#afth

Ewron likes to think he's a very capable man, and an even more capable assassin.

Sure, the Hussars, his hit squad, keep him in the dark about their plans, which is funny considering he grew up with them, but that only makes him more independent.

Regardless, they trust him to get the job done. That’s all he needs. They wouldn’t have chosen him from the four of them to assassinate the Supreme Leader of The Regime if they didn't trust him.

Then again, maybe that doesn’t hold much weight. He’s the only person in their entire group who carries out the killings.

Oh well. He’ll keep his mouth shut as long as he gets the money. Hopefully, Multi won’t hoard it all this time and waste it on that strange nuclear reactor project of his.

The plan itself isn’t all that convoluted. Their client wanted him gone as fast as possible, mentioning in a hushed tone how the man was a threat to his kingdom? Family? Ewron wouldn’t know—he wasn’t paying attention during the briefing.

His fellow hitmen weren’t any help either. When he asked them for clarification, all he got was a grainy picture of his target and a curt shove that sent him stumbling toward the exit.

Now, he trudges through the relentless rain towards a train station. The irksome patter of the rain as it pelts the ground echoes in his ears. He pulls his hood low to shield his face, but the dampness seeps through, turning his curls into a stringy, soiled mess.

As he steps into a puddle, he hisses. If he had the time to prepare, he would’ve brought an umbrella. Maybe a raincoat, too.

As he plods along, a sigh of relief escapes his lips when the arched glass doors of the station finally come into view. The light at the end of a dark and very wet tunnel. He tries to close the gap between him and the building as quickly as possible, without stepping into any more puddles.

His mission is a success! He reaches the station, adding no more stains to his boots than necessary. The heavy wooden doors groan in protest as he pushes through, and he winces as the damp soles of his shoes leave grimy marks on the polished hardwood floor.

There’s nobody around to scold him for it. His only company is a train whose exterior is chipped and peeling. Ewron bets it'd crumple to dust if he were to set foot on it.

Beggars can’t be choosers, though. He inhales, only to recoil and choke back a cough as the scent of rust and decay fills his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he makes his way toward the train, opting to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose. If he catches a disease, he wouldn’t be shocked.

The cabin is nothing to write home about. He makes his way through the cramped space, dodging overturned chairs and rickety tables.

Disappointment washes over him like the rain outside when he gets to the cockpit. It’s empty. Just as desolate as it was outside.

If there’s no conductor, how's the train meant to run? He’s not going back outside to walk the rest of the way there. Not in the rain.

He grumbles as he turns and notices a bright red button to the left of the door he entered. Common sense screams at him not to press it, because most brightly colored things are far from good.

But Ewron has always had poor impulse control, so he slams the button as hard as he can.

For a few moments, nothing happens. Then, the train lurches forward, nearly throwing him against the wall. A right turn by the train sends him tumbling to the floor.

A self-operating train. He’d find it pretty cool if bonking his head against the floor didn’t hurt so bad.

“Auć,” he moans while rubbing his head. His hand comes back wet, and he wipes it against the hardwood. Slowly, he rises to his feet, arms stretched wide for balance to avoid another tumble, even if it probably makes him look stupid.

Ewron wobbles toward the passenger carts. The seats are an eyesore. Most of them have sunken into the springs, and the others are lopsided.

By sheer luck, he finds one that looks to be relatively untouched, and he plops down onto it with a sigh. He draws his knees to his chest. The worn vinyl of the seat isn't comfortable, but this is the best he'll get.

He rests his temple on the foggy glass beside him. Maybe he can pass the time by conjuring up ways to kill The Regime’s Supreme Leader. Ash… Ashswag, was it? Yeah, Ash.

Ewron pats down his sides. Rustling fills the desolate air as he digs through his pockets. Eventually, he feels the familiar texture of paper and pulls out the photograph, holding his arm up in victory. His smile fades just as quickly as it came. The photo is wet.

He rolls his eyes and throws his head back, but the padding of the seats is so thick that his head bounces off them. Whatever. At least the photo is still somewhat discernible.

Ewron traces a finger over the edge of it. From what he can make out, his target's got long, black hair, typically styled in a braid. Purple eyes, too, and a well-defined jawline, complemented by flattering facial hair.

Pretty attractive, if he's being honest. It's a shame he has to kill him.

Admittedly, Ewron knows next to nothing about The Regime. His knowledge is scant. All he knows is the bitter rivalry between them and The North. Hell, he has no clue how he’ll even infiltrate their territory.

He furrows his brow. Then, a lightbulb flickers to life in his head.

Surely he can use that rivalry to his advantage. If he fabricated a lie about him being some fugitive on the run from The North, that’d pull on their heartstrings, no?

And even if they don’t believe him, he’ll run his mouth long enough to the point they’d let him in, just to shut him up.

Yup. Flawless plan. God, he’s such a genius.

The train screeches to a stop, so abruptly that it sends Ewron tumbling across the compartment. He hits the floor with a soft thud. With a wince, Ewron pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, crawling towards the aisle.

Once he reaches the edge of the row, he carefully pulls himself to his feet and steadies himself against the seat backs for support. He turns his head, inching toward the window. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he looks out.

He's met with the sight of towering structures, their once-majestic facades now worn and crumbling. They loom over their surroundings, almost like vultures.

Weeds and creeping vines weave through the cracked stone pathways leading up to them, as if nature's caught up to it. The persistent rain drizzles down, not helping them seem any more inviting.

One glance at the sky reveals a thick blanket of factory smoke, choking the daylight. Ewron drags a hand over his face. Amazing. He has to deal with polluted air along with pelting rain. Ugh, his clothes were almost dry, too.

Ewron drags himself to the exit of the train cart, and as he expected, the thick air assaults his lungs the moment he opens the door. A part of him regrets not entering The Regime normally, rather than this dramatic approach—sneaking in through the backstreets.

Tears fill his eyes, overwhelmed by both the feeling and the scent. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. A mission is a mission. He promised he'd get it done, so that's just what he'll do.

Finally, he steps onto the eroded stone pathway. He takes a sharp inhale, immediately regretting it because he's reminded just how polluted the air is. As he coughs into his shoulder, he notices that the smog only extends so far.

Nobody in their right mind would choose to live in whatever part of the country this is, so the logical conclusion is that civilization must be over there.

A flickering lamp illuminates most of the pathway. He practically runs as he travels along the trail, not just because of the thick smog, but also because he wants to get out of the rain as quickly as possible.

It's not long till he reaches what seems to be the town square. The rain has finally let up. Ewron dips his chin to get a good look at his clothes and winces. At least it helps sell the refugee look? Even if he looks homeless.

He taps on a random woman's shoulder and tests out his sob story approach—how he's an ex-member of The North, how they randomly turned on him, how they want him dead, all that jazz. It works perfectly.

She commends him for his "bravery" and even directs him to some high-ranking dude's office. Hayper, or was it Haiper?

Ewron knocks twice on the ornately designed doors, wooden with stone framing, and taps his foot. After a couple of moments, the door creaks open.

A man pokes his head out the door. "Hello?" the man, probably Haiper, says. Ewron puts on a smile with practiced ease.

"Hi! Uhm, I'm Ewron from El Norte! The north!" he exclaims. Haiper almost shuts the door on him, but he jams his foot in the opening, forcing him to listen. "I… I was kicked out. Jestem zbiegiem. They're after me," he exclaims, raising his arms to show off his disheveled state.

Haiper's lip curls, but he reluctantly opens the door for Ewron to come inside. "Um, okay. Can—can you not get your dirt on my floors…? Wipe your boots on the mat." Ewron does as he's told, then sits on a nearby chair. It's much more comfortable than the ones on the train. "Okay, uh—stay. I'll go get someone."

"Who? A tour guide?" he asks.

He grimaces. "Uhm, I guess. Just wait, okay? Wait."

Ewron watches Haiper turn the doorknob and leave. Ewron's smile drops so fast it's comedic, and he grunts, sinking further into his chair.

This mission is going to be easy. Three months to complete it is more than enough.

˖⠀🜲⠀˖

Ash thumbs his pen against the still-blank sheet of paper. He’s trying to devise a plan to take down The North. Again.

His loyal spy, Haiper, visits them, bringing back detailed reports of his time there. At the moment, his latest report sits atop a pile of others beside Ash.

However, Haiper can only linger around in their palace invisible for so long. As a matter of fact, his most recent visit got cut short.

According to Haiper, Aldo was already on edge from the last… encounter Ash had with him. He only got a foot into the castle before the freak started swinging his sword around, demanding to know who was there.

Haiper’s efforts are appreciated, despite the challenges. He gathered enough information to land a decent hit on The North last time, but it’s not enough. None of the reports makes sense, either. They’re no help.

Of course, Haiper would never lie to him. He, Tubbo, and Ash found—or rather took over—The Regime together. Ash knows he can count on them. Yet it becomes clear to him that The North is the most dysfunctional family he has ever seen, and he knows quite a lot about those.

Initially, Ash thought of murdering one of the top ranks. It’d be pretty easy, considering most of them wander around without armor on, and based on the last time he'd paid a visit, they don't put up much of a fight. Then he’d sit back and watch as they turned on each other in their desperation to reclaim lost power.

Amazingly, no one has stabbed Vegetta in the back yet. Especially not his own children.

For one, his eldest son ranks below a literal salmon, and the princess seems to hold no role in the hierarchy at all.

Ash doesn't know about the rankings of other members, and that's the problem with the plan. He doesn't know who's at the top besides Vegetta, and he's the only member in The North Ash that actually has respect for, so he won't kill him.

He grumbles and tosses his pen over his shoulder. How is he supposed to expand The Regime’s territory with a monarchy standing in the way? The Regime's meant to expand throughout all of Quesadilla Island and the surrounding land. His vision of an all-powerful empire becomes fuzzier each day.

Ash slowly inhales. No matter. Once he gets something down on that piece of paper, his thoughts will come to him, just as they always do with his other plans. Now he regrets throwing that pen across the room.

Whatever. He feels too lazy to get it, so he opts to map everything out in his mind instead. His mind feels as blank as the paper in front of him. With a sigh, he runs a gloved finger across the sheet.

If he had more information about The North, this process would become a lot easier. Maybe he should ask Haiper if he thinks it’s possible to infiltrate The North officially, maybe say he’s switching sides. Vegetta wouldn’t think twice, considering all the people he’s harboring in that enormous palace.

The North is so peaceful, so put together, it disgusts him. They’re technically “at peace” with The Regime, but Ash doesn’t trust them one bit. He knows Aldo is itching to go for another round of fighting with him. One that won’t end in a draw.

Ash doesn’t know why. He’s leagues better than Aldo, and not just in swordsmanship. No matter how hard he trains or how defensive he gets, that won’t ever change.

His train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the doors to his war room opening, followed by Haiper’s voice filling the air.

“Sir?” Haiper calls, tipping his peaked cap, which is damp from the rain outside.

Ash nods in acknowledgment. Hopefully, he has another report for him. “Yes?” he replies, turning to face him.

“Someone is waiting in my office for you,” Haiper says, pointing toward the windows. “They said they were—”

“—Tell them I’m busy,” Ash interrupts, turning his attention back to the untouched sheet of paper.

“I thought you’d say that,” Haiper chuckles, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But, uh, they mentioned they’re from The North? I know we’ve been having trouble with that, so…” he trails off.

Immediately, Ash perks up. “Who? Is it Aldo? Tell him to go home. I already told him the next time he tries to fight me, I’ll kill him—”

“No, sir. They say they’re a fugitive. Apparently, someone exiled them.”

That catches Ash off guard. He didn’t think that was something The North was capable of. Vegetta doesn’t seem like the type to exile anyone, and his partner, Foolish, is absolutely spineless. What could they have done to get expelled from The North? He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little intrigued.

So, he says, “Lead me to them.”

Haiper does just that. Thankfully, the rain has fully stopped since its relentless downpour earlier, so there’s no need for an umbrella. The trip to Haiper’s office is brief. It’s near Ash’s manor.

As promised, a man is sitting in Haiper’s office. He has messy auburn hair, presumably from the rain, and one glance at his outfit tells Ash that this poor guy has certainly been through a lot. Maybe he really is on the run.

Ash can’t shake his worries. Seriously, what could this guy have possibly done to be exiled from The North and then come all the way down South, especially to The Regime? There must be some kind of propaganda against them up there.

“You,” he calls, and the man turns away from the window to face him. “Where did you come from? What’s your name?”

The man gives him an obnoxiously wide smile and exclaims, “Didn’t he tell you? I’m Ewron from The North!” When Ash tilts his head in confusion, Ewron adds, “I was, err, kicked out of my country. They told me I wasn’t needed anymore and that I’m probably playing for the other team.”

“They called you gay?” Ash questions, incredulous.

Ewron blinks. “No—no, they think I’m a spy, you know?” he corrects himself.

Ash knits his brow, just slightly, in confusion.

Then it clicks.

The North must think he’s stupid—like, really, really stupid.

He can recognize a spy when he sees one. If they hadn’t sent one so suddenly, maybe Ash would have fallen for it. He taps Haiper on the shoulder and signals for them to talk outside. Haiper quickly follows, shutting the door behind them.

“That’s the most obvious spy I’ve ever seen in my life,” he hisses under his breath.

Haiper looks at the closed doors, then back at Ash. “I don’t know. I feel bad. He definitely... looks the part.”

He pauses, considering Haiper’s words. Ashswag may be an evil, fascist dictator, but he has the decency not to reject a fugitive in their time of need. Maybe The North has grown a pair for once, even if that involves kicking out what seems to be an innocent man from their kingdom.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance. Haiper seizes the chance to keep talking. “I mean, you did say you wanted to expand The Regime’s population. Wouldn’t this technically be that?” he angles.

The corner of Ash’s mouth twitches. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make good points against me,” he says, a little too quickly. “Fine, fine. Tell him I’ll let him stay.” Haiper nods firmly and puts a hand on the doorknob, but Ash stops him with a touch on the shoulder. “I won’t be able to tour him around, though. I’m pretty sure you mentioned going on one of your excursions to The North, or whatever, so you can’t either.”

Haiper raises his chin in thought. “I could get Tubbo to do it. I think he’s free.”

˖⠀🜲⠀˖

Ewron slumps in his chair. He's been in this office for what feels like an eternity. There’s no way the refugee program they have down here is that complicated.

He bounces his leg, staring out the window. The rain has finally stopped. Grateful that he won't have to worry about his clothes getting soaked again, he tries to shake off his frustration.

Just then, the office door swings open, and Haiper sticks his head inside. Ash isn’t with him. There goes Ewron’s hopes of finishing the job in one day.

“You can stay,” Haiper informs. Ewron fights the urge to cheer. “But I won’t be able to give you a tour, and neither can the Supreme Leader. So someone else will do it for you.”

Ewron arches a brow. How many people is he going to get passed off to today?

As the thought settles in, a loud voice calls from outside, “Yo, where’s Ash?" A moment later, another head appears, scanning the room until his gaze settles on Ewron. Then, he whispers, “Is that him?”

More hushed voices follow before the man swings the door open and steps inside. “I'm Tubbo,” he announces, jabbing a thumb towards his chest with a grin that could light up the dreariest of days.“I’m gonna be your tour guide. Get up. Let's go.”

Ewron rises to his feet and follows Tubbo out the doorway. Stepping into the street, he notices the rain has painted the surrounding buildings into a pall of grey, even leaving behind puddles on the cobbled stones. With only a few souls meandering about, it feels more like a cemetery than a town square.

He mentally maps every turn they take, cataloging potential escape routes in his head. Hopefully, he won’t need them, but an assassin must always be prepared. Also, this place makes him uneasy. Once the job is done, he'll leave as soon as possible.

The first place he's taken is a train station. It looks different from the one he was in before—it’s well-maintained. Unlike the other station, this one has people inside, and the floors are free from grime caused by bringing their muddy shoes inside.

When Tubbo notices him staring, he explains, "So, this is, like, my train station and stuff. I actually made it when Ash, Haiper, and I first started The Regime. Well, I built one other train station before, but that one was old. I don't even know where it is now, really."

Ewron bites back a grin. He knows where Tubbo's abandoned station is, but he doesn't need to know that.

Tubbo continues to ramble. He even gets to step on the train for a bit, and he shows him the controls while explaining how it works. The stuff he's saying makes no sense to him, but it sounds pretty cool.

He didn't expect the rumors about The Regime being so technologically advanced to be true, but maybe he should've known that when they passed by so many watchtowers and cameras. In fact, they pass by another as he's taken to a factory.

Midway through an origin story about the building, Ewron interjects with, "Did you make all of the buildings in here, or what?"

It's a joke, but it doesn't land. Instead, it flies right over Tubbo's head. "I am, actually," he confirms. "I'm like, an architect. An architect and an engineer. I do all the fancy stuff around here, basically."

Ewron puts the information in his back pocket. He doesn't know what he'd use it for, but maybe it'll come in handy later. If he's persistent enough, maybe he'll be spoonfed more information.

“Wow! That’s… that’s so cool! Since I’m new here, I could really use some information about The Regime, you know? Like, the Supreme Leader and stuff!”

Tubbo doesn’t hesitate. “What? Oh, yeah, he’s pretty cool! Smartest guy around.” He animatedly unlocks the grand industrial doors to his factory, the mechanism clanking loudly as he turns the heavy metal handle.

As he pushes the doors open, a pungent mix of oil and rust washes over him like a tidal wave, overwhelming his nostrils. Ewron quickly covers his mouth to stifle a cough, but Tubbo doesn’t even flinch.

He shouldn’t be surprised, considering he’s probably responsible for all the polluted air in this place.

Once Ewron finally gets some air in his lungs, he tries to pry more info out of Tubbo. “Is that all?” he asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Suddenly, Tubbo swerves sharply left and flips a nearby switch. The harsh fluorescent lights flicker on, casting a glare that singes Ewron’s eyes. “I mean, what do you want to know?” he prompts, leaning against a rusted support beam.

Ewron pauses. Good question. What could he ask that wouldn’t come off as weird, yet would still be useful? His mind goes blank, and irritation bubbles in the back of his sinuses in response.

If his teammates had given him a heads-up about this mission, he'd actually have time to prepare—

Tubbo's voice snaps him back to reality. “Hello? Dude, you good?” he asks.

The cacophony of steam hissing and cogs turning nearly drowns Tubbo's words. “Oh, sorry, sorry,” he stammers, shaking his head. “I was just thinking.”

“Okay,” Tubbo hums with a noncommital shrug.

The factory tour isn’t much different from the train station tour. Tubbo's chatter about machinery and production processes feels like a foreign language, and he’s starting to realize he probably isn’t the right audience for this.

After an eternity of Tubbo explaining various factory mechanics, they make their way to other spots. His liveliness wanes the longer they walk. By the time they reach a tavern, he seems completely worn out.

He nudges the door open with his foot and sluggishly steps inside. Ewron awkwardly follows, raising his hands overhead to stretch.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, man, I’m getting kinda tired,” Tubbo mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’m gonna hand you off to someone else now.”

Before Ewron can object, he’s pulled by the hand to the front of the pub. Tumbling forward, his chest collides with the counter, and he stumbles while Tubbo taps a bald man on the shoulder. The man turns with a hum.

By the time Tubbo starts explaining Ewron’s situation, Ewron can already feel the look of pity coming from the man. He tunes out Tubbo’s words, eyes wandering around the dimly lit pub instead.

Ewron squints. He’s pretty sure that’s a past client of his—or, well, the Hussars. His fingers slip from the counter, and he takes a step forward. They suddenly get up from their chair, throw a few coins onto the table, and rush through the doors.

Just as he's about to chase after them, Tubbo’s hand lands on his shoulder.

"I'm gonna go work on my train, so Fit here is gonna take care of you. Say hi, Fit!" Tubbo announces, turning back to face the bald man.

Fit offers a friendly smile and a wave. "Hi."

Ewron suppresses a groan. He'd thought the tavern was their last stop—surely The Regime isn't big enough for his tour to not be over. Hell, they haven't even shown him the living quarters yet.

His gaze falls on the doors behind him. That cheapskate is making a clean getaway. They’re probably already a block or two ahead of him by now.

Ewron puts on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Oh, um—thanks, but I’m, uh…" He tries to rattle his brain for a good excuse to leave. "I need to use the bathroom."

"There's one here," Fit says, pointing to a hall to the left. "Just down the hall."

Ewron fidgets, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, no. I’m actually going home, I'm, uh, sleepy."

"But you just got here," Tubbo points out. "Did Ash already give you a house?"

Ewron opens his mouth to respond, but Fit cuts in with, "It took me forever to get my own office, and you have a whole house in less than a day?"

Tubbo strokes his chin. "I don't think that's the same, though."

"I sleep in there. It's basically a house," Fit shrugs.

As they continue to talk, Ewron backs up until he feels the cool wood of the pressed door against his back. He fumbles with the handle and yells, “I’ll be right back. I just—I just need to get something!”

Then, he swings the door open and flits his eyes around the surrounding street. His target is slower than he thought. They're only a few buildings away, lingering at the end of the block.

They both move at the same time.

As Ewron searches his clothes for a blade he'd tucked under them, his target has already disappeared around a corner. Ewron shouts after them, sprinting to where they'd run off to.

Sure, they might know these streets better than he does, but they don't have his sharpened skills. They don't have his speed. His agility.

He grazes his elbow against the rough, gritty wall of an alleyway as he follows them through it. A bead of blood seeps through the fabric of his sleeve, but he brushes it aside. His heart is pounding in his chest, adrenaline from the rush that fills him when the air begins to fill his lungs. It doesn't feel as dirty as it does exhilarating, now.

The fluttering cloth of his target’s shirt seems to beckon him, twisting and turning down every corner. He barrels through objects they pass by. Bumps into people that they swerve past. He can hear them panting in exertion when he still doesn't let up.

It's probably not the smartest idea to swing a knife at someone while you're running, but the thrill that consumes him when he's like this—when he's about to kill—is a high he can't help but chase. It's the closest thing to heaven his tainted soul will ever taste.

Ewron nearly catches them at a fence.

He doesn't know where they are beyond that. The blur of his background is vaguely familiar, but it's hard to see through the haze.

He just blindly stabs in front of him. Based on the sharp cry that echoes in his ears, he must have hit something.

Still, they keep running. Their heaves mix with winces of pain, but they keep going, clumsily climbing over the fence. A trail of crimson paints the ground behind them, stark against the dull concrete.

He doesn't follow. Rather than that, he lets them hobble their way to the other side, because playing with his food has always been fun.

Only when they're a few feet away does Ewron leap over the fence, chasing them with a new vigor. For a split second, they make eye contact. He can see the fear in their blown-out eyes.

Their back straightens, and they run further ahead, like they're afraid he might catch them. And he will.

He twists a corner and lurches forward. Both of them crash to the ground in a heap, and Ewron bumps his head against the wall of a building. The pain only feels like a dull ache with the adrenaline still pulsing through him.

His target scrambles to their feet, but Ewron acts quickly, gripping their leg and pulling them down. He draws closer and closer to them, holding onto their ankle.

They flail around as much as they can, but it doesn't stop Ewron from climbing atop him. The weight of his body presses them down. He presses his blade to their neck and flicks his wrist slightly. Blood beads to life, dripping down to their collarbone.

"Gdzie to jest? Gdzie są pieniądze?" he snarls, pressing the blade deeper into their skin.

The breath seems to seep from their lungs. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry. I'll—I'll pay, please, don't—" they choke out while looking up at him, imploring and weak.

"Where is it?" he demands. "I saw that you had coins. Where's my payment? I want my payment now."

They frantically pat their pockets, but their search returns empty. Ewron tuts in faux disappointment. He planned on killing them either way, regardless of whether they came through with their payment, but he savors the flicker of hope in their eyes, a glimmer that fades once they realize it's the end of the line for them.

"I don't—"

Ewron doesn't give them the grace of finishing their sentence. He slits a long, pressing line along their throat, rendering them speechless. Garbled noises escape them as blood pools in their mouth. Some of it dribbles down to their chin.

Their blood clings to his robes, and the feeling of it seeping through his clothes is euphoric. He is so caught up in watching their life fade away in their eyes that he doesn’t notice footsteps approaching from behind.

"What are you doing?" Haiper hisses, and the adrenaline inside Ewron blows out like a matchstick. He's been caught red-handed. Literally.

He opens his mouth, poised to speak, but nothing comes out. All he can do is stare up at Haiper as he wipes the blood off his hands. If smearing blood on his pants counts as cleaning, that is.

Haiper grips the handle of his sword, still in its sheath, but Ewron knows it’s a warning. “Drop your weapon. Now.”

Ewron's knife clatters to the ground, and he raises his hands slowly.

“God, you made a mess.” He rips the red sash off his waist and bends down, attempting to clean up his mess. Haiper interrupts with a frustrated wave of his hand. “No, no. Leave it. I’ll get Fit to clean it up or something. You’re coming with me. I’m taking you to Ash.”

Fuck. It's been less than a day, and Ewron's already crossed a high official. Who's gonna take him to Ash, no less. He's definitely gonna be exiled, now. That must be a world record.

A sense of dread gnaws at Ewron’s insides. Hopefully, the Hussars will be happy to know he's enacted "justice" on that one client who scammed them, though…?

˖⠀🜲⠀˖

Ash rubs his shirt between his fingers.

He's staring at the blueprints in front of him, confused and a little lost.

Truly, he has no idea why Tubbo doesn't do whatever he wants when it comes to his buildings. There's no need to send the plans to him. Both of them know perfectly well that Ash isn't gonna understand them. Even if Tubbo's right here explaining them clearly.

Well, as clear as Tubbo can get.

"I wanted to put the quartz factory right here," he says, holding up a map of The Regime and pointing next to one of the apartment complexes, "But I'd feel kind of bad. People live there, and stuff."

Ash waves a hand dismissively. "Who cares? They'd have to go through me if they wanted to leave anyway, so even if they have a problem, they can't do anything."

Tubbo drums his hand along the table. "True, true." He slowly takes the blueprints from Ash's hands. Thank god. "Whatd'ya think?" he asks.

With a huff, Ash replies, "You know what I think."

He walks around the table, shuffling through the blueprints he'd made. "Well, yeah. I just wanted to know if we had the materials for it, because we've been building a lot of factories recently—"

"Of course, we have the materials," Ash interjects. "If we don't, I'll get them for you, Tobias. Don't worry about trivial things like that."

Tubbo pulls out a chair from the end of the table and sits down. "Okay," he shrugs. Then, he reaches over for the stack of papers sitting in the center of the table and flips to the front and back of them. "Oh, these are my status reports. Did you not check them?"

Ash leans forward in his seat to pick up stray sheets of paper. While Tubbo might be the greatest architect and engineer of The Regime—and in Ash's opinion, the world—he also has incredibly grabby hands. "No, I haven't had the time," Ash replies.

Tubbo raises his brows but doesn't look up, still engrossed in his reports. "Been too busy with the North, eh?"

Ash doesn't want to talk about that right now. It's been two hours, and he hasn’t managed to write a single thing on his paper. Sighing, he mutters, "Tell me about the reports, Tobias."

"Got it, bossman!" Tubbo exclaims, slamming the papers onto the table. "So—"

He barely gets the words out before the door swings open with a bang. They turn to see Haiper standing in the doorway, holding Ewron by the scruff of his tunic.

Ash opens his mouth to scold Haiper, because who just bursts into a room like that without knocking, but his jaw snaps shut when he notices Ewron covered in blood.

Tubbo scrunches up his nose. "Ew, the blood's crusting up on his clothes."

"I know, sorry. I'll clean the blood off the floors later," Haiper mumbles. "Anyway, he just murdered someone. I saw it. Pretty sure the body is still out there if you want to take a look."

Ash rises from his chair and walks over to them. He places a finger under Ewron's chin, forcing him to look up. "What did you do?" he asks. Ewron swallows, sweat trickling down his forehead.

"Uhm—I heard them plotting a revolution against you." Ash arches an eyebrow. "I wanted to make a good first impression. I mean, you never taught me the laws or anything, so how would I know murder is illegal?"

Ash stifles a laugh. If this was the spy that The North sent, they were definitely imbeciles. No one in their right mind would fall for such a ridiculous excuse. This guy is a horrible liar.

It's adorable, really.

Slowly, Ash lets his hand drop. The remnants of dried blood cling to his fingers. Gross. He hastily wipes it away on his pant leg.

He thinks of ways to wrap this up quickly. A swift execution or exile seems easy enough. Dealing with nuisances like this was tiresome, especially when his focus should be on expanding his empire and conquering The North.

Then, it clicks into place like puzzle pieces.

The North. He has a spy from The North right in front of him. This is exactly what he needed—someone who has insider info. Maybe that plan of his doesn't need to be scrapped.

After all, what’s the worst that could happen? If nothing else, he’d dispose of this nuisance once he's no longer of use.

Ash crosses his hands behind his back, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “Hm.”

“Hm?” Haiper and Tubbo echo in unison, confusion painting their features.

Gesturing for Haiper to step aside, Ash begins to circle Ewron, like a predator closing in on its prey. After a couple of moments, he dismisses Tubbo and Haiper, insisting he'll speak with their 'guest', leaving only the two of them in the room.

"Get up," he commands. Wisely, Ewron listens. "That was kind of you," he whispers.

Ewron's brow furrows. "Kind of me to do what?"

"To kill conspirer for me. It's sweet," he drawls. If he wants to have him on his side, he's gotta turn up his charm. Though considering he's from The North, that shouldn't be too hard. "I think you have skill, Ewron."

Not really. Ash has encountered many murderers in his lifetime. In fact, if you want to be technical, Ash is one himself. Whatever Ewron did probably barely scratches the surface.

"Really?" he scoffs.

"Yes," he confirms, brushing his gloved fingers across his untouched planning paper. He holds it up to his face. "I'm sure you've heard about our… issues with The North, Ewron."

Ewron nods. "I have. Actually, the man I killed was a northern spy, you know—"

Ash huffs in amusement. He's pushing it. Not only was his lie incredibly unbelievable, but he made it worse by adding to it. "Oh, I'm sure," he replies sarcastically.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Would you like to work with me, Ewron? On taking down my—our enemies? I think I could use someone like you."

Any good spy would jump at the chance to stay close to their target, so naturally, Ewron agrees. The arrangement benefits Ash as well. It's easier for Ash to keep an eye on him.

When Ash finds out that Ewron has nowhere to stay, he offers him a spare room in his manor. As he shuts the bedroom door behind him, he mutters, "Welcome to The Regime, Ewron," to which Ewron responds with a vexed smile.

Later that day, Haiper questions Ash about letting a murderer stay with him, especially since Ewron might try to kill him next, as if he poses a threat.

All Ash responds with is, "It's keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, right?"

˖⠀🜲⠀˖

Ewron's plan isn't going as he'd expected, but he wouldn't say it's failed.

He twists and turns in the plush mattress of Ash's spare bedroom. It's nighttime now, and his limbs ache from how much stress he'd put on them today, from tours to chasing someone around the streets of The Regime. At least it made for good exercise.

He can't sleep. Ewron's always had trouble sleeping at night, but this time, it might be because he's not sure what to make of, well, everything today.

He'd hoped his mission would take a few days, maybe a week or two at most to complete, but it's looking like he'll have to extend the date. Those three months might come in handy now.

Ewron thumbs the comforter. If he's living in Ash's manor, that only means he'd be easier to kill. He shouldn't stress about it.

Based on the way he was talking to him earlier, he thinks he's stupid. Sure, Ewron might've been a little nervous, but that was only because he was afraid he fucked up his mission in less than a day. Not because he thinks Ash is threatening.

Who the hell invites a murderer to work with them, by the way? The guy is practically begging to be murdered in his sleep. Which Ewron would totally do, if he knew where out of the seemingly infinite number of bedrooms Ash was resting in.

Minutes tick by slowly, and Ewron admits defeat. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and plants his feet on the polished hardwood floor.

Walking over to the window, he rests his cheek in his hand and looks out into the night.

The Regime, illuminated by moonlight, is surprisingly enchanting, much prettier than it is during the day. Though that might be his bias for nighttime talking.