Lysandros stepped away from the window and into a hallway. He passed by a set of stairs leading down to the first floor; the waves of music and hedonism muffled his footsteps. A muscular enforcer stood at the bottom of the stairs, unaware that Lysandros had already breached the second floor from the outside. With his charm-covered knife raised, Lysandros crept slowly, passing by doors along either side of him. Any of them could’ve held Keti.
He had no time to search through all of them, and opening the wrong door could jeopardize the entire mission. Lysandros would have to find her through the Rddhi. Considering he was just an immigrant street urchin-turned triad who had only unlocked his powers when the State Police besieged Four Eagles, flattening it into an urban wasteland, he lacked what might be considered a basic education about cultivation. But instinctively, he knew there wasn’t a scientific formula or equation for it - there weren’t any words for it, either. It was simply feeling with the heart, rationalizing with the brain, loving with the soul. Keti, barefoot in the cramped room she shared with Pavlos back in Four Eagles. Keti, blonde hair done up in a bun, telling Lysandros he ought to do more with himself than work as a mugger and triad. Keti, who screamed when the State Police began shelling Four Eagles, who hid beneath Lysandros’s waiting arms when tanks gutted their way down the alleyways.
Lysandros approached a door and the warm feeling in his heart flared and he instinctively knew that she was inside.
But would she be alone…and in what condition? That was something he couldn’t know, but he had to act anyway. Lysandros had run away from Atalanta when the Queen was deposed; he had been a child then, but he was tired of running.
With one, and a two, and a three, Lysandros made his move, opening the door with no hesitation, swinging it wide open, knife gripped tightly in hand. His first sight was Keti bound and gagged amid this small storage room full of cleaning supplies; his second sight was the guard on a metal chair shining his pistol. Before Tommy's man could react, the knife had already left Lysandros’s hand and implanted itself through his neck. The guard sputtered, the pistol falling from his hands, the big band drums from the first floor covering up his death wheezes. And then he collapsed and fell silent as Lysandros closed the door behind him.
He retrieved his knife from the man's throat, leaving behind a trail of hot blood dripping from the blade. It didn't take too long to cut Keti’s ropes and remove the dirty rag from her mouth. She took great gulps of air, then collapsed in Lysandros’s waiting arms.
“I’m alright,” she mumbled, a purple bruise in the shape of a pistol whip on her temple. Lysandros helped her to her feet; her blonde hair was damped and her breathing ragged, and she stumbled at first, like a newborn deer, but found her footing while holding onto Lysandros's arm.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. “Spiridon is waiting outside. The Navy’s going to raid this place soon.”
But something about this whole situation seems odd. If the Navy's going to launch the raid soon, then wouldn’t they find a way to evacuate the first floor to prevent any collateral damage? Maybe they should’ve bought out the bar for the night in the first place. Or perhaps their agents are already inside.
“Is Pavlos alright?” Keti asked, her voice raspy, bringing Lysandros's attention back to the woman next to him. She took a deep breath and let go off his arm, standing on her own two feet unsupported, even with that deep purple bruise on her temple.
“He’s leading everyone at the barracks. We have something special planned.”
Keti smiled at the thought, then her face turned pale.
None other than Tommy Typewriter stood in the doorframe. He was a large man, bigger than Spiridon, dressed in a black jacket and jeans, his black hair greasy and slicked back, a chain around his neck. Red lights calmly pulsed up and down his arms.
“Ah, Lysandros,” he said, clapping his hands. “To think, you’d save me the trouble by coming right to me. How kind.”
Lysandros stood up, shielding Keti behind him. “Harold sent me.”
Tommy tilted his head. “And I take it that Harold’s now dead?”
A nod answered him. Tommy didn’t seem to mind all that much. “That prick informed on me to Sloan as much as he informed on Sloan to me. He was gonna get burned by one of us sooner or later, but I guess it ended up being by you.”
“He was doing it for his family,” Lysandros answered. He felt Keti’s warmth behind him. “Like I’m doing right now.”
Tommy spread his arms. “Then couldn’t you say the same for me? Most of the people in your barracks owe me money. I’m your debtor, and I have to say, at the rate this country is going, more people will have debtors than fathers by the end of this winter.”
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Lysandros narrowed his eyes. “Not for long.” But he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from going further. The Navy wanted Tommy alive, and Lysandros had a deal with them. Killing Tommy himself might’ve squashed his entire plan for the barracks. That is, if he could even kill Tommy. Lysandros was a relatively new cultivator, just 1B, while Tommy was said to be 2A. That didn’t guarantee a defeat, but it would be an uphill battle.
No, all Lysandros needed to do was get Keti, Spiridon, and himself out of here safely. He had already raised the alarm before the Navy could get here; he would have to leave the rest to them.
“My men told me you’re a cultivator,” Tommy explained, raising one hand, red lights running up to his fingertips. “Consider this a blessing, because you’d end up in the State Police camps otherwise.”
“Close your eyes!” Lysandros called to Keti, doing the same. Right as Tommy curled his fingers, Lysandros snapped his own. The morning dawn broke out in the storage room right as Tommy activated his own power in response, the ability that gave him his nickname. With his men warning him of Lysandros’s power, Tommy typed out his first letter, red lights arcing outward from his fingers like spiderwebs, coalescing and tightening into a thick, red, body-sized Z that shielded his eyes from the glow. He then curled another finger, and with the metallic ding sound indicating a new line, the Z flew from his fingers and slammed into Lysandros. He pushed Keti out of the way just in time, sparing her from the attack, while the dazed Lysandros fell into a pile of buckets and mops, crates falling all around him.
Tommy advanced into the room towards the fallen Lysandros, his fingers a blur as he typed up a V, angling the sharp end towards his opponent. When Tommy fired it off, Lysandros grabbed a crate and smacked it into the flying V. The letter disintegrated, leaving Lysandros bloodied from splinters and electric sparks flying off the destroyed letter.
Tommy conjured another V, intent on finishing things, but with his attention on Lysandros, Keti slipped behind him and let out an unexpected war cry and yanked the rag that once gagged her around his neck. The mobster croaked and choked, creating a Y with his fingers as he struggled. He fired it backwards, the gap catching Keti in the throat, sending her flying out into the hallway. As she gasped and caught her breath, Tommy turned back to finish Lysandros, but he was already charging him like a bull. Lysandros activated the last usage of the charmed ice knife as he stabbed Tommy in the side; the two men collapsed in a heap in the hallway.
A flying H knocked Lysandros away down the hall and into Keti. When he landed, the floor beneath him felt unusually cold, like the other side had been frozen over, and it certainly wasn’t the doing of his dinky knife. Said knife was still lodged in the side of Tommy, who groaned as he stood back up. His enforcers flooded down the stairs from the third floor, cultivators and men with pistols, all of them aiming at either Keti or Lysandros. Behind each group was a window in the wall; the one behind Lysandros was the one unlocked by him earlier, just yards away, but the second they moved, they would certainly be cut down by bullets in such a narrow hallway.
The enforcers kept still when Tommy raised his hand to halt their attack. He glanced with a pained expression at the knife, then gave his cornered prey a predator’s grin. “Isn’t this sweet? I’m a merciful man. I’ll let you two do the honors.” He yanked the knife out of his side, a line of blood spraying the nearby wall, and then tossed it down the hallway. It spun and landed at Lysandros’s feet.
Tommy pulled his jacket tighter to staunch the bleeding, but his face marveled at his apparent victory. “A lover’s suicide. You either die at my hand, or die at your own. I’ll leave that choice to you.”
“I’ll hold them off,” Lysandros whispered to Keti as he slowly crouched down. “When I pop back up, you sprint behind me and escape through the window. I’ll be a bullet shield for you.” It was the strangest thing - he felt oddly calm when he said that. Now that death was staring him straight in the face, now that his life had a determined end, every little detail stuck out to him. The cold floor below him; the beige wallpaper of the hallway; the bead of sweat on Tommy’s face; Keti pushing blonde strands of hair off her face so she could look Lysandros in the eyes.
“I’m not running away,” she declared. “And you’re not wide enough to block all those bullets.”
He chuckled, then realized the knife was already in his hands. “I can at least take a few of them out before we die.”
Keti grabbed his elbow. “Can you at least kiss me before we die?”
Lysandros cocked his head. “I can arrange that.”
But no kiss or death came. Instead, all they heard were screams coming from the first floor, and then the sharp sound of wind, or at least a giant sucking sound. As the enforcers looked at each other in confusion, one of their comrades stormed up the stairs.
“Tommy!” he yelled. “We got cultivators here! They used charms to ice up the first floor ceiling, then started dragging people off the dance floor with wind powers!”
The mob boss eyed Lysandros. “You bring friends, eh? Or…” For the first time, Tommy frowned. “Or is your Navy attacking a week early-”
The enforcer on the stairs cried out as an electric blast struck him square in the back. When he keeled over, smoke rose from his leather jacket; a cultivator stepped over the fallen body calmly. He was about medium height, and compared to the last time Lysandros had met him, the Naval cadet now sported a mop of brown hair that had grown out and curled around the edges, and he now wore a heavy gray-green greatcoat compared to the rain-soaked jacket back in Four Eagles.
“Lysandros…” Keti asked, trailing away, not understanding why he was smiling.
“My friend,” Lysandros greeted with a respectful, grateful nod, a wide grin on his face.
Isaac Spallacio nodded back at him.