"Mother!" he cries, walking up to her as she sits in the kitchen, her face cupped in her hands. She does not pay attention to him.

"Mother," he says: "Look what I made!" And he holds up the pretty picture he drew that day. It is a stick-figure drawing of his house, with his mother, his father and he standing before it, holding hands. They are all smiling.

She still does not pay attention to him, though. Her face is still in her hands, and her shoulders are shaking, slightly. Every so often she breathes in and out, shuddering as she does.

"Mother! Look! I drew you and me and daddy!" Ethan announces, one last time.

His mother stops shaking. She straightens up, taking her hands from her face. It is red and streaked with tears, puffy and distorted.

And her eyes are terrible things: wet and red, cold and hateful. They cut through him like knives.

Ethan doesn't see the slap coming towards his face. Her hand moves so fast that he can't register it as more than a blur.

Then there is the noise of her hand striking his cheek. Then there is the pain. And then there is him crying and her yelling.

The hand comes back to his face several more times. His cheeks turn red, swollen and painful.

Later that day, after his mother has let him come down from his room as long as he plays quietly in his corner, he sees a piece of the picture poking out of the kitchen garbage can. When he gets closer, he sees it has been torn to shreds, and is half-buried by a pile of coffee grounds and orange peels.

He remembers this, years later, when he's older and standing by his mother's grave. Watching the Priest sprinkle a handful of dirt over the lid of her coffin brings it all back with crystalline perfection.

But even then he does not shed a single tear.

First there was a wall. Then there was no wall. And then there was.

Ethan - otherwise known as Master Job of the House of Fire - stepped out of the Middleground and into a blind alley: one often used by he and his fellow Alchemists when they visited St. Louis. A great gust of wind accompanied him, as the place he had been was much heavier than the Shadowlands, and his blindingly-white robes whipped up about his feet.

He paused for a brief moment, just to make certain he had not been seen. Then he jerked into swift motion, looking at ever single corner he could think of to see if something was waiting for him, there. Only when he was certain that no Doomshades were about did he stand still, but at no time did he ever relax.

Once he was sure he didn't need to slip back into the Middleground, he used his mask - which was featureless, and just as white as his robes - to close the hole behind him. The white, misty gash before the wall spiraled shut like an iris in a bright room, and then it was gone.

With that, he regarded the sky above {which was nowhere near as bad as he'd feared} and carefully walked towards the street, looking for Legionnaires. He hoped he didn't have long to wait; It had been a long trip from Rome to here, and he was desperately in need of Mana, not to mention some rest. He also didn't want to be alone, here, for too long.

Fortunately, he didn't have long to wait for company; The local wraiths noticed him, and friendly waves and smiles were sent in his direction. He carefully returned each and every one, measure for measure. He even shook hands with a few folks he'd bumped into before as they passed his corner - pretending to bask in their gratitude to him, his Guild and all the wonderful things they'd done.

If he hadn't been wearing a mask, they might have been a little put off by the mean-spirited expression that played across his face. As he pressed flesh and made nice he held back an unending stream of bile. He wished he could just tell each and every one of these simpering, provincial idiots to drop dead all over again.

As such, he was really grateful when the well-equipped Legionnaires finally found him, and drove off the crowds with their usual zeal and efficiency. Any more gratitude and he would have been sore pressed to send the lot of them right down to Oblivion, smoking as they went.

They all loved him, and he hated them for it

St. Louis was one of the few Hierarchy-held Necropoli to be found, these days. The Legions' local representatives had more or less acquiesced to the Council of Guilds, but they truly ran things, here. And that was extraordinary, to say the least.

Ethan figured that the only reason the city's Legions still survived probably had more to do with the local wraiths' love of the people who wore the masks, rather than any loyalty to the "authority" behind it all. But he didn't care to take the time to prove or disprove that notion. It was meaningless to him: he was just a visitor, here, and had no more stake in the matter than in any other Necropolis he'd worked his Arts in.

"You know, I don't think we got to talk, last time," the Centurion of the Patrol said, breaking the pleasant silence of their walk: "I just wanted to thank you for your gifts."

"There's no need to thank me, my friend," Ethan said, waving a white-gloved hand and wondering if he actually remembered the fellow at all: "We ask only to serve in these terrible times."

"Well, those riot shotguns you got for us... I've lost count of the number of times they've saved our asses."

Ethan nodded, recalling the consignment. Somewhere in Germany, the police were probably still terribly baffled as to how an entire weapons locker had rusted and corroded overnight. 'Toxic fumes,' they were calling it.

"And the stun grenades..." a Legionnaire piped up, starting another bothersome litany of thank-yous, so-gratefuls, and you-saved-my-lifes. Each new word was like a lead weight being dropped on his skull from an open window, high above.

It wouldn't hurt to enjoy this, once in a while his Shadow whispered to him: You've done such good work for these people - why not accept their praise? You deserve some of the credit.

I would rather be dropped into a Nihil, Ethan shot back, silently: I don't belong here and I don't want this. I have duties to attend to-

Isn't this your duty, too? His Shadow replied. And Ethan sighed, beaten again.

"Gentlemen... ladies... we are always happy to be of service," the Alchemist said, if only to shut his other half up: "If you have any needs, be certain to pass them along via the usual channels. No reasonable requests will be turned down, but remember that it may take time."

That seemed to bring the chorus of unwanted praise to a slow, smiling halt. Thankfully, none of the Patrol's members seemed to read the strain of his voice as anything other than the mask's fault.

He was immensely grateful to see that the Governor's Haunt was coming into view. All this adulation was like being showered in flyblown honey.

The Haunt was one of the oldest buildings in town: a gorgeous piece of pre-Civil War architecture that had withstood the test of the ages in the Skinlands. When the Alchemists set to their work of fortifying it against the Storm, they made certain to form-fit its ablative armor and supports in such a way as to not detract from its aesthetics. The result was a handsome mix of antiquity and utility that remained pleasing to the eye, even here in the Shadowlands.

On the way there, suspended well above the street by a complicated network of ropes, poles and supports, was the Necropolis' bazaar. Tents, stalls and other, ramshackle constructions jutted out of the mess, making Ethan think of them as alien insects caught in the thick web of some monstrous field spider.

As they passed underneath, the sellers and hawkers all leaned out of their stalls and called to them. Beautiful and grotesque Masquers preened and curled at the doorways to their tents, offering nips, tucks and a Whole New You. Gossamer-draped Sandmen leaned on their canes and offered stolen memories, sweet dreams and a good night's rest. Pardoners hung out their lanterns as the Usurers clacked their scales. Harbingers spread their wings and the Monitors just smiled.

They were promised sleep and entertainment, travel and refuge, Relics and Artifacts and healing for both body and soul...

But something seemed to be missing.

Ethan looked back once, watching as the various sellers returned to their stalls to wait for the next group to pass by. Was someone not there? No Chanteurs, of course, and the Mnemoi were still too newly-redeemed to be so open with their services. The Shroud-Renders all had their own, less-visible marketplaces. And as for his own people...

"Haven't seen the Oracles in a while," one of the Legionnaires piped up, solving the Alchemist's question for him: "Wonder what's up with that?"

"They probably got sick of you asking about a promotion," the Centurion answered.

"How long has it been?" Ethan asked, curious.

"I dunno... maybe a week? Week and a half?" the Legionnaire said: "One day, boom. MIA."

"Fuck Fate," the Centurion spat: "I never trusted the Doomed, and I sure didn't trust the Boneshakers either."

Ethan couldn't disagree with that, and so put the enigma from his mind.

Ethan was transferred from the Patrol to the Governor's own, even better-equipped guard at the front doors of the Haunt, just as the Storm's wind started to pick up, again. No one rang any bells, but there was a scuffle back at the market to get inside their stalls and shelters.

He was bundled inside as the Patrol scattered for fixed positions, guns ready to take a bead on whatever might scuttle out of the darkness. As the Governor's men escorted him up the broad stairway, he he heard several shots fired, followed by raspy, wet squeals that didn't belong in any world he cared to think of.

Thank the Maker that we have the Middleground, he thought, hearing even more shots go off. All of the Harbingers' enthusiasm and promises aside, the Tempest was useless at a time like this. And if he'd had to travel from Rome to here in the Shadowlands, he'd have probably wound up in the Labyrinth...

"Here you are, sir," the guard said, indicating a closed, old door marked SUPPLIES: "We'll be waiting outside."

"Thank you," he said, ignoring the mild threat. And then he went in.

At first, Ethan thought he had gone into the wrong room. An old, bearded man with leering eyes and a wicked smile grinned at the Alchemist. His hands stretched out to entangle him in a deadly embrace...

"Thank you for coming, Guildsman," the man said. And when his lips did not move, Ethan saw that the leering, grotesque face was just a mask: a soulsteel helmet whose faceplate was patterned after a Grecian theater mask.

He took a step back, trying to recuperate from the shock. For a moment he'd thought... well, he knew what he'd thought. But it was no spectre lurking to get him, just a member of the Iron Legion. A high-ranking member at that, judging from his livery.

"You're... most welcome, sir," Ethan said.

"Are you alright?" the man asked.

"Yes. Please excuse my reaction. I am rather tired."

"I thought you might be," the Old-Timer replied: "You came all the way from Rome, after all."

"Have we met before?" Ethan asked, curious as to how he knew.

"Yes, we have. I was a Marshal, then."

"Well, my congratulations on your promotion," he replied, not able to remember the man's real name for the death of him.

"Thank you," the old man said, gesturing to a nearby wall: "Come, please. The Governor is waiting for you."