#rationallyparanoid

“He’s a blond Niff is a sea of dark-haired Lucians,” the Captain says. “How hard can he be to find?”

“We’re trying, sir,” Luche reports. “He’s skilled at eluding us.”

The Captain eyes him, and sighs. “I suppose a Resistance fighter who survived the Empire would be,” which is the closest thing to understanding that Luche’s is going to get from Drautos. “But we can’t fail. In times of peace, the Kingsglaive still has its place—but we must prove it, and bring this boy in safely.” He drums his fingers thoughtfully against his desk. “How have you been organizing the sweeps?”

“We’ve been going in a grid fashion, sir,” Luche says. “But he could be anywhere in the city. We know he hasn’t left the city due to the increase of guards at the border, but that limits how many we can send on sweeps.”

“The city is a large place,” Drautos says, pondering. “Lots of places to hide. Especially if you’re used to worse than ideal conditions.”

Luche waits.

The Captain continues, “And if you’re used to stealing to survive. We can’t let this assassin have free run of Insomnia under our noses. Luche, get one of the recordings from when we brought him in, get me a good picture of his face, and let’s broadcast this shit.”

He startles. “Sir?”

Drautos grins a bit viciously. “He can run only where we’re not looking for him. So let’s get everybody looking for him. It’ll be like smoking him out.”

“But he’s injured, sir,” Luche says. “Do we really want to… put so much pressure on him?”

“If we don’t,” Drautos says, “we might just end up finding him dead in the sewers at the rate we’re going. We have to bring him in, and quickly.”

…

Getting permission to post the assassin’s face on TV is a nightmare. None of the royals wanted their soulmate’s face as a wanted person on the news, but their concern for his well-being over-rided their fear of publicity. Remarkably sensible, for nobility.

And it works. To an extent. The fifth time the Kingsglaives are summoned to an apartment just too late to catch the guy some neighbor called in about who matched the photograph on TV, Luche considers asking the Captain to revise their approach.

“You don’t think he’s actually in the sewers?” Tredd asks, nose scrunched up as he pokes the manhole cover with his toe. “That fucker already shot me, I’m not going into a sewer for him.”

Luche thinks about it. “We should consider it. It sure would be a place to hide.”

“But the sewers?” Tredd asks incredulously. “We know he’s staying in empty apartments as much as possible.”

“And to get to place to place,” Luche says slowly. “He must be using the sewers and the subway to get around.”

Tredd snorts. “Like a fucking Niff rat.”

“Tredd,” Luche says. “It’s the Prince’s soulmate. Be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Tredd mutters. “He shot me, with my own gun.”

Luche sighs. “Get into the sewer, Tredd.”

…

They don’t find the assassin in the sewer, which Tredd will never let Luche forget.

Nyx finds him, in an alleyway by some garbage, unconscious and feverish.

“I found him,” Nyx says over the comm. “I think—this is him. Yes, it definitely is.”

“Wait for back-up,” Drautos commands. “He’s dangerous.”

“He’s unconscious,” Nyx retorts because he never shows the Captain enough respect and that isn’t going to change now over an assassin. “He looks dead. He needs immediate medical attention.”

“Ulric, wait for one goddamned second for back-up,” Dratos says, “the others are literally a minute away, if you die over one minute—”

“I’m checking his pulse. I’ll be careful,” Nyx says, and there’s a brief moment of silence save for the Captain’s cursing where everything could have been fine, and there’s suddenly a gasp and a thud.

“Ulric, report,” Drautos hisses.

“Hey, hey, easy,” comes Nyx’s voice, smooth and warm and not reassuring in the slightest. The Captain’s grip on his desk goes white. “I just wanted to check your wounds.”

It only gets worse from there. They listen, tense, as Nyx lets them know there’s a gun held to his head by a delirious assassin. When Nyx orders the others who have caught up, because they were in fact, literally a minute away, to back off, Drautos says into the comms, “Absolutely do not retreat. Take out the assassin before he pulls the trigger.”

“Captain, if it’s held against his head, there won’t be enough time,” Luche says, trying to make sure this doesn’t end with Nyx’s idiot brains all over the wall. No matter how much he would deserve that.

“It’s pressed up against his throat,” Crowe says, voice thin and tight. “I can’t even cast a spell without the assassin having the time to get one shot in.”

Nyx is talking and talking, and all they can do is wait, and hope that they’re not losing one of their own on a stupid domestic mission. Luche personally vows to kill Nyx himself when he asks the assassin, “Are you going to?” after the assassin says he could kill him. He can see the little half-smirk on Nyx’s face as he says it to—confident, lazy, and more relaxed than he ever has any right to be.  

“Nyx, if you die, I’m pissing on your grave,” Luche says, before he can think better of it.

“We won’t give him a grave,” Drautos says, and Luche suddenly remembers he’s in the same room as the Captain. “We’ll string up his corpse as a warning to others.”

Nyx ignores them both, thanks the gods. He somehow keeps talking to the assassin, somehow charming him and likely making promises he won’t be able to keep.

Or maybe he will. He can’t speak for the royalty though, and while Nyx thinks the best of them out of most of the Glaives, they’re never beholden to the words of one of their weapons.

But it doesn’t matter. They can lie to the assassin.

As long as they bring him in alive. When the weak and resigned, “Okay. I’ll come with you,” comes through, Luche and Drautos both relax minutely. When Nyx is in the company of other Glaives and safely heading to the Citadel, they both sit down.

The Captain pulls out his ear piece. “This assassin is going to be trouble.”

“Yeah,” Luche says, pulling out his own. “He is.”

“Fucking Ulric,” Drautos says.