'til our fingers decompose

two

SCARLETT

In the unrelenting cold of the Problem, it's rare that anyone ventures out at night. Even agents, trained to exhaustive measures, tend to stick to curfew when they aren't required on the field.

Scarlett Holloway doesn't tend to do what everyone else does.

Her heels- black and lace-up, lending her an extra four inches of height at the very least- click clack against the cobbles of the winding London street she's found herself wandering down. Her rapier hangs on her thick belt, swinging with her hips, her right hand comfortably resting on the hilt. The green lamp light refracts against the blade as she walks under it.

Another, deactivated, ghost-lamp flicks on in a flash of dim light above her, illuminating a street sign that turns into a longer residential road. She squints; Portland Row, it reads in bold capital text.

She's about to turn back, but a noise further down the street catches her attention. Not the usual wails, the odd whisper she hears directly in her ear. No traces of death, either.

So, yeah, why not investigate. It gets her away from the demanding chaos of Fittes' for a while, at least.

Click, clack, go her boots as she turns down the street. Her arms move to cross over her chest as a wave of cold washes over her; no nausea, so no ghosts. She's alright.

The noise is getting louder, though. It sounds more like yelling- laughing. Raucous laughter, music, all the idiotic things any agent- no, any person with common sense- would know to steer clear of. Especially at night.

It's easy to pick out which house it is. The first indicator is the lights: bright and warm, glowing from the upper windows in such a way it illuminates the entire section of the street. Then the music: Last Christmas is the current choice, a song that the inhabitants- maybe two, three people?- are loudly singing along to. It's not exactly the best singing, either, and Scarlett would know.

The curtains in the house opposite bristle, as if someone's staring through them in annoyance. Maybe fear, too. It's justified. All this obnoxiousness is bound to attract at least one ghost.

Scarlett makes her mind up to knock and confront them just as a duo of sillouettes appear in the highest window.

Baby, It's Cold Outside starts up, and the previously scream-like singing is replaced with a more velvety blend. Two girls, harmonizing beautifully along to the deeper voice of the original recording. She can't help but pause mid-knock and step back to watch the window.

They're dancing. There's Christmas lights in the window, she now notices, slowly flashing a festive green and red. One of them, shorter, what seems like darker hair; she seems more hesitant, her moves more stiff and unsure. The other sillouette, much taller, dramatically bounces around with her hands intertwined with the other's. It's joy in its simplest form.

Scarlett relents, in her heart. Sure, it's dangerous, but once glance over the plate nearby the steps to the door tells her they're agents. Licensed by DEPRAC. Surely they could defend themselves and the rest of the people nearby if they had to.

There's no ghosts for now, at least. Maybe it's okay.

The song fades out, they disappear from view, and the song that follows is significantly lowered in volume. Her smile doesn't fade, though. If only her hateful Fittes' team could see her now. Never seen her smile, huh? Maybe your jokes just aren't that funny.

Anyway. She watches the window for another few moments, then sets off back the way she came. The warm feeling in her stomach grows. She'd never be a part of such a small, inconsequential agency- she's the best agent in the country, at least.

But the thought is nice. Of being that happy, that unbothered. It's simply not a luxury the best agent in the country can afford.