Tympans of Temples Held

August 15th, 1958

Security Chief Sullivan was terribly drunk. But he had seen a leadhead splicer gun down a good friend of his that afternoon, so he wanted to get drunker. He stumbled into the Silver Fin restaurant on the upper pavilion of the department store and ordered a beer. And when he finished his first beer, he ordered another. Patrons kept stealing glances, and Morris Lauderman, the restaurateur, looked like he wanted to say something in protest. But Sullivan was Ryan's man, and anyone with half a brain rattling in their skulls knew better than to cross Andrew Ryan. So when Sullivan opened his third bottle of Old Harbinger in the lobby of the Silver Fin, no one said boo to him.

The evening hours grew long and thin. The restaurant was nearly empty by the time Sullivan put his sixth Old Harbinger on his tab. He sat alone at the bar, a sour Morris Lauderman wiping glasses behind the counter. Somewhere in the department store, a voice urged shoppers to make their final purchases. Lauderman dimmed the lights of the restaurant; the bioluminescent plants behind the windows began to glow pearly green and purple.

"Closing soon, Sullivan," Morris mumbled, half meaning it.

"Fuck off."

"Suit yourself. Securis will close automatically on your way out. Don't hang around."

Lauderman emptied the cash register and went upstairs, muttering something less than flattering about Ryan's security detail. Sullivan ignored him.

After his seventh bottle, the security chief struggled to string a coherent thought together. So when the woman in the blue dress appeared seemingly out of thin air, right in the middle of the restaurant, it took Sullivan several foggy moments to realize that something was wrong.

"Hey! Hey you!" His words sounded thick and slurred. The woman froze. For a second, she looked startled. Then her face hardened, and she crossed her arms defiantly.

"What?"

Sullivan struggled to find something reasonably intelligible to say. He pointed at the woman with his empty bottle. "You... you just appeared out of the air..."

The woman arched an elegant eyebrow. "Did I?"

"Don't... no, don't deny it, lady. You weren't there a second ago."

The woman took a step forward. She looked towards Sullivan's belt, at the gun holster strapped to his right hip. She noted the man's crumpled white shirt, untucked tie, a few errant strands of hair combed over a bald patch on the top of his head. There was a security badge pinned to his breast pocket.

"You're drunk, chief," the woman said calmly, "I didn't appear––"

"You fucking did!"

"Think about it. Do people go around appearing out of thin air? Is that something people are liable to do?"

Sullivan paused. He blinked myopically at her. His gray eyes were bloodshot and watery. The smell of cheap alcohol peeled off him in waves. Even with his drunken sneer, the woman didn't think Sullivan looked aggressive, just incredibly sad.

"You ain't," Sullivan muttered, "ain't one of them Houdinis, blinking in and out... Christ, you are, ain't you?"

The woman didn't know what he was talking about. She stayed silent, watching Sullivan's hands, continually glancing towards the pistol hanging at his belt.

"Freaks, the whole bunch of you." Sullivan spat at the woman's feet. She didn't flinch. "Killed my men... you fucking psychopaths. You one of Fontaine's, huh? You one of his? All those good guys, down at Port Neptune, at the fisheries. Christ..."