Isaac found himself in a cemetery.

He knew right away this wasn’t the one in either Patuxet or Androscoggin. His hometown’s cemetery could be found at the foot of rolling hills, offering an endless space of greenery for the fallen spirits of Patxuet to lay their weary heads and rest after spending a life below ground in the mines. Up in Androscoggin, where they buried Kieran, that cemetery had been a private one reserved for the wealthy - more specifically, the Cartwrights. The headstones of Patuxet, small and rounded and regularly visited, were delicately crafted by a local artisan; the Cartwrights could afford world-renowned professionals to mark their tombs.

Instead, this cemetery was covered in smog and surrounded by a sea of factories and tenement halls. The grass was a sickly yellow and each grave was marked by a lone rusted thunderbolt, the five metal pieces crudely nailed together. If these token symbols weren’t there, Isaac wouldn’t have even realized that this rundown field, if he could even call it that, served as a cemetery. The city’s downtrodden were buried here, the rural migrants and homeless, those without family or friends to arrange for better burials. Instinctively, Isaac knew this was a potter’s field for the graves of paupers in northern Narragansett - and both of his parents had been buried here.

He scratched his head because that didn’t make any sense. Then he gasped - there should’ve been a tank-shell size wound on his temple, but his face felt right as rain. His whole body did as well, which was the oddest thing because last he could remember, Babs had just shoved him off a rampaging giant.

Babs. Isaac frowned, then just leaned his head back to look at the gray sky. Auburn hair, unwashed and knotty, swept down his thin shoulders. That’s when he realized he was once again a woman.

This is just like the time Harburg trapped us in his illusions, forcing us to live as each other. Am I living as Babs in an illusion right now? What is this, some sort of dying dream? No, somebody forced this illusion on me.

From where he sat in front of his parents’ graves, the metal of the thunderbolt feeling cold against his back, Isaac saw a figure watching him from afar. He half-expected the short woman with long brown hair, but instead, this woman was tall and blonde with piercing blue eyes. As she idly smoked a cigarette, her resemblance to the giant became clear.

This must be the giant in her normal form. So, she’s a cultivator who can change her size.

Just as a light spring rain started, the giant, now regularly-sized, finished her cigarette. She watched the ash fall to the ground with a disinterested gaze and tired eyes. She noticed Isaac’s eyes on her and looked back at him with a slight tilt of the head. And then, as the rain picked up, she disappeared into mist.

A man dressed in a fedora and sharp suit emerged through the fog in her place, and that’s when Isaac forgot himself.

The man, freshly shaven and armed with a nice watch and all the authority of a growing crime syndicate behind him, approached the thunderbolt. He knelt down in front of the girl sitting against it.

“You’re no good to me dead,” he simply greeted. “Your parents owed us a lot of money. Just because they passed on doesn’t mean their debt did as well. Let’s go. We have work to do.”

The man held out his hand. Raindrops slid down the face of his watch. After a long while, because something had to change, Babs took his hand.

----------------------------------------

Over a decade later, Babs walked with Haneda down the dirty streets of the Neponset ghetto. As they passed by, onlookers either kept their distance or bowed their heads. Mothers ushered their children out of the way; roaming corporate samurai, swords on their hips, gave the duo respectful nods of understanding.

To be treated as an equal by a Zhanghai samurai! Something like that used to be unthinkable to a ghetto rat like Babs. Her parents moved to Neponset from up north as the rural crisis intensified; they died of illness, malnourishment, and above all, weakness, soon after their arrival. Babs almost followed them to the grave, but the organization her parents were indebted to found her, and the rest was history. Her stomach felt full, she herself now had a nice watch of her own on her wrist, and the suit and slicked back auburn hair gave her the aura and identity of someone you absolutely don’t want to fuck with.

However, somebody did fuck with her - or rather, her organization - which is why she and Haneda arrived in front of an unassuming noodle shop deep in the ghetto. Her partner snuffed out his cigarette against the bottom of his shoe while Babs rolled up her sleeves. Inside, a few customers ate at the small countertop that more or less made up the entire bar. Upon seeing the pair, the customers immediately scurried out of there. When the shopkeeper emerged from the back kitchen to see what the fuss was about, he immediately dropped the metal spoon in his hand.

“My friends!” he greeted in a shaky voice. “Come, I’ll get you something. On the house. I insist-”

“Mr. Toshiaki,” Haneda greeted calmly yet firmly. “We’re not here to eat. As the political commissars attached to the Red Dragon Triad, we’re here to ask you a question.”

Babs stepped forward, idly resting an arrogant arm on the counter. “We haven’t seen your children at the agora during this past month, Toshiaki. Care to explain?”

His face went white as a sheet, and his teeth clattered as he held up his hands. “I-I pay the monthly protection money, I haven’t done anything wrong-”

“Only our Caesar can decide that,” Haneda corrected. “And he has judged you poorly. The Restoration can only succeed if the next generation is properly educated. They must be taught about the folly of their primitive idols, religions, customs, culture, and lifestyle. Your monthly fees support the curriculum of the agora. You will see nothing in return if you keep your children from attending.”

Toshiaki mustered up some courage. “My children came home telling me that the spirits of my ancestors were mere children’s tales and fables. Is this what the Restoration seeks? To destroy the culture of my homeland-”

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Babs’ hands moved before she even realized. A sort of white hot fury, the one that fueled holy wars, poured through her, into the strong grips she held on his collars. She dragged him over the counter and tossed him onto the ground before her. With one move of a finger, her watch was now wrapped around her knuckles; the clock face broke his nose as she delivered justice in the form of a beatdown.

“The Restoration is for the enlightenment of Arcadia!” Babs snarled. “It’s to uplift the people of this nation. Foreign blood may run through your children, but we can gift them the spirit of Arcadia. But only if they learn!” With each punch came a flashing memory - Haneda teaching her how to write and spell, how to fry rice and cut onions, how to talk to strangers and make friends. What this country could be under the rules and laws of Kallipolis versus the sad state of affairs under the military. What kind of country allowed angry teenagers to violently beat up shopkeepers without the police even knowing about it? Wrong as their definition of justice may be, the military lacked the strength to even enforce it. But it worked to the Restorationists’ advantage, allowing them to slip up through the cracks, gain strength, incorporate local triads and educate the people through the commissars they attached to them, a position not every Restorationist soldier achieved, only those of sufficient dedication and purity of heart-

“That’s enough.” Haneda’s gravelly voice shook Babs out of her trance. Mr. Toshiaki was an unconscious, bloody mess. Babs grabbed a nearby cloth to wipe the blood off her watch; she had worked herself up into a frenzy without even noticing. Worse still - with each ragged breath, Haneda gazed at her with mute disapproval.

Mr. Toshiaki’s wife peered from the kitchen with wide eyes. “We’ll be seeing your children at the agora,” Haneda said in farewell. As they left, the shopkeeper's wife whimpered as she eyed her husband’s wounds.

Back outside, Babs chewed on a stick of bubblegum. Haneda ran a hand through his black hair; he had a stocky, powerful build, yet every movement of his seemed graceful.

“That was foolish,” he told her flatly. “The Restoration is meant to uplift those below us. Not beat them into the ground.” Babs chewed harshly on the gum as she felt regret rush up inside her; Haneda placed a calming, fatherly hand on her shoulder. “By working as acolytes of Caesar, we have been enlightened to the ways of the ancients. But with that knowledge comes responsibility. We must use it wisely. The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. We must be aware. If all we deliver is destruction, then we shall only receive destruction in turn.”

A gum bubble popped as Babs nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll be more careful from now on. I won’t let my emotions get the better of me. But then why does Caesar speak of violence and ruin so often? He says the end justifies the means.”

Haneda simply started walking towards their next destination. “That is for Caesar to decide.”

As for their next destination, it was a large brick building slightly less rundown than its neighbors. Two burly men stood next to the metal door, on the lookout for any outsiders, but the second the political commissars arrived, they immediately gave way. Inside the lobby, Haneda eyed Babs’ sleeves; she rolled them back down to proper form. When he eyed the gum in her mouth, she grinned and swallowed it whole, sticking her tongue back out to complete the spectacle.

Haneda just shook his head. “We’re meeting the leaders of the Red Dragon. Be on your best behavior.”

Babs knew how important this was to Haneda - he was the one Caesar attached to that triad to keep them politically and economically aligned with the overall Restorationist movement, after all - so she didn’t need him to tell her twice.

A Red Dragon foot soldier escorted them to the third floor conference room. Through the windows, smoke rose out of hundreds of textile factories. Zhanghai money built those factories; Arcadians built the urban sprawl surrounding them; the Red Dragons built the racketeering schemes, prostitution rings, and gambling dens that serviced them. And now the Restorationists were here to lead that organically-developed civilization toward justice. For a small fee, of course.

That’s what the commissars were here to discuss, and from the frown on the face of the triad oyabun, he knew that as well. Haneda and Babs took up seats at the other end of the long wooden table; with everyone dressed in suits, this could’ve been mistaken for a business meeting, rather than one with criminal intent. Perhaps they were one and the same at this point.

“Oyabun Ling,” Haneda greeted with the tone of a business partner. “I must congratulate you on your success this past quarter. You’ve trimmed down your accounts receivable to an acceptable amount. The cashflow is decent. I recommend you hire a few extra hands for the next phase of expansion.”

Babs gave a respectful nod. Ling gave the two a hard state. “I’ve told you before. I won’t support something like that.”

Given his old age, he spoke like a true elder - there was a strong conviction in his words. No doubt, he saw Haneda and Babs as mere upstarts who didn’t understand how the world worked.

But this world is changing. Caesar, Haneda, and I are changing it for the better.

And it all started with new forms of trafficking.

“You’ve shared sake with my Caesar,” Haneda reminded him. “You two have signed an oath of loyalty to one another. Caesar allows you to retain control of this territory, yet you dare to go against one of his directives?”

“Political power grows from the barrel of a gun,” Ling said with a sigh. “Your Caesar told me that. I signed that oath because I knew death waited for me otherwise. Your Restorationists control large swathes of the Arcadian underworld, while all we Red Dragons control is this little strip of ghetto. If I refused to become a vassal of yours, I would've been replaced with someone more pliable. But no longer. If I feel something is wrong, I must act on it.” He gave them a rueful smile. “That’s another one of your master’s sayings, is it not?”

“He is wise,” Babs admitted.

“He speaks of wisdom with no clue of what respect is,” Ling corrected. Haneda shot Babs a sharp look to keep her at bay; her blood boiled, but she remained seated.

Ling leaned forward towards them. His trio of bodyguards and associates crossed their arms across their large frames, adding to the imposing scene. “Tell your Caesar I will not peddle drugs for him.”

Haneda scratched his chin. “You’ll peddle the bodies of women and men, but will refuse to sell drugs?”

“Every man has a line he won’t cross.”

“Even for Kallipolis?”

“Utopia is nothing more than a child’s tale, a fable. And the road to your utopia will be built upon the drugged-out bodies of its citizens and brainwashed souls of its vanguard. Will your road ever reach its destination, or will it simply collapse from its rotting foundations?”

That settled the meeting. Haneda stood and nodded in farewell. Before he and Babs could leave, Ling asked him a question.

“If it was up to you, would you sell drugs to build a paradise?”

Haneda thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t sell drugs or bodies. There has to be a better way to reach Kallipolis. But it’s not up to me.”

Babs’ eyes widened from the show of disrespect towards their leader. Ling merely nodded in understanding. “It’s up to your master, no?”

Haneda nodded. “All within Caesar. Nothing outside Caesar. None against Caesar.”