Nestor’s green eyes shot across the crowd in search of maps as he met the undulating masses at the base of the staircase. The Vanisher did not want to use his power to make the searching faster, despite his urge to do so, because he found that the repercussions would far outweigh the benefits. Instead, he observed others and listened, his ears perking at the sound of voices crying, “One Forty-“ and then absolutely everything except the beloved “three” he wanted to hear. He was by no means desperate to find his partners, but he especially did not like wasting time as he was doing.

As the man looked around in the crowd, he witnessed a great diversity of groups. Most groups took the tactic of grouping together tightly and lifting one member up to call out the number and hold up a map so as to find members more easily. Some members just gathered around in a group and waited, while others left alone, possibly supposing that they’d more easily find their group as it left. Nestor wandered around and shouted the phrase, “One Forty Three” at anyone who neared him, hoping to arouse an excited response. Of course, he got none.

His actions continued on for a few minutes, then they suddenly changed. Nestor was debating whether or not he should continue his search the entire time, but decided that he had best wait for the crowd to thin out a little more. “This was not a very insightful system,” he commented aloud, “I will never know whether or not my group left without me unless I wait until sunset.” A person nearby heard him and walked over, stating his agreement in an exasperated tone. The two of them talked for a minute, then the man perked up at the sound of, “One Ten!” and ran off in the direction of the call without a single word.

Nestor sat down on a bench and watched the crowd move about for a few minutes, watching as individuals slowly grouped together in larger, more organized groups. “Now it should be easier,” he commented, standing up and looking around once more. The Vanisher continued searching for a half-hour after the doors to the town hall opened, only capable of seeing due to the dim moonlight shining down from the sky-holes and the light cast by held torches and candles. The man was nearing anger as he asked what seemed like the hundredth group for their number. “One would think that the chances get higher at each question,” he posed, “but they seem to be getting lower!”

A few more conversations and one quick skirmish later, Nestor gave up looking in the huge crowds. He had checked all of the large groups, so he assumed that his group would be very small. The man observed that people from small groups were assembling along the edge of the town plaza, so he decided to do the same. “One Forty Three,” he called, his voice as strong as it was when he started, “if you’re in group one forty three, come to me!” His tone was lathered in impatience but he was starting to become more eager to find someone else. He continued calling as he passed by a few groups, walking past buildings and stone walls, benches and beggars. From what he observed, there was not a man in the city who carried the fabled number 143.