The operation was as simple as it got: retrieve the boot key, fall back. Jira moved to a surveillance spot, crouching low—hidden, motionless, focused, and most importantly, alone. Despite the thief’s utter insistence that he tag along on the mission, he had wandered off like a child some time ago. And being the no-good rotten malzurra that he was, Jira was doubtful he would return, leaving her to scout ahead blissfully undisturbed. She peered out from behind a stack of splintered crates and empty garbage pails, spying on the docks from an alleyway on its southernmost edge.

  The state of the dockyards was the same as it had been for hours, with Verloren ships of all sizes clogging every available port, their personnel frantically preparing for the upcoming expedition. But that wasn’t Jira’s concern, not yet anyway. Instead she fixed her gaze on the small maintenance shack on the edge of the platform, far removed from the bustle.

  There was little to note about the layout of the shack. It was an unremarkable squat brick box huddled in between an old warehouse and the steep dropoff to the tarmac below. Inside that shed, somewhere, lay Jira’s objective: a key, the means of unlocking the tire boot currently rendering the Redland Runner immobile. On a normal day, smashing into the shack and grabbing the key would be barely an inconvenience for her, but today presented a unique challenge. Stationed at the door to the shed, armed with swords and clad in Verloren veridian, were a pair of corporate guards. They leaned against the brick, visibly bored even from a distance, yet watchful enough of the platform ahead of them to plainly be a problem.

  Jira gritted her teeth as she studied the sentries. How best to subdue them? Even at her fastest, Jira was doubtful she could surprise them with a head-on approach. Maybe if she were to somehow come in from behind, or climb up to the platform using a nearby maintenance ladder—but odds were at least one of the guards would have enough time to sound the alarm before she could take them both out. There had to be some way to get into that building without anyone noticing…

  As Jira formulated her plan of attack, she suddenly heard the soft sound of footsteps skulking towards her from behind. Slowly, the shadow of a figure crept onto the concrete beside her, the shape of a shortsword hanging off its hip. Jira froze. She studied the silhouette as it grew sharper, recognizing its sword as a distinctly Verloren in shape and length—it was a guard.

  Slowly, the shadow raised their hand, placing it onto the grip of their weapon. Jira scowled. Somehow, she had been exposed. That miserable thief had probably ratted her out.

  So be it.

  Jira slowed her breath. Her eyes narrowed. Calmly, she wrapped her fingers around the pair of knives lodged in her belt, watching as the shadow came within striking distance. Now!—In a flash she whipped around and raised her blades, ready to strike.

  “Ta-da!” exclaimed Tycho, a stupid, unphased grin on his face. He rested his hand on his sword and struck a fashionable pose, presenting his outfit: a standard Verloren guard’s uniform, labeled with the rank of private. “It’s the newest trend!”

  Jira glowered, the adrenaline in her veins souring. “Bird-head…” she growled. Throwing her knives back into their sheaths, she spun around and returned to her surveillance, trying her best to ignore Tycho’s presence.

  Tycho pranced over to Jira and slid into position beside her. She took a small step away. “How goes the scouting?” he inquired.

  Jira flashed him a brief, irritated glare before returning her attention back to the shed. “You were gone long,” she said.

  “I had to find a uniform with that proper fit. Long legs, you see.”

  Jira remained silent.

  “Any astute observations to be had?”

  Jira clenched her jaw—like it or not, Tycho was along for the ride after all. She might as well use him. She pointed to the tiny hut across the way. “That maintenance building has the keys to all the dock equipment,” she said. “Verloren has posted guards there while the area is in lockdown.”

  “Wonderful details!” Tycho declared. “You have a keen eye.”

  “Mm.”

  “Only two guards, is it? Hmm… yes…” Tycho squinted intensely while rubbing his fingertips together. “I can envision it now. The perfect burgle. With this ensemble at my disposal, I shall have no trouble bewitching them with my wiles.”

  “Hm,” grunted Jira. “This is the plan: You go up, say something dumb. While they’re distracted, I rush in and take them out. Then we break inside, grab the key, and wrap this up, aza-erraza.”

  “Such feral instincts!” chastised Tycho with a wag of his finger. “Assail the guards? Surely this act of violence won’t go unreported, and once it is we shall be met with heightened security within the hour. How do you propose to recapture your ship then, hmmm?”

  “Mph,” Jira grumbled, flaring her nostrils. “Then what do you think we should do?”

  “Thievery demands finesse!” Tycho declared. “Any clod off the street can perform a mindless smash-and-grab. But to take a person’s dearest treasures without them ever knowing, that is the true art. Come.”

  Springing to action, the thief dove from behind the stack of crates and wriggled his way through the scattered cargo littering the dockyard, popping in and out of cover like an eager gopher. Jira rubbed her temples, murmuring a beleaguered curse. She took a moment to quietly pray to the Gods for strength before sneaking off behind him.

  The pair of would-be thieves furtively moved in closer to the maintenance shack. They quietly ducked behind a small landship parked in front of the warehouse, its open cargo hold littered with tools and parts haphazardly spilling out over the edge. Peering through a gap in the ship’s exhaust pipes, the pair spied on the scene in front of them. Mingling obliviously a short distance away were the two Verloren guards, loudly jabbering with one other.

  “Watch well,” whispered Tycho, putting on a professional face. “I shall move in, learn their character, and construct a narrative to warp their wills to my own.”

  Jira rolled her eyes at his supposed plan. “So you’re going to improvise?”

  “Yes, and?”

  “This is stupid.”

  Tycho shook his head disappointedly. “No imagination. You act as if we haven’t a head start already. Look closely, what do you see?”

  Jira studied the pair of guards. They were young. Very young. Fresh out of secondary school from the looks of it. One, a short and portly woman adorned with the rank of corporal, gabbed excitedly at her companion—a stringbean of a private with poor posture, his identification badge hanging loosely from his belt. He nodded wide-eyed as she spoke, absorbed in her every word.

  “They’re a couple of kids,” shrugged Jira, unsure of what to make of it.

  “Yes, precisely,” said Tycho excitedly. “Youths—impressionable, eager to prove themselves. And, above all, eager to avoid any altercations with their superiors. And look at the boy. He is very obviously the subordinate of the two. Lower in rank, yes, but also in confidence. You can see it in his face, the way he carries himself. Oh yes, I can wrap him around my little finger.” Tycho drew in a preparatory breath and stood, straightening his uniform. “Just watch, you may learn something,” he whispered before the smile faded from his face. His theatrical personality melted away as he stepped from cover, perfectly slipping into the role of ‘nondescript guard’.

  As Tycho casually marched towards the shack, Jira peered through the gap, watching him carefully, waiting for things to turn south, all the while tuning her ears to the sentries’ animated conversation.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, it were a sight to see,” declared the Corporal.

  Her companion raised his brows, enticed. “A sight, you say?”

  “If I didn’t know I were aboard the National Treasure, I woulda thought I was at the brokers.”

  “The Admiral’s really got a collection that big?”

  The woman put her hands on her hips and nodded. “Enough treasure to fill up a gallop-class, it was.”

  “What’s all this about treasure now?” Tycho chimed in, masking his voice with a shockingly convincing working-class affect.

  The Corporal snapped up stiff as a board. The Private followed suit a half second later. “Nuffin’ to report!” the woman shouted. After a beat her eyes fell over Tycho’s rank. She relaxed. “Oh, thought you was our supervisor fer a second.”

  The young man cocked his head suspiciously. “Ain’t you a bit too old to still be a private?”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Tycho pursed his lips, visibly taken aback.

  “You can’t just go tellin’ people they’re old, Tombal!” the Corporal chastised.

  “Ah, I’m mighty sorry!” Private Tombal cried. “Meant no offense!”

  “None taken,” smiled Tycho, waving away the comment, clearly a little hurt.

  “I were just tellin’ my associate here ‘bout Admiral Handler’s stash. You ever seent it?” asked the Corporal.

  “Can’t say I have. What kinda stash is it?”

  “He’s got a whole heap o’ relics just sittin’ in his quarters aboard the Treasure.”

  “It’s like a museum, it is,” Tombal added.

  “Really?” asked Tycho, downplaying his curiosity. “And he’s just got all those goods on display?”

  “Them’s the perks of bein’ Admiral,” said the Corporal.

  Private Tombal threw his partner an auspicious smile. “Well, when we get to Ama-Lasria we’ll be makin’ collections of our own. Ain’t that right, Reuf?”

  “Damn right,” replied Corporal Reuf. Together the two guards performed an intricate, synchronized handshake. Tycho raised a devilish eyebrow and nodded to himself, filing the newly acquired information away.

  Jira grumbled impatiently—this was taking too long. Restless, she leaned in, angling for a better look at the shack, crafting contingencies for if and when Tycho’s scheme failed. As she did, the sleeve of her jacket caught on a loose wrench teetering off the back of the landship. It slid and fell to the ground, twanging loudly on impact.

  The two guards stood upright, alert, snapping their attention towards the parked ships. Tycho wheeled around to face the noise as well, slyly moving to Tombal’s side in the process.

  Reuf fumbled her sword from its sheath. “What was that?” she quietly exclaimed.

  Jira froze. As imperceptibly as possible, she slunk out of view, stifling her breath, clutching her knives, ready for anything.

  “Maybe there’s ne'er-do-wells about?” said Tombal. “We should investigate.”

  “Ah, it were probably just a bird or a cat or somethin’,” dismissed Tycho.

  A palpable tension hung in the air for a moment. “…Yeah, yer probably right,” Reuf finally said, sliding her sword back into its casing.

  Jira softly exhaled. She carefully angled herself back towards the peephole, now extra aware of the looseleaf junk scattered around her.

  “Why so jumpy?” asked Tycho.

  “Sorry. Just been standin’ here too long, I ‘spose.”

  “We’re itchin’ for action, ya see,” added Tombal.

  “And there ain’t no action ‘round these parts.”

  “Whisper quiet, it is.”

  “Say, friend,” Reuf politely inquired. “What brings you all the way out here?”

  “Thanks fer remindin’ me,” said Tycho. “I wanted to warn everyone—one of the commanders is makin’ the rounds, doin’ informal inspections.”

  “Which commander?” asked Tombal.

  “Guess,” said Tycho.

  Reuf folders her arms. “Commander Schroder. She would!”

  Tycho looked the pair of guards over. “You got all your pieces in order?”

  “That we do,” Tombal crowed. “Uniforms is pressed, and I polished my badge this mo—” He patted his belt, his confident smile waning as his fingers touched nothing but leather. “My badge!” he exclaimed in a panic. “Wh—where’d it go?”

  “You already lost yer badge?!” shouted Reuf.

  “No! I mean, I couldn’t have!”

  Tycho raised his arms, attempting to calm the young guard. “Don’t panic. Where’d you see it last?”

  “I had it on me, I swear! But, uh, maybe… maybe I left it at the tent.”

  “Well, you better run over and find it,” Tycho warned. “Otherwise the Commander is gonna have you grounded.”

  “No!” shouted Reuf.

  “She wouldn’t!” followed Tombal.

  Tycho shook his head. “Heard it myself. Anyone who fails the inspection is gettin’ left behind. No expedition, no treasure, no nuffin’.”

  “I gotta find it!” Tombal cried.

  Reuf looked towards her companion and anxiously pranced, desperate conflict etched on her face. “I wish I could help ya, but—”

  “You still got time before Schroder gets here,” said Tycho, subtly pushing the pair to action. He looked towards Reuf. “Help ‘im. Two eyes is better than one. I can stay here while ya look.”

  “Are ya sure?” Reuf asked.

  “Yeah, it ain’t no trouble.”

  Reuf smiled and slapped Tycho on the arm. “Yer a lifesaver!” She left her post and made for a large tent set up near the terminal. “C’mon,” she said to Tombal, “Let’s find your badge before you get shipped off to the Dunes or somethin’.”

  Tombal followed closely behind her, waving back to Tycho as they ran off. “Thanks so much, friend!”

  Tycho remained at the shack, watching the two as they disappeared down the platform.

  Jira slunk from her cover and joined the thief at the shack. Tycho’s workman-like facade dropped like a stone; he flashed her a wide smirk. With a flick of his hand, Private Tombal’s badge materialized in his fingers like magic.

  “So clumsy, misplacing one’s personal effects,” Tycho grinned. “Tell me, was your clamant distraction a purposeful gesture?”

  Jira glanced to the side. “…Aie.”

  “Aha, brilliant! I expect nothing less from ‘Jira Knifehands’ or whatever it is they call you. Your disorderly clattering provided me with the perfect window in which to pilfer that young man’s identification. We make a fabulous team, do you not think?”

  Jira’s neck tightened. As much as she hated to admit it, she was the least bit impressed with Tycho’s ability to spin the situation to his liking. Not that she would ever tell him. “Let’s get this over with,” she grumbled.

  “Righto! We have two, three minutes tops,” Tycho said with confidence. Unfurling a small pouch lined with lockpicks of various sizes, he slid over to the door and began to fiddle with the lock.

  “You can’t just open it?” Jira grunted.

  “Alas, I was not gifted a key when I graduated from guard academy,” Tycho pithily replied as he inserted a pair of lockpicks into the keyhole.

  “Break the door, there’s nobody around.”

  “Now, now, let us be elegant.”

  Jira marched back over to the parked landship and peeked over the back corner, looking out towards the guard tent that had been hastily erected near the central terminal. Moments later, Reuf and Tombal emerged through the flaps, still in a frantic state. They gesticulated wildly at each other before hanging their heads and starting their way back to the maintenance shack.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Jira announced. She rushed back over to Tycho still fiddling with the lock.

  “This will take but a moment longer,” Tycho assured her. “This lock is slightly more complex than I had anticipated. Those devils at Flexosteel, constantly out to make a fool of me…” He reached into his pouch and removed a thinner, more delicate pick. “I think a number three will do the trick…”

  “Enough.” Jira stormed up to the door and planted her foot into it with a mighty kick. It slammed open, ripping splinters of wood off of the frame.

  Tycho remained on his knees, frozen in his lockpicking pose, completely aghast. “Wha—what are you doing?!” he demanded.

  Jira marched into the shack and took a look around the space. On the back wall she spotted a mass of hooks housing all manner of keys.

  “You can’t just go barging in like some ungodsly tempest!” Tycho chastised. “That is a sure way to be caught!”

  Jira ignored his nagging. Scanning the wall of hooks, she zeroed in on the one labeled ‘Wheel Locks’ and grabbed one of the massive keys from its holder. Moving towards the exit, she set the door back into its place and softly closed it behind her. “Nobody saw,” she said, looking around satisfied.

  “That is not the point,” Tycho fumed. “You have no respect for the craft!”

  Jira waved the key in Tycho’s face, giving him an impish grin. “Maybe I’m just the better thief.”

  Tycho turned beet red. For the first time, he was at a loss for words. “You…” he brayed as he stamped his feet and marched in tight, concentric circles. A second later, the voices of the two guards materialized in the air. Tycho sucked in a breath, calming himself. “They’re coming,” he said. “Go. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.” Running a hand through his hair, he quickly assumed a casual stance, leaning against the shack as though nothing nefarious had transpired in the preceding minutes.

  Jira gave him a nod. She stuffed the boot key into her jacket and dashed off towards a nearby maintenance ladder leading down to the tarmac. Swinging herself onto the rungs, she disappeared from sight just as Reuf and Tombal appeared around the edge of the parked ship, their voices frazzled and panicked.

  “It weren’t there!” cried Tombal. “I don’t know what to do!”

  “They’s gonna throw you off the bridge for this!” chimed Reuf, probably not helping.

  Jira slowed her descent as the guards returned to the shack, careful not to make a sound. After all that trouble, the last thing she needed was to get found out due to a single errant clatter. She moved carefully, taking it one rung at a time, all the while listening to the conversation as it played out above her.

  Tombal’s voice wavered, clearly on the verge of tears. “This is the worst day of my life,” he moaned.

  “Hold on there, fella,” Tycho cheerfully announced. “You’re in luck.” Tycho broadly dug the badge out his pocket and tossed it towards Tombal.

  “My badge!” Tombal shouted gleefully a few seconds later. “Where did you find it?”

  “Just over there,” said Tycho. “Musta fallen off.”

  “That’s weird. I don’t remember even bein’ over that way.”

  “Well, all that matters is everythin’ is back in its place,” said Reuf, audibly happy to put the whole ordeal behind her.

  “Yeah, yer right,” said Tombal. The pair of guards shuffled back into position beside the door, excusing Tycho from his temporary guard duty. “Thank ya so much, friend. I owe ya big time!”

  “Ah, don’t mention it,” Tycho replied. “Welp, I gotta report in. Good luck with yer inspection. I’ll see you two around.”

  “Yep, we’ll take it from here,” said Reuf.

  “Take it right good, we will,” added Tombal.

  Tycho strolled off, casually making his way towards the terminal and leaving the pair of guards alone at the shack once more.

  Jira felt a great strain radiate off her shoulders. Silently she exhaled. The operation was a success. Too bad that was just the easy part.

  “Glad that’s all sorted,” breathed Tombal. He performed a large, groaning stretch and threw his back against the door.

  Jira inched her boots down onto the tarmac. As she quietly disengaged from the ladder, she suddenly heard the strained hinges of the shed door flex and snap.

  “Guuaah!” yelped Tombal as both he and the door fell backwards into the shack, smacking onto the floor with a raucous, plosive thud.

  “…What’d you do?!” Reuf shouted at her companion, appalled.

  Jira couldn’t help but smirk—that should occupy them for a minute. Taking advantage of the clamor, she broke into a jog, hustling discreetly across the tarmac. Key in hand, the operation a success, she slipped out of the dockyards and back into the city.