Alter’s grip on the handle of his rifle tightened as a drop of anger fell into the pool of his mind, the ripples of annoyance radiating outward as he fixed Winslow with a harsh glare.

  “Our best?” He asked slowly, the muscles around his jaw tense. “I'm going to need a lot more than that. You’ve just told us that we’re about to receive potentially violent contact from a third-party force made up of those we’re supposed to be protecting. You're meant to be leading this operation and all you can offer is half-baked encouragement? I need a plan, rules of engagement. Orders.”

  Silently, Winslow peeled himself away from the wall, and raised himself to his full height. Alter was tall, and with his new muscular body granted to him the moment he first breathed the air of this fantasy turned reality, he had the bulk to match. But even with all that, Winslow still had a handful of inches over him, and a width he could not hope to match. The man did not wither under his stare, instead crossing the distance between them with a pair of measured strides, and meeting Alter’s look with a similar one of his own.

  “Settle down, Captain. I was just getting to that.” His low, threatening voice oozed an authority that caused Alter to break their impromptu staring contest. Satisfied that there would be no further contest, he continued.

  “Your orders are much the same as before. Hold your positions, and make sure none break in or out. Now, in a moment I’m going to head back inside the target building. Given the sudden introduction of this fresh time constraint, I’m going to order an immediate assault on the upper floor. Anyone I deem unnecessary for that task will be sent to support you. I’ll have them spread out further into the maze as a picket line, they’ll give you as much warning as they can regarding when and where the gang will arrive from. Should they arrive in force, as I suspect they will, your orders are to do no harm. You have permission to use those devices of yours to scare them if necessary, but let me reinforce this fact: No harm will be done. Understood?”

  “And what if they use their numbers to overwhelm us?” Alter asked quietly, but with a hint of defiance.

  “Then you retreat, leave the same way you came in. We’re big boys, we can handle ourselves.” Winslow responded, although his demeanour softened a little. “Ruffle may be an angry rabble-rouser, but he’s not an idiot. Most of his words are bluster meant to sound good for his followers. To actually assault the forces of Masserlind would bring him just as much trouble as it would us. He’ll keep his feathers in line.” He folded his arms, daring any doubting comments to be spoken aloud.

  “You make it sound like this has happened more than once before.” Boozehound interjected to hopefully break the tension.

  “A couple of times.” Winslow answered with a thin-lipped smile, his body language relaxing into his more usual shape. “Are there any further questions?”

  “Nothing at this time.” Alter conceded reluctantly.

  “Very good.” Winslow nodded and immediately hurried off back towards the compromised safehouse.

  The sound of his heavy footsteps striking the cobblestones echoed faintly through the alleyway. The implications of their weight rang through Alter’s skull like the pinging of a sonar. A voice distracted him as Boats radioed their updated mission parameters to the other teams, and he made an effort to refocus himself. It wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted it to go, but he had managed to wring a reasonably solid set of instructions out of Winslow. Although, his pride certainly wasn’t happy about it.

  “What do you suppose all that was about?” Boozehound laughed quietly as he sidled up to the marksman once the other team leaders had confirmed the change.

  “Big dog doesn’t like having his authority challenged.” Boats commented matter-of-factly, his attention fixed on the direction he was facing.

  “You think so? He seemed pretty loose with us back there.” Boozehound peered curiously in the direction Winslow had left in.

  “Not the man I was referring to.” Was his dry response.

  Alter decided that he would be stoic and ignore the comment in favour of internalising it in order to torture himself with idea at a later date. Boozehound glanced between the two, his wide eyes expression betrayed a mix of horror and excited anticipation. However, his eagerness turned to disappointment as the oncoming storm he hoped to witness never developed.

  While the men of the squad slowly settled back into their role, events continued to take place out of their sight. True to his word, guards began to appear from the direction of the safehouse, their armour gleaming in the torchlight now that their disguises had been shed. With nods to the team, they split into pairs and disappeared once more down the various pathways that speared away from them, patternless like cracks in glass. Not long after the picket line was established, two things began to happen. First, the assault began to bear fruit, as fresh captives were led through the perimeter. The captures were not clean, however, and more than once blood dripped upon cold stone as both guards and prisoners limped and hobbled away into the night. Second, and more concerningly, strange sounds could be heard on the air. Chanting, clapping, stomping. Growing, swelling, closing in. Sure enough, guards began to appear from the outer line, reporting large groups of civilians led by men in feathered masks. With the nature of the serpentine alleyways limiting lines of sight, it was impossible to estimate exactly how many locals the Free Feathers had mustered. Though given the amount of time they had, and the fact that it was the middle of the night, it surely couldn’t be a significantly large force. Fortunately, reports indicated that they were only approaching from a small number of directions, at least for the time being.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Two, take your team and link up with Four and Five. I don’t care that one dismal corner of the perimeter isn’t being watched, I’m not leaving two against a mob.” Alter radioed.

  “Two confirms, moving.”

  “Disobeying orders already, eh?” Boozehound teased as Alter lowered the radio.

  “I prefer to think of it as ‘reassessing out-of-date instructions to better suit a rapidly shifting situation’.” Alter quipped as he turned to look at him.

  Boozehound leaned against a nearby wall in much the same way that Winslow had done. The Frenchman held his rifle up and looked it over as if examining some recently excavated mysterious historical artefact before pulling his combat knife from its sheath. A smile, more akin to a smirk, began to form on his lips.

  “What are you doing?” Alter asked with a frown.

  “People don’t know what this is, they’re not scared of it.” Boozehound explained, pointing to the rifle before holding up the knife. “But this, they’ll latch onto the sight. This, the ability to wield a drawn blade in public is authority, right here. Having them out and ready should help keep the rabble at bay, no?” He smiled.

  “Who are you and what have you done with Marcus? Put that away.” Alter demanded, using his real name in order to hammer home his lack of amusement.

  “As you wish.” Boozehound replaced the weapon before sidling over to Boats. “Touchy, isn’t he?” He remarked languidly, whereas Boats’ only response was a short, disinterested grunt.

  The sound of running feet cut off any further lines of enquiry as another guard came pounding around a corner. The man, barely out of his teens, came skidding to a halt nearby and took a moment to regain his breath before staring fearfully up at them.

  “They’re coming, they’re only a couple of corners away.” He reported shakily.

  Alter regarded the young man with concern and curiosity. A stray thought tugged at the back of his mind, the lad acted a lot like Farfield, looked a little like him too. Farfield Senior did allude to the fact that he had another son, perhaps this was him.

  “Any idea of their numbers, lad?” He asked, keeping his voice firm but not without warmth.

  “At least twenty, Sir. But I couldn’t see the back of them.” The guard stammered.

  “What of their disposition? Calm? Aggressive?”

  “Err, pretty calm I guess.” He said after a moment's pause. “But they’re faces told another story.”

  “About what we expected then. Fall in behind us.” Alter nodded as he stepped towards the direction the lad had arrived from and motioned Boozehound and Boats to join him.

  The three men stood line abreast, completely blocking the alleyway as the sound of footfalls grew. Dancing firelight spilled around the corner, seconds later figures began to emerge. Led by a core of large men in labourers’ garb, the crowd slowed upon spotting the human blockade, yet they did not stop. Alter scanned the mixed faces as best he could, he saw mostly men, but there were a healthy number of determined looking women amidst them. A number of individuals were wearing pale opera masks decorated with simple, brown feathers. Most had empty hands, but there was the unmistakable gleam of metal in the crowd, tools of all shapes and sizes repurposed as weapons. The crowd continued their slow advance, voices called out with shouts and chants. Of how the guards weren’t welcome here, and what the mob would do if they didn’t flee. ‘Mongrel bootlickers’, ‘cradle-robbing bandits’ and ‘corrupt killers’ were the nicest of the insults amidst a sea of much worse. Half of what was being thrown at them included so much local slang dialect that Alter had no idea what was being yelled, but it certainly sounded unpleasant.

  “Team Two … contact.” The radio reported but the crowd’s voices smothered many of the words. “There’s n… here, send … ee back to you. Out.” Was all he could translate.

  There was no point in asking for whoever had spoken to repeat themselves, but Alter still turned to the young guard and beckoned him closer.

  “Make your way back to the target building, find Winslow, and see if you can’t get me an estimate of how much longer it’s going to take.” He ordered and the lad sprinted off.

  Much to their immediate relief, the crowd stopped their advance roughly five meters from their line. For a moment their voices quietened, before one of the masked individuals took another couple of steps through their frontline. The figure raised a roughly made but sharp looking spade, with small clods of dirt still clinging to its surface, towards them and began to chant. ‘Invaders’. Soon every voice took up the call, a steady, buffeting sound that caused the team to shuffle backwards on instinct. Rushing footsteps from somewhere behind them caused Alter to whirl his head around, but it was only Boozehound, not some ambushing gang member.

  “Whew, okay I’m here. Oh, that’s a lot of them.” He began, but then stopped dead, his face slack as he looked to Alter’s left.

  Alter looked left, and looked at Boozehound. Then looked back to the newly arrived Boozehound looking at the Boozehound who’d arrived earlier. Old Boozehound looked at the new Boozehound and smiled.

  “Hello you, hello me.”

  New Boozehound shouted a string of incoherent French swear words in panicked alarm, raising his rifle and pointing it squarely at the old Boozehound.

  “Who the fuck are you?!”