Traze made sure it was not. The man was practically giddy when he shouted, “– and now let’s meet — our challengers!” and threw his hand toward the opposite end of the ring. Operating on a slight delay, Fiearius slowly followed the line of where he pointed to see what he meant.

Not one man, but three of them, were pushed into the ring opposite him. Three. Three of them. One was tall and skinny, bearing the cropped ear of an ally; another was thick as a tree trunk with the facial tattoo of a local gang; and finally, behind them both, a burly, round man who had the scowl of a large, angry tiger.

“The most even match we could conjure for the Red Fury! “ cried Traze as Fiearius did nothing but stand there, staring dumbfounded. “But will even these skilled combatants have a chance against his rage?!”

Swaying to the side, Fiearius found it wasn’t alarm he felt. In his heavy exhaustion, he had no room for a charged emotion like that. It was strange, but he actually felt a touch impressed by what was being handed to him. Traze really could draw a crowd and make a fortune. He’d be worth far more to the proprietor when he lost …

Squinting his eyes, Fiearius tilted his head as he glimpsed a strange blur of movement in the center of the ring, and that movement was advancing closer. Was the fight starting? Already? Wasn’t there supposed to be a bell or signal of some kind? How else would he know? Although, come to think of it, the crowd was bellowing even louder than before …

That alarm he’d been lacking started to reach him now, circling and circling and finally landing upon him. He blinked his eyes and focused his unsteady gaze and suddenly, not a second too soon, swung his arms sharply like a club at the nearest assailant.

Knuckles made contact with teeth and with a surprising crack, the man stumbled backwards. Shrill screams rang from the crowd and for a moment Fiearius thought maybe this fight wasn’t as lopsided as he’d imagined. He staggered back, shocked at himself. Hell, maybe he actually could win this thing —

In a rush, white-hot pain clenched his stomach and all the breath flooded out of his lungs: the tall one, in a flash, had dug his fist into his abdomen, making him double over. Gasping for breath, Fiearius flung a leg sideways, bashing a knee.

These men must’ve made a pact, realized Fiearius, as he stumbled further backwards and they closed in like predators. A pact to kill him first. Well good for them, he thought lightly as a forearm closed around his neck, pulling him back, making him wheeze for air. Good for them, but not so great for him. He, who was about to be put down …

His neck was wrenched back as fists drove into his stomach. Coughing, Fiearius swung his head down, feeling the rusty tang of blood in his mouth, and just when he was wondering how the hell he was going to wriggle his way out of this one–

It stopped.

Suddenly, breath rushed into his lungs, sweeter than life. But why had they stopped? The lock around his neck loosened, the men were frozen and shocked, and Fiearius picked up his head to see what it was that was making the crowd gasp and stir like ants all around them.

Through the slits of his eyes, he thought he saw — but it wasn’t — it couldn’t have been Rhys barreling through the crowd, yelling with two shotguns over his head. And it definitely couldn’t have been the small voice of Corra screaming through the room, “Let him go or so help me God, it’ll be the last thing you do!”

He was hallucinating. Surely. There was no other explanation as to why he glimpsed the faces of his crew in the fray. Although why could the rest of the men see them, too?

Before Fiearius could even begin to unwind this mystery, the man who had him by the neck decided the show wasn’t over after all. Grasping Fiearius’ throat with renewed vigor, he pulled him back and before Fiearius could slip away, slammed his head against the metal bar of the ring.

Pain shot clear through Fiearius’ head and then, at once, he saw nothing: it was as if the floodlights in the ring were put out. His vision went black, his knees caved below him and with a thud of unsteady limbs, he hit the ground.

Sprawled on his back in the dirt, eyelids twitching, he felt consciousness flit in and out of his mind. His head was heavier than a boulder and every part of him ached with exhaustion. When he managed to squint his eyes, his vision swam; he saw only blurry, blown-out shapes …

And then he saw a mirage leaning over him. A very feminine, very attractive mirage with glowing skin and bright leaf-green eyes.

Was he dead? He had to be dead. Although, he doubted his personal afterlife would include anything as heavenly as this …

A lazy, satisfied grin started to spread over his face, but suddenly, that vision of feminine light and splendor started to — of all godsdamn things — slap his face.

“Fiear! Fiearius! Wake up!”

It was Leta. The angelic vision dissolved at once and he blinked her into focus, groaning in disappointment. Crouched over him, Leta was searching over his face worriedly, wincing in apology.

“Sorry it took so long,” she muttered, touching her fingers to the bloody cut in his hairline. Too tired to swat her hand away, he simply groaned in protest. “Meant to get you out of here before you got your ass beaten,” she added, to which he grunted.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was a tired mumble. “I’m a perfect image of victory.”

With that, a grin unfurled over her face. “C’mon,” she laughed. “Get up. You need to see this.”

With some difficulty, Fiearius pushed himself up to his elbows. Leta gripped his forearm and steadied him to his feet. And then he looked around them and saw how, exactly, she got here.

His mouth fell open. He knew his loyal crew had a capacity for mania, but he’d never seen anything quite as explosive as this. They were like caged animals, finally let out of the zoo to stampede. The basement was a sea of chaos, yells and gunfire as the crew took over, chasing Traze and his people toward the doors.

Rhys, Maya, Ludo and the two deckhands were running around, yelling happily and shooting bullets into the ceiling, sending patrons into a craze; Cyrus was hovering outside of the ring, looking torn between anxiety and relief; Corra was near him, guns out; Aiden wound through the room casually, looking around in thought as if he were inside a museum. And Traze — he just glimpsed Traze turn and dash out of the back door, looking thunderstruck.

Fiearius wasn’t sure he’d ever seen something quite as beautiful as this scene. He felt dizzy with pride as Leta untied his hands, officially freeing him. “Dov’ha tiar’te,” he sighed in awe, “I love you guys.”

At his side, he felt Leta grinning. “Didn’t think we’d just leave you here, did you?” she said, looking up and holding out a handgun for him. The weapon glinted in the light, and he took it, closing his hand around the grip. Leta lifted her eyebrows.

“You look really awful, by the way.”

“Yeah? Well you look….” He eyed her, and realized he recognized the hood she wore over her head. “Is this mine?” he demanded, flicking the fabric with two fingers. “I know we were in a cell together and all, but I didn’t think we were in ‘borrowing one another’s clothes’ territory.”

“Yeah, well, I’m keeping it,” said Leta waspishly, adjusting the hood fondly with one hand. “Consider it payment for saving your ass. Again.”

Fiearius barked a short laugh. “You say that as if I’ve never saved yours.” He tried to glare, but it faded toward exhaustion. Instead, he clasped her shoulder and shook it roughly. “I’m calling us even.”

They exchanged an exhausted smirk before he turned to enjoy the view of his rabid, roaring crew as they rampaged through the basement.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –  – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Cyrus had never liked crowds. In this moment, he hated them for getting between him and his injured brother. People pushed and jostled past him, knocking into his shoulders. But even in his frustration, he had to admit the impossible: this half-assed plan was working.

He’d had never seen the crew act quite like this. Maybe they really didn’t get enough fresh air. If there was ever a reason to get the lot of them riled up and heavily armed though, rescuing the captain seemed as good of one as any.

And thank the gods, they’d done it, they had provided enough of a distraction. Fiearius was fine, or at least he was alive. Cyrus stopped on the edge of the ring, watching as Leta helped him to his feet and brushed dirt off his back. So he wouldn’t have to captain the ship alone after all, he thought as relief washed over him, powerful enough to make him his eyes shut in exhaustion.

And then he opened them quickly. Now, he was ready to get the hell out of here.

Turning back to face the crew running around, he yelled, “Hey! Hey!” and waved his arms, but his voice died in the commotion.  Frustrated, dropping his arms, he looked over to Corra standing nearby. She caught his eye and predictably found it much easier to shout —

“Everyone!” she barked, and eyes swung to her as she pointed toward the exit. “Move!”

Certainly not for the first time, it occurred to Cyrus that she would make a much better first-mate than he was.

“Thanks,” he muttered, smirking sheepishly at her as she gestured for him to follow her to the doors.

Around them, the crew finally slowed down and stopped terrorizing. Breathless and laughing and victorious, the group made their way toward the exit. Though perhaps everyone wasn’t ready for the fun to be over, Cyrus noticed, snorting when he saw Leta rolling her eyes and dragging Rhys by the collar of his shirt through the fray.

Hanging back, taking one last look around to ensure they hadn’t left anyone behind, Cyrus eventually did the same, but not before realizing he was now standing alone in front of a crowd of hundreds with nothing but a single pistol in his hand. His exit was understandably hurried.

Moments later, Cyrus reached to open the back door for Corra.

“That went pretty well, huh?” he said with a happy sigh, but then he realized Corra was not listening.

” … and Traze will force him into the ring again, don’t you get it? They’re going to make him fight to the death!” Leta was saying, her voice straining as she looked from Aiden, to Cyrus, to Corra in desperation.

It was an hour after Cyrus had bought her freedom. In a worried caravan they’d returned to the ship (Leta had to grasp Cyrus’ shoulder the whole time to manage the walk, all the while feeling torn between fury and gratitude). Once there, Aiden forced a plate of food and a bottle of water on her before they made it downstairs to convene in the infirmary. They were discussing only one thing: how to get Fiearius back. Leta wasn’t sorry they’d freed her — she valued her life — but how could they have given up on Fiearius so easily?

The looks of worry she received in return did not help. “You’ve no idea what it’s like in that ring,” Leta went on shakily, “how could you just leave him there? Why aren’t we in there right now getting him back?! We h — ”

“Leta, finish bandaging your leg,” interrupted Aiden quietly, nodding at the half-finished wrapping job on her calf, which she’d all but neglected in her tirade. Feeling certain Aiden wouldn’t listen to her otherwise, Leta begrudgingly pulled her knee up to her chest to finish the job, but not without throwing everyone in the room a dark ook. Why couldn’t they understand how urgent this was?

“And let’s think this through,” Aiden went on, possibly sensing her need to explode again. He crossed his arms as he leaned against a counter, his lips thinning out in thought behind his beard. “The next fight is scheduled for tonight?”

“Yes,” snapped Leta, fighting back her roiling energy. “And right now they probably put him back in a cell without any food and water, he’s going to be weak. We have to get him out of there before tonight.”

Corra, leaning forward on an exam bench, agreed at once. “We should just go right now. Like I said before. Storm the place.”

Cyrus shook his head before she’d even finished. “Storm the place in broad daylight? There’s bored mercs with shotguns just waiting for someone to try it. We wouldn’t make it past the front door.”

Disheartened, but only for a moment, Corra bounced back, “Okay, then we won’t storm it. We’ll just…we’ll approach business-like again. Buy him back properly like we did Leta.”

Again, Cyrus shook his head sadly. “That was all the money we had…So unless someone else is holding out … “

“My accounts are frozen,” said Leta darkly. “They were shut down when I left Vescent.” Her fingers dug against the end of the bench in anger. She probably had enough money in her primary account to buy Traze’s entire warehouse off him, but with no access to it …

“They’re making a spectacle of it,” she told them, her voice lower now. “You should see Traze’s basement, probably holds a hundred people in the audience. He’s going to make a fortune off of Fiearius.” Looking up, she told them, her breath catching in her throat, “We have to stop that fight.” Like he did for me, she added silently.

Silence descended over them. No one said a word until Corra muttered weakly, “…How?”

But this time, Cyrus had an answer. Arms crossed, he fixed his eyes on the floor and said quietly, “We do what you said.” But his tone grew bold as his eyes flicked up to them. “We storm the place.”

Corra cast him a look of confusion, so he went on, “Won’t work during the day, but during the fight, they’ll be distracted. Traze’s men will be too busy keeping their eyes on the crowd. They won’t expect us.”

Stunned silence followed Cyrus’ words as everyone glanced at one another. To Leta’s  immense surprise, it was Aiden who spoke first, and he did not, as she would have expected of him, completely dismiss the idea.

“All the way to the basement, though?” he said, frowning thoughtfully. “We could be overpowered before making it all the way down there.”

“I’ll go first,” said Leta quickly. “I’ll go down there first. Quietly. Like I’m just a patron there to see the fight. I know there’s a back door near the holding cells.” She remembered the door because she was considering throwing herself out of it when she was being dragged down the hall. “I can get to it and let you in that way.”

Cyrus nodded. “If we can get in through that back route, get into the basement…All we’d have to do would be–I dunno, wave some guns around. Set people in a panic. And in the chaos we can just grab Fiear and –” He waved his hand in the air quickly, “–slip out.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to cause chaos,” Leta agreed at once. “The patrons there are rowdy and drunk.”

“But just us?” Corra put in skeptically. “Even as heavily armed as physically possible, we’re still gonna be massively outnumbered. And how are just the four of us gonna cause a stir in a hundred? No one will even notice us.”

“To pull this off,” Aiden murmured in agreement, “we’ll need more people.”

“We have more people,” Cyrus replied quietly. Everyone in the room looked at him, and for the first time, confidence glimmered in his eyes as he took a deep breath. “Let’s rally the crew.”

It hadn’t taken much for her to get more information out of the four men. Cyrus stood back safely and watched with widened eyes as Corra shook her gun in their faces, bossily told them off and then returned, minutes later, with information on the whereabouts of their missing captain and doctor.

Yes, it had been Fiearius and Leta in the local combat ring the night before. Yes, they were both still presumably alive. The man who held them now was called ‘Traze’ and he kept himself in a warehouse the next block over. Though Corra had suggested storming it immediately, Cyrus had insisted they return to the ship first to get some leverage.

Now, an hour later, Cyrus was on his way to meet this ‘Traze’ person. Clanking in his pocket was the entirety of Fiearius’ emergency funds. He figured buying back his freedom was a cause the captain wouldn’t mind draining it for.

A few steps behind him walked Aiden, calm and steady as usual even in the face of the unknown. Cyrus had purposefully told Corra to stay behind and guard the ship — much to her chagrin. He simply had a feeling he needed the company of someone with less explosive tendencies.  It was funny, really, what Aiden expressed surprise over in his time aboard. Cyrus beat him in a chess match? He’d let out a yell of shock and accuse him of showing off. But the captain and doctor were captured and possibly in life-threatening danger? Aiden listened, nodded and calmly joined him off-ship.

When they found Traze’s warehouse, identifiable by its tremendous black doors, Cyrus stood outside, frozen, for a whole minute. Just march in there and demand what you want, he told himself. You’re here for business. You have money. They won’t shoot you. You’ll make a deal. You can do this.

Patiently standing at his side, Aiden prompted, “Traze seems like someone who responds to money. I’m sure this will work.”

Well, that was certainly his cue. “Right,” Cyrus muttered and pushed opened the doors into the warehouse and stepped inside with more confidence than he felt.

Before he could announce his presence, he realized the room was empty. Squinting through the semi-darkness, Cyrus found only crates and boxes. Confused, he looked over at Aiden, but then they both turned to the sound of a shotgun being cocked and a few hurried footsteps at the other end of the warehouse.

“Oi!” a woman’s voice shouted, the voice echoing against the high ceilings. Immediately, Cyrus spun back around and put his hands in the air in a demonstration of innocence.

In the shadow of a doorway on the upper level of the warehouse stood a small, burly man and a woman who, in size and stature, could have been his twin. Both had two barrels pointing directly at them. “Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded.

Cyrus blinked slowly, all the rehearsal he’d been doing internally drained from his head in an instant. “Uh…”

Fortunately, his counterpart was quicker.

“Ah, now, there’s no need for that,” said Aiden warmly, his voice both casual and assuring. How the hell did he pull that off so well? No wonder Fiearius was always asking him to come on more jobs. “We’re here to see Traze. Just a quick word, but we’re sure he’d like to hear it.”

“Oh?” called a coy, curious voice from the darkness. “What ‘word’ is that?”

A older, white-haired man dressed in a stiff suit strode out from the shadows. His face, long and skeletal, registered nothing but interest, his lips curled. Cyrus had never laid eyes on the man before, but he had the sense that if Traze was in a friendly mood, it was for a horrible reason. His mind flashed to his brother. It was very possible they were too late …

Laying his hand across his mouth curiously, Traze surveyed them both and asked, “Let me guess — you want to hear more about last night’s fights, don’t you?”

“Uh, not exactly,” Cyrus muttered. “I think I’ve heard enough about it, thanks all the same,” he went on, trying on his best veil of confidence. “Though I would like to know if the…” What the hell were they? Prisoners? Captives? “Combatants…are still here?”

Traze’s smile, if this were possible, widened. It was almost teasing. “Ah. You mean the maniac and his girlfriend? Well of course they are,” he replied lightly, and then sighed, as if burdened, “People keep coming by to take them off my hands, but I’m afraid I haven’t come across an offer worthy yet … “

At his side, Aiden tilted his head at Traze with interest and stated confidently, “We have that offer.”

“Oh?” said Traze, crossing his lanky arms. “What can you give for them, then?”

This was it. This was the one part of his planned speech that Cyrus remembered: how to negotiate. He knew to offer less than he actually had. It was a lesson in business he’d learned from Fiearius, who had sunk them into debt over the purchase of Corra a few years ago. Always offer less than everything because they’ll always want more, his brother had said as he trudged through Goddora’s bitchwork for the next three months.

With that in mind, Cyrus said simply , “8k for the pair.”

Unsurprisingly, Traze spurted out, “8k?! Gentlemen, you’re insulting me,” through a peal of laughter. He swung back and forth on the balls of his feet and Cyrus had the sense he was enjoying himself when he cried, “One kroppie alone would cost twice that! And these two made me a godsdamn fortune last night.”

“Exactly,” said Aiden smoothly. “They’ve been in your ring once already and they’re in sorry shape because of it. Surely that impacts pricing?”

Traze’s lip curled. He tapped his fingers against his chin. Then he spun on his heel and told his nearest gunman, “Fine, see for yourself the state they’re in now. Let’s bring them out.”

Cyrus watched as a set of four gunmen took his order at once. Turning, they disappeared into a rusty back door in the warehouse, one of them swinging a rope in his hands.

As they waited, Traze tried to make conversation (“travel far to get here, did you?”) but Cyrus let Aiden respond for him. He felt like there was sand in his mouth; he couldn’t take his eyes off the door.

When it opened, Cyrus felt his lungs tighten. Finally, there was his brother, dragged into view by three gunmen. Somehow Fiearius wasn’t in as bad of shape as he pictured — there were dried cuts along his face and shoulders, he was covered in earth and he looked exhausted, but little else seemed wrong. When Cyrus met his eyes, Fiearius gave the faintest, sarcastic lift of his brow that Cyrus read at once: Finally. What took you so long?

Half annoyed and half deeply relieved, he looked instead at Leta beside him. As she was pulled into view, Cyrus’ stomach turned over at the shredded, sickening red and black mess that was her leg. Her clothes were ripped, dirt smeared over her face, and her bloodshot eyes were wide in worry. She looked ghostly white and silently shocked at the sight of him. Cyrus knew it: she had no place here.

Tearing his eyes away to look back at Traze, Cyrus summoned his best, most brisk voice. Back to business.

“See?” he remarked, rather impatiently. “She’s injured. Can hardly walk. A crippled ally is a worthless ally. You’d be lucky to sell her at all. And him.” He glanced over to his brother and internally cursed him for not being more beat up to help his case. A few scrapes and bruises were hardly cause for discount. Though if physical traits couldn’t do it, maybe personality could.

“I hear he’s uncontrollable. Reckless. Dangerous, clearly,” he went on indignantly. “Hardly quality material. It’ll take years of work and resources to get that out of him.” Fleetingly Cyrus wondered what Corra would think if she heard him talking this way. It made him uncomfortable even saying the words, treating people like property. He didn’t like to think how she’d feel hearing them.

“Maybe allies go for more,” he concluded finally. “But they’re not allies and I won’t pay more than they’re worth. 10k. Final offer.”

Traze shifted on his feet, rubbing his chin in thought. “10k — mm … ” he repeated, letting the offer sit in air before he snatched it away with a grimace. “Considering I’m going to throw this maniac back in the ring again? With the whole city watching and throwing down money? No. No, 10k is simply too low.”

Well that’s all I’ve got, Cyrus despaired in his head. He couldn’t stop himself this time from heaving a sigh and casting his brother a hopeless expression. Fiearius just stared back at him calmly. Too calmly, like he, too, was curious for what would happen next. Cyrus actually felt a brush of anger toward him: a little help would have been nice.

Unfortunately, it seemed Traze noticed the silent conversation that took place between the siblings, because the man suddenly held up a hand, looking startled.

“Wait a second here. You recognize them? No — you know them?” asked Traze, turning his head between Cyrus and the silent captives. He immediately decided himself, “You do. You know these two.”

Suddenly, a horrible grin of glee spread over his face, like he’d just heard a very funny, very off-color joke. Bursting into laughter, he clapped his hands together once and elbowed his nearest gunman, “Can you believe this? He’s making me an offer because these are his friends!”

Cyrus felt heat rising on his face, but before he could respond, Traze talked over him, “Alright, alright, since these are your friends, I suppose I can make a deal for you. I’m a charitable, good man, after all.” His laughter subsided, but the grin on his face was overpowering and sickened. “How about this?” he posed brightly. “Normally I’d ask three times this for the maniac alone — ” he gestured toward Fiearius and then spun forward. “But at 10k you can take one of them. Either one. But only one.”

A tense, expectant pause halted them. Finally, tersely and almost impolitely, Aiden repeated, “One?”

“A very fair deal!” Traze cried, walking in a small circle around them in delight. “10k for one of them, which one will it be?”

For the first time, Leta found her hoarse voice, her features darkening in sudden horror as she snapped, “Wait — what?! One? As in one of us stays?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be mouthy right now if I were you,” Traze leaned in to speak in her ear, laughing once before rounding back on Cyrus. “So — who, then? Which one?”

But Cyrus had no words. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to think anymore. His heart sank and sank toward weakness. One? Just one? How could he be expected to even begin making such a choice? He couldn’t leave his brother behind. He couldn’t. If he died in that ring…What would Cyrus do without him? The Dionysian would never fly again.

But if he left Leta here, with that injury, with that creep in charge, she would die. No ‘if’s about it. And how could he sentence his friend, even one he’d known for so short a time, to such a death? And if somehow she wasn’t killed? It could have been worse than death. It didn’t take a genius to guess what could happen to a woman locked in this prison …

As he stared at her emptily, Leta didn’t plead with him — she didn’t beg, she didn’t bargain, she gave no argument. Her widened eyes gazed at him in saddened understanding, she knew exactly what was in his head …

But no, it had to be Leta. He had to choose Leta. Fiearius could take this place a little longer. Maybe he already even had an escape plan for all Cyrus knew, but either way, it was obvious that he had to take her. It was the only answer. He’d buy Leta back and leave his brother for now.

So why did his stomach turn over at the very notion?

His gaze shifted to Fiearius uncertainly. They regarded each other, and Cyrus had to silently marvel at how calm and curious Fiearius seemed to find this whole ordeal, unphased as ever. But then Fiearius did react: brow furrowed in annoyance, he jerked his head sideways, toward Leta.

So Fiearius agreed.

“The girl,” said Cyrus finally, finding his voice with difficulty. He looked back to Traze. “We’ll take the girl.”

He hadn’t meant to, but he fleetingly glanced toward Leta and witnessed her reaction. Her mouth fell open and she cried, “wait — wait!” just as Traze stepped between them, beaming.

“Wonderful. Now, if you’ll step into my office … we’ll get this sorted … “

Leta did not go quietly. He could hear her raging and storming from inside Traze’s office (“This is ridiculous, we can’t leave Fiear!”) as Traze chattered on. Credits were exchanged, papers were signed. Standing there, Cyrus felt numb when Traze stood up from his desk and shook his slightly shaking hand, like they were now good friends.

As he stepped out of the office, Cyrus glimpsed Leta arguing furiously with Aiden. “We’re not leaving him here!” he heard her say, but then he turned away, finding it hard to watch. Cyrus was hardly a religious man, but as he walked down the steps back onto the dirty floor, he found himself praying he didn’t live to regret this decision.

He didn’t intend to, but he glanced over his shoulder and saw two of Traze’s men seize Fiearius’ bound arms to lead him back toward the door. Fiearius didn’t fight them.  In fact, when he looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Cyrus, he smirked, cocky and proud, like he wanted this all along, and it was all part of their plan.

If it was a farce, it was one Cyrus appreciated.

With little else left to do, Cyrus turned toward the tremendous black doors, his hand grasping Leta’s arm to lead her forward. He guided her toward the door firmly, but the whole way out, she was looking over her shoulder in despair.

He didn’t want to kill Rowland. That wasn’t his place. He’d never killed anyone and he didn’t plan to start now. All he wanted was for him to stop this. He just wanted it all to end. This whole nightmare to be over. He never intended to kill him.

But Fiearius was afforded an opportunity. One of his punches landed squarely in Rowland’s jaw, knocking him back for just a moment. Fiearius took the chance and rolled on top of him, seizing his wrists and pinning them to the ground. He may have been crazy, but he certainly wasn’t stronger than his opponent. Rowland was trapped. But what now?

“I’ll kill you, you little fuck!” Rowland was shouting as he struggled beneath Fiearius’ grip. “I’ll kill you and I’ll paint this ground with your blood. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll do it.”

Fiearius could do nothing but stare down at him, his heart racing and his head pounding. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? He felt a certain hysteria rising in him as he realized that Rowland’s writhing and flailing was starting to wear him down. Fiearius was weak, wounded, he could only hold him so long. He was going to get out. He was going to get out and–

“I’ll kill you! I’ll slaughter you and burn your sorry fucking corpse to ashes.”

His hand was starting to slip. He could feel his grip loosening.

“I’ll kill you and then I’ll kill your fucking boyfriend.”

It was only a matter of time. He was going to lose it–“I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking fuck shit fu–”

Suddenly the screaming stopped. Fiearius looked down into the slackened face between his legs, its wide eyes cold and dead. So…very…dead.

He didn’t even know how it had happened. Rowland’s wrists had started to slip out of Fiearius’ grasp and some primal instinct had taken control of him. He’d locked a knee on each side of Rowland’s neck and just..twisted. There had been a crack and then…silence. Absolute silence. The roar of the fire faded away and his vision started to go dark, save for that face which continued to blaze through.

Fiearius had seen a dead body before, but never like this. Never lying beneath him. Never his own victim. He felt he might throw up, but he couldn’t stop staring at it. The man he’d been struggling for his life against now looked so…calm. Peaceful. Like he was just resting there. Not…dead. His eyes traveled down the gaunty curve of his face to the throat which was distorted unnaturally and there he saw a set of thick black lines in a familiar shape. The Society librera, the same mark on his own flesh, inked into the side of Rowland’s neck.

Bile rose in his throat.

Dez’s voice drifted to his ears. “You killed him…” he breathed from his spot on the ground. “You killed him,” he said again, more seriously this time.

A very different stroke of panic ran through Fiearius. He looked back over his shoulder, eyes wide. “I-I didn’t,” he began nervously. “H-he was gonna kill you. He was gonna kill us. I-I didn’t–”

“No,” Dez interrupted, shaking his head and for a moment Fiearius thought the worst. When Liardson heard about this…When he found out that two standard operatives had failed so badly on their mission that they’d burned down a building and killed their target? He was going to be furious. And Dez was going to throw him under the bus. He could feel it.

“No, no,” Dez said again, shaking his head and finished, to Fiearius’ surprise, “You did the right thing.” He paused. “We did the right thing,” he amended. “We did. We killed him. We did the right thing.”

Relieved, Fiearius let out a long and heavy sigh, falling back onto the dirt and relinquishing the death hold he’d still had on Rowland’s spine. “We did the right thing,” he repeated, as though trying to convince himself as he shuffled over towards Dez, trying to put as much space between him and the body as he could.

“We did the right thing,” Dez agreed, meeting him halfway across the garden where they both lay on their backs looking up at the sky and fell into silence. The fire in the building was starting to die down, but the lights danced over the grassy lawn.

Finally, Fiearius mumbled, “Are you okay?”

“I think I’ll live,” said Dez quietly. “You?”

He sighed. “Yeah. Probably.”

Another silence passed between them. “We need to call this in,” Dez remarked.

“Yeah,” Fiearius said, his voice heavy with reluctance. “I know.”

They both tilted their heads to look at one another, a knowing stare passing between their eyes. Eventually Dez just nodded and looked away again. “You’re right,” he said simply. “They can wait.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“We were in the hospital for a couple days after. A week, maybe, I don’t remember,” Fiearius muttered tiredly, his voice low and gruff from speaking so long. Somehow, Leta knew he’d never told this story to anyone before. She hung on every word — fascinated, horrified by the imagery. The murder.

“Took some time off after that. Spent a few days on a couch watching a screen. Another few days in a tattoo parlor getting these stupid things.” He lifted his arm and turned it over to examine the inked flames running up to his elbow. “Seemed like a fitting tribute at the time.” His face scrunched in dislike. “The ignorance of youth, I guess.”

He released a sigh and dropped his arm back in his lap.“When we finally did go back to work, two things had changed,” he went on. His eyes were slanted toward the floor. “The first was that Liardson, our boss? Had been fired for purposefully sending standard operatives into a field meant for a senior. Apparently he’d believed that pulling it off would get him a boost up the food chain. Unfortunately for him, it did the opposite.” He laughed once, sharp and humorless.

“For us though?” he continued. “We were the menial little agents no one had heard of who’d somehow pulled off a job far beyond our abilities and eliminated one of the Society’s greater annoyances. No one seemed to care that we’d almost gotten ourselves killed in the process.” He subtly rolled his eyes and readjusted himself against the wall. “They promoted us on the spot. As soon as our wounds healed, they handed us our guns, wished us good luck and sent us off on our first real assassination job.”

He paused to take a deep breath. He still hadn’t looked at her. In fact, he hadn’t looked at her in minutes. “And just like that, Pieter Rowland stopped being ‘that guy I killed’ and started being ‘the first guy I killed’.” At last, he brought his eyes to hers with a shame and apology she’d never seen in him before and muttered, “First of many.”

For a moment longer Leta could think of nothing to say. She wouldn’t reassure him of what he did, but she couldn’t forsake him for being another Society puppet …

Or was he? The image she had of Fiearius was that he controlled his own life without shame. Curiously, she murmured, “But you act like it — all this bloodshed — doesn’t get to you,” with both questioning and accusation in her voice. She thought he might be offended, but he raised his eyebrows only in thought.

“After all those years in Internal, it’s hard to think of death the same way anymore,” he explained quietly. “Lives are just fleeting things that can be bought, sold, traded. Your own life is just one more asset to hang onto. Death is a transaction. They drill that into you until you believe it. It’s all just business.”

“And I do believe it,” he went on. “So if I act like it doesn’t bother me, it’s because it doesn’t. Usually. And then…” A veil fell over his face, his eyes growing distant. He stared across the cell but Leta knew he wasn’t seeing anything there.

“And then sometimes I forget to believe. And I remember Pieter Rowland. And that feeling I got after–”

Abruptly, his words cut off and he shook his head, dismissing himself. When he finally found his voice, it contained a rough shakiness she never would have expected. “It’s times like tonight. When it stops being business. And everything just…catches up…”

His voice faded slowly away, word by word, leaving a ringing silence in the cell.

Leta watched as he swallowed hard in his throat and averted his eyes toward a corner of the cell. Before this moment, she’d never felt aligned with Fiearius, but it was clear now the same people who took Ren from her also stole Fiearius’ life from him. At age seventeen.

The right words didn’t exist for this, she thought, falling quiet instead. A burdened, defeated and somehow understanding silence descended upon them and she hardly even noticed, moments later, when she leaned against his side and her head found his shoulder.