“Captain!”

Corra was rushing down the stairs, her eyes ringed with red.

“Oh god,” she gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth. “How did you–is he–?”

But before anyone could answer her, Corra suddenly spotted Desophyles as he stepped onto the Beacon’s deck behind them. At once, her expression hardened. Cyrus knew that look. He’d seen it dozens of times before, and it always ended the same: with someone in a heap on the floor.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she snarled, and in one motion, she unholstered the pistol at her side and held it up, fury and fear storming in her face.

“Corra, no — he helped us,” Cyrus muttered distractedly as he struggled with Finn to get Fiearius further into the ship. Dez followed, apparently unafraid of Corra’s wrath.

“The ship’s prepped to go,” said Finn, leading Fiearius toward the elevator.

“No way!” said Corra, her gun still trained on Dez. “No way is he coming with us. Off.”

“That’s unfortunate,” noted Dez lightly, pausing to wait as Leta signaled for the elevator. “Since I was willing to help with Fiearius’ recovery from the ARC.”

Abruptly, Leta spun around, her eyes round. “What? What do you know about ARC?”

“More than you do, I’d wager,” Dez replied.

“What the hell does that mean?” Leta demanded, flaring up at once. “What do you know about the recov — “

“Not to rush anyone,” interrupted Finn, his voice straining under the weight of holding Fiearius, “but that docks officer is probably a little unhappy with us. If I had to guess — “

Corra looked around at them all, appalled. “Cyrus! You can’t seriously be thinking of letting him stay?! He’ll kill us, Cy, he’ll–”

“Shut up!” Cyrus roared suddenly, so loudly that even Fiearius, delusional as he was, looked over at him. “Just–” he panted, “Shut up. All of you. Just shut up.” The room went silent and Cyrus, breathing heavily and trying desperately to quell his panic, looked to Dez. “ARC. What can you tell us about it?”

“Accelerated Rehabilitation Course,” Dez replied crisply. “Subjects are administered a round of drugs that heightens their susceptibility to suggestion. Researchers then use vocal and visual cues to shape what that suggestion is. Mostly, they’ve been using it in Internal Affairs as an alternative to traditional Solutions.”

“You mean killing,” Cyrus said bluntly, in no mood for pretense.

Dez paused thoughtfully. “Yes. Fiearius was administered a very large dosage over a short period of time as the only intention was to keep him under control. It will take some work to reverse the effects.”

Cyrus glanced at Leta, who was listening intently. “And you know how to do that?”

“Of course.”

If he was lying, Cyrus couldn’t tell. There was a short, sharp pause, and then, whether it was a mistake or not  —

“Corra, take him down to the brig,” he ordered. “Lock him up.” Corra opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a quick glare. To Dez, he added bitterly, “Drop the rifle or I’ll change my mind. I’m sure you understand.”

Fortunately, Dez nodded and calmly placed his gun on the ground as Corra, more rough than necessary, jabbed him in the side with the end of her pistol.

“Finn, get the ship in the air in the next five minutes, whatever it takes,” Cyrus went on. Finally, he turned to Leta and nodded towards the elevator. “Med bay,” he sighed, suddenly more exhausted than he could ever remember. “Let’s go.”

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

As the Beacon lifted from the ground, Cyrus didn’t get a chance to see the last of Paradiex as it swept out of view. He didn’t have a second to consider when — if — he’d ever see the city again. Some homecoming this had been. Instead, he hurried downstairs into the dark, quiet medical bay, the lights flicking on automatically as they entered.

The Beacon’s medical bay outstripped the Dionysian’s infirmary so tremendously, it was almost embarrassing. The med bay took up nearly an entire deck and boasted a chemistry lab, a waiting room, as well as gleaming clean exam benches, shining white counters, new equipment; it resembled a small hospital. Maybe this ship, Cyrus thought to himself, would make the difference in fixing this mess.

Fiearius was slouched on the edge of an exam bench, his glassy eyes set on a far wall. Meanwhile, Leta dodged from cabinet to cabinet, shelf to shelf, gathering supplies. Cyrus simply backed himself up to a wall and watched, unsure of what else to do. He knew he had no reason to be here — he didn’t know how to help.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, either.

“Need me to do anything?” he asked, wringing his hands. Leta looked up quickly from the counter.

“Help me straighten out his legs, will you?”

Cyrus didn’t see how this would be possible, but mercifully, Fiearius didn’t protest as they grasped him by the shoulders. When they straightened out his bloodied legs, he exhaled a hiss of pain and started muttering under his breath.

Finally, Cyrus couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know.

“Leta,” he muttered, “is he going to be alright?”

Leta paused in the middle of cleaning the cuts. She looked up, her face white with shock. But her voice was reassuringly even.

“Whatever drugs they put him on, they’re still in his system. Once they’re flushed out, he’ll be more like himself.”

“What about his injuries?”

“More than likely,” said Leta, more quietly now, “it’ll be awhile before he can walk properly.”

And until then — then what? thought Cyrus blankly. What was he supposed to do with Fiearius out of commission again? At least when he’d been injured before, he still had his senses. He could still bark orders, he could still fly the ship. But this — this Cyrus wasn’t sure he could handle.

Suddenly, Cyrus was quite sure he couldn’t be in the room any longer. So when Leta said, “He needs stitches,” and rolled up her sleeves, Cyrus nodded weakly and turned for the door, mumbling something about needing to check on the bridge. Leta cast him a look of pity but did not refute.

But before he could escape for the hallway, Fiearius’ voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You’re one of them,” he said, in a scratchy, rough voice quite unlike his own. Cyrus turned around and realized he was talking to Leta — and holding her wrist tightly, gazing at her librera mark. Leta went very still.

“You’re one of them,” he said again, his eyes glassy, “so you can do it. You can get it out of me.”

Now, Leta looked startled. “What? Fiearius — “

“You can take it, you can have it.” Fiearius’ grip tightened and slowly, to Cyrus’ horror, he brought Leta’s hand towards him and placed it calmly around his throat. “Just do it.”

Leta’s eyes went wide and she jerked her hand away, but he caught it and pulled her back. Instinctively, Cyrus started forward.

“Don’t you get it?” Fiearius asked, his tone growing more tense. “I need it gone. I can’t be the Verdant anymore. I’m in the way. I’m screwing it up.”

“Fiearius, let her go!” Cyrus snapped warningly as Leta tried to tug her hand out of his grasp to no avail.

“No!” Fiearius shouted, sounding more alive than he had since they’d left the Society headquarters. He sat up straighter and in one motion, seized Leta’s other wrist. She struggled to release herself, but Fiearius held her in place. “You’re the only one!” he begged, his voice cracking and his face more pleading than Cyrus had ever heard it. “You have to do it.”

Torn between horror and anger, Cyrus moved to fight him off, but when he looked at Leta’s face, he stopped himself. If she was afraid, she didn’t show it.

Slowly, she stopped struggling and stared at him solemnly. “I wont,” she said coldly. “I won’t do it.”

“You have to,” Fiearius growled, forcing her hands to his neck again.

“I said, I won’t,” she said sharply.

They stood there like that for what seemed to Cyrus like hours, Fiearius glaring furiously at Leta and Leta glaring calmly right back. Finally, like a breath of fresh air, the tension weakened, as did Fiearius’ grip and he let out a low groan before despairing under his breath. “Gi’ar ni arr’ouat…” Have mercy.

Cyrus was paralyzed by what he’d just witnessed. And then, all at once, he couldn’t bear to look at either of them any longer. If there was such a thing as hitting bottom, this was it and he couldn’t bear to see any more of it. The last thing he saw before he turned away was Leta gently moving her hands away from his throat to rest on his shoulders.

“You’re going to get better, Fiear,” she said behind him as Cyrus fled out the door. “I promise you that. And never tell me to do that again.”

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

Cyrus didn’t know what to believe. He’d known Leta’s father was entangled in the Society bureaucracy, and he’d known Leta hated him for it. But here he was now, offering them safe passage through the headquarters, aiding in the release of a most-wanted prisoner. Stoic and business-like, as if they were all headed toward a late afternoon meeting, Leta’s father walked briskly down the hallway toward a set of busy elevators.

One set of doors slid open, admitting a handful of people, some of whom nodded greetings.

“Tritius!” yelped a man, staggering back in surprise. “Haven’t seen you on Satieri in months! How’s Vescent? What brings you here?”

“Tidying up a few loose ends,” came Tritius’ curt reply as he passed him and swept into the elevator. Cyrus purposely kept his eyes down as he followed in after Leta, who looked just as confused as he felt.

Calm and silent, Tritius reached to hit the correct floor — the one labeled ‘ARC FACILITIES.’ Cyrus narrowed his eyes curiously, but it was Leta who spoke up.

“What’s that mean?” she demanded. “‘ARC facilities.’ Dad, what is that?”

But Tritius only gazed at the closed doors, perfectly ignoring her.

It was quiet for several seconds until Leta asked her father, in a small voice, “But you’re sure — you’re sure he’s still alive?”

“Yes.” Tritius did not look at her. “For now. They can’t kill him yet. They’re waiting for his executioner to arrive.”

For the first time, Leta showed a crack in her armor: her expression dissolved toward grief.

Cyrus glanced over at her and hesitated. Fiearius had often warned him not to tell anyone this particular piece of his history, but now, he was certain, would have to be an exception.

“The Society has a position called the Verdant,” he explained quietly, “who’s a liaison between the Council and the Departments. They have access to all Society records, a whole database, everything. The Council made Fiearius Verdant before he left Satieri. That’s why they hunt him, he stole their database. And the only way to get it back–”

“Is for the next Verdant to kill him,” Leta finished, nodding at him, exhaling sadly. “I know. He told me about it. A month ago.”

Cyrus could only gape at her. Fiearius had told her that? One of the most personal, dangerous, darkest secrets of his existence? It was unreal, and clearly, he was underestimating how much Fiearius trusted, and cared, about her …

Leta turned to her father. “Who’s this executioner? When will he be there?” but Tritius had gone back to ignoring her.

Finally, the elevator lurched and halted. The doors slid open, revealing a dark, empty hallway. Cold and metallic, it felt as sterile as an asylum.

Leta immediately pushed out of the elevator, looking around frantically for any signs of Fiearius, but Tritius did not move. In fact, he remained in the elevator, reaching to hit the button for another floor.

“I’ll leave you here,” he said quietly, his eyes on his daughter, who looked alarmed.

“But where do we go from here? And how do we get to Fiear? Is he in a cell? How do we get out?”

“I re-wrote the passcode into his cell,” Tritius replied as the doors closed between them. “The numbers to get in — are your birth date.”

For several seconds, the words hung in the air as Leta stared after him, agape. Cyrus came to his senses and nudged her forward, and at once, they started down the hallway.

Adrenaline flooded Cyrus’s veins now as they half-jogged down the dim, empty corridors. He had the sense they were close, and as they turned a corner, Cyrus felt his lungs freeze up.

In the glass cell, not ten meters from them, sat the figure of his brother on the white sterile floor. He appeared mostly unharmed, except for the unnatural way he sat: his back against the wall, unmoving except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. So he was alive. Oh gods, he was alive.

But Cyrus only caught a glimpse of that familiar rust-colored hair before he saw who was standing directly in front of that glass window. Then, his heart stopped for a very different reason. Dez.

Immediately, Cyrus seized Leta’s arm and staggered backwards around the corner. Fortunately, Dez didn’t seem to notice: he was conversing quietly with a man beside him, both of them regarding Fiearius curiously, like a science experiment, or a specimen in a zoo.

“Seems like a waste,” the man was saying conversationally, tapping a note onto his portable console. Dez glanced toward him and raised a brow in question. “Putting him through the ARC I mean,” he clarified, gesturing towards the window. “They’re just gonna kill him, what’s the point?”

For now, the  two men seemed to have no idea they were being eavesdropped upon. In response, Dez just shrugged absently.

The man went on, “Can’t really say I understand what we’re waiting for anyway. That guy, right? What’s his name–Lawry?”

“Yes,” mused Dez. “I believe so.”

“See, I don’t get it,” the man continued. “Why do we have to keep this asshole here, taking up space, scaring the crap out of the research staff just waiting for some director from Ri’en to show up and kill him?” He nudged Dez with his elbow. “You caught him, Cordova. Why can’t you just do it?”

“I’m not allowed,” Dez replied shortly, though his tone had become rather tense. Bitter, even.

“Bet that’d be satisfying though, huh?” The man remarked, stretching his arms out in front of him as he watched the figure beyond the window curiously. “After everything you two have been through.”

Dez said nothing. The man at his side let out a heavy sigh. “So this Lawry guy then.”

“He’s to be the next Verdant.”

“So it’s true then? This shit.” The man gestured toward Fiearius.

“Is the current Verdant,” Dez confirmed coldly.

His companion let out a low whistle. “Crazy. The new one’s gotta kill the old one? Is it punishment for Soliveré killing the last one? Or is it symbolic or something?”

Dez was silent once more until finally he muttered, “Something like that.”

“Well, still,” the man finished bitterly. “I don’t know why I’m having to waste all this ARC testing on him when I could be using it on someone who’ll actually be around next week to study. And they’ve got my entire team on it, you know that? As if we don’t have anything more important to do. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does make sense,” Dez replied at once. “It’s needed. To sedate him.”

“Sedate him?” the man repeated incredulously, laughing “He’s wounded, bound and locked in a cell. How much more sedative does he need?”

Dez frowned thoughtfully at him, and then back into the window. “You’ve never met Fiearius, have you?”

The man raised a brow at him, spent another few moments watching Fiearius and finally shrugged his shoulders. “No offense, Cordova,” he said at last. “But he doesn’t seem all that impressive to me.”

Dez tilted his head thoughtfully. “No,” he agreed. “But that,” he nodded towards the man behind the window, “is not Fiearius.” The man looked over at him, perplexed. “Not after what you’ve done to him.”

The man continued to stare at him until at last he let out a barking laugh and asked, “Cordova, you’re not feeling sentimental, are you? I know he was your partner and all, but c’mon. The guy’s a nutcase.”

Dez just watched Fiearius a moment longer until he muttered, “So they say,” and turned to leave. His colleague, shaking his head, followed after him. They disappeared down the hallway.

And now was their chance. Perhaps the only one they’d get.

In a rush, Cyrus dodged around the corner and went straight for the glass, pounding on it to get Fiearius to look up, to move — anything. Leta was at the console, hurriedly typing in the passcode.

Suddenly, with a hissing release of air, the glass barrier slid out of the way, allowing entry. Cyrus immediately crossed toward Fiearius, crouched to the floor and began to shake his shoulders.

In a voice very much unlike his own, Cyrus found himself begging.

“Fiearius, Fiear, c’mon, please — we have to go — “

It was moments too long until his brother stirred. Only an inch, but relief flooded over him.

“Fiear — “

“Orlé Sana, age 31,” Fiearius muttered in return. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but he continued as if he were reciting something he’d memorized. “Two shots to the parietal lobe. Both bullets shattered on impact. No exit wound.”

Cyrus stared. Dread was returning to him slowly. “What?”