The city of Stirling was starting to wake up as the sun peeked over the hills surrounding the medium-sized municipality. A stiff Autumn breeze blew leaves off the trees and sent them rattling along the trees as cars started to populate the highways as drivers dragged themselves to work; the birds that hadn't flown south yet began their singing and cawing and croaking, and one by one, businesses buzzed to life with bells ringing, machines working, pens scratching and keys typing. Meanwhile, one of the centerpieces of the city, the Globe Museum was silent. Light filtered in through windows, landing on polished displays of solemn historical busts, exquisite paintings, and intimidating dinosaur skeletons. A few security officers wandered the grounds, looking bored and sipping their morning coffees, and another set of footsteps padded across the floor of the only room still hidden from the sun and the buzzing outside world; the Unsolved Mysteries room. The footsteps came to a stop, and shortly afterward a slim bar of light sliced across the floor; slowly growing and illuminating the room with the early morning sunlight as the heavy curtain which had been blocking it rolled toward the high ceiling. The newly lighted room was a wide circle; in the middle was a glass box containing a strange skeleton held in its assumed shape with metal rods and plaster. Around the walls were some smaller exhibits - mostly plaques with writing on them describing the mysteries of the ages, from the Bermuda Triangle and the disappearance of Amelia Earhart, to skeletons that seem to resemble small dragons, and ancient cave painting that appeared to depict sorcerers performing works of magic. Beside the window, tucking the heavy pull-rope onto its lock, and looking over the impressive collection of mysteries, stood Isaac Connolly: night janitor. Pulling up the second curtain, Isaac could feel the toll of the night's dusting, sweeping, mopping, polishing, and wiping up on his bones. He rolled his shoulders, feeling a stiffness in his neck and back that the twenty-six year old couldn't help but feel himself a few decades too young for. Stifling a yawn, he tucked the last rope away, probably foiling the plans of several field trip students to amuse themselves by messing with the curtains. Finished with his work, he returned to the entrance of the room where his cart full of cleaning supplies stood, sparing a glance for the centre skeleton exhibit. It resembled a large salamander, although its skull was shaped more like that of an alligator. There were also protrusions and shoulder blades above the spine that could only resemble the bases of wings; which had been estimated with plaster bones. The exhibit was titled "The Glasswater Dragon." It was the remains of a creature which had been found washed up on Glasswater Lake, a small body of water not far from the city the museum stood in. It was definitely the most eye-catching exhibit, Isaac noted as he passed it. There was artwork on the explanatory plaque below it with a fantastical creature of a slim dragon with bat-like wings protruding from its back. It also recounted the anecdotes about the "dragon", as told by Glasswater locals. Shaking his head a bit, Isaac reached the waiting cart. A bit too much of "The Glasswater Dragon" was constructed of plaster and speculation for the amateur cryptozoologist's liking, although what it lacked in credibility, it made up for in advertising. He was certain a fair share of patrons saw the dragon in it's case through the door, and entered the exhibit as a result. Pushing his cart through the adjacent rooms, he parked it in the janitor's closet, and took his cell phone out of the pocket of his work sweater before shrugging out of it and leaving the sweater and the Globe Museum ball cap hanging on the cart handle. He checked it for messages quickly before slipping it into the back pocket of his worn blue jeans. Locking the closet behind him, he stretched, reaching one arm toward the ceiling and working his fingers through the tight curls of his brown hair with the other, working out the press from his work hat. His hair wouldn't be back to it's full level of super-saiyan curliness until it saw a shower, but at least it no longer resembled a 1980's perm. Cracking his neck, Isaac started toward the Museum entrance; morning staff would be coming in to set up the opening in a bit, but Isaac was clocking out and then making a bee-line for the cafe outside; he couldn't sleep off this grave for a few hours yet, he would require the help of the one they called Cuppa Joe.