The latch loudly rattles aside to reveal two dark and narrowed eyes, perhaps a wide and flaring set of nostrils too.

  “You!” He bellows, “Not you. You're still banned—” The voice that hisses through the deadbolted door is thick, like a throat that needs clearing.

  Roach only laughs heartily and leans back against the cold steel. “Still sore, Flem?” The growl in response seems to only confirms her suspicions. “I'm not here to play. I've brought—” she suddenly pauses with a dramatic flare, urgently darting her head from side to side to look around suspiciously. Rivin’s eyes, confused and narrowed, follow her tracks but lead nowhere. After the paranoia has died down, Roach stands on the tips of her toes and covers the side of her mouth to whisper into the quiet, “—the ghost.”

  Everyone is silent. Rivin looks at her like she's gone mad, perplexation lifting up his brow.

  “The.. Ghost?” Flem seems to be tasting the word. Trying it out.

  “Shhh!” She hushes him sternly, “business with The General. On the down low.”

  Another long pause ensues before the bolts begin to unlock. There’s at least six Rivin realizes by the time the door is open. Beyond, they are greeted by Flem, a huge man blocking the doorway with rippled muscle and raised scars, on his right arm are several animals — passports. He looks down at the both of them with cold black eyes. Sizing them up. Sizing Rivin up, and so he tries to look bigger than he is.

  Roach, unbothered, merely pulls away her sleeve and brandishes her scarred arm between them, shoving it straight up into Flem’s begrudging face. The large man huffs, irked. “I don't need to see it every—” But she's already squeezing under his gigantic belly and into the room below. Flem snarls but steps aside, and Rivin cautiously follows her in.

  The walls inside are stapled with thick red carpet, the lighting dingey at best. There's low music playing, a husky melody sung over strings. “Ghost?” He asks her, curious and bold enough now that they're out of ear shot, “what the fuck is that?”

  She turns to face him only to twinkle her fingers across her eyes. “Myth-making.”

  Rivin furrows his brows but doesn’t argue. They keep moving.

  Paintings of glorious bloody battle line the walls, leading to a flight of steps. Roach floods down them with all the grace of her namesake; half insect, half royal. Rivin follows her into the Capitol State of The Drip. It's… chaos.

  The air is thick with smog and smoke as slow clouds pool above lit cigars. The floor is sticky with booze and flavor. Nearest to the door is a blazing furnace nursed by a smirking blind man brandishing a unique prod. A young man sits with pale skin and gritted teeth as the hot iron plunges into his wrist— sizzling. The blind man laughs maniacally. “Thatta boy! Welcome to the fold.”

  Rivin can smell the stale smolder of burning skin. He chokes back a gag. There's a stage off to the very far side, nearest to another set of stairs leading deeper, where a lone veteran sings low over his guitar. On the other side are several sets of tables, all seated with hunched over gamblers.

  Roach leads Rivin to the front, to the bar. The bartender passes a mug of something steaming to a woman clad in cobalt blue and chain. Behind him is a wall riddled with daggers and crudely drawn wanted posters — he spots a BANNED FROM SCRAPA image of Roach's likeness amongst the gritty teeth and eyes, pinned by a crude blade.

  Roach scoots up and onto the closest stool, raises her hand as sleek dark eyes come to regard her. “Bug,” the bartender greets with a voice like sandpaper. Rivin doesn't like how easy the man says it. Like she's not dangerous, when he’s so quickly learning that she is.

  “General.”

  Rivin prefers to stand, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Despite his nerves, he steps forward and the General looks at him curiously. “Bug and—?”

  “Ghost..” she whispers it for effect.

  “Stop that,” Rivin smacks the back of her head and she giggles.

  The General only smiles.

  “Bug and Ghost.”

  “No—”

  “What brings you here?”

  “The Fisherman job,” the girl says bluntly. She’s not laughing now, no longer playing.

  Rivin feels his heart skip. Was this your plan? He tries to pretend that he hasn't just been kicked in the gut as his grey eyes flicker between them. Whatever challenge she's setting for him; he only bristles and rises to meet it. Perhaps to his detriment.

  The General chuckles before his features harden. He takes in the site of Rivin with more intent this time. Studying him to a degree that almost makes him break. Almost. “Your recommendation, Bug?”

  “You know I'm good for it.”

  “You boy. Are you good for it?”

  Rivin swallows, nods once.

  “Business, then.” The General looks pleased. He tosses a rag over his shoulder and dusts off his hands, stepping around from outside the bar. He towers over Rivin. Shadows over Roach, and smirks.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Come on then, Ghost. Let me fill ya in.”

  The Queen herself hangs back, waving him on ahead. He tries to pretend he doesn't hesitate, doesn't look back at her, but he does, for just a fraction of a second. For just long enough to catch her stepping from the stool and slipping into the crowd. He clenches his fists. Steels his heart, and when he looks forward, he does so fearlessly.

  He follows the massive man behind a robe of curtains, the music growing muffled as they fall closed behind them. The General's office is decked with arsenal and intimidation, steeped in beer and oil. His desk is massive, neatly arranged — there's tags on all the drawers. Rivin appreciates the organization, even if the room stinks.

  “Take a seat.” He gestures to a chair opposite the desk and Rivin takes it, sitting across from him.

  “What're the details?”

  “Straight to the point, just the way I like it.” The General reaches for a pitcher; pours them both a drink. “We got a shipment that never docked. My shipment. Swill Shipment.” He looks irritated but beneath it is something much more poignant — gravity. “Twelve crates: handhelds, bolt-flares, pipe bombs — and a ledger. The ledger’s worth ten times the steel. Guess who’s holding it?”

  Rivin stays silent.

  “Squalor Angels. Filthy root-worshippers. They don’t deal direct with us— The Gutter Saints say they're holy or whatever. But everything’s for sale. And they’re hoarding my shipment like maggots.” He spits, thick and on purpose, at the floor. “I need small ghosts. Small enough to slip in and out with the good bits.”

  “What do we do when we find them?”

  The General smirks, wide and gummy and all spirits. “Gut ‘em, trick ‘em, distract ‘em — I don't care. Bring me my guns. Bring me my ledger. Bring me no noise.”

  Rivin leans back. Considering. The General must be desperate enough to wait. “Are we doing this out of the kindness of our hearts?” Rivin wonders out loud. “You must be desperate.”

  The General chuckles lowly but Rivin can see the strain in his neck. “I can offer an official Drip Tab.” Rivin waits. “And the protection afforded to such esteemed guests.” The moment stretches. “Granted access to our private trade routes, and a cut of whatever arms your tiny hands bring back.”

  “I want dinner thrown in.”

  The man pauses. Leans back. “Dinner?”

  “Dinner for five—” they’ll need their strength, “no, ten.”

  “Dinner…?” The General echoes.

  “Yes.”

  The silence stretches before the enormous man breaks into husky laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. “Boy, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “Seems I have.” That was easy.

  “Fine! Dinner. I’ll send you off with your bellies full. Only right if you end up…” He trails off before beaming again and sliding Rivin a hastily folded scrap of paper — an oil stained map with a tunnel entrance beneath an old Halidom purification station. Rivin recognizes the handwriting. The confident streaks of ink and scratchy boxy drawings. “Now that that’s sorted, here’s the details.”

  “Roach made this,” it’s not a question.

  “Little Bug’s been trying to get into that place for weeks. Don’t worry, she’s good for details.”

  Rivin isn’t worried. Not about that. “I know.” Why does his heart hurt? Why does something low in his gut keep twisting? What are you planning, Roach?

  “You've got 72 hours before the deals off. By then, the shipment will be all over the Lowrealm and the ledger—” he shudders, doesn't finish. Instead, he holds his mug up and waits. “To our budding partnership, Ghost.”

  Rivin doesn't hesitate to knock their cups together and drink.

  The coil in his gut has only been growing ever tighter when the deal is finally done. He finds some peace when The General pulls the curtains apart again and the familiar scent and sounds of other people floods through him. He follows him through the doorway and releases a held breath before shortly choking on it.

  The room isn't exactly as they left it. The chaos has doubled. Gods, no— He can hear her voice amongst the ruckus of slamming tankards and cheering veterans. Clear as a whistle, chiming like a bell. It ripples through his blood like pebbles skipped across the surf.

  “We ain’t dead, just gone to ground—

  We’ll rise with fire if we’re found…”

  Roach spins around a pillar atop the bar, barefoot and dancing. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is loose and as she twirls she kicks up her feet and raises her arms — small and dying as she is, she commands a room of tyrants, and dances like a marionette that's snatched back her strings.

  Someone heckles from the back of the room and Roach deftly pulls the dagger loose from her portrait and flings it across the room with shattering laughter, it lands with a thick ‘thud’ in the wall nearest the heckler. Thunderous applause erupt alongside the rapid rhythm of half-empty mugs being rattled and spilled against the bar.

  Roach bounds to the nearest table, one foot landing in a bowl of something warm and wet — Rivin can see Matteo hoisting her onto his shoulder. She looks up as the crowd cheers and hold their frothy mugs to the ceiling. Together, they scream like ruffians, like wild men, like lost boys—

  “Shut your trap, or drink it dry—”

  “The wolves are howlin’ at the sky…”

  He watches as her eyes find him — copper and lit like burning rust. She raises a glass she steals from someone else, winks. Rivin only remembers how to move once he watches her drink it.

  Later, she skips down the path, barefeet kicking an old dented can. Rivin follows along with a listless smile, fingers tight around plastic bags bulging with hot food. He feels.. unexpectedly warm.

  “Slink was right about you being trouble.”

  She spies something shiny in the dust and holds it to the light — a thimble. “Slink loves trouble.”

  He doesn't disagree. “What's your play?” She finally stops, but doesn’t turn. “You want something. What is it? What have you been looking for?”

  Still, she doesn’t face him. Instead and softly, beneath her breath, she mutters. “Those damn eyes.”

  “You can tell me, Roach.” He’s not sure he’s ever sounded so… soft before.

  Finally, she looks at him, gaunt face shadowed yet thoughtful. Considering. Reluctant. “I…”

  He steps forward, wishes he had the same courage as she does whenever she reached for his hand in the past. He doesn’t, and so he fists his own into a ball and pretends that it feels even the slightest bit the same. “You can trust me.”

  Those must not be the right words for she flinches, turns herself away again and worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “I just…” He doesn’t push, not her, but he does push himself — fingers grazing softly across her knuckles. It’s enough to bring her back, to draw copper to steel. “I need to right a wrong is all.”

  That’s all he’ll get. He can tell from the look in her eyes, and yet she surprises him, shares in other ways by taking his palm and lacing their fingers. His heart doesn’t skip this time but it’s beating hard again, rapid like a little birds wing in the wind. “You always speak in riddles.”

  “You're pretty good at guessing them.”

  She squeezes his fingers and he holds his breath. She’s close now, tucked just beneath his chin. “Does it… really matter?” She asks, whispering now. He can’t see her face and he’s glad, glad because he doesn’t know what this is and it terrifies him.

  “Yes.” He answers first, before, “.. No.” That must have been the right thing to say. It doesn’t feel like it. Yet, she nods and steps back, observing him carefully, now, like she's waiting to see if he folds or grows. It only makes him stiffen. Grey eyes hardening. The madder he looks, the more her lips curl upwards. “I'll get his damn ledger.”

  Roach cheers, thrusting her fist into the air. “Lookout, here comes the—”

  “Don't say it—”

  “—Ghost.”