Nyx took in the full measure of him again. Nothing special, she supposed, no different than the others. She liked the color of his eyes, now, though. It was growing on her.

“Former intel guys can be unpredictable,” she said. She tapped the beetle casing. “That going to tell me you’re mad as a violet-gassed magician?”

“I was processed through psych before discharge.”

“What’s your talent level with bugs?” She knew magicians ranked their own. He wouldn’t have been able to handle munitions without a higher than average talent. If they just stuck him in intel instead of R&D, he was likely no more skilled than a com tech.

“I had a strong rating,” he said. “But I moved to intel my first year. I was… better at it.”

“Better at torture than bugs?”

“It was my preference.”

“I suppose a talent with bugs makes for a good torturer,” Nyx said. She had the scars on her legs to prove it. “Why you want this job?”

“It’s what I’m good at,” he said.

“What’s that? Bugs?”

“Using bugs to get a job done.”

There was a fine line between madness and intelligence, and she still wasn’t certain which he was. “What makes you think I need a magician for killing?”

“Some of the other men had heard of you. I know you kill bel dames.”

“You have a grudge against bel dames?”

He shook his head. “I’m just looking for a job, matron.” He said “matron” instead of “sir.” No hero, then. That, at least, was promising.

“If you’re intel, you can handle a com, right?”

He nodded.

“Let’s prove it, then. I need you to sort out some transcriptions and hack some information for me on a politician. I need some work done on an old bakkie, too. Call it a test run.”

He hesitated. The words that came out were gravelly, a bit broken. “If I do it, can I get a meal?”

Something tugged at her, some errant emotion that had been building all day as she processed one starving, mangled, bug-ridden boy after another.

“Sure,” Nyx said. “If you’re as good as you say, I can even get you a room.”

The sniper was tougher.

In a flat desert, the person with the greatest advantage would be the one with the sharpest shot. Nyx’s aim had never been the best, and even years of training at Anneke’s firing range hadn’t improved her long-range shot.

The snipers and weapons techs who wandered in the next day in response to her new sign were all far outside Nyx’s pay range, and a few were just ridiculous. One girl showed up in some expensive bit of chainmail and the most impractical boots Nyx had ever seen. Her skin was so soft and unmarred that Nyx immediately pegged her as a First Family kid slumming.

“You ever held a gun?” Nyx asked her.