"What a delicious topic of discussion," Miss Plusier said, clasping her hands together with a serene expression. "I must know, have you heard from them? Have they mentioned me?"

If Mask were to contact him, it was highly likely the message passed along would be nonsensical. They had a penchant for screwing with people, and Cal wasn't excluded from that group.

"Haven't heard a peep," he admitted freely, ignoring the daggers Olivia was staring into his back. "Tough to get news from that side of the river."

But far from impossible for someone like Mask. Mind magic and the ability to seemingly alter their body at will made hopping the border simple. They could even go a step further and subvert someone to deliver the message in their stead.

"More's the pity," she responded despondently, before perking right up again. "What to say then? I wonder. I could go for days on end, but I fear your companion there lacks the patience for it."

Miss Plusier continued her work on the blazer, cutting and sewing lines as easily as breathing. The practiced ease and delight the woman showed in her work were at odds with the image of an assassin, and he decided to start there.

"Why not start with how you two met?" Cal asked, attempting to convey his nonchalance. "That's got to be a story."

Any situation involving Mask was a story. It was an intrinsic part of their character. Mask had once regaled him with the tale of their quest to get a parking permit, because apparently they drove, and it ended with them setting a hattery on fire. The crazy part was that it made logical sense, and that was after Cal purged Mask's influence from his system.

The needles hitched before starting their dance again. It was different this time, changing their pace to the rhythm of a song he couldn't hear.

"It was a classic love story," the tailor said, holding a hand to her cheek and sighing. "Girl meets boy, boy meets girl, boy steals girl's target, girl flays the boy for his impertinence, boy critiques her technique, girl lets him demonstrate on himself, and before long, more than skin is shed."

Yep, he regretted asking.

"That's not a classic love story," Cal dryly pointed out.

It wasn't even a love story, but saying that would definitely get him stabbed.

"It should be," Miss Plusier said with perplexity. "I certainly coerced enough writers, critics, and publishing houses to ensure its success. It even saw propagation in the Federation, albeit under a different title."

She was joking… right?

"Predator and prey?" Olivia questioned softly, almost mumbling to herself.

Naturally, she became the center of attention, and from the way her eyes went wide, it hadn't been expected.

"I—it was made the rounds in my cadet unit. I didn't read it myself."

Cal did not believe her.

"I skimmed a few chapters," she hotly defended. "It was popular. I needed to be able to reference it in casual conversation."

That was more in line with what he knew of the woman. However, that didn't mean he was going to let it go.

"Any chance for a signed copy?" he asked, earning a glower from Olivia and a look of excitement from the assassin.

"That won't be necessary," Olivia interjected, her tone hard and unyielding. "And I fail to see the relevance."

"Who said it was for you?" Cal asked with mock outrage on his face.

Her eyes turned to slits, and he wondered how far he should push this.

"You barely read," she stated in a way that felt like an insult. "And what you do isn't romance."

Cal wouldn't have thought his file included such unnecessary information, but it couldn't have come from anywhere else.

"Maybe I'm branching out," he retorted, and the way she stiffened told him that was enough. He shifted focus back to the matter at hand. "Did they stick around long? I don't know how it was then, but these days they're pretty transient."

Mask came and went often. They went on more deployments than any other Constellation member. Granted, that was partly because convincing Prodigy or Oracle to leave their respective labs and operation rooms was a major undertaking.

"Tying her down was difficult," she hummed, running threads through the air. "So many different body types to account for, and her flexibility meant it never lasted long."

Cal didn't need the torrid details but would suffer through it if it meant keeping her happy and talking.

"Did they ever talk about themselves?" he asked, knowing the answer was probably yes.

Mask was chatty. Extremely chatty. They'd talk about everything under the sun, and that included themselves. However, it was always in the form of amusing anecdotes that contained little of substance.

"Talk?" she asked with a tilt of her head. "Dearie, there was very little talking involved."

This was starting to feel like a mistake. Should he come around at a different time?

"My, my, thinking naughty thoughts, are we?" she asked teasingly. "I'm afraid to say your imagination is too shallow. Think deeper, more intimate."

Cal blinked, unsure of how to process the older woman's throaty purr. He decided not to, hoping it would fade from his memory.

"They used their talents on you," Olivia deduced in a businesslike tone.

Hmm… was she reading those books for more than conversational purposes?

"Make that two copies then," he amended, raising the requisite fingers.

Olivia's jaw moved like she was chewing on something, and Miss Plusier gave a light giggle, shaking her head.

"The little snake is referring to mind magic, but in truth, it was both."

Ah, mind magic was the more reasonable explanation. He blamed the tailor for being overly suggestive.

"I did not say that," Olivia added, providing a flimsy barrier of plausible deniability.

The reason was rather simple. Mind magic was illegal, and the company line was that Mask, despite all evidence to the contrary, was not a mind mage.

"To deny him so completely," Miss Plusier lamented, the tempo of her needles increasing. "After all she's done. And yet I'm labeled the criminal."

Call had a hunch that her status had more to do with all the killing, but he saw her point. There were reasons the Federation couldn't acknowledge the type of magic mask used. The main one was that the agreement to ban it had come from a past Conference. Well, not officially, but anyone who looked at the timeline could put two and two together. The Federation was already in violation of it by endorsing Mask. Calling their magic what it was would incur a political headache.

The secondary reason may not have been a reason at all. It was pure speculation on Cal's part.

"You know us," Cal said with a careless shrug that was at odds with the searching look in his eyes. "We're prickly about anything related to the gods, let alone their magic."

It was a leap—a connection made solely based on the circumstances he'd encountered.

Throughout his visit to the Empire's old capital, there had been a nagging voice in his head reminding him of where he trod. It was mind magic, plain and simple. He would have thought nothing of it if it hadn't been for a suspicious old coot talking about inheritors of the gods' powers and how the Federation had one.

The possibility of it being Mask was birthed there.

There were caveats in his theory. For one, the gods could do a lot more than mess with people's heads. Aside from leveling mountains, they broke magic itself and could teleport vast expanses of land at will. However, those were hard criteria to fill. The closest he could get was Millie, but he'd have to really squint to make it work.

The other hole would be the artificial aspect. Cal was at a loss for that, but he did know the background of each of the Constellation members… with one notable exception.

"I," Miss Plusier said declaratively, "haven't the faintest idea of what you are referring to. And I do mean that genuinely, dearie. I'm not being facetious or playing the fool."

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Had he been walking, Cal might have fallen flat on his face.

"I too am at a loss," Olivia tacked on, despite the statement not being directed to her. "Be that as it may, I'm sure there are more productive subjects we can discuss."

Her attempt to change the subject, despite her ignorance, was understandable. She was leery of him chatting about a Constellation member. Cal knew them better than most, and the odds of him letting something pertinent slip were non-zero.

Which, to be fair, was exactly what he was about to do.

"I'll stop beating around the bush then," Cal said, abandoning the carefree attitude. "By any chance, do you know if Mask was involved in any human experiments?"

If there were a record playing, it would have scratched. An unsettling pause descended on the tailor shop, and Cal felt the fine hairs on his neck rise.

"Callum," Olivia said, breaking the silence. "What in the world—"

She interrupted herself with a stifled scoff and continued with a healthy dose of exasperation.

"You've managed to steer the topic in a way that makes the plot to infiltrate a criminal organization wearing a rag seem sane. I suppose congratulations..."

Her voice faded, presumably taking note of the staredown between the assassin and the Federation agent.

The Spider did not attack him, but he could feel the pulse of her magic. It moved erratically, and the needles spinning the blazer clashed against one another, lines crossing where they shouldn't.

"You'll have to forgive me," Miss Plusier said with a lack of inflection. "I'm having trouble determining whether this is a novel interrogation technique or a pair of children stumbling in the dark."

"You'll know my interrogation technique when you see it," Cal stated, matching her lack of tone. "It involves a lot of punching."

No one laughed.

"It's an inconvenience," the assassin replied. "Had it been one of the others here, I would know what to expect. With you, however, there are so many unknowns."

Cal gathered that she was referring to the members of the Constellation. The detail was irrelevant, and he could feel they were on the edge of something, but what that was had yet to be decided.

"Do you remember our first meeting?" she asked, curiosity flashing in her eyes.

It was hard to forget.

"You repeatedly stabbed me under the guise of a fitting."

That day, in retrospect, hadn't been so bad. The shopping had been a chore, but he found himself missing the monotony of it.

"The second time then," she said, her stitch work resuming its normal flow. "When you met me."

When he met the Spider.

"Sure," he confirmed, reviewing the night of her ambush and trying to glean what she was getting at.

There was another lull, and Cal was growing increasingly uneasy under those critical eyes when she spoke again.

"Entertain my flight of fancy. Utilizing one word, capture the essence of the one you call Mask."

Cal frowned, mulling it over seriously. Reducing someone to a single world was never easy. Having the subject be Mask made it even more difficult, but that was an answer in and of itself.

"Chaos," he asserted, confident in his choice.

A few more would fit right after it, such as unrepentant, resourceful, and dangerous. He was close to using the last one as his descriptor, but he catered toward his audience.

"You would be most incorrect," she tutted, sounding strangely pleased. "Focused is the word you are searching for."

Focused? Mask? Were they talking about the same person? Mask could go out to buy a carton of milk and come back having starred in a musical. And musicals, to the best of his knowledge, weren't even a thing here.

"Disagree, do we?" she questioned upon seeing the way his face shifted. "Remember who it is you came to. I know them better than you could comprehend."

Cal's mouth remained shut. Asking her in the first place wasn't just about her connection to Mask. It was because he believed she could get the information he needed if pointed in the right direction. He might have underestimated their closeness.

"It's why I could never keep them," she explained, a note of longing in her voice. "There was no room for me in their life. I was a useful piece to be played, nothing more. How I wished I could rise to the level of a distraction, but they don't have those. Not like you or I might."

Cal heard the words but still felt they were talking about someone different. He could recount numerous examples of Mask getting distracted by the most inane things.

"During our first or second meeting, however you wish to label it, I told you something important—something I shouldn't have. My lapse was slight yet significant. I used the term crusade."

Had she? He couldn't recall the exact words that had been exchanged.

"It had meaning, because that is the one thing they could all agree to. It is the driving force behind their existence. Without it, they cease to be."

A sinking feeling entered his gut, causing him to reconsider what he knew of the Fifth Seat of the Constellation.

"Crusade against what?" he asked, despite forming his own conclusion.

She laughed; it was a melancholy song.

"Five decades ago Federation researchers set about the goal of creating a weapon by using all methods at their disposal. It was a small group; some might even call it rogue, but they had backing of the highest order. Yet that backer had peers, and when they discovered his actions, they panicked."

Highest order… the Board?

"The peculiarities of your country are foreign to me, but as I understand it, they feared what may happen to their power if their peer's transgressions came to light. So they burned, destroyed, and did whatever was needed to hide the truth. But, they fell afoul of one of the few rules those in my line of work must adhere to."

She paused, rubbing her thumb across her nails.

"Always confirm the kill. Perhaps it was out of sentiment or a desire to preserve the work, but they buried the bodies intact."

The last word was hissed, as if she took personal offense to it.

"Mask survived," Cal said, his words seeming to break the spell she was under.

Her hair swayed as she shook her head, and her patchwork poncho fluttered. For a tailor, he'd only ever seen her wear the one outfit.

"I have a confession to make," she said scandalously, light reflecting off the various shades that made up her outfit. "This symbol of mine is not entirely of my own making. It's a tribute, an homage, a keepsake—disparate pieces of cloth sewn together in a way that clouds its origin. Did it begin its life as a single garment? Or was it always a collection of memories hemmed together?"

She took a breath, and her outfit settled back against her form.

"Irrespective of your judgment, what was buried was not what climbed out. Broken and forgotten, they subsisted for one purpose. To eradicate those who created them so completely that such a folly would never again come to pass."

A fond, almost endearing smile took over her face.

"It's a frustratingly narrow goal. Had I been in their place, there would be no end to what I could accomplish. Alas, a child set the goal, and a child would deliver it. One verdict at a time."

Cal stuck to the facts. Mask was the artificial inheritor the Watcher spoke of. Their story fit too closely with the figure's retelling of a creation that turned on its creator. There could be no doubt.

"This is absolute drivel," Olivia's harsh voice interjected. "Article—"

The citation she had been about to provide was left unsaid, replaced by a choking sound.

Cal pursed his lips, sending a sharp whistle toward the thread wrapped around her throat. It snapped, and the Federation agent staggered back. There was a fire present in her eyes, and he could feel the magic surge within her, rising in defense of her.

"Awww," Miss Plusier cooed, her tone anything but comforting. "Did I offend your sensibilities? Laws born of mortal minds can never contain them. Your people attempted to circumvent this, instilling a sense of duty in you. They failed to comprehend its insidious nature and where it would lead."

Cal had mocked that blind devotion before. It wasn't without use, but the risk introduced wasn't worth it. The more people who did what they were told without question, the more susceptible a system was to bad actors.

"Callum," Olivia stressed, glaring at the woman. "This is a blatant attempt at manipulation. She's been trying to recruit you to her band of thieves and killers since the day you met."

Maybe she was, but that didn't make what he went through any less real.

"They're not the ones who drugged and strapped me to a table," Cal said, quelling any extreme reactions on his part. "Or tried to cut me open in an attempt to figure out how I worked. Sometimes I wonder how far they would have gone if I hadn't broken free."

The table felt cold against his back, the restraints tight against his wrists. His magic wasn't just suppressed—it was actively drained from him. They thought that would be enough to contain him. The searing light prevented him from seeing their faces when their best-laid plans went up in smoke.

"Fifty years, and still using the same tricks," the assassin said, a bemused glint in her eyes as they flicked between the pair. "How unimaginative."

Aware that the self-labeled retiree was still a threat, Cal kept part of his attention on her while turning to fully face Olivia. The denial on her lips died against his stare.

"Didn't you think it was weird?" he asked, seizing on his momentum. "The timings, I mean. A few weeks after a disastrous 'training exercise,' and suddenly you're assigned to a stranger that has everyone walking on eggshells. Someone who's actively making a nuisance of himself and yet gets a complete pass by everyone."

Olivia wasn't dumb, but she had blinders. Had he tried to rip them off by himself, he would have failed miserably.

"You're the son of the Fourth," she said, refusing to acknowledge the more important part of what he shared.

As he stated, the danger was never physical.

"Even if I'm her demon spawn," Cal continued, brushing past that quagmire. "Why do you think the Board sent us here? The summoning was the last thing on their minds. They needed me out of the country. I jeopardized their existence. I marched on HQ, nearly busting down the door in the process."

It was an exaggeration on his part but felt appropriate. If they were going to continue working together, it was time they got on the same page.

"That—that doesn't make sense," she said, grasping for logic. "You're the son of the Fourth. They wouldn't dare touch you." Her breath hitched, and she resumed at a more sedate pace. "There must be a misunderstanding. I'm certain we could get to the bottom of it once we return."

A misunderstanding? Rage bellowed within, but again, he quashed it. The time for childish tantrums was over.

"Are you saying I'm making it up?" he challenged, keeping his tone low. "Because you're free to ask Albert about it when you see him next."

More creases appeared across her flushed face, and her nails dug into her skin.

"He wouldn't have," she asserted with misplaced confidence. "I'm your handler. It would have been irresponsible to leave this out of your file."

"He left it up to me," Cal volunteered swiftly. "Couldn't tell you why. Maybe he didn't think you were ready, or maybe he didn't think I was ready. Either way, mystery solved."

Miss Plusier watched eagerly, engrossed in their drama. He didn't appreciate the audience, but a third party had been necessary.

"I—what do you expect me to do with this?" Olivia asked discontentedly, her eyes straying toward the outsider. "Unless you're willing to abandon the mission, this changes nothing."

She hadn't been sold on it yet. It was disappointing, if predictable. A single conversation couldn't undo an upbringing of indoctrination. That line of thought felt hollow, because a small part of him wished she would have believed him on words alone. It was a pathetic vestige of the boy who kept reaching to be denied at every turn.

"That's where you're wrong," Cal corrected, pushing his feelings aside. He'd kept his speculation to himself as to leave her unprepared for this ambush, but there was no need for that now. "We now have a secondary objective."

They were going mind mage hunting.

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