text: [Themes: fantasy, humor, fantasy]
  
  They suspend you from the ramparts after the tea party finishes. Your cage, little more than the size of a coffin, is hung by a single chain. All in all, it's not a far drop to the ground. Meaning, if you get a moment to yourself, then the artifact could let you out, and broken legs wouldn't be waiting for you at the bottom. There's still a chance though. There always is. The drop, while not fatal, isn't exactly something you're looking forward to. It's probably been two hours since the "fight." The doc ignores you with silent hatred, learning to hold off engaging with you. Since another incident likely has you hanging from a noose rather than in a cage, you understand. Alteran soldiers guard the ramparts above and patrol the ground below. Yep, this isn't exactly how you imagined things would go.
  
  They stripped you of your armor and weapon sheaths, not noticing a lone black ring on your finger. They're soldiers after all, not scavs. The cage offers just enough space for you to sit with your knees pulled in tightly to your chest, as long as you don't mind steel digging into your back and toes. There's a decent breeze, one you never noticed being inside the garrison or in the overgrowth. Exposed in the air, however, it brings a chill, increasingly so, as the cage slowly drops in temperature.
  
  Any ideas, voice?
  (Yes, but I'm more interested to see what you come up with.)
  Lotta help you are.
  (More than you are. I'd like to see you become a key.)
  
  Time passes as you try to think of possible solutions. If the Alterans were somehow distracted, then you could escape into the trees. Problem is, the only distraction you could cause would draw attention towards you rather than away.
  
  Do you have the ability to move on your own?
  (Apart from you? Not in this state.)
  
  As you're thinking, a voice carries from below. It's one you recognize almost instantly, one that you hoped wouldn't notice your presence. "Your deeds have finally caught up to you. Where's that traitor of a corporal?"
  
  Bastus. He looks better than when you saw him in the dungeon. More color appears to be in his skin, the difference a few hours of sunlight and stretching can do. But still, he's more frail than you're used to seeing.
  
  "Bastus..." you start, not sure what to say. There are no words to right the wrong in his mind. A betrayal, as sudden and unexpected as they come, is all he sees, deepened by years of shared battle and living. The bond forged between soldiers is not easily broken, yet when it is, it's damaged beyond all repair. A soldier must learn to deal with loss. There's no redemption for a liar. Cut ties and move on. You could tell him how your actions saved the life of the company. How you had no choice in the matter. That your actions brought about the greater good. Shit, now you're starting to sound like Redding.
  
  "You always did fancy yourself smarter than the rest of us, didn't you?" Bastus starts. "Not smart enough to trade uniforms for the losing team, though huh?"
  
  "You have to understand, it was all to--"
  
  "All to betray your company? Your friends? Your family? Redding was always an odd one. There's less of a surprise when an unconventional man makes an irrational decision. But you, you were supposed to be the opposite. It pains me to say so, but your death is well-deserved. You've taught me--the entire company--a valuable lesson: you never truly know who your friends are."
  
  There's no response to that. Shame builds inside, not because of events that occurred, but because you're unable to formulate thoughts and words to accurately convey your side of the story. A man that you've lived closely with over the last few years thinks you are the most despicable of people, and you're unable to convince otherwise. Bastus' words hurt, a small sliver of what he probably felt seeing you in Magda crimson. For the greater good, you tell yourself. It's a burden that you have to bear, even if the company doesn't realize you're bearing it for them.
  
  Bastus speaks again. "I'll be there during your hanging. Though I won't be as joyful as the others."
  
  He leaves you alone, his words hanging heavy on your heart. Not the most immediate problem, however. Redding still needs you. If there's any redemption to be had, it's in saving his life. The company thinks you a traitor. You are, technically, and it's that fact which keeps them still breathing.
  
  One member of the company still needs your help. Let Bastus and the others think what they want; you can't control that. You only control your own actions. You've made peace with them so far. After all you've been through, the story can't end with Redding bleeding out, alone, and you facing the gallows. The possibility of a premature ending, a quiet death after the firestorm you've endured, brings a tinge of rage within your bones. LIke that of your battle flow state, it comes, a persistence, the inability to quit while you still can act. True, your options are rather limited, but damn if you won't do something about it.
  
  > break out
  Time is short. Too short. If the noose waits for you, certain death, then you're not going to sit and wait for the rope to be placed around your neck. There is a time to act, and there is a time to bide your time. Redding's condition doesn't afford you any more slack. The time is now. You will the artifact to mould to the shape. It's not exactly a command; it's something different, like recalling a memory, the subsiding of a dream when awakening in the morning.
  
  In order to mask the maneuver, you stretch your arms out, feigning like stiff shoulders are starting to wear on you. Both hands grip the cage, which is oddly just an oversized cage for a bird. Or rather, it's a Blackbird cage. Disobedient soldiers get thrown in the dungeon, the same goes for prisoners of war. True enemies get the cage, a status you find yourself in currently. Click. You unlock the cage door, but don't escape just yet. Let it come as a surprise.
  
  "I saw that." Now the doc is speaking to you. "What the hell kind of sorcerer are you?"
  
  "One that means not to die imprisoned," you answer.
  
  "And if I cause a commotion and ruin your escape? I'm only here because of you."
  
  A Redding-esque grin appears at your lips. "A commotion is exactly what I want from you."
  
  Before the doc can respond, you will the artifact into the strange gun, ravenblack, wing-tipped with the rotating cylinder.
  
  How many shots, again?
  (Six. Then nearly as many seconds to recover.)
  
  You put the first of six into the chain holding the doc's cage. For the second time today, he has no idea of the sudden events transpiring, both of which are very unfortunate for the man lucky enough to draw your attention. His mouth is wide open, the same for his eyes. Wide in surprise, horror--perhaps a mixture of the two. Both of his hands grip the cage, tight, like the way a sailor climbs the mast for the first time. One moment he's suspended next to you. The next, empty air.
  
  The sound is like a galleon discovering a coral reef with her underbelly. Every Alteran soldier within sight rushes towards the fallen cage, whether to check on the doc's well-being or integrity of the cage is up for debate. Just what you need. You take the chance to slowly open the cage door so as not to cause a sudden squeak. You climb to the top, using all four limbs the way a squirrel or similar forest creature would scamper up a tree. Before heading up the chain, your foot deftly nudges the door back to its position. You're more likely to be seen if the cage door is wide open.
  
  You straddle the chain, hugging your body close. You'll likely be facing more than a few men in combat, and so you disperse the energy expenditure throughout your entire body rather than gassing out your arms. Men shout. They rush down from the ramparts towards the collapsed cage, leaving the top of the wall mostly unguarded. Mostly.
  
  Swinging your legs over the side, two Alterans examining the chain's anchor look up as soon as your feet hit the ground. Two Alterans, your countrymen, your fellow soldiers. Can you even claim that? Well, you don't have time to think through your status thoroughly. All you see is two men who will throw you back inside of a cage, and likely stand outside eyeing you the entire time.
  
  Black smoke. Small thunderclouds. A wing-tipped club smashes into two skulls.
  
  A few missing teeth in exchange for many more years of life? You're doing them a favor, even if they'll need to eat mush for the next month or two. You abandon the Magda tunic and replace it with one of the Alteran's navy overcoat. It's not a perfect fit. Little loose around the torso. Better than nothing, and you'll have the ability to blend in with the now-Alteran fort with ease. You understand it's not as simple as walking out the front gate. Not when there is a gathering crowd of soldiers checking on the fallen cage.
  
  Your best bet is through the dungeon tunnel. But first, you'll need to pilfer supplies. You might not be able to bring an actual field surgeon, but you'll settle for the tools of one. In all your battlefield experience, you've never had to do more than wrapping a tourniquet or one or two cauterizations. Redding needs to be stitched. With a surgeon's needle and thread, you'll have to do your best. Hopefully there's a bottle of brandy lying around for anesthetic. You could use some yourself after the day you're having, although it's not nearly as bad as the day the doc is having.
  
  On the ramparts, you eye a few wooden crates. They're mostly empty, no more than two feet across. Whatever contents they carried has long been emptied and put to use. Waste not. You shut one of the crates, sliding a wooden panel on its designated track. It's empty, but the passing Alteran won't know it. As far as they know, you've been tasked with delivering the crate...somewhere. Chain of command, the High King loves it. It also means those directly in your chain won't step out of line to question you. Thank you, High King.
  
  Crate in hand, you know exactly where you're going. You may not know where the medical center is, but you know where all the supplies are kept: the quartermaster's office. It'll be run by an Alteran now, but everything you need will be there. You put on your best blank face and make your way there, treating it as if it's your very duty. It is, in a sense, but not like the soldier's will assume, which is fine with you. Along the way, you give a few nods to those who make eye contact. It's unspoken, yet those wearing the same rank give their version of a sympathetic look. Running cargo isn't the most glorious of positions, especially after taking over the fort of the High King's greatest rival. It's not exactly the glory-filled task to write home about.
  
  Standing in place of the Magda quartermaster, is a shrewd-looking Alteran, the type of person that always assumes whoever's talking to them is lying, complete with over-compensating eye contact and distrust towards newcomers.
  
  "I didn't order any more uniforms," he states as you enter. "That's what I assume those are, are they not?"
  
  You glance down. Sure enough, there's a small marking on the crate identifying its previous contents. Coats. It holds the insignia of the High King, so the battalion must have packed extra for their invasion. "I don't care what you ordered or not. I just do as I am."
  
  The now-Alteran quartermaster's eyes narrow. "As you are...oh, ordered." He sighs. "Place them in the back, near the far wall. The former 'proprietor' was very loose with his cataloguing. It's a mess. Luckily, those awful crimson tunics can be burned along with any flags or banners."
  
  "Here?" you say, placing down the crate.
  
  "No! Not there. There." The quartermaster points pretty close to where you are already.
  
  "Here?" you say again, moving the crate slightly.
  
  "No! Half-wit," he utters under his breath, although it's not as subtle as perhaps he intended. He sighs. "Must I do everything myself?"
  
  The quartermaster takes the crate with both hands, bracing himself to lift a heavy object. When he picks it up with little struggle, a laugh almost escapes your lips. It's similar to the way a tug-of-rope opponent may release tension on the rope, sending the other sprawling backwards. The quartermaster stumbles, gathering himself.
  
  "Here?" you say for a third time, not before landing a fist squarely on the quartermaster's jaw. Lights out. Out cold. No time to tarry. You enter the stockroom, scanning down aisles of equipment. Swords, bucklers, armor, uniforms, boots, and finally, medical equipment. There are bundled cloth, different types of knives and cutting tools, bone saws included. You snatch a needle and thread along with a bottle that smells like spoiled wine mixed with drops of brandy.
  
  As you're about to leave, you catch men's shouts and stomping of boots. You know exactly why: a certain cage must have been discovered to be empty. That, and perhaps two soldiers were discovered taking a nap on the ramparts, one of whom is missing a coat. Took them long enough. The good news is that you know protocol. Each company will be instructed into formation. Any stragglers, men wandering on their own will be detained. The bad news, of course, is that you aren't assigned to a company, and even if you took place in one, it's a small enough group that you'd be noticed as an imposter. For the second time, you're faced not with a locked door or looking the part of Alteran soldier, but instead, your problem is concerned with the placement of one's self, exposed, alone. Hard to blend in when there's no one to blend in with.
  
  If your stay in the quartermaster's office will be longer than expected, and it seems that way, you might as well get comfortable. You tie the sleeping quartermaster up in the stockroom with rope that he's accountable for, notably not logging it in the books. The white strips of bandage cloth make for a decent gag as well. The artifact and you, back to a gun in your palm, crouch near the door to listen outside and ambush any soldier that would wander inside.
  
  Through the small windows, the street outside becomes filled with navy blue. The formation takes place in rows down the main walkway. Protocol says they will be directed down towards the main gate, which is where a thorough examination will take place. Once all the blues are verified, then an in-depth sweep will take place, meaning you'll need to be long gone by that time. The ordeal will take nearly two hours, you estimate. There's a thousand soldiers to count, after all. Man by man. The entrance to the fort's dungeon isn't too far away. There's the small matter of getting there unseen.
  
  Got any more surprises that may help?
  (Surprises, yes. Helpful? Maybe not so much.)
  
  A sudden feeling of helplessness falls over you, though you'd care to not admit it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Stay put, and Redding bleeds out. Make for the dungeon, or any place other than the office, and you get cut down in the street. All outcomes seem to point towards death, a sentiment that can be applied towards any point in your life. No matter what you do, death will come. At least you have the choice to decide how you may greet it. And who knows, maybe you'll be able to slam the door in death's face.
  
  > stay put
  Walking outside means certain death. No question about that. Getting yourself killed is condemning Redding to the same fate. You must wait for the opportune moment. You briefly entertain playing the clueless soldier tasked with transport again. Surely it couldn't work now, right? You don't want to risk it. One mistake, and you're done, the both of you. Time passes. More footsteps echo from outside. They grow softer.
  
  You glance outside again. There's still a large amount of soldiers in formation, but the majority seem to be near the gate. Despite the smaller number, it's still too many to risk leaving the quartermaster's office. Might as well get comfortable. You're not completely out of time for Redding yet. He's in decently-good shape. The retreat from the Blackbird war party proved that. The problem is you don't know his condition on the inside, whether the spear tore into a vital organ. Likely not, but it wouldn't be the first time the man's card playing face fooled you.
  
  Suddenly, footsteps.
  
  Not in unison, marching away from your location as the soldiers lining the streets. But irregular, with a purpose, growing in volume. If they decide to visit the quartermaster for supplies they'll be in for a wing-tipped surprise. The artifact becomes a dagger in your hand, just as you found it. Full circle, like you throwing on the Alteran coat. Louder and louder they become, like a wave slowly building before the crash. And crash, they do.
  
  The front door to the office swings open. You're hidden from view, ready to flank the newcomers as soon as they step foot inside. You dare not breathe heavily for fear of being heard. Instead your breath becomes slow, deliberate. Your body screams at you to act, to release the building tension. Yet you wait for all, sounds like three pairs of boots, to enter. It's actually four.
  
  Four navy coats enter into the office. "Quartermaster!" one of them, you're not certain who shouts towards the stock room. If they were to wander in, they'd find the man bound and gagged. With the fort on high alert, silence from the quartermaster isn't a good sign either. You don't give them the chance to discover him.
  
  You creep forward, dagger in hand, crouched as to absorb the weight of your steps through your legs. His back is turned, a long sweeping overcoat, navy blue, just as the High King commissioned. You dye it the same color as the Magda tunic. Back turned, the Alteran doesn't have time to react. In fact, you don't even have time to think about killing a fellow Alteran, someone who journeyed with you from the Old World into the New, experienced the landing and march to Frontrunner's. Two men on the ramparts didn't bother you; they could be disposed with less-than-fatal means. But four. Four is a different story. It's either me or you, and you know who wins every time.
  
  One drops, drawing the attention of the others. It was unrealistic to quietly take out one without alerting the others. You see that now. Even without a floorboard creaking, a hand covering a mouth, there are still audible signs--as muffled as they may be. Three heads turn in your direction. Thunderclouds. Smoke. The dagger becomes a longsword. You take the offensive, meaning to put an end to things before they can officially begin. The ravenblack blade tears through flesh. The next soldier drops before managing to draw his own sword. The other two, however, meet your attack with equal ferocity, propelled by the sudden death of their two companions.
  
  They're good. Better than most. The instructors in the Alteran military are truly the greatest in the world. Unfortunately for your opponents, you, also, have instruction from the greatest, and you took to it more than most. The ravenblack blade becomes a dark blur, not letting the Alterans time to counter with their own attacks, else they risk one of your swings landing true. The artifact in both hands, you feel the tide turning in your favor, just like Redding foresaw. Redding! The thought of the man fuels your attacks, finding openings in both man's defenses. Four Alterans walked in, four lie bleeding on the wooden floors.
  
  "There he is! Quartermaster's office!"
  
  A shout rings from outside. Through the still open front door, you've managed to draw the attention of every soldier in formation outside. Rather than a stoic demeanor, eyes and head straight forward, all gaze towards the open door, towards you. A split-second later, they break formation. In less time, you make for the back. There's got to be a back door, second entrance. Hell, you'd settle for a small window at this point.
  
  There's no such thing. It's essentially a warehouse, a building designed for stocking large amounts of material, not needing sunlight or second entrances, which only make for alternative solutions for thieves to break in...or murderers, traitors to escape capture. You run down the aisles anyway, desperate for anything. All that greets you is rows and rows of equipment, along with one smug looking quartermaster, despite his current state. You can feel his eyes upon you, likely knowing the curses that would flow from his mouth should you remove the gag.
  
  Footsteps grow louder. They're nothing like before. Four men first approached. Now, there's hundreds. They can't all fit into the office, but enough can, enough that will eventually overwhelm you, artifact or no. A sinking feeling starts in the pit of your stomach. You've been faced with perilous, hopeless situations before, some since arriving to the New World. This feels different, like saying goodbye to a friend you won't see again. More footsteps. The smile underneath the quartermaster's gag is almost palpable.
  
  Soldiers pour into the stockroom like a water pump with a broken valve. There's no going back. Many pour through the opening , many you will put down before joining them. That's all you can do. The voice is silent, perhaps in protest to your decisions. It's not the ending you wished for, hoped for. But it's the one you receive now.