I knock on Telm's door, hard.

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No answer.

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I knock again.

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No answer again.

One, two, three — wait — four.

Knock.

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Still no answer.

Slowly, surely I put my ear up to the wood and listen for the longest time.

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Nothing.

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It's quiet in there.

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Too quiet.

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Is it Saturday? It's Saturday, alright, he should be home. Telm's always home during Saturdays, especially this time around — unless if he wasn't, which he isn't, and the only reason he wouldn't be home is because. . .

Fuck, no.

Did they finally get to him? Did they bag him? No, that can't be it. Not like this. Telm's a lot of things — an idiot, mainly — but he's careful. He's a careful idiot. Every heist, every move, every diversion and alibi and cover story we make up has at least three different contingency plans in place, courtesy of Telm's paranoia. He keeps his head down all day, everyday, and just doesn't ease up around people; not around the commoners, not around his contacts, especially not around the baddies — you know, Enforcers and Peacekeepers and police and whatnot.

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But what if they did get to him? What if he finally slipped?

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Well, they'll interrogate him, of course. They'll pull his nails, pull his teeth, pull his skin and eyes and tongue and brain. They'll pull every single string and bring him to the edge of dying; whether Telm lasts that long without breaking first — only god knows. Nobody goes through all that and still has the balls to keep their mouths shut.

Nobody.

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And then what happens next? Telm talks, my name gets put on some kind of hit list — along with Maeve's and Mia's and Brixton's — and they'll go for us next. We'll hide, and hide good, but we can't go into hiding forever, of course; especially not from the Heimer Republic. They have eyes and ears everywhere, and you can bet your sorry ass they're watching. Everything you do, everything you think of, anyone who might even remotely be of help to you — they'll always be one step ahead, and they'll know.

Always.

Kudos to the Enforcers. They're crafty — smart, smart people — that's for sure; they'll flush us all out somehow, one way or another. They'll find us.

​

Maeve and Mia have their ma to take care of.

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Brixton has his dad.

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And I have Cass.

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They'll shoot every single one of them unless we show ourselves. They'll shoot Cass, Mr. Xing, everyone I talked to in the last week, the guy that sells me burgers down by the fucking market.

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Everyone.

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And they won't stop there.

They won't stop until they have me.

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Us.

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Fuck.

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Fuck!

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My head's spinning now, and I'm starting to panic real bad. I can't think straight — not like this — not when my thoughts are scrambling all over the place and jumping way, way around. I'm pacing up and down the sidewalks now, breathing hard, hands shaking, like some kind of methed-out crack addict waiting for his next hit. Everyone walking by just stares at me weird — not that it matters anyway; crazy junkie hearing voices and tasting colors, what's new? Life in the sad part of town is as usual. They'll ignore me, like they always do.

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Think, think!

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Think, you god damn idiot!

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You've thought of all this before, over and over and over again: before bed, in the morning, after showers, during work — all the fucking time. This isn't anything new; you've prepared for this. Telm's prepared for this. Mia and Maeve and Brixton's prepared for this. Everyone knew it was going to happen at one point.

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Okay, okay.

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Stop.

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Sit down.

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Breathe.

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This is simple.

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I'll pack my bags and leave town for a bit until things quiet down. It shouldn't be too hard to get new ID's, new papers, new names and lives — the whole thing. There's just barely enough back in the apartment to cover all those, and from there, I'll just disappear. I'll disappear from the Heimer Republic, from the government, from the system, from everywhere — every single trace of me, every mention of my name and connection, gone. I'll be somebody else, live in some dead guy's shoes for the rest of my fucking life, if I have to.

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No you fucking idiot, you have a daughter. You're just going to leave like that?

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They'll shoot her dead.

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But they can't just do that, can they? She's innocent.

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She's fucking eight years old, for crying out loud.

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They wouldn't dare.

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No, they fucking would.

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No.

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Yes.

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No, they wouldn't.

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Yes, they fucking would. They're Heimer Republics.

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They have no soul.

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Oh, god.

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If they hurt Cass, if they dare put a hand on her — touch a single fucking hair on her body — I'll burn this entire town to the ground and paint every single street from here to Capital in bright fucking red. I'll do it. I swear to god I'll fucking do it, and when I do, they better kill me before I—

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Slap!

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Something smacks hard against the side of my face, forcing me crumbling onto the sidewalks. There's this stinging sensation — like needles poking in and out of your skin — from my left cheek, and then, just a moment later, that same stinging sensation from my right.

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Slap!

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"You're overthinking again."

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I know that voice. I know that voice so well, ever since elementary and all the way through middle-high.

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"Sorry for slapping you; looked like you needed it."

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She helps me to my feet, dusting the dirt from my coat's sides.

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"Thanks. . . Mia."

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"Why's it this time? Is it because Telm wasn't home?"

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"Yeah. . . Yeah, I guess."

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"Mmm. . . He's at Finnigan's, gearing up for tonight. A lot riding on a lot of people, if y'know what I mean — us, mostly. I mean, we have to break into a government vault and clear out by 30 minutes? That's huge, even by Telm's standards. We haven't had a serious gig like this in forever, Crane; last one was Volburgh, and y'know how well that we—"

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"Tonight? What do you mean, 'tonight?' Mia, he's doing the thing — it — tonight?"

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"He hasn't told you yet?"

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"No. . ."

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"Well. . ."

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Mia sits down on the concrete, finishing her cup of ice cream. "You're coming, aren't you?"

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I sit with her there, in the shade and in the dark, thinking. Am I really? Am I really going to dive into something this big — this dangerous, again? After Volburgh, I promised myself three things: nothing too extreme, and nothing too risky. Nothing with actual jail time and court sentences. But here I am again, risking a lifetime behind bars — and so much more — all for what? A hundred grand? Is that really all my life is worth?

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"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."

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I guess so.

Making ends meet and whatnot.

Not like I have much of a choice to be honest.

I'm out a job anyway.

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"Sweet. You make things so much easier."

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"For. . . For the team?"

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Mia leans on me, resting her head against my shoulder. "Not what I meant, but sure. That too."

***

The sun's starting to go down now, and still, no sign of Telm. I watch as the people come rushing home, ready for a warm meal and a couple hugs from their loved ones. I watch as a small girl — no older than Cass is — spring from inside and cling onto her father by the waist. I watch as a woman in her late 40's kisses him on one cheek, takes the coat and briefcase from his hands, and ushers the man inside. I watch as a happy family sits down for their dinner, just as they had done so every other night of the week, laughing, talking, being a normal, functioning family.

Mia stirs beside me. "Oh, don't get all weepy. Any minute now, I swear you're gonna break out crying."

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"Shut up, I'm not going to cry."

She's quiet now — something Mia never is. "You ever had that, Crane? You ever had a taste of the good life? It must be amazing, y'know? It must be amazing coming home to that: a wife, kid, husband — a dog and cat too, maybe — all the good stuff."

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"Don't think about it."

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"Well, I try, but when you're laying in bed, at night, and everything's quiet, it gets kinda hard not to. I wonder, y'know, what my life would be like if everything didn't have to. . . Come apart. I wonder what it'd be like if I just listened to them, if I just stayed in the Navylan. I wonder how they're doing."

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"Probably a lot better than us. Your parents are filthy rich."

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"But look at me, huh? Fighting for table scraps and leftovers."

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Mia goes on and on and on. I stop listening. Whenever she's not busy reading, or eating, or being a complete kleptomaniac, she starts rambling. Last week, it was about why ice cream's so expensive, yesterday was about the war, and today, just so happens to be about her — our — lives. I don't complain or anything; we all need to vent every now and then. I get it.

​

She had a rough past, that girl: left her family and home at the age of 12, moved to the Heimer Republic at 13, worked as a barkeep by 15, started stealing at 16, was caught, tried, and convicted by 17, served her sentence a year later, and now, here she is. I don't know why exactly Mia decided to throw away her entirely cushy life to be as far away as possible from her parents, and to be honest with you, I don't think I'd like to. She never talks about them, but in the slightly off chance that she does, she's got this look on her face — and I recognize it straight away.

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It's the look you give something you can't even begin to stand. Something disgusting, like the month-old carton of milk Telm keeps at the back of his fridge. I can only imagine what they did to her to make her see them like that. And like I said, I don't want to know.

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Ever.

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Maybe they beat her.

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Maybe they did worse.

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And I'm sure I'm not far off either; why else would her sister run off too — and exactly just a few days after Mia did? Guess I'm lucky enough that my parents didn't really do anything that extreme, but hey, here I am as well. Same shit, different day; different people, same shit.

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"Geez, she just keeps talking, doesn't she?" that's not Mia's voice.

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That's someone else's.

Someone like Telm's.

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Three hours late, but he's finally here.

At last.

​

Telm pops out from the alleyway to my right, stinking of chilly sauce and day-old spring rolls. As usual, he's got his famous jean jacket and aviator shades on, and probably the randomest two things he saw lying around first thing in the morning, which, in this case, happens to be an extremely colorful t-shirt and extremely wrinkly trousers.

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"I can hear her a block down away — I mean, really? Have you tried using your. . . Oh, I don't know, inside voices? There's a huge, huge difference between screaming and talking, Mia. Take it from me; I majored in public speaking."

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Mia turns her head to face him. "Did you actually?"

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"What? No, of course not! Why would I? What am I going to do with public speaking, be a salesman?"

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"That doesn't sound too bad, now does it?"

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"Ah, yes, let me talk you to death, then convince you to buy three cartons of toilet roll. That sound 'not too bad' to you?"

Telm turns his attention to me. "And what about you, mister bookbinder's assistance? Here I thought you were giving up this kind of life. What happened? Did Mia talk you into it?"

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The world's a cruel, cruel place to begin with. It never plays fair. It never plays nice. It'll beat you to your knees and keep you there if you let it. And just when you think it's cutting you a break, just when you think you're out of the woods and in the clear, it throws you another curveball. Fine, then, play rough. Play nasty. If the world's really all that unfair — if it wants to be such a bitch about everything — then who's to say I have to play by its rules? Yeah. . .

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Oh yeah, I changed my mind, alright.

I changed it real good.

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"Look, point is. . . I'm here. Let's get this done."

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"Wow, wow, wow. . . You see, now I can dig that attitude! I like that — yeah, you still got that fire burnin'. Haven't seen this Crane in a while. Actually, haven't seen this Crane since Volburgh. Did you finally grow your old pairs back?"

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"Guess you can say that."

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"Okay, then! Let's get to it, lads! Up you go — there we are. Up, up, all the way up, Crane."

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Mia looks to me.

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I look to her.

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And there, together, we both nod.

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We both make a promise.

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Whatever it takes to get to the end of the week.

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Whatever.

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"Ready, Crane?"

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"Hell yeah. Let's go make some money."

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She's smiling now, wider than ever.

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And to be honest, so am I.

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"Welcome back."

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"Thanks. It's good to be back."

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There's that hit of adrenaline high.

Fuck.

I missed it.