eyes.

I was watching her be Marissa right now in a replay of last night's Convention Center coverage. Every hair was in place, her slight frame wrapped nearly against the cold in a gray peacoat, which made me (hair a mess, stuffed in some tangled sheets) feel rather savage. She held the microphone and spoke with the same confidence that any of our firearms specialists might have. What's she saying? I turned up the volume.

It's a cold, gruesome scene here downtown London. Yet another body was discovered hidden in plain sight, 34-year-old Erica Stanmyre ..

There was no mention of any letters from the rest of the report. Good. No one needed a PR specialist to understand that releasing the info on the letters would just cause a clusterfuck of panic, and copycat writers. I watched Near effortlessly reassure the viewing public that much headway was being made on the case, and that no one had anything to worry about. Sometimes I got chills at how easy it was for her to lie to people.

Another glance at the clock told me that I had a hefty chunk of time before needing to head out and over to Trafalgar Square to meet this Vyral. Last night, I had tried texting the Administrator for further information about this character, but there was no reply. And the Administrator always replied.

Guess I'll have to find out ..

I let the news report trickle into sports and domestic-related news, thinking idly about breakfast being held downstairs. All the complimentary breakfasts at various Marriott's started to taste the same after a while, but I knew I had to eat something, as today was going to be a very long day. Outcross was good for arranging food, boarding, that sort of thing -- but oftentimes, you didn't really have a choice for your diet.

Eh. Another thing was the fact that there'd be people down there. If I were to so much as open my mouth and say "thank you!" to the servers, I'd be branded as an American right away. Dialectic things weren't a strong suit of mine, and neither was blending in as an American in London. Tourists were one thing, but teenager snooping where she shouldn't? That was something else entirely.

Which was, unfortunately, why I needed Deb around.

Bzzzp.

My phone chirped, and I swiped it off the nightstand. The Administrator was texting me back. Was this some more information about Vyral, and the meet happening later on this morning?

Evidently not.

EAT.

Hrnng.

Not quite. Throwing my phone across the room to the other bed, I shrugged out of the white comforter, ready to dig through my suitcase and start this stupid thing called my job.

I don't think I really contributed much to the Outcross investigation those first few days. As I recall, I spent most of my time wandering around the business district of London with a worried look on my face.

London, it turned out, was just a bunch of concentric circles crawling with people. Either that, or my internal compass kept me whirling in tighter and tighter loops. The downtown district twisted this way then that, backtracking, hair-pinning, and just generally giving me and my phone's GPS a headache.

And it wasn't like I could ask anyone anything, either. Here I was, a lone American Specialist -- the second I were to open my mouth, my damn Midwest accent would tumble out and collapse, jet-lagged, onto the sidewalk.

" -- She might have left it in the CAHR -- "

The harsh, woefully familiar vowel sounds of my home country caused me to stop dead in the square. The place was running rampant with tourists, and here was yet another friendly-looking group with their cameras and passport protectors. Part of me wanted to blend into the group standing next to the bus, but the other part knew that the instant I were to step towards them, my phone would buzz, annoyed.

Fine.

I traced the main underground route (following bright red buses, basically) to the river. Quaint shops, cute couples, and a dark-haired girl scared to speak in a coat a little too warm for running scared in England.

Buh.

That was basically how every day went after Vyral and Deb vanished. I'd send texts to the Administrator with decreasing regularity; I found that whenever I figured something was of high importance, it generally wasn't. If I was supposed to be wandering around London by myself with no idea where to go or what to look for then hey! That was on the Administrator if anything happened.

Finally, finally, my phone buzzed.

The text simply read:

CHAI.

Chai? I turned a slow circle on the sidewalk. People bustled past me. I couldn't --

Oh.

Ten minutes later I was enjoying a steaming styrofoam cup of tea tucked against the wind talking to the shop owner, a sleeper Specialist who introduced himself (in the poshest accent I'd heard yet) as Eero.

"Thank you," was all I had to say.

"Don't thank me! Thank the Administrator. Prolly took pity on you at last, saw you bumbling around the city like a .. "

" .. Like a tourist."

"Eh, 'xactly."

Well, it was nice to know I wasn't alone at least. Not that a Specialist was ever truly alone, abroad, especially in a city this big. It was just a matter of when phones buzzed, and who had the nerve to walk up to someone and ask the magic question.

Are you Outcross?

Eero didn't ask me about the case, didn't ask me anything about where my partners had gone. He just let me sit there at a table in his shop and drink my tea while he attended to a light trickling of customers. It was these small acts of kindness that made doing all of this worth it.

Bzzt.

Another text, now, from the Administrator. An address. A time. A command.

BE ON TIME.

I hadn't finished my tea, yet, but I rose to my feet out of habit.

"Take a left," Eero advised as I made to head back out into the city. "Station is two blocks down."

I didn't even ask. I gave the barest sliver of a smile, and then I was gone.

"Hello?"

"Afternoon."

"Are you Outcross?"

"I am. Come in."

I did.

He called himself Cyclops; not for any resemblance to the towering monster, but for the magnifying lens held in front of both eyes by a metal headband. He was a forgery specialist and a master of calligraphy as well as a gem purveyor tucked all wrapped into one, tucked away in the top floor of a downtown London apartment. He lived alone. He had taste in sherry wine and thick, colorful carpets. I observed all from the small kitchen.

"How are you enjoying the city so far?" he rasped, reaching out to take my coat.

"Oh. It's good. Busy. I haven't had a chance to enjoy it much, thus far," I shrugged out of it, making sure to keep my phone with me however.

"Bloody terrible weather for that sort of thing."

This sort of smalltalk was what I was used to. It was always trivial, and always a bit awkward. It was best to just stagger through it. There was a job to be done in any case. Cyclops took my coat, hung it up, asked softly that I take off my shoes on the linoleum, and then he shuffled away, leading me down the narrow hall to his workroom.

Aha! There were stacks of reference books against the wall, cabinets overflowing with papers and diagrams. You could hardly see the floor from clippings and other paper items. You could hardly see at all, really. The light was so low in the room save for one bright desklamp -- that was where the illumination came from, and that was where Cyclops headed, at once.

I was here to inquire about the letters themselves. Deb, Vyral and I were growing increasingly suspicious that the letters were being written before the actual crimes were being committed -- a worrying occurrence, to be sure. The Administrator was having the items looked at closely, but they needed to be returned to evidence within the next few days -- I wanted to see the findings. I had to see the findings.

If I don't get a vision by the next time a body shows up ..

Well, I didn't want to think about that.

Cyclops slid onto the stool, and took up the letter with one gloved hand. "They're written calmly. Carefully. Embellished. Strange -- such a stylized hand, and I can't match it. Very frustrating, but very interesting. Whoever your man is, Twenty, he's good."

"Yeah," I licked my lips, trying not to think of the mutilated bodies. "Too good. Anything interesting about them?"

"Written with the same pen, if it matters. A very old-fashioned stylograph."

"Stylograph?"

Cyclops rummaged around a pile of folded maps, and procured a stylograph. It appeared to be an ordinary pen, but with a conical nib for the ink to run out of, rather than a flat one.

"Can you get anything from it?"

"Types? Brands? No. The flow is very, very smooth. I've examined the type of paper, however. Printed from a press in London itself."

"A sign? Does that help us?"

"You could look into it if you wanted, I suppose, but it's nothing concrete. Here."

Cyclops scooted away, beckoning that I step forward and into the light. I did so, reaching out with trembling hands, afraid to brush the edges of each paper, spread out so carefully on the bench.

"Well, alright. Not sure how much good it'll do .. "

I began to read. It was slow at first. Signed the same. Then I started looking at who each letter was addressed to ..

Dear Mr. & Mrs. David Engrall .. Dear Mr. Joasine .. Dear Mr. Benjamin Stanmyre .. DEAR ADMINISTRATOR --

.. What was that last one?

The words (real or not?) leapt out at me from the page, and slammed into my mind like a frying pan. My head jerked back from the force of the vision. Sights, sounds, feelings, sensations came in that rip-roaring tidal wave and I think I hit the ground, but I don't remember.

-- however fond you are of your young Specialist, I fear that her time ended rather quickly. She tried to run, but despite her most champion of efforts, she was captured. Next time, I would advise finding yourself an American who has spent more time preparing herself for such --

And then, a scream.

Was I reading words, or hearing voices? Was I seeing things, or was I just hallucinating?

I saw Cyclops in this room, pouring over this letter.
Looking for clues. Reaching for another light.

-- my greatest pleasure to address you by your name, sir. Will you not do me the honor of --

Worse.

This vision was worse than the others.

I'm not seeing, I'm only

feeling and hearing.

-- I struck her with the butt of the pistol, a bit too hard I'm afraid. Her skull was fractured before she fell, and she struck each stair solidly before reaching the bottom. Upon retrieving the body, I hooked a shoe under her chest and flipped her over. She was already gone. I decided to take her with me instead.

I saw a tall staircase with white walls. Winding upwards. The only reason I saw upwards because I was falling; the world pitching this way and then --

Oh God.

A horrible, horrible taste blooms in the back of my mouth.

-- She did not stir again until after we had returned to a more private place.

Help me.

Trying to move my mouth, speak. Trying to.

-- Piano wire does wonders as a binding tool. The more you struggle, the more it cuts into the skin. One thing that must be said for your young Specialist is that she is indeed persistent. Panic made her fight 'till her wrists bled. The blood moistened the binding, until she could slip one hand free.

A light.

Help me. Oh, for the love of God. If someone is there, please ..

HELP ME!

-- From the look in her eyes, I don't think she realized that there was quite so much blood inside of her. She had completely soaked the mattress before I could attend to other matters.

No, no, no, no, NO!

It's a vision. A vision, Twenty. Just --

It ended as soon as it started, but I didn't return to reality right away. At least, I didn't think I had. I blinked a few times, furiously before realizing that the room was dark and Cyclops was at my side, sitting me up.

"Th .. There's .. " I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think, I couldn't move. My phone was pinging on the table. It kept going off, shrieking, demanding to be picked up. Cyclops stared at me with three very wide eyes.

"There's going t .. to be another letter."

I felt very alone.

"And it's written for me."

Cyclops handled the affair with remarkable poise. Once I gathered myself enough to stand, he gave me a once-over (perhaps to make sure I was myself?) before reaching out to squeeze both my shoulders in assurance. I licked my lips. He didn't say anything, really. I don't think he needed to.

I learned later that this old man was rounding off a lifetime of active service as a field Specialist for Outcross, so the sudden high-octane flash was nothing new -- but in the moment, all I could think about was the fact that I was alone in a cramped apartment with a guy who smelled vaguely of prunes, dust, and ink while a faceless killer made plans to very much make me bleed. Oh my God.

Snatches of the vision were still chasing themselves in my mind, but I think it was the dark that gave them cobwebs to spin into. Cyclops stepped away, rummaging in a nearby drawer. I watched him blearily, until he revealed a Smith & Wesson clenched firmly in one fist. The pistol's hammer was already cocked. Without no further ado, Cyclops wedged an arm through mine, and compelled me from the room out to the hallway. I had just enough time to grab my phone from the desk before the door snapped shut.

The Administrator had texted me six times in the span of forty seconds. By the time I shuffled dumbly to the kitchen, three more messages were received. At least the brighter light here caused me to be more aware. I scrolled through my inbox with shaking fingers.

CALL.

CALL NOW.

REPORT

DO NOT LEAVE.

BRIAN IS EN ROUTE. LEAVE THEN.

SPEAK TO NEAR.

STAY AWAY FROM WINDOWS.

ALL OF THE WINDOWS.

THAT WAS WHAT WE CALL A WINDOW.

Window? I turned my head. There was a plate glass window in the quiet living room, the entrance to which Cyclops and I strolled past. Oh. I hadn't even seen it. It was dark. Someone could have been watching from outside, or worse. Oops. The Admin had a nasty sense of humor. Stuff like this was going to get me killed one of these days.

Bad choice of words, Twenty ..

My temples started to throb.

When the Administrator said "call", he meant that I was to contact his secure line and speak at length about the vision. He never picked up, of course. It was more like an answering machine; great way to pass on messages to other Specialists if their numbers weren't preprogrammed into your phones. If Brian was on his way, then I'd have time to do so.

"My Control is on his way," I unstuck my throat, and addressed Cyclops, who was pacing the kitchen as only an armed, gnarled old man can. "He's a DI. I don't know where they're taking me from there."

Cyclops didn't ask any more questions. I think he knew the procedure at this point with events like these. I licked my lips one more time, dialed the call-in number, and waited not for a ring but for a --

Click.

"This is Specialist Twenty reporting a new vision. It was sparked by touching all the evidence letters in a row, chronologically. By the time my fingers left the third one, they closed around a new one. One that doesn't exist yet. It was addressed to the Administrator. I .. I .. "

Oh, I was used to it. I had rattled off (in fairly minute detail) other visions in the past, but none had been as graphic as this one. None had been about me. I faltered a bit in the middle, but I got out the information that I could remember, the information that was important. The words fell dully from my lips. I'm calmly, cooly describing the circumstances of my own death.

" .. The letter was not dated. This could be at any point in the future. All London-area Specialists are advised that, um. Whoever M is, he may be a lot more dangerous than we had first anticipated," I licked my lips one final time before ending the call. There. It's done.

Bzzt. I glanced down.

GO.

There were two light knocks on the door, and then it swung open on its own accord. Detective Inspector Brian Something (his last name wasn't important) stepped into Cyclops' apartment with an urgent but puzzled look on his face. The other DIs from the Convention Centre weren't with him. I hadn't expected them to be. I stared at Brian. He stared back.

Cyclops coughed into his sleeve, which jarred me from my stupor. I scooted back to the welcome mat for my shoes, jammed them on quickly as best as I could, exchanged knowing (fearful) glances with Brian, and then was out the door into the London evening.

"Her skull was fractured before she fell, and she struck each stair solidly before reaching the bottom .. "

Lord save me. I really am going to get myself killed ..

So it turned out that finding a single guitar in a city was exceptionally hard work. I tried asking around the Gardens to begin with – I figured that buskers would know if someone had turned up with a new guitar, and that they were the most likely to have found it. Apparently not, either that or nothing of the sort had happened.

Damien had, after some deliberation and a brief consultation of an old photo with a group of guitarist friends, identified the guitar as a ... shit. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and checked the note. There we go. He identified the guitar as a Yamaha F370, which meant absolutely nothing to me, but I assumed meant something to other people. The most I could tell from the photo was that it was black.

I was currently waiting in the reception area of the Metropolitan Police Station. Apparently Brian was expecting me – at least, that’s what the Administrator had said when he responded to my lacklustre report about a guitar, but hey, I had something!

“Mr. Walker?” Fake name. You couldn’t introduce yourself to everyone as ‘Debonaire’ after all. “The Detective Inspector will see you now.”

Finally. It had only been ten minutes, but I was impatient. I guess it came with the whole teenager thing.

Inside Brian’s office, I got the feeling that he felt slightly put out to be having a serious interview with a sixteen year old about a murder case.

“A guitar?”

“Yep.”

“And where did you find out about this?”

“One of the girl’s friends. Damien Scot. Said he’d talked to you, but he hadn’t mentioned the guitar ‘cause he didn’t think it was important.”

“I’ll take a look at the system and see if anyone’s handed a guitar in. You never know, in Covent Gardens it’s as likely to have been picked up by an over-eager tourist as by someone who’d just nab it for themselves.” Brian turned in his chair and started tapping away on the keyboard.

There was an awkward pause while I stared around the room. Lots of medals and certificates. I think I have a few certificates at home myself. GCSEs, mostly, though, so nothing quite as admirable as a veteran policeman’s various honours.

Still, I got quite a few A*s.

“You’re in luck.” My attention went back to the older man as he swivelled his monitor around. “Yamaha black guitar was handed into Agar Street police station three days ago by one of the RNLI folks from the Tower Lifeboat Station. Apparently they found it in the river while they were out on the water.”

I blinked. “That seems unlikely.”

Brian shrugged, “I’ll have it sent to the lab to see if they can find anything. Don’t hold your breath, mind. Forensics isn’t as flash as CSI would have you think.”

Nodding, I tapped my fingers awkwardly on the arms of the chair. “Right. So...”

“So at this point, you can leave it to the police.”

“No, see, that’s not-“

“I’ll report to the Administrator if we find anything. If he tells you, that’s his business.” Okay, so it was really obvious now that Brian didn’t like working with a kid. Just because he was actually a police officer.

“...’kay.”

Brian kept shooting concerned glances across the cabin of the police cruiser as we rushed from Cyclops' flat back into London proper, but I was far beyond words. Once clicking my seatbelt into place, that had been the last physical activity on my list for a while. I sat there dully, my body roasting, coat off and wadded up in my lap, aching head resting against the cool window. I didn't dare close my eyes for longer than a millisecond, lest those images from my vision return.

The car's siren wailed, and I wanted to, as well. Who knows how much time passed? No longer was I so interested (in a politely puzzled sort of way) at how this part of the world moved. Now, bridges blurred into bridges, streets blurred into streets, and turns blurred into —

It was a thunderous physical jolt that jarred me from my stupor — a jolt so much like falling down stairs ("Her skull was fractured before she fell — “), that I know for certain that I screamed aloud.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” a voice soothed. “S’alright! Look!”

We had entered a crowded parking lot. Ahead, there was a large building built of glass domes and brown stone, perhaps seven or eight stories high. BBC Television Centre read proudly on its side. I twisted around in my seat. Oh. We had just gone over a speed bump.

“See? Here’s another one. I’ll take it slower.”

Brian coaxed the vehicle over the next bump. This time we did not jolt, but rocked slowly. He kept his arm on mine. My heart pounded.

We parked, I dragged myself out of my seat and walked down the sidewalk, sucking in the European air, hearing the hiss of traffic from the main road behind us. We entered this great glass dome without anyone stopping us, or questioning us.

Things in this city seem to be much huger on the inside than what they appear. This central circular block of glass, sunlight, and people was the most breathtaking thing I had ever seen. Time slowed down and I saw the Greek god of the son, Helios, staring at me from a fountain. I stared back, and for an odd moment I felt at peace.

Be strong, Little One.

Brian tugged on my arm, walking me on. I think I am going crazy.

“Where are we going?” my first words in ages.

“BBC One newsroom. Near is there.”

The dual doors of an elevator opened smoothly as we approached. I suspected it had been waiting for us. I stepped inside neatly, finding the wall as soon as possible, slumping against it.

“I need a bathroom,” I said flatly.

Once we ascended to the sixth floor, Brian pointed me to the direction of the restrooms. I staggered across snow-white carpet, and made it into the huge, white, clean and stainless steel bathrooms where I could be alone with my heaving breath.

The rows of stalls stretched on for miles upon miles — with a small American girl standing at either end, like conflicted bookends. Oh, no, those were mirrors. I stood there balanced between two worlds before I turned my head to the left, and caught sight of myself yet again, at much closer quarters.

You know those moments when you feel completely at a loss? That’s how I was. The lights in here were as hard and strong as anything you’d find at a studio set. I stepped closer to the sinks, repulsed and intrigued by my windswept hair, snarled bangs, cracked lips, greasy face. Tired. Oh, I was tired. I looked pale and stark as ever, like all the blood in —

From the look in her eyes, I don't think she realized that there was quite so much blood inside of her.

— I doubled over, and threw up. I twisted the faucet head to rinse it away, and nearly collapsed onto the sink, my coat tumbling softly to the floor.

I heard voices outside, and then I heard the bathroom door swing open, and high heels clacking on tile.

“Twenty?”

Immediately, I straightened, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, and saw her in mirror, standing behind me with a fierce expression.

It was Near, perfect Near with her tiny body and golden hair, wearing an impossible skirt and elegant pink blouse. I said she looked fierce because she always looked fierce in her broadcast-ready makeup, eyes and chin so sharply defined, but her arms were around me in a second, and she smelled like flowers.

Seeing Near in person was rather dreamlike, always. She was always on a television screen, to my perception, giving reports on happenings in the middle east, or delivering some juicy tidbit about a celebrity — yet here she was, helping me stand, picking up my coat, chiding Brian for letting me out of his sight even for just one second.

I’m fine, I wanted to tell her. I’m fine.

But I wasn’t fine until I sat in the corner of the BBC One newsroom with Brian’s overcoat slung around my shoulders, a steaming vanilla mocha in my hands from Starbucks, watching Near pace by the television sets, arguing animatedly with whoever it was on the other line.

Brian had run out to get me something to drink. He stood close to my side, eyeballing every window, every doorway in and out of the control room with a hawkish, practiced air. I tried taking a sip once, twice, then a third time of my coffee — but it was just too hot. I let it warm my hands, instead, enjoying the smell.

There was a guy my age standing with his arms folded across his chest on the other side of the control room, down a few rows of consoles. The control room was dark, so I couldn’t make out too much about him. Looked fairly skinny. He was the only one in the room not shooting me anxious, pitying glances every once in a while. He was bent over his phone, texting idly, completely absorbed in that task as though not at all interested in what's happening.

“Who’s that?” I croaked.

“Vyral. Don’t know much about him, besides he’s a former Navigator, and the Administrator wanted him here.”

“Oh,” I looked down, fussing with the lid on the Starbucks. “I was supposed to meet him today.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“And what should I be worrying about?”

Brian’s expression was grim. “Just don’t worry about it.”

I rested my head against the back of what I think was a switching board. It was live, it was whirring, and for some reason that gave me some small comfort. My phone buzzed.

DEBONAIR EN ROUTE. NEAR HAS PLAN. STANDBY.

Near had finished with her conversations seconds ago, walking back towards where I was, waving Brian away from me. She knelt, reached up, and touched my cheek with one hand.

“Twenty. You listen to me,” she said, her green eyes (they were green now; they’d be blue later) severe. “Don’t worry about your vision. Nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand?”

But I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking past her, to Vyral, still in the corner, who I could have sworn just tried to stifle a laugh.

“I understand,” my words were tiny.

Near’s hand moved from my cheek, to my shoulder, which she gripped — hard.

“That was bullshit. Let me ask you again. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” I croaked louder, now, and for a half a second I believed it.

Brian’s phone buzzed, now. He scrolled through his messages, and then gave a sort of expectant grunt. “Debonair is on his way up. Security said he just got into the elevator.”

“Great,” Near said shortly, rising. She turned, and clicked her tongue. “Let’s hope he picks up his feet a little. We have a lot to cover, and not a lot of time to do it.”

I tried taking a sip of the mocha once more, and found it had cooled enough to make it safely down my throat ..

I check my watch again. Ten minutes late. What a joke. Irritated, I snatch my phone out of my pocket and tap out a quick message to the Administrator: 'NO SHOW.' Hopping off of the railing, I shove my mobile back into the pocket of my jeans and take a final glance around the square. The mid-morning rush is wel under-way, and people are milling about everywhere carrying plastic bags stuffed with goods. A group of people not much younger than me slouch past with burgers pushed into their mouths, greasy paper wrapping glistening in the sunlight. I weave past the and make my way towards an equally busy side-street, a nice short-cut route back to the train station. I stuff my hands into my pockets. I'd never admit it but I was looking forwards to getting on another case again, a proper case, and the no show had left me a little disheartened. It would have been a nice change of pace, something more like the old days. Sour-faced, I barely glanced at the craggy-faced woman playing a violin at the corner of the square. A crowd of about twenty people had formed, the odd few tossing a spare coin or two into an open trunk. A labrador, dark brown fur, turned its head lazily to watch me pass it, huge hazelnut eyes glimmering. My mind turns back to Outcross. It's not that I miss being a Navigator, how could I? I just miss the excitement that went with it, even the comradary. I thought that this might have been an opportunity to recapture a little of that old magic. I guess that's not what the world has in store for me, though.

I brush past a short guy dressed in a purple anarak. He waves a paper, The Metro, in my face but I use a gentle hand to move it aside and offer him a polite, if insincere, smile. I take the left turn immediately afterwards and find myself instantly dislocated from the noise and bluster of the busy streets behind me. A sign, once white but now smeared with grime, tells me 'ACCESS TO SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY'. I walk past it and continue down the alleyway unmolsted. I come out the other end with the station looming in front of me. A bright blue streak of light with the stations name emblazoned in bright, striking white letters. I take the sub-way, wrinkling my noise at the sour smell that lurks in its depths. No matter how clean the glossy tiles appear that smell persists. It takes me a few minutes to push my way through the crowds. I get stuck behind an old lady, shuffling along with her bony hands wrapped tightly around the frame of her walker. Every time I try to edge past her another shape blocks the gap and I have to slip back into line. When I finally mount the steps at the other end the fresh air is more than welcome. For a second I find something ironic in thinking of the air as fresh, what with all the cars cramming the roads and going nowhere, exhausts blowing out hot air and the drivers letting off steam in the isolated enviroments of their vehicles. My frustration perisists though, and I amble my way into the station. This time I am forced to pay. It's too busy to go skipping the barriers, and the guards this end of the line are sharp and young. I press my Oyster card to the pad and, on the beep, shuffle through like so much meat on a converyer belt. I take the steps two at a time, too the irritation of a well-dresed suit, mobile pressed to his ear. I have a sneaking suspicion that if he were to lower the phone, I'd get the briefest impression of the phones ridge left on his cheek, right across where the capilaries in his skin have burst in a rose-blossom patchwork.

It takes precisely three minutes and seven seconds for the train to arrive. I didn't even glance at the clock. For once I actually counted. It's a calming technique I read on a newspaper a week or two back. It doesn't work. The train rolls in with a hiss of metallic brakes and a whoosh of air. People begin their vanity shuffle towards the doors whilst at the same time the people inside set their shoulders to push their way out. My phone vibrates. Distratced I pull it out as I join the surge forwards. The doors open, the mumblings of 'excuse me' and 'sorry' begin. With my hood drawn up over my head, I seem to generate a little field around me that the respectable, well-bred working community are reluctant to enter. I glance at my phone.

'RE-ROUTE. BBC TELEVISION CENTRE.'

The door closes and I rest my head against the glass. I have to pull back when the train starts rolling forwards, rubbing its grime across my head. I rub it off with my sleeve, and am left staring at a black wall of white tiles.

---

The television centre is air-conditioned to the point that, even beneath my jumper, I'm shivering. Near seems unperturbed though, instead she glances towards her phone every couple of seconds. I recognise her from the news, of course. Would never have figured her for the Outcross type. Now that I'm standing in the same room as her I can see it though. Calm, professional. The only clue to her anxiety is the severe look in her eyes. She's exactly the sort I can imagine the Administrator placing behind a desk. I realise that I've taken an instant dislike to the woman. I'm torn between feeling guilty or not. She's a bit clipped for my tastes, but my problem isn't with her. Not really. It's not even with Twenty, the mysterious American ditz that decided not to show too our meeting. Of course, thats not the whole story. Again, it's not her I'm really mad at, either. I didn't have milk for my morning coffee, I recall. Perhaps that was the catalyst that set off the day as a bleak, moody one. Settled beneath my big, black rain cloud, I turn my attention back towards my phone.

I find the message more numbing that exilierating. I know it's a bad day when a text from a pretty brunette girl can't shake my spirits up a bit. I guess it's because I'm stuck here. Nestled between a bunch of well-polished terminals with only a quiet and un-receptive Near for company, the place feels more like the kitchen of a youth offenders institution than the control room for the BBC's television centre.

I get the feeling it's going to be a long day.

By the time that Twenty arrives, band in toe, I'm so absorbed in trying to distract myself with my phone that I don't realize for the first few seconds. Not until Near clips her heels across to the door and starts speaking. Her voice sounds stern. The bells start ringing again. I slip my phoneback into my pocket, reply unsent, and take a few seconds to study the new crowd. I spot Twenty easily. She's short, dark hair. Not what I expected, but somehow, it fits. I can all too easily picture her standing at a busy junction, holding a map of London and scratching her head. Asking that red-faced buisseness man on the phone what way the sqaure was, only to receive a roll of the eyes as if she were talking another language entirely, before resuming chattering into his phone. I stifle a laugh. Yeah, I could see that all too easily. Arms folded across my chest, I move closer to the group.

"Debonair, huh? Did he take the scenic route as well?

Just leave the lead, they said. It's not important, they said.

Well that was a good day's work wasted, I inwardly grumbled as I crossed the street towards the BBC Television Centre. It was, come to think of it, the first time that I'd been here. I'd never actually met Near in person before, even though I'd technically worked with her on several separate occasions, she was always 'working' behind the scenes, keeping the public happy and thinking what we wanted them to think. I'd wondered if I'd recognise any of the actors or TV personalities wandering around the Centre, but apparently they all had better things to do than hang out in corridors or reception, and by the time I'd been escorted through the front of the building I'd seen very few people aside from what I could only guess were administration elves.

The elevator 'dinged', and I stepped out onto the right floor. By the sound of things - I could hear voices from the room nearby with the door open - I was the last to arrive. I hadn't even detoured this time! I had, however, received the text just as I was on the train in the opposite direction. Less than convenient.

"Afternoon, guys and gals, what've I missed?" I asked as I sauntered into the room, smiling cheerfully before the atmosphere of the room made it clear that a grin wasn't exactly appropriate. I blinked at the tension in everyone's faces -- well, everyone's apart from Vyral's (if anything had ever visibly worried him, I hadn't seen it) -- and dropped the smile. "Apparently something big..." I followed up, glancing awkwardly from Twenty to Near. Twenty looked like she was positively ill (but that might have just been travel-sickness, I could never tell).

"Sit," Near commanded, pointing Deb to a nearby chair. There was something terrifying about her when she was in this state of blazing efficiency. She looked from Deb, to Vyral, sucking all the air from the room. "Listen very carefully. What I am about to say is of upmost secrecy. Brian and I are the only other Specialists you must speak of this to."

I knew what was coming. I didn't want to hear it.

"Twenty's had a vision. A new letter. She saw the victim, and how exactly the murder would happen."

I tipped my head back, fingers white, clenched tightly around the styrofoam cup, chugging the rest of the coffee, drowning my throat in vanilla, as Near went on. It was still hot, and burned my throat, but I kept drinking.

"The victim was herself."

I choked. The cup was empty. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and stared blearily down at my feet.

"Our goal," Near continued, "first and foremost, is to stop her from ending up dead. To do that, she can never be alone. More than that - no one can want her to be alone."

I looked up. Near was looking directly at me, with her odd stare - aggressive, empathic, and intuitive.

"The best way to keep something safe from harm is often to put it directly in the limelight," Near paused, a second, for effect, spreading her ams to the side. "Congratulations, Twenty. You are now engaged to Tom Mecredy."

"The Tom Mecredy? That guy is in Outcross?" my jaw dropped.

"Oh, please. We have dozens of media Specialists planted and prepped for this particular situation. Every time you see his face splashed across a front page, every time you hear a new album drop or a new court case filed against him, that's my work, and the work of his manager."

"Last I heard, he was in rehab, after breaking out for a fourth time," Brian put in. When we all stared at him, he added swiftly. "Not - that I look it up myself. I just, we hear things."

"Of course you hear things! That's my job, that you hear things!" Near beamed at Brian's staggered save. "

The more time I spend in Outcross, the more I realize my world is a lie.

"I'll make some calls, shoot some promos - tabloids will want to know where you are at all times, the news channels will be forced to do a lead-in story about the phenomenon. Your face will be all over television, magazines, and buses. People will want to know more about the American fiancé of England's most infamous bad boy."

I was tired, jet-lagged, raw, had thrown up recently, and could feel my coffee churning in my stomach. The idea of glitz and glamor felt so foreign, felt so wrong to me.

"Can I get cleaned up, first?" I asked hoarsely.

Near came at me, motioning that I should rise. I did so slowly, achingly, confused.

"Oh, we'll be doing more than that," she smirked, gripping me by the arm and pulling me towards the door. "You're in need of a, ah. Redesign."

Brian heaved a sigh as Near and Twenty left. I watched on with raised eyebrows and no small amount of amusement. Twenty, engaged to a drugged up party animal rockstar? I'd pay to see that reality TV show. While I suppressed a snicker, Brian turned to glance at me and the other guy, Vyral.

"Well, you two, that's it for the moment. This was mostly about getting everyone up to speed with the plan," the police agent paused, "I should introduce the two of you to each other. Deb, this is Vyral - one of London's local specialists. He knows this city better than any of us, so you'd be wise to listen to him if he gives you advice. Vyral, this is Debonair. He's a specialist because he can sweet-talk his way into almost anything without so much as a compliment, like Twenty's precognition, that's his thing. So my advice to you is the opposite - make a point to never listen to him without some degree of cynicism."

"Hey!" I protested, frowning. Just because I could be a dick with my abilities didn't mean I was .. most of the time.

Brian shook his head, "The administrator will contact the both of you with instructions shortly. For now I have to make sure I'm on call if Twenty gets into trouble." With a final nod to each of us, Brian turned and left the studio after Near and Twenty.

I watched him leave, still slightly peeved at the bad impression he'd given the new guy of me, but alas. Nothing to be done now. Turning to Vyral, I smiled as a way of greeting. "So I suppose now we're just expected to twiddle our thumbs until the puppet master gives us a tug, huh? And I thought I was making progress. You found anything so far? Oh, and it's nice to meet you, by the way. I'm not quite the arse that Brian implied there, honest. At least, I only am to Twenty."

"I guess we'll have to see about that," Vyral gave a crooked grin, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you too, mate. And I haven't found a whole lot. I've not been on active duty very long, on this case at least. My first job was supposed to be meeting Twenty at Trafalgar Square, but as you can see, that got a bit, ah, complicated."

Vyral turned his head, observing the door that Near, Twenty, and Brian had left from.

"What Brian said was true. I know the city better than anyone," he turned back to Debonair, tapping his temples. "I can get you anywhere. Dead useful, when you want to avoid traffic .. "

Vyral folded his arms over his chest, now, observing Deb with a sort of measured, idle curiosity. "So .. you and Twenty, you've been all over the world before, then? Using your powers or whatever?" here, the young man waggled his fingers and widened his eyes. "I've heard a lot of tripe about what you both can do. You don't actually have some sort of magical, mysterious ability, do you?"