A Call to Adventure

It was a quiet morning off the coast of New York. The bitterness commonly found in the winter air hung in every cloud of mist and gust rolling along with the waves below. Just off in the distance one could spot a large steamship comfortably gliding along the water, its weeklong journey nearing its end.

​

Icy gusts blew all around him as he stood at the bow of the ship, staring out into the distance to find the shadows of man-made structures reaching up towards the charcoal clouds. Lights glimmered like stars along the various shapes and figures around the edges of the city, giving the landscape a sense of life that seemed void so early in the morning.

​

The man was the ideal image of a healthy youth. Short chestnut hair styled in an upright manner topped his head, stringed together by a light beard that gave him an older appearance. The remnants of old cut wounds lined his cheeks and face in a way that gave him an unwelcoming appearance, though behind the façade stood a twenty-one year old whose ice-blue eyes contrasted with the violet bags hanging under them.

He sighed quietly as he reached into the woolen pockets of his coat, fumbling about until his fingers found one of the remaining cigarettes left from a prior purchase. Once he’d withdrawn one of the rolls of tobacco and fit it between his lips, the man found himself searching for a box of matches that he quickly realized was still in his cabin. Despite this fact, he kept the cigarette still between his lips.

The man found himself leaning up against the railing shortly after. He’d been sleep-deprived and cold for so long now that he didn’t even adjust his scarf when a frigid breeze suddenly ripped across the bow. There’d been much worse encounters with the weather months prior. He wasn’t about to let one quick puff of air force him to submit.

As the city loomed larger and larger in the distance, the sound of a metal door opening behind the man caught his curiosity but not his attention. The lights in the distance were much more welcoming than some other passenger coming to witness their first glimpse of the United States. After all, he was proud to call both this city and country home already. He’d merely been away for two years, absent as it continued development into a place for all to live.

Not before long he could see the faint silhouette of a woman standing tall amidst the fog. With one final drag, he discarded the cigarette into the waters below and took a deep breath as he prepared himself for the day to come.

[-=^=-]

His arrival on solid ground was one met with confusion and utter chaos.

Stepping off of the ramp, he found himself in an extravagant looking building that stretched along the waterfront far enough that the fog engulfed the rest. The cherry and ivory tiles beneath him caused every step of his boots to squeak in response, though water trekked in by others contributed to the overall cacophony within. Various booths lined with copper fixtures featured massive lines of people looking to get their passports cleared, and the stained glass above him cast polychromatic shadows that painted the crowds every possible color to mask their browned clothing. It was different.

After a few minutes of navigating the suffocating masses, he finally found an open booth with a small sign underneath welcoming returning citizens. It didn’t surprise him that the man within said booth was soundly asleep, knowing that his job was an idle occupation that granted him both rest and pay on the regular.

The man approached quietly, retrieving his passport and other identification from his coat pocket. He hesitated for a moment as the tips of his fingers found a frayed piece of paper, getting a shaky sigh out from his lips before he set his belongings down on the other side of the counter.

Despite all of this, the man sitting behind the glass pane continued to snore on.

The man shook his head in dismay before knocking on the glass, which startled the officer so much that he woke with a loud snort and enough movement to raise the dead. Once he’d composed himself, the wrinkled man placed a set of glasses on his nose and began sweeping through his belongings.

“Mmm… I’d like to remind you not to tap on the barrier in any way, shape, or form mister…” he opened up the passport and flipped through a few pages, grunting as he found what he was looking for. “…Mr. Edward Connelly?”

“That’d be correct,” Edward replied as the immigrations office continued to scan the various permits and papers before him. The officer chuckled for a moment as he brought up a small card wedged between the passport’s bindings. “Everything you need should be here.”

“Oh, it is…” the officer mentioned curtly. “You were in France I see, military issued identification here… what branch were you, son?”

“Army, sir,” Edward said with a slight boost in confidence.

“I take it you socked the Huns back a couple decades, eh?” the officer grinned, handing Edward back his passport. “Heard the French lived and fought in those trenches for three years until we showed up to help. I used to be Coast Guard a while back, a bad foot infection got me behind the desk however. It’s a pretty interesting job here though, I get to meet a lot of people!”

“I can tell,” Edward deadpanned, watching as the officer reviewed another sheet of paper quickly before glancing back up at the man with a bemused expression.

“You’re a year late, aren’t you? The wars over!”

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“Well, let me tell you what sport, you couldn’t have picked a better time to be back in New York! All of these new buildings and shops to go visit! All of these luxurious parties at wealthy manors, incredible automobiles all over the place, oh and the women? Perfect!”

Edward remained silent as the rest of his documents were returned to him, prompting a response as he fit his passport back inside his coat.

“I’m afraid I’m already taken, but I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for everything else.”

“Aye, I sure would!” came the officer’s response. “You’ll find the exit just up through the lobby and to the left. If you need transportation there’s plenty of cabs to hail at the roundabout, and as for work…”

He paused for a moment, adjusting his glasses as he did so.

“…Well, it’s up to you now to choose what kind of man you’ll be. You’re a free man now Edward, I’d make the most of it.”

“Thank you,” was the only response the officer got as Edward walked away.

[-=^=-]

He sat outside in the snow for a few minutes, his coat buttoned up to the full extent and his hands sunken into the folds of his pockets. The officer was correct in saying New York had changed. Edward had lived in the city for nearly twenty years, and all it took was a two year venture overseas for twenty years of familiarity to be lost on him.

Buildings were much taller now and fortified with brick and metal. The roads were less bumpy and the sidewalks were smoother than they’d ever been before. Wooden signs advertising shops had been replaced with glowing neon letters that blinked and washed the snow over with various greens and reds. The small park he found himself in used to be much smaller and held less entertainment for children but now it was a sprawling fortress occupied by countless toddlers oblivious to the cold and snow around them.

The world had changed in his absence. The year 1917 was long gone now, swept under the rug by the approaching 20’s in two months. The feeling of being a stranger in his own country only added to the unease he felt by simply breathing air without a filter, but sooner than later he’d have to move forward.

Moving forward was the only reason he came back to the United States. Moving forward was why he, after spending an extra year overseas, forced himself to face the reality of what had happened. If he couldn’t manage this, then he wouldn’t be able to manage carrying on with the life he had left.

The truth was that the Great War, the war to end all wars, swept Edward away in its insanity without its permission. He had everything he could ever need in New York. He and his high school sweetheart Adaline were slated to get married after Edward earned enough at his job to afford them a house outside New York, away from the streets and into the hills. He’d spent most of his life yearning to escape the concrete jungle surrounding him, a natural instinct for anything cooped up inside a cage too long.

The two shared a common history. Lower income families with a strive to change their situation, they connected quickly and found themselves spending each and every day together. She was everything that Edward could’ve dreamed of, and as a result he fell hard. Her hair glistened like amber in the sun, her personality was reserved yet she had her own goals and aspirations Edward supported completely. Any word she spoke held wisdom and thought Edward could only dream of. In the real world, there wasn’t a single opportunity he could reach for to help Adaline succeed.

Such an opportunity came when Edward heard about volunteer enlistments. The United States declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1916 and any volunteers looking to serve in France. The pay was enough to get Edward situated and when he returned the added benefits and bonuses presented by the military would set everything back on course.

The decision was one made out of desperation but it was far from brash. He could recall all the evenings in his apartment where they planned out ahead of time. Adaline would stay with her parents for a year while Edward sold off his apartment to provide her and her family with a little extra money. It was the least he could do.

He could remember every detail of the day he left. Freshly garbed in tan fatigues and a poorly framed rucksack, the early summer sun beat down on the dock and all of its inhabitants as men lined up one by one to board a large naval vessel and cross the world in the name of freedom and liberty. The soldiers all stood on one end of a chain-link fence while their friends and family stood on the other, seeing their sons, brothers, fathers or friends off for possibly the last time.

While a timeline hadn’t been firmly established yet, there were rumors that the war was changing tide and with United States reinforcements moving to fill in where the German’s couldn’t, the Allied forces would be able to mount a counter-attack to get them out of France once and for all. At the most Edward would be gone a year, and he intended to see that through.

Just before he approached the ramp connecting to the naval carrier he saw Adaline one last time leaning up against the fence with her fingers slipped between the breaks in the fence. Without question he approached her and linked his had with hers, making the one promise he knew he may not be able to keep.

“I’ll come home. I promise you even if I have to dig all the way up from hell I’ll come home for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect it any other way, Ed.”

That would be the last time he’d hear her speak. While he was fighting a war on one front, at the homestead a much uglier battle reared its head. Edward spent four months in the Argonne and about two month into the trenches he began to understand a horror that stretched beyond the war.

Early friendships with French medics in the trenches revealed the disturbing fact that the medics refused to remove their gasmasks. Edward’s training told him that gasmasks were only to be used in mustard gas attacks, protecting one’s lungs from disintegrating on contact. One medic, however, explained his reasoning with the one word that Edward understood without learning the language: influenza.

As the months progressed Edward found that more of his allies were succumbing to influenza rather than the Huns. Most of the time he would be laying in puddles of mud and grime with his gasmask on, patrolling the trenches and making rounds among the various Emergency Care tents hastily thrown together. Sometimes there were men with gunshot wounds or amputated limbs, but more often than not the tent was filled with sick patients or men covered in blisters.

It was only after the push; the unified offensive of American and French forces into the forest and directly into hell, that Edward learned the name. Spanish Flu had went global, having developed in France and migrating to Spain with horrifying speed. From there it reached the world and swept every country up its madness, and New York found itself on the list.

As the grassy fields and small farming towns evolved into sprawling woodlands and heavily fortified bunkers, Edward returned from a scouting expedition to find a telegram from home base. It wasn’t uncommon for one to get telegrams while up on the front lines, but in Edward’s case he wasn’t expecting much.

He paused for a moment as he felt the slip of paper inside his coat. His chattering teeth were amplified by the simple sense of dread held in each hastily printed letter on the muddied cardstock, but he pulled it out into the cold anyway:

Private First Class Edward Connelly,

This is a telegram printed to inform you of the recent departure of an Adaline Winslow, listed as an additional contact in your enlistment contract. We regret to inform you that while on your tour of duty Adaline contracted Spanish Influenza and despite the best efforts of her family and medical practitioner, Ms. Winslow succumbed to the illness earlier this morning.

Unfortunately, any requests to withdraw from the offensive have currently been dismissed. The next return period you would be able to return is three months out from the current date. Respond within twenty-four hours of receiving this message.

Edward didn’t reply. He didn’t do much beyond crumple the page into a ball and retreat into the woods in a fit of rage, yelling and screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Weeks upon weeks of fighting, close encounters with mortar strikes and sporadic fifteen minute bouts of absolute bloodshed came to an end with a simple piece of paper. There wasn’t a point to fighting anymore. There wasn’t a point to stay.

Yet for some reason, Edward did stay. He found his waning courage suddenly absent, replaced with a blank void that made his chest feel hollow. Hate filled the void, and that hate was what drove him onward through the melting trees, blood-soaked rivers, and collapsed artillery bunkers spewing buckshot at any gray-clad figure he could find.

Regardless of his feelings, they won. The Allies pushed the Germans out of the Argonne and thus pushed them to submission. The war ended in November 1918, the League of Nations sought to keep Germany suppressed for years, Edward was now twenty one years of age, and it was time to go home.

Yet he didn’t. The emptiness in his heart was heavy enough to keep him stranded in the Old World, away from home. It took a year of wandering the countryside and seeing the destruction of the war for him to realize that these people chose to continue on, despite their circumstances. They chose life.

Edward made that choice not long ago. He chose to return, to accept the fact that he didn’t die and that he still had a life to live, despite how he felt. Adaline would have wanted it for him. It just took Edward too long to realize he was still breathing.

[-=^=-]

He found himself outside a lavish bar closer to Times Square, having walked a few miles through the snow without shivering once. It was night now, and the neon signs all about the city made it their goal to give the Big Apple a new coat of paint.

What Edward found interesting was that the immigrations officer was correct about how the city had changed. All along the distant waterfront he could see magnificent mansions shining like fortresses of gold, holding massive parties right next to one another. It was incredibly different, yet the denizens of New York didn’t seem to mind.

The first goal Edward set for himself was to find a job. Numerous dock positions were open but the hiring process was as simply as the foreman grabbing five men out of the hundred crowding the entrance. Edward was considered at two locations but traded out for a stronger looking individual.

After a brief lunch, the ex-soldier visited the Winslow residence to find a new family now lived there. The entirety of the Winslow family was decimated by the flu, and when Edward sought out gravestones he was appalled to find the bodies were reduced to cinders as a “precautionary measure” to prevent the flu from spreading. The coroner explained the ashes were cast out in the fields, and while infuriated, he felt some slight comfort in the fact that Adaline finally achieved her goal.

Fury simmered to depression come nightfall, and depression called for alcohol in response. Despite the blistering cold, he needed to find something to take off some of the rapidly growing stress weighing him down. With his scarf wrapped around his mouth and the collar of his coat upright, Edward approached the entrance to a rather modest looking pub and stepped inside to evade the cold.

As the door shut behind him Edward took note of the pub’s atmosphere. Being further into the city, the occupants were a mix between those who worked the industrial jobs and those who prided themselves on their wealth. The pub was shaped like an L, with the bar wrapping itself along the floorplan while allowing just enough room for olive-stained tables and red leather stools. Lamps hung from the ceiling idly and their dim bulbs blanketed the room with a thin layer of darkness.

He kept his wits about him. A specific group of individuals sitting near the back of the pub had a rambunctious air about them, and if something were to happen there was no way he could fend off against six men. For now he’d keep to the bar, and that was where he planned to keep until tomorrow morning.

As he approached the bar he noticed that among the many occupants of the bar there was an empty seat next to a gentleman who looked as if he’d just returned from a leisurely safari trip. Underneath his bark colored coat was a white dress shirt matched with suspenders. A set of round glasses sat on his angular nose, and signs of a white beard were beginning to show on his cheeks. Thick eyebrows sat above squinted eyes, and with a neatly trimmed haircut, the aged gentleman appeared quite healthy for the age Edward suspected.

However, he found an empty seat surrounded by two other vacant stools and set himself down. Not long after he found himself talking with the bartender and quickly purchased some whiskey with the paychecks he’d collected from his old postbox.

Edward sat quietly and drank away at his glass, thinking about what he was going to do next. Currently he was had enough money to stay a few nights in a hotel but after that he’d need to find permanent housing. The only way that was going to happen was to get a job, and it didn’t seem like there were a lot of options for a man like himself.

He thought it would be best to just ignore the situation for now. What he needed was a night where he could be by himself and focus on venting his grief one the few ways he knew how to.

Hours bled into one another as Edward took his time and his money to work. He spent roughly an hour on each drink, taking breaks intermediately so that he could keep a level head despite the buzz.

[-=^=-]

The night was nearing its end. Edward, who was slightly slumped in his stool and laying a good portion of his torso atop the counter, groggily raised his head and looked down at his watch. When he could finally read the device’s face, the ex-soldier grumbled to himself and quickly stood upright. It was nearly three in the morning and he’d decided that his self-pity had gone on long enough.

Setting down a few more dollars from his pant pocket, he set it next to the now multiple empty glasses of whiskey and gave a short salute to the bartender.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” Edward mumbled with a sore throat, turning away and moving towards the exit quickly. As he moved onward however, he noticed that the older man from earlier was still at the bar, chuckling to himself as he took a drink.

“Is it company you’re looking for, old sport?” an English voice asked, causing Edward to pause as he held the wooden door open partially.

So now he decides to speak…

“It depends on the company I’m keeping,” Edward stated, turning around and closing the door behind him. The man hadn’t even turned to face him yet he held the conversation firmly in his grasp.

“You’d be keeping the company of a moderately, elderly gentleman who finds this brandy somewhat shitty, pardon my French. Interested?”

Edward paused for a moment before he nodded, walking over towards the man and pulling out the stool to his right.

“Alright then, I’ll bite.”

“Then please, I implore you, take a seat son.”

Edward did as he was told, hesitantly setting himself onto the stool and feeling the cherry-red leather sinking in response to pressure. Once he had settled himself next to the older gentleman, he took a sip of his drink and let out a brief sigh.

“Glad to finally make your acquaintance, mister…”

“Connelly, sir. Edward Connelly.”

“Edward, why that’s an English name if I’ve heard one!” the man laughed, setting his drink down before rubbing at his forehead. “American through and through though, aren’t you? Where’re you from?”

“New York born and raised, sir.”

“Ah yes, the ever-loving sprawl of the concrete jungle. Pardon me saying this but it doesn’t seem like you have as much of a temperament as other New Yorkers. You seem much more reserved, not so bloody loud and annoying. I both like and hate that.”

“How do you mean?” Edward asked with a puzzled look, watching as the man took another drink.

“Well, for starters you came in alone and sat down alone, did you not? Obviously you came here because there’s something on your mind and you needed somewhere to think it through; no outside help besides… whiskey, is it?”

“It is,” Edward mentioned, taking another drink from the glass.

“Ah yes, no outside help besides the harsh warmth of golden whiskey. If anything it’ll impair your judgment. You should consult others on your approach, lessen the burden for yourself.”

“The issues I’m dealing with aren’t exactly things I can just pawn off to other people,” the ex-soldier explained. “Personal problems get solved personally. What does that make you if you give it to somebody else?”

“It makes you a team player,” the man responded matter-of-factly. “Something I’m sure you’re familiar with, hmm? You walk with the stature of a trench fighter, slightly hunched over with your hands near your pockets. Muscles are tense too, like you’re expecting someone to round the corner and charge you… Please tell me I’m right. It’s one thing to make a fool of myself sober but making a fool of myself partially drunk is just downright embarrassing! What offensive were you, Edward?”

“…I was part of the Meuse-Argonne,” he admitted quietly. “I was a uh, a trench sweeper but technically I was part of an anti-tank regiment, 52nd Infantry. We got reassigned to the Sixth Infantry.”

“I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of mechanized kills then?” the man asked again.

“Early on in the offensive, yes,” Edward admitted, feeling himself laying atop a hill with three other men armed with rifles larger than their body. Rain beat down on his helmet and ran off down onto his eyebrows. Widespread fields and broken buildings loomed in the distance, and he could faintly make out the shape of two massive, armored fortresses propelled by tracks that churned concrete up underneath them. “We aimed for the tracks more than the actual armor, the anti-tank rounds just bounced off.”

“Were you good at it?”

“Yes, I was very good at it,” Edward admitted as the feeling of searing heat washed over his face, imagining the missile spiraling towards the tank like a fireball in the dark. “I had help of course. It was only really when we reached the woods that I traded a Vickers for a trench gun. We lost a lot of our men in a—”

Edward froze as he remembered the day. They’d spent a good portion of the day following the railroad tracks through the forest, deviating from the path only to find a German artillery nest nestled up in the hills. The concrete pillbox jutted out from the hillside abnormally yet nature had tried to regain control, growing bushes and vines all over the structure. They made the call in and approached on their own, expecting an easy sweep and victory for the Allies.

What he got was a soldier, armed with a flamethrower, who systematically hunted them down in the maze-like trenches below the bunker and burned half of them alive.

“There’s no need to tell me Edward,” Arthur said with an extended hand, swirling his drink around before taking a swig. “I think we’ve all heard stories about what you went through… You know as a matter of fact I was in the Sinai Desert four years ago, spent months trying to win hold the Suez Canal from the Ottomans and then the next thing I know I’m out in the Arabian desert fighting towards Palestine. Beautiful country, but there’s something about crawling behind sand dunes and crumbled pillars to survive that subtracts from the experience…”

Edward nodded. Obviously this man had seen much of the war himself, just on the completely opposite side of the conflict. He seemed experienced, unshaken by the events pushed on him. Edward wasn’t sure if it was because the man was intoxicated or because he’d become accustomed to it.

“…I still love the land, believe it or not. It’s a beautiful place, war or not. There is so much history surrounding those hills and cliff faces, history that pre-dates us by centuries. It pains me to think of the ruins and artifacts lost just because we razed sections of the desert with mortar fire.”

“You’re a man of history then?” Edward asked, slowly putting together that this man might be the explorer. “You know much about the past?”

“Meh, I like to consider myself a Renaissance man if anything,” he said modestly. “I have a knack for reading and studying the past, present, and future. History tends to repeat itself so the more we know about what went wrong in the past, at least I’ll know what to do in the future.”

“…I don’t believe I’ve asked for your name, sir?”

“That’s cause you haven’t,” the man grinned, turning in his seat to shake Edward’s hand. “Sir Arthur MacMillan Dane, former British marksman and navigations specialist. I’m glad to have finally made your acquaintance, and if you could please stop referring to me as sir? I'm not that elderly.”

“Got it,” Edward said with a short nod. “Old habits die hard I guess.”

“I’ve been there,” Arthur admitted. “I think it might’ve taken me about, oh, two and a half months after service for me to really get acquainted again. It took me well enough to realize all of those midday bombing runs finally stopped. It’s a very strange feeling, returning from war. All that time you spent fighting suddenly clears up on your calendar, but what are you left with after that?”

Edward stared at Arthur as he finished the bourbon in his glass.

“You see, I found myself with a considerable amount of free time. I was intrigued with the locals I fought in but I realized in the larger picture we’re no more than a scuffle. Ancient civilizations fought their own share of conflicts, had their own share of Great Wars, but they also had their fair share of secrets.”

“How so?”

“Let me pose a question for you, Edward…” Arthur began in a low voice, reaching into his vest pocket. “Are you a man of myth and legend, or are you just a ‘man of history?’”

“I’m afraid to say I’m just a man, Arthur.”

With that, Arthur retrieved what appeared to be a golden medallion with the other side replaced with a reflective mirror. He set it down in front of Edward, who gingerly picked it up and began brushing it with his thumbs. The engravings present on the coin were absolutely foreign to the ex-soldier, though he could make out the shapes of a sun, a wolf, and people below what appeared to be a man with a very tall hat.

“Have you ever heard the story of Egyptian Pharaoh Raneferef?”

“I haven’t, no,” Edward replied as he stared at the man above everyone else. Flipping the medallion over, he stared back at himself though the glass was fractured and scuffed in countless parts. “I’m not that familiar with the rest of the world. Is this real gold?”

“It is,” Arthur acknowledged. “You see, Raneferef’s reign was short, so short that we barely have any recorded information on it. His pyramid was never completed but from what little we do have, we know that he left Egypt for reasons unknown. He was the only one of his kind to do so, and I think I might just have an idea as to why.”

“What’s that?”

“You see this medallion? It’s telling a story, just through pictures not words. It wasn’t just a change of scenery, it was an exodus.”

“An exodus?”

“A mass migration, my apologies,” Arthur clarified. “Raneferef lead his followers somewhere else, somewhere off towards ‘the sun’ supposedly. Apparently he was somewhat fanatic about the sun, based on what’s inscribed here. He wanted a temple dedicated entirely to the sun, and those who wished to follow him received medallions just like these.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“While I was fighting out in the land of Arabia, believe it or not,” the explorer revealed, Edward returning the medallion to his companion. “That’s quite the trek on foot, old sport. Now tell me, why would a leader bring his followers so far away just to build a simple temple?”

“…He must’ve been hiding something, right?” Edward thought aloud, trying to think of what he would do if he were suddenly a pharaoh. “I can’t quite think of why a man would move so far away if he was a leader, unless… he moving his wealth?”

“Mmm, that’s an idea I’ve entertained but I don’t believe it’s the exact reason…” Arthur stated as he turned to face Edward. “In Egyptian culture, particularly around the fifth dynasty where Raneferef reigned, Ra-Horakhty held his place as the god of the sun. It was said that he had the power to grant and create life, but on the medallion right here? It says that he can ferry those back from the world of the dead and grant eternal life, so long as one commits themselves to Raneferef and the power of the sun. All you need is one of these, some sunlight, and a very, very large mirror.”

“Why waste time making all these small ones then?”

“Loyalty,” the explorer concluded, squeezing on the medallion slightly and twisting at its face. “Or, if I tweak the surface slightly…”

Edward watched as the golden face of the medallion popped off, revealing a complicated contraption loaded with rusted gears and pieces. He stared at the incredibly complex device for a moment before Arthur folded the face around to prop the mirror up at a 45 degree angle. It appeared almost as if there was a stub in the bottom, though the piece that fit it was missing.

“…It’s a beacon. I’m not sure what exactly it connects to, but the angle and construction of this device strongly implies it’s meant to function as part of a whole. Perhaps it leads to the temple, perhaps it’s just a fancy trinket. The point is that this device is part of a much larger picture, and currently I plan on assembling a team to find out. Now, I—”

Edward found himself laughing at the remark, albeit involuntarily. There was no way any of this was happening. This whole thing had to be some sort of practical joke, planned out incredibly far in advance so he could look like a fool. Ancient pharaohs migrating far away from Egypt, medallions that tell a story about a man who sought to create life and remain young forever, and advanced clockwork devices that rivaled the complexity of landships was something he would read in the tabloids.

Yet part of himself believed it.

“I'm sorry Arthur, but do you understand just how grand this story you’re weaving actually is? I can’t believe it for a single moment.”

“I didn’t expect you too, but that wasn’t my goal,” Arthur stated matter-of-factly, getting up from his stool. “My goal was to get you thinking, and I’d damn well say I’ve succeeded. So, if you’re ever looking for a job that suits your skillsets along with the promise of glory and wealth, here’s my card.”

Edward sat flabbergasted as the man placed the medallion in his hands, Arthur getting up from his stool and retrieving his coat. He put it on quickly and walked towards the door, the ex-soldier trying to form a sentence but failing to do so before the British gentleman amended his statement.

“Don’t think you’re out there on your own, Edward. You joined a brotherhood of extraordinary gentlemen spanning the globe over; it’s absurd to think you’re the only one out there going it alone.”

With that parting statement, Arthur Dane left the building knowing that sooner or later he’d be visiting with Edward again. He was the kind of man who couldn’t stay away from a good opportunity, seeking out something to pull him away from reality. As an added bonus, he was a former soldier. He’d always be valuable, possibly even expendable, to someone looking for hired muscle but Arthur had a different feeling about him. The way his eyes lit up observing the medallion showed that despite his presentation he wasn’t truly broken. There was a spirit within him that refused to die.

Arthur sought to strengthen it.