I think I am here.

"She bids pretty high," Tsyan said, watching a glass of something amber slide its way to him. He poked the patterned glass with his fingers, pensively took a sip. "This is my home planet," he said to the stranger. "Could you imagine living your life somewhere else, surrounded by people who didn't know about other planets?" He could see the novelty wearing off sometime between the first month and the first year. Hardly a place to live a life. "And what's keeping you here anyway?" he said. "If you really think it's a hell-hole."

He wasn't a social spinner, but even Tsyan could tell when someone was afraid. Their body stopped for a moment, or you could see their eyes widen or a twitch of their fingers. What had triggered it, he wondered? Ghostblood? "Sure," he said. He didn't drink, but the stranger was good enough company. He stopped leaning on the wall, cracked his back. "Not a Ghostblood any longer," he said to the stranger, in case it helped. "They changed, left some of us in the dirt."

438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens Unremarkable face. Unremarkable voice. But somehow Tysan appreciated the style, the straight-forwardness of the question. He was tired of having to wrap his brain around double-meanings and conversational battles, tired of the hidden agendas of his old bosses and tired of the mystery surrounding his new one. "I'm doing it for the money," he said plainly to the stranger. "You ever tried to be legitimately employed in this city? I have one skill, and zero connections. I take what I can get." He turned his head towards the figure, mulled over their words. Clotho was unconscious. He'd figured as much. He sighed when his mind immediately jumped to schemes, thought about if he paid a visit to her mansion, he'd have enough time to loot the place to shreds, and if there was nothing, he at least could hold the books for ransom... "But I'm no criminal," he said to the stranger. "Like you and Delben and your crew. No hard feelings. But a Ghostblood stealing for money is like a Whitepsine foraging for table scraps. It's below me."

438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens It was easier to think without the eyes of people on him. Easier to breathe the cool air, however polluted with smoke and dust it was. He closed his eyes. Leaning against the wall, feeling the top of his spine hard against the uneven stony surface, he could almost imagine he was back on the fields of Emul, bartering with a merchant for a Chull ride, surrounded by stone and spren and drop-dread trees with bark that glistened faintly in the setting sun and rising moons... He blinked, and the dream vanished. Replaced with ramshackle, tightly-packed huts of the Mistwarrens. The smell of smoke and metal. And these poor excuses for Allomancers. Tysan sighed. If he'd traced his Emuli mission to the end, he would've only remembered the beginning of the next one, the weeks spent in this city between assignments not a haze or bleary, but simply gone. Excised from memory, stuck in a dusty copper coin in a ratty shelf in his apartment. Maybe it was better that way. He spotted a blue line moving from his chest before he saw the figure from his periphery, emerging from 438 and taking a spot beside him. Young adult. Nothing remarkable about them. They nodded. Tysan nodded back, silent. Then, slowly, he looked towards the door. "You're with Delben?" he asked the figure. "Any idea how my client is doing in there?" @Stormlightsong

438 Scrap Street. Even when she needed his help, Delben was getting lip from a noblewoman. He sighed, and grabbed her wrist, flaring his Nicrosil. He smiled. He kind of hoped her mind would break. <->-<->-<-> The woman gasped, eyes bulging out. Usually, her soothing gave her the upper hand. Today, it seemed she was going to be short a few broams and a whole lot of boxings. "You... cheated!" she said, though she didn't know how to prove it. The girl had to have cheated. Somehow. The two men just looked to each other and shrugged. The woman just stared in space, the accusation hanging in the air, but no action being taken. Their boss would wring them if they harmed the daughter of a client.

438 Scrap Street, the Mistwarrens "He quit," said Delben matter-of-factly, turning on an electric light. This room was just as sparse as the one in front, though it had a large steel table where many people could sit, and a blackboard by the far wall that had some schematics drawn on it. Right now the table was filled with all sorts of junk. Delben slid a chair over for himself and for the noblewoman. "He rolled around over the floor, then quit when he woke up. He said he saw where he would end up if he stayed with us, and that he was going to Silverlight, where his 'best future' would occur." Delben had called him a fool and had offered to increase his pay - Oracles were valuable - but the man had been adamant. He reached over the table and grabbed a vial of nicrosil, right next to a small radio Clotho would've been able to recognise, as it was the only memento Delben had kept from his home when he'd been thrown out years ago. He downed the vial, rolled up his sleeve a bit and gestured for her to give him her hand. <->-<->-<-> One of the men gaped in shock, the other rubbing his head with a disgruntled expression at losing half a week's pay to a little girl. The woman just stared at Feynah, green eyes intense. "Double or nothing," she said softly. She dug in her pockets and tossed - not boxings - but three diamond broams, stormlight softly glowing from them. The two men shared a look and decided that they'd lost enough already for one day. That just left Feynah, if she accepted. "One round. If you win, you get the gems," said the woman. "If I win, I get your winnings." A subtle soothing filled the air, targeting Feynah's apprehension. If she was observant, she would notice it.

Delben had to smile at that, the ends of his mouth twitching up into a grin before drawing back into seriousness. Nicrobursting gold. That was like buying an expensive vest for your chicken. "I dealt with an Oracle," he countered. He wouldn't say no to a curious noblewoman if it meant a few boxings. "Their mind didn't break." He eyed the local-looking girl moving towards the card table, then turned his attention back to Clotho. "Tell your daughter to behave," he said, then stood and nodded to a ajar door behind him. "There's a back room we can use." @Koloss17 The rough-looking people at the table - two men and a woman - glanced over at the interruption of Feynah, but otherwise didn't say anything. One of them dealt her in. "Roughs Rules," the woman said. "You got anything to bet with?" A handful of boxings and a pewter earring lay in the center of the table. Not waiting for an answer, the players continued their game and expected the girl to join in whenever. @Stormlightsong

Delben grit his teeth but otherwise didn't say anything immediately, staying seated at his desk. She called him cheap. As if he was still a street boy with nothing to his name. "First, tell me who you represent," he said icily. He spread his hands, to show he was not closed to making a deal. Despite her insult, boxings were boxings and he loved the sound they made when he dropped them on his table. But he would not do it blindly. He squinted his eyes at her. "The Pewtersnakes wouldn't send someone Iike you. The Needlers wouldn't bother with an outsider. But you know my name." And - though he didn't say it - he felt she knew more than just that. She was talking too freely. He pointed a pen at the woman and her companion. "And then you can tell me who you've brought here, and the details of the gig. And then I can decide if I want your boxings." @Koloss17 @Stormlightsong

438 Scrap Street, the Mistwarrens Tysan watched the boy open the door and eyed him. He glanced along a blue line that connected his chest to something in the boy's pockets - probably coins - and he pulled on it a bit. Not much, but enough to clink them around a little. Enough to let the boy know they weren't without protections. As discussed, he didn't enter with Clotho, instead staying outside and holding guard. In a place like this, with seemingly one entrance and exit, an ambush would be child's play. He wasn't going to let that happen. <->-<->-<-> The inside of the building was dark, windows boarded off with thick planks of wood nailed to the frames, letting only cracks of light through. It gave off a feeling of desolate emptiness, with a stone ground and some bare furnishings that had the bland, utilitarian feel of something that had been soulcasted into existence. A cheap place. Hardly an oddity. A few people sat at a table, playing a card game, and just beside them, seated at his own desk cluttered with chrysts and ledgers, was a thin, wiry Nicroburst who was known as Delben. The boy ran over to him and whispered something in his ear. Then Delben looked towards the newcomers. The people playing the card game glanced up, but otherwise paid no heed. "You must have gotten mixed up," Delben said coldly to the newcomers, still seated at his desk. "There is no business for you here."

Tsyan, Near 438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens Tsyan raised an eyebrow as they neared. "You're going to be our local, though, right?" He looked to Clotho and back to Feynah. "Apparently this guy isn't too receptive to outsiders - if he's alive, that is." He had better be. Tsyan wasn't walking all this way just to turn around and go to Central Markets. He scowled.

Tsyan, walking to 438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens If hadn't been for the bag, Tsyan would've figured a schoolgirl happened to run across the street to them at the same coincidental time that Feyanh disappeared. But no - the closer he looked, the more he could see faint similarities in the skull shape between disguises. If he hadn't known this was Feyah, the similarities would've been impossible to find, even for him. "Impressive," he said honestly, now not knowing whether the newsie or the girl was Feynah's true form - if they had a true form. He doubted Feynah would answer if he asked. "You carry all your clothing in that bag of yours?" He continued walking, burning iron, spotting lines pointing to things moving inside and between buildings fast, erratically. They were entering a part of the Mistwarrens where not all was exactly what it seemed. He couldn't explain it, but he could feel eyes watching them. "I doubt it'll get you killed," he said to Clotho. He doubt she truly believed that, but it was worth mentioning. "A Nicro almost killed me once, but that was different. I hadn't been expecting it." He shuddered, remembering the injuries. Finally he rounded a corner and came across a dark and dreary-looking street, lit only by the orange glow of a fire where a few people sat gathered. A ramshackle building sat behind them. "There's your 438 Scrap Street," he told Feynah and Clotho, pointing. "I'll stay back and hold guard. Probably better if Feynah does the introductions, if I'm honest." @Stormlightsong @Koloss17

Tsyan, The Mistwarrens Tsyan began walking. "Our employer here is looking for someone," he said curtly to Feynah. Ally or not, he didn't like crossing paths with someone as unloyal as the disguise artist seemed. If you couldn't fight, what were you? "We don't know their name. Don't know their location. All we know is that they killed someone dear to Ms. Renoux. Our only clues are her gold Allomancy, and the stacks of notes she's kept detailing her alternate versions." He gestured at the winding path ahead. "We thought maybe a Nicroburst could give us more to work with. You know, using gold to peer into the Spiritual Realm and all." He looked silently to Clotho. He hadn't told Feynah of the bigger problem - the amnesia, the seclusion - because it wasn't his to tell. He'd given the essential information. The rest was up to her. "And I agree to your terms," he said to Feynah. "Though I'm curious why you don't need much payment. Food and shelter is fine, but you can those anywhere. Money is the hard thing to come by, at least if you want to do something in this city." To Clotho he added: "I don't suppose you have any idea what'll happen once you're Nicro'd? You may want to be ready with a spare vial - what you're burning now will probably all be used up." @Stormlightsong @Koloss17

Tsyan, The Mistwarrens A name. Tsyan supposed it was something. Hesitantly, he took Feynah's hand and shook it. "Tsyan," he introduced himself in turn, realizing he'd never got the chance to tell his name to Clotho either. "I won't be using it lightly," he said. "But its good to have it. Besides, you already knew my occupation, so you know there's a lot we can do with a name." Not a demonstration, besides the red hair, but it was a claim so bold it had merit on its own. Tsyan looked to Clotho. "You're the one who's going to be paying his fee," he said to her. "What do you think? You said the Nicro you know, or knew, or knew from another life, whatever, that he didn't take kindly to outsiders. Well now we have a local." He looked to Faynah. "And if you're good as you say, we'll have a 'local' no matter where we go. Hmm."

Tsyan, The Mistwarrens He could tell Tsyan was an assassin. Could tell Clotho was more than what she let on. The disguise artist was clever, that was certain, but the smartest ones were the most likely to betray you, use you as a pawn in their games. He turned to Clotho. "Useful? He'd be more than useful, but there's things more important than that." He turned to the disguise artist. "For all I know," he said. "You being chased was an elaborate set up to con us once you saw us get out of the cab. So how do we know you can be trusted? What's your... uh..." He waved his hand vaguely. "...collateral?" It's not like they would be able to find him again if he betrayed them. Tsyan stepped back, looking over the boy. "And as for usefulness..." he said. He needed to project authority. How? He remembered Clotho's words. "Unless you can show me something other than an obvious age-switch, I doubt your 'skills' will be any use to us." @Stormlightsong @Koloss17

Tysan put down his knives, watched the gang take off to another unfortunate section of the slums, and watched the "old man" turn into a twenty-something boy. Looked like a newsie. "Should've let me at them," he muttered to Clotho. "Murderous low lives. It'd be a mercy to end them." But they were gone now, and a disguise artist was here. Storms. You couldn't even take a breath without something weird happening over here. "Then why were they chasing you?" he asked, pointing in the direction the gang had went. Tysan had to admit, the "old man" had him fooled. He hadn't seen a disguise so good in a while. Despite the man's words, Tysan checked his pockets anyway. Everything still there. "And what are you doing in the Mistwarrens with a power like that, anyway?" he asked, irritated. "There's bound to be guild or three who'd take you." @Koloss17 @Stormlightsong