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  • Lady Athena,

    Ultimately we are all prone to mistakes.

    I know in our line of business mistakes often mean certain death but not even the most circumspect of our kind can avoid the frosty breath of fatality. The Poet and I did not meet.
    The rendezvous at Kiriakos should've been 3 days ago. but when he didn't show up I took the liberty to trace his whereabouts. Your contact, Ovid, the Poet, has been dead and buried for the past 4 months, Lady Athena. Perhaps you'd like to enlighten me on that information since your instructions pointed out to this contact as the source for all documents and materials.

    As it turned out some of the Legionnaires were looking for him in connection to a job gone sour in Marrakesh. Did you know our old friends the Legionnaires were in town?
    Strange how the mind works. The slightest question marks and we turn paranoid, desperately disoriented, unable to tell friend from foe, reality from imagination. Are you my friend lady Athena?

    Samira told me once: reality is what you make of it.

    What do you make of this Lady Athena? Among all this death and destruction, the only clarity I had, my only thread, is now gone.
    This is no time for me to weep the immaterial, I know. I am here to accomplish the monumental task which has been delegated to me by the Council for Highly Elaborated Judgment, one on which the whole fate of this war depends. And yet to do this I need a thread. Like an arachnid I can only weave my web if everything is tied to something certain; death does not come without a call.

    Provide me with this thread Athena and I shall not disappoint!

    This city is a misery, a running landscape coming out of a drunken painter's washed-up palette. The Poet is much better off dead. My only goal is to achieve the mission entrusted and sail as far as oceans might take me. But I need your help, now more than ever.

    My current rooms are at the Treli Pistis Hotel, a quiet musty spider's nest, two streets behind the square.
    Send me a messenger. Instruct him to drop a postcard from the Parthenon Gardens with your instructions and the name of a new, living, contact.

    Reality is what you make of it. I made mine long time ago. Now it is time I weave it for others.

    Until I'll write again,
    Yours in solitude,

    Dr. Zed
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