The Man in Black stepped on to the train platform in downtown Providence. The capitol building, with the Independent Man holding up his staff of wisdom atop the dome, was just in sight over the terminal as the latest train rushed into the station.

He was, as usual, not pleased.

About anything. Also as usual.

The day was cold, but clear. The crisp blue sky stood as a backdrop to the colonial style houses gathered around the ancient-feeling stone buildings that gave the town its old-world feel. As beautiful as it was, none of this gave the man any joy. Not that much ever did, but today would be a hard day for anyone to feel any joy if they knew what he did, or why he was there on the platform.

The 1:13 pulled in. This was it.

“The lights are off.”

The man in black put his radio to his mouth and grumbled back. “Impossible.”

“Nobody's home,” came a different voice.

“Somebody's home.”

The train slowed to a stop, and the man in black pulled a clove cigarette from behind his ear and lit it.

“I'm going ahead,” he said into the walkie receiver.

He took one full step. His long stride, announced by the rattling of the chains that hung from his coat and the loud clop of his black boot connecting with the pavement, was cut short as something ran into him full on from the side.

His mind went to every usual place. One: Not obstacle. No obstacles present in visual scan of area. Two: Possible attack. He shifted his hips slightly and planted his feet parallel to the source of the collision. Three: Accident. Look to verify.

His right hand crossed to his left hip, his fingers brushing the handle of the kukri under his coat. He lifted it, felt its heft, released its weight from the buckle to ease removal.

No signs of attacker. Observe peripherals.

The lightning fast processes in his mind were reflected in his eyes as they darted left and right. No assailant present.

He heard a voice, more of a light squeak. His head snapped downward to the source of the sound. Even though it felt like he'd been assessing the scene for a full minute, the young girl who had bounced off of him still hadn't hit the ground.

He had time.

His hand was in hers before any more of her than the soles of her feet had connected. Her eyes, which had been on him the entire time, opened wide, and she gasped. Hovering in a sitting position mere inches from the ground, he held her for a long moment before either of them said or did anything.

She moved her lips. She was talking. No words were coming out.

He pulled her back up to her feet, and her eyes came fully locked with his. Deep and blue like the ocean he had spent years of his life sitting by and staring deeply into, he couldn't help but gaze deeply.

It took him several seconds longer to say anything than it normally would.

“Are you okay?”

She didn't reply, although her lips were still moving. Her eyes welled with tears.

“Are you okay?” he repeated, and she shook herself free of the stupor.

“You're... beautiful,” she said.

“Maybe,” he replied. “But are you okay?”

“Y-yes?”

“That was a question, not an answer.”

“Yes,” she said, then, smiling, “Yes!”

“Excellent,” he said, letting go of her hand and turning to walk away.

“Wait!” she called out after a moment. He heard her quickened footsteps coming after him.

“Wait!” she called again, and he stopped, his back still turned.

“How can I be of service?” he grumbled in the deep contrabass he used when annoyed.

“Look at me, for starters!”

He turned.

She was very petite, about 5'4”. Her skin was so pale white that she seemed like she might be deficient in a few essential vitamins, but her freckle-littered cheeks were full and she didn't look unhealthy otherwise. She wore a very conservative tan skirt over a wide-collared white shirt and a pink sweater, with no purse or luggage of any sort. She wore small, round-framed glasses that thankfully disguised none of the depth of her eyes.

Her most striking feature was her red hair. Strawberry, long and wavy. Very thick and full, down to her mid-back.

His observation took only a second. She wasn't even conscious of his eyes darting about, trying to analyze her as thoroughly as possible.

Bookish. Enjoys stories, art, and music over movies and television. Uneducated but intelligent. Undeveloped musculature and small stature indicates lack of threat. Offset in the sound of footsteps indicates older injury to left leg. Easiest present method of dispatch: blade hand to throat.

Time had passed. Seconds. Ten or so. Nobody had spoken yet.

“I don't have time for this,” he said, turning once again.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and something happened. He turned again.

“Who are you?” he said.

She smiled broadly, and the pooling in her eyes streamed down her left cheek.

“I'm Molly.”

The Man in Black stared, stoically and long, deep into her eyes.

“Ian,” he growled.

“Ian...” She repeated his name. Her shoulders fell. Her head tilted.

He had made a mistake.

“Where are you going!” she cried as he turned again, and he heard her slightly uneven footsteps trailing behind him. “Ian!”

He couldn't stop. He took a puff of his clove.

“There's a clog in the lines here,” he said into his handset. “Flush the system.”

A group of three people crossed the plaza. Ian took a sharp left just as they converged on him, and all four of them took simultaneous puffs on identical clove cigarettes.

“Ian? Ian!”

Ian, Steve, Rich, and Jenny converged and stood near the wall of the terminal. Ian looked straight at the girl. She looked right at the group at one point, but despite his distinctive clothing, she continued looking past and then walked on.

“Who's that, dude?”

“Her name is Molly. She ran into me, and it must have thrown off my glamour.”

“Why is she so obsessed with you?” Rich asked.

“It's probably some kind of shock from having bumped into some old lady and then realized she's a big scary dude.”

Jenny kept her eyes on the girl.

“I like her hair,” she said.

“Don't get attached. We've got to get rid of her.”

Ian looked around as he spoke. His eyes scanned the crowd, the terminal, the plaza, the train.

There was no sign of his quarry.

“Did we lose him?” Rich asked.

“We never had him.”

“How? Phil verified he was getting on the train in Richmond.”

“Phil is blind, and was half a football field away.” Ian turned sharply toward Rich. “Clearly he was wrong.”

“You don't think that he could have funked his way off the train, do you?”

“And gone where exactly?”

The group looked back out on the plaza, looking through the crowd.

“Hi!”

Ian was the only person in the group that didn't jump. He looked down, and those piercing blue eyes were once again locked with his.

He groaned.

“That was rude, you know!” chirped Molly, her hand on her hip. “Are you trying to ignore me?”

“I don't know you,” he replied, “so... yes.”

Her brow furrowed. It made her nose scrunch up into a button.

It was so cute he wanted to punch it. He restrained himself.

“This is my first time in the city. Please... you look like a nice person.”

His left eyebrow raised on its own. That was highly doubtful.

He looked around one more time. Left: No Rich and Steve. Right: No Jenny. Plaza: No target.

“How can I help?” he asked.