Anyone reading these entries might think that I get no time off, any time to reflect from all of my nefarious deeds in the name of Dirty Work. I must admit, this is a fault of mine. However, I did get some time off, and it was during one of my days off that my next tale begins. It begins in a place one might not have thought I would be the kind of person to visit, or would even have the opportunity to visit in Region 26. An art gallery.

Many people have got the idea into their heads that there are no art galleries in Region 26 or even in Celestria at all. This is a common misconception, even for many that live here. There are many galleries, more common in the regions higher up of course, and they are only free to enter at around Region 43 or below, at least somewhere around there. Most of them are tucked away in little corners, with enough advertising to attract the eye, but only if one has paid particular attention to look for these things. Bright lights are, one must remember, Celestria's finest hour.

And so it was that on that Wednesday I found myself inside a smaller gallery, the smallest of the three that I know of in Region 26, run by a few older curators that are some of the only ones that seem to think that art is of the utmost importance to development and appreciation of life, whatever that means. I was there for a number of reasons, of which I shall explain now for those that are curious as to what the hell I was doing there in my spare time.

The first is that, as I have detailed in my last story, I had started to come to a slight, shall we say, moral crisis, revolving around the work that I do on the darker underbelly of Dirty Work. For this reason many in my position might turn to religion, but I have never been a particularly religious man, and the religions that are out there, the more prominent ones and the ones that have had to be forced into the dark nooks and crannies of streets on the way of rusting to the ground both, have never found a particular connection with me. Religion, I think, is something that one can only really come to appreciate in two ways. Either they come to it through their upbringing, or through a singular, revelatory moment of personal insight or acceptance. I had neither of these things, and so whatever gods or beings that are out there to be praised, are seemingly beyond my reach for now.

And so it is, of all things, to art, that I decided to first of all try to glean some kind of philosophical wisdom, that I might be able to overcome my thoughts which were, I must admit, becoming darker by the moment. I won't go into the amount of times I had woken up with the stench of that man's breath on my hair, and the feel of flecks of brain falling from the blast hole onto my own face, but I am sure you can understand my mindset at that time. It isn't what one would call, perhaps, healthy.

Secondly I had decided to continue my efforts and work for Grasslea, the boss, at Dirty Work. There were several incidents of no particular interest that happened before this story that revolved around the boss' profound love of classical works of art. Many have been delivered to and taken from his hands by myself. Perhaps, if the time arises, I shall detail one such event which revolved around a fake piece, and gave me a slight scar to my left wrist which healed only after three weeks.

And so to aid, in my own way, the boss's endeavours, I had decided to try and take a glancing interest in art, in order that I should have at least a vague understanding of his conversations and movements in the underhanded dealing sphere of the medium. I didn't wish to have to shoot another person over a misunderstanding of whether this piece actually did date from 3698, and not 3699 as they claimed. He survived, but lost his arm.

And thirdly, for perhaps the most genuine reason, with both of the former reasons being underlying reasons, I had some spare change now, and I was bored.

The gallery in question was not far from Dirty Work, and as I wandered in out of the cold and into its warm glow, all the lights white, I recognised one of those standing by the entrance lobby. A young man with a mug of hot drink in his hands, hat pulled far over his head and great, hulking leather boots, was one of them. As I paid my fee and had a barcode scanned onto the back of my hand as authorisation, I caught his eye. He cast it away, seemingly recognising me also, and not wishing to alert his friend who was in deep conversation with him, to his night-time adventures at Dirty Work.

I wandered into the main gallery room, where perhaps fifty or sixty paintings hung from the walls. The air was musty, smelling of dusty clothes. The artwork depicted all manner of things, though mainly of Celestrian life, and much of it from the viewpoint of those less well-off in their financial status than others. Common was the sight of the homeless man in these works, a ragged coat and a crumpled can of stale beer by the side, huddled against a broken fire glowing in the dark, neglected alleyway. It was nearly always raining in these pictures. What a surprise.

I wandered around, taking my time to stop and admire each painting in turn, for that was the medium of choice for this particular gallery. One, that caught my particular attention, was a painting of the exploring vessel Nightingale, which nearly a century ago sailed into The Blank Space and was never heard from again, save portions of its debris that drifted into Outpost 73 that was under construction at the time. That outpost still remains the furthest that Celestria has ventured, and until technology or nerves advance further, Nightingale's fate will remain a mystery.

What captured my attention, as well as the painting itself which was a very accomplished piece I must say, even with my limited knowledge and appreciation of it, was the young girl sat on a small bench nearby, staring at it with spellbound wonder. Her back was turned to me, collar of a purple check shirt turned up with her short, chestnut hair nestled inside it. She made me curious, for reasons I cannot myself fully explain.

I wandered over and sat down beside her.

'Strange, isn't it?' she said. Her voice was not more than a whisper, a ghost.

'It certainly has its own, unique aura about it,' I said, not really knowing what to say or even why I had sat down next to her.

Her eyes seemed to sparkle a little as I said this, her emerald turning a shade lighter. She pointed to the painting. 'See there,' she said. 'The faces of the crew as they board for the unknown. They are concrete, set in steel. What destiny awaited them that day...?'

She trailed off into the imaginings of her own thoughts. I looked at the painting. I had heard about the expedition, most people had, and was sure I had even seen a few pictures of the crew and the ship. I couldn't remember the scene looking the way it was in front of me, however.

'Surely,' I said quietly, knowing that I might well be rebuked for my comment, 'photography of the best quality could capture them in better reality.'

For the first time since I had sat down she turned to me, looking me in the eye like someone who had just seen a new puppy take a toilet break on the kitchen floor; with disappointment and understanding in her eyes.

'It's not about capturing reality,' she said. 'Painting is about attempting to capture unreality, a sense which cannot be reasoned with. It is an attempt to capture the ether of all things.'

I stared at her, trying to comprehend her statement and sure that it made some degree of profound sense, but I knew that it was mostly flying straight over my head. I, apparently, wasn't versed well enough in these matters to fully understand what she was trying to say.

'I see,' I said, not seeing at all.

The young lady nodded, smiling at me, and returned to gaze at the painting.

I sat there for a few minutes longer, sure that I should say something. Eventually I rose and began to wander through the rest of the silent exhibits, her words playing over in my mind on a loop.

As I neared the end of the gallery, my pocket vibrated. I pulled out my Halo-Core, hoping that it wasn't the boss needing me for something loud or violent again.

Of course, it was the boss. Wanting to see me as soon as possible.

I groaned to myself, putting the Halo-Core away and taking a quick stroll past the final six or seven pieces of art. I glanced back to the bench to see if the young lady was still there, but the bench was now empty of its recent occupant.

I walked to the reception desk, catching the eye of the man who had barcoded my hand when I came in.

'Excuse me,' I said. He put down his Halo-Core and pushed the specs he was wearing back up the bridge of his nose.

'What can I do for you?' he asked. His voice was frail and his hair was thin.

'I've been called away very suddenly, and I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back. Is there anything I can have so that I can keep looking up these paintings whilst I'm away?'

The gentleman smiled. 'Certainly,' he said. 'If you scan the barcode on your hand with a Halo device, you should be able to access our brochure on the device.'

I nodded in understanding. It seemed that there was more technology on my skin now than I had previously thought. 'Thank you very much.'

The older gentleman smiled at me, obviously pleased that a young person had decided to take a genuine interest in his exhibits. 'Thank you for visiting,' he called to me as I left. I intended to call back again when I could, for the faces of the crew of Nightingale had hit me somewhere inside, though I couldn't tell you exactly where, or how.