“Can you repeat that?” Ichabod asked, “Please.”

“The room to the guild records is both voice and password protected,” Becenti said, “Agrippa spoke this week's password-”

“That's not a concern,” Ichabod said.

“It's not?” Becenti said.

“No, but he used his voice, yes?” Ichabod asked.

Becenti nodded.

They were, once more, surrounding the table of light, the holographic diagram of the Tower floating in front of them. Becenti and Vicenorn had returned back to their hideout a few hours before, dodging through back streets, moving taxis, and trying to make sure they lost any hunters that Agrippa might have sent out.

Even then, Ichabod had told Rorshin to start using his magic to make sure they weren't followed. The druid, after a moment of unspoken defiance, had gotten to work, weaving words into the wind.

“Other spellcasters are here,” Rorshin said, “They've been at work.”

“How can you tell?” G-Wiz asked.

“Hnn, there's a scent in the air,” Rorshin replied, his large nostrils opening and closing, “Past all the decay, the chemicals, there's the scent of magic.”

“Charnak,” Becenti said.

“Hnn,” Rorshin agreed, “My spells hold, I believe. The other spellcaster has not found us. They search, though.”

“They're suspicious,” Contort said, “We're not here a day, and they're already sniffing us out.”

“Which is why time is of the essence,” Becenti said, “Ichabod, are things going according to plan?”

“No,” Ichabod hissed, “The password, it's fine. The Cutter avoids that easily, and if it's a weekly password, not hard to force the system to reload an old backup. Nothing major, nothing I haven't done before. But...”

He scratched his chin, grimacing.

“It's the voice,” he said, “The damn door didn't have voice recognition before.”

There was an unsettling quiet in the room. Ichabod started to pace.

“I mean, come on,” Contort said, “We can probably grab a synthesizer, right? They sell those here.”

He looked around.

“I mean, we've done it before.”

“Not here,” Ichabod said, “Not with this. The Tower isn't your average, run-of-the-mill shop. If it's got a voice recognition software, it's going to be top of the line, able to detect deepfakes and artificial synthesizers. Tough to crack.”

“But we can do it,” Vicenorn said, “We can modify the Cutter. Grab new gear. Set up a station to synthesize his voice.”

Ichabod glanced over to him. G-Wiz thought back to earlier in the day, during his breakdown. But Ichabod had not brought that up to her. It was as though it had never happened. So she pretended that was true.

“We could,” the cybernetic man admitted, after a few awkward moments, “Theoretically. Given time. But it requires effort. Patience. A lot of sitting around.”

He nodded to Rorshin.

“And if Pantheon's already suspicious of... something in the air, then we don't have much time. Rorshin's good, but Charnak is...”

The druid let out a low hiss.

“I have tricks,” Rorshin said, “Don't underestimate me, you half-thing.”

“Perhaps we don’t use that language,” Becenti said, “Rorshin. How well are your spells holding?”

Rorshin shook his head.

“They aren't holding well,” he said, “Much of the life in this place is broken. Decrepit. Very little grows here. The wind holds few whispers. This is a dead place. It is no wonder why you left.”

“Answer the damn question,” Ichabod said, his voice venomous, “Are your spells holding, or not?”

“They are,” Rorshin said, “But not for long. The other spellcaster's prodding, and if they decide to plunge any deeper...”

The druid shrugged.

“Well, we may need to pull out, if that's the case. They are Charnak, yes?”

“Indeed,” Becenti said.

“That name's familiar,” Vicenorn said, “I've heard of it somewhere...”

“Try the Sons of Darwin,” Becenti said, “He was among their number. Pantheon scooped him up after the war.”

“A shitter, then,” G-Wiz said.

“Suspicious, paranoid, wily,” Becenti said, “I didn't relish seeing him on that elevator.”

“Think anyone else from Pantheon's here?” Contort asked.

“Presumably,” Becenti said, “If I recall correctly, there are a couple of them stationed around the city. A few more are probably in the Tower. But most of them are off-plane, doing public work on behalf of OzTech.”

“Then we need to keep that in mind,” Vicenorn said, “If there are agents in the city...”

“Precisely why I need the damn wildman's spells to hold,” Ichabod said, “We need to be hidden. I'd rather not be found out before we even get into the Tower.”

“They will hold, half-thing,” Rorshin growled, “Mark those words.”

“It'd better,” Ichabod said, “So far, your showing's been poor, druid. I was expecting you to adapt to this plane, not wilt with it.”

“I do my best with bitter earth,” Rorshin said, “My magic will do far more than your plastic tongue, half-thing.”

“No, I mean it,” Ichabod said, “Empty promises only go so far. If you end up compromising-”

“Ichabod, enough,” Becenti snapped.

Ichabod went quiet. But he glared at Rorshin, whose jaw was set in a quiet rage.

“We cross that bridge when it comes,” Becenti said, “Rorshin, keep me apprised. If you detect anything, anything at all, you let me know.”

“Of course,” Rorshin said, barely forcing the words out, “I will.”

“Ichabod, you and I chose Rorshin for this job, not just because of his abilities, but because of his passion,” Becenti said, “We're in this together, aren't we?”

“I'm sure we are,” Ichabod said, “Differences aside, and all that, yes?”

“Good,” Becenti said, “Now, let's get back to the matter at hand. Agrippa's got the voice recognition. Vicenorn, Ichabod, how long until you can get some sort of software running?”

“...Too long,” Vicenorn said, “That sort of work, from scratch? At least a month to get something rudimentary. Something that their system would probably catch.”

“We'd need to get a good, long look at their setup,” Ichabod said, “Which would mean another scouting into the Tower.”

“What, the spiders can't take a look for us?” Contort asked.

Vicenorn shook his head.

“I wouldn't recommend it,” he said, “The spiders need to be in hiding right now. We should only be using them on the night of. If someone finds them out in the open before the job...”

“Then we're done here,” Becenti said, “We need other options then. G-Wiz?”

G-Wiz shrugged.

“I can tune my zumbelaphone, maybe,” she said, “But it'd probably be better to just smash through the door, yeah?”

“The point is to not attract attention,” Ichabod said, “We need a scalpel, not a hammer.”

“Weird surgery,” G-Wiz commented.

“I can slip in, maybe,” Contort said, “If you can cut a hole big enough, I can collapse in and sneak.”

“...Perhaps,” Becenti said.

“That would take hours,” Ichabod said, “Did you see the door? It's blacksteel. Hours of work, far more than hacking it.”

“...There might be a way,” Rorshin said.

They turned to the druid. Rorshin was stroking his ratty beard, his usual somber frown deepening in thought. His eyes glazed over as he sunk into the natural places of the world.

“Hmm,” he said, “Yes, it may be possible. But it will be difficult.”

“Whatever it is, it'd better be good,” Ichabod said.

“There's already plenty of mimicry in nature,” Rorshin said, “If we find the right animal, I can mimic his voice perfectly. It will simply take me a few hours to attune to the animal we find.”

“And then what?” Ichabod said.

“Then,” Rorshin said, “We send one of our number to speak with Agrippa. Doesn't have to be long. Enough time for me to listen in, using my own magics. It's part of the spell. Once I am properly attuned, I will be able to use his voice as though it were mine.”

“I'm not sure,” Becenti said, “How accurate is the spellwork? Can it hold up against scrutiny? If it's off even by a little bit, the door won't open.”

“I'd agree,” Vicenorn said, “It needs to be more accurate than an artificial synthesizer. More accurate than any of the tech here on Neos.”

“You half-things and your machines,” Rorshin said, “It will be more accurate, for it will be genuine. A voice from the machine is not alive, it holds no soul. If one is to ape a man, one does not use a machine.”

He fixed Ichabod with a level look.

“Something artificial can never be real.”

And Ichabod was quiet at that. G-Wiz saw his jaw was clenched.

But the cybernetic man could not deny Rorshin's point.

“It is... faster,” Ichabod said, “What do we need?”

“A rarity, in this land,” Rorshin said, and his frown turned into a dark, disturbing smile, “I need a parrot.”

***

“Right,” Ichabod said, “Are we all ready?”

He, Contort, and G-Wiz had donned their raincoats, for another deluge warred outside the walls. G-Wiz nodded as she tucked her zumbelaphone behind her back, beneath her coat. Ichabod had warned her not to bring it, but she felt empty without it. Vulnerable. And she didn't want to feel like that, where they were going.

“Where we headed, Ichabod?” Contort asked.

“To the higher levels,” Ichabod said, “We'll take a lift to get there. Follow me, I know the way.”

He stepped out into the rain, pulling out his umbrella. He turned back towards the open door.

“Come along, now.”

They followed Ichabod as he stepped down the staircase, taking to the alleyways like a spider to its web, weaving across the streets with a grim sneer on his face. Like he knew something the others didn't.

It was a defense mechanism, G-Wiz knew. An attempt to regain control of himself after something harrowing.

She said nothing as he walked.

“No taxi today?” Contort asked.

“No,” Ichabod said, “The taxis down here can't fly up to the upper districts. You see those cars up there?”

Contort followed Ichabod's finger as he pointed up. Squinting through his see-through umbrella, he could see smeared lights above. Oranges, mostly, though there were a few hot pinks and neon greens from the holo-ads playing in their endless loops. He could see dark shapes floating among them.

“The cars above us fly,” Ichabod said, “Some people down here only ever see their bottoms. It's an entirely different world, up there. Like you're on a different plane entirely.”

“And that's where we're going,” Contort said, “Neat.”

“If we're going to get an animal,” Ichabod said, “We're going to need to go where they're sold.”

“There a shop for animals?” Contort asked.

“Better,” Ichabod said, “A black market.”

With that, he approached one final tower. It was a solid black monolith, devoid of any distinguishing features. No ads, no signs, nothing. It was as though it were a pillar, holding up some part of the world. The outline of a door was carved at its base, a simple rectangle that was a shade lighter than the tower itself. Ichabod pulled out a credstick, pressing it against the door.

Which let out a low, rumbling ding. The stone within the door's silhouette began pushing away, revealing a hall that ended with an elevator.

“In we go,” Ichabod said, “Galatea, mind that we're not being followed.”

G-Wiz turned. A couple of onlookers were watching them, men and women in makeshift raincoats staring at them with haunted eyes. But they were just bystanders, unhoused people with nothing to do but watch.

“...We're good,” she said.

“Good,” Ichabod said, “Let's get on.”

They walked to the elevator. The door closed behind with a whispering hush. The floor lurched as the elevator began to climb.

“One needs to have money, to move between the bottom levels of the city to the top,” Ichabod said, “Down here, the illusion's worn out. The price to freedom is shown at its most bare.”

There was an interplay of shadow and light as the elevator went past slatted windows, revealing a cityscape above and below.

“To go up in this world, one needs money,” Ichabod said, “Cold and simple. None of the bullshit.”

The elevator door opened. And they were greeted with a miasma of sound. Of light. The holo-ads here, once faraway stars, bludgeoned their senses. The sounds of a woman droning over a speaker pitched sharp in their ears as they stepped off and onto a bridge connecting two of the high-rises. People, all of them in raincoats, all of them holding umbrellas, crowded around them, pushing and jostling and talking to each other. One of the ads was playing music, a cheery jingle that boomed on the same decibel as an explosion.

“Gods,” Contort said.

“None of those here,” Ichabod said, “Come on. Stick close.”

He pushed his way through the crowd. He had no choice, the way everyone packed in together. There was no space here, on the bridges between towers. It was hardly afternoon, and clubs were already playing at full bore, loud music desperately trying to overpower the even louder holo-ads above. Cars flitted between the bridges, some of them dark and indistinct, others chromed up and shiny, or as shiny one could get in the neverending storm of New Shan.

G-Wiz grimaced as she was jostled and elbowed. People looked down at her as she passed them by. Some had glass eyes like Ichabod. Others were more cyberized, their entire faces replaced by skull-like metal visages.

“Keep going,” Ichabod said, “Keep going...”

He shoved past a massive, bulk of a man, muttering a “Sorry” as he went. Finally, he and G-Wiz made it to the corner of one of the buildings, right by a bar.

“Where's Arne?” Ichabod asked.

“There,” G-Wiz said.

Contort was slipping around the mob, using his natural abilities to squeeze through cracks between raincoats and dislocating parts of his body to eel around errant arms, legs, a man who had stopped in the middle of the crowd to call someone through an earpiece. His shoulders twisted back into place as he approached them.

“Way to get yourself noticed,” G-Wiz said.

“Ah, no one's going to care,” Contort said, “They'll think I've got modifications of some sort. But I'm all natural, baby.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ichabod said, “Like anyone cares.”

Contort noted the bitterness in his voice. He nodded.

“Right, sorry,” he said.

“It's fine,” Ichabod said, “Let's just go.”

He moved off, once more sinking into the crowd. G-Wiz and Contort exchanged looks, before plunging in after him.

***

With G-Wiz gone, the table of light had disappeared. This returned the smokeshop, which had been burning like a bonfire, back to a state of dusk, the meager lamps on the ceiling doing little to light the place. They flickered, occasionally, dancing the room in darkness at times.

They kept to themselves. Vicenorn set up a small laptop, clicking it on, the screen's white light illuminating his red face.

“Mind if I turn on some music?” he asked.

“So long as it's good,” Becenti said.

“ABBA,” Vicenorn said.

“Agreeable enough,” Becenti said.

Vicenorn nodded, clicking the play button. Music began to play, drums and guitars and screeching, hoarse voices that sent Becenti back to the days of his youth. He found himself rapping a finger against his knee in time to the beat as he leaned back, pulling out a book to read.

Rorshin once more stared at the door, his legs crossed and his staff between his shoulder and head. Occasionally he would twitch, a sign that he was casting a spell of some sort, keeping their defenses up against Charnak's proddings.

“Spiders are well and good,” Vicenorn said, “They're hiding all over the place. They'll be ready to pop when it's time to go.”

“Good,” Becenti said, turning a page.

“I'm thinking it might be a good idea to find some way to connect me to the Tower directly,” Vicenorn said, “As it stands, I don't like the idea of just sitting here with this small computer.”

“We might be able to get something mobile,” Becenti said, “But if that doesn't work, you'll need to be here.”

“We could rent someplace closer,” Vicenorn said, “Somewhere higher up.”

“I'll talk with Ichabod about it,” Becenti said, “But our job is to lay low, remember.”

“Yeah.”

He tapped a few more buttons. Gave a furtive glance Rorshin's way.

“You going to talk to him?” he whispered.

Becenti nodded. Mouthed 'in a moment.'

Vicenorn rolled his eyes. His typing became a bit more frenetic, a bit more intense, as he poured his emotions into his work. Becenti skimmed another few pages of his book, before closing it and taking a deep breath.

He disliked these conversations immensely.

“Rorshin,” he said.

Thunder boomed outside, skittering through the clouds like a mallet over a drum.

Rorshin did not turn. But Becenti knew he had heard him.

“Half-things, eh?” Becenti said, “That's what you call it now?”

The druid remained silent. He stared at the open door, the rain falling in sheets outside.

“Rorshin,” Becenti said, “When you came on this job, we had a deal.”

“You'd keep Ichabod off my back,” Rorshin murmured, “And you have been doing quite a fine job at that.”

“I'm beginning to fear that I'll have to say the same to you,” Becenti said.

“Ah, the words I use,” Rorshin said.

“Indeed,” Becenti said, “I know what your views are on... cybernetics, and the like.”

“They are much like pills,” Rorshin said, “Artificial enhancements on an inherently natural life.”

Vicenorn stopped typing. Becenti looked over at him. The large man's face was red, and not with anxiety, or embarrassment. It was out of a dark sort of rage. He rose to his feet.

“'M going downstairs,” he muttered.

His footsteps creaked against the floor as he walked. The building shook a bit with each step, mimicking the thunder outside. Becenti watched him lurch downstairs.

“Artificial enhancements,” Rorshin said, “Manmade extensions to a natural lifespan.”

“Is that your problem with them?” Becenti asked.

“Oh, I have many problems with this world,” Rorshin said, “And those such as Vicenorn and Ichabod are examples of what I despise.”

“Because of their cybernetics,” Becenti said.

Rorshin turned, at last, to consider Becenti. His eyes were devoid of empathy.

“Yes,” he said, “You should not see me as some sort of... pacifist, Becenti. I strive to be the voice of the natural world. To become its agent, its avatar. In my perfect world, men such as we are no more than beasts, with our own position in the ecosystem, one where the advantages of tools and higher learning are non-existent.”

“Some would argue,” Becenti said, “That the very fact that we have tools and higher learning is natural.”

“Some would argue otherwise,” Rorshin said, “There are beasts who are known to dominate a land. Apex predators, who are known as the kings of their domain. But they do not spread, like viruses, across their world. They do not devour all else in a mad lust for dominance. They cannot, for there are checks in nature.”

“And sapient beings have no checks,” Becenti said.

“Correct,” Rorshin said, “They have nothing to drive them back, nothing to keep their population culled. They overpower every other predator, even themselves. They use magic and technology to eradicate disease and illness. They use cybernetics to replace lost limbs. Why, I sniff at Vicenorn, and he's more cybernetic than Ichabod. Like there's nothing more to him than a brain.”

Becenti was quiet.

“Now you see why I despise them so,” Rorshin said, “In my world, those such as Ichabod would have perished, long ago.”

“You sound like a Son of Darwin,” Becenti muttered.

“Ah, but I am not,” Rorshin said, “The Sons, the Manticore, they parroted what I say to you now. They wished for a might makes right world, where the strong survive and the strongest thrive. But it was just that: Mimicry. Like what we are about to do now, a falsehood to open a new world. All the Sons cared about was power. Do not compare me to the likes of the Manticore. He was naught but a river stone.”

The thunder roiled once more, as though in response to Rorshin's world. Becenti shook his head.

“...I don't care if you like or dislike Ichabod,” Becenti said, his voice firm, “Or Vicenorn. Your views are your own. But these are your guildmates.”

“For now.”

“For now, yes,” Becenti said, “There will come a time where we will probably move in our separate ways. I know you have not always liked the Amber Foundation. But you are still a guildmember. You are still with us. You will stop being so... judgmental, to Ichabod and Vicenorn. And any other whom you deem... ‘inferior.’ You're on a job, and I expect you to be the professional we thought you were when you joined.”

Rorshin let out a low groan.

“If it makes the child feel better, I will stop,” he drawled, “I will only communicate when spoken to. Only provide that information that is needed. Now, enough of speaking with emotions. I must return to my work.”

He turned back 'round. Becenti stared at him for another few moments, noting how robotically the druid returned back to his spellwork, back to simply staring out at the rain with glazed-over eyes. Then, he opened back his book, and resumed reading.

***

They walked, carefully, into a nightclub. Electronic music droned loud around and through them, the lead singer wailing out the lyrics, her voice scarred with voice modulation that let her hit highs that were too high, practically mouse squeaks. The lights above changed color in a chameleon nightmare, reds and purples and yellows that were far too bright, like staring at the sun, only the sun was a sea of people moving to the beat of the music. Throngs upon throngs of them, just like outside. Ichabod pushed past them, grimacing as he did so. G-Wiz and Contort followed.

There were, in the corners of the large dance floor, small alcoves where people watched the dancers from tables, smoking hookah pipes or downing drinks. All of them, to some degree or another, were cyberized. Mechanicals arms. Legs. Eyes. One had gotten their jaw replaced, a steel visage with metal teeth that smiled at G-Wiz as she passed him by.

Ichabod evidently had somewhere to be, as he beelined for one of the corner booths. There was already an occupant, a large, dark-skinned man wearing sunglasses. His open vest revealed a mechanical chest, a gleaming, golden thing that reflected the harsh lights of the club as though it were newly polished. A silver-toothed smile bloomed on his face as Ichabod sat down.

“Ichabod, as I live and breathe,” he said, “Like a ghost out of the rain.”

“And I'd prefer it that way,” Ichabod said, “Ahab, I hope you're well.”

“I am, I am,” Ahab said, “Anyone else know you're back in town?”

“Been working with Benjamin,” Ichabod said.

“Ah, keeping it on the down-low. Alright, alright,” Ahab nodded, “These two, they're...?”

“Associates of mine,” Ichabod said.

The man considered them, then gave another nod.

G-Wiz noted that, behind his sunglasses, his eyes glowed green for a second.

“Listen, man, you can't be here,” Ahab said, “Pantheon's got this city locked down tight. Got their guild freaks out and about. I know a magic man, says New Shan's reeking with witchcraft.”

“Of no concern,” Ichabod said.

“I mean it,” Ahab said, “You're runnin' a huge risk. City's changed, since you left.”

“I am aware,” Ichabod said, “It is of no concern.”

“...You got that look on your face,” Ahab noted, “You haven't changed a bit, have you?”

“I've changed, Ahab,” Ichabod said, “Someone who goes through life without changing at least a bit, isn't truly alive.”

“More machine than man,” Ahab said.

“Indeed,” Ichabod said.

Ahab nodded for a third time. His fingers rapped against the table.

“Right,” he said, “What'll it be, Ichabod?”

“I need to get downstairs,” Ichabod said, “They still do that, right?”

“Yeah, we do,” Ahab said, “How far down?”

“Fifth level.”

“You never went down there before,” Ahab said, “Place smells like a rat's nest.”

But Ichabod fixed Ahab with a level look. The golden-chested man sighed.

“Fine, fine. Fifth level. Don't yell at me when you have to waste water on a shower.”

He clicked something on the inside of his ear.

“Fifth floor. Group o' three.”

Ichabod gave him an empty smile, before rising up.

“Come on, let's go,” he said.

The elevator was on the other side of the club. Ichabod started pushing past people once more. G-Wiz went after him, making sure to keep his back in her line of sight as they weaved and shoved through the mob of dancers.

She felt someone tap her shoulders. Slapped the hand away.

“Hey,” Contort said, “Rude.”

“Sorry,” she said, “Don't want any feelers, y'know?”

“Fair,” Contort replied, “Look. Just walking in. Be sneaky about it.”

G-Wiz gave a quick glance over. A new figure had walked into the club, very evidently an outlander, in the way she was dressed, with a silver mask that covered the top half of her face and a cloak made from black feathers. A raven was perched on her shoulder, one that let out an indignant caw as she strode inside.

The crowd, on noticing her, parted like waves.

“I saw her at Interguild, I think,” Contort said, “Tell Ichabod.”

G-Wiz prodded Ichabod, who simply nodded.

“Keep walking,” he said.

They passed through to the other side. There was an attendant at the elevator, who pressed a button as they approached. Moments passed.

The cloaked woman kept walking.

“Keep your heads down,” Ichabod said, “Keep it cool.”

The elevator door opened. They walked inside, keeping their backs to the outside.

Except for a split moment, where G-Wiz turned around.

The woman was staring at them, her eyes seeming to glow and outshine the club lights.

The elevator closed.

“Shit,” G-Wiz said, “She was looking right at us.”

Her voice echoed through the dim elevator. Everything was far too quiet, now. Like the elevator knew it was bugged.

“Pantheon's closing around this place,” Ichabod said, “Not surprising, all things considered.”

“It's a black market, you said?” Contort asked.

“Yes,” Ichabod said, “Five floors. An open secret, to be honest. It's not the place you go blabbing to the security corps too.”

“Who was the outlander?” Contort asked.

“One of Pantheon,” Ichabod replied.

“Yeah, but who?” G-Wiz asked.

But Ichabod was quiet. He kept looking ahead.

“Gods, you don't know who she is, do you?” Contort said, “I thought you had a lock on everyone in Pantheon!”

“I do!” Ichabod snapped, “I do! It's just...”

He sighed.

“Her name, if I recall,” Ichabod said, “Is Macabre. That's it. That's the problem. I looked through her file, but there really isn't much on her. She's part of Pantheon. She's a metahuman.”

“And you didn't check their records?” Contort asked.

“Metahumans falsify those all the time,” Ichabod said, “If they can get away with it, at least. Not all of them are as goody two-shoes as Becenti. For all we know, she could say she can only make the air a degree colder, when really she can do far, far more.”

He cursed under his breath.

“I knew I should have done more research. I knew it.”

“It's alright,” G-Wiz said, “We'll do more of it.”

“It's more time wasted,” Ichabod said, “Time we don't have. We should have been more prepared, more-”

His panic fell away as the elevator dinged. He was business once more.

And he walked inside the complex. The fifth floor was a market for animals. Most of them were in cages, dogs and cats, mostly. A few turtles crawling here and there, a large variety of birds that stared down at them with somber eyes, their wings clipped. There was an indoor pool, a great glass box that was the centerpiece of the room, and in the murky water they could see the hints of a large crocodile, bits and pieces of other animals thrown in for its food. It floated dully in the grime. The lights here, in stark contrast to the nightclub above, were dim, almost as though they were trying to ape the sky outside.

“Gross,” G-Wiz said, “Gods, Ichabod.”

“I never liked this place,” Ichabod said, “But it has what we need. Just don't tell Rorshin, hmm?”

“Or else he'll come here?” Contort said, “Is that such a bad thing?”

“There's a time and a place,” Ichabod said, “Come on, people. We're on the clock.”

It wasn't difficult to find what they were looking for. There was a stall in the corner of the room, a table, upon which a shopkeeper had arranged stands for various birds, each of them with a rope tied around their ankles. Two parrots, a raven. An eagle.

Ichabod approached. He spoke quickly with the shopkeeper, bartering quickly with them. He pulled out his credstick. Scanned it. Talked to the shopkeeper some more.

There was a way that the raven was looking at her, right at her, that made G-Wiz. But Ichabod ignored that, as he finished his negotiation. It was quick. The shopkeeper seemed satisfied, as they ran the credstick past a mechanical arm, scanning the funds into their system.

Ichabod lifted the parrot gingerly. Kindly. The bird sidled along his arm like a perch as Ichabod took hold of its leash.

“Right,” he said, turning to the others, “Let's get out of here.”

The raven lost interest in G-Wiz, and returned to picking at the birdseed in its cage.

***

There were a few tense minutes of waiting, as Ichabod sent a few messages to Ahab. They stayed on the fifth floor, keeping to the corners and the shadows, Ichabod tucking the parrot beneath his raincoat, holding it close to his chest. The bird nestled in, closing its eyes, its claws poking into his shirt and tickling his stomach.

“Alright,” Ahab's voice rang through his communicator, “She's gone. Watch your back, though.”

“She wasn't suspicious?”

“She asked a few questions. Wondered what was below, like she doesn't already know,” Ahab chuckled, “Listen, though. Don't come back, not for a while. They're looking for someone, and they'll probably be back.”

“Very well,” Ichabod said, “Thank you, Ahab.”

“Pleasure doing business, Ichabod,” Ahab said.

He clicked off the communicator. Looked at G-Wiz and Contort. They were watching him with concerned eyes. Like rabbits, really, caught out in an open field, a hawk circling overhead.

“She's gone,” Ichabod said, “But let's be quick. We exit at once, but separate into the crowd.”

He pulled open a slider on his forearm, searching his database. He found a makeshift map of this part of the city, pulling it up as a hologram.

“We'll separate into three. Spread out. Rendezvous at Tower 17. From there, we walk back to the smokeshop.”

“Right,” Contort said, “See you on the other side.”

***

They split, moving through the crowded bridges of the city towards Tower 17. Police cars soared overhead at some points. Contort had to tuck himself away between two buildings for a moment as he felt the hint of a spell whisper through an open market. G-Wiz found herself being tailed, and only broke off her pursuers by dodging through another nightclub. Ichabod kept the parrot under his coat, his umbrella raised as he went through the crowd, grimacing with each jostle, each errant shove. The parrot felt fragile in his arms, like any false move would break it. The parrot, perhaps recognizing what was happening, kept quiet.

Finally, they all arrived at Tower 17. Ichabod clicked the button to call for the elevator. They waited for an agonizing amount of time.

“Hey,” Contort said, nodding towards the sky, “Look at that.”

They turned. The cars were not alone amongst the floating neon holo-ads.

“Birds,” G-Wiz whispered, “Weird.”

“Perhaps,” Ichabod said, “Or perhaps not. I see them as ill omen. Come on, we're wasting time.”

He went into the elevator. The other two followed.

***

“Ahhh,” Rorshin sighed, “Very good. Very good, indeed.”

He took the parrot from Ichabod, untying the rope around its ankle. Now freed, the parrot fluttered down to the floor, rubbing its beak on the ground. Its eyes dilated with curiosity.

“What else do you need for the spell, Rorshin?” Becenti asked.

“Time, and a quiet space,” Rorshin said, “I can do this downstairs.”

“Very well,” Becenti said, “Get to it, then.”

Rorshin nodded. He whistled to the parrot, whispering to it softly. The parrot waddled its way over. In the dour light of the room, its red plumage screamed at him. The parrot hopped onto his crossed legs, and Rorshin gave it a rare smile, stroking its head.

Then, with a quick motion, he snapped its neck.

G-Wiz started. Contort swore. Ichabod grimaced. Vicenorn and Becenti simply looked somber.

“You didn't have to-” Ichabod said, “That's surely not-”

“A small blessing, for this parrot,” Rorshin said, “A small sacrifice, for the buildings we will bring down. A new world is not simply built on peace. It is built on change, and all change is violent.”

His smile had twisted. Had become dark, ruthless. The druid rose to his feet, and he held the parrot gingerly in his arms.

“I will be downstairs, if you need me,” he said.

And he drifted away from them, walking down the steps. His footsteps sounded like thunder.