You keep your face blank and meet his eyes. In the lamplight you can see his sclera in spite of the mask.

Nevertheless, you're quite certain his poker face is better than yours.

“I suppose you have some sort of explanation behind this,” you say for lack of anything else to break the silence with.

He doesn't reply, but he does crouch down beside you and ease your chair back into an upright position. Then he's gone, presumably somewhere behind you. Twisting your neck around doesn't really give you a better view.

And then you hear the quiet snick of a switchblade

(far too close)

but all you succeed in doing is tensing up before you realise your wrists are free.

“Stay seated.”

Number 6 walks around to the other side of the desk, pausing to pick up your gun and the blunt machete on the way. He sets them down on the dark surface, switches off the lamp and settles into the chair opposite you. Gloved fingers tap at the wooden armrests.

Slowly, so as not to look like you're trying anything, you bring your wrists back in front of you and massage them. They're still pretty sore from having your entire body weight (plus that of a chair) slam into them.

“What would you do if I made a break for it?” You say it casually, as if you're not really considering it.

He meets your gaze, and you're left with the uncomfortable feeling that comes with only being able to see the eyes of the person you're talking to. He doesn't respond for a moment and you think for a moment that he's ignoring you again.

“Esser is in the corner. You've met, but only briefly. The circumstances were unfavourable, but mostly for your client.”

Again, slowly, you turn in your chair. This time it's not just caution but fear that drags out the motion.

Your eyes aren't yet fully adjusted to the gloom, so it takes you a moment to notice the figure at the back of the room. They're sat behind another desk (smaller, less grand) and they seem to be wearing some odd kind of long hooded coat. The material looks stiff and pale, but the strangest thing about it is that the material of the hood seems to have been shaped to cover the upper half of the face. The eyes are completely hidden. As you watch, they yawn somewhat pointedly to reveal teeth that seem too long, too sharp...

Number 6 is watching you carefully as you turn back.

“The murderer.” You're not asking.

He inclines his head in confirmation all the same.

“He was acting on my orders. But yes. I'm glad you recognise him. Esser has a nickname I'm sure you'd recognise... but now is not the time. Do you know who I am?”

It's the most he's spoken at one time so far, and you suddenly become aware that his words have the slightest hint of an accent. Not one you can place at the moment. But maybe if you keep him talking you'll figure it out.

“Number 6, I presume?” You smile humourlessly. “Or at least you're wearing his mask. How do I know you're really him? Or is it true what they say, that you're six different people wearing the same outfit?”

“You can't know. How would I even prove it?” He shakes his head. “And six people? I'm afraid not. Occasionally a decoy might be useful, and it's true the mask enables it. But they're not equal to me. Just actors. But if you know who I am, or at least who I represent, or even who I am pretending to be, do you know why you are here?”

“You just confessed to a murder. One that I witnessed. I would assume that's something to do with it?” Your voice doesn't waver, but you're starting to remember that Number 6 doesn't just have assassinations linked to him. For the second time that night, you start thinking of thumbscrews.

“In a manner of speaking. I'd been intending to talk to you for some time, in truth. Your placement in the murder of your client was simply a convenient circumstance. Speaking of which: your case is complete now. You know who sent the death threats. You know who committed the murder. Perhaps not why, but that isn't important. And with no other work, that makes you available for hire.” His attention is fully on you again.

“You want to... hire me? As a private investigator?”

“Perhaps. But right now, I just want to talk.”

From somewhere the masked man produces a box of cigarettes, which he slides across the desk, past the useless weapons.

“These were in your coat.”

You take them and flip open the packet. Twenty perfect cigarettes. A full box, just how you left them. Against all odds Number 6 seems to want to put you at ease rather than slowly pull out your fingernails, so you consider it.

When did you last have a smoke?

You've been smoking in sporadic periods over the past five years, but you're currently trying to kick the habit again. You wish you weren't so dependent, but something about this city just drives you to it. Nicotine patches are never enough, hard drugs are too risky, and alcohol... too many bad memories. So smokes it is.

You tell yourself you're just going to close the box and put it back on the desk, but your hands have quite a different idea and before you're even really aware of what you've done there's a cigarette between your lips.

Just the one, then. You think this counts as extenuating circumstances.

Glancing back down at the open box, you take a moment to consider the smoke bomb disguised as one of the twenty (now nineteen) and the glint of the razorblade you taped to the inside of the box. Not incredibly useful, and far from the high tech gadgets you wish you had concealed in here, but you reasoned that something was better than nothing.

But you doubt one razorblade and a bit of smoke will be any help against two sparkers in a fight. Especially when you're not even sure what said sparkers can do.

And so the box returns to the desk.

You pat your pockets absent-mindedly for a moment before you remember that the gyroscope is all you have, and look to Number 6.

“Have you got a light?”

A lighter appears between his fingers and he leans forward over the desk.

the fire bursts from his fingertips and he lifts the flames to a cigar clenched between his teeth

you pretend it doesn't mean anything, like you don't know what they're dying to ask

and when she finally brings up the question you hate them more than you have ever hated anyone

“what is it that you can do?”

You mutter your thanks, puff and inhale. You briefly wonder why you suddenly remembered that day of all days, but the rage the memory brings bubbling up convinces you that it would be better to just not think about it.

“Right. You want to talk? Great.” A growl creeps into your voice. “You can start with telling me why the hell you thought knocking me out and tying me to a chair was of any use to anyone.”

You realise your fists are clenched on the desk, your cigarette slightly bent from your grip on it. Then you realise that you're getting angry, and that it feels a hell of a lot better than being afraid.

“You're registered as the child of two sparkers, but also as having no abilities yourself. I understand that the authorities have always viewed this situation as... unlikely.”

“True, but I'm not really seeing what this has to do with my kidnap.” You reposition your cigarette between your teeth and start inspecting your nails.

You're rewarded with obvious irritation when Number 6 speaks.

“For a while everyone who was aware was forced to accept that you were not a sparker. But doubts about your claim have resurfaced.”

That gets your attention.

“What? Why?”

Your mind races. You assumed the lack of work recently was just a normal slump, as does happen every now and then, but if everyone has started thinking that you're illegally hiding 'Unnatural Abilities' from the authorities... And come to think of it, your informants have been oddly cagey lately...

But... no. Coincidence. Has to be. If your normalcy has been accepted for this long, why would it suddenly be decided that you were lying?

“You drew attention to yourself with that bounty you brought in a few weeks ago.”

“Bounty?” You ask, but you know exactly what he's talking about. You're a detective, not a bounty hunter, but the money was so good and you had a tip off about where to go. You even had a plan. It worked out beautifully, too. Your coat was scorched but otherwise you didn't even get singed...

“The pyro. Wanted for murder, thought to be hiding out in the lower city. I'm sure you remember.”

You rub your temples and try to think. Surely... surely he's not saying what you think he is?

“Let me get this straight. If I bring in someone wanted for murder, that's fine, take your money and get out of here. But the second that person starts being able to conjure up a little flame, the only possibility is that I'm a sparker?”

“There was a reason the money on offer was so high. Non-sparkers hate pyros. Something about fire scares people more than it should. The term 'sparker' even comes from the misconception that we can all spout flame and shoot sparks.”

“But he- he wasn't even that dangerous! He was a contact pyro! All he can do is set himself on fire-”

“The crucial difference being that he's fireproof,” Number 6 points out flatly.

“Well, yeah, but that means he wasn't dangerous if you stayed out of reach!”

“Nevertheless, this is what people believe. You are being watched, and not just by the police. Do you appreciate why I made this look like a kidnapping? I thought a cordial invitation to meet with an infamous sparker would have gone down badly.”

“Are they checking my mail?”

“I wasn't being serious. But of course. You're suspected of quite a significant crime.”

You slump in your chair, cigarette half forgotten. Stupid. You got complacent, comfortable in the knowledge that you're incapable of the weird shit half the populace seems to be able to do. Sitting up, you rest your head in your hands.

Take deep breaths. It could be that he's lying.

You shift in your chair. You want to get out of here, or at least pace a bit, but neither are looking too likely. And you have questions. There's too much that still doesn't make sense.

So what will you ask?

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. It doesn't matter. You're not a sparker. Whatever happens, no one is going to be able to find anything to prove otherwise.

“So what is it? Are you making me an offer of some kind? Are you trying to find out if I really am a sparker? It's pretty clear you want something, otherwise you wouldn't be going to all this trouble. Why does someone like you care about someone like me?”

Number 6 turns his head to the side, and you realise he's chuckling. “I already said, didn't I? I want to recruit you. I told you there were people other than the police who suspect you to be a sparker, and I count myself among them.”

You try to muster some anger at his snickering, at the implication that you've had powers all these years and somehow just not noticed, at the sheer fucking nerve of this scum, but you just feel tired. The honest, clean white-hot fury of earlier seems to have completely escaped you. Your bruises are making themselves felt again, as is the lack of sleep from the previous night, and you can't even remember if you've eaten anything today.

So you just take another drag on your cigarette and give up trying.

“I'm not a sparker. I'm not interested in being recruited. But maybe I can stand to be hired by you. Tell me more about that.”

“Very well.” Number 6 leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling. “I want to acquire a certain item.”

“I'm not a thief.”

“I'm aware. And this isn't a theft. Not exactly. If my sources are accurate, and they generally are, this won't require you to do anything illegal at all.”

“Go on.”

“The item in question is, however, very securely protected. But there are proofs of ownership I can provide you with, and seeing as the previous owner is dead and the item is held by people who technically don't exist, you won't have any legal backlash to worry about.”

“People who technically don't exist?”

“Unregistered sparkers. Outlaws. Have you heard of the Myriad?”

“Of course. They're a fairytale. Don't exist.”

“Nothing to worry about then.”

You think about this for a moment. If the Myriad are real, and if even half of the stories about them are true, then you don't want to be messing with them. (That said, if half of the stories about them are true you won't even be able to get near them. You don't find the Myriad. The Myriad finds you.) The proofs of ownership are tempting, though...

“What are you offering?”

“A hundred in advance, and five hundred once you give me the item and I'm certain everything is as it should be.”

Damn. Six hundred would take you half a month to earn, and that's in the unlikely circumstance of solid employment.

“What about expenses?”

“Those will also be covered. Naturally.”

You say nothing. The money is good. The job sounds possible so far, at least. There's risk, sure, but nothing you can't deal with. But the client... the client is a problem. You look at him again. He's looking back at you with an air of expectation.

He's mad. He has to be. Who wears a mask? Who admits to murder as casually as announcing the time of day? Who kidnaps people just to talk?

Nobody sane.

But he's dangerous. And for whatever reason, he's taken an interest in you. Doubtless Number 6 is hiding something from you, or expects more than just an acquisition of an object. You can make this job as clean and professional as you like, but by accepting it you're stepping straight into whatever mad scheme he's dreaming of.

If only the money wasn't so good.

But perhaps you're just being paranoid.

After all, there's no reason someone like him should care about someone like you.

Do you accept? Decline? Or ask or do something else?

It doesn't take long to arrive at the foregone conclusion: you need the money too much to refuse. You grit your teeth, clench your fists and try not to think about how much you're probably going to regret this.

“Fine. I'll do it. But tell me more about the item.”

“Excellent.” Number 6 stands and begins to pace along the length of the room, only pausing briefly to produce a watch and glance at it. It vanishes again as quickly as it appeared, and he continues talking.

“A courier will be sent to your office tomorrow morning. The package they deliver will contain everything you should need, including all necessary details. But we have enough time, I think, for me to furnish you with the basics.”

He stops by the desk at the back of the room. The man in the white coat is gone. You don't recall him leaving, but you didn't notice him enter either.

“The item itself... a stone cube. About twenty centimetres along each side. Blue-green in colour, with circular patterns carved on each face. Quite distinctive. The package will include an illustration, although I doubt you'll need it.”

“Is it old?”

“Ancient. Created four thousand years ago at the very earliest.”

Your memory stirs.

A day six years ago or so. Your eighteenth birthday. The tiny kitchen with the flickering fluorescent light. You sat at the table, they leaned against the counter. Her and him.

The parents who abandoned you at birth, returned at last.

Your real parents were absent, one dead for years and the other missing since the morning.

Yet here the others stood, radiating an aura of money and power and confidence in a building that had never stood witness to any of those things. They spoke, you hoped. You hoped until hope ran out and then all that was left was rage and misery and hate and loss and pain. That's the vivid crux of that day.

But there was something else. Something that was only present for a few moments, but it was there and as out of place in that gloomy place as the imposing figures of your parents.

A green stone cube. Perhaps even blue-green. Perhaps, even, the very same cube that Number 6 just described.

You suddenly realise that neither you nor Six have spoken for the past minute. Slowly, you raise your head and find him staring at you.

“What does it do?”

“What?” He blinks, his gaze wavers and he turns away.

“The cube. You don't seem the type to collect antiquities for the sake of it. What does it do?”

He starts pacing again.

“It's a message. The cube is just the container. I would advise, however, that you don't open it if you find the item. It may be trapped, or designed to deter those unfit to view it. That being said, the cube is apparently endowed with some manner of secondary function. Those who keep it are likely aware of this.”

“Any idea what that function could be?”

He stops with his back to you and sighs. “The only references I have to this item are mostly from regrettably ancient texts. All of them reference some sort of... power to detect lies. Or falseness? Impurities? I could find no one who could translate unambiguously on this point. I don't know.”

“A four thousand year old stone box with powers like that?” You gesture dismissively. “It sounds like a myth or legend. Sparkers didn't even exist until about fifty years ago.”

Number 6 turns to look at you. “Really?” He sounds amused, his eyes gleaming. “Is that what you believe?”

You just shake your head. The theory that sparkers are not a recent phenomenon is a popular one, but it seems too much like conspiracy theorist crap for your liking. Challenging Number 6 on this is not a conversation you want to get into.

“The Myriad. You mentioned them before.”

His eagerness fades at the change of subject, but he answers. “Dupont was a member of the Myriad. Perhaps not directly involved, but definitely affiliated.”

Dupont? The name seems familiar. Where have you-

“The murder victim? You – ah.” It happened just a few hours ago. The dying man and the gyroscope.

“With Dupont dead, the Myriad will hand over the cube to the next person who turns up with the necessary proofs. My agent stole these from his penthouse, and as nobody other than the Myriad was aware they existed, no suspicion of theft should be raised. It seems the victim should have appointed someone to inherit these proofs upon his death, but no evidence of any such person was found. It seems unlikely that you will run into any trouble.”

“I don't understand why you need me to do this. I heard you had an army of sparkers. Why not one of them?”

“Because, despite your assertion that you are not a thief, you stole something from that dead man.”

A chill runs down your spine. The gyroscope?

“I didn't steal anything.” You thought he gave it to you. Didn't he? Why else would he draw your attention to it?

“Then you looted or acquired it or however you want to phrase it. I have no interest in your exact choice of terminology. Just understand that whatever you took is important for locating the Myriad, and hiring you is the more elegant solution.”

You take a moment to think about this. On the plus side, it seems this item has nothing to do with your biological parents. Mr. Dupont was a high-ranking official in the city's government, with a post too obscure for your parents to be interested in. Perhaps the cube you remember was something else entirely. Or perhaps there are several. Either way, you don't have to worry about them.

But still...

“So the Myriad have the item in their possession?”

“Correct.”

“But you don't know where they're keeping it?”

“No. Locating it is your job.”

“I see. One more question, then. In the offchance that I succeed in taking this impossible artefact from the mythical organisation, how do I contact you?”

Number 6 ignores your sarcasm. “You don't. Direct contact is too risky. But I will know when you have completed your task, and someone will arrive to escort you and the item.”

What? “How will you-”

You're interrupted by someone suddenly appearing in the door frame. Filling it entirely, in fact. They look something like the man in the white coat, but the lighting casts them entirely in shadow and they seem too tall. Monstrously so. Even hunched as they are, their head threatens to hit the top of the opening. And its legs...

“Esser,” is all that Number 6 says.

“They are here,” the thing in the door growls.

“Then this meeting is over,” Number 6 declares as he turns to you. “Although, I suppose, there may be time for one more question.”

There is an anticipative pause.

“I'll hang onto it. Let's just say you owe me an answer,” you reply as you stub out your cigarette on the desk. If the madman and his pet want to leave you're not going to argue.

“Duly noted. Until we meet again, then.”

The monster is gone first, vanishing from the doorway in a blink and as silently as if you'd imagined it. Number 6 starts to leave also, but pauses at the threshold of the room and turns back towards you.

“If you have ever wondered what your parents think of you – your biological parents, that is – I would advise going out through the front entrance. Just a thought.”

And you swear that beneath that mask of his, Number 6 smiles.

You say nothing. Waiting for a few seconds after his footsteps fade, you stand and start collecting your belongings.

The packet of smokes on the desk, as well as your gun – bullets missing, but it goes in your shoulder holster anyway – with a moment of consideration for the machete, but only a moment. The Old Bank can keep it. The day you start walking around the city with sixteen inches of naked steel is the day you give up all pretence of being an ordinary law-abiding citizen. And not today. Not tonight. Not until you've had a decent night's sleep at least.

Your find your coat and hat thrown on the floor behind on the desk, and your wallet intact and in the pocket where you left it. Small mercies.

Taking a moment to get properly attired, you step out in the darkness of the hallway.

To your left there is light, but it's quite far away and the source seems to be beyond a bend in the corridor. A little to your right is an elevator, but at a glance it doesn't seem to be functional. The rest of the hallway to your right leads into darkness. Nothing your eyes can't adjust to. There are doors set in the wall, here and there, but from the dusty nameplates on them you assume these are all offices.

Where do you go? And, in a similar line of thought, are you going to pay any attention to that line of cryptic nonsense Number 6 left you with?

Number 6 has definitely done his research. In some ways it's not too worrying; more or less everything he's shown knowledge of about you is probably in the city records somewhere. Including the names of your birth parents. If there's anything the authorities like to keep an eye on, it's sparkers. And while those records aren't exactly open to the public, it still probably wouldn't be too difficult to find out what you wanted.

If you knew what you were looking for. (What gave him the idea that you were worth looking up in the first place? What got him interested?)

There is some small comfort in that you got ambushed outside your office, the address of which you had to provide when you registered as a private eye.

And better that they know where you work rather than where you live.

Maybe.

If they don't know already.

The possibility that you have an assassin on your trail seems oddly plausible.

Your biological parents made it reasonably clear that they weren't interested in you if you weren't a sparker. It's become abundantly clear that you are not one. Perhaps if you'd done anything of note they might care more, but you've failed on that count too. You've been nothing but a disappointment to them (not that you particularly mind) but it might just be that they'd rather see you dead than risk anyone knowing that such an unremarkable person had anything to do with them. Considering that Number 6 just kidnapped you, passing off your untimely death as the work of a deranged terrorist would be exceptionally easy and unfortunately not at all out of character. But only if the assassin gets to you soon.

That said... Number 6 just hired you. It seems unlikely he would point you towards somebody nursing a bullet with your name on it.

Unless this is some kind of test. Or he just doesn't care. Number 6 said hiring you was the most elegant solution, and therefore not the only one. If you can't evade an assassin, what good are you to him?

And you thought this day couldn't get any worse when you walked in on a murder scene.

You take a deep breath, concentrating on the darkness and the silence. Nobody else is here. You're safe. For now.

You take a step towards the elevator and peer at the brass plate mounted above the door. First floor. Whatever you do, you need to get down to the ground floor. But before you start wandering off around this possibly assassin-riddled building, you might as well take another look around the big office you've spent the past ten minutes in. It's not every day you get inside the Old Bank.

The papers on the desk initially elicit the most interest. Unfortunately, skimming over them reveals that they all seem to be largely impenetrable reports about banking minutiae. It might be important, but it also might as well be written in code. Squinting at the tiny print, you're not entirely convinced that it's not. It does seem odd that it was just left here, though. Even if a branch of a bank shuts down, you'd think the business would just get moved on to other places. Not dumped.

You turn back towards the oil painting and idly wonder how much it cost its subject. Another thing you would assume somebody might take with them. But you're not so sure about that. This guy was knighted. Might be that he had more portraits of himself than he knew what to do with.

A sweep of the rest of room turns up a few more curious bits of junk: a tearaway calendar left open on a date that passed by half a century ago, a glass flower ornament, a small collection of empty picture frames on the smaller desk at the back of the room, an overflowing wastebasket. You're about to leave when something red catches your eye. You turn back to the latter item.

Among the screwed up bits of paper (illegible notes and more eye-watering reports) a flat envelope pokes out. There's red ink on it and once you carefully ease out the bit of paper said ink resolves itself into a stamp of some kind. Looks like a coat of arms or crest. It's circular, and about two inches in diameter. The stamp itself is a quartered shield, each quarter containing a raven or crow or similar. They all face towards the centre, looking up. Outside the shield two more birds hold up a strip of paper in their talons, which reads 'Virtutis In Numeris'. Apart from the name of the person in the oil painting (hand written, not printed) this stamp is the only thing on the front of the envelope. The back is blank, the inside empty.

You stare at the quartered shield for a few more seconds, waiting for something to leap out at you. When nothing does, you momentarily hesitate and then pocket the envelope. Maybe it means something.

The office yields nothing else. You briefly step into a couple of the other offices in the hallway, but you find little to interest you there either. And so you return to the hallway and to the problem of where to go.

Light probably means people. And considering all that's been said and done, people probably means an assassin. Or several. But perhaps not. Sending multiple killers for one target almost seems to be bordering on a compliment, knowing from your parents.

But Number 6 went towards the dark. In his hire or not, you'd rather not run into him again tonight. You also recall how keen he was to get moving once he heard that 'they' had arrived. Whoever 'they' are, it's possible they're after Number 6 too. Not the best person to run to for protection, then.

And it is possible that Number 6 wasn't referring to people who wanted you dead when he suggested you take the front exit.

Towards the light it is.

Walking as cautiously and quietly as you can, you reach the corner and peer around it. The source of the light is around another corner and, judging by the light it's casting on the opposite wall, looks to be coming from behind an open door. On the left wall is a large window, but you'll have to step out from around the corner to properly look through it. There's another office door in the wall behind you, and yet another on the wall opposite you.

But just as you're about to carry on, you hear low voices. You freeze, your breath held. As they draw closer you can also hear careful footsteps, and suddenly the light on the wall has a silhouette cut out of it. A second figure joins the first in blocking the light, and the footsteps stop. The conversation, at too quiet a level for you to make out the words, continues. They obviously can't see you, any more than you can see them, but if they come this way that happy state of affairs might not last.

What do you do?