Autumn came cold and bitter to Scuttleway. The wind took on a biting edge, and the trees around the city started changing hue, as though putting on old orange cloaks. Already a few of them were shedding away, revealing thin, brown skeletons, the leaves scattered across the cobblestone walkways and markets. They made a satisfying crunch under one's boot.

The storms had, at last, disappeared. But it was only a matter of time before they would return, and instead of rain they would bring snow, and winter would be upon them in the blink of an eye. To Ichabod, Autumn always felt like a calm before the storm, a mere preparation for the harshest season of life. He disliked Autumn immensely. He despised Winter more so.

They brought on bad memories.

He merely glowered at the city through his window, the wind whistling muted and ghost-like through the glass. Part of Castle Belenus's shingling was loose, and Ichabod could hear pick up with the gale, slapping bluntly against the roof. He suppressed a shiver, even though the room itself was rather warm.

In the time since he had started his investigation, in the time since he had learned that the employer of the gala's assassin had used OzTech as a middle man, his room had become a cluttered mess of notes, diagrams, and documents, haphazardly pinned to the wall, or scattered on the floor, or even stapled to the ceiling. The cybernetic man's hands shook and twitched as he considered everything, his mouth moving wordlessly as he went over plans in his head, over and over, from point A to point B to point C. Who he was to bring.

They didn't have a qualified magician. Ezel was out on a job. Urash refused to get involved, lest he tarnish the good Belgone name (Ichabod sneered at that.) This left, out of the competent magic users, Phineas, Aldreia, and Rorshin. Phineas was too much of a fool, though his magic was esoteric and powerful. But no, he was on another job on Methusaleh. Aldreia had no subtlety. She was all fire and light. Ichabod grimaced.

That left Rorshin.

There came a knock at his door. The cybernetic man sneered.

“Come!” he spat.

Becenti walked in, the older man's eyes tracking the room, taking stock of how the usual stone walls were completely covered by paper and red yarn. They finally settled on Ichabod. But Becenti was, despite his dour moods, a good man. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a sort of exhaustion that he wore at all times.

“I see you've been gaming out the path,” he said.

“I have a few ideas, depending on how things go,” Ichabod said, “And you're sure Phineas isn't up for the job?”

“Phineas isn't even here,” Becenti said, “He's out in Methusaleh with Tiger and Orion.”

“We can wait, perhaps,” Ichabod said, “I'd prefer Phineas over Rorshin.”

“Rorshin?” Becenti said, “When was Rorshin brought into the conversation?”

“Rorshin's not as good a mage as the others,” Ichabod said, “If I had a choice, I'd choose Phineas. Wakeling's obviously unavailable, and Urash is far too-stuck up, and his prepared spells are no-go for improvising on the fly.”

“Mr. Phineas will not be joining us for this mission,” Becenti said, “He is away.”

“Perhaps we could wait.”

“No,” Becenti said, his voice firm, “We leave in the next few days, Ichabod. Phineas has earned an easier job, has he not?”

Ichabod glared at Becenti. He remembered his deal with Wakeling, however, that the old metahuman would be the one to choose who went on the job. He had already gone over Ichabod's head for most of his decisions.

“We need a mage,” Ichabod said.

“I agree,” Becenti said.

“If you want this plan to succeed, we'll need someone who can improvise. Who is versatile. I had thought Rorshin, but I'd rather not-”

“It will have to be Rorshin,” Becenti said, “If we need someone good at magic, he's the only one who fits the bill.”

“Damned druid,” Ichabod said, “I wanted someone with some illusions in them, not a damn treehugger.”

“That 'treehugger,'” Becenti warned, “Is one of the finest magicians we have. You weren't with us then, but he was at the Battle of Evukor, and his magic saved thousands of lives.”

“Oh, I'm aware,” Ichabod said, “But you're dragging him into a plane where there's not much nature left. You sure he's up for it?”

“Let me handle that,” Becenti said, “Trust me, any chance he has to snipe at a corporation is one he'll take.”

***

Rorshin was a man who kept to himself. He lived in Castle Belenus, but most days he was out wandering, either listening to the birds, rodents, and bugs in the city, or walking across the golden plains outside of Scuttleway. Occasionally, miners would see him underground, or walking the cliffside trails that edged between the two halves of the city. When prodded for why he was there, he would simply smile grimly, and speak of the moles that lived underground. The big ones.

But Rorshin himself was not a serene man. His smile was one for the animals of the myriad realities. To others, even his own guildmates, he wore a dour frown. He wore simple clothes, a tunic of roughly spun yarn, a gnarled staff in hand. What hair was on his body was concentrated on his face, a pronounced gray beard that was unkempt and snarled, the top of his head bald, with liver spots pockmarking his brown skin.

He was outside the city at the moment, the plains grasses reaching up to his hips. He stood simply, the wind billowing around and through him. His eyes were closed, and he seemed almost at peace as Becenti walked towards him.

“Myron,” the druid said, “You are far too loud on this day.”

“It's a day for loud thoughts,” Becenti said.

“A bad day, then,” Rorshin said. Becenti was never able to place the druid's accent, though it was almost sing-songy in nature, “I assume you're going to ask me about going on a mission.”

“Indeed,” Becenti said, “A quiet one. Not many in the guild can know where exactly we're going.”

“One of your prisons?” Rorshin asked.

“No,” Becenti said, “As I said, I've got instructions only to give you details if you agree to go on it. And if you agree to go on it, there's no backing out.”

Rorshin opened his eyes. They were eternally bloodshot. A sorrow's lifetime, Becenti supposed.

“I see,” the druid said, “And this job, vaguely, is...?”

“A heist,” Becenti said, “An infiltration. Theoretically illegal, or we could be using illegal practices not cleared by the Law of InterGuild.”

“Against whom?”

“A corporation,” Becenti said, “One on Neos.”

And Becenti saw Rorshin's eyes narrow. Become slit-like and hate-filled. He had no love for the companies of Neos. They had caused him great anguish, in the past.

“Are you game?” Becenti asked.

“...What is my share?”

“Standard guild rate, I suppose,” Becenti said, “Plus satisfaction with what is to come. We've got a few others already.”

“Ichabod is going?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will not go.”

“I will go along as well,” Becenti said, “I'll keep him in line, Rorshin. Ichabod is a judgmental, spiteful man. But he is no fool.”

“Hmph,” Rorshin said, “He scars himself with those false limbs, and then has the audacity to say I'm the barbaric one.”

The wind picked up once more. Becent waited for Rorshin to give him an answer.

“But we are striking at a hateful institution,” the druid cooed, “And it is the season for retribution. Very well, I will tolerate the mechanical man's barbs. Understand, Myron, that I will barb him back if he goes too far. And mine won't be from the tongue.”

He gave a dark smile. Becenti simply nodded.

“Right, then,” Becenti said, “Welcome to the team.”

***

G-Wiz was busy adjusting her keytar in her room, remembering the conversation she had with Ichabod before. He and she were onboard the Dreamer's Lament as it crested towards Scuttleway, both of them on the observation platform, wind whipping through Ichabod's silver-moon hair, brushing and breaking against G-Wiz's gelled up, spiky 'do.

“We'll need a thief,” Ichabod had said, “A good one.”

“A thief?” G-Wiz asked.

“Someone who can do the sneaking around part of the job,” the cybernetic man's gaze was held on the horizon, and he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to G-Wiz, “Someone who can get in. Get out. Who's flexible...”

He snapped a glass and metal finger.

“Contort is my first choice. Theoretically we can use someone else, but he's got the skills for it. The sticky fingers, too.”

“Gross,” G-Wiz said, “You going to bring that up to Becenti?”

But Ichabod was already turning around, walking off of the platform and back into the Dreamer proper, moving beside Becenti on the bridge. The old metahuman was steering the Dreamer with a single hand. The other held a cup of coffee.

“I want Arne,” Ichabod said.

“Contort's got the Ikalho job,” Becenti said, “He's got some research to do with Vespa.”

“That hivemind?” Ichabod said, “Please, she’lll get more work done on that without him. No, I think we need him.”

Becenti gave Ichabod a hard look. His eyes flickered over to the corner, where Joseph, Rosemary, and Ezel were nodding off. A blanket covered the three of them, and Joseph's cup of coffee was starting to slip from his tired hand and spill on the floor.

The meaning was clear.

“Alright,” Ichabod said, “I'll talk to you about it later. But we need the best we've got, Myron. Alright?”

Becenti nodded.

“Alright,” he said.

***

Indeed, Becenti had agreed later on to recruit Contort. So it fell to Ichabod to convince him.

The rubbery man had returned to Castle Belenus in relative good cheer. He and Wakeling had finished their personal missions at InterGuild with easy success, and he was reaping the benefits of the guildmaster's good graces. A bottle of wine, aged a thousand years, was in his hand as he sat in the room, pouring a bit of it into a glass. Contort's room was a relatively cluttered place, not quite to the degree of Ichabod's recent obsessions, but he was one who preferred to live with his belongings spread out on the ground. Articles of clothing littered the floor, and a pile of dirty dishes took up half of his desk. A poster of some jester or clown from his home plane had been taped on the wall, but the top corner of it was hanging loose, pulling the rest of the page down. Just above his bed was a pair of large rings held aloft by red ribbons, mementos from back home. He glanced up as Ichabod walked inside.

“You know there's a perfectly fine door to knock, Ichabod,” Contort said, smiling.

“Hmm,” Ichabod said, “I suppose.”

He stepped inside, his nose rankling at the smell of stale sweat and body odor.

“Something I can help you with?” Contort said.

“Yes, actually,” Ichabod said, “I'm gathering a team.”

“For a job, right?” Contort said, “Sorry, man, but my schedule's filled up.”

“What, the job with Vespa?” Ichabod said, “Are you really going to be spending hours of time doing random research with a hornet hive?”

“Hey,” Ichabod said, “Vespa's chill. You learn a lot, speaking to her.”

“I need you for this, Arne,” Ichabod said. He looked around for a moment, then said, “Alright if I close the door?”

“Sure,” Contort said.

Ichabod rose, and closed the door.

“Theoretically, I'm only supposed to tell you the bare minimum,” Ichabod said, “Part of a little deal with Wakeling on this.”

At that, Contort's eyes narrowed.

“What kind of job is this?” he asked.

“We're going to the Tower of Eden,” Ichabod said, “We're dealing with Agrippa.”

“...Thought we had a rule here,” Contort said, “We don't deal with OzTech whatsoever.”

“That's why we're keeping it on the down low,” Ichabod said, “It's... It's related to the gala.”

“Didn't know we were messing with politics now,” Contort said, “Like, we take a job or two for them, but sticking out our neck for some random Doge? Come on, man. What's really going on?”

“It's related to the Doge's job,” Ichabod said, “That's... They went after Joseph and Rosemary, alright?”

Contort blinked.

“Ichabod, come the fuck on,” he said, “When have you ever cared about Joseph?”

And the cybernetic man sighed. He took off his sunglasses, revealing his glass eyes. Despite their artificial nature, they held a world within them as he stared at Contort.

“It's for me, alright?” Ichabod said, “That's it. It's personal, for me.”

“And that's why we don't go on those sort of jobs,” Contort said, “Personal shit and something like OzTech? That's a disaster waiting to happen, Ichabod.”

“I know,” Ichabod said, “I know, Arne. But please.”

Contort sighed, rubbing his temples. He put the glass of wine down, and stared out the window.

“...Alright,” he said, “I will.”

And that was that.

They had their thief.

***

G-Wiz was their heavy. Ichabod caught her just as she was sitting down after feeding Becenti's krem. The cybernetic man's nose wrinkled at the smell of billy goat and hay.

“G-Wiz, good,” Ichabod said, “You're our heavy hitter.”

G-Wiz blinked.

“Me?”

“Every team needs a heavy,” Ichabod said, “Some extra muscle who can take out security teams, errant patrolmen, the like. When we need something physically assaulted, it's the heavy's job to take them out.”

G-Wiz, a full five feet tall, stared at him. She plucked at her keytar.

“Right,” she said, “And you want me to do it.”

“My first choice was Joseph, actually,” Ichabod said, “But Wakeling said he's not allowed on this job. My second choice was Tiger, but he’s currently on another job. Third was Broon, but he's too much of a lug to actually sneak, but-”

“I'm your fourth choice?” G-Wiz asked, a venomous edge in her voice.

“...Yes,” Ichabod lied, “Correct. Joseph's indisposed, as is Tiger. Broon's too much of a liability. You lack physical muscle, but you have three things. One, your zumbelaphone.”

“It'll be loud.”

“Can you be quiet with it?” Ichabod asked.

“...It's got a silent feature,” G-Wiz said, “Halves the effectiveness on it.”

“That's alright,” Ichabod said, “So long as you can take people out with it still.”

“I can.”

“Good. The second reason is because you're more versatile than Joseph or Broon. Not as versatile as Phineas-”

“Ichabod, stop treating me like I'm a tool, you tool.”

Ichabod caught himself, gulping down an insufferable comment.

“Right,” he said, “You're versatile. You don't just hit people with your zumbelaphone. You can form objects with it. Manipulate people. Freeze them in place.”

“I can make things blow up, too,” G-Wiz said.

“At the point we're doing that, the game's already up, and we're probably going to die,” Ichabod said, “So if it comes to that, make it count.”

“Right,” G-Wiz said. She stretched a bit, “So what's the third reason?”

“The third reason,” Ichabod said, “Is that you're already aware that we're even doing this in the first place.”

“Ah, yeah, that'll do it,” G-Wiz said, “So we're really going in on something like this.”

“Indeed,” Ichabod said, “I have to warn you, Galatea, it will be dangerous.”

“Alright.”

“We're dealing with one of the most powerful entities in the known multiverse,” Ichabod said, “A megacorporation whose tentacles writhe across realities. If we're caught, there could very easily be retribution. Agrippa is never one to play by the rules. He cares little for the Law of InterGuild.”

“But he did something to you, didn't he?” G-Wiz asked.

Ichabod was quiet. He stepped away, and stared at the wall.

“He's the one that gave you those limbs, isn't he?” G-Wiz said.

“I like my replacements,” Ichabod said, “They're more useful to me.”

“Ichabod,” G-Wiz said, “Don't bullshit me. I know the way you look at them. How uncomfortable you are, showing them off to everyone.”

Ichabod was caught. He sighed, sitting down on a nearby stool, grimacing as one of the krem reared an ugly head out and tried for his long hair. He pulled away, leaning in so he was out of the range of the goat's questing tongue.

“You are correct,” Ichabod said, “I... I tried to do it before.”

G-Wiz was quiet, letting him process his thoughts.

“I took a team there, you see,” Ichabod said, “We had our roles. I hand-picked everyone. I even mulled over taking... taking him with me. I did, in the end. He was a heavy, like you.”

He gave her a smile, one that was genuine with a bittersweet warmth.

“But it went south, and here I am now.”

“And what makes our heist today different from before?” G-Wiz asked, “What makes it so that we won't get in over our head?”

Ichabod stood up, brushing past the krem and moving to stand in front of G-Wiz. His smile had disappeared, his mouth settling into its usual thin frown.

“I've gamed that entire plan in my head, over and over, every day, for years,” he said, “I know what went wrong. I can see the mistakes we made, the errors in our judgment, crystal clear. It's like they're in front of me. I close my eyes, and I see them. It's practically a comedy, how badly we messed up.”

He sighed. The wind picked up outside for a moment, as though it were beholden to him.

“I won't mess up again, Galatea. I won't. The Tower of Eden was my opus. It will be again.”

“Even when you don't have your first choices,” G-Wiz said.

“I...” Ichabod hesitated, “I try to analyze everything, Galatea. Look at things from a logical perspective, bereft of emotion. I've learned that emotion is often a liability.”

“It has its uses.”

“...Agree to disagree,” Ichabod said. He stiffened up, “Will you join me?”

G-Wiz nodded, though her eyes were hard.

“I will,” she said, “But... Just remember what I said, about taking other people into consideration, Ichabod. You're not infallible. And you don't know when to quit with the barbs. Watch yourself, alright? You watch yourself, and I'll watch you.”

Ichabod smiled, and she knew it did not reach his artificial eyes.

“Deal.”

***

The last of the team was one Ichabod did not want joining them.

Vicenorn was outside, working on the repairs of the Titania Amber with Meleko, Mallory, and Lazuli. Ichabod watched the large, lobster-like man work, Vicenorn's mechanical arm twisting and transforming into various implements and tools to apply to the starship. His face was red from exertion, despite the relative cool of the day. Ichabod pretended not to look at him, at his large body, his strong legs and his still-human, muscular arm. Tried not to think of Vicenorn drawing close, so close his breath was on Ichabod's neck...

He suppressed an excitable shiver. He did not want Vicenorn, this magnificent beast of a man, anywhere near the Tower of Eden. He stood stock still, wind scored through with orange leaves billowing his cloak, bright flares of light against the drabness of the day.

“You're staring hard, Ichabod,” Becenti said behind him.

Ichabod turned. Becenti was also helping with the Titania Amber's repairs, wearing a white shirt stained with plasma tears, his tattoos on full display.

“I want to bring up Vicenorn again,” Ichabod said.

“You may,” Becenti said.

“I don't want him on this mission.”

“Vicenorn,” Becenti said, “Is knowledgeable about the region of the multiverse that Neos is in. His mechanical arm is a match to yours, so if something happens he can take any role you're taking.”

“We don't need a back-up,” Ichabod said, “If I'm taken out, then it's over. We pull out. I'm the only one with the right tools to get into the database we're looking for.”

“He's also muscle, if needs be,” Becenti said.

“We already have a heavy,” Ichabod said, “Galatea.”

Becenti quirked an eyebrow, and Ichabod could see the gears whirling in his head. He seemed to come to the same conclusions as the cybernetic man, however, and nodded.

“All the same,” he said, “I spoke with Wakeling about it, and she wants him on the job.”

I see, Ichabod thought, To make sure I don't go too far.

He surreptitiously glanced over where Vicenorn was working. His heart skipped a beat even at the very sight of him.

Damn you, Wakeling. You know us all too well.

“Is that a problem, Ichabod?” Becenti asked.

“For the record, it is,” Ichabod said, “He's...”

He didn't want to say 'liability,' what if Vicenorn heard him?

“He'll be mission control,” Ichabod said, “We're going to need one anyway. He'll stay outside the tower, let us know what's going on via hacked security cameras, and the like. Deal?”

“That is agreeable,” Becenti said.

Ichabod let out a huff.

“Good, then,” he said. He started walking towards Vicenorn. Vicenorn looked up to Ichabod as he approached. There was this way that he smiled, a large grin breaking out on his face that filled Ichabod's world. Heart hammering, Ichabod cleared his throat.

“You're going on a job with me,” he said, “Becenti just cleared it.”

“Well hello to you too, Ichabod,” Vicenorn chuckled, “Fair weather we're having.”

“The weather is fine. Nice, even. No chance of rain,” Ichabod snipped, “Ah, you look nice, today.”

Vicenorn rolled his eyes. He was wearing a white A-Shirt and a pair of ripped, plasma-stained jeans.

“Thank you, Ichabod,” Vicenorn said, “Now, what sort of mission is this?”

“Nothing major,” Ichabod lied, “A quick heist. Get in, get out.”

Gods, all of his usual maskings and subtlety disappeared. Vicenorn was a dangerous man. A beautiful, dangerous man. Ichabod found his eyes slide over to Meleko, Mallory, and Lazuli, who were casually listening in.

“I-I'll explain the details later,” Ichabod said, “We're a team, you see. Not just you and I, obviously, but G-Wiz is with us. Becenti, too, as well as-”

“Ichabod, relax,” Vicenorn laughed, “Just tell me the time and the place.”

He laid a hand on Ichabod's shoulder. Ichabod felt his body tingle as he returned a watery smile.

“Now, I have to get back to work,” Vicenorn said, “Just let me know when we're meeting and leaving for the job, sound good?”

“Sounds brilliant,” Ichabod said, “See you then.”

He could have sworn he saw Lazuli and Mallory stifling laughter as Ichabod walked away. God, he lost all of his defenses when he was around Vicenorn. Becenti had a smirk on his face.

“Shut up, Myron.”

“I didn't say anything,” Becenti said.

“So that's it, then,” Ichabod said, “That's our team.”

The metahuman nodded, the smirk dissolving.

“That's our team.”

***

One by one, they gathered in a small common room tucked away in the western tower. Few of the guild knew of this little room, a dusty old study that belonged to one of Wakeling's late associates. They gathered inside, sitting down on ancient stools, G-Wiz on the desk that had once held documents and inkwells, Vicenorn leaning against the wall beside the door.

And, one by one, they had their reactions to the job. What they were doing. Contort was already partially aware, and he feigned shock as Ichabod explained where they were going. Becenti and G-Wiz already knew, and they just stared grimly at Ichabod as he went on.

Rorshin and Vicenorn had separate reactions. Vicenorn gave a simple jerk of the head, though there was something swimming in his eyes that set Ichabod on edge, as though he were upset about something. Rorshin simply smiled, however, a dark, vile grin that only the vengeful wear.

“It's Neos, people,” Ichabod explained, “The entire plane is a patchwork of urban sprawl and wasteland. They get all of their food from off-plane. They get all their water off-plane, too, because the rainwater's not safe to drink. Too many chemicals in it, at this point.”

“Sounds like a shithole,” G-Wiz said.

“It is,” Ichabod said, “But it's also one of the most influential planes in the multiverse. The various megacorporations there run many enterprises across the multiverse, from magical research to funding guilds.”

“Not us, though, right?” G-Wiz asked.

“Of course not, Ms. Wiz,” Becenti said, “We're called the Amber Foundation because the wealth of Titania Amber directly sustains our work.”

“She was blooming rich,” Ichabod said, “Not rich enough that we don't have to do guildwork, but rich enough that we're able to keep them off our backs. Not every guild is lucky like that, however.”

“How are we getting there?” Vicenorn asked, “The starship's out of commission, and Metrizan has the Dreamer for the Methusaleh job.”

“We need more ships,” G-Wiz muttered.

“Hardly,” Rorshin said, “We've two legs each, don't we? Well, most of us do.”

The druid slid Ichabod a sly look. Ichabod resisted the urge to punch him in the mouth.

“Rorshin,” Becenti said, “Like we talked about.”

Rorshin rolled his eyes, though the smile did not leave his face.

“Travel,” Becenti said, “Has been arranged. We're to travel out to Kelphaven, and from there we're heading to the Traveling Point above the Faraway Mountains.”

“The Traveling Point on Beritale Landmass is closer,” Vicenorn pointed out.

“Yes, but it's also more obvious,” Becenti said, “We don't want to cause much of a hassle. Not yet, anyways.”

“This is a heist, remember,” Ichabod said, “If we need to make ourselves obvious, we will. But for now, we're sneaking onto Neos.”

They all nodded.

“We leave in a couple days,” Becenti said, “Get your things together. It's going to be a long trip.”

***

“I still wish you'd tell me where you're going,” Joseph said.

He and Becenti were on a balcony overlooking the gardens below. Far below, they could see Vicenorn loaded up a bag of supplies onto a wagon, his mechanical arm reaching up to pet the top of the krem pulling the cart.

“I know, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said.

“Though I suppose that's par for the course,” Joseph said, “You're visiting one of the prisons again, right?”

Not exactly, Becenti wanted to say. But it would make Joseph feel better if he at least had an inkling of an idea of where they were going.

“Yes,” Becenti lied, “One of the prisons.”

He hoped he sounded convincing enough, but Joseph gave no indication of suspecting Becenti or not. The young man rolled his shoulders, wincing a bit. His time at InterGuild had been a violent one, and he was still healing from his wounds.

“Alright,” he said, “Which one, this time?”

“A secret, unfortunately,” Becenti said, then, changing the subject, “You should concentrate your time here, Mr. Zheng. You should apologize properly to Tek.”

“Tek doesn't talk to me,” Joseph said, “A lot of the others aren't, either.”

“I don't blame them,” Becenti said, “Tek was relying on you, and your guildmates don't like it when you're unreliable.”

“...Fair,” Joseph said, “No, you're right. I'll... I'll try.”

“Do so,” Becenti said, “I understand your reasons, Mr. Zheng, but all the same. When someone is relying on you, you don't just leave them behind. It defeats the entire point of why we're here.”

“I know,” Joseph said, “We’re supposed to help each other.”

“Indeed, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said.

He made to leave.

“Becenti.”

He stopped. Joseph turned to look at him.

“If… If I asked Wakeling for help, she would, right?”

“If she had the ability to, yes,” Becenti said.

“But there are limits to that.”

“As guildmaster, yes,” Becenti said, “There are certain areas where she would be of no use. Certain topics she cannot, as guildmaster, share with us.”

“Like Agrippa,” Joseph said, “The sarcophagi.”

He was still on that. With the absence of… whatever he had fought for, and lost, at Interguild, Joseph had once more latched onto the idea of the sarcophagi. Becenti gave a curt nod.

“Indeed,” he said.

“Because we don’t deal with Agrippa.”

“Correct, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said, and he suppressed a wince.

“...I know,” Joseph said. He continued staring out, “Good luck with the prisons, Becenti.”

“Good luck yourself, Joseph,” Becenti said.

He turned away. Walked downstairs.

They left Scuttleway not long after.

***

The journey was a long one. The day's walk to Kelphaven was quiet and somber, as the team, once more, got used to the rigors of travel. The wagon wheels spun. The road stretched onwards as they went around Moadma's Landmass's edges and towards Kelphaven. From there, they took a ship, a ratchety old sloop, cresting across the sea towards Omasta Landmass. Instead of continuing on towards the Orcish nation of Salthirn, they instead crested back to the interior of Londoa, towards the Faraway Mountains. There was no Rainbow Bridge for this crossing. Instead, airships plied between Moadma and Omasta, ferrying travelers between the two sheets of earth.

From there were the Faraway Mountains, so named not because of their distance but because the entirety of the interior parts of Omasa Landmass was covered in mountains. Major settlements in this part of Londoa were sparse and scattered, the largest of which were centered around the Landmass's two Traveling Points. It was the one in the south that the party was heading towards for this trip, hiring another airship, the Illman's Burden, to bring them there.

A city stretched below them, though they were now there for long, instead beelining for the Traveling Point. With a couple of huffs, they stepped through, shifting through the swamp-like, multi-colored ocean that was the space between realities.

They journeyed across planes of existence, each one stepping closer and closer to Neos. They were careful not to draw attention to themselves as they traveled. They wore drab clothing, camouflaged in the mundane. Each flashing of a guild ID was a calculated one, just enough to get the guard to let them pass, let them planeshift towards the next plane.

Until, finally, after passing through a dozen different worlds, crossing through jungle, or desert, or voidplace, they came upon Neos.

The Traveling Point was a hidden one, not used too often by the common Far Travelers and nomads of the multiverse. It was still recorded, and they still needed to show the proper documentations, but the eye of the megacorps, the eye of OzTech, was not as centered on them.

***

Neos was a place of rain. Dark storm clouds thundered high above, occasional rumblings giving evidence of thunder. The air stank of chemicals.Towers rose in the distance, black monoliths peppered with white windows and bright neon ads for sodas, for food, for strippers, for entertainment devices, for legal drugs.

Even from where they were, with a wasteland and a dirty highway between them and the city, they could see the advertisements. Buy, buy, buy.

Ichabod sneered as he turned to his guildmates. His silver hair rippled in the chem-ranked wind.

“Shall we be off, then?”