"Please don't go."

  It's pitch-black and pouring rain. He is soaked to the bone, as is she. They would both rather be indoors. They would both rather be anywhere other than here, right now.

  But this is where they've ended up, ankle-deep in mud, with lightning crashing around them and dark, monolithic clouds blotting out any trace of moonlight. Behind him, a structure is burning. Umber flames lick and crackle and swell, hungry, devouring whatever they touch and hissing defiance at that impertinent rain all the while.

  In front of him, mom is pointing a gun. She's not his mother, of course, nor is she anyone's mother. The honorific 'mom' is just force of poor habit. He really needs to stop doing those sorts of things, really needs to abandon his infatuation with The Way Things Should Be and come to proper terms with The Way Things Are. If he did, well, maybe he would be a better son.

  He's got his hands up, at any rate. Mom's face is utterly impassive, yes, but he still can see the emotion in the corners of her eyes. Always could. Mom's not angry, which surprises him. Not sad, either. Just confused.

  That hurts, seeing mom confused like that — and that surprises him too. He thought he'd feel nothing at all, and right up until this point he'd been correct.

  "They told me it was you," mom says. Despite the deafening downpour, he can make out her words clear as day. Her voice is flat and controlled as always; mom has long been a puzzlebox, her interior world accessible only by esoteric little hints. Her son is the exact same way.

  "When the alarms sounded, they told me," mom repeats. "I didn't believe them. I had to see for myself."

  "Sorry," he replies, tone equally flat. His hands are still straight up in the air, palms out. He doesn't want to die here. He may not have a choice. Behind him, the inferno is beginning to wane, and black smoke rises in place of beleaguered flame. The rain will yet have its due.

  "And here you are," mom says, ignoring his apology. Fair enough.

  "Here I am," he agrees, because he cant think of much else to say.

  There is a long and heavy silence between them. Thunder crashes, lightning strikes; for a second, he sees her face in vivid detail. He sees that she is crying, which is astonishing. He did not believe she was capable.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, mom speaks. "Why?" she asks. Then, immediately, she repeats: "Why?" This time, it is a demand. "Tell me why," she insists. The barrel of the gun remains perfectly still; her hands neither tremble nor falter. She's too good for weakness like that. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right here and now." Her jaw tightens. Her eyes narrow. "Tell me why I should let you go."

  He does not move, and does not respond.

  "Tell me why you're leaving us," she continues. "Why you're leaving me. Tell me what you're going to do with your life — tell me your goals, your aspirations, all your little hopes and dreams. Tell me what it is that you want so badly, that cannot be found here. With me. Tell me."

  He is silent.

  "Tell me!" she screams at him, over a deafening crash of thunder. He has never heard mom raise her voice before; not even once. It is a thing utterly alien to him.

  And now, she is waiting for his reply. So he opens his mouth to speak.

  "I..." he begins, then trails off.

  There are no words.

  Nothing comes out.

  And then, well.

  That's that.

  DAY FOUR

  MONTH ELEVEN

  YEAR 12938

  REIGN OF NO EMPEROR

  ONE HUNDRED AND NINE YEARS SINCE THE COLLAPSE OF THE GREAT DOMAIN

  The death of Volsif XCVII was the death of an era.

  History would remember the Jade Emperor as an almighty fool; a short-sighted ruler who ruthlessly eliminated anyone and everyone who could ever have succeeded him — then had the gall to go and commit murder-suicide with his adopted sister. Thus did Scions and Dukes alike descend upon the corpse of the Great Domain like carrion wolves.

  For a period of time coined The Silent Thirty, the universe was engulfed in chaotic and multifaceted war as all manner of Dukes and Barons and Scions and other such wealthy men scrambled for control, and the forces of the former Imperium fought both alongside and against coalitions of separatists, clones, mercenaries, constructs, pirates, revolutionaries, and even a drone fleet helmed by a rogue Golem-AI. But the so-called Season of Jade and Crimson had been a grueling one indeed, and humanity as a whole was already deep in the throes of grief and fatigue. Thus did the warring factions settle into twenty-two miniature fiefdoms, each with their own individual laws and customs. Though these fiefdoms are united, in theory, by twenty-two seats on the interstellar Consensus, it is an open secret that war between the Dukes yet goes on. Borders shrink or grow without little warning; extrajudicial killings and kidnappings are conducted on foreign soil with black gloves and sealed lips. Every Duke and Baron yet dreams for that which Doss Ken Volsif once held — to be sole, undisputed ruler of the known universe.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Though it is a far more violent and chaotic place, since the days of Emperors past, this universe is now — nevertheless — a wild and untamed frontier, a blank canvas upon which humanity is finally free to chart its own course into the future beyond.

  And it is within this particularly violent and chaotic universe that our man, Seven-Two, is currently pretending to be asleep.

  Why is Seven-Two pretending to be asleep? Well. He's not trying to trick anyone, if that's what you're thinking. His crewmates are already well aware of his crepuscular tendencies; they've all had the unpleasant experience of bumping, at the midnight hour, into a man whose footsteps make no sound. They've also all made abundantly clear their opinions about these insomnia-driven wanderings, usually in harsh and decidedly imprecise language.

  No, the only person Seven-Two is trying to trick is himself. Or his body, anyway. Because sleep is good, or at least good for you, and if he goes through the motions enough times then—well, void willing, maybe his brain will finally concede the point and do him the basic courtesy of playing along.

  This continues for a few restless hours; finally, Seven-Two concedes defeat. That marks eleven nights in a row, then. Close to his all-time record of thirteen. Thoroughly humbled, Seven-Two rises to his feet, steps across his quarters, and makes the mistake of looking himself in the mirror.

  The man staring back at Seven-Two is pale, lanky, gaunt. Sharp cheekbones and faded-blue eyes, and heavy purple bags beneath — he can thank that damned insomnia for those. He's in his late twenties, though one could easily be thrown off by the volume of lines and wrinkles across his face — and the fact that he carries himself like an older, wearier man. His hair is short and messy and tends to spike up, if he doesn't take the time to pat it down, and when he's nervous — or feigning nervousness — he tends to run his hands through it, along the top of his scalp. He does so now, then immediately curses himself. He doesn't like having habits, or tics, or what-have-you.

  What Seven-Two wants, first and foremost, is to be forgettable.

  Seven-Two tells himself smile, then, and his reflection breaks into a sly, knowing, half-cocked little grin — the kind of grin that makes you feel like you're in on the joke, whatever The Joke may be, when you receive it. This is by design. He tells himself cry, and his expression collapses at once. His jaw is set tight, chin tilted up, stoically fighting against tears. But there is a subtle trembling of his bottom lip, and tears do indeed well up at the corners of his eyes. He appears a proud man seized by grief, trying and failing to endure and succumbing, finally, to a sorrow that any onlooker should know well.

  This, too, is by design.

  Finally, when all is said and done, Seven-Two looks at his expression and doesn't command anything. Not a word. He doesn't try and force any kind of expression whatsoever. He just...smiles.

  What follows is a sad and strained thing, the corners of his mouth upturning, and his lips peeling back to bare teeth in a distinctly animalistic display. Worst of all, his eyes remain entirely cold and dull, and he is quite literally incapable of wiping the stare off his face.

  He gives up. His face, impassive, betrays none of his frustration, and that is because it has been trained and conditioned not to do so. Seven-Two steps back, now; dons dark pants and a white shirt. Zips up a high-collared black fleece — black-on-black, like usual, because disappearing into shadow is always a useful option to have in one's pocket. He considers a wrist-comm, then dismisses the idea at once. It is a device that can, with some difficulty, be tracked, and Seven-Two is a man who does not like to be seen. He picks up, instead, a weathered little switchblade — lightweight, and subtle, and easily concealed within a sleeve if need be.

  He thumbs the activator, and a narrow three-inch blade springs up to meet him. This is no melt-knife, no, just cold and reliable steel. He likes for his weapons to be as simple and uncomplicated as possible; more mechanisms mean more avenues for failure. Errors compound, then. Margins narrow. Efficiency suffers. He has been conditioned to always be thinking about these things.

  Seven-Two sheathes the blade. Sits down, laces up his boots — black boots, of course — then tucks the knife into the back of his left sock. Pulls down his pant-leg, to conceal a bulge that was already nigh-unnoticeable. Then he stands up and sets out.

  It's pitch-dark, in the halls of that ship. Shadows abound; Seven-Two slinks through them with effortless ease, a silent and invisible phantom who stalking now across the common area. There is a man in combat fatigues snoring loudly on the couch, with a bottle clenched loosely in his hand. The table before him is dotted with more of the same. Seven-Two observes him, for a moment, though he is in no way curious or interested in what he sees. The collection of data is, for him, merely a manner of mechanical rote.

  A few seconds later, Seven-Two continues on, making his way down a rickety metal ladder and across another hall and into a cargo bay stacked high with dozens of strap-bound, unmarked crates and containers.

  Four rows down, by the exit, Seven-Two can hear the sound of metal chipping into wood. Thus he reacts with no surprise; he just walks right on by, though he feels the eyes of the other man flick up at once to meet him. He stops, then, because that is the polite thing to do.

  His name is Vasck. Another rangy sort, his hair close-cropped, with dark eyes and a face like a hatchet. Freshly twenty-two years of age. The barcode on his cheek proudly marks him as a veteran of the famed Excoriator Brigade; his presence in this cargo hold marks him as a deserter. He is an angry, bitter, acerbic young man, constantly angling for a fight and likely traumatized to some degree, and thus it is no surprise when he looks up and scowls, "Fuck are you going, skinwalker?"

  Again, this is no surprise. Vasck is playing exactly to type — and at any rate, Seven-Two is a man blessed with exceptionally thick skin. His feelings are in no danger of being hurt; this, like everything else about him, is entirely by design. "Just going for a walk," he answers, in the flat tone that he knows tends to irritate and unsettle. There's no way around it; Vasck has made exceptionally clear his distaste for Seven-Two's false inflections. He claimed, the other day, that he could see right through what he called 'the facade', which of course was patently ridiculous. Vasck saw only what Seven-Two allowed him to see.

  "Off to go meet with your real employer, no doubt," Vasck scoffs. His blade bites deep; Vasck is an habitual woodcarver, and right now he is constructing a cylindrical totem replete with all manner of swirled markings and patterns. Seven-Two suspects that it is merely stress-relief, something to keep the deserter's hands occupied. "Gonna go sell us out," Vasck adds, waving his knife around to indicate the rest of the crew, "and fuck everybody over, just like you been paid to do. Isn't that right?"

  "No," Seven-Two answers, calmly. Vasck glares at him, for a moment, as though he is indeed attempting to 'see right through him' — and then, finally, the veteran just turns his head and spits.

  "Fuckin' skinwalker," he mutters, returning to his work and sparing not another glance for the late-night intruder. "Captain's outta her mind, asking us to trust a professional fucking liar." Whether this is directed to Seven-Two, or merely a bit of the ol' thinking-out-loud, who can say? It doesn't really matter. Seven-Two doesn't respond; having endured the customary ritual of acerbic distrust and 'proven' himself, he is now allowed now to proceed onwards.

  You must understand that Seven-Two truly does not mind. None of what Vasck says is unwarranted — especially the word skinwalker, because Seven-Two was the one dumb enough to tell them all that this was his third face.

  Let's get it out in the open, then, shall we? Seven-Two is a former member of the Mondat, the enigmatic cabal of spies and assassins who wear shadow like a cloak; who wear faces like cheap masks and who appeare without warning to kill without sound. Astronomically-expensive murderers-for-hire who few in all the universe had ever encountered — and if they have, they most certainly would not have known it. The Mondatti could be anywhere at any time; their numbers, their leadership, their base of operations — all this was and is totally unknown. They are a force unseen, yet always keenly felt.

  Hence Seven-Two's ability to move as he does. Hence his natural disinclination to being noticed. Hence that whole gallery of false expression. And, yes, hence the immediate distrust from anyone who knows what he is.

  Not who he is.

  What.

  Seven-Two steps out onto dock, hands in his pockets, and glances around. The city streets bathed in slanted shadow, bereft of any illumination save for a tiny and distant pair of moons. The former Mondatti puts his hands in his pockets, and a cloud of frozen breath begins to gather around his mouth.

  For a moment Seven-Two is perfectly still — listening. Just listening. And then, without further ado, he picks a direction and sets off.

  The night is still young, after all.