The social mechanisms in the bar ground to a halt when she reached its threshold.

She surveyed the scene briefly before pushing through the old venetian-blind doors, their red paint cracked and peeling, chipped off completely in a few spots. Her face, tanned and wrinkled, was rendered with her lips clamped into a tight line of a mouth. She walked slowly but deliberately, boots conspicuously thudding against the vintage wooden surface, her footfalls almost drowning out the creaky protests of the floorboards.

She stopped at an extremely jumpy old man and placed a hand on his quivering shoulder. He inhaled suddenly, spasming more intensely than usual when the palm met his scapula.

“They’ve spotted Dreadnought coming back to town,” she declared. “When our friend gets in, tell him I’d like to see him, would you?”

“Y-y-y-y-yes, M-m-m-miss Ai.”

She withdrew her hand from his shoulder. “Very good.” With no other comment, she turned about and just as slowly walked out the bar, smirking.

The Eye had spoken.