The theater's broken chandeliers flickered to life, powered by some jury-rigged contraption humming beneath the stage. Red curtains groaned open on rusted rails, and from the shadows stepped actors dressed in tattered but elaborate costumes–syndicate coats and fixer badges stitched together like the ghosts of the City's past.
Locke untied the cloth from Imogen's eyes with a little flourish, as though unveiling a priceless painting. "There we are, your highness. A classic, tailored for your viewing pleasure."
"What's this supposed to mean?"
"Shhhhh. No interruptions."
Imogen scowled but turned forward. She was seated at the very front row–close enough that the dust of every stomp and clash might kiss her face.
Act I began.
Two groups stormed the stage. One in dark coats bearing the sigil of a syndicate family crest, the other in mismatched fixer uniforms. Their voices rose, bold and sharp, echoing in the cracked ribs of the theater.
Syndicate Heir's Men.
"Draw thy steel, dogs of thy Fixer's brood!
For thy master hateth us as much as we hateth thee!"
Fixer's Kin.
"Cowardly knaves!
Thy coin-fed bellies know not the honor of thy work.
Have at thee!"
Blades rang, staves snapped, and blood-red ribbons cut the air like sparks. The chorus of steel and shouted oaths set the stage alive with fury.
And then–Romeo stepped forth. He was a 22-year-old heir in the finest blood-lined coat, his sword glinting under sputtering lights. His brow was furrowed with the weight to carry his family legacy, yet his eyes searched beyond the feud.
Romeo:
"O hateful strife, thou chain'd upon my breast!
Thy father's feud doth choke me with thy iron.
Yet still, I yearn… for something gentler, fairer than war."
The stage shifted. At the opposite wing, Juliet emerged–clad not in silks but in iron armor, a fixer's blade strapped to her hip.
Juliet:
"My heart is sworn to duty, yet thy soul is restless.
Shall I ne'er be more than daughter to my office?
O cruel fate, that chains love and blood in equal measure."
Romeo saw her and froze. His enemies, his allies, even the clashing of steel dimmed in that moment. He stepped forward, defying both feud and stage.
Romeo:
"O wondrous flame!
Fair maiden of steel, thou maketh warriors tremble.
Shall I be damn'd for such a sight?
For I would risk both father's wrath and heaven's scorn,
To bask in thy fire."
Juliet:
"Bold tongue, for one whose coat reeketh of coin and sin.
Dost thou think thy words sway me, knave?
Many hath spoken sweet, yet few hath proven true."
Romeo reached for her hand–hesitant, daring.
Romeo:
"Give me but thy touch, and I shall renounce all feuds,
renounce all kin, renounce even life–
so long as thou grantest me one breath in thy light."
Juliet, eyes narrowed, let him take her hand. Her blade, however, never lowered.
Juliet:
"Touch me once more, heir of blood,
and thou shalt learn how swiftly love may turn to death."
The stage darkened, and the chorus rose, narrating the cursed feud and the fragile seed of love sown beneath its shadow.
Imogen leaned forward in her seat, caught despite herself. Still, her lips curled into a pout. "They're dramatic. Who talks like that?"
Locke chuckled softly. "Actors, my dear. Watch long enough, and thou may learn their lesson. And this play predates hundreds of years ago."
Act II
The curtain fell for but a breath, then rose again with a creak of tired wood. Smoke machines poured a ghostly mist across the stage. Out of it walked Friar Laurence, his robes patched from fixer uniforms, a rosary of rusted bullet casings clinking at his side.
Romeo entered first, his syndicate coat ragged from battle, but his eyes blazed with something fiercer than war. Juliet followed, her blade still belted to her side, her steps heavy with doubt.
Friar Laurence:
"O children of enmity, why knock upon my door?
Hast thou not kin enough to scorn thy union,
And blood enough to sate thy feud?"
Romeo:
"Good friar, in thee lies our salvation.
Marry us, that this feud may find an end.
Let love's bond bind tighter than coin or creed."
Juliet:
"Though bound am I to my family's oath,
Yet love's whisper is sharper than my blade.
Make us one, father, ere duty tear us asunder."
The Friar hesitated, his hands shaking as he drew forth a cracked little prayer book. The stage quieted, every actor stilled, their faces frozen in shadow.
Friar Laurence:
"May thy love mend the rift thy fathers wrought.
May steel turn gentle, may blood be still.
By my hand and heaven's grace, I bind thee two as one."
Romeo took Juliet's hands in his, pressing his forehead to hers. Their lips met in the hush of the broken theater.
The chorus howled above them, voices rising like a storm.
"Thus are they wed, beneath shadow and strife!
Thus do they bind, with peril and knife!"
Imogen sat forward in her chair, her fingers tightening on the armrest. For the briefest instant, she forgot Locke was beside her.
"Married already? Idiots. They don't even know if it'll last."
"And what of thee, little princess? Dost thou not see thine own reflection?"
"Maybe… a little. Romeo runs away for love. I… I ran away too. But I don't even know if my Juliet's still out there. Or if he's anything like I remember. At least Romeo gets to kiss his Juliet. I haven't even found mine yet."
Act III
The curtain rose again, and this time the stage was carnage.
The Bastards had dressed the set in slabs of rotting meat, bones lashed together like scaffolds. Blood dripped from high wires, pooling into shallow basins at the actors' feet. At the center lay what Imogen realized with a jolt were real corpses–their mouths stitched into mocking grins, their limbs arranged like props.
Romeo and Mercutio entered from one side, Tybalt and his men from the other.
Tybalt: "No words. Draw."
Steel rang out, and the clash was chaos. The actors swung not stage-swords but sharpened scythes and butcher's hooks, every strike spraying gore that spattered the boards. A body part was thrown like a baton, caught mid-spin and swung as a weapon.
Mercutio fought with a manic grin, dodging, laughing, until a hook slid under his ribs and tore upward. The scream was guttural. He staggered, his entrails spilling onto the blood-slick floor, and collapsed into Romeo's arms.
Mercutio (dying): "A plague… on both… thy houses…"
The lights dimmed, and the sound of dripping blood filled the silence.
Imogen's nose wrinkled. "This is nothing new. The City's always like this."
Locke leaned forward beside her, his smile faint but sharp. "Just so. Brutality is the native tongue of this stage we live upon. But…"–he gestured broadly to the writhing actors, to Romeo's anguished face as he cradled his friend–"…rarely does one see it distilled so clearly. Rivalries, debts, petty grudges. That is your future, should you keep running."
Imogen glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "You think scaring me with corpses is going to make me obedient?"
Locke chuckled, warm and amused, though his gaze never left the stage. "Scaring you? No, no. I merely set the mirror before your face. Fear not–this gore is no worse than what you has already tasted. Yet tell me, little princess, do you see how love fared amidst such blood?"
On stage, Romeo roared his vengeance and lunged at Tybalt, their blades locking in a whirl of sparks and gore.
Locke's tone dropped, smooth as silk over steel. "It is education. And education, if delivered convincingly enough, can be… profitable. The Grey King will pay handsomely if his daughter begins to think less like a brat."
The stage erupted as Romeo's blade plunged deep into Tybalt's gut, blood spraying across the footlights and splashing onto Imogen's shoes.
She just crossed her arms, scowling. "Hmph. If you're expecting me to cry and beg to go home, you've picked the wrong girl."
Locke laughed, genuinely delighted, clapping once as though she'd just delivered the line of the night. "Marvelous! A defiant heroine–my favorite role."
The stage was wiped hastily during intermission. The curtain rose again.
Romeo stood before a panel of judges, not nobles in costume but three Fixers in the stark uniforms of the Öufi Association. Each held not weapons, but sleek black briefcases.
One stepped forward, opening it with a click. The contract glowed faintly as it was pulled out, the paper shimmering like something alive. A clause was read aloud, voice dry and monotone:
"Clause Thirty-Four. Breach of peace. Clause Fifty-Two. Blood feud escalation. Clause Fifty-Seven. Murder of Tybalt, heir of Syndicate Capulet. Breach confirmed. Sentence: banishment."
A second Fixer raised their hand, palm outward, and a sigil flared to mark the decree as binding. Romeo was seized immediately, dragged by chains that clinked and rattled like music.
On stage, Juliet appeared, sobbing and reaching for him.
"No! Romeo! I cannot–"
She was silenced by the chain wrapped across Romeo's chest, tugging him backward into shadow. The judges did not so much as blink. Their duty was done.
Imogen leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. The imagery struck a little too close.
Locke's voice cut softly beside her, smoother than before, though the warmth of his earlier theatrics was gone. "That is how it works here. Hate does not fade, girl. It festers. It is inherited. And when blood is spilled, contracts are drawn. The cycle spins on."
He gestured lazily toward the departing actors, Romeo's body dragging across the stage. "See how neatly it plays out? Tybalt dead, Mercutio gone, Romeo cast out. None of them win. They never could. For every cut Romeo made, another clause sprang forth. Another nail in his coffin."
Imogen frowned, her arms hugging her knees. "And you're saying that's me? What, I'll get banished next?"
Locke smirked. "Banished? If only. It would be easier to shun you, to push you beyond the walls and wash their hands clean. But this is the City." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper only she could hear. "It is easier and more profitable to bleed you."
Imogen stiffened, shooting him a glare. Locke raised a hand in mock surrender.
"Don't mistake me. I don't plan to. But others?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Many already hold grudges against your father. Against Brithelm as a whole. Easier to act against you than against the Grey King himself."
On stage, Juliet collapsed into despair, crying out to the heavens, her voice shaking with grief. The Association judges ignored her entirely as they packed their briefcases, their job complete.
Locke straightened his coat. "Hate isn't a story that ends with banishment. It is a business. A cycle. And everything runs on business."
"Unless a star helps you grant your wish, your highness, you will never escape the City's influence. Its hands are everywhere. Its breath fills your lungs. You dream of freedom, but the City owns even your dreams."
"Then I'll wait for a comet. A brightest one, just so my dream doesn't get snuffed out like the rest of this rotten place."
CRASH!!!
The ceiling exploded.
Dust rained down like gray snow as a gaping hole tore through the rafters of the high-rise theater. Through it came a familiar voice, loud and unashamed, carried by swagger alone.
"I don't know what's the charm in those kind of places–but if you're messin' with a girl's dream, you can bet your sorry asses I'm bustin' through!"
Kamina dropped from above, katana gleaming in the spotlight, landing with a crack of wood and dust. His shades caught the flicker of stage-lamps.
"This is the fiftieth floor. Tell me, how in the world did you manage to breach through the walls?"
"Simple! The good old tactic of human catapult! Lucky for me, Shmuel borrowed one from the hooligans down the block. Guy's got taste!"
The Bastards froze, caught between laughing and tightening their grips. Locke's smirk twitched.
Kamina jabbed his katana into the ground, leaning on it. His voice rose loud. "AND HEAR ME NOW! I'LL BE TAKIN' THE BRAT BACK! BACK TO WHERE SHE CAN LIVE HER DAMN DREAM–AND TO THE PLACE SHE REALLY WANTS TO BE!"
"Charming speech. But I'm afraid tonight's act demands a different ending."
Locke yanked Imogen up by the wrist, twisting her behind him. Before Kamina could close the distance, Locke's boots struck the floor hard then he was gone, bursting through the rear doors of the gutted theater and dragging Imogen with him.
The Gentleman Bastards went into action at once. Arrows sang across the stage like rain, curving mid-air. Hooks snapped out, clanging against metal beams before lashing toward Kamina like whips. Blades cobbled from sickles, staves, and butcher's cleavers darted in, swinging with the desperation of alley-born men.
His katana cleaving arrows mid-flight, sparks bursting as steel bit into hooks. But even his momentum slowed. Every step toward the exit was swallowed by another hail of weaponry.
He swung wide, shattering a hooked staff in half, but already two more aimed for his legs.
And then—
CRASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
The wall of the 45th floor imploded inward, chunks of concrete and glass scattering like shrapnel. Dust stormed through the stairwell as a figure strode.
Shmuel. His coat was torn from the impact.
"To think I was the one suggesting the catapult. Our office really is short on both manpower and tech."
Locke froze mid-step on the stairwell landing, Imogen still clutched in his grip. His expression twitched by the irritation at the interruption.
Shmuel's left hand clicked, chamber spinning once before he pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The recoil detonated inside the mechanical joint, and his whole arm accelerated. The stair beneath Locke's feet exploded in a thunderous crack as Shmuel slammed his fist downward. Steel beams buckled, concrete crumbled, and half the staircase collapsed into a smoking void.
Locke stumbled back, clutch tightening on Imogen. Dust rolled through the broken stairwell, the only path downward now buried in rubble.
"Consider that a courtesy warning."
"Well then, the stage just got smaller."