No more Arcadians, or any resistance for that matter, were encountered in the rest of their journey through the sewers, which was probably for the best. The rumbling from the assault outside continued relentlessly like an always present reminder of what was waiting for them when they reached their destination.

However, the words of the Arcadian continued to spin around within his head, roiling his insides. The way the voice sang the words—he didn’t say them, he sang them—despite the overwhelming pain he must have been in, smiling the whole time, was frightening. Almost as if he were mind controlled and believed that he was uninjured, even to the end.

Finally, they reached a ladder leading up a narrow tunnel that disappeared into darkness, leaving the top invisible. Xaleyp pulled up the schematics the Director had showed him on his CAM, looking them over.

“This ladder should lead into the main floor of the Hold, just inside the kitchen.” He turned to look at the other three, who were each staring at him in quiet anticipation. Scarecrow leaned against a wall, looking back down the tunnel the way they came, while Eve stood somewhat disinterested and Mian alert and straight-backed. “Once we’re in, we stick to the shadow whenever we can and only attack when we need to, got it?”

A chorus of affirmative noises ran through them, and Xaleyp turned back to the ladder and climbed. Each rung he went up rang out in a shrill echoing ting, and the darkness slowly enveloped him to the point he had to guess where the next step was. After only a dozen meters of so, and once his vision adjusted to the darkness, the top of the ladder came into view. It was a circular hatch not unlike that they had found in New Alexandria on their first foray into the sewers.

He called for the others to stop and planted his legs against the ladder and back against the wall behind him, somewhat awkwardly. It took all of his strength to turn the wheeled handle on the hatch, and after several sections of straining himself, it finally gave way and opened. The piece of metal swung up and out, revealing the kitchen of Nevermoor Hold.

It was rather plainer than he expected, with simple white walls and polished stone countertops. Sleek metal appliances—that had been clean before the assault had thrown dust from around the room over them—were situated at two corners and the middle. A flashing red light bathed the area in its glow, and a quiet klaxon blared from somewhere in the building.

Xaleyp pulled himself up and out, helping the others into the kitchen after ensuring that it was clear. Shouts came from behind a door to their right, followed by the quick stamping of footsteps, but it quietly died away as it moved further away. The building shook with each shuddering impact of an explosive on the outside, and dust was released from the ceiling.

They went to the left, going up to the other side of the kitchen where it led out into the dining room. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, though some of its crystals had fallen and landed on the ornately set table. Some glasses were knocked over and chipped, while others had rolled across the ground before coming to a stop in the middle of the floor on the rug. The several dozen chairs along the expansive table were jostled and at odd angles from the quakes that went through, and some of the paintings adorning the walls were askew, with two of them sitting at the floor after being knocked from their brackets.

“Plant a breaching charge on this wall, Scarecrow,” Xaleyp said, pointing to the wall at the opposite end of the room. “A service corridor should be on the other side, and if we get to the center, we can take their lift up.”

Scarecrow nodded without saying anything, a determined look in his eye, pulling the breaching charge from the pack on his back and shaping it in a loose rectangle about his height on the wall. Once satisfied, he nodded and walked away, pressing the remote detonator as he did so. The explosion ripped through the plaster and metal of the wall, and it fell into a crumbled heap at the floor.

The service corridor was bathed in a somewhat eerie light with a blue hue to it, and the walls were made up of stone bricks. It moved in either direction, both sides curving as it followed the building around in a circle. Spaced at somewhat even intervals were doors and other branches of the corridor which disappeared around the corners. All four of them walked in and walked to the right, taking the first on the left branching corridor to the center.

They continued moving in silence, moving deeper and deeper into the circular building to the center where the lift would bring them to the top floor. No resistance was met inside with all of their forces and resources rushing to aid in repelling the God’s Machine invaders. After several seconds of waiting, the lift door opened and they were on their way up, though it was a little cramped with all four of them inside. The repulsor engines whined with the movement as it shot into the air, lights flashing by on the outside wall at regular intervals.

After several seconds, the lift stopped and opened, revealing another service corridor. Scarecrow and Eve led the way out, though the latter was somewhat begrudgingly. Xaleyp pulled the schematics back up to find the quickest way to the Secretary’s office.

“Take the next right, then it’s the first door on the left,” Xaleyp said. Scarecrow nodded in acknowledgment.

As he rounded the corner, a shout cleaved through the air, followed by a single gunshot. Scarecrow staggered slightly before toppling backwards, his knees buckling as he fell and his chest heaving. A bullet hole was in his chest, blood oozing out in rhythm with the beating of his heart.

“Crowley!” Xaleyp yelled, rushing forward. Not another, he couldn’t lose another of his soldiers, those who trusted him with their lives. He held Mian and Eve back as he moved past them, putting his back against the wall when he neared the corner. As he peeked around, he was forced to retract it again when another bullet ricocheted off the metal, the hissing of the slug bringing a chill down his spine.

“Xaaaleyyyyp,” a voice called out from around the corner, and he recognized it at once, even through the singing lilt. It was that of Caster Dane. “I’m so glad to see you made it this far. Let’s chat a little, maybe play a game. After all, it’s been too long since we last played together, and don’t you miss those days?”

“Caster, what the hell are you doing?” Xaleyp yelled, trying to slide down the wall, grab Scarecrow, and drag him out of the open.

As soon as his hand appeared around the corner, another bullet hit the ground and bounced off, embedding itself under Crowley’s shoulder. Caster laughed in a shrill, piercing howl that echoed off the walls.

“Now, now, little Xaleyp, we don’t want our guests to be leaving so quickly.” There was a brief pause accentuated by the clacking of footsteps slowly approaching and stopping just around the corner. “Oh dear, it appears that he had a little accident and got blood all over our nice floor. Give me a moment, and let me clean this up.”

A gunshot erupted from out of sight, and Scarecrow jerked as another bullet lodged itself in his body, this one in his head. Xaleyp wanted to scream, to yell out and stop Caster, but his voice was caught in his throat and his lips refused to move. Hot tears formed in his eyes, and his fists clenched tightly on the floor, his nails digging into the palms. Half his team dead, and he couldn’t do anything about it, just like all those years ago when the Hyperions kidnapped him.

“Ah, isn’t that so much better?” Caster sighed and walked back and forth just out of sight, his footsteps continuing to clank across the floor. “So much more peaceful without that idiot’s moaning and groaning. After all, I’m here to talk to you, Xaleyp, not anyone of them. They’re just pawns in this game, little insects that deserve to be crushed and ground into powder before dispersing it across a field like fertilizer. Now, if you don’t mind my asking, I do wonder who it is you are working for now, as this gentleman does not appear to be a Hyperion soldier—at least, not since he was discharged a few years ago—nor is he Arcadian.”

“I don’t want to fight you Caster,” Xaleyp said, putting his head back against the wall. Mian and Eve stood motionless, waiting for him to do something, anything. “Please, don’t do this. Let us pass and get to the Secretary, and you can help us bring peace to the galaxy.”

Before Caster could reply, he turned to Eve and Mian and whispered, “This is my fight. Don’t do anything unless he comes for you, alright?”

The pair of them nodded.

“Ooh, whoever you’re working for has gotten to your head then, just like the Hyperions did. Though, I will be honest, I would have expected you to stay in their good graces for much longer than you did.” The shrill laugh resonated in the hall again, sending another chill down Xaleyp’s spine. “You should have heard how they used you as an example—good and bad, I might add—and tried to encourage us to be more like you. I never bought it for a second, and when the Arcadians took over, they looked for people like me, people who hadn’t fallen into the indoctrination. They welcomed me with open arms, bringing me here to be part of their special forces and preparing me for this moment. The moment I would kill Xaleyp Wormrak Vah’Aris.”

As he said the words, the footsteps grew louder until they were just on the other side of the wall. Without thinking, Xaleyp spun around the corner and dove, throwing himself headfirst down the hall. A gunshot erupted, and a searing hot pain came from his arm where the small bit of metal glanced across his body. His shoulder impacted something hard and metal before he hit the floor, and the gun Caster had been holding flew out of his hand, skittering down the hall. Caster stumbled slightly at the impact, shocked at the sudden appearance, before regaining his composure and kicking out at Xaleyp. He dodged out of the way in an awkward roll, sweeping his leg along the floor and impacting the back of Caster’s ankle to bring him down to the floor.

Forgetting about his assault rifle, Xaleyp leapt at Caster, grabbing both of the other boy’s wrists and forcing them to one side, pinning them under his knee. The gun was awkwardly smushed between them, keeping him from easily getting to his onetime friend, before the strap tore in the struggle and it was sent skidding across the floor towards Crowley’s body.

Xaleyp brought his fist in hard to Caster’s face, hearing his nose crack under the impact and feeling at least two teeth digging into his own knuckles. Caster’s head went back with the blow but almost immediately whipped back upright, cocked to one side. They gripped one another’s shoulders, rolling over the cold metal floor in a series of rolls that brought them further from Crowley’s body.

Caster recovered first from the tumbling, quickly positioning himself overtop Xaleyp and pushing him into the ground, raining blow after blow on his face. With each hit, Xaleyp flashed back to how Maxwell had done the same thing, and how powerless he had been. He struggled after every impact, trying desperately to do anything that would get Caster off, to free himself and get an upper hand, but it was futile. Finally, in one last rather bold move, he went limp and allowed his eyes to drift shut.

Even with each of the fists coming down and sending waves of pain through his entire body, he willed himself to sit motionless, until, after several more seconds, Caster’s assault slowed. His breathing was heavy, and the warm air blew down onto Xaleyp’s face in disgusting waves that almost made him betray his deception.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Xaleyp,” Caster said, more to himself than anything. And for the first time, his voice was lacking the lilt and sounded somewhat lucid, less dreamlike. “We could have done great things together, and I will miss you dearly.”

He stood slowly, pushing off of Xaleyp’s chest with an unnecessary amount of force as he went. As soon as the hand was removed, Xaleyp opened his eyes, still somewhat dazed, and pulled the knife from its holster at his waist. In one fluid movement, he spun it around and backhandedly plunged the blade into Caster’s ankle, bringing it up to tear a large, gaping wound in the man’s calf. His scream of agony quickly turned to more of the shrill laughter echoing off the walls. He looked down at Xaleyp with the horrible grin on his face then turned his attention to the bloodied blade.

“Xaaaleyyyyp, you really thought that would stop me?” Caster shook his head in mock disappointment, shaking his leg and forcing blood to splatter over the floor and Xaleyp. “You really should try harder than that.”

Xaleyp stood, his legs wavering underneath him and screaming in protest at having to support him. Caster’s leg had been slashed open—through skin and muscle to the bone, no less—and he was acting like it was nothing more than a paper cut. What the hell was going on here?

“Let’s finish this then,” Xaleyp said, brandishing the serrated blade. He beckoned to Caster with it, doing his best to not let the dizziness he felt overcome him. ‟It'll be like when we were kids, just you and me."

Caster laughed again, the shrillness filling Xaleyp with a sense of overwhelming dread. He blocked it out and took a deep breath, waiting for his moment. Caster stood motionless for several seconds before finally charging at Xaleyp, feinting a move to one side before committing to the other. However, Xaleyp didn’t fall for it; instead, he fell into a quick crouch, bringing his leg once more in a sweeping arc and connecting with the already ripped open ankle of Caster. The boy screeched in agony as he toppled to the ground, and Xaleyp was overtop him before he could react, using his knees to pin Caster’s arms. A single sharp blow to his temple ensured he would be too dazed to struggle.

“Do it,” Caster hissed in the same singsong voice, though somewhat slurred. His face contorted into the unnatural, creepy as hell smile. “If you’ve got any fucking balls, you’ll do it, Xaaaleyyyyp.”

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Xaleyp said as he brought the knife down into the chest of the laughing man.

The smile instantly faded, replaced by a grimace of unbelievable agony, and the laugh turned into a piercing scream of pain.