Prequel: Assembling the team

January 3, 1925
5th Avenue, Central Manhattan, New York
Residence of Madame Natasha Koshkin
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Natasha, from a great distance you hear a low chime, a muffled woman's voice, and shuffling feet (you assume). There is a gentle rocking sensation that recalls your time aboard the SS Majestic, and you also suddenly become aware that you're surrounded by something pleasant and fluent. Your eyes flutter open, and the florescence of white tile that surrounds you is blinding and exacerbating your pounding headache. You glance down to see your naked body submerged in a warm bath, the blood and serous fluid from your wound now fully cleaned, and there's a cotton robe hung on the wall that you recognize as that which Iris dresses you in after your bath. Speaking of which, you realize that you have no idea how you got here, or where Irene is: the door the bathroom is open, and there are no attendants in sight.

Caleb quickly scanned around for an open doorway to escape through, but, as luck would have it, they all seemed very closed. Upon noticing the strange weapons in his assailants' hands, Caleb started to panic and to run blindly to the other end of the alley...

Natasha works her way slowly to her feet in the massive, cast iron claw foot tub, the porcelain finish is particularly slippery when damp and she’d rather not fall and drown in her own tub. A wholly undignified way to die.

She stepped cautiously out of the tub and onto the thick white terry mat gripping the edge of the tub a moment to solidify her balance. Water rolled slowly off of her dripping onto the mat and the decorative blue persian tiled floor. Splat! The milky white perfumed water turned black and viscous as the drop hit the floor. Splat splat splat! Darkness spread across the floor pulling in the light and color from the the decorative leaded glass window that overlooked Vanderbilt Avenue.

Natasha's head swam for a moment and she was forced to close her eyes, when they reopened the darkness had retreated and the light and colors had returned. She took the robe down from its hook and pulled it on pausing a moment to inspect Iris’s remarkable handy-work before pulling the robe closed and tying it off. A couple of minutes later, after drying her hair and brushing her teeth Natasha made her way downstairs.

Kenneth gives a small bow with his head, more of a nod, and smiles and says, "Good day, to you. My name is Dr. Kenneth Davis and this is my companion and we are looking for Madame Natasha Koshkin. Is she in?" he asks.

Dr. Davis and Morgan O'Neil, just as you are asking the question, you see a young woman - dark and dangerous looking, but beautiful all the same - amble down the spiraled stair toward the front door. She looks particularly pale and requires the assistance of the handrail, seemingly to keep herself upright.

Natasha, you see Iris below you speaking to two men at the front door - one a well-dressed professional (you assume) of some sort, and the second a proud looking man who stands tall, like a soldier.

The three of you make eye-contact with one another.

Natasha offers a half hearted smile and checks to make sure her bathrobe is adjusted, "Gentlemen, welcome." Her voice is smooth and calming with a Russian accent, she clearly favors her left side coming down the stairs.

"I thought I told you to get some rest," Iris whispers pushing her crimson curls behind her ears.

"You fuss to much darling," Natasha replies with a smile drawing out the "r", "I walk across Siberia, I thinks I can walk downstairs." She glances about, "Mister Butler…"

A thin, middle aged man in a black suit with a receding grey hair and a pinched nose appears at the parlor door with a silver tray. There are 3 large tumblers of whiskey and a cup of tea on the tray. He offers the drinks to the men.

"Thank you Mister B," Natasha says reaching for one of the whiskey glasses, Iris slaps her hand and directs it towards the china cup.

"Tea, because you don’t listen." Iris takes the tumbler, "whiskey, because you don’t listen."

Natasha looks at the two men seriously, "I do not do readings or seances on a Saturday…"

"It’s Sunday love," Iris says taking a sip of whiskey.

"On a Sunday without appointment, do you have appointment?"

Kenneth quickly clears his throat and says, "Ah, no, we don't, I'm afraid. However, we are here at the behest of someone I believe you're acquainted with? Jackson Elias?"

"Ah Mr. Elias," Natasha says with a smile fanning herself with her hand, "so very tall, dark and handsome. He has terrible habit of asking questions to which he does not want answers. Reminds me of that Cinema fellow."

"Charlie Chaplain?" Iris offers.

"No."

"Buster Keaton?"

"No."

"Valentino?"

"We should be so fortunate."

"Lillian Gish?"

"I would not kick her out of bed for eating biscuits."

"I believe the chap you’re thinking of is Douglas Fairbanks mum." Mr. Butler says quietly.

"That’s the one! Have you seen Thief of Bagdad yet?". Natasha wiggles her hips, "So good."

She gestures towards the parlour, "Where are my manners? Come sit, tell us what it is Mr. Fairbanks..."

"Elias," Iris whispers.

"...Elias is wanting."

The next long while is a complete blur, but you awake, sweat-soaked and wrapped in white bed sheets in what you recognize as your apartment. The taste in your mouth is foul, your eyes are puffy, and your head is swimming. You vaguely recall the the blinding lights of oncoming traffic, a fall on the icy pavement (and there's a cut on your hand suggesting the memory's veracity), and the feel of sleet finding its way behind the upturned collar of you overcoat to your bare skin from the night before. You turn over to check the time on your bedside clock and notice your leather-bound notebook opened to the following page:


You have little memory of composing it, though it does look like your handwriting.

Caleb feels totally dreadful and instinctively starts reaching for the half-empty bottle of moonshine on his nightstand. However, something inside of him seems to shift, and at the last moment, he manages to pull his hand back. Instead, he makes his way to the bathroom, groaning. He avoids looking in the mirror, and resolutely puts his head under the cold running water. He gasps, curses and splashes water everywhere, but at least the fog in his head starts lifting...

He makes it back to his bedroom and takes another look at his notebook. He scratches the stubble on his chin, trying to remember in what context he wrote this down, but to no avail. In any case, provided he wasn't completely delusional when he wrote this down, things don't seem to look so good for this Mr Elias, and he has a feeling he should probably try to warn him. The Chelsea, wouldn't that be some sort of hotel or apartment building, where they would have a room 400?

After finding the only halal offering at lunch - an admittedly rather tasty chicken curry concoction - you find your way back to the African Exhibition to hear Von Kluck speak on Sudanese pyramids. Some of it is rather dull - geometric comparisons of the 60-70° angles vs. those found in Egypt during the Old Kingdom - but of particular interest is a comparison of cross-sections, which suggest not only that the pyramids of the Sudan are far more ancient than those of Egypt, but that the latter also may have borrowed its structural designs from the Nubians. This revelation runs completely counter to the prevailing wisdom of the day - it was well-accepted that the Black Africans lacked the ingenuity to build on this level, let alone instruct the patriarchs of Western Civilization - and it elicits loud gasps from the attending audience.

Eventually, 6pm rolls around, and you step to the podium to begin your own presentation. The western windows allow the final rays of sunlight to illuminate the settling dust in the air; you shuffle your notes and begin...

The attendees applaud loudly at its conclusion, and several members of the attending audience come to you afterward with questions - some sincere and intelligent, others simply self-promoting references to their own work. As the people begin to disperse toward the other exhibits, you see a single man, rugged and swarthy, sitting on the back of one of the auditorium chairs in the rear of the hall. He is dressed in white linen with a well-manicured pencil-mustache and offers a few slow and emphatic claps that echo in the gallery.

Kenneth follows the intriguing young woman into her parlor and takes a seat as the others do.

"Unfortunately, I don't have much information. All I know is that he needs us. Perhaps Mr. O'neil knows more?" he says as he gestures over to the soldier with an eyebrow crooked up.

Natasha gestures towards a large nouveau inspired sofa before sitting on a matching divan. She crosses her legs before carefully adjusting her robe smoothing out any wrinkles.

"You say you do not have much information which means clearly you must have some." She smiles a little.

"I am Natasha by the way, Natasha Koshkin," she extends a hand towards Dr. Davis. "This is the eye of my hurricane, Miss Iris Adler and Mister Butler who makes sure everything in house is absolutely perfect and that it does not collapse around us."

She looks at the two men, "You are professor or doctor of some sort and he is soldier, airman perhaps, but forgive me I do not know your names."

Akila approaches the swarthy man and stops short as he introduces himself. "Ah, Mr. Elias, I've been looking forward to your presentation. And I will certainly give you my opinion on whatever you've found. How did you like my comparisons of Ancient Egyptian and Sumerian texts? I think there is a lot more to learned there. Where are these artifacts that you would like me to look at? And since it's dinner time perhaps you would join my for a bite."

Does this telegram mean anything to Natasha?