"Look, in and out — 30 minutes tops. It's easy money; the easiest you'll make in a while."

​

"I don't know, man. It just doesn't seem. . . Right to me. Something's off — the whole thing's off."

"Which part of 'free money' doesn't seem right to you, huh? I mean, this is a whole god damn gold mine just sittin' there, y'know? If we don't clean it out — like, right now, and I do mean right now — sooner or later, someone's gonna stumble on this and make it out with. . . What? Half a mil'? A quarter of that, maybe? That's a lotta money, Crane. That's a whole lotta money just gatherin' dust, down there."

​

"It's a government building, Telm. Yeah, we pulled off the Volburgh job alright, but that's a fucking mansion smack dab in the middle of nowhere. This is a government—"

​

"Abandoned."

​

"Government. Building. Telm."

​

"Mhmm."

​

"You know what they do to people like us? You know what happens if we get caught?"

​

"That's why we won't get caught — precisely, why we won't get caught. We're — heh-heh — pros, after all. When's the last time you saw a jackboot up our backs?"

​

"Right, well. Count me out. I'm not doing this one."

​

"What? What do you mean, 'count me out?' Y'know damn well we can't pull this off without you."

​

"I've got a little girl to take care of, Telm; I can't risk it. What can I say? I'm sorry. Find somebody else."

​

"Woah, woah, woah, woah. Alright, alright, settle down, settle down. Sit. Come on, sit — you have to try the spring rolls here. They're the best in town."

​

"I'm not hungry."

​

"See, that's your problem. You're not hungry 'nough for this. Think about your kids, yo — your daughter? I reckon there's a solid half down there. That's five split five ways. That's 100 for each of us, Crane. 100 for you, for me, for Mia and Maeve and Brixton. A whole lotta money up for grabs. You do this for us — for her — and I guarantee she goes off to Six-Leagues. Best of the best, for all the student prodigies and whatnot, you feel me?"

​

"You know how much Six-Leagues cost? You know how much they charge — a year?"

​

"Sure as hell a lot less than 100, I'm guessing?"

​

"Yeah. . ."

​

"Right, see? It's an easy one — in and out, 30 minutes tops."

​

"30 minutes?"

​

"30 minutes, I'm sure. We'll swoop in, clean everything out, and be gone — poof — just like that."

​

"Well, if it's quick, I guess. . . I mean. . . Look, no promises, but I'll think about it, alright?"

​

"Awesome, fantastic, great, great, great. Now eat your food; it's getting cold. You won't like it if it's cold."

​

"I don't like spring rolls to begin with."

​

"But I. . . I paid for those."

​

"Yeah, well. Box them up. My break ends in ten."

***

I'm a professional thief, you see. The 'professional' part is maybe debatable at best, but the 'thief' part is absolutely, a hundred percent, spot-on. I certainly don't take any pride in what I do, but unfortunately for me, it's probably the only thing I'm somewhat next to decent at. And in this day and age, we got to do what we got to do to make it to the end of the week.

​

I didn't really have much choice, honestly speaking. I'm not good with my head, which means it's either the factories or the coal mines for me, and both of them, for a lack of better word, really, really suck. Oh, don't get me wrong, I don't mind the menial labour. Hell, I like getting my hands dirty every now and then. What I do mind, however, is the pay. Seven an hour is not what a lot of people generally consider good. Actually, it's barely even enough to make ends meet — the rent and food, maybe, but when you got a kid who looks up to you. . .

​

Well, that's a whole different story.

​

Cass stays with her mother most of the time, and up until recently, it's been all the time. I'm way behind on just about everything — you name it: rent, water, electric. . . Child support. And obviously, this doesn't really look any good in front of the court, which makes it way, way harder for me to get to see her.

​

At all.

​

And I'm trying.

​

I'm trying my very best, but sometimes your very best just doesn't do.

​

Everyday, I wake up at the crack of dawn, take the 46th down to a local fast-food joint, and work my way through the morning there. There's always a lot going on all at once, which, ideally, isn't how any normal person would rather start the day. It's tiring. It's sweaty It's. . . Tedious work at best, and downright torture at worst.

​

It wouldn't really be all that bad, if people didn't have to be such complete arseholes. Here's the thing: when you work in retail, or customer service, or anything at all that involves scumbags treating you like litter, it gets kind of. . . Old.

​

You know, I can only take so many insults, or middle-fingers, or just the look of your average idiot, before eventually snapping. After a while, it gets boring quick. And then, you start to find smiling more of a chore, and god-forbid if you slip up for one second, because your dickhead-of-a-boss is definitely watching.

​

But I put up with it anyway.

​

I always do.

​

After about. . . Six hours, or so — I think — my morning shift ends and break hits. Usually, there's this great food truck just buzzing by, and more often than not, I manage to catch it right before it leaves. Good food, cheap prices, and very large portions — what more can a guy like me ask for? Sometimes though, I'm late, and it takes off. If that's the case, then it's the food courts down by the plaza for me.

​

Stuff's okay there.

​

Bland, tasteless, goopy, but. . .

​

It's better than nothing, I guess.

It's definitely better than going hungry, I'll tell you that much.

Telm's almost always there — him and his spring rolls. Mia and Maeve hang around Wednesdays through Fridays. Brixton drops by and goes pretty much whenever. Don't know much about the guy, honestly. Heard he grew up in the countryside as a mechanic or something — sure does explain why he's so good with his hands. Usually, I go and sit with them; if not, I find a quiet corner to be by myself.

​

They're good people when it comes down to it, but sometimes, good people have to do bad things for all the right reasons — case in point: me. I don't like to steal, I don't like to cheat, and I sure as hell don't like wasting my life away, and I believe that they don't either, but at the end of the day, if that's what puts food on the table. . .

​

If that's what gets us going. . .

Gets us through the next week. . .

​

Beggars can't be choosers, I guess.

​

And then, before I know it, break's over and I'm off again to another dead-end, nine-to-five job. It's not so bad, this one; a lot of exercise, not a lot of idiots to deal with. Co-workers are nice too, I can say that for certain. Oh, hmm? What do I do, exactly? I run delivery for this local bookbinding shop. What that means is — basically — my boss makes these custom, hand-crafted book bindings, and I go and deliver them to whoever.

​

Sometimes, the address is just on the other side of the street, which isn't too bad when it's not raining out. Other times, it's halfway across town, in the countryside, or down by the military district.

​

Yeah, I don't like those days much.

​

He's nice — my boss, I mean. Old guy called Wei Xing. Says he's not from around these parts, says he doesn't want to talk about his past too — not like I bother asking or anything. I respect privacy. Most days, he has this frown hanging from his face, and he looks just about ready to murder someone. When he's like that, I try my best not to piss him off, which works wonders when you know what does and doesn't push the guy's buttons.

​

So that's where I was headed, until Telm flagged me down.

​

And now I'm running late.

​

And Xing's bound to blow a fuse.

​

And I'm going to get an earful of it.

​

Welcome to my life.

​

Best part, yet?

​

This isn't even half of it.

***

The streets aren't too busy in the afternoon, which is great because that means I can just make a run for it; all the way from the local food court, through several residential districts, across an entire river, yada yada yada.

​

All the way to Xing's place.

​

It's not a big or popular shop by any stretch of the mile, but it's out there, you know what I mean? Everyone's heard of it at one point — the military, the elites, foreigners, people like me, even. Just last week, we had this government agent come in real hush hush, and then, yesterday, another one of them dropped by, just like that.

​

I couldn't hear much from the way they spoke with Xing, but I'm assuming it's got something to do with research.

​

Very secret research, way out in the Vorm Forest, it seems.

​

Half the time, I don't even know why they bother; it's not like there's stuff out there. From what Telm tells me, and from what Maeve and Mia drone on and on and on about, there's very little to the place, if even anything at all. Lots of trees, lots of mud, toss in some serpents and raptors too, maybe — boom, you have the Vorm. Oh, and you can't forget the scary bedtime stories. I love those.

​

But just as I'm hearing, the Heimer Republic seems awfully interested, and obviously, I'm sure they have their own reasons to be.

​

"Crane!" Xing's voice jerks me from my thoughts. "Are you going to stand there all day? I don't pay you for that — get in here."

​

I don't need telling twice.

​

"I'm coming."

"You're late."

​

"Sorry about that — forgot the time."

​

"Yes, yes, I understand. You're always running from place to place. Just don't. . . Don't do it again."

I'm standing there, confused as all hell.

And for good reason too.

​

Now, you see, that's not like Xing. That's not like Xing at all. Xing would have chewed me out right then and there, in broad daylight and in full view of just about everyone passing by. He would've yelled at me until his veins throbbed and his eyes popped and every little strand of white hair rustled and looked ready to fall off. But. . . Not today?

​

"Are you. . ." I hold the door open for him; the cold blast of air conditioning slams into me, wiping away the afternoon heat. "Are you feeling okay?"

​

There was a pause from the bookbinder. "No."

​

"Err. . . No?"

"No, Crane, I'm not alright. We need to talk."

​

Xing takes one last look at the Heimer Republic streets, then, follows me in.

​

The door shuts.

I couldn't tell at first what exactly was wrong with him; he just seemed so completely out of it. Don't get me wrong, not getting yelled at is a fresh change, and I dig fresh changes, but when a man like Xing — a man who loses his temper at the drop of a hat — cools down just like that, out of the blue? You know something's not right.

​

Xing flips the 'open' sign 'closed', locks the door twice, sighs, then moves from one end of the room to the other, closing each blind, until only the slightest streaks of sunlight can possibly manage their way through. And then, he just sits there across the front counter, staring at me with this cold, hard, glare.

​

"I'm selling the store, Crane."

​

"What?"

​

The old man clears his throat, and when he looks up at me, I could see it clear as day: the worry in his eyes, and the sad in his frown. He's got the world on his shoulders too, just like me. "I'm selling the place. Something's. . . Something's happened. Something's come up."

​

Xing has this ornate tea-cup set from way back where he came, and supposedly, the thing's been passed down from generation to generation. He's told me — at least nine times now — that it's older than the Heimer Republic itself. Spoiler alert: I don't believe him.

​

I still don't, but I got to admit, there's some charm to it. It's ceramic white, with accents of gold and hand-painted drawings of dragons and ancient magic and traditions and whatnot. Chips are missing from the handle and base, but apart from maybe the small details — and the occasional crack or two — it's in perfect shape. Almost.

The only time I ever see Xing drink out of it is when he gets into one of those completely serious talks with someone, and I'm guessing that's what's about to happen.

​

And so I sit down with him.

​

"What's. . . What's going on?"

​

Xing's quiet now — real quiet.

"It's my mother. She's sick."

Well.

That explains a whole lot.

"I'm. . . Sorry."

"She's really sick, and. . . And I don't know, Crane. I don't know if she's going to make it, but I have to try. The doctors here aren't too sure, the healers back there aren't either, and everyone's saying she doesn't have long left but — but that can't be just it, can it? I have to do something — somebody has to do something. Her treatment isn't cheap, and apart from my father and brother, I'm all she's got left. And if all I have is what it takes to keep her moving forward then. . . Then, I have to."

​

"I know."

​

"I have to, Crane."

​

Xing pours me my own cup of tea. He goes on. "I know how much this job means to you, and I know you aren't exactly well off on your own, which makes this so much worse than it has to be — believe me. If there was a way, Crane, I'd help you out here. If there was a way I'd—"

​

I cut him off. "I understand, Xing. I do, really."

"Crane, I—"

"It's alright."

​

We both sit there, in silence, drinking our teas to the hum of a flickering, incandescent bulb. He hands me a creased envelope.

​

"This is for this month; I put a little extra in there for you."

​

A million thoughts are running through my head at once. For starters, how about rent? The month's almost done, which means it's time to fess up what little I have left, and last I checked, I don't exactly have enough. Worse still? I'm on my final notice. If I miss another payment, I'm out on the streets again, and then that's a whole nother can of worms I'd like to keep positively unopened. How would that look in court? Not great, I'd imagine.

I stand up, smile at the bookbinder, and make for the door. "It's. . . It's alright."

​

No.

​

No, it's not alright.

It never is.

"You keep it, Xing; you need it a lot more than I do."

​

The old man's all quiet again.

​

And then, for the first time since I started working here, he smiles at me.

​

"Thank you, Crane — for everything. You're a good man."

​

"You too."

If only he knows, huh?

​

If only he knows me.

​

"Take care, Mr. Xing."

​

I left.

​

Goodbye old life.