In fact, she was several steps behind, her back to him as she gazed down the hallway, her fists clenched at her sides. Cyrus had no idea what she was looking at. Confused, and suddenly weary, he stepped around and glimpsed her face: she looked lost, indecisive, pained even.

“Corra?” he asked tentatively, as Fiearius called from down the alley, “C’mon, little brother, we’ve got a date with the upper atmosphere!”

But Cyrus didn’t move. Neither did Corra.

“Corra, come on,” he pressed quietly, feeling truly alarmed now. He reached for her arm, but she jerked it away.

“I can’t!” Corra muttered quietly and then turned to him, her eyes wide and glassy. “We can’t!” she cried more desperately. Her chest was heaving with emotion. “The other prisoners. In the cells. They’ll do the same to them. They’ll die. We can’t just leave them — “

Of course, thought Cyrus numbly. Of course Corra had to rescue those people — they were imprisoned now, just as she had been once upon a time …

Cyrus watched, dumbstruck, as she rushed past him into the hallway back toward the holding cells. He hesitated, glancing longingly toward the exit; but just as quickly he realized he could not — he would not — leave Corra here.

Still, he’d had quite enough action for one day, he thought, wincing as he rushed after her. When he caught up, she was already hard at work at one of the metal doors, picking the lock of a cell that held a gaunt, pale man who seemed hardly able to believe she was there to free him.

“How can I help?” Cyrus asked hurriedly, feeling certain the answer would be ‘you can’t.’ But, overestimating him, Corra handed him an extra hairpin and, too distracted for further instruction, pointed at the next cell over.

“I don’t know how to–” Cyrus began, but regardless, tried shoving the pin in and out of the lock uselessly.

How was it that he — the engineer — couldn’t break these locks, but somehow Corra could? He watched, amazed, as she broke open the door, pulled it open and the man inside, looking shocked and laughing in disbelief, got his freedom.

With shakingly nervous hands, Cyrus wrestled with his own lock  — he even tried giving the bars a rough shake out of anger, which reminded him strongly of Fiearius — but then it occurred to him. He remembered what was in his other hand: a gun.

With a deep breath, Cyrus cocked the gun, closed his eyes, pointed his arm and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the whole hallway in a deafening ring of bullet against metal.

Cyrus opened his eyes carefully and peered down to find the lock exactly where he’d left it. Except only half of it. The door swung open as the cell’s occupant ran out.

Suddenly, another shot rang out. He jumped, but when he found the source (a pleased Corra smiling over at him innocently), he relaxed.

“Good idea,” she told him, beaming at him and firing one last time at the final lock. “That’s the last one, let’s get out of here.”

Cyrus didn’t even bother voicing his agreement. He just turned towards the door and ran, more eager than ever to never see this place again.

The only thing that stopped him was the heart-wrenching scream he heard just feet from the exit. Corra. Corra was — where was she?

Immediately, his breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened in horror as he looked back to witness Corra struggling furiously in the arms of a man twice her size. One of the guards had caught up to her, choking her, as she yelled, “Cyru–” before his hand clamped over her mouth, dragging her kicking, flailing body towards one of the cells she’d just liberated.

Cyrus did not consider himself particularly brave. He avoided conflict and he always dodged physical confrontation. But it took all of three seconds seeing Corra trapped in the man’s clutches for him to forget that he had no idea how to fight anyone. Without another moment’s hesitation, he barrelled towards them, his fist raised as he shouted, “Let her go!”

He swung his fist back, and then cracked it across the man’s face with more power than Cyrus even knew he had. He would have been shocked by his own daring if he didn’t immediately pull away and grasp his knuckles in pain: one thing his brother never told him about punching people was that it really fucking hurt.

He grimaced, but not nearly as bad as his victim: the guard stumbled back, releasing Corra as blood smeared all over his face.

Free and defiant, Corra righted herself and, without hesitation, unholstered her gun and shot the man in the leg. As he roared in pain, writhing on the ground, she looked up at Cyrus and laughed loudly in shock. Clearly, she didn’t think he had it in him, either. He laughed too, but it was a bubbling, nervous laugh, more out of relief than anything else.

“Okay,” she said. “Really. Let’s go.” But before they could dart away, Corra did something he never would have expected.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world, Corra stepped toward him, grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him in so that his lips clasped onto hers in in a forceful kiss that paralyzed him. His eyes widened, and then closed shut, his hands uselessly hanging at his sides as her lips pressed warmly to his. When she pulled away, a shaky gasp fell out of his lungs.

In a flash, she was gone: she was running down the hallway towards the door, but Cyrus could only stand there, dumbstruck. Warmth was spreading madly through him; he felt feverish with shock.

What the hell just happened? Had she really — ?

Cyrus never arrived at an answer. Dazedly touching his fingers to his lips, he felt a hand around his wrist and an impatient tug as Corra yelled, “Come on!” and dragged him out the door, heading back to the ship at last.

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

Cyrus had not recovered from his shock even an hour later. He felt like he was underwater, merely going through the motions of readying the engine for take-off, useless and distracted.

Abruptly, the engine growled at him, bringing him out of his daze. He stepped back and sighed. Now that the Dionysian’s systems were running and the ship was mercifully in the air, he didn’t know what to do. Dropping his wrench, he felt his legs wander back upstairs, automatically leading him toward the bridge. For what, he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he planned to ever tell his brother what had transpired. Cyrus was thinking now he would take that kiss with him to his grave …

Inside the bridge, Fiearius was slumped in his seat, looking sourly at Leta, crouched near him. She was tearing a bandage into strips and glaring as she tended to the cuts on his face.

“Can’t you do this later?” Fiearius was growling. “I have a ship to fly, you know.”

“And it’s only thanks to me you’re able to fly it at all,” she said bitterly, but while Fiearius opened his mouth to retort, this was when Cyrus tuned them out and dropped into the co-pilots seat, his mind miles away from Fiearius and Leta. Instead he was wondering: now what the hell was he supposed to do? Talk to her about it? Ask her why she’d done that? Or —

It took him several moments to notice the bickering had stopped. With a start, he realized both Fiearius and Leta had paused what they were doing, and were watching him curiously.

Puzzled and amused, Leta prompted, “Er, you okay, Cy?”

Slowly, Cyrus blinked his eyes. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine,” he responded at last, though fine was probably the last word he’d actually use to describe himself. More like ecstatic, terrified, confused, anxious …

For a moment longer, Leta surveyed him through narrowed eyes, and Cyrus had the sudden paranoid sense she could see right through him. Girls had a sixth sense for stuff like this, didn’t they? Didn’t they? And she was such a good friend of Corra’s …

But after a short pause, all Leta said was, “Well, you look weird,” her voice muffled as she tore a bandage between her teeth and turned back to Fiearius.

He sighed in relief, but Fiearius was still eyeing him, like he was working things out in his head, a sight Cyrus always found unsettling. Fortunately, at the perfect moment, Leta hit the right nerve on Fiearius’ head and he jolted in pain.

“Ugh, stop,” he grumbled, glaring at her, though didn’t make any motion to actually make her leave. Instead, he argued, “Shouldn’t you be taking care of that,” he gestured to her injured leg, “Not this?”

“I already did,” Leta muttered passingly, tearing the bandage from her teeth. “Minor infection. Should be okay. Though we’re still out of supplies … ” she muttered dryly, and then abruptly, she pulled back and gasped. “What, you’re not actually — concerned about me, are you, captain?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to go away?” Fiearius suggested dully. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Already tired of this, Cyrus adjusted himself on his seat and interrupted, purposely keeping his voice even and brisk, “On the note of supplies. We’re running low on a lot of things actually. Where are we headed next?”

Fiearius leaned back in his seat, ignoring that it interrupted the bandaging Leta was doing to his head. She bristled.

“I was just trying to figure that out actually,” he replied seriously. “Though I’ll admit supplies are second on my priority list right now.” At Cyrus’ look of confusion, he clarified, “Can’t buy supplies without credits. And all our credits…” His voice trailed off pointedly.

Cyrus was glad he didn’t finish that thought.. He knew he’d made the right choice in buying Leta back from captivity, but he’d expected Fiearius to at least blame him or Leta for how broke they were now. The fact that he didn’t was both surprising and welcome.

Maybe he’d gotten hit in the head harder than Cyrus thought.

“So job first, I think,” Fiearius said thoughtfully, leaning forward again, likely with the pure intention of annoying his relentless physician, who was edging around him to reach his wounds. “I’ve got a few leads. Little things. But I’ll reach out to some people,” he went on, “Try and get something bigger … “

Cyrus purposely didn’t ask for specifics  — he didn’t want to know what Fiearius’ idea of ‘something bigger’ was.

In fact, Cyrus felt his attention slipping from the conversation. Relieved as he was to have both Leta and his brother back safely aboard the now-flying Dionysian after the longest day of his life, it wasn’t them who occupied his thoughts in that moment. Half of his mind was still elsewhere on the ship, on Corra, who had disappeared like nothing unusual at all had happened today …

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.

Embers and ash floated to the ground like snow, searing his skin on contact, as seventeen-year-old Fiearius Soliveré lay sprawled on his aching back on the floor, his limbs laying at odd angles. Every inch of him felt bruised and beaten. Slowly he blinked his eyes open, letting the ceiling swim into view, wincing as he tried to grasp just exactly how he and Dez had gotten to this point.

He eased slowly to a sitting position, but as soon as he put pressure on his left arm, he let out a yell that no one could hear; sharp pain rocketed through his wrist, straight to his shoulder. Broken bone, probably.

The support beams of the building around him were creaking, ready to give up. And the smoke. It filled his lungs, his throat, his eyes. From what he could tell, Rowland — their target — was gone. He’d probably knocked Fiearius out and run off before the whole place collapsed on itself.

Dez was nowhere in sight either. Maybe Dez had gone after him. Maybe he was caught in the fire. Maybe he too was knocked unconscious and left in the thick layer of smoke to choke to death.

Again, Fiearius tried to right himself, but again the roaring pain from his arm was too much. And he was exhausted. That scuffle had taken a lot out of him, as had the lack of oxygen in here. Even if he could sit up, he didn’t know what he’d do. Last he’d seen, the stairwell was blocked by flames. Rowland had made sure of that. It was beginning to seem that the only option he had was to lie here in this crumbling structure and wait for death. He had always assumed he’d die young, but never had he imagined dying before his eighteenth birthday.

Never had he imagined dying like this.

It had started as such an ordinary morning. Gaiané had stayed the night so of course Dez had been in a bad mood, but Fiearius had made them all breakfast and he’d cheered up a bit. They’d spent the first half of the day lying around in their tiny, bare little apartment overlooking the entertainment district, complaining about their boss who, in their opinion, was a smarmy creep, until she’d been called away by her partner for a job. Fiearius had lingered in the door and kissed her goodbye, essentially making her late and surely landing him in a bout of trouble later on, but it had been worth it at the time. It was definitely worth it now…

In the middle of the afternoon, when still no word of a gig had come in, Fiearius and Dez had truly believed that they had lucked out and would be getting the day off. Perhaps no one was in need of half-rate Society threatening today. They made casual plans to meet some friends at the pub down the street that evening. And then they’d gotten the call.

It was their boss, Arkin Liardson. The smarmy creep. “Come into the office,” he’d told them. “I need to brief you myself on this one.”

It was odd. Typically, solution jobs came in through their consoles with all the information they needed. A personal briefing with Liardson himself was unusual, but it wasn’t cause for concern. It was more an indication of secrecy. Whoever they were charged with confronting was too confidential to pass along to the nice young ladies of Internal homebase that input the information to send out to agents. Fiearius hadn’t been concerned. Not even when they’d made their way uptown for the briefing in his office and they’d been told the name.

“Pieter Rowland?” Dez had asked, shuffling in his seat, curious. “I know that name. He’s been in the news recently.”

“He has,” Liardson had confirmed from across the desk. “He’s been a real thorn in our side. Thinks he’s some dov’ha géitan rebel leader who’s been going about assaulting Society brass.”

Fiearius had perhaps heard the name once or twice, though he wasn’t nearly as interested in reading the news every morning as Dez was. If he had been, he probably wouldn’t have had to ask, “Assaulting? In what way?”

Both Liardson and Desophyles had turned to him, and replied in unison, “Arson.”

Fiearius couldn’t hold back a snicker. “Arson?” he repeated, confused. “Seriously? This guy’s running around the city just setting stuff on fire? As rebellion? Against us?” He scoffed and shook his head.

“It may sound ridiculous,” Liardson admitted, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on his desk. “But it’s becoming a serious issue. We’ve already lost four valuable members to his antics and we’ve had enough of it. He needs to be stopped.”

“Fair enough,” Fiearius agreed. “But why tell us?” Instantly, his partner shot him a glance that read nothing if not ‘shut your mouth’. Dez had always been of the belief that the best way to get ahead was to suck up to your superiors and say yes to everything and never ask questions. He was also of the belief that they very much needed to get ahead and soon. Fiearius, on all counts, disagreed.

Fiearius went on, “I mean, I agree, he should be stopped, clearly, but doesn’t this sound more like a job for the Prime? Or at least a Senior.” Someone authorized to kill him, essentially, he thought, but was unable to find the proper words to express it. Perhaps Liardson had forgotten that Fiearius and Desophyles were still just regular operatives. All they were ever instructed to do was threaten people with the notion of their more experienced colleagues. It usually worked. And when it didn’t, a few punches to the eye and kicks to the groin did the trick. Though he doubted this arsonist guy would be that concerned by two seventeen year old kids.

“No,” Liardson stated shortly and for a moment, Fiearius didn’t think he’d get any more explanation than that, but after a moment, he added, “You’re the right people for this job. I want you on it. Stop him.”

Fiearius fell silent. He could feel Dez’s eyes on him, practically daring him to disagree again. Daring him to give up this ‘opportunity’ as he would say. And it was, Fiearius realized. If they could really stop this guy, they’d be legends among standard IA operatives. They’d probably get all the best jobs from here on out. It really was a great chance. He’d questioned it once. He wasn’t stupid enough to question it again.

“Definitely,” he said obediently. “We’ll get right on it.”

Apparently, Information had managed to track down where this Pieter Rowland had been hiding out. It was some abandoned old building by the southern docks and that was where they were to make their appearance. As the pair boarded the PIT train to head south, they tried to put together some sort of strategy on how to tackle this. Oftentimes, the librera markings on their arm were plenty frightening enough, but this? This required a bit of creativity. By the time they stumbled off the train back into the dark streets surrounding the building, they had a plan and Fiearius was feeling confident once more.

As it turned out, Rowland’s hideout was an old apartment building, long since vacated. Eight stories tall, windows boarded up, the weeds on the walkway overgrown, it seemed exactly the kind of place to find a psycho like this.

The stairs creaked underfoot as they headed to the door. Then they paused, and Desophyles laid a hand on his shoulder. “You sure about this?” he asked under his breath.

Fiearius glanced over at him. No, of course he wasn’t sure, he never was. But he muttered, “Yeah. Go.”

Reluctantly, Dez nodded and ran off around the corner of the building to look for another way in. Mustering up his courage, Fiearius laid a hand on the doorknob and tried to ignore how strange this felt. He’d never walked into a place without Dez immediately at his back before. He had a gut feeling that separation here was the key. Catch Rowland off-guard. Cause a distraction and surprise him. Even if that meant walking into this building alone…

Tentatively, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. It swung in slowly, revealing the dark hallway inside. This place had been empty for a while. The hardwood floors were weathered, the paint on the walls was chipped away and cracks cut through every surface. A sour, heavy smell hung in the air — something recognizable, but he couldn’t place what it was.

The only light was what little of the moon shone past his silhouette in the open door. The only noise was the quiet scuttling of pests or rodents in the walls and the calm hum of the PIT train a few blocks away. Fiearius took a deep breath and broke the silence.

“Pieter Rowland!” he shouted to the empty building.

The scuttling grew suddenly louder before dying off entirely. Fiearius took another step forward into the hallway. “I’arte ti dené se pieh’tiarne Dov’ha niat.” It was a phrase he’d used on many a job before. There was nothing that struck a chill into Satierans quite like mentioning the judgment of the Dov’ha, no matter how non-religious they may have been. Devout Ridellian or strict atheist, respect was always given to the Great Stars.

But scared or not, Pieter Rowland did not budge. If he was even here. Only silence followed his call and with a sigh, Fiearius ventured on.

There was no point in being quiet. He was to be a distraction, was he not? A distraction and a representation of the power and confidence of the Society. He was not to be frightened of some bastard arsonist. He strode through the place as if he owned it, pushing open the doors to the empty apartments and stomping up the stairs when he found nothing. He would not show fear, but strength, which got easier and easier the higher up in the building he got. He scoured every apartment, every room, every nook and cranny and he found nothing. No one. Maybe he really wasn’t here after all.

When he’d finished with the eighth floor, still empty-handed, he headed back down to the seventh which is when he heard it. A single creak. Fiearius froze mid-step. His heart stopped beating in his chest and his breath caught in between his throat and lungs. The window, he realized suddenly. Gods, how could he be so stupid? How had he not noticed that streak of light on this floor when he’d gone through it the first time? The window. It wasn’t board up like the rest. It was a wide gaping hole leading right onto the fire escape.

Fiearius wanted to clap his hand to his forehead in frustration at his own lack of attention. Of course. Of course Rowland would unboard one of the windows so he could hide on the fire escape. Of course.

Fortunately, it was a good situation. Rowland wouldn’t risk making noise again by heading down it so if he could just…creep…carefully…over…

His footsteps on the hardwood were mercifully silent. If he could just reach the window without him knowing. His body tensed as he approached, his hands raising in preparation to…just…grab him and–

Just as Fiearius lashed out the window to seize the man by the neck, another pair of hands came lashing out towards him, wrapping around his own throat roughly and forcing him back into the hallway. Choking and struggling to right himself and regain the upper hand, Fiearius flailed in his clutches, wildly throwing blows out in front of him until suddenly he just…let go. Fiearius stumbled backwards and, still trying to catch his breath, looked up to find a familiar face staring down at him.

“Sorry…” Dez muttered, looking only mildly apologetic. “I thought you were someone else…”

Fiearius glared at him, putting his own hand to his neck to massage it lightly. “Fuckin’ hope so…” he muttered, a shakiness to his voice. “We’re not supposed to kill him, y’know.”

“Oh that wouldn’t have killed you,” Dez remarked easily, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Just knock you unconscious for a few hours.”

Fiearius paused and stared at him, mildly aghast. “You’ll have to teach me that one sometime,” he muttered finally. Dez shrugged and Fiearius added seriously, “I don’t think he’s here.”

Dez considered him briefly and looked up at the ceiling. “I think there’s someone upstairs,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“No, that was just me,” Fiearius told him simply, shaking his head and turning back towards the stairwell defeatedly. “The whole place is empty, trust me.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth, the whole hallway resonated with a loud ‘thump thump thump’ as though someone was stomping up and down on the ceiling. Both pairs of eyes shot up.

“You sure?” asked Dez before Fiearius rushed for the stairs and he was hot on his heels. Together, they stormed up to the eighth floor, rounded into the hallway and froze so quickly that Dez plowed right into him. Though as he righted himself, Fiearius could do nothing but stare at the scene before them.

It didn’t make sense, his head told him. He’d just been up here. He’d just been up here and it was empty. He knew it had been. So how the hell was the whole hallway suddenly filled with barrels from one end to the other. And there, in the center, sitting cross-legged atop one, was a man. A skinny, malnourished thing, his ribs poking out from under his pasty flesh with naught but a ripped pair of pants covering his otherwise bare and blackened skin. He seemed to be occupied by something he was turning over in his hand, though it was too dark to see what. But how the hell did he…? He’d only been downstairs all of five minutes.

For a long moment, three of them just remained there, perfectly still. Fiearius couldn’t bring himself to move nor could he bring himself to look away from the man seated before them. He only regained his senses when finally Dez’s hand gripped his shoulder and he gently moved him aside.

“Pieter Rowland, the judgment for your crimes has come to pass,” Desophyles said sternly, stepping past Fiearius. “The Society has had enough.”

Instantly, as though he had only just noticed their presence, Rowland’s eyes shot up to stare at them between the curtains of long, greasy black hair. A slow grin curled through his lips as he flashed white teeth. Despite the smile, he said, “I’m disappointed.” And seemed to leave it at that. Awakened from his stupor and quickly becoming attuned to the seriousness of the situation, Fiearius straightened beside Dez and tried to exude confidence that was slowly slipping away.

Rowland continued, “I really was hoping they’d send me someone important.” He tapped whatever was in his hand upon the surface of the barrel. “Someone to make an example of.” Carelessly, he slipped off the edge of the barrel, his feet landing gracefully, lightly on the floor where he started to wind between the barrels towards them. “Wouldn’t that be a show? For me,” he clasped a hand to his chest humbly, “to take down the very best of Internal.” The unsettling grin returned. “Wouldn’t that be grand?”

Rowland came to a stop a few feet from them. Fiearius was overcome with the distinct feeling he should take a step backwards. Or five. But he stood his ground and Dez beside him as the strange little man put his long bony finger to his lips and observed them curiously. “But instead? They send me nothing more than sacrificial lambs,” he said, sadly, reaching that same finger over to run down Fiearius’ chest.

Instinctually, he brushed it away.

“Next time,” Fiearius warned harshly, “It will be the best that come for you.” It was a half-hearted effort. Fiearius was quite sure now of one thing and one thing alone: they didn’t belong here. He’d been right to begin with. This was not a job for two standard operatives. They were out of their league. Way out of their league and they would be very lucky if they even made it out of here alive. Carefully, he took that step backwards, fully intending to get the hell out of here, but Rowland’s expression changed suddenly. His eyes grew wide, his features fierce and he too took another step towards him.

“And I look forward to it,” the man said, his voice barely above a whisper, but full of crazed malice. There was movement out of the corner of Fiearius’ eye. Rowland’s hand. The object he’d been holding. He could see him fiddling with it, but his attention flew back to the man’s face as he said viciously, “But tonight, I’ll accept their tribute.”

Before either Fiearius or Dez knew what was happening or how to stop it, Rowland cheerfully clicked the lighter on and tossed it behind him into the barrels. Barrels, Fiearius realized far too late, of ship fuel.

The explosion was deafening as a freight train. The sheer power of the blast threw them backwards, ramming Fiearius up against the wall. Every inch of his skin felt seared by flames and heat and all sound dropped away from his ears. He squinted, and the light burned his eyelids.

But he had to move, he had to get out of here and he had to find Dez. Blindly, he flung out his arm and staggered forward. He made it a weak, jagged step to the side when a hand gripped his shoulder, seizing the fabric of his shirt to steer him. Dez.

Senselessly, they shouted directions at one another, but the words were swept away by the cackling flames and smoke. And Fiearius didn’t need to hear what he said. They were clearly thinking the same thing: get out.

With difficulty they found the stairs, staggering down and pressing their forearms over their mouths and noses. Fiearius hoped he’d find clean air here, but what he found —

The hallway of the seventh floor was already ablaze. Lines of fire cut through the hallway in distinct patterns. Fiearius’ stomach dropped. The whole place had been laced with the stuff, prepared for this very situation. That was the smell he’d met at the front door. Ship fuel. It was everywhere. This whole building would go up in flames any moment.

Well. If it hadn’t already.

Panic was shaking through him now. Fiearius tried to breathe evenly to calm himself, but with each breath, he inhaled more and more smoke and instead of keeping him cool, he was choking as he charged down the hall to the next stairwell, hopping over the divisions fire and feeling the flames bite viciously at his legs. He could still see Dez in front of him as they turned into the stairs down to the sixth, but only for a moment.

Just as Fiearius laid his foot onto the first step, the ceiling of the stairwell came crashing down like a waterfall of debris and lava, blocking his path and blocking his view.

Stunned and shaking off the hot dust and dirt that had splashed onto him, Fiearius stumbled backwards into the hallway, his mind and heart racing. His eyes glanced up to the only blue light in sight. The window. The fire escape. Of course.

Furiously, he sprinted back down the hallway, now leaping over the ever worsening blaze, his eyes watering and his feet pounding on failing floorboards. If he could just get to the window and climb out he could–

Only feet from his victorious escape, something flew at him from outside his vision and collided with enough force to knock him off his feet and into the wall. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t an object at all as he felt fingernails dig into the skin of his arm and flailing limbs hurled at him from every direction. Dazed and confused as he was, Fiearius still had an advantage over the lanky Pieter Rowland. One swift hook to the chin and the man was sent staggering backwards.

Blinking through the smoke to keep his eye on him as Rowland wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and laughed grimly, Fiearius carefully stepped backwards, one hand reached out, desperately hoping to come in contact with the windowsill. Before he reached it though, those manic eyes were back upon him, the whites turning red.

Rowland was a blur as he lunged forward, this time his hand seizing Fiearius’ hair, but if there was one thing Fiearius had actually been ready for to begin with, it was a fist fight. He threw out a powerful punch. And made contact. And another. Again. It felt like one of the most unfair fights he’d ever been in. The man seemed so weak and ill-prepared to take on even a seventeen year old, but especially not a practiced seventeen year old. With each blow, Fiearius was sure he was going to break this skinny little man, but despite all his efforts, Rowland just laughed. Laughed and continued to lash at him violently, his nails scraping his flesh with each swipe.

It didn’t help that Fiearius’ head was starting to feel fuzzy. The whole floor was now engulfed in flames save the circle in which the two men fought. His breath was starting to shorten, his vision once more blurring and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. Rowland had forced him away from the window which was now blocked by a wall of fire. There was no way out anymore. He was trapped and…feeling…very…faint…

Rowland must have seen the opportunity. As Fiearius’ offense weakened, Rowland swept his leg hard at his opponents’ and shoved him harder in the chest. Out of instinct, Fiearius seized the man’s hair in a desperate attempt to stay upright, but gravity was a stronger force than the both of them.

Fiearius’ back hit the floor with a hard thump and Rowland tumbled after him. The hardwood, heated to a burning temperature, singed the flesh of his arms and through his shirt. Fiearius howled in pain and, seizing Rowland’s shoulders with all the might left in him, rolled them both over, forcing the man’s wrists onto the ground and pounding his fist into his bruised and bloodied face. The eyes glazed and rolled back in his head as streaks of red poured from his nose. Finally, Fiearius had the upper hand in this fight.

And that was when the ceiling gave way.

It came down in a flood of flame and debris, punching a hole into the floor only feet from where Fiearius had Rowland pinned to the ground. Startled and blinded by the cloud it left in its wake, Fiearius’ grip faltered for just a moment, but it was enough. Fiearius didn’t see it coming, the still burning piece of debris that suddenly plowed into his cheek. And he was so distracted by it, he couldn’t even react when Rowland elbowed him in the ribs and pushed him over the edge.

The fall was short, but the crash was deafening as Fiearius landed on the fifth floor. His vision started to fade to black as he lay crumpled on the weathered floor, every part of him rife with pain. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t stay awake, but only minutes later he felt a hand grasp his shoulder and roll him onto his back. As his whole body screamed in protest, his mind could only let him blink up at the dark shape looming over him.

“Goodnight, little lamb,” Rowland breathed maliciously. He turned and headed for the stairwell and Fiearius could do nothing but watch as he dropped a flaming chunk of wood on the steps behind him and the whole passageway set alight.

Bruised, battered, burned and ultimately defeated, Fiearius’ eyes flickered shut and everything turned to black.

Now, he was rather surprised that he’d even awoken at all. He had been sure that was it, but apparently his mind wanted to torture him a little further and make sure he got one last chance to consider his mortality before it finally hit him. What was he supposed to do? Lie here, broken, and run through all his regrets? Was the universe trying to make sure he knew he’d made mistakes before those mistakes inevitably moved in to cut him down? Was this karma slapping him in the face?

Or was this another chance?

The moment the notion crossed his mind, he was startled by a loud thump from above and the creaks of the building turning into snaps as the supports started to give way. A chunk of ceiling fell beside him. Despite the pain, he scrambled out of the way only to find another piece coming towards him. And another. This was it. The building was collapsing and he crippled within it.

No, this wasn’t another chance, this was just the pissed off gods making sure his death was in suffering.

Crack. Despite himself, Fiearius clumsily forced himself to his feet only to be brought down as the building started to shake violently. Crack crack crack. He started to feel the floor beneath him slacken under his weight. And then–

Fiearius watched in horror, as the hallway in front of his eyes, doors and apartments, walls, windows, all of it, seemed to let out a mighty roar and melt away from view. The whole thing just…sank. Half of the building, crumbled in on itself and, just like that, was gone. Moonlight now shone down upon him and for the first time in what felt like years, he could breathe. Real oxygen of the night air battling off the clouds of smoke as he felt a blast of wind hit his face. Beneath him, the fire reared up, fueled by the pile of debris that was once a structure. The roar of it and the heat he could feel even from his place on the fifth floor that was somehow still miraculously standing, was enough to make him cringe. But through the noise of the fire, he heard something else. A voice. A voice crying out in pain. A voice he knew.

Dez.

Forgetting all about his broken arm, burnt flesh and bleeding wounds, Fiearius shot up and ran forward to the edge overlooking the rubble below. For a split second, he could see two figures locked in battle in the garden, but then the ground gave way beneath him and again, he found himself falling. This time, he landed on the charred remains of a door, still smoking with embers, but he didn’t stop to find out just how hot they still were. He stumbled back to his feet, frantically trying to gain a foothold in the burning mess, vaulting over chunks of brick and mortar and flailing forward.

Flames licked at him as he tumbled downward, ever nearing his goal. As he got closer and the smoke started to fade, he could get a clearer picture of what was happening. Desophyles was large, especially for his age. The prospect of him being beaten by a skinny twig of a man like Rowland was insanity. And yet, Fiearius had realized, Rowland was insane which apparently made all the difference.

He supposed you had to be. To kill and maim and destroy like he had. You had to lose a chunk of yourself. And Rowland had lost just enough to be incredibly deadly. Fiearius could see it in his eyes when the man looked up and met his.

“You just won’t fucking die, will you?!” Rowland called into the night air, his voice nearly drowned out by the still blazing building. Dez, who he’d had pinned to the ground with the sharp remains of a broken lamp, struggled to get away as Rowland abandoned him there on the dirt and stepped back towards the building.

But Fiearius, still entrenched up to his shins in dust, dirt and debris, didn’t budge. His eyes were fixed on his partner who was still trying to crawl away, but there was something wrong. He wasn’t moving his legs at all and there was a trail of blood left behind him. No wonder Rowland had the upper-hand. Dez had been crippled.

Unfortunately, Fiearius’ distraction hadn’t gone unnotice. A strange expression of epiphany crossed Rowland’s face as he watched Fiearius’ eyes search over his partner frantically. And then he smiled.

“No matter,” he called out, sounding proud of himself as he turned away and stalked towards the apartment building, holding out the lamp into the fire until it was alight. Brandishing it like a torch, he returned to hover over Dez who looked up at him with widened eyes. “This one can die first,” he said with a wide grin, raising the weapon over his head to strike it down into Dez’s chest.

Fiearius panicked. “No!” he shouted and lunged forward suddenly, willing himself to be down there and take that creepy son of a bitch by the throat. In his vigor, his foot, desperately trying to carry him onward, caught on debris. Instantly, he fell forward onto his chest and kept falling, tumbling down the smoldering pile of crumbled apartments, feeling every hard edge and sharp corner dig into him on the way down until he finally he rolled onto the ground in a cloud of dust, coughing violently.

He was trying to right himself (and failing miserably) when he looked up and saw Rowland staring at him, the flaming lamp still held high over his head as he stood over Desophyles across the yard. But he just stared. Stared with those cold, empty eyes that gave Fiearius the distinct feeling that he was already dead and this was some sort of hellish afterlife. Until suddenly he wasn’t staring anymore, but running. Running straight at him. Fiearius desperately tried to pull himself up, but he could hardly move. Every inch of him was screaming in pain now. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t get up. All he could do was wait until that murderous swing was upon him.

Or until right before he made contact when, in desperation, he shot up his legs, catching Rowland’s stomach in the kick and causing the man to make a full flip over his head. He landed with a heavy thump on the ground above Fiearius, his head inches to the left. Briefly, the two turned to look at one another and their eyes met and in just that moment, Fiearius saw something he’d never seen before. It was a murderous intent unlike any other. Strong and vicious and unrelenting. And behind it was…pleasure. This man genuinely enjoyed death. It was terrifying. And Fiearius’ survival instinct took over.

Suddenly, both men lunged at one another, each determined to get to the other first. Rowland clasped his hands around Fiearius’ neck. Fiearius seized and pulled Rowland’s hair. Rowland plunged his knee into Fiearius’ stomach. Fiearius drove his elbow into Rowland’s ribs. They struggled and wrestled there in the flickering light of the burning building, each just as desperate to gain the upper hand and to deliver that final blow, even if Fiearius didn’t realize it at the time.