"Artifice, make sure this is a closed network," I tell my shoulder as we prep in the loading dock. "No outside ears today."

"Of course, Nicolas."

I buckle the tops of my tall boots, focusing on the task at hand. It felt strange, dawning the lycra but going sans respirator. Hopefully, if all goes according to plan, we won't need the respirators after today. 

Tyler stands beside me, impossibly close, and I can feel the nervous shiver in his body. "It's going to be fine; everyone knows their job," I reassure him, gaining a small smile.

Days had passed since the grand reveal that drove me deeper into my work, and farther from the man I called my husband, we had had a tremendous amount of time to work on his minimalistic skills. Thankfully, Tyler was a quick study, and while I didn't have the means to school him as I would in the school where I learned, we were finding the environment here more than adequate to provide the necessary stress it takes to provoke a Solomonari's instincts.

 But, as I had already come to realize, nothing beats real-world experience. "How's it looking, Rhea?"

She holds the tablet in her hands, nodding towards me. "There is some wind coming from the north. If you can direct the smog towards the ocean, it may dissipate more easily." 

The ocean, I think back to the maps I had been studying so diligently. So, I would need to aim east. We were far off the coast; one would think so close to a massive body of water would lend us to be quite overflowing with moisture, yet the barren wasteland that was New York was dwindling to its last drop. 

The news stations had been dire; they were talking about planning an evacuation, but with little places to go and minimal resources to get there, things were looking bleak for the city in the fog. It lent for the perfect time to test out our theory, to prove to myself that I could do this, that we could do this.

"I'll make a note of it." Walking to a small table, I load a few select pockets down with knives. "Tyler," I call, sliding a sheath and blade onto his belt. "Remember what we practiced?"

"Yes, sir. I've killed a few of these bastards already, I reckon these might come in handy. Are Verando and Marcello comin' along?" I flinch at his name.

"They're going to go ahead of us with Tonic and Reid to clear the building."

"And they are takin' Helen...?" He frowns.

Thinking about it, I tilt my head toward Rhea, and she shrugs. "Um.. no. I don't think so?"

"Well, she's gone, Sir."

"Go home, Helen." Verando snaps over his shoulder as the small group walks down the pavement.

"I'm coming with you. I'm just as useful as either of these two." She gestures pointedly toward Tonic and Reid, who collectively roll their eyes.

"Well, I'd toss Tonic off the roof at any given moment, which would lower your value. Go. Home." His voice is a low growl, and Marcello bumps him with his elbow.

"Let her come. She's been training when we aren't in the gym, she survived in your time did she not?" It's enough to make the gray-haired male narrow his eyes, and Marcello scoffs, unafraid.

 Ignoring the group, he surges ahead and trots up the short steps to a door to bang his fist once. Marisol appears, dressed in a snug lycra outfit, with Eddie close behind. She starts the tedious process of pulling her hair up as she walks down the steps.

"You're late." She comments, giving Marcello a wink as he regards her.

"We have a stowaway." Verando sighs.

"Of course, you've gotten lazy. Go home, Kid." She grumbles to Helen before motioning to Eddie to bring the map. "This is the building we are targeting." She points with a finger, tracing the path from their current location only a few blocks away. 

"There's an elevator that goes all the way to the 50th floor; from there, it's stairs for a few more flights to get to the top. It's the tallest building in that slot so I think we are safe from roof attacks, but it doesn't mean they won't try and come up from the stairwell. Once Nicolas starts moving this smog out, we can see them better, which means they can also see us."

Verando nods, "That's where we come in. Our job is to keep Nicolas and Tyler safe from cats and whatever else shows up to this thing. It'll be a good test of who is on our side and who isn't. I'm sure it will get a lot of attention; once the rain starts, we need to get the hell out of here. Using takes a lot of energy out of Solomonari so we might need to carry them back to the compound. 

If followed, we will take this back street and use this loop until the assailants have lost the trail. Do not lead anyone back to the compound, we can not allow anyone to capture Nicolas or Tyler. Does everyone understand?" 

He's met with a collective yes, and the uncertainty falls over the group. "Reid, Tonic, you know how I operate. Take Eddie and Helen, go up the fire escape, run recon on these allies, and make sure we aren't about to be ambushed. Communications need to be open. Marcello will accompany Marisol and me; we will go in the front door."

As the group splits, Marcello falls in beside Marisol as the trio heads for the massive brick building. It lumbers like a stone giant in the haze; dull lights flicker through the low visibility, disappearing as if engulfed by the smog. 

"It's going to suck being up there," Marcello utters, turning his respirator up. The sky emanates a grayish-brown hue, the color of a puddle; only it paints the atmosphere in the murkiest tones.

Marisol chuckles, doing the same. "We are going to be sitting chickens."

"Ducks, darling." Verando squints through the darkness, trying to see the top of the building. "Any plans on how to get inside without having to conquer an entire building?" 

Marcello motions them to follow him, and the two willingly take his lead, considering his level of experience and the general fact that he'd lived in this city his whole life.

"Just go inside and follow my cue. We need to get these people out of danger; god forbid these damned cats show up." In collective agreement, they break directions, and the man disappears around the building as Verando and Marisol enter the massive front doors that lead into the corporate office. 

The glow of computer screens mixes with the chitter of keys pressed by nails; the main entrance is a pristine gray tile dimly lit to save energy. A woman with glasses glances up at them before returning to her typing, blocking out her greeting with the exhale of her respirator.

As they stand in the entryway, Marisol pulls him aside and out of the way of the doors and view. "How did it go with Nic?"

"Well, he hasn't spoken to me in days. I told him what happened, I told him I slept with Anuetta." She swings to slap him, and he ducks away from her hand, having had this reaction once before. "I did it to avoid being blamed for her murder. There was a plan." 

In a quick motion, she tries to knee him, and he narrowly avoids her assault. 

"What is it with you people and my bits?! I didn't enjoy it!"

"You asshole!" She hisses at him, keeping her voice down as she resorts to pulling the gun off her back and thumping him in the stomach with the butt. He grunts, clutching where the blow landed. "Are you kidding me right now? You cheated on him?! What the hell is wrong with you?! I can't believe I felt bad for you; you have not changed one bit!"

Giving her a stern look, he snags her gun, forcing her to lower to stop drawing attention as the room grows increasingly quieter. "Keep your voice down. I had to do it, if I didn't, then they would have known I killed Anuetta. I was hoping to make it look like a suicide; there was no way she was going to keep her position in court after Nic rose to power anyways.

Of the two, it felt like Mother would be more angry if Anuetta ended up living. But there was no way Naptalion would have pardoned me, and unfortunately, I was right. The bastard took the first opportunity to blame me."

"French bitch." Marisol spits on the ground and shakes her head at him, rolling her eyes in a mirror of his dramatics. "You're a real piece of work."

"How was I supposed to know a deal with Mother meant killing Anuetta?"

"Killing her, not fucking her!" Marisol spits.

Verando flinches, accepting defeat. "He's never going to forgive me."

"Good. You deserve to be alone." 

An alarm goes off, and the pair jumps, ready for the attack. Collectively, the workers stand and begin leaving in a somewhat orderly fashion. Marisol perks, taking advantage of the situation to encourage the mass exit. "Alright! Everyone leaves; time to go home, people, gas leak!"

"Oh! A gas leak!"
"Isn't that the fire alarm?"
"These officials get scarier looking every day..."

"Quickly, please, lest you wish to perish." Verando motions to a suspicious-looking man who eyes them just a bit too close. He hurries out, and Marisol thumps the man once more.

"Shut up. You sound like you're from medieval times." She demonstrates that he should point out where to go as Marcello wades in through the people to get to them. "Good work, that was smart thinking."

"I know. I am that good." He grins and turns his attention to the directory overhead. "Looks like the elevators are that way. I'm going up to the roof to begin securing it. I want to set up a perimeter. You two stay down here and keep traffic moving; we can't afford any security delays; we only get one shot at this. " 

Rushing over the elevators, he disappears into the crowd like a proper special operative. The man was a godsend; between his military training and general sensible nature, it was nice to have one native who knew what they were doing.

Seizing the opportunity, Verando slips away to the main desk, sitting in the swivel chair and shaking his head at the fact the secretary didn't even think to log out. "Artifice, are you seeing this? What type of office is this?" 

The computer shimmers, blinking multiple screens of emails, messengers, literature, and a tiny video of a dancing woman playing in the corner of the screen.

"It's called Janco. This is their corporate headquarters. It would appear it's just a publisher; they run a daily paper. Would you like me to read you one from today?"

A paper? "Like news?"

"Yes. The news."

Marisol motions with a finger across her neck for him to consider a different way to kill time, but he ignores her, taking over the mouse as he moves across the browser, inspecting what the secretary is up to. It would appear she was talking to her mother over some sort of messenger.

 "Artifice, disable security footage." The last thing they needed was someone spotting what they were doing.

"Wouldn't that be wrong? We don't own these cameras."

"They told me it was okay." He closes out the screen, scrolling through the titles of the emails.

 "I wish I knew what all of this meant."

"Well, that's a coupon for dog food- a coupon is-"

"I mean- Never mind. I just am not familiar with all this technology. Why is she talking to her mother so much on corporate time? That's rather unprofessional." 

And strange? As he scrolls, he counts. It would seem she messaged her mother every day at the same time and received just as vague of a response as she sent.

"A mother is someone who loves you. Maybe it makes her happy."

He taps his finger lightly on the table, pondering this. A mother. Mother. Opening the email back up, he tilts his head slightly. I can't wait to see you. Lots to talk about. I think it's going to work this time. 

"Hmm. Probably nothing. How's the work on those cameras coming?" He could revisit this in his downtime; lord knows he'd have much of that later.

"Good, except that one is watching us. I told him you said it was okay."

Verando stiffens, staring at the screen. "Oh. Well. How kind of you." Slowly, he lifts his gaze to see the camera pointed directly at him. "Artifice. Remind me to pour a coffee on you later."

"I've set a reminder."

The computer flickers, squeaking and gasping as it spins up faster than any object can muster, and he jumps out of the chair, diving for the ground as it explodes. Crawling around the desk, he pulls the gun out of his pocket, aims for the camera, and, in three shots, takes it out. 

Marisol rushes over to him as the crowd screams, running for their lives out of the front doors. "What did we say about keeping a low profile!? Also, that was terrible aim." She snaps, crouching down to help him up.

"I told Artifice to disable security cameras; I didn't think it would tell the security guard I was trying to do that." He seethes, aiming his gun at another set of cameras and taking them out in much quicker succession this time.

 Marisol takes out the remaining set, cursing his name while she does it.

"What did I tell you people about using Artifice?! It's too nice, it will tell anyone anything! Artifice is a helper program; it's not meant to keep anyone out. That's why it's called Artifice!" 

Verando snags her as the squealing, whirling sound reaches a higher octave, pulling her down as the second computer explodes. The room is full of screams as the people clammer and shove to get out of the small exit. 

An emergency sprinkler system wets them down with dank sulfur water, and Marisol wrinkles her nose at the smell. The lights flicker and shudder before finally closing off, and the building darkens. "Oh great. Thanks, Doe. There goes the elevator."

"I think we have bigger problems than the elevator. All this commotion is going to attract way too much attention. We need to get a move on if we're going to get this done. Artifice, give the group the go-ahead and tell them to hurry." 

Running across the cluttered space, he kicks out the massive glass window, preparing an escape route should it be necessary. The brick makes for dark spots among the openings and windows, with no lights; the place reminds him too much of the narrow hallways in the depths of the bar. 

Pushing the thought out of his mind, he reloads bullets into the clip on his gun and checks the chamber. While guns weren't his favorite, these had much less kick than the ones of his time. They seemed much more effective at killing the cats than his knives; they would have to do for now.

Marisol chews her thumb knuckle as he approaches her, snagging her handgun to reload it for her as she gawks at the droves of people exiting the building. "Isn't the flight reflex fascinating? They're all running and have no idea why; something just told them to, and they blindly follow the group. For all they know, the danger is outside. Do we have that? Are you afraid?"

"No." His answer is stiff. "I have felt it before, but not enough to make me react this way. We are Alphas. We don't run for anything but our emotions."

She scoffs at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Got that right. You need to beg him to forgive you, get on your knees, suck some polla, take whatever he gives you and pray he can get over this."

"You have a filthy mouth."

Handing her back her gun, he begins to raid through the destroyed desk, searching for anything of value. Me forgiving him was one of the last things on his mind, not because he didn't care but the exact opposite; thinking of it was too painful. 

There wasn't the option to go unforgiven; I'd find a way to forgive him. Maybe the coupling of this and everything else was too much? Too much emotional baggage, too much resistance, too much betrayal. Rooting through the drawers, he produces a small handgun, checking the chamber before sticking it into the slot on the small of his back.

"I think I just like the idea of someone giving it to you for once. You know, that was always a fantasy of mine. Watching you with a man..." She shivers at the thought, and he responds with a look that says he's concerned for her mental health. 

Shrugging, unshamed, she snags a bottle from one of the cracked drawers and takes a smell. "This secretary had a gun and alcohol. Wonder what kind of business this is?"

"A boring one. Everything is pretty well hidden." He snags the bottle from her, taking a long sip. "Let's just try and not die."

"Want to make a bet?" She removes the bottle from his hand, taking a swallow as well. The bitter liquid burns in a satisfying aftershock at the back of her tongue.

"Depends."

"Whoever gets shot first, do it... you know." She winks. "They have to submit." The phrase catches him off guard as he brings the bottle to his lips, and he coughs, sputtering on the burn of the liquid and the startle of her comment. "Oh, I see I have your interest?" 

Is this what they had come to? They couldn't be lovers, so they'd be no better than teenage boys, hormonally driven by their primal desires? How could it have slipped his mind what an addict Marisol was?

"One, you're foul, and you should be ashamed. Two, and who might you partake with?" Surely not? Surely, it was just another of Marisol's attempts at crude humor and shock value.

She wrinkles her nose, jutting out her chin in defiance. "Like you need to know!" But, her resolve is minimal. "Marcello. He's gorgeous." 

Why did that thought bother him? Why did the idea of her being with someone else both give him closure and make his blood run hot all at once? Was he that selfish of a creature?

Verando snorts at her, "He's too high class for you. But, if he agreed, it'd have to be in your ass to make it fair." 

Though, the man was a workaholic. He needed to unwind. At least he could trust Marcello to take good care of her.

She snags the bottle and shoots at his feet, making him almost fall over from the shock. "Oops."

 Verando gapes at her in surprise, a warning growl resonating in his chest, only to dive out of the way as she resumes her target practice. She shoots again, hardly missing his leg. 

"Damn trigger finger." She fires off three more rounds as he quickly retreats to the other side of the desk, taking cover from the deranged woman. "I'll take that as a deal then. Watch your damn mouth, or I'll shoot you in your ass for real next time."