[i]Rain slicked stones. A storm above. The crash of thunder. Lightning splits the scene; illumination lingers in the still-shot. Then, a neon glow; a streak of color against the monochrome world. A streak of blue falling onto a body. A woman. Rea Markouli. Her eyes? Wide open. Staring straight through my soul.[/i]

Cathal shook himself. The large man shifted from foot to foot, as if passing the tremor wholly through his body and back out the other leg back into the earth below. Lifting a hand he pulled the cap down more firmly, a sea draft having caught under the brim and woken him from his reverie. The salty sting in his eyes left him wondering if it was ocean air irritation, or his own tear ducts begging to be uncorked at last. Refusing to come up with an answer to that question, Cathal focused back on the newspaper in hand as he secured the cap just over the ridge of his brow where it'd shield his eyes from the sky and breeze alike.

[b]Montag Detectives, Ltd. Hiring Now.[/b]

His eyes scanned the rest of the advertisement. He'd already read it a dozen times. Woken up to it on top of his face. Found it beneath bottles of whiskey. Seen it in dreams, floating there like a neglected band aid overtop a gushing wound. Was it holding the tide back, or was it about to get lost in the drift? Another question he didn't want to think about. Another vision to blur the waking world and sleeping into that of prophecy. This ever growing list of questions took the shape of an outline in chalk, the title of the quiz 'Rea Markouli', and Cathal's swaggering soldier's gait carried him right over it and across this wayward dock. He felt Rea Markouli at his back as he stepped into the Fateful Warehouse. He stood in the door and let his gaze adjust to the candlelight within.

"...Not quite the [i]Sandra[/i]..." He laughed to himself. "...but it'll do."

Lowering the collar of his heavy coat, Cathal enjoyed a reprieve from the sea breeze and the cutting winds that the industry of the city produced. The latent smog and haze of the city was second nature to him, and a far cry from the artillery smoke and gas screens of the battlefield. As he took his first proper steps in, his gaze swept the room and landed on a redheaded woman-

Outside, a rogue wave washed over the dockside and slammed into the side of an abandoned junker, creating a resounding clang. Cathal went rigid, his eyes focusing on the woman in a sudden and deep clarity brought about by the triggering noise.

[i]The cry of thunder; the neon glow; the woman; the woman's eyes. Rea Markouli. Her body strewn across the city, the city torn asunder, her eyes wide open. Always open.[/i]

He lifted a hand to his eyes and rubbed them, forcing a barking laughter as he calmed himself. Letting his hand fall away with a heavy limbed fatigue that permeated every bone of this man's being was easy; forcing the next step was hard. Montag Detectives, Ltd. The fluttering band aid of his dreams. The frayed cloth holding together the modesty of New Haven. The last train home, its light beckoning in the dark. Every footstep took him closer to that lantern. When he finally sat down, the woman's voice caught up with him. His gaze finished its sweep as he clasped his hands together in front of his groin and adopted a casual sitting stance- but one relaxed and prepared to move, a man accustomed to spontaneity and danger alike. His shoulders bounced rather than his knees, and as her words fully registered in his head so too did the presence of the others in the building. He shifted forward, a more friendly demeanor rising over his casual one, and propped his elbows on his knees and flashed a dazzling smile that peeked out from above a grizzled jawline of beard and below a trimmed moustache of minimalist intentions.

"Eh, ain't awkward a bit, missus."  He chimes in. "We're all a bit on the temporary side, I find. Nobody knows what tomorrow brings; you know where you stand with a warehouse with crate tables and clean water." He takes a cup and runs a hand over his beard as he looks down into it. "...At least I hope it's clean!" He laughs that barking laughter, as he drinks deeply of the cup. He clears his throat and raises the cup to Robyn when she speaks up.

"I've been worse, and trust me there's a helluva lot worse weather to be in." He winks in a compassionate manner, rather than flirtatious, to show his sympathy at the climate. "Name's O'Molloy, formally Cathal. Don't much mind what you call me."

He finds himself swept up in Jane's enthusiasm and energy, and his introduction takes a walk out the door as he studies the girl and her frenetic state.

"Girlie, if yer worried about payin' for water, I'll cover the tab; drink, I say, drink!" He encourages her with that barking laugh again- the callousness of his laugh a stark contrast to the smooth and honeyed tones of his voice, a voice that some may find quite familiar if they were regulars in the music clubs of the city.