The crowd was unexpectedly exuberant. An orderly mass of men, women, and children carpeted the brick and cement ground of Voloshyn Square. Many came waving Ruthenian flags, but only a few carried images of President Makowski or Vosla himself. Amar doubted that detail escaped Vosla’s notice.

“I should have refused,” Amar thought as he positioned himself inconspicuously in the midst of a swarm of military dignitaries and elected officials. Still, he underwent the tedious work of skimming through hundreds of feelings and half-formed thoughts to pick up any telltale signs of dread or anxiety. No doubt Vosla had more than enough reason to fear rebels and assassins, but Amar suspected more and more that Vosla did not at all “forget” to make this request of him until almost the last minute. Instead Vosla had to be trying to subtly renegotiate the terms of their alliance, to position him as his subordinate, subject to his whims at all time, and not his equal partner. Perhaps desperation had made him paranoid. Nonetheless, Amar had been at this sort of business long enough to know that, when dealing with people like Vosla, paranoia was one of your most valuable assets.

On the makeshift stage, Vosla spoke blandly but convincingly of loyalty and stability and transcending the past without forgetting it. At last, the real star of the hour was paraded out like some sort of show dog. He was a bulky man who looked more mountain man than soldier, although he certainly did look like someone who had rebel blood on his hands.

The rugged hero’s speech was, curiously enough, about freedom, but Ruthenia was still just enough of a republic that his words did not come across as an obscenity or a joke. Vosla probably even put him up to it. Leave it to Vosla to appreciate the beautiful irony of having a man who crushed resistance speak about the virtues of liberty.

For the sake of his own curiosity, Amar included Vosla’s pet hero in his scan. He was startled to sense that there was something rather off about his thoughts. He was focusing on reciting his speech, of course, but there was something deeper and hidden.

“And just as our nation has always led the region in prosperity and progress, so we can lead it in forging ways to enjoy freedom responsibly and…” He paused and looked to where Amar was sitting. “…without interference.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Amar saw a woman, some senator, pull out some kind of circular object —a bomb? —and hit a button on it. Suddenly, his own thoughts were scattered before a piercing scream of pain that lashed out from the very core of his mind. Amar could feel his body falling from his seat against the body of the man that was sitting next to him, who was now getting up in a panic, leaving Amar to crumple to the floor. The whole sequence of events felt distant, masked by the sudden migraine that exploded and shattered his consciousness.

If he was more aware, he would have also seen President Makowski fall to the ground in a seizure, Vosla shouting and calling for Ruiner, and the soldier at the podium rip off the uniform and even the skin around his face to reveal another person entirely. Even in his haze of pain and confusion and in the panic growing around him, Amar recognized the green and white costume, the cape, the shoulder-length hair, the square-jawed and close-cut bearded face of the superhero Sans Pareil

Amar might have passed out if he didn’t feel someone grabbing him by his armpits and hauling him to his shaking feet. Ruiner and Sans Pareil were exchanging blows strong enough to shake windows miles away.

“You worthless inbred royal idiot!” Vosla’s voice hissed right into his ear. “One of the most famous superheroes in the world was practically standing right on our toes and you couldn’t sense him with that freak brain of yours!”

“He…he must have had a cover personality,” Aram mumbled. Then, his mind finally processing Vosla’s insult, Amar’s pride sparked through all his agony and delirium. “You might as well blame yourself for not seeing through his makeup with your eyes.” Vosla was actually taken aback by that, if only for a few seconds.

“Well, I still owe you a debt, and I may yet have need of you,” Vosla said. “Come with me.”

As Vosla spoke, Amar watched in awe as Sans Pareil flew effortlessly through the air, dodging a massive, unwieldly blade Ruiner had produced from his right arm. All the while he fired concussive blasts from his hands that rippled through the air and staggered Ruiner more and more with each strike.

“Ruiner will keep him busy, but not for much longer, I fear. Come on!” Amar felt Vosla practically dragging him back in the direction of the presidential palace. Through the front entrance, Amar had recovered enough that he could keep up with Vosla on his own at a reasonably steady pace. He was even able to move faster when it became clear from the distant shouts that Ruiner was almost subdued and that even in the chaos the soldiers and officials had arrived at a consensus that Vosla and Amar had to be detained as soon as possible. Without a second’s pause, Vosla guided Amar to a wing of the palace he had never been to before. Tucked inside the closet of a guest room that had been regularly cleaned but probably not actually slept in for years was a secret door that opened into an elevator. Hidden inside a floral pattern on the bedroom’s wall was a hi-tech panel. Vosla produced a keycard that made it hum. However, Vosla’s pleased expression quickly evaporated once he realized he had to input a numeric password as well. Vosla muttered some creative curses in his native Bulgarian involving various saints, incest, and fecal matter.

Amar said nothing. I should help him, he thought. If he really has one, I can retrieve his memory of the password. The danger was that someone like Vosla, in Amar’s own bitter experience, was liable to realize that he would have to drop his mental barriers and assume right away that Amar was setting him up for a betrayal. If that happened, in the stress of the moment, Amar’s life could very well be forfeit. At the same time, it was a relatively small risk, and Amar had no desire to be at the mercy of a now restored and sure-to-be-vengeful President Mackowski…

His internal debate was interrupted by a shout. “Stop!” A lone but confident soldier was pointing a rifle right at them.

Vosla was hardly phased and kept fiddling with the panel. “Make yourself useful, finally,” he growled at Amar.

Just a couple of minutes later, the soldier was crouched down on the floor, on the brink of tears. Amar genuinely felt no animosity toward the soldier, whom he now knew was Mehael Dzadik from Terebovi. Mehael was only doing his duty in apprehending two traitors and had bravely if stupidly taken the initiative to search this area of the palace alone while his compatriots searched more likely hiding spots elsewhere. However, there was no time to be gentle or precise about subduing poor Mehael.

“Please…” Mehael choked out. A particularly unpleasant memory of something bad that happened on a sunny afternoon on August 14, 2011 was still flaring brightly in his mind.

“I know, I know, but for what it’s worth, you’ll get to live,” Amar broadcast into Mehael’s mind. As if on cue, Vosla gasped and a whimsical electronic chime sounded. The false wall inside the closet slid to the slide to reveal a cylinder silver elevator.

Amar slid inside first. The sooner he was done with Vosla and this whole country, the better. His anxious thoughts about the future were dispelled by a gunshot, causing Amar to immediately duck. As he looked up, instead of seeing vengeful soldiers, there was only Vosla moving toward the elevator and the fresh corpse of Mehael Dzadik from Terebovi bleeding into the ludicrously expensive lavender carpet.

They were both silent as they rode the elevator down, until Amar said, despite himself, “I told him he’d live.”

Vosla shrugged. “Never leave behind a loose end.”