Barley Street was the largest thoroughfare in northern Fogard, a gritty but well-trafficked dirt road occupied by a variety of small shops. Where the main road to the south had larger stores that sold the most common staples, Barley Street was known for its obscurities. The stalls there sold everything from curios purporting to come from lost ruins beneath the badlands or forgotten temples deep in the northern tundra to pulp novels imported from kingdoms across the continent and elaborate hand-made novelty sweets. Normally it was a bustling street that did brisk business, and even now with the city under heavy watch there were small crowds gathered across its length. Instead of shopping, though, the pedestrians were waiting at checkpoints manned by the city’s guards, waiting for someone to look them over and let them through.

They didn't have much choice. It was difficult to move through the north side of the city without passing through Barley Street at some point, so naturally it was one of the most tightly controlled streets in the city. Automaton guards were posted in front of every side road, preventing anyone from leaving the area until one of the human guardsmen–who were much better at identifying faces, seeing as they had their own–could verify they weren't either of the people Cornelius was turning the city over to find.

Even with their best efforts, it was easy to slip through the cracks if you knew how to move through the city. And that’s what everyone gathered at the rendezvous point had done, sneaking past the checkpoints over roofs, through back doors and windows furtively opened by willing associates, or by simply walking through and avoiding the guards’ scrutiny. Each of them were dressed in long, form-concealing robes, and they didn’t waste time talking once they were all gathered.

They had slipped in undetected, but they were never going to remain that way once they began marching in formation, five of them in a circle surrounding the sixth, large, heavy cloth hoods up over their heads, faces hidden from view. And sure enough, it was only a few minutes after the start of their march when a guard barked out an order and the group was boxed in by a squad of four automatons. Their human handler, a short, squat man in a uniform only slightly redder than his face, circled cautiously. He thought himself a shark, but he was closer to a little yappy dog, teeth bared and back arched in a vain attempt to hide his fear. Once it became clear they weren’t going to do anything until he did, he stopped in front of the group and stepped forward, one hand firmly gripping the heavy pistol at his waist.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded. "Whatever this demonstration is supposed to be, you folks have chosen a real bad time for it."

Nobody responded. The leader of the group, a tall and slender figure, stepped forward. They looked down at the guard, and slowly took off their hood, revealing a face covered by a crude, red devil mask, with sharp teeth and six horns, hand-crafted out of paper and paste.

The guard stepped back, slowly removing his pistol from its holster. “Okay, freakshow, I’m not playing your game. All of you get on the ground or I tell the robots to pounce."

Before he could make good on his threats, the smallest robed figure, the one in the center, yelled and burst forward, freeing herself from the crowd and barreling past the tall figure in the red mask. "Officer, officer, please!" she yelled. "You have to save me!"

She stumbled and tripped and fell onto her knees in front of the guard, face turned down towards the ground. His eyes went wide with surprise and he hesitated, his brain not yet caught up to what was before him. But soon he raised his pistol, hands shaking with nerves, to level it at the demon-masked figure before him.

Blam.

Before the guard could aim his gun, a shot rang out from the back. Marcie ripped her robes off with her claw as an automaton guard fell before her. The four cloaked figures still standing made a break for it all at once, charging off while Marcie whipped around, drawing her second gun, and shot down two of the other automatons who were turning around to give chase..

"Shit," the human guard cursed, dropping down to his knees to make a smaller target. "It's her!" But then the dots in his head began to connect, and he turned his attention to the woman on her knees in front of him, who he was all but hiding behind. "Princess?"

He reached out and pulled back her hood, revealing a stocky, dark-haired, middle-aged woman who trembled ever so slightly in fear. "I don't know what happened," she began to recite, "these men grabbed me and tied me up–"

But the guard pushed her aside and scrambled to his feet. He raised his pistol once more, whipping it around in every direction as he tried to get a bead on the four robed figures dashing away in four different directions. "P-Princess Genevieve!" he called out, running forward recklessly, blinded by the visions of promotion he saw in that brief moment where he thought he had found her, and the punishments he knew were coming once she slipped through his fingers.

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Once his back was turned to her, the woman ran off as well, discarding her robe and vanishing into a group of fleeing passersby who wanted nothing to do with any of this.

The commotion had already drawn the attention of every guard on the street, human and automaton. All of the automatons charged away from their posts to swarm Marcie, who was already retreating to higher ground, towards a building with a low roof and a set of awnings she could easily scale. Her gunshots rang out across the city as she knocked the automatons down one by one, steadily slowing the tide as they advanced ever forward, waves crashing closer and closer. Some of the human guards tried to chase after the runners, but their patrols were well spaced out. Only the closest even realized there were other people to chase, and they were still too far to have any hope of catching them.

The next step of the plan worried Genevieve the most. She hadn't been around the city, and she had no idea what the layout of the streets would be like. One of the others was supposed to loop around and link up with her, but they hadn't made it quite as far as they hoped, and they were a few streets off the planned route. All she could do was keep running and hope they could adjust and find her.

Mercifully, the robes were easier to run in than the dress had been, though Genevieve still found herself lifting up the front to keep herself from tripping over it. She ran down the street she had chosen, past beat-up homes and makeshift stalls where small-time merchants sold whatever food would keep in the badlands heat. It must have been a strange sight for the residents, watching a madwoman in a long robe and a mask running erratically through town. She caught bewildered stares from the few people who were still outside despite the gunshots coming from Barley Street. They must have been wondering what was happening, and Genevieve’s mad dash surely only made things more confusing. That was the point, in a way. Cornelius would figure out what happened eventually, but a little bit of chaos and uncertainty just might buy them enough time to escape.

Genevieve did her best to keep pace, keep her breathing steady, and keep going, but after a few minutes of running she was fully out of breath. Her chest ached in protest, so overworked that adrenaline wasn’t making the difference anymore. She gradually slowed to a walk, and then stopped in the street with her hands on her knees. Her legs were shaking too much to continue.

Since she was already stopped, she took a moment to pull the wax plugs from her ears and slip them away in a pocket. Marcie shouldn't have to do her thing anywhere near her now, and it was better that Genevieve be able to hear the clanking footsteps of approaching automatons, just in case.

While Genevieve was catching her breath, a scraggly young man carting a wheelbarrow full of grain put down his cargo and approached her. "Excuse me," he called out as he came near. "Did you come from Barley Street? Do you know what's happening up there?"

She didn't try to voice an answer. She just turned her head towards him, and looked at him through the eye holes in her mask.

The young man took a step back, shock and confusion written across his face. Genevieve knew that meant it was time to start running again, no matter how much her body protested. She took off once more, as fast as she could manage. Which wasn’t much more than a jog by now.

"Okay, then," she heard him muttering behind her. "So nothing good." He returned to his wheelbarrow and cast his eyes back up the road, an indecisive frown on his face.

Wherever he was supposed to be going, it wasn't Genevieve's problem. Her problem was where she was supposed to be going, and with every step she took, the fact that she didn't know became a more pressing issue. For all she knew, she had completely overshot the route, and every step was taking her further and further away from her destination. There was no sign of the one designated to guide her, so for all she knew he had lost track of her, or decided to go ahead on his own without her. She wondered if it wasn't a better idea to turn and get closer to her original route, but she had no idea if the roads would actually take her along the same path. Trying to get un-lost might only get her more lost, and everything would go to waste if she wound up captured in the wrong part of the city because she couldn't keep a map in her head properly.

She was so busy worrying she missed her opportunity that she almost did miss the robed arm sticking out from behind a building up ahead and waving at her. Wasting no time, she rounded the corner to find one of the other members of the procession, a wiry, muscular man with tanned skin and a purple mask. “There you are,” he said in his gruff voice. "If I knew you were gonna be this slow, I woulda moved further up the road."

"I'm… very sorry," Genevieve panted between breaths. "I ran as much as I could… but I got winded."

"Ah, whatever. It's fine." Two gunshots rang out from the roofs above them. "Demon girl's buying us plenty of time. If I thought we were in trouble, believe me, I'd be giving you hell for it. But there's no sense throwing out an egg that ain't been cracked yet."

Genevieve bent over and put her hands on her knees, trying to breathe deeply. Perhaps if she could just take in more air her limbs would stop screaming so loudly. "Am I… the egg, or…?"

"Don't think about the metaphor too much, kid." He slapped her on the back and then tried to pull her up onto her feet again. “C’mon, we’re gonna go, so let’s go. I’ll take it easy so you can follow, but I really wanna get out of this dump, and if you’re slowing me down, that’s on you.”

“All right, all right,” Genevieve said, waving off his grip and standing herself up straight, steeling her body for another sprint. “I understand. We’re–we’re getting out of this place. I want that too.”

“So long as we’re on the same page, girlie.” He clapped her shoulders and then turned to run. “It’s a few streets over still. Stay with me and you’ll be just fine.”