1.

       A billow and hiss of steam obscured her silhouette. With an escaped screech the wheels locked, the engine decelerated in lawful accordance with Nutreonic physics. The 4:54 had arrived.
       Kitty concealed herself in one of the many niches necessitated by the vaulted buttresses and soaring arches of Kilford Station's gothic architecture. This particular alcove provided her a direct view of the entire platform and, as it was near the only exit, the opportunity to appraise every 'Habitant on the train. Other equidistantly spaced recesses had similar vantages, but she had decided long ago that this was the best of all the hidey-holes and had claimed it as her own. It had cost her quite a few bruises - not even being a Tiere from birth granted her undisputed Station real estate. She'd earned the right to ghost, not only here, but at every platform in Kilford as well as several haunts along the Claret and in the outer Dormitories. But she liked the Station best.
       Of course today's ghosting hadn't been of her own choosing, the black under her eye reminded her of that. She fingered the tender swelling gently. Corva had been in a right temper this morning. When Kitty asked why she wasn't buzzing the mark, but meeting up with him, Corva had gone righteous and landed a sweet blow. Making contact on a circling was absolutely against protocol, so Kitty knew that this job was out of the ordinary. She still didn't know why she was playing welcoming committee for some topper; the pain had been answer enough.
       The 'Habitants strolled easily through the maze of doorways and vendors followed by their works, each contemplating his own unfettered journey to the polis. That was another reason Kitty preferred Station jobs - the works. Most often they were porters with flat back and varied numbers of legs. The best quality were self-winders, but she could still spot a few coke run works trundling along, belching black smoke at their masters' ankles. Steam works were strictly disallowed in highly populated public areas, with the obvious exception of trains and other large public service machines, due to the possibility of scalding - or worse a boiler explosion.
       A body could tell a lot about a 'Habitant by their works, or Kitty certainly could. Take that topper in the fancy cloth, for one. An inexperienced buzzard might think him an In-Law due to the shine, especially if they didn't notice that his porter was an old coke-works. Real In-Laws employed flesh-works - a throwback mark of status, being able to afford people rather than the more efficient, less costly, mechanical servants. This man was only a walker, and so worth a circling - less risk than an In-Law and more likely to be pocketing a fair amount.
       He was a tempting mark, but Kitty couldn't afford to be distracted from her main objective. Not if she wanted to eat this week. Corva had already informed her of the penance she would serve for failure. She'd flung it in Kitty's face as casually as her fist moments before. She'd been treated worse when Corva was a furor, but not much.
       Kitty passed the time by singling out other potentials. Rother. Rother. Professor. Topper. 'Habitant, but still a possible. Walker. The crowd on the platform was thinning and Kitty began to worry that she'd missed him, or that, worse, he'd missed the train and wasted her afternoon.
       Corva had said that he'd be tall, clean-shaven, dressed in grey with a blue pocket handkerchief. Typical 'Habitant dress but off season colors to minimize any sort of mishap. She also described his ink, but Kitty would have to get close to see that provided she could see it at all. It could be hidden by the man's hair or under a scarf or high collar. Kitty wanted to be certain it was him before she ever got near enough to spot the mark.
       But the few grey suits didn't sport blue handkerchiefs. In fact, there was only one topper left who was showing blue. An In-Law if Kitty'd ever seen one. His clothing was well-cut and well-worn. The fabric must have been very fine, for despite its obvious usage it did not look shabby, merely comfortable. Also no works attended him. He carried no bags, despite arriving on the train from Seawall, which was so removed from the teeming polis that Kitty, who knew the streets of Azerna better than most and had, in her estimation, walked the entire city in a day, could not fathom a place where roads were still packed dirt instead of cobblestone and salt in the air corroded works in a manner of weeks if they weren't given almost constant proper attention. In her mind, it was as foreign as the purported lands across the water.
       The man's dark hair, worn slightly long as was the current style, curled from under the brim of his soft black hat. He had most discernibly not shaved that morning. The pocket kerchief matched the exact blue of his eyes, which explained his unfashionable choice. He was tall, but her couldn't be the topper Kitty was waiting for - he didn't sound at all as Corva described - but he could serve as the source of her next meal. No reason the afternoon should be a complete waste.
       Not every buzzard would dare attempt to cozen an In-Law, a usually high risk, low yield endeavor, but Kitty needed the lift. If she hid the money at one of her private haunts before joining up with the rest of the Tiere, Corva would never know. Then she could bribe a few of the fare for a clandestine meal or two, as well as their guaranteed silence. The price would be steep, but a full belly and peace from Corva would be well worth the risk. And Kitty knew she was good for it.
       She slid out from the cover of her shadows and strolled aimlessly in the direction of her mark, never close enough to make anyone take notice of her. The remaining travelers skirted the dirty girl clothed in tatters as if she were not there, or rather as if she were another of the vermin who lived in the Station's secret places. Kitty kept her eyes to the ground and walked softly onward in her bare feet. She'd have to ask Corva for shoes before the cold came, but she daren't after this fiasco. Shoes would have to wait until she could redeem herself.
       He was yards away now, oblivious to her presence and ambling toward the exit at an easy pace. Time to start her circle. Kitty drifted into his path, intent on the refuse bin, which happened to be between her and the topper. He was closing surprisingly quickly, only feet away and passing her supposed target. Then they were level. At the crucial moment, Kitty stumbled.
       Now it would go one of two ways, she thought. It always did. Either he would prove himself a proper sort and help her to her feet, or he would force her to relegate him to the abject status of an unwilling ladder. He opted for the third course of action: a surprisingly agile side step and a sharp kick to the ribs. Kitty inhaled at the unexpected contact. "Sodding hurensohn," she muttered. He brushed past her, but started at her daring vulgarity. The momentary proximity was more than adequate. He didn't even feel her hands at his inside coat pocket. Then his leather wallet was secreted in one of the many concealed hollows in her skirt. In a fluid continuation of the movement, Kitty rubbed her ribs. That would bruise, no lasting damage seemed to have been inflicted.
       "Spawndspit," she swore.
       The few remaining travelers accelerated toward the doorway studiously avoiding her general direction . The gentleman had been of course in the right. The girl was only a scabie - a vile, filthy wretch who polluted the very streets of their beloved Azerna. Even their works clunked past her with dumb disapproval. Kitty let the platform clear. Blending invisibly with the throng of bodies coming and going outside the exit, she let the masses move her closer to her favorite haunt. She had been a child when she first watched the workman climb one of the ladders to nowhere and disappear.
       Slipping behind a particular column, Kitty was faced with iron rungs protruding from the marble climbing steadily toward the high cavernous ceiling. Without hesitation she nimbly scaled the rusting rundles. Once at the top, the cornice provided several hand and foot crevices. Taking hold of a particularly ornate flower, she tumbled herself over the molding in a most ungainly manner. The plaster had started to wear from frequent usage. Kitty brushed at the chalky powder clinging to her dress. Then she settled into the nook where wall curved to ceiling. Time to examine her takings. She thumbed leisurely through the contents, pocketing the notes without pausing to examine their worth. Coin would've been better, but one couldn't have everything. He had looked an In-Law after all.
       Her fingertips snagged on uneven corner of the leather. Perturbed, she examined the wallet more closely; the hide was soft, unscarred, and well-tanned. Again she found the offending raised corner and pulled. The back of the wallet hinged open in her hand. Letter-sized papers fell into her lap. She unfolded the top one and examined it, but could not make any sense of the funny little lines neatly covering the entirety of the page. She quickly scanned the rest of the document, hoping for some pictorials that would explain the necessity for all of those words. Nothing. She leafed through the the other pieces of parchment. A calling card, lined with a black edge and bearing a single symbol, slipped away from the rest.
       "Oh, fuck."
       Even a child of three would have recognized the skull embossed with anatomical precision on the card stock. She had buzzed a Deadman.