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?”

Hope leapt in his chest. There was still time. Without a second thought, he cocked his gun and began down the hallway only to have Leta snatch his arm and draw him back.

“Cyrus,” she hissed. “What’re you doing?”

“We have to take the bridge,” Cyrus answered at once, looking back at her. “We have to stop the ship.”

“How?” Leta pleaded, her eyes shining with horror. “There are at least four agents in there.”

Cyrus glanced back towards the bridge door. She was right. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t just walk in there, he’d be captured or killed instantly. But what else could they do? They were outnumbered regardless and if they didn’t act fast, they’d take off and be on the way to Satieri and they’d never find Fiearius and get back to the Dionysian like they planned.

Cyrus had never felt quite like this before. Reckless desperation was unfamiliar to him, but it was enough to give him a sudden confidence he’d never before had.

“We’ll just rush in and take the ship,” he told her, his voice hardly sounding like his own. “We’ll catch them by surprise. We’ll take it and we’ll stop it and we’ll get my brother back and everything will be okay.” He heard the hysteria in his words, but he still went on, “Everything will be fine. Everything will be normal.”

“Cyrus….” Leta breathed, her voice cracking. But just when he felt she was going to back away or tell him to give it up, she too lifted her gun, cocked it and nodded at him.

“Ready,” she whispered quietly.

“Stay close,” he told her and, in perhaps the stupidest move he’d ever made, he hurtled towards the open bridge door with all the speed and momentum in his entire body before he burst into the room and found six surprised crew staring back at him.

For a moment, just a moment, he panicked. What was he doing? Fiearius could shoot six men before one could even draw their weapon. Corra could shoot a thimble off a finger from 500 meters away. Cyrus couldn’t even hit a single unmoving target on a wall without five minutes of aiming first. If anyone was suited for this, if anyone could save Fiearius, it wasn’t him.

But he was all there was. So he fired. Right into someone’s chest. And he fired again into someone’s arm. And as a bullet from Leta’s gun embedded itself in another’s head, the other three in the room hastily reached for weapons of their own and panic ran through Cyrus. A yell ripped out of his throat and he fired again. Again. Again. Unthinking and uncaring and relentless.

He was still shouting to his own deafened ears when his finger pulled the trigger and his gun clicked uselessly in his hand. Empty.

But just when he expected gunfire straight to his chest, he vision cleared and he saw Leta: breathing hard, gun in hand, one foot pressed into an agent’s chest as he sprawled on the floor. Ren was behind her; she’d thrown herself in front of him protectively.

“Are you okay?” she asked Cyrus, short of breath, eyes blazing.

He almost nodded. But then he looked around the room. One, two, three, four, five bodies. Five? Where was–

A quiet whimpering sounded from the far end of the room, and a few stray strands of hair stuck up from behind one of the front consoles. One left. He glanced at Leta. She nodded and carefully crept forward.

“Hands up, drop your weapons,” she ordered when she was close enough, holding her gun to the young man’s head. Immediately, the whimper turned into a wail and two skinny hands shot up in the air.

“P-please, I’m unarmed,” his shaky voice declared, tears running down his face. “I’m just the pilot, please–please don’t kill me.”

Cyrus marched over towards them and held his own gun to the man’s head, useless as it was. “Where’s Dez?!”

Confusion flashed over his face. He blanched. “Who?”

“Dez!” Cyrus barked, hardly sounding like himself. “Desophyles Cordova. Where is he?!”

“C-Cordova? H-he’s not on this ship!” the man despaired.

Cyrus shook his head. No, it had to be this one. It had to. One of his hands dug into his hair and he yelled, “Are you carrying a prisoner to Satieri?! Fiearius? Fiearius Soliveré? Is he — “

“N-no! We’re headed to Ellegy for a pick-up!” he cried.

Dread knotted his stomach. “Cordova’s ship,” Cyrus said at once, his eyes growing distant. “Is it still docked on the Baltimore?”

The man looked up at him with watery eyes. “I–n-no. We were delayed so it could take off. J-just a few minutes ago.”

With a raw, angry growl of loss, Cyrus suddenly shouted and threw his spent gun across the room, making it crash in the corner. He stalked away, digging his palms into his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be a mistake.

“This isn’t over,” came Leta’s trembling voice from across the room. She was standing there hollowly, her eyes wet. “We’re not losing Fiear. They can’t have him.” Cyrus could barely look at her when she ventured, “So what’s our next move?”

Cyrus turned away. Fiearius’ words echoed in his mind. ‘We lost’. ‘It’s over.’ But no. It couldn’t be. After all they’d been through, everything they’d overcome, all that had happened, it couldn’t end this way. He wouldn’t let it.

“We go to Satieri,” Cyrus said before his mind even caught up. He dropped his hands from his face. “We go to Satieri and we get him back.”

In a rush, he stalked to the main console and furiously tapped the screen until the COMM channel opened up. “Dionysian, this is the Beacon, come in,” he shouted into the receiver. “Corra? Finn? It’s Cyrus. Come in. Please, fucking please, come in — “

It was only seconds, but it felt like hours, until the speakers crackled and a familiar voice filled the room.

“Cyrus?! What’s going on? What happened?” Corra sounded panicked, even from this distance. “What—you’re on another ship?!”

“Corra, I’m going to bring down the barrier from here,” he told her matter-of-factly. “You’re going to need to synchronize your exit with ours. Take the Dionysian back to where we left the crew. Wait for us there.”

“Wait, what?! You’re staying on another ship?!”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. He glanced at Leta, who nodded for him to continue, “Get the bridge door sealed. There are still other agents aboard, it’s only a matter of time before they figure out something’s wrong.”

“Cyrus, what the hell is going on?”

“You,” he addressed the young man still cowering behind the console. “Pilot? Get her ready for take-off.”

“Cyrus?!”  Corra cried, but Cyrus talked over her: “Finn, don’t forget you need to disengage the forward throttle immediately after the first push in takeoff or you’ll stall the engine–”

“Cyrus! Explain what is happening right now!”

At last, Cyrus mustered a sigh and lowered his head.

“Fiearius was taken,” he informed her, his voice hardened. “I’m taking this ship — “ He caught Leta’s furious glance and corrected, “We’re taking this ship to Satieri. We’re going to get him back.”

Stunned silence filled the other end of the call. Cyrus could just imagine the horror on their faces.

But he could not imagine their response.

“Right,” said Finn finally. “We’re coming with you.”