A/N: Thanks for everyone who waited for us during this last span between chapters. This was one of the scenes we knew had been coming for a long time and just struggled to really get right. So for all the patience shown by readers, we'll confidently be posting chapters with more regular frequency here on out until the end of the book.
Chapter Seventeen: Triage 5150
Naoya felt like he was running on fumes. After all he had dealt with a werewolf, a zombie, and balverines all in less than forty-eight hours, and with no sleep at that - it was up there with some of his busier days.
Under the stream of lukewarm water in the tiny shower stall, the psychic's stomach hurt when he took in took much of a breath, as if breathing too deeply was a fresh kick from Renkotsu's boot. In time it would bruise and go away, but at the moment exhaustion plagued him and he was in no rush to heal himself.
Still, Naoya started to feel queasy. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten before being kicked. The last few days were a blurry whirlwind, too much to process and too worn to think of any possible moves to make. Windmill, Remus, werewolf ; Nadine and Alastor, covered in blood; the apartment was covered in blood; Renkotsu's rotting blood painting the floor instead of Naoya's …
He wanted to get all the oil cleaned off of him. He wanted to go to sleep so badly, even if he knew that he wouldn't be able to; there were some things that wouldn't change, there was no way he could just relax after seeing all the red, he would get nightmares if he went to bed. Coffee. As always, coffee seemed like a reasonable middle ground. He wanted to stop feeling like he was about to puke in the shower, so that he could have coffee. And he wanted a goddamn smoke.
At the thought of a cigarette, Naoya ran his long fingers through wet strands of hair, gripping handfuls tightly as he exhaled. He wanted a goddamn smoke. It wasn't fair. He couldn't drink here. He couldn't smoke here. He couldn't-
"Naoya, are you still alive?" a male voice called, echoing slightly, sounding like it came from the entrance to the locker room. Adult male, strange accent, sounded possibly late twenties; Naoya's mind tried to assess whose voice it was, before it finally clicked that it was Anders. "You've been in there a while."
Naoya's eyes snapped open - how long had he had them closed? - and was briefly assaulted by the dingy white tiles and harsh lighting of the locker room showers. Confused, he let go of his hair to turn towards where the voice came from and knocked over a couple small bottles - 2-in-1 shampoo and castile soap - which clattered needlessly loud on the wet tile..
"What was that? Are you okay?"
That's right , his mind snapped back to his present reality. The bathroom in the apartment downstairs was still clogged up with the towels and sheets they'd used to mop up Alastor, so he'd come to the locker room to get washed up. Public space. No lockable doors. Vulnerable.
"I-I'm fine!" he sounded back, trying to sound flustered - which wasn't hard. After a quick glance around, and he saw no one coming in, thankfully, he bent to pick up what he'd knocked over. "Just… dropping everything."
After carefully, but not too carefully, putting the bottles back on their tiny shower shelf, Naoya turned off the water and grabbed the white towel that he had hung outside his stall. On any other day he would have complained about the Vault's bath towels - no bigger than hotel pool towels and twice as scratchy - but he only quickly dried himself off before sliding on a pair of gray athletic shorts. Locker rooms, in any world, had no privacy, and the Vault was no different; he had long learned to dress at least part-way before leaving the shower area, else he end up like a certain Eraseri boy he once took the clothes of.
He made his way to his preferred locker, stepping over the pile of his oil-soaked clothes on the floor. A spare shirt or two was crumpled on the bottom of his locker, a small assortment of personal grooming products and a comb sat on the top shelf; he chose and slid on a clean black shirt that was just a little too big on him. Naoya picked up what wasn't dirty and hung them on the hooks, then stuffed his oily clothes and shoes in their place and closed the locker.
Having cleaned the locker room had led Naoya to a lot of details about his compatriots. Renkotsu never came in the locker room, or at least that Naoya had ever, thankfully, recalled. He reflexively mentally recounted the content of the lockers as he passed them: one was Wash's, she somehow had a small supply of lavender soap, but hers otherwise contained nothing out of the ordinary for a bathroom; Mabel had claimed a locker between Naoya and Wash, some clothes and some of Wash's lavender soap; another locker or two Remus and Anders liked to keep towels in for the few times they came up, Naoya had never seen them both present; and Sokka and Dipper had each claimed an assortment of lockers filled with an assortment of things ranging from trinkets to clothing and Naoya had long stopped trying to guess who owned what.
Then there was, of course, the suspicious collection of 1950's-esque co-ed swimwear catalogues and, oddly, one anatomy textbook that had been "hidden" inside the dispenser of one of the toilet stalls. Just before he reached the corridor, Naoya made a small mental note to come back and move the poorly-hidden stash someplace else, just to see who would freak out first, at a time when he didn't feel like his mind and body were both mush.
Rounding the corner, Naoya jumped back when his face collided with a mass of feathers. The lights flickered for the second or two his powers leapt out, but he quelled himself when he saw who it was.
"What the hell, Andy!" Naoya let out a tense breath and his stance laxed. "You scared me half to death!"
Anders looked surprised himself. He took an apologetic step back, brushing down either pauldron with his free hand to smooth the feathers back down. "Sorry," he said quickly.
Naoya shook his head, wet bangs shaking with the motion, and brought his right hand up to rub at his temple. "What are you even doing up right now," he exhaustedly grumbled.
"You've been in there a long time," Anders said, swiftly dodging the question with ease. "It's very late. Remus has long gone to sleep-everyone has. When you didn't come back to the apartment, I thought perhaps you were trying to drown yourself."
This last he said lightly, coolly. A bit too casually, as though the book Naoya was trying hard to close were splayed wide open. The word shot across Naoya's thoughts again: vulnerable.
"You can't drown yourself in a shower, Andy." Stiffly, Naoya crossed his arms low across his front, a loose, swaying attempt at mimicking his usual posture. Anders hadn't moved, he hadn't stepped closer, he only gripped the cylindrical container he held in his off hand. Keeping distance, respectfully, though it did little to make Naoya feel less on edge. "Maybe drown someone else, though."
"In any case," Anders went on slowly, "I thought maybe something was wrong. So I brought you something to drink."
At this, he held out the cylinder: a small thermos - though the cap was on crookedly. For a brief moment the thought of Anders fighting to get the cap on came to Naoya, but the lid used for a cup was missing.
"Tea?" he assumed, because the only thing he knew either of the magic-wielders to drink hot was leaf juice.
"Coffee," Anders corrected. "You have been… very quiet. And normally I would say that I enjoyed the silence, but I would be foolish. That isn't like you." He paused. "Look, I'm not doing this for some sort of moment, or some cheap feeling. We aren't that sort. I don't expect you to detail to me everything going on for you. But I have seen this… behavior , before. I know it. And... I worry. You won't sleep," he finished grimly. "Will you?"
Naoya stared intently at him, quiet as he had been, and bit his upper lip. The jig was almost up, but not entirely. His weight shifted as he changed his footing, and he idly scratched at the side of his neck to itch an itch that wasn't actually there. "No." Naoya swallowed.
Anders nodded. "When I don't sleep, I work on my manifesto-or, I did. Before all of this. I don't know enough about coffee to guess how long it will help, only that it will. And that staying busy helps."
Naoya stared at the thermos offered to him with suspicion, as if he considered it a joke before quickly dismissing that notion - as if he had to remind himself that he trusted Anders. He finally took the thermos with a shaky hand. "Thanks," the word came from him, grateful but inflected low and soft.
And, after Anders had gone back to the infirmary, that was how Naoya had ended up wandering the lower-level, sipping half-brewed coffee from a thermos. It was dark, cool, and a little musty in the untended parts of the floor, and here and there doors that barely functioned due to neglect left just enough space for Naoya to slip through - leaving footprints in the dust that settled on the metal panels of the floor. It almost reminded him of some places in the mental realms...
As he rounded a corner, that was when he saw it.
It was a large rectangular shape with rounded edges and a glassy front, at one point it had been tan in color but there was too much dirt on its sides to tell; an old vending machine, plus dust coating, that had long been out of commission. It was in an odd place, tucked neatly away from the sight of anyone that would have been passing by in the hallways. Curious, Naoya balled his hand and wiped the dirt off the glass.
All the air left his lungs as soon as his eyes caught sight of what was inside.
The first top half of the shelves were stocked with booze; from the small nibs on the tippy-top ranging down to the decent-sized bottles of what he could only guess was whiskey and rum and some other brown liquor, the clear stuff obviously being vodka. The bottom half of the shelves were stocked with various cigarettes; 100's, 72's, the slender kind that got stuck in those fancy holders, menthols, unfiltereds, lights, ultra lights, and golds. He didn't need to be able to read the language, the colors and shapes of the boxes were all he needed.
Every molecule in his body was burning. He wanted a goddamn cigarette. Without a second thought he stepped back and blasted the vending machine with telekinesis; he cleared away the broken glass from in front of the cigarettes. He didn't know how old they were, but they were still wrapped - and there wasn't anything in him that cared if they had gone stale. He shakily grabbed for a pack of regular 100's and ripped the plastic off, he took one out and stuck it in his mouth - the end lighting up with an all-too-harsh snap of concentrated psi.
Deep, deep breaths. Held in for what felt like many heavenly minutes before he let it out, the burning in his body going away as he took in the smoke. Naoya had finished two cigarettes before his mind finally came back to what he was doing, now sitting on the ground and surrounded by broken glass - fingers cut and bleeding from the smaller splinters had leaned on. He looked in the box in his hand; they didn't taste stale - but they didn't taste great, either. The plastic had probably kept them from going completely stale for however long they had been stored in the Vault.
He was supposed to be in his room and instead he had broken into a retro vending machine for a pack of smokes. Not the lowest thing he'd ever done - that honor belonged to that time he invited an awkward and clueless fourth wheel to a party where a couple had made Naoya into the unrequited third wheel. Sometimes he did things without thinking because sometimes he'd stuffed away his own emotions for too long - he knew he'd feel bad about it later, though.
For now, he had to come up with a way to hide the evidence. If he left it here, eventually someone else in the group might come down this way - it'd be obvious that someone had broken into the machine recently. Naoya knew exactly how that would look. And he wasn't going to throw away a find like this, but he couldn't walk out with his pockets overflowing with booze and cigs, either…
So cramming his pockets with small boxes and cradling tiny bottles in the loose fabric of his shirt would have to do, he decided.
Wash had slept, but barely. There were too many things happening at once, too many variables to account for. But she left her quarters the following morning with only one thing on her mind.
After the attack, Ren kept mostly to his workshop - or at least the parts of his wing that he could access. While there had been no agreement on what to do with the dead man as far as reprimand went, there had been a silent agreement to keep him away from his tools and toys. And so, upon request, Remus had set up a few barriers that barred Renkotsu from certain areas; he was banned from the lower level entirely and kept clear of his metal-working tools and personal artillery.
Not that it did much good-Wash knew that he could macgyver a weapon from string and a teacup if he absolutely had to.
But it stood that since the incident - he hadn't . He apparently knew how to combat demons and other supernatural shit, but he hadn't tried to put together something to go around Remus' barriers; and he could make guns or saws out of boxes of scrap in a cave, but he hadn't scrapped anything to build any weapons or tools, either.
Now that she wasn't seeing red, Wash had finally been able to put more thought into the incident. It hadn't occurred to her on the fly, but after so much time together in the Vault it struck Wash just how strange the whole thing had been. Ren showed no signs of snapping before. On the contrary, aside from some grim comments or gallows humor now and again, he was almost annoyingly level-headed. Based on what Naoya had said of Ren's behavior it seemed more like something had resurfaced rather than snapped.
And so she stood outside the door to his office, soaked in the red glow from the protruding wall light that indicated it was locked tight. When it opened with a slight lurch, Wash spotted Renkotsu across the room. He lifted his head up in surprise, as if he had been sleeping at his desk. The blood from the night before had been washed away hours ago, and his torn top attire was replaced with a dark blue button-up shirt. She entered without asking.
"Oh," he breathed, leaning back in his large chair and blinking blearily. "It's you . How did you-" he started to ask, and Wash waved the master keycard at him before he finished. His gaze narrowed. "Ah, yes. That. "
Wash eyed him, crossing her arms across her chest as she approached him. There were no books or schematics open across the desk surface; nothing to indicate that he had been working whatsoever when he fell asleep. The room was nearly bare, save for the desk and chair and an odd filing cabinet or two. A wall clock was the only decoration on the walls whose decorative paper had begun to peel in spots, revealing the iron panels beneath. The lantern was where it always was, in the corner beside a handful of books.
"You knew I'd come eventually after that stunt you pulled. I know that you're not stupid," Wash stated finally. "What you did, it was never about Naoya or the balverines. Was it?"
A somber sideways glance as all she got for an answer, but it was a confirmation nonetheless.
Wash nodded. "I thought so. I've had some time to put it together."
He turned his chair so that he barely faced her, pressing his fingertips together as he stared at the crank lantern. "And what is it that you've gleaned, exactly, Lieutenant?"
Wash squared her shoulders. "You were backed into a corner. You were going to get rid of the balvs before they outed you for being a zombie. Naoya 'conveniently' got in the way."
He snorted, insulted-and yet, amused. "He put himself in the way."
"And made you think about something else entirely," Wash countered. "That wasn't about him. It wasn't about them. It was something else."
He took in a slow, stiff breath. "Yes."
Again, Wash nodded, but this time, her gaze was hard. "You were going to kill them," she said. "And it wasn't even about them. You were going off about being led 'unquestioningly into unwinnable fights' and getting tired of 'reckless brats'-"
"You will at times speak of your colony, of your Terra Nova," Renkotsu interrupted her, "But you do not speak about it."
Wash pursed her lips, mouth sliding into a frown. "You don't have to talk about whatever happened to you," she said. After all, he had been forthcoming enough about certain topics, like mercenary work and war craft. She had not. Some topics were harder than others, and they all had things they wanted left buried. Sometimes it was for a reason. "But that's not going to cut it after trying to kill people on our side over shit that they weren't part of."
"I await my execution, then." Ren laced his fingers together, his face like a mask that his eyes were watching out from behind. "But you will not get far into your conflict with Reaver without me, mark my words-"
Wash shook her head. "You say that like offing you is the first thing that comes to mind." The slight way he turned his head in surprise didn't go unnoticed. "Sokka's confused, but he doesn't want you dead; I know why you did what you did, and I think the same thing he does." The Lieutenant shrugged. "Hell, I think at worst everybody else wants you to stop lurking around taking pot-shots. I think that whatever happened has passed."
"I know of someone who was in the same position as you are now, and would think otherwise; call me a traitor."
Bitterness. Wash could see it in his eyes, though his face hadn't changed. She made a small noise in thought. "You're an asshole sometimes, but I'm not entirely sold on the word traitor just yet. Especially here. But that's a difference between where our lines of work ended up." Wash turned on her boot heel, so she was fully facing the interior of the office. Her shadow was elongated from the corner lamp and she caught it out of the corner of her eye. "That colony that I was second-in-command of, the one I 'barely' speak about? It was a place for a lot of second chances."
Ren's quiet mask cracked, stony eyes narrowing in confusion. "Are you so soft that you would willingly-"
"You get one more chance, Ren," Wash's tone raised slightly, signalling no room for debate. " One. Pull anymore shit and you'll get close to what you expect."
At first he sneered, hands tightly gripping the arms of his chair; not sure whether to be angry that he was being ordered around, dismissed, or to be relieved that he was spared. "What else do you want of me, an apology? "
"Wouldn't hurt," she replied coolly. With a smooth motion she headed toward the door frame, throwing in a light shrug. "But we all know you don't apologize. Have some explaining to do, though." Whirling around, she left his door open as she walked away. "And I'm not one of the people you owe an explanation to."
"I need to see your wounds," Anders said loudly. His arms were crossed as he stared down at Alastor like a cross parent. Alastor was much taller than most and his feet dangled off the end of the bed a little, while he was sitting up.
"I see no reason to," he replied stiffly. "They will finish healing on their own."
"Not if they're infected or poisoned," Anders retorted. "The bullets were silver. You aren't healing as fast as expected, so I need to look you over. So take it off."
But Alastor remained silent, clutching the collar of his tattered button down shirt and seething. Anders rolled his eyes.
"Don't worry, you aren't my type," he said. "And besides, you're taken," he added, with a nod towards the next bed over.
Nadine picked her head up at the mention, exhaling a short breath-a sort of monstrous laugh.
Alastor looked softly insulted. "You're enjoying this," he said to her, and his tone almost betrayed his composure. Anders had no idea that the man had that much emotion in him.
Her yellow orbs narrowed slightly, sparkling in such a way she appeared as if she were smiling. She gave another dry snort and shook her head.
"You 'like me alive even more'?" Alastor rumbled as he paraphrased, clutching his shirt collar some more as ice crackled on the seams.
Anders could only guess what else had been exchanged in whatever snorty, growly, prickly communication the balverines used; something raunchy, if he had his bet. He wondered how an icicle like Alastor ended up with someone like Nadine.
Someone knocked on the infirmary doors.
"Morning Anders," Mabel greeted, slowly peeking her head in. "Are you busy? Who are your friends?"
Anders turned, glancing quickly between her and Nadine as the latter's quills shifted as she adjusted her body to view the girl. Mabel was… not afraid? Anders cleared his throat.
"Hello, Mabel," he said. He pointed, "This is Alastor, and his wife, Nadine."
Mabel brought her hands up to her face as she gasped. "Oh no, she's beautiful!"
Alastor had raised a single brow, surprised at being addressed by this... child . He glanced to Nadine, who suddenly had a sparkle in her eye. Her lips had pulled back to reveal several slick fangs. She rose from the white sheets of her bed, stretching quickly on all fours. Her claws tapped on the spotless floor as she climbed down and walked over to Mabel, circling her with raised ears and nose puffing. Out of her throat came a short burst of snorts and whines before she headed back to the bed, staring expectantly at Alastor.
The white balverine just raised his other brow, giving her a skeptical look.
Nadine leaned forward with a small, barking noise. An insistence. Alastor issued a heaving sigh.
"She says you smell of witch hazel and lavender. She likes it."
Mabel practically beamed. "I used lavender soap this morning! Nadine, your nose is perfect!"
Nadine rested her head on her arms, puffing with satisfaction.
"Well, now that we've had floral-scented introductions," Anders said quickly, "did you need something, Mabel?"
"Oh, yeah, but I mean it can wait." Mabel pointed with her thumb. "Wash just says she wants everyone down in the meeting room when you're done."
Alastor glared as all eyes fell back onto him. He sighed, his jaw stiffening as he frowned.
"Well?" Anders insisted.
"I am not undressing in front of a child ," Alastor growled. "Even Reaver did not do that ."
"It's only your shirt I need removed," Anders said.
"I do not care," Alastor flatly shot back. "I want the child gone."
"Turn around, Mabel," Anders sighed, waving her to the corner of the room behind a divider.
" Gone," Alastor snapped again.
Nadine let out a short roar, insisting that the two of them stop. She was on her feet, eyeing the both of them in a way that was not harsh but not approving either. She snorted, then turned and began to nudge Mabel out of the room, careful not to use the part of her skull where the quills began.
The white balverine sighed; he only reached for the first of the buttons hesitantly when Mabel was clear out of view. Slowly, with great care and with eyes fixed on Anders's demeanor the entire time, Alastor finally removed his shirt. The damage beneath was clear: though the wounds had been sealed and tended to, Alastor's extremely pale skin had become a canvas of black, purple, and red. Veins spiderwebbed visibly from each bullet hole, now nothing more than scars but nonetheless ugly and painful still. As Anders watched Alastor remove the shirt, he saw the Alpha balverine wince more than once; a sight which, for Alastor, was well beyond any kind of normal.
"It still hurts," Anders remarked casually.
"How astute, Doctor ," Alastor replied, folding his shirt and setting it rigidly in his lap.
"I expected bruising and pain," Anders went on, "but not this kind of residual damage."
He reached to touch Alastor, but stopped.
"I'm not going to do anything, you know," he said. "You can put that arm down."
Alastor watched Anders, golden eyes taking in everything he was doing. The only sounds in the room were the buzz of the overhead lights and the hum of the air vents. Slowly, he let his arm down, but did not relax. He sighed sharply, angrily, through his nose.
"Do it quickly."
Anders nodded, moving with purpose and making sure Alastor knew where his hands were at all times before making contact. Saying things like, "I'm going to touch your shoulder now," were all well and good. But for the first time Alastor did not seem as dangerous as he had for so long in Reaver's mansion. For the first time, he seemed… uncertain. Only when Nadine came back and sat directly beside him did he relax at all, and then only just. Aside from the wounds he had now, Alastor was physically fine. In fact, he was well. But the Oasis was not just Reaver's prison. There were things in the two balverines that Anders had not seen since he left the Circle: the movement of the eye to the floor, the careful way Alastor spoke... Anders wondered what Reaver had done over the centuries to try and break the balverines.
"Maker, I wish I had just a few leaves of elfroot," Anders muttered as he continued his poking and prodding. "I could make a drink, or better yet a salve so that you could lay down without so much pain."
"It is just as well," Alastor replied. He had one hand clutched on the shirt in his lap and the other on the top of Nadine's head. "We do not have the time to lay about."
Anders looked up. "Do you really think Reaver will find this place so soon? Last I knew, he had yet to even know it exists. I saw his map with all the fires. I thought he had no idea where we are."
"You underestimate him. He is more than a man of wit, or skill. He is a man of wrath. He was defeated by us, and barely missed his chance to kill me. We are unwelcome spots on a long record of 'no survivors'."
"The silver did quite a number on you," Anders replied quietly. "There is a lot of bruising, but I don't notice any signs of swelling. But the little bit of poison that did get into your system needs to work it's way out before you can get a pass from me."
It was then that Mabel poked her head back in the room. "Is it safe to come back in?" she asked, coming back in without an answer. Whether she was unaware or just ignoring the strained, unpleasant frown Alastor had from her presence was unknown, and she decided to stand behind Anders while Alastor attempted to put his shirt back on.
Anders tried to turn to face her, but she held onto his coat. So he spared a quick glance between himself and the balverines before nodding. "Yes, we're done for today."
From behind, Anders heard her earrings jingle as she nodded. But she didn't move.
"Is there something else, Mabel?"
"I was bored," she replied flatly. Mabel stood on her toes, trying to peek around Anders at the unfamiliar faces. "And I heard there were new people. Had to come say hello." She beamed a quick smile up at him, waving her hand.
Nadine snorted contentedly at her in reply. Alastor merely observed her. Mabel was not dissuaded.
"Sooo," she went on, stretching the word, "did you maybe need help with anything else before we go?"
Now Anders was able to turn enough to see her, and he took his coat back to turn all the way. "You want to help?"
"Well, yeah!" Mabel looked fondly around the room, to the empty beds and the dead flowers in the corner; to the dusty vents spewing chilly air through the room, gently billowing curtain dividers. "This place could use a little more life."
Anders looked at her.
Mabel hesitated, her smile fading. "I-I want to do real things. Like, helping people things. Everyone-" she paused, holding one arm with the other and glancing to the floor "-everyone has helped so far. Everyone can do things. Even Dipper has his thing with weird magic stuff and his journals, and I'm just- I mean, glitter stickers are magical, but stickers can only do so much. This meeting later is a big deal, and I feel like things are changing. I just-I don't know."
Anders' head tilted and he frowned. "Mabel…"
"I get it," she said quickly, turning to the door.
"No, you misunderstand, Mabel-I'd be very pleased to teach you."
Mabel paused, her hand hovering over the knob. She looked back to Anders. "What?"
He nodded. "Mabel, I think you would make a wonderful assistant, in truth. You're very compassionate. You think on your feet. You're not 'just Mabel', especially when you're the reason we found the Vault at all. Give yourself more credit."
Her soft brown eyes lit up at the praise. "More credit?"
"We all have something to contribute," Anders replied. "If you want to add a little of this to your belt, far be it from me to stop you." But Anders gave her a knowing look: "I knew about the meeting," he said. "You didn't come down here for that at all, did you?"
A smile, which she obviously tried to fight, crept onto her features, and she shyly ran her fingers through her hair. "It's half and half."
"Well," Anders chuckled, "then we had at least get on with things." He turned once more to the balverines. "You should be well enough to walk without any severe discomfort," he said to Alastor. "But you haven't been out of this bed much yet, so take it slow."
Alastor let a single brow rise slowly, his stare frigid. "Thank you," he forced, though only after he had stood to full height after a moment. "I do not wish to appear entirely ungrateful."
"Coming from you, that's a shower of praise," Anders replied, savoring in Alastor's very unamused expression. "Let's go, then."
Dipper was waiting for them a few hallways down, and Anders was again interested and surprised at his lack of reaction to meeting balverines for the first time. What sort of place did they come from where meeting such beings was hardly worth note? Dipper gave regular glances to them out of the side of his eyes, but otherwise remained relatively passive. But his shoulders were hard set, and Anders couldn't help but wonder if he were not as calm among the balverines as he wanted to appear-until they came to the corridor leading to the main chamber, and Wash was waiting for them.
"You called for us?" Dipper asked, approaching the end of the corridor with caution. Beyond Wash, the hallway opened into the main chamber.
Wash crossed, then re-crossed her arms, her eyes dark with contemplation and her face quite serious. Without speaking, she gestured to Anders, Alastor, and Nadine: keep going. They disappeared through the archway and down into the ring of couches, where the others were already seated, waiting. Wash waited until they had taken places within the circle.
"Mabel, Dipper," she began, turning to them, "you know about Reaver enough to know that if he's after us, it will end badly."
They both looked at each other, then back to Wash, nodding.
"I'm not sure what's going to happen," the Lieutenant went on, "but you both deserve to be a part of this. Whatever happens now, it's going to affect you, too. I'm not asking you to fight," she said, "but I know Dipper has had some combat training under me and he can handle a weapon. Mabel, I'm sure you can do the same with some time. You're both old enough to make your choice whether or not to fight. No one will look down on you, and if you say no we'll do our best to protect you."
Again, the twins exchanged a look, this one longer than the last.
"Don't worry," said Dipper.
"We're with you," finished Mabel.
Wash hesitated. She wanted to tell them that they were too young, but the reality was that they were beyond the safety net and had been for some time. Remus, Anders,and Naoya had told her the name of this place: Astriferous; the name of the monster that had taken so much from them already and still wanted more. Dipper wasn't a hunter. He wasn't a fighter. And Mabel was a total unknown. Barely in their teens. They were just kids. But… kids who would need to fight to stay alive. Kids who were old enough to make some hard choices. Kids who deserved the chance to make those choices for themselves. They either fought now or later; this world they were in now, it didn't give second chances and it certainly didn't offer mercy. Wash had seen enough to know that. At least now, they had the choice. She focused on the two of them for a hard, long minute.
"Okay," she said through a slow, sighing breath. "Then, come on…"
The Vault had never witnessed a meeting quite like this. As the twins took their place around the firepit in the center chamber, the smoke from the flames rose softly through the pipe chimney and out into the late night. Every face was expectant.
"We're all going to be here for this," Wash announced to the rest, indicating for the twins to take their seats.
And they did, beside Sokka, who had his arms crossed as he sat back against the couch. He, in turn, was seated not-too-distantly from Naoya, followed by Anders and Remus on the next couch. Farther still was Nadine, carefully laying beside Alastor, who was quite rigid and held his abdomen with care. But the surprise came at the sight of the last attendee: on his own, seated across from all of the others, was Renkotsu. Anders felt himself watching him out of the corner of his eye, flickering back and forth between him and Naoya. But Renkotsu's attentions were firmly fixed on Wash.
"You are bringing the children?" he frowned, tracking them with his stony eyes as they sat.
"I'm bringing everyone who's at risk," Wash replied bluntly. "And you can consider yourself lucky that you're part of this meeting at all. So," she went on to the room, "let's just get one thing straight: either we all fight together or we're not going to make it once Reaver finds us."
" If he finds us," Remus began, pressing his hands together. He looked much better than he had yesterday (albeit exhausted), having slept and eaten a bit. There were a few scratches visible on his hands, and long sleeves were a convenient cover for any bandaged wounds. When he held still, there was a slight tremor in his hands. But his tired eyes were quite focused. "Alastor, you mentioned that Reaver doesn't know where the Vault is, not yet."
"That is true," the white balverine replied coolly. "However, Nadine and I were able to find you at the village. Do not be so foolish as to think it is impossible."
"Then we ought to prepare for him," said Anders, shifting one leg over the other. "You three would know the Vault better than anyone," he said pointing at Wash, Ren, and Sokka. "Are there any defenses?"
"No," Sokka frowned. He leaned forward, talking with his hands: "Whoever built the Vault was only concerned about explosives. That's why the door is so thick. It's all we have. And unless Reaver's found a big, huge bomb out there then he's not getting through."
At this, Alastor made a noise of disapproval. "He does not need to break into the Vault," he said stiffly. "He need only break the people within."
Sokka offered a skeptical, slightly offended brow. "Do you have to word it like that?"
"He would camp at the door and starve us out," Renkotsu added, nodding in what seemed like a rare moment of agreement.
"Isn't that just what you would do," Naoya half-asked.
"Given the circumstances, yes," Ren replied without hesitation. "Of course, I would find a way to blow off the door eventually. But I cannot say I haven't been in the position of trapping people in a cave before."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure that's routine hazing where you come from," said Anders.
Renkotsu ignored him, visibly drawn into his thoughts. "I routed them into a cave next to a river, dammed the river so it would rise to them, then set the river's surface and surrounding forest ablaze." After a pause, he added: "I then threatened them with explosives."
The group was quiet, but it was Sokka who eventually spoke up with: "You really wanted to make sure nobody got out of that one, didn't you?"
"They killed G-" Ren quickly stopped himself, swallowing the name that had stilled his tongue, "They killed my brother , so, yes, that was the intended plan. It went as I expected until unaccounted variables intervened."
"Those 'unaccounted variables' will get you every time," Naoya muttered into his palm, and Renkotsu fixed him with a sour frown.
"The tactic you described sounds... needlessly ruthless," Dipper commented. When attention turned to him, he paled and looked as if he wanted nothing more than to sink into the couch and disappear. "I just mean that there are probably more straightforward ways to do what we want.
The mercenary sighed deeply, side-eying the Lieutenant briefly as if he were weighing the consequences of how he were to reply to this child. "Reaver will be no less ruthless in his own plans, I assure you," Ren curtly answered. "Given that he is 'immortal', I would reason that he is moreso."
Naoya frowned, arching his manicured brows high and rolling his eyes. But he held his tongue, keeping quiet about whatever comment he had brewing.
"Well, if that's true, he'll have the time to kill," Anders offered, snorting darkly.
Dipper turned towards Remus. "What about your Apparition spell?"
Remus shook his head. "No, it can't be done safely. Not with so many people and not without knowing where we're going. A portkey could work, but again, we would need some place for us all to appear. And Anders, Naoya, and myself can attest: there's nothing in the woods for us. There is nowhere for us to go, certainly not with the protection or resources. If we lose this Vault, we lose everything."
"Well why don't we make another door and sneak around Reaver?" Mabel suggested. "We can just use magic and dynamite and BLAM!"
"And cause a cave-in," Sokka flatly dismissed.
A short sigh escaped Alastor. "Even if we were to leave somehow, Reaver would only begin hunting us." Nadine nodded in agreement with him.
"I've had enough of being hunted in my life," Anders sighed. "It really isn't as fun as it sounds. It isn't all campfires and bonding moments. One person could hide from the Templars for a good bit, but a large group is almost certainly doomed. They're much easier to track, and also easier to catch. So then, the only way through is to face him directly." He sighed again. "Why does it always end up like this? You'd think just once it would work out some other way."
Renkotsu was unmoved: "We face him directly and we may perish."
Remus turned. "I don't think we have much other choice," he said. "Anders is right: there is no other way. There's nowhere else to go, and he'll find us eventually."
"I think Ren is right, though," Sokka replied. "We don't know directly what we're up against, other than 'ruthless man with a gun'. We couldn't take him head on without risking more than just the Vault."
"He is not alone." Alastor brought one leg to rest across his knee. "There are loyalists with him."
"Oh, he's got a force. Not important," Anders groused, waving his hand. "Just an afterthought, not important to mention at all!"
"No-no one's fighting anyone if we pull this off right," Wash said quickly, sternly. She was the only one who had yet to take a seat, and she paced around the circle as the meeting progressed. "No, the Vault's too precious to lose. But it has no defenses, so right now the only thing we have going for us is surprise. Reaver still has no idea where we are. We can use that. And we didn't set the traps in the woods for show."
"Regardless, he will find us," Renkotsu remarked coldly. "It is an inevitability. They were designed for a stray patrol, not a full pack. Our traps will not hold forever."
"Thank you. I'm aware of that," Wash replied.
"Alastor," Remus remarked suddenly, "when we were at the mansion, Reaver said that the Firestarters had been causing him grief for a while. He sent you to find them, and until now you had no reason to let them live if you did find them. Why couldn't you find them before?"
"Home field advantage," Wash answered, glancing to Alastor. "Reaver never sent the balverines into the woods too often. We know our way around just as well as them, and we know the places the balverines can't maneuver well. When we set fires, it was always someplace far away from here."
Alastor nodded. "Had there been more of you, your efforts would not have succeeded."
Wash hesitated, going slightly red as though she wanted to say something back. But she thought better of it. "Guerilla tactics are all we've got and it's what Reaver's expecting," she said instead.
"Then what do we do? We're at square zero ."
As soon as Mabel finished asking, an uncomfortable silence settled over them.
"This need not be a total loss." When everyone turned, Ren folded his arms across his chest, shoulders laxing. "We could lure Reaver into the Vault. Give him what he wants. Entice him," he went on, calmly and unphased. "Let him in. Tell him he's won. Then, bury him."
" Bury him ? That's insane," Sokka said. "We need the Vault! We can't just blow a hole in it!" He suddenly stopped, eyes wide as parts of a plan seemingly formed and were dismissed in his mind all at once. "... Can we?"
Alastor frowned. "You assume Reaver would fall for such a mundane trap."
"What about his mansion? You did say he had a mansion, right? Er, right?"
Again, Dipper flinched under the sudden attention. He pressed his hands to the back of his neck. "I-I mean he's not there now, and you guys-" his eyes quickly flickered between Wash and Alastor "- said that this guy Barry was a pushover, right? Why can't we just-you know, take the mansion? Blow the Vault with Reaver in it, and swoop in and take it."
Wash's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. "I don't remember telling you about Barry-"
"Such a plan would require us to have an exit of our own, one that Reaver would not potentially be watching," Ren commented.
Mabel began to jump in her seat, earrings jingling with every bounce. "We'll make a door!Just like I said!"
"We're not blowing anything up, Mabel!" Sokka argued. "At least not yet, anyways."
"No, we're not blowing up anything!" Wash suddenly barked, enough to gain control of the sea of voices. "The Vault is the only thing that's kept us going this long. We lost too many good people getting to this point, and you're talking about blowing it to hell without considering what happens after that! It's too important to just let it go!"
"Well, we can't just stay locked up in here forever!" Anders urged, leaning forward. "We can't hide away from this, and if we stay here and do nothing we may as well welcome Reaver in. But the mansion-that library alone has the resources we all need to find our way home. ...I think it's worth the risk by itself."
"Mysterious libraries guarded by something really old and angry usually have a lot of game-changing information in them," Sokka hesitantly offered, glancing up at Wash as she paced. "Even if it's not direct information, it could show us the right way to go. He's right."
She seemed to briefly consider what was said, visibly calming after exhaling a frustrated breath. Survival had been their goal for so long, the thought of going home seemed outlandish almost. It left her uneasy.
"The risk is enormous," Remus said slowly, rubbing his hands together in thought. "But… Anders and Sokka make good points. The resources available to us there, we just don't have them here. I think we may have to try. Ultimately, if we want to go home. If we want to stop running."
"I know how much this place means to you," Sokka spoke up softly, holding Wash's gaze. "But maybe it doesn't have to be a bad thing to let it go. Yeah, it took a lot to get here. But now we can use it to do something good instead of hiding. It can still be the thing that saves us."
Wash visibly swallowed. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, and she licke her lips as she glanced between Sokka and the others, then back. Then, again. She pursed her lips, hesitating. But finally, she could only sigh. "...You're right," she said. "Okay. Let's do it."
Once more, the door to Renkotsu's office slid open and Wash stepped inside. But this time, so did Remus, Anders, and Sokka. In the dim light from the lantern, their shadows competed for space along the walls. There wasn't enough room for all of the vault's occupants, and some had understandably elected to stay away from Ren's personal lair.
"Wait there," Ren instructed, striding past the tangle of limbs to his desk. He sat down, beginning to search for something. Only Wash did not look the least bit curious.
"Ow!"
"Sorry," Anders said quickly, stepping carefully around Sokka's foot this time. "Sorry, tight spaces, I-sorry." He pressed himself to the wall by the door.
"This was originally supposed to be a secretary's office," Wash explained. "That's why it's cramped."
Remus stood beside her, watching Ren pull a key from his person and insert it into one of the desk drawers. "Secretary to whom?"
"The Overseer." A quick turn of the key and the drawer popped open. "The person in charge of the Vault, and who would conduct the experiments."
"Uh, experiments?" Sokka's brow rose. "What experiments? No one told me about any experiments." He paused, adding in: "Except for the mechanical-slash-weapons stuff we did together."
The sound of buttons being pressed on a keypad. "The Vault was not designed to be a safe haven," Renkotsu said, without looking up. "It is deceptive."
"VaultTec, the company who built these," Wash explained, "they didn't do this for free. They had secret contracts with the government to run tests on their captive subjects while the world outside went to hell."
"That's horrible," Remus murmured.
"Wait, so that means that this Vault-the Vault we live in-it's supposed to experiment on us?" Sokka stared. "How do you know that?"
A section of wall behind Renkotsu's desk hissed as a seal was popped free, and the metal panel retracted an inch from the wall before catching on a track somewhere unseen and rolling aside.
"Because this is his office," Renkotsu said, standing up from his desk and turning to head further in. "And we have his computer."
The tiny secretarial room opened up into a much larger, wider room. By far, this room was much grander and was obviously designed to be a seat of luxury and power. Instead of floral patterned wall paper spread along metal sheeting, the walls of this room were made of cherry wood paneling that carefully concealed any signs of metal infrastructure. A proud, leather chair sat behind a horseshoe-shaped, solid wood desk, on top of which sat a large terminal whose back panels glowed nuclear green with power cells. Over the top of the desk could be seen several shelves where collections of books-the only books in the Vault-were resting, waiting to be read. Along the opposite wall a spherical window bubbled out into a dome that may once have looked down onto large swaths of people below, but had since been speared by jagged, red rock like giant fingers stopped in time. On either side of the window, two long-dead potted plants curled into dusty skeletons of their former selves.
"Do not enter yet," Renkotsu warned, watching Remus take a step. He bent down, pointing to a near invisible tripwire. He rounded the corner out of sight.
Several mechanical clicks issued from where the monk had gone. When he called to them with permission to enter, the reason became clear: a bed had been built in the far corner of the room, facing the door. Surrounding it, various apparatus were placed above, around, or directly beside the bed, and not all of them were clear in purpose. Some looked like cannons or guns, as Renkotsu's weapons of choice. But even they appeared only partially complete at best-prototypes, or failures, perhaps? Still others were obviously for intruders: a small tank marked with a diamond was attached through a series of pipes to a pair of spouts. Renkotsu was carefully taking the wire from the floor and setting it beside the trigger switch on this handmade flame trap.
Perpendicular to the bed, a floor-length mirror was inlaid into the wall. It reflected Wash's back as she took a seat in the leather chair, spinning around to face the terminal.
"You didn't change the password, did you?" She asked.
"No," replied Ren. "Not since the last time."
Wash grunted in response, tapping the enter button until the display warmed and then typing in a few characters. "Gotta find it…"
Sokka stopped in front of the mirror, only half-admiring himself for a moment. "Password for what?"
"An idea," Wash explained. She motioned to the mirror. "Unless you'd like to go with Mabel's plan to dig a new tunnel."
"Uhh, no," Sokka frowned, matter-of-factly. "No, I wouldn't."
"Then give me a second," Wash continued, still searching.
Her fingers tapped away on the keyboard, dark eyes scanning the green stream of numbers and letters as she carefully picked out the correct sequence. Finally the screen defaulted to an English menu of sorts, the only thing Sokka had enough time to glance over in time was "TRIAGE 5150" - which was the thing Wash highlighted and selected, prompting the screen to turn black.
The mirror lurched back in the same manner as the door to the Overseer's office had, hissing in protest and squeaking on a rusted track as it rolled into the wall and exposed a short, stony corridor. At the end was the unmistakable glow of sunlight. The smell of salt carried in on a cool breeze, accompanied by the soft static of waves.
And Sokka's posture knowingly sunk and he shuffled towards the tunnel in utter disbelief, his boots scuffing on the rough stone underfoot. "No way..." he practically whispered.
"Is that…" Anders squinted at the open doorway. "Is that the sea?"
Wash nodded. "It's here in the logs-whoever this "Overseer" would have been, he had instructions. And this is so that he could escape when things turned from bad to worse."
"Which, I'm sure, is exactly what would have happened, especially after an apocalypse." Anders sighed. "That seems to be how things go. This is sensible, though."
"And fortunate for us," Remus added, taking a few exploratory steps beyond the wooden panels and into the tunnel. "Even if the tunnel was cut short upon the vault's arrival to this world."
The narrow mouth widened slowly from where the Vault ended and the rock began, opening slowly into a great blue mouth bathed in bold colors across the middle and bottom: dark red shattered into a fiery orange hue as sunlight splashed against a stone lip which protruded into the horizon a few yards before dropping off sharply into nothingness. Beyond that, the dark blue of the sea and the lighter tones of the constant star-filled sky competed for the eye. Scattered throughout the water were small, rocky islands, some with pine trees and others barren. And in the sky flocked towers of clouds racing across the endless expanse.
Sokka had gotten down on his knees in order to peer over the edge, squinting as a blast of icy sea air blew his wolf tail hair about in all directions. "This goes nowhere," he said, almost vacantly, "We can't go up and we can't go down." His head whipped around when the other approached, looking hard at Wash and Ren - his brows pulling down into a hurt frown. "How long has this been here?"
Wash folded her arms and huffed, almost shamefully avoiding Sokka's eye. But it was Ren who answered: "Since the beginning." It was a plain answer. "It wasn't much use in the colder months. The sea spray cased most of the cliff and pathway in ice."
"But that would mean-" he stopped, putting pieces together in his mind. "Man, was that why your room was always so cold?" Something seemed to strike him. "Was this how you got frostbite on your foot?!" He took in a deep, steadying breath, but still muttered: "And you were fine after because you're a zombie… Of course ."
"So this is how we get out ," Remus said slowly, stepping carefully around the ledge and examining the rock face. "But not how we get away …"
Anders turned, brow raised. "Is that an idea I hear?"
"I'm not sure," Remus replied, pausing seriously. "I just know that we don't have to stop here, at the cliff. We can still use this."
"How do you figure?" Wash asked.
"Do you remember the idea of a portkey being tossed about earlier?"
"Vaguely," Ren sharply said, his tone implying an explanation was warranted.
"In the simplest terms," Remus obliged, "a portkey is any inanimate object that, when touched, will transport the handler immediately to a prearranged destination. If we set one up here, we could have it waiting for us when we set the trap for Reaver."
"Any object?" asked Anders.
"Any object," Remus nodded. "A newspaper, an old boot-practically anything. It needn't be significant. Though ours will need to be one that all of us can be in contact with at once-and, preferably, with handles. If you let go before you arrive, you could end up anywhere, or worse."
Sokka waved a hand dismissively as he got to his feet. "Let me guess: death!" He waved his arms out to the sides. "What? It's always death!"
"It's always death," Anders agreed. "Though that does sound like a solid plan." He turned and followed the others back inside. "At least it's a start."
"I would not be so certain," said Renkotsu then, issuing the mirror-door closed with a small push and sealing them inside the Vault once again. "For one who has been lost in the forests here, you are quick to forget that there is nothing out there. Even if we were to use this portkey, we still have nowhere to go."
"The only place we could go is that windmill," Sokka suggested, turning to Remus and Anders. "You guys put up defensive magic-thingies around it, right?"
Remus made a slight noise of discomfort. "It-it isn't quite the same as you left it," he said. "But, yes."
"Would it house all of us?" Ren rubbed his chin.
"Uh, yes and no," Sokka answered him. "I mean, yes, because we could all fit inside. But, no, because there wouldn't be a lot of space. It was a little cramped with just four people. Figure in six more people, plus supplies? We'd have to rearrange the entire place."
"Well," Wash said slowly, "we'd better get started, then."
"What do you mean, 'the scent just ends '?"
The balverine, Boots, kept his head low, not daring to look Reaver in the eye like an equal. "It just-ends, Reaver, sir. Over there, by the river. It's just gone!"
Reaver felt his lip curl into a snarl. "Then find another way," he growled. "They leave plant trails in their footsteps-how can it be that no one can find them? You have eyes last I checked!"
"Yes, sir-Reaver, sir!" At once, Boots had abandoned his human skin for more natural white claws, vanishing into the trees with four other shadows, leaving only a few fallen leaves in their wake as they hunted for prey that would not be caught so easily.
Not that Reaver expected that it would go easily-on the contrary, it would have been foolish for him to expect anything less than a struggle for all the damage they caused him. The three strange guests, who had allied with his butler... Cliche, and disappointing. But nonetheless, whatever well of luck they had then had long run dry. While finding them would not be easy, it would not take long. A Hero of Skill could always find his target.
Which at this moment was the back of his neck. Black leather gloves gave a muted slapping sound as Reaver swatted at a mosquito with an undignified growl. The goggles over his eyes were the only things keeping the blasted bugs from irritating him further. It had been so long in that Oasis that the woods had become almost foreign to him. He had abandoned his grand white, fur-trimmed attire for a crimson-and-gold cubbing ensemble, suitable for his hunt. His black boots had long lost their polished luster in the mud from the forest floor, and none of his loyal servants dared mention the stray twig in Reaver's hair. After hours of walking, the forest had not been kind to Reaver since his departure from the Oasis. But he had not been attacked by any of the more dangerous creatures lurking in the dark, though he had not expected to run into a civilized creature, either.
And yet, perched on the top of a rather tall stump there was the familiar form of a stocky, dark-haired man wearing a large, white sweater, black jeans, and a rather unbecoming, cheeky toad mask. His legs were crossed where he sat, looking across the path at the ex-Lord with hungry expectation.
"Buenas dias, Reaver."
"If it isn't the merchant," Reaver muttered indignantly, coming to a halt no more than a few steps from him. "It certainly has been a while. You aren't here to try to sell me anything, are you? I'm not quite in the mood for talkative shopping and I'm down to counting bullets. Unless you have anything that would substitute for a dragonstomper .48 round?"
" Dios, no . I'm afraid that I'm sold out at the moment," Zacharie cheerfully said in his soft voice, observing as Reaver scoffed with a toxic roll of his eye, brushing a patch of dirt from his coat with disgust. As Zacharie's head tilted unnaturally on stiff shoulders, his mask morphed to its grinning cat form. "I do not usually see you out and about. Taking a vacation?"
Reaver clicked his tongue in disappointment, reaching for his holster. "Shouldn't you already know?" His hand rested delicately - yet threateningly - against the butt of his signature revolver. "We held similar positions, except your job allows you to travel."
"I'm the traditional items merchant that's necessary in every grand tale. I'll always find myself in places you're going to visit before you arrive."
"Yes, but some merchants set up an actual shop."
Zacharie laughed, a short, deep, light sound. "But how would I do my job then, is the question."
"Simple, quit your job." Reaver studied him. "I suppose if you are out of wares, your information is still for sale?"
Zacharie hummed, correcting the angle of his head so that his chin rested on wrists hidden by sleeves. "Certainly. What can I do for you?"
"I am looking for two escaped hounds," Reaver replied. "Or three escaped prisoners, or firebugs- whatever you can point me to so that I can sate my wrath and be on my way." These last words he crested with punctuation, standing still in a splinter of sunlight like a dagger in a restless hand.
"You are in luck," Zacharie said. "They are all in the same place." He waved his hands out and then rolled them back together in a smooth motion.
"Oh, goody ," Reaver got out through gritted white teeth, upper lip curling back. "I would urge you to give me specifics. I am paying for information, not vague hand gestures."
"I suppose I am being rather unreasonable, even if there are those who are amused with it." Zacharie tapped the bottom of his mask in thought. "If you look along the base of the red mesa, you may find them. But, if I may ask, why are you so determined to find them? You are free from where Scythe trapped you all those years ago; is that not what you wanted? You could let bygones be."
Reaver paused, for a moment overcome more by curiosity than his warpath. "Are you attempting to dissuade me, of all people?"
"I fair a greater chance of being paid." It was said quickly and matter-of-factly, earning a praising chuckle from Reaver. "And you have the information you desired, so you fair a greater chance of finding them. What do you plan to do when you get there? Even when the door opens, you cannot drag around the relatives of old friends, that is not wise."
"Sara's grandson? Yes. If he doesn't come to reason with me, I have no trouble shooting him." Reaver chuckled darkly. "Oh, trust me, I have no issues shooting that rude little esper ." With a vain, wicked grin spread across his porcelain face, Reaver licked his lips. "Yes, the oasis told me of him; keep an eye on him, he's going to impact my fate in a grand way, all that cryptic nonsense. Told me that Sara's dead, too. Shame. She was so pretty, as all her kind are bred to be, but now I no longer have to worry about her temporally mucking about in my affairs or. presently, getting miffed about offing her grandchild." Once again, Reaver paused. "But you said 'old friends', which is plural. Who else is there that I should be aware of?"
"Why, Reaver," Zacharie said, almost sounding admonished, "You kept his journal."
The immortal seemed puzzled, as if the thought had never occurred to him before. Reaver's brows knitted. "Children related to Stanford Pines? How - oh, nevermind. I suppose picky statistics had to favor Ford one of these days."
Thick, pale fingers clasped neatly in Zacharie's lap. "But enough blether. I'm not one of those protagonists you need to listen to for hours. So, let's see the color of your credits."
BANG.
Reaver stared over the end of his bejeweled gun as Zacharie's body fell to the ground from his seated perch of the high stump. He marched over, firing off several more shots into the body of the merchant, and huffed in frustration when it was time to reload. "You should have just stayed in that bloody theme park, Mr. Bismark ."
If he had gotten the chance, Reaver would have kicked off that creepy, little mask. But from beyond the smoke of the barrel Reaver watched Zacharie's head turn to face him, and then the corpse that should have been simply got back up.
"You knew that wouldn't work," Zacharie emotionlessly chuckled as he got to his feet. Aside from the bullet holes that riddled his sweater, he held no signs of damage - no flinching or injured body parts, instead of blood dripping from his "wounds" there were only faint trails of black smoke. It was enraging.
"I still hoped," Reaver shrugged, frowning his distaste. "Though I suppose for creatures like you, there are checks in place. Otherwise you would be long dead."
"It is much the same for you, dear age-thief," the merchant replied pleasantly. "As much as the Luke Cage style is all the rage in some places these days, I do not think it looks very good on me." He brushed his fingers over his holey sweater, then held out his hand with a grabbing motion. "I'll have to charge a premium for the attempt, though. Ahora, mi créditos, por favor, Señor Marksman."