Alice Becket sat in the corner of the Ram Street Deli, papers and coats sprawled across the red checkered table. She waited a good five minutes before James came back with two sandwiches in hand.

They were grotesque looking things, two moist breads slathered in some white sauce and stuffed with unidentifiable meats and vegetables. Still, when offered she took it.

She wondered what the correct way of eating it was, since the reporter boy brought no utensils or picks. She considered cutting it into small bits and eating it like that, but watching James bite the sandwich that barely held together, she thought otherwise.

Alice couldn’t quite place James Warren, she thought as she observed how to eat a sandwich. He was a respectable reporter, yet chased lost whispers like a child running after a bird. He was tall and lanky with shiny blonde curls, and all three times she met him he wore the same black coat that spoke of money. But as she had come to observe, he had none.

Alice decided to go straight for it, pressing the sandwich to her teeth and ripping out a chunk like a savage. Her mouth and chin were coated in what tasted like mayo. Pieces of the sandwich miserably broke off and plopped near the papers.

“Have you no head for sandwich etiquette?” James asked, pressing a smile between his lips.

Alice wiped her chin with a paper napkin, balancing the crumpling monstrosity on one hand.

“I must admit this is quite a daunting task” she played along, holding the sandwich like one of her fathers grenades. “I am not accustomed to sliced bread. I suppose my family is still old fashion in that way, preferring bread wrapped.”

“Then it is my sworn duty to convert the snobs of our city to the correct sandwich eating ways.”

Alice rolled her eyes at the word snobs. She attempted to take another bite of the sandwich, this time angling her head to a

side so all the falling bits didn’t land on the table. The red what-she-assumed-was-tomato’s begun sliding out of the sandwich. Alice had to quickly catch them in her teeth before they fell.

“I have never been so close to giving up” Alice grunted more to the sandwich than James, “and yet still I want to keep fighting.”

With the last bite, everything fell except the flimsy bread.

James startled a laugh, as if watching her failure to figure out his sandwich was what they came to the deli for. “I just ought to rename your article: The Sandwich That Bested Alice” he said, purposefully taking a big bite out of his sandwich.

“Oh yes, Warren?” Alice quipped. “Or would it be renamed: The Boy Who Got No Interview.”

James’s smile dropped as he reached out for the scattered papers. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He swung his pack onto the table, taking out a cheap looking typewriter. He quickly wrote something, the keys making a metallic ping with every click.

“Can I begin with the questions?” James asked.

Alice nodded. The deal was she would provide him with all the information he needed on his article about the gas grenade, one of her fathers works. And in return he would help her find her him.

“State you name” he said.

“You already know it.”

He sighed, mumbled something about losing his wits, typed, and looked back up at her.

“When did your father transition from a weapon archivist to designing the current model of chemical grenades?”

Alice opened her mouth, tempting the words to come out that she swore not to speak. She was going against everything her father asked of her, revealing their secrets to one who would spread it with the world. But she needed to find him, no matter what consequences he brought when found.

“He began ten years ago. I was eight at the time, and he took me to a factory north of Berlington. It smelled awful, like chemicals and burning metal.”

He quickly went back to typing, and Alice was relieved when he didn’t ask her to elaborate. The vaguer she could keep it all, the better.

“How long has your father been missing?”

Alice pressed her lips together. Too long. “A fortnight. Since the release of his studies.”

Click.

Click.

Click.

He typed away, and Alice took that time to study the boy who made fun of her sandwich eating skills and asked all the wrong questions. He had enough charming animal cunning, and knowing the man he worked for, Lorenzo Vasque, she was sure he could help her track down her father. But even the sharp plains of his face couldn’t carve out the whole truth.

“Do you know who commissioned them? The military? Private organizations? Any party’s?” James asked

Alice was quiet for a beat. She would not make the mistake of giving to much before receiving anything back.

She got up, grabbing her coats and gloves. “Meet me here tomorrow with leads on my fathers whereabouts, and I will tell you whatever you desire.”

She walked away, feeling the trail of the reporters eyes on her.

Alice realized two things that day: James Warren wanted to know far more that he ought to, and she truly hated those sandwiches.