The Navylan City States: a collection of warring factions struggling for central dominance. In military, at least, it had succeeded its predecessors, but in size, economy, and politics, it had failed in every aspect imaginable. The people were starving, territories were the subject of every summit meeting, and to add insult to injury, politicians were constantly at each other's throats ⁠— both metaphorically, and quite literally.

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To the far east lied a vast expanse of grassland home to some of Escardia's wildest: acid-spitting serpents the size of whole caravans, bloodthirsty raptors feasting on whatever scraps remain, and wyverns of every color, shape, and form.

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Even further east was a wasteland of nothingness ⁠— a courtesy of government military testings and science experiments gone awry. What was once a lush sea of emerald green, autumn yellow, and rushing blues, was now nothing more than a land scorched to ash and pummeled to dust.

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Justice took one last look at the Navylan states, sighed, then returned to her desk. In a few week's time, nothing would be the same as it once was — be it for the better, or for the worst. The government would fall, the regime would follow soon, and what was once a totalitarian state would finally break free of its shackles.

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Or. . .

That was the hope, at least.

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A teetering stack of paperwork towered over the tabletop. Apart from documents that came an inch closer to the ceiling each day, a stale box of doughnuts, a lit kerosene lamp, and an assortment of office supplies all lay discarded near one end of the desk.

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"Have you reconsidered, ma'am?"

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Justice swiveled to meet the voice. There, standing in the doorway of her depressing office-room was a man no different than your average commoner: lean, baggy-eyed, dressed in a workman's attire. He bore a suitcase in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.

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"I didn't hear a knock, Libra."

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"Pardon?"

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"When you came in, I didn't hear a knock."

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With a roll of the eye, some snide remark, and what could only be described as an emphatic laugh, Libra tucked the briefcase under one arm and knocked, twice. Justice smirked. "Come in."

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"On a more serious note," her advisor said, dropping his things — coat and all — by the doorsteps. "Have you reconsidered?"

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"Reconsidered what?"

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"Reconsidered this ludicrous plan of yours, of course. Even a daft fool can see the absurdity of this whole charade, Justice."

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"This isn't a charade."

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"Then what is it? A façade? A show? Some sick act?"

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"Yes, yes, you can stop with the fancy words now — I get your point."

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"No, quite frankly, I don't think you do. As your advisor, brother, friend, and amazing, amazing role model, I have to say. . . Let's see, how do I put this gently?"

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"Well, get on with it, then, I'm already far enough behind my work as is. The Imperium orders have yet to be signed, the leaflet designs still need work, and to be honest, we lack quite a number of aspiring saboteurs. A wild bunch, they are. You'll be surprised what 4 pounds of dynamite can make happ—"

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"This is suicide, Ashley."

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The sudden brazenness of Libra's words silenced her. Justice raised a cigarette to her lips and sank into the inviting embrace of a torn office chair. The ceiling fan whirred noisily. "If not me, then who, Libra?"

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"Send your scouts; send your men — send anyone but yourself! Heavens above, woman, do you have a death wish?"

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"And what kind of example would I be setting if I did just that, hmm? I'll not be pegged as some coward general who hides behind ranks of the innocent and forces them to do their every bidding."

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"Tsk. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It's a wonder you made it this far."

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"There's nothing you can do to change my mind, Libra. Now, if you could please leave me in peace, I would appreciate it wholeheartedly."

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"You were always so stubborn, even as a child. Mother always said you were quite the handful."

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"And you were always so irritating."

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"What would she make of all this?"

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"What would she, I wonder?"

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Silence plagued the room. Justice stared off into nothingness; Libra did too.

***

The alleyway was cold, certainly more so than city streets devoid of usual traffic and common pedestrians. A great many deal of rats scampered about, ducking in between bags of trash, gnawing at whatever scraps came by, and, on more than one occasion, daring to approach the two figures masquerading behind veils of black. They clung to the shadows, backs pressed against bare bricks and shadows kept short.

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"Is that damn woman ever going to show, or are we getting shafted?"

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"She'll be here."

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"You've said that three times."

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"She'll be here."

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Both men stood motionless, watching early morning Navylan patrols pass by without so much as a glance their way. Some bore ready armaments of war — loaded rifles and live grenades and maybe even a reserve demon; others simply hauled along a shock-baton or two, content with the bare minimum.

The whole city was on edge, surely. After the earlier incident, it would be foolish not to take precautionary measures, and the government figured just as much. Clearly.

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The taller one tapped his boot against the brick walls, anxious as ever. "How much longer?"

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"Give it a few minutes," said the shorter one, gloved hands shoved deep into coat pockets. "She'll show."

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"You seem so sure."

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"Oh, that's because I am."

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"How so?"

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"Intuition."

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"What?"

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"Intuition — to know something through feeling rather than through logic and deduct—"

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"I know what 'Intuition' means!"

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"Surprise, surprise."

Click, clack.

Thud.

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Out of darkness and into light stepped a figure clad from head to toe in the blackest of blacks: trouser, coat, scarf, boots, gloves, top hat — all blended seamlessly into the alleyway shadows, almost as if they were one and all. It stood under the flickering bulb of an overhead lamp, motionless, soundless, and seemingly, lifeless. "Markus and Clyde Linieus?"

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Both men turned to face the figure, unsure how exactly to respond.

He knew their names.

And now, he knew their faces too.

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The taller one gulped. "We, erm. . . We don't use aliases. Are you. . . Madam Justice?"

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The shorter one facepalmed.

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"Quite the contrary, Mr. Linieus. My name is 23; I'm with Blackhats Suit and Tie. I've been sent to dispatch you both cleanly, quickly, and effectively," — the figure flashed a business card, then flicked it off into the darkness — "My employer wishes a quick death for the two of you; I have chosen to honor such a request. Now, if you could hold still for just a few seconds, I promise it won't hurt a tad bit."

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In complete unison, both men drew a set of pistols from within their coats and trained them at the figure.

It did not react.

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"Now, now," said the shorter one. "There's no reason to be rash. I'm sure we can come to some sort of understanding. We're not the type of men to be trifled with, Mr. 23."

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23 gritted his teeth. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, he reached deep into his coat pockets, retrieving something of little concern to both arms dealers — a somewhat ordinary coin. "Impossible, to say the least. My contract is sealed and its parameters defined."

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"Shame."

"Certainly."

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The two Linieus brothers couldn't care less what that something was; if it was nothing of serrated steel or primed gunpowder, it wouldn't bother either of them. The shorter one shifted forward, seemingly unaware of the figure's slight movements and inaudible muttering. "Here's the problem, Mr. 23: you've seen our faces — and quite clearly too. Any fool with a set of good hands would have our details by sundown."

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The Blackhat said nothing.

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"We can't just let you walk away dilee-dalee, now can we, Markus? No, that would be troublesome."

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With both hands still firmly on the grip of his revolvers, the taller one blew a speck of dirt off his glasses. It danced in the wind for a few moments before sinking into a puddle of murky water. "Very, very troublesome."

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23 let the coin slide from his grasps; it clattered into the light and stared at both men with a grin. "Well then. . ."

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"Well then, indeed. . ."

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Gunshots rang through the alleyway; a set of bodies dropped.

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"What sorry excuse for humans, you two are."

***

"Are. You. Sure?"

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"Libra, we went over this. I don't have much of a choice here."

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"It's just. . . Of all the people in the world — the Linieus brothers? Really?"

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"They're the best at what they do."

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"Murdering people?"

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"No, well — yes, I suppose."

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"Mhmm."

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"Wait, just listen for a se—"

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"They're going to gut you, Justice. Either that, or skin you alive. Have you any idea how painful it is to be flayed alive?"

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"Hang o—"

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"First mum, then pops, and now you. Stubbornness runs in the family, I suppose."

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Justice stood in the shadows of the now deserted street corner, watching, waiting, planning. A dated edition of the morning paper hung loosely from one hand, while a cheap cigarette burned lively in the other — all were but necessary concealments to ward off suspicion, of course. And yet, they were suboptimal at best.

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Navylan states-guards were growing ever more vigilante with each passing day; if just one were to catch even a glimpse of her right there and then, it could spell defeat for Justice and her band of freedom fighters. Things were bad enough as it is, but after a public bounty set on her head attracted all sorts of wrong attention, authorities became more than just a concern. They became a major threat.

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Wanting to claim the bounty for themselves, states-guards were now on a shoot-to-kill basis. Clearly, they had no intention in taking her captive.

And that didn't sit quite too well with the revolutionist.

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Truly, there had never been more challenging times for the resistance itself.

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Suspected members found themselves constantly under close inspection: observer wards tracked their every move, night police stalked about their usual meet-up points, clouds of invisible reconnaissance imps circled the skies above.

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Not so long ago, multiple raids led by state officials saw the confiscation of a major resistance ammunition cache. Without weapons to combat government efforts, the fight would surely be lost.

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But today comes a golden opportunity.

And perhaps a streak of some much needed luck.

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The plan was simple, really: at 7:30, Justice was to wait by the corner of Burkenheim Street. In the next few moments or so, a messenger imp posing as nothing more than a lowly pigeon would lead her to an undisclosed location. The exchange would then proceed as intended.

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7:30 came sooner than expected. Nothing.

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7:45 rolled around. Still nothing.

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"We're getting set up," Libra said, already reaching for the blade strapped to his side. He ran a hand through jet black hair ruffling about in the wind. "15 minutes is a long enough wait, Justice."

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"They're late."

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"I see no imp."

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"Perhaps it's late as well."

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"I don't like this."

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"You don't like anything."

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"I like the theater."

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"Oh, my lord. Is that supposed to impress me?"

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"What? It's peaceful, it's serene, it's relaxing. Quite a pleasant change in scene—"

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A pigeon landed before the two, its head tilting from left to right in a rather perplexing manner. For a moment, Justice and Libra stood befuddled, unsure whether the mindless avian standing before them was the long-awaited messenger imp, or nothing more than an ordinary bird.

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And then, it spoke. "Oi, let's go."

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Justice prodded the pigeon with one leg; it pecked at her boots, then shook several wooden splinters from both wings. "About time. What took you so long?"

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"Sentries — they're all over the bloody place, mate."

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"I don't. . . See any."

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"Of course not, ya' bloody wanker! You twats can't see 'em; we can."

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"What'd they look like?"

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"Eh, hard to say: they can look like anythin' and everythin' — it depends on the guise, really."

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"Right."

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"So, are we going to stand around chattin' all bloody day, or are we going to get a move on? I got places to be, y'know."

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Justice gestured at the empty roads ahead. "After you."

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The pigeon took off. "Keep up, oi."

***

Libra stalked closely behind his sister, never once letting her slip out of his sight for more than fractions of a second. The blade and pistol stayed by his side at all times, ready at the twist of an arm and the flick of a wrist.

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Deeper and deeper into the heart of the Navylan States it led her. Through meandering alleyways that turned, twisted, and dropped; hidden passageways only of use to the most competent of government agents; and roads seldom even seen by the general public, Justice never once stopped to ask the imp where they were headed — no, rather, she followed it without so much as a question.

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Just as the light of Escardia began to stir, and working commoners of the Navylan whisked awake, the imp finally stopped near the designated meet-up point: a deserted complex of labyrinthine alleyways with no end in sight

The imp sifted through its plethora of known disguises, finally settling unto that of a sizable sewer rat. "We're here, mate."

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Justice looked to the alleyway, and then back to the imp. "You're kidding."

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"What do I look like to you? A bloody charlatan?"

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"Well, actua—"

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"Straight ahead, 'n then to the right. They should be there."

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"Should?"

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"Oi, mate. I'm just doin' me job, alright? I'm no babysitter."

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"Right. So I guess you're off then, yes?"

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"Like I said, places to be."

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With that, the sewer rat scuttled off into the darkness and vanished.

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For a moment, Justice stood in the company of silence, contemplating. Every inch of her body wanted to turn the other way and run, but deep down, she knew it had to be done. What would her rebellion be if she didn't? What would be of the people? Of their aspirations? Of their hopes and dreams?

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This wasn’t just a choice. This was a call of duty.

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One step at a time, Justice inched through the shadows, feeling her way every now and then. Though rays of stray sunlight managed their way into the alleyway and lit parts of her path in a tint of gold, the darkness was still quite an inconvenience. No, actually, it was a lot more than just an inconvenience, it was big, big trouble. She didn't like the dark. Not one bit.

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Justice turned the corner. A gasp slipped her lips.

***

Libra waited nearby, anxious. His hands were far too busy trembling to be of any use, and his skull, far too busy throbbing. A few minutes passed, maybe more. Ever since Justice dove head-first into the derelict alleyway, there was but only the company of utter silence to ease his nerves. Thoughts flooded through his mind — some good, some bad, some terrible. If anything happened to her — anything at all — he'd tear the Navylan apart, starting from the top down. He'd gut every minister, skin every states-guard, pummel every soul to ever side with the government. Why, he'd. . . He'd. . .

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Libra swiveled around, flashing his blade. From within the alleyway came a scuffle, followed by what sounded like the gasp of a frightened, little girl, too scared to even squeeze out a scream.

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Sparing not another second, he dashed into the darkness, barely avoiding a brick wall that shot out too quickly, too soon. Dagger in one hand, silenced pistol in the other, he skidded to a stop, turned the corner, and almost tripped head over heels into his sister. "What's with th—"

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Justice pointed to the brick walls, mouth agape, eyes shut tight. In blood, guts, and limbs, two words stared back with a smile — "HELLO THERE!"

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Libra grimaced, Justice gagged, the figure lurking within veils of shadows smirked.

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"Starting a revolution, are we?"