[center][color=gray][b]Casimir Volk[/b][/color][/center]

Casimir was so focused that his tongue was sticking out from the corner of his mouth and his hands were growing sweaty from the effort required to keep them from flinching. He just needed to move the damned thing a little bit to the left, only a fraction of an inch, and the blasted radio would finally be tuned. It was an old, sorry bit of machinery, not like those fancy new receivers in posh restaurants and the residences of the rich. Its signal was not amplified, so it had to be listened through a pair of battered headphones, which he had placed around his neck. The object of his attention was a thin, copper wire or a “cat’s whisker” as they called it around here, which was mounted on an adjustable arm, positioned above a small crystal. The whole idea was that the “whisker” had to touch a specific point of the crystal’s surface so that the radio signal could be modulated and heard through the headphones.

Easier said than done, as even the tiniest vibration or movement could disturb the signal. It was a process that required a lot of patience and steady hands, which was why he had been loath to do it in the first place. Still, he had promised Mrs Hassett that he’d see to it and Casimir Volk was not a man to go back on his word. Especially when the woman’s goodwill was all that kept him from sleeping in the gutter. He was out of roots and out of work, so he made himself useful by repairing whatever was needed around the tenement in exchange for a small, cramped room on the second floor. 

Some of the radio’s wires had come off due to age and he had already replaced those, believing that most of the work was done. The tuning process, however, had taken the majority of his time. Carefully, he nudged the “whisker” and was greeted by static, followed by voices. It worked! He slammed his hand on the table in a misguided act of celebration, realising a moment too late that this would cause the bloody wire to shift. 

And just like that, the signal was gone. At this point he was too frustrated to shout or curse, so he stood up slowly and moved away from the infernal machine, hand pressed to his forehead.  His room was big enough to hold a bed, two small tables, a rickety chair, a coat hanger suspended from a rusty nail and an indeterminate number of papers scattered throughout the rotting, wooden floor. All in all, considering his situation, Casimir couldn’t complain. 

He’d placed the radio on the smaller table, while the one next to it contained the pieces of a clock he had taken apart. One hundred and twenty-seven pieces to be exact, carefully laid out and arranged on the wooden surface. Now [i]this[/i] had taken him a lot longer than the radio, he’d laboured on it for the past week. He thought he heard Mrs Hassett calling from downstairs, but decided to disregard it. With luck, she might think he was asleep. 

At any rate, Casimir still couldn’t determine what was wrong with the clock. It was masterfully-crafted and he couldn’t understand how his landlady had managed to acquire such an expensive piece. He leaned in and picked up a delicate spring, which was slightly bent out of a shape. Maybe this was the culprit? 

“MISTER VOLK!” 

Sighing, Casimir looked up. How did the old hag expect him to fix anything if she kept pestering him every five minutes?! 

Only then did he actually focus on the sunlight coming through the small window above his bed. He looked at the candle near the radio and realised it had burnt out long ago. Damn it, was it morning again? 

He quickly slipped into a clean shirt, put his worn coat on and made his way downstairs. Mrs Hasset was in her usual place, sipping tea in her rocking chair, which stood next to a round table in the middle of the common room like some throne. She was an old lady, in her sixties or maybe even seventies, but Casimir had never dared to ask. Tough, stubborn and spry for her age, she was well-regarded in the entire neighbourhood. Her husband had been a doctor and had treated people for free, settling for whatever they could provide – food, clothes or simple thanks. From what Casimir had heard, the man had passed away a couple of years ago, but his memory was very much alive. Even the local toughs looked out for his widowed wife and made sure nobody disturbed her. 

For her part, Mrs Hassett was quite the character. She was known for being kind and charging fair rent, but she had the overbearing desire to always have things her way. Oh and of course, she believed she always knew what the best course of action was, even if she was completely unfamiliar with the subject. Casimir had been with her for about a month now, but every interaction with her had been a…experience.

“Good morning, Mrs Hassett.” 

“Mister Volk, are you deaf or have you no manners? I’ve been calling for the past ten minutes!” 

“Apologies, but it can’t have been ten minutes, I heard you just now.” 

“Well, I would know for certain how much time had passed if I had my clock here. Something which, by the way, you promised to fix [i]last week[/i].” 

Casimir suppressed the urge to sigh, he felt like he was in front of a firing line. 

“Mrs Hassett, I’m working as fast as I can, but it’s a complicated contraption.” 

The old woman tsked, shaking her head. “Ah, youth these days…Never mind that, a wee lad came through here and said he had a message for you.” She produced a parchment, cleverly folded like an envelope. 

Doing his best not to show his excitement, Casimir carefully took the paper and, walking to the window, read through it. There was not much to read, actually, save for a single sentence: 

[i]“Business prospects reviewed, found adequate opportunity for employment, would like to hold an interview immediately and in person at residence, post haste. M & B"[/i]

He’d never met “M” or “B” in person, but he had a good idea of who they were. The woman he had contacted, after doing some digging on local insurgents, had told him to wait for just such a message. Casimir had been doubtful that this so-called Resistance was actually more than whispers, but the letter in his hand told a different story. 

“Will you take some tea, Mister Volk?” 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hassett, but I must go. It’s about a job!” 

She looked at him as if he had just admitted to murder, but Casimir was too busy running up the stairs to notice. By habit, he burnt the letter first, then took his knives and lockpicks – he didn’t think he would need them at this point, but it never hurt to be prepared. Plus, he didn’t want Mrs Hassett snooping through his things while he was gone.
 
Less than five minutes after he had read the message, Casimir was already rushing out of the tenement’s door and onto the sleety street.

[hr]

Whenever he found himself in a rich neighbourhood, Casimir couldn’t help but remember how many estates he had broken into. When normal people looked at such mansions, they’d usually imagine luxury, gardens, ballrooms and parties. Casimir, on the other hand, thought of safes, vaults, cabinets – dirty secrets hiding under the affluent sheen. Though customs varied from place to place, rich people were all the same. 

It had taken him about an hour to reach this part of town. He had been here only once before, when he had scouted out the location of the estate he was now travelling to. For such a huge city the streets seemed almost deserted, he’d only come across a handful of people and most of them had been Asgardian soldiers. Casimir found that funny, if only these grunts knew that a wanted fugitive from Beakhaven was within an arm’s reach…He was practically a walking promotion, but they’d have to catch him first. 

The depressing silence engulfing the district was only broken by the crunching of his boots on the oily sleet. Apparently, this is what passed for snow around here. The relative quiet made it easy to discern a shout coming from a nearby estate. Casimir glanced in that direction and realised that this was the place he had been summoned to.  

A lone figure stood in front of the manor’s door, well-set and carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like a mechanic, but Casimir doubted the estate’s owner would call for repairmen and would-be rebels at the same time of day. The man said something about steam and repair jobs, so with the practiced ease of a professional, Casimir strolled up to the manor just as the butler was opening the door. 

“Blazes, there you are!” he exclaimed at his [i]colleague[/i]. “I thought we’d agreed to meet at the square?!” he pointed back in the direction from which he’d came. Not wasting any time, he continued, turning towards the butler “So, we’re here. What exactly is the problem? Come on, we’re busy folk – let’s get to it!”