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[mecomptane]

Mercenary Queen Notes

These will be updated as I post, and/or as things occur to me. No promises they make any logical sense.

So I’ve been playing around with this for... years. And years! Since the game was first announced! Technically even before that.

1. So Mercenary Queen started as a combination of, “Oh wow there’s lots of fun little side quests and characters, both Tiered Mercenary related and not, I wish we got to expand on that somehow” and, “Hey, this is making me think of an old fic I started working on and planned out to the Nines for KHR and then not only never finished posting, but never finished writing.”

(It was a crossover. A massive crossover with so. Many. Series! Of course. My entire life from the age of 15 to 25 was crossovers. It was a weird decade.)

2. When I did eventually get around to writing this (on a plane to Greece, as one does), I figured that everyone reading it probably knows the general plot of Odyssey anyway, so I’d focus only on the side characters, etc....

...and then I couldn’t help myself. (Look, the entire premise of AC is “history says X happened, but in reality Y happened and it just LOOKS like it’s X because something-something-coverup-Templars took history is written by the victors in the most literal sense”. If I want certain things to happen a different way, then they will. And if that means tapping into my weird-crossover-decade, then I will.)

3. Set in game, a companion (of sorts) to the game, feel free to make annoyed faces at who Kass spends quality time with (most people possible in-game). 

4. Aforementioned crossover character was very much a product of “screw it”. You don’t need to know anything about KHR, because everyone is confused and it’s largely irrelevant and what you need to know gets explained (eventually) and there’s a language barrier so intense charades barely cuts it. Checkerhira is the most relevant KHR person aside from the poor fool wh got co-opted for this, and he doesn’t even get a name check. Take that.

5. I managed to get the Best Ending on my first playthrough, but subsequently I think I’ve managed just about every possible combination. This is, inherently, a very weird fix-it, so Best Ending is what we’re aiming for. It’s just... a bit different.

6. There were a couple lines or comments where I’m still not sure if they were Skyrim-style comments (meant to be part of a quest or plotline that was cut for time/size/clarity) or if they were just throw-away flavour text that made me Think and be Suspicious. Those are... getting addressed.

7. I’m sort of editing this as I post, but I’m annoyed enough at Tumblr stealing all my formatting that I’m saving the serious business proofread for something like... IDK posting to AO3. Eventually.

(Incidentally I still have an old prologue up on AO3. Should... probably take that down. That’s not happening anymore.)

8. If anyone has suggestions for mercenaries or names of recruits, etc., feel free to throw them at me! I have a List from my games, but this long ago turned into a cast-of-thousands and there’s a few characters later on that are still written as “HippoAcco#2″ or “less cannibalistic Ares guy” or “new fave lady”. So.

[mecomptane]

MQ: Histiaeus & Agathe

Well, there goes my once-per-week upload schedule. Ah well, blame it on work (and hospitals). Still making angry faces @ formatting, but that will be resolved eventually. Maybe? Hmmmm.

-

Elpeanor had been an absolute rat from the beginning, so how things turned out wasn't surprising. No, the surprising thing--things, really--were regarding her mother. And father. And other father. Her biological father.

"Your life is becoming a poem worthy of Odysseus!" Barnabas exclaimed as they treked up to Delphi, skirting bandit-infested ruins and suspicious warriors on the way.

Kassandra snorted, sending Ikaros further afield to scout with a wave of her arm. "I'd be okay with something a bit... shorter." And less convoluted.

Not that she was doing any favours to herself on that point, either. When they were within sight of Delphi she sent Barnabas on ahead to find a place to stay the night, make some friends, get in line to see the Pythia... based on the crowds, the last could take hours, if not days.

Kassandra, meanwhile, turned around and headed right back into the wild. No way was she dealing with that many people in that small a space. Kephallonia had all of two (2!) small towns, plus Kleptos Bay when it wasn't inundated with pirates and petty criminals, and up to this point Megara was the largest population center she'd been in. Save Sparta, but Sparta was better forgotten, most days.

(Not recently, but this entire trip from the word "go" had done nothing but bring up reminders of the Agiad. She had been raised Spartan, but had grown up as a child of the sea and Kephalonia, and Sparta was neither of those things nor places.)

Point was, the trip from Pilgrim's Landing to Delphi wasn't nearly long enough for Kassandra to prepare herself for the sheer press of bodies and people, so Barnabas got to play nice with the locals and pilgrims and Kassandra got to go hunt some animals and/or bandits as she geared herself up to deal with many, many people. And the Pythia.

Oh, the Pythia.

That was probably the thing she actually should be preparing for, if only to avoid pulling her spear on the Oracle during their meeting. And they would be meeting, even if Kassandra had to hunt her down.

The olive groves north of Pilgrim's Landing were a peaceful respite, the workers diligent but still calling greetings to each other and her as she jogged past. Sunlight dappled across her head and shoulders, and as her jog slowed to a steady walk she took a few moments to taste the sweet air. It was calm and peaceful, orderly and soothing; a true balm on her soul.

It set her on edge. No place was this serene, not with a war on its footsteps and Elpeanor within its borders. Not with snakes in the grass.

Kassandra rolled her shoulders, picking up her pace. Time to go find some chaos to tackle.

Daphne of the Daughters of Artemis was a pleasant surprise. The boar? Not so much.

The people of Phokis, for all that there was an impressive number of warriors to keep the pilgrims safe on their journeys, still managed to get into many scrapes and problems, and therefore occasionally (more than occasionally) needed the help of a misthios. While hunting down some bandits for the healer Agathe she ran into a strangely dressed not-bandit attacking a group of pilgrims and was tempted to take them out. But the Adrestia still needed crew and lieutenants, and if she could convince the not-bandit to put their excellent fighting skills to the Adrestia's aid....

The not-bandit was a Follower of Ares, who mostly Followed for the opportunity to fight. Not a cannibal, which was not something Kassandra had ever thought would be a concern when it came to recruiting crew, and quite willing to don some of the older armour Kassandra still had in her sack instead of the black-red blood soaked robes of the Followers. The armour didn't fit him well, it barely covered the essentials, but at least she was no longer being followed around by a fighting maniac dressed like a lunatic. ...and, when they took out the bandits threatening Agathe, some almost properly fitting armour. Which was lucky, because when they returned to Agathe, Kassandra offered her a position on the Adrestia as a healer, and she took the job, which meant someone else following her around until they got to Delphi. Someone else who needed armour, not for fighting but just for protection. Kassandra wouldn't hurt her (and the Follower, Histiaeus, was surprisingly quickly coming around to acting as protector, not instigator), but her particular profession wasn't exactly safe.

Agathe was a bit smaller than Kassandra, and the armour--in direct contrast to Histiaeus--was almost too large, but a couple ropes and sashes made up for that. Agathe was pleased, anyway. It meant more things to attach her various satchels and sachets to, and with Histiaeus and his strength around to carry things it meant she didn't have to leave much of anything behind.

So it was that Kassandra returned to Delphi three days later, slightly bloodier and notably wealthier, with two followers and armloads of medical supplies and herbs and bandages in tow. (Histiaeus stole--or as he put it, liberated--a steed from a passing Athenian soldier, which freed up his arms to better fight. Agathe was angry at him literally dropping her supplies at the first sign of potential violence, and then grateful for the packhorse. Kassandra stayed out of that debacle by busying herself rooting through the pockets of the fallen Athenian soldier. Little drachmae, but a very pretty necklace that would fetch a good amount at market.)

Barnabas wasn't hard to find, admiring the statue of the Horsemen in front of the Temple of Apollo and regaling a horde of pilgrims with grand stories of the gods and heroes. "--prophecies that no one ever believed!" He finished with a grand gesture. The pilgrims applauded, offered him some coins or drink, and wandered away. Before all of them had dispersed, the old Captain managed to catch Kassandra's eye. "Ah! And there is the misthios of the hour! Kassandra, I was just telling the story of your namesake!"

"In Delphi, when we're going to see the Pythia," she groused.

"Surely Apollo won't strike us down if we make our offerings!" Barnabas defended, falling in beside Kassandra as they moved further into town. He gave Histiaeus and Agathe a quick once-over, exchanged bemused yet enthused eyebrow wiggles with Kassandra, and continued to speak as he led them towards wherever he had found to bed down in the Sanctuary. "Pilgrims normally camp outside the city walls, but I was able to talk one of the local guards into allowing us some space around the back of the barracks! Er, but I only said two of us."

"Eh, I don't think we'll be here that long," Kassandra replied, shifting her sack over her shoulder to ensure her weapons were easily accessible. Presumably the pilgrims around them were decent people, but it never hurt to be prepared. "Once I get an answer from the Pythia we can head back to Pilgrim's Landing."

The barracks were near the city walls, so they could set up camp between the barracks and the wall with the ladened down steed carefully ensconced in the small space. As Barnabas headed back up the hill to the Temple and Histiaeus and Agathe set up the tent and sorted through their supplies, Kassandra grabbed her best armour and headed to the baths. No matter how much she wanted to see the Pythia, gut the Pythia, and get gone before anyone noticed, the Pythia was still an important figure and the last thing she wanted were those many, many Tiers of Mercenaries Imbros mentioned hunting her down. So playing nice it was, and part of that was at least washing off the last few weeks of dirt and blood.

Getting an excuse to repair and maintain her armour was just a bonus.

Agathe and Histiaeus had settled in when she returned, and waved her off when she offered to bring them with her. "There's been some trouble with getting to see the Pythia," Agathe warned. "You might be waiting for a long time."

"By design," Histiaeus muttered, but he was turning out to be generally dour and pessimistic, so both women ignored the comment.

Kassandra whistled for Ikaros to precede her and pick out Barnabas in the crowd, and followed the strong wings to near where the queue meandered around the terrace to the entrance of the Temple. Off to the side sat Barnabas, beside him a hooded man in blue. They were chatting quietly on the marble bench, keeping one eye on the unmoving line of pilgrims and petitioners, but had a small wineskein they were sharing between them.

The other man--Herodotus--was an Athenian, but Kassandra grudgingly admitted that his advice was at least sensible. And, as much as she was coming to love Barnabas, his heading back to the Adrestia (and offering to take Agathe and Histiaeus along with him) meant that she could focus on the task at hand: cornering the Pythia after the guards made their move.

In this, Herodotus was irreplaceable. He was a fount of information, quick to answer any question she had and even quicker to admit that he did not know something, but he was pretty sure he knew someone who did and he'd ask as soon as possible. Three couriers had been sent out for such reasons, all paid handsomely by Herodotus and promised even more once they returned with the replies. He may or may not have used Athenian funds for that, which endeared him fiercely to Kassandra.

And so, by the time she had threatened her way in to see the Pythia, had been thrown out after an unsettling conversation, and determined to hunt down the Priestess as soon as possible, Herodotus had at least been upgraded to "somewhat trustworthy", suspicious interest in her broken spear aside. Which was why Kassandra didn't have a problem telling him about her meeting, even with Barnabas absent. Maybe he was doing it to get closer to the spear, or for some other reason, but at least what she was being told was useful.

His advice to check the Chora of Delphi for the Pythia proved fruitful almost immediately, and later, after she had hunted down Elpeanor, gained the mask and robes of the Cult of Kosmos, and determined to infiltrate them, it was Herodotus she sought out for guidance. Not that she needed much. The Cult had already proven to be a pain in her side, and if their reach extended as far as Herodotus suspected, it would be better to take them down now. Or, at least gather enough information that she could work on hunting them down later.

"Kassandra," Herodotus warned her feet from the door to the undercroft, "Be careful. These people are not to be trifled with. I do not want to see you hurt."

She managed a smile, though hidden behind her mask he couldn't see it. She rested her hand on his shoulder instead. "Thank you, Herodotus. But I am not to be trifled with, either."

[mecomptane]

MQ: Imbros the Parched

Once again my formatting is MIA... dreamwidth is looking like more and more of an option. Anyway, Kassandra and the first non-Talos the Stone First mercenary (incidentally, the first mercenary I ran into as well, and ranked only one higher than me at the time)!

-

In Kassandra's defense, she had meant to head back to Barnabas and the Adrestia as soon as she was done in Megaris. Nikolaos was out of the picture and his helmet weighed heavily in her sack, and while he wasn't dead the Spartans--and second General Stentor in particular--didn't actually know that. The sooner she was out of Megaris and away from the potential arrowstorm from an angry phalanx, the better.

But the young farmer had a contract, and it was well ingrained in her to never turn down a contract, no matter how small. On Kephallonia any amount of drachmae was not just useful but could make the difference between eating for the next week or scrounging for scraps, and while the farmer didn't have much to offer by way of coin he had given her a few vegetables and strips of dried meat, with a small note and a promise of payment from the merchant she was delivering the letter to.

If that meant skirting the border with Boeotia and her fearsome military, then Kassandra would just have to expand and expound on her stealth abilities.

A day later she was heading back towards Megaris, a few hundred drachmae richer and belly stuffed with dinner from a grateful merchant. Much of Hellas was in turmoil, but there were still some towns and cities that had avoided the worst of Eris' touch and had some plenty to share with weary travellers and skilled mercenaries. (Taking care of that pack of wolves on the way in hadn't hurt her initial meeting with the locals, either.)

Another few hours would bring her within sight of Panoramos, and hopefully the Adrestia would still be at anchor. Barnabas had said his life--and ship, and crew--were at her beck and call, but just bringing her to Megaris was more than most captains that sailed by Kephallonia would do to even the debt. For him to stick around this long would be unimaginable. With the sun beating down hot overhead and only sparse shade along the road, Kassandra whistled for Ikaros and settled down under a small copse. "Break time," she crooned as the eagle settled on her raised knee, chirping at her before taking off to find his own prey. The loaf of bread and handful of figs didn't make a substantial meal, but it was more than enough to keep her going until Panoramos. And resting for a while wouldn't hurt. It would be easier to enter Megaris in general and Panoramos in particular after dark, when most of the Spartan forces would be resting and those awake on guard wouldn't be able to see as far. Not that they were any equal to her sight at their best, and with Ikaros flying above they didn't stand a chance.

If the Adrestia was still there, getting to her during the night would be easiest, even if they waited until sunrise to depart. And if she wasn't... sneaking through Panoramos towards Megara would still be easiest at night. The part of her that had been trained from birth for warfare called for blood, to fight her way through the Spartan camp and shower the ground with red. But the rest of her--who grew up under Markos' spotty guardianship, who had to learn how to play nice, make friends, negotiate, and keep her head down just to survive--prioritized safe travel over violence.

Ikaros landed arms length away, a small rodent clutched in his talons as he tore into it. Kassandra smiled at him, ripping off another piece of bread with her teeth. "Such a swift hunter, Ikaros." He chirped at her again, acknowledging her compliment before returning to his meal.

Moving around the copse of trees to the side away from the road and mostly hidden, Kassandra reclined on an elbow and gazed over the landscape. Megaris was in ruins closer to the beachhead, but up here in the foothills was largely untouched. Almost peaceful. The sun was warm on her skin, Ikaros was keeping watch nearby, and she actually had a mostly full stomach for the first time in weeks. It was the perfect opportunity for a nap.

She awoke to Ikaros' screech near her ear, the brush of feathers over her face. Kassandra snapped upright, grabbing for her broken spear as she landed in a crouch, Ikaros leaping up to settle on her shoulder, wings flared and talons digging into the armour there. She started to scan the area, ready for danger--and stopped.

A fire had been built to ward off the incoming darkness of night, though the sun still sat low in the sky. Across from Kassandra crouched an armoured man, the chestplate of a different design and age from the pteurges and the bracers. His head was shaved and, overall, he looked like he had spent the last few years on the road, living off the land. But the armour was well tended and clean, and the sword at his side was clearly recently cleaned.

"....misthios," the man greeted, poking the fire before settling down to roast what looked like a small gamebird over the fire.

Kassandra eyed him, debating whether or not to leave... but it wouldn't hurt to talk to someone more familiar with the land. "Mercenary."

"Imbros," he offered. "That's a beautiful eagle."

"...Kassandra," she greeted and stored away the broken spear as she finally sat down, Ikaros shifting his weight to accommodate her movements. Might as well double check this... Imbros hadn't stolen anything before she took off. She could still make it to Panoramos before sunrise if she left in the next few hours. "This is Ikaros."

Ikaros squawked once, then set to preening her hair, tugging strands out of her braid. Kassandra let him; ages ago she'd tried to stop him, but that just made him more determined.

Imbros nodded, turning the bird on its spit. "So. You new around here?"

"From Kephallonia," Kassandra replied, rustling through her sack. Nikolaos' helmet was still there--the most important thing in the bag--and everything else she'd collected since Elpeanor had shown his face. Including the food. Ah, the food. Not much drink left, though she hadn't left the town with much in her wineskein to start. "Just landed before the Spartan and Athenian battle in Megaris."

Imbros hummed in recognition. "Aaaah, so you were the Mercenary the Spartans hired. We heard about the battle and came to offer our services, but by the time we arrived it was already over."

"For Sparta, or Athens?"

Imbros eyed her warily. "We are Mercenaries. Does it matter?"

Well... no. For all that she was Spartan by birth, Kassandra hadn't felt Spartan in years. Not since Taygetos. She hummed noncommittally, and then, "We? You travel with other mercenaries?" The only other she'd had experience with was Talos the Stone Fist, and the general policy there was avoid at all costs.

He nodded, picking at the meat to check doneness before returning it to the fire. "Occasionally. I'm new to being a Mercenary too, so it's easier to follow a more experienced misthios. But I'm getting better. Almost good enough to take bounties on my own." He stared her down, and for one brief moment Kassandra worried. Nikolaos had left the Spartan camp but at least she had held herself back from killing him. Surely Stentor wouldn't have put a bounty on her if there was no body, no death?

But then he shrugged, returning to cooking the gamebird. "Those who survived say you fought like ten men, killed or wounded many more."

To boast or to be demure? "On Kephallonia, there was only enough jobs--and space--for two mercenaries. We had to be good." And now there were none. Maybe she could suggest that to Imbros, get him out of the Peloponnese (and out of her hair)?

Imbros nodded slowly. "There's more room here, though, more jobs. More mercenaries to compete with. You were good before, but are you good enough to rise in the Tiers?"

Tiers... implying a ranking system. Talos had been older, more experienced, and she had partially modelled her way of finding contracts and getting work after his methods coupled with what actually worked on Kephallonia for a child from the sea and raised by a professional conman. If there was any sort of ranking system there, Kassandra supposed Talos would have been above her. There hadn't been, though. It was first-come first-served for all jobs and no one particularly valued one misthios over the other when it came to who would take the job.

A ranking system meant there was some kind of formality to it, an organization or structure or rules that mainland Mercenaries followed. She'd never been particularly good at rules--fighting, finding, protecting, yes, but rules? Yet... if she wanted to actually earn a living doing Mercenary work, she'd probably have to at least try.

Barnabas seemed to know his way around Hellas. Maybe he knew some of these structures and rules.

Something must have shown on her face, as Imbros started chuckling as he pulled the gamebird out of the flames and started picking at it. "Having second thoughts?"

Kassandra snorted, reclining onto one elbow. "Trying to figure out these... Tiers."

"Make a Name for yourself, and you're in. Every time a Mercenary ranked higher gets taken out by injury, illness or death, everyone below them moves up. Move up enough and you get bumped into a higher Tier, gain some notoriety, get some perks."

"Get more people after me."

Imbros chuckled around a mouthful. "Only if you kill people in broad daylight."

"Ah, so rule number one: be subtle when I kill people," Kassandra retorted.

"Or just... don't. Unless there's a bounty?"

"Difficult to complete a kill bounty without actually killing someone."

Ikaros chirred briefly, nudging the side of her head with his beak before taking off with a single powerful sweep of his wings. Kassandra and Imbros watched him soar into the sunset for a moment, but then she pushed herself up to her feet. "Well, time to go find a contract."

"You're... not staying here for the night?" The other novice Mercenary shifted, putting one foot flat on the earth as if to stand. "You're travelling in the dark? Where are you heading?"

Kassandra took the time to eye him, now, stretching her arms above her head and making no effort to disguise her appraisal. Travelled before with at least one other Mercenary, could have made it to the next town with only another hour of travel but stopped when he stumbled across her, admitted to being new to this line of work, was clearly nervous.... "I'm back to Panoramos, to meet with a... friend." Or close enough, anyway.

Now Imbros was on his feet, kicking dirt onto the fire as he shoved the last of the gamebird into his mouth and the carcass and spit into the copse nearby. "Panoramos? But that... why did you come out here if you're just going back to Megaris?"

"Because a contract I took brought me out here," which she thought was rather obvious, especially for a fellow Mercenary. You go where you need to, even if it takes you out of your way. Or, technically she could make it to Phokis overland if she just kept going North-West, but between the fighting, Boeotia's forces, the bandits, and the wild animals, there was no telling how long it would take her to get there. If she survived the trip at all.

His brows were furrowed and now that there was nothing to occupy his hands with, Imbros was wringing them, glancing between Kassandra and the road towards Panoramos... and then trailing back, focusing briefly on the road away from Panoramos before focusing on her again. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it closed, repeating the pattern of Kassandra-Panoramos road-Boeotia road.

She rolled her eyes, digging in her sack for a loaf of bread and something to drink. The bread was quick to hand, but all she had for liquid was the wineskein, and she wasn't about to give that up. "Look, Imbros--take this, and some dried figs, they should get you through. Another hour or so towards Boeotia is a small town, lots of friendly people. Ask if they need help--there was at least one huntress who mentioned that her sister was recently widowed, they could probably use another pair of hands--make friends. They'll give you room and board if you help out until you decide to move on. Are you any good at hunting? There's packs of wolves around that need clearing out. And be careful not to get too close to Boeotia's borders, the warriors there don't exactly like Mercenaries."

He was outwardly gaping at her as Kassandra shoved the bread and figs into his hands. Okay, time to head off before she actually felt responsible for him. "Safe travels, good hunting. And, uh, sorry for the lack of drink. I only have the one wineskein."

"Oh, no, it's... fine," he muttered, visibly shaking himself from his reverie and running one hand over his mostly bald head. "Uh, safe travels to you, too."

Kassandra waved over her shoulder and whistled for Ikaros, sending him scouting ahead even as she remained in the here-and-now. "Until we next meet, Imbros."

She was almost at the next bend in the road when hurried footsteps came up behind her. To absolutely no surprise, the other Mercenary greeted her when she turned to check. "Wait--Kassandra--" He gulped down a breath, then held out a small wooden token with rows of characters on it. "For Mercenaries. It's not a contract, but in Megara, there's a Temple. Mercenaries gather there."

Oh, she knew that Temple well. There was one less Mercenary that was likely to visit, now.

"Take it, show it to whichever Mercenary is there. If--if you want, they'll take you under their guidance," and at seeing her sneer at the idea, "Or--it will work as an introduction between you."

She didn't really need to go to Megara. But it was the largest city, so if Barnabas hadn't waited it was the best place to find a captain who might be willing to take her... even if it meant crossing the Diokoles. And if she was there anyway.... Imbros was new, and clearly still finding his feet. Maybe a more senior--no, a higher ranking, higher Tiered Mercenary--would no doubt have a better grasp of the rules.

"Fine," but she took the token with greater gentleness than her tone of voice implied. "...thank you."

"No, no," he waved her off, "Thank you," and he was back up the road, heading to Boeotia at a speed that would get him to the town well within the hour if he kept up the pace.

Kassandra hid beside a boulder and followed him with Ikaros' eyes, marking Imbros in their combined mental map. She waited until he was well away before returning to her own body, standing and stretching again. If she moved as quickly as Imbros was, she'd be to Panoramos before midnight, and on the Adrestia not too much later. By then, the other Mercenary should be well ensconced in the border town and hopefully getting into his cups and forgetting all about her presence. And name. And Ikaros.

The eagle chirped above her to signal he had caught up again, and then she was off. To Phokis, to Elpeanor... to the Truth.

[mecomptane]

MQ: Barnabas of the Adrestia

Part one of... many. So many. Oh no.

Also, my italics for Greek and/or emphasis no longer exist, so that’s great. 10/10. Might try uploading to dreamwidth first from now on, and then copying/linking in to here.

-

“Kephallonia is… here?”

Barnabas leaned over from the wheel, turning so that his good eye focused on where Kassandra was pointing. “Hm? Aye, that’s Kephallonia--and just to the north, there, that’s Ithaka!”

“I know Ithaka,” Kassandra retorted, toeing the island painted on the deck of the Adrestia idly. “I’ve looked at it almost every day.”

The real Ithaka--and Kephallonia--were well behind them, bare specks on the horizon. She’d spent the first few hours since departing sitting on the stern bench, watching over her shoulder as the land she’d spent the last twenty plus years on slipped away. They weren’t home, not really: not Ithaka where she’d honed her hunting skills, and not even Kephallonia, though all the friends left to her in the world lived there.

But a job was a job, and between the plague slowly spreading over the islands and the sudden hush of contracts that came in the wake of facing off against the only other mercenary on the island in spectacularly violent--and public--fashion, there wasn’t much work or coin coming her way any time soon. Kassandra sighed and scuffed her toe against the painted map again, slowly cataloguing the different lands and waters, so carefully rendered. So many places to see, so many people to meet, armies to fight… and somehow, with all those people and across all those lands, Elpeanor managed to find her. Decided to hire her.

To kill the Wolf of Sparta.

Nikolaos hadn’t been a young man when Kassandra was growing up, a General of Sparta and one of the greatest warriors the city had seen since the death of King Leonidas. He’d gained fame within Sparta for his tactics and skillful maneuvering, and renown through the rest of the Peloponnese for his treatment of enemies and allies alike. Not merciful--he was Spartan, after all--but a certain amount of respect. Other generals might take prisoners as slaves; Nikolaos was more likely to ransom them back to their cities or, if seriously injured, grant them an honourable death.

“It’s so isolated,” Kassandra remarked, still staring at the map. “But I can see the coast of the Peloponnese from my house.” House, shack, hut. It was newly built a hundred years ago and left to ruin sometime after; she’d claimed it and fixed it up, but it wasn’t any sort of luxurious.

Barnabas laughed at her, gesturing to the map as he turned back to the helm. “You can? You must have the sight of the gods, then!”

“Or maybe I just have two working eyes,” she snarked back. Sight of the gods, right.

But Barnabas laughed again; did nothing upset this man? “Or perhaps four eyes; I see you talking with that eagle of yours!”

The eagle in question--proud, defiant, and a mother hen in turns--was perched on the wooden screen that shielded part of the stern bench, alternating between watching the sea and watching Kassandra and Barnabas. Kassandra clicked her tongue to get his attention; Ikaros shrilled at her, fluffed his feathers, and turned back to the sea.

She sighed at him; her oldest friend was an eagle. A stubborn eagle, at that. “The only thing we talk about is him taking off to hunt and me scolding him when he shows up just in time to annoy me.”

Kassandra looked up just in time to see Barnabas shaking his head, his whole body shuddering. “Hey! Are you laughing at me?”

“You talk about your Ikaros like my old friend talks about his wife.”

She snorted. “You live with someone long enough, I suppose it all starts to sound the same.”

One of the skeleton crew below called out for Barnabas and instructions; as the old captain saw to his people and ship, Kassandra lounged back against the bench, tilting her head towards the sun.

They were heading for Megaris, which Barnabas assured her was the current major battleground in the war between Athens and Sparta. Elpeanor had said that Nikolaos would be there, but she trusted the old seaman over some shady mainlander who let his guards get killed as a test to see her skills. Or however he reasoned it; she didn’t want to ask, because that meant interacting with him more. Whether he was hiding out on Kephallonia to avoid Nikolaos and the bounty he’d put on the Wolf’s head was Elpeanor’s way of avoiding some consequence, or if he was on Kephallonia for another reason and wanting Nikolaos killed was incidental, she didn’t know that, either.

Kassandra shifted, pulling out the old broken spear her mater had given her, so long ago. She’d never taken a bounty contract before--the closest was hunting down a handful of local thieves (who were a drachmae a dozen on Kephallonia; the island wasn’t entirely made up of criminals, but it was probably a fifty-fifty split between law abiding citizens and those who just did not care). The contract to kill Nikolaos was more an excuse to get off the island that’d been her home since she was eight, see more of the world, make a name for herself. That didn’t mean she didn’t intend to uphold her end, and to do that… sword, short sword, spear, bow and arrows would all work, but using the broken spear wouldn’t just be effective. It would be poetic justice.

The man who married Leonidas’ daughter, killed by Leonidas’ own broken spear. One of the kings had sent Spartans to recover the spear from Thermopylae at the same time as they recovered Leonidas’ body for a burial with honours, and it had been given to Myrrine after the internment. Or, knowing the woman, she had demanded the last relic of her father to be handed over immediately, and everyone who stood in her way suffered for it.

Kassandra ran a finger down the edge of the spear’s blade, testing the sharpness and checking for rust. None, as normal. As much as she liked to think it was all the maintenance and care she paid to the old weapon, the metal shone in a way that she’d never seen before and no matter what she stabbed or threw the spear into the edge never dulled. Good for a quick kill, then, and that’s what this would have to be: a quick kill. Stealthy, maybe. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that between Nikolaus’ skills and the Spartan army, there was only one way she could really hope to complete the contract: a proper assassination.

“What are you frowning about, o mighty misthios?” Barnabas’ voice broke her from her thoughts.

She startled upwards, coming to her feet and not-so-accidentally treading on the painted islands in the process. “Barnabas! Don’t startle me like that.”

“Eh, I know you wouldn’t hurt this poor old, one-eyed man,” he shrugged off her annoyance. “I need to go below; do you know how to handle a ship?”

That brought her up short. “Do I know how to… what?”

He waved her forward to the helm. “Come, come, let me teach you quickly. We have another day of sailing before we make it to Megaris, more than enough time for lessons!”

She reached out to grab the old wood, worn smooth by many hands over the years. “What am I--what do you want me to do?”

“Keep her on the same heading, there--no, no, sun just slightly behind and to the right, we want to head east-south-east,” he instructed. “There we go! See? I knew you’d be a natural!”

Kassandra flexed her fingers, checking her grip. “And I just… stand here?”

“Exactly! Any questions?”

“Yes: why are you trusting me with this?”

He laughed and patted her shoulder. Flinched slightly away when his hand contacted the hard lines of metal and buckles that were hidden by the Shroud of Penelope Kassandra had wrapped around her shoulders and head. “Well, obviously you have sailed before! How else would you get from the mainland to Kephallonia?”

She tried not to stiffen or show another reaction, but from the corner of her eye she could see Barnabas looking at her worriedly. “Me? From the mainland?”

“From the Peloponnese, somewhere, probably,” Barnabas confirmed, would-be casually. “You sail as long as I have to as many places as I have, and you can pick out details like that, too. A bit of an accent, and a way of framing your sentences that sounds more like Lakonian or Messenian, maybe Arkadian. But most of the time you sound Kephallonian! If that’s why you’re worried, the accent of your latest home comes through clearly.”

She shook her head at him. “Kephallonia isn’t my home.”

“Even after… however long you’ve lived there?”

“No,” Kassandra confirmed. Even with Marcos and Phoibe and the few other people who were almost friends, almost family. “No, not Kephallonia.”

Barnabas hummed, apparently having forgotten being called away. “Then… wherever you were from before? Is that your home?”

She couldn’t help herself; she snorted. In her mind’s eye she could easily picture the spear, Myrrine, Nikolaos, the masked men, baby Alexios, the mountain. “I might have been born in Sparta, but I was never really Spartan.”

“Spartan?” Barnabas asked, surprise lacing his words. “And you’re looking for the Wolf of Sparta?”

Kassandra nodded; Barnabas had said he took no side in this war, even having been an Athenian captain, once upon a time. Still, Kephallonia supported Athens, and so far most of public opinion--that Kassandra had heard, anyway--swayed in favour of Athens, too. It would make sense for her to be after a Spartan General if she had been from Athens or somewhere that was firmly part of or on the side of the Delian League. She could see why Barnabas would be surprised.

“I am,” she confirmed, her lips curling upwards. Not a smile, not a sneer; she wasn’t sure what she was feeling about this, but it wasn’t anything good. “I’m going to track Nikolaos down, and before I kill him I am going to get some answers.”

“Answers?” Barnabas parroted.

She nodded, shortly. “Answers. When I was eight, the oracle said that my baby brother--who was in perfect health--would bring about the fall of Sparta if he was allowed to live. Mater fought against the order, but we were all brought up Mount Taygetos and---and Alexios was thrown off the mountain cliff.”

Barnabas hadn’t completely retracted his hand before from her shoulder; he rested it again against the shroud, patting gently. “That must have been difficult to witness, Kassandra. I am sorry. ...but what does that have to do with the Wolf?”

“He was there,” she answered after a minute. She had to refocus; Barnabas had actually sounded sincere. When was the last time someone had actually meant what they said to her? “He was there, he let them kill Alexios… and when I fought back, pushed the priest who had thrown Alexios off and killed him…. Nikolaos threw me off Mount Taygetos, too.”

She could feel Barnabas withdrawing, air abruptly sucked through clenched teeth. “And you survived?”

“I did,” she nodded. “That’s the night that Ikaros found me.”

“So you’ve known him for a long, long time,” Barnabas surmised, looking up at the eagle. Ikaros’ attention was focused wholly on them; she’d noticed the minute he’d zeroed in on them, but the predatory gaze had long been comforting. “But you know what happened then. What answers are you looking for?”

Kassandra shrugged, careful to not jostle her hands and change their heading. “Just one answer, I guess,” she conceded. “I want to ask him… I want to know why, when the priests said that Alexios would bring us to ruin, when they told him to kill me in return for the life of one of their own…

“I want to know why he sided with them over his own children.”

[mecomptane]

Blew up my old laptop so I’m trying to recover things from it. (Okay, a slight exaggeration. Maybe.) Apparently I decided to write Star Wars fic at some point? It’s here for posterity, definitely no beta, can’t guarantee the quality. So, the usual. (Pretty sure this was also a 3am sort of thing.)

-

Yoda has been Grand Master of the Jedi Order for going on five centuries, alive for nearly nine, and still, sometimes, feels like he's barely one.

It's few and far between, admittedly--history doesn't exactly repeat, no, but the motivations of sapient beings don't particularly change, and once you understand why people make the choices they do, then you can generally guess what any person or group might do in response. It's not flawless and has failed him before, but between lived experience, his strength in the Force, and the Republic having little changed, overall, he's usually right. Or at least, unsurprised.

The Councilors call him unflappable, the Masters and Knights steadfast, and the Padawans and Initiates whisper that he is Ancient and Omniscient.

Yoda, mostly, calls himself tired.

This is a song and dance he knows well, has all but memorized the steps to. Padawans become Knights become Masters and find an Initiate to teach and mentor and raise, the closest they will ever be to children of blood being children of their hearts. Years--in some cases, a decade or more--will weave the two into a knot of compassion and knowledge and reliance (but never attachment), and with the Trials the Master shears their Padawan's braid and the Padawan shears the rope that had once bound them so tightly, and the two walk away, together but inherently separate, to live their lives as sole individuals connected only by the gossamer web and weave of the Force, as all living things do.

Countless have come and gone, all with slightly different steps or rhythms. Not all have been successful. Jedi walk in the light and dream of the sun, but shadowy corners and secrets in darkness are tempting, too intriguing to pass up the chance to investigate. Rare are those who give in; rarer still are those who find their way back. But it does happen, as much as they might wish it otherwise.

Yoda has seen all of them in nearly a millennia, can trace the pattern and knows the steps of that dance, too. Not that of true Sith, no, but the path to becoming a Darksider is identical to that of a Jedi with only a few steps reversed, repeated, skipped over. Once the first misstep occurs, it takes barely any thought to see where and how the dance might change. Will they weave back and forth, between light and darkness? Will they flit into the shadows briefly and find it not to their taste, thereafter choosing only the path strung with the lanterns of faith? Will they stumble into the shadows once, twice, again and again, until the light itself hurts their eyes and they cannot see save anywhere but darkness?

One step, two, a few more--that's all it takes, now, for Yoda to know. He's been wrong, true, but those times were more that he'd given into hope. Hope that they'd find their way into the light, that their dance would one day realign with that of the rest of the Jedi.

So as Yoda sits among the Council, the dimming light of Coruscant's pale setting sun struggling in through the windows, he is thrown. Surprised. Confused.

"I will take him as my Padawan," Qui-Gon Jinn says, hands resting reassuringly on the shoulders of a supernova given form. So bright, so powerful, spilling everywhere with little control, care, or concern. Yoda can barely look.

Behind the duo stands a white dwarf of the Force, the light and warmth turned inward and controlled, peaceful but puissant and exactly like a Jedi should be, but.

But.

"Obi-Wan? He is ready for his Trials."

"Decide that, the Council shall."

In a room of so much light, where the brightest and most powerful Jedi in the galaxy sit in state, there is an undercurrent of shadows. A slight dimming in the corners, a hint of something obscuring the warmth and nurturing rays.

Qui-Gon Jinn. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Anakin Skywalker.

Yoda looks between them and the Council, and wonders.

-

When he was younger, Yoda delighted in his Padawan learners. That he lived so much longer than any other species or race was a detriment to others, but it allowed him to have generations of Padawans and their Padawans, Grandpadawans and Greatgrandpadawans. Each of his students had siblings, younger or older; each had nieces and nephews; all had someone to fall back on, to speak with, to rely on. To be family with.

Attachment was not the Jedi way, but compassion and selfless love was. All of his students--and their students, so on and so forth--understood that, embraced that.

Eventually he became the Grand Master and became so busy with duties he could not devote the time to another Padawan, to his Lineage as he once did. They understood, relied more on each other, and while some came to him with questions or concerns it was a rarity. And then--somewhere along the lines--it stopped happening altogether. A Lineage was called after the oldest surviving member, but when there were gaps of three, four, ten generations... did one really still count as part of that Lineage? But that was fine, as it should be; the Force is Life and Life is forever changing, growing, renewing. Yoda had learnt at the side of a Master long gone but fondly remembered, now part of the Force; his students, too, memories and trinkets, memorabilia tucked carefully away in a chest in his room, never opened but a reminder nonetheless.

The desire to teach Dooku had been unexpected, unanticipated, almost unappreciated. It had been years since he last had a Padawan learner of his own... but why not? He'd long since turned over immediate day-to-day responsibilities to an aide, now the Master of the Order, and aside from popping in to teach classes or spend time in the creche, he had ample time for a personal student again.

Of course, the way that had turned out... but Dooku's own Padawan, Qui-Gon, had been bright and sensitive to the ways and wills of the Force, and always willing to help another Padawan, always willing to lend an ear or support. Maybe Dooku hadn't turned out as Yoda had hoped, but surely Qui-Gon would be better.

And he was, with Feemor. Maybe not the most in-touch Master, preferring books or research or his plants and animals and following the eddies of the Force invisible to most others, but he cared. He wanted Feemor to succeed, to thrive, as did Yoda. And Feemor did, passing his Trials with little difficulty and much grace; a Jedi Knight to be, surely, proud of.

Xanatos, however....

He'd deserved to be repudiated, true. Yoda had even cautioned Qui-Gon about his second Padawan, having seen the steps and the missteps and the constant swaying between light and dark. A Shadow, he'd suggested. Cautioned. Xanatos could not walk in the light, not like Feemor, but enough light he had in him to walk in both, to be a Shadow of their Order. Qui-Gon hadn't listened, still too proud, too arrogant, after Feemor.

In the end, Xanatos became a Darksider. Qui-Gon, as custom and duty and common sense demanded, repudiated him. But not just him, no, for if he'd gone so wrong with Xanatos, surely Feemor, too, was secretly not what he appeared to be? And so Feemor had suffered for his younger brother's choices, for Qui-Gon's pride and lack of attention to detail, for his desperation to not stain or blemish the Lineage of the Grand Master.

Two students, one Jedi Knight, one Darksider. Two repudiations, one earned, one not.

Qui-Gon had sworn off all further students, had nearly been convinced to take another, had rejected them in the end. The Force had brought them back together, and Qui-Gon could not ignore such a sign, but--

Obi-Wan is quiet in the Force. As a child he'd been as a river, calmly flowing one minute and the tempestuousness of white water the next, but always moving, always steady. As a babe... Yoda remembers the young human, presumed Stewjoni, being brought into the Hall of Healing for the first time, so young and already so part of the Force it had nearly wrapped around him. Not a vergence, not power, but a pin in an ever-changing tapestry, a marble dropped into the center of a taught sheet, a boulder in the middle of the river he'd become part of.

Chaos in the midst of calm, or the calm waters of the eye of a storm?

Obi-Wan learnt the steps of those around him, learnt to dance between light and darkness with Quinlan Vos and somewhere along the lines chose to remain in the light. But these were not his steps, Yoda could see. They were the steps of the Masters, the Knights, the Padawans, even other Initiates; they were what should be, what Kenobi himself clearly wanted to do, to be, but were copied from others, a reflection of truth and not what actually was.

The only times Yoda could remember Obi-Wan stepping out on his own, trying to make his own dance--Melida/Daan. Mandalore. Qui-Gon had either left him alone or with minimal guidance, and without the framework of the Order to guide him, Obi-Wan had fallen back on what he believed to be right, to be the will of the Force. Protect the Young. Protect the Duchess. Stop a war. (Even if it meant fighting.)

Obi-Wan wouldn't be happy strictly as a Peacekeeper, no. He had the knack for it, a skill with words and negotiations that most Masters could only wish for, but the boy's heart--his desire--was to defend and protect that which was Good.

And now, here. Naboo.

Qui-Gon's body lays in repose in the next room, waiting for the sunset and the pyre. Obi-Wan kneels before him, a Knight in a Padawan's garb, and while he never fails to make eye contact, there's a careful guard to it.

Peacekeepers do not kill, after all. Jedi are Peacekeepers; ergo, for all that he's tried to emulate them, Obi-Wan Kenobi is not a Peacekeeper. Not a Jedi.

He's a protector, and Yoda can see him realizing this even as he kneels and Yoda paces, otherwise in perfect silence.

Protectors need things to protect, things to cherish, attachments. How do you value something enough to protect it while maintaining a necessary distance? Even the Sentinels, guards as they are, keep their distance from their charges, no matter how many Younglings jump around and climb them and offer them sweets and pies.

"...even if I must leave the Order, I will train the boy."

And there is both the problem and the solution. Qui-Gon did a disservice to his student, leaving him to find his way alone. Even now, in death, Qui-Gon cannot complete the ritual to break their bond, to cut their ties so Obi-Wan may move forward alone. Yet it's clear that between the Council chamber and the reactor, the bond between them had already begun to unravel. Now what ritual there might be--it wouldn't have mattered, anyway. A sham, a farce, to be done with, if it would even happen at all.

Not that they didn't care about each other--no, he'd seen enough of them together to know that they did, but it was the care between two Knights or two Masters, not teacher-and-student, not father-and-son. Removed, careful, expecting and understanding that each could exist without the other ever in their lives again, but grateful for this brief opportunity to spend time beside each other.

So maybe Qui-Gon was right, in the end: maybe Obi-Wan had been ready for his Trials, having been acting the part of Knight already. No Trials now, Darth Maul's death is more than enough to count, and no ritual Knighting. Just the burning of a body... and the decision of a Knight to train a boy he barely knows.

A boy for the first time away from family and friends and familiarity, a boy... much like Obi-Wan once was, if only Yoda had paid more attention. A boy that, like Obi-Wan, will need to find his own path through life, his own steps through light and dark that might--will--be different from any Yoda has seen before.

A boy that, for right now, needs less guidance and more care. More compassion. More... protection.

It goes against the teachings of the Jedi, to encourage attachments. But Yoda looks at Obi-Wan, feels out for the boy on the other side of the door keeping vigil over his once would-be Master's body, and knows the will of the Force, too.

"Train the boy, you shall," he decrees, and blames the rest of the Council. "A Knight, you are."

Obi-Wan bows his head, like he'd expected nothing less, like he's grateful they're in accord and he won't have to fight for it.

And like he'd never expected a Knighting, a ritual, a ceremony.

Yoda watches him quietly enter the next room, kneel down beside Anakin Skywalker and join the silent vigil. Sees Anakin lean into him, just slightly. Sees Obi-Wan pause, then wrap one arm loosely around small shoulders.

No, he decides, turning his back on what's left of his Lineage. They'll make new dances, a new path, and he won't recognize a single step of it.

And he feels the slightest hint of relief.

[mecomptane]

The Cost of Preemptive Strikes

Tsuna sighed, slumping back into his chair. Hayato would probably be by in the next few minutes with updates about their various projects and investments, but right now he was going to enjoy the peace and solitude and lack of crying infants in small enclosed spaces. At least first class allowed him more space, but on air planes there was no magical sound barrier between economy and business. He’d probably be more understanding if he hadn’t been planning on a nice, long sleep taking up most of the overnight trans-Atlantic flight.

 Especially considering the race the night before. Super-speed, yes. Feeling like he’d been thrown into a wind tunnel simulating a category five hurricane with zero protective layers, also yes.

 Spanner was ecstatic at the numbers, though. Max speed, turn handling, energy efficiency, emissions (none)…. The man had been more excited than a child on Christmas morning. He’d even abandoned his newest Mosca design to go over things with Tsuna, which was practically unheard of.

 He’d sent Tsuna back to Italy with thanks and well-wishes and promises to contact him if there was anything else he needed testing.

 Tsuna desperately hoped there was nothing that needed testing for at least a month.

 Now, while he had some time, he was going to have a power nap and hopefully be ready for whatever chaos Hayato brought with him.

 Just as Tsuna’s eyes were drooping closed, his phone beeped with the chime of an urgent email. Grumbling he pulled it out, quickly navigating to the new message from… Spanner.

 Dread pooled in his stomach. Nuh-uh, no way, “I just got back,” he mourned. “I am not flying all the way to America to test... whatever!”

 He opened it anyway, because no matter his personal feelings on the subject, keeping abreast of whatever shenanigans the self-described members of SRTA were up to could only result in less collateral damage.

  Vongola,

 I’m passing this along. It was sent to your helmet’s internal computer, but I recognize the address it was sent from.

 Spanner

 2 attachments:

 > From: 010001100100111101011000

>To: Black Mask

> Date: 20XX/06/08

> Subject: Watch Out

>

> Had a run in after the last race. Your new engine is drawing attention. People might come looking.

> I’ll try to head them off.

> Suggest you make it a Fixer Contract to be safe.

> Add lasers to your bike.

 >From: 010001100100111101011000

> To: Black Mask

> Date: 20XX/06/09

> Subject: Correction

> 

> Don’t need to make a Contract.

> 

> You owe me $

  Tsuna sighed. Groaned. Dialed.

 “Hey, Reborn. How much is the going rate for accidentally hiring a Fixer as a long-distance sort-of bodyguard?”

[mecomptane]

Something Shiny

“Look, I’m not just going to hand over Spanner’s information.”

 “I’m going to figure it out eventually!”

 “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

 The chatter in his earpiece was annoying, but Aiden found he could just manage to tune them out. Tuning them out maybe involved revving the engine, speeding up and turning his head to catch the wind in his ears, but strange driving was nothing new to the people around them.

 Pawnee was really only part of ctOS because Blume had their headquarters on the fringes. The rest of the area was very much Chicago’s technologically absent vacation playground, which made it a simultaneously perfect and horrible race location. Perfect, in that only those Fixers with enough skill and connections had access to the limited network in the area and so the only racers were those with access or those completely without but didn’t care. People of Aiden’s level. It was horrible in that the network was so limited, because if something went wrong—as it was wont to do—then the racers could only rely on their driving skills and not on various infrastructure triggers.

 For Aiden, this meant that he got to see the other high-level Fixers he might have to go against. For Black Mask…

 “Look, Spanner asked me to test this. I really don’t need help!”

 “But I want to! I can take results from this side and send them to Spanner!”

 “And I’m saying that Spanner is monitoring this remotely and you really don’t need to!”

 The first ten minutes of this had been amusing.

 Now, half an hour into what looked like one of the longer races through back streets and country roads, Aiden had long lost his sense of humour about the would-be argument.

 “T-Bone, lay off. We’re trying to concentrate.”

 “Oh, sure, just be quiet T-Bone, don’t communicate with us T-Bone, we don’t want to hear you T-Bone…”

 “Ignore him,” Aiden cautioned Black Mask.

 Beside him, the younger man tilted his head over just enough to nod. Then he was off, easily outpacing Aiden’s own breakneck speed.

 “Holy shit. What kind of boosters is he using?”

 “Don’t know, don’t care.”

 “But—“

 “He’s testing it, isn’t he? Wait until after this Spanner has worked out all the kinks before attempting to get me killed.”

 That was enough to make T-Bone pause for a bit. Long enough for Aiden to overtake the next racer ahead of him, knocking him down a lane that Aiden knew would eventually meet up with the main race, if an extra ten miles longer.

 He wasn’t the first one to the finish line (that was likely Black Mask), but there were only two other people loitering around the empty lot at the end of the street. While most Fixers didn’t stick around after a race, Aiden was confident that he was in fourth place.

 The dumbfounded expressions on the faces of the other two fixers were too entertaining to ignore.

 “So,” Aiden called as he rolled his bike onto the dry grass, “I guess you saw Black Mask’s new engine too, huh?”

 “What was that?!” One racer yelled, swinging a leg over to stalk over to Aiden. “A new engine? There’s no way an engine upgrade would improve performance that much!”

 “Dude, the guy’s won, like, ten other races in the last six months. His bike is sick,” the second biker said. He remained lounging on his bike, eyeing Aiden and the other racer carefully. A proper Fixer, Aiden decided, sizing them up. Dark red helmet, wide visor, black leather jacket over a grey, oil-stained jumpsuit. A mechanic by day? Or one of Jordi’s friends who dealt with vehicle pick-ups and drop-offs?

 The racer beside Aiden snorted at the other. “Who cares! No matter how many upgrades that guy has, there’s no way he should have managed that speed!”

 “And yet he did,” Aiden prodded.

 “And what the hell is that? How’d he do that?!”

 The red-helmet Fixer shook his head. “Dude, he did. Just let it go, okay?”

 “Let it go? Aren’t you a mechanic or something? Don’t you care?!”

 “I do, but since he’s not here, I’m not going to freak out about it,” the other Fixer insisted. “You need to chill.”

 “I am chill!”

 “Well, if we don’t know anything about it, I’m gonna head off,” red-helmet excused themselves. “See ya guys.”

 Aiden nodded at the Fixer as they drove by. The racer beside him kept ranting and raving, and Aiden did his best to him as he thought. He only stayed until other racers started finishing and driving over for a quick word, at which point he took off back towards Chicago. He took the long way back. He needed a bit of time to think.

 That other Fixer… they seemed fairly laid back, but Aiden hadn’t survived being the Vigilante by ignoring his suspicions. No, the red-helmeted racer was planning something, and Aiden needed to be on the lookout for it.

 And given the conversation, he’d bet good money it was something to do with Black Mask.

[mecomptane]

Shake Hands With the Devil

Aiden counted himself lucky that blue eyes, at least, was more uncomfortable than he was.

 Black Mask—that tiny tea drinker—all but bounced on his toes beside Aiden, craning his neck to get a better view.

 When they managed to get to the bridge, the beginnings of a crowd had already begun. Police and ambulances lined the roads to and from the bridge, with two police helicopters hovering overhead, pointing familiar searchlights not at Aiden (for once) but into the river.

 T-Bone was monitoring the situation from his own little bunker across the city, and relaying the news into Aiden’s, Black Mask’s, and blue eyes’ ears.

 The man who had been stranded in his car on the bridge had been rescued. Three people had been pulled from the river, one of them seriously injured but all likely to make a full recovery. The ruins of one motorcycle had been recovered from the shallows; two others had been spotted in the deeper, swifter waters, but were not priorities to retrieve at the moment, especially with the spring flood raising the level of the river. Other motorcyclists had been reported in the area, but the police weren’t looking into them at the moment: street racing was common nearby. The three men in the river were probably racers, too, but the police weren’t going to be bothering to charge them with anything, not with something more important hanging over them.

 Literally.

 The final supports tying the bridge to the river banks on either side had given in—Aiden could remember that final shuddering groan as he and Black Mask took the final anchor’s tieback at a speed which would have guaranteed death if they had screwed it up. The entire metal behemoth was left floating over the river only on the two support pylons, which were even now succumbing to the stress.

 Blue eyes whistled appreciatively as the side of the bridge closest to them shuddered and then, screeching, tumbled the upper supports into the river. Black Mask winced at the tangled metal still visible above the surface.

 “…good job,” Aiden murmured.

 Black Mask shot him a glare, but turned back to watching the emergency crews scratching their heads in confusion.

 “Holy shit,” blue eyes whispered. “That is so cool.”

 “I thought you were worried someone died?”

 Blue eyes shrugged. “No one did. So it’s cool.”

 Black Mask winced again. “Thankfully.”

 “Yeah.”

 The revving of a motorcycle echoed down the street. Aiden turned his head slightly to watch as four of the Fixers he had dumped the bridge on before pulled up from the direction of the finish line. The police noticed them, too, but as per T-Bone’s report didn’t bother questioning them.

 Blue eyes grinned at the one on the bright red Suzuki. “Yo!”

 The Suzuki pulled away from the group, stopping at the edge of the crowd. The rider didn’t bother to remove his helmet, but he did walk over to them. “You alive kid?”

 “Obviously.”

 “You win?”

 “Yeah!”

 “Good job.” Suzuki turned to Aiden, eyeing him appraisingly. Froze when he realized who he was eyeing. “You, ah… you have anything to do with this?”

 Aiden turned back to the wreckage. Fire trucks had started to pull up, now. “I trigger small bridges, not… these monstrosities.”

 “Good to know. You survived alright?”

 “We hit the bridge right after it, uh, started to collapse,” Black Mask offered. “There was some metal sticking out the sides of the river bank that served as decent ramps onto and off of it, but if we were any faster we’d be in those ambulances.”

 “Any slower we’d be just as in the river,” Aiden added.

 Suzuki nodded slowly. “Any reason you… weren’t… faster?”

 “He’s a fox,” Black Mask gestured at Aiden in an entirely too unconcerned manner. “The only time we get to catch up is during races, since he’s always slinking off elsewhere.”

 “Says the man who’s hardly in the country.”

 Black Mask smiled, but it was twisted. “You’re keeping tabs on me?”

 “T-Bone wants your helmet.”

 “I realized that, thanks.”

 “It might be stolen by the time we get back.”

 “If it is, I’m contracting you to do menial labour for a month.”

 “What’s the rate?”

 “Piddles. And I’ll take all the contracts you’d normally take, so you have to do mine.”

 “Hardly sounds fair when it would be T-Bone, not me, stealing your helmet.”

 “He’s your support hacker, so take responsibility for your pets.”

 “Oi, that fucker—“

 “T-Bone’s not impressed.”

 “Then stay away from my helmet.”

 Aiden smirked, enjoying the banter. And it got a genuine smile on Black Mask’s face, which was infinitely better than the grimace from before.

[mecomptane]

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em

“I don’t believe it.”

 “Um.”

 “How did you…?!”

 “Well... simulations?”

 “Teach. Me.”

 Aiden ignored the banter, glancing at the only other Fixer joining them at the finish line. He looked fairly wealthy with his customized bike and helmet, but mostly he looked to be in shock.

 Aiden walked his bike towards the younger man, Black Mask following behind. “You alright?”

 The other Fixer started, tearing bright blue eyes from the empty roadway to stare at Aiden. “Wha… what? I mean. I… yes?”

 “You sure?” Black Mask swung his leg off his bike, and for the first time Aiden realized just how short he was. “You look like you’re in shock.”

 “I just… the other three were with me, and then… the river…! I need to go check on them!”

 Black Mask grabbed onto the winner’s arm. “Hold on, others should be coming soon. We can ask them about the bridge. The police should be there by now, and ambulances. If we were all to show up….”

 “If we show up?”

 “It’d be suspicious,” Aiden offered at blue eyes’ confusion. “A lot of Fixer races come through this area. A lot of locals can recognize what a large number of motorcycles mean. What do you think is going to happen if we head back up there?”

 “If you’re that worried….” Black Mask tilted his head back, presumably to look at Aiden. With the helmet still on, it was hard to tell. “There’s a storage garage nearby. We can drop our bikes, lock it up, and head down on foot.”

 The winner hedged for a second, darting almost fearful glances between the two of them. “I… this happens a lot?”

 “Not quite this way,” Aiden allowed. A newbie Fixer, then. Possibly his first race. “But bridges, traffic lights, the crowd control systems….”

 “If it’s controlled by the ctOS, it’s fair game to use and abuse. Mind, normally you aim to frustrate and misdirect, not… injure.”

 Aiden caught the guilt laced in the tone, but blue eyes nodded slowly. “I… see. Then… can we? I… the man who brought me to my first race was towards the back of the pack. I want to know….”

 “The bridge was already a mess when we got there,” Black Mask reassured as he settled back down on his bike, kicking it into gear. Aiden and blue eyes followed suit. “Only the four of you were ahead of us. I’m pretty certain that your friend wasn’t caught in the bridge collapse.”

 Blue eyes visibly started at hearing Black Masks’ voice through his earphone, but swerved into line between Black Mask and Aiden. The Vigilante took up the rear position easily; for all that races often wound through this neighbourhood, he didn’t generally spend time here exploring it. Better for someone more familiar with the area to lead.

 “Wait… you were the one to drop back! Why?”

 “I wanted to speak to a certain fox and he was having trouble keeping up in his old age.”

 T-Bone snickered but blue eyes didn’t twitch: clearly he wasn’t connected to the third Fixer’s comm system.

 “We’ve run a few races before,” Aiden threw in.

 Black Mask started to pick up speed; blue eyes and Aiden fell in accordingly as they turned onto the next main road they passed. “Occasionally, we like to let other Fixers win, especially when we can ensure our point standings are safe.”

 “Points?”

 “You hit the checkpoints, you get points. You cross the finish line, you get points. You win, you get extra points.  For every second you’re still racing after someone has won, you lose points. As long as you end up with more points than what you started with, it’s a good race.”

 “The more points you have, the better your starting position in the next race,” Aiden offered.

 “And the higher your name is for contracts that have the potential of involving vehicles.”

 That Black Mask knew that… “You do a lot of contracts?”

 “Hm? No, I try to avoid them. But when something happens and I need someone to back me up, I contract other Fixers.”

 “So I could work for you?” Blue eyes sounded dubious. “Why would I?”

 “Money,” Aiden carefully watched blue eyes: young, apparently only his second race, unfamiliar with points and possibly contracts? The kid was either a plant or the kind of newbie Aiden hadn’t been since before the Merlaut. “Prestige, if it’s a contract that is high level or extremely dangerous. The higher your name on the List, the better paying contracts.”

 “How… how much can you make by contracts?”

 “Enough to live off of.”

 “Enough to support a family, depending on the contracts you take. But some involve breaking the law, blue eyes. Don’t take those contracts if you’re squeamish about criminal acts.”

 Aiden let himself grin at the other Fixer’s reaction to that. So very young, to be afraid of illegal dealings.

 “Don’t call me blue eyes!”

 …or angry about the nickname. And how did Black Mask know what Aiden was calling the younger Fixer in his mind?

 “Do you have another name you like to use then?”

 “Why would I even need an alias?”

 “Why wouldn’t you?”

 “It’s useful.”

 “Oh sure, probably for your kids, right? And how old are you, fifty?”

 “Close. And no kids.”

 “…oh.”

 “We’re here,” Black Mask cut in, turning down a laneway behind one of the newer warehouses.

 “I’ve never seen that kind of lock before,” T-Bone admitted as they pulled up beside a heavy steel door. “New tech?”

 “New tech,” Black Mask confirmed, already punching in the final sequence to unlock the door. “Spanner’s design.”

 “...you own this place?”

 “No, but Spanner does some contract work.”

 “Who the hell is that voice? And… Spanner?”

 “The fox’s support,” Black Mask answered, switching from the comm system to speaking aloud now that they were somewhere more or less private. The inside of the warehouse was fairly standard, though Aiden did give them points for the custom vehicles scattered throughout. “And my engineer.”

 “You guys are professionals then?”

 Black Mask shrugged at him, walking his bike to a charging station.

 “You’re green?” Somehow, environmental awareness wasn’t something Aiden associated with the mysterious Fixer.

 “As much as can be,” Black Mask confirmed, pulling out a cable to connect to his bike. “There’s a regular fuelling station over there if you need it.”

 “That is illegal,” blue eyes muttered, scandalized.

 “Only if you get caught,” Black Mask quipped

 Aiden was still good on fuel—Jordi’s contacts were the best at what they did—so stored his bike beside Black Mask’s, away from the charger. Blue eyes followed, taking the time to admire some of the surrounding cars. “So we’re walking over?”

 “Might as well. It’s two blocks from here. Got your phones?”

 “Do you?”

 Black Mask pulled out a sleek black shape from a pocket Aiden hadn’t noticed before—neither had blue eyes, by the look of him—and waved it through the air. “I can’t exactly walk around all day with a helmet on, can I?”

 “When he takes it off, steal it for me.”

 Aiden carefully kept his face blank.

 Behind him, blue eyes stripped out of the racing jumpsuit, revealing a casual tee and jeans underneath. A black bomber jacket joined the ensemble from the compartment underneath his bike’s seat. “Ready.”

 Aiden, who didn’t bother with fancy outfits, shrugged. “Same.”

 “One second then,” Black Mask requested, slipping off the black jumpsuit he was wearing. Similar to blue eyes, Black Mask was wearing casual clothing underneath: a white and orange hoody with black details, grey trousers, black army boots. He left his gloves on, but the bulge of rings and wristwatch was obvious to Aiden’s trained eye. The helmet slipped off Black Mask’s head, and Aiden froze.

 His first impression was fire, scarlet and gold and fiercely burning.

 “Wow….”

 Aiden blinked away the shock and looked again.

 Golden eyes, eerie in the dim light of the room. Brown hair, mused from the helmet. Pale skin, as if he spent most of his time inside or covered head-to-toe in a racing outfit.

 A barely familiar foreign face, bringing with it the smell of freshly poured black coffee, the sound of noisy truant teens, and the feel of a grandmother’s disapproving stare. Aiden, for the first time in years, sputtered.

 “You—!”

 The tea drinker from the cafe last week smiled, waving casually. “Hi.”

[mecomptane]

The Great Unintentional Trust Exercise

“I need these guys off my back, T-Bone.”

 “What, sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of everything else you want me to do!”

 “Stop whining, it’s just a bit of backup.”

 “No. You said you’d get close enough to hack Black Mask, and I’m still waiting with alllll my computers ready to go and a nice bottle of rum beside me.”

 “What, no Coke?”

 “For someone desperate enough to get those guys off you, you’re pretty witty.”

 “Just one of my charms. Be a good hacker and show me one of yours?”

 “You’re just lucky I’m not drunk enough to ignore you yet.”

 The bridge raising could have been better timed for Aiden’s descent, but that plus Aiden’s control of the traffic lights immediately before it meant that—finally—he had a bit of room to breathe.

 “Now get back to the front of the pack, would you?”

 The taillights of the next competitor were in view now and closing by the second; whatever his fallout with Aiden, Jordi’s contacts still proved loyal and willing to keep their drop points quiet. That all of their vehicles were now customized to easily outpace their market equivalents meant that they were in high demand for all Fixers and so able to be choosy about their drops, but Aiden had scratched their backs in the past. Many, many times—more than Jordi, evidently.

 Speaking of, “Remind me to find a couple vehicle drop jobs for the week.”

 “Staying on someone’s good side?”

 “I need to keep up with Black Mask, don’t I?”

 The surprise on the Fixer’s face as Aiden passed him was obvious enough for the Vigilante to smirk at him. The triggered traffic lights immediately afterward was the icing on the cake.

 “There’s three more before Black Mask.”

 “Is he in front?”

 “He was, but either something’s wrong with his bike or he’s set something up. He’s dropping back, and quickly.”

 “Noted.”

 Five checkpoints later had Black Mask hitting the breaks in full view of Aiden, letting the last of the other three Fixers pass him. Aiden checked his speed to match, pulling up alongside the mystery Fixer. They took the next corner at half the speed Aiden was used to, and watched as the racer Aiden has passed before swept passed them with a whoop.

 No helmet meant that Aiden’s raised eyebrow was obvious to Black Mask.

 “Perfect! Now let me just….”

 Black Mask gestured for Aiden to pull ahead. Aiden shook his head.

 “You got a plan?”

 The other Fixer faced back to the street before them, leaning forward to gain speed. Aiden let himself fall back a beat, then matched his trajectory with his competitors’.

 “Good call.”

 Aiden stiffened.

 “The fuck, Aiden?”

 “Shut up, T-Bone.”

 “Aiden? T-Bone?”

 Aiden narrowed his eyes at Black Mask’s back. “You’re Black Mask?”

 “…that’s what you’re calling me? Really?”

 Aiden frowned. The voice sounded young, not surprising since few Fixers lived to anywhere near Aiden’s age. British accent, laced with another tonality that sounded foreign. English, Aiden concluded, was probably not Black Mask’s first language.

 “Yes. Care to share your real name?”

 “Mm, maybe at the end of the race.”

 “What do you mean, good call?”

 “You’re T-Bone?”

 “Yes.”

 “I went through this area before the race. Might have seen something being set up.”

 Aiden frowned harder. “Might have?”

 “It looks pretty nasty, but I don’t think we can disable it. But if we’re not caught when it springs, it should guarantee us decent places and points.”

 “Not first place?”

 “Do you really want to win this race with the given ante?”

 No, Aiden had to admit, he didn’t. The entire reason he joined the race was because he heard rumours that Black Mask was back in town after two months off the grid, and what Black Mask did was race. If he ever took contracts, in Chicago or elsewhere, no one knew.

 And considering the prize for the race was a pitiful amount of standing points coupled with another low-end program, Aiden didn’t particularly care about the end result. Not now, anyway.

 “I heard you were the Fox.”

 Aiden grunted, falling in directly behind Black Mask. “What of it?”

 “So… Aiden and… T-Bone. I think you wanted to talk to me?”

 “Where did you get your mask?”

 “The… helmet? My mechanic and engineer created it to match the bike.”

 “And the bike?”

 “Spanner made it, too.”

 “Spanner,” Aiden ground the word out. “That’s a name I don’t recognize.”

 “Probably not. A couple government agencies both here and across the pond were interested in him, so a lot of his work stayed out of the public eye. He agreed to work with me because one of his main collaborators is a friend from my hometown.”

 “You’re giving away too much,” Aiden cautioned, noting the local ctOS control tower dominating the block they were racing by.

 “Not enough,” Black Mask answered. “Considering his position, all information regarding Spanner, his family, and his collaborators has been scrubbed from all systems.”

 “And you?”

 “You probably wouldn’t know where to look.”

 “That’s a challenge if I ever heard one.”

 “Feel free. I’m interested to see what you can manage.”

 “Doesn’t Aiden’s reputation precede him?”

 “It does,” and Aiden could see Black Mask shrugging as they took the next corner, “But rumours are never the whole truth.”

 “You—”

 “Watch out!”

 The bridge ahead of them groaned, metal screeching against metal. It buckled at the near and far ends, asphalt pavement dipping away from the connection points to the adjoining land. One car was visible, trapped now at the still level midpoint, held up only by the pylons mid-river. Black Mask switched into the lanes of oncoming traffic. With a quick assessment, c/o T-Bone (“The lanes on your side are completely crippled, but the others are holding. Sort of.”), Aiden followed Black Mask, thankful it was coming on 11 and few cars were on the road in this part of the city.

 “Okay, maybe find another bridge?”

 “No, we’re good with this one.”

 Aiden could hear T-Bone’s disbelief in the silence over the comms—he was feeling pretty unimpressed himself—but Black Mask drifted further towards the sidewalk, Aiden on his tail. There was a very good chance that Black Mask was luring him into permanent injury or something worse, but that meant Black Mask would be just as injured. Aiden was willing to bet that it wouldn’t come to that.

 Fifty meters from the edge, Aiden finally saw what Black Mask was aiming towards: when the bridge had crumpled, it tore the still connected supports from their anchors embedded under the roadway. Some of the anchors’ supports had been pulled from where they were previously lodged, creating a narrow and fairly straight metal ramp onto the surface of the bridge.

 Aiden prayed it held them.

[mecomptane]

The Fox and the Hound

Even for Aiden and T-Bone’s combined skills, the simple code turned out to be not so simple.

 “I don’t get it,” T-Bone whined into Aiden’s ear, “He obviously wants us to find him, but this is—this is sure as fuck not easy!”

 “No kidding.”

 T-Bone huffed at him. Aiden ignored all petulance aimed his way, fingers flying over his phone’s screen and the scrap of paper smoothed out on the table in front of him.

 “Next time you see him, demand a phone number!”

 “Because he’ll really just hand it over.”

 “It’s always worth a try.”

 “No. It’s not.”

 The elderly lady a couple tables down looked like she wanted to say something to him, then glance at his shoulder—probably his ear— and decide he had a Bluetooth device, then glance again and decide he didn’t and start to open her mouth…. It was getting old, and distracting, and Aiden wasn’t sure if his coffee or hers was colder by now. He tapped Black Mask’s code into a decryption program that badboy17—Clara, never forget, never forgive—had once programmed for him. In the meantime, coffee.

 …which was disgustingly cold, but at least he had an excuse to not reply to T-Bone’s muffled, “Fuck it all to fuck!” The elderly woman wouldn’t appreciate it.

 He levered himself out of the booth and squeezed in at the counter, coffee mug in hand. The group of truant teens ignored the jostling, but the foreign young man on the other side raised an eyebrow. Aiden raised one back. “Hey, can I get this warmed up?” Foreign young man sighed and returned to nursing his… tea? Definitely not coffee. The sad excuse for a barista meandered down from the other end of the coffee bar, snagging the cold mug from Aiden’s hands with a finger round the handle and dumping half the contents down the drain with such casual disdain Aiden’s lip curled.

 But the mug was refilled, exactly as he liked it (black, steaming hot), and Aiden nodded in thanks. The barista nodded back. The tea drinker shot another unamused glance at Aiden as the Vigilante forced his way out of the crowd and back to his booth.

 Which had been taken over by a young couple. Sharing a booth? Not happening, especially not with the woman practically in the man’s lap, breathy laughter barely audible above the low drone of 80’s classics on the radio. Aiden snagged the paper code off the table, shot the couple a look as unimpressed as tea-drinker was still aiming his way (and really, what was that guy’s problem? At this rate, Aiden wouldn’t be surprised if tea-drinker showed up on the ctOS’ criminal profiling system), and sauntered into the booth in the back corner. Dim lighting, half-blocked from street view by the coffee bar, three steps away from the door into the kitchen and, through there, the rear parking lot. Aiden would be more willing to sit there if it wasn’t for the fact the position screamed ‘shady dealings’. Aiden smirked at himself. Considering the history of the café’s owner, that was probably the intention.

 Still, it would serve for now, and with the café so busy no one would question why someone chose to sit in such an out-of-the-way corner.

 A quick glance down showed the decryption program still had no new results, which meant that either this code was just that difficult to break (possibly), or it was just that simple, and he and T-Bone were completely missing something.

 The clock above the coffee counter showed twenty to two. Aiden rolled his shoulders, considering. Given the timing, there wouldn’t likely be too many crimes in the offing, not for another hour or so—targets, if there were any, would likely not leave work or school until three at the earliest. The clans could stir up trouble any time, but the police were finally getting the hang of using the ctOS to root out gang members and traffickers, and Aiden didn’t want to impede too much in their quest of getting better. So.

 One hour, Aiden promised himself. One hour to figure this thing out.

 One hour and a number of patrons swapping in and out later (tea-drinker was replaced by worn-down-businessman; teenagers by high level executives; lustful couple still in full view of very disapproving granny), Aiden was still no closer to figuring out the code. (Grandma occasionally switched to shooting him disapproving glances instead.)

 “T-Bone, you got anything?”

 “A headache.”

 “Don’t make me disconnect you.”

 “Fine, fine! You know what I have, Fox? Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.”

 “Neither do I.”

 “Wonderful! So now we can put operation just ask him into motion.”

 “No,” Aiden drew out, “We’re going to keep operation we’re not going down without a fight in motion, and if need be hack our way in.”

 “Into where, exactly?”

 “His helmet.”

 T-Bone was silent, and Aiden took the opportunity to throw a couple dollars at the barista, shove phone and paper into his pocket, and disappear out the door and into the afternoon crowds.

 “…and how for fuck’s sake are you planning on doing that?”

 “You’ll figure that out. I’ll even get close enough for you to do it remotely.”

[mecomptane]

Candy Isn’t the Only Thing You Shouldn’t Take From Strangers

Since the Merlaut—and everything after—Aiden had generally stayed true to his role as the Vigilante. The exceptions were few and far between but always led to a greater prize at the end, and while using an ends-means argument wasn’t Aiden’s style, sometimes it worked out.

 Mario Cormac was comatose in a high security prison hospital upstate because of ends-means. That, and a Fixer who was completely off the grid, who didn’t know what his win in the last race had cost Aiden, nor what his win had gained the Vigilante, too. The program being anted—a skeleton key for the newest ctOS update, smuggled out by one of Blume’s less scrupulous employees—would have been a godsend, but to have a sure-fire excuse why he couldn’t take the job from the rumoured Boss of the newest gang in Chicago’s south end helped to lessen the blow. The succeeding excuse of “you tried to kill me for saying ‘no’ now I get to go after you” made it all the sweeter.

 Fixer races were a means that Aiden loathed to employ for more reasons than T-Bone nagged him about. Yes, that the prizes were rarely worth of the risk of getting tagged by police was frustrating, and yes, that winning those mediocre antes was up to skill and chance equally was annoying, and no, Aiden didn’t doubt his own capabilities at all. But they often went through populated areas, sometimes even during the day, which meant people possibly getting injured or at least calling the police, which meant the races more often than not gained at least five patrol cars of additional competitors. That was a risk that no program was worth.

 Until three weeks ago.

 From an “overheard” conversation, Aiden knew tonight’s prize wasn’t anything particularly awe-inspiring. A simple, basic program, one that even he could write in his sleep. Most of the Fixers racing were fairly new to things, still at the point where any new program or code could help in making a name for themselves, help keep them one step ahead of their opponents. The others were generally all adrenaline junkies who didn’t even bother racing for the prize, just for the thrill of violent competition.

 Black Mask didn’t look like an adrenaline junkie, and given how he raced when he and Aiden faced off for the last six checkpoints those few weeks past, all other racers left far behind them, he wasn’t a newbie, and was definitely skilled enough to probably not need tonight’s program.

 So why was he here? Aiden frowned down from his perch at the top of the subway access stair. The growing number of racers would be attracting more attention than the few curious glances if it hadn’t been for someone’s decision to hang a “biker convention” sign with today’s date ten feet away from the Vigilante’s head. The given time of 2 AM no doubt helped as well.

 Black Mask didn’t join in with the pre-race jeering and trash talking. He straddled his bike casually, one hand raised to the side of his helmet. Talking to someone? Confirming start location, possibility of a checkpoint or lap race? Most Fixers relied heavily on their phones in the Field or in a race—Aiden included himself in that group of course—and he could attest that it was sometimes difficult to steer with one hand and hack with the other. Having the system built into your helmet, presumably with phone functions too, and maybe even voice activated….

 T-Bone had spent hours gushing over Black Mask(‘s equipment—Aiden refused to consider the possibility of his support hacker being a fanboy, especially of an unknown). Many of his theories were completely psychotic, impossible to even imagine, but the tentative specs he’d laid out for the helmet from what he had observed via ctOS, coupled with Aiden’s input, all sounded both plausible and very, very tempting.

 There was some high level engineering and mechanical work in that helmet, and Aiden, a mere Fixer and hacker, wouldn’t be able to come up with an equivalent. Not even with T-Bone and a team of the city’s best underground resources. Which left… asking.

 Aiden frowned at himself. He was never this reticent. If he had a contract, he completed it, and this was a contract. Given by T-Bone, technically, and without a stated price, but Aiden would benefit from a successful completion even more than T-Bone. Obviously he couldn’t walk around all day with a biker helmet on, but if they could take some of the technology and implement it in, say, his scarf, or hat, or the collar of his jacket, it would be an incredible boon.

 At some unseen signal the Fixers below moved quickly into a rough starting line, fiddling with last minute updates or changes in strategy. Black Mask was at the far end of the line, nearly out of Aiden’s line of sight underneath the steel frame of the tracks above.

 Too late to ask now, then.

 But just as the engines started to rev, Black Mask tilted his head back, turned to look in Aiden’s direction, and saluted.

 Then they were gone.

 Aiden wandered down the steps, examining the areas where Black Mask had been loitering before the race. “Of course,” he frowned, turning to see that both the mysterious Fixer’s at rest and starting positions were the only two places that would allow the other to see Aiden watching from above.

 The frown morphed into a small smirk at the note dropped innocently by the curb edge. The short hand was messy and in a crude code, but easy enough to decipher as contact information.

 “T-Bone is going to have a field day.”

[mecomptane]

Scientists are the Root of All Evil

Tsuna realized, fourty-two seconds after walking into the lab, that this was a very Bad Idea.

“Spanner?” Nothing. “Spanner, are you there?”

A muffled reply echoed from… somewhere in the mountains of equipment. Wholly uncomfortable, given the monstrosity staring Tsuna down at that moment. And then—

“Spanner?!”

“Hello, Vongola,” the blonde engineer greeted from the newly punched hole in the torso of… Tsuna wasn’t sure. Spanner’s specialty were the Mosca-series robots, but this didn’t look like a Mosca. It didn’t even look like a robot. Or, it didn’t, until said hole was opened forcefully and the metal forced to curl back on itself.

Tsuna smiled as best he could up at his friend. Shaky was probably an understatement. “Um, Spanner… you asked me to come down?”

“Ah, yes, yes. One minute, Vongola.”

Fifty-nine seconds later Spanner had managed to extract himself from the… thing he was working on (or Tsuna hoped he was working on it and hadn’t decided to build himself a creepy exoskeleton to hide away in). “The bike performed well last weekend.”

Was it a question? Tsuna wasn’t sure. “Um, yeah? It did? Especially when they pulled up that bridge.”

“Improvements are being made.” Tsuna sighed. Of course they were. “The helmet is also being modified to more accurately resemble the Lightning Guardian’s helm, defence stats included. I’m in the process of adding in the necessary coding to link the visor’s display screen with your contacts and headphones. Once Shouichi gets back from the convention, we’ll work together to allow you a seamless transition from wearing the helmet to being without it.” Spanner reached the nearest workbench and held out the helmet, gesturing avidly once it was safely in Tsuna’s hands. “Air intake has also been improved through better filters.”

“Thank you,” and Tsuna meant it. Mostly because Spanner concentrating on smaller projects like this meant Spanner not concentrating on giant robots that would wreck havoc and force Tsuna to do damage control. (Whatever that thing was behind them… Tsuna didn’t want to know, as long as it stayed here.) But there was a fair bit of a work involved in all this. Having someone so worried about his safety when outside the compound wasn’t novel, but it was appreciated.

Spanner shrugged, taking back the helmet and pulling a smaller toolbox across the workbench towards them. “Everything should be prepared for the next race, Vongola.”

“Next… race?”

“Yeah,” and Spanner’s grin was… worrisome. Letting SRTA spend any period of time unsupervised had come back to bite Tsuna in the ass once. Insisting Hayato be there for most of their project update meetings had helped a bit, but that slightly manic, violent edge to Spanner’s smirk implied that Tsuna needed to find someone else who spoke geek and wouldn’t be quite so prone to corrupting people. “All information we’ve found says it should be two weekends from now, starting somewhere in The Loop.” Tsuna gaped at him. “You’re already signed up, Vongola. We can’t afford to lose an opportunity to test our inventions.”

At least he hadn’t tried to force Tsuna into a Mosca “for his safety while racing” again.

[mecomptane]

Foxhound: At Least He's Not Celty

“Any info on the new guy?”

“Naw, he’s completely off the grid. Especially with that beauty of a helmet on.”

Said helmet was small and sleek, something that looked more fashionable than effective, with a wide tinted visor that lightened at the edges just enough to allow the light glow of electronics to leak onto the surrounding black polycarbonate shell. The vents were disguised in the lines of the hardened form, but even then they looked too small to be practical.

But T-Bone had whistled in appreciation when the ctOS cameras finally caught a glimpse of the newest race participant. “Think you can ask where he got it?”

“No.”

Aiden busied himself with his phone, checking the battery power and the level of interconnectivity. He still had access to the ctOS servers scattered around the city, so wherever the race happened to lead them—checkpoints were always an interesting method of gauging prowess at both driving and hacking—he should be fine.

“That bike isn’t one you get at just any dealership. Definitely custom there. Do you see a maker’s mark? I can’t find anything in any database I have access to.”

“I don’t, and I’m not going to ask.” And felt compelled to add when he heard T-Bone take a breath, “If you say anything more or ask questions about him, I’m disconnecting right now.”

“But then you wouldn’t complete the contract.”

Aiden shoved his phone in his pocket, zipped it up for good measure. “I can complete it fine without you. And you have access to everything I do. You can do your end just as easily without rambling in my ear.”

“Testy, testy. Fine. But if I don’t know why this guy is in, then you don’t know why. Someone might have heard rumours about stray wildlife in the city and decided to hire a foxhound.”

Aiden snorted, adjusting his cap. The small earpiece remained snuggly in place, but the separate microphone pressed against his throat under the collar of his jacket itched like the devil. “I’m not exactly being subtle here. He could take me down just as easily now as at the end of the race.”

“So… not at all?”

“Exactly.”