“Father?” LJ knocked on the large, ornate door of his father’s office. Thick, lacquered oak wood was the main material, and the dark glossy surface formed two rectangular doors with radius tops curving inward. Fancy, elaborate designs ran along the outer edges, embossed and painted ever so slightly lighter to really pop out.
“Come in.” His father’s deep, booming voice called, and he took up one of the large, circular, brass handles to pull the two doors back (for his father had a strange peculiarity in which both doors had to be opened at once) and step through the threshold, “Ahh, Junior. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He was, now at nearly sixty years old, only somewhat withered by time. His face was a bit thinner than it was in his prime, but he maintained his distinguished, gentlemanly look, with a shorn beard and similarly short grey hair, slicked back with grease. His form, which was already in a well-tailored, dark grey suit, was cloaked in a jacket worn over just the shoulders. He sat facing away from his son, sipping grappa as he watched the sun fall. His desk was flanked on either side by two of his most trusted capos.
“Could I speak to you in private, father?” He asked, bowing his head respectfully.
“Andrea, Enzo.” His father cocked his head toward the door, and the two subordinates filed out with a nod of understanding, “What is it, my boy?”
“You know,” He sat down, crossing his hands over his lap, “Gareland will be here in a few weeks. Along with her whole crew.”
“You think that’s her crew?” His father asked, still watching out the window, “As far as I know - we’re her family.”
“Father -” LJ tilted his head forward, “They were all very close. I’m just saying you should consider the possibility -”
“As far as I’m concerned, there is no possibility of her betraying us.” His father interrupted, in a tone which clearly showed there was no room for discussion, “Capiche?”
“Father -”
“Capiche?” Lorenzo repeated.
“Capito.” Junior hung his head, partially to show his acquiescence, and partially to hide his snarling maw, “If I may say something else?”
“Of course, son.” He still was turned away from his son, but his voice nonetheless carried a great air of authority, “But I won’t hear anything else about this betrayal nonsense.”
“Yes, father.” His son complied, “I just wanted to say, that it may still behoove you to look into the captain of that ship. I spent a little time on board, there’s something strange about him.”
“Yes, the ‘tobacco farmer’.” Lorenzo said, “I couldn’t find out much, but you wanna know something interesting? He has, or had, a rather large residence. Only about a fifteen minute walk. Do you know how he made the money to afford it?”
“I assume he sold smoke.” The lupine man said, “At least, that was the impression I got of him.”
“That may very well be,” His father finally turned around. Not to face his son, but to fiddle with his keys and open a drawer on his desk, “But take a look at this. He hid it under a mattress.”
He produced a weapon, and placed it on the desk. It was something akin to a musket, but a longer, taller barrel that had a more rectangular framing. The stock sloped downward towards the butt, and in addition to a trigger, under the main housing sat a large, oval-shaped contraption which flipped back and forth, triggering something within the casing as Lorenzo did it.
“You think he’s an arms dealer?” Junior asked, arms crossed over his chest.
“Maybe. Maybe he bought this, or maybe he made it.” Lorenzo replied, grabbing another object from his desk, “Tell me what you think of this.”
The next thing he produced was a small metal symbol - specifically of the three points - black, and made of a shiny metal that had since dulled, no longer heavily reflecting the light.
“Oh shit.” Junior said, “You don’t think -”
“The summit, and the referendum are in only a few months.” Lorenzo replied, “We need to get our hands on him, the second he steps foot on Machiave’s soil.”
—
Meanwhile, someone else was approaching that same residence of Paracelsus’. They weren’t especially tall, but for their height, they were quite lanky. They had an androgynous sort of build, and were fully clad in black leather, which must have been exceptionally hot at that time of year. Upon their head sat a cocked black tricorne from which curly black hair flowed like water and their face was covered by a mask with tinted lenses and a long, beaked mouth stuffed with herbs. Most notable, however, was the individual’s four arms.
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“Oh, hells.” They said, with a muffled, and similarly androgynous voice, “Has his place been raided?”
They stepped through the unlocked door, over some refuse scattered on the ground. Their first move was to traipse over to the kitchen, rooting through drawers and agonizing over their emptiness.
“Where did he leave them?” They thought aloud, slamming shut one of the displaced shelves and sitting down atop a chair to have a moment to think. They used their upper hands to rub their temples and they held onto their upper elbows with their lower hands, “Think… think… If I were a stash of proprietary weaponry… where would I be hidden?”
Then, seemingly having had an epiphany, they rushed up the stairs, tripping over some loose something a few times before ascending the staircase and running to the bedroom.
“Aha!” They saw the discarded mattress, and moreover, saw that the bedframe under it was undisturbed. Then, the stranger took all four of their hands, locked their fingers together as best as they could, and slammed down on the wood, failing to even splinter the surface. “Huh.” They said, observing their own futility.
They cracked their neck back and forth, thinking about what to do. The bed frame was solid wood and far too large for them to move on their own, so they rummaged through the closet, looking for anything large or sharp. Eventually they found what, at one time, was a locked safe. It was heavy, to be sure, but they were able to lift it and stagger their way back toward the bed frame, before dropping it and watching it crash through the wood.
“Ah, lovely.” They said, retrieving the four smaller wooden cases held under the object. They were brown, composed of a relatively weak wood with a green trim, and they were fifty inches in length. As well, there was a more evenly-dimensioned crate in the shape of a cube, which rattled as it was moved.
The figure hummed as they walked back down the staircase, amusing themselves as they carried their bounty away. Just as they crossed through the door again, they stopped, hearing someone walk around the side of the building.
“Hello?” They shouted, putting down the cases and opening them. They were the same as the weapons Lorenzo had discovered, lever action shotguns. They also opened the fifth crate, full of small grey cylinders which they loaded into the guns. “I know you’re here.”
“Wait!” A small, fragile voice was heard, “Don’t shoot.”
“I wasn’t really going to shoot.” They said, “I’m a doctor. What is a kid doing here?”
“You’re not with the men in the suits, are you?” The little boy asked.
“The what? No.” They said. They put their guns away, on little loops upon their waist which were, peculiarly, the exact size to hold them securely, “I’m Fra.”
“I’m Luca.” The little boy said, taking a tentative step toward them.
“Well, ‘Luca’, what are you doing sneaking around?” Fra asked.
“I saw those men break in here a few days ago.” He explained, “I figured that anyone who goes against them might be willing to help me.”
“Help you?” They asked, quirking an unseen eyebrow, “He might. What’s wrong, Luca?”
“Not here,” He shushed them, “We shouldn’t talk out in the open.”
—
At the same time, quite the meeting was happening in a bar. More specifically, this meeting was in the back room behind the main area of the bar, a smoking room currently filled with the stuff, with a dingy look due to the candles being the only source of light, and due to the lack of nice furniture.
“Alright,” A gruff, older woman, named Anita, said, throwing an envelope onto the table, “Marco just sent this a few days ago.”
“Did he find Paracelsus, ma’am?” One of the men, and, based on the way he addressed her, her subordinate, asked.
“I haven’t opened it yet, you dolt.” She replied, sitting down and beginning to do so. She scanned the message for a few seconds, growing more and more exasperated as she did so, before confirming, “No, he didn’t. But before you groan, he says that he believes Paracelsus will be here within the month. Based on where he’s leaving from, he should pop up on the west coast.”
“Well then what are we waiting for?” Her subordinate stood up, “Let’s get going.”
“Calm down, Giuseppe." Anita bade him, “We can’t rush into this without a plan.”
“A plan?” Giuseppe asked, “With all due respect, there’s eight of us in this room alone.” A few grumbles of agreement were heard, “He’s one man -”
“One man,” His boss jabbed, “Who has already escaped a courtroom packed with over three dozen people. The judge’s personal guard - just four men - has more firepower than all of us in this room combined, and he escaped under their noses.” She got in his face, staring him down, “Furthermore, intelligence from Captain Russo suggests that Paracelsus is accompanied by at least three accomplices. And, finally, please do try to remember your station. I will not tolerate insubordination.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Giuseppe gulped, leaning back in his seat.
“Good.” Anita’s face returned to one of utmost refinement and pleasantness, “Now, the first point of consideration - who do we have operating near Finota?”
An intelligence officer, with his hat covering his face and cigar, said, “We have a small contingent - The twelfth are only a few hours away by horse.”
“Have them ready themselves for the journey.” She commanded, “Do we have any Kingslayers nearby?”
“The nearest ones…” The intelligence offer said, flipping through a few pieces of paper, “Leonardo - two weeks away, Michelle - ten days away, Elio and Luna - five days -”
“Those two, what do they specialize in?” She asked.
“They’re certainly not the quiet type.” He replied, “They focus on sheer power. It’ll be impossible to cover up - or blame it on something else, whatever they do. But they do have a focus on hand-to-hand combat, especially in tight spaces.”
“Alright, get them over as well.” The commander barked.
“Yes, ma’am.” The officer replied with a salute, the ring, middle, and index fingers pointing up with the palm toward his chest, before leaving. “I’ll get on it right away.”
“Ok, good, we have some manpower.” Anita sighed a breath of relief, “If we do this right - we’ll all get promotions.”
“Why do the higher ups want him so bad?” Giuseppe asked, a small bit of the tension having left his body, “I heard a little bit about him, but from what I can tell, the battle he lost was of little importance.”
“Yes, that’s what you’ve been told.” His superior office told him, “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. The common report, that he was at the battle of the Strait Montefore, but that isn’t quite right.” She corrected, “It was actually the Blue Hole he was stationed at.”
“So, he’s responsible for losing nearly twenty ships?” The man said, standing up and getting a bit agitated. It was the shame of nearly every revolutionary, whether they were members of the Points or not. The battle of the Blue Hole had taken quite the toll on morale, and especially manpower, in this region of the world, “Alright then, I guess I do see the value in his capture.”
“I hope that’s an understatement!” Anita shouted, stomping her foot on the table to rouse her men, “Because we are going to come down on him with our full might. Once we make the necessary preparations, we’ll make for Finota.”
