When Crow and Astra came back to their quarters, Xeno and Gem were waiting. The girls sat beside one another, faces calm and eyes hard, looking like they were expecting a fight and prepared to make it bloody.

It should have been obvious at a single glance what they were going to say.

“I’m going to take part in our task tomorrow.” Xeno had said, voice threaded with iron.

Astra had argued, and Crow remained silent. He’d known then that there would be very little peace in the room.

“It’s too dangerous.” She’d said. “We’ve seen exactly how brutal the Sieve can get, this is more than just a matter of pride, it’s a matter of life and death.”

Xeno had simply reiterated that she would take part, proving herself entirely unaffected by the girl’s arguments. Far from settling things, this had seemed to frustrate Astra, and set a fuse burning on her.

“You’re asking me to sit by and watch you get hurt or killed.” She’d nearly shouted. “I won’t do it.”

Once more, Xeno had calmly informed her that she would, in fact, be taking part. No matter what. The fuse reached the keg, and Astra exploded with rage.

She screamed, threatened, demanded, begged, and Crow was quite sure he glimpsed tears- be they from anger or annoyance- glistening at the corners of her eyes. And through it all, no matter what, Xeno remained steadfast. Unmovable.

She would be taking part.

Crow wasn’t sure how long it took for Unity to emerge, but he emerged angrily. Apparently woken from his slumber, he still wore the lines of tiredness and groggy indignance clearly across his face. They only deepened when he found out what the argument was about.

His points about suicidal recklessness and how long it would take to scrape her off the walls were countered by yet more of Xeno’s ever-more-impressive refusal to even slightly bend.

Gem helpfully added that the girl’s small size made her perfect for hiding in the undergrowth of the stage, provided it was similar. Unity, in much the same tone of voice she had used, politely informed her that she was a whore.

Tempers were frayed, and Crow’s teammates turned them on one another like split-ended whips.

Perhaps inevitably, Gem called a vote.

“I don’t trust morons to substitute numbers for logic.” Unity answered, letting it be known that he was far from on-board with the idea. This started a second argument as to whether or not a vote was a good idea at all, one which only ended with Astra, Xeno and Gem all insisting on it.

Unity practically vibrated with silent fury as he reluctantly agreed. The silence left him the instant he saw that everyone but him was in favour of allowing Xeno to have her way.

“If you’re so determined to kill yourself, why not do it before the task and avoid dragging us all down by costing us the points?” He’d eventually roared, stunning all into silence with the sheer savagery of his words.

“That’s it.” Gem had snapped, being the first to recover. “One more word out of you and I’ll melt your mouth shut, you vicious little bastard.”

“Oh, bastard?” Unity sneered. “Funny word to hear from you, Gemini. Tell me, how is your mother exactly? Or… perhaps the better question would be who?”

His words had stained the girl’s pale features crimson, and before Crow could fully process the artificial’s words, he was on the floor. A red river streamed from his nose, running down his chin and painting the left side of his neck as it began to soak into his collar.

Astra had gone to grab Gem, and she’d shaken the girl free wordlessly, still focused on Unity.

“You found the line.” She said, calmly. “Would you like to cross it again, or accept that you’re out-voted like a grown up?”

Unity stared at the girl, his eyes locking with the hauntingly bright blue of hers. Crow could practically feel the animosity, as the artificials continued to exchange barbed glares- as if they intended to kill with hate alone.

In the end, Astra broke the silence before either of them could.

“I think we should all take some time to spend by ourselves.” She began, hands raised calmingly. Her words and gestures served only to draw Unity’s attention.

“Why? Don’t you think you ought to spend as much time as you can with Xeno? She doesn’t have long left, after your decision.”

The contempt was so acidic as it dripped from his lips, that Crow thought it might corrode a crater at his feet. Astra seemed too shocked by the hostility to speak any more.

“That’s enough, Unity.” Crow said. Part of him flinched as his friend turned to him, another part dug its heels in and snarled its defiance- a single glance at the look on Astra’s face cemented it over the coward in him.

“You’re trying to save Xeno, I get it, but you’re going about it the wrong way. This is the Sieve, she’ll be transported to safety if she’s too badly hurt or in danger. She’ll have a teammate to protect her.”

Far from beating out the fire of Unity’s anger, Crow’s words seemed to fall upon it like a rain of oil.

“And if she’s fighting something as strong as the orc?” He asked Crow, the calm doing nothing to hide his rage. “If it kills her? Or even splits her skull open and leaves her a dribbling idiot?”

“That’s a risk you’re all taking.” Xeno began. Unity didn’t let her finish.

“No, it’s a risk you and maybe I would be taking. Everyone else is durable enough to survive one hit, likely a lot more. That’s why sending you out here is such a stupid fucking idea.”

He spat the explanation as if holding it in his mouth disgusted him, and Xeno took it calmly.

“Then when?” She asked. “They’ll only get more difficult from here, and I won’t be sidelined for this entire task. I don’t care what you say.”

That made Unity pause, eyes narrowed, head tilted fractionally. Seeming to study Xeno, he spoke quietly, slowly and clearly.

“What’s going on with you?” He asked at last. “You’re not the sort for this kind of recklessness, no matter how much you hate being sidelined. You must have something up your sleeve, something the rest of us don’t know about, but what is it? And why won’t you just tell us?”

His words had a fascinatingly strong effect. Xeno stiffened upon hearing them, Gem seemed to retreat into her own thoughts, but Astra, who had previously been practically beaten down by the great bludgeon of Xeno’s irrational stubbornness, became alight with focus once more.

She turned to the fae, affixing her with a stare so intense Crow thought it might nail her to the wall, and demanded more than spoke her question.

“I’d very much like to know that too, Xeno. What in the pit are you hiding, and what about it makes you so confident?”

As much as he felt bad for the girl, watching her practically squirm under the glare of both Astra and Unity, Crow found himself far more strongly curious as to exactly what the secret was.

The fact that Xeno had been so adamant to hide it only redoubled the intrigue.

With a jaw so tight it might crush steel, Xeno finally, and most reluctantly, answered.

“I’m more powerful than you’ve seen. I know I am, I’ve seen that I am. In the second stage I failed to properly exert my magic, but if I had… I would’ve been in a different boat altogether.”

Even to Crow, it was clear she was pleading more than persuading. That was the wrong approach with Unity.

“That’s it?” He asked, half incredulous, half hysterical. “That’s your big secret? You’ll try harder? Eclipse, you might as well have just said you’d do your best not to die!”

Xeno turned to Astra, her face falling at the look on the blonde’s face.

Gem broke the silence.

“I believe her.” She said, almost dismissively. It drew both Unity’s attention and ire all the same.

“Really?” He sneered. “In that case I have an original Vorcheim to sell you, don’t worry about him never being recorded as actually painting it-”

“I’m being serious, you arsehole.” Gem snapped. “This is probably the flickering, I’d have thought a learned man such as yourself would have heard of it.”

“Let’s pretend I haven’t, for the slow kids in class.” Unity answered bitterly.

“Basically, it’s exactly what the name implies. When someone’s magical output can be heavily determined by their emotional or mental state. I’ve seen mystics double or even triple their power from one moment to the next because of it.”

Crow glanced at Xeno, noticing the look of relief pouring out across the girl’s features as she spoke.

“You mean I’m not the only one?” She asked, eyes burning with a mix of hope and vindication. Gem met it with a warm smile.

“You’re not.” She said, “and I believe you when you say you can do more than what we’ve seen.”

“Does that really matter though?” Astra asked. “If she can’t control her output, then the result is the same.”

“It changes things because it means that the question is whether we have faith in Xeno managing to control it.” Crow cut in. He nearly flinched as all eyes turned to rest on him, and it was a struggle to finish.

“Personally, I do.”

“Good for you, I’m sure having someone believe in her will cause a large biological change in the structure of her brain.” Unity fired back.

“Okay, let’s just call a vote.” Astra practically shouted, cutting off both Gem and Xeno before they could rekindle an argument with the boy. Her efforts seemed to be in vain.

“We’ve been over this, I don’t want to leave the decision up to three morons any more than I do one.” Unity answered.

“That settles it then.” Gem began. “I’ll hold our friend Eden down, and Xeno can go and register to take part in the task. No vote needed.”

Unity seemed amazed that she would say such a thing, and Crow couldn’t blame him. The artificial recovered quickly, though.

He stared daggers at her, and she made a shield of her own glare. Moments passed before, with a scoff, he spoke once more.

“Fine then.” The artificial said, words stiff and awkward through his clenched jaw. “I suppose I can accept a vote as the least-worst option.”

And so the vote began. Crow voted in favour of Xeno taking part, as did Gem. Unity voted against, and all eyes turned to Astra, who had begun to open and close her mouth in silence every other second.

That surprised Crow, it wasn’t like her to be so unsure.

“I vote to let Xeno take part.” She said at last, sending a joyous warmth across Xeno’s face even as Unity’s hands curled into fists.

“Fucking wonderful.” He snarled, turning on his heel and storming from the room before anyone could say another word.

“Well then.” Gem began, turning her radiant smile to the rest of the room. “I suppose the matter’s finally settled then, isn’t it? Took us long enough!”

***

Pyrhic had been shaken by the incident, but she was doing an admirable job of hiding it. She’d likely considered herself hardened, or at least weathered, after the ganger attack on their last trip. Flint recalled thinking the same of himself.

He’d learned quite harshly just how different it was to have a weapon actually pointed at him than merely come out of a battle in which they were being waved around. In his case, the lesson had come at the cost of eating his lunch backwards.

With that in mind, he decided the assistant was doing quite well.

She stopped, stumbled across to the nearest crumbling-mortar wall and leaned against it as she retched. Flint’s enhanced senses let him clearly see the spray of vomit as it leapt from her lips, and mere moments after the acidic waste had finished splashing against the stone, its acrid scent assailed him.

Not that well, then.

“Are you alright?” He asked, eying the woman as she straightened up. Her shoulders heaved as she inhaled, and he noticed her twitching slightly, clearly still fighting back the urge to empty more of herself out over the ground.

“I’m fine.” She replied breathily. “Just give me a moment.”

Flint gave her several, and she was soon straightened up and backing away from the rancid spatter she’d left.

“That was embarrassing…” She murmured, taking off down the road once more. “I’m not even sure what caused it.”

“You just had a gun pointed at you for what I’m guessing was the first time, you’re allowed a bit of nerves.”

She shook her head slightly at that, as if the gesture could banish her shock.

“No. I have a duty, there’s no time for such things.”

“Battle-shock doesn’t need you to open up space on your schedule.”

She didn’t answer for a moment, and when her voice sounded again it seemed aimed at someone other than Flint.

“We should keep moving.” She said, picking up her pace. He lengthened his stride to follow.

Karma Alabaster, you cold bitch.

Their next destinations were far less eventful than the first. Each involved an Immortal-level mystic, yet unlike the first, whose nerves had been frayed by his own vulnerability, they were far more like the Immortals Flint was familiar with.

Destructive, nigh-invincible when using their magic, and all the more arrogant for it. It seemed that nothing in the world would make someone less dangerous than the knowledge that very little could hurt them.

If nothing else, the particularly unhelpful ones’ panic at Flint stripping their magic made it infinitely easier to squeeze their tight lips open.

By the time they had made it through even half of Alabaster’s list, it was evening.

The two of them had already decided to continue well into the night, knowing that delaying would give those they were seeking ample chance to hear of an Immortal-level pariah coming to interrogate them and flee the city.

Flint found his conviction shaken as he saw their next destination, though.

Sewers were an important part in any city, and even most smaller settlements. He knew that, he could appreciate that. But knowing the vital function they filled did not make it any easier to march towards one with his prior experience.

It was a generally held belief in Wrath that sewers somehow, perhaps magically, attracted virtually all kinds of magical monsters. Orcs, scarrofs, glass-lizards, if it had an official name, there was a better than even chance that it’d show up in someone’s shit-pit.

And as it was generally the job of those most unfortunate Wrathmen to cleanse said sewers of said creatures, and Flint had a nasty habit of ending up on the shit-list of officers who didn’t quite understand that pariahs couldn’t control the way they made people’s skin crawl, his life had not left him with a positive impression of the places.

The fact that there were no orcs, scarrofs or glass-lizards in Bermuda was of some consolation. At first.

Soon after that his fear of specific enemies was replaced by suspicion of the more abstract kind. As they entered through a dislodged manhole, he quickly found himself drawn back to old memories of similar expeditions.

The air reeked of old shit and decay, that was nothing new. Nor was the layout, a winding structure which seemed almost deliberately designed to simultaneously make navigation near-impossible and provide plenty of long stretches without cover or mobility options.

Finding out that Pyrhic had memorised a map of the place was of limited comfort. Certainly, it did next to nothing to abate the slobbering beast that was Flint’s cautious side.

It was all he could do to avoid laying down sandbags.

They walked in silence, save for the distant echoes and drips that nearly brought Flint’s finger down on his trigger every few seconds, and soon came to a stop at what he gathered was the location of their latest contact.

A dugout in the side of a corridor, surrounded by shattered stones which Flint assumed had previously occupied the emptied out section of wall. A great slab of metal had been violently driven over the hole, and even with his augmented night vision, it took Flint several moments to notice the door built into it.

Before he could so much as wonder where the peculiar stretch of steel had come from, a voice rang out from behind it.

“Who’s there?”

Pyrhic took a few seconds to reply. Flint couldn’t blame her, things were already dangerously similar to the blunderbuss incident.

“I’m here on the behalf of lady Karma Alabaster, I have some questions for you regarding the murder of Reginald Tamaias. May I please have a few minutes of your time?”

Flint had thought that it was a very polite way for her to phrase her request, yet all the same he’d taken a few steps forwards before gesturing for her to stand behind him. It was mere moments after she moved that the jet of flame tore free from the dugout, reducing the chunk of metal to a burning white puddle and filling the air with suffocating, metallic vapour.

A man leapt free of the wreckage, eyes frenzied and body practically bleeding magic into the air.

His lips parted in a feral scream as his erratic gaze twisted to Flint, and before he could so much as begin attempting to reason with him, the air was hot with magic once more.

It came as a billowing jet of flames, three times wider than Flint was and so hot as to bleed out into pure, blinding white. Yet somehow, it was feeble to look at. Flint could see the colour, he could take note of the heat, but the conflagration was able to neither sear his eyes nor char his skin.

The magical flames broke against him like waves on a rock, defanged and collared by the opposing might of his anti-magic. For his part, Flint calmly unhung the musket from his back, pulled it back to full-cock and levelled the iron barrel at the amazed mystic.

He could understand why his clothes would be untouched along with the rest of him, but it was a confusing, and bloody fortunate, thing that his status as a pariah shielded the pound of gunpowder he’d been carrying, as well.

Of course judging by the stiff, terror-frozen expression on the Immortal’s face, he didn’t see things quite like Flint.

“Try that again, and I’ll put a bullet in your eye.”

It occured to Flint that Immortals, even those struck dumb by the terror of seeing their life-long safety net fail them, were rarely inclined to fear mere firearms. So to add some weight to his threat, he sent a mass of anti-magic snaking out in front of him, enveloping the man’s entire body.

From the way his face and posture changed at the sudden nullification, one might well have thought he’d been dumped in icy water without warning. Flint would have been lying if he’d claimed not to find the sight satisfying as the pit.

The Immortal seemed to adjust to his new situation quickly, as his hands began to creep up. Open palms facing Flint, as non-threatening as possible.

“Alright.” Flint called back to Pyrhic. “He’s cut off, talking time.”

After some entirely reasonable hesitance, the assistant emerged by Flint’s side. She fidgeted as she spoke, but her voice remained steady regardless.

“As I was saying, I’m here on behalf of lady-”

“I heard you the first time you dumb bitch.” The man snarled, spittle spraying from his mouth and clinging to the brown, tangled beard that covered the entirety of his jaw.

Pyrhic didn’t seem even slightly fazed by the hostility.

“Excellent, that saves some time. What do you know of Reginald Tamaias’ murder?”

“Nothing.” He answered. “I spend all my time down here, thanks to you fuckers looking to round up anyone who isn’t part of your little club. I don’t know anything about any of the goings-on above ground.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” Pyrhic asked. “Because from what I’ve been able to uncover, there are very few Manamis-users on this island who aren’t under your banner, excluding those loyal to the Unixian Alliance.”

“I’m very sure.” He insisted, eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t control everything all of my boys do.”

“Well, that just has me wondering which of your boys would be able to survive being in such close proximity to the battle in order to warp perception of it. Do you have many Immortals working under you?”

The mystic’s face became stone at that, cracked, hard and hostile.

“I don’t.” He answered; quietly, carefully. “Perhaps they simply got lucky.”

“So lucky that, while avoiding injury from close proximity to a pair of Demigod-scale mystics battling one another, they were able to track and follow the bout whilst simultaneously interfering with observational magic which would require a Paragon-scale mystic to overpower, at least.”

A series of expressions flew across the Immortal’s features, contorting and twisting them a dozen ways in the blink of an eye. Moments later, he was back to calm placidity, all hints of an inner turmoil carefully buried.

“I don’t need to answer any of your questions.” He said, as if realising only at that moment. “Alabaster has no authority in Bermuda.”

“The organisers of the Sieve, however, do.” Pyrhic corrected. “And my mistress is most certainly counted among them, so it would benefit you greatly to avoid denying her requests.”

“It would benefit me greatly.” He spat, mocking her with every syllable. “Don’t pretend that whore or any of the other toothless cowards who let the city go to shit on their watch can do anything to me without letting an even bigger fire kick up while their attention is elsewhere.”

Pyrhic bristled at that.

“Lady Alabaster has performed as well as could be expected, the Sieve’s current state is the result of unforeseeable-”

“Unforeseeable?!” The Immortal cackled viciously. “Tell me, what part of a butcher fucking up the city after being allowed to dwell within it was unforeseeable?”

As much of an arse as the man was, Flint had to admit he thought he had a point.

“The event you’re referring to had nothing to do with the destruction in Bermuda.” Pyrhic answered stiffly. “If you’re looking to hurl blame, perhaps you should take the time to verify your information.”

The Immortal’s mouth opened, eyes wide in defiance, but no sound came out. He paused, restraint lashing his features as a thoughtful frown seeped over his skin. When he next spoke, seconds later, it was with a careful and almost probing tone.

Flint realised the man had just narrowly avoided a trap.

“I think I said already, my information is limited by my choice of… shelter. And yet I know enough to be sure that the Sieve is crumbling, and the debris is landing on Bermuda.”

“So why don’t you help stop it?” The woman asked, a sudden plea to her voice- jarring after the steel that had preceded it. “Tell us what you know so we can protect the city- your city- from whatever or whoever it was that’s responsible for the destruction it’s already seen.”

For a moment, Flint thought he might actually do it. A flash of warmth crossed the man’s eyes, humanity flooding in to smother the aged spider. It was gone nearly as quickly as it appeared.

“No.” He said. “I can’t.”

He gave no more information than that, and Flint could hear Pyrhic’s resignation even as she spoke.

“I see. Well then, can you tell me what made you so convinced the girl- Amelia, I believe her name was- who competed in the recent task was responsible?”

That seemed to stun the man, and Pyrhic was speaking once more before he could recover.

“It’s a curious assumption to make, that even a butcher would be the cause of so much devastation when their magic falls short of even the Gladiator scale.”

The Immortal paled, his eyes flickering like dancing flames as his mouth worked feverishly.

“I assumed she would not be in the city alone, and such a prodigy of magic would surely be accompanied by a powerful Immortal. Both for protection and their management.”

“A reasonable conclusion to draw.” Pyrhic conceded. “So what inspired your belief that the Immortal in question was powerful enough to defeat Reginald Tamaias with such little damage?”

She was boxing him in, Flint realised. Forcing him to answer quickly, giving him no time to work through the logic of his lies- if they were indeed lies- before telling them.

“Jack the Butcher is a Deity.” He answered. “I found it hard to believe he’d allow a prodigy like that to be attended by someone overwhelmingly weaker than himself, either through negligence or somehow believing them to be disposable. Any battle can be lost easily, under the right circumstances.”

Flint was staring at the Immortal, watching for the twitches and spasms that acted as harbinger of an attack, but he could practically see Pyrhic’s smile from the sound of her voice. Smug, triumphant.

Victorious.

“Curious, you don’t seem remotely surprised to find out that a Demigod of such power was so easily defeated. Where did a hermit such as yourself receive such information before our conversation?”

The Immortal’s mouth opened, then closed. It repeated the motion several times, resembling a fish dragged from the water- helpless and desperate for air. He found none.

Finally, Pyrhic spoke once more.

“I have established that you had information on the attack that most are not privy to- this is nothing special, virtually all Immortals in Bermuda have gleaned as much. You, however, attempted to hide it. That casts sufficient suspicion on you to justify hauling you in for more thorough and less comfortable questioning.”

She let her words hang in the air like storm clouds, continuing only when the Immortal had begun to shift uncomfortably.

“That, however, will not be necessary. Provided you tell me exactly what you know, and what I want to know.”

He glared daggers at her, and Flint found himself struck with a strange sort of sympathy for the man. Yes, he was an arsehole. Yes, he was a mystic- and an Immortal at that. Yes, he’d have reduced both Flint and Pyrhic to a cloud of screaming atoms had his attack not failed.

But that didn’t change the fact that Flint knew first-hand what it was like to be hanged with one’s own tongue.

“Alright.” The Immortal said at last, voice steadied by resignation. “I didn’t do anything in person, but a few… less than reputable individuals made me do a job for them.”

“Don’t expect me to believe that you can’t identify them.” Pyrhic interrupted, acidically. The man’s jaw tightened before he answered.

“I was getting to that.” He hissed. “They didn’t tell me their names, but I had a few of my boys look into them. It didn’t take long for me to find out who they were. A gang, or mercenary group, depending on your definition, called the Guillotines.”

Flint heard his own swearing bounce back at him from the rounded walls of the sewers.