Myles Dáithín was early, because of course he was. It was an uncanny knack that he had when he was trying to turn up late, or at least not first, that everything would take far less time to do than normal. Even the buses, normally reliably late, would arrive not just on time but actually early or late enough to coincide with him reaching the bus stop.
The full moon shone the deep red of spilled blood high above the ruins of Tel Megiddo. Gaspar glanced at it only briefly, thinking it somewhat unusual, before his thoughts went elsewhere. There were more important matters to worry about than the colour of the moon, after all.