Salmon run

A hand, one of a set, volunteers to push aside a curtain, on the first floor of the Silver Star. An eye and tuft of white hair follow, observing the glint of daylight against window panes across the street. The sky is turning that brilliant blue color again, and the sign near the window whose curtain was just drawn slowly loses its nocturnal glow, as the establishment’s owner cuts the power flowing into the illuminium-plated glyphs.

The Silver Star has been in business more or less continuously for the past 52 years. The building it occupies was mostly destroyed in the Fourth Civil War, on the Fusanah Avenue side; as commemorated by the words above the front door (1500 Fusanah) and the plaque above the main fireplace (something about a Siege of the Three Sergeants?). Today, some of its less lucky neighbors have been replaced with the modern headquarters of Public Service Sorcery: a beautiful building, facing an equally beautiful park, whose braided columns seem to evoke a history that has yet to appear in Emil’s readings.

What Emil can glean is that this history remains honored. Of the surviving blocks, the largest became the place’s new foundation; and the smallest are still visible here and there, under the acrylic motifs covering the ground floor, directly below Emil’s room. More historical details are inscribed on the fireplace plaque, but Emil has only managed to convince a single person to read it into the translator, and said person wasn’t exactly willing to lose that much time. They’ve spent a couple undays… no, sorry, a couple nights wondering what the rest of the text could mean.

Now that they’re discovering less immaculate spaces than those they visited at Etrika’s side, Emil understands that here, a flaw in construction is far less of a potential risk than in their homeland. If anything, imperfection defines a place more than it threatens it. And at worst, it seems as though there’s always someone available to tend to necessary repairs.

Well, except this inn’s ventilation system (supposedly “state of the art”, whatever that means). The elderly vespen owner keeps apologising to Emil for the greasy kitchen smells floating up to their window; but they’re more interested in getting a taste of whatever food smells so good than adding to a pile of complaints.

Emil doesn’t plan to shut themself in, anyway.

The hand gripping the thick fabric of the curtain recedes to its siblings, and the stranger readies themself for a new day in strange lands.

---

Now properly camouflaged, their poncho truly is a blessing. Meeting new people is… well, neither pleasant nor easy yet, but at least safer. Their overly numerous fingers still tense up in fear at the idea of moving too much (or not enough) and being noticed. Analyzed. Dissected by people’s eyes.

Still though, as they walk through a carefully-preened garden of unfamiliar flora, Emil allows themself to feel a mite accomplished. All this time of preparation, of tension, of apprehension is paying off handsomely. The textured rectangles of paper and the holed coins in their pockets will spare them of the troubles of bartering for a while. This metal and this paper, these vars, are power made solid. Their acclimation, that Ahlrik-Svan and her siblings have helped them make significant strides in, progresses by the day.

Still, the jangling of money reminds them of wounding words.

Emil isn’t really alone, are they? They have their clothes, their trinkets. Pieces of friendship, sheltered from the wind and the rain. But five after losing someone who could’ve become a friend, they feel… hollow.

Stay away from my family, and even further away from her. If you hurt her again, I’ll find you. And make you regret it.

Kenna’s parting words made their heart beat faster, heavier. They sometimes feel that even since, it hasn’t really slowed down.

The reminder of the ticking clock, both for themself and back home, first struck them with despair. And after a few nights, this despair crystallized into familiar resolve. The kind they’ve gifted to dear friends, more than once. They must keep going, for worthless death is unacceptable.

All is as before. And yet so very different.

---

One of these differences is that Emil now feels a sudden desire to write. To record. Their head is starting to feel too small to apprehend such complicated lands, and paper is a far more accessible good here than in their homeland.

Among other things, they go through the exercises in Rieli’s schoolbooks. Though aimed at a younger audience, they’re far more complete than the notes Emil lost on their way to Presquile, and their syntax soon improves significantly. Emil begged professor Oskobel for more books; university material being a little beyond them t the moment, he instead asked a couple friends for books to satisfy the curiosity of “a bright, inquisitive child”. Not very flattering, but his request quickly bore fruit.

First of all, the professor offered Emil a personal item: a handbook on outdoor survival skills and exploration, aimed et young sylvites. Largely useless, save for the few passages detailing what plants, fruits and mushroom were edible, or to be avoided.

Then came a picture book, from which Emil developed a precious core vocabulary. Among which ordinal adjectives, which helped them understand the gravity of a Fourth Civil War.

They took some time dusting off a tiny, yellowed book; filled with archaic prayers, advice on addressing the Virtues… and colorful scribbles left by an easily bored kid. After skimming over a dozen pages, they quickly put that one down.

They then moved on to a history book, recounting the achievements of many heroic figures. Though weirdly enough, it provided no clear dates, and every chapter began with the same four or so words. Strange writing style.

After getting frustrated at the number of untranslatable words in this book, Emil finally got to an interesting little brick of paper: a civic education manual, two years old already but still relevant, from what they’ve been told.

The Authority, as Presquile calls it, seems to grant benefits to a number of citizens, based on some convuluted metric called “na-sio-na-li-ti”; much goes to those who possess it, and very little to the rest. One is to obtain it by being born in Presquile, having lived here for years, or from the support of an already registered Presquilian. And whatever the method, metric tents of papers must be filled and sent to a series of offices designated by tortuous acronyms.

Without any sort of ID, Emil can forget about both staying in and leaving Presquile. According to the professor, the entire process can take any number of weeks; he promised to use his position to speed things up, but Emil isn’t particularly optimistic.

This is all slow. Too slow, like crossing a canyon. Frustrating prudence, omnipresent danger, omnipresent tension. And no way out but forward.

Emil now lives a luxurious life, but doesn’t have the luxury of waiting. No, of making their real family wait. Anything could happen to them, as they wait to be recognized as a person with freedom of movement.

Treacherous as the canyon is, they must find a shortcut.

---

These last few days haven’t been easy on Etrika. She’s been tasked with regaining her strength and sense, but her anxiety is severely undermining her efforts.

Hey Mom. Did you know they’ve invented a bomb that wipes away magic like chalk on a blackboard? Yes, yes, I heard it on the news this morning. Ah, the march of progress…

She hasn’t told anyone, of course, and probably couldn’t bring herself to do so. Not even with Kenna. In truth, she’s far more afraid to believed than not. She keeps catching herself wondering if this is the exact fear that gnaws at Emil.

Nervously, she taps the sheets of paper on her desk, runs her finger along the wood grain. Her kero runes seem so insignificant to her, right now, as do the exams. But lacking any other option, she continues her work, her study, again and again.

There’s a knock at her bedroom door.

Etrika?

Yeah? she mumbles, cradling her head in her hands.

Annahlis steps through the door, carrying a small tray. Etrika shuffles together a stack of papers, covered in scribbles and eraser shavings. Her mother places a plate of tea and cookies on the small pocket of free space she just created.

You’re doing well, Etrika?

More or less.

Meaning "end me".

I put your medication next to your cup. Don’t forget to take it, okay?

Yes, I won’t forget, don’t worry.

For a moment, she thinks her mother is going to leave the conversation there, but instead, she hugs Etrika in the middle of a pen stroke. A slash of ink cuts through her calculations, but given it’s scratch paper, it doesn’t really matter. She probably made other mistakes, anyway.

You should rest well in order to work well, Annahlis orders, in a voice broken with worry.

Etrika grimaces, unbeknownst to her. She’s never been much of a hug enthusiast, and she certainly would be at a loss if her mother began to cry again. Her tears had flowed like the rivers the evening Etrika came home delirious, and a few further episodes had followed without warning over the following days.

I know, Mom. Can I… can I concentrate, please?

Of course. If you need anything, you’ll let me know, right?

Yes, promise.

Reluctantly, at long last, Annahlis breaks the embrace, and leaves Etrika to her work again without another word.

Etrika sighs, then swallows the pink pill on the tray with a swig of Lornadian tea. She’s been taking four or five cups a day, and the monotony is weighing on her; but it is her favorite kind of tea, and so she chooses not to comment on her mother’s attention. She already feels guilty enough for making her take a whole week off.

For the whole next hour, she pores over the transcript she made of the interview with the Corps barracks commander; but his face remains blurry, and soon enough Emil’s takes its place. The horrors ravaging their people is a cut above your everyday rockfall. Her brain really delights in self-sabotage, doesn’t it.

…Fuck this.

She won’t get anything done with her mind running round in circles. She needs some good news, some progress, anything positive to hold onto. The camping trip to Presquile-the-Younger is enticing as an incentive, maybe to do a spot or two of planning, but it feels so far away. More of a distraction than an upcoming reward.

She needs to see Professor Oskobel.

With difficulty, she rises to her feet and pushes back the chair, which feels horribly heavy in her clumsy hands. A half-truth comes to mind effortlessly, one that she’ll tell her mother to go out alone.

She's used to it.

---

Trisha has only one desire, unusual for her: to ignore, and above that, to be ignored.

For now, the fruit coffee on her table and the sketchbook under her hand will do just fine. The demand of the artistic effort absorbs the discomfort clinging to her skin.

Every minute or so, she looks up and glances briefly at the sparrow sitting on the table opposite, nonchalantly pecking at the leftovers of a customer who left just before she got there. The idiot keeps turning its tail to her, but Trisha doesn’t recognize it from its plumage, so she endures its small, twitchy movements. Without forgetting to drink her coffee while it’s still hot.

Her lips pressed against the cup, she doesn’t see them approach behind her.

You draw very well.

The aggravatingly-familiar voice lashes her like a whip, and in her surprise she ends up spraying the poor sparrow with her coffee. Outraged, offended, it flees with loud chirps.

Oh, no, excuse me! I did not mean to–

A violent coughing fit interrupts them. A fruity aftertaste in her nostrils, she turns around, incensed. Fucking hell, what are they doing here?! How did they find her?

You damn–! she starts, before coughing again. What do you want from me, now?!

Sorry, I… I mean to apologize for the other day. I did not mean to insult you.

Didn’t mean to–? In what way were you polite, you filthy–

You’re gonna tell me that was your shitty translator’s fault, I suppose?

Uhm… yes.

Wait, the notebook. Her heart drops out of her chest a moment, but is immediately assuaged when she sees that it has gone unstained by her spit take. If it had been stained, she would’ve rammed her pencil into Emil’s remaining eye without hesitation.

I… I am truly very sorry. The translator works bad with my language. I mean to say–

Do you think I care? she snaps in a low, murderous tone.

Emil stammers, all their linguistic progress vanishing from their mind in face of Trisha’s anger, as she impatiently searches for possible stains on her skirt.

I… will return quickly!

And now they’re gone. Marvelous.

Trisha could have used a quiet day. Just one would’ve been enough. Gods know she needs it, after the wounds Emil inflicted to her reputation, if not her ego. In the past handful of days, four classmates have excused themselves from her party out of the blue. This is the first time since she started university that she’s experienced this kind of backlash, and–

Godsakes, there is indeed a coffee stain on her skirt.

There! I am very sorry, again.

Trisha straightens up and notices that Emil is holding two glasses of fruit coffee in their hands. A waiter accompanies them, armed with a dishcloth and a sponge, quickly wiping down the stained tables before slipping away to serve another customer.

You–

I paid, Emil responds, their face still contorted with shame. One for me, and one for you. I have money, it is okay.

Trisha isn’t quick to forgive, and she will make no exception for a free drink, but her anger subsides a little. To put it another way: she’s not about to treat them better, but rather treat them less badly. Some compromises matter more than others.

What do you mean, one for you? Won’t you leave me alone already? she retorts coldly, before taking a sip.

I do not wish to bother you for long, I promise, Emil continues, sitting down. I am looking only for where I can get documents.

Trisha raises an eyebrow. Emil twiddles their thumbs (two of them) under their poncho.

“Documents”?

I have… lost important papers, they confess, looking down. Identity papers. I need to get new ones quickly, for, um… for school. But I do not know where to go.

She tries for a moment to connect the dots, unsuccessfully. Why are they bothering me, specifically, with this…?

Tell that to a teacher, she replies curtly.

I already spoke to Professor Oskobel. I need to find a, um… another way, they conclude with the help of their translator.

Then go bother someone else, please! Do you seriously think I’m going to help you after you ruined my–

While Emil has already backed up their chair half a meter in response to her outburst, Trisha suddenly stops.

The party.

No. Yes? Oh, yes. Oh, absolutely yes, even.

I will leave you. I am very sorry, very sorry, truly–

An idea has just sprung to her mind. A nasty idea.

No, wait.

Huh?

Emil does as they’re told, watching as Trisha closes her eyes for a moment before changing her tone completely. Is this really the same person…? They call me an outlander, but Presquilian people can be truly outlandish themselves, Emil thinks fearfully.

It’s alright. I understand, y’know? I’m sorry for yelling at you. You didn’t mean any harm the other day, and you bought me another drink.

Saying these words, cutting Emil this much slack, almost physically injures her; but if she wants her plot to work, she knows she has no choice but to create common ground.

I… thank you, Emil stammers. Yes, I did not mean to cause any trouble, I swear.

It’s nothing. You need those papers, right? she says, sitting a little more properly, in a tone half honeyed, half concerned.

Yes. Documents that record my identity.

She exhales briefly before lowering her voice.

Well, I don’t really want to encourage you to do this, but if you need them quickly–

Very quickly, yes.

Shut up and let me finish, dude.

…As I was saying: if you need them quickly, you could go directly to where they’re printed, and explain your situation. Who knows, maybe they’ll even be able to get it done for you tonight, if you don’t dawdle.

The stranger is speechless at such good news.

Is that true? If you would, please tell me where I must go!

Don’t panic, and keep your voice down; I’ll…

She thinks for a moment, so briefly that Emil doesn’t clock it. No, she mustn’t take this unnecessary risk herself.

…give you the address. Do you have something to write with?

Emil brandishes their brand-new notebook and pen, their face beaming with sincere brightness.

I bought this yesterday! And I know the syllables to write, now.

Congrats, idiot. Enjoy kindergarten. Luckily for her, they’re too excited to think twice about why she hasn’t offered to write the address herself.

Okay, she continues, conspiratorially. I’m not going to repeat myself ten times, so please, write it down carefully.

Okay.

Emil laboriously jots down the streetname and exact number. Trisha’s eyes drink in the victory of Emil’s chicken-scratch taking her every word uncritically.

Twen-tee-sey-vun, Gray-well strit. Did I write it down correctly?

Not so loud! she hisses, cursing them internally. I’ll get in trouble if you tell anyone I told you about this.

Oh, I am sorry! I will go; thank you so much for the help, really!

They bow, down their drink in one gulp, and rise to their feet.

You’re welcome, she replies with a charming, doll-like innocence. Cooperation is one of Presquile’s founding principles, after all.

Emil nods in assent, then begins to walk away.

And that’s it. All that’s left is–

Pardon me. Trisha?

…yes?

How do you know about this place? they ask with innocent curiosity.

She wasn’t expecting that kind of question! Why wasn’t she?! Quick, come up with something good.

Well… I’ve… lost papers before, too. Forms. Important stuff. And my parents work for the city; they took me there to fix it.

Ah! I get it now. Sorry, again.

It’s okay, it’s in the past now, she said, shaking her hand. You should hurry, if you want your documents before evening!

You’re right. Thank you again! Emil exclaims, before running off. Have a good day!

Trisha watches them a moment longer, before they turn a corner and the coast is clear.

She starts laughing, hard: so hard that the waiter who cleaned the table a few minutes ago thinks she’s choking. She quickly reassures him. She was just thinking about some joke again.

And what an excellent joke. When she thinks back now to what happened to one of her friends in freshman year when she got sent to that address, Trisha cannot wait to see what fate has in store for Emil. Oh, yes, her end-of-year party may have taken a hit already, but it is with boundless joy that she sips her free fruit coffee and thinks about what she’ll do with the rest of this wonderful day.

Seems the Jester did listen to her prayers, after all.

---

In one of Presquile’s streetcars, Etrika’s gaze wanders over the passengers. A vespen father telling his five-year-old uuman son not to stand up on his seat. Industrial managers discussing the price of imported steel. People full of energy.

All she can think about is the possibility, more rational than it should be, that some commander on a distant island might decide, between glasses of wine, to blow out their existences like candles. She is surrounded by life, yet all she sees is eventual casualties.

The sudden stops of the vehicle sometimes bring her back to her senses, and she tells herself that the excuse she gave her mother was perhaps no excuse at all: she really needs something stronger to keep on keeping on.

---

You want your dosage increased?

Etrika nods weakly. Gideo sees the dark circles under her eyes and has no doubt that she could use it. However, he owes her a warning, with what little tact he can muster.

You know full well that medication of this kind can become addictive, if you’re not careful. I’ll raise it, but just for this coming week, alright? After that, we’re hitting the brakes again.

Yes, I understand.

The nurse grabs a prescription form and fills it out rapidly.

Alright.

Wait here. I’ll grab it and be right back.

She squirms in her chair, as he gets up from his. Everything feels uncomfortable, from head to toe.

Say, Gideo-Kern, she calls out from the desk, as he opens one of his medicine cabinets.

Yeah?

Emil… are they okay? I mean, after what happened to them.

Gideo grits his teeth.

Ever heard of "doctor-patient confidentiality", Ahlrik?

Please, I just want to know if it’s not serious. Well, not too serious.

Luckily for him, Etrika can’t see any of his faces.

…No. No, I don’t think it is. I’ve seen, and treated worse cases back when I was living above the Equator. They should be fine, with the right care.

He slams the cabinet shut and replaces the lock. By the time he returns to the office and places the container of pills in front of Etrika, there’s a faint look of relief on her face. And he finds himself hoping that stranger’ll be okay too, if only for her sake.

---

Enter!

The professor seems as if he hasn’t slept in decades; he greets Etrika in a terribly tired voice, even forgetting to invite her to please sit.

Professor? It’s about…

I have an inkling what it’s about, Miss Ahlrik, he sighs, distractedly tidying a desk that is far from clean as usual. However, I’m unsure what I can do to help.

No, it’s… not that. I just wanted to know how Emil is getting along with their efforts.

Efforts…? Oh, yes, you’re right to remind me.

Before a confused Etrika can ask him what that meant, Oskobel clears a space on his desk and hands Etrika a folder with light green pages, like leaves between his wooden fingers.

Please give this to them, when you get a chance. It wouldn’t hurt to have it filled out already, once they receive their residence permit.

Etrika reads the title twice, slowly.

[UNIVERSITY ENTRANCE APPLICATION]

[Grand University of Presquile-Cascade]

[Level: 1st year]

The box titled [Field of study], for now, remains blank.

The address is pinned to the back. And if you wouldn’t mind, tell them to bring the residence permit forms if they’ve already filled it out. We cannot move forward without this first step, of course.

Etrika considers for a moment the strange (but not unpleasant) possibility of seeing Emil join the ranks of the institution. That she would see them regularly on her way to or from work, or on weekends. That they would lead a normal life. Such a future seems strangely unreal, incongruous with their current directions.

She gives her farewell to the Professor and leaves silently, allowing him to attempt to return to work, despite his own anxieties flashing to the forefront.

---

As hungry as they might be, Emil does not have time to stop by the inn’s dining space to grab a snack. The door to their room bangs against the wall (waking a neighbor from their nap) as Emil tears inside, grabs their vars in the blink of an eye, and practically leaps back out into the hall just as quickly. A turn of the key, another sharp turn, a flight of stairs, and they’re ready to go. But something stops them abruptly.

…Wait. Where is this street, even?

Shit. Since arriving in Presquile, Emil has relied solely on their memory and personal map for orientation: it hasn’t occurred to them to commit the roads to memory, given how much reading that requires. And considering the way Trisha talked about the address, it might be unwise to ask anyone for directions.

Well, what now? They want to get these documents quick as they can. Their first idea is to consult Zeo, but…

Wait, that’s it: a city map! Of course, Emil can read Ireul, now. Surely someone must be able to lend them one. Maybe the innkeeper?

Miss? Miss!

Emil slams on the service bell on the counter, so hard that it makes the pencils in a nearby glass shake. The old vespen stirs slowly, running her claws through her long, tousled gray hair, her pinnae stretching and flittering. Rising from her chair, she clutches her shawl in her claws and barely opens her eyes as she asks:

What’s all this…? Oh, Subarin-Vati! Dear, it’s not about the ventilation, is it…?

No, no – A map. Do you have a Cascade map I can use?

Uhm… Well, I’m happy to take a look. Just a moment, please, dear.

One minute, then two. Every moment wasted seems to quickly pile up in Emil’s mind. The stranger struggles to stay put, just refraining from shouting in frustration when the old woman leaves their sight to see if, by any chance, that damn map might be somewhere in her maze of an office.

Emil’s patience quickly hits its limit. If they must be made to wait, they might as well get a nice breath of fresh air, maybe some stretches in. They push open the set of frosted-glass-paneled doors with such force that they don’t notice someone is just behind it, hitting them in the shoulder before they can react.

OW!! Watch where you’re–

Etrika and Emil freeze, momentarily taken aback, lost in recognition. Before she can say anything more, the stranger is already apologizing profusely, their cheeks red with embarassment.

Ahlrik! I-I am very sorry… I did not mean to hurt!

It… It’s okay, I swear.

The pain is already fading at the sight of Emil, truly relieved to see that they are alright. As shocked turns to sore, as she was going to ask what they were up to, she processes that something else has changed.

Your speech really has improved. Are my sister’s books helping? she asks, hinting at a smile.

Oh – yes, the books help lots, Emil replies hastily. I understand the syllables of Ireul, now. It is very easier than my native language.

I’m glad to hear that. Looks like you’re starting to get used to Presquile.

A short pause. Emil looks down the street. They almost seem like they want to run away…? Etrika effortlessly guesses what weighs on their mind.

Listen, if it’s about the scene in the nurse’s office, I…

I am so sorry. Sorry forever.

Their androgynous voice cracks when they bring up this subject.

I did not think I could hurt. I understand if you do not want to forgive. I promise, I will deal alone – I stop bothering, and I thank greatly for the entire help.

Etrika feels her throat tighten at this sudden farewell.

…I’m glad I could help. Truly. Are you… planning to stay in Presquile?

I do not know, they reply nervously. I have not found the things I seek, yet.

That’s right; their famous search for… something. Etrika almost forgot about it with everything else going on. Which suddenly reminds her:

Oh, Emil. Before I forget. Oskobel wants to see you about your documents. He says that–

That is okay! interrupts Emil. I found out how to solve it. That is… someone gave me an address! I can deal on my own now.

An address? Etrika is given pause by this development. Are they talking about city hall, or something else? Weren’t they supposed to keep a low profile, avoid the usual bureaucratic channels?

What is this address you’re talking about? she asks curiously. Can… Can I see it?

Emil’s eye darts right, then left. Then, they subtly slip a page from a notebook into her hands.

Please do not say out loud.

If what’s written on the page is a secret, she’d have a hell of a time betraying it: Emil’s handwriting is even worse than Rieli’s… when she was half her young age. Etrika brings the slip closer to her glasses, but the gesture doesn’t make what it says any clearer.

T? It does looks close enough to a T. ‘Twenty’… ‘Twenty-six’? No, the second numeral’s a seven? It says ‘twenty-seven…’ something. Her eyes hurt trying to puzzle it out.

Subarin-Vati?

Emil turns abruptly and comes face to face with someone Etrika assumes to be a member of staff at the Silver Star. With her frail fingers, the old woman hands the stranger a carefully folded map.

You’ll bring it back to me by tonight, won’t you?

Yes, madame! Emil exclaims, snatching the card into their poncho. Thank you much! I will be back!

Emil, you–

Etrika can only place these few syllables before Emil’s hand takes back the address from her hands. What's the meaning of this?

Hey, don’t you want my help for a minute, at least?

They open their good eye wide, unsure how to respond.

All is well! I promise! I can deal alone!

And if I stay with you any longer, your brother will kill me.

Their poncho flapping behind them, Emil sprints away at full speed; much faster than their frail physique might suggest.

Etrika’s heart drops, suddenly feeling very alone. The afternoon is fading now to evening, and the finest citrus tones outline the clouds at their zenith. The air is warm and pleasant and still, people are laughing and birds are singing.

And Emil is leaving.

She would have liked to at least say–

Farewell, Ahlrik!

They've turned and are waving to her. Pleasantly surprised, she responds with equal vivace.

Farewell, Emil!

…as the crowd quickly swallows up her friend.

They seem to be in some hurry, goodness me, comments the old vespin. Ah, well.

With those words, she returns inside the inn, carefully moving her wings clear of the door. It is at this moment that Etrika is reminded that her arms are full of something.

Oh, shoot, she mumbles, glancing to the professor’s forms.

Meh. It’s not that serious. Just one more day. She can give it to them tomorrow, and even help them fill it out. She’s been there before. She can even explain the courses on offer to them.

If Emil decides to stay.

…Etrika sighs. She should get home, or her mother will be worried sick.

---

Time is running out.

Emil’s feet sting, trapped in boots that feel just a little too small. They are out of breath, only catching it because every intersection is a new puzzle to solve without delay. Is it a road, an alley, a courtyard entrance? The map doesn’t show that minute level of detail – the small dead ends, which crossings are slow or fast, where there’s stoppages due to construction, and a host of other things they’d have liked a warning or two about.

I have money. I know what I’m after. I have what I need to survive. Just these stupid documents left!

The innkeeper’s map still unfolded in two hands, they lean on a third to vault over a fence and dart across a garden, bypassing a blocked alleyway on the other side. Emil would rather incur the wrath of some dog chained to its kennel, than tough-looking construction workers armed with heavy metal.

The sound of the main arterial river of Cascade (which Emil now knows is called the Ferle) grows louder, and the crowd denser, as they approach its banks. A warm breeze from the zenith caresses their hair as they try to make their way through a thick forest of Cascadians.

Just a few more big streets and a couple of bridges. Gray gulls, black in the weary glow of the early evening, let out sorrowful cries. Somewhere, high on a hill, the University clocktower tolls 16:30.

---

It’s already that late? Are you okay, honey?

An unbearable sense of deja vu overwhelms Etrika, as her mother asks the same question and offers her the same cup of her favorite tea, for the umpteenth time.

…Not really. I mean, I’m fine. It’s just taking a while.

Oh, a slight change in the tired routine: Annahlis doesn’t tell her to let her know if she needs anything; and ironically, that’s what reminds her daughter to ask for something.

Mom?

Yes?

There’s a note of hope in her voice.

Would you mind bringing me the big map Dad has, in the study? The one that covers all of Cascade? I need to see the scope of something. It’s for my homework.

Her mother would probably have brought it to her even without an explanation. But Etrika can’t help but try to add something plausible. A kind of defense mechanism.

Of course, sweetie, I’ll bring it right down. One moment.

Thanks, mom.

Etrika has almost finished the essay she was writing on her interview with the Fallais barracks commander. All that’s left is to spend the evening giving it a redraft. But another question remains, and she won’t find the answer to that in one of her notebooks.

Where was Emil going?

The address they wrote down doesn’t mean anything to her at first thought; almost all of the administrative buildings have their own dedicated location, or a unique designation. The city hall is at 1 Ciy Hall Plaza, the headquarters of the Public Service Sorcery is at 1 Sergeants’ Park, and so on. So what do you mean, 27 Something-or-Other Street? It’s not just because Emil is so often unusual, mind you – but something’s off about this.

Etrika? Is this the one you wanted? Annahlis asks from the doorway, holding a large leather case in her hand: stamped with Cascade’s city-signet, and bearing a small label reading “Loan to: Kaskadyn Hydromotor Co”.

Yes, that’s the one! Thanks.

Etrika stands to take the case, and her legs, tingling with pins and needles, suddenly give way beneath her.

As she lets out a tiny cry of distress, Annahlis rushes towards her on a mother’s instinct, catching her in her arms just in the nick of time. That would have been a nasty fall onto hardwood.

Etrika!! Virtues be kind, are you okay? Can you hear me?

Mom’s crying. Again. Please, please stop. Etrika comforts her as best she can; in other words, not well enough.

I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a headrush… I’ve been sitting here for days.

She refrains from sharing that Gideo’s stronger meds combined with this constant hovering, for days now, make her feel like some soggy stuffed animal, weighed down by water from a long, soapy bath. If she knew, her mother would go slap every single cheek of his without wait.

Are you sure you’re okay? Is it because you left the house? Oh, Visionary, please watch over her.

She already feels better, which for once isn’t an exaggeration. But it’s as though her mother did not hear a word she just said. Her tears start trailing down Etrika’s own cheeks.

Mom, I’m… I’m fine, I promise. I… I’d like to be left alone…?

Oh… of course, sweetheart. Excuse me.

Another surprise hug, deep breaths all. Once Annahlis has more than made up for her overreach a moment ago, Etrika can finally breathe again. She would’ve never guessed there were so many gods-damn ways to tell someone that you’re there for them.

Would you mind closing the door? I’ve made good progress, and I’d like to get some sleep.

Her mother wipes her eyes with a handkerchief, nodding as she complies with a step back and a ‘rest well then’. Only once the sound of her slippers has vanished down the stairs, does the immense pressure of her worry subside in Etrika’s room.

…Okay, just a quick look at this, and then I’ll get some sleep.

She unfolds the map on her bedroom floor, revealing a city plan almost two meters square. Its level of detail isn’t much greater than that of Emil’s insane handmade map, but it does include street names, building numbers, a vast amount of data on urban power grids, and the legal names of properties (at least, those from last year).

Etrika searches for a credible address starting with 27. Nope. Not that one. Wouldn’t be there, would it? No…

After several minutes of poking around the middle of the city, she still hasn’t found it. Discarding residential areas, there can’t be that many streets with enough buildings to count up to 27, are there? Annoyed, she quickly jumps up to her desk to grab a pencil. As long as she doesn’t press too hard, she can just erase it later, no harm no foul.

Let’s start over: nope, cross it out; nope, cross that out…

After a few more minutes, Etrika’s getting a little worried. She’s fairly certain she hasn’t missed any 27s… She doesn’t know her whole city by heart, but she can visualize it pretty well, and she’s known how to read a map since kindergarten, to use public transport. So what gives?

She thinks back to Emil’s note. The name of the street was indecipherable, but she remembers it bore two words, the first one nearly twice as long as the other.

One by one, she eliminates the options on the map, crossing out each… Until, with the rest covered by small crosses, there is only one survivor, lost in some narrow alley grazing the bank of the Ferle: 27 Graywell Street.

That doesn’t make any sense, she thinks, feeling anxiety well up inside of her once more. What would Emil be doing in a…

---

“Fih-sha-ree”?

Emil doesn’t recognize the word before them, painted on a large brick-and-metal building; and the translator won’t be of any help without the help of a willing local. The stars overhead begin to dim, and the sky’s hue dissolves into a burning palette to the continuous hum of ether-fed industry.

They may not understand what the sign says, but the air itself tells them: this is a place where things are made. This is the right place to be.

Feeling comforted, Emil moves to knock at the nearest door: a heavy steel door with large rusty iron rivets and a cutout at eye level. The resulting deep, metallic drumbeat, resonates loudly inside the building’s walls.

A silent moment passes. Perhaps they couldn’t hear it, with the noise of their machines. So Emil knocks again.

That time, the cutout opens immediately, a peephole through which a pair of discerning green eyes and a thin, pointy nose peeps through. An annoyed voice rises, clearly worn out each day from tough labor and resurrected by evening time with great difficulty for the next.

Godsakes, what kinda – You here for a delivery?

Emil knows the type well, and expected something like this. After all, they’ve come to bother city employees right in their workplace; no wonder their welcome’s less than warm.

Hello! No, I am here about some documents. For–

Listen, freelancer, the voice interrupts, a much stronger accent which Emil can only barely understand. If you’re done with your work early, s’all well and good, but payroll’s at the end of the week. So gimme a break, will ya? Good night.

No, no. I need documents for identity, for travel; not for work. Please.

The man at the door turns halfway back towards Emil, his face seemingly coming to life. His gaze pierces straight through Emil: taking stock of their posture, their clothes. His voice, though still cold, changes tones.

…You got cash? Vars?

Emil nods; of course they can pay. A service rendered to all citizens has to be affordable, doesn’t it? Cooperation, as everyone says here.

Alright, the voice continues, affirmatively. See the big shutter to your left? The one with a door inset? Don’t ring the bell; knock twice, then wait, then knock once again. Ask for Vanio.

As soon as the last syllable is uttered, the cutout slams shut. The bare minimum has been communicated, and now Emil must execute.

---

Etrika’s bad feeling is now a bad certainty. Emil is headed straight for a trap.

What can she do, though? She can’t sit around on her hands, that’s for sure. But she told her mother she was headed to bed, and she’s been out already; there’s no chance she’ll be allowed again, not in her condition, not at this hour.

She starts to pace around her room, but remembers that might be heard from below as creaking floorboards. Her anxiety is screaming at her to keep moving, and she has no way to calm it.

She throws the curtain aside on her bedroom window and looks at Cascade, this beautiful city she calls home, with a terrible helplessness. The lights of the buildings, near and far, have never seemed so hollow, so hostile, before. Thousands shining eyes of tall, unknowable beings, devouring people in their long shadows as evening falls. Tonight, one will feast on Emil.

…A dam that had been long erected in Etrika’s heart, and that had suffered serious cracks only days ago, finally, dramatically gives, and bursts.

There is no turning back.

Uncertain of her own actions, Etrika runs to her wardrobe in relative silence. Her hands tremble, but do not retreat; they extract from several piles of clean laundry a brown leather coat, a matching pair of shoes, a white button-up from Dad, and a pair of sturdy pants, though faded from a long period of almost uninterrupted use.

Hand over her mouth, stunned by what she realizes she is doing, she can only stare at the items she has taken out for what feels to be forever.

…no, this isn’t the time. Someone’s life is in danger.

Etrika quickly swaps her dressing gown, slippers, and broad skirt for the cursed clothes. Cursed, but necessary, as she cannot leave through the front door, nor can she allow herself to be recognized.

This is crazy, she thinks to herself, tying the last lace on someone else’s shoes.

She goes back to the window and throws it open wide. There’s no time to lose; Kenna and Rieli could be back any minute. But something stops her from taking the leap. Her thoughts continue to spiral in several directions at once, all of them very familiar.

They said they could handle it on their own. And I could’ve read the stupid address wrong. And I hate wearing this shit, so much. And… and…

And one of these thoughts, a stubborn stone refusing to be overwhelmed by a rushing tide of doubt, shouts loud what she nearly forgot:

You’re gonna be a sapper one day.

This thought gives her a tailwind, enough to get up on the sill, steady herself with one hand on the frame, and clear her mind enough to focus on her goal.

Her gaze sweeps across the empty street, the lights in the windows, the yet-unlit streetlights. She mustn’t waste any more time: the favor of the shadows will not last. Any breeze this way or that might scare her from the ledge.

…Just like you practiced.

She takes a deep, singular breath. And leaps forward.

To a casual observer, it is understandable for what she’s doing to seem quite unreasonable; reckless, even. Five meters is a decently dangerous height to fall from, and a moment before hitting the pavement she aimed for, her fall has not slowed down at all. She thus looks, to the naked eye, like someone about to land on their knees or ankles at the wrong angle, scream bloody murder, and win a free trip to a hospital.

However, moments before impact, Etrika called a thought forward; and channeled a spell. A most simple, cheap spell; one that is taught in the first year of her major. It only needs to be maintained for less than a second, at most. Or, rather, it would be difficult to maintain it for more than a second.

The moment Etrika’s shoes touch the sidewalk, the force of her slams into the pavestones. The pavestones, fair and even-handed in their dealings with physics, want to return the favor and snap her bones like twigs.

But this retort does not reach her. It reaches the spell that covers her shoes, her socks, and more or less everything below her ankles, and bounces back into the pavestones, outwards. The shock of the fall is felt twice by the street, and Etrika’s skeleton remains unscathed. Just like she practiced.

…Her skin isn’t so lucky, unfortunately. She leapt quite a distance to avoid scarring the front lawn, and her entry angle throws her weight forwards; avoiding a nasty stumble ends up costing her part of her bare palms.

Agh–!

She stumbles as she stands, mercifully stifling any scream in pain. Her joints are unbroken, but her palms are scraped, tiny stones needing to be brushed away in the open wounds. It’s only now, hands dripping with red post-acrobatic miracle, that she remembers a pair of gloves she left on her bed.

Damn it– that… stings.

Whatever. Coats can be mended and cleaned. A spell cast in public, even under suspicious circumstances and very much illegal to use without a permit, can at least be explained.

A disaster can't wait.

Tucking her hair firmly under her clothes, dusting her hands off, Etrika lets out a nervous half-chuckle, half-hiccup. And sprints as fast as she can towards the river, and towards the fishery.

---

…And that’s Five Rings. Unless you’ve got a Bird, I think that’s curtains for you, Niko.

Niko bites his lower lip. The cards really have it out for him today; Rings, Rings, nothing but Rings. Since the start of the round, not a single Bird has found its way into his hand.

…S’not fair, Niko mumbles, slamming his cards down on the tiny table. The hell am I supposed to do with a hand like this?

Put a ring on it, maybe?

Vanio and Cécile chuckle at Samaelle’s response. Niko doesn’t get it at first, but eventually cracks a smile, too.

Very funny. You volunteering?

Only if you don’t lose it gambling, she replies, as Vanio pockets the winnings.

The loser crosses some legs on his chair, very uncomfortable for a sylvite like him, and shuffles the cards again. Vanio adds his winnings to the piles of washers in front of him, a millionaire for a night. Cécile continues to pore through a technical manual in silence. And Samaelle sets down another crate near the dock before dusting off her hands, all of them quite tired.

Niko is not unhappy with this side job. He’s already slept with Samaelle twice, and continues to get along well with her besides. Cécile’s always throwing great ideas out there to make the business smoother. Eickhart’s gonna go with him on a hunting trip in two weeks. And above all, Vanio is a fair boss: infinitely more so than his predecessor. Everyone, Vanio included, gets equal share: and gambling it at cards only to squander that fairness is out of the question.

Niko thought that playing for nothing but scrap metal would take the thrill out of it, but he quickly came around on the idea. Even if the work was slow, they kept busy: and Cascade never seems to run out of good catches.

*KLANG, KLANG. KLANG.*

Case in point: one’s biting now.

---

Her lungs on fire, Etrika continues to run, ignoring the prying eyes of passersbys.

Kenna and Rieli aren’t home yet, and she cannot afford to run into them: not now, not looking like this. Trolleys are no good either, with their countless stops and serpentine paths.

She dashes through small alleys, footbridges, and other forgotten veins of the city, making her journey that much more improvised. But despite any delays and sore muscles that bring tears to her eyes, she keeps running.

The pavestones beneath her shoes are becoming smaller and more eroded, the gaps between them wider, channels that let water return to the river.

Gods, please. Let me get there in time.

Finally, the riverbank, which Etrika prefers to avoid as much as possible. All along the river, perpetually animated by its slowgoing but treacherous current, a sensory nightmare: the creaking of cranes, the shouts of their operators, the sirens of their boats.

And above all, the smell. A smell that feels as though some stray cat vomited straight into her nostrils, with a big ol’ spoonful of wet sawdust as seasoning. The Bureau of Waters blames industrial waste, and less rational citizens blame the missing bodies of the Third Civil War, their hypothetical corpses rotting eternally far under the surface.

Etrika is genuinely proud of her hometown, but could do without such history. Moreso when its foul odors prevent from recalling the last steps of the way.

Excuse me! she shouts, hoping she’s heard, to a group of dockworkers. Where is 27 Graywell Street?!

A xalaim with biceps as big as his head, helped by a uuman with skin almost as dark, sets a huge metal tub of freshly-caught flying fish, still hopelessly wriggling, onto the dock.

The 27? replies the uuman, wiping a congealed layer of sweat from his forehead. Doesn’t ring a bell… Florian?

Not sure, sorry, replies the other, embarrassed. What exactly are you looking for?

Etrika is electrified. She has no time to explain anything.

A friend of mine! Please! Where’s the godsdamn fishery?!

The word triggers a flash of understanding in the xalaim.

Oh, the old fishery building! Yeah, twenty-seven! I think it’s on the corner of… hm, I forget the street, but I know it’s over that way, he points with a finger. The road itself must be three or four blocks, but you’ll get there if you keep going str– Hey!

He doesn’t even have time to warn her about the place’s reputation before Etrika is already back to hustling, still out of breath. Do kids ever slow down, these days?

No need to thank me, I guess…

Quickly forgetting her rudeness, Florian’s crew get back to work. These future canned fillets aren’t gonna unload themselves.

---

When Emil knocks on the metal door, Eickhart’s colleagues take up positions. Niko near the entrance, the others at the table.

Two knocks = “Please fleece me.”

One knock = “I’m isolated prey.”

Hello…?

In front of Emil, the door opens to reveal a willow-like sylvite, his smile half-hidden by long, drooping branches. Some sort of canvas overalls, covered in fish grease, hang to his waist before turning into a skirt-apron with large pockets, to better cover his legs.

Ah, good evening! Excuse my colleague, he can be a tad grumpy on duty. Please, come in!

Emil hesitates for a moment, then steps inside the shed, as Niko shuts the door behind them. The stranger looks around, slightly perplexed.

The innocuous trio playing cards in the center of the room doesn’t inspire much confidence. That tall xalaim woman with the long hair and four enormous arms doesn’t seem friendly. Neither does the shrimpy uuman with glasses, immersed in her reading. Their expressions feel immediately false, theatrically friendly.

I am here for identity documents. I was told I must ask Va… uhm…

Vanio = “Jackpot.”

Vanio? That’d be me, he responds, trying not to smile too wide. Please to meet you. How should I call you?

He stands, his eyes barely concealing his excitement, and extends a hand to Emil, who doesn’t shake it back right away.

Have they come to the wrong place? Between the bright lights blinding them from the high ceiling, the dusty windows, the awful, marine smell of… ah!

Emil understands, now. The squids hanging from chains, above the dock that occupies the back of the room, must be their source of ink. And this huge machine to their left, covered in gauges, levers, and pipes, is undoubtedly their printing equipment. It all makes sense.

…Emil Subarin. Of Verl, they respond, shaking Vanio’s hand. You use this machine, then?

When they point to it, Cécile can’t help but boggle. How the fuck did…?!

Vanio’s courtesy evaporates. Without wasting a moment, Samaelle gets up and approaches Emil; and without so much as a signal, Niko takes care of the shed’s only dry entrance and exit.

The sound of whining metal behind them calls Emil (if not the scary buff woman speedwalking towards them) to turn tail. The heavy steel pipe blocking the door, which the sylvite had slid aside for Emil, is back in place, but not just that. It also screams in bright yellows, melted and twisted around the handles, like a white-hot paper clip.

Niko, unfazed, blows the smoke off his fingers, dissipating some of the infernal heat that just coursed through their bark.

A disturbance in the air notifies them that Samaelle is right behind them.

Emil ducks in the nick of time to avoid being grappled and/or crushed. And notices that in turn, Niko is also rapidly approaching.

Drawing their knife from a pocket, they swing and stab his burning hand, before cleaving it by abruptly pulling the blade up. The sylvite screams in pain as violet vapors of cooked blood rise from his wound.

NIKO!!

The xalaim’s fists are about to shatter Emil’s skull, but they dodge her attack by dashing in the one direction where the reach of her many arms is of no use: between her legs. Still almost as hot as its previous target, Emil’s knife finds purchase in her tibia (a little off: they were aiming for her knee).

Gah!!

The blade is pulled, and the wound almost cauterized on its way out. Emil gets back up; Samaelle’s back is entirely defenseless. Raising their weapon, they–

*SLAM*

Emil’s world cracks. Or maybe it’s just one of their teeth. Their head is spinning. The knife clatters to the ground, soon followed by its owner; whose white hair begins to turn red as their right temple hits cold, wet concrete.

Cécile feared they might’ve been harder to knock out, but the three kilos of dense diagrams in her hands seem to have done the job. Ignoring Samaelle kicking Emil’s knife away, she checks her precious book; and is relieved to see this ill-mannered guest hasn’t damaged it.

Blood on their face. Their head, their heart… everything Emil has nerves for hurts, and screams at them to flee. Pain stretches their perception of time. A survival instinct splits aimlessly, with the foolish belief that giving a same order a hundred times will make one carry it a hundred times faster.

Get… up. Must get up. Must–

Arg–!

The xalaim pulls them half-up by the hair, before gripping their wrists with the rest of her hands. But she’s not the only one sporting more than two. And though it’s a gamble, Emil still has one last advantage.

Under their poncho, they bring a hand closer to their ring; but a vicious blow to their chest, courtesy of Niko, interrupts their move and empties their lungs all at once.

M-motherfucker, he sobs, holding his mutilated hand. I’m gonna–

NIKO. Not yet.

Vanio’s imperative tone gifts Emil crucial respite. Ring. The ring–

Guh–!

Slowly, the leader of the pack removes his boot from their ribs, and sits down to their side. Emil coughs some more; this time with some blood coloring their saliva. More hiccups want to exit their mouth; but they painfully suppress them as a cold, sharp object kisses their neck.

They were neither stronger nor smarter. Just too many; too many for them, in their state. The end.

No, no, no. Why? Why? This can’t just end here, not this way. This is a bad dream. Just a bad dream.

Papers, you said? In case you didn’t know: “Any coats or capes should be removed for the picture”. Cécile, would you mind?

The small uuman promptly approaches, as the threat against Emil’s neck presses a little harder; just enough not to draw blood. Not yet.

And don’t move.

As Cécile unbuttons their poncho, they breathe hard enough to draw condensation on her glasses.

With Emil’s true silhouette now revealed, her companions gasp in unequal notes of pity and disgust. Being mute, her own exclamation only manifests as a clumsy exhale.

Emil is sobbing. From fear, from anger.

Fucking hell– what happened to this guy?

No clue, but he sure must’ve felt it, Samaelle comments as she restrains two more arms of theirs.

Carefully, Cécile fully removes the poncho, and goes through its pockets. Their translator. Their rations. Their notebook and their pen. Their purse. She takes some time to estimate the amount of cash it holds.

Once she performs a series of hand gestures with the widest smile, her boss can only whistle in response.

Damn, that much?!

Can you repeat? Samaelle asks, in disbelief.

Same hand movements; slower, but no less excited.

Well shit. He’s dressed like a prince, and he’s got the full pockets to match.

Cécile transfers a whole river of coins and bills into a satchel at her belt. Ireul leaves Emil’s mind, then the vast, cold tomb, and disappears into a warm summer night. Only their native langage can convey their terrible, absolute distress.

(Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing! I need all this! You’re gonna doom)–

Shut the fuck up.

A timid stream of blood, diving beneath their collar. A calculated bite from the blade. A final warning.

Vanio, why don’t we just kill him? Niko asks, frustrated.

His wound may have been disinfected and closed by the fire, but it still hurts so much. He would gladly yell some more, would it not mean further humiliate himself in front of his opponent. An opponent who hasn’t lost everything yet.

I just have to live. Live. I still have all I need. I can find more money. I can find papers some other way. I just have to live. I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna let everyone die.

From his friend’s pain-filled face, Vanio’s eyes move back to Emil, dripping with chilling sarcasm.

I say, you’ve ruined a good lad’s life right there. How’s he gonna keep his job with that messed up hand? It’ll take months and a hefty sum to fix it.

His face draws closer, and his low voice creeps into Emil’s ears, like a voracious insect.

…But you didn’t kill him, and I’m fair as any Virtue. So first, I wanna see what your hands can do. Ever heard of the Salmon Run?

---

Etrika really wishes she had a horse, or a streetcar, or just about anything to carry her for the last leg of the journey. By the time she sights the withered-looking building across the open street, her legs are exhausted, and she dares catching her breath only because of a passing cart full of fishing nets.

Closing the distance to this place, she’s only grown more doubtful about her initiative; she passed by many a Civil Protector on the way, and finally wonders why she hasn’t hailed any of them. But she made her choice, impulsive as it is, and she has no more time to call for reinforcements.

Emil is here, amidst this sick, industrial air. Her breath is inside her. Her mind is sure. Her body is as ready as it can be. She is executing.

Casually, and with a light step, Etrika hurries ungracefully across the road, her eyes scanning every bit of the loud, crude structure around her. She momentarily forgets the dust on her pants, the dullness in her hands. Every glance she gets behind the occasional window reveals more menacing silhouettes: of squeaking conveyors, of boxes whose shapes melt in shadow, of a thousand dead things slowly decaying on giant hooks.

She hopes that Emil had seen all of this, taken it all in, and gotten the sense not to actually enter. For a moment, that’s enough. Her curiosity sated, her blessings counted. No need to kick something, possibly find a discarded, emaciated corpse under a tarp somewhere. She can even see a couple operators in the weak light of large pieces of machinery.

These people are busy gutting fishes, not corpses. What am I even doing? Way to go, Etrika, dragging your paranoid ass all the way here.

And yet.

She can’t detach her gaze from a certain someone. A tall, lanky uuman man, nervously pacing back and forth between the main building and a secondary one through a service door. Peeking into a dark alley, Etrika sights a bulky shutter door, labeled [DOCK B] in faded letters thrice her height.

Okay, okay. Just a peek, so I can say I’ve checked everything. Nothing more.

On this side of the property, 26 Graywell Street doesn’t look too good, with its outdated brickwork and the distant baying of birds living in its rafters. Some light does escape from tall windows, all way above her, but that isn’t suspect in itself. Hell, the emergency exit and its steel staircase even seems to have been renovated up to code.

But also, the cacophony from 27 Graywell is now more distant. Barely coming through, Etrika can make out screams. Pain. A language whose liquid syllables she’s only heard in one mouth before.

Emil…!

She steels herself, hating that she was right – and thanking every Virtue.

---

Etrika’s hands shake far harder than she thought they could, as she enters through a high window (of course the emergency exit had to be one-way) and lands on the wavy roof of some immense, generator-like device. She holds her breath, half to stifle her sound and half to avoid gagging at the stink of river life.

Under powerful lamps, four bloodied people around a same table– rowdy types, picking over an all-too-familiar poncho.

She grits her teeth as she scans left, towards the riverbank, and finally finds Emil: bleeding, their five arms plain to see, their body bound by their feet to an auto-hook. Seemingly part of a mechanized pulley system, where Emil hangs alongside drying squids, Cascadian salmon, and other things equally considered as fish out of water.

Eye movements. Rising and falling chest. Thank the gods.

They’re alive; and nobody knows she’s there yet. Maybe she can, if she plays her cards right, rescue them unnoticed. The question is how? Her pockets are empty. Something in the room, maybe?

Crates under a catwalk, mounted to the opposite wall. Sizeable pipes. Few if any places to hide or get cover from. Only two exits beside her entrance point: a door leading to the main building, and… oh dear, that other one has been bent shut. But wait– what’s that next to it?

A red box mounted to the wall, on which both Ireul and Presquilian spell [FIRE]. An emergency fire system.

So she can bring people to her aid, after all. Civil Protection, Disaster Corps, perhaps even both; and drawing urgent attention from the main building employees might buy her and Emil much needed time.

The only problem is distance. Triggering the device from her position should be possible, but she’ll have to focus, with proper posture and motion.

She extends her arm as subtly as she can, a cramp-like sensation rapidly settling in. After some tense fumbling, she finally feels something. An invisible, perfectly straight line of ether that connects her fingers to the device’s lever. Before anyone can cut it by crossing the stream, she yanks it all downwards.

Immediately, a siren affixed to the ceiling (and as such far too close to her) assaults her eradrums. Panic takes over everyone else inside Dock B, be they bound or free of movement.

Shit! someone shouts. How did that fucking thing turn on by itself?!

At the worst moment, godsfucking– Cécile, the key!!

Now that they’re distracted, Etrika runs to a maintenance ladder, clambering down it much louder than she would’ve liked.

Reaching the floor, she faces a vast control panel littered with all manners of buttons, likely in charge of anything mechanical in the room. A decade of humidity has slain every label, only sparing the engraved [STOP] of a big old red button. Without waiting a second, she slams it.

…To no effect, of course. Can’t exactly stop what isn’t moving in the first place. With a frustrated grimace, she begins to scan the rest of the panel.

The key’s on the rack next to the other door! Hey, did you even hear me?!

Stop shouting!! Samaelle shouts back. I can’t see it!

It has to be there, for fuck’s sake!!

Some buttons are covered with dust, but others shine from more frequent use; and among these, Etrika notices arrow-shaped pairs. Which one…

No, why waste time on that? Spreading her fingers, she presses the entire bottom row.

As replikae, auto-hooks are wonderfully designed: the length of their rope being folded magically rather mechanically, they produce nary a sound as they gently lower down Emil and a half-dozen squids at dock level.

She rushes to pull them dockward, before inspecting their head. A blow to the back, a cut in the neck; fortunately much less life-threatening than they appear. Recognising the one examining their wounds, they suddenly snap back to half-consciousness.

…Ahlrik?!

Etrika begins to untie the ropes around their ankles, each undoke knot freeing more of both their body and mind, until they’re finally standing on their feet. With so much blood having pooled inside it, their head feels terribly heavy; without Etrika helping them stand, it would’ve already hit the ground again.

Thank gods you’re alive, Etrika whispers, almost to herself. Can you walk?

P-Pretty sure, they respond without much conviction.

Hey, HEY! The captive…!

A voice from the catwalk, barely audible under the siren’s screams. A tall, pale-skinned, balding uuman man in dockworker uniform, standing in the frame of a door between buildings. That tall weasel from before–!

Eickhart? someone shouts at his appearance. Hey! False alarm! Tell them to… what?

This Eickhart, struggling to make himself heard, gestures wildly in Etrika’s direction. Her heart flies from her chest.

Suddenly, the alarm falls silent: its key still not found, Cécile grabbed the first pliers she could find in her pockets, and cut its power altogether. The space fills with the crystal clear end of one of Eickhart’s sentences:

…got an intruder!!

Everyone’s attention converges on Etrika. Vanio and Eickhart rush in her direction, followed by Samaelle and her wounded leg. They can’t let a target slip through their fingers; let alone two.

Frozen in fear, it costs Etrika valuable moments to remember her plan, before grabbing one of Emil’s sleeves.

The ladder, quick!

With Emil in front of (or rather, above) her, she begins to climb up. One step, then two, then four–

But Vanio’s left hand grabs one of her legs, sending shivers up her spine. Adrenaline shrinks her very thoughts. Death is here, and its free hand is raising a dark blade. Etrika is no fighter. What is she doing here? What does she think she’s doing here?

As tears of terror flow from her eyes, somethings stirs in her. An older mind, seeking survival at all costs, that forces its deep voice to her lips:

LEAVE ME ALONE!!

Its muscles drunk with ether, she throws a leg out. She’s been told enough times that an impulse spell is not to be channeled lightly. Poor aiming or poor release can easily send one straight to intensive care, rather than up. It is therefore strictly forbidden to use such magic to actively attack someone; the school bylaws are very clear about it.

Good thing Etrika isn’t at school right now.

The energy she saved for her retreat instead violently connects with leather and cloth, and passes into skin, into the muscle of Vanio’s shoulder. Then, Etrika’s leg finds a rush of wind where Vanio once was, as he and his weapon are thrown towards the middle of the room, smashing against the table with a loud crack: hard to tell whether it came from wood or bone, and the wounded uuman’s pained grumbles do not make it any clearer.

No time to process what she just did. She resumes climbing, almost twice as fast as before, and soon catches up with Emil.

---

The blood in their head returning to the rest of their body, Emil’s ears finally cease to ring; fully conscious, at last. Perched atop the machine’s roof next to Etrika, they stop moving; refusing the call of fresh air and the songs of cicadas just beyond the window.

Emil? C’mon, hurry up!

They do not. Their face drips with hesitation.

Emil!!

…Cannot yet. My things–

Your things?! Forget those and save yourself, for fu–

No. Without these, my… both our people will end.

Before she asks them how the contents of their pockets will save the world from magic bombs, she recalls Oskobel’s words. Documents. Tangible evidence. And where does one typically keep what they cannot entrust to anyone else? A pointless question; the horror in Emil’s eye has already answered.

She can’t back down. She offers an instinctive response before she can consider what she’s agreeing to.

W-What should I do? I’ve never been in a fight…!

Four of their hands squeeze her own, and come to rest on her shoulders before they start trembling. She can almost physically feel Emil’s willpower. Overflowing. Contagious.

You do magic! Can it get a weapon for me?

No more time to chat. Glancing down, they can see Eickhart helping up Vanio, and climbing the ladder himself in turn.

You little shits; you’re gonna regret… uh?!

He didn’t hallucinate; something just tore through the air at high speed, not too far from him.

Perplexed, Eickhart first turns to his colleagues, who remain silent. Following their gazes, he notices a weapon has appeared in Etrika’s hand. A knife of mediocre make, its blade covered in burned purplish blood. Sylvite blood.

Eugh–!

Emil snatches the grim item from her hands before disgust makes her throw it away.

Cécile! Go get a weapon from the cache– anything!! orders Vanio at the top of his lungs.

Knife in hand, Emil flashes a wild grin at Etrika.

Osvatii! they exclaim. I open the path, and you get the objects!

Before she can ask them if she hasn’t misheard, they’ve already jumped from the platform.

Etrika can barely believe her eyes: Emil just landed on Samaelle, not in front of her. Finding purchase in one of her shoulders, the blade tastes the flesh of yet another sophont.

AGH!! SON OF A–

Despite her attacker’s numerous hands and efforts, the xalaim rapidly pushes them away; the noise of malformed bells echoes through the entire dock as their right shoulders smash into the machine.

But Emil has already put down stronger, faster opponents than her. They quickly get up in a defensive stance, their hands ready to juggle their blade into any position. Fully focused on their immediate opponent, they pay no attention to Cécile, dashing to a large, padlocked compartment of the machine.

Etrika is utterly entranced by this dance of fist and metal. Among dozens of strikes, only a select few connect; splashes of blood thin as hair, punches weakened by poor impact angles. She’s never witnessed this sort of brawl herself before, and couldn’t have asked for a better demonstration of brains against brawn.

Will you! Stop! Moving around!!

Their ragged breathing won’t lower Samaelle’s defenses; she’s learned not to let this one swing into her back. Emil is gaining ground, gradually cornering her– but can’t find a decisive opening.

Just like Niko, still firmly clutching his wounded hand. The one spell he knows best is ready once more; but pain clashes with his focus, and he can’t allow himself to hurt Samaelle by blindly rushing in. If only that idiot stayed still for one damn second–!

The clanging below Etrika snaps her attention back to her own situation: leaving Cécile to her rummaging, Vanio and Eickhart have already climbed two thirds of the ladder, more than ready to gut her.

Time to go!

Visualize. Aim. Execute.

Etrika takes a step and a half back, the image of a diving dragon at the front of her mind; and jumps from the machine roof, straight as an arrow, arms reaching forward. The impulse spell lobs her to the center of the room, a mere second away from being caught by Vanio.

She lands upright on the table, but has to ungracefully sway to hands and knees. Fresh splinters pierce her bruised palms; and her left leg, after kicking Vanio, feels as wobbly as an overly greased spring. But her aim was true; she’s done it.

Built to last and still just-barely broken in, Emil’s poncho does not mind her clumsy landing. Grabbing it by the collar, she hastily feels its pockets. She’s in luck; those who took it put Emil’s belongings back in after taking stock of them.

Emil!! I got it! she shouts, waving the coat like a flag. Let’s–

Turning back, she feels time freeze around her.

The blond uuman is aiming at her with a slender object, supporting a long, blackened steel tube. A tool with a signature smell, kneading nearby ether into an explosive bubble no bigger than a pinhead.

Murmuring, flashing, burning within. A swirling release, first whistling like birdsong, soon resolves into a deep, resonant–

*BANG*

Etrika screams.

She feels hot wind lick against her skin. She falls backwards, head first and practically deaf. Crackling light punctures her vision in a solid line, closing her eyes shut.

---

Somehow, despite every shutdown command her nervous system is issuing, her short life does not end. Save for a sharp pain and a cold texture in her back, she appears to be unhurt.

Unconsciously, she had shifted herself, tumbling off the table behind her. The steel pellet shot by Cécile’s allatic rifle missed her by mere centimeters; but mere centimeters proved sufficient.

All Emil could see was a bright flash of light over a bleeding shoulder. All they could hear was Etrika crying out, followed by a consummate cry of some weapon, and a clattering of wood. As soon as their eye could clearly see again, she was out of sight, and inaudible. Calling to them.

They swallow.

Samaelle’s movements are tangibly slowing, innumerable shallow wounds from Emil taking their toll; and her opponent is looking for a route out. She’s learned of the pain and the strength of will needed to win backalley brawls, the clashing of fists to make ends meet, even before she had four. Her stamina entreats her to play defensive, reactive: hit less, hit hard.

Niko, his branches tense with apprehension, notices the change in tactics. He must cover her. Perhaps even deal the coup de grâce himself. His good hand writhes with a corona of flames, smelling strongly of charcoal. An agreement between lovers is conducted in a silent exchange of glances. Leave him to me, and he’s done for.

Emil doesn’t miss the changes in Samaelle’s posture, but must keep up their offensive, despite their diminishing strength. Any mistake, their opponent can and will punish. However, in this endless assault, they’ve failed to realize that she hasn’t been cornered; they’re the one whose back is turned to the wall.

Samaelle lets her hands fall from their fists and steps generously aside, free of tension, avoiding a bold upwards cut that could’ve taken her eye out. Emil is momentarily confused by such a retreat, and caught off-guard.

Now!

Niko shouts in exertion, and from his hand erupts a blinding golden snake. The spiral of flame bursts forth, scattering hot dust and steam in its wake.

…But its target, having ducked forward, is gone. As Niko’s spell disperses against charred clay, Emil has already closed the distance. Before he can back off, an icy spike of pain pierces his gut.

The sylvite hacks blood, falling to the ground in eerie silence; no groan, just the rustling of leaves and fabric.

NO! NIKO!!

As quickly as it plunged in, the knife tears free from the cavity, its owner still in search of escape. Furious tears streaming down her face, Samaelle leaps in Emil’s direction with her arms spread wide. But once more, the stranger surprises her – pressing off the wall using the melted-steel bar as a step, they leap away into her blind spot: above her head. She’s not even done turning around when they hit the ground running, locked in on Etrika.

There!

In Emil’s eye, a hand behind the table becomes an arm, and the arm becomes the upper half of their rescuer. Dazed, on her back, moving to press herself against it. She’s alive. Still here.

Cécile is already looking Emil’s way with that long weapon of hers, reeling from the sight of a fallen comrade. The rifle trills as she shoves a new pellet in its chamber, and aims at the sprinting figure’s center-mass, determined not to let it take cover.

Another shot rings out, and illuminates the room. It makes purchase; Emil hisses, cries out, thrown off their feet into a tumble by a beam of light. Novel pain radiates just under their lower-right shoulder; a molten claw turning blood into lava.

EMIL!! Etrika gasps in horror.

Their left elbows, rendered worryingly numb by Samaelle’s bruising, scrape harshly against the floor as they tumble into cover, next to Etrika.

Her ears are buzzing along her shaky breaths. Emil’s fresh wound captures all of her attention: no trace of the bullet that made it, but the blood. So much blood. A red so much more vivid than that of her textbooks and their clinical, distant diagrams. Every drop Emil loses diminishes their chances of making it out alive.

We… we survive, Emil mumbles through gritted teeth. You have?

She hands over the poncho without moving her gaze, her mind snapping back into place only once fabric hides away the torn flesh. As Emil puts it on, hugging it firmly with a few hands, Etrika stares at the ceiling, infinitely far away.

…An idea blooms inside of her. But it hinges on whatever strength Emil has left in them, and there’s no time to waste – their funds will have to stay behind.

Take my hand! she orders as she extends it. And don’t let go!

She should’ve said she’s sorry. She doesn’t have the time. But Emil’s face as they grab her palm, twisted as it is from pain, assures her that all is well. In their one eye gleams absolute trust.

Setting her emotions aside, she turns to their exit point; the same window that led her in. Extensive running and spellcasting is starting to take a toll on her. No room for failure. She points at her target with two fingers, granting herself crucial visual aid as ether twists between her nerves.

One… two… three–!

The impulse ejects her from the ground, nearly dislocating one of Emil’s shoulders in the process, as an explosion ripples through the air. Not theirs, though; Cécile’s, who fired at them just as they took off.

A flight of splinters erupts from the table, leaving behind it a sizeable hole. Primal fear seizes Etrika, startled by the sheer loudness of the impact, and her whole body tenses up.

She’s the one who lets go.

Emil barely registers her hand slipping away from theirs, as gravity conspires with the botched spell to send them straight into the machine. More precisely, the compartment Cécile drew her weapon from. They let out a scream of surprise, soon buried under metallic ones.

On her end, Etrika slams against an upper segment of the device, so close to the window – and yet so far. Her ribs and fingers sob both as she desperately clings on to rusted pipes.

Exhaustion, pain and despair all dispute the ownership of her tears and hiccups. But she can see the night; warm, bustling with life and stars. Perhaps real ones. Perhaps sinister illusions, scribbled in her eyes by fatigue.

…Real or fake, she wants to show these stars to Emil, and teach them their names. And so she pulls herself up, at the cost of dwindling forces.

---

Vanio and his (remaining) acolytes, in their wisdom, kept their distances from Cécile’s reckless shots. She barely dodged Emil, her hair ruffled by their poncho. Following that, horrible noise; and then, silence.

As soon as she can hear herself thinking again, her trembling hands shove a new steel ball into the rifle. Is she afraid? No, she’s not. Why would she be afraid of stupid kids? Because one of them shanked Niko? No. She was just shaken by the recoil. That’s all.

Ball clicked in place, barrel aimed at the dark alcove, Cécile glances at Vanio, Eickhart and Samaelle. Words are unnecessary. They’re a fine team. A single nod from the leader of the pack lets her know that the one-eyed freak is her priority. The girl can wait.

Dust and darkness cast a fog of war into the contraband cache, hiding both its contents and its visitor.

Fuck it. She primes the ether collector right away, ignoring its whining, and steps closer to the shadows. She’d rather let the thing overheat and burn her fingers than leave the guy a chance to stab her, even with their wounds. Looking at the bloody trail leading inside, she bites her lip – the place is in for a solid amount of scrubbing.

Weak light flashes inside with an unusual sound, halfway between sliding and creaking… with a hint of blowing? Everyone, including Etrika, skips a breath.

The ephemeral noise fades. Cécile swallows and takes a step forward, when–

A kinetic spark juts from the shadows, leaving her no time to react. Skin, muscle, bone, lung – all torn by the sharp edges of… a knife? No. far stronger, far heavier. The damage, no lesser than a cannonball’s, shuts down her mind before she can hazard a guess. Vanio and his goons, wide-eyed, only see a blurry line impale Cécile with tremendous speed, before pinning her to the far wall to the sound of cracked brick.

The blankets of dust raised by the impact haven’t even settled when Etrika, flabbergasted, watches the shape jump back just as fast, before a wounded Emil catches it in mid-air.

A spear. A magic spear, sublime in strength and beauty, dripping with blood and ether. Silver veins run on its all-titanium body, converging around a pristine aquamarine core.

Kenna would be entranced at the sight of such an item. Etrika, however, only cares about one thing: right now, a mighty weapon has been turned against its smugglers. Nothing else matters. Thank you eternally, Sculptor!! She would add the usual hand gesture to her prayer, if they weren’t hurting so much already.

Enraged, Vanio and Eickhart run at Emil, but quickly changes their minds when they take large swings to deny them space, spraying Cécile’s life onto their faces. Etrika knows little if anything about spears, but Emil seems to know their way around that one; maybe as well as their knife. But how much do they have left in them?

Samaelle, just about done wrapping Niko’s shirt around his wound to give him a chance of survival, gets up and dashes in Emil’s direction, possessed by blinding rage. With Cécile’s allatic rifle lost gods know where, she once again is their best shot at subduing – no, destroying that son of a bitch. For Niko.

DIE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!

Without her battlecry, that would’ve been it for Emil; they dodge her huge hands at the last moment, and strike back.

…in vain. Two left fists halt their weapon, and a unforeseen rotation slams their back against the floor. Quick, get up and –

Samaelle’s remaining hands grab the spear between Emil’s, her legs pinning them down as she pushes her whole weight down.

Stop struggling, asshole.

All restraint has left her. Wounded as she is, she’s still much stronger, much tougher, much more determined than them. Each raspy breath empties them, and the spear’s handle draws closer to their throat. Soon, it will be crushed.

I said: stop struggling, assho–

HA–!

Her skull suddenly rings, as hit by a freight train. Or a young mage who picked it as a landing spot.

Her jostled brain falls asleep before Etrika even touches the ground. And lightly sprains her ankle as she does.

Ow!

Note to self: heroic acts don’t come with free invincibility.

Their colossus of a friend now lying down, Vanio and Eickhart take a step away from the scene, backs to the docks. Emil coughs as they stand up, pushing Samaelle’s heavy frame aside without letting go of their weapon.

Osvatii… Ahlrik.

Fatigue and blood loss forbid them from taking even one step, but that’s fine. No need with the relika in their hands. They cast a dark gaze at their opponents.

Three down. Two left.

Eickhart is the first to break down.

S-STOP! We surrender! Take your money back! Y-you’ll never see us again, I swear–!

The poor lad tosses the purse at his feet towards Emil, a dozen of thick coins escaping it in flight. Vanio would readily scold Eickhart for his cowardice, if he wasn’t just as terrified of getting skewered at the first wrong answer.

The strangers pays no mind to the money. They simply lift their spear, and mutter a maxim in their native language:

(To each life, their sacred will.)

Wish me dead, and I’ll wish you dead first.

Emil? Emil, leave them – they… they’re not worth it.

They turn, yet keep their murderous stare.

After rummaging through Samaelle’s pockets, Etrika found a flask half-filled with coffee, and downed it whole. Weaker than weak, she spilled some on her chin and shirt. Her voice, little more than a croak, hurts to use.

Despite that, she must speak. She wouldn’t have believed herself capable of a tenth of what she already did tonight; but Emil’s will is steering her towards a one-way path, that she swore never to tread.

Has Emil already killed people? Very likely.

But she wants to believe that’s not the case. And if so, she must make sure it remains as such.

Don’t kill them. I beg you. If you do, I’ll… I’ll have to report you.

The air, drowned in the warehouse’s supernatural light, suddenly seems so cold.

I… I beg you.

Emil doesn’t let their spear down. But doesn’t turn away from Etrika, either.

Why?

Why? Isn’t that obvious?

It… it will make everything worse for both of us, she slowly answers. They’ve hurt you, but… the Virtues won’t forgive you. Please, I… I don’t want to. I don’t want to turn you in.

Emil’s eyelids, including those under their eyepatch, flutter for a second. They’ve come so far. Far from their kin, from their laws. Humiliated, on the verge of sobbing, these two won’t interfere ever again; no need for promises. But is that enough?

They attacked me, Emil moans as they remember their wound, pressing on it with a hand. Threatened. Tied. They wanted to kill me and take all my things, and kill you too. You know this threatens my friends, your friends, and many people. Why… why can I not stop them, forever?

Etrika stammers, imaginary tears in her dry eyes.

They’re just people, like you and–

NO! Emil wails. They are different. They… I cannot let them continue! Tell me why they can live!

I…

Etrika looks down, her two eyes defeated by a single one, and admits a sad truth:

I don’t know. I really don’t know. Just let me heal the others. Don’t kill them. Don’t do it, p-plea…

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

Emil sees her differently now. She’s out of words, but sheds no tears. She’s out of points, but clings to her beliefs.

For a moment, they don’t know what to think anymore, lowering their spear before raising it again, every bloodless limb shaking wildly. Vanio and Eickhart are cornered, and their lives have so little value. But Etrika…

She rescued them; from the streets, from hunger, and now from certain death. Absurd as it is… this is the first favor she’s asked in return.

They turn back to their opponents, out of breath. Their teeth and voice grind loudly; but not as much as their heart.

D…

…

Drop… your weapons.