The rain had started to fall again, mixing with the fog to create a slurry of gray sludge that coated the windshield of the patrol cruiser. Inside, the heater hummed aggressively, fighting a losing battle against the chill that seemed to radiate from the very bones of the city.
Lea Lantern sat in the driver's seat, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. The engine was off, but she hadn't made a move to open the door.
"We have to do something," she whispered, the words rushing out in a single, desperate breath. "The truck hasn't left the perimeter yet. We could cause a distraction. A blown tire. A localized blackout. Anything to give them a window."
Kade Varro was slumped in the passenger seat, his long coat bunched up around his shoulders. He was staring out the window at the blurred red taillights of the transport vehicle ahead. He didn't look at her.
"We can't, Lea," Kade said, his voice flat and devoid of hope. "You touch that ignition, you sign our death warrants. And probably theirs, too."
"They're kids, Kade!" Lea turned to him, her eyes pleading. "They saved that boy. I saw them. Ruben protected the hostage with his own body while Strahm was blowing the house apart. And now they're being hauled off like animals? We know they're innocent."
"Knowing and proving are two different continents," Kade muttered, reaching into his pocket for his lighter. "And right now, we are standing on the wrong side of the ocean."
He flicked the lighter. The small flame danced, illuminating the exhaustion etched into his unshaven face.
"Look at the board, Lea," Kade said, gesturing with the unlit cigarette toward the convoy outside. "It's not just the uniform police out there. It's Bruno Fernando. It's Lance Onida."
Kade took a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing orange. "You saw what Lance did to the roof. You saw how Bruno looked at them, like he was looking at ghosts. Those two aren't just Gold ranks. They were trained by Dario Kosta himself. They are some of the strongest Paladins in the nation, hand-picked by the Warlord."
Kade blew a stream of smoke against the glass. "If we go up against them... if we try to intercept that truck... Lance will crush this car into a cube before you can shift gears. And Bruno? He'll paint the pavement with us and feel bad about it later. We are outclassed, partner. By miles."
Lea slumped back against her seat, the fight draining out of her. She knew he was right. She was a Silver Paladin, capable and strong, but the gap between her and the students of Dario was an abyss.
"So we just... let them go?" Lea asked, her voice cracking. "We leave them to rot?"
"For now," Kade said heavily. "We have to. Especially with the way Vogel is watching us."
Lea glanced at the rearview mirror. Through the rain, she could see Elise Vogel standing under the awning of the ruined house, barking orders at a subordinate. Even from this distance, her posture was rigid, her presence suffocating. She hadn't taken her eyes off Lea and Kade since the arrest.
"What is her problem?" Lea hissed. "Why is she riding us so hard? Does she suspect?"
"Elise?" Kade scoffed, a cynical smirk touching his lips. "Elise suspects everyone. That's how she breathes."
He tapped ash into the vehicle's cup holder. "She just wants validation. Look at her. She's stiff. She follows the rulebook like it's scripture. She lives for the pat on the head from the higher-ups. She acts like she's above it, like she's made of ice and duty, but deep down? She eats praise like candy."
Kade shook his head, watching Elise point a gloved finger at Rosette St. Jon. "She's a manager, Lea. Not a leader. That's why she hates anomalies like Ruben and Corbin. They don't fit in her filing cabinet. They make the system she's comfortable in look messy."
"She's dangerous," Lea noted.
"Insecure people with power always are," Kade agreed. "If we step out of line, she will burn us just to prove she's efficient. We can't help the boys if we're suspended, or dead."
The transport truck ahead rumbled to life. The brake lights flared bright red, illuminating the fog, and then it began to roll forward, taking Ruben and Corbin away into the dark.
Lea watched them go, a heavy stone of guilt settling in her stomach. "They're on their own."
Kade watched the truck disappear around the corner. He stayed silent for a long moment, finishing his cigarette. He crushed the butt out on the dashboard, a rare sign of his own frustration breaking through the apathy.
"Those kids... they're cockroaches," Kade said, and he meant it as a compliment. "But I think... I think they'll find a way out of it. They have that look in their eyes. The desperate kind."
He shifted in his seat, resting his hand on the door handle, ready to step back out into the rain and play the part of the loyal soldier.
"But if they don't," Kade murmured, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost to the drumming of the rain. "If it looks like the gavel is really going to come down..."
He looked at Lea, his dark eyes hard and serious.
"I don't mind getting my hands dirty to try and pry the cage open."
The cellar was cold, smelling of wet stone and old iron, but the heat of the violence filled the small space.
Thud.
Elise Vogel's boot connected with Ruben's ribs, a sharp, practiced kick that sent him skidding across the damp floor. He gasped, curling instinctively around his midsection, the seal on his chest burning like ice against his skin.
"Where is he?" Elise demanded, her voice echoing off the low ceiling. She didn't shout; her tone was conversational, which made the brutality worse. "Strahm took the boy. Where did they go?"
"We don't know," Ruben wheezed, tasting copper.
"Liar," Elise spat. She turned and drove her heel into Corbin's thigh.
Corbin grunted, his hands bound behind his back, his face pressed into the grit. "We... aren't lying... you psycho. He ran. We didn't exactly exchange itineraries."
Ruben squeezed his eyes shut. In the back of his mind, faint and distant because of the suppression seal, he knew the truth. He can figure exactly where his tiny golden dragon was. He could feel its location like a compass needle in his brain, dormant but present. But he bit his tongue. If he told Elise, she would hunt Paul down, yes, but she would kill him, and he doesn't know what would happen to Oscar after.
And lastly, he wouldn't be able to bargain his way out if it came to it... that may have been a more sinister way of thinking when a child's life was in danger, but as long as he didn't dwell on it, he was fine with his decision.
"You are scum," Elise said, smoothing her cape. She looked down at them with genuine disgust. "Just like the man who raised you. It is fitting that his 'children' are as deceitful and chaotic as he was."
"Shut up," Corbin muttered.
"Wicked," Elise continued, circling them. "Cowardly. A man who sat on the throne of Warlord for decades while rotting from the inside out. The Purge of Nine... the corruption... it was all him."
Ruben rolled onto his back, wincing as his bruised shoulder scraped the stone. "The bad he did... it doesn't even sound believable," Ruben said, staring up at the flickering bulb in a wire cage. "Dario wasn't a coward. And he wasn't wicked. You're talking about another man's story, not Dario's."
"Of course it doesn't sound believable to you," Elise sneered. "He was the shining light of the nation. The Golden God. The people are sheep, they graze where they are told."
She leaned down, her absinthe-green eyes narrowing. "There are idiots protesting in the streets right now. They carry signs. They scream for the 'truth.' They refuse to believe that their shepherd was a wolf. They cling to the image because the reality terrifies them."
"Or maybe," Corbin coughed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor, "they just don't trust the new management. Why would they believe some old man who was in charge of some random post before? Alfred Stein? Who even is he?"
Elise's face went rigid. The vein in her forehead pulsed.
Crack.
She kicked Corbin in the stomach, hard enough to lift him an inch off the ground. Corbin choked, the air leaving him in a ragged whistle.
"That 'random post'," Elise hissed, her composure cracking for a fraction of a second, "was the Law. Alfred Stein is the Pillar of Law. He has been the backbone of this nation while Dario Kosta was playing hero for the cameras. He is the structure that keeps this side of the world from dissolving into the very chaos you two represent."
She stepped back, breathing heavily through her nose, recomposing herself. "He is Order. Something you refuse to understand."
Silence descended on the cell, broken only by the ragged breathing of the two boys.
Ruben lay on the cold stone, staring at the ceiling. The pain was a dull thrum now, a constant background noise. He thought about the man who had taken them in. He thought about the giant who sat in the armchair, drinking tea, telling them stories about the world they were still so new to.
"I don't think I would care," Ruben said aloud, his voice quiet.
Elise paused at the door. "What?"
"Whatever is in his past," Ruben said, his eyes unfocused. "Whatever you say he did twenty years ago, or thirty or even ten... I don't think I care."
He paused, gathering his breath.
"He treated me well," Ruben whispered. "When we first met... he didn't look at my power. He didn't look at my potential. Paul looked at Oscar and saw only what his power would do for him. You look at us and see weapons or threats."
Ruben turned his head slightly to look at Elise's boots.
"Dario... he just treated us like kids. He let me do whatever I wanted. He never forced me to train, never forced me to fight. He gave me a room. He gave me food. If he wasn't a Paladin... if he wasn't a Warlord..."
Ruben's voice cracked slightly.
"He would just be the weird, kind old man I never had in my life. He was a grandfather. That's all that matters to me."
Elise stared down at him. For a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, her lip curled.
She spat on the ground, inches from Ruben's face.
"What a pitiable fool," she muttered.
The door to the safehouse apartment slammed shut with a force that rattled the cheap frame.
Paul Strahm didn't mime it shut this time. He used his hand, slamming the wood against the jamb in a rare, violent display of physical frustration.
Oscar was screaming, a high, thin sound of pure terror that had started the moment Paul dragged him from the sewers and hadn't stopped since. He was thrashing in Paul's grip, his small sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.
"Why?" Paul shouted, his voice cracking the heavy silence of the room. He shoved the boy forward, sending him stumbling onto the worn-out beige sofa. "Why did you think you could run? Did you think they cared about you? Did you think those thieves were going to keep you safe?"
Oscar curled into a ball, burying his face in the cushions, sobbing so hard his whole body shook. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Paul!"
"Shut up!" Paul roared.
He stood over the boy, his chest heaving. The cool, detached persona of the Mime had fractured, revealing the raw, jagged nerve endings beneath. He had almost lost the battery. He had almost lost the only leverage he had against them.
Paul took a deep breath, forcing the air through his nose. He smoothed his gray coat. He slicked back his dark hair. He needed to be calm. The performance required control.
"Sit up," Paul commanded, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register.
Oscar didn't move fast enough, so Paul grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him upright, planting him firmly on the cushion.
"Look at me."
Oscar looked. His eyes were red, swollen, and filled with a despair that no eight-year-old should know.
Paul dragged a wooden chair from the small dining table and placed it directly across from the sofa. He sat down, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped.
"Do you know where we are, Oscar?" Paul asked softly.
Oscar shook his head, hiccuping.
"They call it Ostara," Paul said, spitting the name like a piece of gristle. "A proud nation. A beacon of civilization. But let me tell you a secret history, little one. The name 'Ostara' was stamped onto the maps only five years before Egos came into the world."
Paul stared past Oscar, looking at the peeling wallpaper as if seeing through time.
"Before that, this land had other names. Old names. It belonged to our people. The Nine Clans. But there were more than just nine at the time."
Oscar sniffled, confused, but too terrified to look away.
"We own this land," Paul whispered intensely. "Every inch of concrete, every brick in their towers, it sits on top of our bones. The few of us that are left... the weak ones... they intermingled with the colonizers. They forgot who they were just to survive. But the rest? Dead. Lost. Buried in shipping containers or thrown into mass graves."
Paul reached out and tapped Oscar's knee.
"We are the only ones left, Oscar. You and me. Everything was stolen from us by the people outside that window. They are enjoying the fruits of the earth while we rot in the dark. They grow their wheat and bake their bread on top of our homes."
Paul's eyes narrowed, dark and hard as flint.
"Tell me," Paul said. "Do you want to make peace with them? Do you want to hold hands with the people who would have killed you over and over again just to pave a road to another fast food chain?"
Oscar shook, his lips trembling. "I... I don't..."
"The answer," Paul hissed, "is a loud no."
He leaned back, spreading his hands.
"In the end, Oscar, power rules all. It is the only truth. They beat us because they were more powerful, and they were more deceitful. They had the numbers."
A dark, fanatical light entered Paul's eyes.
"But now... now we have power too. We can start a takeover. Not a war of armies, but a war of fear. Slowly. Piece by piece. I will find a way to let them all know that Paul Strahm and the Nine did not forget. I will blow a hole so large in their 'Great Ostara Project' that it can never be sealed."
He gestured to the window, toward the fog-choked skyline of Brumália.
"And it starts here. In this city of fog. We will turn their air into poison. We will make them choke on their own stolen legacy."
Paul stood up abruptly. The lecture was over. The time for words had passed.
He walked to the small kitchenette and opened a drawer. The sound of metal clinking against glass made Oscar flinch.
"No," Oscar whispered, recognizing the sound. He pressed himself back against the sofa cushions. "Please, Paul. No. I'll be good."
Paul returned holding a small silver case. He popped the latch. Inside lay a syringe and a vial of cloudy, yellowish liquid.
"You missed your morning dose," Paul said, his voice devoid of emotion. "And the stress of the escape... your levels are unstable. We can't have you leaking before the finale, can we?"
"Please!" Oscar cried, kicking his legs out as Paul approached. "It hurts! It makes my head fuzzy! I don't want it!"
"It's time to make up for missed time," Paul said coldly.
He reached out and grabbed Oscar's arm. His grip was iron. He ignored the boy's thrashing, ignored the tears streaming down his face, ignored the desperate apologies bubbling from his lips.
"I'm sorry! I won't run again! Please, Paul!"
Paul didn't blink. He uncapped the needle with his teeth.
"Be quiet, Oscar," Paul murmured, lining up the vein.
He plunged the needle in.