“Come on, let her do her thing,” he said casually, pushing himself from the wall and weaving his way back to the center of the room. “How’d you like to operate on someone with a gun to ya? Ain’t that enough stress on its own?” He raised his brow at the man and then lowered them both in challenge. “It’s not about her. It’s about us. You want collateral? Fine.” Carefully, but not without a shove of force, he put his hand over Saviano’s gun and moved it to not point at Leta, but to point at himself. “She kills him, you can shoot me. Deal?”

A much-too-agreeable sense of excitement rose in Saviano’s face. “How noble of you,” he remarked grandly, sounding truly glad now to hold his gun to Fiearius’ chest instead. His head tilted toward Leta as he added softly, “Good of you to protect your merchandise.”

Fiearius smirked and replied sarcastically, “Nah, I’m just jealous. Can’t have my employees getting all the attention now, can I?”

Merchandise? With a rather angry jerk, Leta suddenly seized the broken medical cart and drew it closer to herself, though her gaze was halted sternly on the two men against the wall. Breathing was coming easier to her now that she wasn’t the direct target of a bullet — she’d have to thank the captain for those heroics later, she thought, in a moment of hysterical amusement — though the sight of Fiearius with a gun to his chest wasn’t doing much to ease her riddled nerves.

If Fiearius was killed, she realized, she’d have to find her way out the door herself. It was not a possibility she could fully wrap her head around, him falling to the floor at her feet. Though, apparently, it did not seem like a scenario he found very likely. Or maybe he thought it was entirely likely, and he was more insane than she’d even thought. She wondered, then, exactly how many lives were at stake here.

She silenced that thought in her mind as quickly as it arrived. Ignoring the icy sweat that touched the back of her neck, then, she got to work.

Mercifully, the rest of the scene began to fall away. For several long minutes, it was only her and the set of small, rusted knives she found in the med cart, which she held up to the light of the window for a moment before turning down to her patient. She stood over him and set her forearms at an an angle over his abdomen, her fingers working the knives quickly at first, then with painstaking patience. She paused only to brush her arm over her forehead, swiping away matted hair, before continuing the surgery.

“You know,” Saviano said thoughtfully, breaking the silence that had spread over the room as Leta worked, “when we hadn’t heard from you in awhile, Soliveré, I was certain you’d been killed. But I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

“If anyone should be killed,” Leta muttered suddenly, stepping back from the bed, “it should be the surgeons you have onboard. They stitched him up before closing his portal and hepatic veins; he’s been bleeding internally for three days.” Heaving a steadying sigh of exhaustion and relief, Leta replaced the knives back onto the tray. She began to unsnap her crimson-stained gloves from her hands, speaking on measuredly. “His circulation’s plateaued now, vitals are stable.”

Half-turning to face the two men once more, she glimpsed Saviano’s gun still pointed at Fiearius, and she inwardly willed it away. “It’s done,” she clarified decisively. “He needs your strongest painkillers and a week of bedrest and recovery. But it’s done, he’ll make it.”

Both men turned to look at her. Saviano eyed her skeptically. Fiearius looked simply smug. “Absurd, you said?” he repeated to Saviano. “I may be a thief, but I make good on my deals.”

“That you do,” came the sudden voice of Goddorra near the doorway. Leta saw Saviano discreetly lower his gun to his side as his boss entered the room.

Goddorra watched Roman in the bed. His eyes moved past Leta without acknowledgement, and Leta remembered what Saviano had called her: merchandise.

After surveying the bed, Goddorra looked back to Fiearius, as if he’d been the one to do the surgery. “I’m impressed.”

“Fantastic,” Fiearius said heartedly, turning to face him again as if greeting an old friend at a dinner party. Then his expression fell and he said seriously, “10k please.”

“But as you say,” Goddora went on slowly, putting a finger under his chin in thought, “You are a thief.”

There was something taunting his tone, Leta thought, that made her believe this deal was not over. She felt herself tense. Fiearius must have sensed it too as his eyes narrowed.

“And guess who I ran into?” Goddora continued, as if this were all just so amusing. His expression was of supreme satisfaction as he stepped aside, allowing another man to join the room.

The newest arrival, a short, round man with slicked-back hair and a layer of greasy shine on his pink skin, pushed past Goddora eagerly. In his hand was what appeared to be nothing more than a common kitchen knife, but he was brandishing it with a wide impish grin that implied the intentions of it were not quite so common. Leta had no idea who, exactly, this man was. He didn’t look like a physical threat. But that didn’t matter, it was already obvious what was happening.

The deal was going south.

Just as her eyes flashed to Fiearius, Leta felt it at her side: first, she thought it was Saviano’s hand, grazing her hip, and she jerked away with her hand raised and ready to strike him. But it was somehow even worse than that. It wasn’t his hand. The barrel of Saviano’s gun came to rest, gently but decisively, against her back.

She was trapped. Stuck. And forced to watch the scene in the doorway.

Fiearius simply let out a small sigh, the smile back on his face, though perhaps a little tiredly so.

“Torian,” he stated plainly to the newest arrival.  “Well. Shit.”

“What’s wrong, Soliveré?” the little man called Torian asked with a simpering voice that matched his face. “Didn’t think you’d be seeing me again so soon, did you? But did you really believe you could just waltz off with my property and I wouldn’t follow?”

“It’s nothing personal, Fiearius,” Solon assured as Torian slowly moved towards Fiearius with a sharp hunger looming in his eyes. “See, you want me to give you 10k for your product, but Paolos here is going to give me 15 to get it back.” He tilted his head and smiled wider, clearly quite pleased with himself. “And kill you. It’s just business. I’m sure you understand.”

Fiearius just smiled calmly at Solon. “Sure I do,” he said simply before turning his sights onto Torian who was now threateningly making motions with the knife around his neck. Fiearius did not look impressed. “What’s this? You making dinner or something? You know, I can only eat things with low sodium so best make sure you prepare for that,” he deadpanned.

“You know, I’m actually glad that things worked out this way,” Solon remarked thoughtfully, ignoring Fiearius’ comments as he too stepped further into the room at a slow pace, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That so?” Fiearius asked, mildly curious as he kept his eyes locked skeptically on Torian and his weapon.

At her back, Leta felt Saviano shift: he was standing close to her, too close, but his gun moved. Now he pointed it at Fiearius, cornering him.  Three against one, Leta couldn’t help but think.

“It’s fitting, don’t you think?” Goddora continued. “That you should meet your end here, of all places. Here, where you found your beginning years ago. I still recall the first time you barged your way into my office.”

“It’s a memory that I, too, cherish daily,” Fiearius muttered.

Disregarding his comment, Solon continued coldly, “Just another dumb upstart trying to get his foot in the door. I honestly didn’t think you’d last another month with the way you’d been running things.” He paused and glanced down at Torian. “The people you’d been messing with. Promising jobs you couldn’t pull. Making deals you couldn’t afford.” A humorless chuckle trickled from his throat. “Why did you make such a fuss of buying that girl anyway? Just to get on my good side? I’ve always wondered. Was she worth the debt?”

At the very mention of Corra, Fiearius’ careless expression tinged slightly. By the twitch in his arm, for a moment Leta thought he might finally reach for the gun at his hip. But just as quickly as the anger had come, it left and he replied with a shrug, “What can I say? I like short people.” A vaguely crazed smile found its way down to Torian as he added, “They make me feel superior.”

Torian growled viciously and the knife he’d just been playing with lunged forward, the cold metal meeting Fiearius’ throat with just enough force to draw a thin line of blood. The grip on Saviano’s gun tensed. The beginnings of an angry yell formulated in Torian’s mouth and the muscles of his arm readied themselves to finish this until Goddora stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. Paolos Torian looked up at him, enraged, but didn’t argue the unspoken order.

Fiearius leaned back in his chair and swung his arm over the back of it. The joking and mockery disappeared from his face as he spoke briskly, “Six cases, standard artillery. Fine grade stuff, recent models, Riolan made. Virgin heat. Asking 10k.”

Solon too had shed any mask of friendliness as soon as Fiearius had switched his own attitude. He was listening intently. Almost too intently. His eyes trailed downwards to his hands, clasped together before him on the surface of his desk, and he stared at them thoughtfully for some time. Until at last, he looked up. “What’s the catch?”

Fiearius’ head tilted innocently. “Why do you think there’s a catch?”

“Because 10k is about what it’s worth,” Solon pointed out, unweaving his fingers and letting them tap together thoughtfully instead. “You always ask for more.” He smirked gently. “So I ask again. What’s the catch?”

Fiearius returned his smirk with one of his own. “They’re marked,” he admitted, sounding reluctant to do so. “Paulos Torian.”

Solon’s brows raised thoughtfully at the name, his eyes still hanging around his patiently drumming fingertips. Again, he fell silent before finally deciding, “I’ll give you five.”

“That’s not enough,” Fiearius replied promptly.

“Well it’s what they’re worth,” Goddora shot back, equally as unhesitant.

“They’re worth at least six five,” Fiearius told him matter-of-factly, to which Solon shrugged.

“Fine, six five, then,” he said simply. “Saviano, make the arrangements–”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Fiearius said calmly, raising his hand to interrupt the order. “I need ten.”

“And why would I give you ten for something you just admitted wasn’t worth anywhere near ten?” Solon counter-pointed, narrowing his eyes at his opponent.

“Because you like me,” Fiearius replied with an unmatched calmness. “Or because it’s an investment. Or because I said pretty pretty please? I’m sure we can work something out.” Fiearius gave the man a knowing look that clearly stated that something else was available to be put on the table which was just enough bait to interest Goddora.

He leaned forward on his desk and met Fiearius’ eyes rather intensely. “I thought you didn’t do that type of work anymore,” he remarked, to which Leta sent Fiearius a curious look.

“I don’t,” he said absently, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, not usually anyway. We can talk about that some other time. But for now, I’ve got a better idea. Who’s critical?”

Solon raised his brow again, looking ever more curious as to what the crack captain of the Dionysian was up to. “Sorry?” he asked, confused.

“You said someone was still critical,” Fiearius said bluntly, nodding at Saviano. “Who’s still critical?”

Solon fell silent for a moment, then admitted, “Roman. You’ve met him. My right-hand man. A good man. A family man.” He seemed genuinely sad about the state of affairs he spoke of, his eyes downcast and his tone grave as though the man were already dead. “Shot in the stomach a few days ago. And you know how doctors out here are. No matter how much you pay them, they don’t get any better at their jobs.”

His sight went from the floor to the door Saviano had come from, lines of anger creasing his face before he let it go and glared back at Fiearius. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Fiearius began, standing up to his feet and striding toward Leta’s chair. “I happen to have with me a seasoned trauma surgeon with a decade of experience and mighty fine alpha planet medical training.” He dropped his hands on her shoulders. Leta tried not to wince in distaste. Instead, she maintained a half-smirk of her very own. That’s what these people did, didn’t they? If she wanted to make it out of here alive, she supposed she had a part to play too.

“She’s pretty good with gunshot wounds,” Fiearius went on, his voice smooth and confident. “And by all means, about a thousand times more capable than any of the failures you’ve got here.” Abruptly, his tone dropped to seriousness as he said, “Ten if she can fix him.”

Across the desk, Solon also stood to his feet. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the two of them, not liking the way this was turning out. Mistrust glinted in his eyes as he glanced at Fiearius, then down to Leta. “If,” he repeated skeptically.

Fiearius shrugged. “Can’t promise anything,” he admitted. “But it’s worth a shot isn’t it? At least let her take a look.”

Solon watched the smiling egotist across from him for a long moment. The seconds dragged on and Leta was certain they were about to be thrown from the office.

“If I may ask,” he finally stated carefully. “How did you happen across this decade-experienced, alpha-planet trauma surgeon?”

Fiearius pulled his hands away from Leta’s shoulders, stood up straighter and offered casually, “Kidnapped her.” Saviano made a murmur of amusement across the room. At Solon’s subtly astounded expression, Fiearius smiled and added, “A man has his vices.”

Head shaking, Solon rolled his eyes and sat back down at his desk. “Take her to him,” he ordered Saviano, waving his hand as though to get the whole stench of this mess out of his office.

Goddorra’s building did not resemble a criminal headquarters, at least not in Leta’s eyes. It was several stories high and looked like it had once been a sprawling, elegant hotel, but now suffered from age and decay.

Ahead of her, Fiearius pushed through tarnished double-doors without hesitation. Leta followed and got one glimpse of the circular, red-carpeted lobby before there was a flurry of movement and noise.

In a flash, at least ten men were on their feet, guns cocked and lifted to their faces. Leta, who came to a sharp halt, felt her blood go cold and heart stop in her chest.  For a moment no one moved. No one breathed. Then —

“Wow,” said Fiearius. He sounded amused. “Definitely upped the security lately, huh?” He regarded the men only distractedly. “Relax, boys, I got business with the fine gentleman upstairs,” he continued, and then gestured toward her. “And the kid’s with me.”

Mercifully, the men relaxed. The tension thinned from the air. Nonetheless, it was only when they had crossed through the lobby and slipped inside the elevator that Leta managed to take a deep breath.

“Fucking shit,” she hissed under her breath, wondering wildly what she had just gotten herself into it. But — perhaps the worst was over. Perhaps now she just had one quick job to do. Exhaling slowly, Leta spoke as calmly as possible to the person at her side.

“So,” she said pointedly, “what exactly is your ‘plan’ — “

“Your hair’s too neat,” said Fiearius suddenly, swinging his hand around and ruffling it atop her head, much to her chagrin. More seriously, he said, “Slouch more. Don’t smile. Don’t be nervous. He can smell fear. Don’t look him in the eye. Don’t look him anywhere. But don’t look away either.” His expression went suddenly grave. “And don’t say a word or you will die a quick but painful death.”

Feeling unnerved, Leta stared at him for a moment before he broke into a grin and said, “I’m just messin’, kiddo. You’re fine,” and reached to cheerfully mess her hair again.

This time, Leta grabbed for his wrist, groaned in embarrassment and looked away. “Don’t call me that,” she muttered, shoving him off a bit harder than necessary.

With that, the elevator gave a friendly ding and the doors slid open. As they stepped out into the hallway, they were greeted, once again, by a circle of men with guns in their arms. They seemed to be guarding one singular door in the center of the hall.

At her side, Fiearius groaned in annoyance before shouting, “Solon, I swear, I’m getting fuckin’ tired of this.”

Not a moment later, the door swung open and man’s silhouette filled the space it left. The figure stepped out and Leta’s eyes narrowed.

So this, she thought, was Solon Godorra. A slave trader and master weapons dealer. He was thin and tall, dressed in a fine patterned suit. Leta guessed he was somewhere probably in his sixties, with silver hair and sunken eyes they were currently fixated on Fiearius. It wasn’t his strongly-armed crew that made Leta feel nervous. It was this single man. She could only imagine the horrors he’d inflicted, directly and indirectly, into the lives of women and men everywhere. The prickling on the back of her neck was indication enough that this was a person Leta shouldn’t have been near, now or ever.

“Fiearius,” Solon stated, the name sounding rather bitter on his tongue. “Funny. I had a feeling I would be seeing you sometime soon.”

“You subscribing to that weird psychic religion stuff again?” said Fiearius. Leta kept her eyes on Godorra, but she could feel Fiearius smirking beside her.

For a moment, it seemed Solon was unresponsive. His eyes narrowed, his stance hardened. His men picked up on the body language and they too were changing the grips on their guns. But then, unexpectedly, the powerful weapon’s dealer smiled genuinely and swept his arm towards the door.

“Good to see you again, old friend. Please,” he offered. “Step into my office.”

In spite of her every instinct telling her not to, Leta followed after Fiearius to the door, feeling many pairs of eyes pressing onto her as she did so. She knew she must’ve looked out of place. She was out of place.

As the door fell shut, Leta swept her eyes quickly around the office. It was large, circular and lavish, its windows  covered in heavy drapes. Leta thought of what funded this sort of living and felt another twist in her stomach. These people were sick. Godorra was sick.

And, horribly, Fiearius was treating him like an old buddy.  She watched as Fiearius dropped into the chair and swung his feet up on the desk between them. Tentatively, she took the other seat.

It was then that the other set of doors across the office opened a crack, and another man slid his tall frame inside. He, too, was dressed sharply in tailored clothing. His deeply tanned, narrow face was lined with age, but his grey eyes were strangely piercing, as he sent a look toward Solon.

“He’s the same,” he said gravely to Solon, indicating toward the room he had just left. “Still critical.”

Pulling the door shut behind him with a snap, he looked up just then to the other arrivals. “Soliveré,” he greeted. Something close to a smirk touched his eyes. “It … has been a long time. Care for a drink?”

“When do I say no to a drink, Saviano?” said Fiearius, waving his hand in the air in mock-aristocratic fashion.

The man called Saviano went to the small bar in the corner, crowded with glinting crystal. He lifted a decanter and filled rocks glasses, then turned and offered them out to everyone except Leta, raising his eyebrows as he did.

“And what’s this?” he wondered, a little unfavorably, as he flicked his eyes toward Leta and rested them there. Instinctively, Leta narrowed her eyes. After a moment, Saviano smirked and mused grandly, “You know, slave trading season is over, Fiearius.”

The innocence in his voice made Leta’s feelings of fear fade away. Now she felt something else. Now, she felt anger. Apparently the lone female in the room wasn’t even worthy of an introduction, let alone a name or a title.

“That’s nice to know,” she put in suddenly, mockingly matching Saviano’s tone of innocence. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as she finished coldly, “I’m not up for trade.”

At her side, Fiearius had paused, his glass halting halfway to his mouth as he glanced sidelong to her for a moment, then looked up at Saviano.

“Now now, you know me,” he said at last. “Crew, not captives.” He smiled and reached over to gently pat Leta’s hand. Discreetly, Leta slid her hand away.

“Except for one,” Solon pointed out from across the desk, tilting his own drink back.

“Well,” said Fiearius in surprise, “a man’s allowed a few vices, right?” He shrugged his shoulders and then downed the liquid in the glass in one shot.

“I’d say you’re a man with more than a few, though, wouldn’t I?” said Solon.

Here, Fiearius smirked broadly. “I didn’t come here to talk about my bad habits, Solon,” he told him frankly, skidding his empty glass across the man’s desk. “Though if you’re really that interested, take me out and buy me a drink,” he laughed. Solon chuckled an airy laugh in turn.

“Yes, well, I’ll think about it,” he remarked absently, clearly uninterested in continuing down Fiearius’ slippery path. This wasn’t a negotiation, Leta realized, as much as it was a pissing contest. She was torn between apprehension and, actually, rolling her eyes. Thankfully, Solon seemed ready to call it to an end.

“Business then,” he said briskly. “What have you got for me this time?”