I think I am here.

Rob stared silently at the Dustbringer, watched as stone poured from above her, flowing over her shoulders, almost over her face. She had almost gone down without a word. And even now, her life was at his fingertips. She'd offered to join them, but at a compromise. It wasn't good enough. Wasn't good enough at all. Flames compromised. They engulfed whatever space they were given, fiery and adaptable. But not stone. So he had to kill her. He looked down at her empty palm, at the tears in her eyes and the way she looked at him. Like the brother he never had. He stepped forward, closing the small gap between them, his grip tightening on her. He kept eye contact, like an executioner at the guillotine. He could not allow any risk. Slowly, he pushed her deeper into the wall. The Dustbringer, he thought, and it was hard to feel it. The way she cried, how she looked at him, desperate, torn, how she had pleaded. Faint stirrings roused in his chest, like dull thuds from the inside of a submarine. Face and a name. Nothing more. He was looking at her face. Her name was Shana. She... was nothing. But she had done his debating homework. She had nudged him to ask Leona to prom. Suddenly the eye contact was difficult to maintain. She was nothing. She was Shana. He pulled her forward from the wall slightly, his grip still iron tight. He didn't know why. Underwater explosions were happening in his heart, bright and loud before being swallowed by the deep dark. Just as he felt something for her it was consumed by the thing in his chest, again and again, but it was too much. One thought came after the other, memories, and it was too many feelings to be swallowed at once. A faint familiarity, like a dying flame, shone somewhere inside him. He leaned in towards her. "I can't fall, Shana," he whispered in her ear, his voice still icy. She had to understand. He met her eyes, and then leaned in again. "If I fall... I won't be able to get up. again." He locked gazes with her again, his companion, his enemy. He did not want to slaughter her like an animal, frightened and desperate, but he didn't know why. It made sense to not take the risk. Slowly that dying flame was eaten by the smoke inside him, but its echo remained. Not here, it pleaded. Later. He met her eyes fiercely. "I will meet you on the battlefield," he said, and froze the stone around her body to keep her still. He turned and ran, his feet slicing through the liquid floor easily. When he reached the far end of the room he pushed through the liquid glass window and jumped to the grassy ground below. Pain shot at his knees but was dwarfed by the icy numbness. Then he ran. He had let the Dustbringer live, he told himself, because it didn't matter. He didn't welcome death, but it was not something he feared. They would meet again, and either he would accomplish his duty or die trying. No compromise. That was the way of stone.

Shana jumped towards him, reached for his clothes and Rob grabbed one of her arms as she did, tried to twist and push her into a melting wall. They'd been in deadlocks before, but this was different. He needed her to stop. "I could use your help," he told her. He'd seen Ben leave with James, and Cassie was still dealing with the melting room. It was just them. "You would be ferocious." He tried to push her deeper into the wall. She had been his ally for so long, he couldn't risk her being an enemy. Couldn't risk being burnt again. "Or I will drown you." She had confided that fear to him, and he had never wanted to use it against her. But it all felt meaningless now in the face of ending the war. So what a Dustbringer drowned? She was a face and a name.

Rob didn't have many fond memories of his father, but there had been that hiking trip when he was seven. A beaten path slicing through the scrublands. Coldness in his lungs. An icy lake reflecting the sky, slick with winter. Rob had fallen into that lake, had almost lost consciousness from the cold when his father fished him out. But the memory of that numbing cold had stuck with him. Hateful cold. Cold that burns. He felt that cold now, in his veins and soul, behind his eyes and beneath his fingernails. Smoke filled his eyes and he rubbed them, his thoughts strangely still, mind as smooth and featureless as the winter lake. He was cold, and confused. How long had it been since his wish? It felt like years. When the smoke cleared, there was Cassie, filled with stormlight. Rob liked Cassie, but he didn't feel anything. He knew she was his friend, but it was hard to feel it. Right now she was a face with a name. Cassie. Willshaper. He had been arguing with her and James, but it felt meaningless now. James was on the ground, he saw. And there was Ben too, beside him. Like toy soldiers, frozen in drama. Rob stepped towards them and felt that searing cold through his muscles, as if they were made of ice. It was odd, to see people Rob remembered knowing. James was the second Bondsmith, Ben had healed Rob more than anyone. But oddly he felt a sort of disgust at the two of them. At their weakness. At what they defended. And Shana. Rob watched her stand in front of Ben and James, her face teary. She asked him what he did, and he didn't know how to respond. He felt nothing. He felt hollow and indifferent, but looking at her face he knew something had gone wrong. She wasn't supposed to cry. She was his partner in crime, his collaborator. She'd inspired him to end this war. A swell of feeling thumped at his chest faintly, before being swallowed by the cold. "I'm not weak anymore, Shana," he said to her. She should've been happy. "I'm going to destroy the board, like we talked about. Kill the other Radiants, destroy the Voidbringers." He knew she - all of them, in fact - wouldn't allow him. But they were weak emotional creatures, and for the first time Rob felt pure, strong, unwavering. Like stone. He looked at his hand and it was hissing smoke where he'd crushed the sphere, a black scar that pulsed with a twisted light. Then he looked to Cassie and her stormlight and her sprenless soul, to James and Ben and their troubled faces, and finally to Shana. "Don't stop me," he said, and stomped on the ground The floor rippled where he hit it, turning to thick liquid as if he'd used his surge on it. But this was different, stronger. As the floor melted, the void-surge spread to the the other four walls and the ceiling. The whole room began to melt as if it had been made of honey. And Rob remained still.

Thanks for the offer! But I think real life is too busy for me to commit at the moment. Good luck!

"She bids pretty high," Tsyan said, watching a glass of something amber slide its way to him. He poked the patterned glass with his fingers, pensively took a sip. "This is my home planet," he said to the stranger. "Could you imagine living your life somewhere else, surrounded by people who didn't know about other planets?" He could see the novelty wearing off sometime between the first month and the first year. Hardly a place to live a life. "And what's keeping you here anyway?" he said. "If you really think it's a hell-hole."

He wasn't a social spinner, but even Tsyan could tell when someone was afraid. Their body stopped for a moment, or you could see their eyes widen or a twitch of their fingers. What had triggered it, he wondered? Ghostblood? "Sure," he said. He didn't drink, but the stranger was good enough company. He stopped leaning on the wall, cracked his back. "Not a Ghostblood any longer," he said to the stranger, in case it helped. "They changed, left some of us in the dirt."

438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens Unremarkable face. Unremarkable voice. But somehow Tysan appreciated the style, the straight-forwardness of the question. He was tired of having to wrap his brain around double-meanings and conversational battles, tired of the hidden agendas of his old bosses and tired of the mystery surrounding his new one. "I'm doing it for the money," he said plainly to the stranger. "You ever tried to be legitimately employed in this city? I have one skill, and zero connections. I take what I can get." He turned his head towards the figure, mulled over their words. Clotho was unconscious. He'd figured as much. He sighed when his mind immediately jumped to schemes, thought about if he paid a visit to her mansion, he'd have enough time to loot the place to shreds, and if there was nothing, he at least could hold the books for ransom... "But I'm no criminal," he said to the stranger. "Like you and Delben and your crew. No hard feelings. But a Ghostblood stealing for money is like a Whitepsine foraging for table scraps. It's below me."

438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens It was easier to think without the eyes of people on him. Easier to breathe the cool air, however polluted with smoke and dust it was. He closed his eyes. Leaning against the wall, feeling the top of his spine hard against the uneven stony surface, he could almost imagine he was back on the fields of Emul, bartering with a merchant for a Chull ride, surrounded by stone and spren and drop-dread trees with bark that glistened faintly in the setting sun and rising moons... He blinked, and the dream vanished. Replaced with ramshackle, tightly-packed huts of the Mistwarrens. The smell of smoke and metal. And these poor excuses for Allomancers. Tysan sighed. If he'd traced his Emuli mission to the end, he would've only remembered the beginning of the next one, the weeks spent in this city between assignments not a haze or bleary, but simply gone. Excised from memory, stuck in a dusty copper coin in a ratty shelf in his apartment. Maybe it was better that way. He spotted a blue line moving from his chest before he saw the figure from his periphery, emerging from 438 and taking a spot beside him. Young adult. Nothing remarkable about them. They nodded. Tysan nodded back, silent. Then, slowly, he looked towards the door. "You're with Delben?" he asked the figure. "Any idea how my client is doing in there?" @Stormlightsong

438 Scrap Street. Even when she needed his help, Delben was getting lip from a noblewoman. He sighed, and grabbed her wrist, flaring his Nicrosil. He smiled. He kind of hoped her mind would break. <->-<->-<-> The woman gasped, eyes bulging out. Usually, her soothing gave her the upper hand. Today, it seemed she was going to be short a few broams and a whole lot of boxings. "You... cheated!" she said, though she didn't know how to prove it. The girl had to have cheated. Somehow. The two men just looked to each other and shrugged. The woman just stared in space, the accusation hanging in the air, but no action being taken. Their boss would wring them if they harmed the daughter of a client.

438 Scrap Street, the Mistwarrens "He quit," said Delben matter-of-factly, turning on an electric light. This room was just as sparse as the one in front, though it had a large steel table where many people could sit, and a blackboard by the far wall that had some schematics drawn on it. Right now the table was filled with all sorts of junk. Delben slid a chair over for himself and for the noblewoman. "He rolled around over the floor, then quit when he woke up. He said he saw where he would end up if he stayed with us, and that he was going to Silverlight, where his 'best future' would occur." Delben had called him a fool and had offered to increase his pay - Oracles were valuable - but the man had been adamant. He reached over the table and grabbed a vial of nicrosil, right next to a small radio Clotho would've been able to recognise, as it was the only memento Delben had kept from his home when he'd been thrown out years ago. He downed the vial, rolled up his sleeve a bit and gestured for her to give him her hand. <->-<->-<-> One of the men gaped in shock, the other rubbing his head with a disgruntled expression at losing half a week's pay to a little girl. The woman just stared at Feynah, green eyes intense. "Double or nothing," she said softly. She dug in her pockets and tossed - not boxings - but three diamond broams, stormlight softly glowing from them. The two men shared a look and decided that they'd lost enough already for one day. That just left Feynah, if she accepted. "One round. If you win, you get the gems," said the woman. "If I win, I get your winnings." A subtle soothing filled the air, targeting Feynah's apprehension. If she was observant, she would notice it.

Delben had to smile at that, the ends of his mouth twitching up into a grin before drawing back into seriousness. Nicrobursting gold. That was like buying an expensive vest for your chicken. "I dealt with an Oracle," he countered. He wouldn't say no to a curious noblewoman if it meant a few boxings. "Their mind didn't break." He eyed the local-looking girl moving towards the card table, then turned his attention back to Clotho. "Tell your daughter to behave," he said, then stood and nodded to a ajar door behind him. "There's a back room we can use." @Koloss17 The rough-looking people at the table - two men and a woman - glanced over at the interruption of Feynah, but otherwise didn't say anything. One of them dealt her in. "Roughs Rules," the woman said. "You got anything to bet with?" A handful of boxings and a pewter earring lay in the center of the table. Not waiting for an answer, the players continued their game and expected the girl to join in whenever. @Stormlightsong

Delben grit his teeth but otherwise didn't say anything immediately, staying seated at his desk. She called him cheap. As if he was still a street boy with nothing to his name. "First, tell me who you represent," he said icily. He spread his hands, to show he was not closed to making a deal. Despite her insult, boxings were boxings and he loved the sound they made when he dropped them on his table. But he would not do it blindly. He squinted his eyes at her. "The Pewtersnakes wouldn't send someone Iike you. The Needlers wouldn't bother with an outsider. But you know my name." And - though he didn't say it - he felt she knew more than just that. She was talking too freely. He pointed a pen at the woman and her companion. "And then you can tell me who you've brought here, and the details of the gig. And then I can decide if I want your boxings." @Koloss17 @Stormlightsong

438 Scrap Street, the Mistwarrens Tysan watched the boy open the door and eyed him. He glanced along a blue line that connected his chest to something in the boy's pockets - probably coins - and he pulled on it a bit. Not much, but enough to clink them around a little. Enough to let the boy know they weren't without protections. As discussed, he didn't enter with Clotho, instead staying outside and holding guard. In a place like this, with seemingly one entrance and exit, an ambush would be child's play. He wasn't going to let that happen. <->-<->-<-> The inside of the building was dark, windows boarded off with thick planks of wood nailed to the frames, letting only cracks of light through. It gave off a feeling of desolate emptiness, with a stone ground and some bare furnishings that had the bland, utilitarian feel of something that had been soulcasted into existence. A cheap place. Hardly an oddity. A few people sat at a table, playing a card game, and just beside them, seated at his own desk cluttered with chrysts and ledgers, was a thin, wiry Nicroburst who was known as Delben. The boy ran over to him and whispered something in his ear. Then Delben looked towards the newcomers. The people playing the card game glanced up, but otherwise paid no heed. "You must have gotten mixed up," Delben said coldly to the newcomers, still seated at his desk. "There is no business for you here."

Tsyan, Near 438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens Tsyan raised an eyebrow as they neared. "You're going to be our local, though, right?" He looked to Clotho and back to Feynah. "Apparently this guy isn't too receptive to outsiders - if he's alive, that is." He had better be. Tsyan wasn't walking all this way just to turn around and go to Central Markets. He scowled.

Tsyan, walking to 438 Scrap Street, The Mistwarrens If hadn't been for the bag, Tsyan would've figured a schoolgirl happened to run across the street to them at the same coincidental time that Feyanh disappeared. But no - the closer he looked, the more he could see faint similarities in the skull shape between disguises. If he hadn't known this was Feyah, the similarities would've been impossible to find, even for him. "Impressive," he said honestly, now not knowing whether the newsie or the girl was Feynah's true form - if they had a true form. He doubted Feynah would answer if he asked. "You carry all your clothing in that bag of yours?" He continued walking, burning iron, spotting lines pointing to things moving inside and between buildings fast, erratically. They were entering a part of the Mistwarrens where not all was exactly what it seemed. He couldn't explain it, but he could feel eyes watching them. "I doubt it'll get you killed," he said to Clotho. He doubt she truly believed that, but it was worth mentioning. "A Nicro almost killed me once, but that was different. I hadn't been expecting it." He shuddered, remembering the injuries. Finally he rounded a corner and came across a dark and dreary-looking street, lit only by the orange glow of a fire where a few people sat gathered. A ramshackle building sat behind them. "There's your 438 Scrap Street," he told Feynah and Clotho, pointing. "I'll stay back and hold guard. Probably better if Feynah does the introductions, if I'm honest." @Stormlightsong @Koloss17

Tsyan, The Mistwarrens Tsyan began walking. "Our employer here is looking for someone," he said curtly to Feynah. Ally or not, he didn't like crossing paths with someone as unloyal as the disguise artist seemed. If you couldn't fight, what were you? "We don't know their name. Don't know their location. All we know is that they killed someone dear to Ms. Renoux. Our only clues are her gold Allomancy, and the stacks of notes she's kept detailing her alternate versions." He gestured at the winding path ahead. "We thought maybe a Nicroburst could give us more to work with. You know, using gold to peer into the Spiritual Realm and all." He looked silently to Clotho. He hadn't told Feynah of the bigger problem - the amnesia, the seclusion - because it wasn't his to tell. He'd given the essential information. The rest was up to her. "And I agree to your terms," he said to Feynah. "Though I'm curious why you don't need much payment. Food and shelter is fine, but you can those anywhere. Money is the hard thing to come by, at least if you want to do something in this city." To Clotho he added: "I don't suppose you have any idea what'll happen once you're Nicro'd? You may want to be ready with a spare vial - what you're burning now will probably all be used up." @Stormlightsong @Koloss17

Tsyan, The Mistwarrens A name. Tsyan supposed it was something. Hesitantly, he took Feynah's hand and shook it. "Tsyan," he introduced himself in turn, realizing he'd never got the chance to tell his name to Clotho either. "I won't be using it lightly," he said. "But its good to have it. Besides, you already knew my occupation, so you know there's a lot we can do with a name." Not a demonstration, besides the red hair, but it was a claim so bold it had merit on its own. Tsyan looked to Clotho. "You're the one who's going to be paying his fee," he said to her. "What do you think? You said the Nicro you know, or knew, or knew from another life, whatever, that he didn't take kindly to outsiders. Well now we have a local." He looked to Faynah. "And if you're good as you say, we'll have a 'local' no matter where we go. Hmm."

Tsyan, The Mistwarrens He could tell Tsyan was an assassin. Could tell Clotho was more than what she let on. The disguise artist was clever, that was certain, but the smartest ones were the most likely to betray you, use you as a pawn in their games. He turned to Clotho. "Useful? He'd be more than useful, but there's things more important than that." He turned to the disguise artist. "For all I know," he said. "You being chased was an elaborate set up to con us once you saw us get out of the cab. So how do we know you can be trusted? What's your... uh..." He waved his hand vaguely. "...collateral?" It's not like they would be able to find him again if he betrayed them. Tsyan stepped back, looking over the boy. "And as for usefulness..." he said. He needed to project authority. How? He remembered Clotho's words. "Unless you can show me something other than an obvious age-switch, I doubt your 'skills' will be any use to us." @Stormlightsong @Koloss17

Tysan put down his knives, watched the gang take off to another unfortunate section of the slums, and watched the "old man" turn into a twenty-something boy. Looked like a newsie. "Should've let me at them," he muttered to Clotho. "Murderous low lives. It'd be a mercy to end them." But they were gone now, and a disguise artist was here. Storms. You couldn't even take a breath without something weird happening over here. "Then why were they chasing you?" he asked, pointing in the direction the gang had went. Tysan had to admit, the "old man" had him fooled. He hadn't seen a disguise so good in a while. Despite the man's words, Tysan checked his pockets anyway. Everything still there. "And what are you doing in the Mistwarrens with a power like that, anyway?" he asked, irritated. "There's bound to be guild or three who'd take you." @Koloss17 @Stormlightsong

Now, that was something useful. Tsyan smiled. It looked like the Mistwarrens had been the right choice after all. Suddenly, a figure slammed into the woman and Tsyan had both knives out, gleaming, ready to fight back. But there was no perpetrator in sight - just an old man with cane. Tsyan looked around. Old men didn't just appear. He had to be a Steelrunner, or a teleporter or something. And these places, you had to wonder how an old person lived so long. Certainly not by being weak. "Check your pockets, make sure everything's still there," he said to Clotho, knives still out. He went to ask the old man something but saw the look in his eyes. A desperate look. A few angry people - they looked like gang members - turned around the corner. Maybe the old man had pickpocketed them first. Tsyan held his knives tight. "What's going on?" he whispered, to both of them. The gang was coming closer. @Stormlightsong

Tsyan didn't doubt that. He turned to the driver, and gave a vague address somewhere in the more Misting-heavy parts of the Mistwarrens. Oasis City was always there... but Tysan didn't want to take any chances. # A while later, they arrived, the clean skies and old, untarnished architecture of Mistkeep now replaced with the mottled greys and blacks of the Mistwarrens, meshes of old foundation and new scrap thrown together to create basic settlements. The sky was the colour of burnt iron, and outside there were a few small pockets of light where locals were gathering around fires, sharing stories. Tsyan hopped out of the taxi. "If you have a self that's any good at disguises, might want to switch to that now," he said to Clotho. "These people target outsiders like vultures to a carcass." Now, to find a Nicro. Hopefully her thief-self would have some idea as well. He paused. "By the way, you're paying for the taxi fare, right? Work expense and all."

Tsyan, Outside Clotho's Manor, Mistkeep Tsyan eyed her for a moment, wondered if this was the noble talking, or the thief, looking for information to exploit. Maybe it was both. But he supposed it didn't really matter. Tsyan eased a little as he entered into the taxi beside her. "I was born here," he said, looking out the window at the empty manor behind the empty street. They were a pair, those two. "Grew up here, somewhere around here at least. One of the Scadrian districts, probably." He turned to her. "That's not why I know he's Emuli, though. I had to travel a lot in my job, and there's a sort of -" "Actually, I'm from Tashikk," piped the driver from the front seat. Tsyan paused, looked to the driver, had a quick instrusive thought about adjusting his position in the car so he could ironpull the car keys and send it straight through the driver's ribs, but he banished it in an instant. "Close enough," he told Clotho. But it wasn't close enough; he was losing his touch. "So, where to?" asked the driver. Tsyan turned back to Clotho. "You're the boss," he said. "Central Markets, they're filled with stalls, so we're bound to to find a Nicro somewhere, and a few other knick-knacks too. Expensive place, though, no matter what you're buying. Mistwarrens, it might be easier to locate a Nicro, cheaper too, but, y'know, it's no playground. There's risk. And as for Oasis City," He hesitated, then continued. "I'm not sure how it's changed, now that the Mirrorshades are all that's left of the Ghostbloods. But we'll find what we need there. Reasonable prices. There's risk, but a different kind of risk than the Mistwarrens. Some opportunities too." He paused to let her think about the options. "Whatever you say."

Storms. It did seem lonely. Not even getting to talk to yourself. Maybe 'collective judgement' was better, but to Tsyan, it sounded eerie, like something high-born would do to skaa back in the day. Collective judgement. It sounded like a Vorin metal band. He turned to her blankly when she asked the question. Was the 'someone' referring to him now? Or were they still talking about her? "I suppose so," Tysan said and nodded meaningfully, though he really didn't know what he was supposing to. "I used to always have something to do," he said then, hoped that was what she was asking. "Then, not so much. Then not at all. So yeah, it's nice. Reminds me of old times." The taxi arrived in front of them. It looked out of place in Mistkeep. The driver looked friendly. "Looks Makabaki," said Tsyan absently to Clotho. "Maybe from Emul."

Tysan, Outside Clotho's Manor, Mistkeep Outside, Tysan took out his cell and dialled for a taxi. In other districts, you might have taxis or even rickshaws patrolling the streets, looking for cash, but this was Mistkeep. The air smelled crisp and the breeze cool against Tsyan's skin. He breathed deeply. It was good to be outside again, not buried under old wood and ancient paintings. While they waited, he looked to Clotho, then back to the manor. A big manor. And one person. "Must've gotten lonely," he said, looking back to the street. He didn't like company, but five years would drive him mad. He looked at the quiet, quaint surroundings. Yes, taxis and rickshaws would've ruined the gloomy, noble Final Empire-era aesthetic. "Do you talk to yourself? Your selves, I mean. Do they answer?"

Tsyan nodded his understanding, smiling. There she was. "No, ma'am," he said. Anyway, he was only giving mouth to the other two-thirds of her - he doubted the crew leader self would be as safety-concious. So, he deferred to her authority. Almost. He grabbed a copper coin on her desk and tapped the tangled labyrinth of haphazard, unorganised information. "Although, you're giving a very post-Hathlanian outlook on this employer-employee relationship. Comparing the workplace akin to a crew... flatters Survivorist tendencies, but contrasts with the tenets of Elendel freedomism, leading to a scattered result. And... a fractured nation." Oh, yeah. He looked down at his coin. Assorted Scacdrial political science concepts, the note read. And a few controversial thought experiments. "Let's go," he said, scooping up his coins back into his pocket and walking towards the door. "Is there anything you want to take before we leave?"