Oliver stumbled to a stop. The big man was standing in front of the door. He thought about reaching for his knife, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. Then he saw that the big man was reaching into his coat and taking something out.

Oliver cast a quick glance over his shoulder; the others were coming. He had to decide what to do — now or never.

When he looked back, the bruiser had pulled a wand out of his coat pocket, this one painted a matte black, with crimson runes running down its short length visible between his sausage-sized fingers. It didn't look friendly.

Oliver slowly raised his hands. "Easy," he said. "I'm not going to give you any trouble."

The big man said nothing, just kept the end of the wand trained on Oliver, raising his other hand to it as he planted his feet. It looked like a practiced pose.

Oliver glanced over his shoulder again and saw that he was surrounded, realized that he wasn't going to be able to make a break for it.

"Oliver, wait!" said Tiro from somewhere behind him. "It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" asked Oliver, not taking his eyes off the big guy. "And what does it look like, friend?"

"Well, uh, I imagine it looks like a kidnapping attempt from where you're standing."

Oliver didn't justify this with a response. There was nowhere he could run or dodge to, and there was no point tackling the big guy. Wand aside, he was certain he'd come out on the losing end of that exchange. He cursed himself for a fool; but he'd had no way of knowing what Tiro was doing when he decided to join Polephenes in what had sounded like a friendly visit.

"Let's all just calm down," said Tiro again reasonably, coming up beside Oliver, within reach. Oliver glanced over, saw his chance, took it.

He threw himself to the side and put Tiro in a headlock, twisting his body so that Tiro was in between him and the wand held by Cauliflower Ears and his back was against the wall of the hallway. In the same motion, he drew his knife and held it up to Tiro's neck, applying enough pressure to break the skin. It was fast enough that nobody else had a chance to react.

"Here's what's going to happen," he ground out between closed teeth. "We're going to go outside, and then Tiro and I are going for a stroll. If you all behave, he'll come home alive, and this is the last you'll see of me."

Somebody screamed, genuine fear. Oliver glanced to the side, where the sound had come from. It was the young woman, Iseult, pale, shock and horror writ on her features. Polephenes stood beside her, looking old and confused, collapsing in on himself.

"Wa—wait," choked Tiro, holding himself very still. That grin was finally gone. "Oliver. I promise. This isn't what it looks like."

"Let's go," said Oliver. "You, Cauliflower Ears, wand down. And out of the way. Move slowly."

The man grimaced, but lowered his wand. Oliver edged along the wall, taking Tiro with him. They were going to be able to do this. Blood trickled onto his arm from where he'd allowed the knife to bite shallowly into Tiro's neck. It wasn't a bluff. He felt Tiro swallow.

"Move," Oliver grunted, jerking his head at the bruiser, who still hadn't cleared the door.

"Galen. Remember Orestes?" Tiro was speaking as he stepped to the side.

The bruiser — Galen — met Tiro's eyes, nodded once, then deliberately raised the wand and pointed it at the two of them once more. There was another scream from off to the side. Oliver felt like something had shifted, like he was losing control of the situation. He'd already told Galen to lower the wand.

"Stop! Get that wand—" he shouted, but it was too late. Tiro pushed away from him, going limp and slithering through his arms. Oliver tried to hold him, but Tiro slipped through his grasp and onto the knife. The blade bit deep into his throat and there was a spurt of scarlet, no, a blaze of scarlet, jetting from the wand towards the two of them. It hit Oliver, then everything was dark.

—

Consciousness returned in waves. Oliver felt his pulse pounding at his temples, a ferocious headache washing over him.

"Good, you're awake." Oliver opened his eyes. There was a pale orb floating in his vision. It was the face of Polephenes. Attached to his body. Oliver looked around. Memory stole back; the confrontation. He'd almost made it out the door, had taken Tiro hostage. The feel of the knife being tugged in his hand as it bit deep into his once-friend's throat.

He let out a half-sigh, half-groan. "Tiro," called Polephenes, "he's awake."

Oliver raised his head, stifling another groan. Three visions of Tiro slowly resolved into one, the center one, walking up to stand before him.

"Am—I dead?" he asked.

"No more than I am," said Tiro, standing before him whole and unharmed. Oliver blinked. There was a wash of dark red down the front of Tiro's pale clothes. Blood. But his throat was whole and untouched. So, he was still shuffling through this mortal coil. And so was Oliver. Despite the precariousness of the situation, there was some part of him that felt relief at this realization. He hadn't wanted to kill Tiro, despite his anger. It had been a mistake.

"What's happening?" he forced out. His throat was clenched tight, closed, the way it sometimes got when he ate too fast.

"Galen and I pulled the same stunt that I did at Orestes," said Tiro, raising a hand to his throat. "We had a healer on site," he said, gesturing to Polephenes. "So Galen and I took the risk to create an opening. And, well, here we are."

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Oliver looked up, around. They were back in the courtyard, with the fire crackling away in the background. It couldn't have been long since his botched escape attempt. There were a few other people standing by. Galen was watching them. Iseult and another woman were talking in urgent tones in the background, past the fire. Iseult had clearly been crying.

"What did you do to me?" he asked, returning his focus to Tiro.

"We, ah, killed you," said Tiro, sounding for all the world like a schoolboy caught passing notes.

"You killed me?"

"It was only temporary," Tiro assured him, smiling faintly at a joke only he knew. "Like I said, we had a healer on site."

Belatedly, as feeling returned to his body, Oliver tried to free his arms, only to find that he was bound to a chair. Legs were bound tight, too. It was good work, tight without cutting off circulation. He looked down. A stone outdoor chair, solid. They knew their work.

He took a second look at Galen while Tiro studied him quietly. Galen still had the wand drawn, was holding it loosely in one hand. His sleeves were cut at the elbow, revealing a familiar looking black tattoo on the inside of one muscled forearm arm.

It was the same tattoo that the young man he'd helped break out of the brig in the military camp had had. A military tattoo? The Romans used to do it. And it matched with Tiro yanking up his sleeve, if he'd suspected him of being a deserter. That was a clue.

"Who are you?" asked Oliver.

"I'd be happy to share that, friend," said Tiro, "but first, we have a few questions of our own. Manus, if you'd be so kind?"

Another man, one Oliver hadn't seen before, stepped into his field of view. Oliver's gaze dropped to his hand, wondering if he'd see — yes. A ring with a single translucent gem set in it. A truth-teller. Whoever this outfit was, they had gear.

"Are you or have you ever worked for the Empire in any capacity?" asked Tiro.

Oliver didn't answer, thinking.

"Oliver," he said gently. "It's in your best interest to answer the question."

"Fine. No, I haven't," said Oliver. The ring remained quiescent. His headache roared.

"What is your name?" Tiro asked.

"Oliver Grace."

"Are you truly from another world?"

Oliver's breath caught in his throat. Before these strangers? He glanced around the courtyard again. There were four people watching him directly, and somebody facing away, looking into the fire. They were wearing a cloak with the hood up. The two women, still talking in the background. Iseult's body language spoke to extreme distress. Nobody else seemed to be watching.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just answer the questions," said Galen, taking a pace forward. He cut an intimidating figure. He had blood on him too, Oliver noticed, deep red arterial blood. Tiro's blood.

Oliver looked away from him, focused on Tiro. Tiro said nothing, merely watched him intently.

"What do you want with me? Tell me who you are," he demanded after a moment.

"I don't think you're grasping the situation," Tiro responded. "We ask the questions. You answer. For now."

"You want me alive," said Oliver. "You could have left me for dead. Twice. But you didn't. That means you want me alive, and you want my cooperation."

"That would certainly make things easier," said the figure looking into the fire, turning and throwing back their hood. It was an elderly woman with white hair and steel in her eyes. "But it's not required. Come now, Oliver, you disappoint me. To have survived this long, I'd have thought you more intelligent than this."

"I'm a mechanical engineer, not a social engineer," he snapped. Another player. Who was this? Complying with their demands irked him on the level of principle, as obvious as it was that he should cooperate.

"Answer the question, Oliver. Please," Tiro pleaded. There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice, even after everything. "We've told you as much as we can. We answered some of your questions up front as a show of trust. We're risking a lot too, here."

Oliver weighed the risks, pausing for a second. If they were going to kill him again, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Still. "A show of trust? You kidnapped me, then you—you killed me! Why should I trust you at all?"

"Because," said Tiro softly. "You want to go home. We want to help you. We can help you."

Oliver felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down. Another portending of change swept over him, a feeling of vertigo.

"Oliver, I already told them what you told me," said Tiro. "We just need to hear you say it."

Galen shifted threateningly again, his glower waxing eloquent.

Fine.

"Yes, alright? Yes. I'm from another world," he spat. The truth-teller once more failed to gainsay him. There was a collective sigh of relief from the group.

Tiro pressed on. "Who are you working for?"

Now that the truth was out, Oliver had nothing to conceal. He answered the question. "Nobody. I'm just trying to survive."

"What do you know about the Moderates?"

"Nothing." The Moderates? Who were they?

"What was your goal in coming here?"

"I was trying to figure out what your game was, Tiro," admitted Oliver. "I knew there was something you were concealing. I needed to know if you could be trusted."

"And how did you convince Polephenes to take you here?"

"I didn't," said Oliver. "I think he just assumed I was with you." A couple of heads turned in Polephenes' direction. The old man cringed, seeming to crumple still further. A far cry from the old, yet competent physician he'd first appeared to be, he now seemed aged and uncertain. There was a new pallor to his features. A mistake had been made.

"Last question. What do you know of the Phoenix project?"

"Nothing," said Oliver. The name was unfamiliar.

"Untie him," said the older women decisively. "He's no threat to us."

"Are you sure?" asked Galen, still scowling at him.

"Just do it," she said tiredly.

Tiro went around behind Oliver and began to untie the knots.

"Don't try anything," warned Galen, pointing the wand at him and taking a stance once more.

Oliver looked at him and nodded. "I won't," he said. The truth-teller the other man – Manus – was wearing flared. Galen just stared at him.

"Fine," he said, "I really won't." Its shine subsided. Galen didn't relax.

With a final tug, the ropes on his hands came loose. He stretched out his arms, rotated his shoulders. The feet were next. Then he was free.

He stood from the chair, finding that he was taller than most in the room other than Galen. Iseult and the other woman looked over as he stood, and then quickly fled the courtyard. Tiro came around, once more entering his field of vision.

"Sorry about all that," Tiro said apologetically. "You surprised all of us," he said, eying Polephenes. "We hadn't planned on bringing you in so soon."

"Can somebody please tell me what's going on?" asked Oliver, rubbing at his wrists. He refused to be mollified by the obvious show of trust they were placing in him by allowing him to stand free after what had just happened. Galen still had the death wand trained on him. He was under no illusions as to what would happen if he made a second break for it.

Tiro, along with everybody else, turned expectantly towards the woman with white hair.

She glanced around at them. "We're a small part of a recently formed group of… activists. Collectively, we're known as the Moderates," she said after a pause. "Primarily, we oppose the Empire's overreach in a number of its recent programs enacted through the additional power granted to the Magisters by the current state of martial law."

Insurgents, then. Rebels. Great. Just great. And now he'd seen faces, learned names. Faces and names they'd just shown that they would kill to protect. "Okay," he said, heart sinking. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Tiro brought you to our attention a couple of days ago," she said. "He suspected, but we couldn't be sure. We've been waiting for verification from another cell, but word travels slowly these days."

"Word of what?" he asked.

"We believe," she said, drawing out the words to create an impression of general dubiousness. "That you are an unknowing participant in the Phoenix project."