"You what?" Spool tried and failed to contain his surprise. "You've written an entire song by yourself in this week alone?"

Clementine did his best to calm his old friend, but Spool always got hectic the day of a concert or play. "It's something I've been kicking around in my head lately. The concert has given me the motivation to actually write it down."

"I'm glad to hear it, but you can't just show up the day of the concert with a whole new song and expect everyone to learn it."

"Spool please, don't insult your own band. They can sight read anything flawlessly. It will be fine."

Everyone backstage had stopped to watch them. The added attention made Spool visibly sweat. He composed himself as if he were the picture of calm and nodded. "Fine. I'll pass it along to the others. It will be the last song to wrap up the night."

Clementine handed his mentor a folder bursting with music sheets. "Thank you, Spool."

"Pfft, just do your best out there and if you lose your place, then just wave your arms around until you can recover. The band can keep themselves going and the audience won't be able to tell the difference."

"We got a full house tonight?"

"As full as it gets." Answered Spool, "Now go get ready. Go on, scram."

The concert proceeded smoothly. Every song carried into the next with barely a breath in-between. No intermission, no announcements, no break of any kind. The music flowed as one with Clementine's own hands. He stood on the conductor's podium for two hours. The spotlights shined down on him. The wooden grip of the baton slickened in his palm. His back faced the audience. Not once did he turn towards them. In his mind, the rows of red velvet seats were packed and the small clutch of musicians before him thundered with the sound of a full orchestra. Another magical night in The World Theatre. This time, Clementine was right in the middle of it.

The lights dimmed as they reached the last song, his song. Silence gripped the theatre like a held breath waiting to be released. Clementine's hands, stone steady, stretched that silence. He could feel it. The anticipation building up inside not just himself but the men and women of the band. All eyes were glued on him. Fingers held over valves. Bows poised above strings. None fidgeted an inch. Clementine closed his eyes. His vision was black but that did not stop Clementine from seeing the room around him. The light glowing in his fellow musicians. Their bubbling passions. Clementine reached out and gently took hold of them.

His hands moved on their own. One, two, and it began. Every sway of his hands coerced those feelings forward. Clementine drew them out one by one as if inviting friends to play. They spun to the song. A waltz. The more they danced the more they blended together, eventually becoming one sound…One will. The music was strange to Clementine's ears. Somehow different than how he imagined it in his head. Underneath that ballroom energy lurked something unexpected…something dark. The band had become clay in Clementine's hands and his fingerprints were showing.

Terrified, he tore himself away. His eyes snapped open and his hands twitched. The band slipped as if the carpet was swept away right underneath their feet. They stumbled only for a measure, but there was no hiding the slip up. Even a tone-deaf fool could spot the mistake. Swallowing what felt like a large rock in his throat, Clementine continued. The band followed his lead but the energy was lost until finally the waltz crawled to its end.

The applause seemed to mock him. Without turning to bow with the rest of the band, Clementine rushed off stage. His own sweat burned cold against his back, sticking to his dress shirt which he had just recently cleaned from his trip outside Refuge. Clementine made a bee-line for his sheeted dressing room. He plunged his hands into the tub of water and splashed his face several times.

"Knock, knock." In the mirror Clementine spotted Spool behind him. "You shouldn't beat yourself up." Said the old man, "Everything went beautifully. That last song of yours was something else. So you slipped up? Things like that happen. It was only your first try, after all. We're in a place where you fail until you succeed."

"What's done is done." Clementine turned to face him directly. "Now, can I have that name please."

"Before we get to that, there is someone asking for you."

"Who?"

"I can't rightly say. A woman from the audience. She asked if she could see the young conductor."

"I'm not here."

"No, I'll have none of that. Engage a little, Clementine. Meet your fans. Meet your critics. What's the point otherwise? Now she's asking for you specifically. It would be rude to deny her."

Clementine hissed in frustration, "Two minutes. That's it."

Spool held a hand over his heart, "I promise I won't try to delay you any further."

"So who is it?"

"The stagehand she sent said to just look in the front row and we won't miss her."

The two of them parted the curtain and peaked out into the theatre. Most were still clearing out if not already gone. Clementine's eye was drawn to the woman as easily as spotting a diamond in a box of pebbles. It wasn't just her beauty that stood out to him. It was her posture. The way she sat, her long raven hair cascading over alabaster skin.

Clementine cleared his throat, "Ever seen her before?"

"Never." Spool chewed on his lip, "Perhaps she's a lost tourist?"

"Does she look lost to you? No, she wanted to be here. She purposely sat in the front row. Maybe even in that exact seat."

"Do people accidently sit in the front row?" questioned Spool.

"That's not what I mean. She's deliberate in everything she does. Meticulous without even trying. Not one to waste her own time."

"And yet she sits patiently waiting for you."

Without bothering to look away Clementine readjusted his vest and hair.

Spool narrowed his brows, "Careful Clementine."

"Of what?"

"Listen to us old folk when it comes to matters like these. For if love is a battlefield, then we are the veterans. Just trying to keep a confident recruit from stepping on a landmine."

"Two minutes." Clementine repeated it more as a reminder to himself than anything.

With a flourish, he pushed past the curtain. Ten strides away she spotted him and immediately stood. The motion elegant and fluid. She wore a plain black dress that fell to her ankles in a number of folds. A strange leather pouch hung from her neck. Slate colored eyes regarded Clementine's approach. He held out his hand and she took it, her skin warm to the touch.

"Augustus Clementine, may I ask your name?"

Full pink lips parted to reveal a white smile, "Ira Glass."

"Mrs. Glass."

"Ms." She corrected.

"What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to compliment you. Your command over the orchestra was nothing but superb. Was it intentional to proceed at such a pace? Other concerts I've seen have had breaks to say a few words here and there."

"Tonight, was all about the music. We wanted the notes to speak for themselves. No need for words."

"I found that last song especially breathtaking. The stagehand told me you wrote that piece yourself. In a week, no less."

"I did." Admitted Clementine with little hubris.

"Music is foreign to me, but I take an interest in learning how things become. So tell me, how did you manage it?"

"Manage is not the word I'd use. I try to control my life far too much already. My music is an outlet for me to let loose. From heart to the page it went, with no filter."

Ms. Glass slowly retook her seat, "Then I worry for you. If that song was a projection of your heart, that is. I couldn't help but notice something haunted in the piece. The way the tune dragged at parts seemed lethargic. It was as if you meant to mock the concept of a waltz itself."

Clementine sat in the seat next to her, "The intent of the song is just as much a mystery to me as it is to you. Though I share your sentiment."

"Is that common for song writers? To not know their own intentions."

"Art leaves itself to interpretation. The artist can go into something with certain ideas in their hearts. However, the final result could be something beyond the artist's original conception. It's a matter of perspective I suppose. The same image could be seen a thousand different ways. That's why a picture is worth a thousand words."

"And your piece? What words do you think its saying?"

"You tell me."

Ms. Glass considered for a time. "I heard laughter. Bitter and cynical. As if it despised its own position. Can't say I've ever been to a concert with such satire."

"Have you been to many concerts?"

She leaned back in her chair, "Like you, I try to control my life. Yet often I find that my life controls me."

"How so?"

"Responsibilities of the schedule require my attention. My work keeps me busy. On occasion when I do have free time I find it difficult to occupy it. Sometimes, like today, I wander the city. My hope is to try something I've never done before or go someplace unexplored."

"What brings you to the World Theatre?" asked Clementine out of genuine curiosity.

"In truth, it was the vacancy that drew me in. The Flower District is full of bustling people. So noisy. I wanted someplace quieter where one might enjoy a simple conversation." Her smile caressed Clementine's very soul.

"You've come to the right place."

"I'm glad for it." She reached into her hand bag and pulled out a long straight pipe. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Don't let me stop you."

Ms. Glass opened the pouch around her neck and wiggled inside with her pointer finger and thumb. She grabbed a pinch of some pink herb and packed it into the bowl of the pipe.

"What is it?" asked Clementine.

"It's called Rotwheat. A plant found only here in Mistral."

Clementine wrinkled his nose, "Rot…Wheat?"

She laughed sweetly, "I know. It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. Many dismiss Rotwheat because it has no obvious medical use and has gained a reputation for being poisonous, hence the name. Which it can be if chewed directly off the stem like some cow. But grounded down and smoked its quite harmless. It eases the flow of the brain. Doesn't deaden it like many other more vulgar narcotics. It relaxes my anxieties and allows me to think clearly. I'm afraid I've grown rather addicted to it."

"May I try some?" asked Clementine.

A hint of surprise flickered across her face before she smiled and handed him the pipe. Ms. Glass took out a custom metal box containing matches. With a single flick across the side she lit a match and held it over the bowl, cupping one hand around it to protect the flame. Clementine brought the thing to his lips and breathed the resulting fumes. His taste buds cheered. It was like a cornucopia on his tongue. Fruity, with just the right balance of sweet and sour. He relished that taste before blowing it out. "It's good."

She giggled, "I'm glad you like it."

"I'm sorry, was that weird of me? It's hard to tell. So many social rules and norms, I can't keep track of them all."

"Sharing a pipe with someone you've only just met? Its peculiar, I'd say."

"I have a natural curiosity." He handed her back the pipe, "Thank you for the kind words and the Rotwheat, but I should probably go now. Will I see you here again, Ms. Glass?"

"Rarer things have happened, Augustus."

Clementine nodded appreciation and took his leave. He had to resist the urge to continuously glance back at Ira Glass as he went. Spool was waiting right where he left him. The old man's sly grin made Clementine nervous. "Got nothing better to do old man?"

Spool methodically tapped his watch, "Five minutes."

"Come on, then. I held up my end of the bargain."

Spool gestured to Adriane who Clementine only just noticed. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen her all night. Strange for the stage manager to be absent the night of a concert. Adriane said nothing as she pulled out a letter from her jacket pocket and pressed it into Clementine's chest before moving past him. The letter fell into his hands. He turned to say thanks but she was already leaving.

"What was that about?" asked Clementine as he watched Adriane make her way to the lobby.

"Best not to ask. And just be thankful you got what you wanted."

Clementine held the letter before him. A thin piece of paper in which everything hinged on. "Any advice before I go?"

Spool clasped a hand on Clementine's shoulder. "Be careful of this person you're going to meet. Take whatever he says with a grain of salt."

"You distrust him that much?"

There was a hint of worry in Spool's kindly features. "Just be careful."

The trees passed one by one. The speed of their travel blurred the greenery, yet Tanner saw it. A shadow danced behind the cover of thick woods, moving in parallel with the convoy. Drawn by the streak's appearance, the young mercenary at the wheel squinted out his driver's side window. Whatever it was moved to fast for him to discern its shape. Unknowingly following his gaze, the truck drifted off track.

"Eyes on the fucking road, dumbass!" snapped Brock from the passenger seat.

Jarred to attention, Tanner steadied the truck back on the bumpy dirt road. "Sorry." He mumbled.

"Sorry." Mocked Brock, "Sorry for what? Almost getting us killed because you couldn't keep your day dreaming under control?"

"That's not it," stammered the young driver, "I-I thought I saw something."

"Ain't nothin' to see out there."

"Well I saw something."

Brock reached for the rifle mounted behind them. "Grimm?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"How many?"

Tanner resisted the urge to glance out the open window. "Just one."

"Pffft," Brock leaned back into his seat and kicked his legs up onto the dashboard. "One ain't nothin' to worry about."

"But without the Rangers-"

"Screw the Rangers." Brock lowered his sleeping blinders back over his eyes. "You think we need them to defend us? Maybe once they were somethin' but the years have dulled their edge. They've long since become obsolete. Hardly any of them left."

"If what you say is true, then why were they called into Refuge?"

"Probably to clean out some piss pots. Who cares?"

"I don't think so. They're needed and someone with enough power to pluck an entire division out from their posts thinks so as well." Tanner regretted the words even as they leapt off his tongue. Each one slapped Brock in the face like a wet sponge. The older man raised his blindfold, exposing one eye and leaned across so that his face was inches from Tanner's own. He was so close Tanner could hear the grinding of the man's teeth.

"You sayin' I'm wrong?" Whispered Brock.

Tanner fought to control his expression. The slightest sign of dismissal would set his partner off. Not an uncommon occurrence. Brock had always been a dim man, quick to anger. Everyone knew it. He's only gotten worse ever since the Foreman bashed Herb's head in. Tanner was there that day, loading trucks when the kid in the purple suit and his giant bodyguard showed up. He watched it happen. He helped Brock carry Herb's body away. Even helped the man burry his one and only friend. No order forced him to do so. A small gesture of compassion he decided to show the bitter man. Tanner had no idea Brock would latch onto that kindness with claws of steel. That night Brock had wormed his way into Tanner's passenger seat.

Ever since then he's been a badly tempered thorn in Tanner's side. And he couldn't even bring himself to hate the guy. The truth was that underneath the anger, Brock was nothing more than a sad lonely man clinging to any good thrown in his direction as if it were a lifeline. Made Tanner sad more than anything else. He turned away from Brock's snarling grin and faced out the window once more. The Grimm or whatever it may have been was gone. In the rearview mirror Tanner took note of the four other trucks trailing behind. Each one fitted with a pair. A driver and a guard. He wondered if they suffered similar conflicts as him and Brock.

"I don't know if you know or not, but there was a time when the streets of Refuge knew and feared my name. Back in the good ol' days. I was a Brock, the collector. The best at what I did. Crackin' skulls and takin' what's owed. You're young so you probably don't remember much. Things weren't as borin' as they are now."

"Yeah," drawled Tanner, "So you've said a thousand times. What was so glorious about those good old days anyway? Aren't you paid more now?"

"Piss on that. The pay doesn't matter. It never did. Respect. That was the principle. What respect do we get hidden all the way out here? We guard unlucky shits from themselves. We deliver what they scrounge up. If we do it on time we get to spend a night rollin' around with the finest the Flower District has to offer. Like a pet getting' a reward after performin' a trick. We call ourselves Ophidians, serpents of the pit. Bah, don't make me laugh. We're nothin'. My names forgotten now. Same with everyone else's. I remind them of what we used to have and that's why they all hate me. Herb was the only one on patrol duty who understood. But now...Now-The fuck you doin'?" snarled Brock.

It took a moment for Tanner to realize Brock wasn't addressing him. He followed Brock's gaze ahead where a man sat in the middle of the road. When Tanner began to slow down Brock growled.

"No, speed up. We don't stop for anythin'. If the idiot doesn't move, then that ain't our problem."

Shrugging, Tanner pressed down on the gas. The man up ahead didn't react at all to the charging truck heading his way. Not even after Tanner's warning honks. He just squatted in the dirt, hunched over a little cookfire. About fifty feet away from the man the truck's front tires popped followed quickly by the ones in the back. Tanner let out a curse as the truck swerved. The rapidly deflating rubber tires flapped against the ground uselessly. The truck spun, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

Not a man to where his seatbelt, Brock was roughly tossed about. They slid to a stop and one end of the truck lifted from the ground. Through the windshield the world tilted. They slowed to a peak, the truck careening in the air for one dreadful second threatening to fall on its side. However, by some miracle the truck collapsed back onto all fours.

Brock slammed face first onto the dashboard, knocking him unconscious. Tanner's own head whipped hard against the steering wheel. Disoriented, he undid his seatbelt and stumbled out. The two trucks directly behind them suffered similarly, their wheels shredded. They swerved off the road, preferring to slide into a ditch rather than rear-end each other. At least they have some sense.

Head aching and joints wobbling, Tanner tottered a couple of steps before dropping to his knees. Behind him came shouts of alarm followed by gunfire. Attack…we're under attack. The Rangers where—Oh…

Kiera tracked the train of box trucks ever since they left the Quarry. The last few days of scouting had revealed their typical routes. It was her job to keep tabs on them as they neared the ambush. Kiera kept pace with the trucks the whole way. Hidden just behind the trees. This far past the Spine the cracked stone mountainside had given way to a more natural forest environment like that of the glades outside Refuge except denser.

She didn't feel it when they scaled the Spine. Nor when they sought out the paths. But she felt it now.

On all fours, Kiera darted through the forest. She leapt over fallen logs, pushed off trees, and swung from branches like an acrobat. That animal instinct inside her roared its freedom. It had been too long since she last experienced this thrill. Alone and surrounded by the wild. Nature's call had set her loose. By the time the trucks approached the ambush she turned frenetic. The trap sprung and Kiera pounced on the nearest vehicle.

The driver was in the middle of exiting the truck when she slammed into the door feet first. The window shattered against the driver's head and the man lolled back into his seat. Kiera scrambled over the hood of the truck, landing on top of the other mercenary just as she turned to notice her. Kiera tackled the fang tattooed woman to the ground and continued rolling past. The mercenary was quick to recover. She lashed out with a long knife that had been sheathed at her hip. Kiera crouched low to dodge the slash and sprung up, striking the woman with her boot just below her chin. Teeth cracked and the woman's eyes rolled to the back of her head. She fell back against the truck and slumped down to the ground.

Kiera whirled at the sound of gunfire. Naz and his handpicked group of fighters were busy engaged with the rest of the trucks. The Mud District's finest brawlers swarmed the scale armored mercenaries. The Mudslinger's elite. They did their part and enjoyed every second. Spotting a man clad in snake skin loading his rifle, Kiera bounded towards him. Panic filled the man's eyes. He rushed to reload and opened fire at her. The Dust powered bullet gusted past Kiera's head. It was only her aura that kept the cutting wind from slicing her cheek. She zig-zagged the remaining distance between them, closing in fast. The mercenary raised his rifle to block, but Kiera's downwards kick snapped the thing in two. She pivoted on her palms, delivering three more sweeping kicks that sent the mercenary spinning backwards.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled like hackles rising. Its sign, a whisper of danger in her ear. She'd heard it before. Many times, back when she was just an animal in the forest. Kiera jumped into the air as fast as she could, barely avoiding a rifle blast from behind. The mercenary tracked her ten feet, twenty feet into the air where she reached her peak. Her breath caught. That one second of suspension was all the mercenary needed. He took aim and his finger squeezed on the trigger just as Naz brought his club down on the rifle barrel. The shot kicked up dirt into their faces and the mercenary screamed over his now broken trigger finger. Naz clipped the mercenary's calf, forcing the man to his knees before driving the pommel end of his club into the man's face.

Kiera landed just as the mercenary crumpled into the dirt. Naz raised his club and broke the mercenary's shooting hand. The fighting amongst the other trucks subsided. Kiera raised from her crouched position to her full height.

"Never thought I would be saying this, but thanks."

Naz hefted the heavy club over his shoulder and wiped away a stream of blood leaking down from his once again broken nose. "That looks to be the last of them."

The rest of the Mudslingers were busy restraining the snake marked mercenaries and cracking open the truck doors. Everything had gone off without a hitch.

"You did good, Naz. You all did."

Her words stunned the former gangster, she saw that despite his attempts to hide it. "We still got a long way to go."

The driver of the first truck stumbled before Buckets. Through the smoke of the cookfire the young mercenary fixed Buckets with a glazed expression.

"Sorry about this." Said Buckets. The bandana that masked his face muffled his voice.

A bemused smile found its way onto the mercenary's face. "Strange thing for a bandit to say."

Buckets chuckled, "I suppose you're right. Well, I apologize nonetheless."

The mercenary made one wobbly step towards him before something struck him in the back of the head. When the young driver hit the ground, Buckets pulled the bandana down from his face. "Nice work."

Kiera stood over the driver, her faced beaded with sweat. Twigs were caught up in the curly bundles of her hair and her pants were torn from where they were snagged on branches. Behind her the Mudslingers worked at unloading the trucks. Despite their victory, Kiera looked none too pleased.

"Are you sure this is the right move?" she asked again.

Buckets stood and kicked dirt into the fire. "Can't be sure, but I believe so. Don't you?"

"I don't know what to think anymore. Even if this plan works it will only buy us a little time, then…Who knows?"

Naz approached them both. Most would've sensed the couple's tension and waited an appropriate amount of time before interrupting. Naz however barged between them as if such things were invisible to him. The Mudslinger's nose had been broken so many times it looked disfigured. He didn't seem to care for he just wrapped another bandage around it. Buckets suspected by the time all this was done his whole head would be covered in bandages. "We've emptied the trucks." Said Naz, his voice somewhat nasally, "It's like Clementine said. Crates are marked with the Vulcan Industries symbol."

"How many trips will it take to move them all?" asked Kiera.

Naz idly scratched at his busted nose as he thought. "With the numbers we have and considering those wounded…Two. Maybe three tops."

"Get them moving now." She ordered "We won't have long."

"What of those wounded?" asked Buckets.

"A few scrapes and bruises." He pointed his club over to were a couple of others were patching up another man's bleeding shoulder. "Leff got winged in the shoulder, but it's nothing serious I think. Jules has a dislocated jaw. Frankly, we're all relieved. No one wants to hear him bitch anyway."

"And how are our snake tattooed friends?"

Naz spat some blood out of his mouth, "They'll live. Having them locked up inside their own trucks for safe keeping. Most should be secured by now. All except this one here." He reached down and grabbed the driver by the collar and proceeded to drag him away.

"He's still a brute." Commented Kiera once Naz left earshot.

Buckets nodded, "Yes, as blunt as the club he carries, but he is our brute. They all are. Mudslingers…gangsters turned soldiers. I think, just maybe they found their purpose after all."

Kiera rolled her eyes, but Buckets spotted just the smallest hint of pride in them.