The noise from the other room stopped, and without a word, the Recluse began drawing lines and directions on the outstretched map whilst Sodan derided the Brass-eye Drunkard without cease.

“If you truly live in fear and pain, and if you truly believe that you have no hope of ever escaping this hell, then let it consume you. Drink deep of its waters and do as your ancestors once did, become the Beast of Retribution that your oppressors deserve - you’ve no excuse, I know well that even subpar Brass Eyes quickly become superior to their fleshly counterparts with regular practice. But you won’t practice, or build yourself back up again that you might continue to resist,” he continued, looking to the Recluse as he sheepishly drew out the guidelines, seeing that he retracted into himself as a defense mechanism.

“And yet you lash out at him so, because this fool in his naivete has the bravery to risk everything for what he believes to be right. It reminds you of what you once were, what you’ve, in your cowardice, rendered into an impossible ideal for yourself. What you’ve drunken yourself into being unable to be. Seeing this - this fuckin’ goober taking action towards something you failed at really must be as painful as getting those new eyes put in, isn’t it?”

With every word of Strake’s uncontrolled tirade, the Brass-eyed Drunkard’s presence shrunk. It almost felt like Strake was deriding some imagined personification of his own insecurities, merely embodied by the broken husk of an alcoholic that had placed himself in the line of his ire.

“Because you hold out hope that someone, ANYONE will act out on your behalf, topple the regime without you having to lift so much as a finger. Know this - we are here to do exactly that, and we will not be reproached by a gutless husk of a man without the will to even survive. You are not a coward, for to call you that would be an insult to cowards. You are a half-living shade, a ghost in a suit of meat. It doesn’t matter if you and yours won’t fight… Because there are those who will, whether you like it or not. Feel free to choke on the empire’s bootheel, but do not dare to foist your defeatist disease onto others.”

The Brass-eyed Drunkard stared at Strake in utter silence before he turned around and returned to his room, quietly closing the door. It was not the tirade that got a real reaction out of the Recluse, but the Drunkard’s own reaction to it - brows furrowed, he looked at the door, then at strake, “I know what he’s like, and that… The fact he didn’t try arguing back pretty much means the old man thinks you’re right. What in the hells?”

“Sometimes what grown men need most is to be scolded like they’re snot-nosed kids,” Strake stated flatly, looking from the Recluse to the map. “Y’done covering my map in chicken scratch?”

“I- Of course, yes! I did my best to figure out the path from the directions Burgess sent, also marked a couple spots where y’might be able to ditch your tank suit.”

And so, after both of them took a few moments to memorize the Recluse’s unevenly-drawn directions, they departed. The Brass-eyed Drunkard’s morose gaze followed them from the window as they walked yet deeper still into Rigport’s veins.

After some time spent traveling through back streets, alleyways, derelict houses, and several abandoned market grounds, they came upon an awkward spot where the old, narrow alleyway bifurcated. One path continued on deeper, whilst the other connected directly to a much wider, newer street, a lit-up checkpoint partially in sight over piles of rubble and detritus that obscured the alleyway’s mouth. Their plotted path only touched this point briefly and it had nothing to do with any of the Recluse’s suggested spots to ditch the tank suit, but Strake stopped there nevertheless.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, walking up near the alleyway’s mouth, facing the direction of the checkpoint - right into a wall, where he stood for a bit as he pulled out the mint box, swallowed a pill, and put it away, removing his backpack and putting it on the ground afterwords. He then awkwardly walked backwards, turning slightly as he went to align himself with the direction of the alleyway, and as he did this, Alcerys heard him utter a series of murmured phrases in Old Ikesian.

A strange glow began to emerge from the seams of his suit, rivulets of Fog escaping from both the suit and his own ears. Strake uttered another, conclusive-sounding phrase, taking a big step forward. Then, strangely enough, he got out, returning the suit to its default configuration, hunched over and stone-still.

Grabbing his cloak and backpack, Strake performed a gesture with his free hand, holding it against the fuel cell containment unit on the suit’s back as he uttered a short incantation and immediately began urgently walking the other way. Alcerys followed his lead, but kept her eye on the suit as they went - it got into an upright position and exactly repeated Strake’s walking motion backwards, striding clumsily into the middle of the street with visible acceleration throughout. The stomping of its wild, uncontrolled sprint thundered for a moment before it was joined by a chorus of shouting guards, capped off by a raucous crash when the tank suit collided with something.

“Five… Four… Three..” Strake began counting, looking vaguely in the direction of the checkpoint as he put on his round-framed tinted glasses and pulled his gas mask out of his backpack.

“Two…” he continued, putting the mask on. Gunshots and the accompanying pings of lead against metal were heard, as were calls in Grekurian for men to pull the armor off its wearer. These were followed by calls in Pateirian, to which the subordinates being called on presumably acquiesced more readily.

“One…“

At least another ten seconds passed as they walked, Strake listening intently, his hand raised and ready for a snap of the fingers.

Only when the screeching of strong metal being strained could be heard did he snap his fingers and utter:

“Zero.”