I looked up from the parchment I'd been writing on to view Morinaga closing the door. In his left hand he held a cylindrically-shaped paper, while in the other he held a bow, knife, and sword. Slung over his shoulder was a quiver full of arrows.

"You managed to get them," I commented, rising from my seat at his desk.

"It wasn't easy," he mumbled. Though I didn't think that was the reason, his expression looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "I had to pull a few strings to get all of this." He set the small arsenal on his bed unceremoniously. "The map especially."

"What strings?"

His expression darkened further. "I don't want to talk about it. You probably don't want to hear of it, either."

It dawned upon me what he implied, and I didn't continue the topic. Instead, I grabbed the paper. The weapons were barely of any importance without it. Removing the band keeping its form rolled, I unfurled the paper until it lay flat on the desk. Before me lay the map to the palace's catacombs. A crudely-drawn map, yes, but drawn well enough that I could visualize the layout. A thick black line marked the location of the barricades; squares marked the dungeon cells, split so that some resided on the west side while others were on the east. Red-colored marks separated entrances and exits, of which there were three in total.

I felt him stare down at the map over my shoulder. "Is that what you needed?" he asked.

I tensed a little; why was he so close? "Yeah," I affirmed. "You actually did better than I thought you would've. Everything's marked and labeled. How'd you manage to get that?"

"Ah...let's just say I negotiated well…"

I grimaced at the images his words conjured up. "All right. Well, anyway, good work. These should assist in planning the escape route."

The smile in his voice was audible. "Th-Thank you…"

Brushing off how happy he sounded, I grabbed the charcoal stick I'd been writing with earlier and pointed to the map. "I think I know how we can get out of here properly. But you have to agree to it before I tell you."

That happiness faded from his tone, and I couldn't tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. "Why's that?"

"Because I need you to," I replied.

"Can't you at least tell me a little first?" he tried.

I shook my head. "No. One sentence and you'll start screaming." Well, he'd start screaming anyway, but that was beside the point.

"One sentence and I'll agree."

"No sentences and you'll agree," I countered.

"Tell me."

"No."

"Please?" Desperation seeped into his voice. "Is it really that bad?"

"Bad enough that I doubt you'll actually be in agreement if I told you," I allowed. "Just agree if you want to know so badly." Honestly, was it that hard to do?

"But I—"

"Agree or I allow myself to be executed," I interrupted, my voice brimming with darkness.

At that, all traces of disobedience and disagreement disappeared. "Fine," he sighed. "I agree to your plan."

I nodded. Finally, he did something sensible. "Well, first of all, it's extremely risky. But if it works, the payoff will be worth it." I marked the main entrance to the catacombs with the stick. "We start here."

"There? But that's the most obvious spot! We'll get caught!"

I clenched the edge of the desk to keep from hitting him. One sentence had sparked his screaming. Wonderful. "If you'd let me finish, you'd know why." Without waiting for him to reply, I continued, "This is going to happen the day before I'm scheduled to be 'executed.' They'll most likely want to keep me in a holding cell. Anyway, this whole thing relies heavily on you." Regrettably. "You chose the initial punishment for me, so you'll have a right to come with the party escorting me."

"What if they don't allow me?" he questioned.

"Then follow stealthily behind. Either way will work, that way possibly better. It all depends on your stealth skill." Though something told me he wasn't very inclined in that area. Not in his actions, anyway. "The last time I escaped here, the other guards were put to sleep by a drug. Well, I doubt that'll work this time around. But there were rumors going around the crime world that a new type of weapon was being developed here in the capital. Small bombs, filled not with shrapnel but with chemicals and gases. If they contained the right materials, they could do more damage than shrapnel ever could."

"I've heard of those," Morinaga commented. "I was given a few of them before I left for Reinorok."

"What chemicals did they have?"

"Poisons, I think. I didn't actually use any of them, though. There wasn't any need."

Suddenly I recalled our first encounter, and for once I appreciated his pacifist nature. He could've easily released the bombs on my group when we abducted him.

"W-Wait, you're not planning on using poison, are you?" he worried. "I...I don't want to kill anyone…"

Great. The annoying pacifist was coming out. "I don't think you'll have to. At least, not if the rumors that I heard were true. Supposedly, there's a group of illegal merchants in this city posing as apothecaries. But instead of reagents and vials, they're selling poisons and bombs. One of those bombs has a gas inside that induces sleep if inhaled directly. All you have to do is get one of those bombs and we're good."

"You want me to purchase illegal bombs?" he surmised.

I nodded. "That's the idea. But since I know you'll end up getting your head cut off or your heart ripped out, I'll have to come with you. You need someone who knows the underworld to go to the underworld." I smirked at him over my shoulder. "Luckily for you, I've been around quite a bit."

He blinked at me, though I couldn't discern why. Was it really that surprising to hear? He knew that I'd lived seven years of my life as a criminal.

"Hey. Are you listening or not?"

His blinking gained a little speed, and with a flinch he said, "Y-Yeah, I'm listening. I just got...sidetracked right now." He shook his head. "But I do have one question."

I groaned. He wasn't listening after all. "What is it?"

"How do you know they'll take you seriously? They're illegal weapons dealers, and you're a kidnapping bandit. I don't know much about the underworld, but I know that different niches exist and that people from different niches sometimes don't mix well."

I had to scoff at that. "We'll be fine," I assured.

"But can you really say that for sure?"

"Of course I can. You're right that I deal in kidnapping, but I didn't always. When my ring started up, we dealt in smuggling and manufacturing drugs."

His eyes widened. "Really?"

I couldn't help the proudness in my voice. "Yeah. Though there were only about ten of us at the time, our methods and profit rivaled those of huge operations. We only stopped because of how dangerous getting power would prove."

"All right," Morinaga allowed, albeit uneasily. "So I get one of those bombs and use it. Then what?"

Returning my gaze to the map, I pointed to the eastern block of cells. "That's where I was held last time I escaped. If I recall correctly…" I sketched out the route to the best of my ability. "...I think that's how we went."

"There's so many barricades now," he mumbled. "You really think we'll be able to get through them?"

"The barricades are wooden, right?"

"For the most part. Some are stone walls, but most are a mix of wood and stone. We could burn them down, most likely. The wood part, anyway."

Obviously, I thought. Stone doesn't burn.

"I assume you have matches."

"Of course. I'll make sure to smuggle them whenever we do this."

"You would've had to, anyway. The bombs require fires to ignite. Unless they made a new version that I'm unaware of." Knowing the world of underground weaponry the way that I did, that could very well be possible. Either way he'd need matches. Hopefully, though, they'd spark more than just the bombs if he acquired them.


As soon as we stood before the entrance to Remedia, I knew instantly why a trope of illegal bomb-makers could live so easily in the capital. From our position on the sidewalk, the medicinal shop appeared as nothing more than that—a medicinal shop. It radiated austerity, with its simple brown walls and simple sign hanging above the door. Its single window was curtained from the inside, and a second sign inside displayed the word 'closed' for all the world to see.

"You're sure this is the right place?" Morinaga asked. The unease in his voice made me roll my eyes. Of course I was sure. Why would I have taken him here if I wasn't?

Despite all the ways I could reply—most of which would've jabbed him in one way or another—I chose a simple, "Yeah," as my response.

"But it's closed!" he objected.

All urge for cordiality faded along with all emotion in my expression. He was. So. Stupid. "How blind are you?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

I pointed to the door. "Of course it says it's closed. Why would they want normal people buying bombs at this time of night?"

Even his heart seemed to tense at that. "Why're you talking so openly?" he hissed. Clearly he'd aimed to whisper, but he'd failed miserably. I wasn't fazed. "What if we get heard?"

"Very blind," I mumbled. Grabbing his shoulders, I turned the oblivious prince back toward the street. "Think for a moment. Do any of the people out here seem respectable in regular circles?"

Darkness did cast a veil over the capital hours earlier, but poles sticking out of the ground at regular intervals provided illumination in the form of lanterns. In the daylight hours the streets would be teeming with the esteemed and wealthy, but in the nighttime they crawled with the lecherous and unsavory. Some well-dressed people did remain, but if they got close enough for us to see their faces, even at his blindest Morinaga could've seen they dabbled in illegalities at night. But for the most part the rag-wearing, ale-drinking, shit-breathing denizens of the city now roamed the streets. Even the criminal world had spectrums and subdivisions and classes. There were bandits, kidnappers, murderers, hired murderers, thieves, ransom-collectors, bounty hunters, drug-smugglers—and all of those could be found on this strip of buildings alone. Behind those crimes were people ranging from young pickpockets trying to keep from starving all the way up to hardened malefactors with control of entire cities.

I fell somewhere between a highly-effective bandit and a ruthless slave driver. Either way, I had enough reputation to gain respect but lacked the amount necessary to hold drastic influence. And if the rumors about those working here were true…

"They don't," Morinaga finally replied.

"Oh, good, you can at least see a little," I sighed, dropping my hold on his shoulders. "Anyway, everyone here most likely knows what this place really is and what this place really sells. Just trust me on this. I know what I'm doing."

He nodded once but didn't reply.

With no hesitation in my movements, I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Unsurprisingly it opened, but only enough to accommodate a rat. A thin but strong silver chain hindered movement. Again, unsurprisingly.

"See? I told you!"

"Shut up before I cut you," I hissed at him. Turning back to the door, I said, "Services required."

If there was a clock anywhere near here, its smallest hand would've ticked twice around the face before anything happened. A single eye appeared in the space, and I could smell leaves and opium on his breath. "What is it?"

"Got anything to treat explosive diseases?"

The eye stared at me for a few moments more, then the door shut. Morinaga said something in protest, but I didn't listen. All I heard was the click of the lock sliding. When I tried the door again, it opened fully.

I glanced over my shoulder at Morinaga. "Don't doubt me again," I told him.

He nodded vigorously. "I-I won't."

"Good."

The interior of the shop looked as any other would. A large counter sat at the back of the space for transactions, and shelves on the walls displayed various bottles and reagents. Another curtain hung behind the counter, a tiny light peering out from under it.

I turned to Morinaga. "Hold still." Reaching into the bag I'd packed but given to him, I withdrew a black cloth. I reached up—he was taller than me but not by much—and tied the cloth around his mouth.

"What's this for?" he asked. The makeshift mask only slightly muffled his voice. Not only would his voice be obscured a little, but his complaining would also come a little quieter.

"So we don't get stabbed the moment we walk in," I told him.

"What if they ask me to take it off?"

"You say no."

"What if they threaten me?"

"You threaten them back."

"What if they don't believe me?"

"Then I'll threaten them back."

Though his mouth was concealed, I knew he was smiling. "You'll defend me?"

I glared at him. Not wanting to dirty the knife he'd lent me, I brought my nails across his exposed arm. With a yelp Morinaga jumped.

"What was that for?!"

"I said I'd cut you if you didn't shut up," I told him. "Gods, are you deaf, too?"

"But I—"

I held up my fingers, bent and poised in claw-like position.

He quieted after that.

Through the curtain and down a staircase we went, and instantly it felt like home. The pungent odor of alcohol and cigarette smoke instantly greeted us as we stepped into the store-laboratory hybrid. The room was circular in shape but possessed two levels, the upper of which we stood on now. Tables dotted the upper level, full of tubes and bottles arranged into complex shapes. Colorful liquids flowed from bottle to bottle, and some even plumed out of those bottles to create gases of varying thicknesses. Around those tables clustered men and women, doing everything from mashing plants with stone pestles to pouring the final products gleaned from the bottles into vials and containers.

The lower level—connected to the upper one by short staircases scattered about the space—displayed a slew of merchandise. People also milled about there, though instead of being dressed in the same dull clothing there was more variety in dress. A few scruffy-looking bastards sat at a few tables, speaking with potential customers and undoubtedly attempting to oversell their merchandise.

I'd spent about two years of my bandit career in a laboratory such as this. It was only natural that my nose had grown accustomed to the pungent odors wafting about the air. Morinaga, however, to my knowledge, had never visited this sort of environment before. If he had, it hadn't been for long. Even with the mask on he coughed and groaned. I did the latter, too, but for different reasons.

"This place is awful," Morinaga said, coughs interrupting his words.

"You'll live," I assured. "Just steel your balls and you'll be fine."

"What?"

"Deal with it," I spat.

I didn't know if it was a sigh or a wheeze, but he made some kind of noise in reply.

A quick examination of the lower level later, I found that the scruffiest of scruffy-looking bastards sat alone at his table. Not wanting our opportunity compromised and knowing Morinaga would probably pass out if he stood any longer, I strode down the steps. Confidence circled about me, and when I took my seat, I didn't just sit. I sat, leaned back, and propped my feet up on the table. Morinaga chose to sit quietly at my side.

Scruffiest Bastard seemed unfazed. It was difficult to tell, though, considering that his beard took up half of his face and a patch covered one of his eyes. The other one had cataracts clouding it, and I wondered for a moment if he could see us at all. But that was stupid—no, that was Morinaga-level stupidity. I shuddered; how could I ever do something that fell into that category? I'd have to watch my thoughts more carefully.

"Oh, look a'chu," Scruffiest Bastard mocked. His voice was a mixture of tobacco abuse and alcohol abuse. Is that what I'd sound like in the future? No, that wouldn't happen. I didn't smoke or drink that much. "Waltzin' in here like you own the damn place."

"And look at you," I replied. "Sittin' on your ass while everyone else is busting theirs."

He scoffed. "Mouthy little bastard, ain't ya?"

"Dirty fucking shitbag, aren't you?"

He chuckled now. "A'ight, a'ight, I got it, yer ballsy. So what brings ya here today?"

"I'm looking for some shit to help a little issue." I nodded to Morinaga. "My associate here needs something to satisfy insomnia."

His gaze shifted to Morinaga for a brief moment. "Oh? What kind?"

"Explosive," I replied.

I knew he took the hint, but his eyes didn't leave Morinaga. "What's yer story?" he asked. "What's with the mask?"

"Why does it matter?" he responded. It was a decent reply, but his voice held a raspy edge that would undoubtedly make him sound weaker.

"'Cause the only people who wear masks are the ones doing the work. Some chemicals are toxic, after all."

"Shouldn't you be glad I'm wearing it, then? If your customers get sick or die, you don't make money. And then you get a bad reputation, so you make even less by losing customers."

Both Scruffiest Bastard and I stared at him. I almost wanted to applaud; even with that raspiness he sounded convincing.

"Guess that's valid," Scruffiest Bastard allowed. "But no one's died here yet."

"That you know of," Morinaga finished.

The merchant scowled but looked back at me. "You want sleep bombs?"

I nodded. "Two should be enough. Whatever the cost, he'll cover it." I jerked my thumb in Morinaga's direction. He brought enough gold to buy everything in the place and have enough left over to buy the property.

"Now hold on," he said. "I didn't say anything about purchase. They're highly experimental, and extremely difficult to make. I ain't sure if you really wanna buy 'em."

"We are." Morinaga and I glanced at each other for a brief moment after our unison-spoken words.

Scruffiest Bastard shook his head. "I don't believe you."

"All right," I said. "Then let's go hypothetical—if we were sure, and you did believe us, how much would we be looking at paying?"

"Well, if you put it in those terms…hmm…" He looked up and scratched his beard. I was fully confident that three flies, a worm, and a newborn rat had fallen out of there. "Probably about...eh...a thousand gold."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Morinaga's widen, but I didn't share his reaction. Instead I scoffed. "Your lies are as weak as your stench is strong," I told him.

Not only Scruffiest Bastard, but a few around us also fell silent. "The hell do you mean?" he growled.

"You heard me," I said. "You're lying to me, and you're lying to me poorly."

"Oh?"

I nodded.

"What proof do ya have of that?"

I looked around the room. "Well, if you gave me one of these 'experimental' bombs, I could give you so much proof that you'd not only eat your words but vomit them, too."

Now the entire room went silent. The only sounds came from bubbling liquids in the bottles. Scruffiest Bastard glared at me, but he rose from his seat all the same. I smirked at his back as he left and folded my arms.

"What're you doing?" Morinaga hissed.

"Making sure everyone sees that guy for the ass he is," I replied smoothly. "Exposing people's one of my favorite hobbies."

"But what if he's telling the truth?" he questioned. "Then you'll look like the ass!"

I scowled, and instantly he moved back an inch. "I know many things, and one of the things I know best is when people are lying."

Something in his gaze told me he didn't believe me. Stupid asshole.

Scruffiest Bastard returned a few moments later, a rock-like sphere in his hand. Carefully he set it on the table. "It's not legitimate," he informed me. "It's been deactivated so it doesn't accidentally go off."

I took the bomb and held it up. "Standard build," I observed. "Unassuming exterior, simple fuse common in explosives." Around the circumference of the bomb was a slight gap. Carefully I twisted the top, and with tentative fingers I separated the two pieces.

The upper half was nothing special, merely a half-circle with a hole through which the fuse ran. The fun shit lay in the bottom half. It was split in two by a tiny metal wall that ran through the center. On the left lay a relatively hollow space, though the edges were laced by a grainy-looking paste. On the right, a lavender liquid pooled almost to the top edge. I held it from the absolute bottom. If any of it spilled out, I was fucked.

Otherwise, though, I'd won.

"This is a simple construction," I said. "The fuse is lit, and the fire travels into the bomb. That fire then burns in the hollow spot, which has its temperature increased by the paste. The metal then gets heated, causing the liquid to turn into a gas, which then spreads and causes whoever inhales it to get drowsy and sleep." With even more care than before I twisted the top onto the bomb and set it down. "Thus proving that you're full of more shit than your beard."

The room wasn't exactly abuzz with activity, but a few workers did whisper to one another, and some of the other merchants glanced over at Scruffiest Bastard with worried eyes. The merchant simply stared at the table.

"This is nothing innovative," I said. "It's a simple construction. Only difference between this and another smoke bomb is the kind of chemical released." I set the bomb on the table. "In short, something like this would go for about two hundred gold apiece. And that's if the liquid's extremely strong."

Scruffiest Bastard looked as if he was going to flip the table and beat my ass. Based on Morinaga's worried eyes, he felt the same way. But instead of anything violent, he rose from his seat, and I heard him grumble, "Long-haired smartass," before leaving to get our merchandise.