ARCHIVED: The Secret City

Siren City is a political and diplomatic anomaly, a settlement that due to a quirk of cartography was left out when the borders of Callaici and Xentherida, becoming an international territory that also serves as a commuter hub for goods and people travelling between the two states. The city and its suburbs are managed by the Siren City International Territory Trust, which funds itself by donations from states and corporations, and by a small toll levied on those travelling to and from and through the city.

There is, however, another side of Siren City, one not even seen by most of residents, and it begins in a jazz club called the Postmodern Jukebox. The club, located in the basement of the Wyvern Hotel, plays mainly 20s and 30s versions of modern songs, giving it a feel of two worlds colliding - or so the hotel brochure mentions. What it doesn't mention however, is that in a private room, located far in the back of the club, was a small table with a book of names. These names were varied and came from all across the North Pacific and some even further afield. They had one thing in common.

They were the only ones allowed to use the door at the end of the room. It was a perfectly normal door, but was kept locked for all but those with the key to open it... a key you would be given if you presented your invitation to the doorman... who was a little bit odd...

---

It was a long way to Siren City, Tendanji Afolaya reflected as he entered the Postmodern Jukebox for the first time. A veteran of the bushwars of his homeland of Naizerre, he had been invited to stay at the Wyvern Hotel by a businessman his unit had rescued from one of the more vicious militia. Happy not to have been eaten, he invited Tendanji to use his suite and tab. Never having visited anywhere outside of the savannas of home, he had readily agreed.

After check in and having rested up, Tendanji had been interrupted by a knock at the door. An overly formal man in a hotel uniform had informed him that Jonathan Abrams the businessman who gave him the suite was here and would like to see him in the Postmodern Jukebox, the hotel's basement club. He presented Tendanji with an engraved invitation that read, The Postmodern Jukebox hereby invites Tendanji Afolaya - at the request of Jonathan Abrams - to visit the private bar of the Jukebox. Formal attire is required.

Tendanji had regarded the invitation with some suspicion. After all, Abrams hadn't told him he would be at the hotel, nor had he any interest in further interaction with him. He was far too prone to getting into trouble. Curiosity, however, got the better of him and he dressed in the only formal attire he owned, the Army dress uniform, and entered the club.

No one paid him any attention as he entered, most of the patrons were watching the house band perform, and he made his way to the bar. Flagging down a smartly dressed barman he told him he was here to meet Jonathan Abrams and was pointed to a booth near the back. He made his way to the booth and greeted Abrams as he looked up from his drink. He sat down and was soon joined by a man introduced to him just as Tiberius.

Small talk was not something Naizerri were known for and Tendanji wanted to find out just what was going on. "I have come, Mr Abrams, as you requested. What do you need?" He interrupted just as the businessman was telling a story of his recent trip to Ghis Town, taking him aback.

Abrams blinked a few times, then gulped down his drink. "Very well. I'll get to it. I need your help Tendanji. My brother has been exploring the furthest reaches known to man, and has been out of contact for far too long. A week ago, my intermediary reported that the signal he would use to indicate he was in trouble had been used. I would like you to find him."

Tendanji regarded the businessman, just as the band started into a new song. "Why me? Surely you could locate those more familiar with wherever your brother is to help you."

"I could," Abrams nodded. "But I would not trust them a single jot. I trust you, and know your quality. I believe you are able to do this."

"It will cost you."

"Of course, Tiberius will sort out anything you need. I will caution you though, this will be magnitudes more difficult than when you saved my life."

"I do not doubt that. Rescuing you was easy." Tendanji stood, as did Abrams companion. "Lead on then, Tiberius." Tiberius merely regarded Tendanji with a smirk, and led him not to the door, but further into the club, coming to a door marked Private. Tiberius opened it with a code Tendanji didn't see, and they entered the room.

The room was small and squat, with just a small table with an open book on it, and a door at the far end, with a quite unique man stood in front of it. As wide as he was tall, he was probably only about 5ft tall, but the man was pure muscle. Bulging arms led to hands bigger than plates and he stood on powerful legs as wide as a man's torso. Bearded and carrying a firearm, he stood at attention and had Tendanji on edge.

"Pay the doorman no heed, Tendanji. He is here for all of our protection." Tiberius told him, as he approached the book. He turned to a page and picked up a pen, speaking as he wrote. "Tendanji Afolaya of the Naizerri Commonwealth, sponsored by Jonathan Abrams, on a mission to the far realm." Tiberius looked up at the doorman. "Is Niranda free?"

The Doorman shook his head, but said nothing.

"Teofilo it is then. Not ideal, but the only option." He went back to the book. "Destination: Teofilo." He turned to Tendanji and handed him the pen. "Sign here." Cautiously, the big Naizerri did as he was asked. Tiberius took the pen and closed the book, handing Tendanji a small pouch he took from his jacket. "Coin enough to get you by. More can be obtained in the usual ways. Good luck, soldier." Tiberius left the room, leaving Tendanji with the Doorman.

"I go through the door?" He asked the stoutly built man. The Doorman nodded and Tendanji approached the door, waiting for him to move. Instead, he remained still and in place.

"I require an invitation." The Doorman told him. Wondering just what he'd got himself into, Tendanji gave the Doorman the invitation he'd received from Abrams. In return, the Doorman moved out of the way, and gave him a key. "Be careful as you step through. Teofilo moves in a way unlike other cities. When you arrive you will need to book passage to the Karin region. Keep that key safe, it is your only way back through the door."

Tendanji just nodded, unlocked the door and stepped through...

Giancarlo Boerio finished his drink, trying to ensure the warmth of his feet. He knew he had nowhere else to go, but that didn't stop him from having second thoughts. He put his elbows on the bar and leaned into them, his unbuttoned tuxedo jacket hanging loosely from his hips and off the edges of the barstool. He motioned for a refill as he turned the invitation over in his hands. It was starting to look worn, and had a crispness to it as if it had been soaked and then allowed to dry.

The bartender brought his refill over - he was almost inhumanly quick. Giancarlo mumbled thanks and felt inside his coat pocket for a tip. A five florin bill, with the face of some long-dead Gonfaloniere on it. The bartender snatched it from his fingers and walked off to serve someone else.

Giancarlo glanced at the door at the back of the bar. It was marked "PRIVATE", and a keypad rested above the knob. He ran his fingers over the four-digit number written in pencil - small numerals, in a neat handwriting. He adjusted in his seat, the two stacks of money in his coat pockets shifting with him. At what point would you stop looking for your 400,000 florins?

---

The sirens of the police boats chasing him were hardly audible over the loud roar of the speedboat engines. Behind him, the tall, gray and glass buildings of the Floregasque skyline blended into the overcast sky. Giancarlo was dressed in an oxford cloth button-down shirt, dress shorts, and brown loafers. He sat at the wheel of the speedboat, and on the seat next to him was a pistol and a briefcase full of money.

Giancarlo glanced behind him. In front of the container ships anchored in port he saw at least four speedboats in the black-and-white livery of the Floresque Police Department; two in the blue colors of the Port Authority, and two in the green colors of the Gendarmerie. He was in deep shit. His clothing allowed him to blend in in the bank until he pulled his gun, but his choice of getaway vehicle was anything but subtle.

He turned hard to port, and sea water splashed on his face. The boats followed suit, and as he lost speed he felt buckshot hit the side of his craft. He pressed the throttle as far as it would go and headed north, towards the shore; no plan but to get as far as he could. A cruise ship packed with tourists was heading towards a wharf, and he dared to hope that if he could cut it off he'd have a good few seconds before the boats trailing him could maneuver around it. At the very least, the elderly Plembobrians and Syrixians would get a good show.

The ship blew its foghorn as the group of speedboats approached it. Giancarlo steered his craft past the bow of the cruise ship, its enormous white frame casting him in shadow. He swiftly turned the wheel to starboard and miraculously cleared its path as it cut off the boats trailing him. He edged back towards shore and smiled, just in time to see a buoy submerged in the cruise ship's wake pop back up in front him.

As the speedboat hit the hard metal surface, it flew into the air and spun portwise. Giancarlo grabbed the briefcase off the seat beside him and, seeing ocean beneath him, jumped.

---

It was only in a Floregasque hotel room later that night that he found the invitation stuck into the briefcase below the water-logged cash. There was no indication that any of the tellers might have put it in there, nor did anyone else have access to the briefcase before he brought it to the bank that morning. He spent most of the night reading it, turning it over in his hands, holding it up to the light. He almost had more interest in it than in the 400,000 florins he absconded with.

With every passing siren, Giancarlo became more convinced of the necessity of getting to whatever place he was invited. It would only be a matter of time before his face was pasted in every bank, post office, and police station in the Pax Latina and he couldn't stay in this city a minute longer than absolutely necessary. Less than 24 hours later, he was at a bar in Siren City with his 400,000 florins in cash, minus roughly 250 florins for a good tuxedo and 45 florins for four drinks.

Finishing his last Old Fashioned, he licked his lips and stood. He eyed the door marked "PRIVATE", recited the four-digit code on the back of his invitation to memory, and walked towards it.