To those who paid little attention, the man was nothing more than another obedient mind amongst the throngs of indoctrinated sheep — lifeless, hopeless, depressed, boring. To those with far keener senses, however, they perhaps would begin to see past the veiled masquerade of a true professional: the gaze one thought dull, was but a facade of the fiery ardor beneath; the hopeless complexion, a guise for the passion under; and the depression that clung to every aspect of the man. . .

What if not a mask to the world of Escardia itself?

​

Mosaic was impressed, admittedly. The cover was absolute; almost a paragon of military background and clandestine training, if not for one minor, minute, but ever so crucial detail, that is: they knew one another.

And perhaps a tad bit too well.

​

"Ah. . . There he is," Mosaic leaned far back in his chair, the wood creaking with every slight move. "Speak of the devil."

​

An otherwise convincing show of bewilderment spilled across the man's face. He cocked an eyebrow, dropped his suitcase, and managed a single mumble before uttering the question. "Who. . . Who are you?"

Textbook.

What an act.

​

Puffs of blackened smoke coiled from Mosaic's lips, casting an ornate display of dancing shadows and dark figures unto the polished table-top. He regarded the cloud of grey for a few moments before witnessing its eventual vanishing act. One. Two. Three. Gone.

Completely.

A dry snicker clawed its way out. Mosaic spoke. "Come now, there isn't any need for anonymity between old friends, now is there?"

​

"I. . . What?"

​

"I'm sure your wife would very much appreciate an explanation, no?"

​

As if on queue, Missus Lacelle looked to her husband, a mix of fear and puzzlement muddling her very gaze. She clutched the laces of her nightgown. "G-Génile, h-honey?"

​

He stared back and raised both brows, as if in effort to comfort his wife. But there was no comforting her, of course; he knew better.

​

She wasn't fearful of these men, no — rather, she was seeking an explanation: what had they to do with her family? How did they come to know her husband? And, more importantly, what was all this about?

​

Génile could deduce just as much: they were United Imperium saboteurs on quite the spectacular endeavor. What exactly it is they were looking into — and possibly just as ready to unmake — was up for debate. Several theories sprung to mind: a list of Heimer Republic emissaries and their respective locations; live government agents operating within Imperium walls; experimental Blacksites developing weapons of the future — the list spans a mile.

​

There was never any way of knowing.

That’s how they worked.

That’s how they operated.

He should know — better than anyone, even.

There the man sat, he who called himself Mosaic: former Captain of the 3rd Division United Imperium Artillery Regiment, twice decorated. Known aliases include: the Lineman; Clay Wrenson; Jack the Ripper; and of course, most notably, the Bone Doctor.

To his left was a new face — one Génile hadn't yet the pleasure of recognizing. She was young, admittedly, much too young for the business. Judging by the smooth palms, sweaty; the timid look, nervous; and the fluttering eyes, uneasy; she was but a recruit.

Fresh.

Green.

Unseasoned.

​

There were four others too, Génile assumed.

All his former colleagues.

And now his judge, jury, and executioners.

​

It would be logical to station one by every exit: the upstairs balcony, the weathered backdoor, the porch, the living room window — no longer were they means of an escape. To make matters worse, there was his family. What would be of them if he were to just. . . Run? What would Mosaic do to them? What would the Bone Doctor? No, he couldn't.

God, no.

There was no running from this one.

And there was no fighting his way out.

In conclusion, there was but one option — one, measly chance. If Lady Luck favored his bold attempt tonight, perhaps there would be no need for blood.

Perhaps they would all walk away unscathed.

It was an easy task on paper, quite the impossible one upon practice: he had to stall them for long enough until the Nightwatch Sentries made their usual rounds and stopped by.

​

And then, once they got here, it’d be smooth sailing.

Hopefully.

30 minutes of talking was all that needed to be done.

How hard could talking be?

***

Mosaic tossed aside the charred remains of his smoke, wiping both hands clean upon an assortment of colored handkerchiefs. The cigar he once delighted in smoking had long since burned itself to a crisp; all that was left to remind the table of its once choking presence was the faint scent of tobacco — and perhaps oddly — a hint of lavender.

​

"Please Génile, have a seat," Mosaic gestured at a nearby chair, opposite to his. "Come now, it won't bite."

​

Teary eyed and gaze fluttering, Missus Lacelle watched as the man she swore an everlasting oath to, and who she cared for throughout several of Nobleman Famine's dreaded plagues, sank into the warm embrace of a seat next to hers — probably for the last ever time. She watched as he undid the crimson tie at once, tossed it onto the glass table-top, and sucked in a raspy breath. She watched as her husband's 40 years of life unraveled right before his very eyes, and the realization that followed suit, came to face fleetingly.

There was no use pretending; Génile knew as much.

His cover was blown.

The jig was up.

And if he played his cards just right, perhaps. . .

Maybe. . .

He wouldn’t wake up as little more than a corpse tomorrow morning.

His tone shifted, and so did his voice.

​

"What's this about, Mosaic?" Génile glared at the man sitting across his dinner table, a sinister grin splayed from ear to ear. "Who sent you?"

​

"Oooh, careful now, Génile. You know how this works; you know I can’t say much. I’ll let you take a guess, though. Any ideas? No?"

​

A great many names came to mind, yet none quite right exactly fit the Imperium narrative. Génile considered. Who, within the walls of Escardia's crown empire, sought his demise? Who, of all that stumbled across his unfortunate path, would laugh at the mere thought of his death? Who would go so far, through all the trouble, and this deep into Republic territory just to. . .

​

Why, of course.

It was obvious, really.

​

Who, if not his former employer, benefactor, and all-time milksop, United Imperium Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs Baz Gaviria? Génile adopted a pose much like his adversary's, leaning far back into his chair and crossing a leg. "Management, I'm assuming?"

​

A wry snicker escaped Mosaic's lips. He raised the brandy concoction to meet his piercing gaze, and in one gulp, slurped the drink dry; cubes of ice clattered about within the empty glass. "Management — oh, that's hilarious. Hah-hah! Always the comedian, Génile."

​

"What is it you think the United Imperium does, Mosaic? What is it you think goes on behind closed doors and drawn curtains? They're not what you make them out to be; they're not all sunshine and rainbows."

​

"Oh, here we go again. Treason talk. Still very much so a defector, I see. You have not changed one bit, my friend."

​

"Defector? Defector, Mosaic? Oh, please! I apologize, if any sense of rationality within my being simply refuses to slave away for a tyrannical wolf in sheep's clothing. I apologize if human decency and logical reasoning debars me from committing acts of atrocities. I apologize if the United Imperium isn't exactly my idea of a free nation."

​

"Ah. . . A skeptic, too. I, personally, never took you for one Génile. Pity, how the mighty have fallen, hmm? Tell me something: how is life in the Heimer Republic? Sunshine and rainbows?"

​

"A lot better, Mosaic. A lot better."

​

"Evidently so. You seem to be doing well — wife and children and all. Have you told them about the war crimes? No? Mmm. . . Fresh start; that’s smart."

​

A sudden ding cut through the conversation, drawing the lead Imperium saboteur's attention. He craned his neck at the noise, steepling both hands. "The oven, I presume, Missus Lacelle?"

​

Though she had long since dried her tears, there now lay a patch of black directly underneath both her once cheerful eyes. She attempted a bleak smile, but managed nothing short of a nod. "Y-Yes."

​

"Fantastic, then! I shouldn't keep you two lovebirds from your wonderful dinner; Missus Lacelle, if you would be so kind as to wheel out the big feast, I'm sure Génile here would be most pleased. He’s famished, isn’t he?"

​

For a moment, she simply stared at the man, unsure what exactly to do, unsure what exactly to make of him. He presented himself as a gentlemanly scholar — clever, polite, attentive — with all the desirable quirks of one. There was that added friendliness too — friendliness that didn’t quite extend beyond a smile and a sparkle of the eyes.

And beneath the mask of a cavalier man, there was something dark to him.

​

Something one would come to find truly horrifying.

Sinister.

Gut wrenching and inhumane.

She saw it.

​

"Missus Lacelle?"

​

She rose at once, her face a pale white. "O-Oh, yes. . . F-Forgive me."

​

"Off you go now. Your husband and I have utmost urgent matters to attend to."

​

Génile stared long and hard. "Do we now?"

​

"Mhmm. . . Let’s do some catching up, Bone Doctor."

***

The room was warm — a pleasant warm in stark contrast to the weather outside. What was once a slight drizzle had swayed into something of a more turbulent nature, rife with lively sparks and monstrous roars. Winter winds swept through the empty city streets, showering those who dared venture beyond the confines of their homes with nothing but pure regret. To the Lacelles, however, the opposite was true.

They would much rather have gone out.

Way, way out.

Two editions of the daily paper, ones torn and smudged and crumpled, danced under the shadows of a crooked garden oak, making for quite the pair to tango. Mosaic watched them twirl and toss and fling one another about.

​

He found it near impossible to tear his eyes from the masterpiece; there was something to the scenery, something about beauty in chaos. Even in such moments — ones that could very well rewrite Heimer Republic and United Imperium history — Mosaic found himself oddly at peace.

The pitter-patter of rain against the roof, the smell of earthy aroma rising from underneath — he rose from his seat, brought himself to the stained glass windows, and gazed longingly outside. The Imperium saboteur sucked in a raspy breath, ruffling through his coat for yet another cigar, only to come up very much so empty handed.

He sighed.

​

"Are you familiar with Flood Wyrms, Génile? A man as well-read and educated as yourself, I would assume rightly so."

​

Génile too rose from his rest and made his way towards an archaic gramophone; a few moments later, the soothing tune of bossa nova and jazz chimed in. "Entertain me."

​

"Flood Wyrms are hunters, my friend, the best of their kind. They'll slither through the water inches at a time, quiet as the night, and drag unsuspecting prey down to a watery death. Oftentimes, you won't even know they rest but mere inches from you — and when you eventually manage a scream. . . Well, nobody will hear you through the rain."

​

"The point being?"

​

"Nobody will hear you through the rain either, Génile. Nobody will hear the screams."

​

"Ah. Poetic."

​

Bishop tugged at her collar, wary at the sudden change in Mosaic's tone; a bead of sweat rolled down the side of one cheek, soon thereafter dripping onto her dark coat. She shifted uneasily in spot, seeking comfort in the weapon strapped to her side.

​

"Oh, you," Génile stood by his former colleague's side, offering a smirk. "Still upset, I see; still one to hold grudges. Come now, let's not dwell upon the past."

​

A laugh — one that sent chills up Bishop's very spine — slipped past Mosaic's curved lips, cutting straight through the silence. "Of course, how terribly rude of me; I apologize, Génile. Five years of my life surely isn't of any importance, no? The only woman I ever cared, cherished, and looked to for a better future isn't of any concern, no? My very sanity, slipping with each passing day. . . Oh, even such trivialities aren't of any significance to you, I'm guessing?"

​

"She should've listened."

​

"Should've. . . Listened?"

​

"Oh, yes, should've listened. You people make a habit of ignoring the blatantly obvi—"

​

Knock. Knock.

​

Bishop looked to the porch, eyes wide in shock. Two Sentryman stood by the front door, a rifle strapped onto their backs. They carried with them a sense of utmost urgency: faces stern, eyebrows furrowed, clipboards tucked under both arms — this was certainly quite the predicament.

Knock. Knock.

​

What was she to do, Bishop wondered? Answer the door and test Lady Luck's patience? Creep up behind them and serve Gentleman Death a portion of fresh, new souls? Stay silent and pray to Father Destiny they simply wandered away? So many choices, and yet, which the better?

​

She glanced over to Mosaic and found him already by the entrée, wiping his attire clean of tobacco bits. He reached forth; a hand to the knob, another to the pistol behind his back.

And as he swung the doors open upon rusted hinges, greeting the two Sentryman with a warm smile and several handshakes, she could feel the cold sweat slowly start bubbling.

Dribbling.

​

Chilling.

​

"Evening, gentleman!" he cried ever so cheerfully. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this. . . Timely visit?"

​

The taller, older, and bolder of the two stepped forth, a puzzled look spilling across his bearded face. A tug of the collar, a fix of the cuffs; he eyed Mosaic up and down, head to toe. "Huh."

​

"Is something wrong, perhaps?"

​

"I've seen your face around. . . Somewhere."

​

"Sir, I can assure you, you haven't."

​

"Really, now?"

​

"Oh, yes."

​

He stepped closer, towering an inch from where Mosaic himself stood. "You seem so sure. So, so sure."

​

The Imperium Saboteur shifted one finger unto the trigger, and another unto the hammer. "People tend to forget this face of mine."

​

"Ah? And why would that be?"

​

"I make certain of it."