Of all the moments the Voice in Alon's head could start barking orders at him again, this was by far the worst: The Vacant were out in droves tonight—as was their nature when The Fog was this dense.

“Alon! You’d better heed my words!”

Alon ignored it—just as he had done for the past week. He steadied himself as the wooden roof shingles slipped beneath his feet, one by one as they rattled and crashed onto the street below.

Anybody who had survived this long in the lower tier of Krestelen knew that The Vacant only ever traveled inside The Fog—and the roofs were the new streets given the previous had been smothered by the Fog, which spanned as far as the naked eye could see. Beyond the shambles that was the quarantine zone, past the Southern Plains outside the city and the Northern Forests beyond, The Fog spanned off into the horizon—seemongly having no true end.

“Why must you insist on letting this game pointlessly carry on? Simply follow what I tell you and your grand plans will come to fruition—All you have to do is trust me...”

Alon ignored it. He made sure to stay behind the rest of the Gang—Casian especially. If he of all people knew who Alon was speaking to, he’d get thrown off the roof there and then in fear he’d lost his mind like those shuffling mindlessly around below...

And in regard to those below, they weren’t dead, of course...

No. Despite popular belief among the other Gangs and survivors within the lower tier of the city, the people stupid enough to get consumed by The Fog didn’t actually have good enough fortune to die. They get trapped within their body, locked in like a rat in a trap—with the only thing they seem capable of doing is begging for their freedom, as they have always done...

Their eyes, however, work just fine. When they’re first dragged out of The Fog—and they become limp and cease control over the rest of their body—their eyes race around inside their skull, darting up and down, left and right, rapidly moving as if they believe moving them just that little bit faster will set them free.

But it never does. Over the next few weeks, they’ll slow down their eye movements, and simply watch the goings-on of those observing them. They’ll still beg for freedom, of course, however as the days pass by and they begin to lose hope they’ll ever be freed from their torment, their eyes stop moving altogether. They stop responding to all stimuli. Light, even pain, won’t make them respond. They still beg for freedom—seemingly out of instinct rather than any true belief they’ll ever be freed from their fate, yet still; the light behind their eyes fades away forever. If it weren’t for the pulse they continue to exhibit, anyone would think they had been finally granted the mercy to die.

If only they were so lucky.

Throwing them back into the Fog will allow them to start moving around again, as if the Fog itself granted them their sorry excuse for what could be considered 'life.'

They'll then resume dragging other poor souls deep into the Fog, forcing them to share the same fate as they had previously—and always—been cursed with ever since they strayed too long and too far into the Fog...

Thus concludes the wonderful life cycle of nature in the city of Krestelen.

“Listen to me Alon! Listen, or you’ll end up as one of those! I’ll make sure of it, you hear me?” The Voice seemed even angrier somehow, if it were even possible. It’s usual deep croaks and moans were replaced with a thunderous boom that near pierced his ear-drums. It felt as if the very earth shook with its roars, yet, of course, only Alon felt it, thus he had to pretend he hadn’t to the others—lest he face the dire consequences.

Alon had to ignore it.

The Gang stood ahead of Alon; Claude, as always, remained close. At Alons repeated request—for once—he stayed far enough away that he wouldn’t have been able to hear Alon converse with the Voice. Then, past Claude, there was Brook, who clutched Mythel by the waist. Brook smiled, and Mythel made sure to smile more. He loved her and she insisted she loved him more. He was hers and she was most definitely his—A fact Brook made sure the rest of the Gang knew.

Then there was Casian. He marched forward at the head of the Gang, leading them to their destination which had remained a mystery since they set off. If it were anyone else, Alon would’ve killed him and threw him into the depths below in fear he was being led into a trap, as anyone in the lower tier would’ve done...

But Casian was different.

“Alon, come up here! I need you to see this!” shouted Casian, signaling for Gang to stop with a clenched fist. Alon’s finally had an excuse to stop staring at his feet. He looked around, looking for answers to a question he was too preoccupied to listen to. Claude had turned to get out of Alon’s way. Mythel averted her gaze under the clutches of the scowling Brook.

Brook made sure Mythel stayed pretty and presentable—to his liking, despite the living conditions they both suffered under. Unfortunately for her, her husband didn’t share the shame sentient for himself; Alon and Claude could only describe him—as they often did, snickering to one another—as one ugly, balding bastard, which most definitely wasn’t to his liking.

Alon pressed forward with his head down, careful not to slip as he walked across the spine of the rooftop.

“Come on Alon. Casian wants you for something.” Claude, towering over, began to follow closely behind. Alon rolled his eyes, gritting his teeth as he huffed out a signal of annoyance even Claude could understand. He did and stepped back with his head held low.

Claude was useful. Thicker than the Fog, but useful. Alon hated the stupid, jovial expression he wore upon his face like it were something to be proud about. He hated how tall he was. He hated his stupid, dirty blond hair, he hated how he always held his head back so he could see out from underneath it—just cut it you fucking dolt.

Still, he was useful. If it weren’t Alon taking advantage of him and the friendship he too easily gave out for free, it would’ve been someone else—for Claude’s sake, it’s better Alon was the one doing it.

He brushed past Brook and Mythel, dodging Brook as he finally stepped away from his wife to check Alon with his shoulder. Alon made sure to give the biggest shit-eating grin possible as he glanced past Casian.

“What is it?”

“What do you see?” said Casian, hiding behind a large chimney stack as he pointed at the entrance to what appeared to be an old bathhouse.

“Horrific architecture.”

And it was; The lower tier of the city had been largely ignored ever since the city had been built and the decapitating and decaying buildings gave credibility to that fact. The aristocrats and elite, the upper class, and the wealthy had locked themselves in the upper tier—safe from the Fog—for as long as Alon could remember, at the very least.

“No, Alon. Not that.” Casian sighed. The day was drawing its final breath. The Gang had been marching for hours, and there was likely less than an hour of daylight left.

“If you’re trying to make a point about something important, spare me the riddle for once and just tell me what you want me to know.”

Casian rubbed his beard and shot up, instructing Alon to do the same. With a swish of his shoulder-cape, he complied and observed the surroundings before them.

“Look, there.” said Casian, pointing at the sentries posted atop the roof of the bathhouse. It was an old stone structure, falling to ruin like everything else. Alon could just about make out the grand wooden doors buried within the Fog, yet there was no mistaking the large gaps where windows once resided. Warm orange light poured out through the holes in the wall, spilling into the twirling Fog—giving a small amount of life to the death of the city as the light danced with the Fog in the presence of the sun falling asleep.

Rudimentary barricades blocked the narrow streets that led to the plaza in which the bathhouse was situated. The Vacant were shuffling into the wooden carts and piles of rubble and stone that made up the barricades, crying for freedom as always. There was little chance they’d get through within the decade—the barricades had to be at least ten feet tall.

Alon counted twenty sentries atop the roofs of the surrounding villas, all clutching their crossbows. They wore the blackened armor of the guard atop the wall to the upper tier, yet it’s condition showed they were still men of the lower tier. The strips of metal that interlocked and formed the breastplate were jagged and worn. The gauntlets were missing the finger pieces, and the boots mismatched the rest of the armor—they were made from rotten leather and hide.

Alon stepped back, tripping over the loose roof shingles. He shot a glance at Casian, eyes widened as he grinned down at him.

“Are we really where we think we are?”

“Why ask me that question when you’ve already figured out the answer?”

“Are you trying to get us all killed?”

Claude kicked a shingle off the roof, despite his best attempts to creep up on the pair. Casian shook his head and smiled, and gestured for him to approach—tossing his shoulder-cape over onto his back, revealing his pristine waistcoat and black dress shirt.

“What’s going on, Alon? Everything alright?” said Claude, as he struggled to decide who to look at—Casian or Alon.

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask Casian?”

Casian crossed his arms, leaning on his behind leg as he raised an eyebrow at Alon.

“He’s the one who’s brought us to Kogan’s Headquarters! By the Three, why are we here Casian! What are you thinking!” said Alon in a hushed tone, frantically spewing words into Casian’s ear.

Casian softly pushed Alon back, and placed his hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer once more.

“You think of me that little? Come now, Alon. I wouldn’t deal with a monster like Kogan if it wasn’t of utmost importance—we’re making the first steps towards my plan.”

Alon looked to Claude, looking to see if he shared the same reaction.

He did. The pairs' mouths were agape, their hands began to tremble, and both their hearts raced in unison.

Brook and Mythel took notice, and the pair strolled over to take a slice of the drama for themselves. Mythel looked at Alon, and let her smile drop as Brook put his focus onto Casian’s words.

“Wait, are you really talking about what I think you are? Casian, you bastard... You've finally decided it’s time?” said Brook, baring his jagged teeth and granting the Gang a rare smile.

“What if I were? Can I be sure you’re all ready?” Casian pounced on Brook's words, pulling the group inward with his arms.

“I’m ready, Casian. That’s for damn sure! Just point me at those arrogant fucks, I’ll gut them all!” said Brook, as he knocked Mythel aside as he brandished his short-sword from beneath his shoulder cloak. Mythel looked down at the floor in response to her husbands proclamation of skill, choosing to focus on something—anything—else.

“Mythel, what about you dear? Can I put my faith in your abilities?” Casian, with a quick nod to acknowledge Brook, put his attention into Mythel—who, despite her best efforts to appear as if she hadn’t, she, of course, had picked up on Casian’s every word.

Brook huffed, scrunching his face as he clenched his fists in response to Casian’s preference to put attention onto his wife over him. He slowly withdrew, and proceeded to settle his blood and reserve his anger for another time—for he knew he’d be wiser to pick easier fights.

“Yes Casian. You can count on me.” Mythel croaked as her throat recollected the ability to speak.

Casian nodded softly and gifted her a sad smile.

“Claude! I know I can rely on you!”

Claude nodded. “You’ve got that right Boss, anything you need, anyone you need smashing—I’m right here if you need me.”

Casian laughed and placed a firm hand on Claude’s shoulder before turning to face Alon.

“What about you, Alon? Are you ready for this?”

What did he want him to say?

There was no way the Gang were ready to do this—they had lost three members in the last month alone. Petr, Garneth and Vergil were all dead—or worse. They had lost the sewer hideout to Kogan and his gang—who vastly outnumbered Casian’s—and they had nowhere to call home. Either Casian was desperate, or he had lost his edge. There were no two ways about it.

“Oh, look here... You’ve lost faith in your leader, have you?” The Voice chortled, just barely getting its words out. “Here I thought there was nobody more you respected! I mean, not long ago you were telling me you’d do anything for him! Aww, Alon? Have you fallen out of love with him or something?”

“No! Just... stop! Shut up!” cried Alon, immediately scrunching his face in regret—dropping his head in shame.

Casian’s eyes widened, and he lifted his arms not knowing what to do with them.

Brook spat onto the roof.

“Figures. You put all your faith in him and this is how he repays you.”

“I’ll have none of that!” barked Casian, darting a finger pointed at Brook. “We’re in this together, whether you like it or not—it’d do you some good to have respect; you never know when you’ll need to make claim upon that debt. It could very well save your life one day!”

Brook rolled his eyes and clutched Mythel by the waist harder, who slowly put her head into Brook's chest.

Casian grabbed Alon by the shoulder and lowered his head to meet his gaze.

“Alon, I don’t know what’s been going on with you the past week, but I need you to get your head in the game. You’ve been distant with all of us, you’ve been sitting by your lonesome—mumbling and talking to yourself. Somethings wrong.”

Alon’s heart raced; He couldn’t know about the Voice!

“Alon...” The Voice growled once again. “You tell him about me, you’re dead—you hear me? I’m all-knowing and all-seeing. I am Conquest itself, and I am more powerful than you can imagine. I can speak to you across thousands of miles, I can see your every thought—You best believe I can kill you whenever I want. You will not tell a soul about my presence—and if Casian especially were to find out about me, I will grant you a fate worse than death, one that you—or even the Vacant—could ever begin to imagine.”

“I’m worried about your plan; It’s going to get what’s left of us killed. We’re not ready, there is too few of us to even get started. We can’t do this.”

That would likely act as a satisfactory diversion—for there was just enough truth in Alon’s concern to lead Casian off the trail regarding his true issue.

“Could you give me and Alon a moment, everyone?” said Casian, continuing to meet Alon’s gaze. The Gang all looked at each other one at a time—with reactions ranging from concern to outright annoyance—yet granted their leader’s request as they walked out of earshot across the rooftops from which they came.

“You’re right, Alon. This plan is risky—and we’re going to be performing it at one of the worst times we could possibly think of...”

Alon couldn’t even take glee in the fact he was right for once, for his heart sank too deep for a petty sense of joy.

“I’m running out of time—we all are. It’s too late for us to hold back now. All of us need to band together to get this done.”

“We’re all with you Casian, no matter what—you know that—”

“Damn it, I’m not talking about just us. All of us—down here in the lower tier—need to stop fighting and killing each other over the scraps those fucks in their manors and palaces left us when they sealed us out. You think the Fog is going to go away by itself? You weren’t born yet, but I’ve seen it Alon—It’s only gotten worse ever since the lower tier was sealed off and the Deramore’s took the upper tier from the Endel’s. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Alon dared not interuppt.

“No Alon, it is no coincidence. They are killing us—they’ve put us in a pen like animals and they’re a threat to everyone alive down here, and beyond! We need to strike back somehow, we need to stop them, Alon... we—"

“Stop, Casian.” Alon clutched Cassian's arms, snapping him out of his rant.

“You think there’s some grand conspiracy at play here? It’s the Fog, for the Three’s Sake! It’s always been here; There’s no stopping it. There’s no point in trying to stop it. If it washes over the rest of the world, so be it; What good have they done for us, anyway? They left us here to fucking die just like the Deramore’s did! Let them turn, for all I care—”

“Nobody deserves this, Alon!"

"Yes, nobody deserves this, yet here we are! If nobody deserves this fate—if what has happened to us was so wrong—why did it happen? Who was there to stop this from happening to us? Why should we stop it for anyone else? My life will always mean more to me than it does to them—so, once again: I say let them turn for all I care."

Casian and Alon remained silent for a small eternity, staring into each other's eye for an answer—any answer—that’d solve the issue between them, something that could make them understand one another...

Yet one did not appear.

“Casian, I think the sentries know we’re here!” shouted Brook, drawing his short-sword in anticipation.

Casian, with one final quick glance at Alon, shot up and took position upon the edge of the rooftop overlooking the plaza.

“That matters little! Everyone, sheath your weapons and take your capes off—and most importantly—worry not! This is all going to plan; It’s about time I conversed with Kogan. It's been far too long."