Everything, yes—every single thing—is different when you have a briefcase filled with over ten million dollars, on your way to Weigner city, not to mention in a practically full-to-vomiting train.

For one thing, I was about to collapse in the train and pray I was transported to a hospital emergency room without the briefcase being released from my grip. Of course, what were the chances of that happening?

And, before anyone asks about the conditions of my fellow good passengers, let me answer your question as briefly and sanely as possible. The bloke beside me, standing on two pudgy feet draped in washed-out jeans and his torso varnished in a powder-blue tank top decorated by patches of grease and a reddish substance that I had no gall in investigating, was about as shady and jaundiced as a potential serial killer. And the guy's bloodshot eyes that were popping out of their sockets each time he exhaled, did not help the jitters or my wobbly feet.

I would have liked it much better if he didn't, maybe, stop staring at me as though I was a smiling piranha? His piercing gaze was not exactly as comforting as a bedtime story.

   On the rickety train, I clutched the black, unobtrusive briefcase tightly to my chest, being careful to not let the thingy slip from my grasp. Hot sweat slid down the nape of my neck, coating my shirt and making the cheap fabric cling to my skin. I mopped my forehead with one fidgeting palm. 

"Hah," I breathed out, as the exit began sliding open automatically. It was such a relief. A cheerful grin curled up my face. I felt like a sex-crazed nymphomaniac seeing her pants drop off after decades of abstinence. Of course, it was a little too early to be break-dancing on cloud nine, seeing that I was still 10 kilometers from disclaiming this hot potato.

Brushing my thoughts away, I shoved and elbowed my way through protruding bellies, evil-smelling armpits, labyrinthine curses, and other pungent-beyond-belief body parts, all the way to the exit. It was like the Exodus, only there was no wooden staff for me to part the putrid Red Sea with.

My foot planted itself solidly on the stationary cement of the train station and for once, I did not give a hoot about the unfortunate youngster I had dug my elbow into a second earlier. My nostrils widened as fresh, dickens! , fresh air burst into my tortured lungs, rejuvenating my haggard self.

The edges of my eyelids were, actually, a little...wet. I sniffed as I brought my kerchief to my eyes, to wipe away errant droplets of tears. It was shameful for a grown lady to cry in public, especially because of being assaulted—not by a burglar—but by the horrors of society's lack of hygiene.

Of course, despite my intense surge of emotion, I had not forgotten that my spiffing exodus was yet to reach its climax. I dashed to the roadside in the blink of an eye and hailed a chaise. The chaise was about as tasteless as a clown's fashion sense, but even this did not hamper my determination.

I hopped in quickly and knocked on the roof of the chaise twice. "Hurry now sir, please, to number 32," I uttered, and the motley sir nodded his seemingly neckless head, the horse whinnying as it burst into action.

The chaise was dangerously pulled down the lonely, damp streets of Weigner at a nail-biting speed, jerking with vehemence as it bumped into pothole after pothole after pothole, after...oh, for Pete's sake! "Please slow down!" I cried out above the whinnying of the horse and my high-pitched screams, and, apparently, the chaise owner did not care a hang about my life, for the journey continued at that risky pace.

My head jerked, my poor temple clashing with the wooden roof. I shouted again at the top of my lungs but the dastardly chaise driver was too busy whistling leisurely.

Only God knew how he kept himself so annoyingly still on that reeling device.

As I was screaming my lungs out for what felt like an eternity, how could I not have forgotten to curse all thirteen generations of the confounded driver's heritage.

~**~***~**~

"Thank...you..."

   I managed to gasp at the end of that hurricane of an expedition, tufts of my ebony hair having been converted into an elaborate artwork.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection from a frosted shop window. My face looked as though it was painted in abstract, with my eyes positioned in the queerest of places and my lips inexistent. The curious glance from the driver made me momentarily question how I had looked precisely.

Definitely not ladylike and elegant, I guessed for myself, wheezing.

It was cold at Weigner that morning. The purest colored snow had blanketed the isolated environs with a frost so otherworldly and cold that it left the viewer breathless. It birthed an impulse within the onlooker to paint the scenery, with distant, waning colours.

The chaise owner then nodded, expressionlessly, his eyes not leaving the gleaming copper coins I had left in his hand reluctantly. For all I knew, I could have been hurled onto the cobblestones, brain matter and grisly human flesh being splattered everywhere on the lanes, during that...'thrilling' expedition. Did people these days pay you for nearly killing them? I considered myself quite charitable.

Before I knew it, however, the long-faced driver had whipped the gray beast and they had vanished down the spiraling lane as quickly and as chaotically as they had come...oh? The lane seemed to curl and spiral into itself like the stale-grey rain clouds above, shifting unpredictably like the tides of the sea.

Was the lane really spiraling? Or was it me spiraling? I kneaded my brows carefully, feeling like a moth that flutters around the flame. Trust me, as I had been, it seemed as though the cloudy sky was twisting, colliding with the tall structure before me. The birds gliding through the sky had tripled and, it seemed, were tap-dancing wildly on the clouds as though they had ants in their feathers...There were also a few...penguins skidding down the street?

Staggering, I made my way into the ancient-looking structure, sandwiched between two deserted homes in the ominous backstreet. Despite how it barely suited my tastes for architectural products, it was indeed the company I worked for, at least, for now.

The roof of the building was verdant with a layer of grass coated by three good inches of snow, on which some birds had taken the liberty to establish their nests.

The door creaked open and I wobbled through it and slumped one arm heavily onto the proprietor's small, wooden desk. A violent gust of wind filtered into the average-sized lobby, eliciting some irate looks from the weary workers inside. A middle-aged lady gingerly shut the door close, her sinewy figure trembling with the frigidity of the doorknob.

The stern-looking, bespectacled young man with slick, dark hair, seated behind the desk, looked up at me with sleep-deprived eyes. He released a long yawn before speaking slowly, "You're here, Maddie...where have you been of late? Sleeping? Can't quite remember the last time I indulged in such a relaxing activity...would you mind sharing to me the details?"

Oh, the poor, overworked soul. I almost pitied him, only I was too busy pitying myself, seeing that we were on the same boat.

"No, unfortunately, I can't," I squinted my eyes because I was seeing double of everything, "Er...by the way, Eric?"

"Yes?" the young man(his name was Eric White) lifted a brow—both of them did, at the same time, with the same wrinkling features. It was just mind-boggling!

"Did you always work with your twin? You two make quite the striking pair!"

The young man, or men, gave me a penetrating look, one that was laced with perplexity and fascination with my words. "Have you been drinking, Maddie?" There was a hint of horror in his voice when he mentioned the term 'drinking'. It was considered uncouth, barbaric even, for a lady to indulge in alcohol and behave slovenly and unrestrained.

In our marvelous Empire, the ladies were famously chaste individuals. Not ones to be caught dead in a club past bedtime, or in a man's chambers during the ungodly hours. Such behaviour was looked upon harshly.

My brows knitted deeply at his question. "No, I'm stone-cold sober, last time I checked. But Eric—the two of you, that is—you have barely answered my question; since when did you have a twin in the first place?" I asked him(or them), finding it quite irking that he was sending me the dumbest of looks as though I was speaking Greek or Chinese. Surely, it was just a single question, and did not concern rocket science or, say, the fogged location of the lost city of Atlantis or— Why was I so dizzy?

"So, do you have an appointment?" The two Erics asked me back, focusing their attention on the pile of documents heaped on their desk. A trace of depth elapsed on their faces.

"Yes, indeed I do. A very pressing appointment with the boss, might I add," I answered, successfully distracted, and paused before adding hesitantly in a soft tone, "I almost lost my life just to get here; that must indicate just how pressing this particular appointment is, Eric...s."

They hummed, not even lifting their gaze at the mention of 'almost lost my life'. They slapped a document onto the table noisily, nearly spooking the life out of me.

Quite interesting though how they seemed to share a single hand and a single seat—or was it that the seat was somehow made bigger?

Turmoil surged into my spinning view of spiraling tables and seats and double Erics.

"You can go to his office. He's waiting for you." I heard a voice utter dismissively.

I struggled to support myself on my feet. It proved to be a gruesome task but I somehow succeeded.

The accursed floor was conspiring to make me fall and kiss it! Such a dastardly fellow...or thingy. But not for the life of me, would I forsake my dignity like that! Over my dead body!

I took one chivalrous step forward and a glint of triumph shone in my eyes. Alright, I measured the distance to my boss' office, around twenty more steps to go. How hard could that be? I have done it plenty of times! Only I had not done it when I was dizzy, but such a small detail did not make any difference.

I prodded myself as I quickly braced for action or, rather, for landing because, looking at the floor that was rapidly coming closer(so to speak, it was me coming closer), I was in for a crash landing as well as a displeasing first kiss, and to an antagonistic, unattractive floor at that...or so I was thinking until two strong arms curled around my young waist and I was gently pulled up.

I sensed a chilly gust of wind rush behind me and a dark cloak swept against the calves of my feet. I was soon pressed against a hard wall—oh no, not a wall, but a...a firm chest of significant muscle...a man's chest. I gulped at the musing that I was now pressed intimately against a man and...it didn't feel quite bad.