Marlowe arrives home at the estate gate after yet another late night at the warehouse. He’s got new research papers that Gregory has given him some days ago, containing experimental results of evolving the technology past creating fire. It was only a matter of time, but that time can’t come fast enough. He successfully replicated the experiment in creating a water pallabrite, which leaves a puddle when broken.

More importantly, a theorem of logic has started forming for creating new formulae based on the ones that have been written now. In theory, combining the ignition pattern and the water pattern should result in an explosion of steam, for example. Use cases are endless: fuel for steam engines, cooking, cleaning, and unfortunately, combat.

In any case, Marlowe has taken some of his experiments back home in case he should need them for his yet unknown plan to covertly advertise himself in the underbelly. A physical demonstration is best, after all.

He reaches the front door after the long walk though the dark estate grounds and Patrick opens the door.

“Good night, Mr. Strathmere,” he says.

“And you,” Marlowe replies as he walks through the door and past Patrick.

Patrick coughs softly and asks, “Pardon the intrusion, but I trust you keep yourself safe, Mr. Strathmere?”

“Yes, of course,” Marlowe says as he stops and turns around.

“Most excellent. You’ve been away many nights as of late, so it was only right of me to ask as a servant of yours, I hope you understand.”

“I do, thank you for your concern,” Marlowe replies. “It’s no more than studying with a classmate, I assure you.”

Patrick pauses for just a second too long, nods and says, “Have a good night, sir.”

“Thank you,” Marlowe says and continues to his chambers.

His heart is beating fast in his chest. Has someone tipped him off on his activities in Allatum? Checkpoints will have recorded his every entry and exit. Was it highlighted as a suspicious amount of visits to his father? And does he even have a classmate in Allatum? Perhaps his mother found the amount of money he’s been spending uncharacteristically much?

It would not be a stretch for someone from his family to hire an investigator to follow his every move and report back their findings. He should find another way to get into Allatum and move his equipment.

He sits down at his desk, unlocks the lower compartment of his drawers and slowly puts the pallabrites he brought with him into it, then locks the drawer tight. Can't be too sure now that he potentially has some heat on him.

Marlowe sighs and rests his head on his desk. It’s already past midnight and he still needs to finish his real homework. He feels himself pleasantly drift off, his body relaxes, and his breathing slows. But he jolts himself awake. Work needs to be done or suspicions will only heighten. And so he does, with only a singular candlelight on his desk, he slaves away into the night.

After a couple hours he stretches his legs by pacing around his room and swinging his arms in large circles. He stops at the window overlooking the large field behind the mansion and peeks through the curtains. The moon beautifully lights the space, a soft blue casting dim shadows.

Marlowe’s eyes snap to the edge of a treeline. Did he just see movement? Perhaps it was just an animal wandering the estate? He stares at the exact spot where he thought he saw movement in an attempt to see even the tiniest movement.

There. Two figures clothed in black.

“Oh sh-”, Marlowe whispers to himself.

He starts to rush towards the door, but stops after a few steps and looks at the locked compartment of his desk for a few seconds. After a deep breath, he unlocks it and takes a few of the pallabrites.

No longer does he rush loudly, instead he goes as quietly as he can. The right side of the mansion is where the thieves will be. There’s a study with large windows and sliding doors, good chance they’ll enter from there.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, nobody appeared to be awake. His heart beats fast and hard in his chest as he silently sneaks towards the study past several storage rooms, the guest room, and his father’s personal study.

The study has two doors leading into the rest of the house.

Where shall I wait? Marlowe thinks to himself.

He arrives and puts his ear to the door closest to the study and waits. Nothing. Maybe they’ve entered elsewhere?

A large hand suddenly covers his mouth and his arm is twisted behind his back.

“Quietly, now, young Lord,” a deep voice whispered. “Wouldn’t want to break you now, would we?”

“Tie him up,” the voice says.

Smaller hands grab his other hand and tie them together, then a rope around his feet is pulled tight.

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“All done,” the other said. He has a younger sounding voice, about the same age, maybe a few years younger.

“Who do you work for?” Marlowe says muffled through the large hand.

“None of your business,” the larger man says.

“It may be.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I need to know if you’re part of… something bigger.”

“Let’s say we are.”

“If you could, just…” Marlowe says muffled while moving his head slightly left and right.

The hand slowly moves away from his mouth and he takes a deep breath.

“Don’t make this botched job even more botched, you understand me?” The deep voice says.

Marlowe turns around to see the two thieves. One of them a hulking man, the other a smaller boy, indeed a little younger as he thought. An odd combination to be sure. A faint smell of sewage is present too. Otherwise, no features can be distinguished through the black coverings they are wearing.

“The name is Marlowe, you know my surname, I imagine,” he starts.

The invaders don’t respond.

“I uh…” Marlowe tries to find the words to say, “I empathize with you. Assuming you’re from the underbelly, right?”

The large man nods once.

“Yes, to tell you the truth, I’ve been working on something. You know how, unfortunately, we humans can’t use magic, right?”

“Never seen it, no,” the big man replies.

“That something is to let us do it. Sort of,” Marlowe moves both his hands towards the pocket that has the pallabrites in it. “Take what’s in this pocket, carefully.”

The big man softly urges his accomplice to go and get their prize. He looks into the bag.

“What kind?” he asks.

“They're called pallabrites, y-”

“Never heard of ‘em. How much they selling for?”

“I was just going to say, you wouldn't know them, because th-”

“Watch your mouth.”

Marlowe tries to hide irritation and continues, “they're not natural. I made them.”

“So they're worthless, barely got any shine to them,” the big man says.

He thinks for a second and a nasty grin appears on his face as he starts walking behind Marlowe.

“Give the man his pallobites back, or whatever they're called, will you, kid?” the man says in an overly nice tone.

The boy does as he's told.

Marlowe takes the bag and says, “Thank y-”

His hearing fills with a loud, high pitched ring and his vision blurs. He struggles to keep his balance and he crashes to the floor, his view turning black and the back of his head feeling dull and sore for the few moments he is still awake.

Time passes and briefly he regains consciousness while a foul odor fills his nostrils. The large man carrying Marlowe on his shoulder barks something to someone they pass. Marlowe catches a glimpse while he struggles to focus. It was another rather large man and child, who seemed to not pay too much attention to himself, though the child looked back briefly.

Marlowe fades into unconsciousness again.

He wakes up with a shock, his face drenched in water. He looks around and finds himself in a room that is not well built but attempts to make itself look better than it is through hastily painted sections of wall and rugs thrown on the floor.

He tries to move his hands but fails as his wrists are painfully bound behind the chair he sits on.

“There he is,” a man says playfully, “I hope you had a good rest coming all the way down here?”

Marlowe looks at the man in front of him; he rests on his large chair like a king would, his elbow on the arm of the chair which supports his leaning head. His hair is shaved and a patchy beard decorates his jawline, and below that are clothes imitating the middle class.

“Terribly sorry about the situation and the beating you got,” the man continues, “very unusual.”

He flicks his finger and Marlowe feels his wrists being released from its bondage. The large man that invaded his home stepped in front of Marlowe.

“Ah, but let me introduce myself,” the man in the chair says with an obvious tinge of fake forgetfulness. “My name is Garros, and you found yourself in the loving home of the Shiv’s Edge group. Well, they call us a gang on the streets, but we think ourself a little above that, don't we, Larry?”

The large man nods.

“Right, I'm glad you agree,” Garros says as he gets out of his chair, “to that end…”

Garros walks to Marlowe, pulls a crude pistol from the back of his pants, and puts it on Marlowe’s lap. As if bowing, he swings his arms from Marlowe to Larry in a presenting manner.

“Now his fate is in your hands,” Garros says with a grin, “punish this treodyte for his lowlife behavior, or spare him.”

The surprisingly heavy weight of the pistol presses on Marlowe's legs. He has never touched, let alone shot, a pistol. Taking a life is not something that he has ever thought about, saving lives is what he wishes. His breathing intensifies with the decision that is laid upon him, to be the jury and executioner. He takes the gun in his hands, but does not lift it.

“Feels good, doesn't it?” Garros asks. “The power of life and death at your fingertips, nothing is like it!”

Marlowe hesitates for a moment and says, “And what would happen to him if I don't do it?”

“Why, he lives another day, of course.”

Marlowe looks down at the pistol and contemplates the decision ahead of him, but quickly lays the weapon on the floor.

“It's not right for me to decide it,” he says with a quiver in his voice.

Garros picks up the gun and says with a tone as if he reached an epiphany, “Ah yes, you are right, I am sorry for putting the burden on you.’

He aims the gun at Larry's head and before a word could come out of his mouth, a bullet enters his skull. His body falls to the floor with several loud thuds like a ragdoll. Garros snaps his fingers and several men stream into the room to take the body away.

“Changed my mind,” he says, “we have a reputation to uphold.”

Marlowe sits bent over with his hands covering his head, staring at the pool of blood at his feet, gritting his teeth in fear at the sight he just witnessed. Is this what life is in the underbelly? Is there no semblance of the humanity he so desperately imagined to save in this place?

Thoughts swirl in his mind like a tornado: the stupidity of a direct contact to the underbelly, how he is going to get back home, and Larry's lifeless face as he was dragged away.

“Anyway, now that the trash is taken out,” Garros interrupts with a chuckle, “shall we have a little chat about things more important? Ah, I know, those things you made. Pallabrites?”

Marlowe looks up at Garros and sees him dangling the bag in front of Marlowe's face.

Garros grins widely.