Smoke puffed repeatedly from the man's lips, drifting outward and upward into the night sky. He followed it upwards from his seat on the hotel balcony. As the smoke spread, it began to shimmer. Water vapor desublimated into frost, trapping tar and ash, and black snowflakes rained down to the ground.

Coldeyes watched them fall.

He was a tall Caucasian man, stretched out on a wicker lounger in his night clothes. He kept his dark hair trimmed short, in an almost military cut. His face was thin and sharp, with narrow eyes and lips. He was a lean man, but with more strength than one might credit to his frame. And his eyes, they were the color of the frozen tundra. Blue so light that it might be mistaken for ice.

He hadn't always been Coldeyes. His father had called him Johnathon Smith. An unexceptional name given by an unexceptional man. In a world filled with special people, young John had seemed destined for mediocrity. Power had altered that path, the same way it had so many others. Now it was a constant fight to keep what was his. And to win what should be.

He was taking some personal time, to reflect on recent events. There were decisions that needed to be made, and only one man could make them. Calm was required. Tranquility. Detachment. Failure was simply a fact of life; it would take more than a few setbacks to render him irrational.

He took a slower drag of his cigar, and breathed out white smoke. His eyes followed the cloud as it drifted. The temperature plummeted at his will, a carefully practiced routine of cold and colder, forming a feather-light net of ice that drifted in the wind. He watched it float away, keeping the net solid until it was out of sight.

Pitting his will against the law's of nature and coming out on top always cheered him up.

Coldeyes' mood settled. He reached for his phone and made the call. It was answered in moments.

"Hey boss," the familiar voice of Roman Ricci greeted him. Roman was a long-time follower of Coldeyes, and one of his more trusted men. That honor might change, depending on how this conversation went. It was Roman's responsibility to look after operations in Texas. Coldeyes had trusted him to monitor their expansion, and ensure that things did not get out of hand.

They were pretty far out of hand, so Coldeyes was inclined to think Roman had failed, utterly, at the job.

"Roman," he greeted back. "Are you with him?"

"Yeah boss, made it into town just this afternoon. Zim is with me now."

Coldeyes considered, then said, "Good. Put me on speaker, please."

He heard a brief scratching sound, then the distinctive pop of a thumb tapping the receiver.

"Zacarias," he intoned. "This is Coldeyes."

"Mr. Coldeyes sir! It's a-an honor to meet you— to speak with you!" an unfamiliar voice with a slight Hispanic accent stammered back.

"I hear there have been some setbacks there," Coldeyes replied, getting straight to the point.

"Ahh, a few hitches, sir," Zacarias acknowledged hesitantly.

"Walk me through them," Coldeyes ordered. "Start from where things went wrong." Their answers would determine whether this clusterfuck was a result of well intentioned short-sightedness or unforgivable stupidity.

"Where things went wrong?" Zacarias paused. "Well, Webb was feeding us information on Bartholomew. His health, when he was being transferred. Stuff like that. Everything seemed to be going okay, but he was getting squirrelly as time went on. I got worried he was a rat." A pause. "Well, I knew he was a rat, but I thought— I was worried he was ratting on the wrong people, see?"

"There are ways to find that out," Coldeyes stated flatly. "Ways that don't involve a mess. Subtlety, Zacarias. You understand subtlety?"

"Yes sir."

"You could have slow played it," he continued, his voice bearing down on the man. "If the feds hadn't reached out for help yet, they weren't about to now. You had time to work with. Now that's not the case. Now you've gone and tried to kill a cop. This isn't what was discussed."

"No sir. I'm sorry. I thought—"

Coldeyes cut him off. "No, thinking is what you were not doing. Roman, are you still there?"

"Yeah boss?" his old subordinate's voice spoke up.

"Is Zacarias able to hear me?"

There was a slight shuffling on the other side of the line.

"Yeah. Want me to send him out?"

"No," Coldeyes said. "He should hear this. Did you approve the hit on Webb?"

James Webb had been a lucky find. The man was, or rather had been, a prolific gambler, and had gone deep into debt with half a dozen different loan sharks, all of which were owned by Coldeyes' Crew. As an organization that spanned several states, the FBI were always a concern for the gang. Having a mole in the organization, low level and local though he might be, had been a blessing. And a curse. It was Webb's existence that had first spawned the idea of reaching out to the People, and ultimately, lead to this disastrous series of events.

It was Webb who had informed Coldeyes' men that Andros Bartholomew had been captured. The man was a known associate of the People, and the idea was floated that the elusive group might pay to have him back. Coldeyes had reached out to Echo, his contact with the elusive organization, and a deal had been struck.

Money for freedom. A generous sum, at that. Coldeyes was a practical man, and had no issues being paid for a hard day's work. The People were even willing to provide the muscle for the breakout, assuming the transport could be hit while traveling. All the gang had to do was supply the information.

Now Webb was dead, and possibly compromised before that. Coldeyes' reputation was on the line. This made the man very, very unhappy.

He asked again, calm, despite his harsh words, "Did you know about the catastrophically stupid assault on a civilian mall in broad daylight, all to kill a single man?"

"Afraid not, boss," Roman replied apologetically. "One of Zim's boys caught a photo of Webb and some cop on one of those online gossip rags the kids love so much. I've seen the photo myself, now. I can kind of understand where Zim is coming from. It doesn't look great."

"He should have confirmed it, first," Coldeyes stated.

"I agree. He got ahead of himself. Tried to take some initiative. I might've done the same at his age."

Roman had never been that stupid, but the fact that he was defending the younger lieutenant was a good sign. Coldeyes valued loyalty over competence, even if only just. Both were useful, and both could grow over time, but only one would make a man die for a future that wasn't his own.

"Last count was a dozen dead civilians," Coldeyes pointed out conversationally. He normally preferred to avoid collateral damage, but he hadn't specifically given any orders to that effect. He saw no need for anything harsher than a polite question as to motives. The extra attention it brought to them was unfortunate, and if things hadn't escalated in the way they had, this might have been a very different conversation. As things stood however, twelve dead civilians was barely worth mentioning.

"I know boss. Things didn't go exactly to plan."

"Why all the collateral damage?"

"Zim told his people to send a message," Roman explained. "The newbloods, they've never really had a chance to play around with their kit. He set 'em loose and things got out of hand. You remember how it is at that age. Hot-blooded." He laughed. "Or cold. They're hungry for more work."

"That's good, that's good, but Roman." Coldeyes paused for emphasis. "Discipline. Hmm? Focus. I want you to round up whoever was in on that, and teach them the way we do things. They need to understand the consequences of acting out. If they can't control themselves, they have no business being on my payroll, understand? Do that for me, Roman."

"Course boss."

"Good." Coldeyes took a drag of his cigar, and breathed out, enjoying the flavor. "Now for actual business. The mess with the two police. Were you consulted at all on that?"

He should have been. Coldeyes had put the man in charge of all Texas operations. If his people were making big plays without his say so, there was a problem, there.

Roman clicked his tongue before answering. "In a way, I guess. Zim's boys were sitting on Webb's wife. The cops showed up again, the ones from the picture."

Coldeyes took that in. His voice was quiet. "They were watching the wife?"

A long pause, then Zim's voice. "Just watching, sir, to see what comes. We know the rules."

"Be certain that you do," Coldeyes replied, his words clipped. They didn't do revenge killings. Not when it was their own people There was no sense in it. If a man failed them, betrayed them even, kill the man, but the family must remain untouched. Severance pay, for service rendered. Webb was a mole, but he had worked for Coldeyes, and his wife held the same protection as anyone else. It was good to have rules. It brought stability to an organization.

He took a breath, and continued. "So your boys saw the cops show up. What of it? The woman's husband had just died. Rather violently, at that."

"They were in there for a really long time, boss," Roman supplied. "Over an hour."

Coldeyes conceded that that was a little odd. "Fine. What then?"

"He called me," Roman said. "I told him to follow. Just follow. See what they'd do. Way I figured it, if they went straight back to the station then we'd know we were humped."

"Zacarias went personally?" Coldeyes asked.

"Y-yes sir. I wanted no mistakes," the man in question replied nervously.

Ironic, given how things turned out. The motive was admirable, at least.

"They didn't return to the station," Coldeyes noted.

"Nope," Roman answered.

"They went to the home of a random civilian." He took another draw of his cigar.

"That's right."

Smoke billowed across the balcony. Coldeyes gently rotated the foot of his cigar against his ashtray. "And when they left, that's when Zacarias tried to kill them?"

"Correct."

"Help me here, Roman," Coldeyes ordered. "I'm trying... I'm trying to work it all out in my head. I want to see Zacarias' point of view here. Really, I do. He goes to the effort of following these cops around, of parking himself down the block for hours on end, staking out this random house." His voice slowly rose in volume. "Why the hell did he try to blow them away the second they walked outside?"

"They made me boss!" Zacarias exclaimed. Coldeyes could practically smell the man's sweat soaking his clothes through the phone. "They pointed right at me!"

"And?" Coldeyes asked, unable to maintain his stoic facade. His voice raised louder and louder. "Do they know your face? And if they do, so what? Was there a warrant out for you? Are they gonna arrest you for driving around? Fucking wave at them, you asshole! Don't open up on them in the middle of a goddamn neighborhood!"

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

Coldeyes sighed. He sank back into his chair, staring upwards at the night sky. "Roman, tell me straight. You think Zacarias is worth keeping around?"

He could hear an awkward shuffling as the man in question realized that he might not leave this conversation alive.

Finally, Roman spoke. "He fucked up boss, he knows it. He panicked. We can get past it. He needs some work, but I don't like the idea of wasting a loyal man."

"Neither do I," Coldeyes agreed, "but I'm quickly running out of patience. This has been a clusterfuck from beginning to end. I'm starting to regret making a deal with the People."

"You want us to pull out?"

"No," Coldeyes denied immediately. "The agreement was made. We stick to our word, Roman. Otherwise, what would we be?"

"Nothing, boss."

"That's right." He sighed. "Do the cops know it was us who hit them?"

"No way to know, but... I'd say we have to assume so."

"I'm inclined to agree." Coldeyes thought it over. No matter how he looked at it, he'd put himself in a corner with no way out. He had to fulfill his agreement with the People, but now lacked both the resources to do so quietly, and the fortitude to withstand the consequences. Something needed to change. It was time for something a little more radical.

"How much good muscle can you get together on short notice?" he asked. "Say, by the day after tomorrow?"

"Um." A pause as Roman consulted Zacarias. "Maybe fifteen worth a damn."

"Mutates?" Coldeyes asked.

"Yeah we got those. Maybe half of the total."

Not enough for what Coldeyes wanted to do. He considered his plan. He was in a corner, surrounded by bad options on all sides. The only way out was through. He needed to commit.

"I'm going to speak to Echo, see about getting some hard hitters to back you up. I want all operations in Austin to go underground. Full stop. Nothing illegal. No more sales, no gambling, no loans. Shut it all down."

"Everything?"

"Everything," Coldeyes confirmed. "Then you're gonna scour the neighborhoods in our territory, the poor ones, and find anyone willing to take one of our upgrades. All those juvies who'll never afford anything better than some shitty low-cost kit. We'll give them ours free, make them part of the family, but they have to make some noise before our raid on the feds."

"Our what now?" Roman asked in alarm. Zacarias yelped something in the background.

"You're gonna hit that holding cell where Bartholomew is being held," Coldeyes ordered. "You've got a week to scrounge together enough bodies to throw at them. Any more and we'll risk the police actually getting their shit together."

"I don't think we can survive the kind of retaliation we'll bring down on our heads," Roman noted nervously.

"Don't worry about that," Coldeyes assured with certainty. "The People will pick up the slack. They're gonna pull the heat off of us, and on to themselves."

"Why would they do that, boss?"

Coldeyes smiled grimly. "I've got something that they want. I'm gonna give it to them."

The path ahead was a dangerous one. He preferred not to work with fanatics, but with great risk came great reward. There was no profit in zealotry, not really, but power was its own kind of currency. He didn't care for the world that the People wanted to build, but he'd raise up his own in the ashes of their failure.