First: Selina is in an abandoned warehouse, trying to save Juan Bay, an accused drug lord older than her by about ten years and in President Millian's blacklist of notorious criminals.

The warehouse door rolls open in a noise of metal against metal. Light pours in, revealing five silhouettes at the door. Selina hisses to the man sitting beside her. "Is there any way out of here? Any other way!" she pleads. The man gives no response, frozen into place when they start speaking.

Second: The cops have completely closed off the area. One of them is her sister, who has no idea of Selina's favorite pastime: skipping class to go get killed.

"We know you're in here," Selina can hear Rhoda say. "Show yourselves immediately or we will open fire."

Despite the cold, a bead of sweat traces its way down the side of Selina's face. She kicks Juan's leg repeatedly. He does not respond. Selina hopes for both of their sakes that he hasn't pissed himself and passed out.

Next: Selina's wearing a shawl over her head, a hoodie over her shirt, and a retractable skull helmet from Halloween, open in such a way that her face is barely visible. All are from her school's lost-and-found. She's currently armed with a toy bow and three plastic arrows.

Footsteps make their way nearer to the crates Selina and Juan hide behind. Flashlights slice through the darkness. Selina knows that if they don't move now, something else is gonna slice through soon enough.

A hand clasps Selina's shoulder, making her jolt in place. The flashlights point their way, and she's dead certain the footsteps are getting nearer. The hand is Juan's, and he stares at her with a face of sudden urgency. "The tunnels!" he exclaims.

Selina grabs his wrist, and gives him a meaningful look. Even through the dark, she can see his ashen, wide-eyed face. Still, he nods.

And Last: She was supposed to be having a Physics Test today. And college professors are never forgiving when it comes to missing tests.

"Over there!" a man's voice calls out. Selina bolts across the room, dragging Juan behind her. A series of deafening shots ring out, striking their previous hiding place. They scramble to the cover of more crates, but the cops are quick to follow. More bullets rip through the air and land their marks on unsuspecting crates.

Selina doesn't bother whispering anymore. "Lead the way! Run!" she shouts over the racket. Juan speeds ahead of her, zigzagging his way to God-knows-where. A glance behind tells Selina to run faster, because the cops are gaining on them and Rhoda looks a tad too comfortable with that pistol. Selina looks down at the cheap bow in her hands and thinks, Useless!

She pulls Juan into the cover of more crates before her sister gets to aim. "We gotta shake them!" she pants as they head deeper into the warehouse. The farther from the door, the darker. The cops have probably lost sight of them, because they split up and stop shooting. The sudden silence makes Selina's head spin in anticipation.

Selina and Juan have already reached the end of the hallway. Juan falls to the ground. Selina kneels beside him, "Get up! We'll get cornered," she hisses. He doesn't listen, and seems to be fumbling with something. Selina takes out a small flashlight from her pocket and shines a weak light at his hands. He's trying to pull open a square, metal slate that looks to be the hatch of said tunnels.

"Let me help," she offers, but the man waves her away.

"I can do this!" Juan hisses through gritted teeth. "Go distract them!"

Selina tries not to think of the abundant things that could go wrong while she jogs back to where the cops are. She climbs a few crates in a different direction from where Juan is working, but not too far off. Peeking through the gaps between the crates, she sees cops down on the other side. Two of them.

She takes one of the arrows wedged between her jogging pants and underwear (no time for class) and aims for what she assumes is a cop's head. She holds on to the arrow's plastic feathers. Pulls back. Lets go.

Zippp--!

"Ow! What the--" The cop fires a bunch of stray bullets that ricochet into nowhere. A pile of crates collapses to his feet, but Selina's pile remains unscathed. Amateurs.

"What?" the other cop turns in alarm. His flashlight beams on the collapsed pile. "What happened?"

"I felt something hit my head."

This biz is improving my aim! Selina muses. She creeps away to find the other cops. Surely, they've heard the ruckus. She catches a glimpse of her sister and the other cops making their way to the scene.

"Where are they?" Rhoda says in her serious voice, guns blazing. Selina can't help but roll her eyes. Rhoda sounds just like that when she's being narrator to their little sister's pretend-games.

Selina gets a clean shot of another cop's head and fires.

"Agh!" the cop cries in a surprisingly manly voice. He doesn't waste any bullets this time, to Selina's dismay.

If she remembers correctly, pistols only have six bullets each. In all, they got thirty shots. Minus six, 'cause loose cannon guy's sure to have none left. So twenty-four shots minus approximately... eleven? That makes thirteen shots to spa--

Revolver. A revolver has six rounds. Not a pistol.

A pistol has about fifteen.

Selina nearly cries out in frustration. Rhoda's head shoots up. Selina shuts her mouth in an instant, but the direction Rhoda is heading for is not hers. It's Juan's. In a split second, Selina's brain decides to take advantage of the dark, the echoes, and the fact that the skull mask she’s wearing can distort her voice.

"You fools!" she shouts from behind her crate. Rhoda isn’t the only one who can play pretend games. The mask of her helmet is down, making her voice deeper and louder. "You're wasting your time!"

To her relief, Rhoda has paused midstep. But her heart leaps when all five cops raise their guns. Definitely the bad type of leaping. Rhoda is still facing Juan's direction, so Selina urges herself to keep talking.

"I am not only a drug lord. But ah... a terrorist!" she insists. What? she mentally kicks herself.

"What?" some of the cops say in disbelief.

"Yes!" she continues. "I have bombs all over this- this place-- this country! In Kaptan! In Laudo!" Kaptan is a prime target because it's the country's capital, and the President now lives there. Laudo is nearby, but is also a prime target because it's the President's precious hometown.

"Why are you telling us, Juan Bay? We're cops!" Rhoda retorts, aiming at random spots near the top of every crate pile.

Selina's thoughts are ripped between 'Why am I telling you?' and 'Don't stutter! Don't stutter!'

"I'm telling you because I've planted a bomb right here! In this very warehouse! It will explode in a few seconds, and you can't tell anyone about my plans!" Selina cackles in the skull’s deep voice, but deep inside, she's admonishing herself for her grammar. It's not 'you can't tell anyone'! It's 'you won't be able to tell anyone'! she thinks, because dammit, she's not illiterate! She's a college student!

Rhoda has backed off Juan, giving Selina a chance to make a run for the tunnels, but when she takes a look, Juan's nowhere to be seen. The scoundrel just took off and abandoned her. Without him as a point of reference, the tunnel hatch is hard to spot in the dark.

Selina grits her teeth. She would murder Juan herself the next time he turns up, but now's not the time. She readies her last arrow, aiming for another distraction. "Prepared to die?" she asks malevolently.

Rhoda's voice resounds. "Why would you bomb the warehouse with you in it?"

Selina bites the inside of her cheek. "... I'm a suicide bomber."

She releases the arrow, and it zooms to her sister's head. Sorry, Rhoda, she thinks. It's just that you're being too meddlesome today! But before it hits, Rhoda catches it in her fist. She breaks it into two. "Plastic," she mutters. Her head slowly rotates to the direction the arrow came from. "You must be the fugitive."

Selina's blood runs cold. She's been found out. She dives to the left as a shot explodes from Rhoda's gun. All of a sudden, a tall pile of crates collapses, threatening to crush the police in revenge for all the bullets they've shot.

"Holy--" Selina starts, but someone grabs her elbow.

"C'mon!" he says.

"Juan?"

He easily navigates his way through the dark and pulls her to the tunnel hatch. He crawls down first. Selina leaves her toy bow and brings out her flashlight. The last she sees, the cops haven't even made their way around the avalanche when Selina climbs down and slides the heavy metal slate shut.

Don observes all the dangerous people gathered in this enclosed hall. Everyone is shouting at the tops of their lungs, guns and blades drawn. Don’s pretty sure that muscular, half-naked weirdo with tattoos on his tattoos has brought an actual flamethrower to the rendezvous.

Don returns his gaze on the long table in front of him, then closes his eyes. He allots himself a moment to gather his thoughts.

Conflict is regular when dealing with gangs. You learn to get used to it: the explosion of firearms, robbery, arson, stalking, stabbing... Yes, there was plenty of stabbing.

″Order! Order!” Icamen shrieks from somewhere behind him. Despite how terrifying she is as an assassin, the cacophony only gets louder. Oh well. She tried. Don leans back into his seat and sighs.

But when the most powerful man in the country declares war on your organization? Well! Things are bound to get more interesting from there.

Don dwells on this, a smile creeping onto his lips. He opens his eyes.

To the left, he sees the burly leader of the Sugod gang, responsible for most of the smuggling and organized theft in the South. He and his men are fuming at the representatives of Layan, which is a group that split from the Western Liberation Front to gain control of their land back from the government in less restricted methods. The leader couldn’t come today. Wasn’t feeling well.

The red-faced Bato leader is furiously yapping about his business rates. He’s all talk, that guy, Don thinks, shaking his head slightly. Bato’s basically the entire drug industry of Carigta. Don looks for the boss of Corazon, a local mafia, but doesn’t sight him.

It’s foolish, really. Because drugs is half the industry. Crime is half the politics. And Mr. President may not realize it yet, but we are half the nation.

Don decides to put an end to the anarchy. He stands, whips out a .38 calibre revolver from the back of his jeans and shoots the cord that keeps the chandelier above their heads. It takes a few more shots, but the chandelier crashes to the table, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. The crowd steps away from the table, and come to think of it, no one was sitting there in the first place. What’s the point of a table this long?

“Silence,” Don raises his voice, but doesn’t exactly bellow. There’s a few clatters from the shattered glass, but what follows is pure, God-given silence. He feels the eyes of everyone on the room fix themselves on him. He raises his own face to meet them with a faux grin. “Don’t make me say ‘please’.”

Yes. I said ‘we’.

The atmosphere is filled with several kinds of negative emotions. Don can’t be bothered to name them. He flops back into his throne and recklessly tosses his gun around. “So,” he drawls, aiming the revolver at the Bato leader just to mess with him. The stout man takes a step back. Don lowers his weapon and smirks.

“What is going on here? I want all of your explanations. One. At. A time.” He jabs the end of the gun in the direction of the Bato leader. “If you may, Sir,” he nods.

Sir, Don repeats in his head. Even though each and every one of these thugs is acting like a petulant infant in need of a pacifier, respect is what keeps gang wars at bay. Even if it is fake.

“Well!” the stout man starts. “My problem is that the quantity demanded of drugs has plummeted these past three months! I’m running out of workers! I’m running out of customers! All thanks to Millian and his- his--”

“Purge,” a man from Layan completes in a ghost-like whisper. “The Purge of The Heathens.”

“Okay...” Don’s eyes switch between the two men uncertainly. He points the gun at the Layan representative, politely urging him to speak. “Your turn.”

The man certainly looks like a ghost. So much of him is wrapped in cloth that he resembles an Egyptian mummy. “Layan needs more weapons,” his low, haunting voice says.

“Layan always needs more weapons.” Don shrugs a shoulder. “What happened to the last batch?”

The ghost hisses. “Sidapa got rid of them,” he spits.

Don holds up a hand. “Pardon-- Sidapa?” The skull-masked fugitive thwarting police endeavors. So they are a threat. “Aren’t they just a teen? They’re even younger than me! How could she possibly break into your well-guarded headquarters and ‘get rid’ of all your weapons? Single-handedly!”

Don doesn’t have a good view at the ghost’s face, but he’s sure to be scowling. “It’s a long story,” he growls. “Layan needs more weapons.”

The revolver falls lightly onto Don’s lap. His hands clasp the armrests of his throne, and he leans forward. He glowers into the man’s eyes. The ghost almost seems frightened at this display. “Layan will get their weapons,” Don finally says. He moves on to the next leader.

“Our major setback,” the burly man in charge of Sugod begins, “Is that Millian’s been closing in on our members!”

Don notes that the man uses the term ‘our’. He hides a smile on the back of his hand. Nothing’s cuter than thieves who share. “Mm?” he urges the man to resume when the smile has gone.

“He’s got Guinto hunting us down--”

“Guinto ain’t real,” a Layan member interrupts. A series of protests from all the groups fill the room.

Guinto is the name of President Millian’s personal firing squad, for when he wants to settle matters illegally. At least that’s what the rumours say. There isn’t any solid proof of Guinto being more than a ghost story, but there are some suspicious events.

Don rubs his face then shoots the already shattered chandelier to remind them of his presence. I’ll buy a new one, he thinks.

The mob was shocked into a sudden quiet, however not as pure as the last. “Whether or not Guinto is real is a debate for another time,” Don says, feeling exhausted. One criminal organization is enough trouble to govern-- let alone five!

But the power such a position offers doesn’t leave one complaining.

“This is where I come in,” Icamen says in her default everyone-is-an-imbecile manner. She steps forwards from behind Don’s throne in her all-black assassin gear. “Notice how Corazon had the guts to skip this meeting?” she says.

“Uh. Yeah,” Don replies, accidentally sounding casual. Mutters of agreement come from the crowd.

“Well,” Icamen gestures with her hand, “they’re dead.”

Whispers and protests fill the hall once more. The look on Icamen’s face is serious, and Don knows she’s not the type to kid.

“The entire familia?” he reacts. Icamen slaps a folder onto the table in front of him. It’s thick and a tad filthy, but it holds together. He opens it lightly with his fingertips. What he sees makes his eyes widen.

Each page has no words. Just pictures. There’s one small picture-- just the face of a member. It’s attached to a bigger picture which displays a mangled corpse in greyscale, presumably of the same person. Don looks away reflexively, but forces his gaze back. Pictures continue in pairs and fill pages and pages.

Don flips through them all-- There’re tons! And at the very last page, there is only one ghastly image: The severed head of Reno-- Corazon’s boss-- staring blankly into the camera. Under it are the words:

We start with the Head.

A chill runs down Don’s spine. He trains his expression to remain neutral. He returns the folder to Icamen in a rather stiff motion. “Where did you get this?” he asks gravely.

Icamen is unfazed. “It was on our doorstep in the morning. It came with the Boss’ headless body. I had to dispose of the dead--”

“Who did it?” Don interrupts, not interested in whatever she had thought to do with the corpse. He’s not even going to bother asking why she didn’t bring this up sooner, in private.

The assassin is probably used to this by now because she doesn’t act offended. “The word was carved into his back. ‘Guinto.’”

This time, the silence isn’t forced. It is completely voluntary. So Mr. President wasn’t kidding about entering a new form of low, Don muses. It’s time to stop playing with pawns. Millian is a force to be reckoned with, but Don is a worthy adversary.

He gets on his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Corazon massacre is a blatant act of war.” He trails off, staring at the remains of his chandelier. A smile plays on his lips. “Two can play at that game.”

“I think Laudo’s been enjoying its peace and security for a rather long time, don’t you?” he adds.

The hall bursts into cheers and yells of approval. From the side of his eye, Don can see Icamen looming towards him. But all he can think of right now is Reno’s chopped off head, and how easy it was to imagine it as his own.

*

“You stand out like a friggin’ cosplayer.”

Don turns sharply at Icamen’s remark, offended. The two, along with a few more members, are in the busiest place in Laudo: the City Market. Don is in gray jeans and a blue denim jacket. Icamen has taken off her assassin gear (which, in Don’s opinion, completely defeats the purpose) and is wearing a plain white shirt with faded purple shorts and slippers. The other two who accompany them are wearing similar rags.

“I’m already in casual clothing!” Don huffs.

Don stares at the back of Icamen’s head and knows she’s rolling her eyes. She whips around, her eco-bag flapping along with her hair. “You’re wearing neon sneakers, you didn’t bother to cover your hair and, Boss, this is a public market. You look like a potential target for Sugod’s next robbery.”

Don stops in his tracks at the accusation. He can’t think of a reply. He considers reminding her that he has to stand out for business matters. So people would recognize him as ‘Bakunawa’, head of the Manaul gang, as soon as they lay their eyes on him. But she already knows all that.

So he shuts his mouth and observes the surroundings. Laudo City Market looks like any other public market: Dirty. Unorganized. Stalls scattered everywhere, and no walls to block nature from entering the establishment. Just pillars. The sun is the main source of light here, forcing Don to regret sleeping late the night before; it’s only eight o’ clock in the morning.

Eight o’ clock is the peak hour of this place. Under usual circumstances, Don wouldn’t have gone, but recent events made him uncomfortable being anywhere without Icamen.

“You should leave,” Icamen says, bursting his bubble.

“What? If this is about the hair--”

Icamen moves closer to him. “Look, this toy you gave me? The time’s too short. You wouldn’t have enough time to scram when the game’s over,” she whispers.

Meaning I’m dead weight. Don tries to look nonchalant to the passers-by as he tries to refute. “I know how to use the toy, and to fix it when it’s ‘busted’--”

“But you don’t know how to play.” She fixes him with an intense stare. Her voice drops lower, and she quits the metaphors. “You’re not a field type of guy. Hell, I bet you don’t even know how to climb a tree. Leave the area, make sure you’re safe, then I’ll go buy you some ice cream when we’re all done.”

Don must have a ridiculously childish look on his face, because Icamen groans. “Don!” she says, exasperated. “You’re an indoor person!”

“I am not an--” Don’s phone dings. He glances at Icamen before taking it out of his pocket. The screen lights up, bearing the notification: General’s Conflict: Good Morning, User! Would you like to play?

Don looks up at Icamen, alarmed. She rolls her eyes. “I’ll see you later, Boss,” she says, ruffling his hair. She walks away with their other two accomplices, leaving a disgruntled Don to abscond.

He watches them, at first. Then he follows Icamen’s orders and takes off. He stops running when he’s three streets away, at a deserted park. He leans heavily onto a towering tree in the middle.

Useless alone, Don thinks bitterly, but immediately shakes off the thought. Brooding is a waste of time, he decides. And sulking only ruins reputations. He takes out his phone to open General’s Conflict when he sees the reflection of the tree above on the screen. He looks up.

″‘Can’t climb a tree’, huh?” he grins.

Three months ago, Carigta was a country of disaster. Corruption among the government officials caused poverty. Poverty, in turn, pushed the desperate into crime. And crime led to all sorts of tragedies, in Selina's opinion. The country was begging for change.

Elections came, and a candidate from a humble province showed up and promised just that. Change. He was an honest-- almost brutally-- and down to earth man with lots of supporters. He ruled his hometown with an iron fist and swore to do the same as President.

Even when there was unrest, his hometown did seem prosperous. The Carigteños thought maybe this man was exactly what they needed.

So he won. Change came...

And wouldn't you know it? The situation got worse.

Selina shakes her head, walking through the metal ground of the tunnels. Carigta just isn't a place for iron fists.

"Juan, it's getting stuffy down here. Are we any closer to the exit?" she asks the man who is slightly behind her and using a heavyduty flashlight to light their way. Selina's glad he thought to bring that along. Her flashlight was far inferior.

"I can't believe it," Juan chuckles. The sound of it bounces off the walls. "You're just a kid! But you saved me! You saved me with a bunch of toys!"

Selina harrumphs, feeling upset at the fact he didn't seem to hear her question. Why do people keep pointing out I'm a 'kid'? I'm already eighteen-- a legal adult!

Selina harrumphs. "I'm not a kid. I'm as old as you," she lies.

Juan scoffs. "That's a bunch of balder, that is. You look as young as my niece."

Selina goes quiet, thinking about how Juan had a niece. How an accused drug lord in the President's blacklist had a niece. Something about the details sounded funny. Plus Juan had been nothing but nice to her this entire time. Him? A drug lord? That's silly!

But then, Selina considers as she listens to her footsteps resounding against the cold metal floor, why would a guy like him know about a shady place like this? That's suspicious.

She's about to ask him straight when she figures he could outright lie to her. She had to be discreet. "Come here often?" she asks nonchalantly.

He stiffens. Then groans. "Kid. I'm married," Juan stresses.

"What?" Selina asks, puzzled. Realization dawns upon her. "No! I wasn't flirting-- That was a literal question! I meant if you went down here! In the tunnels! I'm not--" she continues stammering.

She's glad it's dark, otherwise Juan would see her face burning. I don't deserve this! she thinks, flustered.

Perhaps to save her from her tribulations, Juan disregards the misunderstanding and answers the question. "No. I don't come here often. Hell no. This place gives me the creeps. I used to sneak in from time to time when I was a teen. I wasn't very smart back then. I thought it would be really cool to brag about infiltrating the military's secret tunnels."

Selina jumps at that. "Is this illegal?" she squeaks.

"I don't think so," Juan shrugs, walking ahead of her. "The military hasn't used this place since the Forgotten War."

Right. Selina thinks of a history lesson back in grade school. I forgot.

A huge rat scampers past Juan, sounding like it was threatening to get a restraining order, except in rat language. Juan ignores the grumpy animal, then shines the light on the wall it came from. The beam hits some metal wires curved to become steps on a ladder. "If I remember correctly," he says, "this is our way out."

Juan lets Selina climb up first. The steps lead to a rusty square hatch. Selina pushes it open with some effort, straining her muscles at its weight. Slowly, it lifts and a ray of light sears at her eyes. With a grunt, she throws the hatch back completely and finds herself on the spiky grass of a deserted playground. She inhales the fresh air with a contented sigh and helps herself all the way through.

Juan places his heavyduty flashlight on the playground floor before he gets up with both arms. "Ah," he exhales, squinting at the sun. "Praise the Lord. It's still morning."

"Yeah," Selina agrees, marveling at the azure of the sky, pristine white clouds sailing by. "There's one more thing I want to ask you."

She turns to look at Juan who has just sealed the hatch again. He looks worried, as if she might accidentally hit on him again.

Selina inhales. "You're not really a drug lord, are you?" Just another innocent man who was going to get killed?

Juan's shoulders sag in relief. He shakes his head. "No. Though I use to be… in a bad place a few years back," he confessed with an abashed smile.

Selina's brow furrows. "What changed you?"

Juan looks away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He laughs, as if recalling a happy memory. "Met someone," he says. A distant look takes place on his expression. "They taught me a lot about how to live."

Selina stares at the strange man. Juan lifts his head to gaze up at the sky. "Well, I'll be going now. Take care of yourself, Kid," he says.

"You too! And if the cops come back--"

"I'll manage myself." Juan Bay shows her a pleasant smile, then starts walking away. She waits until he's out of sight to remove the skull helmet, the hoodie, and the shawl. Another mission accomplished, she thinks in high spirits. She attempts to make her way back home when it hits her.

She doesn't know where the hell she is.

*

Selina is lost. Very lost. She has passed the same humungous rubber tree for about eight times without crossing paths with another human being. She must be trapped in some sort of infinity space-time loop. She thinks of her many victories and impossible escapes... to be caught in an infinity loop by the space cops. On the bright side, she can say an "I told you so!" to Rhoda, who ignorantly insists that Aliens do not exist.

Silly... Selina thinks, resting on the grass with her back against the tree's rough bark. She figures she has nothing else to do but wait for the space cops. Maybe they'd take her to their planet prison to spend time with pale, slimy, intergalactic criminals.

Days pass by. Okay, maybe just minutes. It's hard to tell in a time loop. But the space cops do not come. "Where are they?" Selina mumbles, stomach growling in complaint. She looks up at all the vines of the rubber tree. It must be very young, because the vines don't reach the ground yet. "Maybe I'll see their spaceship if I climb up," she muses.

Without further ado, she hops to her feet and begins to climb. She's good at it, or at least she likes to think so. She's been climbing trees since childhood, winning races against playmates. Of course Rhoda would always have her one-upped. But that didn't count. Rhoda is older.

Selina lifts herself onto a sturdy-looking branch with little to no effort. She's a good ten feet off the ground. She looks at the sky to see-- Nothing. No spaceships. No aliens.

She sighs. Perhaps this is their prison for her. To be trapped in the same place and moment forever.

And ever...

And ever...

“Do you ever comb your hair?”

Selina jolts up. She looks for the source of the sound, but there are only leaves, branches, and vines.

"You look like you haven't taken a bath for months," the voice of a lad says once more. Selina looks down and there he is, sitting on a branch not far from hers.

What strikes her first is his neat, bright blue hair, close-cropped on one side. Then his shiny earrings that look like they're made of silver. Then the blue denim jacket that doesn't even look sweat-stained, despite how hot it is and the fact that he climbed up a tree. And last, the designer jeans. How had she missed him?

This guy must be some wannabe fashionista, Selina thinks.

But back to the hair, something about it looked familiar. "Dyeing your hair will shorten your lifespan," she tells him.

The lad who looks about her age grins. "Maybe I'll die before enduring its effects," he replies.

Selina stares at his face. "Do I know you?"

The lad nods. "Yeah. Well, no. We're not on first name basis, but I see you in school."

"Blue hair isn't allowed in my university," Selina says, suspicious.

"Which is why I'll be dyeing it back to dark brown by Sunday," the lad says without missing a beat.

"Huh. That's a lot of effort, don't you think?"

"If that's what it takes to express my individuality."

Selina laughs. This guy is a really hardcore wannabe fashionista. "What's your name?"

The lad shifts on his branch, averting his gaze to the expanse of the park in front of him. "Depends. What day is it today?"

"Aww c'mon!" Selina smiles, forgetting her aching hunger and her tired feet. "Your real name!"

"After you."

"Selina Andoque," she replies proudly, showing off how she's not afraid to give her name to strangers.

"Don," the lad relents. Selina can't see his face, but he sounds amused.

"Don...?"

"Just Don," he says in a singsong manner.

Selina raises an eyebrow at 'Don'. What harm would be done in giving a name? It's not as if a full name comes with an address and a contact number. The Carigtan government isn't that hi-tech yet. Despite all her thoughts, she drops the topic.

"Where are we? I got lost," she instead settles for. She looks straight ahead because facing Don is kind of disturbing her balance, and he isn't looking back up at her anyway.

"I figured," Don says. "You've been walking in circles. You passed by me nine times now."

Selina feels her face burn. "So I wasn't in an infinite loop installed by the space cops?"

Don bursts into laughter, his blue hair bouncing a bit, reminding Selina of some shampoo commercial. "No, no," he sighs. "The only loop you're trapped in is the one you made for yourself."

Selina chuckles. "Deep, man. Deep," she nods.

"I would've thought that the famed Sidapa would know her way around."

Selina freezes, no trace of mirth on her face anymore. Her heart pounds hard against her chest. "I--"

"Or was it Haliya? It’s hard to keep up with media these days," Don cuts through her.

"Uh, no--"

"Come now! You didn’t think I hadn’t noticed those,” he points to the miscellany she tried wrapping up in her hoodie. “Plus you crawled out of the Forgotten Tunnels. I saw that part too. You're the right age and build, and I'll hear all about what you've done later in the news."

Selina opens her mouth. Closes it. Really, she should’ve seen this coming. "How do you know about the Forgotten Tunnels anyway, Don?" she demands.

He raises an eyebrow. "I remembered." He puts a hand on his heart, then says in a sincere tone, "I won't tell anyone, I promise. We’re uni-buddies! Besides, you’re a hero around these parts," he says.

Selina looks back at him and almost smiles.

"Albeit an amateur one."

"Ugh. Whatever. I'm getting down," Selina says.

"Wait!" Don says so urgently that she nearly falls off, turning to look at him. "I-uh..." Any semblance of pride fights to stay on his face. "Could you perhaps help me get down from here?"

"What?" Selina snorts. "Can't you do it yourself?"

"Um… Not exactly?"

"Then why ask an amateur?" she shoots.

Don gives her an irritated look as she jumps down from the tree. "Good luck, Don!" she says. "Nice shoes, by the way!"

"Wait! Hey, come on!" Don protests as she walks away. "Please?"

"What was that?" she calls back loudly.

A pause. "Please?"

Selina giggles. Wait a second... Isn't there class today? Why isn't he in...?

Selina hears something like a deep thunderclap. The noise reverberates through the park, followed by distant screams. She lifts her eyes to see a thick tail of black smoke whip in the sky. Without stopping to look back at Don, she runs to the scene.

The News of Laudo's bombing was accompanied by numerous theories. One presumed that Layan was behind it, trying to gain the President's attention. The bombing, did in fact fill Millian's thoughts. It was his hometown after all. His beloved sanctuary. But Layan was not behind it.

Another theory, Don's personal favorite, said that Sidapa was responsible. She was said to have threatened the police with Laudo's bombing earlier that day. Don can't help but scoff at that. Still, the National Police are conducting a search, as Sidapa had also threatened Kaptan and Magwayen.

The theory Don least fancies is the one that accuses Manaul. All because of several witness accounts of a blue-haired lad half an hour prior to the bombing. Some suspect that the lad was actually Bakunawa: Manaul's feared leader.

What a shame for it to be true.

Icamen's doing a good job so far, keeping her mouth shut. Although her presence alone screams 'I told you so' all the way from the sofa. The sofa is far across the penthouse, but from his mattress, Don can still feel her gloating. He doesn't even need to look.

He would try defending himself, but that would mean actually acknowledging his mistake, so belay that. He's got worse things to worry about anyway.

Don buries his face in his pillow, muffling a frustrated groan. He considers standing up again to check the locks, but he's already done that twice. All the windows are bullet proof. He's made sure of that too, five of his bullets already used up. Icamen is monitoring the security cameras, and if he hovers over her, she'd get the impression that he was... paranoid-- Which is ridiculous! He's not paranoid about getting his head chopped off by a mysterious squad no one knows about. Not at all!

His fist clenches on the bedsheets, then loosens its grip. I'm being inane, he thinks.

Don rolls on his back and whips out his phone, ready to use General's Conflict, when he sees a notification from one of his accounts. Curious, he opens it. He sees which email address had sent a message. Idiots! he thinks. But still, it stared back at him. The topic was "URGENT". Why?

He scrolled down to view the text.

"Print it out."

That was all it read. Under the words was an attachment that, upon tapping, redirected to a receipt of a fully-paid ship ticket from Laudo to Kaptan. "That's unthinkable," Don mutters. And yet despite his financial success, he's never personally been to the capital. His mind lingers on the issue longer than it should.

"You know corruption is still frowned upon, even among criminal organizations," Icamen's voice rings loudly from across the room.

Don turns his phone off. Somehow, she always knows when he's on one of his accounts. "This isn't corruption. This is my fair share," he retorts.

Icamen looks up from the screens displaying security camera footage, unimpressed. Don almost jolts. “Don’t look away! You might—“

"Who do you send all that money to anyway?" She narrows her eyes at him.

"My family," Don replies, deadpan.

Icamen scoffs. "Sure. Do you get Angel Gabriel to deliver it, or does Heaven have wifi?"

Don rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d be in touch with Heaven?”

Icamen laughs at him, then stretches her arms out, yawning. "Don, just tell me! Is it a girl? Or guy? It's got to be a lover of some sort, right?" she guesses.

Don gives her a look. Icamen shoots him a sly grin before continuing. "I'm almost at the point of torturing you for this information," she says.

"So treason is any better than corruption?"

Just then, a phone rings. Don jumps, hand reaching for his back pocket, where he usually keeps his gun. But it isn't there. "Radio," Icamen tells him mechanically, like he's being predictable. Don resists the urge to glare menacingly at her. He looks at the radio and indeed, he left his revolver on top of one of the huge speakers.

Don shifts his gaze back to Icamen, refusing to get up. "Remind me again why I have a radio when you won't let me use it?"

"Because you care about professional image and karaoke is unbecoming of someone in your position," she replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

A phone's ringing interrupts their repartee once more. The one in the sala, by the solarium. Don and Icamen's heads snap up.

"You answer it," Icamen orders.

"It's closer to you," Don points out.

"I answered last time."

"It's literally right beside you."

"Rules."

Don groans, exasperated. "Fine," he says. He stands and walks all the way across the penthouse to pick up the phone. He presses the receive button that produces a small beep! Then he shoves the phone into Icamen's face. She growls, handling it. "Who in hell is this?" she barks.

Don trains his gaze on the security footage while she talks. "Honestly, can't you handle anything yourselves?" she tells them. "Bakunawa's busy!"

Don scoffs. Busy. If you mean 'avoiding assassination', then yes.

Icamen pauses to listen, a morose expression on her face. She sighs heavily, right hand running through her hair. "Put-- Okay! He's coming. If this isn't worth the time, I will castrate you!"

She slams the phone down, forgetting it's a wireless phone, meaning she still needs to press a button for the line to disconnect. Don has a teasing smile on his face. "Tsk, tsk, Icamen. Always so cranky on the phone. What would the underlings think?" he admonishes her.

"They'd think I'm the boss, and you're the friggin' consigliere," she spits.

Don points a finger. "Treason. Right there. Anyway, what's this rendezvous you signed me up for?" he asks.

"'Meeting' has less syllables, if you don't want to waste your breath trying to sound fancy." She exhales. "Foreigners. They want to invest."

Don looks away, to the giant glass window. He already knows he isn't going to enjoy this.

"It would strengthen our side on the war against Millian. Connections and cash," Icamen says.

"And it might as well doom us." Don sighs, fingers wiping down the side of his face from brow to jaw. "What country?"

"Organization is international, but based in Eliaer."

Don's eyes roll so far, he has to cover them so he won't feel cross-eyed. "Because two governments after my head is so much better than one."

"You know what you look like right now?" Icamen scolds. "Locked up in a hotel for a week? You look like an insipid coward hiding from an organization that doesn't even exist."

Don glares at that. But she was right. Nobody has ever seen a Guinto firing squad member. So to all under him, he just seems like a child cowering under sheets from ghosts and monsters.

He growls, scratching the back of his head. "Fine," he concedes, "but it better not be the Quinn brothers!"

*

It was the Quinn brothers. Don strains to keep his expression calm and stoic before those two bumbling idiots prance around with their Eliaeran accents. They're all at the regular discussion room, in the abandoned hospital with burnt walls and blackened windows. Renovated abandoned hospital. The grand chandelier is back, anyway. But the elongated table has left the hall.

Don sits on his throne, concealing his impatience. Other than Icamen who stands by his side, there is no other soul in sight. But of course, Don takes precautions. He's got some snipers hidden around the room.

The towering doors release a loud groan of metal against marble as they are pushed open. Two wealthily dressed men come strutting in. Over their black suits, they wear gold sashes. The newly-repaired chandelier illuminates the ugly scars on both Eliaerins' faces.

"You look charming today, Quinn," Don greets them both.

The older brother scowls up at him. "You still live to flatter yourself, Bakunawa," he replies sharply. His voice is deep and thick, resonating in his throat when he speaks. He pronounces all his B's as V's. Vakunawa.

Don grins into his fist. "But the scars look especially good on you, Chevva."

The Eliaerin smiles bitterly upon hearing his name.

"If only ropeburns and chainmarks didn't heal. Then you'd be just as pretty," comes the younger's voice. His accent is much lighter, and his voice although baritone, is a tad higher compared to his brother. Kair Quinn.

Don clenches his fists, resisting the urge touch his neck. "Enough with the pleasantries. You have a proposition to confer."

Kair smirks, always the prouder of the two. His line of sight wanders to Don's right: Icamen. "Wonderful to see you again, Princess. We were sorry to hear about the old Boss' death. Though it seems strange to me that his consigliere took over the throne instead of his biological heir. To think the old man would actually trust a stray orphan more than his own daughter," Kair taunts.

Don glances at Icamen. Her visage portrays pure distaste. Shockingly, she does not make a move to murder. "Kill yourself before I do," she snarls.

Kair grins.

Don lets out a breath. "Stalling, are we?" he raises an eyebrow at the brothers. The Quinn's exchange a look and begin.

"We propose an alliance," the older, Chevva, says in his hard accent. "A partnership. Between Manaul and Mosa. We want to be able to move freely here in Carigta, with your assistance and cooperation. Ideally, we want to build a base right here, in the midst of this city. Ah, but that can be negotiated upon."

"How does this benefit me?" Don asks. He already knows the answer, but he needs them to say it aloud. Documentation is important.

Also, he would never admit to this, but he loves the tension it creates.

It's Kair's turn to speak. "Mosa is the most powerful organization in the world--!"

"Crime organization. Pardon me. Continue," Don corrects.

"You are pardoned..." Kair looks at him accusingly. The Mosa never seem to acknowledge their own sins as sins. Like having a religion makes them exempted, somehow. Don, on the other hand, has completely mastered being a sinner.

"We have plenty of connections all around the world. We can share them with you. All the money we make in this country will be split with you-- fifty-fifty! Imagine how great you will be then! And let's not forget... I hear you are at odds with your President. Millian, no?" Kair says as if he's being clever.

"Millian is the country's President, yes," Don agrees, unsurprised.

"That was you who bombed his hometown, correct? I saw it in the news. Thirteen dead," Kair adds conversationally.

"There are lots of theories about who exactly bombed Laudo," Don starts, remembering the Bandit. "Though, in my opinion, the bombing wasn't meant to massacre, but rather to scare or show resistance. It was too reckless for my tastes, honestly," he shrugs. And not a single lie yet.

"Of course, of course," Kair nods, even bowing slightly for effect. "But... it comes to our attention that you are being hunted by the President's troops."

Don narrows his eyes. "Now how would you know that?" The annihilation of the Corazon Mafia hasn't been made public, and only few had seen Guinto's folder. The fact that the Quinn’s came only three days after they had received the message is suspicious. Unfortunately, they do not answer the question.

"Having Mosa at your side will guarantee protection from even the greatest governments in the world! We will see to it that you are untouchable. Our power is your power," Kair beams widely, certain that Don could not refuse. Who could, after all? The benefits outweigh the costs, right?

Wrong. For one thing, Mosa is a terrorist organization. Their childish goal is world domination. They aren't here to share. They're here to covet endlessly, and as soon as they can stand on their own in Carigta, Don loses his usefulness and starts to become a liability. It would take maybe five to ten years before they finally decide to kill him.

On the other hand, if he refuses, he is at immediate war against the entire Mosa in addition to Millian's forces. Manaul isn't the first crime organization Mosa came to woo. The others that denied cooperation were dealt with. Mosa got what they wanted anyway.

Hence, the obvious answer is to accept the proposal.

"So you offer me protection, progress, power, and money..." Don says. Despite the situation, he's bothered that the last word doesn't start with the letter 'p'. He should've changed 'money' into 'pay'. Or 'profit'. Profit sounds so much better-- Anyway. "...While I provide access. What makes you think I will condone terrorism in my country?"

Chevva steps forward. "As long as you are on the safe side of the gun, war is good for business," he smirks nefariously. "What do you say?"

Don imagines a Carigta where death is as regular as day, and all the sensible people are in hiding. Terrorism would be rampant, thanks to his acquiescence, and with the present state of their country, perhaps a civil war would be at hand. Don would earn billions from selling arms and explosives. He could own an even bigger penthouse with a huge solarium and a breathtaking view. It was all dandy, except…

It was a Carigta where he wasn’t on top. That irked him to no end.

At least he had prepared for it. What kind of crime boss would walk into someone else's agreement without a bargaining chip of his own? Not Don. Obviously.

"Hm... Consider this," Don begins. At that moment, a phone rings. The Quinn’s look at each other. A moment passes by and neither has made a move. “I can wait,” Don assures them benevolently.

Cursing, Chevva fishes for the phone in his pocket. He answers it growling in his native tongue. Kair stands by almost awkwardly. Chevva’s voice only seems to get louder and louder. He practically throws the phone at Kair who starts barking too. Icamen watches the exchange in confusion. Don raises his eyebrows meaningfully at her. ‘Ahh’ she mouths, understanding, then looks back at the two.

The brothers are full-on arguing now. The expression on their faces look like a mix between subtly life-threatened, and overtly life-threatening. Which only means they've received some economically bad news.

"Something wrong?" Don asks slowly, hiding his amusement. The brothers remain silent, muttering only to each other. "Do you need a recess or something?" he asks again. "To compute how much you've lost?"

The two raise their eyes to him, accusingly. Both practically seething.

"Or how much you have left?" Don adds.

"Thief!" Chevva bellows fiercely, stepping forward. "Vtangshe ehuk!"

Don knows ehuk is used to refer to shameless vermin. Vtangshe, on the other hand, he doesn't know, but it can't be any better. "I've the impression that your men are loose cannons. They best show more caution, if you want what's left of your budget to cover all the ammo," he says, a smile persistently creeping up onto his face.

Kair shouts in wrath. His hand seizes a gun from his sash and points it up at Don's head. Icamen moves swiftly, leaping in front of the throne with weapons drawn and eyes glaring daggers.

"Stand down, Icamen," Don tells her. "Brand new toy, Kair?"

A red dot appears on Kair's suit. Then, in an instant, there are more. Red dot sights aim at both Eliaerin, making them freeze. Hidden in the shadows, Manaul snipers armed with rifles strive to defend their leader. Bakunawa smiles into his palm.

"Drop it. Both of you," Icamen commands sternly, her own .45 caliber pistol clicking ready.

The Quinn's exchange constrained looks. Finally, they throw down their weapons violently. Kair releases a frustrated roar.

"You infidel," Kair growls through gritted teeth. "How much did you take from us?"

That's when Don decides to reveal a huge, menacing grin. "Fifty grand. In Eliaeran currency," he informs, delighted.

"We should have killed you when we had the chance!" Chevva shouts.

"My thoughts exactly," Don chirps. "Now... Unless you have anything more interesting to offer..." He nods pointedly, a gesture referring to Icamen and all she bears. She does look promising. Her gun certainly promises something.

"Vtangshe Bakunawa!" Kair spits, quite literally. "You think we'd come to your country unprepared? You are not the only one we came to bargain with."

Despite all the firearms aimed at him and his brother, Kair smirks. Something is wrong. "Kill them!" Don yells. But before the whole command comes out, an explosion rips through the air. Smoke rises from somewhere near the ceiling, and some of Don's men fall from their cover, wounded. Scorched.

More explosions take down his snipers. Don stands, gun drawn as well. "How--?"

Icamen takes her chance before it's gone. She shoots. Panicked, Chevva runs-- directly in her line of fire. The Eliaerin falls to the ground, blood oozing out of the rip in his chest.

At the same time it takes for Kair to scream his brother's name, the grand doors are blown off their hinges. Don seals his eyes shut as heat and dirt meet his skin. He hears a faraway ringing behind the sound of crumbling walls.

This would be the third time this hospital got unofficially demolished, he remarks insouciantly in his mind. When he opens his eyes, the cloud of dust has yet to clear. Between the fallen metal doors, he sees silhouettes-- Maybe seven. He makes out the face of the one on the center: A buff Carigtan with a predator's eyes. Images flash through Don's thoughts. Severed heads. Reno Corazon. An enemy's message.

Guinto.

A hand appears from the cloud of dirt and grabs his wrist, dragging him fast and away. "Bakunawa! Let's roll!" he hears a voice shout distantly. Icamen's voice.

Don regains control of his legs and runs, under the cover of smoke. Gunshots resound, but Icamen is quicker. She zigzags past the falling debris with Don in tow, to the back door behind the curtains.

What's our plan? Don keeps thinking, trying to project his thoughts to Icamen. He slaps himself, mentally. You're supposed to think of the plan! he berates.

His associates must be on their way, by now. He'd flay them if not. Though that depends on whether or not he'll survive--

A cacophony of gunshots rip through the air, aim improving after every attempt. Don warns himself not to look back, but the temptation is too much, especially when a bullet soars right past his head. They're gaining.

Those gatecrashing, amateurish dastards, Don thinks, though in truth they seem experienced in this line of work. Experienced enough to block their ways out, maybe. The word 'amateurish' reminds him of the Bandit, for some reason, and that gives him an idea.

"Icamen," he calls. "Forget the exit. Go for the tunnels!" he orders.

"Are you an idiot?" she says, pausing for breath. "We'd get cornered there!"

Don strains his legs that already feel as though they are burning to match her pace. "Might be the same case for them!" he replies.

She must get his drift instantaneously, because she whips out a radio and speaks into the speaker. "Rear entrance. Now!" The exit is close now. Icamen and Don speed towards it, only to make a sharp turn right before they collide. Just as they do, the exit doors explode. Don can feel the entire edifice shaking at the amount of destruction.

Where is my revolver? Don thinks to himself furiously. He should've taken it out earlier, but of course it is only for show. With only six rounds, it isn't much use in a gunfight.

"Ah!" He finds it in the pocket of his leather jacket. Whilst running, he turns back. He doesn't really aim so much as estimates, then he fires. A man gets hit in the neck and blood sprays. Pain sears against his skin as a bullet grazes his shoulder.

Don runs faster.

Icamen makes several sharp turns and charges down flights of stairs to confuse Guinto. The intruders seem farther behind now, to Don's relief but--

BAM!

Icamen pulls Don behind a wall of concrete just in time for a wave of heat and light to force them down against the hard floor.

"Right. Ghost organization in league with the President," Don grunts out in a restrained voice. "Of course they have grenade-launchers."

"Get off your ass, Bakunawa!" Icamen pulls him up, and her grip is steel. More explosions commence, making Don want to recite the Geneva Convention-- which explicitly bans any form of violence in hospital areas-- at them, but something tells him they won't listen.

To be fair, he never listened either.

Underground is reached and the tunnel opening is in sight. Icamen practically shoves him in. "Get in before they come!" she ushers. But before she shuts the door behind them, a flash of white light sends an impact that knocks them to the floor. Smoke enters Don's lungs unpleasantly as he crawls towards his consigliere. "Icamen," he coughs out. I promised to lay off smoking, and this is how the world repays me? he thinks bitterly as his eyes start tearing from the pollution.

He nudges Icamen twice, but she remains limp and unconscious. Don places the back of his hand a small distance from Icamen's mouth. His skin is tickled by a mere ghost of a breath. Footsteps start to resound on the other side of the battered tunnel door. With mild hesitation and remarkably no complaining, Don takes both of her ankles and drags her across the metal floor.

The first corridor that appears on his right would lead to the Rear Entrance. This he remembers faintly, but is certain of.

Dragging Icamen, he can only walk backwards. He presses his right shoulder against the wall so he could know when the corridor came up, even in darkness. Without any forewarning, the tunnel is illuminated by the sparks of bullets ricocheting against the tunnel walls.

He shuffles faster, his head spinning. The bullets find their marks closer and closer to Don's body. He gasps as a bullet grazes past his hip. His steps falter, but he keeps his hands firmly on Icamen's ankles. With a growl, he resolves to move quicker, but each step is hindered by pain. He catches a whiff of the metallic scent of his own blood. His throat constricts.

A sharp pain erupts in his thigh, right above his knee, and rips him from his musings. He's been hit. A scream rattles out his throat as he stumbles and falls on his back. He feels the blood out of the boundaries of his skin, oozing through his fingers. His breathing, fast and shallow, feels almost as painful as the wound. He uses every ounce of will left in his depleting consciousness to tighten his grip on Icamen.

"If we both die today," he tells her incognizant body while heaving for breath, "It's all your fault." Icamen does not respond.

With a cry, he gets up and leans against the wall, plodding further with Icamen in tow. Then he falls. To his right.

The corridor.

He tries to make a run for it, but his legs collapse beneath him. The metal ladder of the Rear Entrance is in sight, but his eyes are failing him. He sees a ray of light shining upon him even as blotches of black threaten to steal his vision. Pairs of legs rush towards him.

Guinto has found me, he thinks. I die by their hand.

He clings desperately onto consciousness, but there is no way for it to stay any longer. The last he gets to experience is the roughness of being pulled across the floor, and the vibrations of another grenade.

It hasn't even been a full week before Selina comes across Juan's name again. This time, it doesn’t come with the crackle of a walkie-talkie. It is accompanied by the rehearsed, unfeeling voice of a newscaster. ‘Three suspected drug dealers were found dead yesterday, adding to the death count of Millian’s Drug War…’

His name wasn’t there. But the picture was unmistakable.

Selina locks herself into her room for most of that morning, 'studying'. She thinks of Juan when commuting to the University. What he said, or what they talked about. "Met someone. They taught me a lot about how to live."

He had said that. Why would he lie? When Selina was weaponless, defenseless, and he was unconfined, why would he lie?

He didn't, she thinks, making the rage surge higher. What else had he said? Juan was married. Juan had a niece.

Juan was murdered in cold blood, left in the streets as a spectacle of amusement.

Selina is so distracted by her thoughts, that she nearly lets the jypney driver get away with handing her change one mahar short. "It's just one mahar, lady," the driver says, eyes roaming over her lazily. "Just let it go. I have people to deliver."

"That's exactly the problem here," Selina says to the ground, her tone stern, and her voice louder than it should be. "It's just one mahar and you can't afford to give it back." When she looks up, the driver's eyes are less glazed, and he looks cautious of her. He asks the new passengers for their fare, and relinquishes the first mahar he receives. Selina takes it, hands trembling slightly. She stands there, frozen in place for a moment, trying to find her voice to say thank you. She figures the time for politeness has long been spoiled, so she leaves the driver without a word of gratitude.

“Lina!” she hears almost as soon as she enters school grounds. She takes a deep breath before turning around. Two boys her age approach. One is wearing glasses and a pastel blue sweater vest that really isn’t appropriate for the weather. His headphones encircle his neck, probably blaring out decades old hip hop. And there was a mango shake in one hand. Yes, it probably wouldn’t be Jared without the mango shake.

He flashes her a grin, but she can see his brow furrow. “You look terrible,” he says. “Haven’t seen you lately.”

"I've been busy. If you miss one day of classes, you missed a lot." Selina replies with a breathy sigh. She grips the straps of her backpack tighter.

“Well,” the other boy starts. He wears his uniform perfectly, almost like a costume. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his posture is as straight as the school flagpole. “If you need someone to copy from, you know who to ask,” Jophiel, Jared’s cousin, completes.

"You hear about the bombings?" Jared asks, his eyes smiling playfully through his glasses. “The ones orchestrated by Haliya?” The fingers of his free hand wiggle around at the name.

“I thought it was Sidapa, God of Death. Because of the skull helmet,” Jophiel interjects.

“Okay, but Sidapa’s associated with trees, right? Haliya on the other hand is the fierce mask-wearing god of the moon—“

“Goddess of the moon. The fugitive might not be a girl.”

Jared tolls his eyes. “Might not be a boy either. ‘Haliya’ fits better. Right, Lina?”

Selina stares at him, heart beating rapidly in her chest. “Um… How does the moon fit into this?”

Jared heaves an exaggerated sigh. Jophiel smirks in triumph.

Selina shakes her head and decides to get back on topic. "I didn’t just hear about it, though. I heard the bombing. Remember where I live?" she jokes, trying not to think about the thirteen people who died in Laudo’s market.

"Ah right, you were home when that happened. You alright now?"

It took a while for the question to register in Selina's head. You alright now? Were you actually sick in the first place? Why were you absent, really? She considers it. Telling them everything right there.

"What? Oh yeah. Of course,” she smiles, a sinking feeling in her belly.

"Whatever you were absent for," Jophiel says, "you missed the Grand Debate. I mean, honestly, those highschoolers were just plain amateurs, but the last round..."

Amateurs, Selina muses. The word brought blue hair and neon sneakers to the forefront of her thoughts. Not for the first time, she wonders if he’s still in that tree. She almost laughs at the thought.

They walk to the Engineering building, with the cousins chatting pleasantly while Selina herself remains silent. They talk about debates, a topic Selina doesn't much care for, then teachers, something she cares a bit more about. Then they talk about homework and lessons, which Selina was trying her best to ignore up until now. At that, she completely ejects from the conversation and resumes her own thoughts.

Someone is being murdered right now, by the government's dogs. By Millian.

She sighs heavily, looks around at the University. She feels like the world is spoiled for her. For what were all her efforts to muster the courage to skip school, to basically delay her future, to lie to and use her sister for information, to jeopardize the Police's missions, to risk her own safety and well-being, plus the security of her family--

All of that. What was it all for? They were only small acts of good in a sea of cruelty. A country of cruelty, if you may. What did they amount to?

What do I amount to? Selina's eyes follow a leaf as it sails down from a tree until it touches the ground. Her gaze locks on the hard dry earth. She’s tired. Of not being able to talk to her friends and family. Of having to shut them out. They wouldn’t appreciate it. Wouldn’t understand. “Where are you, Don?” she mutters.

"Andoque!" Jared snaps his fingers loudly, bringing Selina back to earth. "You okay?"

"Where’s who?" Jophiel asks, suspicious.

"I'm up for it. Whatever you just said!" she blurts abruptly. They said something, right?

"Great! No speeches, or adjudicators, or whatever. Just informal, alright?" Jared smiles.

What...?

"Motion: Assuming technology existed wherein individuals with great probabilities of committing crime could be pinpointed, this house believes the government should use it. Affirm or oppose?" he recited, looking all hyped.

Ah. So Selina accidentally signed herself up for an informal debate. Right.

"Sort of both, I guess?" she replies thoughtfully to get it over with. "Because if the government could find these criminals, that would prevent disasters. But since the criminals technically didn't commit the crime yet, and the future isn't set in stone, the government should just put them under surveillance, and not hold them liable until caught in the act."

"What if they can't afford to catch them in the act? Example, let's say hijacking a plane. It would already cause a lot of paranoia and chaos if you waited for the criminal to do anything punishable," Jophiel points out. Selina rolls her eyes. Really, who has time for hypothetical arguments?

Jared nods at his cousin. He points a finger at Selina. "Also," he starts in a serious tone, "to give the opposition a fighting chance, let's revise it. Use the extremes. The government should use it to penalize the criminal before the act. Not just surveillance."

Selina huffs. "You're making it needlessly complicated," she mutters, amused.

She ponders for a moment, though she already has an opinion. She wants it to come out eloquently because she knows Jophiel is gonna shoot her down as soon as he can, so she wants to at least make it hard for him.

"That technology is largely subject to abuse and corruption," she begins. "You'd be living in a world where people just got jailed without visible reason, because the crime was yet to happen, but was prevented. Don't you think the people concerned would feel unjustified?"

Double negative, Selina cringes. She continues.

"Don't you think they'd feel cheated? Do you seriously think their families would just let you, without protest, just take their father away because he was apparently planning a bank heist--"

"You are forgetting to even-if, Selina," Jophiel, self-dubbed debate master, rudely cuts in. "Besides, I think the lives of the people in question are more important than any revolt or petty grudges they would harbor against the government. They can rant all they want, but their lives were spared because the government took action. Let me give you an example. What if I said a bomb was to go off here in exactly one hour--"

Jared jumps, suddenly all fidgety. It's because of me, Selina remembers. When she threatened to bomb Laudo, Magwayen, and Kaptan, she didn't exactly consider the repercussions. That's probably why she's classified under 'terrorist' now. Because a bomb just had to go off in Laudo, didn't it? Leaving thirteen people dead, while I stood useless in the sidelines--

"--And I could tell you exactly where that bomb is, wouldn't you want me to?" Jophiel asks. Honestly, Selina forgot he was talking. He takes one of those dramatic pauses, and Selina is so ready to make it the death of him. Right before he inhales to continue, she interrupts.

"People aren't bombs. They could be on the edge of exploding, yet choose not to. They can change their minds. Basing their choices off of mathematical probability will prove to be inaccurate. And even if it were accurate--"

"Are you willing to take that chance?" Jophiel interrupts her interruption. Insufferable. "That small, improbable chance the crime will not be committed? This technology could have prevented the terrorist attack three years ago, or the hijacking of the Surly Planes, or the serial killings of Pascoal the Feared. Would you sacrifice billions of innocent people, just to see whether or not one would change his mind? And if he doesn't. Well." He makes this gesture of implicit disaster.

Selina is full on glaring at Jophiel's face while he returns a sort of sophisticated look of triumph. By now, Jared is only looking back and forth between them, as if this was the Wimbledon finals.

It's Selina's turn. "You're robbing people of freedom in exchange for absolute security. Think of slaves, or of prisoners. Assume that there are no threats at all in the jail, and no one ever gets hurt. Would that make the prisoners prefer to stay inside? No! Because they lack freedom. Executing anyone who gets out of line is basically limiting the people's freedom. 'You can't say bad things about the government', or 'you can't even argue with anyone'. If you do just one thing that heightens the probability of you committing crimes, say goodbye to your life! The people are not privy to this system, so that’s how it looks to them! You are not allowed to make one mistake, or you're off to prison. This borders on paranoia--"

"Paranoia? But wouldn't the people feel safer? Disasters are being prevented before they can occur. The girl in the news yesterday? She would never have gotten raped. The Layan beheadings? They never would have happened. Wouldn't--"

"Let me give you an example of paranoia stemming from the government's line of 'justified' actions. The extrajudicial killings."

There is a moment of silence, where her friends, both of them, look afraid.

"Everyday, around ten people get killed," Selina resumes. "Suspected drug dealers. Suspected drug addicts. People are starting to get scared because they don't know if these accusations are true or not. In addition, these killings are getting more and more rampant, involving civilians, innocent people, the people the government was supposedly trying to protect. Would you want for yourself a country with fear as its foundation? Has any country ever before thrived as a whole in this way?"

Jophiel opens his mouth, then closes it a few times, trying to find something to say. He comes up with nothing.

"The government's purpose is to protect the Carigtans," Selina states, taking in their mixed expressions of dread and pensive consideration. "Are they not Carigtans as well?"

"Red herring."

Selina spins around to look at Jophiel's snotty bearing.

"Technically, our debate is about whether or not we would allow the government to use advanced technology to determine the criminals before they commit the crime, and Extrajudicial Killings are a complete different matter, because the computation of probability is not perfect, like the motion implied it to be," he reasons. "If you have no further arguments, Selina, then I have to say you defended your stand poorly, and your arguments were weak. That is to say, my side wins this debate."

Jophiel straightens, trying to look like the superior intellect, or whatever the hell. Selina stares at him coldly. He falters, stepping back and glancing away. She concedes. She shrugs with a small smile forced on her lips, "I never really was one for debates."

He returns the smile. "Don't despair, Andoque," he pats her on the back, then slings an arm around her shoulders. "You were excellent. But I can't help it if I'm superb.”

"The only 'super' you are is supercilious," she pats him on the back soundly.

Jared coughs. "Ehem. Yeah, well..." He looks between the two, uncertain. "Um, I think class is starting?"

*

The day is a blur for Selina, for she has spent most of her time in her head. She's been concocting several alternate timelines where she could have saved Juan, and several even more improbable timelines where she could have saved the world. But that is impossible. These social problems have stayed since time in memorial, and time-travel is probably a lesson above her tuition fee.

Questions and under-developed answers fill her head until it overflows. Had the bombing really been her fault? Was it she that failed Juan? Can she offer her condolences to his family? Where is Don?

Home is finally in sight, indigo skies and the subtle glint of early stars standing behind it. She missed dinner again. When she walks in, there is no sign of cognizance, save for the light coming from the room opposite hers. Selina closes her eyes and puts her bag down. She turns the knob as slowly as physics could allow.

In Rhoda's room, only the desk lamp is lit, leaving the rest of the room in dense shadow. The walls of her room are covered in numerous posters of criminals yet to be captured. The ones already caught have been taken down. Her table is a mess of folders and documents.

"How was your day?” Rhoda asks from her chair by her desk. Her voice is quiet and her figure still. A few stray hairs escape from her ponytail, and she's still in her uniform.

"It wasn’t so bad. How was yours?”

Rhoda chuckles drily. “Can’t you tell?”

There used to be a time they could talk all night until the sun rose. Unguarded, sincere, and trusting. But right now, Selina doesn’t remember those times. “Why do you have to do it?” The question is incomplete, but Rhoda hears the rest.

Rhoda's head moves to rest on her left hand, and Selina can see her whole body rise and fall when she sighs. "Those people are criminals. It’s my job to deal with them."

"Your job is to serve justice. Do you think you did that?" Selina asks slowly. Before her, Rhoda seems to age more than her years. Selina is almost sorry she asked. Almost. “The people you shoot could be victims too. Sometimes, crime isn’t a choice. Those people are just trying to survive. To purge a country of crime, you cut the head of the snake--”

“We aren’t the military. To attack a crime boss outright isn’t in our jurisdiction.”

“And that stops you?”

Rhoda pivots around to face her, frustration apparent in her visage. “Look, Selina, I’ll handle this, alright? You just focus on your studies. Try to come home earlier, okay?” The part of her face that isn’t lost in darkness tries a smile. Despite being only two years apart, Selina feels so young in her presence.

Selina nods, unable to meet her older sister’s eyes. The house is again consumed by silence. Selina dithers on leaving the room when an idea crosses her mind. “So… who’s the crime boss you mentioned. Is he really behind everything?” she asks.

“We think so. Not so sure about everything, but there is a helluvalot.” Rhoda yawns out the last word. “His wanted poster is the one on the door,” she gestures.

Selina closes the door to get a better view. There is exactly one poster, although the man looks too young. The name printed on it is the native Carigtan term for dragon, and the reward money is surprisingly high. She wonders how hard it would be to find him alone.

She examines the face as best she can in such a dimly lit setting. Something about him looks familiar. The leather jacket makes him look awfully stereotypical. Dyed hair and earrings? He practically screams gangster. He's even smirking in the picture, the dastard. Though his style is commendable--

This is not the first time in a week that she's seen a smirking boy with bright blue hair.

Her voice dies completely in her throat as she puts the name to the face.

Don is awake before he opens his eyes. He lets them remain shut, trying to figure out the situation he's in. For one, he isn't in his own bed. His bed is layered with thick blankets with folds and creases everywhere to preserve the heat. All he can feel on the bed he's currently sleeping on is a thin sheet of cloth between him and the actual mattress.

It's cold. Quiet. There is a gentle light shining on his eyelids. As far as he can tell, there's no one in the room. He allows himself to shift positions and feels a dull throb of pain in his left thigh as soon as he moves it. His eyes fly open. "Agh.. what the--" He tries to raise his head, but it immediately starts aching too. "Hell..." he mutters, leaning back into the bed.

Memories of the meeting and ambush flow slowly back into his mind, worsening his headache. Great. Now he knows what happened to his thigh, at least. If he remembers correctly, he also got grazed on the left shoulder and the right hip. As soon as he acknowledges it, the respective wounds start stinging, as if raising their hands for attendance. Just great.

Having enough of being injured and helpless, Don abruptly pushes himself up, regretting it immediately after. His head throbs heavily in protest. Shut up, he growls at the unwelcome nuisance.

His vision clears, allowing him to properly examine his present setting. He's in an air-conditioned clinic, with curtains spread by his bedside. Sunlight escapes through the blinds, making the room possess an almost ethereal ambience. Don blinks at it, eyes adjusting. He's been here before.

He looks down at himself, assessing the damage. He's in a blue patient's gown, with bandages on his wounds. The bandages on his shoulder and hip, he can feel, aren't so huge, so they must be healing fast. However, the bandage on his thigh is wide, tight, and stained reddish-brown.

His breath catches in his throat. He stares at the freshest patch of red and feels the world spiral around him. An invisible force constricts his throat. He turns away so quickly that his sight goes spinning.

"Focus,” he murmurs. His throat feels scratchy, causing him to swallow. Broken out from his previous trance, he takes a deep breath and decides to stand up before anything else untoward happens.

Therein lies the rub.

As soon as he's on his feet, his left knee collapses on him, and he falls to the ground with a loud clatter. The wheeled stand of the curtains rolls away, threatening to topple over. Don holds on to his bed, cursing under his breath. "Of all the hapless situations I've had the luck to embody..."

"This is by far, the worst I've seen on you," a voice completes. Don looks up to see a person at the door. Ah, perfect. "But it's not as hapless as it looks," Doctor Gareth resumes.

The man steps in, carrying a clipboard. He surveys Don with his eyes, raising an eyebrow. "I told them," he says, walking in. "They didn't listen."

"Is that so?" Don scowls, trying to get back on his feet.

"I told them to leave sticky notes that said 'Don't stand!' all over the place. Or put a cane by the bed because you were probably going to anyway. But no. They're all like, 'You aren't the head of this operation anymore, Gary!' 'Piss off!' I'm like: Excuse you, doc, I've treated this patient eleven times. You bet your ass he’s getting up."

Eleven? Don thinks. Has it been eleven? He's never cared to keep count.

Gareth kneels down to his right side, then puts Don's arm around his shoulders. He holds Don by the waist and pulls him up. Don makes a wry face at the sting in his thigh, but does his best to ignore it. He steadies himself on his feet, trying to keep balance.

"How long will I have this limp?" Don grumbles.

"It's temporary. Give it a week without any more sneaking out of bed, and maybe it'll disappear. The injury's combined with your malnutrition and naturally weak physique to make this limp so bad. What happened to you? You're soo light compared to last time!" the man teases.

A week? Don considers. Not good.

"Congrats, Don. You've topped your first wreckage," the doctor says in his ever-jovial tone.

Don straightens. "You do not mention that name in public. Everyone refers to me as--"

"We're not in public, My Lord Bakunawa, moon-eater and dragon of the seas. I get the drill." Gareth walks him out the door. The hallway is bereft of people, but spilling with sunlight. Don squints. It's just like how he remembers it.

"You know, as a medical professional, I would advise you to return to your bed, but as an individual with common sense, I know it's useless because you're an idiot."

"Do you ever stop talking?" Don snaps.

He can see Gareth smile from the side of his eye. "Only when people make me," he sing-songs.

"It's serendipity for you that I require your aid, else you'd be forcibly humbled," Don informs him. From what he can tell, the buffoon of a doctor is leading him to the mansion's kitchen. Tyodoro Lorenzo, the politician who inhabits the place, has a contract with Manaul, so the organization has the right to use the mansion as a sanctuary. With the headquarters in its deteriorating condition, the whole organization must be in the mansion right now. Still, there was no one else in sight.

"Does it hurt when you compose sentences like that? More than the obvious physical pain, I mean," Gareth quips. "That's a lot of effort for a threat. Is it because you're too scrawny to use muscle that you use so much words?"

Don rolls his eyes. "If there is someone between the two of us that uses too much words, it's you, Doctor. Is your futile attempt of being loquacious there to hide the fact you're an utter failure?"

They did indeed reach the kitchens. Curiously, there still wasn't a soul in sight. There was always someone in the kitchens. One of the kitchens, at least. Before Don could comment on the fact, Gareth had said something incredibly insipid once more, causing another petty argument. Gareth was the one to cook the food because, in his opinion, anything Don had the idea to consume was 'stupid' ("Instant noodles? Really?") and Don had 'no inkling on recuperation'.

By the time they finished arguing, Gareth had already made classic chicken soup and laid it out on the small kitchen table for Don to eat. "Bon appétit!" Gareth says, throwing out an arm for audience impact.

Don, the audience, did not acknowledge his stupidity. He pretends to examine the soup critically, although he’s already starving. Finally, he puts a spoonful in his mouth. It’s heavenly.

He relishes in the taste of his meal. “Where is my consigliere?” he asks. Gareth sat across him, head supported by his right hand. He cringes. "Who?"

"Icamen," Don answers patiently, too satiated to be unkind. Gareth scratches his chin and shifts to lean on his other elbow. "Icamen! Er, she's alright now, don't worry. Up and about, spouting orders and trying to fill your space while you get better," he smiles nervously.

Only after he empties his bowl does Don realize how suspicious the answer was. It seems that the doctor would rather lie by omission, so perhaps what he said about Icamen being healed is true. Gareth is probably Icamen's idea of a distraction to keep Don from doing anything. She always did care.

"Her concussion wasn't that severe, I suppose, if she got up in less than a day," Don tells Gareth to keep him from sweating like the terrible liar he is.

The older man looks at him, sincerely bemused. Only after a few seconds did he reply, "Uh, Don? You've been out for like six days. Icamen woke up on the third."

"Six days?" Don chuckles to himself. He was in the middle of drinking a glass of water. A moment passes and the glass drops to the surface of the table.

"Six days?" Don exclaims, smacking the table. "And you only think to tell me now? Good God, has Manaul disintegrated? Have the crime rates plummeted? Did Layan get their weapons? Mother of my mother, I've been out for so long..."

"Don, relax! Icamen's got it handled!" Gareth stands in alarm.

"Why have I been out for six days?"

"The sickness took a bit of time to treat-- Calm down!"

"Sickness from a bullet?" Don scoffs.

Gareth gives him a look. "Yes, Don. That's actually possible. But, no. From an arrow."

"An arrow?" Don repeats dryly.

"I'm not kidding. Guinto shot you with a poisoned arrow even if they had hi-tech firearms. It had a tracker, apparently, but Icamen made sure that was disposed of. Don't fuss!" The doctor hurries to Don's side of the table to coax him to his feet. "Alright, no more panicking for you. It's bad for your everything," he says soothingly as he helps Don up the way he did before.

"I can do it myself!" Don lies, pushing Gareth away. His left leg wobbles dangerously but he takes a step nonetheless. She’s been in charge too long. They have yet to come across a soul. "Tell me where she is," he breathes.

"You can't see her!" Gareth blurts, holding Don firmly by the right shoulder. "I lied to you! She didn't really get up yet. She's in a fragile condition, I didn't want you to worry--"

In a swift movement, Don snatches the fork from the table and holds it against Gareth's throat, right under his adam’s apple. Gareth's eyes widen, shocked enough to undo his clasp on Don. The crime boss shrugs him off, takes him by the shoulder and presses the fork harder against Gareth's flesh. Don levels him with an intense glower. "How determined are you to lie to my face, Doctor?" he says through gritted teeth.

Gareth swallows, sweating profusely. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. "S-surely you're-- You're not really going to do this...?" he manages.

Don's eyes narrow. "You're expendable. No hard feelings," he adds in a cheerful tune, although he barely smiles.

Gareth's face falls. He takes one more look at the fork and closes his eyes.

*

There is a room in the mansion that so baronial, it could be mistaken as a temple of worship. It is kept up by huge marble columns with angels sculpted in fine hand. On any special occasion, the walls would be covered with banners and curtains, and the floor with elaborate carpets. There would be small round tables everywhere, all covered in red sheets and a sumptuous choice of viands. And on the platform, there will be a golden seat for the esteemed host.

Today is not one of those special occasions, so the chairs and tables are stacked on one side, the carpets rolled up, and the curtains taken down. But the presence of the golden seat is never to be doubted. Upon that seat is the heir to Manaul's throne, chin raised and eyes promising nothing less than the most severe verdicts.

The middle of three tall wooden doors swings open with a bit more than a low groan. Then enters the one who claimed her birthright and stole her crown. The heir's gaze does not soften, and she does not bother to raise her voice. "I expected you a bit earlier," Icamen says from the high seat, her voice carrying easily to the other side of the room.

Don lets go of the door's handle to slowly limp forwards. "Sorry I'm late. Took me long to find you," he answers in a somewhat hoarse voice. He does not mean to say much to her, as there is already a lot explained by the mere scene he has entered into.

"You look like a mess," Icamen observes with a little smirk growing on her face. Instead of a hospital gown, Don wears a loose nurse uniform with crumples here and there. His hair is disheveled. There’s a pistol in his hand, but they both know he won’t use it. "Get back to bed, Boss. I'll handle things while you sit this one out," she says in the casual tone she normally uses on him. Don can almost believe that nothing has changed. But the greedy glint in her eyes has yet to vanish.

Don limps past the stone angels without an ill word. The seraphs stare in utter silence, unable to intervene in what was always bound to happen. Don stops when he is only three feet away from the platform. He remains standing.

"Big chamber. It could fit the entirety of Manaul," he drawls out, examining the area. "Just you in here?" he asks.

Icamen's jaw tightens. "Yes. Just me," she replies. There is a brief silence before she adds apropos of nothing, "I thought that wound was healed."

Don's head makes the slightest tilt to acknowledge his left shoulder, revealed by a drooping sleeve. The bandage is freshly stained with crimson. Don does not look at it. He takes two slow breaths. "I had trouble asking for directions," he says curtly.

*

Gareth's face falls. He takes one more look at the fork and closes his eyes. Don waits for his answer, believing to have won. There, he was mistaken. Quick as a whip, the doctor twists the fork out of Don's hands. He shoots his other arm above Don's injured shoulder, then brings it down in a quick chopping motion.

"Ack!" Don cries, staggering back against the table. He clutches his wound, hissing.

"Go back to your room, Don. Doctor's orders," Gareth says monotonously. He doesn't look anything like an accommodating doctor anymore.

Don scoffs. "What kind of doctor takes advantage of his patients?" he says sardonically.

"I'm a mafia doctor." Gareth slams a kick against Don's side. Don falls to the floor, his back hitting the table.

Despite the situation, Don cackles breathily. "Then you've violated at least two oaths! Hippocratic and Mafia! Though we're much less like a Mafia now..."

"Shut up! Just shut up, Don! I was going to spare you of this, but seeing as I'm just 'expendable' to you, what's the point?"

Don tries to sit up. "Very well, Doctor. Seeing as I'm in no fit state to take you on, I might as well forfeit. Take me away," Don relents, the mirth leaving his expression.

Gareth looms over him, eyes remaining dulled and hard. He kneels down. Don seizes the bowl on the table and shatters it against Gareth's head. The man stumbles backward, disoriented. Don leaps forward, keeping the strain on his good leg.

"You sorry bastard," Gareth slurs, fumbling to his feet.

"Language, Doctor." Don grips the kitchen counter for support. On different sides of the kitchen, each take their own weapons. Gareth lunges for the knives. Don grabs, with rags in either hand, the pot of scalding hot soup.

*

"The doctor wasn't very helpful."

Icamen's eyes narrow. Her gaze slides to the side nonchalantly. "I thought you liked him."

Don hand twitches at his side. "I don't dislike him," he supplies. He walks forward, keeping his limp trained. A step on the platform has Icamen straightening. She holds his stare, neither of them wishing to look intimidated in the least.

"So the family has come to a decision?" Don asks, referring to Manaul. It's been a long time since he called his organization 'family'. Probably due to the fact it never felt like one.

"For someone who brags of tact, your approach has a lack of strategy. You should--"

"Stop dancing around the issue. I asked you a question," Don commands loudly, an austere expression on his face. Icamen blinks slowly, seeming to break from her cold act.

"I wanted to wait until you were better for this, Don," she sighs, finally sounding like the Icamen he knows.

"You always cared, didn't you?" Don growls, voice dripping with enmity. He knew the day would come. He had hoped it wouldn’t have to. But for all their little jokes about treason, now it stares him in the face.

Icamen almost looks sad for him. Pitying. "That doctor was one of the few that opposed our verdict."

"Which is?" Don cuts in.

All emotion drains from Icamen’s face until there is only tantalizing pride. "I am the new Bakunawa. And there is no space in Manaul for another."

The mere picture of her sends regret in pools. Regret that he hadn’t killed her earlier. “I treated you as an equal,” he snarls.

Her glare is relentless. “On the throne, there is no such thing.”

“Thought as much.”

Icamen grips the arms of the chair tightly, on the edge of her seat. But Don does not do anything sudden. He turns around, towards the door, and limps back where he came from. Icamen is quiet, brimming with suspicion, as Don can imagine. But how stupid can he be if he let himself be consumed by wrath and attacked her right on the spot?

Don stumbles right before the doors. He hears a shuffle of clothes across the hall. Perhaps it's Icamen standing up in concern. "I'm fine," he says aloud, sparing her a glance. She is standing. The sight gives him a twang of melancholy. "By the way. You dropped this," he says dismally. He takes something from the garter of his pants then hurls it all the way to the stage. Icamen's eyes lock onto its trajectory, realizing just in time for Don to scurry off.

Answer: Very stupid.

The grenade explodes behind him, making smoke erupt through the doors. Don takes hold of a gurney, planting his bad foot on its frame and using it as a skateboard. There is no dignity in this, half of him thought. The other half tries not to enjoy itself too much.

He knew every way out of the manor. Ordeal: So did they. He hears Icamen shout a muted command. Two men spring out from the hallway ahead of him. Don restrains his impulse to shoot. "Karyll! Dre! You can't seriously be supporting her madness!" he calls out, putting his foot down to stop the gurney.

Karyll draws out a machine gun and shoots. Don uses the gurney as cover from the rain of bullets, rolling to another corridor. "That's exactly what we're supporting!" Karyll shouts. "You've gone soft, Boss!"

Don is pressed against the wall. He scoffs. "Do you call a public execution of enemies soft?" he says with distaste. His eyes scan the area wearily. His ex-subordinates are clearly out for his blood. There's a chance of regaining their loyalty. If only he knew why they were rebelling.

There's a laundry chute on the other side of the floor. With his frame, he could be able to crawl into it. But there's something he needs to do first.

A door opens. "Honestly, Boss," Dre's voice pops up from beside him. Don jumps, holding out his pistol. "Outlawing prostitution was a bit too far," the man finishes.

Oh.

Don pulls the trigger. Dre dodges then shoots forward with a knife in hand. Don bends backwards, the knife lightly grazing his cheek. "If that's your mindset, then I can't change it!" Don grabs Dre's outstretched arm, turns, and yanks it over his shoulder. Dre is flipped over, his back crashing against the hard floor. Don aims his gun at Dre, but does not shoot. Instead, he sits on Dre's torso. "You should've come at me with a gun." He brings down his pistol to wham it against Dre's head, knocking the man out cold.

Ironically, it was Icamen who taught him all that.

The sounds of footsteps draw near, and they're more than Don can take alone. He creeps into the door Dre appeared from. The room, like any other in this place, is bathed in sunlight from the window. Don opens the window, draws the curtains, then jumps behind a messy desk.

Someone walks in from the opposite door. "Where are you, Boss?" he hears Karyll's voice mutter. Footsteps scurry to the window, and that's when Don decides to pounce. He grabs her from behind, covering her mouth with an iron grip. She puts up a fight, elbowing him painfully in the ribs, and it takes all of his strength not to lose her. He locks his arm around her neck and sticks his pistol to the side of her brow. "Shoot them, or I'll shoot you," Don whispers up from behind her.

Karyll steps into the corridor, Don close behind her. The back-up miscreants Icamen has sent spot her, then spot him. "Fire! Fire!" the man in front gestures, but Karyll's machine gun is already prepared. Her weapon roars as she takes them down. They only get to fire strays.

"Good girl!" Don chirps, ready to knock her out. But she whips around and turns the gun on him. Don dodges, flat on the floor, then seizes her legs. She falls backwards, firing at the ceiling. He tries to wrestle the gun out of her hands, but she's stronger. She writhes and thrashes, struggling to get a good aim at him. Don pulls out his pistol and shoots blindly. The bullet rips through her throat. Karyll drops the machine gun, spurting a fountain of red.

Don jolts away from her, mouth shut firmly. He wipes at himself blindly before taking the machine gun only to find it low on ammo. He tosses it to the side. A pistol would have to do.

Don stands up and limp-runs to the room he woke up in. Everything hurts, but he has to find something. Left turn, he recalls. Right... He scrambles into the room, toppling all the trays, and opening all the cabinets.

Where. Is. His. Cellphone?

All his dealings. His programs. All he's worked for. They're all in there, ready to be hacked open. He has to find Gareth-- He would know!

Don takes the wheeled curtains as the gurney’s replacement. It’s considerably harder to maneuver, but he can manage. He passes the kitchen, but his ex-subordinates are swarming there and rise after him. There's no chance he can find it now. Don fixes his mind on escape. The laundry chute is nearing.

A bullet hits the wheel of the curtain stand, causing him to crash into the floor. The chute is within sight and reach. Don sets aside his pains and crawls.

"Forgetting something?" a familiar voice asks. Don shoots to his feet to see Icamen, her grin dripping with malice. The gunfire stops to acknowledge her. "I thought your prized possession would pass onto me, along with Manaul," she adds.

Don's eyes widen upon seeing it dangling from her hand by a keychain. The keychain is of a black king chessman. The last boss bought it for him. Without pause, Don swings up his gun and shoots it. Icamen jerks in shock as the dead phone clatters to the floor. The gunfire restarts and Don lunges for the chute. With only one thing left to do, he's glad he decided to keep extra grenades in the emergency cabinets of each room when he was still in power.

He pulls out another grenade from under his shirt and takes the ring off. Hauling it over to his terrified usurpers, he breaks into a wobbly run. A second before it explodes in their faces, he dives into the laundry chute and disappears from Manaul.

Bombings have gone rampant all over the region. More innocents were falling victim to this conflict. The President of Carigta has publicly announced his threat on the supposed masked bomber's life, in addition to a notorious crime boss already knowing her face. In summary, it was a hectic two weeks. After trying to map out the roads underneath the city, what had Selina so busy that any plan to get back in the fight was too onerous to attempt?

Simple. Finals week.

That semester had her grades hanging by the skin of the teeth. Her grandmother was starting to lose faith in her, and that was probably the worst feeling to ever exist to sentient beings. So she settled with the strategy of letting the whole situation peter out until her grades were secure once more. What she didn't take into account was how long that would take.

"Rhoda?"

"I'm a little busy at the moment!" Her voice screams impatience, even through the phone. "Is this important?"

Selina eyes dart down to her chemistry book on the floor. 'Yes it is! I can't balance this stupid equation!' she wants to say, but somehow, that seems inconsiderate. Rhoda had been so busy lately. "No, nevermind," she says instead. "Just remember to pick up some milk on the way home. Trinidad says so."

"Yeah yeah, sure," Rhoda replies, sounding distracted. Selina hears a scratching sound that she assumes to be Rhoda's hair on the receiver. There's a lot of shouting in the background, but she can't make out the words. They all seem to be talking at the same time. Selina listens harder, trying to picture the scenario.

Her eyes shoot wide open. "Is that screaming?"

More scratching and shuffling meets her ears. "Call you back later!" Rhoda answers, which isn't much of an answer at all. Selina is definitely sure that is screaming. There's wailing too, from children and babies, and she's certain there's a dog barking--

BANG!

"Rhoda!" Selina cries. The line goes dead. She quickly taps Rhoda's name on the device to see her location. City Hall. A fare away.

She drops her phone on her bed, biting her lower lip, eyes wandering to the chemistry book discarded on the floor. Her hands wipe over her eyes, then move higher to run through her bushy hair. Her fingernails claw into her scalp. "Urghhh!" she growls. She jumps down from her bed, then paces to the other side of the room. Her frustration gathers at the ball of her fist when she punches the concrete wall. The force vibrates through her arm.

College is scary. Her entire future hinges on it, on how high or low the numbers they give her are. College is dancing on the knife’s edge between failure and success. She cannot afford to be sidetracked.

But the path she chose was not one of convenience. Her conscience wouldn’t be able to take it.

*

Okay, breathe in, okay.

The Bandit hides behind a truck across the street, assessing the scenario. There’s a team of Police right outside City Hall. Some are ushering a persistent crowd of civilians away from the building. The wiser minority of civilians have fled the area, but there’s always that stubborn breed that loves taking pictures and being an overall hindrance. She cannot sight Rhoda in all this mess.

Assessment: Maybe a criminal? Another accused?

Loud barking startles her deeper into hiding, successfully capturing her attention. Police dogs. Why…?

The modest firetruck usually parked beside City Hall is pulled out a little further, being manned by fully uniformed firefighters. A tank of LPG is being rushed out of the scene.

Assessment: Bomb threat.

Selina almost turns back home. Ninety percent of the time (by her instinct-founded statistics), a bomb threat is just that; a threat. Back in high school, plenty of anonymous callers threatened the administrators, curiously on the same day as student examinations. For all that she knows, this is the threat she imparted herself. Accidentally.

She is about to exit the area when she notices something. No one is going in. Not the cops, not the dogs. No one. Behind a line of Police shields, someone holds a megaphone. She has watched enough teleseryes to recognize the scene.

Assessment: Hostage-taking.

Her eyes flit around from under the skull helmet (which she has grown rather attached to) looking for a way to sneak in. The whole edifice is surrounded. No door or window is hidden from the eyes of the public. That leaves one final alternative. One Selina finds herself eager to try.

She makes her way nimbly to the corner of an old cemented wall imbued with flora. Thence lies a seemingly chained hatch that is assumed to lead to the sewers. It is not locked, nor has it been pervaded by sewage. She hastily ducks into it, its metal hinges creaking with rust. She slams it shut behind her, thankful of the ruckus, and is swallowed by silent, dusty darkness. She procures a flashlight from the pocket of her hoodie and clicks it into life. White slices black. In the suddenness, she almost feels her pupils constricting.

The air is stale around her, and there is no product of nature in sight. She doesn’t like the Tunnels. But fear aside, she knew it was an asset. A year ago, if anyone asked her to navigate a vast expanse of tunnel beneath the city, she wouldn’t dare. Not if she had an army of bioluminescent friends along. Now, she knows the only thing she needs to fear is people, and company is a feeble thing to rely on.

She holds the flashlight between her neck and chin, so she can access the map she kept in her left jean pocket. Her breathing feels too heavy while she wrestles it out. She flaps it open with one hand, grabbing the light with another. Ridding her thoughts of zombies and ghosts of soldiers, she searches for her current location.

You have a mission… Focus...

She finds the dot she scribbled in ballpoint, by Champagnat Street. Just as she remembers, City Hall has its own opening— only a jog away!

She turns about, making sure she’s facing the right direction, then dashes through, heart threatening to pound straight out her chest. Her footsteps echo forebodingly, sounding as if they belong to more than one person. Her gut clenches at the thought. When she hears small clangs reverberate from the walls around her and sees rats scamper by, she is almost thankful for their presence. Nevermind that one looks large enough to swallow her foot.

There! Ahead, the light shines against a ladder of wires leading up the wall. She folds the map messily, stuffing it into her pocket, and all but jumps on the wires. The impact echoes through the tunnels, making her resolve to move faster. She tucks the flashlight back into her hoodie, turning it off, and— Bad idea!

Darkness envelops her, almost too tangible to breathe in. Her stomach is flipping violently in fear as she feels blindly for the next rail. She climbs like mad until her head thunks against the closed hatch above. She frees one hand to fuss over her disguise before pushing the hatch with all the strength she can muster. It lifts, lighter than she last remembers. Light does not meet her eyes, but the darkness appears softer. She breathes in fresher air and pushes the tunnel all the way—

CLANG!

Her heart stops. She tries again, pushing with even her head this time.

CLANG!

It’s stuck. Selina hears a low jingling in front of her face. Chains, she thinks bitterly. Of course the Mayor won’t leave the tunnel open! She’s surprised he hasn’t cemented it yet. This mission was doomed from the start!

Stop, stop, stop, think, think, think…

Judging by the silence, there is no one around. She raises her head to keep the hatch open, so that her free hand can reach for her flashlight.

She turns it on and sways it around. She’s in a small room. Some sort of bodega. There are boxes cluttered around and some junk that hasn’t been used for ages. On the wall, there are stairs that lead up to a door. That would be swell and all, if she could actually get to it!

Carefully, she lowers the flashlight onto the room’s floor. She’s gone too far to give up now. She steps higher up the rails so that her entire back is against the hatch’s door. She takes a deep breath. One, two, three—

CLANG!

She bucks against the hatch over and over, praying the chains would come loose. The back of her head explodes in pain as it catches on the thin edge. If she weren’t wearing a hood, she might have been bleeding. Her grip tightens as she tries to steady her vision. One, two, three—

A rain of sound, metal against metal, graces her ears the chains fall out of place. She springs out in victory, but alas! Thanks to adult female biology, her hips are too wide to fit through!

She flips around on her back, hands flat against the floor, then kicks the door as hard as she can. It only takes four kicks to get the rest of the chains off, freeing her lower body. She squirms out and wobbles to her feet, grabbing a wooden table for support. If only she brought a bottle of water.

She zips past the boxes, climbing up the stairs. Whatever is out that door, she will face it with Nerf gun blazing—

The doorknob only rattles. She rams her body against the door. It doesn’t budge.

What. In. HELL.

She punches the door, roaring. Her fist doesn’t hurt that much upon connection. The door’s only plastic. She runs back down the stairs to find anything that could help her. Cardboard and papers won’t do. Her eye catches a glint against her flashlight’s beam. She pushes off the pile of documents above it to find an entire box of sharp and rusting items. Most are for gardening. A thin blade, a gardening scissors, a broken chainsaw. Her gloved hand settles on firm wood that’s yet to decay. She drags it up. It’s an axe. Why would City Hall have an axe?!

She weighs it in her hands. It’s more of a machete than an axe. She takes it begrudgingly, and walks halfway to the stairs when she decides she really doesn’t want to be the psychopath in a horror movie. Her flashlight scans the area for any alternative at all.

Oh! How hadn’t she noticed? One of the weapons she dug out of the box was an old gun. She takes it up the stairs with her, along with the machete. She places it beside the knob, pressing down the safety. Okay…

She fixes her stance. It can’t be that hard, right? But what if she needs it against the hostage-takers? She sighs and lowers the gun to the floor. She places both hands on the hilt of the machete, holding it like a baseball bat. She’s had worse ideas. She grits her teeth. “Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, swing!”

One swing is enough to get the axe stuck through the door. She pulls it out, kicking the door in her struggle. She puts an arm through the hole and unlocks the knob, relieved to hear it click. Here’s when the real trouble starts.

She finds to her dismay that the door leads to another dark room. However, this one seems to have been recently inhabited. The door is open, flooding light from the outside. She clicks her flashlight off. Her head is woozy from all the adrenaline, but she is certain she hears voices outside. One orders someone to check on the noise.

She hides behind one door, machete on one hand, gun in another, and flashlight in her pocket. She supposes there is no need for a Nerf gun now. There is nothing left to do but listen. Her sweat damp hair sticks to the back of her neck uncomfortably. She tries to peek through the gap between hinges, but her view is hindered.

Someone steps in.

The man is younger and lankier than she expected. The only thing that distinguishes him from any random guy is a black band of cloth around his brow.

That, and the machine gun hanging from his neck. The man cusses, in search of the light switch. Selina bites the inside of her cheek. He gives up on the switch and walks right past her, clumsily kicking past items.

Selina could walk straight out the door. Or, she considers, she could injure the man while she still has the element of surprise. That would be one bad guy down. Embracing this logic, she raises her gun and aims. This is for the greater good. She pulls the trigger.

Click!

Oh no.

Click! Click!

It’s not loaded.

The man whirls around, but before he can fully turn, Selina leaps forward and delivers a swift kick to the back of his leg. He crashes to the ground with a shocked yelp. Selina kicks down his back and, without thinking, smashes his head with the flat of the machete. The man slumps over, unconscious.

She takes the man’s gun—it’s a machine gun, she realizes—and slings it over her shoulder. She throws the other gun aside.

“What was that?” she hears faintly. She jumps across the carpet of light to the other side of the door. The light outside eases her almost as much as it blinds her. She’s on the ground floor, and so is everyone else. All the hostages are rounded up in the center of the wide hall, and there are at least two criminals visible, clad similarly to the other one. Another two appear, headed her way.

Selina runs across the open door again, headed for the bodega. “Over there!” she hears one say. She squats down beside the stairs where she hopes is their blind spot. The bullets come before the men, annihilating whatever scrap objects kept in there. The men step down and cease fire. They’re bigger than the other one, she notes. Angrier. One looks back at her. She fires.

The recoil pushes her back against the wall as her line of fire spins out of control. They’re fazed for a second before returning a fiery vengeance. Against her better judgement, she runs. Bullets trail her as she rounds the room like a maniac. Her mind is a meld of drums and screaming. She hops behind the metal hatch and—Thank the Maker!—the bullets rebound. She flips the gun in her hands. No time to aim. She brings it above the hatch and fires blindly around the room. Just when she thinks she’s about to go deaf, there’s a dull thunk and the enemy’s fire ceases. One man is down. The other is nowhere to be found.

A bullet whizzes right past her eyes and she falls backwards in shock. The other man stands a few feet away, by the boxes. Selina rolls, dodging the barrage of bullets, until she’s at his feet, too close to shoot. He aims at her, but she’s quicker. She kicks his shin and his leg collapses beneath him, sending a trail of stray fire to the ceiling. He scrambles to his feet, but she swings her gun against his head. He falls over, nose spurting blood. With all her might, Selina swings the gun like a golf club in a professional competition. He’s out cold.

Selina slumps down, sitting over the man’s unconscious body and huffing in exhaustion.

Where was I? Hostages. Right.

She drags the gun off the man’s body. It’s definitely in a better condition than her makeshift golf club.

When she gets back up, there is no hesitation. She runs straight into the light and shoots at one of the criminals. The man only gets to fire strays before falling over in bloodied pain. The hostages are just as surprised. Several scream, and children start crying.

Selina takes cover behind City Hall’s extravagant stairs. When she lifts her head to fire, what she sees stops her cold.

“Put down the gun, Haliya!” the woman says. Her hair is dyed blonde. She has her gun against the side of a little girl. Her face is wet from crying, and one cheek is swollen. The sight of it makes Selina’s blood boil in anger. The girl’s wearing a coat that’s too big for her, wires snaking around beneath it. “Put it down, or I’ll detonate the bomb.”

Selina throws her gun down. “Let her go!” she shouts, the helmet’s vocoder making her sound more intimidating. She must be a sight: an oversized hoodie and a toy mask along with mismatched shoes. She must have left the machete downstairs.

“Okay.” The woman shrugs. “After you take off the helmet.”

Selina’s eyes widen and her heart seems to fall into an abyss. More terrorists come over to stand by the blonde. City Hall seems to go mute. Her hands won’t move.

“You are hard to find,” the blonde says. “We wouldn’t dream of resorting to this otherwise. Remove your helmet and come with us. Unless the souls of these hostages mean nothing to you?” She sneers devilishly, finger still upon the trigger.

Selina is frozen. There has to be a loophole. Another way for both her identity and the hostages to be safe. Where she doesn’t have to make a decision. If she takes off her helmet, Millian would know. He’d find her.

A sniffle breaks her from her trance. The little girl sobs softly. She looks terrified.

“It’s alright,” Selina tries to tell her, but the vocoder makes it sound wrong. Her hands touch her helmet hesitantly. The path she chose was not one of convenience.

She takes it off.

City Hall echoes with gasps. The little girl sees her true face, bruised and sweaty. “It’s alright,” she whispers, her voice shaking. Something in the girl’s hazel eyes wants to believe. The blonde smirks triumphantly.

BANG!

Selina hears the girl scream. A terrorist falls over, a hole clean through his head. Automatically, the blonde prods the girl forcefully, and a high-pitched beeping noise resounds.

“No!” Selina races forwards to get the girl away from the terrorists. The blonde fights her, and at that moment, it’s obvious: She wants to get out of this alive.

Another shot rings through the hall, hitting the blonde in the arm. She falls backwards. Selina whirls around to see where the shot came from. Relief flutters in her chest. On the second floor, Rhoda stands tall, pistol still extended. “The bomb!” she shouts at Selina as if they’re on the same team.

Selina kneels before the little girl and wrestles the coat off her. “Get out! Everyone, get out!” She shouts, her voice rasping. The hostages run free, panicked and distressed. Selina throws the bomb on the ground and sweeps the girl off her feet. “Rhoda! Let’s go!” she calls over her shoulder, but to her horror, Rhoda heads down to the bomb and kneels before it.

Caught between saving the little girl and saving her sister, she stops dead in her tracks. The girl clings tightly on her neck. Her hiccupping is silent, but she’s still crying.

Selina rushes out of the hall with her in tow, jogging cautiously down the stairs. A crowd of people sweeps by her like a violent current. “Take her!” she screams at an officer in the midst of the chaos. “Take her!”

The man lifts the girl from her hands, a startled expression on his face. “Get her out of here!” Selina orders the cop, then darts back into the building. In the distance, at the foot of the grand stairs, she sees Rhoda’s figure still kneeling by the bomb.

“Rhoda! Don’t be stupid— GET OUT OF HERE!” Selina shouts at the top of her lungs.

Rhoda takes no heed. Selina kneels down beside her and tugs at her shoulder, but Rhoda remains adamant. The beeping grates at her ears, seeming to fill the entire hall.

Beep.

She sees her sister’s face, sweat-damp and drained of color. Her hands move fast among the explosive’s wires without tremble. She grits her teeth, visage portraying steely determination. Belying the fear in her eyes.

Beep.

“Please,” Selina begs desperately, trying to drag her big sister away from the cruel device. Hot tears fill her eyes. “Rhoda, come on!” She doesn’t budge.

Beep.

She’s always looked up to her sister. Always knew she would be the one to go far. Always felt that no matter what, her sister would be there, fighting by her side. She doesn’t want to stop feeling that.

Beep.

I can’t leave her, Selina closes her eyes. I can’t. And thus, two sisters meet their end, unparted.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep—

Heat radiates from the asphalt, courtesy of the afternoon sun. Don has managed to steal a jacket to cover his bright blue hair, but not much else. He thinks he’s escaped Icamen’s radar temporarily, but he can’t be too sure. His wounds have stopped bleeding, at least. But he knows it’s not long until he starts to smell.

It’s been two days since the Mutiny. He should’ve expected it. Should’ve thought it through.

Everything is a scathing reminder of what he’s lost. The narrow alley reminds him of his luxurious penthouse. The coarse, grainy ground, cold at nighttime, reminds him of his soft mattress and comforter. His own foul smell reminds him of his bloody shower. Even the alluring scent of fresh bread coming from the bakery beside him reminds him that he used to have so much more at his disposal.

When passers-by look at him, he flinches. His chest squeezes tight. There is a low chance of them recognizing him, without all his default accessories. But what if they do? He is vulnerable. Anyone could come over and take his… what? What has he left? There is nothing to take. Most people want nothing to do with homeless filth like him.

Somehow, this attempt at assurance feels like a lemon-soaked knife plunged into his sternum. He always knew he’d die young. This fate is so much worse.

His stomach grumbles, empty and acidic. Not for the first time in the day’s long hours, he slips into an uncomfortable sleep, shying away from the unforgiving sun.

*

He awakens to something small and soft being thrown at his head. His eyes blink into focus. He’s still on the same ground, in the same miserable state. Of course. He glares at the item lying before him. He blinks. He must be delusional. Minutes pass. It’s still there: a small, dusty bread roll. Normally, he’s above eating off the ground, but his stomach grips at the sight.

He bites into it; minimally. He imagines Icamen standing over him. Not too fast, Boss, she tells him. Her tone is smug. Tantalizing.

He takes a larger bite. His throat is dry, and he barely swallows. What he’d give for a glass of water. He glances furtively at the bakery. The face of the old lady at the counter betrays nothing. The bread might as well have fallen from the sky.

Manna from heaven, he muses. He’s finishes the bread, craving for more. And he’s thirsty. So thirsty. For the first time in days, he wills himself to stand. His legs wobble beneath him. He places a hand against the wall to keep steady.

There must be a faucet somewhere.

*

He drinks from the Market’s wash area. Not sanitary in the slightest, he knows, but it’s a relief to be able to wash the grime off his face.

Look at you, Icamen smirks in his mind. How the mighty have fallen.

Ice spikes through his chest. When he leaves, people are staring at him.

He settles down on the rim of a fountain, on the outskirts of the market. The fountain is old and unmaintained. Its waters have turned a murky green color. Don looks at the bustling market, people rushing past even as the stalls prepare to close for the evening. Only last month, this market had been in disarray. He had bombed it. And yet here it is, preparing to work another day. Don has to commend its resilience.

He wonders if he has any allies left. Any subordinates he’s gained from his position have steered away their loyalty towards Icamen. Gareth would likely never forgive him. He expects no less. He wistfully recalls the image of a ship ticket receipt, but it’s too late for that.

There is no one to help him but himself.

He’s been through poverty before, but his mother was there. Her diligence had paid for their clothes, their food, their little apartment. She worked endlessly to bring him to school, buy him books, and surprise him with a trip to the lake once in a while. He never wanted to disappoint her.

He remembers the rage he felt whenever people whispered about her. Scorned her for her ‘profession’. He used to detest her for it, but he was just a boy. It had never been her fault. The fault belonged to so many people, hiding behind titles and privilege, but never her. She was blameless.

A bicycle whizzes past Don, breaking him out of his reminiscence. He shakes his head, a scowl on his face. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that.

He supposes what he did to earn money before wouldn’t be an option now, as the only person he could assassinate for is Icamen, and she is the enemy in this situation. Giving out valuable information to the government is below him, and with Millian on top, he knows it would eventually lead to his demise. Of course, Don would rather die in squalor than beg for alms. That declaration is coming unsettlingly close to reality.

There is a lot of options left to choose from. Crime is a wide industry, after all. But he needs to be more careful this time. Or maybe he doesn’t. He can’t go any lower than he is now, can he? He hopes not to surprise himself. He has all the time in the world to plan it out.

He doesn’t have allies. It has always been just him. And that’s all he needs.

*

Don does most of his observing during nighttime, where the cold makes sleep near-impossible. He covers most of his face with the shadow of his jacket, trying to hover close to crowds. Nothing untoward has happened so far. When the sun starts to rise, he navigates back to his usual spot beside the bakery to rest. Always, there is a roll of bread waiting for him upon awakening.

Walking around town routinely for a few days, one begins to notice people wanting things. Small things, like how that guitarist wants to impress that waitress, how that group of inebriated men want to catch a chap off-guard. But more pertinently, Don notices how a certain group of people really, really want to break into a house.

It’s not a certain house per se, but more like any house at all. They’ve been house-watching an entire neighborhood and, to be fair, the size of those estates are not to be brushed off.

“It’s a wonderful color, isn’t it?” Don says, walking up to one of them caught in the act of staring at a house longer than socially acceptable, and way too early. The woman starts. “I think grey complements the gentle pink of the sky at sunrise,” Don continues, trying to affect the disposition of an affable passerby instead of a scheming homeless person (which he actually is).

The woman eyes him suspiciously. “Yes…” is all she says before turning away. She wants to leave, but is trying not to make it so blatant. “It’s paradise compared to where I live in,” Don rambles. “What with all leaky pipes and peeling walls. Can’t get a decent night’s sleep there.”

The woman huffs derisively. “You actually live someplace?”

“You can’t stop me from dreaming.” Don looks at the sun-bathed house and smiles. “Do you think the owners would allow me inside? I want to know how it looks like.”

“Get your head off the clouds. No one would allow a creep like you in their house,” she says. Don is disappointed she doesn’t tell him what she knows. Another thing he’s noticed from his walks is that this house is uninhabited. The owners are obviously away. And yet she doesn’t break in.

“Fine,” he laughs. “I’ll climb over the wall then.” He steps forwards, to the edifice’s low walls. It seems like it was designed primarily to tempt robbers. He places his hands against the wall and looks mischievously behind him. “You coming?”

The woman’s eyes are wide, and she steps backwards. “You idiot!” she hisses, her eyes bouncing around the said house. “There are CCTV’s everywhere!”

“If it’s just CCTV’s, I can handle it!” he shouts before she can leave.

She looks enraged, as if she can’t believe the idiocy that has insulted her presence. “They have a security system! Five minutes in, and you’re dead. The Police will come for you!” she warns.

Don is surprised technology like that exists this far from the capital. To average citizens, anyway. Maybe the owners used to work for him. “You’re bluffing!”

“You—I’m not!” The woman looks around at the street. No one there. “Go find out then!” she dares.

Don decides that’s as far as their conversation goes. He steps away from the wall, seemingly abased. “Alright, alright. I was only joking,” he pouts. “I suppose dreams stay dreams.” He looks at his ragged shoes, rubbing his hands together. “So… What’s your name?”

When he next looks up, the woman is already storming away.

*

Point one: Homelessness puts life into perspective. Other than the insecurity and desperation, one also gains an edge of freedom. There’s something about being at the lowest one can possibly be that makes one feel boundless, or even daring. For example, if one were to, say, break into a house, the worst that could possibly happen is getting jailed. That means, justice ensured, three meals a day and a roof overhead. Though, to avoid the occasional prison riot and violations of human rights, it would be preferable not to get caught at all.

Point two: There are many ways to cheat a CCTV. One may throw a well-aimed rock at the camera, or simply move in its blindspots. Flashing a light on its lens makes a figure silhouetted, obscuring any distinguishing features. However, the abovementioned procedures only work if the cameras are not hidden, and these methods don’t conceal the evidence of a break-in. The best option is to delete incriminating footage and replace it with uneventful loops.

Point three: One doesn’t gain the title of crime boss from laying idly in lavishment. Maintaining a position that high, one needs to become indispensable; that is, one must be the smartest, most meticulous person with the highest contribution in the industry. Programming computers is one of many skills that contribute to that end.

Point four: Another misconception is that crime organizations engage in only illegal activities. That is inane. Manaul facilitated the production of many legal items as well, even if through dubious means. One alleged item that would be egregiously convenient for a secret crime organization to have monopoly over is security systems.

Point five: Don broke into the house.

*

Don paces around town one afternoon, wearing down his soles. They’re the same dirty nurse shoes, but this time, with comfy socks. He’s wearing a plaid, button-up shirt and black jeans, and his hair is dyed brown. He can’t think of what to do with five-thousand bloody mahars, other than hide them ’til he has a clue. He has, once more, come to a brick wall in his plans.

Icamen would be keeping an eye on his accounts for activity. Her goons should be patrolling the city, but he hasn’t seen them. It appears they have more important things on their hands.

Don browses through a low-priced miscellany store for ideas, but his mind has quit plotting. His eyes catch a glimpse of something glinting at the bottom of a box. He fishes them out to find that it is a pair of green-framed glasses. It matches my shirt, he thinks, gruntled, as he puts it on. The glass did not magnify. They were fake.

He looks into a mirror and smiles. He looks good. Ordinary.

His stomach grumbles, and the image of hot spaghetti surfaces in his mind. He hasn’t had anything other than bread and faucet water for days. I suppose a bit of indulgence could govern my expenses. He thinks this as he hands a thousand-mahar bill to the cashier for his glasses. The cashier looks mortified. Don raises an eyebrow, trying not to look sheepish.

*

“Hey, pretty boy. You’re looking fresh.”

He walks past the rugged man, but finds his path blocked by several others. It’s been a few days since the break-in.

“I don’t have any money, if that’s what you want.”

“Posh guy like you? Why is that hard to believe?”

They surround him now, hungry looks on their faces. There’s only three, and they’re in such tattered clothes that it’s hard to think much of them. Don is still recovering from the shock of them knowing what ‘posh’ means. Perhaps number is how they compensate for the overall pathetic impression.

Don grins brightly at the one before him. Then he throws a solid punch to his eye. Someone grabs him from behind, and he kicks and thrashes. He dodges a punch aimed for his face. Hands shove him to the floor, the impact sending a shock through his spine.

He gets a blow to the stomach, sending sparks to his sight. All at once, the heathens are kicking him. Pain explodes on all sides. The breath escapes from his lungs. Don curls in on himself as the world goes black.

*

The scent of bread is fresh in his dreams, and it is still fresh when he comes to. The sun is too bright and the place is unfamiliar, but he recognizes the street out the window, in front of him. He finds himself on the floor, a pillow supporting his head. His clothes are not his.

He tries to stand up, but anything that isn’t numb aches in protest. The memory of the previous night resurfaces, eliciting a groan. He hears a clink and a plate and glass appears beside him. He looks up at the one who places it there: an old woman, greying hairs and stout arms. Her face is impassive, but not cold.

Don squints until he remembers where he saw her. “You!” he tries to say. She props him up against the wall with surprising ease. “Eat,” is all she replies.

Don takes the plate in his lap but doesn’t obey. “Did you carry me all the way here?”

“It wasn’t that hard,” she says, returning to her oven. He watches her work for a moment before deciding to entertain his meal. He struggles not to gobble it up all at once.

“You should know better than going off alone at night, dressed like that. Only four days ago, you were in rags.”

Don freezes, caught red-handed. There’s no way he could legally earn money in such a short amount of time. He sips his drink—hot milk—slowly. “Why did you help me then?”

She glances over at him, ever unreadable. “You needed help.”

“But you knew. You knew I didn’t deserve it.”

The woman laughs, a harsh sound, as she takes a tray of bread rolls out of the oven. “How can we say who deserves what? I helped you because I would have wanted help in your position.”

Don considers this. Considers his bread. The silence that falls between them is peaceful. “Thank you,” he says at last. She stops to look up at him and smiles, the wrinkles in her face defining gently.

“There are better ways to make money. I know some who might hire hobos like you.”

“I prefer the term ‘derelict’.”

She huffs. “Maybe you would prefer a more intellectual employment.”

Don thinks about this. It’s a more reliable approach, and more discreet. Easier to blend in. He’ll need a newspaper and a printer. Don is searching his memories for a place he could steal one from when he realizes he may be making things needlessly difficult for himself. He turns to the old woman. “Could I ask a favor?”

A text, received.

Jared: Y rnt u @ school?

A text, sent begrudgingly.

Lina: Flu.

Belying concern; irritating, yet comforting.

Jared: Want us 2 come over?

Delayed; concise.

Lina: No.

Faux nonchalance. Not about the flu.

Jared: U k?

Silence; telling.

*

Her body aches and she feels surgically attached to the bed. She should’ve escaped before Rhoda defused the bomb. It was a relatively simple one, apparently. Rhoda received comprehensive training for it in light of recent events. It took her complete attention, to the extent that she only recognized her little sister after it was deactivated.

Millian only came second in the list of people she never wanted to find out.

It’s already afternoon, and Rhoda is at work, but Selina doesn’t rise. If she doesn’t get up, then no one sees her face. Then no one would recognize her. She wasn’t that distinctive anyway. Maybe they won’t recognize her. Drop the chase when they noticed how young she was. Juan noticed—

Or maybe she could stay in bed for another day. The plan was foolproof. Except… she was hungry. Deathly so.

*

“You’re a selfish child!” Rhoda bellows. Selina fights to disagree. She had believed she was acting for the greater good. That had to be worth something. “What did you expect to happen? You’d play superhero and everything would be alright?” That was the original idea. “You endangered everything I sought to protect!”

The last one hurt. She didn’t mean to threaten anyone. But there were other people who didn’t have that protection.

“You’re supposed to be the better one of us two! The one who goes to college! The one who has a future!” Who’s selfish now? “And you just threw it away!”

Selina inhales deeply on the scent of the soup she was making. Simple mushroom soup. Enough to make her stomach beg. But it will have to wait.

There are only two people in the house. Rhoda was working, doing her best to remove the evidence of Selina’s debacle. Their Grandmother had to go to the bank. That left her alone with Trinidad.

The soup boils slowly. Trinidad looks up at her from across the dining table, whatever book she was invested in falling to her lap. Her eyes glitter curiously. Selina stares back, slightly alarmed, but waits patiently. “Are you Haliya?” the question comes at last. Trinidad hadn’t been allowed in the room during the Argument, but the walls aren’t thick.

Selina bites the inside of her cheek. Trinidad’s stare doesn’t falter. “I didn’t pick the name,” Selina settles on sheepishly.

Her little sister is practically squirming in her seat. “Who else knows?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Well, before the whole fiasco, just one guy.”

“Guy?” Trinidad furrows her brow, all her judgement on display. She’s thinking of the cousins J. Selina can tell.

“Notorious crime boss I met in the park after a rescue. Right before a—” A thought she has never considered flits before her mind. “A bombing.”

Trinidad narrows her eyes quizzically, in a you’re-pulling-my-leg sort of way. “The guy behind Rhoda’s door. Met him. Don’t tell her that, though,” Selina elaborates. Trinidad’s eyes light up, caught between running to the poster right now and asking more questions. She squirms even more, probably frustrated with the realization that, unfortunately, she only has one physical incarnation. “Are you in danger?” she inquires urgently.

Selina thinks of the Extrajudicial Killings Millian orchestrated, the terrorists, all the hostages that had seen her face, and a certain wanted criminal asking for help down a tree. “Depends,” she shrugs, too hungry.

“Rhoda would say so,” Trinidad says. As if anyone needed reminding. “She’s only like that ’cause she’s worried,” Trinidad feels the need to add. Although this is the first time it’s been verbalized, it feels like a platitude grating on Selina’s ears.

“It’s unfair! We worry for her too,” she finds herself mumbling.

“You wouldn’t have killed her,” Trinidad points out. “How would you feel if you found out your own sister nearly died multiple times by your hand?”

“Like apologizing,” Selina snarls.

Trinidad stares, contemplative. Selina notes that this was the longest conversation they’ve had, as of late. The thought is disappointing. All of a sudden, it feels as though all three years of their age gap has been closed.

“You two are hard to live up to,” Trinidad admits quietly, surprising Selina.

Perhaps she has been selfish.

Despite her efforts, she’s never been good at words. Never knew the right thing to say.

“Do you want some soup?”

*

No one notices. Of course, there are still some unsettling looks thrown her way, but she’s not the only one that falls under the general description of ‘long-haired female of average height’. Entire schools worth of people are subject to speculation. The typical equatorial physique is something lucky to have at one’s side after all.

Selina finds herself sitting in an obscure restaurant that she has never given much attention to before. There aren’t much people around, and she doesn’t understand why it seems so fancy yet. She’s not even sure what they sell.

“Have an order yet, ma’am?” the girl at the counter-- ‘Wynn’ is what her tag reads—asks. She’s neither rude nor genteel. Just natural.

Selina stares at the menu displays over their heads. Ice cream looked to be in her wallet’s reach. “Are those all your ice cream flavors?” she asked.

“Gelato, ma’am. Chocolate Chip is sold out.”

Selina gives her a level look. “Gelato,” she repeats. What’s the difference? Wynn offers a nearly imperceptible shake of the head to show that they’re on the same page. Something else catches her eye near the corner of a wall. A wanted poster. But, like, for jobs. And she was just the right age.

“Are you still looking for waitresses?” she asks instead. Wynn looks only a trifle surprised when she nods. “The manager’s out back if you want me to get her.”

Selina shakes her head. Not yet. “Is the pay worth it?”

Wynn smirks. “Wouldn’t see my ass here if it wasn’t. Wouldn’t mind the company for Christmas break.” She leans forward, pressing her forearms on the counter and doing away with formalities. She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

Selina decides to drop the professionalism too. She looks at the poster again and smiles. “My name’s—“

“Selina Andoque?”

The two freeze to look at the door where another customer has waltzed in. Selina doesn’t recognize him. And yet he looks at her as if he knows more than the name. She feels her heart drop and her spirit seep away. “Um.” She glances at Wyn who seemed to return to her occupation personality. “Who are you?”

“Ernest Robert Thurin,” the stranger says, answering nothing. “If I’m not interrupting anything, would it be alright to speak with you?”

“Actually…” Selina drawled, but the man went straight to the counter and ordered a plethora of fancy names that Selina was sure he wasn’t planning on finishing alone. He was suspicious. But she was hungry. The decision was made.

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” he offers genially. They sit by the window, Selina scrutinizing him all the while. Neither of them speak until the first order, baked mussels, is served.

Selina forces her stomach to quiet down from both hunger and anxiety. “How did you find me?” she glowers up at him.

“It wasn’t easy, but I am very persistent,” Ernest says, putting a mussel on her plate for her. He could be Carigtan, she thinks. But he was too tall, and his nose too sharp. It wasn’t only his stature that imposed. His clothes were incongruous with their drab surroundings. He seemed to belong to the capital, if not anyplace richer.

“What do you want?” she says next, for the lack of any better query.

Ernest’s light eyes meet hers. “To thank you,” he says very seriously. “You saved my life. I know my sudden intrusion warrants your distrust, but this is truly all I intend.” Selina cannot shake the nerves in the pit of her tum, but considers his sincerity. She doesn’t remember seeing him in City Hall. Her memories of that are blurry now, even if it’s only been a week or less.

She decides she trusts him enough to eat a mussel.

“Why did you meet me here?” she continues, cherishing the warm melted cheese on her tongue. Two plates of garlic rice come next, along with sizzling gambas. She can’t force herself to slow down.

“Admittedly, I wanted to approach you in your university, but you weren’t present. I decided to send someone ahead to your home, but you had left by the time I was on my way there. Luckily, some of my subordinates spotted you entering this establishment. I wanted to thank you as soon as I could, as I plan to return to Kaptan tomorrow.” The words tumble out so elegantly that Selina is already horrified at his conversation prowess.

That wasn’t the only thing that horrified her. This man was important. Societally. And she had managed to attract his attention. He found her within a week. He had people watching her house! If anyone else that powerful and persistent wanted to find her, her only luck was that they wanted to thank her too.

She peppers her gambas, perturbed. “Ernest Thurin,” she repeats.

“That’s me,” he smiles. Then digs into his coat pocket (Who wore coats in Carigta?) for a card to hand her. ‘Thurindustries’ it says. She chuckles. “So… you really just want to thank me?”

His already affable face splits into a wide, sunshiney grin that strangely makes Selina think of dogs. “If you would receive my gratitude. If not for you, my wife would find herself a widow, and my two children half-orphaned.”

Selina decides she can trust that. Maybe revealing her face wasn’t so bad after all.

They chat throughout the meal. About Ernest’s two kids, about Selina’s two sisters. Turns out, Ernest’s appetite rivalled hers. He talked about his distressing business meeting that morning, and Selina talked about how distressing it was to be a fugitive. Although she left out important names and the bit about the secret tunnels. She didn’t trust him that much.

By the time their stomachs were overly sated, and all the leftovers were packed in plastic bags (“My family would like to eat too, you know.”), they had been talking about politics.

“I didn’t vote for him myself, of course. You’d think the capital would be safe, but there are plenty of killings going on there too. I think the deaths in Kaptan make up at least thirty percent? I’m afraid I might not be accurate.” Ernest glances at his phone screen and returns it to his coat pocket.

“They say he’s got his personal firing squad even before he got elected,” Selina adds, taking a swig of her mango juice. She makes a face. It has alcohol in it. “I don’t like alcohol.”

“Leave it,” Ernest waves a hand dismissively. “I believe the rumors. There’s a lot going on that seems too coincidental. That being said,” he downs the last of his champagne, “I do think you should be more careful.”

Selina slumps. She looks over her shoulders to make sure no one is eavesdropping. The place is packed already. They’ve been eating for a long time. “I’m not even sure I’ll continue my… course of action. My sister disapproves, but…” She gestures randomly with her hands, hoping to convey a message.

Ernest nods. “Whatever you decide, I support you. You have noble intentions, and I find you an intriguing individual.”

“You’re not that bad yourself, sir!” Selina raises the glass of spiked juice that she tries to finish in small sips just to keep it from waste.

He chuckles. “If you find you need help, however, you have my card. I will offer you any means of assistance. A life debt isn’t repaid with just one meal, after all.”

“Make it two, then,” Selina laughs. “I’m kidding, by the way. Thank you so much for the meal. I was starving when you came by.”

“It’s the little luxuries. Ready?”

They stood with bloated tums, and parted on the friendliest of notes. Watching him drive away returned a cloud of gloom over her head and a weight in her gut. She was headed home. That meant Argument: The Sequel. She heaves a low sigh that resounds in her throat.

“Guessing you don’t need that job anymore with a guy like that behind you, eh?”

Selina startles, turning to face Wynn and her little smirk. “Oh!” she remembers. She cups her chin thoughtfully. “Actually…”

*

Once she arrives, it is already late. Everyone has eaten and her sisters have gone to sleep. That is a small relief, until she remembers the only person who could have persuaded Rhoda to go to sleep. She turns on the lights to the dining room, and there she was:

Her grandmother stayed up. Selina feels a stab of guilt realizing she made her wait for hours. She didn’t mean to take that long.

Selina waits for an explosion, but Grandma seems contented with just sitting down. Her eyes wield a pitying look would make anyone regret their life choices. Selina is familiar with its effects. One can’t expect any less from grandmothers. No matter who sleeps, the Argument is still alive within these walls.

She thought Grandma would be the one to shout. She usually is, but never for the wrong reasons. Maybe she’s realized there’s been too much of that.

“She’s right,” is all her guardian says. Selina realizes after a second that she is talking about Rhoda. Rage flashes within her.

“But… I can’t just stay here, cooped up! And— And— If I listen to Rhoda—” She has to stop. Her voice isn’t steady.

There were people she didn’t get to save.

Grandmother hums softly, the quiet after the storm. “Rhoda is right that you were reckless. That you put yourself in harm’s way.”

“But I already knew that! I had to!”

“I know, darling. You saved a lot of people.” She stands to smooth her hands down Selina’s arms. Her hands rest atop Selina’s, squeezing lightly, eyes twinkling the way that grandmothers’ often do. “I’m proud of you.”

Selina finds a lump in her throat and cannot speak. She does not move away from the embrace. She closes her eyes and feels a weight lift from her chest.

It felt better than any thank you meal Thurin could offer.