LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)/Death Walks Into A Bar...

"...and then the dealer pulled out the three of clubs! The jammy prat!"

"I put it all on black. Came up bloody fuchsia, didn't it?"

"Those slot machines are rigged! It's like you're not even supposed to win!"

"The show was awesome! She made a tiger out of fire, and it ate a heckler!"

"His jokes were sodding awful. I mean, the Centurian genocide? Sure, they deserved it... But too soon!"

"No, mate. But there's a brothel over that way."

"A banana daiquiri please. But with kiwi instead of banana."

The voices, most steeped in Novocastria's multitudinous and multifarious accents, babble around you -- competing with the lapping of distant waves, the blaring from vid screens, the clinking of glasses, and the sloshing of drinks. All bathed in the garish glow of multicolored strips and tubes.

You try to shut the noise out, while you go over what you're planning to say.

The staff were unhelpful. They refused to take you to Alexa, and though they did promise to convey your message, you're almost certain the missive was deleted the moment your back was turned. Apparently they're used to undesirables asking to see their performers, and accustomed to handling it with a maximum amount of disdain concealed behind the insincere smiles of the hospitality industry. Fortunately, one of the security guards gave you a tip in exchange for a handful of hard credits. She said Alexa Haelia almost always visits the complex's Calypso Bar after a show.

So here you are, scotch in hand, wondering how you'll persuade a complete stranger that her life's in danger. And that you can save her.

You're still ruminating over this when a woman in a scarlet dress runs through the bar's doorway, barefoot, her long ginger hair splashing around her as she looks over her shoulder. She crashes into one of the patrons, knocking him spinning, stumbles, catches herself, and keeps going -- still looking behind her as she flees.

A man follows her. He isn't running, but his long, sure strides are eating up the space between them. He's dressed from head to toe in black. Two bright blue slits glow in his hard, featureless mask.

The name burns itself across your thoughts in shadowy letters.

Noir.