He was the world’s greatest thief, for he had just robbed the King of Death blind. Hercule Nottingham hurried into the studio, slammed the door, bolted every bolt, and leaned against it. Breathing heavily, he lifted the satchel and noted with satisfaction how much heavier it was now. “Daphne said it couldn’t be done,” he breathed. “Orpheus, Persephone: none made it out successfully, she said. Well…” His grin stretched. Eventually, one rummaging hand came out with his prize. “…there’s a first time for everything.” Under the spotlights, the crown glinted. And Hercule laughed, because he was still full of life. [hr] He dumped the thing in the props box. There were countless fake crowns in there; what better hiding place for Daphne’s priceless prize than among fakes? Oddly, the real crown somehow seemed less convincingly shiny and bejeweled than the fake ones. Perhaps it was because the fakes were made with paper and glue. There was a tendency towards overcompensation, when one had the merest materials. Hercule nodded to the other stagehands and smiled and charmed and waved and generally was Hercule Nottingham, the Errol Flynn of modern theatre—so Daphne liked to think of him—the Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart too whenever it suited. Hercule Nottingham, a man of many talents. Hercule Nottingham, who had just robbed the King of Death blind. An unfamiliar face passed him by. Frowning with puzzlement, he stopped and rounded on the figure. Tall, darkly clad, holding something… Yet when he tried to focus… No, he must’ve been hallucinating from all the excitement. “Excuse me,” he said, sounding more chipper than he felt. Grimly, the figure turned. Hercule sagged with relief: a perfectly ordinary man. “Are you new? I always make a point of welcoming newcomers.” [smcaps]yes.[/smcaps] Hercule stuck a finger in his ear. The words… He had the odd sensation they’d always been there, yet his ears were adamant nothing had come through. Nonetheless, he held out a hand. “Hercule Nottingham. If there’s anything you require, don’t hesitate to ask.” The grip was… for a moment, icy. Far too thin and hard. [smcaps]kind of you. i fear i won’t be here long.[/smcaps] “Oh?” [smcaps]i’m merely a replacement.[/smcaps] “You’re not by any chance talking about old Bastable? Poor chap took a nasty fall after a rather splendid night out.” [smcaps]i wouldn’t know. that isn’t my department. however, i [i]was[/i] called upon to play his role tonight.[/smcaps] “You’re from the agency too?” Hercule spoke in the manner of one discovering a fellow sufferer of his disease. [smcaps]occasionally they have need of me, yes.[/smcaps] “Oh. Well, it’s an important role. Break a leg, good sir.” [smcaps]thank you. i look forward to it.[/smcaps] “Care for a drop of Dutch courage before the show? Daphne tells me it’s the done thing nowadays, and where’s the harm in a bit of fun, says I?” [smcaps]kind of you, but i fear i must decline. alcohol doesn’t agree with me. nor do the patrons. they think i spoil their enjoyment.[/smcaps] “I’m sorry to hear that. Well, best wishes tonight.” The figure nodded and carried on. Eventually, Hercule’s good cheer froze over, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. [hr] That evening, the audience lurked in darkness, yet the stage blazed with spotlights. From the wings, Hercule watched—fascinated, yet judgmental—as dozens of “nymphs” danced across the stage to the backdrop of a Grecian beach. He wore the crown. On his head, it felt oddly insubstantial, and often he had to remind himself it was there by touching it. Strange. He could’ve sworn it was heavier… “Looking forward to it?” His darling nymph—[i]true[/i] nymph—Daphne patted him on the shoulder. He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Mixing classic mythology with modern sensibilities? Daphne my dear, you’ve outdone yourself. If only real life were as inventive.” “You tease!” She slapped him across the rear, an irritating quirk he nonetheless forbore. “Get out there, my prince charming! Make it a showstopper!” He bowed and once more strode out. “These revelries please me beyond all I deserve!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “To distract my tormented soul with earthly delights… What an invention of mortal man! But who’s this?” The figure stepped out of the shadows, scythe glinting. [smcaps]all good shows must come to an end![/smcaps] it bellowed. Hercule frowned. He looked at the figure’s mask, then at the scythe. [smcaps]and all crimes must be met with unholy vengeance.[/smcaps] He opened his mouth to speak his final line… …and too late, penetrated the illusion. The scythe swung. Hercule’s body hit the stage. But he? He was standing up. Amid the standing ovation and the next song, his spirit still bore the crown on his head. Sadly, he looked up into the figure’s face. “It was a good try, at least. I do wish you hadn’t been so theatrical about it.” Death leaned forwards, skull grinning. [smcaps]classic mythology meets modern sensibilities. i couldn’t resist either.[/smcaps] “Touché.” [smcaps]now let bygones be bygones. i rather think you should enjoy a good drink with me. i’m afraid i only have acheron spirits, and the service where I come from is frankly hell. at least it’s more interesting than haunting a theatre all your afterlife.[/smcaps] “Good sport indeed!” [smcaps]hm. tell me: why exactly did you do this?[/smcaps] The figure plucked the crown from Hercule’s head. Hercule shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’ll try anything once.”