The First Job

[Rayse Valentino]

Closed.

4 years ago...

It was a day like any other in the boot camp on the outskirts of Knife's Edge. Recruits were running laps around the wooden palisade that surrounded the encampment, wagons were being cleared at the front gate and watched intensely by the guard towers along the walls, and tents and cabins of various shapes and sizes were all over. A dark-haired young man wearing a red grenadier jacket with a black sash across his waist entered one such cabin, holding a clipboard. His hazel eyes saw some black officer's pants and same jacket as his lying on a desk, so he looked around the room, until finally he seemed perplexed. His name was Robert.

"Sir?" he asked. "Where are you?"

"Up here," came a reply from above. Robert looked up and saw the dark-haired dark-eyed Lieutenant Trent Loryn Jr. hanging upside-down from one of the horizontal support beams in a white shirt and sweatpants. With his legs hanging over the beam, he was doing crunches. "And what did I tell you about calling me 'sir'?"

"What? You told me that was better than Mr. Loryn or Lieutenant. You don't even seem to like Trent. Make up your mind!"

Robert and Trent met in the military academy they were sent to at fourteen. While Trent was a knife instructor, he was a Lieutenant as well. Robert was merely a Corporal, with the job of inspecting the incoming and outgoing supplies.

"Sir it is!" said Trent with a heave, pulling himself up and over the beam, hopping down to the floor below. He walked over to the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a towel and wiping himself with it. The room was a mess. With various personal belongings strewn about, it seems that Trent did everything but sleep and shower in here. "What's the news?"

Robert's eyebrows lowered in worry, "Aren't you worried that... you know... someone will see you doing that?"

"It's my break; I can do whatever I want. Besides, nobody comes to the office. Can you get on with it already?"

"Right..." said Robert, flipping through the pages on the clipboard. "The goods have just arrived. They're being stored in the third depot, and tomorrow's wagon will come and pick them up. Everything looks good."

Trent sighed, "Is that all?" He changed into his officer's jacket and adjusted the folds.

"Is that... all? We're not exactly conducting a legitimate operation here! If one little thing causes suspicion they'll lock us up and throw away the key!"

"Come on Robert, we've been doing this for a while. Our plans are airtight. I just wish we'd get a real job. Something big."

Since he was little, Trent lived at a boarding school where nobles sent their children when they didn't want to see them anymore. It was a rough place, but he managed to get by and set up an amateur smuggling operation to get by the strict rules of the place. When he got sent to the academy, he wanted to do the same thing. Robert was raised right, but his life was boring. Trent's stories about his smuggling always excited him, so when the idea of doing it themselves came up, he was all for it.

Their operation was a fairly simple one. While smuggling normally took place with boxes with false bottoms, secret compartments, or tipping off the local guards or inspectors, Trent did it all himself. The Crown generally commissioned goods for the army through local grocers and other producers, packed them all up in various military wagons, and took them through this base. From here it could go back into the city, to the countryside, wherever. Trent made sure the pickup and drop off were handled without incident, and Robert modified the packing list and did his own special brand of inspection. The operation was as smooth as it got, since nobody would suspect that military officers were in on it.

To protect their identities they created a special alias, with its own birth certificate and everything. Rayse Valentino's smuggling operation was starting to become popular in the underworld.

"Oh!" Robert suddenly remembered. "I heard The Major was looking for you."

Trent lamented, "Great, not that old fart again... Well, I guess I can't keep him waiting for long. Come get me in a bit."

Straightening out his hair, Trent left Robert in the office.

[The International]

Will edit for detail on a later date“Okay, Sis. I need you to be honest.” Vespasian said as he rose from the lower deck of his family’s ship. He strutted across the main deck with a confidence never witnessed. That was until The International’s natural tidal sway forced him to stumble over. His voice suddenly adopted a humble tone as he hung his head in shame. He had lived on the merchant schooner all his life and he still managed to find a way to trip over himself. “How do I look?”

“Fucking amazing.” Luckily for Vespasian, his fashion critic wasn’t interested in using her eyes. Ludivine lay in a hammock made of leftover sails nearly ten feet above him. She didn’t bother to look at her younger brother. “All men want to be you. All women want to be with you.”

“Would you at least bother to look?” Vespasian looked up at her. The fanciful nighttime sky of star sprinkles and baby blue whipped cream was an ironic backdrop for a violent assassin. Then again, a petite woman of sable hair and jade eyes was an ironic look for an assassin. She sighed and turned over to look at him. He smiled with amber eyes of pride and slowly spun around to show off his ornate black and gold long coat with sharp lapels and big brass buttons. “What do you think.”

“I stand corrected. All men want to be with you.” Ludivine rolled back over and closed her eyes once more. Before Vespasian had time to make a rebuttal, something hit her. “Wait. What’s the occasion?”

“I’m taking the firearm case.” Vespasian’s voice trailed off as he left the ship of bronze and timber.

“Woah! What?” Ludivine landed on the deck with a quiet tap. She moved with haste to catch up with her brother on the Etheria Port pier, but she never ran. She only ran when she intended on killing something, and that something wouldn’t have heard her coming. “Did you just say what I thought you said? You know that job was deemed a dead end, right?”

“Yea. I know,” Vespasian paused. “But did it ever occur to you that Mom and Dad just wanted us to stay on the ship while they sought the glory of catching the late queen’s killer?”

“Yea.” Ludivine said as she crossed her arms. “… Pisses me off a bit. What’s your lead?”

[Rayse Valentino]

Wearing a similar jacket to Trent, except adorned with decorations galore, added seams, and those poofy shoulder pads, The Major was an aging man with a thick white mustache and a balding head. He was going over trivial military documents when Trent entered. He strolled in casually, but stiffened up as he closed the door behind him and put his boots together as he saluted with his hand to his forehead.

"Sir! To what do I owe this pleasure, sir!" Trent declared, wearing a stern frown with his exaggerated gesture of a salute.

The room was packed in with cabinets of war trophies, weapons, and paintings. It was a very relaxed, yet celebrated room for a prestigious military career.

The Major wasn't amused, "Cut the crap, Lieutenant. I have been calling for you since your break began."

Trent loosened up, cracking his neck and his knuckles, "It's called a break for a reason, sir."

Not a whole lot of people knew of how Trent spoke so disrespectfully to The Major, but The Major endured not only for Trent's sake, but for his own. After all, Trent Loryn Sr. was a General of The Royal Majesty's forces. Unless Trent did something really stupid, there was no real way to punish him. Regardless, The Major was long past his glory days, and felt that his promotion behind a desk was like a long death sentence. He didn't care anymore, but to see Trent squander his potential was still frustrating.

"A break from what, pray tell? You choose the least amount of duties and never try to advance your position. With your father as a General, you could easily move through the ranks and get yourself out of here. What do you intend to do with your life?"

Trent rubbed his eyes. He was getting sick of these speeches. Not that it was any of his business, but a career as some pampered noble officer who saunters around pretending to have meaning was the furthest thing from his mind. There was no way in hell he would have anything to do with his father, either.

"Listen," sighed Trent. "I don't need--"

Suddenly, the door opened without a knock and there was Robert and his clipboard, urgently shouting, "Lieutenant, sir! There's a matter that requires your immediate attention."

Just in time. "Looks like we'll have to save this for later," said Trent smugly.

As Trent made his way out, he could have sworn he heard The Major yelling at him to come back, but he had already blocked out that old codger's voice. As the two got outside, Trent fished into his pocket and pulled out a matchbook and pack of cigarettes. Pulling out a match and lighting it off the sole of his shoe, he lit up and starting smoking. There was nothing like a good smoke to get his mind off of annoying things.

"What took you?" Trent complained. "I thought you would never show up."

Robert didn't exactly come to bail him out, but he decided not to correct him, "Actually, I just saw Dan. It's a job, allegedly. He said it was big."

At first, Trent didn't seem too pleased, but then he considered the kind of kid that Dan was. They both grew up in the same boarding school, and Dan was a short kid with red hair who would always get beat up by the noble bastard children. So, he learned to run. Eventually, nobody could catch him. Not only that, but he had a photographic memory and could remember detailed conversations, entire scenery, and most of all, profiles of people for weeks. This made him an excellent runner for underground organizations. He definitely wouldn't use the word 'big' unless it was something more than typical.

Robert continued, "You finally got that referral you wanted. Someone from a previous job told his crime lord about us, and the pay is bigger than we've ever seen."

"And?" Trent blurted out. "Where the hell are the details?"

"Well..." Robert stopped walking. He stared down at the dirt for a moment but then brought his head back up. "They want to meet Him personally. They won't do it without a face-to-face."

"We don't do that. It sort of goes against our whole shtick here."

Robert thought for a moment then said, "Why don't you just go as Him? I mean, nobody knows what he actually looks like, and we know everything there is to know." He sort of squinted as he expected some sort of retribution for his idea, but none came. He looked at Trent, who was rubbing his chin.

"Me? As Rayse?" He looked up at the sky. "You know, that could actually work."

[The International]

“Drinks?” Vespasian emerged from the oaken double doors of Ettermire's famous El'inssring with three drinks in his hands. The front patio of the bar was his favorite place in all the city. It was always busy for pedestrians and bovine drawn carriages were always passing by. The drinks here were always diverse, and it was the safest place in town to gather information. The local authorities worked hard to keep their landmarks safe. No one would dare start a fight or commit murder in the city's most famous bar and inn unless they wanted to get caught.

“Bourbon?” Ludivine said with pleasant surprise in her voice as Vespasian set a short glass of bronze liquid in front of her. “You know me too well little brother.”

“Easy to know, but difficult to understand.” He placed the other two drinks down and sat in the chair made of wrought iron weaving. “Why do you insist on drinking something that makes you feel like you're breathing fire?”

“It helps get the smell of Ettermire's sulfur out of my sinuses.” Ludivine took a moment to slowly inhale the numbing scent of the hard drink. Her jade eyes stared into space with a look of animalistic joy. Vespasian imagined it resembled the same look a tiger would have after catching its prey. She snapped back at reality. “Why do you prefer to drink something fit more for an unrefined super-masculine brute?”

“Hey. This is a well refined high gravity beer.” Vespasian said pointing to the tall glass of golden ale. “It's made from the finest quality hops and blended with imported Fallien spices and Dheathanian fruits to create -”

“Never mind what I just said.” Ludivine said as she scowled and looked off at the towering black palace in the distance. “That beer is totally you. A bitch drink.”

“It all gets you to the same place.” Vespasian said before he took his first sip. “Wouldn't you rather enjoy the ride?”

“No.” The assassin smiled as she downed the entire portion in one gulp. When she spoke again it was as if she were a man. “I'd rather be able to breathe fire.”

“Aw. Wine for me?” A pair of arms wrapped around Vespasian from behind. A young woman, no more than three years his senior, invited herself to sit down at the table with them. Her amber eyes were very much like his. “How thoughtful of you, Vespasian.”

“Maelle? No! Hands off! That's not for you.” Vespasian slapped the hand of his oldest sister as she reached for the third glass, which was that of ruby red wine. “What the hell are you doing here anyways?”

“I sent for her.” Ludivine raised her hand and shrugged her shoulders in guilt.

“Lu!” The youngest Villeneuve's amber eyes were now wide in frustration. “Why?”

“Because I'd like to help.” Maelle said as she put a hand on Vespasian's shoulder. “I know what it's like to be coddled by our parents. They kept me from going solo on a mission for the longest time.”

“And working in the shadow of my older siblings is any better? Don't touch that wine. If it were for you it would have been a white.” Vespasian's glare turned into a courteous smile as a Dark Elf with silver hair and government attire approached. He stood to shake hands with his informant. “Cythell, good to see you again.”

“V. It's been too long.” Cythell spoke with a high and soft voice and a thick Aleraran accent. His tongue often got tangled in consonants because that's all the native language was. He glanced at the two ladies accompanying him. “Where are your parents?”

“They have other things to do.” The spy pulled out a chair for the government worker to sit in. He made an offering gesture to the red wine. “ I have my sisters filling in for them.”

“Ladies.” Cythell nodded with smiling gray eyes that complimented the rising cheeks on his ashen face as he turned to Vespasian. “I can only imagine what these two are capable of. For me? You're a man after my own heart. What can I do for you.”

“Tell us about the production of Alerar's firearms.”

“Ah. So it's you they sent to solve the problem. I can understand that.” Cythell took a moment to indulge himself in quality home grown wine. “A crazed Salvarian Human commits mass murder on a train southbound from Knife's Edge to Kachuck, killing several Alerarans, and then commits suicide. It's not the fact that it was a Salvarian who did it that concerns the new King. Nor is it the fact that he was spewing critical rhetoric about the King that concerns him either. It's the fact that his weapon of choice was an army issued firearm that concerns him. Those are supposed to be manufactured in proportion to the number of new troops being recruited to the army. There should only be two per soldier, and none should be unaccounted for.”

“Which is why I'm starting from the beginning. Tell me everything you know about the Ettermire firearm factories.”

“There are only six of them, but they run like clockwork. The statistics say that a new firearm is produced every thirty minutes. They all begin and end exactly at the same time, and they run on a twelve hour workday.”

“So six factories, producing one firearm every thirty minutes during a twelve hour day... each or altogether.”

“Each one.”

“So Ettermire produces one hundred and forty-four firearms over the course of a twelve hour day?”

“Precisely.” Cythell nodded.

“A twelve hour day that should have ended five minutes ago.” Vespasian pointed up at the giant clock that served as a keystone for the arch above El'inssring's doors. It indicated five minutes past the sixth hour. Just then, almost as if to prove Vespasian's point further, a massive brass symphony of shift horns sounded off in the distance. “With an extra five minutes between six factories you'd be left with one extra firearm being produced every day.”

“And with one extra firearm a day for a month.” Ludivine said.

“That's at least three hundred extra per year.” Maelle leaned forward and peered into the government worker's eyes. “Where do all those guns go, Cythell?”

“It is clear where they go.” Cythell leaned forward to match Maelle's glare. He wasn't about to let a Human challenge him like so. “Salvar.”

“Thanks, Cythell.” Vespasian said to put a stop to the tense moment. “We'll keep in touch.”

Ludivine waited for Cythell to leave before she spoke. “You knew all of that already.”

“I hypothesized all of that already,” The novice spy crossed his arms and leaned back. “but I needed confirmation.”

“One day you won't need to take that step.” Maelle said with a comforting tone. “It'll save you some time. Good job either way.”

“Are you really going to do the master to apprentice thing?” Vespasian whipped his head around to send his eldest sister an extremely nasty look. He spoke with a raspy anger. “If so then you can just go back to The International.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“Hell I could show you a thing or two when it comes to wetwork.”

“Okay okay.” Maelle tossed her long mahogany hair and crossed her legs as she turned her profile away from her little brother. “There must be estrogen in that beer of yours.”

“Nope, just a set in my pants, and I'm not going to let you put them in a vice. Our next stop is the shipping lanes. Luckily for us it's the end of the month and someone needs to get rid of a few extra guns before they're noticed.”

[Rayse Valentino]

That night, it was time for the meeting at the East Town Pub.

It was just one of the many pubs in the city. Most of the people who walked through these doors were just looking for a drink, a cheap meal, or some entertainment. Some, however, were looking for something more. Trent was one of those people, and as he walked in the torrent of stale, beer-drenched air assaulted his senses. It didn't take him long to figure out what to wear beforehand, but it was definitely a first time for him. With a black short-sleeve cotton shirt and blue jeans, he was the epitome of casual. He even ruffled up his hair a bit. The only issue was to artificially make the clothes look more worn so to make it seem like he dressed as such more often.

Think cool. Think real cool. They're gonna be expecting someone professional. Pubs like these always had large back rooms for illicit meetings, gambling, or illicit meetings that looked like gambling. After walking to the entrance of one of these rooms, he noticed the bouncer eyeing his approach. He stopped in front of him.

"Whaddya want?" asked the bouncer, his complete disdain evident in his speech.

Trent kept a stoic look on his face as he replied, "I'm Rayse Valentino. Here about the job."

The bouncer sized him up with his eyes, looking for any hidden weapons, but finally gave him the signal to go inside. He went from the lobby of the bar to a short hallway with several paths that lead to rooms. Passing through a veil and turning a corner, he arrived at his destination door and knocked twice. The door was opened by a tall bodyguard who let Trent inside. The door closed gently behind him.

Trent wanted to comment about the almost exaggerated level of security, but he restrained his usual wiseass commentary. The room was almost devoid of any pleasant scenery. You could see the cracks between the boards that made up the walls, and in the middle was a circular table with a well-dressed man seated at the end. Two men with unchanging serious expressions stood behind him, and one at each of Trent's sides. Once again, he was checked for weaponry through a pat down which irritated him.

At the end of it however, the only seated man spoke, "I hope you'll forgive my suspicions. We've had some... difficulties lately. It's good to finally have a man with some reputation in here. But enough about that! Sit down, please!"

His name was Don Karkivon. An odd name, but definitely a Salvarian one. He looked like he was in his early forties, and wore a black coat with brown trimmings, business pants and nice shoes. Trent held back a displeased look at the henchmen and pulled a chair out and sat down.

"Men," Karkivon announced. "Leave us. We have business to discuss." The guards were alarmed, since the idea of leaving The Don alone with a stranger was not an idea they supported. The Don wasn't pleased at their hesitation, "Do I have to repeat myself?!"

They slowly filed out of the room, the last one slowly closing the door behind him.

"It's hard to find good help these days. Nobody has any business sense!"

Trent seemed more relaxed without the eyes burning holes into his neck, "Ain't that the truth."

Karkivon leaned back, "I immediately knew you were the real deal when you walked in here. It's the shoes. No self-respecting businessman would be caught dead wearing garbage, but despite your other appearance, you still wore the shoes. That takes style."

Trent blinked. He had no idea what The Don was talking about. He tried as discretely as he could to look down for a moment and pull his left foot over a bit to see, and after the quick look he went back to The Don. It seems that, despite his preparation to look casual, he didn't switch out his shoes for something more worn. These were brand new! Even though he told himself he wasn't nervous, it showed in his preparation. Luckily, this time it worked to his advantage. It was true, too; Trent perhaps instinctively couldn't bear to wear crappy shoes due to him being a businessman.

The Don presented a few documents and put on some reading glasses to look them over. Seeing him made Trent think he was an tax man or something.

The Don put the papers down and looked at Trent, "Now, let's get down to business. I don't like to beat around the bush too much. Says here you did some work with one of my boys in south town. Put in a real good word for you. But, this job is something else. I want to be absolutely clear about something: Can you insure it goes smoothly and without incident?"

"My record is spotless," replied Trent. "Just tell me where you want it and it's done." Actually, this question bothered him. Why was he being treated like a child? Sure, he was young, but he's pulled more successful jobs than many twice his age. There was no reason for this. Not only that, but a face-to-face was necessary for this? No, he sensed that there was something more to this. Maybe it was some sort of test. "And another thing. I don't normally meet with my clients directly. It's better for everyone that way. Don't tell me you brought me all the way out here to ask something you already know."

"Haha! I like your confidence, boy. You say you don't meet with clients, yet here you are! I respect that you felt the money was worth it. Good business sense on you. I got to where I am today by grasping opportunity with both hands." He cleared his throat for a moment then continued, "But enough about that. It looks like I made the right choice in picking you. Consider yourself hired."

They spent the next half hour or so discussing the job itself. The meeting points, the drop off, and how long it would take altogether. Trent was used to making pickups at the train station, so there was no problem there. The one thing they didn't discuss was the contents itself.

"Don't you want to know what we're moving?" The Don wondered.

Trent smiled and said, "In my line of work, the less I know the better."

"Excellent! Then we've concluded our business, I believe. Would you care to stick around for a few drinks?"

Trent got up and took the necessary forged documents with him, stating, "When I'm paid, I'll take you up on that offer."

"Very well," replied Karkivon. "I have a low tolerance for failure, but I believe we'll have no problems. It's been a pleasure, young man."

Trent walked outside to an array of angry-looking guards, who he ignored as he got outside. Once he was out of that filthy pub, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep breath. A long stream of smoke escaped his lips as he stared up into the night sky. His mind was on the job now, and when he was like this there was no stopping him until it was complete.

The one thing that stood out to him was the code on the crate he was to pick up: FA2928. Usually there were some details about what was being covered up, so the box would be marked with labels concerning the alleged product inside, but this time it was just a code. He also couldn't help feeling that there was something he wasn't told about this job, but he wrote it off to first job nervousness. He told himself that it would go just like usual, so there was nothing to worry about.

[The International]

“This salmon is undercooked,” Vespasian said with his mouth half full. He looked with disgust at the pink morsel sitting on the edge of the plate in his lap. He and Maelle sat with their legs dangling off the edge of an abandoned town home. It was across the street from warehouse number three, the shipping epicenter of Ettermire's firearms. “And where is it from? Corone or Salvar? It tastes like it's from Salvar, just plain shitty.”

“You have our mother's pretentious taste.” Maelle said as she rolled her amber eyes. At the same time she allowed her cheeks to rise in an effervescent smile. Her little brother amused her even when he was being a spoiled little brat.

“The proper word is discerning taste.” Vespasian tossed the salmon off the plate, allowing it to drop some fifty feet. It splattered on the mosaic sidewalk just under the off white streetlamp below them. “What about that plain ass salad you've got there?”

“A lady's got to watch her figure.” Maelle said as she stuck her perfectly sloped nose in the air and took a bite of an emerald leaf.

“Lu eats twice as much as you do and she manages to keep her figure.” Vespasian stood and paced back and forth on the brick ledge.

“So what? Lu fights and has sex for a living. Those are two major calorie burners. I, on the other hand, negotiate and interrogate, which doesn't require much physically.” Maelle paused for a moment just before she turned and pierced her little brother with the two amber daggers that were her eyes. One was named jealousy, another was named hurt. They were both carried on the winds of a perfectly innocent voice of curiosity. “Why did you invite her to tag along?”

Vespasian tilted his head like a confused dog. He should have been used to this by now. Even before he stumbled upon the clandestine trade, his sisters had been competing for his favor. Favor from all was the curse of being the baby of the family, even though that baby was twenty one years old now. Before he could respond Maelle aired her insecurity.

“Is it because she's more fun than I am.” And there it was – Maelle's fear of being the prude old lady on the straight and narrow. She had gotten so used to being a spy that she forgot that the job alone took her far from that distinction.

“For starters, I didn't invite her at all. She just so happened to see me leave and she invited herself. And if I had to pick her instead of you it's because she doesn't smoother me.” Vespasian avoided eye contact with her sister by looking at the massive crimson brick building across the street. Its ten chimney stacks still pumped white trunks of smoke on its off hours, contributing its own art to the canvas of midnight nebulae above. “She'll let me make mistakes. She'll let me fail. As long as it doesn't directly threaten my life she'll let me do it. You and Mom... You baby me.”

“What about Dad?” Maelle said as she took another bite from her plain salad.

“Dad laughs at me.” Vespasian said in shame as he looked at the ground and put his hands in his pockets.

“He laughs at everyone. He even laughs at Ludivine.” Maelle chuckled, but then stopped herself in heed of the irony. “But I get it. You need some growing room.”

“And I'm more fun.” A familiar voice came from the shadows.

Vespasian nearly jumped out of his own skin and off the side of the building. “Shit!”

“You haven't gotten used to that yet.” Maelle said with a shrug of the shoulders.

“No. It's creepy.” Vespasian said as he looked at Ludivine. “Next time I'm inviting Maelle.”

Maelle sent Ludivine a wide eyed deep dimpled smile of mockery from her new pedestal of preferred sister.

Ludivine wasn't desperate to get it back. She could care less. “I know where the smuggled firearms are going.” However, she would try to take it back anyways for it was fun vexing the eldest of the siblings.

“Great! Where?”

“To the rail station. They thought they were clever dropping the buoyant crate out from the floorpanell of the wagon and into the sewer. I followed it downstream until a large net picked it up just under the Ettermire rail station. Box XD151.”

“Great work!” Vespasian waved for everyone to follow him to the stairs. “Let's get on that train.”

“Eh! Eh!” Ludivine stopped her siblings at the shadows in which she still dwell. “Where's my steak?”

[Rayse Valentino]

The banging drums. The blaring horns. It was just another morning in the boot camp where Trent was stationed. All of this would be fine for him, except...

It was five o'clock. Maybe the other, older drill instructors had rewired their brains to wake up at this time naturally, but Trent would resign long before that ever happened. Burying his face in the pillow, he tried to ignore the sounds, but it was impossible. He was in a long building filled with the officers' quarters, so as he got dressed and sleepily made his way out of his room, he saw the other men filing out of the building like they had been awake all day. The exhaustion was especially bad today; His eyes had dark rings around him, his skin was more pale, and he walked sluggishly.

"Mornin', sir," said Robert as he met up with Trent in the hallway leading outside. "Oh.. you look absolutely haggard."

"Damn straight I do," lamented Trent. "I stayed up all night running around the city making sure there was actually going to be someone at the station to pick up the goods today. Those pricks couldn't even give me 24 hours notice!"

"Well, everything's set up now, right?"

Trent reached into his pocket and pulled a packing list, slipping it to Robert discretely, "Here's the inventory. I'll be getting some shut-eye in my office. I brought back these really thick earmuffs, maybe they'll do the trick." Trent's knife instruction class wouldn't take place until midday, so there was no reason to not sleep in. At least in his office he could pretend he was doing something useful if anybody barged in. Not only that, but it was right next to the mess hall, so the sound and smell of coffee brewing was like a lullaby to him.

Some time later, Trent was resting his head on his hands while sitting at his desk when there was a knock at the door. He quickly shot up, took a sip of the coffee next to him before realizing it had gone cold, and opened some documents in front of him. Robert entered, which made Trent more mad than relieved.

"...The hell are you doing here? For a second I thought The Major was coming in here to chew me out again." Robert slowly closed the door behind him and leaned against it, holding a clipboard behind his back. Trent stood up. "Did something go wrong?"

Robert replied, "No, nothing like that. I, uh, let me just show you."

He walked over and put the clipboard down in front of Trent, who read it out loud, "...Due to your... diligence and attentive record-keeping... Royal Inspector? Wait, you got promoted?!"

"Well, um, yes, apparently so. I'm to pack up my things and go to The Royal Palace. They already sent a new inspector to replace me, he should be arriving right about now."

Trent slunk back down into his seat and cupped his mouth in his hands. How could this happen? A promotion? Robert had let himself get noticed.

Robert tapped his foot and then said, "Well, then I'll turn it down."

"You can't!" Trent shot back. "Not accepting would be really suspicious. You have no choice. Wait, did you say he was arriving right about now?"

Robert nodded, and Trent fled the scene like he had just robbed the place.

[The International]

And people thought sea travel was nauseating. Alerar and Salvar’s transnational rail line was the first of its kind; a technological marvel to say the least, but that was absolutely no excuse. The cushioned seats could have reclined, but didn’t. The windows could have been periodically washed, but weren’t. And there could have been cabin service, but there wasn’t. The youngest member of the Villeneuve family had a taste for luxurious things. This, by far, didn’t live up to his standards. At least the ride was relatively smooth. Once the train got rolling, the steel wheels and the rigid track gave way to the speed and created an easy ride.

The train’s shortcomings gave Vespasian an excuse to get up and go about the mission on his own, which was what he’d wanted in the first place. Maelle and Ludivine knew their brother got restless when he was uncomfortable, and he was uncomfortable when he wasn’t waited on hand and foot. It was completely in character for him to stand up and stretch his legs, and stretch his legs he did… all the way to the storage cars near the back of the train. Both Alerar and Salvar had systems in place for their trade, systems that should have caught this stray box of firearms by now. If it had been dropped into the sewers, someone had to have known to pick it up before it eventually floated into the ocean. And the code XD 151 couldn’t have magically made it onto the train’s inventory. Sneaking firearms into Salvar was a complex operation, and Vespasian wanted to report as much of the operation as he could to his clients.

Vespasian had to get into the storage cars and find that box, but he had to time it right. The last of the passenger cars was nearly empty save for a family, a pair of women, and a lone Salvarian who was obviously guarding the entry way to the cargo cars, but wasn’t doing a very good job at it. He was slumped in his seat and ready to dose of. He was demonstrating the classic ‘I’m awake!’ act as he jilted into awareness every time his head drooped forward. If there was nothing else Vespasian could count on it was the lethargy of military personnel in jobs like this. It would only be a matter of time before the guard would fall asleep and leave an opening, so Vespasian decided to kill some time by striking up a conversation with the two ladies near the front of the car.

“Have you ladies had the pleasure of checking out the entertainment car a way’s down from here?” He said as he settled into the plush brown seat beside them. The charming Villeneuve unleashed his disarming smile as he profiled himself away from them and tended to his cuff links. “They have a bar.”

“Really.” The russet skinned Aleraran said as she rolled her silver eyes and tossed her black hair. She was an attractive woman, and she probably thought Vespasian was hitting on her… How cute. If only he were. He just needed to kill some time.

“Yes. They have a bar.” Vespasian mirrored her irritation, but turned it into sarcasm. “They have juice, tea, and even water.”

“Water? Really.” The woman gasped complying with his comedy. “I bet they have more than one kind of water.”

“Oh you guessed right…” Vespasian paused awaiting a name. He wasn’t asking for it. He was subtly demanding that she give him a name. “Um.”

“Maxil.” The Dark Elf woman leaned back.

“Ah. Well Maxil, you guessed right. They have three tasty varieties of water.” Vespasian leaned in towards her to indicate emphasis. She did the same and their foreheads nearly bumped in the middle of the isle. “Sparkling, Sea Salt, and Sewage.”

“Well, what can I say, Human.” Maxil said with a chuckle as she tossed her hair. “It’s not Raiaera.”

“This is true, but I have to say.” Vespasian said as he stood. “I do enjoy the scenery. Thank you for the conversation. We should continue it sometime, and maybe your mother hen can join in on the fun too.”

Seconds later Vespasian was nowhere to be seen. Even though he had told them goodbye they failed to notice his disappearance. It was no parlor trick. There was no magic involved. It was all about being discrete and inconspicuous. “… I never got his name.”

The cargo cars weren’t made for people. Not that the cars made for people were that impressive to begin with, but these were made for storage purposes only. In place of the seats were ten foot tall towers of wooden crates. Their numbers and codes were open to the isle for easy reading, and it didn’t take long for Vespasian to find the crate he was looking for. Now all he needed to do was hide somewhere in the dimly lit car and wait to see who was going to tamper with the code. He searched in the dark corners in between the box laden towers, but none were dark enough to hide his simple white shirt. He looked to where the overhead compartments would have been, but since this car didn’t accommodate people there were none. He turned to check out the closets near the front of the car and there was an axe descending upon his head.

Vespasian brought his hands together and raised them above his head to create a roof with his forearms as he pushed into the ground with his left foot thus launching his body in the opposite direction. The guard’s axe fell upon the left side of that roof, slicing Vespasian’s white cotton sleeve with ease, but below it was the steel plate of his International Bracer. The two metals clashed for a brief second like grinding teeth just before the blade slid down the bracer due to the incline of Vespasian’s left arm, giving him just enough time to get out of harm’s way and quickly draw his own blade.

He extended the International Rapier in his right hand as he opened his left hand to the air. Within seconds a tiny sphere of light no brighter than the torches that lit the place blinked into existence. The young spy pressed his left hand forward, allowing the sphere to shoot towards the unnamed opponent. It was completely harmless, but the man behind it wasn’t. He followed the shot of telekinetic light with a horizontal slash leaving a chrome blur that surrounded his body from left to right and slicing into the guard’s frail leather armor. Another mallet like strike severed the Salvarian guard’s artery causing the pale man to fall like a limp doll upon the floor.

“What the Hell!” A familiar voice came from the front of the car. It was Maelle, who was covering her mouth with one hand and tending to her stomach with the other. Out of everyone else in the family Maelle was the only one who had a physical aversion to murder. She wasn’t against it, but in a way allergic to it.

“He startled me. What was I supposed to do?” Vespasian casually walked over to a window and opened it allowing the dry Salvarian air to replace the musty odor of murder. This may have been his first job without their parents, but this wasn’t his first kill. Long before he was a spy in training, he was a merchant in training, and merchants with pretty vessels like The International were bound to face pirates. “Help me get rid of the body.”

“No.” Ludivine said with a quiet voice laden with the poison of disappointment. “I’ll get rid of the body, and the two of you will go back to your seats and plan on meeting me at the Main Square of Knife’s Edge. This is obviously a multilayered operation that runs deep seeing as the guard was ready to kill you instead of arrest you.”

“What are you going to do?” Vespasian said with a timid voice of shame.

“I’m going to do my fucking job.” She said as a black mist began to surround her body. “Now leave while I get rid of the body.”

“No… wait.” Vespasian’s eyes darted around the rocking cabin until he pinpointed the crate in question. He pulled the wooden lid from the top to expose a pile of brand new personal flintlock pistols. “We’re taking these. Maelle, is there a rendezvous in Knife’s Edge that we can use to our advantage?”

A sinister smirk more akin to Ludivine appeared on Maelle’s face. “Leave a note inviting our targets to the King’s Ball. We can redirect the shipping logs to send it to Paramour Mansion, 656 Elkin St. That way it'll be close.”

[Rayse Valentino]

Trent ran across the dirt courtyard, which was filled with marching formations and the odd wagon or two. The sun, still rising in the air in the clear blue sky, shone down brightly upon his back as he ran. Robert had already taken care of the morning's arrival, but there was no way this new guy would turn away from the discrepancies in the inventory. He quickly reached the storage depots, where the new inspector conducted inventory checking. He walked up to the new inspector, who turned around in surprise to see his old academy buddy.

"Why, if it isn't Trent!" he said, adjusting this thick frames with one hand as the other one held a clipboard. He had a rather gangly appearance; his uniform was too tightly wrapped, his hair was too neat and combed, and his smile was too wide. "I haven't seen you in a while! How have you been?"

"That's Lieutenant to you," Trent replied, his eyes wandering over to the clipboard. He tried to hide his contempt for a moment. "Let's forget about all that. How have you been, Todd?"

"Sorry... " he began to apologize for not respecting Trent's rank, but then cheered up. "Oh! Just great. I finally got promoted from filing duty at the academy! I'm so excited!" Todd was the joke of the academy. A complete teacher's pet, he always played off the mocking done by Trent and the other students. "Actually, I was wondering if you could help me out with something. There's a crate in this inventory that doesn't appear to list its contents."

Trent's eyes shifted to the right, his brows lowering in concentration. That crate was the one from Alerar. He had to think of something quick.

"Those are the extra rations," he finally said. "Anything we don't use goes in there, to be shipped out later for proper disposal. Yeah."

"Really? How weird, they should at least make a note of that somewhere here. I guess it wouldn't hurt to check them out anyway."

"No!" Trent almost yelled before calming himself down. "I mean, uh, I wouldn't go near them if I were you. I've heard of outbreaks of malaria from inspectors who get close to the extra rations."

"Oh! Thanks for the tip! Man, Trent- er, Lieutenant, you're a real life saver!"

"It's no problem, just stay away from them, alright? See you later." Trent walked away from the building a bit apprehensive. As long as Todd didn't decide to risk life and limb to check that crate, everything was going to be fine. He started returning back to his office and met with Robert midway. "That guy... he's gonna be a nuisance. Not sure I can do this anymore."

"What about today's arrival? Aren't we in trouble if he looks in there?!"

"Calm down," Trent interrupted. "We only have to hold him off until tomorrow. Just keep him away from the goods until then." He rubbed his tired eyes with one hand and reached for his pack of smokes with the other. "This is gonna be a long day..."

[The International]

The frigid Knife’s Edge was not to Vespasian’s liking. It wasn’t so much the cold temperature as it was the wind that kept cutting around the corners of the buildings and biting at his skin even as he hid behind his fur collar. He decided to breathe through his mouth. It created moist heat around his head and it offered his sensitive nose sanctuary from the signature smell of Knife’s Edge, which could only be described as ‘stale’. The young spy often glanced down at his red velvet doublet to seek visual refuge from the mismatch of peasants’ quarters and massive mansions before him.

“This had better work.” Vespasian said with a nasty scowl as he walked beside his eldest sister. “Are you sure we’re going to be able to get in?”

“No worries, little brother. I have connections, which I have already used.” Maelle said with a confident smile as she adjusted the oversized sleeve of her golden two pieced gown. Everyone knew she just loved dressing up. Vespasian wondered if Maelle would have found a way to get them to this little ball even if he hadn’t screwed up and killed the corrupt guard on the train. “You should be concerned about Ludivine.”

“No you shouldn’t.” Ludivine’s voice came from… somewhere. Vespasian just wasn’t sure where. His eyes darted around to locate the middle sister, but he couldn’t point her out, and he couldn’t stop to find her. They were caught in a thick current of human motion that would eventually end at Paramour Mansion. “The materials are in their proper place - in the wine cellar just beside a very nice collection of reds. And don't bother looking for me, Vespasian.”

Vespasian shrugged his shoulders and continued walking. All his life he had figured Ludivine to be a shadowy person, so when he was exposed to the spy trade it was no surprise to find out she was a stealthy assassin. It just wasn’t expected that she was so good as to not be seen in the partial daylight of sunset and in a heavily populated area such as here and now. He figured she was using a trick of the eyes to remain unseen by them, but he wondered why she saw it necessary.

“How do you like the dress I got you, Lu?” Maelle said as they turned the corner. The gilded gates of Paramour Mansion were in view now. Before them was a stagnant crowd of would-be party goers, but they didn’t have invitations. The Villeneuves did, but not as the Villeneuves.

“You know I hate dresses.” Ludivine suddenly said from beside Vespasian, who jumped at the sight of her in his peripheral vision. She must have gotten tired of hiding, or was amused with startling the green spy. “But you knew navy blue was my color, so I hate it a little bit less than the normal dress.”

“You’re welcome.” Maelle said with a hint of disdain as the three of them approached the gates. A flesh golem guard of a man stood before them. He was the only thing standing between them and the King’s Ball. He looked down upon them with a gaze of a giant viper poised to strike at any moment. He was strong enough, fast enough, and smart enough to kill all three of them in an instant. Vespasian was sure of that. “Chathda’re, party of three.” They were past the guard.

“Chathda’re? Aleraran for ‘firearm’? Clever.” Vespasian said with a sly smile as they entered the front courtyard, which had been converted into an outdoor party patio. Paper lamps were hung by ropes that were strung in between ornate tether poles and well trimmed evergreen trees. A magnificent twenty-four piece band exhumed brass harmonies that infected the ear. The stone brick ground was sprinkled with multicolored confetti that reminded Vespasian of ice cream. The giant circle tables even had valor cloths. “If our man’s smart enough he’ll look for us.”

“And hopefully we’ll find him while he’s looking. Our reserved spot is over there.” Maelle pointed at a partially occupied table across the square from them. “We can’t go anywhere near that table. If our man knows who to look for he’ll have his eyes on there.”

[Rayse Valentino]

In the courtyard, an instructor was teaching some fresh faces the art of knife fighting. It was a wide area used for various types of training, which formations marching around its perimeter and a large obstacle course with soldiers struggling to overcome its challenges.

"Sir, what are you doing?" asked a recruit.

Trent was broken from his lapse of attention. He was staring at the storage area, trying to make sure that damn Todd wasn't poking around. There were some wagons shipping out good there right now. Without noticing, he had stopped his instruction and entered a trance that lasted nearly five minutes as the recruits waited nervously. The whole time, he was messing around with a knife with his hand.

"Did I give you permission to speak?" replied Trent, gripping the handle of his knife and walking over to the recruit. He put the edge of it against the horrified recruit's throat.

Swallowing his spit, the recruit quickly blurted, "N-no, Sir!"

Trent shook his head and went back to where he was standing. This day couldn't end soon enough. He turned back to the recruits, seeing how spoiled they were by this peacetime training.

Remembering what he was talking about before, Trent continued, "...As I was saying, you can't always see what you're trying to hit. Being able to use your senses to find your opponent in a dark environment is essential to your survival. This is why..."

His voice trailed off as he looked over to the storage depots once more, this time catching Todd writing something down on a clipboard.

"...We'll cover this another day. Dismissed!"

Leaving a group of confused soldiers, Trent dashed over to the storage depot and caught the attention of the new inspector.

Excitedly, Todd said, "Oh, Lieutenant! I wanted to thank you for earlier, it looks like you were right."

"Well, of course," Trent replied. "What was I right about again?"

"They just took away the crate filled with disposables," Todd explained.

Trent's eyes widened, "Wait, what?!" Running over to where the crate was, he couldn't believe it. That thing wasn't supposed to go out until tomorrow! What the hell was going on?! "W, where did it go?"

"Sir, is something the matter?" Todd asked curiously.

That's when Trent spotted the note that was left in the crate's place. He picked it up and read it. An invitation... to The King's Ball?! You have got to be shitting me. He noticed Todd was walking over and quickly stashed the note away, recomposing himself in front of his old classmate.

"I'm fine, d-don't worry about it," he said, quickly rushing past a confused Todd and out of the building.

He had no idea what was going on.

That night, Trent found himself at the front gates of the Paramour Mansion dressed in his military uniform. In Knife's Edge, being a high-ranking officer in the army was a position worthy of respect. Most of the time, only nobles could achieve this so it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. He lamented being here. An enormous mansion, a bunch of spoiled nobles, and the stench of old money in the hands of people that didn't deserve it. Trent was the son of a noble after all, but it was the biggest insult to his life. The idea that he owed anything to his father disgusted him. The man who scrutinized his invitation looked more menacing than any of the thugs Trent had ever seen. He was relieved when it seems the invite was authentic, and casually walked onto the outdoor patio. It smelled of expensive spices.

Of course, he had no intention to negotiate with these wannabe smugglers. Earlier in the day, he had realized that the only way that the crate was moved early was because it was smuggled out the same fashion that it was smuggled in. Due to this revelation, he could easily pinpoint where it was going by inspecting the outgoing package reports. In short, it was here in the mansion somewhere. They wouldn't of had the time to move it anywhere else, so he still had a chance to retrieve it if he played his cards right.

First order of business was spotting someone that looked familiar. If there's anyone that he remembered, it was a crooked noble. He managed to find a middle-aged man and his wife standing around and sipping spirits near a lavish fountain. He was wearing a fancy suit and she had on a frizzy dress. He walked across the trimmed grass to their location.

"How do you do?" Trent asked, bowing. "I'm Trent Loryn Jr."

"Hmm," replied the man. "Ah! General Loryn's son, is it? How is your father doing these days, young man?"

"He's doing fine."

"Heavens, how rude of me! Here I go asking about your father and I haven't even introduced myself yet! I'm Markus Torres, and this is my lovely wife Lydia."

"Pleasure to meet you both," Trent said in his best noble voice.

She bowed, but Trent already knew of these people. Markus had done some underground dealings that Trent got wind of from one of his smuggling clients, so he was not an innocent man. He's just what the doctor ordered.

He continued, "Pardon me if I'm intruding, but I have a bit of a problem. You see, my invitations put my seat away from my fellow officers. If it's not a problem, will you switch invitations with me so that I may enjoy their company?"

"Why, of course young man! It would be no problem at all. And tell your father I said 'hello'."

Trent exchanged a few more forced pleasantries before he left with his new seat. He sat down and tried not to look around. If there's one thing those smugglers would look for, it was someone trying to find them. He needed to do just the opposite, only taking the occasional glance at the seat he gave away to see if they were still there.

[The International]

For the next twenty minutes the Villeneuves sauntered about the courtyard picking off passing snack plates and catching floating flutes of champagne. It was officially twilight now for the sun was no longer in sight, but the flare of its glow reached into the sky as dim blue pillars of light. Paramour Mansion was now made visible by the saffron light emanating from its tall windows and hanging torches, and the hanging lamps provided a golden glow that gave everyone a flattering tint. Every now and then, as they socialized with the members of the gentry, the Villeneuves would glance at their table and anyone around it. Still no bites to the bait.

“Since we’re going to be waiting,” Maelle said as the three of them stood side by side watching the makeshift hardwood dancefloor as it began to fill up. “Shall we kill some time with a dance?”

“Sure, we could leave Ludivine here all alone to mix and mingle.” Vespasian looked at the icy Ludivine, who had been as quiet as a mouse this entire time. He fought to put a smile on his face as he began to lie through his clenched teeth. “She’s… the sociable type.”

“Very funny.” The cold assassin of the party didn’t even bother to dignify Vespasian with a sarcastic smile, which managed to leave him feeling guilty. Vespasian knew she was tough skinned, but he didn’t know how much. She eased his remorse. “Go dance. I’ll be fine.”

“I have one better.” Vespasian sought to make his transgression up to Ludivine with an idea he had just cooked up. “Maelle, do you think the host would have a retainer’s list – a list of nobles that are accepted but not necessarily expected at these events?”

“They do,” Maelle said, but then she shrugged her shoulders. “But what’s to say our culprit won’t ‘replace’ someone who’s already here?”

“That would reckless.” Both Vespasian and Maelle froze at what the most uninhibited of them just said. “Yes the word ‘reckless’ came out of the middle child’s mouth. Security’s too tight to take someone’s place outside of the party and to replace someone inside the party would have too many repercussions.”

Vespasian leaned in towards Ludivine with a slick smile on his face. “Could you locate that list and see who they’ve had to prepare a last-minute spot for?”

Ludivine immediately understood. Instead of just waiting around to find out who was looking for them they could be a little proactive. If their smuggler could get into this party, he was going to add his name to the list either in a manner similar to theirs, or by some other means. Even if they found several names on this retainer list, it would still be good to narrow it down from the several hundred that were here. The smuggling profession didn’t have a favorite gender or age. One could be great grandmother and manage to be a smuggler. She melted into the crowd and did her work.

“Mi lady?” Vespasian extended a hand out to Maelle. With a smile she took it, and the two of them entered into the fray of dancers.

They joined in a formal frame that seemed as long as an eagle’s wings, and began to float along the floor as light as two wind-blown feathers. They moved in formation to the brass bands will as the various lines of their united form created ease with the eye – Maelle curving and swaying, and Vespasian travelling poised and proper. One step couldn’t be distinguished from the next, and each turn and movement melted into the other with complete effortlessness.

Until… “Are you going to do something other than the box?” Maelle asked in a very polite and equally patronizing tone.

“No,” Vespasian didn’t make the effort to hide his disdain for his older sister’s passive aggressive question. “Damn backseat driver.”

No more than three hundred feet away, Ludivine was taking the long route around the courtyard back to the entrance. Several of the tricks of her trade weren’t tricks at all. They were just mere facts of life to be taken advantage of. One such fact was that several objects moving in one direction became one large object to the eye, so she joined current of heads and bodies just beyond the bouncer at the gates as it moved past the host taking names. Along with the bouncer, this middle aged butler had a list of everyone present. Since eyes were programmed to seek out other eyes seeking them, Ludivine never looked directly at the host and instead kept him in her peripheral vision. She firmly believed that one could ‘feel’ another’s eyes.

As soon as she passed him, Ludivine cut across the current until she was directly behind and within arm’s reach. Still she did not look at him, and she even profiled herself away from him. Several striking points crossed her mind; the jugular, the artery, the joints, and the top of the spine, but she didn’t take advantage of them even as her mouth watered. Instead she extended her petite right hand, and from it emerged a dim haze. She could have made it pitch dark, but she didn’t want to call attention to herself. It extended like the tentacle of a nautilus and wrapped around the eyes of the host, which was enough to make the older man place his list on the podium and rub his eyes. That was all she needed, and as she walked by, Ludivine saw two lists; an extremely long list, and an extremely short list with only two entries. Chathda’re, party of three, and Loryn, party of two, and the seating chart pointed them out as a happy old couple no more than three tables away from their own.

By now the in synch sibling pair of dancers was now a tactless dithering duo, which gave Ludivine all the more pleasure of putting out of its misery. She had to intercept them as they passed by on a counterclockwise current of spinning gentry. “Sorry to interrupt this beautiful display of teamwork.”

“No problem.” Vespasian said as he spun his sister about and walked off the floor. “She was back leading.”

“I was only trying to help.” Maelle said in that same double entendre tone she had taken on before. “I don’t get what the big deal is anyways. It’s just a dance.”

“The Psychology professional of all people should get it. It’s embarrassing, emasculating, and it’s insulting to my intelligence. I should kick your ass for doing it.” It was difficult to put Vespasian over the edge. Like his father, he wasn’t easy to anger, but insulting his intelligence did so quickly.

Maelle didn’t feel like subsiding her little brother’s frustrations. “You wouldn’t hit me. I’m a woman.”

“You’re not a woman. You’re my sister.” Vespasian said as he crossed his arms. “And if you insisted on being a woman you’d follow during the dance instead of bringing attention to the title when it’s convenient for you.”

“Perhaps we can find solace in the fact that I’ve located our people of interest.” Ludivine said as the unlikely peacemaker. “The penguin and the sugar-plum-fairy three tables down from ours.”

“Really? Them?” Vespasian looked over at the middle aged couple chuckling and enjoying their meals at their tables. “Are you absolutely positively sure it’s Mother Nature and Father Time?”

“What makes you think it isn’t them?” Ludivine said with a regally incensed tone of voice. “I’ve killed and fucked smugglers older than them. The smuggling world knows no age.”

“Of course, Lu. It’s just that…” Maelle took one more look before she spoke again. She observed their body language, their facial expressions, and everything else she could from this distance. “They’re way too happy to be the pissed off smugglers we’re bound to encounter.”

“Maybe they’re good actors.” Ludivine was now appealing to her older sister’s hidden competitive nature. “Maybe they’re so good they’ve even fooled you.”

“Well then how about we take a closer look.” Maelle took the bait. “Follow my lead.”

And once again the youngest of the family was usurped by the older, more experienced members of the family. This was no longer a matter of pride although it served to feed his pride as he watched the girls approach the Loryn party. Maelle was right. They were too genuinely content to be smugglers who were being screwed out of a deal, and who was he to think the smuggler wasn’t being proactive himself? He let them go and embarrass themselves. Worst case scenario – their parents would have to come and save Maelle and Ludivine while Vespasian was sitting pretty in freedom and ease.

“Hello.” The eldest of the Villeneuves sat down beside the male of the couple. She proceeded to eat from his plate – a great sign of disrespect, but before he could respond Ludivine put a strong hand on both their shoulders. Ludivine’s shadow illusion crept up from below the table like a thousand midnight snakes grasping at their legs. The two of them had done this before. “I’m Maelle. Maelle Chathda’re, and this is my sister, Ludivine Chathda’re. I like nice cool walks on the Salvar Tundra, the sultry sounds of Brass Heaven, and a quiet Raiaeran, four course dinner for two with that special someone. My sister here, however, likes dumping bodies in the Nemia River, the savage sounds of Scara Brae torture methods, and a raw ten organ dissection with the dire wolves of the Red Forest.”

By now the Loryn’s faces had slowly transformed from that of casual joy to that of pure terror. Mr. Lyon’s ‘v’ shaped smile topped with dimples of age had turned into an ‘o’ shaped gasp of long and terrified wind. Mrs. Lyon’s content and relaxed expression had turned into a tear fountain cascaded by her cheeks. The both of them, in pure fear, exuded a putrid smell that infected the nose like no other. They had shit their pants… literally.

“Stay with these two.” Vespasian said as he approached with an ear to ear smile on his face.

“Why?” Maelle said, partially suspecting that the two Villeneuve sisters had gotten it wrong, mostly due to the smell of Human waste stuffing her tiny nostrils.

“Because they aren’t who we’re looking for,” Vespasian said as he walked away, his eyes set on the Paramour Mansion’s Wine Cellar. He stopped for a moment and turned. “And as soon as you leave they’re calling security.”

[Rayse Valentino]

Trent didn't get a good look at the people screwing with him, instead trying to focus on his main objective of securing the goods. Leaving a half-finished drink, he casually walked over to the mansion and went inside. Brilliantly hit with a grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling housing a few nobles in conversation, the owner was most definitely showing off his wealth. As he strolled through the grand lobby, he got the strange inclination to burn the whole place down. Deeper in the mansion, he found himself the only one this far in.

Marble hallways with grand tapestries across the walls, the fanciful air of wine assaulted his senses. He must've been close. After all, an alleged shipment of spirits before a big party would not draw even the slightest suspicion. He made sure the coast was clear before dipping down into the wine cellar, exposing himself to an eerie sense of foreboding. He ignored the feeling, looking around for anything that looked out of place. In addition to shelves packed with wine, there were crates of it lined along the floor. Only a weak gas lamp illuminated the entire cellar, so he lit a match along with a cigarette and kept the match held out in front of him for light.

He was having a hard time finding the right crate, despite the fact that he knew the code was FA2928. None of the boxes here matched that, which put him in a pretty bad predicament. If he was wrong about the box being here, then his goose was as good as cooked. Out of a bit of desperation, he started opening the crates one by one to check the contents. As long as its wasn't alcoholic, it was likely his shipment.

After some time, he slid the top of a crate off slightly and immediately smelled gunpowder. This shipment was hot indeed, because a cursory glance revealed several stacks of muskets. Crouching over the crate, he looked at the code: XD151.

Why was the code different? Was it like this back when it was in the army's depot? No, they couldn't have had contact with it between now and then. It must've already had this altered code. What did this mean? Was the shipment already compromised before it even left the factory? It occurred to him that he never actually looked at the code while it was in the army's storage. If the people he had working the train's docks stuck XD151 into the wagon despite the requirement being FA2928... the job was compromised.

He slowly reached for the knife strapped to his right shin with his right hand, pulling up his pant leg and gripping the handle of the knife. The faint light of the cellar was made even fainter by Trent's match going out, leaving only the tiny gas lamp hanging from the ceiling. He waited a moment and breathed slowly, so that the only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat... and something else. A sound that people wouldn't normally notice. A sound so quiet, so mysterious... that it had to be suspicious. The most tranquil of footsteps.

Trent's body turned, pulling the knife up and raising it up to slash his would-be stalker. The stalker jumped back, narrowly avoiding Trent's sudden attack, and held ready his own knife. They couldn't see the other's face, they could barely make out their enemy's figure, but they knew who the other was. All they had to do... was get rid of each other.

[The International]

The young covert operative made a detour to the bar before he entered the mansion. He tossed a bag of coins over the counter and requested a bottle of cheap local gin. The bartender counted the coins and handed him a bottle half empty of the crystalline liquid… or was it half full? The quark popped out with a simple tug, and Vespasian took a swig for the road. This was his personal battle martini – one part liquid courage to help embolden him against a possible violent encounter, one part muscle relaxer to ease his movement just a bit, and one part contingency plan. It was beginning to be a ritual of his.

A small gust of wind due to the change in temperature tickled his skin as he passed under the ornate wooden threshold of the vast atrium, where the echoes of just a few socialites made it sound like the massive party was in here. He passed through the main hall where a massive crystal chandelier that seemed to be made of teardrops from the gods themselves shone down on a seemingly endless chocolate mahogany table. The decorations adorning its corners seemed to match those on the threshold of the front doors.

Past that, a flight of stairs spiraled down from the sky like a beautiful wrought iron tornado. They had no intentions to hide the strangely quaint cellar door beneath them, which hung open to invite passer bys with its sensuous arms of scent. Perhaps the owner of the manor wanted it to be a public realm for guests. Good for visitors, bad for him. The culprit could already be in there. In fact it was best to assume the culprit was the one who opened that door. Vespasian stopped before the open square mouth and the stone tongue of the dimly lit abyss. Sounds of haste and angst came from deep within its belly. His International Rapier rang as he drew it. He took another gulp and let the fire of the alcohol sear his esophagus and enflame his spirit before he finally stepped in.

The spy kept his weight on the balls of his feet as advised by his sister, Ludivine. He tilted his face down as the elevated gas lamp came into view. Most people used eyes as a reference when remembering one another. If the man who had his back turned to Vespasian ever had the chance of seeing him, his eyes would be hidden by the shadow his bushy brows would cast upon them thus his recollection would at least that much more of a struggle. The spy crept closer to his target, who went from one box to the next. Surely this was who Vespasian was looking for, and with that realization his heart began to pound like a giant bass drum despite the effects of the alcohol. He was ready for anything… or so he hoped.

Vespasian wanted to get as close as he possibly could before the smuggler heard him, but he needed the smuggler to find his box first. He needed to catch this man if need be, but if that wasn’t an option he had another objective. This man who was no taller than him stopped at one crate near the back corner of the room. The firearms were located, and the salty scent of the gunpowder confirmed it. Just then a glimmering arch emerged from the smuggler as he whipped around to face Vespasian. So much for capture he thought to himself has he leaned back and put his hands, one holding his blade and the other holding his gin, in an almost quizzical gesture as if to scream what the Hell?

All he got back was another horizontal strike from the criminal, but this time he was ready, meeting the strike with a punch from his right hand. The swept steel fittings and wire wrap of his basket hilted sword was more than enough protection for his hand, and sparks flew when it made contact with the knife. Vespasian recoiled with a horizontal slash of his own, but it hit nothing but air as the swift fighter ducked beneath it with ease. The exchanged strikes that followed made sounds resembling the bells of an orchestra. Vespasian’s knowledge of tactics told him that this fellow should have been overpowered by the sheer velocity of his attacks, but he was able to determine the exact angle at which to dodge and parry without stumbling back. Eventually he was going to find an opening… and he did. The smuggler stepped aside during an attempted overhead strike by the spy and charged with his shoulder like a battering ram. Vespasian’s body floated back, but instead of attempting to go against it, he went with it and rolled back onto his feet. As soon as he stood he retreated into the darkness of one of the other isles of wine.

His sanctuary was a deep violet wall through which he could see the silhouette of his adversary standing under the gas lamp alert and ready to strike. Vespasian glanced at his gin soaked left hand, which he could’ve definitely used a few seconds ago. The bottle still had plenty of gin left, so he took another mouth full. Only this time he didn’t swallow it. He begrudgingly left the molten liquid in his mouth as he rammed the wine shelf with his shoulder. First a bottle or two crashed to the floor and released the life blood of the festivities, and then the entire shelf tumbled like a giant Raiaeran Cedar. Best case scenario his target would be caught under the shelf, but he had other things in mind.

[Rayse Valentino]

With his heart running laps in his chest, the young smuggler gripped the handle of his knife tighter than he should. In theory, a knife fight should be over in moments, with one of the fighters bleeding on the floor from any number of exposed major blood vessels, or from a deeply penetrated stab wound.

This was different.

It had been a long time since Trent was in a real fight for his life. All those days in the army stiffened him, made his technique rigid and predictable. Most importantly, he had lost that recklessness from his childhood. The kind of feeling that makes a killer go for the spot that hurts the most. The courage of making the right move at the cost of safety. He felt it, and he could feel it from the other as well. They were both hesitant, and that was why nobody died.

Still, that guy was slippery. Trent completely lost him, and that was infuriating. More to the point, it was terrifying. He was busted. Who else was waiting up the stairs, ready to barge in and take him down? This was no time to play it safe. A couple bottles of violet liquid shattered at his feet, which gave him maybe a couple of seconds to jump out of the way of the falling shelf. His jump turned into a roll, letting his shoulder hit the ground and ricochet his body back upright. He didn't even look back at the guy who pushed the shelf; his priority was getting to that crate. Shipment be damned, his ass was going go pull out a damn musket and blow a few holes in his would-be saboteur.

Unfortunately for him, right as he reached the crate it was covered with flaming liquid from above. Trent turned around, and saw that piece of shit standing on top of the downed shelf, his face hidden behind the light of the lamp. Did he just fucking spit flaming booze at me?! Of course, the implications were harrowing. That maniac just lit up a crate filled with muskets and gunpowder, in a basement filled with alcohol! Was he suicidal?! Trent had no choice, this was over. There was no redeeming this Kachuckian nightmare. He feared going back the way he came, so his only recourse was the cellar door that lead to the backyard of the mansion. He bolted toward the short flight of stairs that lead up, pushing up on the doors which were above him, shoving them open and flying outside.

The young smuggler wasn't going to let it end like this. He threw the doors back down, closing the other guy in, and kicked a nearby stack of chopped logs over it. That bastard was going to fry for what he did to him. To his whole damn livelihood. He didn't stick around long, because he started hearing the cracking sounds of the gunpowder going off. As he ran, a thought occurred to him: That fucker got my shoes dirty! He couldn't help but smile, as if that was priority number one in this whole mess.

[The International]

Vespasian's diaphragm flexed as he pushed the clear liquid out of a thin opening of his mouth. The gin sprayed forth, and every droplet was set aflame as it passed the open gas lamp until the fire that they created poured out towards the smuggler. It didn't hit the culprit, but it hit his true target. If Vespasian couldn't retrieve the crate for Alerar then no one could! The result was a small flame that sat atop the lid of the half open crate idle, warm, and dangerous. It was only a matter of time before it would reach the black powder somewhere inside that box.

The smuggler knew not to stick around and retreated up another flight of stairs on the other side the cellar. If he could catch the man, he'd have quite a substantial reward. Unfortunately Vespasian was well behind his target, who'd just shut the back door... and somehow barricaded it from the other side. He discovered this the hard way as his dense skull failed to lift it. His only choice now was to escape from the other side and return to his clients with the satisfaction that at least this shipment was eliminated. He ran past the warmth of the growing flames, he pushed himself up the stairs, and emerged at the bottom of the staircase. The young spy then ran as fast as his feet could carry him through the mansion. Onlookers in the main hall and the atrium stepped back in shock as he shot past him.

His panicked retreat adorned with flailing arms, wide eyes, and hurried puffing, came to a sliding halt at the front doorway, where he straightened up, calmed down, and feigned a smile. His calm walk wasn't a slow one in the least as he approached his sisters, who still sat beside the old couple occupying their time.

Vespasian snatched both of his sisters up as he passed. “We need to go.” He said through a clenched smile.

“I thought you wanted us to stay with Mother Nature and Father Time back there.” Maelle said as she adjusted her dress after Vespasian so rudely used it to get her up.

“You don't have to worry about that anymore.” Vespasian glanced to both sides. “I've provided an amazing distraction.”

Almost as if waiting for Vespasian, a loud crackle echoed in the distance, and screams began to contaminate the crowd. The sisters stopped and turned around while their little brother urged them to keep walking.

“You didn't!” Maelle said as she turned and looked at Vespasian with an appalled look on her face.

“You did!” Ludivine said as she turned and looked at Vespasian with a gleeful look on her face.

“I had to.” Vespasian settled it. “The worst part is I'm only getting paid for half. Either way it's back to Alerar for us.”

He hurried the them along as the crowd began to retreat from the house that began to breathe fire just like Vespasian had before. The drift away from the mansion became faster and faster until everyone around them was running. There were many firsts for Vespasian tonight. This was his first job without true supervision. This was his first real fight alone. And this was the first time he heard Maelle use fowl language. “You didn't have the nerve to go and sweat in my fucking suit, did you?”

“Oh so that's what you're concerned about, Maelle?” Vespasian fired back with the vengeance befitting the teased sibling he was. They still didn't realize he was right. “You're concerned about this little suit you lent to your baby brother, who just got his ass handed to him by some dude with a knife. A knife! You need to get your priorities straight.”

“Okay, I'm sorry.” Maelle gave him a comforting rub on the back. A few moments passed before it hit her. “Come to think of it if we hadn't jumped onto that old couple like we had back there we would have been able to help you out.”

“What could you have done? Talk the knife out of his hands?” Ludivine shot a foul glance at her older sister. “If I were there I would have been able to provide real support, and because of that I humbly apologize for jumping the gun with the geezers, no pun intended. Come to think of it... you didn't need us.”

“While I could have done all of this on my own, the two of you being here made it much easier.” Vespasian glanced back at the flame as it began to climb to the second floor of the mansion. The fact that it took that long spoke to how large the building was. “Let's just agree to no more self invitations, and whoever takes the mission runs the mission.”

“Fine...” Maelle rested her head on her younger brother's shoulders. That was her way of apologizing – admitting what she had done wrong and being affectionate. He liked Ludivine's way better especially since she didn't persist with her coddling ways like Maelle was about to do. “Can I make a recommendation as to how to get all of your money?”

“Use the information I gathered here and return to Alerar under a new identity to score a consulting job with the Crown.” Vespasian rolled his eyes. “The Double Jeopardy scam.”

“How did you know that?” Maelle raised her head and looked at Vespasian with a face of bewilderment.

“You still don't get it!” He threw his hands in the air and snatched himself away from her. Just then he caught a mischievous look on her face that screamed 'gotcha'. She was just messing with him, which was her birthright as a sibling. Nevertheless she did get it.

[Rayse Valentino]

The door to Trent's room in the Officer's Quarters flung open as a hurried Robert let himself in and said, "Sir! I heard you were back, but you weren't in your office. Did... did you retrieve the goods?"

Trent was pushing as much clothing as he could fit in a traveling bag. It occurred to him that he could only really fit either three shirts, or one pair of pants. Neither prospect amused him.

"No," he answered. "It fucking blew up."

A look of relief covered Robert's face, but it was replaced by one of confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm fucking doing? I'm skipping town! Once word gets out that I trashed that job, this operation is good and done. Nobody will do business with me again. Hell, that old bastard probably put a bounty on my head as well."

"Actually... while you were out I got some news from Dan. I thought he got to you before it was too late. Karkivon knew the shipment was compromised."

Trent stopped packing. He was still in his booze-soaked, dirty uniform. A nearby ashtray had three spent cigarette butts in it.

"You're shitting me. Since when?"

"Last night, while you were making sure it would get picked up at the station."

That old fuck knew for that long?! Trent couldn't believe it. Why would Karkivon not tell him?

"Was he... no, it couldn't be. Fuck!" Trent started changing into his street clothes. "I'll be right back."

Pure, unmitigated rage entered his system. He set me up! What he couldn't figure out is why. Why couldn't that old fuck have just told him? He wanted, no, needed to know the reason.

After a trip through town, Trent walked through the door. It was the same pub, the same little room, the same table. Karkivon was sitting at the end of it like nothing was going on. The only difference was the two goons standing at each end of the door way, their shoulders nearly touching Trent's tee shirt.

"I see you're back," the old man said, like it was a job well done. "Judging by your expression, I take it things didn't go well?"

"All that's left of the shipment is charcoal," Trent said.

"Ah, well, that's quite unfortunate."

"A little birdy told me that it was actually quite fortunate for you. Why didn't you tell me? You trying to make me take the fucking fall for you?!"

Karkivon smiled, "I like to think of it as a cost of business."

"You son of a bitch!" Trent lashed out, taking a step forward and feeling his arms being grabbed by both sides. Each of the thugs had one of his arms and kept him rooted in place.

"I don't see what the fuss is about. You got away, the shipment is destroyed, so we're even."

My ass! Karkivon was the scum of businessmen. The kind that would sell his own brother to the crown if it meant he walked free. Trent had figured out what he wasn't being told: If the delivery was ultimately made, it would be traced back to Trent, since he was the one who hired the train workers under the table. They would use that evidence to peg him as not only the smuggler, but the supplier (Karkivon) as well. With such a bust, it would be simpler for the old man to continue his business since the authorities would be satisfied. Otherwise, destroying the shipment would be favorable. If he was told, Trent would've immediately done the latter, but then it wouldn't create the favorable business climate that Karkivon wanted, so he kept it to himself. The young smuggler was lucky that Dan, the best rat in the city, was his childhood friend.

The truth was plain as day now. None of it made Trent feel any better. He wanted revenge, and he wanted it now.

"You're right," Trent said, the glare in his eyes fading and his arm muscles relaxing. "It's done. Let me go."

"Now you're coming around. Promise that I'll never see your face again."

"Yeah. I promise."

The thugs let go of his arms, and he started turning around... only to smash the back of his fist into the jaw of one of them. The other one swung wide at him, but he ducked and buried the same fist into his gut, knocking his wind out. Trent's right arm was close enough to his right pant leg to pull it up and release his knife from its sheath, pulling the blade up and stabbing the thug in the lung.

The other thug, now done reeling from the hit to his jaw, flung his arms around Trent's body, wrapping them around in a hold. He was quite larger than the smuggler, and squeezed hard on Trent's chest. Neither of the smuggler's arms could reach, so he threw back his head and slammed into the thug's nose with his skull. The grip loosened, allowing Trent to jab the knife into the side of the thug's arm. He let out a painful grunt, fully releasing his grasp and allowing Trent to turn around and kick him into the wall. With both of Karkivon's men on the floor, the smuggler turned his attention to the old man, who had jumped out of his seat with his hands hovering in the air, his palms shivering like someone who had ten too many cups of coffee.

Trent felt exhilarated. That feeling he thought he lost in that wine cellar was back. That reckless desire to take what he wanted. Not to mention the cutthroat attitude that allowed him to survive his youth. He flipped the table over and walked over to the old man, holding his bloody knife up like it was a treat.

Karkivon backed into the wall, probably pissing his pants with terror, "W-who the fuck do you think you are?!"

The young smuggler got face to face with him and pressed his knife softly against the tender flesh of his neck. He was about to keep a promise.

"I'm Rayse Valentino. Nobody fucks with me and lives."

The blade seared through the old man's neck, leaving him falling to the floor and clutching at his bleeding neck, unable to breathe. Rayse made his way to the door, his shirt and face covered in a spatter of blood. The two men he injured were staring at him like a Salvaran furhog right before a rabid pack of wolves descended on it, but they were going to live this day. Rayse needed witnesses, so everyone would know the start of the most ruthless arms contractor in Knife's Edge.

[Yari Rafanas]

The First Job – the 20,000th thread on this incarnation of Althanas!

Story: 8.5 – There are a lot of things that made this a great story to read. For one, it was a beginning to something, and that to me is something I rarely get to read outside of profiles. Not only that, but the fact that this also served to introduce me to Rayse and the Internationals really gave me a sense of discovery.

Continuity: 6 – This is a tough category for this one. On one hand, you guys are both taking a very foreign and unused nation like Salvar and breathing live into it. On the other, I constantly felt removed from the world. This was not the result of unfamiliarity of the region, but more so in the tone of the characters. International, you took great care to show off your knowledge of regions and culture, but the actual dialogue of your characters set this score back quite a bit. I didn't have a problem with the language or the very modern voices, as they are obviously a class above the common Althanian, but when you use phrases like “Mother Nature and Father Time” and even “jump the gun,” it sounds like I'm suddenly on Earth. I would try replacing these references with an Althanian equivalent.

Setting: 6 – Rayse, I think you missed a big opportunity to put a little more detail into what the army was like. My mind was filling in too many blanks when reading through this. Everything else through the thread was consistent.

Creativity:7 – Scored this hire for many of the same reasons the other categories are higher. Looks like a lot of excellent thought process went into this.

Character: 7 – Great characters and a great read to introduce me to them all.

Interaction: 7.5 – You both did great here. A lot of the little details in how the characters attached themselves to the surrounding were really solid. Enjoyed the little imagery here.

Strategy: 7– I'm a sucker for threads that give two seemingly separate characters a goal that slowly ties in with the other character's, resulting in the meet at the end for the climax. It's a great approach and fun to work off of, and you guys did it well. You managed to incorporate your characters' talents into the thread very well, with one of the highlights being the shadow tendril grab that caused the guests to shit themselves.

Clarity: 7

Mechanics: 8 – Only a few errors.

Wildcard: 7 – Nice job finishing a thread that took a couple years. Way to have patience, Rayse.

TOTAL: 71

EXP:
Rayse Valentino gains 1,200 EXP and 200 Gold.
The International gains 810 EXP and 100 Gold

Loot!:
No Spoils Requested.

[Silence Sei]

GP-EXP added.