A/N: Revised 12/30/07

Chapter Two:

Entwined

The buildings of Kioto formed an urban canyon through which a strong wind blew, bringing with it the smell of sea salt and decaying garbage. Against the darkening sky Mithos could see the imperial palace gleaming from its perch upon the promontory overlooking the ocean. That shining beacon stood in stark contrast to the slums he and his sister now trudged through.

The employment office had been closed, being open only on Wednesdays, so now they wandered the city in search of a man known only as "Demon". All attempts to enter the human sector of the city had been rebuffed, so their only chance to meet Ingvi's wife was to sneak in -- which, they had been assured, Demon could help them with.

They found him in a seedy bar whose patrons made Mithos grip his sister's hand protectively. One of them pointed him out to them, leering at Martel before sending them on their way. They stopped before a table where a man with one arm sat, smoking like a chimney. His left sleeve fluttered uselessly in the faint wind from the fan above. Upon hearing their footsteps he looked up, rubbed a stubbly chin with his remaining hand, and spat out, "Whaddaya want?"

Mithos adopted a look he hoped was stern. He opened his mouth to respond in kind, but Martel said remarkably politely, "We're looking for Demon."

The man switched his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other and grinned in a manner not altogether reassuring. "And why would two pretty little things like you be looking for Demon?"

"We need to get into the human sector," Martel replied calmly.

"Gotta be quiet about these things," Demon said, not lowering his voice. "The walls have ears."

"Why? Are the feds here?" Mithos asked.

Demon displayed his feral set of teeth again. "Naw, they wouldn't come in here," he said, leaning back in his chair so that it was balanced precariously on two legs. "But you never know who else will."

Mithos looked around cautiously. Everyone in there could be termed suspicious. "You don't seem very worried."

The man shrugged, the effect strange with only one arm. "Sit down and we'll talk."

The siblings took the proffered chairs, Mithos gingerly, Martel with dignity. Mithos wondered vaguely if anyone had been killed while sitting in that chair.

"The going rate is one hundred gald per person," Demon was saying. "However, I've got some...special connections, so I can get you in for half as

much." There was that grin again. "First time only, of course. For twenty extra, I can escort you to wherever you need to go."

Mithos dug through their coin purse. Twenty-five, fifty, sixty... He showed the results to his sister under the table with his fingers. They had enough, but it would leave them with nothing.

In response, Martel closed her eyes in resignation and reached around to the back of her neck. "Would you be willing to accept this as payment?" she asked, unclasping something.

Demon took the proffered necklace in his one hand and scrutinized it as Mithos bit back a yelp of recognition. Father's pendant... He looked at his sister for confirmation, and she nodded sadly.

Demon was turning the necklace over in his hand, a look of interest on his face. "And what's this made of?" he asked, bringing it up to one eye.

"Aionis," Martel replied, despite Mithos's frantic shaking of his head. "It amplifies magic...well, for elves and half-elves, anyway."

Demon smirked suddenly. "This will do just fine." He slipped the pendant into some unseen pocket and leaned back comfortably. "We can leave whenever you want."

Mithos glanced at his sister. This seemed all too easy. As if divining his thoughts, she asked, "What does getting into the human sector entail, exactly?"

The man let the legs of his chair thump back to the ground. "That's the trick, isn't it?" he said. "The way I've been doing it the past few years is to pretend that the half-elves are my servants."

Again, that feeling of unease. Martel was smiling with her mouth only, her eyes tightening into an expression Mithos knew far too well. Before she could even open her mouth in agreement, he quickly interjected, "Sis, can I talk to you for a second?"

She looked at him, surprised, and nodded. She led him into the small hallway that led to the restrooms, where he broke out in an angry whisper, "I don't trust that guy, Martel!"

She shrugged, the same smile still on her face. "Neither do I," she said simply.

The retort died on his tongue. "Then...then why are we putting our lives in his hands?" he sputtered.

She averted her gaze from him, almost in shame. "Because we have to," she replied softly. "You know we don't have our papers in order, so we can't get work permits. We don't have enough money to get them put in order. And we certainly can't live in the wild."

Mithos's heart sank further than he thought possible. He looked back across the room, where Demon still sat facing away from them. He was probably just paranoid, but he felt as if the man was somehow listening in.

"All right," he said finally. There was something Martel wasn't telling him, but the sad look in her eyes prevented him from probing any deeper.

He nodded, and together the two walked back to Demon. "We're ready to go," Martel informed him, and he grunted in affirmation.

"Let's get a move on," he said, and extinguished his cigarette on the table.

--

By the time they got to the security checkpoint, Demon seemed to be an entirely different person. He had changed out of his grungy clothes and was now wearing an expensive robe. His speech had switched from that of the Higashi sector to the accent of a Kioto aristocrat. He even bore himself with the arrogance of the noble who knows well his own worth.

"Don't speak at all," this new stranger now reminded them. "They're used to half-elves who wouldn't dare look a human in the eye, and we're trying to keep a low profile."

Mithos glanced pointedly at what was, to him, Demon's outlandish garb. The man let out a low chuckle. "No, trust me, they actually wear this stuff around here." He gave them an amused look. "You two really are hicks, aren't you?"

Mithos bristled, but didn't say anything. As they drew nearer to the guard, Demon called out in a friendly manner, "It's been getting warmer, eh, Yohei?"

Yohei grinned in response. "And to think that the winter had been so cold," he replied. The three drew up alongside him, and he examined the two half-elves. "And where did you find these two, Mr. Bland?"

Demon -- or Bland? -- waved a finger in mock admonition. "Now, now, you know a good businessman never reveals his secrets."

"I may have to go into the business myself," Yohei laughed. He looked again at Mithos's frowning face, and added in a somewhat more serious tone,

"Though this one looks a little feisty. I could rough him up a little for you, yeah?"

"No, that's not necessary," Demon said. "The ones with spirit are always so amusing." The two men chuckled at this, as if the two half-elves weren't even there.

Demon cleared his throat. "I must be going now, I've an appointment to make..." He drew a wallet out of a hidden pocket and rifled through it, but Yohei stopped him with one hand.

"No, that's fine Mr. Bland, I know who you are." He graciously waved him through the checkpoint, and when Martel and Mithos failed to move quickly enough, he growled slightly and they jumped forward. Martel ducked a quick bow in deference, but Mithos left his back unbent. The guard watched him carefully as they rounded the corner.

A few blocks later they found themselves in front of a restaurant with darkened windows. Demon ignored the "Closed" sign hung on the door and strode inside, the other two following cautiously.

"You can relax now," said Demon, not dropping his accent. He sat on a table and drew a long-stemmed pipe out of his sleeve. Soon smoke curled about him like a wreath once more. "You'll have to leave through the door out back," he continued, his nicotine craving apparently satisfied. "As long as you keep to the alleys, you can get to pretty much wherever you want without being too suspicious."

Martel bowed low. "Thank you for everything you've done for us, Mister Demon," she said.

At this Demon let out a great belly laugh. "Mister Demon, eh?" he said, slipping briefly back into the Higashi dialect. He coughed, then seemed to compose himself. "Yes, well, you two get along. Don't waste any time, now."

Martel bowed again, then headed off towards the kitchens. Mithos slowed behind her, and before he got out of sight he turned to look at Demon again. The smoke that drifted around him glowed red dimly. The flickering of the light from his pipe lit his face from below, accentuating his sunken eye sockets and sharp cheekbones. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Mithos shook his head and turned away.

--

The house they stood before was a red-bricked affair with yellow curtains in the windows and pink flowers in the garden. Martel let out a few "ooh"s in appreciation before walking up the path and ringing the doorbell.

A young man opened the door, not much older than Mithos, and looked at the pair skeptically. "Are you with the caterers?" he said, the door still half-closed. "You're late, if you go around the back the kitchen is --"

"I'm sorry, but we're not with the caterers," Martel interrupted. "Does a Nadine Fletcher live here?"

The boy gave them a strange look. "Hang on," he said, and closed the door in their faces.

Mithos sighed and glanced at his sister. "Are you sure you've got the right address?"

Martel drew a scrap of paper out of a pocket and read it over. She turned around a few times, straining her eyes for street signs, then sighed and put the paper away. "Maybe she moved," she conceded.

The door opened a crack, only the boy's face showing. "That was my great-grandmother's name," he said, the same strange look on his face.

Was? thought Mithos, even as his sister said, "Oh, I'm so sorry."

The human boy shrugged uncomfortably. "I never knew her. She died of old age when I was little."

"I think we're after a different Nadine Fletcher," said Martel apologetically. "She would still be alive, she was involved in the half-elf riots --"

"The hell?" the boy interjected. "The half-elf riots were like eighty years ago."

"Yes?" said Martel, not understanding what he was getting at.

The look on the boy's faced morphed into one of outright disgust. "You freaks! You people don't have any concept of time, do you?" he spat, before slamming the door.

Mithos looked up at his sister searchingly as she led him off of the porch. "What was he talking about?"

Martel's eyes were downcast, seemingly watching the flowers at her feet. "I had...forgotten," she said quietly. "Humans...they don't live as long as we do."

"But surely she would still be alive after eighty years --" Mithos began, eyes wide.

Martel shook her head. "That's about as old as they live to be," she said. "Even the oldest human recorded only lived to be 118."

Mithos fell silent, his steps slowing as he considered this. "Those...poor people," he said finally.

Martel squeezed his hand. "I don't think they'd want your pity," she said gently.

"Because I'm a half-elf," Mithos concluded bitterly.

Martel shook her head. "No, that's not it. Humans..." Here she looked up wistfully at the sky. "...They're special. They do a lot with the time that's

given them."

"Sis?" Mithos was glancing around them, growing steadily more nervous. "Where are we?"

Martel looked around as well, and the skin around her eyes tightened. As they had talked, they had wandered into an alleyway neither recognized. Graffiti covered the walls, and while colorful, it was decidedly menacing in nature. Many were anti-half-elf slogans, such as "send the halvsies underground" and others much less polite. There were some insulting-sounding words that Mithos had never heard of before, and he couldn't help but catalogue them away for future reference.

One of these words was abruptly barked from behind them. "Oi, you two desians! What do you think you're doing here?"

Mithos jerked around to face the voice. Several rough-looking humans stood in the light at the end of the alleyway, most brandishing weapons of some sort. The grins on their faces did not look at all welcoming.

"Yeah, they're just like The Sender described 'em," said one to another, clearly assuming the half-elves couldn't hear him. "We should get paid well for this job."

"I think you two'd better come with us," said the leader, ignoring his underling. "Else things could get a little...violent."

Martel pushed Mithos behind her, though he wasn't sure what she thought she could do to defend them. "What do you want with us?" she said, her voice wavering despite herself.

The man waved a finger in mock admonishment. "Now, now, that's not something for you to know," he said patronizingly.

Mithos stifled the retort that was on the tip of his tongue. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, as an idea had occurred to him. He hadn't had many chances to practice his magic, but if he could prepare a spell without them noticing...

"I thank you for your offer of an escort, but I'm sure we'll be fine." Mithos snorted under his breath. He doubted an escort was what they had in mind. He turned his attention back to his hands, where a small ball of light was forming, as his sister continued. "If you'll excuse us, we'll be out of the human sector as quickly as possible --"

She was interrupted by the thugs' raucous laughter. "Not really what we had in mind, little lady," said one. They began to advance on them, and Mithos realized that his time was very quickly running out.

He muttered an incantation, his haste slurring the words, and awkwardly threw his ball of light into his enemies' faces. "Photon!" he cried out, the last word coming out loud and clear. His spell hung in front of the startled men's faces, contracting briefly before exploding in a flash of light. While the men were still half-blinded, he grabbed his sister's hand and ran in the opposite direction. "Come on!"

His sister stumbled behind him, and he reared back in surprise when he turned his head and saw another man looming over them. "Playtime's over," the man growled, and pulled out a gun. Mithos barely had time to gape in shock before the man's finger closed over the trigger, and he heard a thump as his sister fell to the ground.

Mithos's wide eyes took in the sight of Martel sprawled unconscious upon the dirty asphalt, and he sunk to his knees beside her. "No," he choked out, mind barely registering the tranquilizer dart lodged in her neck. He took one hand in his, but she didn't respond. "Martel..."

He blinked through his tears and noticed that the thugs had surrounded him now. "You little bastard," one growled, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Unharmed," the man with the gun barked, but they ignored him, advancing on the boy with their weapons raised.

Mithos heard nothing of what they said. He only saw the men crowding around his sister with predatory looks on their faces, and something within him snapped.

"Get away!" he roared, the words somehow getting past the constriction in his throat. His hand found a rusty metal pipe and he swung it in a half-circle around him. It clanged as it connected with the various weapons the men held. The thugs only grinned, and one sprang forward and hit him solidly in the side with a quarter-staff. Mithos thought he felt something break, and he clutched at his side, musing vaguely that that would leave an ugly bruise later. He jerked to his feet despite his pain and jabbed his makeshift weapon in the man's stomach, mindless of the others closing in on him.

As the others crushed about him with roars of anger he somehow heard a click above the mayhem, followed by a sharp prick in his neck; and as the light faded from his eyes, he went down still screaming in fury.

--

The man known variously as Demon, Mr. Bland, or sometimes simply The Sender let out a puff of blue-gray smoke and watched it drift away. They were nice enough kids, they really were, but they were far too naïve for their own good. He hoped that the thugs in his employ wouldn't rough them up too badly – his finder's fee would be significantly reduced.

His cell phone started ringing in a familiar tune. He brought the thing up to his ear, and after listening to the voice on the other end for a few moments, he said, speaking around his pipe, "Yes, one adolescent male, one grown female. My people should be picking them up shortly." Another query. "Yes, in excellent condition, or they should be. I also picked up something interesting...a necklace made of something called Aionis." The other voice continued on, and Demon's smile gradually grew wider.

"Oh really? That is...most excellent."

--

Kratos sat at his desk and idly twirled a pencil in his fingers. He didn't recall ever having a desk before; all his previous jobs had involved people telling him to do things and them him going and doing them. Or, later, him telling other people to do things. It had been simple, really.

And not nearly so boring.

When he had first been escorted through the doors of the Nidhogg compound, he hadn't been sure what he had been expecting -- maybe a huge stainless steel room with a death ray in the midst of construction and people in white contamination suits running around with clipboards in hand. But he had been greeted by room full of desks and filing cabinets, the odd discarded electronics and blaster carbines at odds with the rest of the room. The people in Research and Development seemed subdued, even friendly, a few waving at him nervously. Many had comic strips and children's pictures tacked up on the walls of their cubicles. A few model airplanes swooped down from the ceiling on plastic cords.

It was all very surreal.

And now Kratos sat at his desk with nothing to do except try not to doodle on the forms he had been given to fill out . He had completed them long ago, despite the bureaucratic euphemisms liberally scattered throughout.

He had been told, time and time again, that he had no patience, and he was beginning to suspect these repeated exhortations were true. He felt that if he wasn't up and doing something within the next five minutes, he would have to resort to throwing his pencil at the ceiling. He doubted that would create a very good impression of him.

His boredom was interrupted when somebody rapped lightly on his door and opened it without waiting for a reply. "Something's come up that needs your attention," said the man now standing there. Kratos began to stand up, but the man dropped a stapled set of papers on his desk. Dammit. "Read these over – they'll give you some background information you need to know," he continued. "I'll come back to get you in half an hour or so, and you can give us some input."

The man left before Kratos could even say anything. He looked at the report on his desk skeptically. Well, at least it was something to do.

As he skimmed through the report, several things caught his attention. Apparently Nidhogg was attempting to create a more powerful version of dwarf spheres, or "crystals" as people tended to call them. Crystals were only used for small household appliances and the like, while larger magitechnology relied on the mana from the Giant Kharlan Tree.

Kratos nodded in approval. That would certainly take some strain off of the Tree. There had been worry lately that the war had been using up more energy than the Tree could produce, as evidenced by normally functional machines simply grinding to a halt for lack of power. It didn't help that what might have been a successful treaty had been ruined by an explosion that each country had blamed on the other.

But what really interested him was the research being conducted on implanting crystals in people. Apparently there was evidence that the crystal provided a significant power-up to its wearer, creating endless possibilities for military uses.

Though what these miracle crystals were called caused him to snort in amusement. "Ex-spheres"? No one would take these things seriously with that kind of name.