[CONTENT WARNING: Child death]

Laz looked down over the city once again. The place was quieter than it had been during their last visit; the taverns and drinking houses were only half as full, and the ambient chatter of patrons had lowered to a respectable murmur now that the work week had resumed. Laz was grateful for the lack of noise, but took extra care to stay quiet as they crept across city roofs.

They had donned a new disguise for this evening’s work—dark hair pulled back in a bun, side swept bangs covering their scar, brown eyes, and their usual face and body structure. Going out on such short notice meant they didn’t have time for anything more creative. It would have to do.

They also hadn’t been sent along with any kind of assistance. Usually agents worked in pairs, one to do the killing and one, like Felix, providing a distraction in case things went wrong. But Felix was busy with another job that evening, and Laz was on their own.

Thankfully, their task for the night should be simple enough that they could manage solo. The Vastra had found mention of someone else in Laurel Creed’s journal: a coworker from the university who she had mentioned wanting to share information with. It was unclear from her journal how much she had said to this coworker—professor Royland Oakleaf—but the potential of information about the Vastra and her plans getting out was enough to spur her agents into action. A knife to the throat would be more than enough to plug the leak.

They made their way across town, stepping lithely over roof tiles and jumping across gaps between buildings with catlike grace. Other agents would have opted to walk through the streets in disguise, but Laz preferred the high road—the city was easier to navigate from above, they could travel quickly without drawing attention to themself, and, more than anything, they found pleasure in being able to move freely through the dark.

However, pleasure wasn't their priority. Professor Oakleaf’s home wasn’t far from where they had killed Laurel Creed the night before, and they were rapidly approaching their destination. Dashing eastward across the tops of buildings, they followed the directions another agent had scouted for them, until they found the place they had been searching for.

The professor’s home was visually similar, but slightly larger than Creed’s: A 3-story stone building, one of many homes all connected and running the length of the block. Lush ivy crawled up the walls, glass flowers decorated the crest of the roof, and arched windows glowed warmly from within.

Laz lowered themself into a hiding position across the narrow road, crouched in shadows atop a neighboring roof. They didn’t have to wait long until their target arrived.

Shuffling toward the building, with a briefcase in one hand and a stack of books and papers tucked under his opposite arm, was the man Laz would be killing tonight. He looked mostly human, though a twinge of green to his skin and hair hinted at some amount of Florian ancestry. His clothes were professional, but his shirt was untucked at the back, and his short travel cloak hung crooked on his shoulders.

Royland Oakleaf—professor at Sereth University specializing in anthropology. Widowed—wife passed of illness 5 years ago. Lives with 2 children—twin girls.

Laz watched from their hiding place as the man awkwardly tottered up the front staircase, digging through his pocket for a key (nearly dropping his books in the process). He unlocked the door and called inside as the door swung open, and was quickly beset upon by his daughters, who leapt through the door shouting “surprise!”. His books and travel case tumbled to the ground as he scooped the two into his arms, spinning and laughing.

Laz winced. They recognized the two girls from the audience at Felix’s performance from a few nights before, where they had been happily singing and dancing along in the front row. Cradled in their father's arms, they seemed happy. Loved. Yet, if all went according to plan, those two girls would be orphans before the night was over.

It couldn’t be helped. The Vastra’s secrets couldn’t be allowed to spread, and Laz was simply the tool to ensure it. Professor Oakleaf would find himself under their knife tonight because he knew too much—information that had been given to him by Creed, who had been told by Oren. If Oren had stayed in line and followed the Vastra’s Commands, all this bloodshed could have been avoided.

That bit still nagged at them. Betraying the Vastra wasn’t just stupid—it shouldn't have been possible. Her will was the absolute, unbreakable law to those under her Commands, and she ordered every one of her agents to protect her secrets even more fiercely than their own lives. It wasn’t just that Oren had betrayed her, he shouldn’t have physically been able to speak the words out loud. Even if he'd wanted to betray her for some reason, her powers should have kept his mouth shut. And yet…

The click of the door closing snapped Laz out of their trance. The professor and his daughters had disappeared inside the house, and moments later the curtains on the bottom floor were drawn closed. He would likely be putting away his work, changing clothes, preparing dinner while his daughters played. If he were alone in the house, and if Laz had had time to case the home in advance, they could have snuck in through a window and finished him off quickly. But instead, Laz decided the safest route would be to wait until all parties in the home were asleep, and sneak in under the cover of dark.

They kept watch on the house, eventually creeping closer to plan the best entrance point. The front door was open to the street, and streetlamps made it too well-lit for Laz’s liking. However, the back of the home opened to a small, shared courtyard, shaded by scraggly trees. Perfect.

Shrouded in the dark, Laz maneuvered their way down from the rooftops into the branches of a tree at the back of the house. Despite the curtains being drawn closed, it wasn’t hard to guess what was happening inside. Lights going on or off, shadows passing across the curtains, and the occasional muffled voice from inside gave a shocking amount of information. The family spent most of their time on the bottom floor, before the lights on the 2nd floor went on. About half an hour later, the lights went dark again, after which another light came on in the 3rd floor window. Laz assumed that the professor had put the children to bed on the 2nd floor, and had now retired to his own quarters.

About an hour later, the light in the 3rd floor window dimmed, leaving the house completely dark. The night was silent now, save only for wind through the trees and the distant calling of crows. Laz was uncomfortable, crouching on uneven tree branches. They had to readjust their legs every so often to stave off the creeping numbness, and the evening chill made them shiver. But they didn’t want to chance sneaking inside while their target was awake, and stuck it out as long as they could.

After another hour had passed, and Laz was certain the occupants of the home were asleep, they carefully climbed down the tree and approached the back door of the home. They picked the lock with a practiced fluidity, and crept inside with only a whisper from the door hinge as it creaked open.

Their eyes slowly adjusted to the dark inside, barely able to make out the layout of the home from the lamplight coming in off the street. Silent as a mouse, they crept across the kitchen and up the stairs. On the 2nd floor, a closed door on the right was painted with the names “Sylvie and Clea”. The children’s room, as expected. However, across the hall, a half-open door exposed a wall lined in bookshelves, and the corner of a cluttered desk. Their curiosity piqued, Laz snuck into the room.

It was a study, as expected. The professor's 3rd floor bedroom would be their next destination, but for the moment, Laz opted to investigate. The briefcase and books the professor had been carrying were stacked on the desk in messy piles, corners dented and loose papers stuffed between pages. From their pocket, Laz pulled a small wooden cylinder; a magic object about the size of their finger that, when the magic glyph at one end was touched, summoned a dim light from the other end. Laz thumbed through the pages of the professor's journals by the light of the cylinder, skimming the most recent entries, and when one book proved to have nothing useful, they carefully moved it aside and opened another. The contents of the books were to be expected: lesson plans, an organizer with meetings and class schedules, research notes, and journal detailing the events of each day. Laz looked through them one by one, scanning the entries, and as they finished skimming the last book on the desk, a realization slowly surfaced:

There was no mention of the Vastra anywhere. Or Creed, for that matter.

Odd.

Creed's journal had implied that she was planning to speak with the professor about the Vastra and her intentions. Yet the professor (who was apparently a meticulous note-taker) hadn't mentioned Creed at all. No scheduled meeting, no memos about her findings, not a single recent instance of her name.

Perhaps he simply hadn't written anything down. If he thought that the Vastra was dangerous, he may have been more cautious and kept his findings sequestered in his mind. But the only way Laz would know for sure would be to interrogate him, and they hadn't the luxury for such things. The Vastra had Commanded that he would die, and her will was law.

Despite the lack of leaked information, the Vastra would likely still want to see the professor's journals to confirm for herself. As quietly as they could, Laz tucked the diary into their satchel, and turned toward the door, just in time to see the silhouette of a man, weapon in hand, lunging for them.

Startled, Laz sidestepped, the weapon whooshing past their ear and slamming into the desk with a loud crack. A broom. The professor apparently wasn't the type to have weapons around the house, even for self defense. That made things easier.

As the professor prepared for another strike with his broom handle, Laz beat him to the punch. In one swift motion, they unsheathed their knife, lunging forward and ripping at his neck, sending a spray of red across the walls of the study. The professor gurgled, drowning in his own blood, and fell to the floor in a heap.

Laz took a moment to catch their breath as the professor twitched, struggling for a moment before falling still. Moments later, blue Dying Lights began swirling out from his corpse, dimly illuminating the room. Damn, Laz thought, what a mess. Can’t believe he snuck up on me like that… I’m losing my edge. This would’ve been a lot cleaner if he had just stayed asleep—

“Daddy?”

Laz froze in place, turning toward the door across the hall, two sets of curious eyes staring back at them. They looked confused, half asleep, but scared. When had the girls woken up? Their door had been closed when they passed it earlier—how long had they been watching? How much had they seen? Did they—

No witnesses. One of the Vastra’s main Commands echoed through their mind. If these two girls had seen what they had done…

An icy tingle shot up their spine, and their fingers gripped the handle of their knife.

No witnesses.

Laz slowly regained control of themself as the icy sensation in their spine faded. The once-dark hall was now bathed in light; a gruesome aurora of Dying Lights emanating from the three bodies lying in a heap on the floor. Color wafted from them like smoke from a chimney, blue and pink and cyan swirling through the air and reflecting off puddles of dark blood on the floor.

No witnesses. The Vastra's will was law. And because of her will, two innocent children lay dead alongside their target.

Laz’s breath caught in their throat, the metallic stench of a fresh kill burning their lungs. Their heartbeat thudded unsteadily in their chest. This was wrong. This shouldn't have happened. Their target was supposed to die, of course, but they didn't need to kill those girls. They posed no threat to the Vastra. No threat to anyone. But Laz had killed them. Murdered them. Cut their lives short, for what? Their hand had been forced by the Vastra's will. They were serving her. Following her. This wasn't their fault. They were only doing as Commanded.

But no, it was their fault. They should have taken care of the professor before investigating. A better agent would have killed the target without leaving witnesses. Without being seen. Without getting the children involved. The blood that pooled on the floor, the bodies piled together unmoving, the hideous lights that swirled before their eyes wouldn’t be there if not for them. This was their fault.

Laz’s heart quickened, throbbing painfully in their ribs. Black clouds closed in around the edges of their vision. Their bloodstained hands shook violently, still clenched around the hilt of their dagger. This shouldn't have happened. The professor hadn't even known anything! There had been nothing in his journals suggesting he knew a damn thing about the Vastra. Why did he need to die? Why had they been forced to kill the children as well?! Why did any of them need to die?!

Oh gods. What would Felix think?

Laz stepped back, their foot splashing in the pool of blood, and like a lyre string pulled too tightly, something inside of them snapped.

A flood crashed into Laz's mind like a dam collapsing into the valley below it, a tidal wave of thoughts and feelings and lost moments slamming into them with enough force to topple a mountain. Hundreds of voices and visions surged forth, bleeding into each other in a cacophonous scream of noise and emotion, forcing their way into Laz's mind with such ferocity they thought their head might cave in.

Laz stumbled backward, back hitting something—the doorframe, or a wall. Their view of the room before them swirled, interrupted and overwritten with flashes of other scenes—other moments in time that they didn't recognize. Or did they? The visions came too fast, too intensely to pick out detail, and drowning in them was making it hard to breathe.

They screamed in pain—or at least, they assumed they did, but they couldn't hear their own voice over the hundreds of others forcing their way into their head. They clamped their hands over their ears, but it didn't stop the sounds, the visions, the pain.

Something was wrong with them—horribly wrong. They didn't know what, or who, but they knew they had to leave. If they could get back to the sanctum, the Vastra could fix it. The Vastra would know what was going on. She could—

Stumbling blindly toward the exit, Laz missed a step at the top of the stairs. For a soft, fleeting moment, they hung in the air, peaceful and still, until gravity made its presence known with a sickening crack.