The child sits in the kitchen. A window opens to a blue summer sky, a breeze ruffles its hair. They would want the window closed; they would want the child to sit in the kitchen. The child gets up and walks out the door, the garden path stretches outwards – bricks laid on a pool of gravel.

The child walks along the path, weeds poke up through the gravel and trees stretch overhead. There aren’t any trees around its house – where is it now?

The child finds itself in a glade, the house is nowhere to be seen. There is no way back. The trees tower over it, a small bird flies down and pecks at the ground. The child notices a snake and a centipede squirming in the dirt – the child ignores them.

The child picks up a stick and swings it around. A sword to fight off the monsters of the forest. The stick swings around; the child plays as the shadow of a sword slays the shadows of the forest. The bird, snake and centipede forgotten in the fun.

The child swings her stick – she won’t be able to leave.

O – O – O – O – O

I sway vaguely into consciousness. Pricks of light slowly resolving into pricks of light as I realise that I’m wearing a blindfold. I take a few seconds to process that before trying to move the rest of me. My legs are somewhere below me – good start, though I can’t move them. My hands are somewhere behind me – not so good.

It becomes apparent that I’ve been tied to a chair, coarse rope bites into my wrists as I give a brief struggle. Ow, Christ this rope sucks ass. Where are Lucien and Emmet? I call out, but find a rag stuffed in my mouth – that would explain the aching jaw. I rock forward a bit, the chair creaks and the ropes around my stomach tighten. Every second some more information, every second another fucking rope-burn. What is this? Is this a kidnapping? Again? I swear, it hasn’t even been a week yet.

I hear a creak from somewhere, sounds like a door. Who the hell said your senses sharpen when you can’t see? There are just random sounds popping out everywhere, seems like it changes position every time I focus on it. Some muffled voices start reaching me, maybe they’re echoing, I guess this is a house? I rock back and forward again, the chair creaking beneath me – a weak chair is surprisingly not as comforting a thought as I would have thought. If this thing breaks it’d probably hurt. The ropes just sting more as I try to twist my wrists – which feels less useful than the movies make this look. The voices get closer, or louder, or more something – I can’t tell and I start to panic a little. I give up on twisting and start snapping my fingers. What was it? Two snaps and a flick? Do I have to pause in between them? Fuck, that stupid book was useless.

I’m busy snapping and flicking off gang signs when something slams loudly and the few pricks of light I can make out get blocked out by something massive in front of me. I freeze. Christ, please don’t kill me. A beat passes, then another, and another. The only change is less light and some now apparent heavy breathing. I wait a little longer, my muscles are cramping, what the shit is going on. Whatever’s there seems to notice my fidgeting, and the heavy breathing becomes suddenly quieter.

“Scab, she can’t see you.” There’s a pause, then a muffled curse, and someone yanks off the blindfold.

I flinch as light rushes to meet my eyes, and squinting, am greeted by a fairly normal looking room – for what should be an abandoned warehouse or something, going with the kidnapping theme. There’s even a window over the far end, apparently opening onto a laneway and illuminating the room far beyond what could be termed intimidating or grungy. In front of me stand two figures. A hulking big one, right in my face, and a smaller one just a bit further back– both probably women, though it’s difficult to tell with the Viking raider look they have going on. The big one throws the blindfold away – much obliged – and settles back into what is probably meant to be an intimidating stance. Crossed arms and a scowl – has she just been standing like that the whole time? I quirk an eyebrow and look around to the smaller one, the pair of crosses biceps move in step to block my vision again. I try it again, but she just keeps moving to follow me – still hasn’t said a word yet.

“Mmmmphf” I mmmphf.

“Scream however you want, no-one’s gonna hear you,” the guard grunts out, then immediately falls silent again – had she been waiting for her cue? I sit there in silence for a bit longer, letting my eyes wander as nothing seems to be going down yet. For some reason, she starts doing the same thing, even scratching her nose – are they filling for time? The minutes pass at an agonising crawl, just Scab – the big one’s probably Scab right? That’s not racist is it? – alternating between scowling at me and scowling at the wall behind me.

Suddenly I’m startled out of a daze when the smaller one gets up. Scab startles too, eyes suddenly wide with the panic of something actually happening. The lady walks over to the window and sticks her head out, craning her neck at a weird angle and squinting into the light.

She pulls her head back in and turns to Scab, “I don’t think he’s going to get here in time. Should we start without him?” Scab slowly recovers from the sudden stimuli and shrugs non-committedly. I’m left reeling at the idea that she had honestly stuck her head out the window to check the time – please don’t tell me that they haven’t invented clocks yet. She walks over and drops her chair in front of me, Scab shuffling out the way and resuming her stance over the other’s shoulder.

The both of them are swathed in furs and strips of leather, in that way that can probably pass for armour if you keep adding layers between yourself and whatever’s swinging your way. The look seems to fit with Scab, her biceps are thicker than my thighs and from the way her breastplate is sitting, her pecks must be absolutely wild. For the smaller one, the look’s more ‘swaddled’ than anything else. She’s average height, with freckles and bright, blonde hair – well, I’m pretty sure it’d be if she bathed more regularly. She gives one last hopeful glance towards the door at the back of the room, before turning back with a sigh. A slight pause, then she leans in – at least she seems more socially inclined than Scab.

“Greetings Agent of Chaos.” she dramatically flips that fucking wanted poster around to me, which immediately flutters to the floor since I’m tied to a chair. The lady pauses, probably for dramatic effect while my edgy mirror glares up at me – shit, this isn’t just a random kidnapping is it? I stop shuffling around and give them my full attention. Scab takes a moment to flex and the other one continues, her eyes flicking down to what is obviously a script, before launching back into her spiel. “Yes, your talents have not gone unnoticed, you who spurns the… the,” she pauses and tries to sneak a glance at the page on her lap, “Our-Ao-Autocratic i-imposition of the rulers of these lands.” She takes a deep breath and looks back up at me, face flushed and with sparkling eyes of an ordeal finally done with.

“Mmmmphf,” I mmmphf again, nodding for her to continue. She ducks her head back to her notes, flipping through a dishearteningly thick pad, before looking back up.

“I, Edward Milton Fourey, believe that you and I can join forces to forge a new world order!” her voice raises suddenly at the exclamation mark. Her eyes dart around as she skims a few lines, “What say you?” I stare at her as she apparently finishes – levelling a hard look at me. How many pages did she just skip? She keeps up the staring and Scab starts flexing again. I wait a few seconds in case she starts reading stage notes, ‘remove prisoner’s gag’ or whatever – but she makes no move to continue.

“MMMPHF!” I jut out my chin and try biting on whatever god-awful scrap of cloth they decided to shut me up with. Hopefully that gets the point across.

Blondie immediately starts nervously flicking through her script again. Luckily, before I try to bite my tongue out in frustration, Scab grunts and reaches over, yanking the gag off and over my head. I spit and splutter, my mouth itching from the rough fabric and still tasting astringent and sour. I spare a look at the gag as it flops to the ground – and it’s a fucking sock, perfect. I hock some mucus and spit off into the corner for good measure, before I turn my gaze back to Scab – somehow, she’s come out on top as the group’s spokesperson.

“So… can we start that again from the top?” I ask, trying for a smile, “without the script, please.”

Blondie huffs and leans back in her chair, throwing the pages over her shoulder and gesturing for her companion. Scab grunts and steps forward.

“Our boss wants you in on a job. It’s a pretty sweet gig.” She says succinctly, and doesn’t seem keen to say anymore. Blondie cuts in.

“We’ve got an offer from our benefactor,” Edward Fourey, I know, “they want to liberate the city from the rule of the Havaille family,” that bit sounds a touch planned, she points dramatically, “and that offer extends to you!” A malicious tint edges into her expression and Scab cracks her knuckles – I’m not getting the feeling that there’s a great deal of choice here.

I swallow, mouth still sour. “Havaille? Are they like, the leaders here?” Blondie nods, “you want to stage a coup? Involving me?” they keep nodding even as I desperately try to annunciate the ridiculousness of the suggestion. I pause, as much as I can when faced with two political radicals. “Why?”

Blondie stoops over and grabs the wanted poster. “You don’t get this kind of rap without stepping on some toes, y’get me?” she gives a sly grin, “Whaddya do? Eh? Kill anyone I’d know?” I grit my teeth and grunt out something – which she seems to take for admission, as she lets out a laugh and slaps my shoulder. “Super! I’ll tell Mr Fourney the good news – don’t worry, the pay’s great.” Wait, pay? – Blondie turns back, probably having seen my reaction. “Yeah, 2000 crowns – for the both of you that is.”

“Both of us?” I ask before I can shut myself up.

Scab takes this one, “Yer Servant,” she says, gesturing with her thumb down the corridor, “We convinced him to join before you woke up.” Servant… Oh shit, Lucien. The way she cracks her neck as she says this adds to the shadiness of the whole thing – wait, where’s Emmet?

“What about the other one – the priest?” I ask, he’s been getting edgy lately. These guys could have just killed him if he put up a fuss. Both Scab and Blondie blink before immediately replying.

“He didn’t want anything to do with it. We let him go.” Says Scab as if it were completely obvious. Blondie probably notices my shock.

“He’s a priest.” As if that completely resolves the issue. Though if I’m allowed to hope.

“So… I can say no?”

Scab cracks her knuckles, again, and Blondie slams her foot between my legs, leaning over me. She doesn’t explain further – I kind of get the picture. I assume I’d just end up unconscious outside of a medieval police station or whatever. Or just die. I swallow back some bile and give a shaky smile.

“2000 smackeroons for one job? Sounds like fun.” Injecting as much enthusiasm as possible, I even glue on a smirk for good measure. It seems to be the right response because they both draw back.

“Excellent, I’ll tell the boss the good news!” With that, Blondie and Scab exit the room – leaving me tied to the chair, of course. I shake around again, snapping my fingers for good measure – still no magic.

I collapse back into the chair, blowing hair out of my mouth as I give up on the ropes. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the wanted poster. It’s not even a bad picture. Maybe the nose is a little larger, the eyebrows bushier, and I don’t think I can actually pull off that specific sneer – but it doesn’t scream hardened criminal. Lucien’s one makes him look like, ten years older, for Christ’s sake. How is this a basis for kidnapping me? I peer closer, I can’t even see a reward on the damn thing – surely that’s the metric to use if you want to judge your hiring options for your fucking coup.

Unless this thing offers like, a house or something for our capture… Nope, still can’t read. I let out a groan and look around the room. Looks kind of like a study or something, one door and a window, with a desk pushed into the corner. A pleasant orange glow comes in through the window, looks like it’s heading towards evening – actually, how long have I been out? I twist around, craning my neck, no obvious pain. At least they had the manners to not knock me over the head. I’m pretty sure you can die that way.

There’s a loud smash, and the door crashes open, Scab and Blondie throwing an even scruffier Lucien to the ground. He groans as he struggles to look up, then groans again when he sees me. Scab shoves him with her foot and he picks himself up and hobbles over towards me. He’s still covered in goblin blood and dirt and seems to have managed to have been punched in the face recently, if the black eye is any indication. He collapses into Blondie’s old seat and feels at the back of his head – where I notice is a fresh patch of blood.

“Please tell me they had the decency to knock you out with a cudgel too.” He grits out while attempting to straighten out his new, ugly shirt.

“Nope.” I pop the word out, “How’s the eye?”

He gives me a dull stare, I don’t think he can actually manage a scowl with the bruising, “very convincing,” he deadpans. He winces as he pokes at it, then looks quickly around the room, “Where’s Emmet anyway?”

“Gone,” I say tiredly. There’s a clatter, I flinch to see a suddenly pale Lucien half crouched awkwardly over his fallen chair. “No, they just let him go” I quickly correct myself. He stays standing for a few seconds before relaxing and letting out a sigh.

“Typical” he mutters as he rights his chair again, stealing a furtive glance at Blondie and Scab to see if they were giving a shit – they aren’t. He sits back down, “Then are we allowed to…”

“No.” he doesn’t reply as he sinks into his chair with a huff, going back to poking around his eyes. Scab and Blondie stand on the far side of the room, next to the door. For some reason it only occurs to me now that they’re both carrying around axes at their hips, with a few daggers placed at random on their persons for good measure. A weird tension settles over the room as the sunlight starts to grow dimmer.

As much as he probably deserved it, Lucien’s black eye and clotted hair lends a slightly more intimidating air to the stance of our guards. Scab just stands there like an angry brick shit-house while Blondie’s general awkwardness has taken on a weird manic edge. The silence continues and the ropes only start to feel tighter. I have to try to force myself to not wiggle around in my seat as we’re forced to just sit here.

“Lucien.” My whisper seems way too loud. The Viking duo don’t budge, but I feel their eyes on us, the ropes feeling tighter by the second. He glances up, seeming startled by the sudden noise, and looks questioningly. No one has made any move to stop us, but the atmosphere still feels oppressive, I just nod my head towards my bound hands and snap my fingers. He glances at me and pauses, as if he’d only just noticed I’d been tied up, then glances over to Blondie. He uncrosses his legs and slowly rises, eyeing the guards as if they were wild animals – Scab snorts as she breathes in, but neither move to stop him. With a bit more fluidity, he sidles past me and starts throwing arcane gang signs. I hear a soft thwumpf and I feel sudden heat near my hands.

“Er… Shit, sorry”, comes his whisper from behind the chair as the heat recedes a bit. He shifts over and moves the spell away from my fingertips, then stays crouching as the smell of smouldering rag begins to fill the air. Neither Scab nor Blondie bother themselves with stopping us, I’m not even sure if we’re still meant to be prisoners. Didn’t we kind of accept being pressganged into this? We stay silent as Lucien slowly burns away the rope, it’s really fucking awkward actually. Why are we even here? Why are those two idiots still here? And because they’re just squatting over in the corner, I don’t even have a chance to stop and compartmentalize.

I feel the bindings around my wrists loosen and I quickly shuck the knots out of the way. I move onto the ropes around my stomach, while Lucien circles to the ones around my legs. Was it entirely necessary to use this much rope?

Another few snaps and the fire’s back on – I can’t see what he’s doing that I wasn’t. Useless bloody magic. Our guards still haven’t budged an inch – we could literally be concocting an escape right now, why are they even here? With my arms free and the ropes slowly falling away, I feel a bit better about this crap – more in control at least.

“So, do you know what’s going down?” I ask Lucien, making damn sure to keep my voice level and at a normal volume – screw these guys. He doesn’t look up as he keeps smoking away the ropes, coughing before answering with a barely audible waver.

“Something about staging a coup?” he says, “And that there’s some employer who’s meant to meet with us.” He glances around, “This is bloody insane.” It almost feels better when he says it out loud, the weird atmosphere diminishing slightly with his words – this whole thing is stupid. The ropes fall away from my legs and I manage to untangle myself from the chair, finally standing up and stretching. I desperately want to walk around and stretch, but I’m suddenly aware of certain hands that are dangerously close to certain axes. I just flop back onto my chair after twisting around a few times – Lucien takes his seat again next to me as we both wait for whatever is meant to be happening.

It takes a few more minutes, well past the point at which it became obvious that whoever we’re waiting for is deliberately messing with us. With an understated click, the door opens once more and a short, middle-aged guy waddles in. His ruddy face glistens with sweat, swathed as he is in at least half a bear’s worth of tailored furs – dressed to impress in stark contradiction to the mid-summer’s evening going on outside. Scab and Blondie jerk and take positions a step behind him, either side – this must be Edward Fourey.

At some signal, the two guards scrabble to drag the table and extra chair into the middle of the room, giving the whole charade an air of a job interview. He strides forward, arms behind his back and comes to rest in front of us, separated by the table; on his face, an easy smile that dies a nasty death an inch from his eyes. The man’s eyes immediately pass over Lucien – his gaze almost bouncing off the bloody cloak and grimy hair, not even giving him a chance of a decent sneer. They do however, rocket right onto me, then down, then back to me – charming.

Fourey half turns in his seat, speaking over his shoulder, “You two can leave us now,” the two idiots in dress-up shift uncertainly. He frowns and turns back to me, waving dismissively over his shoulder. Scab and Blondie hover for a moment before slinking away to the far corner of the room. Fourey looks me in the eye and the ghost of a smile flits over his features – a conspiratorial smirk that seems to say, ‘weirdos, am I right?’ “My apologies for the behaviour of my employees, Miss. I’m sure you know how hard it is to get professionalism out of these adventurers?” The vibe in the room shifts. “Now that we are rid of them, shall we discuss business?”

The word seems to echo in my mind. The Viking guards walk offstage as this supposed fantasy crime boss extends his hand – which I shake almost instinctively. Suddenly, as the three of us sit at the table, the barely suppressed hysteria of the past few hours dissipates, and the room starts to feel shockingly mundane. Fourey pointedly ignores Lucien again, and looks me in the eye. He doesn’t threaten me with a sword. He’s not wearing flowing wizard robes. He just greeted me with something approaching politeness and shook my hand – It’s like a job interview or something. Old creep aside, I almost sigh in relief as I meet the first normal person I’ve seen since arriving here.

He continues, “Now, I am led to believe that you have some idea of what I would like your assistance with?”

“You’re staging a coup, right?” answers Lucien, interjecting into the conversation with a bit more force than normal. Fourey’s eyes flick in his direction for an instant, the barest flinch of a sneer on his face. He keeps silent, staring at me for a moment longer, before continuing – I can almost feel his reluctance to acknowledge Lucien on any level. Is this the servant thing again? That is some high-level classism, I’m almost impressed.

“Not in so many words,” he manages through a clenched jaw, before quickly relaxing as he addresses me. “I would like your assistance in an endeavour to overthrow the rulers of this city.” He steeples his fingers in that villainous mastermind kind of way, before continuing. “I have a plan to take control of Havale, and if you play your part, I will succeed; no doubt you can imagine the resources that will be available to me when it comes time to reward your efforts…” he trails off meaningfully. Despite his ruddy face and that he looks like a pig in a carpet, his voice is cultured and his speech eloquent. It’s almost enough to consider his offer; those ellipses sure are enticing. Before I know it, the question is already out of my mouth.

“So, what would we get if we agree?” I ask, not quite hiding the obviously piqued interest, if Fourey’s slightly upturned lips are any indication. Lucien just looks at me in shock. As if you’re not interested yourself.

Fourey leans in further. “Apart from monetary compensation – generous monetary compensation,” I’ll have to take his word on that, no idea what 2000 crowns are worth, “My aim is to take a stand against the Imperialist factions within the nobility. I’m sure you have noticed the rather concerning deference to Imperial law?” His eyes flick down to my painted caricature. Oh, the posters, right. He continues, “If you were to join me, I would make sure that there will not be any unfortunate consequences coming out of that.”

I find myself nodding, that would be great, we’d finally be able to just relax. It’s not come up often, but the fact that we’re wanted criminals has put a damper on this whole trek. I give a slight shake of my head; it’d be nice, but I’m not joining a revolutionary cell – I don’t even know these royals! I open my mouth to reject his offer, when Lucien kicks me hard in the ankle. I grunt in pain, but he quickly leans over. Fourey makes no move to stop him. For once actually acknowledging him.

“I’m not sure if you picked it up – but that was a threat” he hisses in my ear. Huh? What threat? I quickly replay the conversation, Fourey seems to be content to sit back and give me time. Apparently, Lucien is less inclined to wait. “They’ll throw us to the Empire if we refuse,” he bites out in a strangled whisper. Fourey just maintains his weird, dead-eyed smile, putting in the absolute bare minimum of effort into pretending not to hear us. At Lucien’s words, his smile grows a touch wider. Dammit.

The raw skin at my wrists stings sharply and I realise that I’ve been drawn into Fourey’s rhythm. His professional cadence lulling me into a daze. I glance at Lucien again, then – suddenly nervous – reply. “We would love to be part of this. Sounds like fun.” I parrot the words I used with Blondie, which just raises the question of why he’s bothering with this interview at all. He claps his hands together and gets to his feet.

“Excellent, we will reconvene tomorrow morning. My associates will direct you to your quarters.” Scab and Blondie appear at the door and we’re pushed down the corridor. We pass a couple of doors, but the walls are still rough wood and bare – not exactly a rich guy’s home, must be safe house or something. We don’t pass any windows either, not that I’d be able to tell where in the city we were anyway.

Reaching another door, we’re thrust into a small, dark room. From what I can see in the gloom, there’s a bed in the corner and not much else. Scab and Blondie step back to let Fourey into the doorway.

“You will be staying here until morning. You have food here,” he gestures and Scab produces a few loaves of bread, “and I will have you read through this before tomorrow’s meeting.” He pulls out a sheaf of paper and presses it into Lucien’s hands. With that he turns and leaves, Blondie closing the door as they disappear.

As if waiting for a chance, my stomach growls loudly. I try to remember the last time I ate a proper meal, sometime yesterday, I think. Though, should I really count that rabbit? I quickly bend down and snag one of the rolls, throwing another one in Lucien’s direction. It hits him in the ear and he flinches, fumbling the loaf and dropping it on the ground.

He pauses to scowl and roll his eyes before leaning over and swiping it from the floor, taking a bite as he straightens back up. I feel slightly sick at the thought of eating anything that’s been on this floor – I guess they have different health standards here. Do they even know what germs are? I’d seen Lucien wash his hands before meals, but that could just be his rampart weirdness or something. I file the thought away for later as I take a bite out of my own roll. It’s terrible – dense as hell, yet still crumbling to nothing as you bite it – but I’m pretty sure that means it’s average by medieval standards. Are there no food wizards in this fantasy world? Lucien has that citrus spell…

“So, what are we going to do?” asks Lucien, breaking me from my thoughts. I must be more tired than I thought.

“I dunno, play along I guess?” I shrug, “they seem pretty legit at least. Like, they’re not just a band of crazies.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to decide that,” says Lucien as he waves the paper he’d been reading. “This is a play.”

“…What?”

He doesn’t bother showing me the paper, smug bastard, “The Legend of Apoxolas Nox,” he reads out, “act 1, scene 1: open on a battlefield, one man stands above the bodies of a dozen soldiers. Apoxolas: ‘Hark! I have slain all who oppose me! Wench!’ – enter Wench – Wench: ‘Oh! Brave warrior, your chiselled physique and manly jaw fill me with lust!’ Apoxolas: Yes – Apoxolas caresses her surging bodice.” Lucien breaks off giggling, his expression halfway between horror and delight. “This is the best thing I’ve ever read. But I’m pretty sure they’re all insane if this affront to theatre represents a significant part of their plans.”

I try to keep a straight face after his reading, “So what should we do?” I’m not getting swept up in this crap.

He takes another bite of his roll, “I’m thinking we play along, then skedaddle as soon as possible. With any luck, we can avoid being wanted criminals in two different kingdoms.” He throws the manuscript unceremoniously on the floor – as much as it deserves – and looks at the bed. He stands staring at it for a bit, preparing to speak, “Anyway, what are we doing about the bed?” He asks with a confrontational glare. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.” He can’t call dibs on the first bed we’ve found in days.

“What are you talking about? You’re not getting the bed!”

“Well, why should you get it?” He argues back.

I cross my arms, “Haven’t you ever heard of chivalry? Where were you brought up?” I ask, trying to press his buttons. He ignores me – even though it’s the kind of thing that’d annoy him. He looks like he’s struggling with the mental calculus of the situation. Which is weird because there isn’t any.

“If you stick to your side we can just share then,” he finally responds, a flush creeping up his neck as he summersaults around whatever mental hang-ups that are in play. The amount of anguish he’s radiating from having to make the suggestion would be hilarious in any other situation.

“Have you seen the size of that thing?” I point at the bed sulking in the corner, to be honest it does look small for two people. “Like I would want your unwashed ass anywhere near me.”

He looks indignant at that – too close to ‘unwashed masses’ for him – though it seems to cut through his embarrassment. “We’ll go head to toe, I’m sure your feet don’t smell like roses either.” They don’t, and his suggestion does actually make sense. Too much sense to argue against.

“Fine,” I huff and stalk over to the bed. It’s only like, an hour after sundown, but we’ve been up since dawn. Not like there’s anything to do other than sleep anyway, other than suffer through reading that play some more.

Days in medieval times really seem to stretch on forever. I sit on the far side of the bed. It rustles slightly as I put my weight on it – apparently canvas filled with hay counts as a mattress around here. I hold back a sigh as I shuck off my shoes and lay down, for the first time thankful that I’m forced to sleep fully clothed – I can’t imagine putting bare skin on this bed, I’d probably flay myself if I turned over. Lucien plonks down at my feet, his own feet sitting next to my shoulder. Luckily he’s not too tall; my own feet aside, I don’t think I could deal with week-old socks right next to my face. There isn’t a pillow, and I don’t have wizard robes like Lucien is using, so I just prop my arm under my head. It’s almost as uncomfortable as the ground I’d slept on last night, but I guess any bed is better than no bed at all.

I lie there, staring at the wall. There’s a window, but the rusty nails hammered into the shutters probably suggests that we’re not meant to open it. I haven’t heard any obvious locking sound since we were shoved in here, the door doesn’t actually have a keyhole now that I’m looking. I wonder if Scab and Blondie are nearby. As much as we’re obviously prisoners here, they haven’t made much of an effort to keep us locked up. Our ‘interview’ comes back into the forefront of my mind and that grease-ball Fourey. In retrospect, it’s kind of obvious that it was an offer in the gangster sense. Now I’m starting to wonder how close we were to losing our kneecaps… Ergh.

I turn onto my back. “Hey Lucien, you awake?”

He doesn’t move and there’s a moment of silence, before a muffled reply, “…Yeah.”

“What do you think of Fourey?” There’s a rustle as he shifts a little.

“I dunno, he’s a greasy politician? What do you mean?” he answers.

The guy came off as kind of creepy, in that rich old man kind of way. But maybe that politician label fits pretty well – he did sound pretty legit while he was talking. “Do you think he’s crazy? Like, is his plan just going to explode in his face and get us into trouble?” that’s what’s really giving me pause for thought. The initial meeting with the two idiot guards was such a farce, I don’t really want to be dragged into some crack-pot idea.

“We’re already in trouble,” replies Lucien, completely unhelpfully. He pauses again, I almost think he’s just going to leave it at that, but he starts again. “But no, he doesn’t seem crazy – reminds me of family back home, I think he knows what he’s doing. He feels like one of those ambitious court nobles, I don’t think he would make a move if he wasn’t pretty certain of his odds.” He stops for a moment; I just leave the silence hanging. “We are kind of fucked anyway.” Yeah, we just might be.

I turn over.

“Night Lucien.”

“…night.”