Chimes and brass fanfare ring in steady succession, echoing a hollow melody off the concrete and out through the entrance of a familiar parking garage. Waylon sucks in the cold evening air and lets it fill his lungs to bursting. It's a colder day. Pain ripples deep in his chest, warm and cold clashing inside him. He forces the breath out. Slowly.

It's going to go fine.

Metal digs into his back. He stuffs cold, clammy hands into his coat pockets and he shifts against the bench amid mumbles to no one. "Why is there even a bench here?"

Fog rolls out his mouth with the words and a breeze sweeps it down the mish-mashed street: an odd mix of multi-family houses and midrise, brutalist office buildings. It's ugly. One of the uglier stretches of Cordia that he can think of.

A white van turns a corner and inches down the street toward him; a set of whining brakes ease it to a stop in front of a particularly shabby house. Fractured siding, bug eaten window screens, and a tiny, overgrown lawn. Across the van's side, a decal of a man with a plunger beams out over the cigarette-and-beer-can-strewn street.

Anxiety frolics. It runs through his mind with images of plain-dressed agents whispering into hidden microphones, vans full of surveillance equipment, and frantic hand-to-hand combat. All straight out of a spy movie.

The van's engine peters out and a door slams. Waylon's consciousness zips back to his surrounds, eyes rolling and blinking away dryness that his day dreaming self wasn't keeping up with. He rises from the bench. No one's out to get you. It's going to be fine.

Directly across the street, an upside-down mountain of a man in green coveralls hefts a fifty pound bag of salt onto his shoulder. He swings the van's back door closed and checks both ways before walking across the empty, single lane and straight toward the garage's entrance.

If the towering stature of the man wasn't enough to tell that this is one of Waylon's partners for the night, the dark brown pompadour bouncing along with every step certainly is: Ivan Haas. Waylon can recall the file as if he was looking at it then and there. Grew up in poverty-stricken New Boston, registered wet pipe technician, single. Lives alone as of this week.

Ivan steps onto the curb. The coveralls pinch a nerve, irking and confusing. Does no one know what inconspicuous means? Waylon nods his head and shrugs an elbow to the rundown house behind the van. "Do you live there?"

Ivan crosses the threshold of the garage, and — one hand still steadying the bag of salt — he fights the wind to light a cigarette pinched between his lips. His words come out through a thick, typical New Boston accent. "As of a week ago. It ain't much, but the heat works and the windows don't stick."

Waylon shuffles after him. "Are you going to change? You can go back over, you've still got time and the technician uniform is going to stand out."

Ivan takes a drag on the cigarette. "You're one to talk." Smoke billows from his mouth and he waves the cigarette butt at Waylon's all-black outfit: wool coat, turtleneck, ironed slacks, and tennis shoes. "Dressed like a damned Doctor Who or something." Ivan says.

"My outfit is perfect. Serialized media is a waste of time, by the way."

"Guess you don't know what good is. Plenty worth watching on T.V. and your clothes are Grade A shit. Should try not dressing like some middle-aged woman's soap opera fantasy, it'd probably suit you."

Silence it is, then. Waylon stews in it, trudging along until the pair reach the far side of the garage and the source of the ever present chimes and brass fanfare.

A muscle-bound Ronan sits cross-legged on the hood of a rust-covered, white box truck. Light dances out from the phone screen in his lap and drenches his face in multicolored hues. His fingers are a flurry of movement, tapping and swiping in arcane patterns.

Is he wearing the same olive shirt as last time? Waylon slouches back against a nearby concrete pillar. "Haven't finished that game yet, then?"

Brass fanfare reaches a peak and Ronan's face explodes in glee. Sliding down the hood and onto his feet, he pumps his fist with each word. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" Flexing his arms and gritting his teeth, he darts his head between the two men. "Goodness why does this feel so good! Aren't games amazing?"

Waylon swallows a lump he didn't even notice jump into his throat, steels a stomach that twists in momentary, unexpected fear. "Uh... if you say so. I'm just going to go over the plan to myself if you don't mind."

"Not at all, not at all! Nothing's changed right?"

"No, just want to make sure everything is in order. I'll give a final rundown when our last member arrives."

Confusion twists Ronan's face for a moment, but he bends over the next instant, folding himself in half like a pizza box and touching his toes. "Wonderful to hear! So what's your name, over there? — Gah!" He straightens up, overextends his back, then — his elbows flared out — twists his upper half around as far as it'll go both ways. "Phew, that's better!"

Waylon wasn't taking the chance, bringing the plans with him just for some random cop to shake him down and find them; the memory of them burning to embers in his bathtub flashes. He slides down the column and grunts as concrete floor meets butt.

He closes his eyes and the plans materialize, crystal clear in his mind. Every exit, every employee's schedule, every nook and cranny of the entire aquarium. Ronan pulls us into the loading dock. Thea signals us if she —

In the background of Waylon's perception, Ronan walks toward Ivan "How long've you been working out? You've got some solid form holding that bag, and you carry yourself well in general too. Great posture. Only thing I'd change —"

She signals us if she smells something. Or whatever it is that she does. I breach the door and —

Ivan flexes his non-salt-bag-encumbered arm. "Been exercising ever since I was a teen. But better keep that unsolicited advice to yourself and stay —"

Breach and run down the hallway. Turn left. Run past —

Ronan nods, enthusiastic and strangely genuine. "No offense intended! I just see that you focus more on your upper body and I want to make sure —"

"How about we play a game of catch then, dick?" Ivan hefts the bag down off his shoulder. "We'll toss this and see who taps out first. Like a medicine ball."

Pain flares; Waylon massages at his temple and his patience wanes. "Can you two be quiet? Maybe even be some semblance of professional?"

Ivan plants his feet and hurls the fifty pound bag the entire gap between himself and Ronan. As if it was as light as a football. "What exactly were you expecting? A bunch of hard asses getting together to steal a fucking humidifier?"

The bag crashes into Ronan's chest and stops dead. The red head slams a muscly hug around it and lets out a huff, but doesn't move an inch. "Every moment of training is a gift!" He winds up and flings the bag back toward Ivan with just as little effort.

The pain stays, but the concentration doesn't. Crystal clear memories turn murky and Waylon strains his brain to keep it on topic. Where was I? Just start over. Entrance. —

Thump. Ivan grunts through his catch, but doesn't shift.

Entrance. Pull up to the loading dock, breach with my power. Down the hallway and turn —

Thump. Ronan grunts. "So why are you doing this? You're brand new to this kind of thing right? Jobs like this." He says, then chucks the bag back.

Thump. Muscles flex and tremble under Ivan's coveralls. He whirls around and sends the bag flying back in an odd shot put throw. "What's it to you? Knowing going to make a difference tonight?"

Down the hallway. Turn left. Walk past the tanks until we reach the second employee only area. Go through the double —

"It's just good to know!" Ronan says. Thump. "I'm just here to enjoy myself for instance. I don't know the specifics, but Waylon there has someone to help with his share of the money."

Thump. Ivan's breath comes heavier. "Fine. Got to pay for a research team. I'll get into the primetime wrestling rings once the big wigs are satisfied I won't maim someone."

Through the double doors, down the maintenance hallway, and climb up onto the catwalk. Cross to the other side and —

Ronan's eyes grow wide and wild with wonder. "Wow! What is professional wrestling like? Is that why you've trained your body so hard? What all does the research team do? It's great that the two of you have goals! It's important to cultivating a healthy —"

The frustration, the cold, the noise. That last comment. Waylon's patience strains under the load of stimuli and feelings. Then it breaks. Pain flares behind his temple and he snaps his head up. He scrambles to his feet and takes a few measured steps in Ronan's direction. "I don't know what Albert told you, but you don't know anything about me. This guy's dream of fame? That's all he's doing this for and you're going to compare him to me? His motivations aren't even on the same plane of existence as mine."