“Come again?” Federico asked, a dumb, slack-jawed expression, much similar to a teacher reading what may, potentially, be the worst essay ever written by one of his students, adorning his face.

  “I felt it was a fairly straightforward question.” Paracelsus said, a look that was as impassive as the one on Federico’s face was dumb having formed on his own visage, “Would you be interested in joining my crew? And, so as to get an honest answer, I’ll tell you my cooperation is not contingent upon a ‘yes’.”

  “I…” The heir paused, taking longer than he probably should have, before shaking his head, “I have a job, I’m afraid. But, I appreciate the offer.”

  “Why him, anyway?” Tariq asked, leaning in close as they all started to file out.

  “It’s not like we have a glut of experienced sailors,” The Captain argued, “Plus - he’s probably lonely after his wife died.”

  —

  Rosa was having a fantastic day. Not only had her pseudo-takeover gone well, but she’d received good news about the recent downturn in profits; by all projections, it was to be a temporary issue, caused only by the death of the de facto president’s bride. There was only one snag -

  Her damn brother, the de facto president, was more or less unreachable. He spent his days investigating Valentina’s death, even though he’d been fed a very obvious culprit. It was almost as though he didn’t believe his siblings’ ploy. What’s worse - he spent his nights sleeping in the barracks at the prison with the workers like he was their equal. She sighed thinking about it as she doffed her frock, placing it on the hanger at the entrance of their exorbitant manor. Her hat as well, joined her coat, and she turned around, only to hear an unwelcome visitor conversing with her brother in the dining hall.

  “What are you doing here?” She asked Ramona, who was sat with some sort of geolithic monster across from her other brother.

  “Rosa!” Miguel said, making a sour, warning-laden face, “That’s no way to talk to a guest.”

  It was then that she noticed her eldest brother entering the room with coffee. He had a face and air that suggested he was interrupted in the middle of something, “Hello, Rosa.” He showed off a piece of stationery, “I just came to grab some paper.”

  Rosa glared at Ramona for another second, before turning back to her older brother with a forced smile, “Hello, Federico. Glad to see you home.”

  “Yes, sorry I’ve been absent,” He said, pouring a few glasses of coffee before he set them all down, including one for what he assumed to be a human with some type of strange gift that made him appear so stony, “I just need to know why someone would kill her.”

  “The man’s obviously deranged…” Miguel said, trying to skirt the line between truth and, well, not speaking, as his hand covered his chin, “It’s a shame, Valentina was a… vibrant woman.”

  “I just can’t shake the feeling that we have the wrong man…” Federico shook his head, burying his face in his hands. After seeing the pocket watch, he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps one of his family did betray him, as unthinkable as it should have been. He turned to his brother and asked, “You don’t have any idea, do you?”

  Before the silence could grow awkward, Ramona interjected, “I actually came to talk about just that.” She slid a small card across the table towards the heir, “My partner and I specialize in these types of forensic scuffles."

  He looked at the card and his breath caught in his throat. Ramona. Still, causing a scene in front of everyone was not an option, and he was a businessman at heart. So, he put on a pleasant-ish face and shook her hand.

  “Fede, we have to talk about the business.” Rosa said, sipping her coffee, “I know you’re overcome with grief,” She twiddled her hands nervously. Despite his rather amicable demeanor, he was by all accounts the patriarch of the family, “So for the moment, I’ve taken over the responsibility of President.”

  A million thoughts ran through his mind; was this all a ploy to seize power? But if so, why would she announce it to him? Was his father truly deposed? Who was Ramona, and furthermore, why would his siblings hire her if they believed that Paracelsus was the killer?

  “Fine.” Was the only word that he managed to form.

  —

  Lonceré sat on the water’s edge, penning a new section into his manifesto. He was caught between the words libération and liberté, as though that was the most pressing issue with his work. He showed it to Gru’lya, asking for her opinion. The mermaid observed the manuscript dutifully, noting the shapes of the letters and the way the ink contrasted against the parchment, before nodding sagely.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You know I can’t read?” She asked.

  “Perfect.” The writer huffed in response, putting it back in his coat. Afterwards, his Captain sat down next to him with a smile, “So, when are we shipping out? Tonight, tomorrow?”

  “Maybe,” Paracelsus said, lighting a cigarette, “Depends on when we resolve this whole issue with the man’s wife.”

  The cook put on a ridiculous, slack-jawed expression at that, eyes wide open. “Surely you aren’t serious?” He asked, waiting for a confirmation that never came, “Not our circus, and frankly, not our monkey.”

  “Lonnie,” The Captain clicked his teeth and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Surely you don’t mean that. As I recall, you used to be the one stopping to feed every stray puppy.”

  “Did you see the way we left Tanendille?” The cook shot back, with a finger pointed like his words.

  “What were we supposed to do?” He asked with a shrug, ‘“We’re a half-dozen assorted scallywags. And besides, I’m sure the government of Cartesia is cleaning it up as we speak.”

  “And since when have you trusted the government?” His friend asked.

  After an awkward period of silence, in which Paracelsus was silently hoping against hope that someone would rescue him, he answered “That’s an unfair question and I refuse to answer it.”

  “Speaking of the government,” Serpacinno said, crouching down beside them and producing a newspaper, “I thought you might be interested.”

  The alchemist gasped as he took a look at the column, its front page adorned with a courtroom portrait - The same Lieutenant Peeares they’d reluctantly come to know was front and center, his wings tucked and his hands bound as he stood, not even allowed to wear his caerbus as he was dressed down.

  “Damn.” He said in a soft, gentle tone. His eyes were glazing over, as a scene that was disturbingly familiar to him was laid out in the article. He made sure to read it once, twice, and three times to be sure of what he was reading. The Captain knew a little bit - read: not much - about Union military law. With any luck (seeing as the crime for which he was guilty was roughly equidistant to two of the major prisons) the Lieutenant was being held at the one in Zenopia, which he would, in his mind, be passing through anyway. It would be several months from now, sure, but he knew what needed to be done.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Serpacinno said, knowing exactly what he was thinking, “But you’re not going to distract us to save our enemy?”

  “He may be the villain to us,” Paracelsus replied, smirking with a self-satisfied sense of purpose, “But I have to feel a certain sympathy for the boy.”

  “Don’t tell me you want him to join.” Lonceré said, deftly avoiding the whole courtroom topic.

  “I didn’t say that.” Paracelsus adopted a defensive posture, with his arms crossed and nose turned, “And besides, last I checked, I’m the Captain. Unless there’s been another vote?” There hadn’t.

  The four of them laughed, even if Gru’lya had to force herself to participate in what seemed like some strange form of torture.

  —

  “Ugh…” John Steele wiped some goo off on a handkerchief. For all the humors, fluids, and general viscera he frequently found himself to the wrist in, all the slime he was harvesting was somewhat disconcerting to him. “Please, hold still.”

  He took his scalpel back in hand and made an incision right below the left kidney, as his earlier inspection had seemed to suggest there was something extra there. He was proven right when the skin folded over, giving way to show a small, green, and lumpy organ, shaped like an irregular sphere.

  “In you go, then.” He ignored Diego’s screams of pain (having not been sedated so as to not interfere with any of his body’s natural processes), as he dropped the body part into some similarly green suspension fluid.

  “Have I ever mentioned how disgusting your ‘hobby’ is?” His first mate, Jenner asked as she put the lids on the various parts he’d excised.

  “Every day.” Now, with all the desirable internals removed, he produced a hacksaw and started slowly sawing away at Diego’s shoulder with it, “Can you hold him down more securely, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes, wondering if there was actually any good reason he wasn’t sedated (or killed, seeing as he was probably going to wish he was after they were done), or if John was just truly that sadistic. Regardless, after shelving the topic for the umpteenth time, she did indeed get a better grip, and watched impassively as his arm was eventually freed from its socket with a pop.

  “Dammit!” Diego roared. He thrashed and flailed, trying to gain some modicum of freedom, but even as wet as he was with sweat, with his slime organ gone, he stood no chance at escape.

  “Yes, yes, scream your lungs out, please.” The tone that John used was curious - what with its flat, sardonic delivery that contrasted the charged words. His actions would suggest a certain sadism in his nature, but if anything, he seemed annoyed at the man’s pan.

  The arm was thoroughly flayed and degloved, with John commencing an examination of the glands on the skin that actually dispersed the goo. They looked similar enough to ducts and pores that he already utilized to disperse humors along his skin, so theoretically it should be easy enough to appropriate for a new purpose.

  “Ok,” John clapped his hands together and addressed the two with (judging by his eyes alone) a smile, “I think I know everything I need to. Let’s get his other arm off.”

  —

  “Where are we going?” Ramona asked. She was following Federico, determined to have him lead her to her targets. It all changed when he started cutting through a smaller, danker alleyway.

  “It’s a shortcut,” Federico waved her on, beckoning her to follow him into the enclosed space, “I’ve lived here since I was a little boy.”

  “If you insist.” She lifted her skirt to avoid dipping it in any foul accumulation which seemed to find its way to such dingy places.

  As she looked down to find her footing, however, a vine inexplicably flew towards her. Looking up as it seized her by the waist and suspended her, she saw it was attached to Federico under his clothing. His one eye promised a great anger, as did his scowl, while he held her aloft.

  “Who are you?!” He shouted in a manic, frantic tone, “It can’t be a coincidence. The last name my wife’s killer said before he disappeared was Ramona, and now you appear out of nowhere?”

  She mentally cursed Diego, whom she always considered a rather incompetent fool, for the unprofessionalism he’d displayed. Still, being a professional herself, she tried her best to appease the heir, “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit!” He bit back, squeezing her in his thorny grip. Ah well, if diplomacy had failed her, at least Aflorocoso proved a reliable familiar. The rocky creature ducked and evaded the vines that shot out to grab him with a surprising nimbleness, given his size. Once he closed the distance, he smacked Federico in the nearby wall, stunning the heir and providing enough time for the assassin to escape as Federico threw a hand over his pounding head and sniffling face.