[b]Sham Shui Po District, Hong Kong, China[/b]

Streetlight shone from the far end of the claustrophobic alley way. Their light gleaming on the recently whetted cement as a light rainfall fell over the city. Building droplets fell fat from overhead over hangs, falling to soft splashes in deep puddles in the broken and pitted ground below. An eerie, quiet somberness hung over the alley, and even the sound of the light night traffic felt ghostly in the eerie loneliness.

Even more distant came the echoes of argument and laughter. Angry voices screaming from above. Or deep hawing caws from below. Covens of darkened figures hung back in dark windows.

For the young girl that walked through the alley, it was as troubling as she was unfitted for the area. Her black hair cut short around her ears did as well as she did already to hide the anxiety in her soft youthful face. Was this right place? Or had she been screwed over? The prying eyes she felt from the invisible niches made her uncomfortable, and she for once wished Feng was with her. But she had other things to do, she had said. So she had to sneak out on her own.

She inevitably came to a corner in the alley, cutting herself off from the slowly weakening street lights that had been behind her. She stepped around into total darkness. It had to be this way, she reaffirmed herself. This had to be where she was told.

But all the alley had that she could see were stacks of garbage bins. Overloaded with refuse, dimly illuminated by lights high above. The rain drew out a certain strong stench of detritus that bit her nose. Discarded fruits, meats, papers, and cardboard mingled in the wet air with a distasteful bite like that of old vinegar.

Cardboard and discarded bicycles also lay stacked against the walls. Broken bottles and a shattered rickshaw formed the ground work of an empty lean-to, the concrete padded by a chaotic fan of moldy, soaked cardboard.

The young girl wandered down the dark alleyway, confused, frightened. It was dark, wet, cold. Even for a spring time Hong Kong. She bit her lip nervously as she fretted between the stacks of garbage, trying dearly to not get her clothes dirtied on the way.

Panic struck her with the force of a train as light flickered bright in the corner of her vision. Her heart jumped and held numb in her chest as she turned, expecting with a pale face a police officer looming in the darkness with a flashlight shone into her eyes, ready to question. But the feeling of intense fear did not wash away as she saw the glowing light in the side of a building. Its sickly, putrid yellow light glowing to fill the concrete canyon and to highlight the metal door it hung over, the blue paint that had covered it peeling back in rusted curls and fragile, jagged teeth.

Her breathing was tense and sparse as she froze, looking into the light. Like a moth caught in the hypnotizing dance of the flame. She was glued to the spot. Too afraid to move. Too afraid to turn back down the dark, wet alley.

With a low groan the door opened. The guttural groan of the worn hinges soliciting a stark shudder and a sudden jump back from the girl as it swung slowly open, followed by a heavy boot.

Out through the door stepped a large black man. His dark skin blacker than the night, even in the light above his head. He was a large man, his clothes seeing well to highlight this fact. Large engorged muscles shone through a tight black tanktop. His legs filled well a pair of foreign military fatigues, some drab jungle green.

The man's eyes were drawn up to the nervous Chinese youth standing at the edge of the circle of light that filled the alley. He rose a lighter from his pants to a cigarette clutched between his lips, watching her as he lit it.

“Whad can I help you wid?” he asked, his Chinese thickly accented as he addressed the girl, “You dun look like someone who'd be around here.” he added, puffing on his cigarete.

“I-I'm looking for the Catina de Madrid.” she said nervously.

The door man looked at her up and down. His eyes sharp and measuring. Taking a draw from his cigarette he asked, “Whad's your name girl?”

“Mei...” she said hesitantly, “Mei Hsiu Mei.”

“Preddy name,” the man smiled, “Lod'sa preddy girls here. Don'd sday preddy long. Whad's a girl like you looking for the Catina?”

“I-I... It's complicated...” she muttered quietly.

“You bugged?” the man asked.

Well, no!” Mei shouted, flustered, “Why would you ask that?”

“Can'd be too safe.” the man laughed, “How old you be?” he asked.

“Seventeen.” Mei replied, offended.

The black man smiled wide, “You ain'd dressed like any yellow woman.” he sneered. It was true, the turtle-necked sweater and long skirt was more American than anything, and the leather hand bag, “Did you get losd on da way do some youth club d'ing?”

“I didn't. Now will you tell me where the Catina de Madrid is? A friend of mine told me it was here!”

The man nodded with a wry smile, lifting his head up to exhale a stream of smoke. “I see.” he said, giving her a crooked smile, “How about I get a hundred Ren and I'll tell you.”

“A-a hundred?” Mei said aghast.

“You look like you're good off, girl.” the African protested, “And a hundred is enough for me to eat for a week.”

Mei's face glowed red with anger. Sighing bitterly, she dug into her handbag, tearing out a number of 20 Ren notes. Walking over to the man she held out the fistful of red credit notes. “Here!” she said tensly, “A hundred!”

The man smiled as he took the cash. Flipping through it with fat fingers he counted the notes. “Alright [i]comrade[/i],” he started, nodding happily and stepping aside, “Welcome to the Catina de Madrid.”

“What!?” Mei said.

Pocketing the handful of Ren the man looked up at her with a distant smile, “Welcome to the Catina.” he repeated, gesturing into the door.

Mei shot him a sour expression as she followed through, stepping into the darkened corridor within. Flickering light illuminated a grungy, if yet immaculate stair well that marched down into the bowls of the building. A familiar instance in many of the underground clubs of Hong Kong, that made the definition more literal than need-be. And walking in from the rain brought to her ears the soft drifting sound of music from the depths of the building. It was a strange music.

With careful tentative steps Mei followed the sounds of slow and long drawn notes down the flight of the cement stairs. Much unlike the music that had been imported from the United States during their short partnership with China that had introduced to the nation the fast-paced, up-beat party anthems that filled many youth clubs this was something softer, distorted maybe. In the distance she heard the sounds of convention, playing in subtle partnership to instruments more unconventional than she had known.

It was not like that of Chen Yiaolang, who had begun the popularity of the new sound into China. This was something newer. Niche even. Drums gave a slow, soft tribal air. Plucked strings sung out in a duality of sounds. Representing both the Yangtze and something darker, more distant. It was hardly music that Mei thought she could dance to, or anyone. It had been no secret that as with the Americans, Africans had fled to the coastal metropolises of China, or immigrated there through trade, setting up small scattered communities through Hong Kong.

She had heard of veterans of the Congolese rebellion seeking refuge in places like Hong Kong and Shanghai. Often establishing communities far different from the isolated pockets of American negroes who had came over to the country ten years prior. These were facts of trivia, and brought up regularly on late-night radio programing.

Her feet landed on the final flight of steps at the bottom of the well. Here a small alcove formed the final landing, set with a plain door. The sound of the music was most pronounced here, this had to be the Catina was.

With a careful hand, she placed herself on the door and gently pushed it open. It creaked softly on its hinges as it let out into a large, dimly lit room. It took a moment for her eyes to readjust to the lighting, and the soft orange color that dominated the catina within.

Blinking, Mei's eyes slowly adjusted. The décor and furnishings of the greater room coming to view. And here she found to be no chairs. Instead, large pillows and cushions torn from old couches or chairs littered the floor, tucked in the corners of where lay crates or where the floor met the wall. The whole middle of the room was devoid, save the slowly dancing figures clothed in the dull murky haze of a sweet smelling smoke.

A band sat in the far corner, without a bandstand. Foreign drums sat between their legs, leading in tow a band of random men and random instruments. They sounded as if they played with no plan, no real direction in their song. It was a straight improvised melody they carried like water, much as the smoke that filled the room bellowed and swirled in the cool underground air.

The patrons - if they were not in the center of the room dancing in a trance – reclined lazily around the edge of the room. There was a lax, strange atmosphere. A cooler, calmer practice as opposed to the raunchy, beer-fueled romps she had been familiar with.

Walking to the bar-counter on the farside of the room she look down confused, and hypnotized at the sleeping men and women. Or the docile patrons who stared off into the near and far space around them. Light snacks sat on forgotten plates around them. Simple items, apples, fruits, crackers.

“Good evening, miss.” a man said as Mei stepped up to the counter. He was a gaunt figure, his dark Africa skin pressed flat against well defined bones. Dreadlocks fell down about him like vines from the tree. His appearance took Mei by surprise.

“Oh, good evening...” she said nervously, “This is the Catina de Madrid?” she asked.

“It is.” the bartender said with a smile, he spoke Chinese better than the doorman out front, and had a polite air to him. “Name's Biniam.” he smiled.

“Mei...” Mei replied, “But why do you care?” she asked.

“I have a small patrimony.” he said with a polite smile, “And, it helps should a trip go bad.” he added.

“Trip?” Mei asked.

“You must be a truly rich girl then!” he laughed, “Don't get down to the dark streets often do you?”

“No...”

Biniam smiled as he reached under the counter, “Just tell me if you have any mental issues.” he grinned as he pulled his hand from under the table, putting it on the table. Drawing it back, he revealed a small tab, a small portrait on its face. “If you don't, it's on the house. For first time visitors.” he smiled.

“W-what is it?” Mei asked.

“LSD.” said Biniam, “The best exploration of your inner self you'll ever have!” he exclaimed.

Mei looked down at the tablet. Though tiny, she could make out the small image of a well suited black man. A man crowned with a messy afro. With a raised thumb, he held out his hand affirmatively. “Try me”. Was printed in English under the portrait.

“I don't think I do...” Mei said nervously.

“Then try it.”

[b]Yekaterinburg, Russia[/b]

With a crash the metal plate fell from the ceiling. The rattle echoed up and down the empty corridor as it was followed be a pair of men, dropping in through the air vents.

“It could not be louder, comrade!” swore the Russian as he dropped to the floor. The hall was dark, and glowed only with the eerie red of emergency lighting.

“No body is here.” Jun cracked, “They locked it up and went home.”

“True, but they still had a guard out front.”

“It still won't be an issue.” the Chinese agent said, getting to his feet.

“Do you even know where you're going?” the Russian asked.

Jun didn't bother him with a reply as he pulled from his coat a flashlight. With a click he flipped the light on and shone it on the signs hanging overhead. The faded Russian matched well with the dingy, fading walls of the city morgue.

“This way.” Jun said, finding a sign pointing down the hall declaring the autopsy lab to be down that route. He didn't miss a beat as he followed the arrow, holding his light ahead as he moved. His partner followed.

Their foot falls echoed in the emptiness of the mortuary offices. Barren sterile walls and equally formless doors passed them by as they marched on. The signs ahead giving direction. Offices, archives, lounge, lobby, autopsy.

It wasn't like the two needed a map, and in due time they came to the door they were looking for. Along the wall next to it stood a large glass window, looking into the darkened surgical room inside. Shining his light inside, Jun scanned the room through the glass. A thin layer of frost coated the glass, distorting the light as it glazed across racks of stainless steel drawers, tables, and tools. There were still bodies laying out at rest across the operating tables, covered in sheets.

“Which one is he?” Jun's Russian partner asked, “And how do we get in?”

“Let me worry about getting in.” Jun said flatly as he looked at the chamber beyond, “Just get his photo and name out.”

“Yes, comrade.” he said, reaching into his pocket. Jun stepped around him, reaching into his coat for his pistol.

It was a heavy revolver. Finished in nickle and polished over. It shone in the weak light of Jun's flashlight as he swung it about. Turning the handle around to serve as a club. The Chinese Changu pistol was a heavy beast for sure.

Stepping along the door he reached out and tapped the glass with the butt of the pistol. Testing the glass. It was thin, unreinforced. He had to be careful he didn't swing through it, for sure a piece could fall over his hand. But he wasn't concerned for the pain, just the possibility of a large pane dropping over his wrist.

The Russian watched him as Jun rose his hand, griping the barrel rough in his hand as with a long arc he struck the window.

With a loud crash the pistol crashed through it. The cracks spider webbing from the central contact point exploding quickly outward and falling apart as the glass cleared from the pane in a shower of crystal. Tiny shards falling to the floor.

Jun cleared out the glass before he reached around inside, finding the inside knob and flipping the bolt to unlock it.

“That's one way to open a door.” his partner commented as they stepped in. Glass ground underfoot as the walked into the refrigerated autopsy room.

“Let's find our body then.”