Genuine smiles filled the home base of the Blinders, a base that was hardly even recognizable to anyone who was familiar with the apathetic squalor it used to be. Where the hideout used to be a ramshackle slum building only distinguishable from the other ramshackle slum buildings by the gang markings and the aura of fear only the hideout of a notorious gang could bring, it could now be easily spotted by the fresh green paint on the door, the wooden walls and floor of the building carefully sanded as to prevent splinters, and the occasional peals of joyous laughter that issued from the dangerous inhabitants.

Every so often, the ragged birds that were often seen decorating the slum rooftops were even sent into panicked flight as a particularly loud ‘crash’ marked another one of the gangsters inside falling off his chair in drunken joy, a fresh mug of ale at the ready in his hand in order to wash down the taste of an admittedly terrible stew, though anyone who put that thought to voice would be immediately silenced with a fist to the teeth. Thankfully, most were too drunk to taste much anyways.

Still, despite the questionably edible food, the atmosphere was in full swing, turning up yet another notch as an extremely drunk Bert the dwarf, the unofficial sub-leader of the Blinders (under the mighty and terrible Tim, of course. No one disputed that. Not after Wavey), heroically leaped onto the groaning table to recount a raunchy song of a lizard maid and her… fabled exploits across the city.

One small child’s ears were swiftly covered by a scarred orc that was almost the size of two grown men. He shook his head and laughed as the girl exploited the fact that his hands were occupied in order to grab a few treats laying unguarded on the table. Someone took the mug of ale she had claimed, and she scowled at him as he replaced it with water, but not even that could spoil the fun and soon she was grinning with the rest of them.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Deep in the lightless archives and in a complete contrast to the cooking party thrown by the Blinders, Tim sat in contemplative silence as he mentally reviewed what few plans he was able to devise in the aftermath of the battle of the Bastille. He felt cold and somber. Over and over his hands tapped away at his trusty piece of chalk, pausing every so often to feed a cookie crumb to Philbert, who was lounging on his leg with an air of contentment.

Adrian and Elena. One roaming around… venting stress maybe? The other holed up. This just feels too simple. There must be something I’m missing. Tim frowned and shifted his stiff legs, ignoring the soft pitter-patter of paws running over his worn-out shoes as he briefly disrupted the nearly continuous river of rats that swarmed throughout the paths of the archives in a never-ending cycle. A good background noise, almost like rain. Good to think to. Elena and Adrian. Something missing. Did I overestimate Elena? Did she break upon seeing Kevin’s death, her powerlessness against Mavier after the loss of her arm, the death of those soldiers in the fire we set? Maybe… but we need to stay vigilant nonetheless. I’ve read far too many penny novels where the so-called ‘villain’ gets killed because he assumes. And, like it or not, to the public I am the villain.

Right then. “Philbert, is there any news on Elena? Has she moved? Have her soldiers moved?”

The rat briefly paused his snack to shrug his tiny little shoulders. “It is the same, same as last time you asked, Tim. No movements other than one or two messengers sent to the other hero, who get promptly killed.”

Tim scoffed. “Yes, yes. I know. Typical hero behavior – the one lunatic kills them for fun after hearing what they have to say, and the other lunatic keeps sending men to die. But speaking of the lunatic, is Adrian still wandering around?”

“It is as you say, Tim. He wanders, wanders across the city, killing at random. According to the lesser ones, he is currently in, in the slums killing people with wooden stakes.”

“Stakes. Huh.” Tim leaned back in his frankenstein chair which creaked softly, a noise that was drowned out by the quiet rush of the rats. “I suppose he was bound to make his way to the slums at some point if he was randomly walking around the city.” He scratched his chin in thought. There was something nagging at the corner of his mind, something that was right on the tip of his tongue.

Tim simply couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to be.

Something important.

Wait…

Tim’s eyes widened in comprehension. “The alchemists! Philbert, you said Adrian killed two alchemists, right? There should be three in the city, decent ones at least. The others are shams or shit at their job, no one bothers with them. Did he go after the third one, or did Adrian stop at two?”

Philbert’s head perked up in interest, followed shortly by his usual monotone voice. “No, there is a third dead. An elf. Why?”

As his thoughts were confirmed, Tim hastily leaped to his feet. “FUCKING SHIT! The bastard knows, the clever fuck’s been covering his trail the whole time! He went after the alchemists because he saw the chemicals! That elf one is the guy Bert and I bought from.” Philbert let out a squeak of surprise as he scrambled into Tim’s breast pocket, accompanied with the clatter of tin as the half-elf grabbed the few remaining canisters of sarin.

“DIMITRE! TO ME! SANTET, FIND MAVIER, MEET US IN THE SLUMS, WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED!” Tim shouted, not even waiting for a reply as he barreled towards the carved wooden doors of the archives.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Back in the slums the party in the Blinder’s hideout was still in full swing. A rhythmic knocking came at the door, and after waiting to see if anyone else would answer it (they did not) a man with exhaustion written all over his face extracted himself from his chair. He left the core of the party, where they were singing something horribly off key, heading towards the freshly painted door where the rhythmic knocking was getting more insistent, accompanied by the drifting noise of another, far stranger song.

Fucking crazies, singing something about elves, vampires, and dwarves. I hope this visitor has the fortune to bugger off before ol’ Bert finishes that questionable tale.