In the desert, there is a hill, almost a mountain, officially a hill, and on the hill, there is a town.

A chaotic assembly of clapboard houses and adobe homes clustered around this spindly metal tower with a cable stretching off into the sky.

A single main road winding along the spine of the mountain, forming the nucleus of the town where the concentration is highest,

people milling about their daily business, a particular man weaving his way through them.

The man is deft, a droid, sharp-looking, bowler hat on the top of his head,

briefcase under an arm, shopping bag in his other hand.

He is arriving now at his destination, his purpose clear in his mind.

He has one task and one task only.

Blackmail.

Music Blackmail.

This man is Atticus Concord.

He's a dandy sort of fellow, as we mentioned. The bowler hat, the suit, the briefcase, the shopping bag. The shopping bag is unrelated. He was out getting something for his sister, who he'll be visiting later. He is a sharp-looking guy. There's a slight edge of creepiness to him. Clearly, you already find him creepy because you know his mission now.

As he proceeds down the street, the other residents of Stationery Hill cast their eyes his way.

He sort of sticks out a little bit like a sore thumb, but a sore thumb in a suit.

Let's just be clear about that.

Like a really attractive sore thumb.

Yeah, he has that self-assured, confident,

vaguely theatrical, on-stage sort of quality. There is a slight edge to him, a slight creepiness. There is something not entirely quite right. There is more going on than meets the

eye, and you would sense that if you talked to him. He's not talking to anyone now.

He's making a beeline for the front door of his destination, the Black Candle Cabaret.

Ah, what a sight it is amongst these other dusty and sort of worn down buildings in stationary

hill. This place has class. At least it's trying to have class. It has class. It actually does.

...