Don't trust an outsider.

Ancient wisdom, the kind borne from primal instinct and the collective experience of the ages. So obvious and so self evident that calling it common sense doesn't do it justice. At least normally. Now it seems like nobody trusts nobody. Must be a sign of the times.

The broad promenade – the straightest, shortest and most direct path to the castle – stands open and empty. Holiday decorations completely absent, save for lanterns lit in vigil or charms placed on fences to ward off evil spirits. Soldiers standing stationed in pairs inside the district at every intersection. The atmosphere solemn and dignified - holding its breath - completely at odds with the rambunctious festivities of the commoners outside, either costumed and celebrating, or being conscripted into the growing army of cadavers.

“Get moving.”

The hatchet and one of my knives had been confiscated as part of the price of gaining entry, and they'd supplied a squad of soldiers to act as my escort. To make sure my destination is actually my destination. Six sporting insignia from the local garrison, and then the two in command wearing the Legion's imperial symbols.

“Hey, I said get moving.” This time the order from the ranking officer coming bundled with a shove. “No lollygagging.”

Three weapons had been overlooked: my other knife, the chain, and, of course, the bottle containing the carefully concealed, nigh untraceable murder weapon.

“Uh, sir, this is Macarthy.”

“Macarthy? Wait, this girl is the one they claimed was responsible for what happened in the harbor a few weeks back?”

“Yes, but more than that, this is Macarthy.”

“You said that. Why's she still walking around?”

“There's not much we can do. They're Outsiders, sir. And this is Macarthy.”

The local soldier's straightforward explanation met with some skepticism, followed by a muttered comment and shake of the officer's head. “Alright then, Outsider,” he says, “I suppose we have to let you meet with your director, so get moving.”

A meeting with Shaker. In hindsight that turned out to be a very poor excuse to get inside the district. It seemed like it'd be a good reason to get close to the castle, but then they decided to send this whole crew to keep an eye on me. The worst part is, because the timetable is pushed up, Shaker probably hasn't even left for the colosseum, yet, and that bastard'll see me turn up on his doorstep and he won't be be put off by any kind of evasion. Hopefully he left early. If he isn't in, then- shit, that'll be bad, too. My lies are catching up sooner than they should. If Shaker isn't in then these guys'll turn me right around and put me out. Maybe make a break for it? Nah, not yet, they'll put out an alert. Deal with them? No, not that, either. Even one preemptive murder will trigger a different kind of more obvious alert.

“I'm here to see Director Shaker.” The guard poking his head outside the front door to Shaker's residence giving me a suspicious caveman squint. “But if he isn't here then I'd like to talk to his wife.” My lame, afterthought addendum ringing phony in my own ears. Moments later the door closing in my face.

Attempting to thread a very fine line. If Shaker's not in – and hopefully he isn't - Paula should still want to talk. And even if he is in, he should be unaware of what's going on at the moment. We'll spend a few minutes chatting, and then he'll take his leave and head over to the colloseum. None the wiser.

The front door to Shaker's residence reopening and Shaker's better half greeting me. “Lucy, welcome. Please come in,” she says. Sending out the misplaced warmth of hearth and home to envelop me in its embrace and warm me to my core.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and gentlemen,” Paula continuing to say after a moment, “I know it's chilly outside, so feel free to come in, as well. I'll get you something to warm yourselves up.”

After a short pause to consider, the officer at the front removing his cap.

“Thank you, ma'am. We appreciate your hospitality.”

Dammit.

The group of soldiers slowly filing in, removing caps and unbuttoning the top buttons of their coats to reveal mussed hair, ruddy cheeks and day old whiskers. Each man's bootsteps inside giving tonight's plan a good tromping on. Each man's grateful offering of thanks producing a lancing pain between my eyes. Shaker's appearance at the top of the staircase producing a particularly acidic lump of bile in the pit of my stomach.

Well, that settles it, not going to be able to shake them. The window for stealthy success is growing ever narrower. Narrow enough to be a suicide mission, at this point. Fine. If that's the case then the only remaining question is: when it fails, how successful a failure will it be? Probably not very successful. Okay. If failure is assured then toss that plan out and try to flip the script. Shoot the moon. Already been dealt a bad hand, so no reason not to try going all out. Snapping to attention and giving the man a crisp salute.

“Director, sir. I have mission critical information that you need to be made aware of.”

Becoming the target of sudden, intense scrutiny. Keeping my jaw tightly clenched and my arm locked in position as every gaze in the room sweeps over me. Surprise from Paula and some of the soldiers, and lingering suspicion from the remainder. The officer, with his imperial symbols, particularly affected, but the target of his suspicion finally resting on Shaker. Holding my pose as Shaker descends step by step, and remaining ramrod straight at his approach. Meeting his glare. Glare for glare.

“At ease. I'll hear your report. Come with me.”

“Harold...” His wife's quiet warning rising above the muttered speculations being shared by the assembled soldiers.

“I'm sorry,” he says, glancing at the group, “I'll only be a few minutes. It sounds like this could be important.”

Following Shaker in the direction of his study, but before leaving earshot witnessing the officer moving to confront Paula, asking the question currently occupying all their minds: 'What mission are they talking about?' Stifling my laugh. That's a dangerous rabbit hole to get sucked down. You may find your answer at the bottom, but you definitely won't like it. You're not real. You don't actually exist.

Taking a seat in the office and listening to Shaker's slow progress as he shuffles around behind me. The man closing and latching the door, some muffled steps on the carpet, and then his hand trailing and tapping along his desk's hardwood surface. The man crouching to take a seat, a coiled spring, and steepling his hands. Tendons still sticking out like wires, but his face fuller than months before. He'd gained some weight since we'd last sat face to face but he doesn't look healthier. Only puffier.

“What do you think you're playing at?” Each syllable bitten in half as it leaves his mouth.

“That's my question.” Returning his fire with fire of my own. “How long have you known?”

The man sitting back in his chair and some of the tension leaving his posture. His eyes briefly looking away to consider the drawer where he keeps his liquor, but then returning to mine. “What's your report?”

Stolen novel; please report.

“I asked you how long you've known.” His lip twitching. “How long have you known about the Marquis' son?”

“The Marquis'... son?” Shaker's hand coming up to touch his mouth. Pulling at one side. “What're you talking about?”

Halting the chain's steady advance as it loosens itself around me and creeps under the table toward the man's leg. Does he really not know? If he doesn't, then maybe my guess is wrong - but what other guess would even make sense? It's the only explanation that fits, unless Evie's thing is more bloodthirsty than- no, that can't be right. Maybe Shaker not knowing does make sense. It stays completely off the radar and effortlessly hides in plain sight. So Shaker doesn't know, then. That is, he -probably- doesn't know. Holding the chain ready, prepared to grab the man if he reacts wrong.

“I'm talking about the vampire currently residing in the building not five hundred feet from where you sleep. The one whispering in the ear of the Marquis, influencing or outright making all the man's decisions.”

Obvious surprise – rapid eye movement and blinking - but no immediate out of hand denial and no scoffing dismissal. “A vampire?” the man says. “You're sure? How do you know that?”

“I have my sources.” A more than educated guess.

“Sources.” The man pondering for a few moments, but then opting to look away and open his desk drawer. Retrieving a half full liquor bottle - a different liquor bottle than the one he'd drank from during our last meeting in this office. Pouring himself a generous glass and filling his mouth. “A vampire,” the man repeats to himself, “I suppose Evelyn must have been your source.” Filling his mouth again before swallowing. “I can understand why you brought this to my attention, but even if what you're saying is true, how does that possibly affect the mission?”

“What if I said that I was planning on doing something about it tonight.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, I suppose the consequences of simply -doing something- could be extreme.” Downing his drink and then slowly refilling it halfway and capping the bottle. “I'm glad you decided to bring it to my attention before you did do anything. It'll be necessary to proceed with some delicacy, given the circumstances, but I'll do something about it. I'll spend next cycle putting out some inquiries, and once I have better understand the situation I'll convene a-”

“Do you remember back when Luther had his little crusade?” Shaker suddenly looking wary, and giving a hesitant nod at my interruption. “A couple of those things killed in a raid, and then a few more strung up to burn at sunrise. Made a public example of.” The man nodding again. “A larger number, undoubtedly, seeing what happened and fleeing the city, altogether.” Tilting his head and giving a resigned shrug. “There were a couple that tried to hide out underground, but the guild put out an order that we weren't to engage. They were going to send someone to try to negotiate with them. I guess the idea was that because they'd been put into a compromised position, we'd be able to come to a compromise with them that was favorable to us.”

Shaker not saying anything, unconscionably sipping his liquor as he listens to my story.

“Well, that's what was supposed to happen, at least, but no one managed to get around to telling me what we were supposed to be doing. At the time I'd been out in a field for a few days, and on my way in I stumble across some very well dressed - temporarily embarrassed, I suppose - people down in the sewers who clearly didn't belong. A group of them and their manservants. Wait, sorry, I misspoke. Not people. Things. That group of things definitely caught my attention. Afterwards, when I was getting chewed out for doing what I did, I had a sort of epiphany.”

“What was that?” says Shaker, oblivious to the chain now fully encircling his chair.

“My former master was very upset. Pacing back and forth, wagging his finger at me, saying how impulsive and idiotic I was, how I went and messed up an important, strategic alliance. I always knew it, in the back of my head, but some of what he was saying during that lecture really struck me wrong, so I decided to ask him about it. I asked if he was legitimately upset that a couple monsters who'd wandered into our territory ended up getting killed, and that's when he said it. He stopped dead in his tracks and said, 'Monsters? An Outsider calling anyone else a monster, that's rich. At least they belong here.' A moment later he realized what he'd let slip, and he apologized. At the time I just waved it off, no big deal, but I certainly didn't forget it.”

Shaker finishing his half glass and placing it back on his desk.

“We're us and they're them. That's the way it is. We put up with them because it's easier that way, and when things were going fine there was no real reason to make waves. But, for their part, they only put up with us because they don't have much of a choice. If they could choose between us and literal bloodsucking monsters, odds are they'd choose the monsters.” Casually stretching out an arm to the side and putting a blot on the man's face simply as added precaution. “Not all of them, of course, but definitely some. Which is a shame because I generally like them. This whole situation really is quite a shame.”

“Why did you come to see me, exactly?” says Shaker, beginning to catch on that something about the conversation seems amiss.

Delay and misdirection. Scar should've reported in by now to distract my former master, and this meeting will cause the soldiers who followed me to harbor suspicions of their own.

“To confirm that you were in on it, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe you're not. I'm not entirely convinced, but maybe you're not.”

The man frowning. “I take it the only way to convince you would be to let you go ahead with whatever it is you've got planned tonight.” Which you won't allow. “Which I certainly will not allow.”

“You won't allow it because you don't want to, or you don't want to because you're not allowed to?”

The man clenching his jaw at my accusation, but then his posture going slack. Bingo. A clear admission of guilt, an admission of his treachery - of all of their treachery. Reaching out with the chain and whirling it around. Arms and legs bound to the chair and the chain wrapping around his neck twice. Bending it back.

“I knew it.” Moving to the other side of the desk and using an eyedropper to administer some of the liquid from my acid proof jar into the struggling man's eye as he chokes and tries to cry out for help in vain. “I didn't come here begging your permission. I came here tonight because I'm telling you how it's going to be.” The man now caught between trying to suck in air and trying to blink out as much of the snake's venom as he can. After thirty or so seconds relaxing the chain's grip as the neurotoxin starts taking effect.

“You're pathetic. A year back I know you all agreed to help the Empire fight a war - by riding on our backs, nonetheless - but they weren't the only party to that agreement. What else did you tell your imaginary things up in the clouds that you'd do, I wonder? Whatever it was, I bet you all thought you could use us to pay for that part of it, too. Well, just because your little group of conspirators agreed to something doesn't mean you get to drag us along with your suicide pact. You want to know what I'm doing tonight? I'm revoking this nice, cushy arrangement you've been enjoying for so long, and then I'm going scrap and rewrite the terms of that particular agreement. You've only got two choices, so take this time to think it through. You can either go along with what I'm doing, and support me after the fact, or you can get dragged down when they try to throw me overboard.”

Retracting the chain and recoiling it around myself. Considering the man sitting slumped in his chair, mouth slightly open, flecked with spittle, and now beginning to drool. Lean him back a little bit, put his hands on his lap and close his eyelids. Use his shirt to clean his mouth. There, he drank too much and is simply sleeping. That's all it is.

“Honestly, I don't know which is worse. That you knew about the vampire and decided to go along with it, or that you didn't even know about it in the first place. I suppose either way it doesn't matter, you demonstrated you were completely unfit for leadership when you murdered your own child.” The man letting out a noise, undoubtedly a protest, but the sound conveying nothing intelligible. Exiting the office and turning back to regard the overburdened, overwhelmed, impotent failure sitting propped up in his chair. Reprising my earlier salute and projecting my voice so that it carries down the hallway. “Sir, yes, sir!” Quietly closing the door behind me.

Alright, in order to complete the illusion go... not this way, it sounds like they're all over there now. Turn back, take this turn and go around. Okay, back at the entrance with no witnesses along the way. Opening the door and closing it hard. Great. Now to rejoin Paula from this direction.

The squad of soldiers and the door guard had made themselves at home in the dining room under a great chandelier. Paula, herself, pouring some steaming liquid into their cups, moving from man to man, outwardly affable. Polite. At the sight of me, the woman setting down the ornately painted teapot with a touch too much force, then hurrying over.

“I heard there was an issue with the tournament tonight,” she says, before adding. “How's Harold?”

“I informed your husband about what was going on and he's taking appropriate action.” Addressing her as much as everyone else in the room.

“That's, um, if you have the time, I was wondering if you'd care to stay for a bit. If these gentlemen want to get back to their post I'd be happy to take you off their hands.”

That should work. Get these guys out of here and off my back. Shaker should be down for at least an hour.

“Sorry Ma'am,” says the officer, “I have my orders that we're to escort that one while she's in the district. Apparently she's Macarthy, whatever that means.” The rest of his squad, minus the other out-of-towner, knowing exactly what that means. Distrust and unease following my every move.

No such luck, then, but that was expected. The clock starts now.

“After talking to the Director I have my mission for tonight, but I'd definitely still like to chat. First, though, if you don't mind, where's the washroom?”