Around two weeks after they first met Bill, Doc Claude told Jeremiah to take lead on his case.

“You can still come to me with any questions you might have,” the doctor said at Jeremiah’s concerned look. “But part of being a medic is learning to take charge and handle situations on your own; those skills will be invaluable after your promotion. William Bauble is compliant: that’s a lot more than can be said for many of the guests in Lockup. He’ll be a good first patient.”

“But don’t you need me for other cases?” Doc Claude shook his head, expression rueful.

“We’re dealing with an outbreak of Chills on the second and third floors; everyone with it is being moved to the infirmary on fifth and they want as much medical attention there as possible.” He frowned. “Medical attention but not actual medicine,” he muttered almost under his breath.

Jeremiah hesitated, but the doctor quickly gave him a smile when he caught his expression.

“Besides, Chills won’t be useful for your field training and we don’t to take a chance on you getting sick. For one, it’s a nasty disease: the average time to recover is four to six months. For another, we can’t risk you passing it on to anybody else, whether a colleague or a patient. That’s how it’s being transmitted currently: it gets on the wardens, and then it makes the rounds.” Doc Claude paused, thinking. “In fact, it’s probably for the best that we don’t work together at all for the next few weeks. I’ll give you Bill’s case, as well as a few other straightforward ones, and you can return to active duty as a part-timer.”

“But what about my training?” Jeremiah hated the whine in his voice, thought he’d trained himself out of it long ago, but the doctor either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.

“We’ll get you your training, Jeremiah; it’s just going to take a bit longer than planned. I’m sorry, but that’s the way life goes sometimes.”

He considered protesting further, but at a warning glance from his mentor decided to keep his mouth shut. It wouldn’t help. Doc Claude wouldn’t have raised the matter at all if his decision hadn’t been final. At least he would get to do some field work: he’d missed it, these past weeks.

Hopefully it would be enough to offset dealing with the surly lump of rhino on the first floor.

**

Bill was exactly where Jeremiah had expected him to be: at their usual table in the Boiler Room, clutching a drink and grumbling to himself. There was no one there besides him and the bartender- not Kaia, this time, but a different man Jeremiah didn’t recognise. Jeremiah checked his pocket watch- it was just gone four. He’d never set foot in here this early, and it appeared no one else did either.

“What’s your plan?” he murmured to Gliridae, who took in the scene with a grimace. At a roar from Bill the bartender brought over another tumbler of whisky, which the enormous man knocked back in one go. “He’s not going to be easy to talk to.”

“I’ve seen him here before, from the stage- he’s an easy man to remember. It’s not too uncommon for him to come in looking like he’s ready to crack skulls. Usually, he settles down fast enough.”

“Usually, the thing he’s mad hasn’t followed him in. What are you planning to say?”

“Nothing,” Gliridae replied, flashing his quicksilver smile. “When talking fails, music generally helps.”

Before Jeremiah could fully process his meaning, the tiny man darted towards the back of the room. Bill looked up and gave another inarticulate roar, launching the now empty glass at Gliridae; the musician dodged it easily, and hopped up on the stage.

“Hey, if you could not destroy our property, that… that would be great…” the barkeeper finished lamely, quailing under the glare that Bill levelled on him. This glare then swivelled to Jeremiah.

“Leave me be, Jeremiah. I don’t want you here- not you, and not the rodent either. Leave. Me. Alone.” He punctuated each word with a finger wag, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered to the bar. The barkeeper nervously reached for the nearest glass to pour him another drink; instead, Bill leaned over the wooden counter and pulled the entire whisky bottle out of the man’s hands, taking several large swigs before collapsing down onto a barstool. It creaked, but shockingly remained intact.

On stage, Gliridae quickly assembled his saxophone, checked the keys, and brought the reed to his lips.

The first note that came out was deeper than Jeremiah expected. He had heard Gliridae play many times before while drinking with Bill, and the music was generally upbeat- a quick tempo-ed jazz, designed to put the room in a good mood and get everyone drinking. Now, Gliridae glided between notes, soft and slow, a low enough register that Jeremiah could feel the vibrations in his chest.

Bill continued to drink, staring at the ground with murderous intent; but as Gliridae played, Jeremiah could see the hunch in his shoulders start to loosen. The music continued and Bill’s whole body seemed to shed tension, easing away a weight. Jeremiah felt it too: there was a calmness in the notes, wrapping him in a velvety embrace. If he’d ever had an inner stillness, he’d lost it long ago; but maybe if he sat and listened here all night, it could come back bit by bit.

Suddenly Bill tensed again. Getting to his feet, he spun to face the stage.

“Shut up!” he roared, but the tiny musician paid him no mind. “I’m mad at you- let me be mad at you, damn it!” When Gliridae still didn’t react, he picked up the barstool and smashed it against the counter.

The bartender fell back with a shriek, then drew himself to full (not particularly impressive) height.

“That’s it!” he yelled. “I’m getting the Silvers!”

Gliridae continued to play, ignoring everything happening beyond the stage, and Bill collapsed onto another stool. Jeremiah frowned and looked around nervously: there was a lot of damage, with broken glass and wood splinters everywhere, and Bill was clearly drunk as a skunk. No good would come from the Silvers arriving.

“Maybe we should go?” he murmured to his friend, who turned and fixed him with a stink eye.

“I’ve been wanting you to go since you walked in! Go! Get out, and take him” -he gestured furiously to Gliridae- “with you!”

“No Bill, we both need to go: I really don’t want to see the Silvers pick you up, especially when we’re meant to be working for them at the moment.” Jeremiah tugged at his arm but Bill swatted him away. Just the glancing blow was enough to leave Jeremiah reeling, and he staggered back. Bill finished the bottle and smashed that too, before once again reaching behind the counter.

As Gliridae played on, Jeremiah continued pleading with Bill; but any attempt to move the man was an exercise in futility. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime but was probably no more than five excruciating minutes, the door opened and the bartender walked back in with two Silvers in tow.

“That one,” he announced, pointing to Bill, “that’s the one.”

From onstage, the music came to a screeching halt. Literally. Whatever note Gliridae played, Jeremiah was sure it had last been uttered by a demon. Forgetting Bill, everyone turned to the man on stage.

Which was certainly his intention.

“Now hold on,” said the tiny musician. Despite his diminutive size, his words carried right through the room. “Are you trying to blame these fine gentlemen for what happened last night?” His eyes were wide. His voice was scandalised. His accent was Midtown.

The Silvers looked at the destruction around the room, then looked at Bill, and finally turned to the barkeeper, who gaped back. He made a few wild gestures, mumbling incoherently, and then swivelled to once again point at Bill.

“No? No! He did this! Look at the state of him!”

Using what was likely every last iota of control, Bill frowned and raised an eyebrow.

“This is ridiculous,” said Gliridae, hopping off the stage. His tone had switched from outrage to mother in the middle of reprimanding her child. “What is this, a con to claim insurance? That’s fraud! It’s one thing to let a party get out of hand, but it’s another entirely to try and cast aspersions on innocent men because you’re afraid of reprimand. And wasting these good Silvers’ time? Honestly, you ought to be ashamed.”

The Silvers looked at each other and nodded; one pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

“He’s right,” said the other, “false allegations are a serious offense. We’re going to have to take you down to Silver headquarters.”

“What are you talking about?” screeched the bartender. “He’s lying! Can’t you tell- that man there is a menace with three bottles of whisky in him, you can’t- hey, let me go! You’re going to trust a wilding over me? Let me go!”

“Sorry for the trouble, gentlemen,” said one of the Silvers, as the other began to drag the barkeeper out. Gliridae shook his head sadly.

“I’ll be sure to bring it up to his manager,” he said. “It would be a shame for this to reflect badly upon the establishment. Have a good day, officer.”

“And you too, sir; take care now.”

The Silvers led the barkeeper away, ignoring his fervent protests. The door swung shut and there was a long silence, the three remaining men looking between each other. Then Jeremiah grinned and Gliridae broke out in giggles. Even Bill managed a smile, before sighing and shaking his head.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe you’re not so bad.” He leaned back in the barstool, eyes fluttering shut, but Jeremiah jabbed him in the side. “What the-“

“We should get out of here before Kaia arrives and we get banned for life. Come on. There’s a lot that needs to be done before we deal with the Props.”

“Ah shit,” muttered Bill, then pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go… where are we going?” Jeremiah’s grin widened.

“Follow me.” Turning on his heel, he headed out into the pouring rain.

**

Jeremiah stepped into the room. Big Bad Bill Bauble hesitated, then frowned, the frown morphing into a glare when he realised it was only going to be him.

“What do you want?” the enormous man snapped. Jeremiah winced, then raised his hands to show they were empty.

“I’m just here to check your dressings. That’s all, don’t worry- no funny business.” Bill set his shoulders and turned away, but didn’t argue; Jeremiah took this as tacit invitation and stepped forward. “Have you been having any issues, William?”

“Stop.”

Jeremiah froze, and the inmate swung back to face him. “No. No, you don’t get to call me that. Now, I’ll put up with you doing the medical stuff, but you are not a doctor. You’re just another Silver, so don’t get any ideas about anything.”

“What would I get ideas about?” shot back Jeremiah. The rhino-man maintained silent eye contact, until eventually Jeremiah threw his hands up. “Fine, okay, sure. Can I check your dressings now?” The inmate nodded, and Jeremiah once again stepped forward. “You know Doc Claude is a Silver, though, right?”

“The two of you are not the same,” growled Big Bad Bill. Jeremiah rolled his eyes and continued to tend the wounds. For a few minutes, there was silence besides the crinkle of the medical gauze. Then Jeremiah paused.

“This- is this new?”

Bill glanced at him, then turned away.

“Have you been picking at it or…” Jeremiah trailed off, staring at the manacled wrists. No, the inmate couldn’t have managed that. He considered for a long moment, trying to make sense of it. Then the penny dropped.

He looked up, maybe searching for confirmation, but Bill’s expression had changed to something unreadable. Jeremiah found he couldn’t meet the inmate’s gaze; he returned to the injuries.

“Is there… is there anything more I should know about?”

“Below my shoulders probably needs another look. It wasn’t you or the doctor who bandaged them up, and I don’t know that they did such a good job.” Bill’s voice was rough, and Jeremiah was glad to duck out of sight behind the man. Sure enough, five clean, deep cuts criss-crossed below Bill’s right scapula; they hadn’t been there before. Jeremiah swallowed, unsure how to proceed.

Well, he knew medically. For once, the medical side was the easy part.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth; Bill swivelled to face him, with an expression that told him that yeah, that was an idiotic thing to say.

“I don’t know what kind of good cop bullshit you’re playing here, but I won’t fall for it,” the inmate growled. “You put some bandages on me and then you leave, understood?”

Unable to think of what else to say, Jeremiah nodded, got through his work as quickly as he could, and made his way to the door. Before opening it, however, he stopped.

“Doc Claude isn’t going to be able to come in to see you anymore- there’s been an outbreak of Chills on a different floor and we can’t risk transmission. I’m going to be your primary attendant, now.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not assigned to your case; I wasn’t on the arresting team, and I haven’t heard anything about it. When I’m in here, I’m… I’m not a Silver. I’m a medic.”

**

“Before we head straight into the hornet’s nest, we should pick up some supplies,” said Jeremiah. Bill nodded, still listing to one side. His veins were probably more alcohol than blood at this point, and Jeremiah frowned: he wasn’t sure if his friend was ready for this. Hopefully by the time they’d passed through Mac’s, he’d have sobered up some.

Old Mac almost certainly wasn’t Old Mac’s true name: he dealt with far too many people on either side of the law to tell his given name to just about anyone. Jeremiah had first met him as a Silver, during a pseudo-raid that was more to gain information on the Vantases than due to anything Old Mac had done wrong. Old Mac was always on the right side of the law, his reputation impeccable. Everything he did was legal… technically.

“Afternoon, Jeremiah,” the mechanic said, grinning as they walked in. “You know the drill: wet hats and coats at the door, away from my machinery.” The trio acquiesced, hanging their sodden items on an old-fashioned coat rack.

Old Mac’s grin widened when he caught sight of Bill’s apparatus.

“Bringing me presents, are we? It’s not even my birthday.” The mechanic got up and came over to peer more closely; Bill leaned back, leering down at him suspiciously. “That’s quite a bit of kit your friend has - mechatronics like that don’t come cheaply…nor legally, in most instances.”

Jeremiah smiled tightly, not appreciating the insinuation.

Even if it was correct.

“Bill’s had his arm for a while,” he said, “twice as long as I’ve had my wings. We’ve had... well, a rough few days. We both need a tune up, and I’d like to pick up some medical supplies too.”

Old Mac’s brows knitted together.

“Medical supplies? Not getting into any trouble I hope, Jeremiah. Silver business? No, you left the Silvers…”

“I’m freelancing now,” muttered Jeremiah.

Although the mechanic raised an eyebrow he didn’t press the issue further, turning instead to Gliridae. Looking down, Old Mac gave the musician a benevolent smile.

“And what can I do for you, young man?”

Bill snorted, and Jeremiah had to push down a laugh of his own. Just in his vest and a white button-down shirt, without the lurid purple hat and jacket, Gliridae looked like he’d slipped out the side gate of a schoolyard. The large fuzzy ears sticking out either side of his face, combined with his diminutive stature, shaved years off; even the sideburns somehow blended into the rest of his hair to make him simply look like a scraggly child.

Jeremiah expected the smaller man to bristle, but perhaps Gliridae had had enough confrontation for one day; he, too, just smiled tightly.

“No mechanics on me, sir, but I was wondering if yeh had anything that could cause a distraction?” The mechanic waved him to one of the shelves, where a variety of apparatuses sat with neat labels underneath. While Gliridae browsed, Old Mac turned his attention back to Jeremiah and Bill.

It had been a while since Jeremiah had gotten his wings tuned up, and he had to grit his teeth as the mechanic went in with the pressure cleaner to. The vibrations seemed to reverberate through the rest of his spinal column, and were the physical equivalent of screeching metal, but at least it got the gunk out. While in there, Old Mac also replaced some of the springs and added lubricant to most of the hinges, muttering to himself about the poor upkeep.

When Jeremiah finally hopped off the chair and stretched the wings out, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face: it had been worth the discomfort, was always worth the discomfort. The machinery felt supple and sharp; barrel rolls and hairpin turns would be so much easier to execute, and even regular flying would be less taxing. The mechanic had also taken the dents out from the gun fight the other day (raising an eyebrow, but thankfully not commenting), and given the whole rig a polish. Jeremiah felt like a shiny, mechanical fairy.

The price, though, wiped the smile away.

“That’s a lot more than previous visits,” he argued, but Old Mac just shrugged.

“You needed a lot more than previous visits. Whatever you’re getting up to, it certainly isn’t putting the ‘free’ in freelance. I’ll tell you what, though, I’ll give your friend a discount if he lets me give his fancy arm a look over. Then he can buy your medical supplies for you. Sound like a plan?” Jeremiah glanced over to Bill, who- despite still looking very out of it- shrugged and nodded. The enormous man wriggled out of the apparatus and passed it over.

It was unusual to see Bill without his kit. The man was ambidextrous, to a degree: his right arm was his strong arm, his punching arm; his left was more nimble, and used for shooting, writing, and anything else requiring fine motor skills. Bill wore the machinery on his right side, where it extended from his scapula, over the arm with a joint at the elbow, and wrapped around his hand and fingers. The setup added (arguably overkill) extra force, increased the speed of his reflexes, and functioned as a low-level armour.

Jeremiah almost expected to see the arm muscle itself wasting away after years of reliance on the machinery, but if that were the case then it only served as testament to how large the muscles had been originally.

Bill sat, frowning and glaring into the distance, as Old Mac worked. Jeremiah knew that he didn’t enjoy being without his gear. Not so much due to increased vulnerability- Bill had at least two guns and three knives on him at all times- but more because of the negative associations. As far as Jeremiah was aware, Bill had worn that arm every day since he got it... except for his time in Lockup.

“Truly remarkable machinery,” commented Old Mac, snapping both of them out of their reveries. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift,” muttered Bill. “A consolation prize for some really shit circumstances.”

The mechanic raised another eyebrow, but wisely didn’t press further. Gliridae, apparently having concluded his perusal of Old Mac’s wares, trotted over and passed Bill a white pill and a small hip flask. Bill raised an eyebrow at the items, then shrugged and knocked both back, shuddering as he did so.

“What in the hell?” he growled. Jeremiah half rose from his seat, ready to intervene if another fight broke out. “What… what was that?”

“Water,” said the small man primly, before breaking into giggles at Bill’s furious glare. It was enough to set Jeremiah off to, and even Bill rolled his eyes and smiled.

“Ok, well warn me next time. I was hoping for coffee… or whisky.”

“Whisky would be counterproductive, since that medication is meant to sober yeh up. I do appreciate yehr trust in me though, that yeh would just accept random pills I hand yeh without question.”

Gliridae darted back away with a grin as Bill tried to process what he’d said. The old rhino dragged a hand down his face, then blinked and shook his head.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said to Jeremiah. “I think whatever the mouse gave me is working.”

With Bill sober, there was no need to dawdle at the chop shop. After the discount Old Mac gave Bill, Jeremiah was easily able to cover an emergency medical kit, as well as a few scalpels and a bottle of painkillers. He also bought some extra bullets, which Old Mac was only able to sell through a loophole in the zoning laws. Gliridae paid for the sobering medication, and bought himself two small contraptions with the intent of potentially creating a distraction. Jeremiah had his reservations- he and Bill weren’t exactly known for sneaking, and were usually the most distracting things in the room- but since Gliridae had been on the money with nearly everything else so far, Jeremiah didn’t comment.

“It’s probably for the best that you don’t put your suit back on,” the ex-Silver told the smaller man as they left. “Where we’re going, it’s wisest if the two of us don’t draw too much attention. Let Bill take the lead, you know?”

“Jeremiah, I’ve been accused of many things in my life, but drawing attention is not one of them.” There was a bitterness under the joking tone. “But you raise a good point. Bill, what’s the plan?”

They both looked to Bill.

“We’re going to in and I’m going to talk to Mr Vandemeer. See if he has the folder, see if we can get it from him, and hopefully get my debt squared off too.”

If the situation wasn’t so serious, Jeremiah would have had to laugh at the expression on Gliridae’s face.

“Ah, yes," the musician said finally. "Because that worked so well with the Mattheses.”

“I’m fairly certain your last plan was exactly the same- walk in and ask for what you want, just with a bit more bare-faced lying,” Bill snapped back.

“Knock it off, you’re both pretty.” Jeremiah was starting to get real tired of their shit, and he made sure to let his irritation show. Then he took a deep breath and sighed. “Look, let’s try it Bill’s way first- it’s a lot safer and a lot more straightforward than sneaking around trying to find the file ourselves. But let’s just… have a backup plan in place. Bill?”

“Sure,” muttered the old rhino. “If it goes south, we get out safely and then Gliridae can slip back in tonight and retrieve the file. You’ll get an idea of the layout of the place and where Mr Vandemeer’s office is if we go in first. Although…” Bill stopped, bringing the other two up short. “If they catch you, they won’t just kill you. They’ll torture you first. Or torture you just enough to break your spirits, and then make you do their dirty work. You’ll either be dead, or you'll never be free of them; not while you live in this city, at least.”

Gliridae grimaced, and glanced at Bill’s arm.

“Consolation prize for some really shit circumstances?”

Bill didn’t say anything, just strode forward again. Jeremiah and Gliridae followed close behind him, and for the rest of the walk there was silence.