‘Hello. Nice to meet you!’ The voice chimed directly into the centre of his mind. It instantly drowned out the heated discussion echoing across the room. It was disarmingly sweet, thick and cloying, like sugar syrup, and entirely alien.
Agastya’s eyes darted sideways, his combat instincts temporarily overriding his stoicism as he scanned the room for the source.
The silver-haired leader caught the subtle, erratic movement immediately.
"Why are you looking around?" she demanded. Her tone wasn't as sharp and biting as the one she had used to dress down Dictor; instead, it carried the strict, probing weight of a commander assessing a confused rookie.
"Nothing, ma'am," he replied smoothly, forcing his gaze back to her. He allowed a brief, calculated hesitation to slip into his voice.
It was entirely feigned. His brutal conditioning had long ago burned the capacity for ordinary panic out of his nervous system. The only fear Agastya truly recognised anymore was the cold, biological certainty of imminent death—a danger he was trained to navigate, not dread.
Years in the shadows had taught him to sever emotion from action. His old master had drilled the philosophy into him from the very first day of his training: Death is inevitable for men like us. It can happen in any given second, from any given shadow. The only goal you have is to ensure that the second does not tick today.
The master hadn't just forged him into a mindless monster; he had filled Agastya's head with vast, strategic knowledge.
The old man had done so freely, fully intending to execute his own weapon once the boy outlived his usefulness. To the master, there had been no risk in educating a dead man walking.
But fate had possessed a different plan entirely. Someone, or something, had outmanoeuvred the old master's grand design. Agastya had survived the execution in the alley, only to find himself standing in a room of monsters, with a telepath casually knocking on the walls of his mind.
Hello. Nice to meet you!
The voice chimed directly into the center of his mind, instantly drowning out the heated discussion echoing across the room. It was disarmingly sweet—thick and cloying, like sugar syrup—and entirely alien.
Agastya’s eyes darted sideways, his combat instincts temporarily overriding his stoicism as he scanned the room for the source.
The silver-haired leader caught the subtle, erratic movement immediately. "Why are you looking around?" she demanded. Her tone wasn't as sharp and biting as the one she had used to dress down Dictor; instead, it carried the strict, probing weight of a commander assessing a confused rookie.
"Nothing, ma'am," he replied smoothly, forcing his gaze back to her. He allowed a brief, calculated hesitation to slip into his voice.
It was entirely feigned. His brutal conditioning had long ago burned the capacity for ordinary panic out of his nervous system. The only fear Agastya truly recognized anymore was the cold, biological certainty of imminent death—a danger he was trained to navigate, not dread.
Years in the shadows had taught him to sever emotion from action. His old master had drilled the philosophy into him from the very first day of his training: Death is inevitable for men like us. It can happen in any given second, from any given shadow. The only goal you have is to ensure that the second does not tick today.
The master hadn't just forged him into a mindless monster; he had filled Agastya's head with vast, strategic knowledge. The old man had done so freely, fully intending to execute his own weapon once the boy outlived his usefulness. To the master, there had been no risk in educating a dead man walking.
But fate had possessed a different plan entirely. Someone, or something, had outmaneuvered the old master's grand design. Agastya had survived the execution in the alley, only to find himself standing in a room of monsters, with a telepath casually knocking on the walls of his mind.
While the silver-haired leader resumed her interrogation of Dictor, the saccharine voice echoed in Agastya's head once more.
’Don't be frightened. I know that there are a lot of questions in that messy head of yours,’ the voice added, practically humming with amusement. ‘You can talk to me just by speaking in your mind.’
Agastya quickly erected a mental barrier, burying his memories of the assassin's life deep beneath the surface. He projected a carefully curated persona forward—that of a bewildered, slightly overwhelmed baker.
’Where are you, and who are you?’ Agastya sent back, maintaining his physical composure while mimicking mental confusion.
’Well, I am the woman sleeping on the sofa right near where you are standing.’
Agastya shifted his gaze slightly toward the sleeping beauty. He let a single, superficial thought float to the surface of his mind where she could easily read it: ‘Beautiful.’
He didn't speak it aloud; he was simply buttering her up. Tactically, it was the easiest way to disarm a potential threat. And objectively, it was true.
She possessed a flawless, angelic figure, looking exactly like a sleeping porcelain doll. She lacked the cold, predatory aura of the silver-haired leader, projecting instead a warm, comfortable humanity.
’Oh! Thanks, I will take that as a compliment,’ she replied shyly, though Agastya sensed a hint of playful satisfaction in her mental tone.
He remained entirely unbothered. His true mind was a fortress of cold calculation while his projected thoughts played the part of the flustered civilian. He was slowly understanding how this work.
’I don’t think a normal baker could maintain his composure this well,’ she noted, her mental voice losing a fraction of its syrupy sweetness, replaced by genuine curiosity.
Agastya’s mental walls tightened. She was perceptive. Beneath the childish, playful personality, she was actively analyzing his psychological baseline.
‘Well, I suppose I am different from what people expect,’ he projected back, keeping the thought vague and non-committal.
‘ Myself, Theodora Estampsa,’ she introduced cheerfully, shifting tactics. ‘How about being friends, since we are going to be teammates?’
Agastya mentally sorted through the dead baker’s memories, pulling the required name to the front of his mind.
‘Astragan Ruinheart,’ he sent back.
‘ Nice to meet you, Astragan.’
‘ Nice to meet you as well, Theodora.’