Over the next few weeks, Jeremiah found himself in an uneasy truce with Big Bad Bill. Every few days, he would stop by the inmate’s cell to change his dressings and check on his injuries. If he didn’t know better, he would say that the wilding had started to like him; if nothing else, the man certainly looked forward to the visits. Jeremiah would give him news of the outside world, or tell him jokes that had appeared in the morning’s comics. Big Bad Bill didn’t say much, but the curses eased off and his anger seemed to be dissipating.

Jeremiah’s own anger, however, grew with each check in. The bullet holes had long since healed, but fresh wounds kept appearing, and he was finding it harder and harder to bite his tongue. Whenever he discovered these new wounds, he found he couldn’t meet the inmate’s gaze- some combination of rage and shame keeping his eyes pinned to the floor. He started avoiding his coworkers, and most evenings after work found him home alone with a bottle of whisky.

“Hey, Jeremiah.”

It was a month after Doc Claude had transferred the file, and Jeremiah was ruminating over lunch alone in the cafeteria. Well, he had been alone: Nate Thornson and Micky Bates slid onto the bench across from him.

“What’s up?” asked Jeremiah, dropping his sandwich onto his plate. The two swapped a conspiratorial glance, before Micky leant forward.

“We know you’re the medic on duty for that murderous rhino,” he said, voice low. “We were wondering…well…”

“Big Bad Bill isn’t talking,” Nate cut in. “And the way we see it, it’s probably because Big Bad Bill isn’t hurting. So, we need you to just… skip a few visits. Give him time to stew.”

Jeremiah leaned back, looking between them. Nate seemed relaxed, but Micky was clearly nervous: he was picking at his nails as they spoke, and the movement caught Jeremiah’s eye. On the back of one of Micky’s hands was a small smear of blood, seeping into the cuff of his uniform.

Jeremiah had to fight to control his breathing.

“So, what do you say?” asked Nate, flashing an easy-going smile. Jeremiah hadn’t realised he was still speaking. “Want to help your coworkers out?”

Jeremiah climbed to his feet and stared down at his coworkers.

“Big Bad Bill is part of my medical training, and probably the biggest obstacle to my promotion.” He was proud that he managed to keep his voice even. “Want to talk about helping your coworkers? Stop trying to break the man that I’m in charge of keeping healthy.”

Not trusting himself to say more, Jeremiah spun on his heel and stalked away. He was barely clear of the cafeteria before he broke into a jog, then a run.

He had to check in on Bill.

**

In his days as a Silver, Jeremiah had done several investigative cases involving the Props; while finding and flushing out individual members tended to be easy enough, the organisation was like a termite mound: deep and many-tunnelled. Stamp out one prop and three more would pop up. They had never managed to find the organisation’s headquarters, nor to put a face to a name that brought shudders to Silvers and criminals alike: Mr Vandemeer.

So Jeremiah was heartened, if only slightly, to see that one of his hunches at least had been correct: the headquarters that Bill led them to was located near the river, in a cannery that for years had under-produced. Jeremiah had suspected it for most of his time as a Silver, but wouldn’t have the authority to investigate fully until his promotion- the one which hinged on him completing his medical training.

The one which was derailed.

“I fucking knew it,” he muttered, and Bill chuckled. The enormous man seemed to be in a good mood, despite what he was about to face. Maybe it was the adrenaline; maybe he was hoping to finally get closure. Whatever it was, Jeremiah couldn’t share it: there was a not insignificant chance that they’d all be caught and tortured- or dead- by daybreak.

The gates were old and rusting save for the barbs at the top, which glinted in the late afternoon sun. Without saying much, the Props were making their priorities abundantly clear. Next to him, Gliridae audibly gulped. Beyond the gates, Jeremiah could see a few guards loitering at the entrance to the cannery; ostensibly dressed as employees, but a second glance was all that was needed to see their uniforms neither fit nor matched one another.

Jeremiah frowned. While he hadn’t had the authority to launch his own investigation, he’d raised his hunches to the higher-ups on several occasions. Sure, the budget was always tight, but given the amount of resources dealing with violence from the Props lead to he had thought it would be seen as a priority. Not for the first time, he wondered if any of those higher-ups were being paid to look the other way. It was an idea he’d rejected outright as a Silver, but which had grown ever more plausible since he’d left.

Bill pushed through the gate, and the employees stiffened, but to Jeremiah’s surprise no move was made to block them. Recognition seemed to flash for one of them, and he said something to the other two before disappearing off to the side. The remaining men watched closely, but said nothing as the group passed.

Jeremiah felt it safe to assume their arrival had been announced.

The warehouse was mostly open plan, a huge room with a vaulted ceiling filled to nearly bursting with cannery equipment. Metal walkways ran in perpendicular lines at different levels, around copper pipes and old machinery. The whole place smelt musty and faintly of fish, but the few conveyor belts which doggedly chugged along ran empty, of no use beyond maintaining the façade of this being a functioning operation. Jeremiah and Gliridae followed Bill up first one ladder, then another; the ladders screamed, but somehow did not buckle under Bill’s weight. In the levels above, Jeremiah could see more guards- or perhaps just gang members interrupted in their business, he couldn’t really say- peering down at them. These men also watched silently as they passed.

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Finally, on the third level they came to an unmarked door set into the far wall. Bill rapped sharply three times, and a voice beyond bade them to enter. The door swung open silently, and swallowing his nerves Jeremiah stepped through.

The room was plush, a sharp contrast to the dingy warehouse beyond. Wall to wall cream carpet, and a small mat next to the door which Bill carefully wiped his feet on before progressing further into the room. Jeremiah and Gliridae dutifully followed suit. A red satin sofa was pressed against one wall, a dark wood table with more red satin chairs sat in the middle, and a crystal glass chandelier with gleaming gold arms hung from the middle of the room.

Jeremiah felt a tug at his arm and glanced down.

“I think I’m underdressed,” Gliridae murmured wryly, and it was all Jeremiah could do to suppress a smirk. The room had blitzed past ostentatious and landed firmly in the realm of tacky, but Jeremiah it was sure it was more than his life was worth to say so.

Seated at the table were three men; Jeremiah recognised one from their altercation in the Fog District previously. From the glare he received, the man also recognised them. The second was a wiry framed man, clearly wilding with some kind of rat- his nose was pointed, his two front teeth long and sharp, and his eyes were two dark beads. He gave Gliridae a cruel smile, and the tiny musician glared back, sideburns fluffing out.

The last figure was tall and deathly thin, bordering on skeletal. Everything about him was narrow, from the pinched bridge of his nose to his meagre, white blonde eyebrows. He didn’t look human, but Jeremiah wasn’t sure if he was wilding- if he was, it wasn’t any animal that Jeremiah had ever encountered. Delicate finger curled around the narrow neck of a champagne flute, and the man’s upper lip drew back in a vague approximation of a smile at the sight of them. Jeremiah had never seen him before, but the ex-Silver knew immediately.

This was the dreaded Mr Vandemeer.

“Big Bad Bill. I won’t do you the disservice of pretending to be surprised.” Mr Vandemeer’s voice was soft, barely audible; combined with his appearance, he came across as a man on the brink of death. The words were carefully enunciated, with an accent Jeremiah couldn’t place. Similar to Hightown, but the Hightown of a different city. There was a pause between each word, as though it were a sentence unto itself. “I see you’ve brought the rabble with you.”

“I know it’s been a long time,” said Bill, voice heavy. “But we need to talk about a couple of things.”

“Indeed, we do.” Mr Vandemeer got to his feet, and it was like watching a telescopic mast unfold: he just kept rising until he towered above Gliridae and then above Jeremiah, finishing a mere half inch below Bill. “Come. Let us talk in my office; there will be privacy there.” He gestured to the back of the room, where a spiral staircase led up to a door inset halfway up the room. Like the chandelier, the staircase gleamed gold.

Bill glanced back, gave a nod to Jeremiah and mouthed stay here before following the spectral man out the room.

“Feel free to take a seat,” sneered the thug from the other night, as the rat man pretended to take a bite in Gliridae’s direction.

“Here, mousey mousey,” he said, and they both snickered. Gliridae’s fists clenched but he spun on his heel and made his way to the sofa. They laughed again as he hopped up, feet dangling well above the floor. “Hey mousey, what are you doing there?”

“It’s a notebook, you ignoramus,” Gliridae snapped. “Not that I expect you to be capable of anything so complex as basic literacy. You can try and read it if you desire?” The rat man rolled his eyes and turned back to his drink, already losing interest. Gliridae began to write, pen flying across the page. Frowning, Jeremiah followed to see what he was up to.

Bill, you’ve let me down. You’ve disappointed me. I thought it couldn’t get worse than when you left

I’m sorry, sir, I know

“You can hear them?” Jeremiah hissed. Gliridae nodded, not looking up from the page, ears twitching furiously underneath his hat. The ex-Silver leaned back on the sofa and adopted an air of nonchalance as he watched the conversation unfold.

But to hear that you’re working for the Silvers; it’s more than my old heart can bear. And after all that I’ve done for you

I’ll repay my debt sir, I will- I just need more time

You were like a son to me, Bill, I poured my soul into you- and then you discard me, no, you betray me

Sir, I will repay you. But I can’t live this life anymore. I’ve changed now, I’ve grown. I can’t come back.

So then why did you come back? Why did you come back to the fighting and the subterfuge- don’t think Lee didn’t tell me about the other night. Do not presume that I don’t know.

I didn’t presume- I didn’t want to come back. Today is the last day of it. I’m finishing this, and I’m going to pay you back, and then I’m leaving the city.

Without settling your debt?

The debt will be settled.

I want to believe it Bill, but four years I don’t hear from you. Four years I don’t see you. And then you show up today with that Silver in tow, and you’re not here to settle anything. You’re not here to help your old mentor. All you’re here for is

Gliridae suddenly perked up.

“The folder,” he hissed to Jeremiah. “He’s holding the folder!” His ears twitched, and he went back to scribbling.

From their table, the men glanced over, and Jeremiah and Gliridae both schooled their faces into carefully neutral expressions.

If this is all you care about- fine. Go on, take it. Take it and get out, and don’t come back until you’re ready to do right by the man- by the people who did so much for you.

Sir, are you sure?

Just leave. Go. Before I change my mind.

The door opened and Gliridae snapped the notebook shut. Bill emerged, looking faintly shellshocked, and held up a manilla envelope with CONFIDENTIAL stamped across it in thick red letters. Jeremiah and Gliridae scrambled to their feet as he made his way down the stairs and followed him to the door.

“Oh. Bill. One more thing,” called Mr Vandemeer as they reached the door. ‘Called’ was a subjective term: he seemed to regulate his voice to keep it barely audible to whichever distance a person was from him. Bill paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind.”

The enormous man stiffened. Then his eyes slid to Jeremiah and Gliridae.

“Run,” was all Bill said, and then the three of them were sprinting as fast as they could down the metal walkway. In seconds, voices began to ring out behind them, above and below, and from the surrounding corridors. Sliding onto a central platform, they found themselves blocked off. The final ladder to the doorway out was to one side, with a Props member rapidly scaling it. The walkway leading to another, small platform was blocked by two men, as was the way behind them. All the props men carried either a sub-machine gun or a pump-action shotgun. Jermiah, Bill and Gliridae skidded to a stop, scanning the room. Gliridae’s ears twitched in the direction they just came.

“Only five?” Bill mimed rolling up his sleeves. “No problem.”

“Don’t be so certain,” muttered Gliridae. For the first time since Jeremiah had met him, the tiny musician looked scared. He could hear it now too: a distant thumping that grew louder with every second, and suddenly slammed down before them, snapping one of the cables and leaving the platform swaying dangerously. Rising from the dent he’d left, Lee Rickardson gave them a sharp toothed grin. He was clad from head to toe in mechatronic armour, and towered a full seven feet once upright.

“I told you you’d regret it.”