A/N: Welcome, readers, to the first installment of the Pulling the Strings series!

Before you jump in, you might want to visit my profile for a more detailed description of what the series entails; the format of this series is somewhat peculiar, and so it might be best to know what you're getting into.

Also, whether you are new to the world of PTS, or are simply here to re-read, then you are in luck! This is a newly-revised, definitive edition of The Arrival (and the sequel, The Deceived, will also be receiving this treatment). I've corrected typos and errors, improved flow, embellished or trimmed passages as needed, and resolved some lingering plot holes/inconsistencies. The Deceived has already been posted, and pretty soon, I will have completed PTS III, so be sure to check those out if you enjoy The Arrival.

And don't hesitate to leave some reviews and comments. Feedback is always welcome!

With that, I'll leave you to it. Enjoy! :)

Prologue: Midway Point

All was silent on Benson Street save for the rhythmic squealing of the rickety shopping cart as Old Roger steered it along, his head buried in his worn and shoddy coat. The sky had been grey all day, and the cold wind was making his aging joints ache. But in spite of having to deal with the dreadful weather, he deemed it to have been a successful day's work; he had happened upon many interesting items while rummaging around in the neighboring dumps and alleyways, many of which now filled his cart.

An overpass loomed up ahead as Old Roger advanced at a pondering pace. Fellow vagabonds saluted him as he passed by, and he returned the gestures. He was a recognizable face in Manhattan, especially among the homeless, as he had a knack for finding invaluable items for the harshness of life on the streets. On his well-worn circuits, he would barter with regular and new customers alike, determining items of equal value that may be swapped. There were even times, rare though they were, that some would purchase some trinket or other from his cart that caught their eye, and he was always happy to oblige. He was able to eke out a meager existence in this way, and it suited him just fine.

He turned his cart as the overpass came and descended the small, steep hill, struggling to keep control of his cart and his belongings as the load tried to pull him downwards. Once at the bottom, he pushed his cart beside a dingy mattress and settled down on it to rest his weary legs, his back against a titanic column of concrete. The underside of the pass was his most recent dwelling place, one that he thought to be quite cozy, for it shielded him from the rain and the wind, and people seldom came down there to bother him.

Once he retrieved his strength, he got a fire going in the nearby rusted barrel and began to sort through his hoard of objects and trinkets. A pair of mismatched shoes, a half-empty bottle of hair conditioner, a discarded razor, a disposable camera with half the shots used up, several types of plastic containers; for one who could not afford to be choosy, every piece was priceless. After he divided the lot into things he would trade and things he would keep, he rewarded himself for a decent day's work by breaking out a bottle of whiskey, and began to drink his all of his worries away, staring out into the waters of East River.

Old Roger had been living on the streets of New York City for many years, now. He was getting old now, his age showing in the grey hairs of his unkempt beard and long matted hair that seemed to grow from the edges of his bean hat, and in the windblown, leathery skin and crinkled eyes. As the night went on and the liquor gradually took its soothing effects, drowning his loneliness and his past regrets in life, of a family he had left behind.

He had a pleasant buzz going after the midway point of his bottle, and as he stared out into the distance, sitting on the ground with arms propped against the mattress, he had the vague sensation that something was moving in the air. He paid little attention at first, but soon the rippling of the air caught his drunken attention. A sudden gust of wind extinguished his fire. The buzzing noise swelled; his body rang with a nauseating vibration. Then a high pitched ring filled his ears, a painful sound that drowned out everything else, and as he sat still, paralyzed with fear, he began to see faint objects taking form. Pebbles on the ground danced beneath the flittering shadows, now vague humanoid silhouettes that struggled to keep their shapes.

Then to Old Roger's astonishment, five men dropped from thin air, crashing down on the earth with a thud as though they had been suddenly snapped into existence. The old man stumbled to his feet in alarm. The unannounced visitors, clad in beige longcoats and black caps, writhed on the ground, gasping heavily, as if the very air was poisonous; one of them proceeded to vomit. Roger's eyes were fixed on one in particular, watching him fumble in his coat and take out a syringe, which he jabbed into his neck. The men laid on the ground, panting, though visibly relieved, recuperating from whatever stress had been assailing them. For a moment, Old Roger thought perhaps he should ask them whether they were alright, but decided to hold his tongue instead.

Paying no mind to the vagabond, three of the men rose to their feet, albeit with the groans of irritation and general grogginess usually associated with a bad hangover. They were quick to notice that two of their comrades had yet to rise, however, and gathered around the stilled bodies.

"They didn't make it," said one, kneeling to check their pulses.

Another sighed before breaking off, venturing to the column closest to Roger's, where he undid a pile of large rocks that the vagabond did not recall seeing there. The man uncovered a cellphone from the cairn, and proceeded to make a call, outside of Old Roger's intelligible earshot. The call terminated, he address his surviving associates.

"They'll pick us up here and bring us to the outpost," announced the cellphone man. "Take their stuff and leave them here."

As the others knelt to retrieve the belongings of the dead, the cellphone man at last turned his attention to the homeless man who had been standing close by the entire time. The stranger walked forward, eyes menacing, and he reached in his longcoat, revealing a pistol unlike any Old Roger had ever seen. It was sleek in appearance, and had a peculiar, almost otherworldly design. The man stopped and aimed it directly in Old Roger's direction. The wide-eyed vagabond remained rigid, wavering a little from his inebriation while holding up his arms in submission.

The man stood motionless, weapon at the ready, when his blonde-haired associate moved forward and put his hand on the aggressor's shoulder.

"He ain't worth the trouble, Mosley," he said. "Besides, who's gonna believe some crazy-ass hobo anyway?"

John Mosley stood for another moment, gazing razor-sharp, before finally conceding, placing his pistol back in his coat. He left, and the others followed suit; they disappeared from sight as they passed beyond the hill, never to be seen again.

As for Old Roger, he collapsed onto his mattress, staring at the bodies for a long time. He wondered what Higgs would think of this when he told him. He had certainly seen strange things living on the streets, and five men appearing out of nowhere ranked among the strangest.

Old Roger slept uneasily that night. And when he awoke that morning to see a stray dog sniffing at the bodies, he quickly packed his things and left the overpass, vowing to steer clear of it for the rest of his days.

PULLING THE STRINGS

Part I: The Arrival

By Uroboros75