"The people are restless."

​

"As to be expected. This whole damn fiasco is one big box of gunpowder, and it's just about ready to blow."

​

"I have today's reports, sir."

​

"Pray tell, Nox."

​

"Raids across the nation, coordinated skirmishes, mass riots, workman's strike — I can keep going."

​

"No need."

​

"The minister of defense has specifically requested your presence as well, sir."

​

"Who? What?"

​

"The minister of defense — Nicholas Soleil."

​

"Ah, yes. The man who sits atop an ivory tower and oversees our suffering. Of course, how could I have forgotten? What does he want with me now?"

​

"I believe he wishes to evaluate your recent field performance, sir."

​

"And how would you describe it, Nox?"

​

"Erm. . ."

​

"Good? Bad? Subpar?"

​

"Good, sir — to a certain degree, of course. I believe you handled the earlier incident exceptionally well."

​

The office was not unusual; it was, in fact, much like many others. A mahogany desk sat squarely towards one end of the room, polished to a shine and kept in the most pristine of conditions, always. It hosted all sorts of common stationary: blank sheets of paper; an assortment of colored pens and sharpened pencils; and in this specific instance, a snow globe of Stoneport Harbor itself. One would oftentimes find a leather executive chair accompanying such over-glorified workspace, and a minister upon its seat.

​

The room itself was anything but bare: a potted plant sat towards one corner, as it had done so for years past, and years more to come; an aged bookshelf — lined with impressive arrays of biographies and other such historical accounts — rested against a wall closest to the door; two sets of sofa and a glass coffee table laid bare in the center of the minister's office, only ever made use of in the presence of guests; and finally, the pièce de résistance, the bread and butter, the cherry of the office itself: a wall-sized painting depicting how exactly the Navylan came to be — with several signatures and a single handshake.

​

To his front — just beyond the mahogany desk — resting in an armchair left to gather dust for years to come, was the minister's assistant and second in command, Nox Kasströ. Young and vigorous, the advisor was, and certainly not one to be trifled with. "There has also been. . . Developments, sir — within the rebellion. Some minor, some major, some concerning."

​

A swig of whiskey ran smoothly down Myre's throat without so much as a fuss. He held up a finger. "Let's hear those somewhat concerning ones."

​

"The rebellion has concocted a new slogan to fit their agenda, sir."

​

"That's — hic — concerning?"

​

"Power to the people, death to the monarch. Words are all good and fine, Myre, but I'd say the time for peaceful negotiations has come to a swift end."

​

"Oh? And what do you suggest I do? Speak freely."

​

"It's really not my place to say, sir, but if I am to be in a seat of such power, I would most definitely consider a much. . . Sterner approach. The mob cannot be allowed to expand their influence."

​

"Any recommendations?"

​

"We can start by enforcing curfew hours, sir. At least then, it'll take quite the weight off our Night Watch's shoulders."

​

Myre downed another swig of whiskey, this time, with a hefty groan. While Nox watched from the comforts of his sofa and wondered whether he had served as an adequate advisor, his overseer came to both feet, leaned against the nearby bookshelf, and let a sigh slip his lips. The ceiling fang whirred noisily, drowning out classical tunes chiming from a nearby opera.

​

Myre flicked a lit cigar out an open window and let the now-empty bottle slip from his grasps. It cluttered onto the tabletop with a series of thuds. "When does Soleil need to see me?"

​

"In a minute, sir," Nox said, adjusting the cuffs of his uniform. "It's best he isn't kept waiting."

​

"Fantastic. I'll see you back here at six, capiché?"

​

"My schedule allows for that."

​

Myre left his office, coat in hand; the door clicked shut.

***

"About time, Myre. Please, take a seat — go on, it won't bite."

​

Myre did exactly as instructed, sinking into a chair opposite to the defense minister's. Quickly realizing that his appalling appearance would have the opposite effect as intended, he wiped both hands clean upon his coat and proceeded to seek out any whiskey stains hitching a ride on his attire. Fortunately, none have managed to do so quite just yet.

​

The defense minister sat behind a magnificent desk fit for a man of great power. The furnished oak stared back with a gleam, while the many patterns engraved onto all four legs demanded respect. Soleil coughed, rather loudly. "From what I've understood, the situation has. . . Developed somewhat unfortunately."

​

Myre shifted uneasily in his seat, wondering if the whiskey would kick in a little harder than expected, and a little earlier — that certainly would no better his public image. He paid little to no attention to the defense minister's words. How could he? The milksop-of-a-man deserved no such respect, not from his colleagues, not from his inferiors, not from the common populace and the lowliest of peasants, not from anyone. Ever.

​

Soleil cleared his throat. "Myre? Have I lost your attention?"

​

"Err. . . No, sir. I was merely. . . Considering the right words."

​

"And? Have you found them?"

​

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then. Speak."

​

Myre composed himself, wondering how exactly he would deliver the news in a manner that wouldn't quite jeopardize his position. One way or another, this wouldn't end too well. "We. . . Erm. . ."

​

Soleil tapped his fingers impatiently, occasionally reaching across the desk to adjust a golden name plate. "Today, please — I have a party to attend, Myre. The prime minister has specifically requested my presence, and quite unfortunately, I am to comply with his every request. He is a difficult man to work with, wouldn't you agree? Difficult, and impatient — a deadly duo."

​

"I'm afraid the protests have grown to something of a more. . . Violent nature, sir. Nox has recommended a sterner approach to our current predicament, all of which I have taken into careful consideration."

​

"And what may those recommendations be, Myre?"

​

"Curfews, night patrols, social programs — counter-insurgency measures to ease the people's unrest, sir. A majority of the population has denounced much of the rebellion's agenda; I suggest we key on these disapprovals and act accor—"

​

"Where do you suppose we find the funds to finance this. . . Grand scheme of yours? Our coffers have long since run dry, and any spare change is reserved for the national army. Further monetary spending would have to come out of your own pockets, and we both know how. . . Indebted you are."

​

"Sir, if I may interje—"

​

"No, no you may not. I hate to say it, Myre — I really do — but maybe you aren't quite fit for this role. Maybe you were better off under the command of the dearly departed, Sora Barthet. We have given you all the time in the world, all the men and boots and states-guards — all you could ever ask for — and yet, you fail us still. Or perhaps, you have done so deliberately."

​

Both Myre's eyes shot open. "What?"

​

Soleil continued. "Or perhaps — and here comes quite a bit of controversy — you have turned coats."

​

"Excuse me?"

​

"We have reason to believe that spies walk amongst us, Myre. They live in the shadows, always watching, always planning, untrusting of the light. And there they stay, feeding our enemies with the most sensitive of material — just a lip to the wrong person, colonel, and that could be it. That could be the day evil triumphs. That could be the day our government crumbles from the inside out. That could be the day we fail as the king's very own peacekeepers."

​

Myre clawed at the armrests, holding back the urge to spit out a number of insults. "You're accusing me of high treason, sir."

​

He spat the last word out with such venom.

​

Soleil returned to the tasks at hand, wasting not another breath and instead choosing to dismiss his subordinate with a wave of the arm. A radio switched on; Bossa Nova tuned in.

​

"These accusations are rather serious."

​

"You have finally understood the gravity of the situation — a round of applause for yourself, Myre."

​

"With all due respect, minister, these are but baseless allegations."

​

"Baseless, are they? What about when you opened fire at a crowd of peaceful protestors? What reason did you have then?"

​

"I did not fire into the crowd, sir. None of my men carried firearms into battle that evening, and I will stand by their word any day of the week."

​

"You trust these soldiers of yours? These. . . Lowly disposables?"

​

"I do."

​

"And why would you?"

​

Maybe it was years of brutal service together. Maybe it was their undying loyalty. Or maybe, they've simply developed a bond with one another over many campfire stories, roasted marshmallows, and supposedly outlawed 'contraband.' Myre, of course, couldn't mention any of that to the defense minister. No, how could he? He'd be branded a sentimentalist. The colonel, instead, settled on a safe bet — one that wouldn't upset his irritable superior quite as much, and perhaps save his favorably unfavorable position. "I've trained them well, sir. I trust them."

​

"You've trained them to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? My word, Myre, maybe you'd make a better judge than a colonel."

​

For a few very uncomfortable moments, Myre and the defense minister sat in the company of Bossa Nova, seemingly unaware of one another's existence. At exactly 8:30, Soleil put his pen down and stood up, dusting his coat clean of what seemed like breadcrumbs; Myre stayed seated.

​

"If I were you, colonel," the defense minister said, one hand on the brass door-handle of his lavish office room. "I would be very concerned about my career — very concerned, indeed. Tread carefully, Myre, you're amongst wolves now."

​

The door clicked shut.

​

"Asshole."

***

Libra hurled around, swinging his blade to meet the figure's. As steel clashed against steel, and sparks flew in all directions imaginable, Justice watched safely from the distance as her brother fended for both their lives.

​

The figure moved far too quickly, avoiding Libra's jabs and strikes without so much as a struggle. Again and again he tested his luck; again and again it counter-struck with ease. Libra raised the blade to parry a slice, and immediately after, managed to slam a knee hard into the figure's gut. Whether it was by pure chance or a streak of some much needed fortune, that hit was exactly what he needed to gain the upper hand.

​

Following the kick, he sent a jab, a right-cross, and an uppercut the same way. All but the last hit its mark, and still, it sufficed.

​

The figure reeled, falling head over heels into a heap of trash bags. The dagger escaped its grasp, while the light slipped its eyes; within moments, Justice's mysterious assailant was lying unconscious in a mountain of stink.

​

Libra kneeled, resting his back against that of a mossy brick wall. With one hand still firmly on the handle of his blade, and the other on the grip of his holstered pistol, he contemplated. There would be no use ending this man's life; if the government caught wind of it, they would turn every ounce of the case into blatant propaganda — that certainly would be undesirable. Public relations were shaky enough as is.

​

But the question still stands, regardless.

​

Who?

​

One of Myre's mercenaries, no doubt. If not so, then perhaps an Escardian bounty hunter.

​

"Are you alright?"

​

Libra half turned to face his sister, sheathing the blade. He wiped both hands clean on a white handkerchief and coughed up a mouthful of blood. "I've seen better days."

​

"Who do you think that is?"

​

"Heavens above, who knows?"

​

Lies. Nothing but blatant lies, of course. It was a dead giveaway, right from the start.

​

"Do you think someone sent him after us?"

​

"I would say. . . Otherwise. A certain someone sent him after the Linieus brothers, and by the looks of it, he's done a fantastic job."

​

Libra gestured at the brick walls behind Justice; from top to bottom, it was coated with blood, guts, gore, and other undesirable sights. The corpses of both Linieus brothers hung lifeless, nails punched through their joints and into the bricks with such force one could almost catch a glimpse of bone. Almost instinctively, Justice shut her eyes, holding back the urge to gag.

​

Setting eyes on the gore-fest once was plenty enough; to see it for a second time would very much scar her for life — if she hadn't worse to worry about at the moment.

​

Libra, on the other hand, seemed not even the least bit bothered by such a sight. He rubbed a hand against the brick walls and felt the blood between his fingertips. "This is fresh — minutes fresh."

​

"Still as sharp as ever."

​

The voice was many things, but human was one thing it most certainly was not.

​

Justice and her brother both swiveled to meet the figure. It stood in the dim shadows of the alleyway overhangs, shifting in and out of the darkness with every step. "Time hasn't robbed you of your perception, I see."

​

The pistol left its holster and rested in Libra's capable hands. He stood between Justice and the figure. "You're not so bad yourself."

​

"You really think we wouldn't find you?"

​

"To be honest, no."

​

"Well, here we are."

​

"Quite. Unfortunately."

​

"It's good to see you again, 74."

​

"I wish the same could be said, 23."

​

"The foundation hasn't been the same without you."

​

"I can tell — they're slacking."

***

"I share your frustrations, sir."

​

"Oh, don't you bullshit me! You're not the one who failed to stop a growing revolution, Nox. You're not the one who failed to disrupt a brewing coup. You're not the one who—"

​

"Fired unto a crowd of peaceful protesters?"

​

Myre threw his hands in the air and kicked over an overflowing trash-can; all sorts of junk spilled onto the carpeted floors. "I. Did. Not. Fire. At. Them!"

​

"I believe you; the people don't."

​

"We need to do something drastic — something to sweep the rebellion right off its feet. Something th—"

​

There was a pause, a spark of ingenuity, and a sudden shift in Myre's voice. An idea struck his mind. Granted, it wasn't a particularly brilliant idea; it was quite the risky move, actually. Now that he thought of it more, it was an almost stupidly absurd plan.

​

But there was no time for further precautionary measures. The rebellion was growing ever stronger with each passing day, and if he didn't do something to halt its conquest, soon it'd become unstoppable.

​

What then? Justice and her band of misfits would overthrow the government, toppling the monarchy within a matter of days. The rest of the Navylan States would follow soon, and what was once a proud nation would be nothing more than a warring wasteland.

​

And who would be held accountable, Myre wondered? He himself, of course. If that rat of a defense minister survived, he would, without a doubt, pin the fall of the Navylan on the man who's primary duty was to disrupt brewing coups — Myre himself.

​

Just the thought of ensuing punishments was enough to send a chill up his spine. Time is of the essence, and if the government would expect to win this war, they'd have to act quickly. Myre reconsidered his plan.

​

He was just one step away from a checkmate, and Justice damn well knew it.

​

It was time to make a move — a move to reset the pieces.

​

"Nox? I require chalk — chalk, and runic shards."

​

"Daring are we, sir?"

***

23 lunged from within shadows, a blade in each hand. He dove in and out of the darkness, only revealing himself for fractions of a second to strike, and then returning once more to veils of black.

​

Libra listened intently, hoping to catch the telltale scuffle of shuffling boots, brandishing blades, or even masked huffing. He was fighting blind; even the smallest of slip-ups could spell his end.

​

23 dropped from a nearby rooftop, sinking his daggers into Libra's right shoulder. With a twist of the arm, a flick of the wrist, and a flex of the fingertips, the Blackhat wrenched both blades from his foe's flesh and administered another lethal blow — a slash to Libra's left eye.

​

Bloodcurdling screams echoed throughout the alleyway in an instance; a murder of crows roosting nearby took flight. Libra collapsed unto a knee, both hands cupped to his face. In a fit of rage, desperation, and utter recklessness, he trained his pistol at 23.

​

A sleight of the hand, a pull of the trigger — several shots sailed forth.

​

The Blackhat smirked, meekly. "Perhaps I spoke far too kindly, far too soon. Your skills have degraded."

​

Libra regained his footing; the blade was no longer within his grasps. "I haven't had practice."

​

"Neither have I."

​

"I can tell. You're sloppy."

​

"I'm not the one missing an eye."

​

"No. By the looks of it, you're missing more."

​

23 took a good, long look at himself.

​

A bullet hole — no smaller than a dime, no larger than a quarter — greeted his gaze.

​

Blood oozed from the wound, spilling onto the dusty alleyway grounds like a waterfall of red. And violet. "A scratch. Nothing more."

​

"Of course it is."

​

Again, both sides rushed at one another, seemingly unconcerned about their grave injuries. Despite their almost theatrical performance, Justice knew better. Libra looked as if ready to collapse; 23 was no better.

​

As both men exchanged blows, they hardly began to notice the platoon of Navylan states-guards slowly encircling them. They swarmed nearby rooftops, flooded darkened alleyways, occupied every possible position.

​

And there they stayed, readying their armaments in anticipation of the chaos to come. Rifles were cocked and loaded, while blades were unsheathed and brandished.

​

And finally, the order came.

​

"Navylan States Guards! Comply and you shall not be harmed!"

​

Justice froze.

​

Libra snarled.

​

23 smirked. "This just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?"