In his very objective and factual opinion, which is the only opinion he’s capable of having on this particular issue, Theory Hayes is capable of looking quite nice when she bothers to dress up.

She stands ahead in the rather lengthy queue feeding into the Theatre Obscura. The gathered people, so small compared to the massive structure, look to him like small fish swimming directly into the mouth of a massive whale. The scale of the building, with its decorative clocktower and opulent, gilded ornaments, is honestly humbling. He feels like he should take off his hat and salute it, but he has a little too much pride for that.

Theory is dressed in similar colors to the building itself: black and gold. A graceful, low-cut backless gown, short sleeves that cascade off the shoulders, a shawl elegantly draped about her arms, sunglasses, heeled boots, an elaborate braided bun. It’s a lot more revealing than he thought she would be comfortable in, but she moves in it as fluidly as she does her normal clothing. She makes him feel underdressed. He seems far more the type to dress up than her, and yet here he is, having merely switched out his brown overcoat for a black one.

Callie (who is dressed precisely as normal) cowers behind him, seeming as awed by the scale of the place as he is, if not more. She whispers to him, “I saw this building on the way over. I thought it was a castle.”

“Might as well be,” he replies before quickly adding, “Don’t ask me what I mean by that.”

“Okay,” she says, calm as ever. He almost feels bad at how quickly she agrees.

The man behind Callie, he notices, has a rather nice pair of spade cuff-links. A quick glance at his compass confirms it. He nods back at her, motioning for her to lean in so that he can whisper to her.

He knows it’s a long shot, but it’s the only thing he can think of. “You don’t happen to speak any other languages, by any chance?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Which ones?”

“All of them, I think.”

He blinks, leaning back. A small noise of resignation escapes him. At this point, even a ridiculous and yet somehow completely plausible, entirely frustrating statement like that can’t possibly begin to faze him when it comes to her.

“In that case,” he begins, speaking M’amand.

“Actually, not that one, whichever that is.” Even when she’s cutting him off, her voice is so quiet and understated.

Miffed that his fluency in an obscure language, yet again, fails to be of any use to him, Nemesis begrudgingly nods. “How about this, then?” he tries again in his far less fluent Zemlyan.

And this time, she seems to understand.

“... That works,” Callie replies, voice just as quiet in Zemlyan as it is in Acerbic. Her pronunciation is scarily impeccable. “Why…?”

He glances around to see if there’s any response from the gentleman – thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be. Considering how few Zemlyans there are in Acerbis, it’s unlikely that he would have spoken the language, but one never knows with these types. “You see the man behind you? The one with the spade cufflinks?”

Without even turning around, she replies, “Yes.”

“He’s part of a society. I’d assume the Actors’ Guild, but I could be wrong. Or he could be a double agent.”

“A society? Like…” She raises her eyebrow. “A secret society?”

“Aye. Omen’s got its fair share.” He scans around him, eyes settling on the back of Theory’s head, which feels like a safe place to look at. “The Obscura Actors’ Guild is a big one. They operate out of the Obscura. Tobias Fitzroy - the Obscura’s owner - he’s in league with them, or he’s even the leader, that much is an open secret. Others of note are… the Greater Omen Correspondents’ League… the Acolytes of the Forgotten… The Omen Eyes… Likely the police force itself could constitute another, in function if not theory.”

He abruptly stops speaking as an Automaton Lex floats by, and waits tensely to continue until it drifts out of range again.

“I see.” She pauses. “Why? And how can you tell?”

“Why? I dunno. There’s something they’re fighting over, definitely. I’m not privy to what it is. I don’t think most of them know, either. But there’s something. Lotta Reverenti in those societies, ‘specially the Acolytes…” He sighs. “... That’s beyond me, I’m not shoving my nose in their business. Just keep an eye on ‘em.”

“Alright.” She pauses again for a brief moment as the Automaton Lex floats by a second time. “Then how do you know he’s a member?”

He scoffs lightly. “... That’s elementary. The spades are a common symbol. Most of the Actors’ Guild have them tattooed, somewhere or other. Tattoos are common, in general. Weird stuff. Stuff like eyes on ankles and chains on collarbones. And of course, I have my ways to tell – this guy is swimming in deceit. Most of them are. On their own, neither of those clues are proof, but… The way he’s glancing around, like he’s looking for something. That helped me come to that conclusion, too. I could be wrong. But I doubt it.”

“Pardon me,” says a third voice, in plain Acerbic. “I happened to overhear your conversation. I must say, it’s been quite a while since I’ve heard someone so astute, even if he was speaking in Zemlyan of all languages.”

The speaker is a man perhaps one or two years older than Nemesis, but probably no older than Theory. He’s dressed sharply in a gray tweed jacket and a messenger bag not dissimilar to Nemesis’ slung over his shoulder. Short (but still somewhat disheveled) coils of hair frame the deep brown skin of his face. His eyes, also brown, are sharp and inquisitive, and he wears square glasses with silver rims, which have slid perhaps a concerning amount down his nose. His expression radiates excitement, somehow kind-looking, as though he has not just overheard two strange people discussing secret societies.

In front of Nemesis, Theory glances over her shoulder with brows furrowed.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! No, that must have been so unsettling, sorry – I need to stop just doing that to people! Please forgive me!” The man frantically shakes his head. “My instincts got ahead of me. I hope I haven’t ruined your conversation!”

Now that Nemesis thinks about it, this is a rather suspicious way to interrupt a conversation, especially about such a suspicious subject. He glances down at his compass, and feels a brief jolt of shock. The hands are pointing in just about every direction, glowing and quivering – the one thing they don’t seem to identify as deceitful is this man. He is, if anything, suspiciously truthful.

“Not at all,” Nemesis responds calmly, glancing over him again. Either he’s completely genuine, or he’s somehow preventing the compass from reading him – but no, that can’t be the case, either, because there’s a clear green needle pointed directly at him, absent of any of the tell-tale glow.

Whoever this man is, he isn’t keeping any secrets.

“Oh, thank goodness. I would have hated to offend you…” He runs a hand through his hair, smiling sheepishly. Under his breath, he murmurs, “You can’t keep doing this, Percy.”

“It’s… fine, really.” The man – Percy – doesn’t seem quite convinced. Nemesis continues, “Really. It’s my job to do worse. You’re quite fine.”

“It’s your job to interrupt people in crowded lines?” His eyes widen, intrigued. “That’s – that’s fascinating, I really must hear more about that, would you mind an interview even though I’m aware this is quite the public place and really might be inconvenient for you and I might be making a fool of myself –”

“No, no, no…” Against his own better judgement, Nemesis can’t help but find Percy a little bit endearing. “No, I’m a private investigator.”

“A private investigator?!” At that, he seems to get almost more excited. “Oh, oh my goodness. You must be Nemesis Jones! Yes, you must be, silver hair and a newsboy cap, of course - I’ve heard about you, you know –” he holds out his hand eagerly, extending it so alarmingly fast that Nemesis briefly thinks he’s about to be punched and just barely flinches. The grin on his face would be infectious were the whole of the situation not faintly unnerving. “T. Percival Chase, reporter for The Electric Sun. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Wait, wait… You’ve heard of me?” Nemesis shakes the hand with his own gloved one. Percy returns the gesture vigorously. “You’re the bloke that wrote the piece about the Baron’s passing, right? Remember reading that one.”

“Yes, that was me. It was pretty good work, if I may say so myself.” Percy grins lopsidedly. It isn’t un-charming. “Yeah, you’re getting pretty well-known around here. You solved the O’Leary kidnapping, and you exposed Mrs. Archibald’s affair… and those were both pretty quick, too.”

He quirks an eyebrow, face falling into something more serious.“... Really, you should be more careful. Criminals already feel safe going to you. Either the constables will get on your case, or you’ll get in the middle of something nasty.. and that would be a tragic loss of detective skills.”

Callie looks up in concern. Nemesis simply chuckles in response. “... I’ll be fine, promise. I can handle myself better than people think.”

“Really?” Theory asks, deadpan, “Because you look, full offense intended, like a rich boy with easily breakable kneecaps.”

“I am a rich boy with kneecaps of average breakability, thank you very much –” Nemesis continues as Percy stifles a laugh, “– and I reckon I’ve been in more fistfights than you, actually, Miss I-Own-A-Bookstore.”

“Can’t argue with that. Never been in a fistfight, and I’m not particularly an expert on kneecaps,” she agrees.

“I haven’t been in a fistfight either,” Callie adds. “I know a lot about kneecaps.”

“Ooh, tell me something about kneecaps!” Percy asks enthusiastically.

“Frogs have them.”

“Thank you. I’m so happy for them…” he says, sounding as genuine as ever.

Nemesis observes Theory rolling her eyes as the line inches forward. The entrance to the theatre feels both so close he should be able to reach out and touch it and so far that he’s convinced he’ll wait the remainder of his lifespan before he can finally cross its doorstep. On top of that, it’s rather cold outside. He’s not too bothered by it himself, but he can’t imagine how Theory is managing to function in that low-cut dress of hers.

There’s a momentary, oppressive silence, before Percy follows up, “I don’t think I’ve been in a fistfight, either, but I’ve watched them.”

“Do you enjoy watching people be hurt, Chase?” Theory asks, unnervingly serious, though Nemesis gets the sense she’s joking.

Percy, clearly, doesn’t get the same read of it. “No! I mean – it’s just important to know what’s going on, right? Especially for a reporter like me.”

The line continues on moving forward. Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “Aye, just as important as it is for a private investigator. But a fistfight can be plenty entertaining if done right, you know.”

“I’m sure… I suppose the same can be said for swordfights in plays.” Percy smiles. “I hear there’s quite the swordfight in this production. I’m very excited for it. The Theatre Obscura’s productions tend to be top-notch. I would know. I’ve reviewed most of them.”

His grin seems a little more confident now, not unlike a softer version of a smirk that would certainly look very natural on Nemesis, but very unnatural on him. “Have you read any of my reviews, by the way?”

“New in town, sorry.” He raises his eyebrow a little further, hoping this expression is quizzical enough to get the point across. “Never especially interested in the theatre, either. Always preferred books. You really, er… like swordfights, hmm?”

“No more than anything else. A journalist has to know a little about everything, and –”

“Pardon, ma’am,” a dry-voiced usher asks. “May I see your tickets?”

Theory produces them calmly, and they enter the theatre as, behind them, Percy struggles to locate his own tickets among a mass of crumpled papers in his pockets. For a journalist, he doesn't seem especially organized, Nemesis thinks to himself. Callie glances from Percy to Nemesis and back, nervous.

“...does he need help?”

Nemesis shrugs. “Eh. He can probably figure it out himself. He’s an adult, isn’t he?”

“He doesn’t look much older than you,“ Theory mutters dryly. Callie, on the other hand, is already by Percy’s side, attempting to help him to no avail.

Nemesis sighs. “And I’m an adult, aren’t I?”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“I pay rent. I pay taxes.”

“Do you actually pay taxes?”

He scoffs. “Goodness, no. Nothing I do is so above-board as to be taxable.”

She rolls her eyes, though he can detect the barest affectionate edge to her voice. “That’s what I thought, you ruffian. Be a little quieter, we’re in public.”

“So that means you’re not turning me in to the constables…?”

She lets out what he supposes might, in some universe, be construed as the faintest hint of a chuckle.

Finally, though, Percy seems to have it sorted out, and steps at last into the crowded entryway. The Theatre Obscura doesn’t look dissimilar to a large manor, with velvet carpets, and paintings lining the walls. In the center of the room, a statue of King Julius the Great stands mounted on a fountain, dressed in his finery and holding aloft a sword that looks as though it might have, once upon a time, been functional. The fountain’s bubbling waters are tinged red, a work of subtle and shockingly tasteful artifice.

Percy stops to photograph the fountain, and Callie hovers over his shoulder, looking intrigued. Nemesis approaches them. “Found a new boss, eh? That was awful quick…”

“Not unless he has a better house, or unless he knows Ap-him.”

Percy flinches. “H–house? I have no idea what either of you are on about, but my father would be so angry if I brought a strange girl into my house.”

“Probably a reasonable attitude to have,” Theory adds from over Nemesis’ shoulder. “I think someone around here should start taking notes, personally.”

Callie glances from Percy to Nemesis. “... It’s fine. I think I’m better being a detective than a reporter.”

“Flattered, truly. Though we’re private investigators, not detectives.” He neglects to add that the two of them have yet to solve any cases together. Time for that later. “Apologies, Chase. Looks as if you shan’t be relieving me of my assistant yet. Better luck next time.”

Percy laughs lightly. “... Darn it. Next time. I’ll… um, I’ll be on my way, then. My sister, she’s actually in this performance – I’d like to see her before it starts.”

Nemesis nods. “... You might see me again, then, actually. I’m – er – I’d like to head backstage at some point, too.”

“Of course, your natural curiosity would propel you to do something like that, detective!”

“Private investigator,” he corrects.

“Right, right, whichever,” he says with a slight hum, waving as he leaves.

“A detective works with the police, for the record. That’s the difference,” he informs Callie promptly.

“I don’t know why that distinction matters so much to you, but I was aware it existed.” She glances across at where Theory had been a moment ago. “... Where did Ms. Hayes vanish off to? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Weren’t –” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “– Okay, just to be clear. As my assistant, it’s your job to help me. And it will be very helpful, if, in the future –”

“I pay attention to things?”

“Aye, that’d be great, seeing as my eyes are exclusively located on the one side of my head and all.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” She raises an eyebrow. “You should have probably told me that before something happened.”

“Realizing that now. Hindsight’s immaculate and all.” He adjusts his cap with a sigh, glancing around. “‘S not like she’s not more of an adult than either of us or can’t take care of herself, but I wish she’d said something.”

“You said it yourself. She’s an adult.” Her gaze has turned uncharacteristically intense, and he has to tilt his head to avoid it. “I know how you feel, though. I worry about Art, even though I know between the two of us he can take better care of himself.”

“Hayes isn’t my brother, or my guardian. We’re not even friends. It’s not the same.”

“You’re not friends?” she repeats slowly. “I see…”

“No. No, we aren’t–” He frowns . “She’s an acquaintance. Friend is a strong word, you know. Don’t use it so flippantly. Friendship is – it’s a big deal.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she mutters. It’s almost unintelligible. Nemesis feels his heart drop.

Carefully, he places one hand on her shoulder. “... Sorry.” It isn’t as if he could have thought of anything else to say, and she seems to realize that, and understand, at least to some degree. She doesn’t seem angry, at least.

He sighs. “... I need to… go somewhere. Somewhere I probably shouldn’t be. If you’d like to come with…”

“I wouldn’t be able to find my way around if I didn’t,” she says, just as quiet. Of course she wouldn’t. She’s reliant on him.

It’s a feeling he should be relishing in, but instead it feels like a weight. He weaves through the crowd, holding the hand of a girl who has never, in her life, had a friend.

His destination is at the back of the hall, and as he expected, it’s thoroughly off-limits. A sign on the door reads, in plain type:

He tries the doorknob, finding it predictably locked. A bit rude, Nemesis thinks, but only a slight inconvenience. He has just the thing for this. He quickly reaches into his bag, fiddling around for only a moment before pulling out what he needs – a set of wires in various lengths. He quickly begins work on the lock.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Callie asks nervously, glancing around as though the Automata Lex are going to appear at any moment and call for both of their arrests.

“I’m offended you’d imply I’ve ever had anything other than a good idea.” Though he can’t shake the heavy feeling their earlier conversation has left him with, Nemesis’ focus is on his goal. “Really, I’m fine. This lock is pretty well put-together, but it’s not a big d –”

And, as though he has unknowingly become an actor in a slapstick routine, the door opens, knob slamming directly into Nemesis’ head, knocking his cap off as he feels a dull, deep pain spread through his skull. Of course this would happen, he thinks to himself. Rule of dramatic irony, always. But he still has enough of his wits about him to shove the lockpicks deep into his bag, far out of sight.

Callie, unnervingly, seems completely unfazed by the door opening. “I told you this was a bad idea,” she says quietly. Nemesis has to bite his cheek to quiet down the feeling of rage that immediately swells up in him. He faintly tastes metal.

“Bad idea? Are you guys idiots, trying to sneak backstage? Hmph.” The person who opened the door is around Nemesis’ height, with braided brown hair that reaches their waist and disheveled clothing, a musical instrument of some sort strapped to their back. Their pointed ears immediately catch Nemesis’ attention.

Willowy build, light tan skin, green eyes, long black braid, Beian, with strangely pointy ears and cat-like eyes – not precisely an unremarkable appearance, but he recognizes it from Elias’ descriptions. Of course, that means there’s only one person this could be.

“Hello, Jing,” he says calmly. “May I call you Jing? I’m afraid I don’t know your surname. I’m an old friend of Elias’, and I was hoping to stop by and say hello, if that’s alright –”

They humph again and cross their arms, glaring at him. “And why should I believe you? Some random bastard shows up and says he’s Elias’ friend? I don’t buy it. Give me a more believable explanation before I get Mr. Fitzroy and he has you arrested.”

He sighs, painstakingly moving onto his knees and pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course, it won’t be that easy. “If I’m not really Elias’ friend, how would I know your name?”

He notices the momentary look of hesitation on their face, and has to hold himself back from grinning. Checkmate.

“Well…” They glance at him, and their look is full of contempt. It isn’t a look he’s unused to. He feels equal parts enraged and powerful. “He talks about me?”

“Of course. Mentions you fairly often.” He shrugs. “He ever talk about me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Jones. Nemesis Jones.”

Jing pretends to think for a moment, then shakes their head. “Hmm, no! In fact, he never talks about any of his little Llygredish acquaintances. I guess you just didn’t mean that much to him.”

Of course, Elias wouldn’t have spoken about anyone named Nemesis Jones. Still, the way they said it… Trying and succeeding to hide just how much that statement feels like a punch in the gut, Nemesis shakily stands up. “Right, well. Thought I’d stop by and say hello regardless. So if you don’t mind…”

He attempts to walk past them, but they stick their arm out, and as he pauses to adjust his trajectory, they deliver a not-so-gentle kick to his left shin.

“I’ll to ask him, but if he says no, I’m going to tell security, so I’d recommend taking advantage of this head start.”

With a malicious snicker, they turn around to walk off.

Callie stares at their retreating back. Playing nervously with the end of her own shorter braid, she says, “... You said hair like that isn’t normal.”

“Aye, that’s ‘cause it isn’t. Not for Acerbians, anyway. For Beians, sure.”He looks away from her, shaking, and in the brief moment his rage escapes him.

With all the force he can muster, he throws his fist against the nearest wall, and he feels his bones groan as a burning sensation spreads through his hand and wrist.

Callie looks on in disbelief and concern as he drops his hand to his side, now aching and throbbing. He can feel it beginning to swell under his glove.

“Wh–hy did you do that?” It’s had an effect he didn’t count on – Callie looks terrified. The girl who was completely unflappable when the door slammed open in Nemesis’ face now looks on wide-eyed, as though that punch might as well have been directed at her. “Doesn’t it… Doesn’t it hurt?”

He reflexively apologises. “Sorry. Instinct. Hurts, yeah. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” That isn’t a promise he’s sure he can make, and the lie tastes like bile on his tongue; putrid and unsettling.

“If it hurts, why did you do it?” Callie takes a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut. “What’s the point?”

“I dunno. I dunno, it’s just – it’s like a rush, I can’t stop myself. It’s like I lose it for a moment, and just go unhinged, lose all sense of domestication and –” he takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and slaps himself with his good hand. “This all makes me sound like a bloody lunatic, but I swear that’s not it. I don’t – I don’t hurt people, I just –”

“It’s alright, I believe you.”

That in itself is nearly enough to send him over the edge again, but he bottles it up properly this time, nodding.

“... Thanks. I’ll make it worth your while.” And even as he says it, the pain still spreading through his arm and the guilt he feels when he sees Callie’s face can’t compare to his feeling of sick satisfaction. He has to hold himself back from grinning.

I can hurt myself better than any of you could ever hope to.

And then the door opens again, and he finds himself faced with Elias Malik Fitzroy. For so long, it felt as though it would never happen – but here he is, and here Nemesis is, and they’re meeting eyes, Elias’ wide with worry.

“You’re here–” he says, voice high and shocked, grabbing Nemesis by the still-injured wrist and pulling him backstage. “Jing, keep an eye on his guest – I need to – one moment.”

And before Nemesis can say anything, Elias has pulled both of them into a supply closet and shut the door.

There they are, mere inches from each other, Elias looking disheveled and worried but entirely like Elias, and Nemesis can barely feel the pain of his arm anymore.

“You’re okay,” he mutters.

“I’m okay? I’m okay? I was worried sick about you. I… I thought you wouldn’t be able to find a place to stay –” Elias frowns. “I’m fine, don’t… don’t waste your time worrying about that. I’m fine. The most pressing worry in my mind has been that you were probably out there on the streets.”

“I found somewhere to stay. It’s fine. Not like I wouldn’t survive fine on the streets, regardless.” Nemesis winces, shifting slightly. “My arm is, er… Don’t worry about it. Really. No need to worry about anything. I’ve just been… er… I’ve been worried about you, and everything –”

Elias laughs. It hits Nemesis hard, how much he missed seeing it. “We’re both idiots.”

“Speak for yourself.” He grins half-heartedly. “I’m a genius.”

“Sure you bloody are. That’s why you ruined your wrist again, huh?” He holds Nemesis’ wrist in both hands, frowning as he places a characteristically gentle hand on his glove. Nemesis shakes his head, and he nods.

“Later. Later. Not… not here.”

There’s a pause. Elias doesn’t meet his eyes. “... Yeah. I understand. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Before he can think better of it, Nemesis places his hand over Elias’, lightly squeezing it. “Don’t be sorry. I missed you.”

“I’m –” Elias glances away sharply. “Right. I… I missed you too –” He pauses, deflating just a tiny bit. “–Nemesis. Really.”

“... Sorry. It’s –” Nemesis has to struggle to force the words out. “–t’s… I can’t… Can’t risk…”

“I understand,” Elias replies, chuckling ruefully under his breath. “Nemesis Jones. That’s a dumb name, you know? That’s the most obviously fake name I’ve ever heard.”

“I know, I know.” And yet it still feels like being punched in the stomach. The sensation isn’t far from having all the air drained from him in one fell swoop, leaving him with a dull, empty feeling in his chest. “But it’s my name now. I can’t be him again. It’s… it’s meant to sound fake. You know how I feel about lying.”

“I can’t pretend I understand.” And here he sounds genuinely conflicted. Elias isn’t the type to be malicious, especially hopefully not towards him. “You hate lying, but you’re introducing yourself with a fake name?”

He takes a deep breath. “... It’s not lying. I don’t say… I don’t say my name is Nemesis Jones. I just say… I’m Nemesis Jones. It’s not a lie. It isn’t.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to. Just… Don’t blow my cover, El.” He feels as though he’s begging. He might as well be.

Elias purses his lips, finally glancing back at Nemesis with a look of stony thought. Nemesis’ heart skips a beat – surely Elias is about to reveal that he never cared and commit to ruining his old friend’s new life, once and for all – but instead, his voice is soft, barely above a murmur. Nervous.

“... Can I at least keep… you know? When it’s just the two of us?” And before Nemesis can give his honest answer – I’d rather you didn’t – he continues, “N–nah, I take it back. I can tell it makes you uncomfortable, and I’m not going to keep doing that. I don’t know… what you mean. When you talk about being different people now. But whoever you are, he’s my best friend. I don’t want him to be gone.”

All he can manage in response is a low, nervous laugh. “Fuck, Elias, you might as well’ve just punched me in the face, huh? Yeah. You can call me whatever you want if it makes you happy.”

Elias doesn't look particularly reassured, but he gives a stiff nod.

“I… I’m going to respect your wishes. I can’t call myself a good friend and then hurt you like that. Sorry.” He twitches nervously, glancing at the door. “... Jing will be wondering where we are.”

It’s a very good excuse to end the conversation, Nemesis thinks. He’s almost impressed. “Who cares? Jing’s a dick. Jing threatened to turn me in to the constables. I don’t give a damn what they think.”

“Don’t be like that…” Elias awkwardly stands, helping Nemesis up, careful not to put too much pressure on his hurt arm. “They’re difficult, I know, but they’re trying their hardest. They’ve had a tough life.”

“I’ve also had a tough life. Having a bloody tough life right now, actually. As we speak.”

Elias narrows his eyes. “Me too. Let’s not make anyone else’s any tougher then, alright? Promise?”

“Unless they deserve it,” Nemesis insists.

“Unless they deserve it,” Elias amends, reaching out his hand carefully. “Shake on it? And don’t go suggesting a blood pact or anything else dramatic like that. I know you think everything’s gotta be meaningful and significant, but I can’t get hurt right before a show. We can carve matching scars into our arms or whatever it is you’re going to suggest later.”

“You think so lowly of me.” Nemesis shakes Elias’ hand carefully, trying to hide shaking that he knows is there. “No blood pacts, no matching scars. My word is binding, you know.”

“Unfortunately, I’m aware. That’s what I’d consider a flaw, my dear friend.” Elias adjusts his sleeve with a half-grin forming on his face. “Keep in mind, when I’m saying you can’t make anyone’s life tougher, that includes your own.”

Nemesis frowns. “You tricked me, you scoundrel. You know my word is my oath. That isn’t fair.”

“Not fair? Shouldn’t agree to promises with shady pianists in dark closets, then, genius.”

Elias removes Nemesis’ cap from his head in one smooth motion, flicking his forehead with the other hand as he repositions it atop his own hair, brown and curly and charmingly untidy as always. “This is why you keep losing bets to me. Think for a moment. Don’t just do whatever seems right.”

“Has doing what seems right ever worked out badly for me?!”

He raises a single eyebrow. “Are you seriously asking that?”

“I– no, no I’m not. But I can’t think about that now.” Nemesis sighs. “... For the time being, your wish is my command. No one gets hurt, unless they deserve it. But I want my hat back.”

Elias carefully opens the door. “Later, Jones, later. All things come in due time, and I’m actually sort of loving how this feels on my head. How do I look?”

“Devilishly handsome. I want to get on my knees and propose to you right now.”

“Good, good. That’s the plan.” He gives Nemesis an affectionate smack on the shoulder – the shoulder that still hurts, but it’s not as if Nemesis is in any place to complain, not when Elias is smiling. “You can try it if you want. No guarantee I’ll say yes, but I do think I’d enjoy the sight. Anyway, if it’s that easy to get you on your knees –”

“Aha! That’s very funny, Elias, and I am going to kick you in the shins.”

“Please do, but only if I can slap you after you’re done with that.”

“Deal.” Nemesis kicks him in the shin rather gently, and Elias chuckles and turns around to slap him quite hard across the face. He feels disoriented, a warm feeling spreading through his cheek. It isn’t quite pain.

“You actually did it, you bloody madman,” he says between laughs.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Nah, I knew you would.”

“Right. That makes two, then.”

He laughs, rubbing his face gingerly. He’s taken quite the beating so far in the night, and he hasn’t even gotten into any fistfights yet. “You hit way harder than I remember.”

“And you hit way softer.” Elias punches him in the shoulder, gently this time. “Wimp.”

“Bastard.”

“Nah, you.”

“Got me there.”

“Oh my stars.” Jing’s eyes are wide and full of what seems to Nemesis like abject disgust, while Callie stands behind them, looking concerned to the point of mild fear. “What are you doing to Elias? I’m going to kill you!”

“Hey, hey.” Elias places a hand gingerly on their shoulder. “No. No, you are not going to kill him. It’s fine. He’s a friend.”

“But he kicked you!” They protest.

“And he slapped him,” Callie interjects, and Jing glares at her.

Elias sighs. “She’s right, Jing. It’s okay. Don’t get angry on my behalf.”

They don’t seem happy about it, but they step back, relenting for the time being. “Okay. But if it happens again…”

“You’re not my bodyguard and you aren’t my parent, Jing.”

They look for a moment as though they might protest, but seem to think better of it, glancing to the side. “... Right. Okay. If you say so.”

Callie awkwardly glances at Nemesis. He can tell all of this interaction is beginning to overwhelm her. “Should we… leave?”

“By all means, no.” Elias crosses his arms. “I’m not going to have an old friend turn up without showing him around. What sort of host would that make me?”

“... I didn’t know Nemesis had friends,” she mutters under her breath.

“Yeah. Common sentiment, that.” Nemesis hopes he’s managed to hide the bitterness in his voice. “I do, and his name’s Elias. Elias, this is Callie. My… assistant.”

“Assistant? Really moving up in life, huh, Jones?” Elias claps him on the shoulder. “Try not to let it go to your head. In that case, I’m Elias Malik… Fitzroy, Nemesis’… friend.

And this,” he motions to Jing, who begrudgingly waves, “Is Liu Jing, one of the employees here. You could consider them my friend as well. They’re quite a talented musician.”

Jing beams. “Aww, you’re flattering me!” It’s such a drastic shift in demeanor from just a moment ago that Nemesis can hardly believe he’s still looking at the same person.

“Which instrument do you play?” Callie asks tentatively.

Their grin widens. “Glad you asked! I play the sanxian. It’s a traditional Beian instrument, you’ve probably never seen one before.”

“I haven’t,” she admits, “But I’ve seen pictures in books.”

“Then boy, do I have an experience for you! They’re pretty in books, but way better in person!” They reach onto their back to remove the strange instrument from its holster. The sanxian is a round instrument with three strings and a long neck, rather beautifully made, with strange patterns carved on it. They proceed to play a short scale, and Nemesis must admit, their talent is even clear to someone like him, who has never been a particular sanxian music aficionado. Their fingers fly gracefully over the strings, elegant, airy, and quick, and when they’re done Callie applauds energetically.

Elias applauds as well, a genuine, soft smile on his face. “You’ll hear more of Jing’s work tonight, of course…”

Jing bows, and Nemesis’ attention wanders.

The backstage, unlike the front of the theatre, is in complete disarray. Boxes and crates, in various opened and unopened states, are scattered all over. In the back, a black-haired violinist is tuning their instrument, and several stagehands are rushing around with various props. In the far corner, Nemesis can see Percy talking to a beautiful girl with long, braided hair – his sister, he presumes. He can certainly see the resemblance, even from a distance.

It’s mostly quiet, but one person turns around to smile widely at the gathered four, and then begins rapidly making her way in their direction. Nemesis attempts to offer her an introductory grin, but she pushes past him without a word. “Elias, dear, you completely vanished.”

The woman is tall, dressed in a beautiful purple dress, a tight pearl necklace around her neck, and long off-white gloves reaching to her elbows. Her sandy-colored hair is tied up in an elaborate bun, and her pale face is made up elaborately, with lavender eye-shadow. Nemesis can smell perfume wafting off of her in waves, a sweet and flowery scent with that distinct, overwhelming, unpleasant alcoholic scent that far too many perfumes seem to have.

She puts a hand on each of Elias’ shoulders and leans in towards him, and Nemesis can see him struggling not to recoil. “I was so worried!”

“Well, there wasn’t any need for that, seeing as I haven’t gone any farther than this.” He isn’t making eye contact. “I was simply greeting an old friend. Lusitania, this is… Nemesis.”

Of course. Lusitania Renwick: Tobias Fitzroy’s hand-picked young star, the one whose name has been headlining so many of the Theatre Obscura’s shows as of late. Nemesis has been told that she was beautiful, but now that he’s met her in person, he can’t really see it.

She smiles at him, and he feels vaguely unsettled, like a prey animal meeting eyes with its natural predator. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you… Nemmy?”

“You are absolutely not calling me that. Pleasure to meet you too, though.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Elias staring at him with a quiet concern.

“Hmph. Don’t be rude.” She glances back at Elias. “Darling, all your little friends are so rude to me. I can’t imagine they’re nice to you.”

Behind him, Nemesis can practically feel Jing seething with rage.

“That’ll be my problem, then. I like my friends fine.” He crosses his arms tensely. “That’s why they’re my friends.”

“I worry. They must have a negative effect on your mental state, with how violent and judgemental they are.” Callie holds out an precautionary arm, pulling Jing farther from Lusitania, who continues, not seeming to notice. “Not to mention, that boy’s accent… No offense, but he sounds like he grew up on a farm.”

Nemesis crosses his arms, scowling. This is the last thing he’d expected to hear. His native accent’s not quite so proper as the posh Llygredish spoken by the aristocracy and foreign students or the ever-so-fashionable Omenite accent, that’s true. But it’s a city dialect, far from anything that would ever come up on a farm. “All due respect, madam, I’ve never been to a farm in my life.”

“Well, that’s very good for you.” Lusitania pouts at Elias. “... Really, though. You should come help me go over my lines.”

Elias sighs and lowers his gaze. Nemesis can tell he’s not precisely thrilled at the invitation. “... Okay. Alright, if that’s what you want.”

Nemesis feels a familiar anger welling up, but before he can act on it, he hears another new voice – this particular one tinged with faint Luciellite accent.

“Aww, Luce! You left me all alone to rehearse, that’s not fair! What, do you expect me to read my lines to this broom?” A man with a wild grin and a rather expensive-looking suit pokes Lusitania with the end of the aforementioned broomstick. “Or am I not good enough for you? Elias doesn’t know any of our lines, he just knows his cues. You know full well he doesn’t bother to read the scripts properly.”

“Hmph.” Lusitania straightens up, glaring at him. “Very well. I suppose I’ll humor that. I wouldn’t want to put dear Elias out of his depth. But is Shuai not an appropriate person to work with?”

“I have my own lines to go over, you know.” A Beian woman with short hair, wearing a green dress accented with gold jewelry, leans on the man’s shoulder with a thin smile. In contrast to Lusitania’s stick-thin figure, she’s curvier, more heavyset, and rounder. “You’re both acting awfully flippant, considering we have about two hours until curtains rise.”

“Oh! Oh, goodness, you’re right, oh… I’ve been horrid, I’ve been neglecting my work –”

The woman’s face falls. “... Oh, Lusie, I didn’t mean that.” To Nemesis, she looks more exhausted of Renwick’s behavior than sincerely apologetic.

“Don’t feel bad! Let’s just do better now!” The man grabs Lusitania by the arm, pulling her away from Elias, who visibly relaxes. He points to Nemesis and Callie with a grin. “And you guys! Don’t listen in, okay? No spoilers!”

“Right, no spoilers.” Nemesis, in all honesty, finds himself relieved that Lusitania is no longer in his immediate vicinity. “Break a leg! That’s what you theatre-types say, right?”

“Yeah! This guy’s got the spirit!” The man grins, and the woman laughs as they retreat.

Elias brushes a tired hand through his hair. “... Sorry about that. Those were… Walter Morrow and Zhou Shuai. Some of the stars of tonight’s performance. As I assume… you had already figured out, that was more for her.” He points at Callie.

She blinks. “Oh, no, I figured it out too. I saw their names on the posters at the door. I’m just curious as to why she thinks you can talk to you like that.”

“... Thinks she can… talk to me like what?” He doesn't look genuinely confused, more subdued; uncomfortable. “Lusitania isn’t doing anything wrong. She can talk to me however she wants. She’s my fiancée, and all.”

Jing, Nemesis can see, is trying their best to bottle up their frustration, and mostly failing. He’s in a similar place, though doing a much better job of hiding it. Elias carefully reaches out and puts a hand on Jing’s shoulder, sighing. “... You two should probably get going. Before… before Father shows up. When Lusitania’s upset, he’s always the first to hear about it.”

Nemesis glances nervously at Callie, reaching for her arm. “Right. I’m… I’m sorry. I’ll see you after, right?”

“I hope so.” Elias doesn’t sound sure.

The door opens behind Nemesis and Callie moments after they close it behind them. He looks back over his shoulder to see a familiar, grinning face.

“Didn’t know you were backstage,” Percy says, smiling ear to ear. “No idea why you were, I mean. Did you sneak in? That’s pretty awesome.”

“Hmm, no, we were invited.” After the fact, but that's not important. Nemesis smiles slightly. “After all, Elias Fitzroy is an old friend of mine.”

“Old friend? Intriguing. You know, when people say ‘old friend’, that’s almost always code for something a bit more meaningful, right? I’ve got the sense he’s either your arch-nemesis or your secret lover, based on that. Or maybe both. I suppose they’re not mutually exclusive.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Goodness, no. Neither of those. Unfortunately. I’d love to say we’ve had some sort of dramatic backstory, but as it stands we were simply schoolmates. I suppose ‘arch-nemesis’ isn’t too far off, sometimes. He can be a lot. I could also be a lot, back in the day.” His smile slowly morphs into a smirk. “Whenever we competed I won, though.”

Within a specific definition of ‘competed’, but that doesn't need to be said.

Percy seems contemplative for a moment, before brightening up again. “That’s… fascinating. If I ever write a piece about him, I’ll make sure to interview you. Reticent guy, doesn’t open up to many people, from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, sounds like Elias.” There’s a well-concealed stab of pride. That’s right, Elias doesn’t open up to many people. Just me.

“He’s pretty nice, but he still hasn’t apologized for the time he forgot my name.” The girl who must be Percy’s sister leans against the wall with her arms crossed, grinning. Unlike Percy’s grin, which is soft and curious, hers is more self-assured and cocky. The skin on her temples is slightly discolored, Nemesis notes, reflecting the red light but looking strangely blue. He supposes it must be a strange manifestation.

That aside, she wears a black calf-length skirt over a white blouse, with a black necktie and jacket, and her hair is braided and tied back. She does bear a very close resemblance to Percy, as Nemesis had initially thought. Aside from the discoloration, she might as well be a female version of him. They must be twins.

“Her name’s Evelyn,” Percy provides. “But she goes by Evie, mostly. And sometimes forgets to introduce herself, which is really the crux of the matter here. I still fully believe it was an honest mistake and you’re being far too harsh on him.”

“He should have known.”

“How, if you never told him?” Callie asks.

Evie’s grin softens. “I’m joking, I’m joking. He’s fine, he’s a nice enough guy, plays the piano really well. Just feels like it’s hard to talk to him when Lusie’s also in the room, and she usually is.”

“No offense to Miss Renwick, but she seems like quite a lot to deal with.” Callie is quiet. Probably worried about offending Evie, Nemesis assumes.

“Oh, she definitely is. But she’s a great actress, and ever since she proposed to Elias, Mr. Fitzroy has been making sure she’s made welcome. Shuai gets tired of her as well, and even Walter does sometimes, and I don’t think he ever gets tired of anything. I still think Elias’ assistant is about to murder her in her sleep one of these days.”

“Again, sounds plausible for Jing.” He has to hold himself back from thinking that he won’t mind if they do just that. Wishing harm upon innocent women who did nothing more than be slightly overbearing would be unbecoming of someone like him. “Still, I’m quite excited to see her in action tonight.”

“Oh, she’s an amazing actress, of course. After all –”

The door behind them opens again. “Evie, who are you talking to?”

Of course, he knows who the speaker is. With her long black hair and unsettlingly pale skin–through which he can almost swear he sees veins–her deep red eyes, and her nearly featureless figure, lacking in visible curves, she’s among the most easily recognizable people in the city. Morgana Fitzroy is dressed practically, with a dark blue satin blouse, a thin, tiered black skirt which is, as is the fashion, long in the back and knee-length in the front, black lace tights, black knee-high boots, and a formal jacket. Her face is adorned with a thin, delicate smile. Despite how unsettling her appearance should be, she’s beautiful, there’s no denying it.

“No one important. Just acquaintances.” He bows slightly, as is customary, and Callie nervously imitates. “We were just about to leave Miss Chase in peace, in fact.”

“I see.” Morgana smiles. “That’s fine. I do hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves tonight so far.”

“Of course.” This time it’s Callie who speaks up. “The theatre is really beautiful. I’ve never been before.”

Morgana chuckles lightly. Her voice is low, composed, and elegant. “Why, thank you. I did some of the decorating, you know. Father is very busy, so it’s up to me sometimes. It’s very gratifying to know that you’ve been enjoying it.”

“Well, it’s gorgeous. Truly. If you’re half as good a playwright as you are a designer, I have a feeling tonight will be amazing – but of course, I know you’re even better.” Nemesis smiles. Of course, it’s flattery, and the lies feel unpleasant on his tongue, but he can’t deny she has a very good eye for decoration, and he’s heard she’s supposedly an amazing playwright. However, that all remains to be seen, and his standards are very high.

“Of course. She’s amazing. I’m always honored to report on her shows.” Percy smiles at her, which she returns. “I think you’re going to enjoy yourself a lot, Nemesis.”

“Well, I do hope so.” Nemesis nods. “But I do worry I’ve been keeping you three. Callie and I may as well go get some food before the show starts. It’s been an honor meeting you, Miss Fitzroy.” He tips her his cap.

“Of course. An honor meeting you as well, Mr…”

“Jones.”

“Mr. Jones.” She almost seems surprised. He supposes the name is deceptively plain.

“Right. Before you go –” Percy scribbles on a piece of paper and hands it to him. “Call me about an interview sometime. Or a collaboration.”

“Will do.” Nemesis waves, and turns to leave, Callie following him. Behind them, they hear the door shut.

“So that was the illustrious Ms. Fitzroy.”

Callie raises an eyebrow. “Her and Elias don’t look related.”

“Well, of course. They’re not related by blood. Never heard of adoption?”

She lowers her voice. “Well, no, actually. Raised away from society and all?”

“Right, right, aware of it, just…” He frowns. “Sorta hard to predict what you would and wouldn’t know about. I’m not your brother.”

“You aren’t,” she agrees. “But really, what’s ‘adopted’?”

He sighs. “Adoption is when… people who aren’t blood related legally and socially become recognized as family. Most common with orphans adopted by new parents, but any sort of relative can be adopted.”

“I see. That sounds strange. Calling someone your family, even when they aren’t related by blood? And… is that what happened to Elias, then? He’s an orphan?”

“It’s not so strange when you’ve experienced it. I mean, think about it in reverse. Would you expect someone whose family died before they even knew them, or someone whose family abandoned them, or tormented them until they had to run away – just because they’re considered family by some metric, that doesn’t mean the child in question should feel connected to them. One has no obligation to their blood family, as far as I’m concerned. And you can’t just ask if someone is an orphan. But yes, he is.”

“You make this sound like it might be personal. Don’t tell me you don’t have a family.”

“And that’s none of your business.” He scoffs. “Let’s just find Miss Hayes before you start asking me more invasive questions.”

“I don’t see how that’s invasive. You know about my family.”

Nemesis sighs. “Right. Suppose you wouldn’t get it.”

They finally find Theory sitting by the bar, two men sharing her table with her. One is around Nemesis’ age, pale and gaunt, with messy shoulder-length black hair and earrings in the shape of a bird’s skull, dressed in black. The other looks significantly older, with short blond hair, a dark green waistcoat, and a tired expression.

Theory waves them over. “No idea where you two were, by the way. I suppose you must enjoy vanishing, but I thought better of Callie.”

Callie frowns. “I was just following him.”

“That you were. All my fault, of course – don’t even think about blaming anyone else, Theers.” Nemesis pulls out a chair and sits down, scrutinizing the other two men. They’re both familiar. The black-haired one he recognizes, despite the fact that they’ve never spoken. It’s difficult to forget one of the few visitors to the bookstore, especially considering how young he looks. Barely older than Nemesis. Surely younger than Theory.

Noticing he’s being looked at, the man tilts his head curiously. “Yes, hello. Is there something on my face?” His voice carries a faint, upper-class Lygredish accent, the same elegant sort Nemesis emulates to the best of his ability.

“No, no.” Nemesis waves a hand, dismissing the thought. “I just remember you. You were at the bookstore, about a month ago.”

“That I was,” he agrees. “And so were you. Simply… lurking in the corner, like some sort of strange cat. Not that you’re a cat, of course. Simply that the silent staring achieved about the same effect.”

“Well, was I meant to intrude on your shopping experience?”

“No, no.” The man chuckles lightly. “But I never did get your name, Nemesis Jones.”

“Seems like you might’ve.”

“No, Miss Hayes was just talking about how she couldn’t locate you a couple minutes ago. I can only assume someone as ridiculous-looking as you would have a ridiculous name like Nemesis Jones.”

Nemesis laughs. “Guilty as charged. And what might your name be?”

“Oh, it’s Charles. Charles Dreadful.”

He pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah, too easy.”

Charles frowns. “It’s a perfectly respectable family name, you know.”

“Aye, of course it is, Charlie Horrible.”

“I prefer ‘Chuck Simply-the-Worst’, actually.” He sighs. “... Don’t actually call me that, if you don’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He glances at the blond man. This one, he recognizes as well, of course. He had sought him out first for help with his compass troubles. “Y’seem tired, Calloway… long day, has it been?”

“Every day is long in my line of work.” Indeed, Calloway sounds beyond exhausted, voice low and absent of any sort of energy.

“Of course. Forgive me for making one of your days that bit longer.”

“Not a problem, seeing as you paid me more than you had to.” He sighs. “At least I get today off to relax. Um… Suppose I’m self-employed, so having a day off shouldn’t be a big deal, but I feel comfortable taking today off, anyhow.”

“Right. How’s your wife been? You did mention having a wife, didn’t you?”

He sighs despondently. “... I do, yeah.”

Theory nods.

“We were just discussing… business. But it was lovely of you two to show up.” She glances at Nemesis. Despite the ‘two’ in her sentence, he gets the feeling this admonishment is directed entirely at him. “Show’s in not that long. We should be getting to our seats soon, anyway.”

“Genuine apologies,” Nemesis says. “I was just off, doing… oh, you know…”

“Mystery bullshit?” she suggests, quirking an eyebrow.

“… Aye, something like that. Not much success.”

“Perhaps,” she says slowly, “You would have more success if you applied yourself to a field other than mystery bullshit. I hear the common sense industry is really looking for new blood.”

He chuckles quietly, and she offers just the barest hint of a smile back. Any hint of an emotion that isn’t tired stoicism seems to light her face up, despite the fact that her mouth barely moved. He quietly supposes that this isn’t unlike when he talks to Elias. But, for whatever reason, something about it is different. The intense warm feeling that threatens to overcome him isn’t present. Instead, it’s a dull feeling: subtle, but distinctly happy.

He wonders if Theory could be considered his friend.

“Theory. Theo. Theers.” He grins. “The day I sell out to those common sense idiots is the day Nemesis Jones ceases to be Nemesis Jones.”

She looks stonily at him, though he can sense a hint of amusement in her expression. “Cease to exist, then.”

He laughs again. “You wound me, Theers!”

She pats him on the shoulder. “That’s something to bring up with the physicians at the Domus Vitae.”

Calloway clears his throat. “Ahem. We were saying. About getting to our seats.”

“Right, right.” Theory glances at Nemesis. “... Would you like something to drink, before we go in?”

“No thanks.” All things considered, it doesn’t seem the greatest idea. He’ll need his sobriety in these trying times.