Aran's smile slowly vanished as Commander Botrelle spoke. He had made a mistake in underestimating her and now he was paying the price for it. Oddly enough though, as she spoke, his mind cleared. He was no longer swarmed with so many conflicting thoughts as to what he should do or say to get himself out of this situation, he was calm and he knew what to say now.

As the commander finished talking, Aran stared into her eyes directly with a deathly serious expression and started speaking.

"My lady, what I said but a moment ago... forget it all, for I'm sure you already know, but it was a lie I had poorly weaved to get me out of this situation." he spoke, keeping his sights transfixed on her. "I'm all for advancements for humanity, and though I don't wish to brag myself, I was the one who brought the department I'm in back to life. I'm also all for recognition of talent, however, you can imagine the rage I felt when much younger people like Commander Lovette, or Commander Zaide were placed as commanders ahead of me, even though I worked in this department for more than twenty-five damn years as an Alchemist!" Aran grit his teeth the moment he mentioned his superior, Commander Zaide.

"Now, Commander Lovette proved that he was indeed very talented despite his looks, so I learned to live with it. However, when Zaide was made a Knight Commander over me, I was furious and complained to the people that placed Zaide there in the first place, but I was given some vague, bullshit excuses and ordered me to get back to my work." Aran was obviously angry and he did not calm down one bit as he rose from his seat and stood in front of the desk, towering above Botrelle.

"So, to answer your question, no, I was not trying to make a fool of the department, I was trying to make a fool of the department head, Zaide, and the fools who placed him there in first place... though that might not have exactly worked as you have already seen." for a few moments, Aran stared directly into her eyes for a moment, eyes shining with rage before finally backing off and placing himself back in his seat. "So, what's your verdict Commander Botrelle, dismantling my project, prison for life, execution..." Aran's voice trailed off after the last word as he continued to stare at her.

However, a thought reached him, if he was imprisoned or executed, what would happen to his much younger sister who would instantly be associated with him. The worried expression flashed only for a moment before it returned to the serious one that he had earlier and waited for the commander's response.

---

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." Specter apologized as Spire simply stood there and waited for the dagger to be either removed or for his spine to be severed. However, as the dagger left his wound, he barred his teeth to prevent himself from cursing once again and rose to his feet, just in time to hear the steps moving around them in the smoke. These were most likely Bellataire's special ops, the best of the best and as him, people trained to kill without remorse.

Specter drew his guns, however, he chose not to shoot randomly in the smoke, the chances of him actually hitting anyone were slim, as their chances of actually being able to get to cover. He imagined that Johnny's men had started to surround both the house and the smoke. Nevertheless, he backed down along with Spire and Hell, being in a group was a slightly better prospect than standing alone... at least in the case at hand and he prepared himself for a fight.

However, then, he heard Dawn's voice coming from house, she wanted to negotiate for their safety. That was a relief... for the Wanderers at least. His fate was shrouded in mystery, though he didn't have to guess very hard about the possibilities he faced ahead of him. Even so, he decided to stay with Spire and wait for Johnny's response.

“Goodness.” The word slipped out almost subconsciously as Madison slumped in his chair, watching as Commander Botrelle and two of the several Knights escorted Mr. Sairan out of the room. “That was...certainly one way to start the meeting, wasn’t it?” He smiled tentatively. It didn’t seem like it was a joke. Nobody had behaved like it was one. But, on the positive side, it seemed as if the matter was taken with the same uttermost gravity that it deserved.

The smile grew a bit as he glanced over at his fellow Commander, ducking his head gratefully. “It’s alright. I’m just pleased to hear that the Alchemist won’t be getting away with...well. You heard him as well as I did, I suppose.” Madison ran a hand through his hair, sighing, then swiftly recomposed himself in the way Commanders were supposed to in stressful circumstances.

“Well, Commander, I was wondering where you might suggest I should first visit- department-wise, that is. I was originally going to be visiting Gift Research first, but in the light of recent events, I think it might be...best to take a trip to others, first.” Madison wrung his hands.

Much to his surprise, not long after Botrelle had left, another Alchemist slipped out the door without a single word. A serf went in around him, quietly taking out the trash, but Madison was more focus on the sudden disappearance. “That’s fine,” he replied pleasantly. Then his brow furrowed, and he turned back to Green.

“Is it normal at the Citadel to leave a meeting so suddenly?” Madison spoke with genuine confusion. At the Caer Guinevere, leaving in the middle of a meeting like that was unheard of, to say the least. Perhaps the customs of the main base differed, but it seemed best to ask before assuming, lest he make a fool of himself.

---

Gale liked many things.

He liked games and candy, in the way other boys his age might. He liked poetry and fine clothing. He liked ribbons, he liked sunshine. He liked the scent of aged libraries, of the feeling of a pulse slowly drumming to a still beneath his fingers, the spark it brought to life in his own, hungry chest. He liked classical music, piano in particular, and plays. Most of all, however, Gale liked the freedom granted to him out in the ashlands.

Gale disliked far less things than he enjoyed, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. For one, he disliked the restrictions placed upon him by the Wanderers. They complained incessantly when he fed into that needling urge that followed him. They kept him away from the prisoners, when all he wanted to do was help. It was quite the annoyance, really, but since they offered him freedom and security, he “behaved” for them. He was “good”. He kept his distance from the prisoners, and, instead of playing with the unfortunate strangers he stumbled upon, he made do with the local wildlife. It wasn’t the most fulfilling of lifestyles, but he was content- if not a bit bored at times.

Today, he found himself strolling back to the ranch, hands bloodied and that nagging itch satisfied for the time being. Gale sang as he walked- humming the bars from some orchestra he heard back in his Erubescian days- the bag in his hand swinging with every step. He had been thoughtful enough to collect the mangled bodies from his latest expedition for the group’s dinner. Perhaps he’d give some to Miss Reith. He enjoyed watching her eat.

Gale paused in his trek at the scent of oranges, and a sudden...strange feeling. His movements felt sluggish, his limbs weak. Surprised, he took a few steps back, and the feeling was gone.

A few steps forward, and it was back.

Odd.

As an experiment, he attempted to release his claws, but found him unable to do so. Shifting held the same results. His powers, for whatever reason, were completely gone. Overcome with a sudden curiosity, Gale rolled up his sleeve, brought his arm to his mouth, and bit down. It was a bit difficult- his human teeth were far less easier to work with than fangs- but he eventually managed to tear away a patch of flesh. No pain, however. That was disappointing.

Frowning, Gale spat the skin onto the ground, wiping his face clean of the mess. He moved on.

It took only a short while longer of walking to discover what was likely the source of this phenomenon. In the distance, he could quite clearly see an armored vehicle loitering in front of the ranch house, along with a collection of men armed to the teeth. There was a struggle, a fight, although his view from there on was blocked by a cloud of fog. Gale watched in silence for a few moments, adjusting the bag at his side.

Then, he turned and walked away to hide himself.

Without his powers, he was, in essence, a regular child. A fight against a group of armed men would end poorly, to say the least. He didn’t delude himself of otherwise.

Gale liked conflict.

But he liked his freedom even more.

---

---

In her forgotten library / museum Trinity enjoys an opera sung by a singer now long dead as if she sat on the stage with her those long years ago. Around them the company lends their voices in chorus to hers as in the instrument pit a legendary conductor leads his orchestra in matched harmony. Her brother found her this treasured keepsake carried by the diva and lost in a hidden treasure chest only recently recovered by his group and opened by her when she watched as Zife Na’Calm the diva enter the multi staged lock code. Sure the chest could have been forced open but it too was a thing of value and required the delicate touch of Trinity that assured its survival.

Inside were diary written in her hand and contained the truth of several scandals and explanations and they were Trinity’s to experience, to Witness in a way that no other could. In a week she will have seen the life span of many of the contained treasures and dictated them to the air where her words would be captured and transmitted to people who didn’t wish too close a contact with the unchallenged mistress of history.

Trinity was pitied by family who believed her alone in the world because so many feared exposure to her and they were so wrong. She was never alone as long as she walked where others had before her, she had intimate friends in every room of her home seeing them at their best and worst, their happiest and most tragic moments. She knew that the former duke who had been the one who bequeathed the land and buildings to the university once kept a commoner lover here as these apartments maid and that it was to her he composed the letters attributed to his wife. How filled with passion he used to be when he read the beautiful sonnets to Miranda, she had watched as they made love many times here around her on furnishing still existing and some now long gone; how was she ever alone?

Then as the company rose to crescendo and Trinity could hear the crowd’s delighted response exploding her attendant dejour stepped in leading an officer of the court who fidgeted and acted nervous to move any closer to her than he must as he repeated in a timorous voice what he’d been sent to say so much he’d told her as he entered the room [b]”I have a Summons Miss Smithe, you are to accompany myself to a site in need of your talents.

Trinity smiled at the man knowing he like the others knew exposure to her meant exposure of himself eventually and he was growing long in the tooth for the job which meant he was being tormented or punished by his commander her guess was for the latter.

They walked to the transport waiting for them and inside was a new made leather case that held a simple stone washed round in some stream that served as the letter of appointment making this a hidden read and therefore connected to someone of power.

His private contractors advanced in teams of six, tight knit with each accounting for the blind-spot of their fellow. The threat of gifts had been removed, yes, and that had been the encouraging portion of nabbing the Wanderers given their fearsome reputation, but their boss didn't negate the danger of a bullet. A bullet, while much less exciting than a gift, could kill you just as dead as anything else. So they were on high alert, their scopes snapping from spot to spot, ready to fire at the slightest provocation.

One such group was trailing Specter, Spire, and Hel. Red dots followed their tails like spots on peacock. Had a gun not been trained on them, they would have long fired. They would have killed Specter, saved their non lethal rounds for the other two. To them, he was a persona non grata. A deviation from the plan to be squashed at the first chance. They decided to wait instead. Ash types like this were ornery bastards. No need for the added risk.

The teams began to split, six to three, maintaining a formation like a triangle, each taking a secured position surrounding the house. Two sets four of three had decided to sweep the surrounding area. One such team headed to where Oren was held, the rest moved to sweep the surrounding area.

It was one of these teams assigned to sweep that descended on Toby with a brutal efficiency that showcased they weren't your standard guys with guns. The point man, one Spencer Regoli, shoved Nicodemus from atop Toby, just before the man would have likely gained the upper hand. Spencer was unconcerned with where the small framed writers body would go. He immediately dropped his knee into Toby's chest, and a small device into his neck. A shock would move through Toby's body, temporarily locking his muscles in place. Spencer stood, and allowed the other two to turn Toby onto his back. A collar was snapped around his neck, locking into place with an audible click.

Nicodemous would find himself falling into the waiting arms of Sweet Johnny, caught under the armpit and the back of his head level with John B's abdominal region.

"Look what the writer caught." His eyes gleamed like greedy pearls beneath his shades. "Well I'm surprised and fucking impressed. The loyalty thing, got you in. This though, capturing the stutter brother right here? Fucking gold. My dick is like diamond right now."

"I underestimated you Nico, me, the guy with an eye for talent." Bellataire let the writer go, and approached Toby, settling on his heels.

"Hey. Hey, bet you feel pretty fucking stupid right now." He placed his hand on the back of Toby's head, using it to stand back up.

"Two Dawn. You're now asking me for two of your friends back, and I..I don't think you're grasping how this works. Right? They are MINE. I OWN THEM. You get me? 1+1=2, quick math. Now. Like I've been saying. I'm a business man, not some fucking sadist. Right. He had his choice. He chose that collar. Chose that,"Johnny put his hands around his neck."Shit he's wearing. Now. I'm going to give you guys another chance, because I'm so fucking generous like Mag's here keeps trying to tell you. You can buy this one back. Toby. Buy him, transaction."


"From the looks of things, you all are dead broke. You know what gets you money? Jobs. So, this is Sweet Johnny's last offer. Sign up, or you join Toby instead of buying him. Choice is yours."

---

"Who are you?"
Nicodemus paused at this, the rage in his eyes turning to a look that could only be described as deranged. Still having the upper hand in the situation, he spoke, his melodic voice becoming significantly harsher than one would expect him capable of.

"I am the one your monstrous friend imprisoned for six years within the confines of my own mind. I am the body it stole and the soul it was ripped from; and I will have my vengeance for you and your's aid in my imprisonment." At this point, his words were nearly dripping with poison, and he was caught entirely off-guard by the armed man that shoved him from his victim's form. As he fell into Johnny's arms, he was practically glowing with spite as the slaver attested to his surprise. As Johnny let him go, Nicodemus stood and spoke just loud enough for Johnny to hear;

"They don't deserve your kindness sir, they deserve stakes in their ankles and collars on their throats."

---

---

---

---

Bunny decided to go ballooning allowing herself to become as light as smoke and intangible. When she was in this state she was difficult to see but still visible if you were looking at her and most of all she was at the mercy of the winds like any balloon.

She couldn’t fly nor could she even rise into the sky unless she was lucky and found a strong thermal column but she did enjoy traveling this way now that she’d learned a few small tricks such as increasing her solidity which increased her weight dropping her altitude when a breeze was going in a direction she thought would lead her too deeply into the Ash or smack into one of the Faction’s control kept her out of trouble. She liked the Erubesco nobles because they would sometimes hire her for their projects outside the city walls; Liberty nobles were useless as they had no monies or hire for outsiders.

It was a lovely day soaring unnoticed over the barren lands which for Bunny was the best she had for her gift; that and she could now bathe in a teacup of water as if it were a luxurious bath. She was limited in what she could carry though and at first that wasn’t any trouble considering the first manifestation of her gift was Ballooning from harm naked because she hadn’t learned yet to attune her meager belongings. Time and experience had taught her better control and the harsh environment she called home; on and the odd guys she now called the Squints who had found her and somehow known she had only recently manifested her gift.

They had been a strange bunch wanting her naked so they could examine her head to toe, extract fluids and having her show performances of her gift even offering advice on improvements but none of them ever asked her to sleep with them which left her feeling as if she need to take better care of her looks. The Squints had given her clothing, money and even helped repair and eliminate scars and blemishes from her body and all they required was at a time they specified she meet with them in the Ashlands and it didn’t matter where they said they could always find her.

“Toby!” Any hopes of resolving the situation hopefully died with the wink of metal around the empath’s throat, and the vicious, almost blood-hungry cry from the man who had taken Eld’s place. Bellataire’s men were advancing. From where she stood now, Dawn could see them closing in- on the quartet that had been stranded outside, on the basement, on the house itself. Her nails peeled away what remained of the windowsill’s paint. As it stood, they were looking hopelessly, helplessly, to be at the slaver’s mercy.

Although there was one thing left that they could do.

In a look of solemn resignation, Dawn turned her gaze downward, releasing her vice grip on the window. She swallowed, although, as she stepped away, there was a certain grim determination that had fastened itself into her chest. The plan was not a foolproof one by any means, nor was it a permanent solution. If it failed, there would be no doubt that all of them would find themselves collared and put to heel. Still, anything seemed better than just waiting around for Bellataire’s forces.

Rushing downstairs, Dawn swung into the halls and began to glance into each and every room that she happened to pass- sometimes shoving the doors in with such force that they nearly slammed into the wall. It was in the fifth room that she passed that she found what she was looking for, and, skidding to a halt, Dawn slipped into the bathroom where one Dutch Dalton lay unconscious on the grime-smeared floor.

That certainly made things difficult.

Dawn knelt beside the man, carefully rolling him onto his back before shaking him by the shoulders. “Dutch. Can you hear me?” She was half-tempted to splash water on his face, but their main source of unsullied water came from the well outside, and she wasn’t about to put anything contaminated on the greaser’s face from the sink. Shaking would have to do the trick.

Hopefully.

---

---

Nathan walked down the streets of Liberty along with other busy commuters rushing to their jobs or important appointments. The city felt like a buzzing hive, never sleeping, always something to be done; the importance of time and uniformity is so apparent that at a glance even the people looked the same and very few people looked different, Nathan was just one example. Nathan being different was not out of the norms, usually they give you a uniform at your job, or perhaps you would only require a suit, a pair of leather shoes and a briefcase, all of which are as cheap as they are common if not already provided by the company you work for and can be paid for with the allowance that you recieve. Nathan however, was going to a job that required him to have a uniform at all times, he was after all going to become a soldier – this was the day after enlistment – he pictured himself in what he imagined his uniform would look like, dull gray, loose BDU pants, tuck-in, long sleeved upper BDU, black steel toed boots, a color matched field cap, and a battle harness or mock armor. He played with the idea of himself – an average, messy looking person – in a uniform, he always thought of uniforms as unfashionable, but then a thought popped into his head – perhaps if one doesn’t see a uniform often, one might think it was attractive – he pushed the thought aside as he reached the base.

The base looked like every other place in Liberty, gray, dull, uniform, and square. Nate stood just outside the entrance with his guitar slung on his back and a duffle bag filled with everything he owns, slung over his right shoulder with his hand gripping on the strap. He brought everything he owned mostly because he didn’t know what he was suppose to bring, he was just expected to show up on time. In his free hand he held his recruitment papers and report orders. He knew the drill, go to the Training Department building and report in to the presiding training officer. The buses were there, but he decided to walk, he would need to warm up in case they made him do exercises right off the bat. He always felt the need to warm up before strenuous activities. He put one foot in front of the other and picked up a determined marching pace, his stride was wide, but not confident, very reserved – telling of someone who had a lot to keep in his head. He had a lot to think about, after walking past several buildings and base personnel, he felt out of place, as if he’d been picked up and placed down into the path of responsibility. He hadn’t realized it at the time he was enlisting, but the sudden regret that welled up inside him as he realized it at that moment; he had to train to take lives.

That was a soldier’s job, that was the duty a soldier had to do to protect his country; the sudden realization made him sweat. There was no turning back now. He attempted to steel his resolve by telling himself in his head that ”This isn’t a perfect world. People die everyday. Soldiers do this for a living, war is inevitable and a part of daily life in our world.”, even with those words he felt dreadful, he imagined it – taking another person’s life – it was against every moral value he’d ever set up for himself, yet here he was, he cursed himself for not thinking it through, he pondered running away into the Ashlands, but since he had already enlisted, running away now would be considered an act of desertion punishable by life in prison or death if caught.

Again he pushed his thoughts away into his head, he had no choice about it now – a recurring theme with his life. He had no choice when his parents died, he had no choice with the bullies, he had no choice where he went to school, he had no choice on what to say or do. He had no choice, a set of frustrating words that he made him boil. Having no choice at all felt like prison.

When he finally reached the Training Department building, he shook off his doubts for the time being and continued to walk straight into the building. He readied himself mentally, papers in hand, a little winded from his walk but completely warmed up, he checked the time on his watch and found that he arrived earlier than he had to. He was ready for the days ahead of him – or at least, that’s what he wanted to feel.

Johnathan Falcon - New Camelot

The bells...(Of Notre Dame)

~Morning in N.C.,
The city awakes,
To the bells of Ciiitadeeel.~

~The weird folks do weird shit
The Serfs bow their heads
To the bells of Ciiitadeeel.~

~From the big bells as loud as their Missillles...
To the little bells soft as skin ceeeells~

~And some say the soul of the country's
the toll of the beeeells
The beeells ooof Ciiitaaadeeel~

Were the city silent enough in the early mornings, the melodious voice could be heard echoing throughout the city streets, perhaps even just slightly reaching the Citadel itself. However, it was far from a mystery as to who it was that was singing at this early an hour, walking down the city street with what appears to be a giant wooden caravan, the sound of the pounding hooves of the horses that were moving it along the street.

Standing, not sitting but standing atop the moving caravan was a rather strange looking man; full-body black tights with pointy shoes and gloves un-symmetrically colored in solids of yellow and purple, and wearing a small cape in the shape of of yellow and purple diamonds one after the other, incidentally made of REAL yellow and purple diamonds. On his head was a jester's cap of the same colors, covering most of his head, and a white smiling mask to cover the last open area: His face. Nothing about his skin or body was shown with that kind of attire, there even appeared to be a black fabric behind the mask to ensure no one sees his mouth or eyes through the mask.

The caravan managed to stop itself at New Camelot's square, the horses trained to stop there after the many times they have done so now, and Johnathan himself stops for a moment, to take a glimpse of the morning sun as it rises from the east. He couldn't see that much due to the buildings in the way, but he could most definitely see the radiant skyline above those buildings.

Of course, for him, there was nothing to be felt from seeing this beauty, it was just color above him, nothing more. Yet it didn't stop him from looking at it anyways, if only to give the impression that he could.

Staring forward, he tapped his foot on the roof of the caravan, and as if on cue, it immediately began to unfold itself. Johnathan jumped off as the roof opened up, the sides dropped off, and curtains extended outward from the caravan's front and back, transforming the caravan into an oddly magnificent stage. It was unusual for how extravagant the stage is in contrast to how it looked as a caravan, but for the country of Erubesco, this kind of stage was still to be expected, and the meaning of how it formed was simply part of the whole magic act.

Facing it from its side, the caravan was now a massive rectangular stage of a fine wood floor, a fancy golden arc extending upwards and connecting to the velvet red curtains let out from the front and back of the caravan, and two wooden weights coming out from the bottom to lock this caravan stage in place. Johnathan himself jumped behind the curtains, leaving the stage itself empty as he awaits for his audience to wake up and come forth.

After all, a magic show is useless without an audience to entertain.

A Few Hours Later

The Lord of Jesters (Jesters of the Moon)

In this one particular square of New Camelot, the area was crowded with serfs excited for the Lord of the Jesters to dazzle and entertain them.

In a world where gifts are now commonplace, magicians aren't normally fascinating with what they can do. After all, the whole point of magicians way back before the dawn of gifts were to dazzle the audience, make them look on in awe at these seemingly inhuman people performing feats that seem completely impossible for the normal man to do.

But now that gifts are a common place, everyone in the world can perform their own seemingly supernatural or magical feats that were once impossible to them. When everyone is "magical", nothing is considered "magical" anymore. This is the general philosophy makes magicians "obsolete" in the eyes of spectators, and most entertainers never bother with magic shows because of this.

Because of this, actual magicians like the Jest must do something far more than simply showing off the magical, or showing themselves off as inhuman. They must somehow show off that they're capable of feats normally impossible by the standard of the many many gifts conceived in the world, a feat that, in itself, is normally seen as impossible. As such, what magicians are left in the world combines their own gifts with scientific knowledge and contraptions to perform acts that make it seem as if they can do far more than any normal gift.

The Jest, however, has been blessed with a very special gift, one that has given him the advantage in entertaining the masses. A gift that, combined with his actual talent for entertainment, has made him one of the greatest entertainers and magicians in Erubesco, if not the world.

The gift of Chaos. ...And Comedy.

"Come one, come all. I do welcome you to my humble little abode, live on the town square of our fine town of New Camelot, Erubesco, the only town where I have to play second fiddle to a bunch of brutes playing poking games with sticks and stones and...whatever the bloody hell an ax is suppose to be, and not care! ...It's alright, It's alright, ...I don't blame you for one second; the Arena is where it's AT! ...YEEES!"

"...Oh yes...The heart-pounding action, the adrenaline of a bunch of gifted musclemen fighting for their lives, I especially like some of those special times where fans try to sneak their hover tigers into the audience, and then punching out the guard and running away when busted...Anyone remember that? Guy was insanely entertaining, I was putting my focus on him desperately running from a knight, more than the match at the time, and he must have REALLY loved that hover tiger cause I could have sworn I heard him say "Alright...You win, ...do what you want with me......just let me sleep with her one more time..." Those poor knights were so confused that they were looking at each other and then up towards me, and I was just like '...Don't look at me, I don't judge.'"

"...But yes, the arena's always been that one glorious time of the day where it's considered moral to say 'Ok, Junior, get to bed now...Daddy's wants to watch his own games.' ...But I do appreciate those who do let their children get involved with their entertainment for the first time. It's such a magical experience, those first times a child sees an arena match, cause you can just look at their reactions to it, and you can just immediately predict their career without the need of any esper gifts. Disgusted and horrified of the beatings going on down there? Alchemist. A simple look of 'Eh, It was alright I guess...' Knight. If they're really into it, like 'Yes, Yes, YES! Bash his face in! Bathe in Red, Bathe in Red!' ...Knight Commander! And finally, if they're like '....................................So, when's halftime?' ...VIIIICEROOOOOOY!"

"I actually thought of being a Viceroy myself at one point, figured it might be fun, like playing Chess, the REAL game. But after thinking about it, I've come to realize something I like to think none of the Viceroys ever figured out...not because I'm smarter than them or anything like that but simply because it's a funny thing to think about. Our military is very active, and very powerful, and they only really got this way because they have something to fight for, us and themselves, and something to fight, Liberty and whatever terrorist of the week happens to be found in the Ashlands. But when all of that is defeated, I wanna be at the after-party they'd probably have up in that citadel over there. I wanna be there to watch them yell out 'VICTORY! THE KING'S DOMINION IS NOW THE WORLD! THE WAR IS OVER!' ...And I wanna be there, to see those 5 seconds after saying that, when the viceroys realize what they just said. ...Because that will be the most glorious 5 seconds of comedy gold I guarantee you will ever see. ...'Wait a second...The War is over? ...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I lived and breathed to fight the Enemies of my king! WHAT IS MY LIFE NOW!?' Aww, cheer up. There's still some rebel rats you might be able to flush out. ...It is at this moment you begin to realize that after the wars end, after Liberty has fallen, and the terrorists that wander the ashlands are gone, that Viceroys and Knights go from being our greatest soldiers and generals...to glorified pest control for the rest of their days."

"For this reason, the Viceroys and Knight commanders, aren't a big fan of peace. Oh they're a fan of 'defending' the peace, but not actually 'of' peace. So when this one time came when a Peace conference was happening and most were invited, a Viceroy decided to send me in their place. I figured its because we Lords and Ladies are better at this, but I'm also betting that putting me on this trip instead of them was essentially their plan to ruin the conference by annoying everyone inside...A very clever tactical move on their part, now that I think on it."

"But the joke was on them, because you would never guess where this conference was...I never would have guessed...It was being Held in Liberty...right in its capital city. ...I know right? Freaking bizarre, the last place I'd suspect a peace conference to be, it's like holding a botany garden party in the freaking ashlands! ...From what I understand it, once every...freaking green moon, apparently a conference is held where the cities converse and review terms of the ceasefire we currently have with them. ...This ceasefire being that one piece of paper that's the reason we take pot shots at each other, rather than just marching all of our forces to attack all of theirs, and getting a war over and done with."

"So we went to Liberty, my first trip outside New Camelot actually, and...Well let's put it this way, I was born and raised here in New Camelot, I never even been outside into the Ashlands, let alone within enemy territory. I asked my father when I was little what Liberty was like, and you know the answer he gave? Hell. Now, I was a kid at the time, I didn't know what hell was even suppose to mean. I looked in our library, and I see both a literary and visual interpretation what hell looked like. As I rode towards Liberty, I was having a flashback of what my dad told me, and what I learned back then, and I thought to myself.......... 'Could be fun.'....As I remembered it, Hell looked bloody insane, Fire, brimstone, a bunch of monsters everywhere, stalactites that I could only assume at the time were being crapped out on Liberty from the heavens, ...Sounded like a masochist's dreamland. But then I looked at Liberty as we came towards its central city, and let me tell you, I don't think I ever factored in the possibility that when Dad said it was hell, he was referring to MY hell!"

"...The entire city was this grey, metal, tribute to Boredom. The buildings were high but about as straight and uninteresting as their people. None of them had a sense of humor; I tried to irritate and they actually ignored me and went on like they were deaf, so I couldn't even have any fun with them...And don't even get me STARTED on the actual conference itself. Apparently its real name was the 'We'll-sit-you-down-and-make-you-listen-to-us-talk-for-six-hours-about-how-righteous-and-just-we-are-and-if-you-so-much-as-raise-your-eyebrow-the-wrong-way-we'll-kill-you-and-destroy-all-of-Erubesco.' Conference. ...It was very true to that name, really lived up to it. Apparently the Councilors or whatevers were too busy to even get involved with this, so they handed it off to some guy, I guess their assistant, I don't know."

"So this guy sat us down, and right from the get go, I can tell that we came here to be Martyrs...Yes, that right, we mentally died inside to keep you safe...Oh, not from Liberty's attacks. It occurred to us that if the Viceroys ever joined this thing, they'd declare war on them so fast, and this massive war has been something they've been training, even living for, and if they had declared all-out war, we'd NEVER hear the end of it...The Citadel would be partying all day everyday...imagine how annoying that would have been for you all."

"So there we were, practically glued to our seats listening to a slow talker who REALLY loved the sound of his own voice. To my right, A lady's eye and the side of her mouth was twitching, looking like she wanted to strangle this sap with his own intestines. To my left, a Lord was looking like he was on the verge of an Aneurysm, and welcoming the sweet release of death that may come with it. As for me, I was simply watching as the hours waste me away...slowly...painfully...feeling like this man's speech would never end and that maybe we'd die in this room at this rate. What time is it? I look at my watch, ...Only an HOUR has passed! ...NOOOOOOOOOO!"

"I was just looking up towards the ceiling, the walls, the door, the table...underneath the table, see if anyone was doing anything fun under there while we endured this, maybe some sort of little trolls or something playing cards, anything really would have been nice, anything to save me from this boredom! ...Then it happened, all of a sudden, practically spontaneous. Some guy in a suit and tie just SLAMMED the door opened, it wasn't even a normal kind of opening, when somebody turns the knob and pushes it open, no, he PUNCHED that door open, I'm surprised that those double-doors didn't get unhinged and thrown at us...though I would have been really thankful if they did. He didn't even look like that much of a strongman, in fact he looked quite...scrawny, even compared to me, and that's saying a lot; I don't exactly have a lot of muscle myself. It was probably his gift, like maybe he has super strength but looks like a freaking stick figure...What an oddly specific gift to have, but I'd still buy it if I could."

"The guy comes into the room and pardons himself, saying there was something he had to tell our host. ...Just as immediately, some kind of dagger drops out of the assistant's sleeve and into his hand and as soon as he touched it, wham! He threw it straight dead-center to this intruder's head. Guy stood there with eyes wide open and clearly on the verge of death from getting a good ol' knife to the head, and all of us Lords and Ladies, we were all just staring as this happened. As the guy dropped to the ground dead, we all tilted our heads at the same time, and the same motion, in perfect synchronization, and I could only imagine what everyone must have been thinking when nearly the very next minute, a group of security officers took our host away. Some of the Lords were looking at this scene with disgust as Libertarian barbarism, others were wandering if we were just tricked into a play or in some kind of prank...Me? I was just looking up at the ceiling with my hands clenched together and internally screaming "HALLELUJAH! ...THANK YOU GOD, I HAVE BEEN SAVED!""

"After that little stunt, some of the other guards told us that the conference was canceled and that we could return home now, and needless to say, we went back to our escorts without delay. ...Most of us anyways, I on the other hand, didn't immediately leave when I could. I wanted to enjoy this trip outside my home for a little while, but more importantly, I heard that they were going to be putting our host on trial for murder that very same day. That got me really curious; they're making the trial happen, but letting the witnesses go? No investigation beforehand? Not even a day to give the dead host a funeral arrangement? ...THAT sounded like entertainment if I ever heard it. So I decided to let my curiosity guide me towards their courthouse to see how this plays out."

"I took a seat near the back, and began to watch the trial play out, and what I saw was...it was utter madness in there... I loved it! When my own courtroom renditions are making more sense than an actual trial in Liberty, even the Bailiffs are going "I'm out of here...you're on your own, your honor!" It was like watching a courtroom comedy play, Yet the whole of the audience, all of them, were taking it seriously, like this was a Lord here committing murder. I was about 3 seconds away from yelling out "HANG IN THERE GUYS! ...There's always one tough crowd in comedy, don't give up!" ...It was just so insane and ridiculous...That words alone could not even begin to describe it. So, I've taken the liberty to set up a reenactment of trial for you all to see. Now something to bear in mind...I was there, I know who killed who, where he was killed and how, because it happened live, right in front of me. I was a witness to the murder...But Liberty has shown me that, clearly, they didn't need a murder witness, they didn't need a witness period. They were masters of improvisations and ad-libs, and I was taking notes on their material all the while. Now, without further adeu..." The Jest finally stopped his story towards the audience, stepping back until entering the curtains behind him. A minute or so later, the curtains opened up, and revealed a courtroom behind it! ...Well, technically it's just a courtroom set. On the judge's pedestal was The Jest, now replacing his jester's cap with a traditional judge wig, and a black robe over his jester attire, wielding a small mallet and, of course, keeping on the mask. On the defendant's pedestal was some kind of hand puppet of a human, seemingly made of cotton.

"Archibald Von Vention, you stand trial for the murder of our friendly tea-serving robot. How do you plead?"

"Not gui-...Wait what? I thought this was for the murder of that one guy?"

"Oh no, it was a robot, it just came by to serve you all tea for the meeting."

"But he bled..."

"It was a new generation model, it didn't need blood, but we gave the tech to have some anyways. Now! You are tried for killing this robot, the Prosecutors already conceived a cause of death as...let's see here...Overload by ear-bleedingly bad screaming."

"That...That wasn't his cause of death..."

"But you don't refuse the screaming part?"

"The hell are you-" Before the puppet could say anything else, The Jest threw the hammer literally at the puppet, hitting his face before dropping to where his feet were, the sound of toes being smashed were then heard. The Puppet then pressed its little lips together in pain before letting out a horrid scream.

"Picture proof right there...You screamed so bad even cynical disembodied voices from out of nowhere have to comment on it! Prosecutor also made clear the evidence of your crime, an autopsy report clearly stating the cause of death: LASER FIRE! ...Death by Arm cannon laser."

"A-Arm Cann-WHAT!? What are you even talking about? I don't have an Arm cannon!"

"You have one hidden in your arm, hence the name ARM cannon!"

"But the wound was clearly a small and thin."

"It was a very precise laser."

"What are you even talking about!?"

The show continued like this, as the crowd laughed with much joy.

-------------------------

Arron Falcon- The outskirts of a live ashland village

Avast, me hearties! (Gang-Plank Galleon)

For anyone inside the cities of Liberty and Erubesco, they likely looked at the rising sun in their respective areas, the morning atmosphere of a scarlet and cerulean dawn as the sun crawls its way into the sky.

But for Arron, nothing quite beats the beauty of a morning view from these Wastelands of Ash. There may be very little in regards of things for the morning sun to reflect its light off of, but by whatever god is left in this world, if any, there is such purity in being able to watch the sun rises up from the ground without any buildings or obstacles of any kind in the way. Sure if one is at a high enough vantage point in both countries they'd have the same view, but even then there's something...different between watching from the tallest building of a city, and watching from the cliff side of the Ashlands, something feels more natural, more radiant in the eyes of this pirate, about the latter that the former could never bring.

But now was not the time for sight-seeing, he was up on this cliff for more than simply staring at a lovely view. From the pocket his red leather coat, he took out a rather olden-styled collapsible telescope, extended it outwards, and stared at what appeared to be a village just below the morning horizon. A live village, by the looks of it.

But how could this be, if the Wanderers are in an area surrounded by ruined villages and towns adjacent to the farmlands they established temporary shelter in? This much is true: Normally the Wanderer spend their time gathering supplies from the long abandoned ghost towns around them, scavenging the dead lands like a pack of vultures.

...But screw that. Arron is no Vulture, he is a Falcon, and Falcons only feast on live prey. More importantly he was a raider, a pirate in heart, and if being a raider has taught him anything, it is far more valuable, useful, even honorable to steal from the living who could put up a fight, than robbing from the defenseless deceased.

It took him quite a long while to get to where they are. Out of all of them, he was one of the first to wake up, likely so that he may take this long trek across the wastelands. Since no live village was nearby, he had to ride around until he found one, and found one he did, right as the sun was coming up.

The village itself was clearly neither Erubescian nor Libertarian; both would have likely completely renovated the areas to suit their respective tastes. Instead, it appeared to be a few small and ruined buildings with some cloth and fabric over any holes to serve as roofs for them. Not a whole lot of them either, but there were also a bunch of actual tents and huts around said buildings, and what appeared to be a couple of guards patrolling the village outskirts.

Honestly, it was a bit of a disappointment for Arron. At least if it was a village belonging to one of the two countries they'd have plenty to steal. Stealing from fellow ashlanders were like stealing from those who already don't have much to give. They were just like the Wanderers in a way, simply scavenging and raiding around to grab whatever they could find. The only real difference is that there was more permanence in Ashlander villages, whereas the Wanderers were just that: Wanderers, Nomads, simply travelling from place to place without any real end-goal in sight. Since the beginning, they were always like that...

Under normal circumstances, this would be the part where he begins his invasion of this village with a motley crew of fellow raiders. However, Edward's clan of raiders are long since dead by now, and the fellow wanderers back at the farm weren't exactly approving of the idea of them being raiders as well, especially Dawn.

The Raiders of the ashlands, no matter who they are or where they were from, all share one common, unwritten rule, one engraved in their very instincts: Never raid alone. Just as no pirate should ever sail alone, with the people that exist these days, the variety of gifts every single person on this planet is capable of, no raider worth their salt would ever attempt at raiding a village or city alone, lest they be on a suicide mission.

For Arron himself, this was a problem. Most of the Wanderers would have likely nagged him if he joined, even if they were up by the time he left, Dawn certainly wouldn't bother with this whatsoever either, so what else could he do, if not wait patiently and stalk them until someone comes out?

---

Few hours later...

The irony is not lost on the Falcon, stalking for hours like a vulture waiting for their pray to die. Part of him wanted to just give up and try again later, but he didn't come this far away from the others just to come all the way back with empty hands. It is a captain's duty to support his crew as best as possible, and the only way for him to do this at the moment, is to gather actual, decent, and useful supplies from someone. Still, it's been a number of hours since he left, the morning sun has already risen at this point, and he was beginning to wonder how the other wanderers are doing.

"...Ehh, I'm sure the lads are fine." He thought, convincing himself not to worry about them. The Wanderers were a dysfunctional bunch, but they had powerful gifts. He was confident they'd be able to deal with whatever comes their way.

Almost as if on cue, he spotted a speck in the distance separating from the village. Once again taking out his telescope, he zoomed in on the speck that was moving away from the village...A mercenary it seemed by the looks of that armor on him, riding with a cargo of supplies. He must have been hired to transport it somewhere else.

"THERE SHE BLOWS! It took me a longer time than me thought, but I've finally caught me a live one!" Arron yells out in a clearly pretentious British accent. He was too far away for anyone in the village to hear a thing, hell, he was too far away for anyone in the village to see a thing either, a generally basic tactic for Raiders. The cargo itself wasn't much of a jackpot in his eyes; seemed off if it was a large amount of supplies carried by one merc as oppose to a group of them. But beggars can't be choosers, and with only himself there, he had to make due. With this in mind, He pushed in his telescope, put it back in his pocket, and went back onto the motorcycle he rode here, and rode it along the cliff, following his target as he rode.

Eventually however, the merc was at a fork in the road, and Arron wouldn't be able to follow if he chose a particular path; this was the only chance left. With this in mind, he then hardens his grip on the handles of his bike as he and it began to be covered in a blue aura. Almost immediately afterwards, the tail pipe of the motorcycle bursts out flames like the thrusters of a rocket, and the motorcycle itself blasted off at speeds normally impossible for them to enter. Arron immediately takes a normally suicidal turn off the cliff towards the mercenary and its caravan, shooting towards the path's fork ahead of the mercenary.

"Ha-HA! Drink up yer last drink, Yo-" Arron yells out before he then lands...just a bit off track as Arron is unable to actually stop the motorcycle's momentum. He swerves the motorcycle to the side, knocking himself off of it as it continues its clumsy momentum and eventually stopping in the sand. Arron himself rolled in the sand a little due to his bike's momentum as he comes off, before skidding across the sand on his face, slowing to a halt, and laying there for a few seconds.

"....Hoooooooo..." Arron painfully finished as he laid face first in the sand. The merc stopped his caravan on instinct the moment he saw the motorcycle ahead of him, and watched the foolish boy's failed stunt, waiting for a few seconds to see if he's still alive before then continuing his drive, heading for the path away from the fallen boy.

"Wait, wait you scalleywag! If you think I'm letting you...get away with me booty, you are sorely mistaken." Arron yelled out to him. But the mercenary ignored his words and continued his journey.

Grabbing the motorcycle and getting it working again, he drove off, once again at speeds unusual for a motorcycle to make, passing the mercenary and stopping in front of his caravan. The mercenary was now getting irritated at this boy's annoying persistence as Arron got off the bike.

"...Do you have a death wish, boy?" The mercenary asked him.

"Nay, but a simple request: Leave the caravan and return to that village there for safety, I'll even trade ya this here steed to help ya on yer way!" Arron said with a confident smirk on his face. Without a word, the Mercenary dropped off the side of the caravan, and began walking towards him, his arms lighting up in a blaze of red flames.

"I just went through hell to get these supplies. This was my reward and I earned it at that village. I'm in no mood to play around with childish dauntless fools like yourself." The mercenary said in response, fire beginning to culminate at his palms as he readied to incinerate this pirate boy to the same ashes that stain the land. Arron responded in kind, a smirk on his face as he drew out Drake and Teach from their sheathes.

Walk the Plank! (Eternal Struggle)

"So the plank then..." He simply said. The Ashlander wasted no more energy on words, deciding instead concentrating the flames on one of his hand into an orb floating above his palm and throwing at the pirate boy. Who jumped to his left side swinging Drake with his left hand at the ball of flames with its flat side. Normally the intensity of the flames would either make the ball explode after smashing the sword, or go straight through the blade, breaking it in two as it did. Instead however, the metal on the blade was sturdy, unusually so, as ball of flames reversed its momentum, and headed straight back at the ashlander mercenary. He absorbed the flames back into himself, but was so focused on doing so, that he didn't notice Arron running straight at him with both swords in hand. As the boy tried slashing at the merc, the merc was quick to grab both blades with his hands, still engulfed in flames. Curiously, despite the raw flames of his hand, the blades weren't changing color, not even showing an inkling of heating up in fact as Arron continued pushing towards him. What were these blades made of? ...No, the metal material of the blade was not the problem at all. Upon a closer, keener look, he noticed a faint blue distortion rippling in the air around the blades of Arron's swords, the kind of visual distortion one sees with intense heat in the air. These swords were energized, a keen and experienced eye could see it if they look hard enough, and it wasn't hard to include how its possible:

It must have been this boy's gift.

The Merc then focused the flames on his hands to burst, blowing back the boy's attack, but the boy was quick to focus momentum back towards the merc, to which the merc parried back the same way. The boy's quick change in momentum seemed to be inhuman, going against the laws of physics as this constant parrying continued. The Merc jumped a couple of feet so as to gain some distance, allowing the boy to charge at him again. This time, however, the merc was quick to go on the offensive, going to punch at Arron as he got closer. His reaction time was just as unnatural as everything else about his physique, but it should be noted that when he punched at the blades, Arron then used to defend himself from the punch, that it did not reflect the punches like it did his fireball, and was strong enough to knock Arron a couple of feet back with literal feet dragging across the ash. The dust flew off around Arron as a result of the push-back, the merc seeing this as his chance to do some damage as he threw another ball of flames at the pirate, the fire com-busting the dust in the air which resulted in a small explosion as a result. The boy was pushed about a foot into the air, and couldn't properly land, hitting the ground on his back and rolling away before stopping on one knee, his coat slightly covered in dust and soot, parts of his skin brimming red from the heat of the attack.

"He defended well, but he couldn't react as fast as he did before and couldn't direct his momentum or deflect my attack like before either..." The merc thought, calculating his opponent's abilities, and determining his gift by what he knows so far. Based on Arron's actions so far, it becomes simple enough to determine what his gift is, and how to counteract it. He charged up the flames on his arms, and waited for Arron to get back up and rush at him. The pirate did just that, only for the Merc to now be the one jumping to the side to dodge. Within the split second of him being in the air, he grabbed Arron by the back of the head, and let gravity do the rest, slamming Arron head to the ground face first as he himself falls to his knees.

"I'll admit it: you got an impressive gift kid. You're manually redirecting your energy to specific physical traits, but you push it on one aspect of your abilities, and you leave the others out to dry. You might be able to change up the focus, but not fast enough for anyone smart enough to get you to focus on one thing while striking at another. ...We gift users are all the same like that: All it takes is knowing how a gift works, and it becomes easy to tell its drawbacks and exploit them. Can't say it feels good to kill some kid. But these are the ashlands; whatever happens here you bring on yourself. One of its golden rules." The Merc said as Arron tried to get up, but dropped to the ground, his flames now a blinding white in color as he gets back up, ready to smash his fist through Arron's head, quite literally.

All of a sudden, however, a loud booming thunder was heard, and the mercenary could feel pain in his chest. He looked down, and saw smoke coming from Arron, and blood coming from himself. Focusing hard enough, he noticed that Arron had what appeared to be a gun, a flintlock specifically, underneath his body, the hand carrying it being sandwiched between the ground and Arron's chest. It seems the boy grabbed the gun while on the ground without the merc noticing, then used his body to hide it, making it look like he was struggling to get up and failing on purpose.

"...Aye, couldn't agree with ya more, matey. But ye missed out one other rule these here seas of ash...Only a fool fights fair here. ...I'll say this much before ye die, ye not far off, but there's more to me gift than simply focusin' me energy around. I can also distribute the energy into things...such as me bullets. Me energy's pure, so it can adapt and charge whatever I touch regardless of what kind of energy's needed...Such as...giving it to a cryo-bullet and cause it to explode and release nitrogen." Arron said as the bullet hole start to glow a light blue. The Merc was quick to understand what he was saying, but was determined to take this brat with him. He rushed at him, only for the bullet inside to explode and cause his body to discolor and freeze, the flames on his arms extinguished.

"Heh...Luck of te' draw." Arron said twirling his gun. However, as he put it away, he began to fumble around as he walked towards the Merc's caravan, leaning all over as if drunk. Eventually though, he managed to get on the caravan.

"Overdid it...Ride on...back to base...hi-ho silvers...to food, and lots of it." Arron said, his tone of voice changing constantly as he did pointing forward before dropping his upper body on the side of the diver's seat, sleeping as the horses began walking again with the caravan and him in tow. The merc standing there frozen as he did.

---

---

---

---

Half -Moon is the name given to Velma's home which was the gift of a delighted patron whom she made a signature flower in his House Colors (purple, yellow, and blue) for who is a powerful builder in Erubesco.
Half-Moon is open to the people of Erubesco during the daylight hours and is where everyone near and some far come for their plant needs Half-Moon is the most open of homes.

At night till its Mistress sleeps the large green house resembles a fallen moon half buried in the earth's surface and then is open to only friends and high paying customers.

---

Velma lay back neath the glass roof of her home nude on a padded bench surrounded by her favorite plants who had announced by scent someone had entered her grounds.
She was quickly in a gossamer wine red dressing gown that clung to what meager curves she had shimmering in the morning sun.
She walked through what was moments ago barbberry vines that encircled her bed in 3 inch barbed thorns that held a caustic sting in their tips that made the offender feel razor cut and bathed in brine.
It was her patron's mother and she held a small but rare desert orchid that was already wilting.
Leaning close Velma reached out and touched the delicate little thing causing its instant revival .

"How wonderful" exclaimed the old woman though it wasn't the first time she had seen this and would not likely be the last as she insisted on keeping the plant outside of the only environment in which it could survive.

"No worries Mistress, for your happiness is mine" answered Velma to the older and Ranking woman recognizing her position.
Then the two sat and chatted about how the flower was a memory of the older woman's wedding night and her husband's love; it was a story Velma had heard before but she knew the old noble woman needed to tell.

When the woman left Velma headed over to where a few serfs who worked for the city who were here to collect roses in the color's of the Royal House to be planted around the outskirts of the castle and smaller flowers in the colors of the Lords who sat on the council to be planted in the window boxes
She spent a few minutes explaining to the serfs how important it was to make sure the plant faced the sun on one side in particular and that the flowers be planted in the locations written on each one. To the serfs this didn't make much sense but she assured them that following her orders would prevent them both from being called to task for the failures of the plants.

Happy that she'd gotten her point across to the serfs Velma next walked into her labs and checked on her projects. One was a rice that could grow in mildly polluted water and not carry any of the toxins into the grains, another was a plant that released 3 times the normal amount of oxygen under simple electric lights as long as they had water.

Once the growing plants were looked after she set up a bench for altering the DNA of seeds which were to be planted on an extension farm of Erubesco at the edges of the Ashlands. This was by far her most time intensive task and took her another two hours before she had time to check the clean-out lists sent to her by the Municipal Council.

A light work day this left her time to visit her landscaping in the royal park and enjoy her art.

"Hey. Hey, bet you feel pretty fucking stupid right now." 

Toby did. Stupid, sore, still giving a weak, periodic convulsion from the electrical shock, generally humiliated, and a bit startled by Nicodemus' speech. "I d--didn't know," was all he managed in reply. Fen's emotions being such a strange tangle, how could he have guessed it was not one set of emotions but two?

"Toby?"

Toby lifted his head slightly at the sound of his brother's voice, but he couldn't see Spire through the smoke.  "Yeah."

"You really get your stupid ass caught? Not a trick?"

"Yeah. Um. Not a t-----trick."

Looking pretty unfazed about the whole thing, Spire clicked his teeth together, squinting through the smoke, trying to get a better read on what was going on over there. He knew how to play nice when the situation demanded. But people who made fun of Toby's stutter and threatened to turn his skull into bits of messy shrapnel generally didnt make it into the "negotiate" category. In fact, that would usually earn a ticket that would skip them past "exsanguinate" and sort them right into "eviscerate."

"If you guys can ---get out of here, d--do it. All of you," said Toby in as quick a tumble of words as his stubborn tongue could manage, worried they'd shock him again before he could finish. That seemed like the properly altruistic thing to say at this juncture.

Spire ignored him.

In the remaining fog, the laser points on Spire and Hel could easily be traced to their sources with long, straight threads of light. This would make the enemies easy to shoot, but it also made them easy to count, and upon counting them, shooting didn't exactly seem the best idea.

Suicide missions weren't really his thing. Especially not with Hel at his side, and Toby a press of a button away from losing his head.

"All right, Sweet Johnny," drawled Spire, oiling the name with as much grease as its owner deserved. "Well played. What happens to the kid if I sign up? Can't promise she's going to be a model employee."

Hel wasn't exactly known for cooperating under restrictive circumstances. Spire imagined Johnny's only use for her would probably be the significant reward Erubesco would offer.

And that would be a problem.

Bottles and empty glasses lay scattered around the training room like the aftermath of some unusually expensive frat party. By this point, every Libertian in the room, with the exception of Heather, were in various states of sloppy-drunk. A disgraceful breadth of liqueurs, whiskey, bourbon, tequilas, and tingly champagnes will do that to people. Nobody had thrown up or passed out yet. It wasn't too late. The shots of 176 proof Balkan vodka had only just gone down.

Canvas was somewhat more composed, but only because he had stopped a few rounds ago. His participation (so he said) had been an object lesson in knowing one's limits. His current state was as much as he could consume while still operating at around 90% efficiency.

90% efficiency apparently looked a little dazed and less than perfectly coordinated.

He conspicuously hadn't participated in the testing himself.

At intervals throughout the rather unorthodox lesson, Canvas had instructed the Agents to assemble a handgun to test fine motor skills, take five shots at a target, and then memorize and recite a brief segment of text.

He now projected each of their scores onto the wall in a graph form. One axis marked how much alcohol they had ingested so that they could see the inevitable descent of their accuracy, mental capacity, and aim.

"So look. Here's you guys before. Here's you after."

Some of the lines on the chart gradually declined. Others seemed to stay somewhat steady before dropping off steeply. By the end, each achieved only a fraction of their usual, sober scores.

"You can push this tolerance over time. But probably not's much as you think you can push it. You can get better 't faking sobriety, for sure. But when it comes to the actual...like...base capability? Your body weight prob'ly matters more than your experience. Bottom line is...we don't have time to really get your tolerance up. So look at this number."

He pointed to the spot on each graph where the scores dropped below a respectable time or accuracy.

"That's each of your numbers. So you calculate how many ounces of any kinda drink you can have before you get too stupid......don't calculate it right now. You're stupid now. Do it later. I'll send you a big...whole list. Anyway. That's how much you can drink at the party thing."

He swept a mess of glasses with his forearm, clearing a space on the desk and hopping up to sit on it. He smiled. "How's everyone feeling?"

Nicola allowed himself a few more minutes in bed before getting up as the door clicked shut behind Commander Botrelle. He stretched slowly, going through the motions while sweeping his room with his powers, making sure he was ready for the day. He picked yesterday’s suit off the floor and dropped it carelessly into the laundry bin, then headed towards the vanity, appreciating the thick carpet under his bare feet. It was only in the mornings that he had time for the little things in life.
Sitting before the mirror, he picked up his comb and began to run it through his hair. He had greyed liberally, but it wasn’t like he was old before his time. Miss Botrelle liked to reassure him of that.

He smiled as he thought of the woman, of their rather new arrangement. A powerful older man with a fiercely ambitious young woman – he grimaced and ran the comb through one more time. That sounded rather predatory, didn’t it? But the truth was that the lady was the predator here, and sometimes when he looked in her eyes he shivered, seeing something there. She would shoot him in the head without hesitation, if something came down to it. It was why he’d begun to favour her when he’d come back, admiring her neatness and efficiency, her dedication to her job. If he’d felt he was saving her, it didn’t last long. Now he just enjoyed the benefits and appreciated that someone else in this castle cared about order and timeliness. He hadn’t regretted reinstating her for a moment.

As he’d thought this, he had dressed himself in a neat new suit, looped a tie into place, and pinned it with his family crest. Then he packed up his documents, and walked out into the Citadel, ready for the day’s work. He gave it 3 hours before that readiness became complete and utter exasperation, but it was true what they said.

A man couldn’t have everything, and with everything else he’d been given, Nicola didn’t mind sacrificing his peace of mind.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He took that back. He’d like his peace of mind back, thanks. The people he worked with were idiots. His eyebrows were stuck raised. Who the hell expensed 50 gallons of ice cream for their child’s birthday? What child needed 50 gallons of ice cream in the first place? That was the highlight of the absurd expense reports coming in for his sign off, those that were on time, at least.

Why couldn’t paperwork be on time? When the research budgets came in, it would be a whole other ballpark of chaos, and trying to sort out what was legitimate and who actually wanted a reanimated komodo dragon as a showpiece for their next party. Though Green and Botrelle would file the bulk of the requests, he’d only get the really big stuff and – Botrelle. That sounded like a good idea right now.

He could bring her coffee as an excuse.

Or…he checked timetables. She was in a meeting right now. With a visiting Commander, which was the perfect excuse to drop in.
Twenty minutes later, he was at the door, knocking briskly before letting himself in. “Hello!” he said, looking around the room. The woman he’d come to see wasn’t here, odd. “I had a spare moment and thought I’d drop in-“ there were actually very few people here in this meeting, and he was starting to feel a headache brewing even as he smiled more and turned to the research head in the room. "Commander Green. How has the meeting gone?" he asked, before turning to the visitor. “And you must be Commander Lovette. I am Viceroy Nicola Varren.” He offered his hand, warm and firm, as was his voice, thought he was internally gritting his teeth. “Welcome to the Citadel. I hope the first impression has been good?”

"You see Mags, they only, really, listen, when you grab them by the balls; grasp them by the jewels and squeezeee. Squeeze like this. Johnny, for a good forty seconds after Spire had finished talking continued to say 'Squeeze' as he mimicked mushing another man's testicles in his outstretched hands. "But gat DAMN if I ain't anything but philanthropic." John took a deep breath in, and raised his arms as his lungs filled with oxygen. Then, he exhaled. His arms followed the flow down to his hips.

"Let me lay it all out for you. You and your friends fucked up. Right. Mag's, that sweetheart, tried to tell you. You all done FUCKED up. Right, but I'm a philanthropist. John Phil Bellataire is what they call me. Your brother? Is a slave, story done. Now, if you join up, same package applies, cept your brother won't be getting paid. However~, I'll let him work with you, and pay off his debt. I won't be selling him off. You can feed and clothe him out of your salary. The girl? Like her moxie, teach her to have some manners for your boss, do whatever the hell you want with her."

A 'shit eating laugh' was what best described the sound that came out of Johnny's mouth.

"I'm an investor. I invest in people. I give them a good deal, they make more money for me. You two brothers can net met some particularly elusive game. With the right resources behind you, I can make more over a year than I'd make just selling you off. You hear me? The girl? She'll learn. Give her her own room and some good ass food. Keep in mind Mag's is my secretary. So you might want to work out an apology for the girl. She gets fucked, she can fuck you right back in the books. Yeah? It's the same deal I gave the group there. Plus a little live in for you. You get me?"

((This was a collaborative post between myself and Magister. C: ))



Dutch had been dreaming. He had been dreaming of his tribe, and their home, far up north in the ruins of what was once a sprawling, thriving human city. It smelled of oil and gasoline, with the pungent aroma of old perfume and locally sourced tobacco wafting through the air, mixing together to make that local smell only a local could recognize.
He was at his old digs, smoking a rolled cigarette, cursing all the noise Vanderson, that blonde son of a bitch, and his town boys were making. Lot of yelling and what sounded like bombs going off.
He had half a mind to go out there and sort them out himself, but Kitty had told him to stay out of it, he was her big brother and she didn't want them fighting again in the New Year.
Why was she pulling his shirt, shaking him then? He had already told her he wasn't going to go out there and beat on them. Damn blonde hair just like her brother.
“Kitty I said I ain't goin’ out there, the hells wrong with you..hey K-”
His eyes slowly moved into focus. The side of his face that had fallen to the floor was crusted with grime, the other side was grime free, but still marked by Kora’s handprint.
He instinctively began to wipe the dirt from his skin.
“Dawn?”
“What happened?”
His own predicament had been a side effect of the nullification field. His prolific energy being flicked off like a light switch had caused him to faint, and aggressively slip into R.E.M sleep to compensate.
“Thank god.” A relieved, if not substantially strained noise broke free from Dawn’s chest, and she reached forward to try and help Dutch off the stained tiles. “We don’t have much time. We’re being attacked by slavers- their leader, he has some sort of nullification Gift- we’re completely cut off from our powers. They have Toby, and Reith and Drake, they…” Her lips drew into a tight, thin line, and she swallowed thickly.
“We’re in no place to fight back. Not now, at least. We need the car.”
Defeat hardened her features.
It was a lot of information for Dutch to process, considering he had entered this room with all intentions of pouring some pipe cleaner into the pipes, and replacing a few joints.
Surprised was first, confusion, then anger.
“We can't just leave em Dawn! There's gotta be somethin’ we can do!”
“We can't leave family behind.”

Dawn found herself flinching back, eyes cast down to the stains beneath her feet. “I know,” she said, quietly. “I know. I hate that I’m even considering this. But I don’t we have any other choice.” Her nails carved into the worn flesh of her palms, hard enough for a thin rivulet of blood slipped between her fingers.
“They have a tank. Nukes. The slaver- all his men are in full, professional military armor and armed. Eld Fen is...he isn’t Eld Fen, anymore, and the nullification field has been killing us.” Dawn’s voice was carefully, carefully measured, although she couldn’t fight the faint quaver that trailed the end of her words.
“If we tried to fight back now, I don’t think we’d make it. Right now, we need to keep anyone else from being captured, and work out a plan from there.”
There was a quiet sort of pain in Dawn’s eyes as she met Dutch’s.
“We will help Toby.
“But the only other option at the moment that would let us save him would be to join them.”
Dawn’s voice, particularly that small bit of emotion that filtered through resonated with Dutch. He felt his jaw unclench slightly, and their position became crystal clear in his head. She was holding it together right now because this wasn't a fight they had any hope of winning. Hopelessness was infectious. He could feel his fight waning in his chest. “Damnit all, damnit where the hell’ did all this come from.” His pale eyes searched for some answer, some plan to retrieve Toby from the enemy.
He didn’t find either in the floor.
“What about Reith, Eld, and Drake, they…” He bit his finger, rage had replaced the fight he lost.
“We ain’t leavin’ anyone’s body here. Rei told me they dumped her thinkin’ she was dead once. Ain’t no tellin if that happened again.”
Dutch reached forward and slipped his hands between Dawn’s fingers, carefully prying her nails from her palm.
“Cars parked round back, I got a big old mobile house thing attached to it. We get there, I can drive us out.”
“I wish I knew.” Dawn allowed Dutch to uncurl her fingers without resistance, parting them from the angered flesh. She took in a long, deep breath. Forcing herself to take up a steadied head. “We’ll have to move fast. Grab as many as we can- the last time I could see, we were surrounded.”
Her hand swept up to her temple, smearing the locks there with crimson. “Fen...whoever he is, he isn’t himself anymore. He helped them capture Toby.” At the moment, it seemed safest to consider the stranger in Eld Fen’s clothes among the same people he had allied himself with- an enemy. Dawn pursed her lips. Then, with a soft grunt, she pushed herself to her feet, reaching out a stained hand to help Dutch off the floor.
“Let’s go. Sera’s still in her room- we can grab her, first.”
“Helped em capture Toby?” Dutch’s jaw worked again. He was trying desperately to process the depths of the information he’d received. He just didn't understand why. All he could do is chalk it up to, “you think you know a fella” and deal with what needed to be dealt with it hand. Grabbing Sera, grabbing Reith, and getting the rest of them the hell out of there.
He lead Dawn upstairs, pausing to catch his breath on the bannister. His body was starting to compensate, the rest had done him well, but he wasn't at his best just yet.
He opened the door to Sera’s room, and made his way over to her bed. He put her on his shoulders, and did a quick once over for anything important she might want to take with her.
Dawn’s response was a simple nod, and nothing more. She still hadn’t quite wrapped her head around the sight, and likely wouldn’t- not until all was said and done, at least. Now was not the time for mulling things over.
She ascended the staircase with ease, but hesitated at Dutch’s pause. “Are you alright?” She asked, briefly placing a hand on his shoulder as they approached Sera’s room. The nullification had, in essence, stripped her of one of her senses, smothered it and choked it into silence. But her body hadn’t depended on her Gift’s presence. In a sense, Dawn had been one of the luckier of the situation.
Her lips pursed into a thin line upon seeing Sera lying immobile, completely unmoving, although she pressed herself into turning away and searching about the room. There were a few things that Sera likely would’ve wanted with her- the gun left on the bedside table, and the bag propped up against the foot of the bed- and Dawn took care to grab both. Slinging the sack over her free shoulder, Dawn glanced over at Dutch, taking a moment to adjust the weight. “Are you ready?”
A thin line of perspiration had leaked from his messy pompadour, running down his jawline, and ultimately dripping to the floor beneath him, but this was fatigue from the Dutch who had struggled to move up the stairs. Adrenaline, and Dawn's assurance had inspired a second wind in his muscles. Powers or no powers, he knew his place was to protect his family any way he can. Nothing short of a quick death would get in the way of that.

Dutch was always thankful for Dawn. Moreso in a moment like this. He admired her ability to see the clear lines in what needed to be done, the same lines that were a bit muddy to him when blowing something up wasn't an option.

"Leggo." Dutch abandoned the banner to descend much quicker than he had ascended. He could almost feel their window of opportunity ticking away with each passing moment. One step closer to that bastard outside clamping a collar around their necks. The cold weight of his heavy pistol, tucked into the back of his jeans was a reassurance. Not without a fight at the very least. They made it to the garage door, and rather than go for the handle, Dutch kicked outward, knocking the old thing off of its hinges.
"COME ON, TRUCK. NOW, GRAB EVERYONE AND GET THE HELL IN HERE!"

Dawn didn’t need to wait for Dutch’s direction. As soon as the garage door had swung open, she had spun on her heel, nearly flying back into the living room- and nearly slamming into a wall and several pieces of furniture in her blind rush. Dutch wasn’t alone in his keen awareness of the seconds slipping through their fingers. Each window she passed served only as a grim reminder of what fate lay outside for them if they didn’t move fast enough, if they made just one wrong move too many.
She swung into the doorway of the living room, and was promptly met with two pairs of worried eyes. Dawn’s gaze flickered to Rei’s immobile body strewn across the couch for a moment, then to Drake’s slowing one before returning to Soren and Clockwork. “Head to the garage. We’re leaving.” Her voice was clipped and toneless, and as soon as the message was delivered, Dawn turned once more, a flurry of movement starting up almost instantly behind her. She cast a glance over her shoulder as she moved to see Soren not far behind, Drake in his arms and Clockwork at his heel. Good. As far as she knew, the only people left in the building were Reith and the prisoner, and they could reach the former easily if they moved quickly enough.
They had just slipped into the garage, Soren slipping Drake into one of the seats and turning to grab Reith, when a flash of white caught Dawn’s attention. Her gaze snapped towards it, only to find some sort of mist seeping in from the hall.
Soren realized it before she did. “Phosphorus!” He shouted. He scooped Clockwork into his arms, dumping her into one of the unoccupied seats before sliding in himself. His face was strained as he looked over the flooded hallway. “White phosphorus! We need to move now- cover your faces!” Dawn immediately took the advice, one hand clamping over her mouth and nose as the other opened the passenger side door. Where the mist touched, her flesh began to sting.
“What about Reith?” Dawn asked, shutting the door firmly behind her. Clockwork was silent, but she stared at her father with the same question burning in her eyes as he entered the car.
Soren, too, was silent for a few moments, fingers moving swiftly to strap Clockwork and Drake in. “I don’t think we can,” was all he said once he had finished. “Not anymore.” His jaw was tight.
Dawn’s stomach sunk. But she didn’t protest. Instead, she turned back towards Dutch, grabbing his shoulder tight again for a second or two.
One way or another, they would be leaving the house- fast.

Wait.

What did Dawn say? He’d only closed his eyes for a moment, or so he’d thought, but when he opened them Drake’s tired gaze found someone else in Dawn’s place, with any memory of her words being nothing more than jumbled nonsense.

Soren?

He was being carried now; that much was clear from his blurred perspective. Had he passed out? There wasn’t much time to process this change of events, as Drake’s strained body forced him back under again.

Even while unconscious, his shuttered, jagged breathing continued in a manner that Soren could likely hear. It was a sign that the boy was in constant pain, his body trying desperately to compensate for what he now lacked.

---

“Ph-sph-r-s!”

Some distant, garbled yelling allowed him to resurface again briefly, the constant in and out of his awareness beginning to leave him in a confused daze. He focused on the yelling from Soren’s voice this time, as his next sentence allowed Drake some amount of instruction.

“--cover your faces!”

Obediently, the boy reached to grab his jacket’s popped collar and pulled it in front of his face, creating a sort of makeshift mask. The rest of the conversation sounded far away, but he could still make it out and his heart sank.

Reith... They...
They had to leave her behind.

...No...

Everything was happening so quickly. Or perhaps, it only seemed that way to him.
He couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been out. Regardless, this news was devastating. Even if he hadn't known Reith all that well, she still didn't deserve this. She was one of their own, damnit! And who was to say this wasn't the only person left behind?

Drake started to sit up, to lean forward with some sort of driven plan or motive, but it proved to be too much and his body only fell back against the seat again, protesting. He couldn't stand it. He wanted to fight. He had to fight. This was his family, for the love of christ! He had to protect them. Whatever it took, he would keep them all alive, he would--

No... He couldn't.
Drake couldn't fight back.

Not this time.

@EchoicChamber

Nick was trying to figure out what was happening.

It had been little while since he'd started observing the surrounded building, and he had almost considered approaching it. Thankfully however, he wasn't that stupid. Even from the distance he was keeping, it wasn't difficult to see that the forces surrounding the small house were stupidly well equipped.

The fact that moving to close seemed to prevent him from summoning more weapons only reinforced his original thoughts.

Still, it wasn't like he could just leave! Sure, it might look like one of the factional militaries hunting down bandits, but what if it wasn't? What if it was something darker, and leaving would mean condemning anyone inside? He couldn't just do something like that!

The main problem was just trying to figure out whether that actually was the case or not, because he didn't want to try and convince the surrounding force to not kill the buildings inhabitants if said inhabitants were just going to shoot him in the back...

And that was when he saw his salvation, in the form of a young boy covered in quite a bit of blood. Of course, he was in the Ashlands, so being covered in blood and in decently close vicinity to a violent incident didn't always indicate involvement, or even that approaching him was any less dangerous but what else could he do? This was the best lead he had!

"Hey, kid!" He shouted, running over to the boy. "Do you know anything about what's going on over there in that building? Maybe anything about the people inside? I want to try and prevent as much killing as possible, but I need to know if the people inside will try to kill me as well."

@Rabidporcupine



The patch of shrubbery was hardly ideal, but it suited Gale’s purpose well- concealing him from the hungry eyes of the attackers, and allowing him a prime view of the happenings down below. His own gaze held a sort of idle fascination, as if he were watching some sort of sport. Chin cradled in his palms, lips pulled into a pout. It hadn’t taken him long to gather that this group didn’t want the Wanderers dead- if they did, then the leader could have easily run through with his tank, or reduce the house itself to a crater with one of the nukes he had displayed. No, whoever they were, they wanted the Wanderers breathing and laying at their feet, begging for mercy.

He was missing out on far more than he would like, but Gale knew better than to risk his neck in an unbalanced fight for the sake of a thrill. So he watched, and he waited, until a shout drew his attention from afar. A young man with a sloppy haircut, and the sort of light in his eyes that the ashlands were more than happy to strangle and snuff as soon as it got the chance. The impulse to lure him away and pluck those very eyes out of his skull flit through Gale’s head for a moment, but it was just a moment, his face remaining the picture of innocent curiosity. This curiosity was twisted into a look of concern more befitting of the situation as the man approached.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about what’s happening, sir,” he said, “other than the fact that it is my group down there that is under attack. They seem in desperate need of assistance, and I doubt that they’d harm you if it was given.” Gale cast another glance, just in time to see a collar being clamped around the throat of one Toby Schippers.
“I’m not aware of the reasoning behind the assault, either, but they seem remarkably well prepared.”

In a best case scenario, the Wanderers would escape to live another day. However, it seemed best to keep as many windows open as possible in the event that Gale was left without a home. Preparing for another day and whatnot.

@EchoicChamber

"Huh, I see…" Nick said, looking back to the surrounded building. "Well, looks like I'd better get started then."

And then he sprinted in the opposite direction, moving further and further from the ranch house with every step. He had to make sure he got this right, especially seeing as he wouldn't be able to control his weapons once he hit the field. He knew where he had to go, he knew how he had to do it. Now he just had to make sure that it actually worked.

Measuring the angle as well as he could from such a distance, he began summoning a few weapons. the first was one he'd had specially made, a curved sword that, despite being based off a fairly deadly weapon, was actually completely blunt where there would normally be a blade. The second was somewhat simpler, a normal bolt action rifle with an attached bayonet. However, it was the third weapon which really caught the eye. It was a sword, except most would say that it was actually too big to be called a sword. Too big, too thick, too heavy and too rough. It was more like a large hunk of iron.

Then he stepped onto the sword, strapped the other two weapons to his back, and clung to said blunt edges with every ounce of strength he could muster.

And then the sword flew towards the ranch house so fast that he was almost torn off by gravity anyway.

"GGGGGGNNNNNNNHHHHHHAAAAA!!!" Was the only sound that managed to escape his mouth as he felt his control over the sword slip away, signalling that he'd entered the field properly. Barely a second later, the sword crashed into the ground, skidding along it like a surf board.

As he moved, he chanced a look up, glad to see that he was still on the right course. He had aimed to slide just past the building, notably on one of the sides without the tank, and said spot was rapidly approaching.

A little too fast, actually.

This may not have been his best idea.

Knowing just how annoying this was gonna be, Nick leapt off the sword that continued to tear off into the distance, rolling along the ground with no small amount of pain. However, he managed to roll onto his feet, and leapt through a window before someone could start shooting at him.

"Ow, god damn it!" He shouted, yanking a couple of thankfully small glass shards from his arms and running through the building, sword now drawn.

A mere second later, he noticed a bright flash not far away. This was quickly followed by some kind of mist or smoke, and he instinctually pulled his shirt over his mouth. He didn't know what it was, but he'd dealt with enough noxious gasses in his life to know that it was best to just assume the worst.

He quickly sprinted into another room, which had already had its door knocked off the hinges, only to see a truck filled with people ready to leave.

"Oh good!" He said, a slightly panicked smile on his face. "You guys already have a plan! Mind if I catch a ride with you?"

Before waiting for an answer, he practically through himself into the truck, making sure that none of his weapons accidentally stabbed anyone, of course.

"I'm Nick, by the way!" He said. "There was this little kid hiding in the bushes, and he said you guys might need a han-"

However, before he could even finish his sentence, he caught sight of the dark haired girl, causing him to pale considerably.

That… That was a ghost he was more than happy to leave in his past…

To bad life has a tendency to throw those back at you…

Spire's narrow-eyed smile didn't budge as Johnny monologued. He didn't even blink. He waited--by all accounts, composed--until Johnny was finished.

"Well. I've talked Toby into doing worse," Spire said at length. "I couldn't ask for a much better deal from this corner I'm in, could I?"

Spire didn't have a hot temper. He wasn't one to fly into a rage. For all his violent inclinations, he didn't consider himself easily ruffled. He maintained his sense of cool control.

But Spire wanted to kill Sweet Johnny Bellataire. And not in the casual way he wouldn't mind killing most people (ie clean, simple, but not too quick). Nah. Sweet Johnny Bellataire had ignited in Spire the kind of personal, altogether basic emotional urge to tackle someone and punch them, as hard as humanly possible.

So Spire wanted to hit Johnny hard.
At least seventeen times.
With a blunt pointed object.

Every word the man said grated at him like sandpaper on flesh. This setup would not hold up long term, if for no other reason than prolonged contact with this odious individual would drive him insane. But it wasn't just that. If Spire thought this scenario through to its logical destination, he knew it wouldn't end in a pleasant place. Spire knew as sure as sight that Toby would dig his heels in and refuse to capture people for this man, threat of death or not. Hel's situation might turn out just as bad. Johnny's regime wouldn't tolerate some of the things she did the way the Wanderers did. At best, all Spire was doing by agreeing to Johnny's offer was buying time until he found an opening for a course correction.

Reigning his impulses in, he reached back to put a hand Hel's shoulder. "Kid. Remember when we talked about when it's important to be nice to people?" He hoped she did. The long and short of it was that sometimes you have to be nice to people, because if they like you they're more likely to do what you want them to. "Say sorry to Mags, okay? Then we--"

That opening for a course correction came sooner than he expected.

"COME ON, TRUCK. NOW, GRAB EVERYONE AND GET THE HELL IN HERE!"

Spire stood close to the garage door as Dutch forced it open. The proximity was really what made his mind up, with how easy it was to encourage Hel--practically throw her--into the arms of people Spire trusted. Well. Into the arms of Dutch and Dawn, specifically, since they were right there. Funny, how he trusted even Dutch, the worst of them, better than he trusted his chances with Sweet Johnny and his crew.

"Don't let them take her," was all he really had time to say before he knew he had to move, fast, if he wanted any chance at helping Toby.

"Them" implied more than just these slavers, because Spire knew this might not be a short term parting.

Immediately, Spire aimed his gun toward the slavers whom he knew had been aimimg at him. He was not the careful, accurate shot Toby was, but by emptying half the magazine of his 9mm handgun toward center masses, and by three strokes of luck that caused three stunning rounds to miss him, he cleared them from his path. The first people he'd killed in ages, happening too fast for him to even remember to enjoy it.

Half his thoughts remained with the car. Dawn was...Dawn was okay. Had he seen Soren and Clockwork in there? They were okay too. And Drake. Collectively, they'd keep Hel safe.

The other half of his thoughts rested with the task at hand. Despite all the big-talk with the nukes and the armored vehicles and the small army, Spire had a feeling Bellataire's little minions would happily uncollar Toby if Spire could put the hot barrel of a well-used pistol to that weasel Johnny's temple.

The man who'd collared Toby was taking aim at Spire, but Toby did his part, tripping him, interrupting his shot.

Spire had almost reached them and the gun uttered two more loud pops. The shots found target at close range, one in the neck, one in the head The result was messy, a spurt and a spatter of thick red matter over closest bystanders, Toby and Mags. Mags, whom Spire turned the weapon on next.

It would have been an almost point-blank shot to the face, but,

No bang.
Jammed.

All those strokes of luck had earned him a smack of misfortune.

Spire could see the round caught in the ejection port. It took him less than two seconds to tap the bottom of the magazine to seat it properly, then rack back the slide to eject the spent bullet so he could fire again, but that was too long.