Becenti had, fortunately, brought himself a spare suit and tie. He walked downstairs and into the small bathroom located in the smokeshop's back, changing and making himself presentable, shaving a bit with a knife made of heat, tying his hair back into a sharp ponytail. Vicenorn did much the same, putting on a gray suit and brushing out his red pepper beard. Ichabod shook his head as the massive man emerged.

“No tie,” he said.

“Don't need one,” Vicenorn said.

“You need a tie,” Ichabod snapped, “Myron, have you got a spare?”

“Indeed,” Becenti produced one from his suitcase, and G-Wiz noted that, aside from a couple odd amenities, the metahuman had only packed suits and ties for the trip. She stifled a laugh.

Ichabod, rolling his eyes beneath his sunglasses, strode over to Vicenorn, pulling him down and wrapping the tie 'round his neck. He muttered to himself as he tied it.

“Over the top, through the loop, there,” he grimaced up at Vicenorn.

Who was looking directly at him.

The two were face to face.

“Ahem!” Ichabod said, “There, now you're p-presentable.”

He stepped back. Vicenorn glowered down at the tie, pulling at it a bit.

“D-Don't pull,” Ichabod said, “Please.”

“Never liked these things,” Vicenorn said, “I feel confined. Suffocated.”

“The sacrifices we make, Oris,” Becenti said.

“Yeah, you'd think,” Vicenorn said, “Sooner we're done with this little charade, the better.”

“Go down to Third Avenue,” Ichabod said, “There's a taxi there that will take you directly to the Tower. Your cybernetics will be scanned as you walk in.”

“Won't the spiders be detected?” Becenti asked.

“Naw,” Vicenorn said, “We've got a resident wizard here with us.”

He gestured to Rorshin, who rolled his eyes. The druid stepped over.

“A blind spot,” Becenti said, “One would think that they'd be prepared for that.”

“The higher floors are,” Ichabod said, “As are the lower ones. But the scanners at the front doors are formal, to keep out the riff-raff and the more obvious interlopers. Rorshin, if you please.”

The druid narrowed his eyes, but nonetheless approached. Vicenorn presented his arm, which slid open, revealing the spiders as they skittered around in a lackadaisical way inside.

“I will need a... region, shall we say, to do this,” Rorshin said, “Inside your arm.”

“Here should work,” Vicenorn said. The spiders began to skitter near a pocket on the inside of his forearm. Rorshin whispered a few words, and they all felt a warm wind brush through the room, coalescing around a small acorn that the druid pulled from his bag. He placed it inside.

“A spell of hiding, like a soul within a seed,” Rorshin said, “Make it last.”

“That will do,” Becenti said, “Well then, let's be off.”

Vicenorn nodded. The two of them made for the door.

“Wait.”

Ichabod stood tall as he looked at the two of them. He stared at Vicenorn for a bit longer than Becenti.

“Be careful.”

Becenti nodded. Vicenorn chuckled.

“We will be, Ichabod,” Vicenorn said, “I promise.”

And they walked out the door.

G-Wiz looked over at Ichabod. The thin man's hands were steepled together, frittering nervously.

***

True to Ichabod's word, their taxi was on Third Ave, parked just underneath a street lamp by an old drug store. They stepped over the prone form of a junkie as they clambered in, feeling quite out of place wearing their business suits among the worn-down, poorer parts of New Shan. The car shielded them from all of that, though, with its tinted windows and dry interior. Music played automatically from the driver's seat, an electronic rock piece that sang tinny from the speakers. G-Wiz would have appreciated it.

The car drove around the poorer districts of the city, but as it went Becenti realized that all of the city was poor. The disenfranchised, the broken, the addicted, they all held sway here at ground level. He had heard of places like New Shan, where the rich lived in the high rises of the city, shuttling in on flying vehicles. Their children knew little of the earth below, only that it was a long way down. The workers of the towers lived in the middle, bridges linking the great buildings together, cars flying between them, nightclubs droning even in the morning. Neon signs pointed to bars, strip clubs, VR rooms, anything to keep the public entertained. To keep them from thinking about the world, and their place in it.

New Shan was a city built on layers, and they were at the bottom of it all.

As above, not so below.

Rain began plinking against the taxi as it approached a solid wall of concrete that separated the rabble of New Shan from the business district. Armed drones flew overhead, and a couple of guards patrolled the top. Almost like the walls of Scuttleway, Becenti noted. The taxi stopped at the wall.

The music dimmed. A woman's voice, crisp and clear and business-like, sparked to life.

“Please scan your credstick.”

Becenti and Vicenorn exchanged a look. Then, Vicenorn's arm rippled as it produced a credstick from his finger. He scanned it in front of the red light by the driver's seat, which blinked for a moment as it processed the money.

“Thank you for your patronage,” the woman's voice said, “We hope you have a wonderful visit.”

With that, the wall began pulling itself open, parting like stone waves. The guards on top looked down at them as the taxi started up again, pushing through towards the business district.

Neither Becenti nor Vicenorn commented as the gate shut once more. Becenti straightened his tie.

“Almost there,” he said, “Let me do all the talking, alright?”

“Sounds agreeable,” Vicenorn said, his face going red with anxiety. He was pulling at his tie again, “God, why'd you have to choose me for this, Myron?”

“Because we're the two controllers of the job,” Becenti said.

“Got to be more to it than that,” Vicenorn said.

Becenti was quiet.

“Come on, Myron,” Vicenorn said, “I'll be real, you probably had better options for mission control. Lazuli, for example. Meleko's not bad at scanners. Not an old warhorse like me.”

“You sell yourself too short,” Becenti murmured.

“But there were better options,” Vicenorn said.

“...Yes,” Becenti said, “There were.”

“Then why me?”

The old metahuman stared ahead. The car made a right, dodging past a few other identical taxis. The ads were less egregious here, not the big blow-up holograms like in the poorer districts. This place was pure corporation, and thus had the dreary, artificial edge of a company-dominated downtown.

“...What do you think of Ichabod?” Becenti asked.

“Hmm?” Vicenorn said, “Of... Ichabod?”

Becenti nodded.

Vicenorn grunted. He went a bit more red.

“He's... He's fine, I suppose. Handsome, in his way. He's intelligent. Kind when he wants to be. And he cares about... Well...”

He scratched behind his head.

“You have to ask this now, Myron?” Vicenorn said, “Been a while, talking about… this. About, ah, a crush.”

“I know,” Becenti said.

The taxi stopped. The Tower loomed. Rain splattered against the stone steps that led up to the entrance.

“Myron,” Vicenorn said, “I'm going to ask you a question.”

There was realization in his voice. A sort of nervous indignation. Becenti turned.

“What is it?” the metahuman asked, his tone careful.

“I'm here because Wakeling told me to come,” Vicenorn said, “I'm not here to... I couldn't be here to keep Ichabod in line, am I?”

Becenti' silence was answer enough. Vicenorn's eyes narrowed.

“Don't you play lapdog again, Myron. Wakeling's doing that thing again, isn't she? Where's she treating us all like... like...”

“I know,” Becenti said.

“Game pieces, Myron.”

“I know,” Becenti repeated, “But we've got a job to do, Oris.”

He opened the door, umbrella blooming like a flower as he stepped out into the rain. Vicenorn, after a few moments, followed suit.

***

Ichabod could not stay still. He paced the room, hands shaking with anticipation, his mouth moving wordlessly as he muttered silently to himself. Rorshin continued his meditations, facing the door, his face serene, his eyes closed. G-Wiz was on her sleeping bag, tuning her zumbelaphone, quiet electric beats buzzing the air. Contort was reading a book, propping himself up against a wall, though he kept getting distracted by Ichabod's rounds, looking up to watch the cybernetic man fret.

“Give it a rest, Ichabod,” Contort said.

Ichabod didn't reply. He brushed past G-Wiz, an errant boot stubbing into her knee. G-Wiz flipped him off.

“Ichabod,” Contort repeated.

“Hmm?” Ichabod said, “What?”

“Dude,” Contort said, “Take a chill pill. Relax. You're getting worked up over...”

“What? Over nothing?” Ichabod said.

Contort went quiet.

“Right. Use your brain for once in your life, Arne,” Ichabod said, “You'll find you can come to some obvious conclusions with it.”

He started up his pacing again, continued with his silent mutterings. They became a bit louder now as he swore under his breath, his voice tight and harsh. G-Wiz stopped playing her keytar, ending her improvisation with an off-key as let out an annoyed sigh.

“Yo, dipshit.”

Three heads turned to her.

“I meant Ichabod,” G-Wiz said.

“What is it, Galatea?” Ichabod said, “I'm rather busy.”

“I want a smoke,” G-Wiz said, “You got any?”

Ichabod simmered a bit, fumbling in his coat pocket for a moment. Rorshin let out a low growl.

“If you smoke, you don't do it here,” the druid said.

“Fair,” G-Wiz said, “Ichabod, there a roof to this place?”

“Probably not a good idea right now,” Ichabod said, “It's raining out.”

“Then we'll do it downstairs,” G-Wiz said.

“We?” Ichabod said.

“You need to relax, dude,” G-Wiz said, “Come on.”

It was a statement. An order. Ichabod rolled his eyes, and followed. The two of them went down the stairs to the first floor. Once, this had been a quaint little smoke shop, though the shelves had been cleared out and the glass behind the counter had been shattered long ago. G-Wiz nonetheless walked over to it, resting her hands on the countertop as Ichabod fumbled out a cigarette case. He handed a smoke to G-Wiz, lighting it and his own with a flick of the finger. The two of them stood there, leaning against the counter, watching the rain pour down outside.

They stood for what felt to Ichabod like an eternity.

Finally, G-Wiz looked over to him.

“What's up, dude?” she asked.

“Don't you ask me, 'what's up,'” Ichabod muttered, “Two of our own are out there, casing the place now. And I can't be there to help them.”

“Sure,” G-Wiz said, “That's a bit much.”

“Of course, it was my choice,” Ichabod said, “I should have gone, though. I should be there with them. They don't know the Tower like I do. They don't...”

He took another drag of the cigarette. He sighed out smoke.

“They just don't understand.”

“Dude,” G-Wiz said, “Alright if I'm real with you?”

“You've always been 'real' with me, Galatea,” Ichabod said, “It's an unfortunate vice.”

“I don't think you care that Becenti's in there,” G-Wiz said.

Ichabod's voice caught. He glared at her.

“He's our guildmate,” he said, “Of course I care that-”

“He's been on wild rides before, dude,” G-Wiz said, “He’s been in worse situations, and you know it.”

“...I suppose,” Ichabod said.

“So if you're not worried about Becenti being there, then you gotta be worried about the other guy,” G-Wiz said.

“...About Vicenorn,” Ichabod said.

“Yeah,” G-Wiz said, “Are you... Are you good, man?”

Ichabod turned to her. Considered her for a few moments. Then, with a defeated sigh, he simpered down.

“No,” he said, “I suppose not.”

G-Wiz nodded, before looking around for a moment, rummaging beneath the counter and producing an ashtray. She stifled her smoke, her mouth a thin line.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“I... I suppose I'd...” Ichabod sighed, “I'm not really sure, Galatea.”

“S'alright,” G-Wiz said, “You don't have to. I'm not going to rag on you because of it.”

“Thank you, Galatea.”

“But I think you should talk to Vicenorn, one of these days,” G-Wiz said, “You know, tell him how you feel.”

“Pah!” Ichabod wheezed, “It's not so serious, G-Wiz. Just a little crush, is all.”

G-Wiz gave him a frank look. Ichabod felt himself become uncomfortably warm.

“It's more than that,” he said, “He makes me feel...”

He hugged himself, sliding down until he was sitting, back to the counter.

“He makes me feel good about myself. He reminds me of when Elijah was here.”

G-Wiz blinked.

“Elijah?”

***

Becenti and Vicenorn stepped through the doors, feeling the uncomfortable buzz of red scanners pulse over them as they stepped into the lobby. The entire place was white, with waterfalls flanking either side, a mist settled over the area like a greenhouse. It felt cold on the skin, clammy like a broken fever. Trees flourished in this place, ivy and vines wrapped 'round their trunks like serpents. Some bore fruit, some familiar, some unfamiliar, all of them colorful. All of them, vibrant. As though they were painted renditions. Flowers festooned the ground around the trees, poked out of their roots, conquered the grass, orchids and roses and bluebells and great big sunflowers that stared at them like eyes as they walked in. All of the garden was hedged in, just barely, by marble walkways that led to the front desk, to elevators, to a staircase that was sculpted from dark wood.

But all of it felt... off. Artificial. The trees could not have been grown here. They had been placed. Like furniture. There was nothing real here, despite the obvious attempt at it.

Of course, this was what Becenti felt. Vicenorn just gave out an awkward cough and said “Not bad.”

An attendant walked over to them, a woman in a curt, black dress, her hair tied up in a bun that spiraled up like a conch shell. Lines etched her face, evidence of much more advanced cybernetics beneath the surface of her skin. Becenti thought that she must have had her entire face replaced, the way she smiled robotically at them.

“Good morning, sirs,” she said, “Can I help you today?”

“Ah, yes,” Becenti said, adjusting his tie, “I'm Myron Becenti, of the Amber Foundation? We had a meeting with one of your representatives about a potential contract.”

“Amber Foundation...” the woman's eyes shone blue for a moment, and something beneath her forehead rippled, “Yes, your nine o'clock. If you will follow me, please.”

She gave them a false smile, and began to guide them across the lobby. Becenti and Vicenorn exchanged looks, before following her.

Vicenorn brushed a hand through the leaves, the entire side of the tree swaying at his touch.

He released the first of the spiders as he did so.

***

High above, at the top of the Tower, Julius Agrippa sat at his desk. Felt the brush of the G'Rash Haro on his shoulders, the sickly sweet scent of its breath, as it watched the door. Its head was just over his shoulder.

His thin, reed-like finger pressed a button on the desk's surface. A camera appeared, a bird's eye view of his garden below. The trees and the flowers, all of them beautiful.

And there, he saw them. The Amber Foundation.

The air reeked with possibility.

The desk gave him notification of a voice call. Agrippa pressed it.

“Sir,” it was one of his secretaries, “The Amber Foundation are here for their morning appointment.”

“Excellent,” Agrippa said, “I'll be down in a moment.”

***

“I was raised out here, you know,” Ichabod said.

G-Wiz moved around the corner, slumping down beside her friend.

“On Neos,” Ichabod said, “It's the home plane. Of course, I wasn't Ichabod back then. I was...”

He looked down at the cracked tile floor.

“I was named Saul. And I had Elijah.”

“Saul,” G-Wiz rolled the name on her tongue, looking over at him. Ichabod's expression was blank, his arms resting on his knees. He was a broken man, she realized.

“Saul,” Ichabod said, “And Elijah. I... I met him when I was... an activist.”

“An activist?”

“Yes,” Ichabod said. He took off his sunglasses, revealing his glass eyes. Despite their artificial nature, there was a depth to them as he turned to look at G-Wiz. There was, she realized, still a window into his soul.

“It wasn't always like this, you know,” Ichabod said, “The corporations. The wastelands. Neos was once a thriving plane, from what my grandmother told me. Her mother told her stories of a Neos that was verdant and green. A place where the oceans were alive and thriving, where the storms did not carry death. I was... young, then. I still thought that the system could be changed. And so I started, as a young man, to protest. I joined hands with others.”

He gave a smile. A warm smile, foreign on his cold face.

“I met Elijah there.”

***

The spokesman for Oztech was a rat-like man, pencil-thin with a practically drawn-on mustache. His scalp was artificial, the same thin lines as the lobby attendant etched just above his forehead. Glass eyes slid up to look at Becenti and Vicenorn as they walked in.

The office itself was made of glass, water sloshing just beneath their feet, green light shining through to bathe the entire room in a chlorophyll glow. The pencil-thin man rose from his desk, offering a mechanical hand to Becenti.

“Amber Foundation,” he said, a nervous edge to his voice, “Welcome. I am Mr. Aloysius.”

“Mr. Aloysius,” Becenti said, “Pleasure. I'm Myron Becenti, this is Oris Vicenorn.”

The glass eyes glowed for a moment as Mr. Aloysius recorded their names. For a moment, the rat-like man's face sagged into a neutral expression, before breaking back into a false smile.

“Of course,” he said, “How wonderful to make your acquaintance. Please, have a seat.”

They sat down. Aloysius clicked a few buttons on his desk, and it began reading out a series of contracts that he looked over.

“It appears the last time you were involved with us was five years ago,” he said, “An altercation between one 'Nole' and a member of Pantheon.”

“Correct,” Becenti said, racking his brain, “The Tirus Affair, if I recall correctly.”

“Over Gastron Prime,” Mr. Aloysius said, “I hope that Nole is in good health?”

“He...” Becenti said, “He passed away, a few months ago.”

“Oh,” Aloysius said, not a hint of regret in his voice, “My... condolences.”

“Quite alright,” Becenti said, ignoring Vicenorn's subtle look, “It's the business.”

“Indeed,” Aloysius said.

***

“He was...” Ichabod stammered, “He was everything. Kind. Handsome. Dark. There was a way he smiled at you, like you were the only thing in the world. Endlessly charismatic. People flocked to him as though he were a shepherd at night.”

“Damn,” G-Wiz said.

“And... Out of everyone, he chose me. He saw something in me, a stick of a man. I am not easy to get along with, Galatea, even back then.”

“That's true,” G-Wiz said.

Ichabod sneered.

“And yet he chose me,” Ichabod said, “We started going on actions at first. Nothing major, just hit and runs on various corporations. That's when we chose our nicknames. Ichabod for me, Goliath for him. I did the infiltration, and when things got hot, Goliath started hitting things until they stopped moving.”

“Your heavy.”

“My heavy,” Ichabod said, with a wistful edge, “My beautiful heavy. We were quite the item. Made many friends, in those days. Most of them, moral. All of us, illegal in our own ways.”

He turned to her, once wearing that true smile.

“You should have seen the wedding.”

G-Wiz had to grin at that.

“I would have liked to,” she said, “Knowing you, it would've been a good time.”

“It was...” Ichabod said, “It was.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“A year after our marriage, we went on a major job. It was to crack an egg that had never been broken. Not truly. A Tower rose from the dirt of the world.”

“The Tower of Eden.”

“The same,” Ichabod said, “It was a routine job. Just to let Agrippa know that we were here, that even atop his high rise, he was not safe. I picked out the best of us. I chose our heavy.”

His hands shook. His voice was hollow as he spoke.

“Agrippa found us, of course. Found all of us. I'm not sure how – someone must have let something slip, by accident.”

***

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind them.

Mr. Aloysius's eyes slid up, widened at the sight of the voice's owner. Becenti and Vicenorn turned their chairs around to see the newcomer. Both tried to hide their shock as Julius Agrippa stepped into the room. He was a tall man, but thin, an iron rod wearing a suit, clammy blond hair hanging off his head in curtains, a thin mustache and beard creeping down his sharp face. Agrippa's almost-filmed eyes flitted between the two as he walked, a slow smile on thin lips. He walked like a marionette, as though something had possessed him, and only knew a bit of how the human body walked.

Even more unsettling was the creature that accompanied him, that floated like a dull spectre over his shoulders. It resembled a raptor of some sort, though it was just as large as Vicenorn, with feathered arms that ended in hooked, scythe-like claws, a thick, serpentine neck writhing over its mass and ending in a lion's head, though the eyes were hollow and empty like Agrippa's.

A G'Rash Haro, Becenti knew. A Spirit of Man. Tamed and molded from a darker part of the multiverse, some distant place, its form hewn in the shape of its owner's soul.

“Mr. Agrippa,” Aloysius said, “I did not expect you to come in today.”

“Oh, I drift in, depending,” Agrippa said, and his eyes slid over to the representative for a moment, “I wish to speak with this guild, if you please.”

“O-Of course,” Aloysius said. He stood up, and stepped away from the desk.

“Mr. Agrippa,” Becenti said, “You make for an unexpected surprise.”

“I drop in, now and again,” Agrippa said, “I wasn't going to come in today, until I heard that a few guilds had scheduled appointments with OzTech. I just had to see who they were. And well,”

He gestured.

“It's not every day that we see someone like Shimmer walk through the door.”

“It's just Becenti, now.”

“Becenti, then,” Agrippa said, “Forgive me, but you were looking at a contract, yes?”

“A potential partnering of the Amber Foundation and Pantheon,” Becenti said, “For an expedition.”

“I see,” Agrippa said. He drew forward, taking Aloysius's place at the desk, looking down to review the information, eyes flickering to read each line.

Then...

“Have you thought about pursuing a more... permanent relationship, shall we say, with OzTech?”

“Permanent in what way?” Becenti asked.

“Oh, OzTech offers many luxuries that the High Federation lacks,” Agrippa said, “We're known to be middle men for several exclusive contracts across the multiverse. We also house several records of various contracts within the Tower of Eden itself, as opposed to some Library World or other in the Silver Eye.”

He gave a wan smile.

“It would be an enormous opportunity for you. The clients we deal with are most influential. It would give you the opportunity to catapult your guild to new heights. You've already the skill, do you not? This would give you the leverage you need to showcase them.”

Becenti exchanged a glance with Vicenorn. Both of them were quiet. Agrippa, still with that odd smile, still with those empty eyes, began to shuffle towards the door.

“Perhaps a demonstration is in order?” he said, “A tour, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Becenti said, playing his cards close to his chest, “Although, rather odd, that the CEO of OzTech himself comes to visit a mid-level guild.”

“The Federation may think so,” Agrippa said, “But you are not. You have members within the Amber Foundation that are on-par with the greatest. Wakeling, yourself, the Wildarm...”

“Trying to do a bit of poaching, then?” Vicenorn asked, “See if any of us want to join Pantheon?”

“Nonsense,” Agrippa said, “I see a guild with several influential individuals, and I want to work with them.”

“That sounds logical,” Becenti said. Feigning hesitation, he turned to Vicenorn, “Perhaps a tour is in order.”

“I suppose,” Vicenorn said, following along. He stroked his beard, “If things don't work out, we still have the expedition on the table.”

They both looked at Agrippa.

“Lead the way, then,” Becenti said.

***

“Now, in those days,” Ichabod said, “When you were caught, it usually wasn't anything major. The jobs we ran, oftentimes there was a degree of corporate shadowplay at work. One corporation striking out at another. As was tradition. Elijah and I, we never accepted that kind of work. But it was common practice to merely throw the infiltrators in jail. Slap them on the wrist. That usual sort of business.”

“Today's enemies are tomorrow's tools,” G-Wiz said.

“Precisely,” Ichabod said, “Unless something awful happens, it's usually not too much fuss.”

He went quiet.

“Ichabod?” G-Wiz said, “Ichabod, what did Agrippa do?”

“H-He...” Ichabod sobbed, “He butchered them.”

***

Agrippa led them down the halls, towards the elevator. He stepped in, a full half of the small elevator taken up by the G'Rash Haro. The lion-headed serpent fixed its gaze on Becenti, its empty, emerald eyes trying to pierce through his soul, never once straying from Becenti's face. Becenti returned its stare.

The elevator dinged on the fifth floor. The door opened, revealing a small figure.

“Ah, Charnak,” Agrippa said, “Please, join us.”

Charnak walked in. He was small, fox-like in appearance, wearing a faded gray cloak, his vulpine eyes narrowing at the sight of Becenti and Vicenorn. A mechanical paw reached down beneath his cloak to grip a badly concealed wand.

“Amber Foundation,” he rasped, “Top of the morning.”

“And you, Charnak,” Becenti said. He had heard of this one. A wily magician of flame. A butcher.

Charnak joined the G'Rash Haro in staring at the two of them. Unlike the spirit’s empty stare, however, the magician's glare was that of full-blown suspicion. As though he knew that they were here for less legitimate reasons.

“Ho, Charnak,” Vicenorn said, “Were you at Interguild this year?”

The fox did not reply.

“He's not...” Agrippa chuckled, “He doesn't get out much, does he? Mostly sticks to the Tower. And it's not even Pantheon's guildhall.”

“It's a nice place,” Vicenorn admitted.

“Hmm,” Agrippa said.

The elevator continued descending, light cascading around them from the other floors, the verdant greens turning to dusk as they went underground.

Then, with a final ding, the door opened wide into a long hallway that was carved from stone. The floor was, once more, glass, water filtering harsh sunset light. Agrippa's footsteps echoed down the hall as he walked towards a metal door. Two guards flanked either side.

“This leads down to our records,” he said, “Among the most important parts of the Tower. We store them underground, for security reasons.”

“Makes sense,” Becenti said.

“Indeed,” Agrippa said. He sauntered over to the door, giving Becenti a mirthless smile before turning. For a moment, he pressed a finger against the console, which opened up into a keyboard that he began typing into, his fingers a blur. He pressed a hand against a heated pad, which took his fingerprints. Finally, he spoke into a small microphone that bloomed out of the console's side with the press of a button.

“Julius Agrippa. Et in Arcadia Ego.”

A light by the door turned green. It slid open. Becenti quirked an eyebrow.

“Saying your password out loud?” he asked.

“The password changes every week,” Agrippa explained, “And it's not so much the password, as it is the voice.”

Becenti nodded. Ichabod had not mentioned that part. Nor had he heard of a Cutter that could mimic one's voice.

Agrippa stepped inside. The others followed, Charnak bringing up the rear. They were on a raised, metal walkway. Below were several long, black blocks. Data nodes, all of them. Supercomputers, with all of the aesthetics stripped away. Pure computational power.

“Looped right back to ENIAC,” Vicenorn commented.

“Here we have the information center,” Agrippa said, “As of right now, some four hundred guilds use our systems for their own uses. We store their information, and remit the proper follow-up to the High Federation on their behalf.”

“Interesting,” Becenti said, “And what do these... follow-ups, entail?”

“It's rather straightforward, really,” Agrippa said, “Here, follow me.”

At the end of the walkway was a simple set of stairs. Agrippa walked down them, his long legs skipping steps. He walked over to one of the computers, raising up a hand. His right finger split, the skin peeling away to reveal a long, thin needle that he inserted into the computer. His dull eyes glowed green, looking, for the first time, alive.

A hologram appeared in his other hand. He showed it to Becenti, who stared at it in the emerald light.

“A contract,” he said, “A job that Pantheon performed.”

“Indeed,” Agrippa said, “Pantheon is one of the guilds that stores all of its records here on Neos. Other guilds still store their information here, while also sending them out to the Library Worlds. Others simply have us as the middle man entirely, writing up reports to the High Federation and sending them out.”

“A lot of different options, then,” Becenti said.

“Yes,” Agrippa said. Then, looking up at the computer, he frowned, “This place is pure information. Nothing beautiful about it, not truly. Shall we head back upstairs?”

“Of course,” Becenti said, “Lead the way.”

***

“Pantheon stalks the halls,” Ichabod said, “A few of them, at least. Magicians foreign to these shores. They found us. Wiped out half the team in the first go. We weren't prepared. How could we be?”

He looked at G-Wiz.

“Who can be prepared for the multiverse?”

“Shit, man,” G-Wiz said, “I'm...”

“I know,” Ichabod said, “He... Elijah was there. Somehow he survived that first assault. The fire and the flames. Pantheon took us. Brought us up to the very top floor, where Agrippa's office is located. He... He took one look at us. And... And...”

He was sobbing now, harsh, wretched coughs that shook his frail frame. He hugged himself, knees drawn to his chest, his entire body shuddering.

“He said, only one of us was to see sunrise.”

***

Agrippa's office was a dark, circular room. Moody orange light played off of the ceiling, once more filtered through water, dream-like reflections dancing on the floor. Bronze statues guarded the four cardinal points, angels in robes and wielding blades that blazed in cast metal flame. There was no window to the outside world. There were simply the walls to stare at. The angels to be judged by.

Agrippa sat down at his desk.

“Now,” he said, “Using OzTech is a two-way street. In many cases, clients come to us to schedule jobs with the guilds associated with the OzTech brand. We hide their identities under the Oztech name.”

“Why?” Becenti asked, taking a seat.

“Oh, you must understand,” Agrippa said, “Many of our clients, they don't like having their names out in the world of Interguild. It's unconscionable to them. Their reputations for using a guild would be tarnished.”

“One can't be seen using common mercenaries,” Becenti said.

“Indeed, though they have use for your fire, they have use for your blood,” Agrippa said, “Before, my father kept away from using guilds. He didn't see the point in them.”

The businessman leaned in.

“But I do. I see that you are much like any business, trying to make ends meet in a dark and harsh world. Angels in the filth, truly. The greatest beings I have met in my life came from the guilds.”

“Then why us, then?” Vicenorn asked.

“Another feather in your cap, I presume,” Becenti said.

“Nonsense,” Agrippa said, “The name 'Amber Foundation' carries more weight than you realize. My father spoke of you, Becenti. He spoke of Wakeling. To work with you is not just a business decision. I wish to work with you out of a genuine desire to surround myself with great men and women. To see how they stand. Only then, can I learn how to be like them.”

He gave his smile again. Something in the G'Rash Haro's eyes glimmered.

“I... see,” Becenti said. He paused, perhaps dramatically, perhaps to give himself time to think of an answer, “Give us time, I think.”

“Of course,” Agrippa said, “These decisions, they do not come lightly. I am a patient man, Myron Becenti. Just come up to the Tower when you are ready to work with OzTech. Our doors are always open.”

He rose.

“Melody, please show them the way out.”

***

“We didn't get to choose,” Ichabod said, “He chose for us. Those empty eyes slid to each of us. He pondered our souls. Looked at us like... like playthings. He...”

He began to break down, before he composed himself once more.

“He chose me.”

Whatever memories Ichabod was living in, they overpowered him. He broke down completely, letting out an ugly cry and falling onto G-Wiz's shoulder. G-Wiz could only sit there, a single hand wrapped over his shoulder, pulling him close as Ichabod lost control. For the next few minutes, the cybernetic man cried, coughed, shuddered with the sheer effort of grief.

Then, he quieted down. The harsh cries turned whispering. He still held himself close to G-Wiz, however.

“W-When it was... over,” his voice was forced through a wall of emotion, “When it was... done. A-Agrippa cast me out. Th-threw me into the mud. Removed my... my arms. My legs. Said I could get them r-replaced. But he also said that I would not forget their loss.”

Outside, the rain poured down in a deluge. G-Wiz stared at the window, watching the neon lights reflected in the storm. She did not dare turn to look at Ichabod. To see his state. To spare him his dignity.

“He was... right,” Ichabod said, “I close my eyes, and I see th-that day. I let my thoughts stray, and they're back at the T-Tower. What went wrong. Elijah's... face. Him on the... on the ground, Galatea.”

He let out a final, coughing sigh, and pushed himself away from her, rising to his feet. He was unsteady for a moment, before he pulled out another cigarette, lighting it up. He took a drag, letting himself calm down, reclaiming the parts of himself that G-Wiz knew were an outer shell, a defense against the world. He was back to the mask when he looked at her again.

“That's why I'm worried, Galatea,” Ichabod said, “That's why I'm afraid. I have the guild, this time. But there's also a chance that this could go wrong. That I lose you all, too.”

He took another drag. He exhaled it in an exhausted groan.

“I see Vicenorn, and I feel like I did when I saw Elijah,” he said, “I see love. I just don't want to lose it again. I don't think I can take it. I can hardly take waking up, some days.”

G-Wiz wasn't sure what to say. She just looked at Ichabod.

Eventually, he wiped his mechanical eyes, though no tears had broken from them. It was impossible for them to. His breakdown had no mark on his face, no tear stains. G-Wiz had always been told by her parents that tears were emotions made manifest, a release of the stress that one held in the soul. That's why you felt better, after a good long cry.

But Ichabod had bled no tears.

He put his sunglasses back on.

“Well,” he said, “There's no use being down here, I suppose. We wait. We watch. We hope. And that's all we can do.”

He opened his mouth to say one last thing, then thought better of it.

“I will... I'll be around, if you need me,” Ichabod said.

And he walked away, back up the stairs. Leaving G-Wiz alone in the smoke shop.