{the conscript}
i. the ghost and the monster.
He thought he caught sight of a ghost that sidestepped the tawdry neon flashes and the laser dancelights. The ghost had limbs so spidery that shadows collapsed into intricacies of seaspray and dying butterflies in a scrupulous attempt to compliment it.
(it was amidst the greys that were tinged with bottle-black and an unnameable kind of lavender, the greys that loitered and swirled anonymity in between the outbursts of capering lights; and through the impalpable entrails that dangled in the black air from lit cigarettes.)
Wryness crept up his astringent features, tugging deviously at his cheeks to form a kind of trademark smirk. He supposed he was in luck tonight.
And there were noises that wrestled each other in the bewildering air. The scream of ill-assorted guitars and frenzy of drumsticks upon goldmetal, each instrument slapping and pinching the watery songs to deformed lengths. Strange, bluemurky conversations ducked into the smoke and perfume that swathed about him, and he rose from the bar counter.
The ghost had raven hair that chanced a cloak of midnight every time he blinked. Perhaps it was the fault of the dreadful lighting, or probably the bewitchment of twelve o'clock itself, but he could have sworn that it looked, (but wasn't it supposed to be archaically black) somewhat indigo. And wasn't that mahogany locks that ate into almond-carved eyes, eyes that saw nothing but watched everything?
According to the sheet of paper that was issued to him in a very immaculately bound folder, the eyes were brown. He couldn't absolutely be sure of his present verdict now, and it seemed that the universes of colour were not cooperating with his paperwork at all.
His eyes watched hers as they darted from patron to patron.
Or rather, from one wallet to another.
A gloved hand glided sinuously into the pocketbook of a middle-aged woman who was apparently much more fascinated with a rather fetching bouncer on her right. Seconds raced with the fingers and promptly lost, for the latter emerged beforehand to reveal its prey – a bulging leather purse.
He would have stayed on and observed the little pickpocket at work (with boundless amusement, or was that nostalgia?), when something jolted him out of his little spygame, rather crudely, in fact. Anyone would be disturbed to find one's groin area quivering in a passionate fashion.
He grunted and reached into his trouser pockets, retrieving a fervently vibrating phs, an all too familiar name blinking in neon green on the plasma screen.
"I hope you've not screwed up yet."
An array of teeth formed a cheerless sort of grin, even though the caller could not have possibly seen it through the cell phone.
"Why, hel-lo to you too, Rude."
"Have you even found the girl?" There was a slight burst of static, and he cursed the faulty reception.
"Of course I have. So do I get to kill her now?"
Rude sounded a trite exasperated, he thought. "Reno. We send her in, not finish her off. "
"Oh. Okay. It would be a pity too. Waste of good talent, that's what I call it."
"You call cheap pick-pocketing a talent?"
"Well. I suppose I have a soft spot for looters. I used to be a hell of a thief in my wilder days, you know." Her silhouette was playing a wily game of hide and seek with the slide of bluegrey against grey on the walls, prancing and pirouetting like a strange sort of pixie on hot coals, seeking unmonitored pockets, voluminous ones in the selfish light.
"You're a hell of anything you make out to be, genius."
He permitted himself a faint twist of lips. "That's the best you can do?"
"Don't push your luck." Rude almost grinned. "Back to business. You're supposed to bring her to the boss anyway, alive. Heidegger wants her personally in his office, and he's giving you forty-eight hours to fulfil your task. Think you can handle that?"
"What, you're saying she's gonna get away from a Turk?"
"Apparently a certain Gainsborough never came to mind, didn't she?"
"That Cetra had a fucking bodyguard, Rude."
"Well this one is a bodyguard. She isn't your exact definition of compliant, and you'll want to be a little more careful around her. It's been two years, but I'm pretty sure you understand how well she can pack a punch."
A derisive snort escaped his throat. "Of course I remember her. That snotty kid from the rag-tag team. Look what a fine little bitch she turned out to be. And a rotten looter to boot."
Rude paused. "I thought you said she was pretty dextrous at her work."
"No I didn't." And before his colleague could quote what he just uttered two minutes ago in objective retrospect, he hastily added, "If she's letting herself get caught by me, she's not doing a very good job, isn't she?"
"Anything you say."
"Anyway, call me back in two hours. Time to play police and thief."
"Alright. And Reno?"
"What is it?"
"Don't count your chocobos before they hatch."
"Good one, Rude. Tell me another." He muttered under his breath, but that was after Rude had hung up.
He readied himself and proceeded to the dance floor, porcelain hips swaggering to the disjointed rhythms that pumped and froze and tore away at his soles of his feet, the serrated walls seemingly melting and shuddering with each step he ventured.
The ghost was now no more than ten feet away from him, nipping and fluttering like a wingless sort of butterfly, her movements laced with the silky sheen of blood and ice. Noiseless boots sidestepped its inebriated, fog-washed neighbours, and a face in the garish lights sprouted a grin, widening and widening -
It was then that the ghost whipped around, windbitten eyes finding themselves locked directly upon those of the unfortunate, overconfident Turk. Orbs of jadeblue and brown collided, jerkily and fixating, while time shuffled like a cheapened cliché, pausing and ricocheting at all the ironic moments, and he accidentally blinked.
Which was a terrible mistake on his part, because as all ghosts do, she was no more, traceless and swapped with an intoxicated flurry of bodies in a fortuitous heartbreathe.
Eyebrows raised with a twist of the skin beneath his lips, and he found himself grinning, although he did not know why, maybe it pleased him to see her all alarmed and horribly displaced. His sadistic mirth, however, was quenched by a burly figure who shifted, as if on purpose, directly in front of him.
On second thought, maybe it was done on purpose, for the large man (Reno could not even bear to label the unsightly monstrosity that cowered over him a man; a decent-looking human being should at least possess eyes that were both fixating in the same direction, and have proper control over salivatory glands) had a sort of remarkable deftness, which he used to create an impression of the lanky Turk in the protesting wall.
His head felt like cotton upon impact, as if tiny three-legged men were performing the koró boushka on the back of his skull with steel-capped boots. Beyond the dangling colours that burned curious shapes on his retinas, the music was still raging, the crowd seemingly oblivious of an impending brawl.
The nightstick emerged almost immediately, and Reno returned the favour with the adroitness of a panther - a series of mercurial moves choreographed with the push of a switch, and a putrid smell of burnt flesh swallowed the air.
The massive opponent keeled over like a dissolving clayfigure, singed arms twitching repulsively in a futile attempt to snatch at Reno's ankles. The nightstick cackled hotwhite and cobalt, smiling silver tracing a vein-laced throat as its owner delicately placed a foot on the man's abdomen.
It was then the Turk noticed a bronze ring bearing an unpalatably familiar insignia, curled around his attacker's index finger. It was an intertwine of two scaled creatures, their copper-coloured fangs disappearing beneath wristveins.
"So, big guy. You're her little watchdog, aren't you?" Thin lips formed a humourless leer.
There was no reply, strange gurgling noises the only sign of his consciousness.
"Tell me, then, what does your boss want this time? Gaunier's head on a platter? Security passwords? Or just the elation of two of his cronies nicely disposed off by one of his old time friends?" His fingers toyed coyly with the button that would issue quite a fatal result for the figure clambering futilely on the floor, almost rendering the finishing touch when uproar surfaced from the throng of revellers.
" - Stop! Thief!"
"Hey! My gil's fucking stolen – "
He didn't wait to hear the rest, the last thing he ever wanted was to draw attention to his target. It would only make capturing her more arduous. Sneering in distaste at the man before him, he raised the nightstick gingerly.
"You might want to consider this your lucky day. Least I presume you won't be in suck a hurry to mess with the Turks now, would you?"
The man spat bitterly. "You haven't seen the last of us, Mr Lovelle."
But he had already left, the flicker of a flame-dipped ponytail colouring the air viciously.
.to be continued.