Even in the alley, the sounds of revelry from inside The Red Maid were almost deafening. Clockwork pianos jangled in exuberant discourse with one another, and clockwork stewardesses clomped from table to table with trays of drinks that shifted and swayed and never spilled a drop. On the stage, Madame Sixpence was showing a local Parisian troupe up with her 'interpretation' of the CanCan, and the bar clamored with the sounds of men and women ordering rounds, or dances, or vials of Rouge Dust- whatever their hearts desired, the Maid was only happy to provide.<br/><br/>Of course, all that revelry inside was just an escape. It had been raining for nearly two weeks straight in New London, and the remnants of the<em>Blitzkrieg</em>that still remained unfixed had turned into small lakes throughout the city. People spent the days walking with their coats turned up and their heads turned down against the fog, wind, and sleet. Nobody stopped, nobody spoke- at least, not until they reached the fires and shelter of their destinations.<br/><br/>Maybe that's why nobody, out of the thousands who commuted through the Speakeasy district, noticed the drop. Not a single person looked up as the airship hovered low, or as the hatch opened and dropped something heavy into the dumpsters below.<br/><br/>Nobody went to check as an unconscious groan rose from inside the bin.<br/><br/>And not a single soul even dreamed that a naked woman would stir as the next wave of rain began to fall, causing the little lake inside the bin to rise up and lap around her toes.