Tumbling clouds of black and grey loomed over the Heimer Republic, hurling ice-cold jabs unto the vast empire below. Almost as quickly as they had breathed life within the first crack of dawn, streets left and right emptied out: men and women sought immediate shelter from the rain, while children of all ages were forced inside. For most, these were simply telltale signs of a brewing storm — nothing more; but for a few, very select souls, it was about time to clock in.

​

Half a dozen sets of leather boots slid silently through much of the Heimer Republic's backstreet pathways, never once straying into the light for more than fractions of a second. Passersby were oblivious to the many shifting shadows that trudged from alleyway to alleyway, slipping past Republic sentries without so much as a word. To those with far keener eyes and far more delicate hearing, they would perhaps notice the glint of silver blades, and the almost inaudible rattling of firearms.

​

They were cautious, alert, and above all, methodical: formations scattered and formed at the blink of an eye, commands were issued by waves of the hand and snaps of the finger, plans were struck in an instant and on the go.

A fist raised.

Then pointed.

​

The team halted.

​

Wire cutters popped from within coats; in mere seconds, a barbed fence of brass and steel was stripped down to the very bone, allowing for easy access into a quiet residency.

​

One after another, the saboteurs made their way through the cozy neighborhood, only ever stopping to let prying eyes of the public gloss over their masked silhouette without a second thought. Much like lesser commoners, Republican Peacekeepers too were oblivious; they paid no heed to the pack of stirring shadows, nor did they bother questioning the peculiar cracking of sticks, and the subtle crunching of leaves.

​

In complete unison, the six vaulted over a sizable brick wall and landed on the puddled grounds without so much as a splash. Hours of eluding sentries, weaving through checkpoints, and slipping past Republican Peacekeepers brought them to their target destination — a quaint abode of little indifference to many others.

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Two stories, three bedrooms — the typical family home.

​

Waves of the hand and snaps of the finger from an esteemed leader issued commands to each and every other member of the gang: two positioned themselves near a weathered backdoor, one rappled unto the picturesque balconies above, one busied herself with the lock of a living room window, and one moved to secure the rear flank.

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Truly, a cohesive and effective team.

One that would rewrite Heimer Republic history.

​

"Bishop, come over."

​

A girl, no older than 20, with hair the leaves of autumn and eyes the sky of summer, did so as instructed. She carried with her a certain air of confidence, one that asserted authority over all others — even those she would consider her superior. "Sir."

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"There's still time to reconsider."

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"Yes, sir."

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"You understand the implications of this operation, yes? You understand the stakes of our doing? There's no turning back after this; there's no reconsideration. You asked for a new life — this isn’t it."

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"I understand, Mosaic."

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"Truth be told, someone the likes of you — sweet and innocent and all — shouldn't be subjected to this nonsense. It's a dark life we live, Bishop — much too dark for the young."

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"To serve king and country, sir, is the greatest honor. Don’t take this away from me, please."

​

"I suppose. . . It’s just. . .”

“Sir. Please. I’ve made my choice.”

​

The man stared at her blankly for a few moments, sighed, then rose from his knees. He waved a hand, twice. “Go.”

The team moved at once: the two who stood near the backdoor pried their way in with the push of a knife; the man who was stationed atop the balcony shoved the sliding glass door open and proceeded inwards; the girl who was working the living room window managed to unlatch it successfully and heaved it overhead; and all the while, Bishop and the commander made their way across the garden, through the rows of home-grown cabbages, over a pitiful white fence, and unto the front lawn.

​

There, they holstered both pistols and proceeded to smooth back the creases of their attire.

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Once their presentation proved decent, Mosaic knocked on the door, thrice.

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The scuffle of shoes, the clattering of plates, the muffled whisper of an exhausted housewife. "Coming!"

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At once, the door creaked open. A woman in her mid-thirties peered through the crack and greeted her two visitors with a bleak smile. "Uhm. . . Hello? I don't think we've met before."

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Bishop managed a grin. "No, I don't think we have."

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"Friends of Génile?"

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Mosaic produced his pistol and cocked it ready; the woman's face drained of color in an instance. "Not exactly, Missus Lacelle. Think of us as his. . . Former colleagues."

​

The woman was silent; her fingernails dug into the bare wood.

​

"May we come in?"

***

Within moments, the three were sat around a wooden dining table of masterful craftsmanship: patterns of mythical beasts were carved onto all four legs, while a rough outline of Escardia was chiseled unto the very desktop wood. To those who seldom laid eyes upon such fantastic display — much like Bishop — it was a wonder worth beholding.

​

Mosaic, however, found no appeal in such carpentry; he was here to serve his nation — nothing more, nothing less.

​

Before him, a glass of bourbon sat idly upon the tabletop, begging for a sip. He would oblige, of course, but not just then; there were matters to be handled beforehand.

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Matters of utmost importance.

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"This is quite the lovely home, Missus Lacelle," he spoke without so much as a hint of enthusiasm, and all the whilst biting both gloves free from his hands. "Quite the lovely home, indeed."

​

The woman was presumably petrified, but if so, had done an excellent job concealing such facts. Her heart raced tremendously, yet, her breathing was calm and ordered. The colors that once departed from her dear face had somewhat returned, and with them, came a ray of hope.

​

Maybe they mistook her for someone else.

​

Maybe the state had simply ordered a search of her estate.

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Maybe this was all just one, big, sick joke.

​

She smiled at the man sitting across her — the same man who had brought with him a weapon of murder into her very home. "T-Thank you."

​

"Mhmm. . . Yes, I do love what you've done with the place. I must congratulate you on such terrific choice of décor — it's. . . Homey. I can only but hope for the same from my fiance; she's a rather old-fashioned sense of furnishing, you see. And not the good kind, mind you — Victorian, can you believe it?"

​

"Speaking of which," Mosaic added. He steepled both hands and crossed a leg. "Would you mind if I smoke my cigar?"

​

Again, the woman attempted a desperate smile. Her eyes, by force of habit, glanced over the pistol lying nonchalantly against Mosaic's glass of brandy; its barrel was staring back at her, looking very much so menacing, and very much so uninviting. She tugged at a collar and gulped, fiddling with her fingers and nails and whatnot. "P-Please, by all means, m-make yourself at home."

​

"Very much appreciated, Missus Lacelle."

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Puffs of blackened smoke slipped from Mosaic's curved lips, making their way unto the glass chandeliers above. He rocked the chair to and fro. "So how is it that you and Génile came to be acquainted? Work?"

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"F-Friends of his, monsieur. . ." the woman stared hard.

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"Mosaic."

​

"Monsieur Mosaic."

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"These friends," a few more puffs of smoke swirled from his lips. "Have they a name?"

​

The woman clutched her dress, stifling tears that had long since flooded her fluttering eyes. The tears, one could be sure, were not in fact shed for herself, but for her two children sleeping peacefully and blissfully unaware just upstairs. Voice shaky and trembling, she started muttering a prayer — one for her husband, one for her precious boys, and one for herself.

​

"Missus Lacelle?"

​

"S-So sorry," she wiped away the tears and attempted yet another faint beam.

​

"These friends of Génile, I'm curious as to who they are. If you would be so kind as to. . ." Mosaic swiped a hand across the polished tabletop and examined his glass of brandy. "Let me in on a little of his personal life. I am most curious."

​

Though Mosaic spoke with a hint of sincerity and what one would consider an overly cheery tone, his face suggested otherwise. The slight curve of his lips, the blank stare of his eyes, the crooked tilt to his brows — all pointed towards a far more sinister intent.

All pointed towards a far more. . . Unhinged man.

​

"H-He. . . Erm. . . His f-friends t-told me all ab-bout him."

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"Oh, is that right? And what did they tell you about Génile, Missus Lacelle? Only good things, I assume."

​

The woman soon found herself rather speechless. So many questions, so little time: who was the man? The girl? What did they want? How did they come to know her husband? "I. . ."

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Mosaic leaned forward; the wooden chair creaked in protest. "How much have they told you about him, dear?"

​

"Lo—"

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"Apart from the smoke and mirrors, of course."

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"T-The. . . The w-what?"

​

Mosaic's blank façade vanished, and in its place, cropped up a grin that sent shivers down the woman's very spine. His laugh was no less unnerving, and the slow clap that followed suite, even more so. "Ah-hah. . . He hasn't yet told you, has he? Oh! Dear me, I shan't spoil the surprise! Not just yet, Missus Lacelle, not just yet."

​

"I. . . I d-don—"

"You must forgive me, surely. This is utmost amusing!"

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A key to a gold lock, a hand to a brass knob — the Lacelle's front door swung open upon its rusted hinges and swayed gently in the evening breeze. "Honey! I'm home!"

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"Well, well, well. . . Speak of the devil."