Gannon had been grinding his teeth all the rest of the day. When he'd returned from the rain after leaving Fion, he'd found one drunk lugger behind the bar helping himself to the alcohol in the barkeep's absence. Said man had nearly avoided being thrown out a window, though he was chucked out the door. After that, Gannon did naught but serve drinks and sharpen his sword. The other customers, unnerved by the grating wrasp of the whetstone and Gannon's thunderous expression, had left early. Even the especally drunken ones. By evening, the edge against his palm felt fine enough to split silk, though that gave his rolling stomach little comfort as he strode down the cobbles that shone wetly with the parchment light of windows and lamps. It was the sort of night to put one in the mind of soaked and heavy velvet, oppressing and black. Neither moon nor starlight penetrated the clouds and Gannon had a time of making out individual shapes.

The damp night weather felt like a wet wool blanket on his chest and he coughed roughly into his arm. Gods, he hoped he wasn't coming down with anything. He had bigger things to worry about than potential fluid in his lungs, namely tonight's events, which he wanted to survive. He wondered if anyone who hadn't passed whatever "Resistance Test" they devised wound up with a trip to Old Rose the hard way—scragged and lobbed into the Arova. After all, what would stop anyone rejected and then paid off from dobbing about cool glasses of water at Hoskins and Bell? Gannon concluded that he didn't really know all that much about anything he was getting into tonight.

Turning down another road—his legs stretching out into the good rhythm he'd developed as a delivery boy in years past—Gannon felt an annoyed disquiet fill the bottom of his gut and he frowned. All of Floretta's thoughts on the Resistance came pressing down on him. He glared off at a point down the road, imagining Floretta's face there, scrunched up with distaste at the freedom fighters "ineffective approaches".

And Floretta had always been logical in her arguments against the Resistance as it stood and Gannon had always felt stumped and routed when combating such reason, leaving him with nothing more than the fierce desire to rip and tear at chains with his teeth. He'd felt the same frustration that Loshis night drinking with Fion and Brady.

Fion.... Gannon's mouth tightened with shame. Best not to think about that, right now.

His thoughts never had a chance to continue on that note anyhow, for he had reached Hoskins and Bell. Gannon pulled his collar closer around his neck against the damp as he looked about for a sign of something. He really had no clue what he was looking for.

The first thing that caught Gannon’s eye was the gentle glow of a phosphor light hanging from the stall across the street. The next thing was something he heard. A voice was gently singing through the spattering sound of the rain against the street; it was the alto tones of a female, nothing special but keeping strong with the tune of the old, familiar ballad, “Rosie Rook.”

"How I search for thee!
Far across the sea,
Forest, mountain, fen,
Searching night and day..."

It was a woman standing behind the stall’s main counter, polishing some random piece of bric-a-brac that fit in well with the rest of the things sitting on the shelves behind her. Her short sand-blonde hair turned an odd orange in the light, and the way it curled out made her shadow on the back wall appear to have small thorns growing out of her head.

A young man, taller and younger, with a curly bush of hair and a small beard, appeared from the darkness at the back of the stall, his arms laden with more useless items. He set them down on the counter, glanced at the woman, and patted her shoulder in a comforting manner. In turn, the woman glanced up at him with a tired, grateful smile for a moment, and then went back to polishing and singing quietly.

Then she glanced up again, but this time, the eyes were fixed on Gannon, though she still sang, her mouth shadowed as it moved to the words of the song.

“Will you sing again
In my humble den?
All of your children have
Grown and flown away…”

The assortemnt of unfathomable items drew his roving eye as they winked at him from across the way. Though when the sining woman's gaze fixed on him, his skin prickled. The way she looked directed at him, combined with the singing of that haunting song made the hair behind his neck stiffen. Was this who he was looking for? She didn't look like Resistance material.

Oh what the clocken' hell? he chided himself. What do you really have to loose, Oranos?

Pulling up his collar yet again, he strode over to the stall, boots tapping the street. He looked down at the woman in the stall and her wild hair. It was now or never, and he'd rather it be now. Gannon told himself to approach this with tact and casual nonchalance. This wasn't the moment to be brash.

"I'd like a cool glass of water," he deadpanned, his stony features unyelding.

Oh clocken' hell....

Gannon wanted to rip his own tongue out for letting it betray him so. He'd meant to talk about her wares, say hello even, ask if she had anything interesting out of the wild collection she had here. Leave it to frazzled nerves to send his mouth into such blunder. He tried not to wince on the outside as he wondered if he'd just blown everything up.

Hello Old Rose, he mentally grumbled ruefully.

The woman’s song had died away as Gannon approached, though her eyes never left his. She could see the uneasiness about him as he came forward – she’d always been able to generate that in others with a good stare-down if the situation called for it.



There was a pause – the only sound was from the rain in the background. Then the woman’s eyebrows arched in amusement along with a slow, slight smile. “Well,” she stated in a quiet, manner-of-fact way. “We’re actually fresh out of cool water…but if you care to take a walk, I’ll be glad to take you where we can get you a good deal on some.”

At that, the skinny fellow straightened, a worried, distrusting look on his face as he gave Gannon the once-over. “I’m coming with you,” he muttered to the woman.

“I’ve got a handle on this, Rowan,” was the reassuring reply. “You need to stay here with the shop.”

“The clock I will...” Rowan had pushed the clutter of items out of the way and was hoisting on a patched jacket. “Sean can hold the place down while we’re away. Sean! We’re off for a bit – watch the shop.”

An unenthusiastic voice rose from the shadows in the back of the stall. “‘Right, all right…”

Rowan grinned cheekily at the woman’s combination of a frown and a smirk. “You were saying?” he quipped, and danced nimbly out of the woman’s reach, tossing what must’ve been her coat to her as he did so.

Rolling her eyes, the woman shrugged on her jacket and stepped out from behind the counter, untying the apron she wore over her baggy coveralls and tossing it back into the stall. She tilted her head back to look up at the sky; the rain had not yet let up, but she shrugged in an off-hand manner and moved over to Gannon’s side. “Big fellow, aren’t you?” she mentioned in an admiring way, but there was no lust in her voice. It was one worker complimenting another, considering she stood no taller than half of his upper arm.

Rowan came to stand under the awning, a wide-brimmed hat crammed down over his nest of hair. He placed himself directly beside the woman and kept eyeing Gannon every once in a while, not particularly in a threatening way, but more in a way that proved he was ready to protect the woman at any cost.

“All right, let’s get going, you two, before we have a downpour on our hands,” the woman interjected. “And while we do, we might as well get acquainted. Just call me Sis, and this is my little brother, Rowan.” She wagged a finger warningly at Gannon before he could speak. “Alias only, friend,” she added softly. “We all want our arses covered, now don’t we?” She then stuck out a fingerless glove-clad hand in a gesture of friendship, a genuine smile on her face. Rowan, meanwhile, waited with toothpick arms crossed over his chest.

Gannon felt a tingle up his spine. This was either a very good sign....or a very bad one. Oh yes, let us take you to a nice secluded little den so no one will hear y' scream when we gutcha'. But what choice did he have? If he backed out now, he'd never know, and he'd certainly never find himself among the ranks of the Resitance. Thoughts of the same nature floated through his head as the pair readied themselves to depart for wherever they intended to take him.

.

Gannon watched them carefully and was reminded of something entirely different from the matters at hand. Their teasing and friendly bickering reminded the barkeep of his younger cousin Hilda, and how they had done the same. The reminder made Gannon's chest hurt a bit and his frown dimmed momentarily into sadness.

That's why you're doing this, after all, he reminded himself.



Gannon stared at her hand a moment, as though the idea of shaking a complete stranger's hand—a strange woman's hand, no less—was the most foreign thing in the world. He almost felt as if he should abstain from touching them if he couldn't know their names...but...such was the way of a secret uprising, he supposed. He wondered if she were asking for his alias. He didn't have one, nor was he creative enough to come up with one on the spot.

"Arrite then..." he growled, nodding to the both of them and shaking Sis's hand."Lead on..."

(( SFSP...wee initiation threads ))

Sis paid attention to Gannon’s reaction as she stuck out her hand. True, it was unusual for total strangers to shake hands, but she was all about gauging new recruits.

And in Gannon’s case, he would do just fine. His grip proved that enough.

As they began walking, Sis gestured at Gannon. “Well, big guy? You got an alias or don't you? I don’t want to spend my time saying ‘hey you’ constantly. Once I know what to call you, we can get down to real business. But for starters, I will ask this…” Here, she looked deep into Gannon’s eye. “Why are you here?”

Gannon frowned at her question and his walking slowed. What did she mean, exactly? Did she expect him to just out and say it? Out in the middle of the street?

Of course not, you idiot, his mind shot back. She must be looking for something else, some sort of...code. Gannon went over everything that Fion had told him. Hotchkis and Bell, and ask for a cool glass of water. That had been it. Nothing else had she told him. Of course, he thought with a sick feeling in his gut, she could have set him up for scaring her as he'd done, putting him on the spot, as he was now.

Hell with it.

"I'm...I'm here to get a cool glass of water and nothin' else, Ms...." He blew a bead of water from the tip of his nose and lowered his heavy brows, looking back at her just as directly. He rumbled: "I'm here for th' water an I ent leavin' till I get it. I’ll even fight for it."

He hoped she understood. He hoped that didn't sound like a threat. Did that sound like a threat? Couldn't worry about it now.

As for a name, she was right. He had no wish to be called "Hey you," or any variation thereof. He wondered what name he should give her, he'd been known by plenty down in the Farmlands, ranging from "Ant"—coined by an elder cousin—to "Fennel"—a far gentler name given by his Aunt. The Basin had given more than scars and a busted up nose, too: "Hammer", "Beserker", "Cannon", "Chrove", and even the name of the Hoxian mountain god "Bash". He didn't want any of those. As much as he hated to admit it, he was no longer a farm boy, nor was he the bold brawler he'd been in the pit. Day in day out he got called "Barkeep" and that got clocken' old.

Then a name sprang to mind that he hadn't heard in years.

Back when he was 18 and worked in Floretta's pot shop, doing anything she deemed to heavy for her or anything that distracted her from her potting at all, a regular to her shop—a near-senile old golly woman with the pinched face of an aged moa who’d eaten something sour—had given him a name.

The old bat had insisted that he was the sully whom she'd fired several years back (according to her, he had the same way of "inwardly brooding on animalistic and brutish thoughts."). Gannon had not envied the poor bastard she'd called "Mitch", but was irked to have to carry his name every time she came by the shop.

"An’...call me Mitch. Just Mitch...."

If he was going to punch out gollies for the Resistance, he figured he should have a name to put him in a suitable mood.

Sis noticed Gannon’s stride lessoning, and she broke her own to keep in line with him. Beside her, Rowan came close to actually skidding to a stop before backing up to his sister’s side, his bright eyes still trained on Gannon.



The inner conflict was just barely evident in Gannon’s eyes, but Sis saw that faint glimmer and understood. She’d been there herself once upon a time, wondering if this was the right way, wondering if it wasn’t all just a big trap. But she’d made it through, and lived up until now, and if this Mitch fellow couldn’t do better, she was a kenser’s aunt.

“Lots of people search for a cool glass of water,” Sis replied quietly. “Lots of people fight for it, too; many more have even died for just a taste of that cool, sweet water that mirrors the sky on a clear day.” She looked down at her steel-toed work boots as she walked. “The trick is knowing whether or not it’s worth it. Is the water clean? Is the glass dirty? How can one be certain of either?” Her face came up, calm and serious, her eyes like chips of glass reflecting low lamplight. “That’s where you just have to take a deep breath, close your eyes, and drink it all down. ‘Cause that’s part of the risk, Mitch: taking that first step into the unknown.”

They’d headed down several streets already, criss-crossing and circling in a subtle maze that would’ve readily confused any possible followers. Now, they were in a nameless side street, one that was always overlooked and yet still surviving. There was an escape ladder hanging off the edge of a second-story railing on one wall; a door was visible through the railing slats. Rowan moved forward, and in a burst of energy, he leaped up and caught the end of the ladder to pull it down, and he held it there expectantly.

Sis was the first to start up the ladder, but then she paused, and glanced back at Gannon. “Here’s that old proverbial crossroad, Mitch. Do you take that glass and gulp down what’s inside? Or do you set it back on the counter for someone else to try? You think about this now and make the choice, friend, ‘cause once you’ve walked through that door up there and tasted that water, you won't be able to ever go back.”

Sis's words told him enough as they walked down the cobbles, and his pace quickened in anticipation. This was it. Surely this was what he was looking for. He barely noticed the twists and turns that they led him down, and he was unfamiliar with this pocket of the city. Gannon looked about, smelling the air for a familiar hint as to where he was. Not even the dustiest memory was brought to the surface. It did disturb him, but not quite as much as that decrepit looking ladder, which he eyed for weak points. He watched Sis climb up a ways and the metal's creaks and groans were hardly reassuring.



This did indeed make Gannon pause in thought. What was he about to do? What would this really mean? His mind raced as he considered the sheer amount of lying he'd have to do, the people he'd have to trust on only their word, the idea that he might die. He realized that a natural human exsistance would be forever out of his grasp: no wife, no children to pass along what little he posessed. For the rest of his days he might be fighting, possibly killing for these people.

He was very likely selling his soul.

Gannon gripped the side of the ladder with a massive hand, feeling flakes of iron come away, tinging his palm a coarse red. He looked up at her on the ladder.

"After you, Mz."

“Sis, pal - call me Sis. I’m no one special enough to have ‘Miz’ pinned in front of any name I might use.” She clambered up onto the platform and waited until Gannon had made his way up as well. Rowan followed in more of a hurry than the other two, allowing the ladder to slide back up as quietly as possible without it screeching against the frame.

Sis then reached down, dug into the side of one boot, and pulled out a key, which she was quick to slide into the lock beneath the rusty door handle. With a dull clack, the door was carefully opened, and the young woman ushered Gannon inside, and Rowan quickly shut it behind the three of them.

The room was small but comfortable. It was neatly packed with furniture dressed in dust covers, long rolled-up rugs sagging against the walls like bowed tree trunks, and other such items one would place in storage. Clusters of thick candles (varying in height) stood on several different surfaces – a round table here, a squat chest of drawers there – and provided a warm sort of light reflecting off of the burnt-red walls.

Sis headed over to a large, overstuffed chair, carefully peeled the sheet off, and sank cross-legged into the cushion. “Rowan, go get our friend his glass of water,” she stated, gesturing at Gannon to find a seat. “Bring some for us all, in fact.” Rowan nodded quietly, shot Gannon a nervous “don’t try anything” look, and weaved his way through the furniture to the far wall, and opened a door, illuminating his young features for a brief moment from the light beyond before disappearing through the opening.

“You’ll have to excuse Rowan,” Sis apologized with a smirk. “He’s got a bad case of the ‘big brother complex,’ and insists on being my unofficial bodyguard on these excursions when a man is involved. It’s completely unnecessary, but we do what we must to entertain our younger siblings, eh?” Despite her flippant manner and tone, her eyes spoke volumes.

“Now, down to business.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Tell me more about your interest in this – your motive, if you will. In a country where whisky, ale, and wine abound, people aren’t prone to calling out for a glass of water unless they truly want it.”

Gannon's mouth twisted in wry humor. Now that she'd pointed it out, he called every woman "Mz" who were not family. Farmboy habbits died hard, he supposed.

The room itself surprised Gannon (possibly more than the fact that the groaning and protesting ladder had taken his weight) with it's lush furnishings. Chairs with actual stuffing in them were a rather foreign concept to a man who lived in a room of spartan exsistance. His bed and the chair in the cellar were the only thing that wasn't padded with wood. Gannon wondered where all this furniture had come from but decided that it was probably better not to ask.





Gannon didn't mind Rowan in the least, in fact, the warning shot had warmed him with a bit of nostalgia that made the smalles smile twitch across his lips. Before he'd left, his younger cousin Hilda had been quickly flowering into a youthful wick beauty. The local farmboys had all too readily noticed it for Gannon's liking and he'd spent more time chasing cad's from his cousin than wolves from his Uncle's cattle. No, he didn't mind.

"He's...just doing his duty," Gannon replied, his small smile not having vanished completely as his eye sought a sutible seat.

Instead of dragging up another massivly comfortable chair, Gannon pulled forward a small padded stool--something he could easily leap from if the moment called for it--after he yanked away the tarp covering it. The stool groaned when he sat, and he sighed.



And this was where things got tricky; slipery, even. It was a perfectly logical question, one that every recruit should have to face at one point or another, but one that Gannon had not prepared himself for in his headlong rush. It took him quietly by surprise.

"Well," he started off, his voice gravely as he leaned forward, one arm resting on his thigh while the other rubbed the pommle of his sword in thought. The wood was well worn from such an action, repeated over the years and grown into a habbit. "I expect that a...group such as this could use someone like me. I'm not exactly your planning sort, nor will I expect to call the shots on what I do, but there is one thing that I do very well, an' that's fight. I don't know what you do M--Sis...but that's what I can do, and do well."

Was that enough to go on? Did he have enough to offer these people or were they looking for something else? Surely there was no end to the amount of gollies needing scragged.

“Heh, you sound like me when I went through all this. Skip the fancy descriptions and get right to the point.” Sis ruffled her shaggy curls and chuckled a bit. “But believe me, after a while you start sounding like some heroic figure from old tales after being a contact like myself.”

She steepled her fingers in a matter-of-fact manner. This was the ultimate clincher, the moment where a possible-recruit would have to be completely honest, or forfeit their trust by trying to cover any personal motives with a fanciful lie. Sis had had it happen before, so despite any nervousness, she steeled herself and plowed ahead. “I’ll get right to it, then: we are looking for fighters, even though we’re doing our utmost to keep a low profile at this point. But I want to know why, Mitch – why do you want to join? What gave you the incentive – the reason – to make this decision?” She sighed away the nervous tension in her throat and added, “If there’s to be any progress in tonight’s meeting, I need to know more than just the fact that you’re ready to smack around the oppression just as soon as you get a license to kill.” There was no rudeness in her voice, only a firm plea.

Blood drained from Gannon's head a bit as he realized what she was asking of him. Why are you here, what do you want? Damnit, he didn't want to answer that...but he had to. Everybody had a personal reason for everything, and they wanted his. Gannon thought long and hard, remembered every injustice that had been served to him at galdori hands. How did a human say that? The oppression of your family and the knowledge that your Uncle was working himself to death against a plough didn't come out simply in words.

"Well I certainly have no love of the galdori," he snorted quietly, looking at his hands on his knees. Gods, he needed to out and say it before his throat closed up on him out of apprehension and stubborn caution. "Took quite a bit from me an' mine," he managed out, "Two homes, family, money... My eye." Gannon looked up at Sis, and his expression was nearly wrathful; the dim light of the candles made his narrow face seem more drawn and his black eye burned eerily. His gut surged up into his lungs and his back tightened. It was an old feeling from the Basin, something he'd experience every time he felt the excitement of the ring.

Was that it? Did he just want to fight again? Was the humdrum of work behind the bar, waiting on drunks and broken men finally driving him to this point? It'd nearly drove him to his death with Caiaphas. Gannon was still hungry for that particular wick's blood and he scowled further at the idea of it.

Somewhere in the black pit Gannon never acknowledged of himself, he wanted more from everyone. Everything. The whole of Vita was a fight waiting to happen and he wanted to be smack in the middle, both fists bloody and his own blood boiling with adrenaline. He craved it like a dry throat wanted water.

"I've got plenty of motive, Sis. I've only touched the tip of the glass."

(( sorry for lateness - this one's a challenge (but hecka fun!) to write ))

“Don’t we all,” Sis muttered, nodding in agreement with Gannon’s statement. She was already very impressed with this fellow, and if there ever was a rougher fight against inner havoc, his would be the ultimate battle. His single eye held more fire than any lump of coal ever could, and Sis was worried that he might break one of his own fingers in the way he kept clenching those big mitts of his. It was as if he'd the epitome of the entire Resistance in those fleeting flashes of emotion.

It was that fervor they were looking for – that longing for justice to be served. It had gone beyond personal for this man; a blind hingle could’ve seen that. And Sis readily understood, coming from a life on the streets with her dirt-poor family, her father dying in prison, her laundress mother slipping into insanity after a self-induced brain fever. Everyone had their reasons for joining, certainly – Sis’ own was to provide for her remaining family, and to shield her brother from their mother’s madness. But that was a story for a different time; this moment was about Gannon, or “Mitch,” as far as Sis was concerned.

“I think most of us in this business would readily agree with you, friend,” the young woman replied once the man had finished. “No one in this has had it easy prior to or after joining, but that’s where we all can band together as one. Everyone has their place and talents in this, and yours is the willingness (let alone eagerness) to fight.”

She settled back into the cushions of the chair once more, relieved that the relatively harder questions were done. “All right, now that we’ve cleared the air of initial topics, I’ve another question for you.” She smirked, waving one hand apologetically. “I know, I know – questions, questions. I thought it was annoying too when I was in your place.

“Our enterprise is not unknown, especially to any enemies, so most people who join have heard of it in some way or other. Yet there are a scant few who come to us without any prior knowledge of what we represent; they just want an excuse to kill for their own benefit. So here’s my question: what got you interested in joining in the first place? And what was your initial idea for helping out? You’ve made it clear that you’re ready to fight, but I’m curious to know if you have any other skills you feel you could contribute. Multi-taskers are a definite asset to the cause, and so we’re encouraged to keep an eye out.” She paused, blinking sharply at what she'd just said, and then added with an apologetic laugh, “No pun or offense intended there, of course.”

Gerald Hatter. Gods, how long had it been since that man had died? Gannon figured three or four years. He wasn’t too sure, but the shock of finding him dead, hearing Floretta’s heart-broken sobs, had solidified what all Gerald had spoken of. He’d been a freedom fighter—of course, he’d kept this from Floretta—and he’d noticed Gannon’s fire early on. Perhaps the older man would have invited Gannon in if he hadn’t been so young. 19 was manhood, but only just so. Either way, their talks long into the night had planted the seed. Gerald had only given his younger self bits and pieces of ideas, never giving him enough to act upon as he certainly would have, impulsive as he’d been. But it had been just enough.

“An…” Gannon paused a moment, his eye now absently fixed on a small candle. He wondered how much he should really say. “An’ old friend of mine put the notions in my head, y’ could say…. Wound up scragged. That was th’ clincher, I s’pose.”



Something other than putting one’s life on the line was required? Gannon nearly snorted at the idea of it, but he restrained himself. What else did he have? There was the Stag, he supposed….

“I’ve—uh—“ Gannon sat up straighter and rubbed his shoulder, right where he’d been stabbed. Sitting here now made his brawl in the Kettle Black seem like ages ago. He was tempted to mentally refer to the wound as an “old” one. But it wasn’t. It was still sore and would throb mercilessly when the rains came on harder. “I’ve got a place of my own—large enough—good place to keep things…people, I s'pose. If ever needed. I live there. Th' place is my livelihood, really.”

Gannon was still feeling cagey and feeling at risk. Even in the Basin, his neck had never really felt the rough wood of the chopping block. He was feeling it right now.

Trust, Gannon. You’ve got no choice in this. You’ve got to trust to get them to trust you.

“It’s a bar.” he finally gave up. He didn’t want to say much more than that unless prodded that direction.

Sis listened silently as Gannon spoke, nodding where it was appropriate. She was still listening when the side door opened carefully and Rowan appeared, balancing a tray laden with several glasses and a pitcher on one hand. After closing the door, the young man set the tray on a box nearby and began pouring the liquid into each glass.



“I see…” Sis stared thoughtfully at the floor, musing over the information just given. Her brother offered a glass, and she took it without looking up. Rowan then stepped across the empty space and offered another glass to Gannon.

“I had assumed gin would be better than water under the circumstances,” he quipped with an attempted grin. “And it looks like I assumed correctly, in your case.” He was clearly trying to be cordial (if not funny), despite any misgivings on his end.

Behind him, Sis rolled her eyes with a smirk and took a quick nip of her drink before turning back to Gannon. “As I’ve said before, friend, you’re a man after my own heart; your motives are straightforward, which will make things easier for everyone in the long run. As for your current occupation, it will certainly come in handy in some way or other. Though don’t worry - the less I know, the safer you’ll be. My personal advice for you, however, is to be extremely careful in any case – it’s easier for people to remember a tall fellow with an eye patch than it is to remember a short woman in overalls. You’re a man of action, and a person would have to be a complete idiot not to see that. So the less conspicuous you are, the better off we’ll all be in the long run.”

She paused to take another drink, and then tilted the glass towards Gannon in an encouraging gesture. “Well…any questions for me now? I’ll readily admit that I’m no expert in the field, but I’ll do my best to answer. It’s the least I can do at this point.”

As it happened, Gannon was not over fond of gin. To be totally frank, he had a firm dislike for the stuff. It was overpriced, overrated, and truthfully it tasted like soap. And he'd had his mouth scrubbed out enough as a lad to know exactly what soap tasted of. However, it was typically considered rude to turn down alcohol when one had not previously consumed any and when it was such a damp night. So, he picked up the offered glass, nodding a short thanks to Rowan, though he did not yet drink.

He stuck out, of course. He'd always stuck out, even in the farmlands among his blond and red-headed family. For most of his life, he'd found his size very useful. At the moment, it didn't bother him any more than it ever did. He was sure it would later.

Questions? Gods, yes he had questions. Questions like: "When can I start?" Gannon grinned, only halfway jesting. Gannon tapped the cap of his knee, realizing he was being presumptious, as usual. After a moment, he gave Sis a sideways look. "I...don't suppose you could tell me what you do? Nah...probably not...I probably don't want to know." Now that Gannon thought about it, the more the thought about it, the more he realized that knowing very little might be very advantageous.

You couldn't get blood from a turnip and you couldn't get information from someone who knew nothing. Not even the most horrid torture methods the Seventen could think up would make a man remember what he did not know.

That sobering thought in mind, Gannon took a long drink from his glass.

Sis returned the man’s grin with a sly twist to it. “You said it, buster. You’re real cute, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you even if we were married. Not that I’m offering or asking, mind you – I may be single as of yet, but I’m not desperate.”

“Not according to the scuttlebutt, you ain’t,” Rowan muttered from his perch on a nearby desk. He snickered quietly when Sis chucked a seat cushion at him.

“Anyway,” the woman continued. “Like I said, the less we know about each other, the better in the long run. But that’s not to say we can’t be friends regardless; I’m not adverse to a few nips of a warming drink on wet days like this. Rowan and I might drop by once in a blue moon – nothing stopping us from doing so, eh, Row?” The young man offered a brief nod of seeming interest.

Sis lifted her glass to drink again and paused, watching the liquid ripple against the interior. Her gaze moved over to Rowan - who nodded once - and then slowly up to Gannon as he swigged down the gin, and she sighed. She always felt bad in having to be slightly underhanded, but it was part of the procedure, let alone part of her own job description. It doesn't help that he’s such a fine-looking he-man, either…Her second sigh held a mediocre note of despondency.

“Well, the evening’s getting on, friend,” she said finally, setting down her glass and stretching her legs out. “My final word on the matter is this: you’re a prime example of what we’re looking for. You’ve dealt with related hardships your entire life, but despite your eagerness to fight back, you have a head on your shoulders. There’s no gray for you – only black and white. This is what I’ve seen from having only talked a short time with you, and I’m all about first impressions, especially in my line of work. I was glad to talk with someone with a no-nonsense attitude like you – you can’t imagine how many over-dramatic recruits we tend to get. So needless to say, I’ll be putting in a good word for you with the boss.” She lifted her glass again, this time in a brief toast towards Gannon.

Then, as she took another sip, she offered nonchalantly, “Oh, and don’t stand up just yet. I don’t want you to fall against anything pointy and bash up those fine looks once that stuff kicks in.”

Desperate, eh? thought Gannon silently and with out coment any more than to lightly frown and touch his nose, wondering how busted up it really looked. He wouldn't know. The only reflections he'd seen of himself in years were on the dull backs of pans and in foggy glasses.

Her mention of "the boss" caught his attention, though. Wether that meant some higher-ranking freedom fighter or Serro himself, Gannon could only guess, but it certainly sounded like a bit of a leg up and he could certainly appreciate that much.



Stuff? Gannon's eye snapped to Sis's face as a glacier grew in the bottom of his stomach. The hint of remorse he saw in her eyes disturbed him. What stuff? How could they--? Suddenly, the glass in his hand felt as though it were scalding with malicious intent. Poison. No, not poison. She wouldn't be telling him not to bash his head against the furniture were it poison. There was no hint of vicious tanuting in her voice. They'd drugged him. Slipped him something without smell or taste.

Panic set into the back of Gannon's mind. What would they do with him when he was down? He was probably in the Resistance now. But what hidden toll were they asking? How long did he have? Probably not long at all. He didn't want to be here when it set in. Better to be at the Stag.

So he dropped the glass of gin and, with it, Sis's caution not to stand up and he leapt from the stool, making a quick dart for the door. Were his legs turning to stone, or was that just his paniced mind tricking him?

Sis was on her feet in a flash. “No, Mitch, wait! Rowan!” But the spry young man was already ahead of her, and he’d leaped clear over a stack of boxes to where he was directly behind Gannon and could wrestle him away from the door. He certainly didn’t have to use much strength in doing so, however, considering that the drug was already working its magic in the one-eyed man’s system, and Gannon’s limbs were becoming less sturdy and more noodle-like.

Rowan carefully helped Gannon into a sitting position on the floor with his back propped against the wall. “There, take it easy, Mitch. We aren’t going to hurt you – it’s just all part of deal, you understand?”

“If I know that knock-out stuff like I think I do, he won’t understand much,” Sis commented as she came over and knelt down. “He’ll probably be out in a few seconds or more. Mitch, if you can hear me, I want you to know that this is nothing personal. No hard feelings, all right? Like Rowan said, it’s just part of the deal. It’ll all make sense soon enough.” She patted the big man’s hand for further emphasis. Poor lug.

Sis was right; Gannon did not comprehend the majority of what was said to him. Sound slogged through a layer of thick fog across his senses. Smoke filled his lungs, making them heavy in his chest. His arms and legs seemed to be drifting further away from his limp body. He did have the vague feeling that Sis was trying to reassure him. That she had orders from higher up. That whatever they would do to him next was just how it went. That he could still trust her.

At the present, Gannon really didn't care if he could trust her or not. Such thoughts were too complex when they came as slowly as the end of Loshis. The only ideas to drag through his hazy mind were simple and predictably angry. He should have realized that he was taking control out of his own hands sooner. Now the reality of it was coursing through his blood, slowing his heart to a sluggish thump. The lack of control he had made him angry, and, while he barely felt the touch of Sis's hand, he responded with a woozy snarl as his hands flexed like weakened claws.

Gannon's head slumped forward when the room spun and his eye blinked slowly shut. His last growl was nothing more than a whisper through his teeth.

Sis watched solemnly as the big hands clenched slower and slower, and was reminded of an old story she remembered from her childhood, one that involved the capture and drugging of a proud, formerly free spinewolf by deceptive Hoxians. This big fellow – this Mitch – was like that spinewolf, treated well but duped nonetheless. She sighed and shook her head. It wasn’t fair – not for him or her.

“He’s out, Sis.” Rowan looked up from the now comatose Gannon.

“Yeah…come on, I’ll help you haul him out.” Sis rose, pulling one of the man’s arms up with her; Rowan followed en suite on the other side, and they both managed to lift Gannon up from the floor to drape cockeyed across both sets of shoulders.

If it weren’t for this whole mess we’re all a part of, and if we’d met somewhere else entirely…Sis let that thought hang and eventually disintegrate as she and Rowan dragged Gannon through the doorway and into the glow beyond.

Gannon would awaken an hour or two after dawn, lying vertically on his stomach across his horizontally positioned bed in the Clockwork Stag, his head hanging over the far side. Upon shaking off the blurriness of sleep, he’d spy a crumpled note pinned to the floor directly below by one of the forks from his utensil drawer in the main room of the pub. It read:

Head into Hollow Street and buy the type of supplies you’d want and/or need for a picnic, as well as a checkered tablecloth. Proceed to the nearest or most available picnic table with an awning, set up your spread, and have lunch. A small boy with a limp will approach you and ask to share – do so, and then buy him a sweet once you’re both done.

You have sixty hours to make a decision. Destroy this message.

The instructions were very generic, even blasé for something pertaining to Resistance activities. All the easier to make those involved even more inconspicuous, and the final sentences were poignant enough for anyone in general.

(( a good place to stop... ))