Fletcher calls himself a detective- and he's one in hiding, at that. His crew were his friends: Chess, a girl apt in combat and fiery in temperament, Sinclair: an amazing inventor, and Hermia: a trained assassin. But he's gone missing, and it's up to the crew to track him down.
In Bill's Saloon that day, the air was dry and terse like any other: permeated with the omnipresent scent of watered-down alcohol and sweat. A light, ragtime-y tune played on the piano. A gaggle of hardened Bandits played cards in one corner. Bill's girls, bosoms pushed up and hair piled high, teased a number of drunk attendants whilst fingering their wallets. One, a redhead, stole the hat off her target of choice- a bandit in the gang. He sat on his barstool grinning a toothless smile as she tried it on for size and winked at him.
The bartender himself, Bill, was spit cleaning some cloudy pint glasses behind the bar. His brow glistened with sweat that seeped into the cracks and crevices of his face, magnifying them and chiselling out his flabby features. He used the collar of his sun-bleached shirt to wipe the sheen away- when suddenly, the saloon doors swung open. Bill lifted his hand to block the stark sunlight that threw itself through the open doors.
There, in the doorway, stood two figures, silhouetted against the stark blue sky outside. Through his fingers and the fractured glare of the sun, they appeared sinister, even menacing.
Time resumed, and as the saloon doors swung behind them, they stepped forward in unison.