He stared at the sun-kissed boy, wondering if it was legal to work at that age.
"Your mother sounds like a wise woman," Ikarus said, a faint, tired smile tugging at his mouth. His gaze locked onto a familiar red-and-white square box tucked between the dried fruit and sea-salt candy. His pulse quickened. The brand was old, a relic from the midland. "How much for the smokes, kid?"
"Five hundred zenny, mister," the boy said, puffing out his chest.
Ikarus raised an eyebrow. "Five hundred? That's a bit expensive for a dried leaf and a cough, don't you think?"
"My mom says the price is whatever the hungry man is willing to pay," the boy said, a sharp, cheeky grin splitting his sun-darkened face. "And you look pretty hungry for these, mister."
Ikarus felt a genuine spark of heat in his chest—not the burning of the Capital, but a rare, dry amusement.
"Maybe," Ikarus said, leaning back. "But you aren't the only one with a box of smokes." He let the words hang there, watching the boy's eyes. In another life, he'd negotiated for crate-loads of steel and illegal chemicals with men far more dangerous than a kid in a sarong.
"Tsk, tsk. I might not be the only one with a box of smokes," the boy said, wagging a dirty finger at him. "But my mom says I'm the only one who can answer your questions," he pointed to the sketch on his hand.
Ikarus's eyes narrowed. The world seemed to sharpen around the edges. He slid the sketch back into his pocket.
"And what," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "would the answer be?"
His hands went perfectly still. He wasn't looking at a child anymore; he was looking at a clue or a threat.
The boy didn't flinch. He just tapped the red-and-white box and gave Ikarus a pointed, expectant look. Ikarus let out a sharp breath and reached into his jacket, pulling out five heavy silver coins. He dropped them into the boy's palm with a dull clink.
A very wise mother indeed, he thought bitterly.
"Thanks for the business, mister!" The boy crowed, sliding the silver into a fat leather pouch at his waist. The heavy clink-clink of the coins seemed to give his heels springs.
"Do you have a light?" Ikarus asked, his voice rasping.
The child flicked a cheap brass lighter and reached up to the tip of the cigarette. Ikarus reached out and firmly took the lighter from the boy's small hand. It was one thing to buy the poison from a kid, but letting him start the fire felt like crossing a line he couldn't see.
He struck the flint himself, the flame dancing in the sea breeze.
"The answer, kid," Ikarus reminded him, exhaling a long, grey cloud of smoke.
Ikarus took a few steps downwind, keeping the grey cloud away from the boy. If this was a trap, he'd have to hand it to the Empire; using a child as a lure was a piece of tradecraft even he hadn't considered for his own ranks. He'd seen plenty of horrors, but he'd never put a kid on the front line.
"Ah, right!" The boy's face lit up, and he started down the coast with a fresh spring in his step. "Follow me, mister!" The boy said merrily.
They walked until the noise of the tourist shops and the smell of fried fish faded, replaced by the heavy scent of crushed tropical leaves. Ikarus felt the grit of the sand working its way into his boots, a sharp, annoying friction against his skin.
He kept his eyes on the boy's back, his hand hovering near his other, less friendly pocket.
"Where are we going, kid?" he called out.
The boy didn't seem to hear him over the heavy thump of the waves hitting the beach.
Ikarus didn't bother asking again. He just lit a fresh cigarette as he followed the small, bobbing head through the heat haze.
"Look! Look, mister! We're here!" The boy threw his arms wide, gesturing toward a weathered stone cottage with a defiant blue door tucked against a boulder; like Ikarus, it was out of place.
"That's my house! See?" The boy added.
Ikarus let out a long, shaky breath. His pulse slowed. At least it wasn't a trap; he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty today.
"Let me guess," Ikarus said, squinting at the quiet, sun-baked house. "Someone in there has the answer?"
"Ding-dong! Correct!" The boy shouted, throwing his arms over his head in a wide, shaky circle. He looked back at the trail of cigarette butts Ikarus had left in the sand, then thrust another red-and-white box forward. "Another one, mister?"
Ikarus let out a short, genuine laugh. For the first time all day, he felt good. The kid was far too clever for his age. He couldn't have even started school yet, but he handled a deal like a seasoned merchant.
Ikarus looked at the blue door. He couldn't wait to get his answer.
"I'd take another, but I'm tapped out for the day," Ikarus said, looking down at the boy with a smirk. "You've bled me dry, kid."
The child's face fell. He gave a small, apologetic smile, scuffing the toe of his sandal into the sand. "I—I could give you a thirty-percent discount?"
Ikarus took one last long pull from the dying cherry. "That's a kind offer, little man, but I've got nothing left to give. You took all I have." He flicked the butt into the surf, watching it hiss and vanish.
The boy looked truly crestfallen now, staring down at his dusty brown sandals as if he'd committed a crime. "I...I'm sorry."
A kid is still a kid, Ikarus thought. The boy was just too amusing; he couldn't hold it.
Ikarus stepped closer, his heavy hand coming down to ruffle the boy's messy brown hair; a clumsy, unpracticed gesture of kindness.
"Could you please stop bullying my son, Master Ikarus?"
Creaak.
The sound of the blue door opening was like a gunshot in the quiet air. Ikarus froze. A woman with a straw hat stood bathed in the white heat of the sun, her chestnut hair whipping in the sea breeze. His fingers, still buried in the boy's hair, went dead-still—locking into place like a jammed firing pin.
Beneath the mask, his pulse hammered against his temples. He was a ghost. A man with a dozen faces and names. Yet she had spoken to the core of him. He didn't let the artificial smile of the mask falter.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, his voice a perfectly modulated lie. "But I think you've got the wrong person."
His hand twitched, reaching for the boy, but the child was already gone—bolting toward his mother and leaving the tray to scatter across the white sand.
"Mother, I got him! I got the man!" The boy crowed, burying his face in her lap. He grabbed handfuls of her sky-blue dress, the light fabric bunching and wrinkling under his small, sandy grip. "Praise me! Praise me!"
"Such a smart boy," the woman murmured. She crouched down and pulled him into a hug. "I knew you could do it, sweetheart."
She began to press a series of loud, messy kisses against the boy's cheeks. The child let out a huff of genuine annoyance, squirming in her arms and trying to push her away with his small, tanned hands.
"S-Stop it! Mom!"
"Look at you, you've turned into a little nut," she laughed, ignoring his protests as she peppered his forehead with more kisses. "You've worked so hard for me."
The warm scene in front of him felt like a physical weight. Inside, Ikarus's mind was in turmoil. He knew his mask was a masterwork; the synthetic pores breathed, the artificial muscles mirrored his every flinch. He was thousands of miles from the Empire's reach. The odds of a total stranger peeling back his identity were zero. Unless….
"I'm looking for a farmer named Daedalos," Ikarus said amiably, cutting through the intimacy of their exchange. "Do you know him, ma'am?"
The woman stood, smoothing the sky-blue fabric over her hips. She stepped toward him, her silhouette blocking out the harsh glare of the sun. The boy followed, tugging the hem of her dress.
"You can drop the act, Master Ikarus," she said, her smile remaining steady and warm, "please, be at ease. I mean no harm. To be honest, I don't know much—except for your grandfather's last request."
"Why don't we talk inside?" she suggested, tilting her straw hat. "The sun has a bite to it lately."
Ikarus remained motionless, his mask holding its expression of polite confusion with a stillness that was starting to feel wrong. He didn't move. He needed to throw out one more lure before he stepped into a house he couldn't see the exit of.
"So," he said, his voice level. "You've met Daedalos?"
The woman's expression softened into a sigh. She nudged the boy toward the door, telling him to head in first. The child scrambled to gather his scattered goods, clutching the boxes of cigarettes to his chest. He flashed a toothy grin over his shoulder.
"You have to see my seashell collection, mister!" he chirped, before the blue door swallowed him whole. The woman watched the door close, her smile turning thin and fragile. She turned back to Ikarus.
"I met him," she said softly. "I was with him during his final days."
Whoosh.
Ikarus flashed into her space, blurring the distance until their faces were inches apart. The woman let out a sharp, hitching gasp as her straw hat flew back. He caught it mid-air and crowded her, his chest pressing firmly against hers. He paid no mind to the soft weight of her bust against his ribs; his only focus was the truth.
A deep, hot flush crept up the woman's neck, turning her cheeks a dark crimson. She was trapped between the house and the monster, her breath coming in ragged, uneven spurts.
"A man with pale features," he said, his voice a low, clinical rasp.
The woman recovered her nerve, though the red remained in her face. She didn't retreat; instead, she leaned back into the pressure of his chest, meeting his gaze with a steady, quiet defiance.
"Yes," she said softly.
Ikarus narrowed his eyes, pressing the interrogation. "Green eyes."
The woman leaned closer still, her warmth radiating through his jacket. "Blue."
Ikarus smiled. He retreated and placed the straw hat gently back where it belonged.
He reached up to the seam beneath his jaw, his fingernails digging into the hidden seal. With a wet, surgical schloop, he peeled the mask upward—the woman gasped—watching the artificial skin turned inside out, revealing a—pale, hollow-cheeked, with a sharp, high bridge to his nose. He ran a hand through his matted blonde waves, shaking them loose, and stared down at her with cold, tired eyes.
"Tell me more," he said, his real voice sounding like grinding stones. "Tell me everything about my grandfather."