"Ey."

"What?"

"Wanna get outta here?"

"You make it sound easy."

"It's eazy when there's two o' us, come on."

Singer took off his shirt, revealing swathes of scars painted over a thin frame. He tore his shirt into strips and began tying knots into it.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm bettin' even ya know about that one story with a David and a Goleath?"

"You mean Goliath?"

"Ehh, Ynglish is Ynglish."

Singer ended up with two slings, a moderately-sized one, just a bit longer than his forearm, and a shorter one, cut down by just a few inches. He tucked the longer one into his pocket.

"Say, I didn't see you carrying a gun back then," Jack implicitly asked. Singer winced at the mere mention.

"Those—I'd ain't wanna go near 'em. 'Sides, it ain't the best for my line-a work. Gettin' caught's one thing, but gettin' caught with a gun's a darned death sentence, y'hear? Anyways—watch this."

He walked up to his jail door and blew on it, and it swung open.

"What—"

"A'ight, so count us lucky, so'z one-a the guards 'ought he locked it—but hah, we lucked in!"

"You mean 'lucked out'—"

"Sit tight there, Jacky-boi. I'll get ya the keys."

Jack watched Singer crab-walk almost all the way down the corridor, picking up debris as he went along, finally vanishing around the corner. He waited quite a while, listening to echoes of water dripping into an empty bucket. Singer came crab-walking back with a satchel slung across his person. He stopped in front of Jack's bars and produced a ring of skeleton keys from the satchel. In his excitement, Jack grabbed the door's bars, and right before Singer inserted a key, the door swung open.

They both froze and looked at each other. Jack scratched his head while Singer held back a laugh, slapping Jack across the back.

They left through the corridor, passing many other cells. Between the detritus behind those bars, browned bandages laid around piles of old clothes. Best not to think about it—they moved on. They turned the corner, passing a guard who laid still, face down on the floor, beside a tipped-over chair. Singer signaled to stop. Jack stayed crouched down behind him while he huddled up against the closed wooden door. He pulled at the handle, and it creaked ajar. He took a peek through the opening, eyeing a tight alleyway with two guards having a smoke by the end. Vines crawled up the buildings on either side, and roots punched through the walls to cross the footpath, making for shaky footing all the way. Singer carefully closed the door and faced Jack.

"Sorry to tell ya, both-a them's got guns. I'd take out one-a them with one shot, no prob—but we ain't gettin' past the other one."

Hollow calls of gunfire crept through the cracks in the door. Singer snapped around and huddled against the door, peeking through it once more. "Go! I'll get Richard!" one of the men in the alley shouted. The other one nodded and disappeared around the corner, while this one jogged towards the door.

"Jacky! Stay by the door!"

"What?"

"C'mon!"

Jack positioned himself by the hinge. Singer placed a fist-sized rock in the pouch of his sling. He cocked his hand over his shoulder, and the pouch hung across his back, his elbow like a blade pointed towards the door.

"On two, pull the door open and keep yer head down! One! Two!"

Jack pulled the door open and threw himself down. Like a trebuchet suddenly loosed, Singer's arm unfurled in one swing. He let go of the knot on the release cord. The sling flew free, and the stone shot onwards. The surprised guard skidded to a stop to aim and shoot, but the butt of his rifle hadn't yet reached his shoulder when the stone knocked off of his forehead. The impact joggled his face, and his body lost motive power. He fell to the ground and laid still thereafter.

Singer pulled Jack back up on his feet. "C'mon, let's go!" he said, his eyes all wide, and his teeth clenched. "Pick that up!" he pointed as they passed the guard. "What—" "Just get it!"

Jack picked up the shotgun-looking thing. As they reached the end of the alley, the distant gunfire got sharper. They halted right by the corner and Singer took a peek. There, a squad of rough-dressed goons piled down the alleyway, coming right at them. The one in front spotted him. He raised his gun and fired off a shot, grazing against the concrete in front of Singer's face. He pulled his head back, letting out a growl.

"Jack, git ready t'shoot!"

"What? But I don't—"

"You don' gotta hit 'em! Just shoot!"

Singer snuck another peek and quickly pulled his head back before it got blown off. He placed a stone in his sling and helicoptered it over his head. Keeping his distance from the corner so as not to get shot, he imagined seeing the enemy through the wall, watching them come down through the alley, and released. In the 360-degree arc above his head, there was a 10-degree window in which the spinning stone peeked around the corner.

He let loose, and the stone came off with a clean release, but it ricocheted off the side of the alley. Nonetheless, the ricochet managed to hit the guy in front, knocking him down. The force of the ricochet was not unlike a bullet impact, and, seeing their comrade downed, the goons instinctively ducked and hugged the walls for some semblance of cover.

"Jacky! Shoot!"

Jack fumbled. He had one foot out, and his hands were on the trigger and pump, but he couldn't bring himself to step out into the open.

Singer pushed him out. Jack fell down into the middle of the alley. He watched as one of the goons raised his sights at him. Fearing for his life, Jack gripped his gun and fired blindly into the alley—racking the pump, pulling the trigger, racking the pump, pulling the trigger. The muzzle flashes from his own gun blinded him, and the bang deafened his hearing. Thin smoke thereafter fogged his sight, and the dust from his bullets' impacts further obscured the goons from him. Whether or not he was hitting anything, he didn't really care, and neither did he want to know in the first place. By the third shot, the bang of the rifle had turned into mere thumping to his ears. His gun spat out smoking brass cartridges onto the floor, and they bounced off onto the walls, and off the walls and back onto Jack's face—the hot brass plinking off his face felt like being sprinkled with drops of liquid nitrogen.

The bullets he sent downrange ricocheted along the walls. He swore he heard abridged cries. Once Jack's gun went "click", Singer pulled him back in by the legs, and just in time. The ground where Jack had laid was ripped apart in a booming rain of dirt and dust. Amidst the violence of the popcorn kettle that was the floor, Singer itched to take another peek around the corner, but just then did it also erupt in explosions of debris. He pulled his head away and elected to blindly shoot off another stone from the edge of the corner with his sling.

From the floor, Jack had a blurred, tilted view of Singer sending off round after round of corner-shot stones, seemingly even perfecting his technique while he did. He looked down at the rifle he clutched. He hadn't realized that he'd been clutching it by the barrel. He looked down at his numb, burnt fingers. Why couldn't he feel anything? He couldn't feel his legs, either, though he looked down, and they were clearly there. Sounds turned into suggestions.

How did it come to this?

* * *

Neruz climbed through a window, landing on an untidy mess of blankets skewed every which way at the foot of a heavy wooden door. He looked up and caught a glance of a pair of eyes through the door's viewing port before it shut closed. He promptly apologized to the family hiding in their safe room. He went and properly closed and bolted the window and its zombie shutters, and made sure to avoid stepping on their sleeping mats, taking care not to dirty anything more than he did. He strode past their unwashed dishes and set the deadfall bar before coming out of the family's apartment. Closing the door, the deadfall bar fell shut. This family should be safe in the meantime.

He hurried up the building's common stairs, up to the rooftop, where he heard sharp cracks of gunfire. Too early—he thought—Paladin's men must have been found. His boots clacked upon chiseled stone, and his grey duster fluttered in his wake. He hopped between the roofs of the Shade District, some green with bottled gardens, and others green with weeds growing from cracks. He traversed the path he thought he'd tracked some goons earlier. As he did, more gunfire erupted, this time from an alley much closer—a lost battalion?

He skidded and changed direction, catching a glimpse of muzzle flashes from the alley below as he hopped over to the other side. He stopped and creeped to the edge of the building, and saw Jack crumpled up on the floor like a discarded first draft. Standing beside him, there was a topless Singer slinging rocks every which way. He whipsnapped another rock down the alley, managing to hit a goon with a ricochet. Incredible technique—Neruz thought, though he knew they wouldn't last much longer.

The maybe-dozen goons steadily advanced, with two men in front firing as two other men crouch-walked forwards to replace them, themselves standing and firing for another two men to crouch-walk to the front. Instead of reloading, they passed their rifles to the back and received a new one, while the ones at the back loaded fresh clips of ammunition into empty rifles and passed them to the front.

Neruz hopped to the next rooftop. Dust sprinkled over Jack, and he looked up and saw only a crack of light in the sky. Just take me—he thought, informing the heavens of his resignation.

From the many pockets of Neruz's vest, he produced a number of happy little steel sausages. He pulled the pins from all three and scattered them onto the goons below. The alley lit up with yellow flashes, and men screamed, bloodied by shrapnel.

They will be here soon—Neruz thought. He backtracked and looked over, down at Jack and Singer.

"You there! Jack, my friend!" he shouted. Jack and Singer looked up.

"Ey! Ya that guy, ain't ya!" Singer remarked.

"Escape upon my signal!" Neruz shouted.

He disappeared from the edge, leaving Jack and Singer uncertain and no-choice trusting. Their captors' reinforcements no longer traded shots, and seemingly had even refused to advance further, though the distant gunfire continued nonetheless.

"Now!" Neruz shouted. Jack and Singer looked up to the silhouette breaking the sky. "This is your chance to escape! Run!"

Singer pulled Jack back up. "Leave the gun!" he ordered. Jack dropped it without hesitation, and they ran. A scream from behind them stopped Jack in his tracks. He looked back, and a person's shadow shambled through the mist of gunpowder smoke. By the blood-streaked wall, a figure behind it rose from the ground. Something grabbed him by the arm. "Jacky! Move it!" Singer ordered in a hush. Neruz ran along the rooftops ahead of them, lighting huge, oil-soaked matches and dropping them along a path for the two to follow.

Whiplashes soon dominated the air, as if the whole city had erupted. As they stumbled around in the confusion, coming to intersections and checking each of the four cardinal directions for the light of Neruz's matches, Jack and Singer found no life along the path that Neruz had left. The people had simply gone. Jack caught a glance of Messiah's gun shop. The surroundings looked wrongfully familiar, as if a layer of grey had fallen across everything he knew, but thankfully, the oil matches stopped at a homely dead end. A huge door rolled open beside them. "Come in, come in!" Neruz ushered them in.

Neruz and several other men braced the door with a huge bar. The Argand lamps were kept dim amid wounded soldiers and civilians. Singer panted and walked in a circle around the same spot. Jack crashed on the floor. "Oi, oi!" Singer took his arm over his shoulder and helped him up onto a mat. Neruz crouched over to take a look at Jack.

"Not much better than yesterday, friend?"

"No—not really, no," Jack quietly replied.

Another man leaned over. Bandages and stitches obscured his face.

"Ah, well, I didn't think we'd meet again like this," he said.

"Who—" Jack uttered.

"General of the 3rd Parasol Combat Brigade. Nice to meet you again."

"General… Paladin?"

Jack carefully sat himself up and leaned against the wall. "What happened?" he asked. He lifted his hand up to his face. It was shaking.

"Seemed the Reorganization made their move," the general said, "Cut me up real bad, too. Used to it, though."

"Hah. Well. I'm not."

"That it seems."

Paladin shook his head. Poor Jack wanted more answers than that, he knew. He sighed and eyed Neruz. "Better if it came from you," he said. Neruz nodded.

"Friend," he explained, "The Reorganization is a splinter faction of Parasol, and it seems that they've a particular interest in you."

"What?"

"We don't know why."

"Oh. Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Neruz looked up at Paladin then back at Jack.

"I've been tasked to help you into hiding."

"Okay."

"You seem terribly calm about this."

"Yeah. Well—"

Jack scratched his chin and wet his lip before looking up at Neruz.

"I don't know. I've been here for what, two days? I've been chased, dragged, bruised, rolled up in carpets—"

"Sorry—"

"…knocked out, thrown in a cell, shot at, and now, here I am. I almost died, what, four times already? I just can't help to do anything other than to just agree that it happens. It just happens, right? It just happens."

Paladin couldn't say anything about it, and neither could Neruz nor Singer. Jack's mental state wasn't going to get better—rather, yesterday's Jack had already died. The personal identity of a civilian, however, could not take precedence over denying the Reorganization of their objectives. Neruz would take Jack and leave Samarin for the border, the only issue being the lack of a guide who intimately knew the way there.

The general eyed Singer—Wasn't this the guy the trackers've been trying to pin down lately? He stood beside him, then put his hand on his shoulder.

"Accompany Neruz and Jack until shit's sorted out and I'll get your smuggling records cleared."

"Aye, sir!"