A few days later, in the wee hours of the morning, with dawn still stretching across the dilapidated landscape on this side of Narragansett, Lysandros helped unload crates off a delivery truck at the back of the refugee camp. To save on manpower, the refugees were left to police themselves, with the Army guards mainly posted around the Sloan Factory. While that allowed Tommy Typewriter’s men to infiltrate and bully the refugee community, it also meant there were few eyes, if any, on Lysandros as he hoisted the heavy crates toward a storage facility. Both of the refugees who guarded it were part of Lysandros’s faction and took the crates quietly.
Lysandros stepped up into the back of the truck for the last delivery, something everybody in his barracks chipped in for - a big tub of ice cream. The kids would love it, and seeing the kids happy made everybody happy. Lysandros shook the delivery driver’s hand - the driver not only worked for a company outsourced by the Reed conglomerate for camp deliveries, but he was also a second-generation Atalantan refugee and Navy alumni who heard his brethren in Refugee Camp #44 needed help. In exchange for the ice cream, Lysandros handed him a gift from the children - a stuffed animal sewed together by the elderly grandmothers of the barracks. He took it knowingly.
While the truck drove off, Lysandros hauled the ice cream into the storage room, his men shutting the door behind him. After unsealing the tub - and scooping out bowls for his men, because it would be a shame to waste good ice cream in this economy - Lysandros found what he was looking for: a small bundle of rags formerly hidden within the ice cream. Within that bundle he found an even smaller slip of paper and he couldn’t stop a grin from forming on his face.
ALL WE HAD WAS NEAPOLITAN.
Aka, this was the code for “the Navy will act tonight.”
If the Navy called the upcoming operation off, then Lysandros would’ve had to cancel his own corresponding portion of tonight's plan as well. He had already indicated he was ready on his own side - if the careful threads of the stuffed bear were to be pulled apart, Lysandros’s response of URSA MAJOR would be seen, his own coded message. With Lysandros’s part ready, and the Navy making its move, the wheels were finally in motion for the plan to save his community.
All he had to do was get through this last day at the Sloan Factory.
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When the whistle rang to end yet another shift, Lysandros acted like nothing was out of the ordinary. He grabbed his jacket, shivered in the winter cold as he stepped outside, and collected his ration booklet. Spiridon had gone on ahead, leaving just Lysandros and Pavlos. As they stepped through the checkpoint and onto the grounds outside the factory’s jurisdiction, Harold joined them.
“Lysandros, if you have a moment,” he said quietly, gesturing with his eyes that Pavlos should stay out of this. Like a wounded dog, Pavlos sulked away.
“What’s the issue?” Lysandros asked, the minutes to midnight ticking away in his head. “Can Pavlos not hear about it?”
“It’s about the recent debate,” Harold whispered. His eyes darted around the block; dozens of workers were currently leaving the factory grounds. “Not here. Follow me.”
Lysandros eyed his face for a moment, then glanced back at Pavlos. “Go on without me,” he called out, scratching at his ear. Pavlos nodded, then pulled his jacket closer around him and headed back to the barracks.
With Harold in the lead, the two walked under flickering street lights to the beer hall district. Lysandros scratched his head when they passed by their usual spot.
“Place is compromised,” Harold whispered. “An informant in the Army told me the barmaid has started talking in exchange for rations.”
Lysandros shook his head. “And to think sh's a fellow Atalantan.” Such was life in Arcadia at the moment - sell your own people out for potatoes and goulash. But as Lysandros eyed Harold, he supposed he understood. He scratched his ear again as Harold led him down into the basement of a brick building. This one, at least, had electrical lighting, revealing a small pub. Maybe half the tables were occupied; the pair took up seats in the corner of the stone walls, away from prying eyes.
Harold whispered across the table, keeping his eyes and head low. “Spiridon will be making a move against you soon. He doesn’t have the patience to wait on your promises. He and his men plan on murdering you tonight.”
“Murder?” Lysandros repeated, studying Harold’s face.
A grim nod answered him. “They plan on pinning the crime on Tommy Typewriter and using it as a pretext to wipe him and his men out.”
“Tommy sends money upstairs to Major Sloan. The Army wouldn’t like Spiridon taking him out.”
“That’s why Spiridon’s going to give up several ‘agitators’ to Sloan to appease him.” Harold gestured at himself. “Me, Pavlos, Keti-”
“She’s not involved,” Lysandros cut in forcefully.
Harold raised his hands. “I’m just saying that anybody connected to you could be handed over to the Army as suspected dissidents. He’ll wipe out the whole pacifist faction tonight if we don’t do something.”
Lysandros let Harold’s words sink in. A couple of flies flew in circles below the lightbulb in the center of the basement. “And what do you suppose we do?”
Harold answered immediately. “Take out Spiridon first. A preemptive strike.”
“The man’s our friend.”
“The man will kill us if we don’t do something.”
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“And what proof do you have?”
Harold narrowed his eyes. “With our lives on the line, now’s the time you choose not to trust me? I stuck up for you at that debate, remember?”
Lysandros rubbed his chin, aware of the subtle, almost invisible glances of the other pub patrons in his direction, and then leaned forward. “Did you stick up for me…or did you just want an easy way of figuring out who stood with me and who stood with Spiridon? Identifying those who were violent, and those who would negotiate?”
Several eyes shifted to Harold before returning to their own drinks. He crossed his arms. “What are you implying?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Lysandros said, gesturing for Harold to tilt his head closer. “You have a tell. Whenever you’re bluffing, your nose goes slightly red. I’ve seen it while playing cards too many times. I saw it at the debate when you talked about letting each man speak his mind. I saw it when you brought me to this bar. And I’m seeing it now, talking about this alleged plan by Spiridon.” Lysandros rested his head on his upturned palm, having figured the jig out. “You’re trying to use me to eliminate Spiridon, aren’t you? You feel his plans for violence are more of a danger to your boss than my promises.”
“My boss?”
“Tommy Typewriter.”
With a long sigh, Harold ran a hand through his hair, tufts of dark red slipping between the fingers. “You’re a smart man, Lysandros. That’s why I think I can work with you.” He neatly folded his hands on the table. “My boss isn’t just Tommy Typewriter. I report to Major Sloan himself.”
“So, you’re not just an informant for the sharks. You’re an informant for the Army as well.”
“My family’s starving up north,” Harold explained. “The crop didn’t go so well and whole granaries were burned by retreating Zhanghai forces. Tommy and Sloan pay me on the side, I keep my sister fed. I’m no different than any other poor farmer’s kid. Or rather, I’m better.”
Lysandros tilted an eyebrow. “Better?”
“Most of the men in my position are far more radical than me. There’s a disease within the junta right now - the Knights of Greater Arcadia.”
A name like that earned a curse from Lysandros. “The ultranationalists. They’ve delivered their ‘justice’ to a few of my people. Henry Spinelli’s arrest has them all in an uproar.”
“The general situation in Arcadia has them in an uproar,” Harold corrected in an academic tone. “They’re armed, well-connected, and dangerous. We believe they plan on supplying radical minority groups like Spiridon’s.”
“Why would Arcadian supremacists arm refugees?”
Harold shrugged and placed his arms at his side. “As of yet, we don’t know. But arming extremists poses a threat to the status quo, which poses a threat to Major Sloan and Tommy, which poses a threat to my family’s well-being. Now, you’re a smart man, Lysandros. All you need to do is eliminate Spiridon-”
“Who’s not actually plotting against me.”
“Yet. But he very well could do so in the future. Better to take him out now. And if you do so, you’ll have earned the backing of some major players. Think about it. You’ll see some extra rations from Sloan. He’ll get Tommy to back off your people. All you have to do is take out Spiridon and then inform us of any other threats to the establishment. It’s a win-win for everyone.”
Lysandros felt like every pair of eyes in the basement was on him. “So, anyone who wants to make a positive change, to live their own lives, to free themselves from gangsters and better their working conditions in the factories, I rat them out and they disappear? In exchange for peace, I simply need to sell my soul?”
“A soul’s no good when you’re dead,” Harold answered. His arm shifted beneath the table. “And trust me, if you refuse to accept this offer, you’ll certainly be dead. Because I have an alternative plan - I can kill you myself, pin the blame on Spiridon and his men, and use the chaos to take over your faction and eliminate the other one.”
“Awful lot of witnesses around here,” Lysandros pointed out. As if on cue, one by one, every patron in the bar suddenly shifted their jackets and pants, revealing pistols in their hands. Below the table, a revolver clicked as Harold cocked the hammer. “Like I said, you’re a good man. Make the right choice here. Because, if you don’t, those close to you will suffer.”
The air went stale in the basement as Lysandros put a lid on the nerves currently creeping through him. Under a flickering lone light bulb in the center of the room, he leaned his head back and let out a deep breath. “I understand you, Harold. You’re doing what needs to be done for your family. Unfortunately for you, so am I.”
Lysandros kicked his leg straight up, his knee colliding into the revolver, smashing the metal and Harold’s fingers into the bottom of the table. Harold swore and the gun went off, shooting a hole through the table, narrowly missing Lysandros as it sailed past his head. As the other patrons raised their weapons, Lysandros kicked the table up, sending its edge smacking into Harold’s neck as it tipped over. The heavy wood provided a shield, and Lysandros certainly needed it - over a dozen pistols simultaneously went off, all of Tommy and Sloan’s men and women with their fingers on the trigger.
All the gunfire created a cloud of smoke, but with so many people shooting, the bullets constantly flew. Lysandros donned his shades and raised a hand - his Rhododactylos activated with a snap of his fingers, plunging the room into the sheer light of a crisp dawn. But just because the hostiles were blind didn’t mean they would stop shooting - all of them had Lysandros’s table in their sights before he activated his disorientating power. The table had pinned Harold to the ground; Lysandros pulled him free, and Harold caught his breath with neck now freed from the weight of the table.
The blind gunfire continued on the other side, sharp smacks and thuds against the overturned table shielding them. Lysandros retrieved Harold’s pistol and aimed it at the traitor below him, who had been shielded from the Rhododactylos by the table. Harold’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s too late,” Harold answered. “You shouldn’t have told me about the Navy’s plan to raid Tommy’s estate next week. He’ll be well-fortified by then.”
Lysandros grinned. “Who said it was next week? Did I say that? Then I must’ve been mistaken, because the raid’s actually tonight.”
Harold frowned. “Did you always distrust me because I’m an Arcadian?”
“No, it’s because you’re an awful liar.”
Despite the tension at the moment, Harold couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, it looks like all those guys are trying to shoot me, too. Guess they were jealous of my connection to Sloan. I think we’re going to die together.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Lysandros said, and right on time, too - right as the dawn was about to wear off, several explosives bounced down into the basement, metallic clinks echoing around the stone as they rolled to the feet of the assailants. The resulting explosions were little more than firecrackers since these were smoke grenades; between the first dawn, a second dawn created by Lysandros as he snapped his fingers again, the smoke, and the hail of gunfire now coming down the stairs as Lysandros’s men stormed the basement, the bar patrons could do little but fire blindly or hit the deck to save themselves.
Pistol in hand, Lysandros gazed down at Harold.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
The bullet exited through Harold’s temple.