---

---

Vic finished the set with a drum solo she can admit she got carried away with. Donovan often threatened to take it away from her, but it was the only solo she HAD. Fuck the audience for not having an appreciation for wailing on her drum set instead of Don messing around with scales.

Her final clash was met with a slight pause as people expected her to go on, then applause. Donovan told the audience that they'd be right back after the break and the club's usual music started back up. Vic laid down her drumsticks and shook the sweat from her hands, which was dripping down from her sleeve-covered arms.

"Hey, Vic, aren't you hot there?" Rudy called over to her. Yes, she was hot. But she was wearing this jacket for a reason. Rudy went off to buy drinks for them as Vic slunk her way to the back of the stage, tugging on the zipper. Oh, whatever. Let's just get it over with.

She shed her jacket and turned around to be immediately assaulted by, "JESUS CHRIST, Vic! How did you get that?!"

Vic glanced down at the burn spread across her chest and reaching up to her neck, smothered in aloe vera. "Oh shit, yeah." She faked disinterest in talking about it, hoping to lose theirs. "Y'know that parahuman blackout? Well I was in the area, and long story short, zap." She prodded Zach in the chest. It wasn't the best excuse she had thought of, but it sure beat "I tripped up and landed chest-first into the oven." In a way, she was thankful that the blackout happened. She'd have no idea what to blame her burn on if not a parahuman. "I'll tell you about it later." When I think up the details.

"What were you doing there?" Ah, Donovan, he always had to have her under the flashlight, huh? "You have classes after work."

"Didn't feel like them," Vic replied coolly.

"You should get a tattoo to cover it up," Zach enthused, "How about... an eagle with spread wings, or an angel with wings made of blades?"

"Very metal," Vic said without any of the enthusiasm Zach hoarded. She glanced back down at her scar then up into the club's crowd, where she caught sight of a familiar face. "But... I don't think I'll be covering up this one."

She waved Jericho over.

Jericho spotted the wave and gave a wide grin, waving in return and walking over as he sucked down a sigh; irritated with the constant bumping of shoulders and skin between himself and other people in the club. His skin itched, and he couldn't smell anything... Until he got closer to Vic and let out his sigh. "Hey there- Whoa! Wicked scar! What happened to you!?" He asked as he gave her a quick side hug, pausing at the scent of licorice that wafted off of her. Lots of exposed skin and the fact that she was sweating gave way to some body odor that even a nasally blind would've noticed.

Licorice... Licorice... Wait. No. "WAIT. YOU!? THE BANK!?!? WHAT THE FUCK!"

Oops. That was... Not exactly controlled. But honestly, what was he supposed to do? She was there! She got hurt! HE HURT HER! FUCK!

Vic stared at Jericho as he let out his outburst, same with the other two band members present. She could almost hear Donovan's brow furrowing. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. How did he know it was her?! Well, to be fair, it wouldn't take a genius to figure it out, but after fighting with Jericho that day, she'd assumed that he was... ah, how to put this... less than genius? No, less than... an idiot. She thought he was an idiot.

She cleared her throat, interrupting Donovan as he was asking Jericho, "What the fuck are you talking a-", then grabbed Jericho by the front of his shirt.

"You mind taking this elsewhere, mate?" She asked rhetorically, right before she started dragging him through the crowd. She walked him down the hall past the bar where the bathrooms were located, and hurriedly chose the place they were least likely to be interrupted - the disabled accessible bathroom. Feeling like a bit of an asshole, she glanced over her shoulder, saw nobody looking, and shoved Jericho inside the room before stepping in and locking the door. She turned to him, her arms crossed and gaze steely.

"Alright Wendy," she said, "What's it going to take for you to keep your mouth shut?"

The changer came to a full stop, tattoo receding to his cheek as his face flushed with blood and ink alike; giving him a maroon parlor over his nose and the tips of his ears. "I'm so sorry! I just- Sometimes my mouth gets away from me you know? I never- I'm so sorry!"

He was fretting, and the shame and embarrassment was overwhelming, he hadn't been thinking and now he had pissed her off and why did he keep fucking things up?! "This is my first friend and I'm- Oh shit sorry." He had been talking aloud again. Great. "Look I just... You don't have to pay me anything! Hell just give me your number or something so that way I can like, avoid ever encountering you like that again! Unless you want to spar like that or something? You're the first person to actually break something on me that didn't use like, a gun..." His tattoo wriggled some, shifting from his cheek to the entirety of his face as he shifted his stance.

"Is this a secret thing? I mean, well, you just smelled like licorice and the windy-cape did too so it's just kinda obvious... Ugh. I'm sorry!" Repeating, again, what his statement from before had been. Jesus Christ did the rambling ever stop- "It's like it just gets worse every time you- Fuck. Sorry! I'm just... Stressed!" Again was he talking aloud! Jeez.

Vic lunged out at Jericho to grab his cheeks with one hand, mushing them together to force his lips into a kissy-shape which thankfully, prohibited him from talking.

"Jericho!" She hissed quietly, "Just... shut up! That's enough, OK?!"

Her panicked brain whirled, but she managed to keep a straight face. She let go of him and slumped her back against the door, overwhelmed. First "Pekah", now Jericho. Her identity was coming under fire lately, and she didn't like it. In fact, it made her feel sick. Exactly how she felt now. She ran her hands through her hair and sighed, calming herself down.

"So..." she began slowly, rubbing the burn on her chest, "You don't want to expose my identity." She'd gotten that much out of his ramblings. "You... you don't want... revenge?"

Jericho found that he rather didn't like having his face squished, but, on second finding? It was good she did so. He wouldn't have stopped rambling otherwise. "No... No! Of course not! You weren't blatantly using your powers outside of the fight, and I mean, you were just doing a job too! I'm not that stupid! If anything I would like to fight with you again! But... no fire. I never ever meant to hurt anyone, and I think even with the uh, other form, I went a bit too far."

A nervous smile plastered over his face, anxiety riding high on his speech. Focusing was hard, trying to hold onto the topic was harder than holding onto an eel in the water, with lotion on your hands. And if the eel was super strong- wait fuck, doing it again. "Look, I dunno what you think I'm like, but I'm not a ... vengeance and hellfire kinda person! I just wanna eat, have some friends, and just live! Ugh. I'm rambling again, sorry."

A hand came up, plastering over his mouth as his form wriggled for a moment; expanding and then changing until he took human shape again. His skin was flickering with colors and shapes, cephalopod tentacles crawling up from his wrists, while talons and fangs loomed around his fingers and his face. They looked like tattoos, albeit they moved and then began to glow. Pulsing with blues, greens and reds alike, flickering as if under a strobe light... before going neon bright. The change wasn't wanted, but Jericho found that it helped with anxiousness. Hell it even helped get his energy out, expending it on useless changes, if they were rather pretty.

Vic's back slid down the wall until her butt hit the ground. She sat there, exhaustion from the day beginning to take its toll, as she just watched Jericho's change. It was gorgeous. Well, she thought so, anyway. She eventually smiled, the coldness of her face melting away, back into plain old Vic.

"Well... good," she said briskly, standing back up again. "Now we just need an excuse for your outburst, and we're cool."

She unlocked the bathroom door, wanting to get out of this room of intense emotion that made her feel so small and uncomfortable as soon as possible, but just before she left, she looked back at him.

"For a disgusting nightmarish abomination, you sure do look beautiful right now."

---

---

When Kate Martel booked into work at Capetown Children's Hospital that night, she discovered the place to be in absolute chaos.

"Capetown Memorial Hospital was hit in the power outage," a coworker informed her hurriedly when she asked around, "Even the generators are down, and from what I've heard, many of their electronics are fried. We've agreed to have a percentage of the patients transferred here until they get the hospital running again."

"Do we have the resources to support this influx of patients?"

Kate's question was met with a grave look.

"What of those who were on life support?"

The reply that Kate received was even graver.

She was assigned a seven year old boy who'd been rushed through the emergency ward that afternoon, needing to have a glass shard removed from his right eye. A bulb had exploded next to his face in the parahuman induced power outage. Under the knife, it was determined that his eye had been completely lost and it was completely removed. Kate walked to his bed carrying a tray with his dinner. He was watching the TV, his one eye fixated on the screen while the other was covered in bandages, while he limply played with the action figures his parents had left him.

"Hello, Liam. You must be starving," Kate said with a smile and laid the tray out in front of him, "It's been enough time after your surgery, you can eat now. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Liam responded quietly, still looking at the screen. Kate glanced over to see a news report playing. She watched as the shot of the news reporter cut away to shaky, vertically-shot phone footage of a monster screaming from the top of The Prosperity Bank before disappearing back inside. The was shoved back by a wave of some unseen force, as well as the other onlookers, when they steadied themselves and focused the camera on an ambiguous white-clad figure flying away from the bank. The narration over the footage claimed that "the other perpetrator" was unknown, but assumed to be an illegal vigilante. The report began jumping around to civilian witnesses and Kate internally sighed. Since when had children been interested in the news? A report on a terrorist attack was hardly appropriate for the boy.

"It's Nobody," Liam suddenly spoke up, pointing at the screen.

"Hm?"

"The vigilante. That's Nobody," he confirmed, rather proudly, "He's all white and can fly." He moved the heroic action figure down in a swooping motion, dive-bombing the monster. Kate bit the inside of her lower lip, holding back her concern.

"Oh, really?" She said, faking enthusiasm, "What do you like about him?"

"I don't really like him. He's okay," he gave Kate a half-gummy smile, "Wendigo probably beat him up. He's much cooler."

The boy began ramming the monster figure into the hero, grinding him into his sheets. Kate watched on dully before leaving him to his own devices without a word.

The scent of sweat was the first thing Vic was met with that morning, groggily raising her head from the mattress she had collapsed belly-down on. She lazily frisked the sheets for her buzzing phone and turned off the alarm, fondly named "Limerbitch 10:30". She grunted in disapproval, then began scrolling through any messages she could have missed that morning. There was just one Rudy sent to her, a photo of the movie he'd claimed to have found at his neighbor's garage that he wanted to give to her. Ah, Hell's Martyrs. So controversial at the time of its release, the director fled the country and the lead actress was apparently driven mad on set. Rudy's neighbor truly had no idea about the gem he was giving away for $3.99.

She texted back a heart and caught a glimpse at the texts between her and Alex the evening before, her face relaxing into a smug smile as she did so. Man, that kid had to be freaking out. Being invited to her band's practice then grabbing coffee with a member just a couple days later? To think what came from a simple, awkward "sup". She remembered finding his number, hovering her hand above the bin with it. Lucky for him, the company of adoring fans was always appreciated, especially when trying to distract herself from the sort of company her "other self" attracted. And yeah... about that.

It wasn't like covering the tab for two ridiculously overpriced coffees was anything to raise an eyebrow at, but now that she'd had a very sudden and very extreme boost in her funds, she'd have to be... careful. Funny how too much money was a problem in its own right. Jericho and her had settled their score, he'd told the band that he just thought he saw her get hit by a fire bolt at the bank (in his own bumbling way that made Vic have to step in and translate for them) and didn't seem to have any desire to expose her. Of course, considering how she'd dragged him off, not everyone was satisfied with the story they came up with. Donovan.

Finally, she had the strength to get out of bed and take the shower her body was screaming for. Right before she hopped under the water, she sniffed under her armpit. Licorice, huh? She shook her head exasperatedly and got in.

---

Vic creaked the door to her Aunt's room open a crack, then crept inside the room when she noticed something odd. Two crumpled tissues were on the ground next to her bed. She tip-toed her way over to bin them and took a moment to look at her. She was such a short and frail looking woman for someone as sturdy and resilient as she was. Vic placed her rent on the kitchen table and left the house, skateboarding down the road and towards the inner city.

9:23 AM. Coffee. A bit spilled on her pastel sweater.

9:36 AM. Joined a busker. Left him with the cash she drew in.

9:49 AM. Listened to Limerence's planned set for the recording.

10:02 AM. Tuned into the radio. Needed something to cleanse her ears.

10:05 AM.

Sirens.

The faces of the people around her only registered briefly, filled with fear, confusion, and some with defeat, before they began to blur. Some panicked and ran, who knows where, others hurried while talking urgently into their cellphones. A car did a screeching U-turn. A homeless man didn't even budge. Vic slowly - or maybe she wasn't moving so slowly, maybe it just felt too slow - brought her cellphone up and began typing her Aunt's number, when a call interrupted her.

"Hello?"

"Where is the skateboard?" Kate's urgent voice came through, "Did you take it?! Why didn't you take the van?"

"They... have a drum set at the studio," Vic replied distractedly. She sometimes forgot that unassuming Kate was the one who taught her how to skate. "The world is ending. Why do you need it?"

"Don't joke with me, Victoria. I need to get to the hospital, the roads will be too heavy to drive quick en-"

"Why?" Things finally started to speed up again and she began to swerve her way around people, getting home as fast as she could, "You need to get to a shelter."

"I need to shelter the people I have responsibility for," Kate snapped, "You get to a shelter, now. I'll find another way to get there. Text me when you're safe."

"K-Kate?" Vic flinched from her stutter, annoyed at the anxiety infecting her. As she took a moment to properly observe the mass panic happening around her, the dread finally set in. Now everything was moving too fast. I don't want to fight it, she wanted to say. But she couldn't. Because Kate didn't know. She could see parahumans flying above her, making their way to HLA headquarters. All parahumans were together in this fight. Why did she feel so alone in it?

"It'll be alright, Vicky. I promise."

"That's not up to you."

Vic hung up and strengthened her resolve, glaring at the panic before her. It was infectious. She needed to get home as quick as possible to her costume, and there was only one tactic that would get her there fast enough. She ditched her skateboard and ran into the crowd, her solid matter shedding away. She flew as air towards home. Her costume was not as white as it used to be, the scorch marks on its chest left there by Jericho's recklessness. She wondered what he would be doing in this fight.

She materialized above the crowd at the HLA, her demeanor unnaturally calm. Her conflicting feelings had cancelled one another out and now, all that was left was white noise. She took out her phone.

[I'm safe.]

Quinn set off in the early evening in a black dress and bonnet, looking as if she was in mourning. In a way she was, mourning for the life she felt was about to change. Her somber attire was definitely not for the dead man she had currently in her suitcase.

Marcel had been left at home to burn the parts that would not fit within her bags and the blood and waste soaked carpet he'd butchered them over. The smell made Quinn uncomfortable and she opted to get out of the house and be rid of the rest of the evidence as soon as possible. A neighbor had made a comment to her that whatever she was cooking in there smelled delicious, which she could only return with a pained smile and mention that the preparation had been a hassle.

She took a road around the back streets of the city, making her way to a discrete location where she hoped to drop the body into the sewers. While she was walking and trying to distract herself from the thought that she was carrying a corpse, somebody ran into her and promptly fell onto their bottom. She was a little girl, face smeared with dirt, who apologized with a half-toothless grin as Quinn knelt down to her. She helped the girl up before the little rat took off running with her handbag.

"Get back here!" Quinn shouted after her but she kept running. Quinn's frustration fell away as the contents of that satchel came to mind, being replaced with a very different emotion. Her olive eyes went wide.

"Oh, shit," she swore, lifted her skirts and took off in the direction the girl had run.

The girl had opted to scamper towards the sound of chatter and people rather than into the shadows, probably hoping to lose her pursuer in the crowds, if there were any such crowds out in the evening. Quinn's bag was slowing her down in the pursuit but she couldn't bring herself to leave a case full of evidence around for anyone to find, especially in a place like Veilbrand when it could be mistaken for holding valuables. As Quinn broke onto the main street, she saw stalls being set up - oh, crap, the night markets were on today, weren't they? Yes, she could even see the space her stall was supposed to be set. These murders had really driven a stake through her schedule.

She saw the girl's red hair disappear among the company of ladies and men dressed similarly to Quinn, the only people who could afford what these stalls were presenting. Quinn almost let the girl go then, but the thought that she could take the bag off her before she could peek its contents spurred her forward. That was when she heard it.

The shrill, anguished scream of a little girl.

The small crowd parted, almost as if just for Quinn to see what was happening. The girl had opened the bag and thrown it to the ground, tossing a hand out of it. Quinn caught the glimpse of silver on one of its fingers and her lips went tight with anger. By the gods, Marcel, did you really not think to remove all items of clothing and valuables before packing these people away?! That was a ring with the Veilbrand crest - guard commission!

Guards had already come to the girl's aid and her teary eyes met with Quinn's. Her heart jolted and she turned away, hurriedly (and painfully aware of how suspicious she seemed) walking back to the alleyways. She heard people jogging up behind her and there was a command for her to halt and hand over her suitcase. And then Quinn did something you must never do when you are under suspicion. She dropped her case and bolted.

---

Marcel was half naked, crouched in front of the fireplace and stroking the flames with a metal poker. Her could see the blackened meat and shards of bone poking through the firewood, which he regarded grimly. It wasn't the first time seeing a burnt up body. Sweat was dripping down his bare back from the heat of the fire, but he didn't dare open a window to bring in a breeze. The smell of meat brought attention to the house and a whole lot of awkward encounters for him.

There was a sudden rapid succession of knocks at the door, that kept going on up until he unlocked the door and opened it for whoever was outside. It was a short woman with a red face covered in sweat, who raised one gloved hand and swung it towards his face to strike him. He caught her small wrist, his golden eyes regarding her seriously.

"Quinn," he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to allow you to hit me whenever something in your life isn't going well."

Her eyes were shaky with fury and her lips trembled, but she yanked her hand away and shoved past him into her house.

"I have to pack," she muttered to herself as she fretted around the living room, picking up scrolls and jewelry, "Well, I would pack if my bags weren't full of dead people and with the guard. Oh, tempest take them. Tempest take you all."

"What happened, Quinn?" Marcel asked, voice laden with concern, [color=#483f6d]"How did the guard get the bag?"

"That thieving little runt. Took her bait. Shouldn't have run after - gods, they're coming for me. I barely escaped. I can't -"

Marcel lurched forward grabbed her by the arms, pining them to her sides and jerking her out of her mutterings. Her eyes cleared and she looked up at him, her body tense with resistance. "Quinn," he started, searching for a question he could ask that she wouldn't dismiss, "Is it safe for you to be here?" She shook her head. "Then I'm helping you get out. Grab all that you need and we're going."

They didn't discuss where they were leaving to. Marcel put out the fire and updated his supplies, all while glancing back at Quinn, her writings bundled up in her arms, as she stared at the pearl jewelry spread out on her table. After a while of watching her do nothing, he marched over and started picking up the pieces and adorning her with them. Lastly, he fixed two quirky cage earrings containing pearls to her ears. He clasped a string of pearls around his own neck and smiled at her, "There. Go choose two dresses. We can't take them all."

She frowned and blurted, "I know," before running up the stairs. Marcel sighed. It felt like he was instructing a child. A very destructive, terrifying child.

---

It was dark when they left the house. They could hear the guard performing a search just two streets down. Marcel almost forgot to put his shirt back on and Quinn's cold hands on his back reminded him of his unseemly presentation. They sneaked through the back alleys into the sketchiest parts of the city, Quinn gripping Marcel's hand as he led the way.

"Marcel," she finally spoke up, "How do we get out?"

"The same way I came in," he replied, "You pay in food or anything useful and they make you an exit."

"I meant Veilbrand," she remedied, "They aren't fond of people leaving."

"Either we travel up the mountains, not the best method given your attire, or we try our luck underground. Less of a view but less going uphill in heels."

"Underground? You speak of the rebel's tunnels, is that it?" Quinn pursed her lips, "I visited one often. Egruus had it sealed two years ago."

"He doesn't know where they all are."

"You have a map?"

"No maps. Maps are tangible evidence. The only way to navigate through them is to remember directions given by word of mouth."

Quinn sniffed.

"I know what you just thought," Marcel mused.

"Excuse me?"

"You just thought I'm going to get us lost," he said with a chuckle, "I've been on the road for years, Quinn. I'm smart for some things, if you can remember."

Quinn clicked her tongue. "Very well. Tunnels it is." She shuffled behind him for a little longer before yanking him in a motion to stop, "You aren't coming with me, are you?"

Marcel turned to her, brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"When we cross the border you will not be coming with me," Quinn stated, not even asking a question. Marcel let out a short laugh out of shock then folded his arms.

"You don't have to pay me to assist you," he assured, "I'm doing this as your friend."

"Are we friends?" Quinn shot, "You came here for the revolution. Seek out the rebels and stay for it." Marcel went silent and ran a hand through his hair. Quinn's face morphed into repulsion, "By the gods, you did come here to visit me."

"Well..." Marcel began, "... Yes, I currently have no other business in Veilbrand but you."

"I'm not your business!" she exclaimed, "I - I hired you, once! You can't come here and claim responsibility over me."

"Do you want help or not?"

Quinn sealed her running mouth shut and looked to the ground. She gave a barely visible nod, "I want to hire you." She looked back up at him, her eyes burning, "And once I find another life, I want you to stay away from it."

Marcel nodded stiffly. "I can do that."

The rest of their journey out of Veilbrand was practically silent, with the two only saying what they really wanted in their glances while the other wasn't looking.

Quinn set off in the early evening in a black dress and bonnet, looking as if she was in mourning. In a way she was, mourning for the life she felt was about to change. Her somber attire was definitely not for the dead man she had currently in her suitcase.

Marcel had been left at home to burn the parts that would not fit within her bags and the blood and waste soaked carpet he'd butchered them over. The smell made Quinn uncomfortable and she opted to get out of the house and be rid of the rest of the evidence as soon as possible. A neighbor had made a comment to her that whatever she was cooking in there smelled delicious, which she could only return with a pained smile and mention that the preparation had been a hassle.

She took a road around the back streets of the city, making her way to a discrete location where she hoped to drop the body into the sewers. While she was walking and trying to distract herself from the thought that she was carrying a corpse, somebody ran into her and promptly fell onto their bottom. She was a little girl, face smeared with dirt, who apologized with a half-toothless grin as Quinn knelt down to her. She helped the girl up before the little rat took off running with her handbag.

"Get back here!" Quinn shouted after her but she kept running. Quinn's frustration fell away as the contents of that satchel came to mind, being replaced with a very different emotion. Her olive eyes went wide.

"Oh, shit," she swore, lifted her skirts and took off in the direction the girl had run.

The girl had opted to scamper towards the sound of chatter and people rather than into the shadows, probably hoping to lose her pursuer in the crowds, if there were any such crowds out in the evening. Quinn's bag was slowing her down in the pursuit but she couldn't bring herself to leave a case full of evidence around for anyone to find, especially in a place like Veilbrand when it could be mistaken for holding valuables. As Quinn broke onto the main street, she saw stalls being set up - oh, crap, the night markets were on today, weren't they? Yes, she could even see the space her stall was supposed to be set. These murders had really driven a stake through her schedule.

She saw the girl's red hair disappear among the company of ladies and men dressed similarly to Quinn, the only people who could afford what these stalls were presenting. Quinn almost let the girl go then, but the thought that she could take the bag off her before she could peek its contents spurred her forward. That was when she heard it.

The shrill, anguished scream of a little girl.

The small crowd parted, almost as if just for Quinn to see what was happening. The girl had opened the bag and thrown it to the ground, tossing a hand out of it. Quinn caught the glimpse of silver on one of its fingers and her lips went tight with anger. By the gods, Marcel, did you really not think to remove all items of clothing and valuables before packing these people away?! That was a ring with the Veilbrand crest - guard commission!

Guards had already come to the girl's aid and her teary eyes met with Quinn's. Her heart jolted and she turned away, hurriedly (and painfully aware of how suspicious she seemed) walking back to the alleyways. She heard people jogging up behind her and there was a command for her to halt and hand over her suitcase. And then Quinn did something you must never do when you are under suspicion. She dropped her case and bolted.

---

Marcel was half naked, crouched in front of the fireplace and stroking the flames with a metal poker. Her could see the blackened meat and shards of bone poking through the firewood, which he regarded grimly. It wasn't the first time seeing a burnt up body. Sweat was dripping down his bare back from the heat of the fire, but he didn't dare open a window to bring in a breeze. The smell of meat brought attention to the house and a whole lot of awkward encounters for him.

There was a sudden rapid succession of knocks at the door, that kept going on up until he unlocked the door and opened it for whoever was outside. It was a short woman with a red face covered in sweat, who raised one gloved hand and swung it towards his face to strike him. He caught her small wrist, his golden eyes regarding her seriously.

"Quinn," he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to allow you to hit me whenever something in your life isn't going well."

Her eyes were shaky with fury and her lips trembled, but she yanked her hand away and shoved past him into her house.

"I have to pack," she muttered to herself as she fretted around the living room, picking up scrolls and jewelry, "Well, I would pack if my bags weren't full of dead people and with the guard. Oh, tempest take them. Tempest take you all."

"What happened, Quinn?" Marcel asked, voice laden with concern, "What happened to the bag?"

"That thieving little runt. Took her bait. Shouldn't have run after - gods, they're coming for me. I barely escaped. I can't -"

Marcel lurched forward grabbed her by the arms, pining them to her sides and jerking her out of her mutterings. Her eyes cleared and she looked up at him, her body tense with resistance. "Quinn," he started, searching for a question he could ask that she wouldn't dismiss, "Is it safe for you to be here?" She shook her head. "Then I'm helping you get out. Grab all that you need and we're going."

They didn't discuss where they were leaving to. Marcel put out the fire and updated his supplies, all while glancing back at Quinn, her writings bundled up in her arms, as she stared at the pearl jewelry spread out on her table. After a while of watching her do nothing, he marched over and started picking up the pieces and adorning her with them. Lastly, he fixed two quirky cage earrings containing pearls to her ears. He clasped a string of pearls around his own neck and smiled at her, "We better sneak out quietly, or we'll be mugged before the sun goes down."

Quinn let out a loud, defeated groan and slumped against him, burying her head in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a comforting rub on the back. She just remained a moment before pushing herself up briskly and declaring, "Marcel, you're hired."

Marcel grimaced, "Quinn, you don't have to hire me. I'm here to help you."

"You're hired," she repeated decisively. Marcel bit back his tongue and straightened, regarding her with concern. She was remarkably still for someone with so much fury. At last he nodded.

"Very well," he said stiffly, "Miss Quinn."

She lifted her chin and began to walk up the stairs away from him, "Start planning a route. I'm finding a wardrobe."

Marcel whipped his head up to her, "Only choose a few, we can't take -"

She ran up the stairs before we could finish, not before shooting a steely gaze that said, "I. Know." Marcel sighed. It no longer felt like he was instructing a child. She was a very destructive, terrifying person, yes, but no longer a child. He had the feeling that this trip with Miss Quinn was not going to be as much fun as his adventures with Mistress Ottavia.

Marcel leisurely walked down the Capital's darkest, narrowest alleyways with no light to guide him but a sparse lantern here and there and the moon. His eyes flitted from the paper he held to the rooftops and every fork in the road he passed as he whistled. His whistling came to a halt as he caught sight of a sloached, cloaked figure propped against a wall with a tin at his feet. Marcel slid his gaze over to the door the beggar was positioned beside, looked back at the paper, then smirked. The figure stired as Marcel's scrunched up paper hit the bottom of the tin.

"Hey," Marcel greeted casually, "Got your note."[/color]

The beggar flipped back his hood, revealing him to be the sallow-faced, lanky boy that had run into Marcel earlier that evening. He shot a half-smile as he got to his feet and went through the door beside him. A few moments passed before he returned, leaving the door open for Marcel to step through. It opened into a small room, shabby and consisting of nothing but a table and two chairs, one being already occupied. To his right, two more men. To the left, one and an entrance to another room. All men were visibly armed with daggers, no firearms or long blades as far as he could see. How convenient for fighting in a tight, enclosed location. He kept his hand on the hilt of Shiver.

"Marcel Starr, we're glad you responded to our invitation so graciously," the man sitting behind the table addressed him as the door was shut behind him. Now this was a man he recognised, unlike these other grunts. That ginger moustache was burned into memory.

"Well, this ain't no Chancellor's mansion," Marcel remarked as he came forward and plumped down on his seat, swinging his feet up onto the table. He shot the moustached man a grin, "The Garnett Family sure has fallen, huh, Abott? I wonder how that happened..."

"Spare me your pleasantries, Starr," Abott scowled. One of the men came forward and began pouring the two of them a drink. "My orders to meet with you came on short notice. I apologize if our presentation isn't up to your standards." He held out a glass of brandy to Marcel. He just gave Abott a smile that didn't reach his eyes before unstrapping his sword in a swift movement and lifting it. There was a commotion across the room as all hands went to their weapons, when Marcel placed his sheathed blade on the table.

"A gesture of goodwill," he said and took the brandy, washing it down in one toss of his head. He smacked the glass down with a grin, "So, what can this untrustworthy bastard do for you today? Or, why in Heresta's name do your lot want to hire me after -" he made a "pwooooh" sound and let his hands expand, mimicking an explosion.

"You read my mind," Abott said, resentment colouring his words. He set his empty glass aside and leaned forward, his chin resting on clasped hands. "Our Lady's head was turned by your arrival. She has requested that you carry out a task and in return she will... Lend a favour."

Marcel's golden eyes narrowed and he dropped his feet from the table. "Is Rucia giving orders from her cell now? Honestly, I thought you were through after her capture. Always has a backup plan, doesn't she, that woman..."

Abott shook his head. "Lady Saphine runs the establishment these days." Marcel had to restrain himself from shuddering. He didn't like how the pompous bastard said that name.

"Then what does this 'Saphine' want from me?"

And so came the blunt answer that Marcel already knew.

"The last Virmonte."

Marcel's jiggling foot paused.

"Don't know her," he said after a moment. Abott let out a frustrated noise and Marcel waved his hand, chuckling lightly, "Of course you want Ottavia. But what's the plan once you have her?"

"I believe that is the Lady's business and none of ours," Abott snapped. Marcel raised an eyebrow.

"I like mysteries," he mused. His eyes trailed up to the ceiling and he asked with a more serious tone than those who knew Marcel would be accustomed to, "What do I get for this?"

"First let me make this clear," Abott replied, his chest puffing up, "We know where she is. We could easily take her if you don't comply. Whatever our Lady's motivations for reaching out to you are, I don't understand them. You will be paid for your trouble, but whatever this 'favour' is, I have no idea."

"Oh, I think I know," Marcel said slyly. He stretched and let out a big yawn before hopping out of his seat and cracking his neck. "So, hand over Mistress Ottavia to the Garnetts. Is that all?"

"That's all."

"... I'll think about it," he said and turned as a man came to his side to escort him out.

"Starr, you're forgetting something," Abott pointed out, gesturing to the blade left on the table.

"Oh. You're right. I almost didn't -"

There was a flash of movement as Marcel spun around, snatched up Shiver and jabbed the hilt of blade into the throat of the man beside him. It was a short, deadly movement that made a crunch and the man's eyes bulge, right before the sheathed blade cracked against his head and took him down. Abott just the time to stumble and and reach for his pistol before the table had been kicked over him and Marcel had pounced onto it. He drew Shiver and stabbed it through the wood, piercing Abott's chest. He coughed, spitting flecks of blood while looking up at Marcel's humorless stare.

Two on your right.

Marcel left his blade stuck in the table as one of the duo took a thrusting stab at him. He pushed the arm swinging the blade with his palm as he slid to the side, using the man's momentum against him. His eyes followed the knife moving narrowly past his head. Marcel's fingers grasped around the arm and he swept his leg under the man, knocking him off his feet and leaving his arm straight up with his elbow locked. Marcel struck it with his knee and felt it snap. The knife went limp in the wailing man's hand and just Marcel took the weapon he'd been aiming for, an unarmed someone tackled him from behind, holding him for the charging other half of the duo.

A backwards stab to the side and a head jerk to the nose took care of the idiot trying to hold him down. The bigger problem wasn't the man swinging a knife at him, but Abott. He was up, his shallow chest wound bleeding through his distasteful ruffles and flintlock pistol at the ready. Rather than taking down his other assailant, Marcel ducked behind him and his attacks and pressed his knife to his throat, then took off running at Abott with his meat shield.

He felt the body reverberate from the shock of being torn into by two bullets before he tossed it aside, a foot from the shooter. Marcel smiled dully at the satisfying thought of never seeing that horrid moustache again as he slit the Abott's throat.

The fight felt like it was over before it truly started. What came next were a few gurgles then silence. Mostly.

Marcel sighed at the suspicious quantity of blood soaked into his shirt, then looked over his shoulder to see the man with the broken arm and guy with a bloodied side both clutching their wounds and making an escape.

"Hey, wait, I'm coming for you. Just a second," Marcel called out the went to yank Shiver out of the table. After a few seconds of struggling to get it out then checking his baby for damage, the man with a broken arm was gone. The bleeding one was still crawling. Marcel sheathed Shiver and jogged past the bodies to the door, poking out his head. The man was limping away, but he didn't pursue.

"That kid watching the door is gone," he murmured, "Probably ran off when he heard the fight start. Oh well, no point in killing you." He walked past the dying young man on his was to unconcious man amongst the dead. The body with the cleanest shirt. He squatted and picked at the fabric. Really not his style, but whatever. He stripped him of it and tied it around his waist for the time being then approached the shivering, bleeding man, drawing his sword. He stomped his boot down on his back when he reached him and swung the blade to pause right beside his neck.

"I believe I've made my point," he said darkly, "Touch Ottavia, and I'll murder you. Can you take that message to your Lady?" The young man just grunted and Marcel brought the blade closer, scraping his cheek. He nodded. Marcel sheathed Shiver and hauled the bleeding man off the ground, slinging his arm over his shoulders.

"Come on, buddy. No use in bleeding out here."

---

Almost as soon as the words left Marcus's mouth, the devil himself burst though the doors wearing a too-small white button up, all buttons undone. Quinn instinctively shot to her feet, hands hitting the table. Marcel's amber eyes met hers in moments and he waved cheerfully at the table before walking over.

"Where have you been?" Quinn demanded as he reached the table.

"What, can't a mercenary have a social life?" he waved off and took a seat, picking up her unfinished tankard and downing it. He retched as he pulled away. "By the Goddess, that tastes like shit. How do you do this to yourselves?" His eyes darted to the empty chair at the table. "Where's Jeanne?"

Three bowls of stew were set down before them on the table. Quinn thanked the barmaid then gave Marcel the evil eye as she picked up two bowls, taking away the one set in front of him. His delighted expression was reduced to disappointment and hurt.

"The payment for your services is in my room. Come collect it when you're done here," she said coolly. Marcel frowned, heaving.

"Come on, Quinn, I'm not taking your money just for hanging around."

Quinn froze, he grip on the bowls tightening. For a moment it looked as if she had something she wanted to scream (or throw) at him.

"You have blood on your face," she said calmly, then turned to Marcus and addressed him in a thin, composed manner, "It was nice speaking with you, Marcus. It's my turn to take care of Jeanne now. Goodnight."

Marcel watched her leave, confused and a little miffed. "Women," he murmured to Marcus as he rubbed Abott's blood from his face, then lifted his tankard up to be refilled.

Marcel's brow nearly shot off his forehead as Jeanne's hand came to rest on his stomach. He laughed, turning his head away and covering his face with a hand like an embarrassed teenage girl. A mocking gesture, that was in actuality an attempt to hide his blush. He tensed his abdomen for Jeanne's pleasure and peered down at her (and her cleavage) through the gaps between his fingers.

"It warms my heart to know how you care," he said sarcastically, flicking her lightly on the nose before they continued their walk to the Rose and Curd. Despite the blame Jeanne put on herself and Marcus for Shiver's fate, Marcel didn't feel the same way. They didn't call him unworthy and shatter his pride. He didn't have to fight to prove anything to them. Despite the relaxed smile gracing his face, his thoughts kept returning to the faces of Master Ven and the assassins looking down on him.

The Rose and Curd was just in sight when Jeanne's seal on her emotions broke. Marcel turned back to her, a fairly blank expression on his face as her concerns flooded out. It sounded like there was history behind the words she was stumbling over. He sighed as she fell into nervous giggles, walking back over to her.

"Jeanne," he said bluntly, placing a hand on her shoulder and making direct eye-contact with the little jester, "I really don't care."

There was a pause.

"... That you put me in danger," he finished, removing his hand and continuing to walk over to the tavern, gesturing the other two to follow. "I've been a mercenary and a soldier all my life. This wasn't my first near-death experience," he continued casually. Marcel could easily think of one fairly recent situation from his past that was far more terrifying than Master Ven. "So I'm not leaving."

Marcel's brow nearly shot off his forehead as Jeanne's hand came to rest on his stomach. He laughed, turning his head away and covering his face with a hand like an embarrassed teenage girl. A mocking gesture, that was in actuality an attempt to hide his blush. He tensed his abdomen for Jeanne's pleasure and peered down at her (and her cleavage) through the gaps between his fingers.

"It warms my heart to know how you care," he said sarcastically, flicking her lightly on the nose before they continued their walk to the Rose and Curd. Despite the blame Jeanne put on herself and Marcus for Shiver's fate, Marcel didn't feel the same way. They didn't call him unworthy and shatter his pride. He didn't have to fight to prove anything to them. Despite the relaxed smile gracing his face, his thoughts kept returning to the faces of Master Ven and the assassins looking down on him.

The Rose and Curd was just in sight when Jeanne's seal on her emotions broke. Marcel turned back to her, a fairly blank expression on his face as her concerns flooded out. It sounded like there was history behind the words she was stumbling over. He sighed as she fell into nervous giggles, walking back over to her.

"Jeanne," he said bluntly, placing a hand on her shoulder and making direct eye-contact with the little jester, "I really don't care."

There was a pause.

"... That you put me in danger," he finished, removing his hand and continuing to walk over to the tavern, gesturing the other two to follow. "I've been a mercenary and a soldier all my life. This wasn't my first near-death experience," he continued casually. Marcel could easily think of one fairly recent situation from his past that was far more terrifying than Master Ven. He gave Marcus a nod. "So I'm not leaving."

I'm used to almost dying, so I will stay with you - was what Marcel had expressed. But it wasn't true. At least, it wasn't the reason he chose to remain. If Marcus and Jeanne decided to follow Quinn into Veilbrand's revolution, then they would stick together. At this point, the safety of the thieves were fairly inconsequential to his decision.

"I wouldn't be worried about Quinn, either," he said as he opened the door to the Rose and Curd for them, flashing a reassuring grin and a wink, "I think she likes you."

Marcel could not be more wrong.

---

Marcel's brow nearly shot off his forehead as Jeanne's hand came to rest on his stomach. He laughed, turning his head away and covering his face with a hand like an embarrassed teenage girl. A mocking gesture, that was in actuality an attempt to hide his blush. He tensed his abdomen for Jeanne's pleasure and peered down at her (and her cleavage) through the gaps between his fingers.

"It warms my heart to know how you care," he said sarcastically, flicking her lightly on the nose before they continued their walk to the Rose and Curd. Despite the blame Jeanne put on herself and Marcus for Shiver's fate, Marcel didn't feel the same way. They didn't call him unworthy and shatter his pride. He didn't have to fight to prove anything to them. Despite the relaxed smile gracing his face, his thoughts kept returning to the faces of Master Ven and the assassins looking down on him.

The Rose and Curd was just in sight when Jeanne's seal on her emotions broke. Marcel turned back to her, a fairly blank expression on his face as her concerns flooded out. It sounded like there was history behind the words she was stumbling over. He sighed as she fell into nervous giggles, walking back over to her.

"Jeanne," he said bluntly, placing a hand on her shoulder and making direct eye-contact with the little jester, "I really don't care."

There was a pause.

"... That you put me in danger," he finished, removing his hand and continuing to walk over to the tavern, gesturing the other two to follow. "I've been a mercenary and a soldier all my life. This wasn't my first near-death experience," he continued casually. Marcel could easily think of one fairly recent situation from his past that was far more terrifying than Master Ven. He gave Marcus a nod. "So I'm not leaving."

I'm used to almost dying, so I will stay with you - was what Marcel had expressed. But it wasn't true. At least, it wasn't the reason he chose to remain. If Marcus and Jeanne were planning on following Quinn into Veilbrand's revolution, then they would stick together. At this point, the safety of the thieves were fairly inconsequential to his decision.

"I wouldn't be worried about Quinn, either," he said as he opened the door to the Rose and Curd for them, the noise of the tavern crashing into them. He flashed a reassuring grin and a wink, raising his voice over the sound, "I think she likes you!"

Marcel could not be more wrong.

---

Quinn's sour expression did not change at Linde's reply. She muttered a "Very well." in response to the woman, proceeding to ignore her two stalkers for the rest of the walk to Master Aloi's workshop. Aloi's home was not what one would have expected having met the man. Located in a higher class residential district, it was small and disappeared between two much larger, lavish houses. Its appearance wasn't eye-catching either, its architecture in the exact same vein as every building around it, if not a bit duller. Quinn took a deep breath at the doorstep and stepped into the shoes she stole before taking a bell off of its fixed hook on the door and ringing it. She rang the bell continuously for a minute, tapping her foot, when her patience broke and she struck the door with the bell. Hard.

"Stay out!" A voice from within the house finally came, "Don't you know the Te'i Sai are attacking?! If you think that you can get away with harassing me because the guard is too busy shoving their heads underground with the worms then you picked the wrong house!"

"The Te'i Sai are gone now, Master Aloi," Quinn called out to the man politely.

There was a short moment of silence before - "Exactly what an assassin would say!"

Quinn let out a heavy sigh. "It's Quinn, Master." There was shuffling from inside of the house and an electric blue eye peered out of the keyhole to look at Quinn - glove-less, bloody, skirt torn and exhausted - before getting a glimpse at the two muscular, unscathed beauties behind her. Quinn noticed the eye's lack of focus on her and leaned over with her hands on her hips, completely taking up the keyholes vision with a very unimpressed look.

"You're late. I have no room for tardy apprentices," Aloi grunted, his eye disappearing from the keyhole.

"H-Hey! Master?!" Quinn pressed her face against the door, looking through the keyhole at the figure walking away. "What are you talking about?! We never agreed to a time! Ah, son of a -!" She hammered against the door before taking a step back and kicking at it in her new shoes. "Get out here!" There was no response to the scene she was making, which left her fuming and seeing red. She turned around and took seething steps past Linde and Miriam, muttering something under her breath about how she survived a Te'i Sai attack to give this stupid thing to him, before she twirled back around and prepared to sprint at the door. Soon she was flying back past the two women roaring only to smack against the door and drop as gracefully as a fat beetle. As she slowly raised her blushing, throbbing head, she looked back at her super-powered spectators.

"Miss Almna," she began politely, "Would you be a dear and get the door for me?"

"Gladly."

Quinn scrambled back as the sweetly smiling woman came forward and smacked both hands against the door, effortlessly tearing it off its hinges. The sound of a dozen locks breaking filled the air as the door shot forward, followed by the dropping of two tea cups. An older man in fashionable attire accented with purple stood in a puddle of tea near where the door had fallen, his electric blue eyes wide. Quinn pushed past Linde and stepped over the door only to be confronted by Aloi's twitching, wispy blonde mustache.

"Well," he said, stepping out of the tea in his soft leather shoes, "I was just off to put on pants. And, oh," he looked at the door as if he'd just noticed it was there, "You took my door down."

Quinn stared at Aloi, then suddenly pointed at Linde and said bluntly, "I tried to stop her."

Marcel's brow nearly shot off his forehead as Jeanne's hand came to rest on his stomach. He laughed, turning his head away and covering his face with a hand like an embarrassed teenage girl. A mocking gesture, that was in actuality an attempt to hide his blush. He tensed his abdomen for Jeanne's pleasure and peered down at her (and her cleavage) through the gaps between his fingers.

"It warms my heart to know how you care," he said sarcastically, flicking her lightly on the nose before they continued their walk to the Rose and Curd. Despite the blame Jeanne put on herself and Marcus for Shiver's fate, Marcel didn't feel the same way. They didn't call him unworthy and shatter his pride. He didn't have to fight to prove anything to them. Despite the relaxed smile gracing his face, his thoughts kept returning to the faces of Master Ven and the assassins looking down on him.

The Rose and Curd was just in sight when Jeanne's seal on her emotions broke. Marcel turned back to her, a fairly blank expression on his face as her concerns flooded out. It sounded like there was history behind the words she was stumbling over. He sighed as she fell into nervous giggles, walking back over to her.

"Jeanne," he said bluntly, placing a hand on her shoulder and making direct eye-contact with the little jester, "I really don't care."

There was a pause.

"... That you put me in danger," he finished, removing his hand and continuing to walk over to the tavern, gesturing the other two to follow. "I've been a mercenary and a soldier all my life. This wasn't my first near-death experience," he continued casually. Marcel could easily think of one fairly recent situation from his past that was far more terrifying than Master Ven. He gave Marcus a nod. "So I'm not leaving."

I'm used to almost dying, so I will stay with you - was what Marcel had expressed. But it wasn't true. At least, it wasn't the reason he chose to remain. If Marcus and Jeanne were planning on following Quinn into Veilbrand's revolution, then they would stick together. At this point, the safety of the thieves were fairly inconsequential to his decision.

"I wouldn't be worried about Quinn, either," he said as he opened the door to the Rose and Curd for them, the noise of the tavern crashing into them. He flashed a reassuring grin and a wink, raising his voice over the sound, "I think she likes you!"

---

Quinn's sour expression did not change at Linde's reply. She muttered a "Very well." in response to the woman, proceeding to ignore her two stalkers for the rest of the walk to Master Aloi's workshop. Aloi's home was not what one would have expected having met the man. Located in a higher class residential district, it was small and disappeared between two much larger, lavish houses. Its appearance wasn't eye-catching either, its architecture in the exact same vein as every building around it, if not a bit duller. Quinn took a deep breath at the doorstep and stepped into the shoes she stole before taking a bell off of its fixed hook on the door and ringing it. She rang the bell continuously for a minute, tapping her foot, when her patience broke and she struck the door with the bell. Hard.

"Stay out!" A voice from within the house finally came, "Don't you know the Te'i Sai are attacking?! If you think that you can get away with harassing me because the guard is too busy shoving their heads underground with the worms then you picked the wrong house!"

"The Te'i Sai are gone now, Master Aloi," Quinn called out to the man politely.

There was a short moment of silence before - "Exactly what an assassin would say!"

Quinn let out a heavy sigh. "It's Quinn, Master." There was shuffling from inside of the house and an electric blue eye peered out of the keyhole to look at Quinn - glove-less, bloody, skirt torn and exhausted - before getting a glimpse at the two muscular, unscathed beauties behind her. Quinn noticed the eye's lack of focus on her and leaned over with her hands on her hips, completely taking up the keyholes vision with a very unimpressed look.

"You're late. I have no room for tardy apprentices," Aloi grunted, his eye disappearing from the keyhole.

"H-Hey! Master?!" Quinn pressed her face against the door, looking through the keyhole at the figure walking away. "What are you talking about?! We never agreed to a time! Ah, son of a -!" She hammered against the door before taking a step back and kicking at it in her new shoes. "Get out here!" There was no response to the scene she was making, which left her fuming and seeing red. She turned around and took seething steps past Linde and Miriam, muttering something under her breath about how she survived a Te'i Sai attack for the bastard, before she twirled back around and prepared to sprint at the door. Soon she was flying back past the two women roaring only to smack against the door and drop as gracefully as a fat beetle. As she slowly raised her blushing, throbbing head, she looked back at her super-powered spectators.

"Miss Almna," she began politely, "Would you be a dear and get the door for me?"

Quinn scrambled back as the smiling woman came forward and kicked the door in, effortlessly tearing it off its hinges. The sound of a dozen locks breaking filled the air as the door shot forward, followed by the dropping of two tea cups. An older man in fashionable attire accented with purple and blue stood in a puddle of tea near where the door had fallen, his electric blue eyes wide. Quinn pushed past Linde and stepped over the door only to be confronted by Aloi's twitching, wispy blonde mustache.

"Well," he said, stepping out of the tea in his soft leather shoes, "By all means, let yourselves in. I was just off to put on pants." He ran a hand through his long graying hair and stared at the misplaced door, bewildered. "Do you have any idea how much I paid to keep that door shut?" The number of locks securing the door flashed in Quinn's mind as it occurred to her that Aloi had just witnessed the somewhat impossible. She wracked her brain for an excuse as Aloi lifted his monocle up to one eye, coming closer to inspect Linde and her lack of any visible weapon up and down. After a thorough inspection, he uttered only one word: "How?"

Quinn moved in a flurry towards him, looping her arm up with his and subtly attempting to tug him away from the scene. "Master Aloi, I have the work that will secure my place as your apprentice. May we retreat upstairs for your inspection?" It took some time to tear the baffled and highly impressed man away from Linde, but after many polite, restrained words and tugs from Quinn, he bumbled off. Quinn stayed behind a moment to look Miriam and Linde dead in the eyes.

"Stay here and do not come upstairs, no matter what you hear," she instructed, "I don't know how long this will take." With that, she went up the stairs after him.

Despite having a second story, same as his neighbors, Aloi's house was still smaller than its company. That was due to its second story being more... half a story. Quinn luckily did not have to duck, the ceiling being a few inches above her head. Aloi however could not stand without bumping his head, which did not fit a man who constantly held his head with pride. For that very reason, he was in possession of a miraculous invention, a 'chair with wheels'. The man didn't have to stand at all.

Quinn walked into the second story to see Aloi in that chair by the window, facing the stairway expectantly. "Ah, Quinn..." he began, "I should call the guard for what you had your friend do to my property. But oh, how I do like a determined spirit. Show me what you have."

She nodded, dipping her hand in her pocket to pull out her pearl waterlily, a few of its petals red with blood but otherwise unscathed despite her run-in with the Te'i Sai and the door. She glared at the thing and the small nicks on her fingers she had gotten while crafting it. If this didn't impress him, nothing she ever created would be good enough. Aloi rolled over and held out his hand for the flower. Reluctantly, she placed the bloodied art piece in his palm. He tutted, cleaning off the blood with his handkerchief.

"Absolutely horrid presentation."

He didn't go on to ask questions about why blood had found its way onto the flower. Then again, he seemingly had no interest in the why Quinn looked like she'd fought her way to his house. Quinn suspected that the stinging in her thigh was the cause of the pearl flower's bloodied petals. Aloi held his monocle to his eye as he inspected her work, a deadly serious expression set over his face.

"This rose pearl cluster at its center..."

"My own resources, Master Aloi," Quinn hurriedly explained, "I used no materials of yours but the pieces from that bin. Those pearls were some of last of my collection."

Aloi nodded thoughtfully. "It's not obnoxious," he commented, returning to his inspection. Quinn's chest swelled. That was practically a compliment. "I can see the hand that made it." He happiness plummeted almost as quick as it rose. "What have I told you about achieving effortlessness? This is a fake, human mockery of natural beauty. It would never bloom in nature." He held her work back to her. "How is it worn?"

Quinn took it back with hands that were beginning to shake. She slowly brought it to her head, fixing the flower into her hair at the base of her bun. Please like it. Please like it. Please like it. Bringing her hands away to clutch at her skirts, she turned her head slightly to reveal it to him. The creamy pearl complimented her golden hair, the soft coloring and gentle way the pearls curled upwards juxtaposing the sharp, dangerous edges of the petals. It looked like it belonged in her hair, like the flower had sprouted and bloomed in her locks. Quinn awaited judgement with sweaty palms. Her heart stopped when she heard it.

"Beautiful."

She whipped her head around to Aloi, an unintentional grin on her face that dropped when she saw that he had rolled over to his work desk and had his back to her.

"Welcome to your life as my apprentice, Quinn Xe' Duzelle. Now, there is the matter of living arrangements, as I'm sure you have no fixed home in this city as of yet. I can offer -" he yammered on as Quinn dejectedly looked at his back, eyes trailing to his writing hand. This wasn't good enough. She wasn't just here for pretty words. If she wanted them, she'd just ask Marcel. She was here on a mission.

She tore the pearl flower from her hair and dropped it to the ground, failing to disturb Aloi's ramblings. Giving the most beautiful thing she'd ever created one last glance, she brought her foot down on it with a crunch.

Aloi looked back at her.

"We can't progress forward if we treasure past failures with our sentiments," Quinn declared strongly, looking him in the eye, "I'm ready to work on my next project, Master."

To Quinn's pleasure, Aloi rose out of his chair. He didn't rise very far, but he stood and walked to her nonetheless. Smiling, he held out a firm hand to her. "You learn fast, Quinn," he commended, "You have me as your Master, as well as my respect." Quinn looked down at his hand, a satisfied smile creeping across her face.

"Good."

Almost as soon as the word left her lips, her sword was unsheathed and at Aloi's throat - only to be countered by the dagger he had pulled from his coat. His electric blue eyes were disbelieving for but a moment, before his gaze turned steely and he rushed at her, sliding the dagger up the length of Quinn's blade. Quinn directed the movement of the knife away from her with her sword but found herself being pressed back and forced into the defensive. After a few parries, Quinn took him off guard by switching her sword hand and swiftly slamming the palm of her hand into his chin, staggering him. She thrust her blade directly at his throat only to have him slash it away with his dagger. Before their dual could continue any further, she looked him in the eye, nodded, and lowered her sword.

"Wh-Who are you?" Aloi gasped, his hand over his mouth to cover his bleeding tongue and dagger pointed in Quinn's direction, "What assassin takes... jewelry making... what do you want?"

Quinn walked over to pick up her sword's sheath from the ground. "An apprenticeship," she answered earnestly, sheathing her sword, "And you, Master Aloi. Now that I've earned your respect and you have mine," she said and stuck out her hand towards the man pointing a dagger back at her, "Emile Carter, smuggler and revolutionary." She smiled as she watched the man tuck away his dagger and come forward to shake her hand warily.

"You're no figure in the revolution I've heard of."

"Then I'll use a name you know. Unfortunately these days, I'm also known as Lady Duzelle of Veilbrand, the maiden of revolution. It's... far less subtle," she said as they shook hands, "Aloi Va' Lelu, I want you to come home."

---

When Quinn at last descended down the stairway to join Linde and Miriam, she was practically beaming.

"I'm done here," she said, walking over the collapsed door. She stopped outside to stretch out her back and yawn, "If you must continue to follow, I'm off to the Rose and Curd. It's been quite a day."

She strutted down the street, a bounce in her step. In one day, she had secured the help of the most powerful being in Cre'Est, an alliance for the revolution and an apprenticeship to return to once it was all done. For the frustration it had given her, it sure had turned out fruitful.

The Te'i Sai should attack more often, she thought jokingly before turning back to look at Linde and Miriam. The Red-Eyed Demon wanted them near her, but she didn't really want them... standing outside of her room while she slept. "Excuse me... exactly how long are you going to be following me for?"

First and foremost, Quinn was not an idiot. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. It was more of a comfort to her than “somebody will come for me” or “when I’m free, you’ll all be dead!” There was no room for wishful thinking or empty promises. She was on her own and if the chance presented itself, it was smarter to not attempt to slaughter all of her captors in a vengeful wrath. That would be something an idiot would do.

She told him not to stray far, before he ran from her. Everything was clear for a moment, then. This was it, the moment they had all been waiting for – the boy was leading her into the trap he had marked her for. She had drawn a pistol and made her way after him to find only the boy. Quinn was quick to pick him up and rush towards the safety of the camp, before she felt it. It was just a tiny, little pinprick. Then time started to meld.

She remembered that farmer being congratulated and offered a position back in the family. She remembered the shot, though she couldn’t remember why it happened. The farmer’s wife screaming as she was dragged off before the Scarecrow stopped them. The Scarecrow, as she nicknamed the man with a crow on his shoulder, had knelt before the pregnant lady and stroked her belly, cooing to the unborn child… something. Quinn had watched the entire exchange from a tiny gap in the coffin.

All that came next were pinpricks and the word Triveila, repeated over and over again. When she was awake once more, her limbs heavy from the constant injections, she dug her nails into the wood and carved that word in there until her fingers bled. She didn’t make it far, before a wheel hit a rock and her coffin shifted. Her priorities changed, then.

Forcing her coffin off the back of the wagon without a plan of what to do wasn’t the most intelligent thing Quinn had ever thought to do, but it wasn’t her escape she had in mind. As Angus made the dash during her distraction, Quinn had felt relief – until his damned mother had to scream out his name, alerting all to his escape. In the struggle she had managed to use the mercenary’s weight against him and make him stab one of the horses with the needle, before being reintroduced to the simple, classic way of knocking someone out.

She didn’t feel the pinpricks after that... but the memories became even more blurred and confusing. Some not making sense at all. She remembered asking for her brother.

Her parents told her he was away on business. It was unfair, Oleander was always busy with something. Sometimes it felt like she didn’t even have a brother. When she did see him, he was so cold and distant, they might as well have been strangers. But if her brother not being around had any positives, it was that her parents’ attentions were solely devoted to her. She watched them eat the cake she had baked, her hands tugging on her frilly green skirts and feet dangling above the ground. The showered her with praises, “This cake is delicious, you put the cook to shame.” “Oh, how your piano has improved. We have to show off your playing next we have guests, and that lovely voice of yours.” “That’s a sad story, little princess. Write a happy ending and I’m sure you will keep your husband entertained.”

“I want to tell my stories to more people than a husband,” she replied to that, to which her parents laughed. Ottavia didn’t know what else to do but laugh too. She must have said something funny, but still, this laughter lasted seconds too long. She squirmed uncomfortable on her bony seat and reached forward to take a slice of the cake for herself. She sat back down with her slice, ignoring the creaking and bringing a small forkful of the cake to her lips… then she set it down on her plate and pushed it away from her.

“Mother, Father,” she began to inquire politely, “What are we doing to these people?”

The sunlight filtering through the window onto this pleasant scene dimmed and the billowing drapes settled down like dead weight. Her father barely looked up from his reading.

“They aren’t people, Ottavia, you are mistaken.”

Quinn, hair pinned up and dress plain and black, gingerly removed her weight from the scarred back she was sitting on. They gave a little moan of relief. “Father –“

“Sit down, Ottavia.” Her father had stood at his end of the table, his olive green eyes – her eyes – looking at her with disdain. Quinn sat back down on the woman's back without question. Her mother gazed sympathetically at her, then shook her head and returned to her meal. Two bony, shaky hands snaked their way over the table, the bruised body of a young man following them. The man crawled his way towards her, his head hanging low as he didn’t dare make eye contact. Her cake was crushed beneath his knees as he knocked everything on the table aside. Her father strolled up to her with him, ignoring the destruction of the table spread. “They aren’t people,” he repeated, not taking his eyes off her as he grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head down on the table. Quinn gave a short cry and brought her hands to her mouth, falling backwards off the woman on her hands and knees. The young man’s mouth was forced open as her father jammed his fingers in it. The young man’s eyes were dead as they looked directly down at her, his tongue hanging out lewdly, “Do you really consider something so depraved human?”

“Father, please…”

“They aren’t people, Ottavia,” he growled. Quinn scrambled away from him on the floor, only to be held still by more scarred, bony hands. She shook her head in protest, tears threatening to spill. “Say it. Tell me what they are.”

“Stop it! Leave him alone!” she cried as her father grabbed the man’s tongue, threatening to rip it from his mouth.

“She doesn’t like that, darling,” her mother’s soft, kind voice rang clear over the chaos. Quinn’s fast beating heart calmed ever so slightly as she saw her mother stand from the table and walk over with dignity. Her blue eyes shone with empathy, and then… they were no longer shining and beautiful, they were bulging like a fish being torn from the depths of the sea and brought to the surface. Foam mixed with blood dripped from her mouth as she uttered, “Perhaps this is why she killed us.”

Her parents crumpled, deathly pale and bleeding from their eyes, nose and ears. Quinn shrieked and drew her knees in as they hit the ground, bringing her hands over her ears to shut everything out. Memories popped off like pistols; a whip, a fire, a golden eye and empty rooms and -

She lifted her heavy head, chained to a wall, unable to see anything past the canvas on her head. Every sense felt abused and her body was exhausted. She could hear the soft cawing of crows and running water, something she barely noticed she could hear before. Making out shifting figures through the worn fabric of the bag, she yanked slightly on her chains, then immediately fell limp again and squeezed her eyes shut when she felt eyes turned to her.

“… let me have a turn with the knife,” a voice reached her ears as the drug’s effect on her slowly wore off. She barely heard a response, but picked up on a name – Carringway. Carringway, Carringway… she remembered that name from somewhere distant, like a dream…

“Is the little thing awake?”

That haughty voice took the air from her. She clenched her fists to try and stop the shaking, her chest expanding and falling irregularly. Instinctively, she squirmed her back against the wall like she was trying to bury her way through.

Light suddenly pierced her eyes as the bag was whipped off her head. It felt harsh and painful, though its source was only a few candle fixtures on the walls. She forced her furious, burning eyes open despite the pain and looked up to see her. The narrow, painted face of a woman framed by thick fiery waves. One clever, wicked golden eye regarded her prisoner, the other covered up by hair and a decorative hat fixed over it.

“Rucia,” Quinn rasped, a simple greeting that said so much more from the hatred etched into it.

“Saphine,” the woman corrected her patiently, “I believe I should be calling you Quinn?” Quinn didn’t reply, opting to look away. “Quinn Xe’ Duzelle… a lovely name, though I must confess, I was fond of your old one. You don’t mind if I still call you by it, do you, Lady Virmonte?” Quinn shuddered, bringing a smile to Rucia’s face. She moved forward to graze her fingertips against Quinn’s biceps. Quinn immediately tensed up at her touch and Rucia gave her arms a squeeze, nodded with a vaguely impressed expression, then moved down to her thighs. At last, after a while of poking and prodding, she moved up and slapped Quinn’s face lightly, “Look at me.” Quinn raised her head up slightly and Rucia pinched her cheeks together, moving it around as she observed it, “There’s that pretty face I remember so well. Show me those teeth.” Quinn’s jaw was pried open and Rucia looked inside. Quinn knew this routine… she knew it a bit too well.

“What do you plan to do to me?” she demanded, already quite aware of her plan.

“Must we go into details now?” Rucia lamented. The lanky, dark-skinned man with a crow had entered the room with a tray holding a cute little tea set. It was out of place for… this place, but not unusual for Rucia. “I’ll spoil your appetite. Tea?” Quinn shook her head, but a tea cup was forced up to her lips regardless. Steaming hot tea dribbled down her chin, and despite the scorching pain, Quinn didn’t break eye contact from the woman force feeding her – much to the woman's irritation. She frowned and set the empty cup back on the tray, shooing the crow man away. “It’s been years since we last chatted, Lady Virmonte. Where have you been since you evaded me?” No answer. “You are being a poor guest, dear.”

“I went to Veilbrand,” Quinn answered carefully.

“Ah, of course. You seem to have done well for yourself in that shithole. However did you manage to keep the gold flowing?”

“I became a jeweler.”

Rucia’s brow raised in surprise, then her sparkling eye narrowed, “How honest of you.” Her painted nail trailed up her neck and caressed one of the pearl-caged earrings Quinn wore. A small smile crept up on her as she played with it, before she tore herself away and turned her back to her, “Now, I see you’re still travelling with that mercenary. From the corpses of my men he left in the Capital, I’d say he’s quite devoted to you. Are you intimate?”

Quinn was taken aback by the question, her glare faltering for just a moment, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Lady Virmonte,” she said with a casual wave of her hand, “I’m asking whether you are involved with my Marcel.” For a moment, there was only white noise. Rucia turned to see Quinn’s expression and burst out laughing. “Does he never speak of me? How cruel of him.”

“Your what?!"

“Oh, do grow up,” Rucia tutted, “I was hoping to have nice, girly chat about his performance. I didn’t take you for a prude.” She returned to Quinn, getting uncomfortably close for comfort, “I care for you, darling Ottavia. I would love to let you go, to watch you flourish, but when new blood rises…” she sighed almost sadly, wincing as she removed her hat and tucked her bangs behind her ears. Quinn stared at the jagged scar running down her left side, into the squinting red gash an eye should have been, “Old blood dries,” the woman said, a tremble in her voice, “I will not allow you to spit in my face and walk away. This business began to burn from the fire that started with you.”

Quinn raised her chin proudly, growing tired of Rucia and the lies she was trying to beat her with, “Well, maybe, next time you’re in the market for a new secret base, don’t choose the most important building in the city,” she hissed, “Especially when it belongs to me.”

The sound a slap echoed around the underground room and Quinn’s cheeks were clawed into, “Listen up, slug,” Rucia snarled into her face, “The Virmonte name ends here! From your reaction to my harmless little question before, I take it you’re a virgin. Don’t fret, I won’t let you die one. And when they’re done with you and you’re humiliated and helpless, I’ll come back for that pretty little face of yours. I will not let you die beautiful, Virmonte. You robbed me of that luxury.” She pulled back, bringing a hand up to cover her shame, then suddenly snatched at Quinn’s ear. Quinn yelped as her earring was torn from her lobe and Rucia raised it before her, then hurriedly took its hook between her lips and suckled off the blood. “As for how you’ll die…” she mused then whispered into Quinn’s bleeding ear, [color=#edb417]“I think poison will sting the most.” As she turned to leave, the crow on her heel, Quinn surged forward against her chains.

“I KNOW IT WAS YOU!” She roared. Rucia froze then looked over her shoulder, confusion evident on her face for just a moment.

“… Be gentle with her,” she said to the men in the room instead of addressing Quinn, “She’s not yours to cleave into.”

She left, some of the men opting to follow her. The only other woman in the room looked over the three men remaining with disgust before following the others.

“Her face and her virginity?” the crow man said with a cocked head as Saphine sighed and came to rest at the dining table. She took out a fan, looking quite exhausted with the ordeal. “Forgive me, Lady Saphine, but it sounds like you’re stripping her of what makes her valuable. You had her promised to Carringway, I believe?”

Saphine’s golden eye snapped up to him, “If you think any of the girls we ship with those pirates retain their virginity before they are sold, then your understanding of the world is foolishly ignorant, Luther.” She shut her eyes and fanned herself in silence for a moment, “I’ve changed my mind about selling her. I’d rather have her disposed where I can see it. And quickly. You heard of what happened to that idiot, Sketch.”

“Putting pride before a profit, Lady Saphine?”

There was a long pause, in which even Luther’s crow stopped fidgeting on his shoulder. She dangled Quinn’s earring above her, watching it catch the light, before shaking her head. “Luther, my darling, you know my heart better than I." She reached out a hand as a gesture for Luther to lean into it and stroked his cheek fondly, "I won’t disfigure her. I understand her worth.”

“Then what of the men?” Luther asked cautiously.

There was a furious scream from below, the scream of a man. Saphine stood up and fixed Quinn’s cage earring onto her left lobe, caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror, then beamed at herself. “Men?” she spoke up innocently, then frowned and shook her head, “What men? There have never been any men. She’s a virgin.” She held out her arm for Luther to take. He smiled reluctantly and escorted her out the door.

---

---

Quinn barely noticed the hand that was gripping her thigh, only that the little beast that had been tearing at her head had ceased, and even then, she had barely been awake for that. Her eyes fluttered open slightly to see a dark shape leaving the room just as another figure blocked everything from view. Her head drooped down and she weakly knocked him with a knee, feeling her consciousness slip, either out of exhaustion or to protect herself.

She heard the sounds of bones cracking and muscles being turned to bloody pulp, she even just managed to see it all through her lashes, but it didn’t feel real. None of what she was seeing felt real. She must have been hallucinating again. She watched as two burning red eyes came closer. In that moment, in what she thought was her final breath, she wondered how those eyes could be feared. They were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

As soon as the gag was removed from her mouth, she spat out a bloody chunk of ear that had been festering in her mouth. Saliva poured down her chin as she gasped for air, nearly hyperventilating. Thank the gods, it was finally out. She thought she would eventually have to swallow it.

“That’s disgusting,” the demon had remarked before freeing her from the chains. She dropped gracelessly to the ground and looked around in a daze at the gore that surrounded them, the headless man and the pulverized bird, then drooped her head back down and looked at the ear near her knees. Her mouth opened into an exhausted grin and she just… laughed.

It was an airy, pathetic laugh. She looked up at the demon, wincing at the pain laughing gave her. “You think…” she rasped between painful chuckles, “You think… this is disgus-” She was interrupted by the sudden vomit surging up her throat.

Once she was done emptying her already empty gut, she remained curled over. Her shoulders shook violently and raw, bloodied fingers scraped against the stone floors as they curled into fists. Her head raised, furious eyes peering through the long blonde hair that had fallen over her face – looking directly at the last man the demon had left behind. He was offering him to her. She forced herself to her feet, stepped over her sick, and promptly wobbled and hit the floor again. She didn’t give up. Crawling over the blood-slicked ground towards him, she snatched a dagger from the beheaded man. The man had looked over to the Red-Eyed Demon and slumped to his knees in acceptance, allowing Quinn to hold the blade to his throat without taking the painfully long effort to stand. He looked at her with just as much hatred as she regarded him.

Quinn stopped herself from outright slitting his throat. She shut her eyes and took in a ragged breath, her brain ticking. With restraint she didn’t think she was capable of, she lowered the dagger and took his wrist, fixing his hand on the floor.
“How many fingers will I take?” she uttered dully. The man stirred slightly with panic.

“I dunno. All of ‘em?” he spat at her with a glare. She shook her head solemnly.

“How many fingers will I take?” she repeated, then added in barely a whisper, “You know how many.”

The man’s glare faltered a moment, before he shut his eyes and sighed. He looked up at the ceiling in defeat, “Three.”

Quinn just nodded. She didn’t have to say anything more. They both understood it. Turning her attention to his hand, she positioned the dagger, grit her teeth, and brought the blade down on his index finger with a sickly crunch. The man shouted and squirmed, but the pain she had caused him caused a sudden wave of strength and power to crash over Quinn and she kept his hand still as she severed the second finger. That finger took two attempts to completely detach.

“Y-You think this is justice, don’t you?” the man gasped as she sawed through the bone. His gasps of pain were replaced with growls, “My brother was fourteen. You didn’t even bother to know who you burned that day, Virmonte filth.” There was a small splash on the back of his hand and he looked up at Quinn, her eyes averted from his. The surprise on his face was quickly overridden by disbelieving anger. “Don’t you dare –“

He howled as the third finger was removed and tossed aside. Almost as quick as it happened, Quinn brought the dagger back up to his throat, “I’m not going to kill you,” she said strongly, “You tell Rucia of my ally. You tell her that I know what her family did to me. And you tell her…” she pressed the blade further, drawing blood, “That I will not be baited.”[/color] She drew away from him, pointing at the door with the dagger, “Go.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. He scrambled out of the room, glancing back at the demon. Quinn sat in silence, resting her forehead against the end of the dagger’s hilt, as she listened to the man take a horse and hurry away with it. When she could hear nothing, she lifted herself from the ground and steadied herself against the wall. Still in her heels, she slowly lumbered to the door using the wall for balance, not even paying attention to gods-know-what she was stepping on. She paused at the door, turning her head slightly towards the demon without looking at him.

“I’m taking a bath,” she said, then walked out.

The journey had been hellish, but they finally made it.

It was sundown the next day when they trudged into that small, dried up mining village. All weary, almost all of them travelling on three to four hours sleep. All but Linde; still wrapped up and sleeping in Sieghardt's arms, drugged up with whatever could help numb the pain, and Jeanne; her head flopped on Marcel's shoulder, where she had been softly snoring for the past two hours. Miriam had been on edge watching out for Te'i Sai, now their only protector against them, while Quinn had navigated their way through the tunnels and very, very secretly panicked that she might not know where they were. Xia's fervent faith in Quinn did reassure her when she thought they were going in circles in her tired paranoia.

“This is it,” Quinn declared. Marcel glanced at the top of Jeanne’s head and started gently shrugging his shoulder in an effort to wake her kindly.

“Jeanne,” he whispered, giving her a tired smile when she came to. He looked just as haggard as she was. “Time to get down.” He released her legs and she slid off his back before he started walking after Quinn again.

There were only ten buildings scattered around, and people were scarcer. They all watched the group arrive, and one young boy jumped to his feet and sprinted away the moment he saw them. Nobody moved to approach them as Quinn led the group towards the mine; they only watched. Inside the mine when they reached the elevator, the man in charge of the lever shot to his feet and gave a quick bow before standing aside to let them on. Quinn opened her mouth to say something, but she snapped it shut and just moved to stand on the wooden platform.

“Nobody is asking us how we are,” she whispered to Marcel as the platform descended, nudging him.

“Huh?” he croaked, then slurred, “Mmmyep. How rude of ‘em.” He finished with a yawn, which Quinn caught, then it infected everybody.

“N-No,” Quinn squeezed through her yawn, “That’s the phrase. They ask how you are, you slip ‘there’s only up from here’ into your response, and they let you in.”

“But... we’re going down,” Marcel replied slowly. Quinn replied to him with an even slower blink. “... Mmmtired. What?”

“They’re letting us in without a password.”

“Yeah. You’re the Maiden, aren’t you?”

Quinn shushed him, folding her arms as she glanced over to Linde. She wished this thing could crawl faster. “... They don’t know that,” she murmured. Marcel gave her a confused look.

When they reached the bottom, a bit more walking had to be done before Quinn paused, scanned a wall, then reached her arm through a crack in it. Her face scrunched up as she wiggled her arm around, then suddenly a rumbling echoed throughout the cavern. Quinn slipped her hand back out and walked out before a segment of the rocky wall that had begun shifting and she waited expectantly with crossed arms as it very, very slowly began to slide upwards. The rebellion was just on the other side. They had made it...

Then the grinding came to a halt.

Quinn’s arms dropped and she looked up to the ceiling with an, “Ugh.” She walked back to the crack in the wall and plunged her arm into it. Some fiddling. The rumble. Small lumps of stone pelting them from above. Impressive secret door still stuck and not being very impressive. After storming over to the door grumbling about someone named Hector and how nothing ever gets fixed around here, Quinn hit the rock with her hand.

“Door!” she called out. No reply. “Hey! Wake up! Who’s on duty?!”

A startled commotion. “Me, miss.”

“We have a dying woman out here. If you do not get this door open right now...” Quinn let herself trail off as she heard flailing and clanking from the other side of the wall. She leaned her shoulder against it and folded her arms, looking back to the others. Marcel looked like he was trying not to laugh. “You must understand, this isn’t usual,” she suddenly blurted, the tips of her ears turning pink. “We’re – we’re very organized, and under control, and – and – and one’s merits do not lie in how one opens a door!”

“Did you try from your side?”

Quinn’s blushing face whipped away from the others to glare at the stone and she snapped in one breath, “YES, and I am only answering your stupid inquiry and not leaving you in silence to stew on it because I haven’t the time to wait for your brain to catch up to your idiotic mouth. Yes, I tried to open it from my own side, the side I am stuck on with A DYING WOMAN.”

“... Can you try it again?”

Quinn shut her eyes, took a deep breath, then stepped to the side, “Miriam, be a dear and get the door for me,” she said calmly, déjà vu rolling over her like the words off her tongue.

Soon, the acne-riddled teenager behind the moving wall was treated to the sight of the slab of rock being lifted up by a woman in gladiator attire, all by her lonesome. His jaw dropped, then immediately snapped shut when Quinn walked through the door. He stood up into a hurried bow, while Quinn wagged a finger at him.

“I am having words with your superior,” she hissed.

“You are his superior,” Marcel whispered as he passed.

“I know,” she whined back quietly, “Just let me – threaten – ngh!” She jabbed her finger at his face, “Fix it,” she said, ice dripping from her lips. The kid nodded with disbelieving eyes, looking past her to the enormous black knight that had just ducked under the stone door the woman held up. The door slid down slowly when it was released, but still shut with an ominous thud. The boy fell to his knees as he watched the very unusual, terrifying group walk out of the corridor and into the base, almost traumatized.

“There are more doors,” Quinn reassured the others as they walked, then added on a quieter, slightly embarrassed, “Obviously.” The moment they entered the main cavern, Quinn cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted at the top of her lungs, “WE NEED A DOCTOR!” Eyes turned to them, one pair belonging to a fragile looking young man in white robes. Quinn immediately singled him out. “Priest of Velran, why do you stand there? This woman has been stabbed.”

Quinn didn’t notice how the cavern seemed to stop its commotion to stare, but Marcel did. This seemed to be an underground trading hub of sorts, or a rebel storehouse. Some shops were set up, further back was an area for training, and he could see a shrine to Velran near a few set up tents. There were stairs to a room held up by mostly scaffolding, set up to oversee the entire operation. A shape shifted in one of the windows, but he barely paid it attention, nor to the figure emerging from a tent by the Velran shrine. No, what caught his eye was the Shaharan woman prowling upon a tall stack of crates, watching them with interest.

It was her dark skin that caught his eye, that instant familiarity and companionship one felt when recognizing another of their homeland, that he resisted so tirelessly - but her dark eyes weren’t looking at him. She suddenly grinned and leaped off the crates to reveal a small, flat figure, and landed lightly on her feet. As she bounced up, her curly afro of golden brown hair bounced with her. Then she turned to the woman leaning against the crates that Marcel had not noticed before. Also Shaharan, skin as dark as charcoal, and huge. Not as big as Sieghardt, but her biceps bulged as big as Linde’s bust, and that was saying something. She had a shaved head and a dark red bandanna covering her nose and mouth, and was staring straight ahead at the group, her dark eyes and stillness... terrifying. Absolutely chilling. But the little one wasn’t afraid. She stood up on her toes, making excitable hand gestures that the hulking woman picked up in her peripheral vision as she stared dead ahead. Marcel couldn’t tell what most of them meant, but he definitely knew what the hand on top of her head miming a fin referred to.

Meanwhile, the flushed young man Quinn had addressed finally overcame his shock at being spoken to. His grey eyes lit up with what could only be interpreted as joy and his already pink-tinted face grew a shade deeper, “O-Of course, my Lady,” he stammered, then moved forward to Linde. Quinn frowned at what he called her. “Forgive me, sir.” He peeled back the blanket just enough to see the closed wound, seemingly unaffected by her state of undress, and his brow creased with sympathy. He let out a soft sigh and stood aside as others came to take Linde from Sieghardt’s arms. Before he followed them, he looked to Quinn, brushing a lock of his straight, dark ash-blonde hair from his what seemed to be a permanently pink face. “My Lady, we need someone to come with us to answer any questions a-”

“Oh, Monsieur Carter~!”

Quinn’s head whipped up to where that insufferably relaxed voice chimed from. A man was leaning over the balcony of the room held up by scaffolding. A man of discernible age from their distance, with an eyepatch, a hat, and a curly mop of dark hair. A man who looked somewhat familiar to her, for once.

“Lady Crescalla, go with him,” she said distractedly. The unlucky noble had been caught in Quinn’s peripheral vision as she looked up at the man and was waved towards the priest. When Quinn saw the man’s wry smile, she broke out into a relieved grin, which faltered as he slowly raised up his hands and began clapping.

Oh no.

This was not good.

This could not possibly be good.

What was he -

“The Maiden of Revolution has returned!”

Quinn’s smile was completely gone in favor of looking up at the man in both shock and horror.

“... So be sure to make her feel welcome,” he finished his announcement to the entire cavern, dropping his hands down.

Silence.

Then suddenly, applause.

The Priest of Velran beamed excitedly, ducking his head down as he led Xia away with him. A tall, thin, stern-faced woman in robes gazed over from the shrine, largely unimpressed, before she turned to walk into the tent Linde was being attended to in. The small Shaharan woman clapped enthusiastically then tilted her head back and let out a whistle. From somewhere in the cavern, an animal howled in the same pitch. The wild-haired woman’s scary companion tapped her fingers against her arm once or twice, but didn’t uncross her arms for the occasion. And everyone else... well, they cheered.

Quinn was frozen.

The man on the balcony lifted a hand while maintaining eye contact with her, then turned to walk inside the room.

“Psst, Quinn,” Marcel hissed to her out of the corner of his mouth as he nudged her, “Aren’t you going to address your people?”

Quinn looked around at the crowd in a daze, her eyes not really seeing anything. “I don’t... uh...” Her eyes fixated back on the place of the balcony where the man had once stood. “I... need to go. Now.”

She began to move forward, but she didn’t make it very far when that person – the person she had told herself she could go her entire life without seeing and never be disappointed for it...

That person let himself be seen.

Just some stuff I'm sorting go away

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As the Shark of Triveila refreshed herself from the stressful journey with a strong drink, she caught strikingly heavy footsteps approaching the bar. It was nothing worth sparing a thought for. No, it was that annoying feeling of being stared at that caused Miriam to turn her attentions away from her glass.

Black, menacing eyes were glaring at her above a blood-red cloth. Eyes that belonged to dark giantess, leaning against the wall some distance away from Miriam. Well, perhaps she was a woman. The only indicators of femininity were her hips and what little facial features weren’t covered. Everything else was hard, bulging muscle. She was being avoided, it seemed, by the people and their glances. But Miriam was not so easily intimidated. She glared right back.

“What’s your problem?” she shot. All she got as a reply were the woman’s eyes flicking away. Good, she wasn’t in the mood for bullshit. Miriam turned back to her drinking, but the moment she did, she felt those damn eyes again...

---

Marcel had held back by the entrance. He almost thought to accompany Miriam to find a drink, but... well, that would not go down well. No liquor was worth the headache of dealing with Miriam right now. Hell, he’d had hangovers more forgiving. So instead of finding a bar, he found a seat on a crate and waited. Something scratched at his elbow and he glanced down to see a rolled piece of paper crammed between the crate’s planks. Taking it and unrolling it out of bored curiosity, he saw Quinn. Well, kind of.

It was Quinn if she was forty years old and a bit lopsided, but still, it was labelled for his convenience. He snorted at the artistic licensing before giving the poster a read. Quinn Xe’ Duzelle, wanted for murder and treason, bounty... whoa. Now, that was a pretty penny. Once upon a time, this was the sort of thing he’d keep a copy of, just in case. His eyes trailed up from the writing to the half-smudged mark that had been scribbled above her head. It looked like a crown. As he lifted his head to take in the sounds and sights of the bustling activity in the cavern once more, he found himself shrinking.
Three years.

He had been impressed to find that she had worked her way up from Moriah’s to become a jeweler in that time. But she had seriously worked her ass off to own such a business under these circumstances, while working as the figurehead of a rebellion? Yes, he had left her in hell, and she didn’t simply survive in it. She had thrived. The girl who had burned down everything left of her had built herself back up into all this, in three years.

What did he become, during those years without her?

A startling gasp jolted him out of his stewing, and his gaze trailed over to follow Jeanne’s stare. Quinn was marching over with somebody who made his brow raise in mild surprise. He jumped up to his feet while stuffing Quinn’s hapless portrait into his pocket, standing to attention. He watched Jeanne’s reunion with Marcus with a half-smile, his eyes flickering with recognition, and perhaps, oozing from somewhere deep and ugly within him, some jealousy.

A snap. “Marcel.” His head jerked around, chin tilting down to look at the face of the revolution. “I’m not repeating this again. Your weapons should have arrived here before us. Ask for Aberdeen. He’s in charge of weapon distribution. When you find him, tell him what you had Fable deliver.”

Marcel nodded, then frowned slightly as he noticed the pink in her face. Reaching up to lightly graze his fingers against a freckled cheek, he asked, “You OK?”

Quinn was quick to withdraw. “Of course,” came her snappish reply, her cold eyes shutting down any other unspoken attempts to pry. “I have a meeting. We’ll stay at the inn above. Do not bother waiting for me.” And she turned to strut away, while Marcel’s hand was left lingering in the air. He lowered it gingerly, slipping it into his pocket and feeling paper crinkle, before looking over to Marcus. It took all of his strength to plaster on his trademark charm.

“Good to see you, Marcus,” he greeted, before glancing around the rebel base, “You ran off to something worthwhile, that’s... even better to see.”

Marcel was quick to excuse himself to hunt for Aberdeen. It didn’t take much asking around before he saw the man he’d been directed to. The man possessed a round, leathery looking head perched upon a broad, rounded body, and sported slicked back hair and an even slicker goatee. His sea-green eyes appraised Marcel from as he noticed the mercenary approach. From the looks of it, this man was judging what he was seeing quite harshly. Marcel couldn’t blame him. His shirt had been out of order ever since he’d used it to soak up Linde’s blood, and now he was left with just a jacket.

“Aberdeen, is it?” Marcel spoke up with a friendly smile, holding out a hand as he neared the shorter man, “Marcel Starr. I was told you’d have a delivery from Fable?”

The man completely disregarded Marcel’s hand, his low-set brow furrowing as he regarded him a moment, tapping a finger on the cluttered table before him. “What’s your package?” he asked in a particularly unwelcoming tone.

Marcel swiftly pulled back his outstretched hand without a flinch. “A bow and a spear.”

Aberdeen nodded, before turning to look at the crates behind him. Marcel heard some muttering before he maneuvered around them and began rummaging. Marcel took the time to observe Aberdeen’s stock as he waited. All crates were unmarked. Made sense, no trading company would want their name thrown about down here. Something else caught his eye, something crawling high above on the scaffolding behind Aberdeen’s stall.

Aberdeen took back Marcel’s attention as he placed down the bow and spear on the table. Marcel grinned and moved to take them. “Thanks for tha-”

Two large gloved hands placed themselves over his weapons and he looked up to meet the grouchy man’s gaze. “It’s pay on pick-up, Mister Starr. Convenience doesn’t come cheap around here.”

“Ahh...” Quinn hadn’t told him that. Marcel paused, feeling in his pockets for the five silver and eight copper clanking around somewhere in there, before giving the glistening weapons a wistful look. “Alright, I’ll be back for them later,” he sighed.

“They won’t get you far in the city, you know,” he heard just as he turned to leave, “And that sword you’ve got on you is nothing but trouble. Fable can get these into the cities, but it’s up to you to conceal them on the streets.”

Marcel patted Shiver as if to comfort the blade, but he knew that his weapon of choice was an issue. That had been made very clear on the day he found himself chopping up two bodies and stuffing them into a suitcase. “And I don’t suppose they settle for confiscation,” he mused as he wandered back to Aberdeen, who had ducked away and returned with a flintlock pistol. Marcel’s nose crinkled at the sight of it.

“You people are always so skeptical,” Aberdeen grunted under his breath, then began turning the gun over in his hands, “It’s a weapon and it kills, like any other. Only difference between this and your bow is that it's compact.” Glancing up and seeing Marcel still visibly repulsed by the gun, he took a dagger off the rack behind him and laid it on the table before continuing, “When you’re back and prepared to spend, you can either take your inconvenient package or adapt to life in Veilbrand. The dagger can part with me for ten gold, the gun for forty. But if an old rebel’s advice means anything to you, I’d suggest swallowing your pride and taking the gun.”

Marcel gazed over the weapon cache behind Aberdeen, when he caught a little wave from above. The tiny Shaharan with big hair had perched herself on some scaffolding, letting her freely observe the exchange between Marcel and Aberdeen. “... You know, I heard you were in charge of weapon distribution," Marcel began slowly, tearing his eyes from the woman’s sly gaze. Aberdeen folded his big arms defensively.

“Right, I am. And I distribute,” he said matter-of-factly, “Within the resistance.”

Marcel’s face lit up with a winning grin, “Ah, that’s great to hear,” he said, “I happen to be part of it.” He glanced up to see the woman’s lips twist up into an amused smirk. Aberdeen was less impressed. “Well, what would I be doing down here if I wasn’t?”

“Look, mercenary,” Aberdeen’s glare dropped from being grouchy to hostile, “You pay for what you get down here. If you don’t like that, you can go find another conflict to leech from.” He snatched the dagger off the table and moved to put it back in its place, along with the gun. “You’re not shopping; you’re wasting my time.”

“Alright, alright,” Marcel soothed with his hands up innocently, “I’m not trying to cheat you, mate.” Yes. Yes, he was. “There’s just a misunderstanding here.” He thought a moment. “You saw me come in with your Maiden of Revolution, right? I’m with her.”

Aberdeen inhaled loudly though his nose, pinching the bridge of it. “I saw it,” he said, then muttered, “Didn’t take her as someone to hire your types.”

Marcel opened his mouth to say something about how he wasn’t hired, he was just... hanging around, when he stopped, his eyes narrowing as something dawned on him. “... Mercenaries or Shaharans?”

Aberdeen's reply was interrupted by the sound of something splashing behind the crates. The man’s eyes went wide.

“Fucking mutt!” he shouted and disappeared to the source of the splashing, leaving Marcel behind blinking with an offended hand on his chest. He tossed his head up to the Shaharan woman that had been watching, mouthing, ’What the f-‘ at her and gesturing in the direction Aberdeen had trudged off in. The woman’s hair wobbled with her silent giggle, before she shrugged with her arms in the shape of a W. She then pointed at the bow and spear left on the table, mouthing something back at him. Marcel couldn’t determine much from his distance, but he picked up on the two most important words: “bastard” and “bullshit”. When Aberdeen returned, Marcel had the bow slung over him and spear in hand.

“Right, sir,” he spoke up before Aberdeen could, “I don’t want to ‘steal’ anything from your stash here. I’m here for my bow and spear. Those were my orders from the Maiden. You can take it up with her if you find them disagreeable.”

---

Marcel left Aberdeen with his weapons, feeling quite pleased with himself. He was thinking of ways to reward himself, when he noticed the small Shaharan on the move again. As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked over and curled her lips into a smirk, right before she leaped off the scaffolding and landed lightly on a crate stack. It barely protested under her weight, and she gracefully jumped over to another, going unnoticed by the people beneath her. Marcel soon found his feet following her along with his eyes. She came to a stop at the other end of the cavern and twirled around, dark eyes lighting up when she saw that he had followed her. She plopped herself down with crossed legs upon a smaller pile of gear and equipment, and gave him an appraising look up and down. Marcel smirked when he noticed her wandering eyes and shot her a wink. The woman’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and she fanned herself mockingly, before grinning and beckoning him forward with her index finger. As he was being drawn in, she pursed her lips together and let out a shrill wolf-whistle.

And Marcel was immediately slammed into by a giant dog.

Marcel was flattened to the ground, buried beneath a mass of fur and flesh that was furiously humping away at his thigh. Laughter had broken out around him as he tried to shove the dog off to no avail.

“HEY! N-No! Bad boy! Bad... bad dog!” He stammered out, feeling his face flush bright red. He managed to hold back the dog’s huge, slobbery head just enough to see the little Shaharan woman. Her mouth was wide and her shoulders shaking violently with laughter, only he couldn’t hear her. She rocked back with her hands clutching her stomach like it ached, and promptly fell off her stack. “Crap!” With a final effort, Marcel kicked off the dog and scrambled up to his feet. The dog bounded off behind the supplies the woman had fallen from, followed hurriedly by the humiliated mercenary.

He almost thought the dog was eating her. She was dwarfed by it, her legs kicking out as it slobbered over her. Her head poked out from under the dog to see Marcel, then she rolled out from beneath the dog and jumped effortlessly to her feet. ‘Whoops,’ she mouthed, brushing off her shorts.

“You... you alright?” Marcel asked, finding himself unusually stunted for words. The woman gestured to her unharmed self with a raised eyebrow. “... Right.” She gestured to him, particularly his red face. Marcel glanced away, scratching the back of his neck, “Yeah, it’ll take a lot of time and big nights to live that one down, but thanks.” Her shoulders jiggled and chin lifted, and Marcel caught his first proper look at the scar on her throat. It didn’t look like a scar that should have existed, purely because whatever had caused it should have killed her. But here she was, very much alive and... ah. She had begun making quick hand gestures, ones that were completely foreign to Marcel but were precise and patterned enough for him to determine that they belonged to some language.

She was voiceless.

When she flattened her hair under a hand miming a fin, Marcel almost jumped for joy. “Shark!” he exclaimed, happy that he could understand something, “Did you want to talk to her? I can introduce you.”

The woman nodded aggressively, her hair bouncing.

“Great,” Marcel breathed, the excitement of understanding slipping down a steep slope as he realized that he had to speak to Miriam, “I’ll do that... but you’ll have to give me your name first.”

The woman’s cheery expression turned defensive, then her eyes flicked down to see his hand held out, palm facing the ceiling. Giving him a curious look, she took that hand. With her right index finger, she began to trace letters onto his palm. X... A... He glanced up for a second and caught her looking back at him. She simply smiled, then closed his hand into a fist before letting go.

“Xanth,” he said, her name still held in his fist. She gave a nod and a grin. He mimed putting her name into his pocket, before turning his attention to the dog, ducking down to rub his neck. “And who is your friendly rascal?” Xanth gave a short whistle, and the dog answered with a happy bark. Marcel gave her a strange look. She gave him an annoyed one, and repeated the whistle. “You mean, it’s-” Marcel whistled, but Xanth shook her head and whistled a third time, which Marcel again attempted to mimic. Soon, Xanth was whistling while pointing up, down and gesturing for shorter or longer while Marcel tried to follow her, until they were just whistling over the top of each other. The dog whined and slumped to the ground with his paws over his ears. Marcel began whistling an old Shaharan folk song amidst the chaos, that Xanth picked up on and attempted to harmonize with, both of their faces brightening from the nostalgia of it.

But before they finished the final bars, the sound of what had to be a horse being dropped onto an ale barrel echoed around the cavern. Marcel winced.

“Sounds like the Shark is that way,” he said.

---

Marcel and Xanth rushed over to the bar, the dog hot on their heels. Marcel already knew what to expect, but still, as he took in the scene, he felt himself go a shade lighter.

That enormous, terrifying woman he noted as Xanth’s companion had completely flattened a barrel against a wall, which she had been slammed into. Miriam stood by the bar, one fist raised. The crowd that had gathered to see a good fight were a sea of pale, shocked faces. Xanth’s hands slapped over her mouth before she sprinted over to the fallen giantess. The dog also sprinted past Marcel’s legs, but not out of concern for the woman. He ran to lap up the booze that had flooded the floor. Marcel inhaled deeply.

“That... was a stunt!” he declared confidently to the bar, walking forward with his hands in the air. He shot a look at the defeated brawler, “That was a stunt, right?!”

There was the chilling sound of bone-popping as the woman set her jaw back into place under her red bandanna. Glaring in his direction without any indication of how painful that was, she gave a slow nod. Marcel restrained himself from openly shivering, trying to start an applause. Two people joined. He got the feeling that he didn’t quite convinced them. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Xanth and the giantess signing to each other, before the huge woman turned up her palm and Xanth slammed a hi-five down on it. Weird. Ignoring them, he moved to Miriam.

“Are you serious, Shark?” he whispered accusingly, right by her ear, “Nobody would’ve believed that kid at the door, he was one kid. But an entire bloody tavern? We don’t even know if Quinn wants these guys to know we have a magical super potion made by a demon!”

Sounded pretty damn secret-worthy when he said it aloud.

Miriam felt the eyes upon the back of her head and let out an annoyed sigh. She stood up to face the dark giant of a woman and asked. "Just what the fuck do you want? I'm trying to enjoy a drink here.."

The woman did not flinch. This time, she didn't lower her gaze. She kept her eyes locked with Miriam's, a daring glint to them.

Miriam's anger started to flare. "You deaf? Or just Stupid?" she asked taking a step forward. "I'm really not in the mood for this. Tell me what you want or better yet just fucking piss off."

The crowds around began to clear out with terrified looks on their faces. A few brave ones stuck around though. They had to see what would happen.

The giantess lifted herself off the wall, staring down Miriam as she did so, before slowly moving around her to the center of the room, not once breaking eye contact. At the rooms center, she raised her fists and widened her stance, waiting.

Miram just smirked. "So it's a fight you want? Come at me then, bitch!" Miriam said as she pounded her chest with her fist.

"Please ladies! Not in my bar!' The barkeeper begged.

But it was too late... The brave crowd started whispering bets as the giantess rushed forward. "A thousand gold on myself!" Miriam yelled out as she danced away from the giantess' charge. "Too slow!" Miriam chuckled.

The Giantess let out something a kin to a feral growl as she came at Miriam again. This time though she met with Miriam's fist. Too fast for the crowd to even see Miriam had jumped up and connected with the giant woman's jaw.

As Miriam landed on her feet with catlike grace, The Giantess was sent flying across the bar. She went right though a table before smashing head first into a keg of beer smashing it to bits. As the beer poured out over the giantess and the bar the crowd stood with stunned looks mouths wide and jaws hanging.

It was about that time that Marcel came rushing in...

Miriam barely noticed the woman that rushed over to the Giantess as Marcel opened his mouth to harp at her. Annoyed, Miriam simply said. "She started it..." Clearly not caring about what he had to say.

Miriam turned to the barkeep "Sorry about the mess... the boys over there can pay you from my winnings..." she said before turning to walk out of the bar.

Marcel gave the barkeep a friendly wave and an apologetic smile, before looking over to Xanth. Her little hand was enveloped in giant paw of the big one, making them appear like a child and parent. He gestured after Miriam, but she waved about a hand and shook her head, before resting against her companion’s arm. Marcel gave her decision to stay away from the Shark an approving thumbs-up and waved her goodbye, following after Miriam.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, bounding up beside her like no tension that hung over their heads whatsoever, “Be careful with it.” He paused a moment, then chuckled. “So how did she start it, exactly? Look at you funny? I’m sure you’ve punched people for less.”

Miriam groaned as Marcel bounded up to her like a happy puppy. "Don't fucking tell me what to do. And yes I have punched people for less. Like I'm about to punch you if you don't stop following me."

“I can take it,” Marcel said, undeterred, “Send me flying through the ceiling. Or crashing through somebody’s merchandise, or the supplies here. I'm sure Quinn will love that.” The smile playing on his lips indicated a lighthearted jest, but...

Miriam suddenly grabbed Marcel's jacket and pulled him down towards her until his face was inches from hers and shouted, "Don't fucking test me! You of all people have no right to lecture me. Why don't you just fucking leave me alone... Isn't that what you are best at? Leaving people...alone..."

Miriam had no fucking idea what she had just tread on. Marcel was tired, of Miriam and the journey. He was sick of trying to play nice, but he could’ve done it forever, if she hadn’t said that. Jealousy, loathing, doubt, everything ugly in him throbbed in that ticking time bomb that Miriam had just dared to kick. Their whereabouts and the people around them were a white abyss.

Those golden eyes that glittered with all the superficial charm of a gold bar widened, flashing with the ferocity of a lightning strike, as he roared, “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, MIRIAM?!”

The sudden snap of his charming persona loosened Miriam’s grip as his hands snatched her wrists, yanking her off him. People had lifted their heads to glance, or in some cases, gawk at the commotion, but their attention did nothing to calm Marcel, his handsome face contorted like a snarling dog’s. “I’m stuck here because I can’t leave someone alone!” he barked, piercing through her with his golden glare, “And you’re stuck here, too! Stuck with me! Punch me to the moon if you want to, I’ll be back. I’m not leaving anything. Starting with whatever the fuck your issue is!”

Miriam was taken aback by Marcel's words... but anger still burned in her. She noted the onlookers and gave them a glare before grabbing Marcel again and dragging him off to a nearby hallway. When she was out of sight of the main room she suddenly pinned him against the wall and spoke, her face once again inches from his. 'You want to know what my problem is? Do you Really? YOU are my problem. Every fucking time I see you there is a burning... a wrath... a love...a hate... a friendship... a desire to rip you in half... and a desire to do this..."

Miriam pressed her lips against Marcel's it only lasted a few seconds but it seemed as if time just stopped for a moment. When pulled away she just looked at Marcel as what she just did set in.. She had just kissed him... oh gods... she had just kissed him...

As Miriam pulled from Marcel, she met a dark, unreadable gaze that had not faltered since the moment she met his slack lips. Not unlike the eyes those who spasmed on the end of his blade saw, before he sent them into the arms of their gods.

He didn’t want to think.

About what he was supposed to say next, about whatever Miriam had just confessed, about the rebellion out there, about super assassins, about the demon Quinn had vowed to defend the world from and the woman who had promised her death, by the Goddess, about Quinn. The way she flinched from him, the ways she surpassed him, what he had done to her, the pearls that were still tucked away in his jacket.

About what he was doing for her. About his pitiful presence.

No, he didn’t want to think anymore. He wanted to feel something, something like...

Power.

And it was that sudden hunger which drove his hands to clutch at the gladiator’s hips and pull her against him. He kissed her as if he was starved for it. From her lips to her neck, feeding from her, exactly like the selfish parasite he was trying to forget he was.


It all happened so fast...

Miriam found herself and Marcel making out their way to the inn above. Soon she had Marcel picked up in her arms, carrying him into room 21. She pushed him onto the bed crawling on top of him with a smirk.

When it was all over Miriam just lay there under the covers with Marcel. This wasn't a dream was it? No, this was real, she had just.... with Marcel... She laid there naked beside him. She just let herself breathe...


People like Marcel were not made to keep power. He had proven that to himself time and time again. But for the moment, the buzz lingered, though he knew in several hours’ time he would lose it and go back to... well, he didn’t want to think about that.

Marcel and Miriam had fallen apart and laid there like debris, not touching, both staring at their respective spot of ceiling. Quite the unceremonious aftermath to such an explosive outburst of passion. Marcel definitely felt like he had gone through an explosion. His body ached with bruising, not unlike those he’d received when training with Miriam, but somehow, these felt worse.

Guess... now was the time to say something. Something not stupid.

“So,” he breathed, shoulders still heaving and eyes still fixed to the ceiling, “Does this mean the flirtatious banter is back or am I being too wishful?”

Miriam wasn't sure now to answer him... this whole affair had cooled down her hate for the man beside her... but she was unsure of what would happen now. "I guess that's up to you..." she answered with a sigh.

Miriam looked over at Marcel and asked "What do we tell the others? I'm sure they will be wondering why we have been gone for so long..."

“We tell them that we sat down and discussed our differences like civilized folk,” Marcel replied, letting out a groan as he curled up from the bed to swing his legs over the side and start shuffling back into his pants, “Or, that you were beating the crap out of me.” He rolled back his shoulder with a hiss, “I think that's more believable.” Everybody was distracted with their own business, surely they wouldn't have been missed. Only thing to worry about was whoever had seen the argument or them leaving together, and Marcel... hadn't exactly been paying attention to his surroundings, then.

He got off the bed (Thank Heresta they weren't taking off again so soon, he was going to be walking funny tomorrow. He wasn't used to be being the one in this position - well, there was that one other time-) and did up his belt buckle before searching around for the rest of his attire.

Miriam just watched for a moment taking in Marcel's form before finally pulling herself from the bed. Finding her clothes and armor she quickly dressed. Her eyes resting on Marcel from time to time. As he whipped up his crumpled jacket, a flash of white was flung from its pocket and came to land on the foot of the bed. A pearl necklace, disappearing within the white bedsheets. Marcel paused a moment as he gazed upon it, then snatched it back up to stash it away without a word. Miriam noticed it but she said nothing as she straped on her swords.

Finally, Marcel looked at Miriam, for the first time since they had untangled.

"Miriam," he said seriously after a quiet moment, "This isn't going to happen again."

Miriam looked crushed but just said "Yeah...keep telling yourself that..." before heading out the door before Marcel decided to say something that would piss her off. She wanted to keep this high...

Marcel watched Miriam go with dulled eyes, before he promptly fell back onto the bed with his arms out. “I’m sorry it did,” he hadn’t said. It wouldn’t happen again. There was no damn way he could let it.

Three rules, Marcel, you only had three rules. You were a bastard with princibles. No virgins, no crazies, and nobody who looked at him with eyes like that. He had definitely just broken two of the three. ... It was time to update those rules. There needed to be a forth, now.

Nobody he cared about.

He'd never thought he’d have to make a rule like that.

Miriam was almost dozing off in her seat when a high-heeled boot parted the fabric of the tent. Quinn had returned from her meeting, her messy, low bun pinned back up into place and wrapped with braids. Her attire was near identical to the second dress she had lost to a blade, with the addition of navy blue accompanying the black. Her face was the only thing that hadn’t been rejuvenated. Her eyes were just as heavy and tired as they had been before coming out of that room.

A clay cup of some herbal smelling liquid was clutched in both of her gloved hands, her pink umbrella hooked over her elbow. Olive eyes scanned past Miriam and the other woman in the tent with them to rest on Linde with complete apathy.

“Miriam,” she said, then with hesitation, “... High Priestess Emon.” The spindly, scarred woman in white robes narrowed her yellow-green eyes. “May I please be alone with her?”

The High Priestess turned her head to Linde then nodded, her stern features failing to soften as she glided over. “I’ll grant you this, Maiden,” she said, the disdain in that title subtle – but Quinn knew it. She ducked her head slightly in a bow to the woman.

“You needn’t call me that,” she murmured quietly, feeling the judging gaze fall upon her head.

“Shall I call you child?” the woman replied evenly. Her eyes narrowed once more and Quinn knew that she could smell Luca’s pipe on her dress. She passed Quinn to the tent’s exit, her narrow chin raised. “I am not so bitter a woman, Maiden. Welcome home.”

Quinn didn’t raise her head, not until Miriam moved past her – that was when one hand shot out to grab Miriam’s wrist. She looked over her shoulder to lock glares.

“You may access the bar again,” she informed her, “But do not show off your abilities here without my permission. They don’t need to know just yet, and...” she glanced away from Miriam with a little grumble, “... I don’t want to make a habit of convincing people to forgive you for property damage.”

“Sure,” Miriam snapped, “As soon as you keep YOUR people in line. It was the big Sharahan bitch that started this, not me!"

Quinn’s eyes shut, her hand around Miriam’s wrist squeezing slightly. “Miriam... please,” she said in a tired voice, “You’re one of my people now, are you not?”

“For now.”

Miriam snatched her arm back and burst out of the tent, leaving Quinn’s own arm lingering after her. “You’re... welcome,” she said quietly to no one, balling her hand into a fist and bringing it back to her, adding an uncertain, “... comrade.”

She waited until she heard no more footsteps outside before she moved over to Linde’s bed, sitting in the seat Miriam took beside it and setting down the warm cup on the bedside table. Then she just stared down at her.

Quinn hadn’t been that drunk when she had danced with this woman. Enough to make her think that it was a wonderful idea and that they were best friends and nothing terrible was ever going to happen, yes, but not... not enough that anything was blurry. She still remembered the steps, the way Linde’s body moved – and the way her own body moved away from the woman’s. Stepping away, Linde chasing, the strength Quinn felt in her as she guided their... dance...

It should have been a happier memory, at the least bittersweet. But now, all she could think was how her body was manipulated so easily by the hands of her killer.
Her killer, who was presently wounded, sleeping, and human before her.

Quinn’s fingers trailed slowly up her thigh, her fingertips just grazing against the gun barrel. She shivered. It was the same guilty, exciting feeling a child felt when doing something against their parent’s wishes. Or the feeling of standing from a high place, with the thought to jump, just to see what would happen. Entertaining the thought of having a gun to Linde’s temple, knowing that right now, she could be stronger than her, was enough. Her hand dropped from her thigh and hung down, while her head moved forward to rest on the bed besides Linde’s arm.

Stupid, petty Ottavia. What were you thinking?

Linde's slumber had been blissful until this point. Her relaxed, peaceful features slowly contorted with a softly wrinkled brow as Miriam snapped at Quinn and raised her voice, rousing Linde from her sleep and bringing her back to conscious reality.

Her eyes did not open, but her mind was awake. She could hear the final words of Quinn's exchange with Miriam, and the sounds of Quinn sitting, setting her herbal drink down, and running her finger along her leg before letting it sink to her side as she rested her head on the bedside near Linde's arm.

Inwardly, Linde was pained by this gesture. She didn't know what Quinn had been doing or why she stopped, but when Quinn's head came to rest by her arm Linde was unable to hold back the emotion of Quinn's ability to be so vulnerable with her by choice after what they had been through.

A single tear formed in the corner of her eye and dropped down her cheek as her arm gently bumped Quinn's head.

Quinn stiffened when she felt the bump, jolting her head up to see Linde’s wet brown eyes gazing down at her. She immediately straightened back up into her seat.

“You’re awake,” she stated, then glanced over at the cup and took it into her hands to offer it to Linde. “I understand that you can’t eat solids after surgery, but, you haven’t eaten anything since that fight. You’re the doctor. Can you drink this now?”


The corners of Linde's mouth curled into a weak smile.

"Thank you." She said softly.

She eased herself up into a half-seated position, took the cup, and sipped at it for a few seconds before letting it come to rest in her lap.

"... Miriam didn't seem too grateful for being allowed back in the bar." She said quietly.

Quinn had withdrawn into a crossed arms, crossed legs position. She tossed her head away at Linde’s comment, bothered that she had been awake to witness that.

“It’s a shit dive,” she dismissed.

Linde offered a weak chuckle.

"Seems Miriam has a lot to learn about how to control her temper and thank people when they do her a kindness."[color] She said.

She looked up at Quinn.

[color=#6363ff]"You're still here, so may I presume there is something you would like to speak with me about?" She asked.

Quinn drew in a little further, defensive. “I’m still here because I haven’t said goodbye yet!” she retorted, then went back to fuming silence for a moment, before blurting, “I came here to check on you and I’m still checking on you. There’s nothing to talk about.”

Linde's smile softened slightly as she looked down at the cup in her lap.

"... I'm sorry." She said after a few seconds.

Quinn looked at her apprehensively for a moment, before glancing away. “You didn’t kill him, but he won’t be back for a long while,” she murmured, “You did enough.”

Linde's smile faded.

"That's not why I'm apologizing, Quinn." She said quietly.

Quinn froze.

Linde took a deep breath, which became a bit wheezy at the end, before letting it out on a soft sigh as she looked over at Quinn.

"I'm apologizing... Because I've been horrible." She said softly.

Tears started welling in her eyes as she spoke.

"Threatening a child... Threatening your life... I've been little but trouble for you since this all started back in Cre' Est." She said, her lower lip quivering towards the end of her sentence with tears now flowing freely.

"The Red-Eyed Demon tasked me with protecting you all, and I've done the opposite. I've caused strife, confusion, and discontent." She whimpered.

"I've never been more ashamed of myself than the course of these last few days before Ven arrived. Reflecting on my behavior. On my words. The things I've said and done to and around you and the others... They're unforgivable." She whimpered, her head tilting down towards her lap.

Linde broke down, dropping the cup and its contents into her lap and burying her face in her hands.

"I let this happen!" She cried.

"I knew I was changing, but I let it happen anyway!" She continued, shaking her head.

"Three long years following by his side, seeing and doing things I'd never have imagined myself capable of. Horrifying and unspeakable things..." She whimpered.

Her head lowered further, her hands nearly touching her now damp lap as the cup rolled off her leg to the floor. Her sobs and gasps grew weaker, and her breathing slowly came under control.

"Before all of this, I was a dignified doctor in Cre' Est serving my community with pride. People looked at me with a smile and hope, knowing I would do all I could to save them, their loved ones, or their friends from any and all pain and misery. They were proud of me. I was proud of myself." She cried softly.

"Children. Adults. The elderly. Everyone trusted me. Everyone smiled at me. If you told any of them I advocated torturing a child for information, they'd have called you insane." She said quietly, lifting her now soaking wet face from her hands.

"... I let this happen to myself... I allowed myself to change, all for his sake." She said softly.

She turned her head and looked at Quinn as her lower lip quivered.

"I'm sorry... Quinn... I'm so sorry!" She gasped through her tears.

Quinn couldn’t say anything. Wearing her apathetic mask, she watched Linde cry, completely still. Suddenly, there was a weight sharing Linde’s mattress, and the sobbing woman looked up to see that Quinn had moved from her seat. She sat facing off the side of the bed, her head turned to look at Linde in line with her shoulder. They locked eyes for a moment, then Quinn did something she had been itching to do for a long time coming.

She raised her left hand, and slapped the doctor.

It was a quick, sharp strike across Linde’s cheek, sudden and stinging. Quinn's emotionless gaze did not flinch, not even when she saw Linde’s weak smile.

“... A slap well deserved,” she uttered, continuing to shed her tears, “Th-”
Linde did not get to finish that thought, not before Quinn cupped her face with the same hand that had struck her and forced Linde to look her way. Quinn’s gloved palm rubbed at Linde’s eyes, battling to wipe away the endless stream of tears.

“Don’t cry,” she urged firmly, “Not for a reason like this.” Her thumb wiped under Linde’s lashes, her glove now wet with tears. She hadn’t succeeded in stopping them, only in rubbing the skin around Linde’s eyes red. “The moment you cry for your own weaknesses is the moment you become nothing but them.”

She released Linde, settling her hands on her lap and turning her lowered head from her, her blonde bangs shielding her face. “What you have done, is done. Don’t stop walking.” Her fingers curled around her skirt fabric, “But... if you truly regret your decisions this much... you’re walking the wrong way.”

Linde was not expecting the slap, but as it came she could not help but smile and say how she deserved it. She wanted to continue speaking, but Quinn stopped her and rubbed away her tears. It was a touching gesture, and after Quinn finished speaking, Linde's head dropped. Her eyes closed. And her hands fell back into her lap.

"...... Quinn..." She said weakly.

"Could you please hand me my pack?" She asked.

Quinn rose from the bed and walked over to the entrance of the tent where Linde's personal effects were all on a stool. Some of them were outside the pack, the doctors having had to go through her items to find a few things to help them along given their own dwindling supplies. Quinn replaced each item into the pack as best she could, and delivered it to Linde, placing it on the edge of the bed next to herself as she sat back down to observe and listen.
Linde reached for the pack, still with her eyes closed, and reached inside. After her hand sifted through for a few seconds, she brought her hand back out and held up three darts in the palm of her hand for Quinn to see.

"Take them." She said quietly.

Quinn's brow furrowed.

"What are these?" She asked.

Linde's head turned slightly allowing Quinn to see the corner of Linde's left eye from under her bangs.

"...... You once asked me if I would be willing to sacrifice thousands of lives to save the Demon's during Roda I'l Lousta... My answer..." She began, with new tears now leaking from her eyes.

She lifted her right hand out of the pack carrying a fourth dart with a red coat of pain along its body complete with a special leather protective cover over the tip, and placed it into Quinn's hand beside the other three. As the dart left her hand and dropped into Quinn's, she let escape a sob combined with a whimper, as if letting go of it came with extraordinary pain.

With the dart now in Quinn's hand, Linde's head tilted back down.

[b][color=#6363ff]"My answer... Now lies in the palm of your hand." She said quietly.

Quinn stared into her palm at the red dart in stunned silence. Her eyes slowly widened as she comprehended...

"This is," she began, then swallowed, "This can?" She looked to Linde for confirmation, and at the sight of the woman's defeated posture, Quinn knew. She shot up from her seat. Her other hand grasped the fist that clutched the darts and they rested against her brow as she gasped, sounding desperate for air, like she had finally been lifted from water. The quick, shallow breaths that followed made her shoulders shudder. "Oh my Gods," she whispered, "Oh my Gods, there is a way! Miss Almna!" She practically shouted as she twisted around to look at her, beaming with overwhelming joy and relief. When she caught a glimpse of Linde's expression, however, that smile faded fast. "You... Why would you just... let me believe that you would... In what possible way could that have benefitted anybody?! You absolute moron!"

With a huff, she looked down at the dart in her hand once more, smiled briefly, then her emotions shut back off.

"... Is this trust or guilt, Miss Almna?"

Linde's head was still down and tears still dripped from her unseen eyes behind her bangs, but at the corners of her mouth curled a smile.

"It is trust, Quinn. As much trust as I can bestow upon someone else in this world." She said quietly.

She finally lifted her head and looked at Quinn, that weak smile still on her face.

"I love him, Quinn... I have since the day he saved my life those many years ago." She admitted.

She closed her eyes, but remained still in her posture.

"That day, I was stabbed in the back by Te'i Sai. It shredded my lung, opened my heart, and severed my abdominal aorta. I was going to die. There were no doubts about that. But... Call it fate. Call it chance. Call it whatever you want... He would not let me die." She said.

She opened her eyes, tears still flowing.
"Shadow can separate the Demon from his body for brief period of time, but doing so puts a severe strain on him as the Demon has half his soul. Without a complete soul, the body withers and dies. He surrendered the Demon to me to save my life, and worked as fast as he could to surgically repair whatever damage he could manage before he finally passed out and the Demon returned to him. Without that transfer of the Demon's spirit and regenerative power, I would not be here today." She said.

She blinked and wiped the tears from her eyes, her smile calming and becoming more genuine.

"He is not nearly as dark, selfish, or aggressive as people think he is, Quinn. His actions may speak to the contrary, but you have not seen his heart yet. Not like I have. He nearly gave his life to save mine, proving that even he, a being corrupted by a Demon's presence, could and would willingly make the ultimate sacrifice for a life not his own... And that's why I fell in love with him." She said.

She reached for Quinn's hands which still gripped the darts, taking them gently in her own and placing her other on top of them.

"I love him... I will always love him... And it is because of my love that it was supposed to be me who ended his life if it came down to it. The burden would be mine to bear, and mine alone. I know him now better than anyone, and I would know when the time was right to end it permanently via the red dart, or simply put him out with the others." She said.
(Still going, hold up)
"I have halted Roda I'l Lousta three times in the past. Twice just two years ago, and once the year I met him, using these darts here." She said, pointing to those not marked in red.

"You will have roughly ten seconds of vulnerability where Shadow and the Demon wrestle for control. During those ten seconds, both are occupied and cannot react to the outside world... It is then that you must strike. These three darts will induce a comatose-like state, rendering his body unusable. Without a usable vessel, the Demon's power vents to the outside world via the black aura you've seen before. During that time, Roda I'l Lousta will be active. Once the aura dissipates completely, leaving not so much as a shred left hovering above his body... You will have stopped the rampage and Shadow will return to his normal self." She said.
She closed her eyes once again.

"It was supposed to be me... Shadow's goal is to save this continent from the tyrannical wrath of Te'i Sai. If you thought Egruus was bad, Te'i Sai is infinitely worse. And what's worse than that? They don't even know that this is their agenda. Their orders are disguised as orders of peace and balance, and so they willingly become the monstrous combatants they are today for a purpose they don't even realize is guiding their every move." She said, opening her eyes and looking up at Quinn.

"Quinn... Please... Promise me that you will use the comatose darts before reaching for that which will kill him. So long as even one of them pierces his flesh before the true Demon takes control, you will have stopped Roda I'l Lousta."

Her face became desperate and her grip on Quinn's hands tightened with fresh tears flowing once more.

"Please Quinn....... Promise me... You can stop Roda I'l Lousta without killing him... Please... Let that be enough." She begged.

Quinn listened to everything Linde had to say with deadly intensity. Her brow nearly shot off her face when Linde declared her love for the... Demon, however.

And then, as Linde continued to speak, it all made sense, and Quinn felt incredibly, irredeemably oblivious. But this discovery was dwarfed by every next word.

At the end, as she begged Quinn to not kill him, Quinn's piercing gaze flickered bright with a passion.

"Killing the demon," she stressed through gritted teeth, "Was always going to be my last resort." She leaned closer, caught up in the elation of this moment, "Know that it will always be a possibility, but trust that I will not take his life without exhausting every possible option. He is important to me too." She caught her words, face going red and contorting with horror, "In a very different, professional way!" She pulled back from Linde, sitting on her chair as she clutched the darts to her chest like precious treasure.
"... But," she spoke up again, as the excitement was dying down once more. Suspicion's clawed hand raked down her back, "I don't understand." Her hands fell down on her lap, facing upwards on her lap, the darts displayed upon them. "It was supposed to be you? You have another of these darts for yourself, yes?" ... Her expression. That was a...

"Why are you doing this?" Quinn demanded, voice soft but laced with urgency, "This is more than a display of trust, Miss Almna. I won't - I can't believe that you trust me this much. For how long had you carried this notion, that it must be you? To just - just pass the duty to me? I haven't done enough to make... To make you trust me this... Much..." She shook her head violently before glaring Linde through, demanding answers. "What is happening here, Miss Almna?"

Linde's desperate face relaxed into a relieved sigh of contentment when Quinn said that killing him was always a last resort, and that he was important to Quinn as well despite her immediate protest that it was professional and not personal.

Linde's head dipped, almost as if bowing in gratitude, before she looked back up to Quinn with soft, almost apologetic eyes.

"Despite our differences, I have always trusted you Quinn." She said gently.

Linde relaxed back into her seated position and set her hands in her lap, keeping her eyes on Quinn the whole time.

"Trusting you has been far easier than trusting him. Even after he saved me, it took a while for me to process what happened fully and learn to trust and love him." She said softly.

She closed her eyes.

"He entrusted me with the secret to killing him, but out of love I created a way to simply subdue him. And these secrets, and the responsibility which comes with them, I now pass to you..."

In the corner of her left eye, a single tear fell.

"Quinn... I am..." She began, opening her eyes with that same apologetic smile.

"I have... Decided to return home... To Cre' Est." She said after a few long seconds of silence.

Things went quiet for Quinn.

“... No..."

“No. Linde, don’t you dare.”

“You have the responsibility of protecting us,” she said in a low, furious voice, “From the Demon as much as Te’i Sai. Linde, do not run away. I can’t control him.” She stuck out her hand with the darts, “I can’t waste one of these whenever he harms somebody on our side!” She gestured wildly to the tent’s entrance, “And Miriam’s current state is not one that would grant her victory over a Master Assassin! I am not so stupid that I am blind to your worth! Even now, at your weakest!”

Linde's smile never wavered as she watched Quinn with her tearstained face.

"... I failed you, Quinn." She said quietly.

She looked down at her lap, her hands sitting there with her fingers gently interlaced together.

"I failed all of you. And..."

Her eyes closed.

"I failed him." She concluded.

She opened her eyes and looked at Quinn.

"He asked me to protect you all. And I failed... My usefulness has run its course, and it's time for me to step away with what little dignity I have left." She said softly.

As she spoke her voice was calm, confident, and filled with an almost ethereal sense of self awareness.

"Quinn... You are a strong woman with even stronger character. You don't need someone like me who is having trouble identifying who she even is anymore." She said.

As before, one tear fell from her left eye.

"You need to surround yourself with people who know who they are, what they represent, and who are willing to lay down their lives for a good cause regardless of other priorities they may hold in life such as blind love." She said.

"I'm sorry, Quinn... But it is time for me to leave." She concluded.

The tremble in Quinn’s hands finally stilled, but her firm resistance did not leave her gaze. But even so... she clenched her fist around the darts, and nodded. She could not comprehend Linde’s alien reasoning, but, she understood that she was a woman who had made up her mind. That much, she could recognize in her. With a deep breath, she snatched up her umbrella and began to take slow, deliberate steps towards the tent’s exit, pausing when she reached it.

“Linde Xe’ Almna,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder to give Linde one final glare, “You have to stop crying.”

Then she left.

Linde's tears silently flowed freely as Quinn exited the tent.

"... Good-bye... Quinn." She whispered.

The tent's entry flaps settled down and stilled, and all that remained in that tent was a note tacked to the pillow where Linde once rested her head. A note addressed to the Maiden of Revolution, which read the following:

To my dear Maiden of Revolution, and to my comrades in arms whom I was fortunate to meet along the way...
It brings me no joy to part company with you in such a way, but I realized not so very long ago that I lost something very important in the time I've spent with the Red-Eyed Demon. I have chosen to make my way home to Cre' Est in hopes of rediscovering what I lost, and regaining the identity I left behind.

My Maiden, you are a strong woman of even stronger character. I am proud to have spent time with you despite our differences. And though I leave your company, I do so by leaving behind two gifts.

My first gift is the gift of the Red-Eyed Demon's preferred name. It may not sound like a gift, but it is name given to him by the first person ever to trust him and treat him like a real human being. That name, is "Kyero." If you address him by this name at any time, he will instantly recall the memories he holds of this individual and calm himself if he is upset, as well as be more likely to tell you things he otherwise would prefer to keep secret. He cannot maintain an aggressive or deceitful mindset if this name is spoken aloud.

Secondly, I refuse to depart without leaving you in even more capable hands than my own. By the time you read this, I will have sent word of your quest to two of my closest friends who have also spent time with the Red-Eyed Demon. The first individual is called Taira, the Silver-Haired Goddess of Triveila who is empowered by the serum and has been so even longer than I have. The second individual is called Drake, a private and powerful mercenary of the people of Gweynura who is almost as large as Sieg, but every bit as strong and capable in combat... But who has a much less aggressive and duel-oriented temperament.

Both of them are every bit the warrior I am as individuals, and together work so well that you will never find a better tag-team despite Drake not being empowered by the serum. May they serve you well in my stead.
... And one more thing.

If we ever meet again, my Maiden... I will not remember you.

Once I reach home I will employ an ancient technique applying pressure to key points on my skull to wipe my memory of all that has transpired over the last two months or so of my life. I will forget meeting you and all the others. I will forget advocating torturing the boy. And I will forget leaving you with the tools to subdue and, if necessary, kill the man I love.

I will leave myself a note reminding myself that I have lost something important. And if we do meet again, may haps by the grace of the Gods, you may see me for who I was before I met the Red-Eyed Demon. Someone worthy of your trust and respect. Someone who has regained her humanity, her sense of right and wrong, and her heart.

Thank you for everything, my Maiden.

~ Linde Xe' Almna

When Miriam found herself away from Quinn, she pulled out the painting. Staring at it, she let out a sigh. "Why did you ever leave her Mira..."

Miriam was about to tuck the painting back into her armor when she noticed something else had been pulled out with it. It was a simple drawing of blue and silver armor in the style of ancient Triveila. On the silver breastplate was a shark with a trident gripped in her jaws. Miriam looked at the armor and the painting...

"Maybe it's time I change... back to what I once was..." Miriam sighed.

Miriam tucked away the painting but kept in her hand the drawing of the armor as she made her way to the forge.

Meanwhile, Marcus watched Jeanne as she scampered off to the forge with glee. All things considered, he was glad that their farewells had not been as final as they had expected. And not just because of their friendship; the revolution sorely needed people with her kind of skills. As the thief browsed the smithy’s wares to pass the time, he noticed Miriam slowly approaching with some kind of note clutched in one hand. When the gladiator drew near, he gave her a nod of recognition.

“Long time no see,” he remarked, his eyes on the slip of paper in Miriam’s hand out of curiosity. “What’s that you’ve got there? An order for the smiths?” It was only just now that Marcus realised that he had barely spoken to Miriam directly in all the time he had known her, if at all. Did she even remember him?

Miriam narrowed her eyes at Marcus. "Yes... long time. I have to admit I was surprised to see you again... and in one of Quinn's little hidey holes of all places. But to answer your question, yes this is an order for the smiths... an armor design based on the armor of the ancient Triveilans." Miriam paused, looking Marcus over. "Now I have a question for you. How did you end up with the rebels after you aban... left us?"

Marcus raised an eyebrow at Miriam’s order. “Trivellian armour, eh? Don’t know if the smiths know much about ancient foreign armour, but if you have something for them to work from then I don’t see why not.” Then came the inevitable question, though perhaps not quite the one Marcus was expecting. How did he come to work with the rebels?

“Well… I live in Veilbrand. Even before I met you and the others, I was involved with the revolution in some way.” He gave shrug. “Hard not to, I guess. Been helping out with, what’s that fancy word for it… logistics? Helping them get the stuff they need so the revolution has a fighting chance.”

"So you're a smuggler then..." Miriam said with a smirk.

She gave him a look over. "So you and Jeanne... What's the story there?"

“Me and Jeanne? First met her on the streets, we did a couple jobs together, and we ended up working together well enough to form a partnership out of it.” He narrowed his eyes, wary of what little he knew of the pit fighter versus what she now knew about him. “But enough about me, what about you? How did you come across the serum? And what brings you all the way out here from Shaharan, anyway?”

Miriam was silent for a moment before sighing.

"Chance and curiosity. I was in my birth land of Triveila. I had just lost my mother and was coping the only way I knew how... seeking a fight. I was beaten by a woman known as The Silver Haired Goddess. I wanted to know how she beat me... she sent me to where I met the Demon. I thought he would kill me... but we just talked... and I guess I impressed him enough for him to offer the serum. After I took it I was in Linde's care until the change was complete. Then I just kinda got swept up in the flow of things after that. Now I'm part of this all... part of this team of misfits Quinn has gathered up."

The mention of the Silver Haired Goddess caught Marcus’ attention. That very same woman was on her way to Veilbrand right now, at Linde’s request. If she was as capable a warrior as the letter said, then they would have less to worry about if Te’i Sai decided to join the fray. The thief held out the faint hope that this so-called Goddess was more mentally stable compared to practically everyone else enhanced by the serum he had encountered thus far.

“So Te’i Sai saw you with Linde and decided to target you too, huh?” Marcus mused. “Oh, you wanted to hand that order over to the smiths, right?”

"Somebody's got an order?"

Earnest had approached to greet the visitors at precisely that moment in the conversation. He barely gave Marcus a glance over before looking to Miriam, specifically her dented armor and the twin blades secured at her hips. His eyes brightened with hope to see them, then widened with recognition.

"You're one of the outsiders that came with the Maiden," he said, loud enough to catch the attention of his sister who looked over from the workbench she shared with Jeanne. "... The one that took Teyren in one hit?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "Thought you'd be bigger. Sorry. Earnest Atwood, head blacksmith." He recovered from his astonished mutterings by sticking out a dirty gloved hand to shake, while he eyed the paper Miriam held eagerly. "What can I do for you?"

"Yeah, I'm Miriam..." Miriam barely got out before the blacksmith was shaking her hand. "The order is an armor of Ancient Triveilan design with a matching helmet as well," she said, handing him the drawing.

Earnest's face practically shot off sparks as he looked at the design for the Triveilan armor. He plucked the pen from his bun and darted over to a small table near the entrance, far from the forge, covered in stained papers sketched with inky designs.
"You got any details or specifications you want? Leather or plate?" he called back over his shoulder, already sketching with Miriam's original design beside his hand. "I haven't been commissioned a custom armor set in years."

Two angular, amber eyes peered around his back at what he was doing, and the woman they belonged to gave a huff and an, "Ahem."

Liz turned with her hands on her hips to Miriam, eyes narrowing at her attire. "You've got a decent set of armor on you now. Why's it so important that you get another?"

Earnest twisted his head around to her, that spark lost and replaced with a defensive glare. The glare of a man whose creative stream had just been interrupted. "Liz, you mind?"

"We have enough work to do without taking on unnecessary orders for outsiders. We have other priorities before them," she shot his way with an equally as defensive look.

"Those priorities are your orders. I have the time to work on this."

"The only reason you have that time is because what you do is useless around here," she retorted, before seeming to recall that they were in front of Miriam and Marcus. She backed away from her brother's side, hands still on her hips. "You can be the judge, Ernie, I'd just prefer that whatever we spend our time on serves the revolution a purpose," she strained, glancing back in Miriam's direction, "Not your passions, and not your pockets."

Miriam listened to the back and forth of the smiths, trying not to laugh at their bickering. When they where finished she spoke to Ernie. "The breastplate is of silver colored plate. The bracers, shin and shoulder guards as well. The blue parts on the skirt and shoulder guards are dyed leather. The helmet is of course plate was well with, uh, whatever the plume is made of," Miriam explained, pointing to each part as she addressed them. She seemed as excited as Ernie was about the armor.

"I have had this design floating in my head for a while now. I guess now I feel like it is finally time for a change..." Miriam said with a sigh. Her tone hinted that it was more than just armor she was trying to change.

Earnest nodded along enthusiastically to Miriam's instructions, scribbling down notes as he listened. He looked intensely at the sketch, mind ticking over the resources available on hand and the construction time, numbers bouncing around his head.

"Standard for a regular breastplate is three days, looking at five with the complexity of the engravings," he muttered to himself, scratching at his patchy stubble. Liz rolled her eyes for the lost cause and trotted away to continue her own work, "Accessories, estimate a day each, helmet more, apprentices on the leather work, dye (mutter, mutter) on hand, (mutter) order something (mumble) plume..."

His muttering faded, and he looked over to Miriam, his boyish excitement swapped out for professionalism.

"We can get it done in a fortnight," he said firmly, "Don't know how long you're planning on sticking around the mines, but if you can give us the address of where you're headed we can have it sent over with Fable to you when it's done. It'll cost you extra, but a custom set of armor like this ain't no small sum. You're looking at..." he did some whispered calculations, "Two hundred silver, for a commission like this."

Miriam racked her brain looking for a way to come up with the money. She had money buried back at her home in Shaharan... but that would be too far to travel and would leave the group without her protection. She was still working on what to say when she heard someone speak from behind her.

"It's on me."

The drawling voice belonged to a man in a brown coat and hat, with voluminous dark curls cast over his face. A man wholly unfamiliar to the woman he'd just expressed such generosity for and, for just a split second, to Marcus as well - in appearance. The moment the thief saw the way the man's hand meandered through the air, and how that wry smile tugged at his thin lips, Marcus recognized him entirely.

He didn't even look their way as he walked forward in heeled boots, while Earnest's stare was fixated on him, thick brows raised in surprise.

"Mister Amaranda," he addressed him disbelievingly, "You're - really?" This sort of kindness from the man was obviously a rare or even unheard of occurrence, from Earnest's flabbergasted reaction, but he forced his brain to wrap around the concept. "Wow. We'll get right on it, then. Speak to Liz when you're ready to get your measurements taken. I'm doing a material check," he finished addressing Miriam and bustled off, the excitement returning to his steps.

Luca, standing just behind and between Marcus and Miriam, lit his pipe and took in a long draw... then slowly released a stream of smoke towards the ceiling... until finally, without even a glance...

"... Hey, boy. How've you been?"

After the initial surprise, Marcus gave a brief smile and a nod of recognition towards Luca. “Not bad, considering. Had a change of scenery for a bit. Wasn’t my own choice, mind you, but at least I got to meet our fair Maiden…” The thief paused, a skeptical glance in Earnest’s general direction. “I’m surprised you’d bother to shell out for something like this, Luca. Why so generous?”After the initial surpris

Luca gave a low hum and a nod, his eyes closed.

“What can I say?” He said, with a wave of his pipe that appeared to be a halfhearted attempt at dramatics, “I have a soft spot for those who desire transformation.”

His deep blue eye slid over to Miriam’s direction, “... Think of this as an investment in my Maiden’s company.”

He then turned his head to Marcus, a narrative piecing together behind his gaze. “And so you met her...” His smirk widened to a grin as everything came together in his mind, “So, you’re the one that kicked this hornet’s nest. You and your...” He scanned the forge to single out Jeanne, “Partner?”

He had a slow puff of his pipe and mused, “You may be quicker on your feet now, boy, but you’re still just as clumsy.” He knocked lightly against Marcus’ arm with the back of his hand, “Bring her over, will you?”

Luca’s head turned back to Miriam as he gave her a charming, almost warm smile. “I’d like a proper introduction to Quinn’s misfits.”

> Villages are in the mountains, houses literally carved into their sides.
> They have profited from mining, but keep all their magical knowledge to themselves.
> Meat is a rarity and is cause for much celebration. Twice a year, a hunting party sets out and returns with fat, blubbery seals.
> There is a lake that doesn't melt, that some people rumor that Ivelda's magic mirror is made from a shard of it. A look into it can reveal the future... or hell. It has driven men mad. It is a forbidden place, and not even dragon's fire can melt it.
> There is an older city beneath the snow that the new was built upon.
> They have a greenhouse.
> They were seeking mastery over time. The rulers and scholars lived to nearly 200 years, but they never could achieve immortality of dragons.
> The entrance to the library is guarded by ice sphinx.
> There are two dragons. One is 'good', the other is 'bad.' The 'good', white dragon is the one who froze over the kingdom, then 'bad', gold dragon has the power to thaw it. The good dragon is wisdom whilst the bad dragon is intellect.
> The kingdom is surrounded by an impenetrable blizzard. Ivelda has tried sending troops in, but they never return.

Vic swaggered from the car to her apartment block, head heavy and chest light, looking at the number in her palm. A superhero’s digits. A brief smirk flickered on her lips before falling flat. Calling this thing up would go against everything she stood for. She was better off transferring the money then just leaving Cannonade as another one-off encounter, another face for her memories to drift away from. Just like the Shape, and his violent psychopathic companion, and whatever their super-power granting drug business was, and the delivery dog and the SINS agents. She was going to bed and passing out and forgetting all of it.

The auto lights came on as she trampled into her penthouse and beelined - with the line of a very much meandering, drunken bee - to the fridge. There were several things in there: beers, milk, out of date light sour cream, a horde of carrots and a packet of sliced, shitty white bread from which she took three pieces, carelessly tore off the crusts, and rolled the insides into a big doughy ball which she stuffed into her mouth like a gobstopper. When she turned around, she froze, mouth pried open by the bread ball. Across the other side of the open plan living room, seated in an armchair covered in a sheet, was a pair of long, crossed legs.

Vic choked on her ambitious mouthful, before attempting: “I can explain -”

---

She woke up the next morning. It wasn’t from the daylight, the blinds were drawn shut. Neither was it from a nightmarish flashback, nor the unsettling, ominous feeling that something was coming… No, Vic’s body had just finished filtering the rest of the toxins from last night and now she really needed to piss again. She groggily pulled the sheets off her naked body. She glanced down at her breasts, flat and deformed, half-eaten away by burn scar tissue… and smeared with purple. A body moved in the bed beside her.

Vic went still. Hand still clutched on the sheets. Eyes wide and stuck on the ceiling. Her poor hungover brain rampaged behind them, desperately trying to recollect every memory of the previous night as fast as possible. Every face she’d encountered at Shapeless flashed before her. Shape, no, Kiran, GOD no, Cannonade - She’d brought a hand up to her forehead, when she caught sight of the smudged number in her palm.

“... Cannon?” She tried whispering as she turned around - when she caught sight of a smooth ebony shoulder, and her panic melted away like a marshmallow in a delicious cup of all the hot, steaming chocolate memories returning to her. Her body relaxed into a sigh and she shuffled over, looping an arm over Wilma’s torso and planting a kiss up the metallic ports trailing up the woman’s spine before settling on her shoulder.

Wilma’s head whipped around to her, taking Vic off-guard. The blue circles of light in her dark eyes were bright from this close. Her violet lips pressed into a harsh shape.

“Why do you have to screw everything you touch?” Wilma snapped, then sprang out of bed and swiftly dressed on her way out the door, covering up all the metallic components of her body. Vic was left alone, stunned and confused.

“You - You meant ‘screw up’, right - hey! Hey, Wil, hang on!”

Vic scrambled to dress as she rushed after her. She only had one arm through the sleeve of a button down shirt that looked like it belonged to your alcoholic uncle before she skidded out the room, poofed, and reappeared in front of Wilma at the bottom of the stairs. “What is it, did you hear me say Can… you already know what I’m like, but this time I didn’t even - hey,” she protested as Wilma shoved her way past. Vic dragged her nails through her hair and let out a frustrated shout. “Why do you always get like this after we -”

“You have negative energy, Victoria,” Wilma shot over her shoulder. Vic looked skyward with a disbelieving scoff. Wilma took her bag from the breakfast bar and checked her tablet with complete disinterest towards Vic.

“Don’t do that. Don’t bring your - I don’t understand how you actually believe in that spiritual shit, you’re a robo-”

“It’s already happened,” Wilma reported coolly, and slid her tablet down the breakfast bar towards a Vic making really aggressive arm movements.

“It did happen! And all I’m saying is that you didn’t have a problem with these ’negative energies’ when they were up your -!”

“Pick up the tablet.”

Vic’s fumed behind her sealed lips. Her eyes glanced down, where she caught a glimpse of a familiar pair of cat girl tits. She straightened up, her body tense, and looked down at the video with both apprehension and resentment. “This is…”

“The video Mack Bullard was threatening me with last night while you were doing lines of coke off Cannonade’s derrière. The one that places you in Soldier Park, at 7:48, before the Witchfinder terrorist attack at Atomic Anne’s.” Wilma stalked up to Vic as she spoke, joining her to watch the footage of Vic flicking away the camera, then the camera on the ground, capturing the distant altercation between Vic and the reporter before a blurry man in a suit smashed the reporter’s other camera. Then the reporter rushed back and swept the camera off the ground. Black screen. “Tobias Flanagan. It appears he took the camera out of the park before the EMP went off.” Vic looked back to Wilma with a stoney serious expression.

“Did he write the article?”

Wilma’s lips drew tight, and she flicked her finger across the tablet’s screen. “Speculating that you were present for the terror attack, yes. He has no hard evidence of any intervention.”

Vic rolled her tongue back in her mouth. She might have swallowed it if her body allowed her. She gave the hermit crab habitat an absentminded rub in apology for the shouting. “For most of these articles, that same damn cropped photo of me trying to eat a poptart in peace is enough for evidence. This is defamation, can’t we just sue the prick and call it a day?”

“I don’t believe it’s smart to draw attention to it in that manner.”

“Well, the attention has already been drawn,” Vic remarked in monotone as she scrolled down the tablet, through all the social media posts with her tag. She paused on another article. A trashy celebrity tabloid, accompanied by a pixelated, blown up set of pictures of her and Cannonade getting into a car together. “Are you kidding me.” Her eyes scanned the headline speculating their relationship, and buried her face in her hands. “Aghhhhhh,” she released in defeat, “When the robots took our jobs, I didn’t realize that the most noticeable change would be how fast they put out this shit.” Wilma shot her an annoyed side-eye.

“I suggest that you take Bullard’s offer and use this budding scandal to transition to the next stage of your career -”

“NO.” Vic shoved the tablet against Wilma’s chest as she strutted past her. “This doesn’t change my answer from last night. I’m not joining STAs stupid super ‘girl group’. One,” she twirled around, face beaming with exasperation, and smacked a finger on her palm, “Limerence is in it, are you insane, you can’t seriously want us in the same room, two, being put under a label like ‘girl group’ just -” she brought her fingers to her throat as she glanced around the room, actually looking nauseated, “God, that. That makes me sick, yeah, I don’t get it either. And three -”

Her hands gripped the back of a sheet-covered armchair. “I don’t know how much I have to stress it to you, Wil. The entire reason I signed up with you guys was because ‘being a superhero’ wasn’t in the contract!”

Silence fell over Vic’s tongue as the final word left her. Wilma’s calculative gaze looked right through her. She felt like she was being analyzed, when she noticed the way Wilma’s eyes were moving. Quick, distracted darts.

The molecules were rising off Vic’s back. She hadn’t noticed herself unraveling before now. There was no knowing when she started. She tried to keep glaring like she hadn't noticed her body's natural desire to stop existing.

"If you don't want to be a superhero, then why did you do that vigilante stunt yesterday morning?" Wilma asked as the silence lingered on the cusp of maddening.

Vic's face noticeably crunched in, every feature tightening. Like another lock clamping over her secrets. Her stitched up wounds felt like they were coming alive again, like there was pressure on the scabs, her blood wanting to burst free and stain her.

“I never said I did anything,” she said. Wilma didn’t believe her.

“I called the bodyguard last night,” she stated. (“At what, two AM?” Vic blurted in disbelief.) “It’s evident that I can’t represent you and babysit at the same time.” She turned around, pulled something out of the leather bag Vic had acquired the previous night, and threw something at her. “And it was a phone.” Vic caught it and stared down at all the assembled pieces in wonder.

“You do everything,” escaped her lips.

“Only whatever you need,” came the reply as Wilma’s heels clicked away from her. Vic raised her head, her glare returning.

“Yeah, so why don’t you download a program on how not to be such a bitch the morning after,” she called after her. Wilma left the penthouse and shut the door behind her with finality, and Vic raised her voice, “I mean, would it KILL you to just make BREAKFAST OR SOMETHING?!”

Quiet. Vic returned to looking at the phone in her hands, which were disintegrating. "Like something normal."

Something normal. Like not fucking your Wiccan robot manager or literally falling apart in your living room.

Vic let out a sigh… that her lips went with. Her particles traveled with her breath, her face melting into it, until her entire body was slowly disintegrating towards the sky. The sunrise caught in her particles like a sunbeam catches dust… then they dispersed, and were nothing.

Vic felt nothing... but air.

Air didn’t have a hard line that defined where she began or ended. It wasn’t solid. It didn’t have a heart to beat, or blood to pump with adrenaline, or nerves to feel pain. It wasn’t human. But she, as air, was running on the echoes of a human consciousness. Sometimes, if she truly let herself melt into this feeling, losing that concept of what molecules were hers when there was no line to guide her - she felt like she was all of it. Every gale and storm, the entire atmosphere, cradling the Earth. Giving breath to the lungs of the living trapped behind their solid, constricting lines. Knowing that she could make them all choke.

She didn’t feel like God.

But it was hard to become human again, even when she returned to that form.

This wasn’t Nobody, either.

It was nothing.

And nothing was everywhere.

If memory recalls, this is where our bloody fairytale began. Winter, before the snow. Night had taken Cross Academy into its clutches, and as its creatures roamed the school grounds, the precious mortals of the Sun Dorms were oblivious and asleep as always. At least, they should have been. A light still flickered in the window of one of the first year dorms. It was a warm yellow, piercing out from the belly of a teddy bear night light. The bear surveyed the dorm with a lifted paw, keeping lookout over the rows of beds for the one inhabiting the bed beside it. A girl hiding under her covers. This girl quietly tapped away at a dating sim with her headphones in. Her toes curled and her breath hitched as the male lead confessed his love to her heroine. She almost didn't notice when the glow seeping through her blankets suddenly died. A pale cloud of breath fogged up the screen, and her fluttering heart froze as the realization set in.

The blankets lifted a peek, and a brown eye glanced around at the dark. The moon outside was full, flooding through the drapes and catching the floating dust. But its light was blue, and nowhere near as warm and revealing as the bear's. Twigs scraped against the window, and the old building groaned. She stared at the darkest corner. It stared back. With a trembling hand, she turned her night light on again - exposing nothing. She gave it a good three seconds of more staring, then let out a sigh and retreated back into her blankets to play her game.

Click.

She shot up in the dark. Her breath came out heavy, billowing and grey. Her shoulders seized up by her ears and her eyes peeled wide, fixed on that corner. The shadow of the tree at the window swayed in the moonlight, looking like lengthening fingers. The floorboards beneath her bed creaked. And slowly, then all of a sudden, the darkness in the corner grew.The girl gasped and lunged for the light, fumbling it against her chest and switching it on. The darkness and the sigh of something evil vanished in an instant. She tossed her covers over her, taking the light with her.

The girl whimpered and shivered under her covers, cradling the light in her arms. Something outside her fortress creaked. Then again. A slow, heavy pace, stalking up to her bed. She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut to pray.

PHOOWSH.

The sheets were ripped away. The girl shrieked. Her feet kicked against cold hands clasped around her ankles. She tried to cling to the light, but her hands were wrenched to the side and pinned. Her night light went tumbling onto the sheets, illuminating three sneering faces. Overwhelmed in seconds, there was nothing she could do but scream and sob - "HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME! IT'LL EAT ME!"

The lights turned on. All of a sudden, the still, dark place was stirring and basked in unpleasant fluorescent light, and the first thing she saw through her tears was a dark haired girl at the end of her bed, laughing at her. Other first years were slowly getting up from bed, rubbing at their eyes and mumbling their complaints.

"Eat you? Really?" the girl mocked, shoving her victim's feet away. She instantly pulled in, away from her aggressor and her two giggling accomplices.

"S-Sayaka...? What are you..."

A pillow was ditched their way. "Seriously, Sayaka?! We're sleeping! Stop playing pranks on Chiyo, you're gonna bring in the Disciplinary Committee!" a disgruntled roommate complained.

"I've been trying to sleep, too!" Sayaka retorted, turning from Chiyo to face the outraged dorm, "I've been trying to sleep every night, but some little chicken," Her friend passed her the bear night light, and she flicked the switch off. "Refuses to turn this stupid light off! So she's gotta be taught a lesson, and we can all get a good night's sleep." She flipped her hair and turned to Chiyo, pausing at her distraught expression. But then her brow furrowed over a harsher glare. "Sure, look at me like I'm a monster. Everyone in here is annoyed by you. They just feel too bad for you to say it." The sentiment was affirmed by the silence from the dorm that followed, just shifting eyes and knees. She smirked. "Turn off the lights, or I'm gonna punch them out." She held a fist to the bear's head and jerked. Chiyo flinched. Satisfied, she began to walk away.

"W... Wait, where are you taking him...? Where are you- stop! Hoshi!" Chiyo cried, crawling to the end of her bed after it.

"Calm down, it's a light, not a puppy! Cover her eyes!" Sayaka snapped in irritation. Her friends sprang to action, holding Chiyo down and smothering her face with a pillow. "Mmmf!! Mmmgh!!!" The dorm didn't say a word. They slipped under the blankets and settled back down for bed, turning their backs.

It was late into the night, and Chiyo's sniffles still plagued everyone's otherwise peaceful rest. "God, Chiyo. Don't be such a baby," a muffled complaint came from the other side of the room, then was hushed by an aggressive "SHH!" The room fell back into silence, with Chiyo covering her mouth and nose to quieten herself. The floorboards creaked. The wind picked up outside. And whatever was in the dark corner was looking at her. There were three taps at the window. Chiyo tore her eyes from the corner to the shadow of the tree swaying in the moonlight. She watched, as among the branches, flexed the fingers of a hand... no, that was just foliage, she tried to convince her herself, when out from the shadows crept the silhouette of a person. Her head snapped to the window, and a pair of eyes met hers.

Chiyo flung the window open. Her head poked out, and the wind blew back her hair and nightgown. She looked at the tree, across the ground, even up at the sky, but there was nobody to be seen. Only the faint bouncing of the branch remained to taunt her memory...

Rotation 1

---

The Day Classes are over, and their club meetings have begun. The Night Class stirs, and the Disciplinary Committee prepares for the dreaded opening of the Moon Dorm gate, which, as always, Day Class students have already begun to gather for.

---

Chiyo lifted her head from her desk as the bell rang. Her hair was stuck to her lips by drool, and dark bags were smeared beneath her eyes. As her head moved, some wrappers fell off her head. She looked behind her and saw Sayaka in the back row finish a juice box and crush it. Oh... Sayaka's eyes slid to her with a smirk and ditched the juice box. Chiyo ducked with her arms over her head. The juicebox bounced off the rim of the bin near her seat.

"Sorry. You're just kinda in the way," Sayaka claimed as she and her friends shoved past her seat. Chiyo barely peeked up from behind her arms. Sayaka's brow twitched at the lacking reaction. "You know that predators pick off the weak, right? If you're so scared of being eaten then don't be so pathetic." The group left snickering, mimicking Chiyo's distressed cries from last night. Chiyo picked up the juice box and put it in the bin.

She dragged her feet down the hall. Students ran around her and friends knocked shoulders and laughed. They tapped at their phones and gossiped over the latest post in the The Night Class Report. "Are you going to see the Night Class today!" "Yeah! I mean, if you go, it's awkward to go by myself..." "God, I'll die if Gianna even looks at me." A group of giggling second years flounced past Chiyo. The echoes of students fleeing to the courtyard disappeared down the hall, and Chiyo stopped in front of a classroom, 3-B. Beside the door was a sign, Supernatural Club: Recruiting Always.

She patted her hair down for any more food wrappers, then the small girl put on a smile and entered.