Arcana 99: Stage One

Members of the Catalan company have a standard 'between missions' armament consisting of the following: a handgun with two spare magazines, a concealed belt-buckle pistol with four shots, a single-shot shotgun hidden up each sleeve (fired by pulling a string tied around the little finger), one knife hidden in the boots, a second knife hidden under the shirt, a toe-blade in each boot, a pair of steel gauntlets disguised as bracelets, and a nine-shot palm-gun made of bone and embedded under the skin to bypass patdowns and metal detectors. After clearing his third car, Nerio had spent two of the magazines for his handgun, broke the first knife on a metal suitcase, lost the second when the person he stabbed took it with them when they leaped from the train, and spent two of his belt's shots into a muscular gentleman that tried to grapple him.

Nerio opened the door to the fifth train car.

Please, let these people only be able to afford half a train's tickets.

He was met with an annoyingly familiar sight, 60-odd passengers facing him and brandishing whatever heavy thing they could reach.

Damn, maybe I should have gone after the bomb.

Four shots from Nerio's pistol landed in three separate heads and one neck before he holstered the weapon to free his arm for the ensuing melee. Nerio funneled the crowd as best he could into the thin aisle of the car. Limiting the crowd's chance to surround him was the main goal, but giving him easy access to the same suitcases and pens they were using was a welcome bonus. Just like the other cars, the battle was slow. Nerio had beaten maybe a dozen when a pair that had snuck under the seats grabbed him from behind. Before a third could disembowel him, Nerio extended his finger and blasted one in the face with the shotgun before reaching his arm down to fire the belt-pistol on the other two. As the next wave approached, Nerio looked for some weapon he could use.

And that's the most annoying thing about them! They're armed with junk! If even some of them had actual knives and guns, I'd already be through this damn train.

The only helpful weapon Nerio had found on the train was the suitcase that broke his knife, but he'd broken that one in the last car. All he saw on the seats were a few discarded newspapers and bags. Beyond the seat, outside the train, the canyon had opened slightly, giving Nerio ample view of the shrubs and stones streaming past the speeding train. A view squandered by the presence of a truck racing a few feet from the train.

He saw a a sliver of grey and a flash of white from the truck and Nerio hit the floor. Before he could taste the carpet the car erupted into a hail of glass and lead. As the bodies of his attackers fell alongside him, Nerio crawled under the seats towards the source of the gunfire.

That truck was lifted for off-roading. If the gun has the mount I think I saw, it won't be able to aim this far down.

Nerio pulled his prone body against the wall and pointed his pistol at it. He fired one shot through the train's thin wall; the roar of the truck's machine gun masking his shot. He crawled down to the hole and peeked through it as the fire died down. Through the hole, he could see the truck.

A driver, a passenger, and a gunner on the rear. . . I suppose I should thank them for cleaning this car, but I doubt they did it for me.

Nerio moved his pistol across the wall. With only a limited one-eye view of the truck, he positioned it as best he could to hit the gunner. When he was certain his blind aim was true, he fired and jumped to his feet. He was off by a few centimeters and had only grazed the gunner. It was enough to distract him until Nerio got a second shot in. The driver was supposed to be next, but Nerio saw the passenger reach for a rifle. Two more shots and the truck veered away from the train before shrinking into the horizon.

Enraptured by the shrinking truck and catching his breath, Nerio failed to notice that a lone passenger had had the same idea as him. Without spending a second to mourn her allies being gunned down by their own truck, she got out from under the chair and grabbed Nerio's back. The woman held Nerio's one arm with both of hers and slowly wrestled the pistol from his hands. The weapon hit the floor and the woman kicked it away. Nerio struggled to get the finger needed to fire his palm pistol free. He slid his thumb from under her index and pressed it into his palm. The bullet struck her hand, blowing off one of her fingers. Human reflex was to let go of something when it hurt you, but she held fast. In fact, none of the people he had attacked had reacted to anything; they fought and died with the same placid stare. Like they had forgotten their faces existed. Nerio spun around, twisting her arm into forcing his hand to aim at her head and fired his palm pistol again. She flinched and caused his aim to stray. She struck Nerio with her free hand and Nerio responded with a knee to her chest. Once more she failed to react, refusing to release his arm. She slammed him against the train's wall and bent him backward out the window.

With a moment to closely survey one of his opponents while they were alive, Nerio noticed two things. First, her brown eyes were dry, a well-aimed blob of spit proved she wouldn't even blink to clean them. Second, he couldn't feel her breath on his face despite only a few inches between them.

Great, I never wanted to see these people again and they go out of their way to kill me. Yay.

Nerio swung his head into hers. The riding goggles nestled into his dark hair cushioned him against the blow while enhancing its damage to her. As expected, the blow didn't make her release his arm. However, the force of it pushed her back. He used the opportunity to run around her, dragging her arm across her neck. If she were alive, Nerio would have choked her with her own arm. Instead, he observed her neck until he found a thin string, too small to be seen without a well-placed light reflecting off it. He could only see a few inches of it that coiled out of her neck before vanishing into the air.

I thought I was sending Etteilla to deal with some armed mooks, not an artefact. She better not die from this. The last thing I want is her corpse stinking up my bike from here to Flores.

Standing behind the woman with his arm trapped at her front, Nerio had only one option. Aiming for the origin of the string, he sank his teeth into the back of her throat. As Nerio spit the blood and skin from his mouth her body went limp.

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew. Water, water, water.

Nerio could only find a half-empty bottle. He poured it into his mouth before emptying his mouth onto the woman's corpse. Nerio furiously wiped it clean and spit a few more times then picked his pistol off the floor. He was running low on ammunition with less than twenty bullets between his three guns. Given the artefact his opponent was using, even his full supplies would be inadequate. If he had both arms? Difficult, but doable. If he had a few inches of Chain? Even better. But he lost one almost a year ago, and the company took his Chain away when they started the trial.

The car's front door opened. The passengers were no longer content with waiting for him to arrive. A dozen people entered the room. He couldn't see it from this distance, but they each had the thin string entering their necks in the same spot as the woman. And he wasn't close enough to feel their hearts but he knew they weren't beating.

The only differences between a Catalan's "interim" and regular armament were a few extra magazines Nerio lacked and a plain ring Nerio wore around his finger. The ring was one of the first artefacts to enter mass-replication and had become a staple weapon throughout the Company due to its innocuous nature allowing it past any security checks. It had the affect of turning one's concentration and self-image into pure, burning energy. A feat that required delicate control over one's psyche as well as a clear image of yourself.

If you had asked Nerio a year ago who he was and what he wanted to do with himself, he would have an answer instantly. He was Nerio Pinkerton, proud member of the Catalan Company, and he wanted nothing more than to live a life of adventures with Fiore. But now? One arm and one love less, on the highway to ex-communication from the Company, running in a race to who knows where, trapped on a train full of corpses out to kill him, and believing (or hoping) that the race will end with a wish? He was uncertain. Too much had happened over that year, and he had spent too little time reflecting on it.

Nerio hadn't been able to activate the ring since the previous year's March, a fact used as evidence in his hearing with the company.

"Everyone fails a mission. Everyone sees a friend die," the prosecutor had said after Nerio failed to use the ring, "But having your self be destroyed by it? To have your entire self-identity shattered and unable to be even slightly repaired after months of therapy? Children can use the ring for no reason other than to light a room, yet this man cannot do the same to prove his innocence. The mission caused great emotional turmoil to Nerio, that is undeniable. But, if there was nothing he could have done to change the outcome, time and counseling would have removed his guilt. They would have repaired his self. The fact that neither has done so should be taken as evidence to our first charge. That he is directly responsible for the mission's failure and the death of six Catalans."

Nerio was angry enough to kill that day, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to win or lose the trial. He didn't want to go on missions. He didn't want to stay home. He didn't want to speak with anyone and he didn't want to do anything. Actions were tiring, inactions dull. If desires and motivations were life, he was as dead as the bodies shambling toward him. Now? Exhausted, all his tools and weapons spent, staring down a horde of corpses out to kill him? He wanted something again. To see the next day's sunrise. To win this stage of the race. To survive. The ring flared and a magenta glow burned into the corner of Nerio's eyes. Music, like a thousand choirs shrilly singing, echoed in his ears. Nerio swung into one of his assailants.

The metal pole holding the seat beside him, the seat's padding and fabric cover, the man's stained light blue shirt, his tanned skin, his muscles strengthened through decades of labor, and his bones. All of them resisted Nerio's blade as much as the hot air in the car. The man fell in three pieces, and Nerio swung again and again.

***

The unfurnished training room overflowed with purple light as dozens of children Nerio's age thought of themselves and conjured the ring's blade. As he had done seventeen times over the past four years, Nerio followed the methods he had been taught. Imagine yourself, who you are, who you want to be. With that image in your mind, decide why you want the blade to come forth. After ten minutes of trying, Nerio had begun to focus more on holding back his tears than on the ring.

"Yours didn't activate, Nerio?" The man, ten years Nerio's senior, knelt before him and examined the ring on his right hand. No one would have suspected that the young man had only two years of experience teaching. He spoke as kindly to Nerio as he did in all of their lessons. Even with Nerio being the only one without the purple light before him, the man spoke as if no one had passed the test, "It's nothing to worry about. It doesn't mean you failed, it just means you're uncertain." He put a gentle hand on Nerio's shoulder and led him out of the room, "Can you walk me through what you were doing? It would help me help you sooner."

Nerio wiped a tear, "I-I followed the steps. I thought of myself and what I wanted to be, and. . and. . I'm never going to. . ." Another tear fell.

"It's okay Nerio. It's not an easy thing to know who you are when you're so young. Do you mind providing a little more detail? Like, how were you defining yourself?"

"I thought of me. My name, my family, my friends. Did, did I do it wrong?"

"No, that's a fine start. How did you want to use the blade?"

"I was tired of failing so many times, I wanted to pass the test. But. . ."

"Nerio, this isn't a test you can fail. It's a trial and it's only a matter of time until you pass. Don't worry, I'm going to work with you every day until you do," He sat Nerio down at a chair in his office and pulled a cookie out of a box on his desk. It was a homemade mango-filled cookie baked to the perfect amount of chewiness. The man brought a fresh batch to the school every morning and made a great show of eating them during all of his classes. No matter how much someone pleaded and begged, even if they were a faculty member, he never shared them. The flaunting and scarcity brought the confections into legendary status. The schoolyard was filled with stories of children plotting to steal even a crumb of one. Those bold enough to lie about obtaining one were heralded as heroes for the week before their claim was challenged or another took the title, "I only ever given these cookies to two people," He bit down, and through mouthfuls of fruit and dough, he continued, "Myself, and the rare individual who needs it more than me." He offered one to Nerio but stopped his arm short, "But before that, you need to tell me. You've already said how you saw yourself and how you wanted to use the ring, now tell me what you want to be."

The year was 1937, Nerio was twelve years old, and the thing he wanted most in the world was to know the answer to the question.

***

Now that Nerio knew what artefact his opponent was using, killing them would be easy. He peered down the train car, there were only two more left until the engine, and more than sixty people within them.

Well, easier.

As he effortlessly cut through the first wave of attackers, Nerio surveyed the rear of the car. One body stood alone by the exit door.

Were they always that obvious? Nerio thought as he jumped onto a chair. One of the bodies grabbed his foot, and Nerio pulled his gun with his right arm and fired into-

Right.

Nerio flicked his left wrist and the ring's blade cut through them. With his legs free, one good jump from the top of the chair would let him clear the crowd. From there, he'd only have to keep running for the man at the back door.

***

"You thought you could just leave Nerio?" Ruggero leaned as uncasually as one could lean upon the outer gate to the Catalan Company's headquarters.

"It's my job, Ruggero, I have to go. But if I'd known you'd be so mad about it I would've said bye to you."

Ruggero stepped out from the wall and blocked Nerio's path, "I would have appreciated it given what I've done for you, but I'm not here for that. Did you think leaving me behind for some far-off place would get rid of your obligation to me?" Ruggero tossed the ring at Nerio's feet.

"The training? I thought we were going to postpone it."

"And make you go back on your word? You promised me one hour of training every day until you could use the ring. The way I see it, you have to pass the test now, or you aren't leaving," Nerio bent over and picked the ring up off the stone pavement, "What kind of teacher would I be if I can't even teach my pupil who they are?"

Nerio put the ring on his right hand. As he had done every day since he'd first donned the ring, he played the same question-and-answer segment in his head.

Who am I? I'm Nerio Pinkerton, a member of the Catalan Company. I like jazz, rice, and Austenian romance novels. I dislike loud, prideful people and substanceless pulp comics.

Who do I want to be? I want to be a full member of the Catalans so I can go on missions around the world. Saving people, helping the Company, and solving the mysteries of the artefacts.

Why do I want the blade? So Ruggero'd let me pass. So I can fulfill my dream and bring pride to my name.

Nerio stood with a determined expression and a wavering attitude. Ruggero interrupted his concentration when it became apparent that the blade wasn't going to activate, "It's not enough to want the ring to activate, Nerio. You need to know what you want it for."

Nerio redoubled his efforts. Going through the same motions as before.

Why do I want the blade? So I can leave. . .

The ring remained silent.

Come on! Half a decade of training and you've never even glowed! You need to turn on! It has to happen today. . I need to leave. . . I need to. . . to know I'm ready to leave.

The ring gently vibrated around his finger before a magenta cylinder grew from his hand. It's edges were smooth and round with millions of sparks dancing off its surface. You wouldn't even suspect a thing so thick and round could be so sharp.

Ruggero stepped toward Nerio and hugged him tightly. Nerio thought he heard him say something during their embrace, but he couldn't make it out over the blade singing.

It was 1944, Nerio was eighteen years old, and what he wanted most in the world was to see it.

***

Nerio landed behind most of the crowd, and charged past the rest. Once he was within reach of the man standing by the rear door, one swing brought him to the ground. As his head fell from his shoulders and the thin string connecting them was severed, every body left standing in the car went limp and collapsed onto the floor.

***

It was dark. It was three P.M and it was dark. The truck's headlights barely illuminated the pair of tents before him. He stepped out of the vehicle and the forest returned to its eerie darkness except for the small fire set between the tents. Beside it sat two figures, Johannes Mannerheim and Urho Häyhä. Their mission behind the Russian line had been extended from an initial time measured in days, into weeks, and finally into months, but try as they might, they couldn't get their rations to do the same.

"I told you I could steal it Johannes. And look," Nerio pulled a box from the truck's back seat, "It even comes with food."

Johannes stood from the fire and took the box from Nerio, "Wow, you really can do anything!" Nerio couldn't decide whether Johannes was impressed or annoyed as he traded the box for a wad of bills.

"Don't think of it as losing a bet. . ." Nerio trailed off in his attempt to mimic Ruggero, "Think of it as. . paying me for some extra rations."

Johannes rummaged through the box and grew more and more unimpressed as he reviewed the contents, "Bullets, in a caliber we don't have. Personal notes, in a language we can't read. And food, in the singular." Johannes eyed the single most expensive meal he had ever purchased. It looked to be the same food the Finnish military gave its soldiers. But with its instructions written in Russian instead.

"I'm sure it'll taste just as great as you hope." Nerio snarked as he warmed by the fire.

"It'll keep you up for your watch at least." Urho broke his silence as Nerio sat beside him.

Urho was always silent except for when Nerio was around, then he was mostly silent. Nerio had learned to take in Urho's non-verbal cues and his face (and the act of speaking) told him that Urho wanted Johannes to leave them alone for a time. Nerio obliged his silent request and added to his vocal one, "He's right. We need you rested for the midnight watch. That way we can wake up early and hit the depot this truck was heading to before the Sun rises."

Johannes sighed, complained about having to go to sleep so early, and crawled into his tent. Many people assumed Johannes was ignorant of anything that wasn't spelled out for him. Nerio and Urho had done the same, attributing their secret relationship's existence to being stuck with an unobservant squadmate. On Johannes' part, he had them figured out a week before it even started.

Finally alone, Nerio leaned a little closer to Urho. He didn't waste his breath on asking him if everything was okay. Urho hated pointless questions like that; he felt the mere act of asking for a conversation implied he had something to say. There was no need to preface it with a pointless question.

"The radio said the war would be over soon. Ryti resigned from the Presidency, and the rumor is Carl Gustaf will replace him. He's planning to break the Ribbentrop agreement and ask the Soviets for peace. Months in the snow and dozens dead, yet one guy signs a paper and it all stops. Pointless."

"That's the thing, every soldier says they're fighting for some grand thing. Freedom, revenge, wealth. But at the end of the day, the only people who really gain anything from it are the ones who started them. I wouldn't call this one pointless though, I mean, we met each other, right?"

Urho stared into the fire a moment longer, basking in Nerio's warmth, "Where will you go when this is over?"

"I'm not sure. I'll probably end up on another assignment for the Catalans. Be put on some other corner of the globe to find some other artefacts in the hands of some other people."

"Going anywhere but here," Urho paused again and finally looked Nerio in the eyes. Urho's were deep brown, rendered black by the shadow of the fire, "Nerio, I don't want to leave my home as much as you don't want to stay, but I need to know. What am I to you? A friend? A love? A body?" As Nerio's silence deepened, Urho continued, "That's what's killing me. More than the bullets and the bombs and the cold, it's this."

The year was 1944, Nerio was nineteen years old, and more than anything else in the world, he wanted to know what to say.

***

Nerio stopped to catch his breath as the last body fell. The blade made fighting easier, but swinging your arm was far more exhausting than pulling a trigger. Not to mention the sheer volume of attackers he was working through. Before him was the last train car. Only a few more bodies stood between him and the engine. He took two quick breaths before cutting through the door. He had spent months trying to reactivate the ring, he was not about to risk it by turning it off to open a door.

***

The Catalan Company's headquarters was located on a small island in the Aegean Sea, and of all the places on it, Nerio's favorite was the peak of Sniper Hill. So named because the hill (really a mound of dirt piled in the 1840s) was used for rifle training. Nerio wasn't fond of rifles, too much waiting and not enough action, but the hill was far from the lights and bustle of the city at the island's center. So long as no one was practicing, he could lay atop it and be alone.

It was a warm Summer night, the Mediterranean sea breeze providing enough chill to make it comfortable. Nerio settled atop the short grass and gazed at the dark sky. It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust, revealing the wonderous painting that is the night sky. Or, it would have twenty years ago. Now, with the electric lights in the city, Nerio could only make out a few of the brightest stars in the sky. Only on nights scheduled for astrological studies was the night in its proper appearance. He saw the belt of Orion, but his arms and legs faded into the grey sky.

Nerio had finally gotten settled when a footstep and a voice broke his contemplation, "I thought I'd find you here." It was too dark to make out his face, but from his voice and the way he walked, Nerio recognized him.

"Fiore? You're back!" Nerio jumped from the ground and embraced his friend. They had known each other since childhood but had only become friends after sharing their experiences in the Second World War. Even so, they got along with a camaraderie well beyond their years together, "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have waited at the docks."

Fiore released himself from Nerio's grip "Because, I wanted it to be a surprise. Plus," he held out his hand. Nerio couldn't see it, but he knew Fiore was presenting the ring artefact every Catalan wore, "I wanted you to be the first Catalan to see this." Fiore closed his fist, and a purple light appeared within his grasp, not as the cylinder held by most. The light took the form of a long, two-handed broadsword.

Every Catalan was trained to use the ring, even those not in combat divisions. It required knowing yourself, so it helped to ensure everyone knew what career they wanted within (or without) the Company. However, very few were able to achieve the second stage of the ring. This stage required not only knowing yourself but being content with who you know you are. This allowed the blade to take a new form, one influenced by your very being. Nerio had only seen one other reshaped blade before, Ruggero's in the rare form of a rifle.

"What!?" Nerio exclaimed, "When did this happen? How did this happen?"

Fiore deactivated the ring and sat down, inviting Nerio to return to his spot on the ground, "Do you remember when you got back from Finland? You were a complete bummer because some guy had broken your heart."

"I, yeah? Though, I said it was 'somebody' not 'some man'."

Fiore looked at him, the darkness obscuring his emotions, "Nerio, you were in the snow for eight months with two men, and if it had been a woman, you would have been proud of it."

Nerio tried to read Fiore's face in the dark but could see nothing. Both hostility and acceptance were hidden in the shadows, "Fine, it was a man. A man I loved, but he wouldn't give up his home for me, and I couldn't give up the world for him," Nerio paused, the sorrow creeping back into his mind. It took him a moment to realize what Fiore was implying with his question, "Did, did you meet someone on your mission?"

"No. I fell in love, but it wasn't with someone I was with. And, it's someone that. . . neither of us would have to give up anything for it to work," Fiore stopped talking. Even without light, Nerio could see he was nervous, shaking, "Nerio, I fell in love with you."

Nerio felt lightheaded as every thought in his mind and every word in his vocabulary vanished.

The year was 1948, Nerio was twenty-three years old, and what he wanted most in the world was to kiss him. For the first time in Nerio's life, he didn't wait for what he wanted to come to him.

***

Another quartet of bodies hit the ground after Nerio felled the one connecting them to the string. All that stood between him and victory was three more bodies slowly retreating to the far door and the small engine car. Finally given a reprieve, Nerio took the time to study the form of his blade. . .

***

"Fiore! Look! I did it!" Nerio furiously flagged his partner down with his free left arm, excited to display his accomplishment. Ever since Fiore had shown off his reformed blade, Nerio had worked tirelessly to reshape his own. A task made much easier with Fiore's guidance in his usage of the ring and Fiore's fuller presence in Nerio's life. He swung the purple light around with great showmanship and many minute flourishes. Despite Fiore being the first to reshape the blade, Nerio was the far superior swordsman.

Fiore eagerly approached and studied the form of Nerio's blade. It was a curved shortsword, with a small wristguard coming down around his right hand, "A cutlass?"

"Yeah! I wasn't expecting it, but I like it. Good length for tight rooms, not long enough for me to accidentally cut something, and the curve gives it a nice swashbuckle-y flair. Don't you think?"

"I sure do, what finally made it stick?"

Nerio turned the ring off and nervously played with his hair, I'm not sure really. I just. . . thought of where I am, where we are, and I felt happy about it. Like I wouldn't want to change a thing about any of it."

Fiore laughed and leaned in closer, holding Nerio tightly, "So, you're saying I was the one that did it?" Nerio blushed and looked away.

It was 1952, Nerio was twenty-seven years old, and what he wanted most in the world was to be where he was right then.

***

Nerio looked at the blade before him. It was no longer a cutlass, no longer even the featureless cylinder conjured by children. The purple light stood before him, formless and flickering.

Why? I got the blade back because I wanted to live through the race, but why am I here? I believe in Grenfell's wish, it's likely an artefact. One so powerful I could use it to get back in with the Company, but. . . Niccolo was right, I don't want to go back there. And using the wish? On what? I'm already adapting to my arm, and Fiore? I had to suffer that once, and I'm still suffering the aftermath from the Company. To bring him back for him to see his family abandon him? To bring him back just to risk going through everything again? And wishing it had never happened? To go back to hiding everything? To undo the growth I've had since then. . . . . Or, the growth I thought I had. . .

The tears fell from Nerio's eyes as the magenta glow of the blade vanished.

Not wasting a moment, the last three bodies sprang from the door. Like the rest, they lacked proper weapons. Wielding bare hands, an empty bottle, and, most dangerously, a pocket knife. The pain from the knife entering Nerio's stump shoulder snapped him back to the present and the train and the fight. A punch brought Nerio into a chair. The one with a knife tried to gouge Nerio's neck, but was met with a pair of shots from Nerio's palm pistol. Before he could get another shot in, one of the remaining two pinned his arm to the seat while the one with the bottle smashed it against his head. At the last second, Nerio tilted his neck so the bottle hit the goggles on his head. It shattered, and the woman went to stab Nerio with what was left. Nerio twisted his body, the bottle stuck into his right shoulder, around the fresh knife wound, instead of his neck, and he flexed his toes to release the blade hidden in his boot. A kick to the woman's legs brought her down, followed by another to her head. All the while, the man holding Nerio's arm repeatedly struck his chest. With only one hand holding Nerio's arm, he was able to raise it enough to land a few more shots from his palm pistol. Nerio struggled to his feet and limped to the door to the engine car uncertain if the salt in his mouth was sweat.

Nerio cautiously opened the door to the engine car. Without a second hand to ready a gun, he could only hope there wasn't an ambush on the other side. After not being shot the instant the door opened, Nerio stepped into the room. It was small. The walls, lined with levers, meters, and countless other greebles, made it feel even more cramped. In the center of the room was a push cart cleaned off to create a makeshift table. A stool sat at either side. One was empty; in the other, sat the train's engineer, or, whoever had replaced the engineer. The man looked exactly how one would expect a train's engineer to. That is to say, he had no weapons on him.

"Good evening Mr. Pinkerton," The man began, "It appears we missed our scheduled crash. Something for which I have no doubt your companion is responsible. Since we are no longer in any danger, why don't you have a seat? I have been doing some reading while you were. . busy. I believe that the danger of the crash was causing some undue stress upon you, hindering our interview. Now that that is behind us, we can get off to a new start. As a show of my goodwill, and to provide an example of a proper interview, I will open the floor for your questions first." Nerio studied the engineer's face during his monologue, he was blinking and Nerio could feel his breath.

Nerio sat across the man. Between them was a book titled "Motivational Marketing" which was opened to a page on "Roleplaying and Misperception." He would have preferred to have shot him, but he needed answers. Not to mention the risk that the engineer had some hidden weapon and could fire before Nerio could draw.

"Fine. I only have one question. Why are you after me?"

"That is a simple, but long, answer. You are currently participating in the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. A race with funding in the billions. I work for a group with funding in the hundred-thousand and hopes to bring it to a plural, if not more, by the end of the year. Our first idea was to go after Grenfell and Maxwell. But, no amount of digging gave us any source for the wealth nor the place they stored it. With that avenue exhausted, we elected for a different plan. We put around two-dozen teams in the first stage. Any position at the end would net us a massive profit, but the real money was in the bets. Ten million dollars are riding on the victor, so long as they are who we want them to be."

Money? Then they don't recognize me. . .

"That much money on Dumont? Can't believe there'd be that many people surprised she would win."

"That is precisely why we banned betting on her. Her victory was guaranteed. Until she vanished and that fraud took the medal. That woman, Parfit I believe, cost us a great deal of money and nearly collapsed the whole betting industry. No one wants to bet on a rigged race. At least, one not rigged by us. To fix this, we sent a team to Flores to deal with her, and one to Navajo Bridge to deal with you. Not because we believed you cheated, mind you. It is just that the report on the first day, the one where the man blatantly lied about your and your partner's speeds, really upset the rankings in the bets. Too many people believed his claim and moved their money to you. And those that didn't believe it, took their money out entirely. We need Ms. Parfit gone to clean the race's image; we need you gone to ensure our investment makes it through. Simple, impersonal, mathematics Mr. Pinkerton. However, your encounter with our men at Navajo Bridge yesterday and myself today have changed things. We now know that you and your partner have artefacts and are adept at using them. You've become the premier choice for victory; not to mention far too dangerous to send ordinary assassins to kill. The moment I leave this train, we'll be pushing our bets onto you. To ensure our investment, expect no more attacks from us. That is, until you reach Flores. There, we will need to relieve you of your artefacts and ensure you cannot upset our plans again."

Nerio swiped his hand in the air and caught the thin string between a pair of fingers before it could pierce his neck, "And this isn't an attack?"

"Please understand my position Mr. Pinkerton. This attack is no longer a matter of ensuring our profits, or getting our revenge. It is getting the weapons out of your hands and into ours. But that is only if I fail to kill you here. I cannot let you go without at least one further attempt at my job."

"A bit of advice for your job then," Nerio was stuck. He couldn't attack without moving his hand, and doing so would let the engineer use the string. All he could hope for was to stall him, "Know your enemy. Specifically, know whether or not they gave you the artefact you're trying to kill them with."

"Trying to stall for time Mr. Pinkerton? Or, Dr. Bagan as you claim."

"Bigen."

"So you weren't lying. Why spill it now? Your trapped, I'm trapped, only one of us is getting out of this room. And you have gone well beyond any forgiveness that name is owed."

"Cause, I wanted to see a face other than 'emotionless' and 'disinterested.' Plus, I heard her stomping around behind us."

The engineer looked up and met Etteilla's gaze. She was standing in the doorway, a hand covering her mouth, "Nerio, what the hell happened," She stifled a gag as the scent of burnt flesh reentered her nose, "Fuck, nevermind. I'm asking once we're out of here."

Nerio nodded towards the engineer, and the third arcana deciphered it for Etteilla. She wasted no time, desperate to stop the train and leave the stench, in casting the seventeenth arcana and launching the fireball at the engineer.

He fell out of his chair, yanking the string from Nerio's fingers. His hand free, Nerio unholstered his pistol and aimed it at the engineer.

"Well, he is impressed. Me and him never expected her to be able to get ba-. . . I let it slip, didn't I? Oh well, at least I no longer have to worry about blinking his eyes and flaring his nose. The little details are so-"

The engineer's ramblings were interrupted by a bang and followed up with a bullet casing rattling on the ground.

"What'd you do that for? I thought you were going to interrogate him!" Etteilla shouted as Nerio calmly reholstered his gun and pulled the train's brakes.

"I was, but our assassin was never even on the train."