The three’s abrupt departure means that Tecumseh has to clean up their messes himself. Cyrus seems like a good kid but he needs lessons in how to deal with disposables, lest his sink be reduced to a stack of dirty dishes. But Cyrus was across the damn street now, getting a crash course in weapons handling.

Dimitri, on the other hand, was still in his seat. He’d prefer to sit and stew than be productive and help out poor old Tech.

It takes Tecumseh two trips to the garbage and back to get rid of everything. Most of it is Cyrus’s. Kid eats too much. Then again, Tech remembers how much he ate at eighteen. But he’s six-seven, six-eight when gravity isn’t pulling him down, and Cyrus isn’t.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks Dimitri upon sitting down.

“No.”

“All right, then.”

So they don’t talk about it. Dimitri doesn’t talk about anything at all, actually. Five minutes pass. A college girl, early-early twenties, comes and flirts with Tech. She’s cute; dark skin, dyed blonde hair in half-and-half braids, big brown eyes and full lips. Bit of an accent. Tech smiles at her and tries his best to subconsciously tell her that he’s a) not interested and b) nearly thirty. Twenty-eight, actually. Practically ancient. He doesn’t tell her he’s a Janissary. Her friends surround her and drag her back to her table.

“Think it’s been long enough?”

Dimitri shrugs.

“Are you going to be okay?”

He nods. He’s giving him the silent treatment. What did I do?

“You’re acting like a child.”

“She is off her meds again,” he finally says, under his breath. Shouldn’t be hard to figure out who she is.

“She has medications?”

“She was diagnosed with, something. The kind of mental disorder that only girls get. And she just never took her medication.”

Tech is quiet. “Do those symptoms of, whatever she has, include a propensity for sporadic, random violence?”

Dimitri shakes his head. “No, that is just her. I think its BPD or something. Mood swings, intense emotions all the time. The violence is that fucking insane school she went to.”

“You’re going to be okay working with her?”

“I’m fine. I’m over it. She came at me with a broken bottle, remember?”

That felt so long ago now. The only thing worse than being trapped between two people in the midst of a breakup is when both of those two people are highly skilled with weaponry, especially sharp weapons.

The two are quiet again. Tech waits for a few more minutes before standing. Dimitri follows, and follows him out of the restaurant.

Outside, the wind is carrying litter and trash high into the night sky. Discarded cups and wrappers, cigarette butts and e-cig cartridges, paper bags, all fly high, aimlessly. Tech turns away from it so he can breathe.

The three should have everyone’s weapons prepared. Tech brought an automatic, AK-style shotgun, a Saiga, firing 12-gauge rounds filled with buckshot or a slug or even tiny flechettes. Dimitri made to bring his newest toy, an old SKS that he spent all of last night restoring. Apparently Dawn found it, gave it to Jake, who then gave it to him. There was a crack in the stock that he filled with wood glue and put a sleeve over. Anastasia’s Vector with both regular 30-round magazines and 50-round drums. Eva wasn’t particular about her weaponry; a simple old M4 carbine, a dot sight attachment. A few handguns, 9mm each. Nothing fancy. Plus body armour, vests and Chrysomallos-woven coats.

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But when Tech arrives after nearly getting run over by some prick in a fuck-off sized pickup truck with a perfectly clean bed, he sees the three fucking around with what looks like a helmet. A helmet with something stuck on top, two things stuck on top. Triangular.

Wait just a fucking minute here.

Next to him, Dimitri chuckles to himself. Like he hasn’t done enough to piss off Anastasia, now he’s snuck the catgirl helmet along for the ride. Luckily, it just seems like Cyrus and Eva are taking turns wearing it. Anastasia is focused on a coin. She keeps flipping it, muttering to herself.

“Hey, Tecumseh, sir!” Cyrus calls out upon spotting him. He’s wearing the cat ears helmet. “You wanna wear the cat helmet?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Sounds good!”

As the pair approach the armoured SUV, Tech sees silhouettes peering out the windows of the building. The Southern Seas regional offices are a lot and a half down, separated by a utility road. The lot directly surrounding the building – five stories, pretty basic, the sign lit up brightly displaying a three-masted clipper ship sailing the seas – is filled with sedans and compacts. Tech figures mafia goons would drive something fancier than a Kia, unless their orders were to lay low and let the money come in.

He spies a tarp on the ground as he rounds the Range Rover, bright blue. The trio have pinned one-half of it to the ground using the vehicle’s tyres and the other half with extra body armour. Jackets, vests, plate carriers, the works.

Tech throws on one of the jackets. He’s point, given the semi-auto shotgun. It’s stiff and a size too small. The zipper strains itself over his chest. It’s not made for someone six-eight, with proportional biceps and triceps and shoulders. The rest slip into their gear easily enough.

Anastasia is the first one done. No cat helmet for her.

“Do you want me to ask?”

Tech thinks for a moment. The fellas inside won’t be as threatened as they would be if Tech asked the question.

“I’ll go with you,” he says. After all, he’s got a shotgun.

The other three stand back near the Range Rover. Cyrus only has a 9mm handgun but he’s not on the front lines.

And so Tech escorts Anastasia to the door. There’s a neon ‘OPEN’ sign with the blue loop around it that’s turned off. A holographic display sits below, projecting the opening and closing times of the branch from Sunday to Saturday. Closed on weekends, 8-8 on weekdays.

The tiny Russian marches up to the door, far too much confidence pumping through her blood. She knocks four times, a gloved hand politely rapping on the metal door.

Then the pair wait. Two seconds pass. Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Anastasia knocks again and she’s immediately greeted by a tired-looking man, olive skin, curly hair all frazzled, a five-o’clock shadow across his face. He stares at them with dark brown eyes.

“Che cosa?”

Italians.

Tech doesn’t speak Italian. Unless Anastasia has some serious linguistic chops Tech doesn’t know about, they’re going to have to improvise.

He wishes Xiuying was here.

“Ciao, buonasera!” Anastasia says, the forced smile of a model across her face. The combination of the Italian language spoken with a Russian accent is something else entirely, something that Tech can’t help but find attractive. She digs a few documents from her jacket’s pocket and hands them to the man. Forgeries, of course. Ash comes in handy. But they look official enough.

“We are with the Coalition of Peace. We have received intelligence that this corporation was involved in the trafficking of illicit weapons.”

And people.

The man in the door just stares at her. Looks her up and down for a moment. He looks back at the people inside – Tech counts four with the quick glimpse he gets.

His eyes shift to Tech.

“What part of Africa are you from?”

Anastasia’s eyes go wide. She looks up at Tech. But he’s been through this before.

“London, England.”

The mobster sneers. Looks back at Anastasia.

“Russia?”

“Belarus.”

“We don’t deal with orcs.”

Then he slams the door on her face.

Tech exhales, a deep sigh from within his bones. They don’t want to make this easy, do they?

“Let’s go, Ana. Find a side door.”

But Anastasia doesn’t listen. One hand tightens around the rear grip of her sub-gun. Another raises and knocks on the door again. Pounds on it this time, with the side of her fists, enough to make the metal tremble.

The same mobster from before opens the door.

“What the fuck do you-”

And Anastasia riddles him with bullets.