He tossed it over, and little squares of laminated parchment spilled out, bearing eerily detailed photographs, clearly taken in moments where the lengthy process of using a traditional camera would have been impossible. The contents of these photographs, however, were far more shocking than the implication of fast image capture technology.

The images were of Pateirians, both young and old, both men and women, but all wearing tattered, filthy versions of the uniforms she had seen the three Pateirian soldiers wearing. All of them had some variations of horrific, insectoid deformity. Some had armored plating bulging under their clothes, others had their jawbones split and twisted into insectoid mandibles, while others still had massive, yet useless insect wings sprouting from their backs, having unceremoniously torn holes in their uniforms to accommodate them. Some still had a sputtering spark of sentience in their stances, yet others were hunched over like wild beasts, holding raw chunks of meat in bloodied hands. Not all of the meat looked to be from animals.

Two commonalities among all of their mutations were the presence of vestigial, miniature extra arms sprouting from their torsos, and the presence of at least one pair of extra eyes, in most images visibly milky and blind.

“Actual locust-men. How?” she questioned, bewildered by the sights, despite the fact she had put down someone who had gone through a similar transformation only hours prior.

“Pateiria pioneered modern combat elixirs. That meant they also had to suffer the greatest growing pains of developing them. As much of an edge as it gave them in the war, it left many soldiers with deformities such as these. A death sentence in their appearances-obsessed society.”

Zelsys placed the photos back in their folder and let out a heavy sigh, considering whether this was a good idea or not, whether this would be for the best not just for herself, but for the others as well.

After a solid minute of wordless, mutual staring, she simply reached out and shook the Governor’s waiting hand. Through this handshake, the Governor gave her a small piece of paper, having palmed it from his sleeve only moments prior.

“I will have one of my agents contact you in the coming days, you will know them by this code-phrase. When it comes down to it, try to deal with your targets as cleanly as possible,” he said. “Terrorists and war criminals that they are, most of them are still people. At least I hope so.”

As Zelsys made her way out of the office and down that hallway once more, she felt a strange feeling in her gut. It wasn’t danger or distrust, but she knew one thing. There was more to this than the governor let on.

Stepping into Collier’s Equalizers, Zefaris was struck by the smell of freshly-lacquered wood, iron, and gunpowder. Her eye darted across the room, glazing over at the exuberant craftsmanship of nearly every weapon on display, until she reached the person behind the counter - a white-haired, portly old lady, dressed in an outfit that toed the line between immaculate suit and filthy engineer’s uniform. On one side, she wore a perfectly ironed shirt and vest, and on the other, she also wore a richly stained leather apron.

Her bright-blue eyes darted up from the disassembled wonder of technology that her attention had been focused on up until this point, and she set down the heavy machined cylinder as she welcome Zefaris to her store.

“Welcome to Collier’s Equalizers dear! I’m Collier. By the looks of you, you’re probably here for a nice sparklock, what’d you say?”

“Ah… I’m actually interested in the topmost firearm in your storefront. I have some questions,” Zef admitted, struggling to maintain eye contact in favor of just staring at the gun on the counter.

“Oh, unfamiliar with revolvers are you? Well, shoot your shot!” Collier laughed, positively gleaming with a strange, albeit infectiously positive energy.

She stepped up to the counter, and gave the disassembled weapon a once-over before looking back up at the gunsmith. It wasn’t just mechanically more complex than any sparklock she had ever used, but it was a behemoth of a gun. The chambers of the cylinder were clearly sized to fit rifle loads, and the grip was suitably comfortable to compensate for the inevitable recoil. The barrel was six-sided for some reason, and there was even what looked like a built-in ramrod mechanism designed to push the ammo down in rapid succession.

It was unlike the revolver in the display case. In fact, every single gun in the store was either generic, or unique - no in between. Her initial question of the gun’s mechanical operation gave way to a far more pressing one, “Why does it look like most of your higher-end stock is custom-made?”

“Because it is,” the old lady admitted, entering into a prolonged rant that fit perfectly with her appearance and demeanor. “I started out making these after I made the first of my revolvers for a nice young sir that wanted his personal pepperbox pistol made more compact and for it to turn on its own after each shot. Word of my custom pieces spread around, and come the war, I had officers and nobles scratching at my door wanting a revolver of their own!”

She picked up the ammunition cylinder, its metal gleaming under the milky-white light of quartz crystal lights as condensation formed around every spot Collier’s fingers touched. Turning it in her hand, the old lady clearly tried to let Zef get a good look at it while she told her story. It had five chambers, open only in the front, while the back had a pentagonal alchemical sigil, with the rune for Ignis inlaid in brass over the back of each chamber where a hammer would strike. No Ignis crystals. Was the old woman a skilled-enough alchemist to make mere glyphs produce enough heat to ignite rifle powder?

“I made them pay enough to cover manufacturing costs plus some extra in advance, but most of ‘em kicked the bucket well before they could pay the rest so now I’m at liberty to sell these beauties for however much I want without making a loss.”