The heavy doors opened with nary a sound as one of the guards opened it and the visitors entered. Crovacus felt conflicting emotions flooding through his exhaustion-numbed mind, first joy at the sight of the very investigator he’d assigned to find him a competent alchemist, second a resigned sense of apprehension when the second man entered and he realized it was the alchemist. 

“This guy, of course…” he sighed inwardly, that stubbly face and that razor-sharp, unflinching stare burned into his memory. In retrospect it shouldn’t have surprised him at all that the very man who rented out Riverside Remedies was also qualified to use that place’s facilities to their full extent, whatever that extent was. Alas, the reason for his sudden tendency to forget things was also the reason he needed this man’s help. Crovaus of course didn’t know the extent of Riverside Remedies’ facilities, and neither did anyone else besides whoever ran the place plus their family. All that was known about that place’s basement was that it was one huge room whose square meterage made up almost half the property’s total.

The lack of information stemmed from a simple lynchpin. Before the owner departed to join the Ikesian military, the old man had invoked an old, obscure ordinance that forbade anyone from entering an absent alchemist’s laboratory except for whoever the alchemist designated. 

The owner of the shop had designated whoever rented the place, as well as outlining specific guidelines as to who could rent it. In doing so, he made the basement legally inaccessible to anyone other than another alchemist who also rented the building. 

Crovacus felt his mind wandering, and took a long drag of his cigarillo to refocus. New vigor flooded his body as the dark-green mix of smoke and Viriditas Fog slowly seeped out of his nostrils, before he exhaled in earnest and took a breath to start talking. Throughout this ritual, he observed the supposed alchemist. 

The first thing that caught his eye was the stiffness of one arm and the bandages visible beneath his shirt, betraying the presence of some serious wound around the shoulder. Yet, the only things that betrayed its presence were those bandaged and that slight off stance. Were he not looking for it, Crovacus wouldn’t have noticed anything wrong with the alchemist. The way he held himself, that unflinching stare that tried to pry the truth from everything it fell upon. He was clearly an ex-soldier, still wearing the pants and boots of his uniform, plus an aggressively generic white dress shirt. The sleeves were… Crumpled. They already bore the creases of sitting rolled-up most of the time, yet the alchemist had rolled them down. Why could that be?

In fact, he looked more healthy than an ex-soldier had any right to be.

It was normal for alchemists to either be unrealistically healthy, or utterly ragged, with few inbetweens. But this man, he wasn’t just healthy, he was noticeably muscular. 

The fact that he hadn’t been arrested on made-up charges meant that he had either gotten lucky, that he simply managed to lay low for long enough to avoid the worst of the post-war manhunts, or had friends in the right places. Not necessarily high places, but the right ones. 

The governor offhandedly shooed the investigator away with a gesture and the words, “We’d like some privacy, please.”

When the diminutive, exceptionally generic-looking man exited the room and closed the door behind himself, Crovacus finally locked eyes with the Ikesian and prompted him to approach. Another drag of the cigarillo. Every toke was a bucket of water tossed out of his metaphorical board.

“Take a seat,” he prompted, and the alchemist obliged, albeit tensely and hesitantly. 

Makhus really didn’t like this. He briefly considered the possibility of the incident in the back alleys having been pinned on him, but… Something told him that wasn’t the case. He wouldn’t have been very politely and discreetly led directly to the governor’s office, and besides…

“Oh. Oh that’s why they called me,” another thought immediately shot through his head when he finally stepped through that opulent door and saw the absolute state the governor was in. It honestly looked like he’d aged a decade since Makhus had last seen him, and that wasn’t even mentioning the truly prodigal bags under his sunken, bloodshot eyes.

He toked from what looked to be a Viriditas-infused cigarillo, drawing it down to the halfway point as he looked at Makhus and waited for him to finally take a seat. Unable to shake the tension, which wasn’t helped by the oppressive silence that the office’s insulation creation, the swordsman-alchemist took a seat. The whole writing desk was covered by the greenish-grey smoke-Fog mixture, and he immediately felt the second-hand effects in the form of a familiar vigorous warmth that washed over the body and numbed pains. 

Before he could lean back in his seat or really ask anything, Crovacus began to speak.

“I’m su-” he began, only to break into a horrendous coughing fit. Soon he hacked up a substantial glob of emerald-green phlegm, which trailed green Fog on its way into the trash can. 

“My apologies, where were we… I need a competent alchemist, and you appear to be the most readily available,” he placated, taking a short toke and laying out what he had to say in earnest, his tired eyes burning with the sort of determination that drove a man into this extreme degree of overwork. 

“What would you need my help for, sir?” Makhus asked with a distinct lack of decorum as far as his intonation went, raising an eyebrow.

“Look around!” the man gestured with his cigarillo at all the papers on and next to his desk. He leaned in and desperation flashed behind his glare, for but a second, “I’ve been working day and night, nonstop, with little more than an hour’s sleep per day, for the last two and a half weeks. Viriditas can’t keep me going anymore, I’ve tried drinking it, smoking it, nothing. It’s too temporary, and I’m not so sure I’ll be able to fully recover if I keep going like this.”