“Sorry for pointing a pistol at you,” Lonceré pulled forth two chairs for them, “And for the secluded location.” His head and his tone dropped, “You just… never know who you can trust.”

“I understand,” Paracelsus sighed as he took his own seat, “But never point a gun at me again.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Lonceré dared not laugh at the situation lest he incur the wrath of said captain. But as he looked at him, he couldn’t help but feel as though the alchemist had softened up. A smile, soft and gentle, now adorned the face that was once adorned by a scowl.

“I’m not your captain anymore,” He offered, lighting up a cigarette for both of them, “I mean - I did intend to offer an invitation -”

“Accepted,” Lonceré sprung to his feet, “When do we ship out?”

“Wednesday,” His captain quirked an eyebrow, “Why so eager?”

“I’m a free spirit,” His tone was assuredly nervous, a far cry from the confident man Paracelsus knew, “I can never be held down in any one place.”

“How are you alive?” He changed the topic, not wanting to pry further, yet, “I mean, I saw you and your double get shot.”

The cook fidgeted nervously with his hands, as though unsure of whether or not he could divulge the information, “I lied about my gifts. I can’t create doubles,” He held up three fingers, “But triples. I always kept one hidden, just in case.” His captain was about to interrupt, but he interrupted his interruption, “How about you, Captain? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before.”

There was much implication in that comment, and Paracelsus knew it. He didn’t look back fondly on his time in the Revolutionaries, and neither did Lonceré. He was sure it was in no small part due to his own command, a topic which he was very conflicted about.

He spent too long pensively perusing his catalogue of regrets, however, and said “I suppose it’s because it’s free?” He offered, but the joke was clearly insufficient, as his cook narrowed his eyes, apparently now more comfortable with the prospect of questioning him, “I’ve decided to continue my work, from those times.” He wrung his hands together, now being the nervous party, “But I’ve decided to go about it differently. I want to make a difference in this world, Lonceré. Believe me I do. But I realized that treating my people, my friends, like candles would inevitably burn them out.”

You couldn’t have realized that three years ago? Lonceré thought, but decided not to verbalize so as not to antagonize an already resolved issue, “When you say ‘continue your work’?”

“I mean it.” The captain confirmed.

“But you’re one man,” He offered, leaning back on his chair. The smoke from his cigarette trailed upwards, and for some reason both of them couldn’t help but let their gazes follow it, “With one crew. Unless you mean to tell me you have a whole fleet now?”

“I barely have a crew,” Paracelsus’ words may have been venomous, but his tone and body language was one of reverent joy, “But I’ve grown fond of them. I believe in us.”

“Have you told them?” The cook asked, “What they really signed up for?”

Before Paracelsus could formulate a response, the door was kicked open and off its hinges, sending tiny splinters flying at the duo. Immediately, bees started swarming the room, their stingers acting as tiny dirks.

On instinct, Lonceré used his second gift, his telekinesis to lift a chair and swat them away, batting the tiny invaders back, “Were you followed?!” His words were barely audible over the deafening buzzing noise.

“I must’ve been!” Paracelsus shouted back, readying his pepper-box for whoever was attacking them.

It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, the Tanendille police. The beekeeper , as he was known in Paracelsus’ mind, stood at the back, providing long-range cover with his familiar as two of his cohorts charged the two of them. They seemed to be fairly mundane, neither empowering themselves or otherwise using their gifts as they raised their pistols.

The captain acted fast, throwing his jacket, which he turned to steel (albeit not without his own great supply of pain) which eventually managed to trip the two attackers up. “Two down -” He said.

“About twenty to go,” Lonceré quickly duplicated himself, using their combined strength to lift the door with their minds, “Give or take.”

He sent the door forward, blowing it past a policeman who used her superior agility to duck under it, at which point it struck two of them flowing into the door like water. Speaking of, the officer who’d managed to avoid the attack used some type of water motif as he legs became springy, compressing and bouncing off the walls as she closed the distance between the two and one-half men she was leading the charge against.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Take this!” She relied more on her martial arts than any swordplay, it seemed, as she took to savate-boxing Paracelsus, while his friend was busy holding off the rest of them.

“Would you believe -” The captain ducked under a high kick aimed for his right temple, “Would you believe -” He jumped over a sweeping kick, “This is all a misunderstanding?”

After a few more moments of dodging, he foresaw the fight taking too long if he kept it up. So, he formed a cat’s cradle between his outstretched palms and waited until the boxer extended her arm. When the moment came, he lunged at his opportunity, using the rope between his fingers to bind her hand.

“Lonceré!” He quickly disentangled himself and produced a few daggers, all the while pushing down the pain in his chest, before throwing them at his cook.

He picked up on the subtext quickly. Lonceré and his clone used their minds to command the daggers, almost forming a small squad of invisible soldiers, slashing their knives in service of the two. It still proved insufficient, with no leverage to back themselves, the daggers were knocked away by another police officer, a tall man with ram horns, who used said horns to charge his way through the weapons.

The officer used those horns to great effect, batting away the small block of wood Lonceré had used as a makeshift weapon. With the cook on his backfoot, his front foot in the air, and both arms now knocked akimbo, the ram-man used the opportunity and gored him through the chest with his horns.

As the light faded from his eyes, his consciousness quickly flew to his double, and his original body disappeared into smoke, the only proof of its existence being the blood on his horns. Within a second of the cook regaining his bearings, a gruesome crack sounded from the officer’s chin, as Lonceré used his gift to send a loose stone in the ground hurtling upwards in defiance of gravity.

“There’s too many of them,” Paracelsus limped over. Despite not taking any particularly strong hits, the combination of the bees sapping his stamina and his gift damaging him had him doubled over, “Why’d you lead me so far?”

“I lived here when I was six,” Lonceré himself was huffing and puffing, the exhaustion taking its toll on him, “I thought it was a nice metaphor.”

There was no time to rest, however, as the remaining police, thirteen of them, had surrounded the two. They’d fought off worse odds, but with the fact they hadn’t fought together in years, and their own respective exhaustion, it was certainly shaping up to be a challenge. The group enclosed them slowly, taking it one step at a time as the ring around them grew smaller and smaller.

“Why aren’t you shooting them?” Lonceré whispered.

“That’s not who I am, anymore.” Was the only cryptic reply Paracelsus gave.

The cook rolled his eyes in familiar exasperation. Paracelsus’ ever-shifting temperament had gotten them into trouble too many times to count, and how his pacifism would prove their downfall. He was about to resign himself to capture, sure his captain could free them from their confinement, when a shot rang out, blowing clean off the head of the beekeeper.

“Shit.” Paracelsus saw Silver standing in the doorway. She just had to be there, didn’t she?

“A lover?” Lonceré took his opportunity, lunging at one of the (now distracted) officers, disarming him in the process.

“Far from it!” Paracelsus similarly grabbed an officer’s weapon, using it to incapacitate two others.

“Oh, you wound me, Paracelsus,” Silver produced another pistol, shooting down one of the officers who was unlucky enough to regain his bearing quickly, “You know - they say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

You’re more of a she-devil, The alchemist had the good sense not to antagonize who might very well be their savior. The three formed a shockingly effective team, and the fight was cleaned up within a few minutes.

“What are you doing?!” He snatched a gun from Silver’s hand, rendering it inert. His overuse of his gift was starting to take its toll, but neither his wobbly legs nor the blood pooling in his mouth was enough to stoke his rage.

“You know they’ll only continue to chase you, right?” She asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which, to be fair, it was.

“I’ll not allow you execute them any further,” Lorane shuddered at the fire in his eyes, more accurately at the thought of extinguishing it, though she didn’t let it show, “Three dead is more than enough.”

“You’ll be an upstanding member of society, yet.” Lonceré chuckled at the joke, before starting to fall on his side, “Is it just me - or is the world turning sideways?”

He was rendered unconscious as soon as his head hit the ground, and his captain quickly rushed to his aid, intending to sling him over his shoulder. For a brief second, just the smallest fraction of a moment, he realized his error in turning his back to Silver and felt a needle pierce his neck and heard the low hiss of a syringe.

—

“I’ve been robbed,” Tariq sing-songed, twirling around a stake that held a tent to the ground. He was flushed and smiling like a dope as he dizzied himself, “And what’s more - I’m alone… all alone.”

“Get down from there!” Serpacinno shouted. He was twirling around the stake, yes, but with his feet positioned in such a way that it looked like he was climbing a great tree, “You’re gonna fall!”

As if he wanted to prove her point, he let go and allowed himself to drop to the ground. He dully thudded as he hit the grass, and groaned painfully as his back ached worse than it ever had before.

“Told you,” She at least had the kindness to help him to his feet, “Have you seen Parace?”

“Parace?” He asked.

She sputtered over her words, much to the amusement of Sally, who was still tagging along, “Paracelsus, I meant.”

“No idea,” He offered professorially, “But didn’t he say he was planning on meeting someone here?”

“Whatever,” Serpacinno’s mind was drifting to Gareland, “He’ll be fine.”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Sally pointed out, fiddling with the pockets on her slacks, “He get lost a lot?”

Serpacinno brought her hands, balled into fists, to her hips and sighed heavily. “Yes.” She sighed in annoyance, even if ‘lost’ wasn’t exactly the right word.

“Sorry, folks, but we’re finishing up here,” The owner of the tent came from around the corner and said, “You have to leave.”

“Alright, alright,” Sally ushered the other two away, more than aware of how impatient Cartesians could be, “As you said - I’m sure he’s fine.”

“It’s just frustrating when he doesn’t tell me what’s happening.” She vented, and pointed her thumb over her shoulder, “He doesn’t seem to care, but I like knowing the goings-on.”

“Then maybe you should just ask him?” Sally suggested.

Serpacinno’s teeth found their way to her lip as she chewed pensively. She was never necessarily the best at communication.