They were not on Krenstone for long.

Urash didn't talk about his home plane very often. When he did, he dismissed it with a rude wave of his hand and a spittle-filled “Bah!”

Which he did with almost everything, so that wasn't a very good metric of judgment. The entire world was domed in, a massive cave system with no outside, so vast that one could not see the cavern's roof. Towers littered the cave floor. Some were small, only a few stories high. Others were like Dominatria, city-sized, with thousands of people living within them, monoliths of hand-carved stone that went all the way up to the roof.

They spent much of their time in Dominatria ascending up the hundreds of staircases dotted around the city to the Traveling Point at its top. They could have used one of the Gemwalkers, had they the funds – those massive, jewel-encrusted spiders that the dwarves rode up and down the sides of the towers to ease traffic, shining like miniature suns, sometimes the only source of light in the area as G-Wiz and Ichabod walked. There weren't many lanterns lighting Dominatria's streets, and those that hung from dingy posts were half-lit, like evening.

So it fell to Ichabod to guide the pair through the streets, nearly holding G-Wiz's hand as he guided her through the congested side-roads and stairways, dodging past merchants with bags full of coin, stout guards with warhammers in hand, even a couple other outlanders – two tall Chirians, from the Silver Eye, their three noses upraised in disgust at the atmosphere of this backwater plane.

G-Wiz flipped them off as they turned their backs to her.

The Traveling Point was at the very highest point of Dominatria, on its roof. Not too many merchants were here today – it was early for them, it seemed, or perhaps not many people wanted to go to Dailori this time of year.

And who could blame them? Dailori was a shithole.

But still, the Traveling Point was positioned at a place of honor. Dominatria had been built to get to it, hundreds of years ago, when the dwarves of this land realized their greed could be sated on the teat of the multiverse. The tower was one of many built in that time of insane, gluttonous want and need, and though it led to two of the more violent planes, it was still a place where one's future could be made or broken in a stroke of business acumen.

The guards were High Federation. For half the year, when the Traveling Point led to the Blood Hallows, the Silver Eye allowed Dominatrian guards to be posted at the Traveling Point. When it led to Dailori, however, High Federation military officials took over. There were three of them, standing in the circular room that housed the Traveling Point, apart from the rest of the city due to their pristine white combat armor and futuristic looking rifles. All three were different species from the Eye, one reptilian, one fish-like, the other humanoid with bright green skin who smelled faintly of chlorophyll. It was this third one who approached them.

“State your purpose, outlander,” she spat.

“Traveling to Dailori,” Ichabod said, “On a job. We're with the Amber Foundation.”

He produced a card, his guild ID. The soldier took a glance at it, and G-Wiz knew that her helmet was scanning the card for authenticity.

“Right, then,” she said, “We'll need to search you for any illicit or contraband materials or technology.”

“Ah, yes,” Ichabod said.

They searched the two of them, the green alien's frown deepening at the sight of G-Wiz's Zumbelaphone.

“Doremi,” she said, practically spat.

“Yep,” G-Wiz said, “What about it?”

The soldier nearly threw it back to her and continued to look over Ichabod. As she did so, patting down his metallic legs, the reptilian soldier sniffed Ichabod's face.

“What's the nature of your job on Dailori?” he growled.

“Hunting,” Ichabod said, “A shapeshifter.”

“What kind?” the soldier said.

“The kind that transforms,” Ichabod drawled.

“Shapeshifters come in all shapes and sizes,” the soldier said.

“Yes, that's kind of the point,” Ichabod said, “By God, what do you want me to say? We're still doing guesswork. Dailori's probably going to be a dead-end anyway. Are you nearly done?”

“These pistols,” the fish-like alien was holding one of Ichabod's pristine guns, “These are near military grade.”

“Yes, most guns are,” Ichabod said.

“Not true,” the fish said, “Some are for hunting. Others are for execution-”

“If it kills, it's military-grade,” Ichabod said.

“Cut the shit, Ichabod,” G-Wiz said.

She noticed her guildmate's smirk.

“Right, do note that Dailori is currently in a state of civil unrest,” the green alien said, “If you are caught supplying terrorist organizations, your guild will face consequences.”

“And if I'm supplying anything to the Dailori Juret Order, instead?” Ichabod asked.

The soldier did not answer.

“I see nothing on you that is contraband,” the reptile said, “Nor do I smell anything. You two are free to go. Keep your noses clean, eh?”

They let the two of them go after that, Ichabod glaring at them, though they did not see that through his shades. The Traveling Point stood in the center of the room, shimmering like one of Becenti's mirages.

“Ready?” G-Wiz asked.

Ichabod nodded, his mouth a tight line, his fists clenched in the pockets of his trenchcoat. Without another word, he stepped through.

***

They arrived in a wasteland. The sky was scarred blood red, and it was not a natural color. The air stank strongly of an almost pepper-like smell. The scent of Quarzium-2, better known as Haze. A powerful hallucinogen, it tinged the atmosphere of Dailori ever so slightly, making the dreams of its inhabitants just a bit sharper, just a bit more real.

And in a world where dreams could shape reality, Haze was king indeed. It was found on scarce few other planes and only a few worlds in the Silver Eye, but it was one of the most popular drugs in the underbelly of the multiverse. It was Haze that became the unofficial currency of the Outer Reach for several thousand years. It was Haze that had burned the minds of the top officials in the Second Deal Party in the Eye, and led to the Reclamationist Party's consolidation over the Federation's senate.

It was Haze that had built the Manticore's Empire.

The other side of the Traveling Point led to a military installation.

High Federation soldiers, in full, shining combat armor, glared at them as they walked through the Traveling Point, which was in a sparse room with a turret pointed directly at the rippling portal. One of the soldiers approached them.

“Right, then,” he said, “What the hell are you two doing out here?”

And they went through the entire horse and pony show again. The same questions. The same answers.

“Yes, it's a weapon of war,” Ichabod said, “All guns are weapons of war.”

“Some are not,” one of the soldiers said, “Some weapons are for defending the home. Others, for hunting.”

“If it kills, it's for war,” Ichabod groaned.

The same eye roll at G-Wiz's Zumbelaphone. The same awkward glances at the intricate, realistic make of Ichabod's metal limbs. The same warnings.

“If you are seen aiding and abetting terrorist organizations on the plane, your guild will face consequences,” the soldier warned.

“I don't see anything contraband on them,” another noted.

“We went through this back on Krenstone, literally minutes ago,” Ichabod said.

“A check-over before you go in, a check-over after,” the first soldier said.

“...Within seconds of each other?” G-Wiz said, “Did you really expect to find anything the second time?”

“I'm just doing my job, ma'am,” the soldier said, “Now, off you go. Watch your back. If you thought Krenstone was a backwater...”

He gave a dark chuckle. G-Wiz glared at him, but Ichabod was already sweeping away. Resisting the urge to flip the base off, she ran after him, getting a good look around her. The base itself was pristine. Spotless, with white walls and a white roof and a floor that reflected the ceiling. Outside the window, G-Wiz could see dome-shaped barracks, permanent fixtures of the red rock landscape. A couple of warbirds were parked by the domes, their pilots trading jokes while they refueled.

The air was warm. Dust-colored clouds swirled overhead. The world smelled of pepper and death. In the distance, the remains of a vast city lay like a corpse on the horizon, picked clean by scavengers and time.

“Nice place,” Ichabod said.

G-Wiz was quiet, her jaw clenched.

“Not a good feeling, is it?” Ichabod said.

“This place has got bad vibes,” G-Wiz said.

“Of course. It was already a dark place, full of dark magics and dark gods,” Ichabod said, “Then the Manticore made it one of his main bastions in the multiverse. Now, it's under constant occupation by our... esteemed hosts.”

He nodded at the base, and gave a wan smile.

“Let's go find our man, the shapeshifter, eh?”

***

There was, shockingly, still life in the city.

Not much, but it was there. Sapient life, not like the many-eyed vultures that wheeled the skies, looking for anyone unlucky to be killed by a stray mine or errant wildspell. As G-Wiz and Ichabod stepped past the shattered wall that had once ringed the outer markets of the city, they saw a man leaning against the emptied shell of an weaponsmith's shop. They were wrapped completely in dirtied scarves and rags and cloaks, a wicked-looking blade strapped to their side. They looked up at the guildmembers with goggle-covered eyes.

“Outlanders,” they rasped.

Ichabod stopped, putting a hand into his trenchcoat, hand closing over his pistol.

“Greetings,” he said, “Nice weather we're having, hm?”

The figure coughed.

“Right,” Ichabod said, “What is this place?”

“Was once the city of D'Rendeir,” the figure said, “Now just dust. Not too many folk live out here, nowadayen.”

“A good place for our man,” G-Wiz said.

“...Perhaps,” Ichabod said.

“You're looking for a marken, I take it,” the figure said, “Or you're here for the Haze.”

“Not Haze,” Ichabod sneered, “You can have all of that shit for yourself.”

The figure let out a soft hiss.

“Haze is the dreamer's tool. Haze is the lifeblood of the land-”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Ichabod said, “We're looking for a being that lives off of it, and not in moderation.”

“Hmm?” the figure coughed, “I see. One who has supped of it too much.”

“One who has no choice but to feed off of it,” Ichabod said, “Have you seen a traveler come this way?”

“Many,” the figure said.

“He would have been an outlander,” G-Wiz said, “Maybe wearing a mask.”

“Many wear masks.”

“This one would have been distinct,” Ichabod said, “Blue, green, and red. Perhaps studded and glittering.”

“Or a man in a white suit,” Ichabod said, “Like a servant.”

“Hmm,” the figure mulled it over, “Yes. What do you have to pay?”

“What do you want?” Ichabod asked.

The figure pointed at G-Wiz.

“Music. A tune. Has been longen since I heard a nice one.”

G-Wiz gave a smile, unslinging the Zumbelaphone.

“What'll it be, guy?”

***

The figure did not want money, for they breathed all that they wished for with the Haze. They lived a meager life, in the remains of D'Reindeir, picking at rats and vermin, occasionally coming across bigger game. G-Wiz and Ichabod joined them in their place by the old smith's shop, Ichabod standing, G-Wiz sitting down by the figure as she adjusted the Zumbelaphone's keys. When she played, it came out as a soft piano. The music soothed into the dark as the figure relaxed.

“Traveled the multiverse, once,” they said, “In olden days. Went all over the Silver Eye. Went beyond. Saw the sights. The Runway. Prime, even, though they did not like me there.”

“They like believing they're civilized,” Ichabod said, “Bastards don't even know that such a thing doesn't exist.”

“Heh. Good food, though,” the figure said, “Came home. The Haze called and beckoned.”

They gestured.

“Home was liken this. Family gone, even the olden man. He was a smithy, see.”

“An entire city?” G-Wiz asked.

“Feddies caught wind of someone selling Haze, here,” the figure said, “Stealing it from the sky, sending it to the multiverse.”

Ichabod glanced over at one of the broken walls of the smithy. He noted that there were burns pocking its old, mud-brick face.

Plasma burns.

“Now I find myself here. Don't want to go nowheren else. Not yet. Give another year, then I move on.”

“I'm sorry,” G-Wiz said.

“It is life, friend,” the figure said.

Her music continued to play, soft and melodic, a bittersweet tune from some distant place, a movement that Ichabod did not recognize. It was so unlike G-Wiz's usual fare, not bombastic and loud, electrifying and harsh. Ichabod sneered.

This place was getting to her.

“Day ago, now, a figure camen through,” the figure said, “Walked with a limp. Had a mask like you said, green, blue, and red. They were dramatic.”

“Where did they go?” Ichabod asked.

“North,” the figure said, “There's a small outpost, there. An old shrine, to V'Talir.”

“Our next place to go, then,” Ichabod said, “Shall we, G-Wiz?”

“Give me a sec,” G-Wiz said, “Let me finish this piece.”

Ichabod opened his mouth to object, then closed it when he glanced at their friend, the figure. They had visibly relaxed, having removed their goggles to stare, entranced, at G-Wiz's playing. Their eyes were a brilliant yellow, burning like the brightest star.

The first time they had heard music in a while, then. Ichabod closed his mouth and leaned against the wall.

Overhead, the sky curled and spun. The wind blew. The music played.

And, for a moment, everything was alright.

***

They left when their friend had drifted to sleep, guiding them to the sole cot that rested in the corner of their old home. The two of them wondered, for a moment, at the marvel of the city, what it had been like once upon a day. As they drew away from the skeleton of D'Reindeir, walking across the old trade road that snaked northwards, G-Wiz took a second to turn back and look at the city. Ichabod stopped, watching her, the warm wind picking up his trenchcoat like a tattered old flag.

“Wonder what caused them to come here on foot,” G-Wiz said, “Usually they just glass places from orbit, right?”

“Would taint the Haze, probably,” Ichabod said, “It's unstable stuff, at least when it's raw like this. Enough plasma in the atmosphere, and it burns itself away.”

“Isn't this stuff illegal?” G-Wiz said.

“Not if you're rich,” Ichabod said, “I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few Federation officials who don't have secret processing factories here, for their own supply. The Prime Voice probably looks the other way.”

He glanced at the city one more time.

“Come on, then,” he said, “You've seen one city, you've seen them all.”

“R-right,” G-Wiz said, “Coming.”

They walked through the day, heading north towards the Shrine of V'Talir. The landscape was like a cracked desert, though it wasn't overbearingly hot, just a vague sort of warmness that they hardly noticed. Half-rotted signs pointed them on their way, though the writing was illegible and sloppy.

Nothing accosted them. Occasionally they would see figures in the distance, swathed in rags like their friend back in D'Reindeir, atop strange camels with two heads, though these nomads paid them no heed. Perhaps they recognized outlanders. Perhaps they were too wary of the Federation.

Or, perhaps, they were just simple travelers.

Regardless, they moved on without approaching Ichabod and G-Wiz.

Neither of them spoke as they walked. The arrival to Dailori had brought on a silence upon the two of them, as though they were walking through a cathedral, or a graveyard. It felt wrong to speak, to interrupt the sound of nature, the Hazestorms that curled overhead, the occasional horn-like call of some great beast in the distance.

The sun was setting as they arrived at the Shrine of V'Talir, a great, half-broken statue. V'Talir was a god of some sort, born from the Haze-dreams of the people in this region, a multi-headed, multi-legged creature, like something between a hydra and a spider, disturbing in its appearance, sadistic in its purview, for V'Talir had been a god of blood and war.

It had its fill of it, when a hundred years before, a Federation Warbird had fired upon the god and glassed it into oblivion. One could still see its cooled, melted corpse in the far north, in the Pleiniads.

But this shrine, this cast of V'Talir, still stood. Beside it, for the god to look down upon, was a small inn. A two-headed camel was hitched to a fence nearby, twin heads turning to watch as Ichabod and G-Wiz walked to the tavern. A guard was posted outside, a burly brute of a man with a bone-carved sword strapped to his back. He looked up with his good eye at them.

“Outlanders,” he said, “You stink of it.”

“Better the multiverse than the muck,” Ichabod sneered.

“Bah,” the man said, “What do you wanten?”

“Just a drink,” G-Wiz said, “Ignore my friend here, he's an asshole.”

The brute nodded, giving Ichabod the stink eye as he let the two of them pass. The inn itself was a worn-down mess, quiet in a deadened way, the innkeeper looking up at them with bloodshot eyes. A blade was on the counter, curved and barbed, and Ichabod watched as the innkeeper's fingers curled over the hilt. The cybernetic man raised up a hand.

“Not bandits, my good man,” he said, “Just travelers.”

“You got past my guard, which isn't hard,” the innkeeper said, “What do you wanten?”

Ichabod looked around. No shapeshifter, unless the innkeeper was him. But no, there wouldn't be enough time to properly transform, he was probably still recuperating...

“Just a place to rest,” Ichabod said. He nodded at G-Wiz, “The girl and I, we've freshly traveled from off-plane.”

“Addicts, then,” the innkeeper said, “We be seein' your lot occasionally. Afraid to say I don't have any Haze. If you want some, go outside and breathe.”

“Perhaps we will,” Ichabod walked to the counter, sitting down by it, “Nice place you have here. What's the name of your, ah, humble establishment?”

“The Inn of Dark Spider,” the innkeeper said.

“Because of the statue outside?” Ichabod asked.

“No, my name is Dark Spider.”

“Ha! A funny joke.”

The innkeeper glared.

“Uh, Ichabod,” G-Wiz said, “That's actually his name.”

“...Ah,” Ichabod said, “I see. Well, then, a pleasure meeting you, Mister, ah, Spider.”

“Hmm,” Dark Spider removed his grip from his blade, “How many rooms for the night?”

“Just the one,” Ichabod said.

The innkeeper nodded.

“Three Dratni,” he spat.

G-Wiz took out her small purse, fishing around for a few coins, her brow furrowing.

“What's a... 'Dratni'?” she asked.

Dark Spider rolled his eyes.

“Bah, very well, then. Federation Credits, if you're truly outlanders. No respecten for the proper coin.”

G-Wiz rolled her eyes, fishing out a small credstick from the purse and slapping it on the table. Dark Spider took it, gave it a lookover, then put it away.

“Hey!” G-Wiz said, “There's two hundred on that thing!”

“I don't caren,” Dark Spider said, “No scanner, so I'm taking it all. Price goes up, if you're going around lumbering foreign cash.”

“I-” G-Wiz snarled.

Ichabod glared at her, and she shut up.

“Think of it,” he said, “As payment, not only for our rooms, but for answers to our questions.”

Dark Spider’s eyes narrowed. It was here that Ichabod noticed one was milked over, the other one a deep yellow.

“We're looking for a man,” Ichabod said, “A shapeshifter, but this one is taking the form of a foreigner. Wears a mask of blue, red, and green. Wearing a suit, like on Prime.”

“I don't know your planes,” Dark Spider said, “Only that you come from them.”

“He would've been distinct anyways,” G-Wiz said, “The guy he's copying looks out of place, even where we're from.”

“...You're out of luck, friend,” Dark Spider said, “A man camen through with that mask, but he wasn't be stayin' long. Headed north, along Old Fishing Road.”

There was something in the innkeeper's voice that gave Ichabod pause, even as he heard G-Wiz groan beside him. The cybernetic man chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, his face impassive.

“Galatea,” he said after a moment, “Give him another credstick.”

G-Wiz blinked, looking at her guildmate. Then, she caught on, and took out the purse and brought out the second credstick, laying it on the counter.

“There's a Federation military outpost just a ways away, you know,” Ichabod said, “Beyond there is a world known as Krenstone. Still in forecast, and they love Silver Eye credits. It would be easy to convert into Dratni, if need be.”

He smiled.

“Or, you could just spend it all there.”

Dark Spider glared at Ichabod. His hand closed over the credstick, and he put it underneath the counter.

“How much is on there?”

“Another two hundred,” Ichabod said, “How much did our man the shapeshifter pay you? In what currency? Credits? Dratni? Perhaps he threatened you. If that's the case, I assure you, my guildmate and I are perfectly equipped to remove him from your care.”

Dark Spider gave a sigh, glaring down at the counter.

When he looked back up, there was an exhaustion on his face that was not there before.

“He came in here a day or so back. Gave me enough money to stay here for a month.”

“Where is he now?” Ichabod asked.

“He's upstairs, in his room,” Dark Spider said, “He comes down occasionally for a drink or two, then goes back upstairs. He's got a limp.”

“Still recovering,” Ichabod said.

“Look, he payin' me well,” Dark Spider said, “I don't like this business.”

“He's killed innocent people,” G-Wiz said, “Tried to kill the ruler of a city.”

“I don't care about the kings of distant places,” Dark Spider said, “And I learned long ago that no one is innocent. No one.”

Including yourself, though Ichabod did not voice that.

“Right, then,” the cybernetic man said, turning to G-Wiz, “Galatea, how do you want to do this?”

“Now, wait here,” Dark Spider said, “If you're going to take him down, you do that work outside.”

“He's right, Ichabod,” G-Wiz said, “We're not really going to trash this place like a bunch of thugs, are we?”

Ichabod stroked his chin for a moment, brow furrowing in thought.

“If we get the drop on him, and assure you that no harm will come to your establishment, will you let us ambush him upstairs?” he asked.

Dark Spider shook his head.

“It's either outside, or not at all.”

“We'll figure it out,” G-Wiz said, “Dark Spider, is there any time our guy goes outside?”

Dark Spider rubbed his eyes.

“The sooner we get answers from him, the sooner we're out of your hair,” Ichabod said.

“Fine,” the innkeeper said, “He's gone out a couple of times. Mostly for a few minutes, nothing major.”

“Doing what?” G-Wiz said.

“That's what I was curious about,” Dark Spider said, “So I asked Vok out there what he's been doing.”

“Right, and?”

“He's just... breathing. In and out. Deeply.”

“No great mystery, there,” Ichabod said, “He's probably trying to expedite his recovery. Damn stupid way to do so, if you ask me.”

“Right, then,” G-Wiz said. She slapped her last credstick on the table, “Thanks for the info.”

Dark Spider took it. The dark look did not leave his eyes.

“We'll... be waiting outside, then,” Ichabod said, “Galatea, get ready.”

“Right,” G-Wiz said. Without a word, the two of them walked out of the inn. Vok, the brute, glared at them as they walked over by the two-headed camel. G-Wiz started playing a light tune on her Zumbelaphone. Ichabod started playing with a small device on his wrist.

“No doubt our friend is going to warn the shapeshifter,” he said.

“Who, Dark Spider?” G-Wiz said, “Yeah, he didn't like that little shakedown. A little cash isn't going to make him a total narc.”

“An admirable quality,” Ichabod said, “I almost feel bad, making him rat our mark out.”

He smiled as something on his wrist dinged.

“Almost.”

G-Wiz narrowed her eyes.

“You put a bug on one of the credsticks, didn't you?”

“Of course,” Ichabod said, “And... here we are.”

Sound came from his wrist – the sound of movement, of Dark Spider's occasional cough, or his moving around the inn. G-Wiz sighed.

“This ain't good, Ichabod,” she said, “Spying's a new low.”

“Please, it's not like he has anything to hide that we probably don't know about,” Ichabod said, “Besides, it's just a precaution.”

“In case he warns the shapeshifter.”

“Precisely,” Ichabod said, “Now prepare your wordplay. Play a couple tunes. It might be a moment yet before our man comes out.”

***

It was another couple of hours yet before they heard movement aside from Dark Spider's usual ambiance. After a moment, they heard his hoarse voice crackle to life on Ichabod's transceiver.

“Afternoon.”

“Hola.”

The shapeshifter's voice, though the two of them only knew that because he was the only other person staying at the inn. G-Wiz tensed, fingers on the keys of her Zumbelaphone. Ichabod reached down into the inner parts of his trenchcoat, ready to pull his pistol free.

“You be havin' visitors,” Dark Spider said.

“...Oh?” the shapeshifter said.

“Vok! Come on inside.”

They could hear the innkeeper's voice both blaring through the transceiver and from the inn a ways away. Vok nodded, the brute walking inside.

“You be takin' your business outside,” Dark Spider said, “Don't want my bouncer in this mix-up.”

“Of course not,” the shapeshifter said, “Did they say who they were?”

“Guildfolk,” Dark Spider's voice was quiet, now, “Saids they were lookin' for you.”

“Not surprised,” the shapeshifter said, “Very well, then. I'll be right back.”

Ichabod closed up the transceiver on his wrist.

“He's good,” he said, “Confident.”

He began stepping out into the open. G-Wiz stayed behind the camel, gripping her Zumbelaphone like a rifle.

“Careful, Ichabod,” she whispered.

He didn't respond as he stepped towards the inn. At the same moment, the shapeshifter walked out. He looked rather worse for wear, a distinct limp to his step as he all but stumbled out past the entrance of the inn. G-Wiz was glad that they had described him by his mask, for that was all that the shapeshifter had kept from his disguise as Moriguchi. The rest of him was a humanoid mass of gray, liquid spilling onto the ground and pooling around him, before moving and inking towards his feet and re-absorbing into the rest of his mass. He was a shapeshifter in recovery, somehow still able to keep up a vague form outside of his half-fluid self.

“Sorry to bother you,” Ichabod said.

The shapeshifter was quiet. G-Wiz watched as he glanced around, trying to see if Ichabod was alone.

His eyes rested on her for the briefest of instances, just a hair longer than usual, before he snapped his attention back to her guildmate.

“This doesn't have to be difficult,” Ichabod said, “We just have a few questions, is all.”

“I'm afraid I can't say much,” the shapeshifter said, “I still haven't finished my job, see.”

“Still after your target, then,” Ichabod said, “Rather odd, coming all the way out here. You could have recovered back in Scuttleway.”

“You know the city's name,” the shapeshifter said, “So you've done your research. Or, you’re the local guild there, hired by the city's authorities to hunt me down on their behalf. The High Federation does so prefer that guilds do all the work for the backwater planes.”

“Indeed,” Ichabod said, “But something tells me you're no revolutionary. Just a being trying to make by.”

“Indeed,” the shapeshifter said.

He did not move. Did not offer any more words. The wind blew, warm and tense. It was the only sound in the world.

Ichabod sighed.

“You're going to make it difficult, aren't you?”

The shapeshifter nodded.

“'Fraid so.”

And with a motion he threw out his arm, which grew long and whip-like. It snapped down at Ichabod, who dove to the side, wincing as the air beside him cracked. Pulling out his pistol, he took aim, letting out a few shots that felt like explosions in the silence. They sank deep into the shapeshifter, who took the shots with relative aplomb, his other arm warping into a large shield as G-Wiz took aim and fired a thin, neon blue light from her keytar.

It slammed into the makeshift shield, not even enough damage to really even burn through it.

But that wasn't what G-Wiz was aiming for, as she began to whip the Zumbelaphone, writing out a word on the shield.

Stop.

To his credit, the shapeshifter resisted well, pulling against the shield as it froze in place. With a grunt, he tore himself free from his creation, stumbling away as it fell to the ground with a hard, solid thunk. Ichabod took him, firing out a few more shots that bored through the shapeshifter's leg, which burst like jelly. The shapeshifter collapsed. G-Wiz ran forward, replaying Sound of Silence at a speedy tempo. It was the song she had chosen when she had first learned of Stop. Words, memorized by song, given power by her Zumbelaphone as she pointed it once more at the shapeshifter and fired the line of light again, carving the word into his mutating chest.

He froze up, grimacing as the word overtook him. For a moment, he struggled.

Then, like a molting crab, he sloughed the part of his body where the word had been written, peeling away from it. He leaped back, taking aim at G-Wiz, his right arm morphing from a whip into a crossbow, firing off a bolt that, at high speeds, lost its form and turned into offwhite goo that slammed into her chest, knocking her off her feet.

Ichabod fired off another few shots. One went wild, the other two hit the shapeshifter, who wheeled about, taking aim again with his crossbow.

For a moment, the two took aim, both grimacing.

Then Ichabod fired first, the shot flying and splattering the shapeshifter's head. The assassin's own shot went awry, sludging into empty air, before landing with a puff on the ground nearby and dissolving. Ichabod drew out his second pistol.

The shapeshifter swayed for a moment, headless, before the off-white clay began to form a new head.

It was Joseph's.

“Poor choice,” Ichabod said. And he opened fire with both pistols, a cacophony of gunshots echoing through the landscape, sponging the shapeshifter.

G-Wiz stood back up and fired another line, writing a last Stop at the shapeshifter, etching it as the shapeshifter shuddered. For a moment, all was quiet.

Then, with a herculean effort, the shapeshifter reverted back into a humanoid form, keeping Moriguchi's head, leaving the rest of his body as a gray mass of vaguely standing goo. He did not move again.

“As I was saying,” Ichabod said, stepping up to look down at the shapeshifter, “We have a few questions.”

***

They tied him up, though there was little reason for it. Never mind the commands carved into the shapeshifter's chest. A night's worth of combat and stress, followed by several days worth of travel, had left their assassin exhausted. He hung his head as they sat him down by the fence, pointedly ignoring Dark Spider leering at them through the dust-smeared window.

“Let's start with the most obvious question,” Ichabod said, “Who hired you?”

The shapeshifter glared at the two of them.

“Did you take the job for money, or for your morals?” Ichabod prodded.

The shapeshifter stayed silent.

“Look, you said it yourself, you're no true revolutionary,” Ichabod said, “That just makes you a hired gun. A weapon, at the end of the day.”

“True,” the shapeshifter said, “But it's bad for business, revealing your clients' identities.”

“We'll tell you ours if you tell us yours,” G-Wiz said.

“It's someone on the nobility in Scuttleway,” the shapeshifter said, “Or the city guard. One of the two.”

“Damn,” G-Wiz grimaced. Ichabod, however, nodded.

“You're damn slippery. Good at your job, too, if you had our guildmates on the ropes all night. What's an expert like you doing all the way out here? A job killing the Doge of some random city on a backwater plane?”

“I'd live in the Silver Eye, but the Feds don't like me,” the shapeshifter said, “I'd need to be near a planet full of Haze, you know they watch those worlds like hawks.”

“Better the wasteland, then,” Ichabod said, gesturing to the outside.

“Precisely.”

“My condolences,” Ichabod said.

“Rich, coming from you,” the shapeshifter said, “I'm going to be out here for weeks, you know. Months, maybe, with the damage you just did.”

“Honestly, if you had just talked, we wouldn't be in this position,” Ichabod said, “Really, we're just trying to do our jobs.”

“I'm very sympathetic that you were forced to beat me down,” the shapeshifter said, “Up yours, amigo.”

Ichabod rolled his eyes.

***

Another few hours passed. G-Wiz played her keytar. Ichabod stretched and looked around, occasionally sniffing from the Haze in the air. The shapeshifter was quiet. Dark Spider had closed up shop, the a noticeable click coming from the door as he locked himself in for the night.

Indeed, dusk was fast approaching. The air became chillier, and overhead the clouds became gray. A thundering in the distance warned that a storm was coming.

“We'll be out here all night,” G-Wiz muttered.

The shapeshifter glared at her.

“And you aren't, what, going to dissolve on us or anything?” G-Wiz asked him, “You aren't going to wash away?”

“I'm a Maizimorph, not a fucking Ooze,” the shapeshifter said.

“...I don't know what that means,” G-Wiz said.

“It means he keeps his form humanoid for greatest stability,” Ichabod said, “It's David Rex's Third Law of Transformation.”

“So your main form is humanoid, then,” G-Wiz said.

“I'm not a damn science project,” the shapeshifter said, “Get off my back.”

“Sorry,” G-Wiz said, “Just, y'know, wanted to make sure you weren't going out on us.”

The shapeshifter rolled his eyes.

G-Wiz mirrored him, continuing to play her keytar. She was playing a soft piano, having still kept it set to the classical setting after leaving their friend, the figure, back in D'Reindeir. Ichabod, despite himself, found himself swaying slightly to the calming tune.

“You from Doremi?” the shapeshifter asked.

“Yea,” G-Wiz said, “But before you ask, I'm not Baroquemen. I'm an Electron, through and through.”

“Uh-huh,” the shapeshifter said, “Of course.”

“Hey, I've got the Zumbelaphone and everything, dipshit,” G-Wiz said.

“That why you're out here?” the shapeshifter said, “If you were a Baroquemen, would you still be back home?”

G-Wiz didn't reply to that.

“And you! Cyber-eyes!” the shapeshifter called, “You're a Man of Neos, if I've ever seen one. What corporation did you piss off to wind up here in the boonies?”

Ichabod turned.

“You'd be correct,” Ichabod said, “And you're out here because you're a Maizimorph, right?”

The shapeshifter nodded.

“And you know what happens when a bunch of fuck-ups band together, right?” Ichabod said, “They form a guild. Are you part of one?”

The shapeshifter looked away.

“You are, aren't you?” Ichabod said, “Well, well, that's interesting. Interesting indeed. One of the assassination guilds, I'd presume. Not exactly the most friendly of sorts.”

“Brotherhood is brotherhood,” the shapeshifter said, “When you're good at something, you make a career out of it.”

“And family,” Ichabod said, “I can see why you're so hesitant, now. It's not about who hired you, it’s about making sure your guild doesn’t get any repercussions. You probably don't even know your client is, do you?”

“But assassination guilds are legal, right?” G-Wiz said, “Nothin' to hide from us, pal. This whole horse and pony show is guild business now.”

“It's the Law of InterGuild,” Ichabod said, “If you tell us who your guild is, we'll navigate who their client was through official channels. None of this cloak and dagger bullshit. You can stay here, recover, maybe get another shot at your target.”

“Ichabod!”

“He was after a government official!” Ichabod said to her, “I don't give a shit.”

The Maizimorph sighed.

“I don't like being tied up,” he said.

“Galatea, untie him,” Ichabod said.

“Please,” G-Wiz said.

“Untie him, please,” Ichabod said.

She nodded at that, walking over and loosening the bindings wrapping up the shapeshifter's hands. The shapeshifter sighed.

Then gasped, as a beam of plasma bored straight through his chest.

Ichabod and G-Wiz stared at the hole, a perfect, ring-shaped burn that refused to heal or re-form. Ichabod glanced back. In the distance was a man, a being, something in dark combat armor, an advanced rifle in hand, his head completely covered with a High Federation spacer’s helmet.

Ichabod took chase, pulling out his twin pistols and firing as the being leaped into the air, bat-like wings pulling themselves out of his back. With a flap, he alighted on one of the harsh winds, sailing away. Ichabod took aim, letting off a few potshots. Then grimaced, as their killer became a small speck on the darkening sky.

Nearby, the shapeshifter choked on his own flesh. His eyes were wide, and his head had melted from Moriguchi into a clay-like mass. But G-Wiz could still see his eyes, and though they were misshapen they were still filled with fear and shock.

“Shit,” she said, “I'm sorry.”

The shapeshifter stared at her. It reminded her of when her dad had looked at her, all those years ago, when she was still on Doremi and he was not long for the world. That same fear of the end.

He mouthed something, his voice a whisper through the garbled mess that was his throat.

G-Wiz leaned in to hear him better, so close her ear was next to his mouth. The air still rang with the echo of the plasma rifle's burn, the ringing of Ichabod's gunshots. The storm in the distance thundered.

Yet she could still hear the shapeshifter's whisper, ragged and broken, as he uttered his last words.

“Like Shadow.”