My name is Gideon Banks of Len Cross, resident of the capital city of Ivorhelm of the Empire of Asha, ruled by Empress Emma Silver. It is improper for an author to refer to themselves in the first person and as such it will be the one thing that this author will strive to do. However, given that this is my personal journal and not meant for public eyes, I will assume a manner of complete disregard for the rules of literature. The life that I have led up to this point in time has been one of great disappointment. A mediocre childhood led to mediocre adulthood. Life has never held any great excitement or mystery. In the folly of youth, the mysteries of life were much more profound and elusive. However, like everything that exists in this world, it was but a puzzle that needed solving and once it was solved there is no need to assemble it once again. That was a long time ago and it is now with a heavy hand that these words pour out onto the page.

It is with great regret that my employment at this juncture in life is with The Agency. Not in a thousand years did it cross my mind that I would belong to this cabal of 'yes men' and bureaucratic drivel. Although my reasoning for belonging to such an organization of ill reputation was more financial than it was philosophical. As most people have established early on in life, it is quite impossible to survive without the necessities of life. Namely food and shelter. The other niceties that exist are hardly necessary for life but make the mundane much more bearable. Financial stability is quite essential in securing these necessities and as such my employment with The Agency is an unfortunate requirement.

While this employment has secured my financial state and given me an avenue to utilize my skills, it is quite abhorrent to be at the beck and call of someone who dwarfs my intellectual capabilities. This is not to say that my capabilities dwarf every man on this planet, it is simply that the person who controls my career is criminally inefficient with his mental abilities. Commander Elias Hawk is his name. A name which is sure to conjure up feelings of national pride in the more base reader of this tumultuous time. For my unenlightened readers, the Hawk family has been most prestigious in its national duties, a long line of men and women who have established themselves in the swirling labyrinth of the imperial bureaucracy. Loyal servants to the crown till the death. If rumors were to be listened to, which as a curious purveyor of knowledge it is with simple curiosity that they have found a home in my ear, it would appear that dear Elias only received his post due to his father's good name. While this is not quite the shock of the century, it would seem that Elias's own incompetence is what keeps him cozy in his position. The first lesson in government work is never to do more than expected, a lesson in which Elias excels at.

The pages of this journal could be filled with all the follies of Elias and indeed all my colleagues at The Agency, however, this journal is to be filled with something more substantial, my previous cases. This may seem like pure hubris or vanity, and while there could be some truth to that, the reasoning is quite simple. Cataloging one's work for review is easier to see my past mistakes. This makes correcting bad habits and critiquing my work a simple process and therefore improvement becomes a simple matter. As with anything, it is appropriate to start from the beginning. I will implore you, dear reader, to please read this case with an understanding of the inexperience of the amateur and trust that there is improvement later on.

I awoke at dawn. The foghorns near the coast were blaring their songs out into the sea. Warning any mariners floating in the treacherous black water of the land outside of their sight. Growing up in Ivorhelm one gets used to such sounds, although they can still pull you out of sleep if you are prone to nervousness, which is one of the maladies that curses my mind. I turn on the lantern in my kitchen and survey the scarcely decorated area. It is sufficient for a bachelor of my standing. A simple wooden table, two matching wooden chairs. An icebox in the corner and an oil-powered stove next to it. The switch to turn the oven on fails to function properly. After checking the oil level it is determined that in my negligence it has depleted its supply. I make a note to purchase a barrel of oil in the market and opt for a cold breakfast. Two slices of cheese and a hard crust of bread suffice, along with a large glass of wine. There is time for a pipe and that pleases me greatly. It is a simple pleasure to have a pipe before starting the day and this is no exception. The tobacco pulls sweetly and the smoke fills the room in its bluish-grey hue. Now... on to work.

The morning walk brings the pleasure of solitude with the invigorating rush of exercise. Depending on how quickly one walks, it can be more beneficial than the cardiovascular training so popular in her majesty's armed forces. The area of town called Len Cross, of which I am a resident, is sparsely populated with the houses separated from each other by generous spaced out lawns. It is quiet and peaceful and aside from its proximity to the ocean, it seldom has an unpleasant scent. There are exactly five steps out of my home until the sidewalk begins. There are seventeen large strides until the street is reached. There are half a dozen blind spots from my door to the street where the neighbors would not see me nor I see them if they were to stay still of course. Turning left down the street points you in the direction of the cleverly titled Downtown District where the empire has its bureaucratic offices.

It is a quick half-hour walk to reach the office and if you had no idea what building you were searching for, you would likely miss it. In true government fashion, the buildings that house their employees are not decorated to be aesthetically pleasing but for function. The Agency is no exception to that rule and is covered in grey bricks with white corners. There are two oil lamps that illuminate the entrance and two wooden brown doors that keep the entrance secure from the elements. The one aspect that makes this building unique is the lack of windows on the first and second floors. It was decided that The Agency does too much important work that the risk of espionage is more important than looking out onto the street.

Stepping inside the building makes it look more mundane than the outside, of which the designer should be credited with performing the impossible in this case. There are polished wood floors and paper covering the walls. Oil lamps are evenly spaced in the walls that form a square-shaped hallway around the building. Each floor is designed the same. The outer walls are for clerical offices or storage while the inner space is reserved for the investigators that work that floor. The first floor is designated for fraud. The second is for theft. The third is for crimes that offend morality while the fourth is reserved for homicides. The fifth floor is where every investigator aspires to go. It is where all the unsolvable or particularly heinous crimes are sent to, the truly fascinating and interesting ones. The ones that any aspiring investigator should strive to solve.

Being quite new and of a nervous disposition, the foyer of the building is where I decided to wait. There was a young woman seated at a large desk that was made of a reddish wood that I observed to be stained and not of the original color. The red was too pronounced to have occurred naturally in nature and seemed to fit into the crippling bureaucratic building in a way, the fake wood in a building that exudes fake confidence in a system that promotes mundanity. After staring at the desk for much too long I approach the woman and rest my hand on the edge of the desk. She ignores my subtle attempt at social niceties and more so seems to ignore my entire person. I open my mouth to speak and her dull and monotonous voice limps out of her throat, "State your business".

"My name is Gideon Banks", I say thinking that she would indeed have a note that I was to begin work today. Instead, I am greeted with a severe breakdown in communication from the clearly overworked receptionist, "Uh-huh. State your business". I stare into her blank face and say with incredulity, "I am supposed to start work today". She looks down at her desk and tells me to have a seat.

In actuality, she motions for me to have a seat and says nothing more although I am grateful that she has chosen to not speak anymore. I take my seat and observe her, it is an odd thing I do, I admit this, but it is the most effective way in solving a puzzle. Not that I thought at this moment that she was a puzzle to be solved, a less than an enthusiastic employee working in one of the many organs of bureaucracy is not a particularly odd mystery. At this point, it was simple curiosity. Most of her body was obscured by the wooden desk but she was wearing a grey dress with a high neck and long sleeves. Her hands were calloused on the palms and the thumb on her left hand was reddened. She had no wedding band that I could see and her brown hair was pulled taut around her head in a kind of halo. There were lines around her lips, despite being young, and she had a red in her cheeks that set right below her eyes. There was enough to work with right there and I made calculations in my head if the risk was worth it. I pulled out a tobacco pouch from my pocket and rolled a cigarette in the white paper and placed the finished product between my lips. I made my way to the desk and saw her eyes fall not on me but the cigarette in my mouth. "Do you happen to have a match?". She rolled her eyes and pointed to the many lamps in the hallway. I walked over and lit my cigarette, not letting it go to waste, but walking past her desk I offered to roll her one. She sighed and stated that she would love one. Her words, not my emphasis. I took my time rolling hers and then placed it on the desk for her. She very quickly got up and lit the end from the lamp and stood with a hand on her hip and took a long drag. Her cheeks were concave as she inhaled and I could tell it had been a long time since she had smoked her last one. That proved several of the points that I had assumed at that point. She was a smoker, she supplemented her income by sewing or she lived at home and helped an ailing parent. She put on airs of modesty or was forced to by her job as she clearly smoked tobacco and drank, quite heavily from what I could tell. I could not figure out more but I decided to finish watching her smoke before I was called into the Agency chief's office.

The chief was a rather fat man by the name of Oliver Nunn. He had a ring of hair left on the top of his head while the remainder of his scalp was shiny and completely free of hair. He had an expensive blue suit with a gold watch chain hanging out of his pocket. He shook my hand vigorously and I made sure to wipe my hand after he had turned as his hand was fairly wet with what I assumed was his sweat. He prattled on about the work that I would be doing and about the wonderful achievements of Elias. I stifled a yawn at the mention of Elias but it did not seem that Oliver noticed. Elias would soon have Oliver's job, both of them and for sure everyone with half a brain knew that. For now, though, Commander Elias was in charge of level five of the Agency. "We can start you out at fraud unless you think you can hack it higher up", Oliver said with a red face and grin. I nodded and made it perfectly clear that fraud would be more than adequate. "Very good", he boomed out in much too loud a voice and escorted me out of his office and to my desk.

It was a bleak thing, staring at one's workstation and feeling the will to work get pulled out of your body in a swift motion. The desk was made of cheap, brightly colored wood. The lamp on the desk was oil and already lit. There was a metallic tube next to the desk that presumably fed into the pneumatic system and how I would receive orders and assignments. Aside from these amenities, there was nothing else gracing the desk and I sat in the stiff wooden chair. It was at this moment that I decided I needed a drink and pulled my flask out of my jacket and took a swig of liquor. The tube next to my desk rattled and I was greeted with a clang of metal as a brass container stared at me. I was not expecting an assignment so soon but I was grateful to hopefully have an opportunity to leave the building. I opened the container and it contained my badge, an atrocious looking thing with my name on it, along with the instructions to report to the royal armory by the docks.

The walk to the docks was not long or treacherous. The armory itself was not conspicuous and if I had not detailed instructions on how to get there I do believe that I would never have found it. The unpleasant sergeant took my orders and disappeared into a dark warehouse and slammed the door behind him. He reappeared a few moments later with a satchel and then disappeared again. The situation was odd, to say the least, but seemed to be par for the course as far as imperial matters go and I made my way back to the Agency as I had nothing left to do.

Back at my depressing workstation I opened the satchel and pulled out all of the items inside. There was a semi-automatic sidearm, 10mm pistol, standard issue. There were two pairs of wrist restraints. Four extra magazines for the sidearm. A card to grant me access to the armory anytime I need repairs or ammo. Also, a card granting me an appointment with the Imperial Security Forces. This was no doubt to give me access to the various parts of the city and imperial buildings that are not to be accessed by regular citizens. There was also a holster, a ration card for extra oil, and an exemption card for alcohol and tobacco, as there were limits for what you could buy at one time. I was not displeased with the contents and promptly put the holster on and fixed the pistol to its home. I placed the ration cards in my secured wallet and left the appointment notice on my desk. There was another clang to the side of my desk and I pulled the canister out. It was from Oliver. He had paid me for the week and told me to go home as there were no cases for me today. I placed the canister back and sent it away.

On the way out I saw the woman at the desk and she glanced my way, "Short day?", she said, not entirely unpleasant. "It would appear so", I said lingering a bit longer by her desk, "No more cases for the day". She glanced away and I strode for the door. I heard her inhale as she was going to say something but I decided it was not worth the effort for today. There was time for fun and that was not something I needed to worry about at this time. Instead, I stopped by the tobacconist to pick up a fresh pouch of tobacco and the store by my home for a new bottle of wine. There was no cause for celebration but I had a week's worth of wages in my pocket and I needed the necessities.