Chapter 29: Stalking One's Prey
Catalya City, 5 ALW (HMD Period)
During the day, the most vicious and unrelenting enemy of all humans alike wasn't the weight of starvation, or the ominous presence of patrolling SharpClaw…
…it was the suns.
High above the adobe roofs and smoking chimneys, the scorching heat projected by the merciless Twin Suns basked every unfortunate creature on the City's surface. It made the scalding air heavy and sticky.
It hung in the air like a vulgar rumor, floundering beneath everyone's hot and itchy skin.
Every resident of the city was outside, littering the streets and lying weakly in the sun. They were too frail to move, too hungry to fantasize about a long-gone luxury like food…
…or even a bygone myth like shade.
They clung to whatever rags they had on—rags that were thicker and richer in color than the hanging feathers and fur they were attached to—with lips too cracked and dry to curse the glare of the two suns.
The screeching wheels of passing rickshaw carts skidded by, sometimes drowned out by the scarce growl of anyone priveleged enough to have stolen a speeder from somewhere. And then, a silhouette appeared up the road:
A lowly boy, a Snow Monkey, dragged two massive urns behind him, staggering under their weight and dripping with clustered beads of sweat. His blistered feet had become the favorite victim of the scalding concrete road, grilling off new layers from his bandaged soles.
But it wasn't the boy that everyone was watching…it was the sound that echoed from him whenever he tripped or staggered: the enticing, agonizing noise of the treasured substance sloshing in the ceramic jars behind him.
Water.
The beckoning immediately drew the rapid eyes of every lingering body on the street-side. The ache in their withered bones and empty weight in their frail bodies vanished.
The eyes of every beggar and bumpkin, scattered on the road like barnacles, remained locked on the tired, staggering silhouette of the boy. They watched with fixed intent as he took a moment's rest…laying his urns down, and rubbing his tired feet.
Rubbing his feet in that moment, at that spot, would cost him everything.
SCREECH!
At that moment, a passing rickshaw sped by, creaking and chattering like a caged animal. Its wheels sped over the terrain, rushing mercilessly through every person and obstacle in its path…
And in its mad scamper through the city, one of its blurred wheels collided headfirst with the resting boy, who barely managed to look up in time like a deer caught in headlights to see the object fly past his out-stretched leg.
The scream that followed was drowned out by the thunderous sound of the rickshaw's wheels…disappearing into the city streets, and leaving a cloud of dust and a wreath of silence behind.
A few beggars stood up, waiting feverishly for the dust to clear…
And there he was: clutching bloody cluster of raw appendage and yellow bone where his leg had been, screaming through agonized sobs and rolling around in the dust. But the new, grotesque shape that his leg adopted didn't even faze the approaching beggars…they didn't even regard it. Their hungry eyes loomed over a far more pleasing sight.
The water; dripping from the overturned urns, sparkling hypnotically with the reflection of the shining suns.
An irrational, desperate glint materialized in every quivering eye.
No one hesitated.
No one even gave it a second thought.
Speech and thought were well out of reach by the time everyone's feet started moving. The skulking, hooded silhouettes scurried towards the downed boy, whose terrified face disappeared beneath the flooding masses. Their animalistic grunts, haggard breathing and trampling feet buried his screams out of audible range.
Bystanders watched in perplexed fear. It was like watching a thousand scuttling ants storm a downed, rotting carcass—except that ants were organized. Ants were synonymous and operated together.
These ants clambored over one another: they tore and gnashed at each other…clawing at faces and ribs, biting at each other, slamming their feet into hapless necks, snapping bones and grabbing at teeth…
Cloth, fur, sweat and rationality littered the pavement in tatters.
As the ragged and thirsty masses disappeared under the smoke they had created in the commotion, a pair of SharpClaw turned at the sound from a local Meat Stand, watching from afar.
"Should we do something?" One muttered, looking about as interested as he sounded.
"Nah." The other snatched a hanging mutton and leaned back. "Just sit back and watch the show. These warm-bloods can be fun to watch when they want to be."
Meanwhile, in the Market Square…
The Market Square bustled with its usual inhabitants. The streets were already pounding and rattling from the stampede of feet moving over them in countless waves…worn boots, sharp talons, and blistered bare feet pit-pattering over the cracked, sandstone pavement. Buyers and sellers were already engaged in their heated arguing, each merchant rapidly clacking their abacuses with their eyes darting at each pile of coins being shoveled onto their counters. Thieves and cutpurses eyed each bypassing traveler with glinting eyes, moving in and out of the crowd like eels. Swerving drunks collapsed out of the crowd and retreated to the shade of an alleyway. A few ragged wandering Komuso minstrels sitting on the side of the paved street strummed their guitars restlessly.
Amongst the hobbling cripples and shady travelers, a weary and heat-exhausted old Turtle wrapped in a ragged cloak trudged his way through the crowd.
Hobbling on a crooked crutch and smacking his lips hungrily, he veered farther and farther away from the restaurant doors lining the Square…cringing at every torturous, intoxicating aroma wafting from the cracks in each door.
"Fresh fruit! Satisfy your dying thirst and unbearable sweet tooth with the most of exotic of fruits at the lowest of prices!"
The ravenous Turtle stopped a few feet away, eying the hanging fruits on the vendor's stand from afar.
"Spare a small fruit for a weary traveler?" He croaked, limping up to the fruit stand.
The merchant at the counter, a Bobcat who looked like he had a tumbleweed for a face with all the bristled, unkept fur sticking out of his cheeks, didn't eye the Turtle with any empathy.
"Only if you have seven Lylatines on you. Coins only." He tapped a stubby finger at the price banner.
The Turtle flinched at the price, gripping his crutch and groping his pockets with a yearning expression.
"If you can't pay for it, you can eat from another stall…" The Bobcat Merchant eyed the Turtle's ill-fitting rags. "…or rummage around for food. There's plenty of garbage…chances are, you'll find something edible."
"Wait! Wait…" The Turtle dug into his pockets, a pained expression worming onto his wrinkled face as he fished out a few mottled coins. "H-Here's five Lylatines. That's all I have….that should be enough, right?"
"Well, that's not seven Lylatines, now is it?" The Merchant retorted stiffly.
"P-Please….sir, I haven't eaten in days…." The Turtle pined, staring longingly at fruit. "Just take the five… it's just two Lylatines short–!"
SHING!
The Merchant pulled a curved knife from under the counter and dug the tip into the wood a few inches from the Turtle's shaking claws.
"You're going to be two fingers short if you put them anywhere near my fruit without the necessary funds," The Bobcat Merchant spat. "Now, get out of my stall…NOW!"
The ragged Turtle didn't need a second warning. He fumbled the coins back into his purse and hobbled off as fast as his twisted leg and crooked crutch could carry him.
A stranger who had been watching from afar, a Falcon, tightened the collar of his long coat and strolled through the cloud of dust the fearful Turtle had made. The Bobcat, slipping his knife back under the counter at the sight of a new customer, reiterated his usual, ear-splitting sales jargon.
"Juicy melons and tangy passion fruit from the greenest oasis in the Western Sands! All yours to savor, with a painless purchase!"
The Falcon eyed the fattest of the blue, star-shaped fruit.
"Passion fruit, hmm?" He scratched his chin, catching his eye. "How much?"
The Bobcat at the counter tapped the price board. "Seven Lylatines. Coins only."
"Seven Lylatines?" The Falcon withdrew his hand slightly from where he reached for the fruit. "Geez, that's a bit much, isn't it?"
The Bobcat's fingers were already curling around the knife handle sticking from behind the counter. "If you don't like the price, feel free and take one…I'm sure you can compensate a finger or two instead."
Sighing in a resigned manner, the Falcon squinted at the sun warily. "Well, in this heat, seven Lylatines won't kill me."
"Smart choice."
He began rummaging through the battered confines of his duster coat. The longer he groped his feathered fingers around, the closer the Falcon's eyebrows drew together.
"That's strange…I seem to be missing my satchel…"
As he continued to scavenge the inside of his coat, he drew nearer to the fruit stand. The Bobcat was watching just how close he was getting towards the cluster of fruit.
"Get a move on, will you? I have other customers waiting."
"Hold on, hold on...I'm looking for it. It can't be gone, I know I just had it-"
The Bobcat kept his sharp gaze at the stranger's hand that he wasn't watching his eyes…which darted around cunningly to ensure no one was watching. Slowly, he began pulling back the folds of his coat to check his pants pockets.
"Hmm…where is it-?"
The Bobcat swerved his impatient look away from the counter, only to feel the humid air stifle around his halted bloodstream. The withdrawal of the Falcon's coat had marginally exposed the long, plated barrel of a blaster pistol, slid covertly in a leather holster stitched to the inside of the stranger's coat.
The Falcon pretended not to take notice of the beads of sweat gathering on the Merchant's forehead, clicking his tongue reproachfully.
"Not there…shame." He paused for a moment, tapping his chin in a recollecting fashion. "But I remember the sneaky bastard being in my left pocket last time I 'misplaced' it-let me check there."
He casually drew back the other fold of his coat, this time exposing the worn wooden grip of a double-barreled plasma shotgun.
The Bobcat's lips were dry and drained of color, any prior impatience or empowering anger oozing out of him. He didn't need any more subtle indications or casual flaunting of weapons to guess the occupation of the stranger.
The Falcon shrugged, feigning a look of disappointment.
"I guess I must've dropped it, or someone stole it when I wasn't looking. Accidents happen in the city, I guess…" As his disgruntled look faded beneath the intimidating shadow the sun cast on his eyes, the Bounty Hunter rested a lazy finger on the shotgun under his coat. "…all kinds of accidents."
There was a slight clatter as the Bobcat backed up shakily against the back of the stand, knocking some fruit and loose cutlery over as he shakily pushed the cluster of fruit forward on the counter.
"Take it."
The Falcon raised his eyebrows innocently. "Sorry?
"Just t-take it…please -"
"Really? Are you sure?" The Bounty Hunter offered. "I'd probably find some loose change, if I dug around a little-"
He began sliding his blaster out of its holster.
"NO!" The Bobcat squeaked, darting his eyes around before "Just take it. It's free of charge-just leave me alone, PLEASE!"
The Falcon zipped up his coat and swept up one of the star-shaped fruits in a swift blur.
"Hey, if you insist, bud. Free fruit for me." He twirled the fruit playfully before taking a greedy munch. "But to be honest, you look a little shaken up, friend—you ought to relax a bit more." He licked the juice off his fingers and curled his beak into a smug smile. "Lemme tell you, nothing soothes a troubled mind like the taste of fruit."
The Bobcat shuddered and pulled down the curtain over his stall as the Falcon strolled off, who took bites out of what had to be the most rewarding bounty he had acquired all day. The mere hungry glimpses and smacking of envious lips everyone made at the fruit as he walked by was enough to enhance the satisfaction and delicacy of the fruit. The Falcon greedily wiped the juice from his beak, craning his neck for a shady spot to enjoy his treat under.
He spotted some other Bounty Hunters lounging restlessly around the shade of the wooden Message Post, a few of them scanning the notices and wanted posters wallpapering it. A few of them were in huddled circles, gloating loudly or swearing furiously at the clatter of Glyphic Dice cubes.
The Falcon tried not to flaunt his prize as he tossed it playfully on one feathered finger.
"Morning, boys," The Falcon greeted them cheerfully. "How's the day treating you?"
"Hot, boring, and under a SharpClaw regime," a greasy, mangy-furred Wolverine muttered, dozing in a waning patch of shade with his flight goggles down. "Does that answer your question?"
"Sounds like another fun day at Titania to me—come on, lighten up!" The Falcon tried to sound optimistic…which was relatively easy on a full stomach and a mouthful of fruit. He glanced at the Bearded Dragon sitting on the edge of the cobblestone road, shining his gleaming sniper rifle. "Hey, Roscoe…what're you doing?" He pointed his half-eaten fruit at the Lizard. "You know you aren't supposed to be carrying laserarms out in public. You want the SharpClaw to confiscate it?"
The Dragon stopped cleaning his weapon and gave him a deadly stare over the black face-cloth wrapped menacingly over his mouth and snout.
The Falcon raised his hands in surrendering fashion. "Fine—glare at me with those scary eyes of yours. It's not my gun that the SharpClaw'll be confiscating."
"Hey, is that passion fruit?" The mangy Wolverine suddenly straightened up, lifting his goggles alertly with his round eyes fixed on the star-shaped fruit. His voice became a lot more warm and welcoming. "Split it like a pal, won't you?"
The Falcon swiped the fruit from his prying reach. "Forget it-this one's mine. There are plenty of stalls…get your own."
The honeyed imploring in the Wolverine's voice vanished instantly behind a wrinkled scowl.
"Fat-ass. I hope you choke."
The Falcon shrugged smugly. "Maybe, but I'll choke with a good taste in my mouth. Can you say the same?"
The Wolverine groaned. "C'mon, it's hotter than Solar out here…" His eyes lit up as they found the canteen hanging off his friend's belt. "Whattabout water? Yeah, you wouldn't deny me some water, would you? N-Not when you have a perfectly good fruit to you quenched." He pined longingly.
The Falcon paused, and then yanked the canteen off its strap.
"Alright, but you won't like it. It's warm."
The Wolverine's fingers itched impatiently. "I'll take my chances. I gotta drink something before these two infernal suns kill me."
"Stop complaining," The Falcon took another munch. "Didn't the SharpClaw finally give you the bounty for last week's job?"
The Wolverine took a large swig and made a face. "Yeah. Seventy Lylatines."
"Whav're yhou ghonna spenb id ohn?" The Falcon inquired through mouthful of juice, before swallowing. "Maybe take it up to the Rosine Club in the North District, grab all the booze and dancers it can buy?"
The Wolverine's sour look didn't seem to have anything to do with the heat or the nasty-tasting water.
"Tch. Yeah, I wish…I'll be lucky if I can use it to eat for a month." He spat some water contemptuously. "This is beyond shameful. I've never made this little in my life…"
"Hey, come on…we have the easiest job in the world," The Falcon attempted. "No law breathing down your back, no Inquistor hounding your every step-and you aren't smuggling ship parts or being shot at by Cornerian Guardships. All you have to do is take money to catch runaway slaves and pick off rebels. They're easy targets…they don't even shoot back."
"Yeah, but for what…this?" The Wolverine pulled out a grubby, stained wad of Lylatines, almost laughing scornfully."Even during the war, I made more money than this. I did mercenary work for both the Venomian Divisions, and the Cornerian Defense Force…neither of them paid me THIS little." He looked up seethingly at palace. "Those scaley whore-mongers are rolling around in gold and wine and hookah…and throw us pocket change that couldn't buy scraps off a table when we do their dirty work for them. This is the worst time to be a bounty hunter…they don't call this the 'Hollow Mercenary Days' for nothin'."
"Not all Lylatians are picking food from the bottom." The Falcon pointed to the circular cluster of buildings lining the SharpClaw palace, all of which were dotted with lush rooftop gardens and sparkling pools. "Look at all the people living in the Fertile District…shampagne and servant girls every day, rubbing elbows with SharpClaw officials-I even heard that they don't even have to pay the Weekly Tribute to the Palace. Who's to say it won't be us living up there someday?"
The Wolverine let out a hopeless scoff. "Keep dreaming…only the kingpins and crime bosses live up there. They might be warm-blooded Lylatians like the rest of us, but they're rich warm-bloods. They were running gangs and illegal operations in the Lylat System long before they were stranded on this planet with the rest of us."
He shoved his hands in his pockets, his voice elevating to a loud and irritating level that garnered annoyed looks from the other Bounty Hunters loitering on the concrete.
"They bought their way to the top…as long as they pay enough money and do the right favors, the SharpClaw won't touch a single one of them. They'd bend over and spread themselves wide if the SharpClaw told them to." He aimed a disdainful glare at the elegant homes, as if they were mocking him. "Mooching scumbags…all of them. They aren't any higher or worthier than any of us-none of them have probably fired a blaster in their lives-and yet, they're the ones powdering their food with gold dust and wiping their asses with diamonds. And here we are, doing an honest day's killing and being paid jack and shit for it, picking roaches out of whatever we can find to eat!"
On the sidewalk behind them, the Bearded Dragon looked up from polishing his blaster. His deep voice was muffled under the thick cloth over his mouth.
"If bounty hunter life bothers you so much, feel free to march up to the palace and file a complaint."
The Wolverine swerved his head around. "What, is that a joke?"
"I'm serious…I'm sure the SharpClaw will be more than sympathetic…they might even do us a favor and kill you." He fixed his reptilian pupils on him. "At least then, the rest of us can go to sleep tonight with the blissful knowledge that you won't be here in the morning deafen us all with your constant whining." By now the Hunter's fingers were curling around his sniper rifle dangerously, his deep voice drifting farther from its mellow tone and radiating with growing, angry impatience. "Or if we're really lucky, someone might beat 'em to it."
The Wolverine's contorting scowl disappeared, detecting the subtle warning in the other Hunter's voice. He retreated back down to his spot in the shade in forlorn silence.
"Heh, Roscoe's right," A Pine Marten snickered, tossing some holo-dice on the pavement. "Maybe the SharpClaw will even give 'im a ship…let 'him leave."
An Ocelot grumbled around a disgruntled sigh. "Don't even joke about that, man. I wouldn't care how many throats the SharpClaw make me cut…I'd fill this city with a thousand corpses just to leave this place behind." He shivered like a drug addict getting inhaling a toxic substance. "No more sun, no more SharpClaw, no more lice or pennies for bounties..." A few dead weaklings is a small price to pay for freedom."
"Yeah, and what part of Lylat d'ya plan on going to, smart-ass?" The Pine Marten rolled his eyes. "You think the Inquisitor will let you fly two parsecs before pickin' you off like a scab? He controls every civilized system in the galaxy…every planet, every government, every fleet. The only reason we're even alive is because he doesn't know the lot of us are here…we're in uncharted space. He's killed all the mercenaries everywhere else…made it a crime-free Lylat." His face wrinkled distastefully. "…just how he likes it."
The Falcon sighed. The fruit in his hand seemed to lose its tanginess in the bleak conversation.
"So we're either stuck in a living hell, or we escape to an instant death." He chuckled darkly. "Life's real good to us, you know?"
The Bearded Dragon set aside his rifle and stood up. "If I were you, I wouldn't complain. Just count your blessings that you aren't among those poor devils."
The other Bounty Hunters looked at him quizzically, before they felt a slight vibration of the paved cobblestone underneath them. As they turned around, their ears were penetrated by the ominous pounding of overhead drums for civilians to clear the road, the sound of spiked armor clacking…and the faint chime of chains clinking.
The merchants and customers stopped bantering. Hobbling cripples halted on their crutches. Komuso singers stopped strumming their guitars mid-note.
Marching down the street to greet the fearful eyes of shrinking bystanders was a group of towering SharpClaw, with inky chain-mail peaking from under their plated bronze armor and gripping hook-bladed halberds. The sun cast an alluring glint off of a flashing pair of golden greaves at the front of the small battalion, causing everyone to draw their stares to the SharpClaw leading the group. He walked with a taller stride than the others, draped in a flowing blue cape and the face-plate of his barbaric helmet leveled on his forehead to protect his slitted eyes from the sun's glare. Dust coiled like ruffled smoke from where his massive raptor-like talons scraped the ground, his raptor-like walk shifting the spiked armor plates on his shoulders. Everyone knew on instant from the ranking sash fluttering from his arm….that he was a SharpClaw Centurion.
A grisly, but all-too familiar sight trailed the SharpClaw envoy, causing every onlooker in the crowd to cringe and shudder.
A line of slaves trudged in single-file behind the SharpClaw envoy, shackled by their hands to a rusty chain and being led by the constant yank of the SharpClaw at the front.
But as the Lylatian masses huddled on the streetside peered closer, they noticed there was something peculiar about this batch of slaves…
…something noticeably different.
For one thing, none of them looked like they had seen a day of slave labor in their lives.
Their snouts and foreheads mottled and deprived of color, and their greasy hair and hollow cheeks hung off of their sunken faces…but their physique was still muscular and reasonably-nourished. Their backs were straight instead of hunched over into the crooked, C-shape of a typical slave. The black and purple bruises on their faces were still swelling, and blood was dripping from the newly-etched scars in their backs, where relentless flogging exposed the raw, infected muscle underneath. They were even still wearing tattered shirts and withered boots, instead of the indistinguishable rags of a longtime slave.
These weren't slaves pulled from the construction yard…they were civilians, pulled off the street.
That was estranging enough as it was…but what perplexed everyone even more was the absence any women weeping or children crying in the chained escort of prisoners. There wasn't a single woman, child, or elder in this miserable-looking group:
They were all men.
Odd looks knitted themselves on the crowd's faces. Confused whispers and muttering began to erupt at a low volume, buzzing from all sizes of the paved street.
The Bearded Dragon, leaning on his sniper rifle curiously, peered closer at them. "Look at that…"
The Wolverine clicked his tongue sympathetically. "I know…poor bastards. How are they even still walking-"
"Not that-look closer. A Greyhound…a Burtzoi…" He swerved his narrowed eyes from prisoner to the next. "….a Weimaraner…and a Timberwolf."
The Wolverine shrugged indifferently, but the Falcon's eyes widened, seeing the correlation.
"They're all canines. Grey canines…"
That description made them all turn their heads towards the wanted posters on the Bounty Billboard next to them, suddenly piecing together the same thought…and seeing less of a coincidence in these common traits.
"I guess Talon got impatient waiting around for that bounty he put out to pay off…now he's peeling the streets for him using the process of elimination."
"How do you know that?" an Ocelot asked. "They could easily be a just another batch of slaves for the Work Yards…"
"Then why are they heading in the direction of the Palace?" The Bearded Dragon gestured to the towering gates. "Last time I checked, the Slave Yards were in the direction in the desert...not the Palace Gates. Isn't it obvious? They're herding in everyone who matches the description in Wanted Posters…male, canine, grey fur…"
The Falcon began peeling his fruit, eyes still on the escorted group of prisoners "Meh, it's a little bit desperate for a search tactic, if you ask me…but from what I hear about this guy, I can't really blame the SharpClaw for being paranoid. That Grey Ghost is supposed to be one terrifying motherfucker…walking around in a Lylatian's skin, but is just as brutal and animalistic as the SharpClaw, the stories say."
"Yeesh…I believe 'em." A Pine Marten agreed, cringing slightly. "Taking a SharpClaw by the mouth and prying his skull open? I mean, fuck—I just can't get my head around that. Who has that kind of strength?"
"The same kind of strength to butcher a dozen of them with his bare hands, I suppose," The Wolverine added darkly. "Do you believe that stuff they're saying about him being dead? You know, how he was dripping with wounds from where they tore him apart…and he was still walking?"
"He has to be a ghost," The Falcon urged. "There's no way he could've survived after Drakon tore him to bits with those Adder Tongues of his. No slave has ever survived that many lashes…"
A Cactus Fox clacked the dice in his hands, eyes darting about nervously. "I heard that he can move in and out of the smoke, without leaving a sound or a gap behind him."
The Ocelot sneered skeptically. "Sounds like more exaggerated drivel to me. You know how the SharpClaw like to blow things out of proportion…" He aimed a steady eye-roll in the direction of the palace. "You should hear the way they talk about their General Talon. You'd think they were talking about some kind of deity, instead of one of their own…they're too afraid to even lay eyes on him."
"Wait, what?" The Wolverine blinked obliviously. "No one's allowed to look at him…not even his own men?"
The Ocelot shook his head. "Nope. Their tradition says that no one can lay eyes on him…not his soldiers, not his Centurions or Basuras, not even his Advisors. He's always sheltered beneath some wall or veil." He put his hands together in mock prayer, and putting a stoic face. "'Those of SharpClaw Royal Blood are too divine to be seen by mortal eyes, SharpClaw and warm-blood alike'…" He rolled his eyes. "…or some shit."
A skeptical chuckle rippled through the crowd of bounty hunters, while the still-confused Wolverine looked around.
"You're serious?" He asked incredulously. "No one's seen him?"
The Cactus Fox settled underneath the shade and laid his head back. "Of course not. In their bizarre culture, every SharpClaw born in the lineage of the Royal Family…the "Generals" of each generation…are descended from their deities, the Immortal Seven. The Royals are supposedly 'wrapped in a godly aura', one that casts a light so bright that it reduces mortal eyes to ash." He opened one eye sleepily. "In their language, the phrase 'General' has an entirely different meaning…it means 'God-King'."
"But if nobody's ever seen him, how does anyone know he's even real?" The Wolverine asked. "How do we know he's not some myth the SharpClaw concocted to keep us all in line?"
"Oh, he's real alright…"
Everyone looked back at the Bearded Dragon, who was already fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.
"Remember when Raj and the others delivered those runaway slaves to the SharpClaw for the Thousand Lylatine Bounty a few months back? He was summoned to the Palace…to Talon's Throne Room."
The Cactus Fox whistled, eyes big. "And he saw him?"
"Not in the flesh. Raj said Talon's throne was covered by a thin curtain…a veil, made of violet cloth…but there was definitely a shadow behind it; a silhouette, and a voice…but nothing that anyone's allowed to truly see or touch."
The Falcon whistled. "A SharpClaw that nobody's ever seen, except in shadow and voice?" He couldn't help but laugh. "Hell…this guy sounds even more like a Ghost than the one everyone's making a fuss about."
"Well, at the rate Talon's scouring the city, he'll go back to being the only Ghost on this planet." The Dragon pulled the cloth from over his mouth, shooting a glance at the distant slaves. "I dunno where this Grey Ghost is hiding…but he won't stay hidden for long. Not with this big of a pursuit. These SharpClaw are descended from a race of pack hunters; they don't search for their prey…" Click! He lit the cigarette in his mouth. "…they hunt for 'em."
"I dunno, man…" The Wolverine sunk his hands in his pockets. "What if the Ghost hunts them first? He didn't murder one or two SharpClaw, he slaughtered a whole battalion of them. What's to say he won't do it again?"
The sizzling embers of the cigarette illuminated the keen, gaunt experience in the Dragon's yellow eyes.
"Because he's not running from a whole battalion of SharpClaw…he's running from General Talon. The Grey Ghost might've killed himself a few dozen SharpClaw Scourges…but that doesn't change the fact that he's still hiding, licking his wounds. He's out there, somewhere, suffering mortal scars….exactly in the weak and vulnerable state Talon wants him in. And Talon's not gonna let this one bleed out like a stuck pig…he's dragging everyone who matches the description to his Palace—not the Gallows or the Execution Arena, to the Palace—and that can only mean one thing…"
The waft of smoke blew out into the air, hovering in thick wisps over groaning and screaming of slaves…as the SharpClaw dragged them through the Palace Gates.
"For whatever reason…for whatever devious plan or desire he has in mind…Talon wants this one alive."
End of Chapter: The Other Ghost
