Underground taverns didn't serve liquor, not really. What they sold was some strange solution that only looked like alcohol.
As the bartender, Nelly took a cautious sip. He couldn't identify what it was, but it had that dangerous quality—drink once, want more.
Tours muttered that it probably had drugs in it. Roger nodded slightly, though the waitress swore it was the tavern's "secret recipe." True or not, they didn't have time to care.
After a short rest, they planned to "visit" names listed in the Military Police files.
But before they could get plain water refills, noise flared outside.
At first Roger thought it was street thugs again—then he caught the hiss of omni-directional gear gas.
That sound was burned into him from his time with the Survey Corps. The instant it came again, he pulled his hat low and told Nelly and Tours to go see.
Shoo! Shoo!
Figures zipped past like flies, ODM gear hissing on their waists.
Closer by, some unlucky smugglers were hauling a wagonload of goods through the tunnel, smuggling drugs.
The "flies" veered, speeding toward them.
Roger stepped back, not wanting to get swept in. He couldn't tell yet if these soldiers were Erwin's men. He had done everything to stay hidden—exposure now would ruin it.
Nelly saw the retreating step and frowned in thought.
Tours only grinned, eager for a fight.
"Let's hit them, boss!"
"Hit who?"
"Them! Isn't that why we're here?!"
Tours cackled. To him, the boss had brought him out to "conquer the world."
"Not yet, Tours. Wait."
Roger sighed, reining him in.
Tours obeyed—no reckless charges without the boss's word. Roger was the true fighter here.
Nelly exhaled, sat back down, and sipped the drugged brew again.
Outside, the "flies" came close.
The Ada crew spotted them, shouting, bracing the wagon wheels with rocks, pulling rifles from the cart.
"Don't let them get away this time!"
"Kill the thieves!"
"Shit, he's diving! Fire! Fire!!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bullets sprayed—but ODM users moved too fast. Shots only whistled past as one dived, kicking the wagon over, spilling Cloyin packets everywhere.
"Damn it!!"
Ada men dropped their rifles to scoop up the scattering bags.
Then came the mob. Locals surged, hands grabbing at packets.
Cloyin was poison, yes—but also underground currency.
Ada men cursed and raised rifles.
"Back off! Scum like you don't deserve it!"
Bang!!
Blood splattered, a body dropped. The mob scattered, though much of the drug was gone already.
Staring upward, the Ada crew caught sight of the fliers pulling away, fading into the distance.
"Levi!"
The name spat with rage. Everyone knew only one man could fly that low, clip the ground, kick a wagon, and live.
Slamming fists against the cart, they knew the haul was short by a third. No report could go to the MPs—they would take the loss.
Roger had watched it all. His eyes lit differently when he caught the kicker's face.
To control ODM like that—flying low enough to scrape the ground, still threading the cables—Roger knew the difficulty. One mistake and you were dragged to your death.
But that man had done it.
A genius.
"Nelly. We're going. Follow them!"
"What? Boss, aren't we here for the thief Cook?"
"A thief's worth is nothing! If we capture this one, we'll have wings! Tours, move!"
"Got it, boss!"
They ran. But without ODM gear, they had no chance. The fliers vanished into a district alley, gone.
Nelly bent double, drenched in sweat.
"Boss… why chase them? And your speed… you're not even human…"
Roger stood at the corner, silent.
Tours came from the side, shaking his head.
"Sorry, boss. Too fast. I saw them but couldn't block."
"No matter." Roger pulled his hat down, the black tracery fading from his neck. "We'll meet again."
They returned the way they came.
Not far off, Levi and his team stepped from hiding.
"Sorry, boss. I'll retreat quicker next time," Farlan said, rubbing his head.
Levi shook his own.
"Not your fault, Farlan. It's him. That one's dangerous." He touched the hot metal of his gear. "I've got a feeling—he won't let this go. Be ready when we cross paths again."
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