When Bug Man finally reaches the bottom of the unlit staircase and opens the office door he is sweating. If not for the generous weekly food donations dropped off in a crate on his doorstep, he would probably stop servicing this place altogether. It’s not that the work is hard here, really. A light spray around the baseboards and a quick inspection are all they ever really need. Nor is it, in all honestly, the long climb down the stairs. It’s the uneasy feeling he gets whenever he comes here. Like the shadows are moving just outside his field of vision.
As he steps into the warmly lit office, Bug Man comes face-to-face with a serious looking woman in a green scarf. “Excuse me,” he says, politely stepping aside. She fixes her brown eyes on him. Her pupils are impossibly dilated. She doesn’t reply.
“Ah, Bug Man! Right on time,” calls a voice behind her. The woman turns back toward the voice, “One of your agents?” she asks.
“Not exactly,” replies the person. “He does our pest control.”
The woman sighs and steps back into the room, “I wasn’t expecting you to have visitors.”
“You can trust Bug Man,” they say. “If he wanted to he could destroy all of us. But he won’t.”
The Bug Man smiles, “No destruction today, everyone. Just keeping this place free of unwanted guests.” The woman looks at him strangely. “Bugs. I’m talking about bugs. Mostly roaches and ants,” he stammers. She’s making him a little uncomfortable.
“We’ll stay out of your way, friend. Make yourself at home. There’s coffee in the break room if you want it,” says the person. “Always a pleasure,” replies Bug Man.
The person who owns the office sits behind a massive oak desk. The desk is perfectly organized with stacks of official looking documents, stamps, and photographs of Kingdom’s major leaders. An emblem consisting of a winged sandal over a half moon is carved into the center of the polished wood. Behind the desk a massive map of Kingdom has been painted on the drywall. Hundreds of brightly-headed tacks hold up an elaborate web of white and red strings. Small images of a hundred Kingdom citizens create waypoints between them.
Bug Man’s eyes come to rest on the person sitting behind the desk. Mercury. Mercury wears a fitted grey business suit complete with a thin black necktie and dark leather gloves. Mercury is neither slim nor husky, neither tall nor short. Whatever hair they may have had remains tucked away behind a full-headed white mask. Two bulbous black lenses cover Mercury’s eyes, and their entire head is encased in a glossy white shell of polycarbonate plastic. Thin vents form three terraced “Vs” to allow Mercury’s breath to escape their mask. A single, decorative wing of solid gold juts backward from the left side of the mask as if blown back by a forceful wind.
Three young outsiders sit silently in chairs in front of Mercury’s desk, watched over by the somber woman in the green scarf. Mercury resumes speaking to them as if there had been no interruption. One of the outsiders, a small girl with a sash full of odd tools, never takes her eyes off of Mercury. An enormous boy in metal clothing scowls at him from the next chair. The third, a girl with long, black hair stares absently at Bug Man’s spray-can. He walks past them toward the break room.
“As I was saying, getting your identification straightened out will be a little bit tricky,” continues Mercury, “but we should be able to get it done in the next day or so. Technically you should still be in Privateer custody, but after discussing the circumstances at length with Mantis I believe it is our responsibility to assist you. In the mean time you are welcome to stay here.”
The big armored boy scoffs, “So we’re prisoners, then?”
“Guests,” replies Mercury in an even tone. Bug Man doesn’t like where their conversation is going, but he stays silent and pours himself a mug of black coffee. He can still hear them clearly from where he stands by the break room counter.
“So we can leave if we want?” the boy’s voice is rising. Mercury’s tone doesn’t change. “I realize this is a lot for you to digest, Merrick, but we are your only hope for safety. You can stay here and listen to us while we get you situated, or you can go out there and get yourself kidnapped again. Choose.”
A young woman’s voice fills the room. She speaks with a quiet authority, the kind of voice that makes everyone else go completely silent. “Merrick, Riddle, and I would love to work with you, Mercury. Whatever you decide is best for us we will comply with. Please understand that this has been traumatic for us-”
“Traumatic for YOU, maybe,” cuts in another voice. Riddle. Then, “Who’s watching us from behind that mask?”
“I am,” says Mercury.
“No. Left lens. Top side. Who else? Who do you WORK for?”
Mercury doesn’t respond immediately, but when they do finally speak their tone hides a smile. “You can stay here until we give you proper identities. I assume you will use the names you’ve been using? You can change them, if you wish, but that will become increasingly difficult once your documentation is finalized.”
No one speaks. “Alright, then I will use the names you came in with. Merrick Longfellow?” Merrick grunts his assent. “Friday Evening? Interesting name.”
“My parents thought so. I’ll keep it.”
“And Kingdom’s newest enigma, Riddle. That has to be a nickname.”
Riddle laughs, “It’s the truest name I’ve ever had.”
“I see,” says Mercury, then stops suddenly as a muted buzz is emitted from their one-winged helm. “Mantis? Bug Man? I know you can hear me back there.” Bug Man steps back into the office, coffee and spray-can in hand. “Yeah?”
“I know neither of you work for me in… that capacity, but there is an emergency in Town Square. I need both of you there now!” Mantis is already on her feet. Riddle practically falls out of her chair, “I’m coming, too!”
The Bug Man swings out a forearm to stop her, clothes-lining her a bit more forcefully than he had intended. “Maybe next time, kid. Get yourself legal.” Riddle narrows her eyes at him but doesn’t try to push past. “It’s the Snatchers, isn’t it?” she asks him.
Bug Man looks at Mercury, “Privateers again?” Mercury shakes his head in exasperation. “Worse.”
“What’s worse than a Privateer?”
Mercury’s gloved hands clench into fists. “A militant preacher.”