Kamina's breath came out in hot clouds, his katana still humming from the last volley he had cut from the air. Beside him, Imogen pressed her back to the wall, her ghostly red eyes darting between the green shadows now moving like a tide around them.
The figures fanned out–ropes hissing as they dropped, limbs twisting their bows into scythe-like grips and hook-ended staves that gleamed in the rainlight. Above them all, perched upon a sagging iron sign like a crow with a playwright's grin, stood their leader. His hood was thrown back, revealing a face lined more with charm than scars–brown hair slicked by the drizzle, eyes glinting like a cat in the dark.
"Good evening, wanderer of loud steps," he said, his voice smooth as wet velvet. "And to the little lady… my apologies, for the arrows. A crude overture for what should be a fine performance."
Kamina pointed his blade, the steel dripping rainwater. "Name."
The man placed a hand upon his chest and bowed with a flourish far too theatrical for the alley. "Locke Lamora, at your service–sometimes a thief, often a liar, always a gentleman." He snapped his fingers, and the green hoods around him shifted like dancers awaiting their cue. "You have something that does not belong to you, and I… have a fondness for collecting lost things."
"You want the brat? Step over my corpse."
"Oh no, no corpses tonight," Locke said, tilting his head as if listening to the rain. "Blood is so very loud, and tonight we are meant to be a whisper. A song, even. Do you know how a song can kill, swordsman? Simply by the note you never see coming."
The first hook shot out like a serpent, wrapping around Kamina's blade. A twist, a pull–his grip nearly slipped. Another came low for his ankle, a cord hissing through the puddle. Kamina pivoted, his blade arcing a crescent of sparks as he severed the line, but already two arrows hissed past his ear, curving unnaturally mid-flight to box him in.
"Stay close!" Kamina shouted, pulling Imogen behind him with a rough shove. A staff snapped forward to latch upon his wrist with a hooked end. Kamina yanked, the attacker spun, another rope tangled his other arm.
Kamina's blade flashing, carving a wet slash that freed his arm–but it was like cutting through water. For every cord he severed, another snaked from the dark. For every arrow deflected, two more slid closer to Imogen.
Locke's boots clicked against the beam–then suddenly, he wasn't there. Kamina's eyes narrowed. A whisper of fabric behind him–too close.
Before he could turn, a gloved hand clamped around Imogen's wrist. The girl let out a startled gasp as Locke Lamora, now behind Kamina as if the shadows themselves had conspired to move him, swept her effortlessly into his grasp. His hood brushed her cheek, his grin maddeningly calm.
"Well now," he said, his voice warm as a stage light. "A change in the choreography."
"Let go of me!" Imogen demanded, thrashing against his grip.
"Ah, the lady gives her line," Locke murmured, almost apologetically. "But I'm afraid this scene requires you to stay."
A sudden streak of blue split the rain-dim alley–fwoom!–a lance of searing light ripping past Kamina's shoulder. Locke twisted with inhuman timing, his cloak flaring as the beam scorched the brick where his head had been. He still held Imogen.
"Tch, I missed!" a voice cursed from the distance.
Kamina turned–there, on the far side of the alley's mouth, stood Pisanio, his blade still humming with residual light. Beside him, Shmuel, tablet in hand.
The Gentleman Bastards stirred–movement like rats sensing the trapdoor fall. And from the far end of the street came a deeper sound: iron-shod boots, the distinct clatter-clang of authority. The Knights of Brithelm were coming.
Locke's grin sharpened, his green cloak sweeping as his crew melted into the rain-slick dark. "Curtains fall, Kamina. Another act begins." He dipped his head mockingly, pulling Imogen close as she glared daggers at him.
"Locke!" Kamina roared, stepping forward, blade raised.
But the leader of the Bastards only chuckled, his voice soft and cutting as a razor's edge. "You still stand, swordsman. I count that as a gift. I do so enjoy leaving my audience wanting more."
And with that, they were gone–green shadows swallowed by the downpour, Imogen with them.
Kamina surged to give chase, but the pounding approach of armored boots snapped his head toward the oncoming knights. Their lances were already lowering, their formation closing the street.
"Tch… damn it!" Kamina snarled, pivoting on his heel and bolting in the opposite direction, the wet streets hissing beneath his boots.
He ducked into a side path, yanked the phone from his coat, and punched it alive with a thumb. "Shmuel! Pick up, dammit!"
Static. Then Shmuel's voice, ragged with exertion: "Kamina. I see them. We couldn't intercept in time–another syndicate hit us first. Pisanio and I had our hands full keeping them off your back."
Kamina vaulted a crate, his teeth bared. "So now what? Are you telling me the whole City wants a piece of this girl?!"
"Similar to it," Shmuel said flatly. "More than one. Some want ransom. Some want favor from Brithelm's leader. Some just want to sell her to the highest bidder. We have stumbled into a storm, Kamina."
The world blurred as the Gentleman Bastards whisked her away through the dripping maze of District 12. Their boots made no more sound than falling rain, their cloaks swallowing the neon light. Locke's arm was firm around her waist.
"Drop me down this instant!" Imogen snapped, her small fists pounding against his cloak.
"Ah, fire in a teacup," Locke murmured, his voice a velvet thread weaving through the rain. "Unfortunately, miss, you are our catch of the month. Can't have me and the boys starving now, can we?"
Imogen twisted, her heels kicking against his thigh. "Then starve! I didn't ask to be your dinner!"
Locke chuckled, sidestepping a slick puddle with infuriating grace. "We thieves rarely ask the meal for consent, you see. Tradition, really."
Her teeth clenched. Think. Move.
She felt it before she willed it.
A burn behind her sockets, a metallic tang in her mouth. Her ghostly white irises flushed to a bloody crimson, and with a wet trickle, red began to snake down her cheeks. The city slowed. Each droplet of rain stretched into a bead, each footstep echoed like a drumbeat.
Her mechanical eyes screamed data into her skull–angles, escape paths, weak spots in the Bastards' formation. Her body, though… it was still just flesh. Small, fragile, unmodified.
Locke glanced down at her, unconcerned by the crimson tears. "My, my. The girl blooms. Does it hurt to see the world this fast?"
"I said–drop me!"
"If I drop you, the ground will catch you. I am far more polite than the ground."
"You talk too much for a kidnapper."
"And you pout too much for a princess," he replied, a smile tugging the corner of his lips. "See? We are both flawed creatures, you and I."
She puffed her cheeks in frustration, kicking his shin this time. "Do you know who I am?!"
"I know just enough."
"I'll scream."
"Please do," Locke said, tilting his head. "My boys love a lively tune. Keeps their hearts warm in this weather."
Imogen's nails dug into his sleeve, her voice rising in indignation. "You're worse than the knights! At least they wear shiny tin and pretend to be noble."
"Oh, I assure you, miss, we never pretend to be noble," Locke said, flashing her a grin that felt more honest than any knight's oath. "We pretend to be everything else because that's what actors do."
Locke's gloved fingers snapped once, sharp as a cue from the orchestra pit.
"Vein," he called, "the cloth."
One of the Bastards–thin, wiry, his hood dripping with rain–fished something from his satchel. It was a length of dark silk, soft as whispered treachery. Locke wrapped it gently over Imogen's eyes.
"Hey–what are you–!" she protested, jerking her head, but the knot was deft, practiced. Her enhanced vision drowned in black.
"Stage curtains down," Locke murmured by her ear, voice smooth as smoke.
Then the sound of rain, the shifting of boots, the world spinning–
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When the world opened again, it smelled of dust, velvet, and ghosts.
Imogen blinked. Her eyes adjusted to the pale glow of failing lights, the cavernous rows of seats like broken teeth, a massive stage framed by golden ruins. A theater—high above the city streets, its walls weeping with the history of some fallen titan. L Corp's fallen nest. A place people once flocked to for the future. Now, it was hollow.
Locke lounged in the front row, one leg crossed over the other, twirling his cane as his men busied themselves with ropes, curtains, and props scavenged from the wreckage.
"Is this… a play?" she muttered, wriggling against the chair arm he'd perched her on.
"Everything is a play," Locke said without looking at her. "Some men just forget their lines."
She scowled. "You're being way too extra for a bunch of kidnappers."
That earned her a full, flashing grin. "Ah, but my dear–an actor must be extra. Otherwise, he is only… an extra."
He tipped his cane toward the stage, where the Bastards were dragging scenery into place–old, moth-eaten curtains with painted skies, a throne missing its jewels, a spotlight sputtering like a dying star.
"Madness," Locke said, rising and adjusting his cuffs, "is merely the ticket price to leave the dull world behind."
"Now, now, your highness," Locke's voice slithered smooth as stage lights flicking on, "the show hasn't even started yet."
He held up a strip of red cloth—rich as fresh paint, soft as a lie—and, without asking, drew it over her eyes. This time, Imogen didn't resist. Her lips curled in a sulky half-pout.
"Seriously?" she muttered. "Don't you people have, like… better ways to make money?"
"Yes," Locke replied, knotting the cloth with nimble fingers. "But extorting the King in Grey has its own… merits."
She huffed, crossing her arms though she couldn't see him. "An office raid would get you so much more attention than turning me into some bargain-bin ransom note. Unless what you're really aiming for is—"
"Public relations," Locke cut in, his tone bright as a jingle.
"That's not what I had in mind about your 'syndicate'," she snapped, the word heavy with disdain.
He laughed, a light, ringing sound that didn't belong in a place that smelled like rot and ruin. "Oh, my sweet little headline, you wound me. I just want to show the city what we're capable of. A big, loud advertisement. You're the marquee, the bright name in lights."
"So much for a PR stunt," she sneered. "You kidnap me, ruin my dress, and you expect my father to… what? Be impressed? Send flowers?"
"Your father will send coins," Locke said calmly. "The flowers are for the crowd. Never underestimate how a little theater can fatten a purse."
"You're the worst salesman I've ever been held hostage by."
"I heard," Locke began, cane tapping idly against the cracked floorboards, "that you ran away from your house because of love. Not terribly unusual for a teenager, I suppose… but rather abnormal for someone born into a syndicate as sizable as Brithelm."
"That's none of your business," Imogen snapped, pushing herself up from the seat. Her small hands clenched into fists, her chin tilted high as if that could add inches to her height.
Locke tilted his head, amused. "Now, now, your highness… I'd rather not get folded in two by such a fearsome opponent." His tone dripped mock-solemnity. "Though… I think you might be interested in what I could sell to you."
She squinted at him, suspicion bubbling. "What?"
He produced a small, sleek canister from within his coat, the label scuffed but the bright red N logo unmistakable. "A [Canned Experience] of love," he said, shaking it lightly as though tempting a cat. "Smuggled out of Nest N, far from the grasping nails of N Corp. One sip, and even the dullest heart could taste romance. A whole affair in a swallow."
Imogen recoiled slightly, her expression twisting into a mix of disgust and disdain. "That's disgusting. Why would I want fake love? That's like–buying a trophy for a race I never ran."
Locke chuckled low, placing the canister back into his coat with a flick of his wrist. "I suspected you'd say that. You're not the type to buy an ending, hmm?"
"You talk too much."
"And you dodge too much," he countered with a sly grin. "Running away from home, throwing away the leash, all for some mystery flame? No, no… there's more in that heart of yours than you'd like me to read."
Imogen huffed, arms crossed. "Stop pretending you know me."
Locke leaned forward, the faint glow of the ruined spotlight catching the edge of his grin. The others in the theater moved like shadows on strings, setting the stage, but his words were just simply too loud for her at this very moment.
"You know, princess," he murmured, "there's something no one has bothered to tell you yet."
"What now? Another sales pitch?"
He chuckled, soft and hollow. "No."
He bent closer, voice dropping until it was almost a whisper, yet every syllable echoed in the hollow theater.
"Your dream will burn… and your life will be wasted. Such is the life of the city."
Locke straightened, that infuriating smile never leaving his face, and gestured toward the stage as if nothing had happened. "Curtains soon, your highness. I do hope you'll enjoy the first act."
The lights flickered. The Bastards whispered. Somewhere beyond the cracked glass windows, the sirens of Brithelm began to wail.