The man whom this world knew as Daffodil Copperfield lowered his telescope.

He considered the glowing soulstone in his hand and tapped a charm on his necklace. “Activate Speak with Dead. Is that you in there, Operative Placeholder?”

“It hurt,” came the man’s voice, the first time Daffodil had heard it without its usual eerie calm. “It hurt. Why did it hurt? It wasn’t supposed to hurt.”

“I didn’t get a clear look. What happened?”

“The halven touched me. She said something, and then everything... dear gods. The things I’ve done. It didn’t bother me. Why didn’t any of it bother me?”

“She stole your conditioning,” said Daffodil, as he raised the telescope again, peering out at the two small figures fleeing the burning castle. He could have used Size Up again to confirm it, but there was no need. “And the fact that she hasn’t gotten rid of it yet means that part of the plan is working perfectly, at least.”

“I killed children...” the spectral voice whispered. “I killed innocents. And it didn’t bother me at all.”

“Yeah.” Daffodil said, watching Chase stiffen and turn and look at the mob that was hauling out the remains of a Councilor or two. Watched her shift and caught the glint of silvery razored cards in her hand before she turned away. “And now she’ll have that same blessing. Or was it a curse? Above my paygrade either way.”

He put the telescope away again, whispered “Master of Disguise,” and made his way out of the rented house, heading down the street and away. Walking New York style, walking with hands in his pockets projecting ’don’t touch me,’ and his charisma was good enough that everyone he saw gave him a wide berth.

And when they were past the gate, the stone pulsed in his pocket again.

“So what happens now?”

We leave. Our part is done. Cover our tracks, burn a few contacts. And we both go home to new bodies and the next assignment.

He started to tell the Operative that. Started to and stopped.

Cards riffled in his mind.

That reading, that stupid reading... once he’d found out tarot was a thing here, and the halven was good at it, he’d had her read his cards.

He shouldn’t have. It wasn’t part of the mission.

But he’d wanted it. It had reminded him of home. Of that Starbucks on the corner, the smell of coffee and overpriced scones, and laughing with Tina and Lou, and that time that Fred had come in wasted, and tried to do tarot. He had been so damn drunk, and they’d laughed at every slurred prophecy.

But this one had been on point. And though she hadn’t even known the question, she’d brought things into stark relief in his mind.

“No warmth. No light. The game is rigged against me, my victory here is hollow and meaningless, and the two of rogues is my enemy. Two of rogues. Two rogues in one body. Does that sound familiar to you, buddy?”

“What?” The Operative was clueless, of course.

Daffodil considered the long, empty road ahead, turned to look at the noisy, alarm-filled city behind. “You don’t know. No reason you should. You’re just a mob after all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t beg,” said Daffodil. “Just don’t say anything. Unlike THAT poor bunch of bastards, you’ve earned this.”

And he hurled the soulstone against the nearest boulder.

With a crash and a pop it shattered, and the Operative winked into existence, see-through and glowing... and already fading.

“What is this? What does this mean?” The man’s frantic eyes searched him, as he looked down at his suited form and back to Daffodil, over and over again.

“It means I’m done being strung along for a ticket to a train that isn’t coming,” Daffodil said, crossing his arms. “And if the entire game is rigged against me, well, it’s time to flip the table and play my own game.”

“You’ve gone mad,” the Operative said, as he faded away to nothing. “The Patrician will end you for this treachery...”

“Yeah, well,” Daffodil tucked his hands back in his pockets, turned, and walked back toward the city. “Pat’s welcome to try.”