"How soon can you have the regiment taking orders from us?"
It has been a couple of hours. Boots pressed against the floor, blood and viscera squelched down. A Frumentarius was shoving one of the felled imps into a body bag. A few seconds pass. Zzzzip. Another stood by, standing to attention as he addressed the spymaster of the Emperor. "It shouldn't take too long, sir. We just need to get into contact with the Vigiles units on the field. They wouldn't dare defy the Frumentarii."
Seviathan knelt down, grabbing a goblet off of the floor, inspecting its insides. There was still a dribble of red fluid left. "Mmh, I don't doubt it. If they're taking orders from Andrealphus, they'll take orders from us. We just have to use this place to give them out." A cursory sip. The sharp taste of cold copper, then vile waves of rotten flavour. The von Eldritch furrowed his brows in disgust. Violently, he spat the putrid concoction out, the red misting into the air and marking the floor. "Aghhk… gggaahh…!" He sputtered and coughed for a moment. A Frumentarius sped over to him, and the spymaster swatted his hand in dismissal. "I'm fine!"
He looked over at the corpses, then back into the hallway where the ascended Vigil had been drained of its colour. He chucked the goblet away, its metal dinging onto the ground. "Just absolutely loathe the taste of imp blood."
"Wha', this lil' thin'?"
Five imps were currently housed in the air-conditioned building, two sat down in barber chairs. The diminutive imp sat on one seat was receiving a haircut, the closing of scissors filling the room. Snip. Snip. Snip snip. Strands of their whitish hair fell to the linoleum floor.
The diminutive imp sat on the other seat had a laceration on his shoulder. To his side was his wife, and inexplicably to him, one of the barbers was looking at the injury. The marksman eventually cleared his throat, the ludicrousness of the situation hitting him for a few moments. "Err, yes, that's the, uh, injury. Are you sure you're qualified to be doing this?"
The barber attending to his injury just chuckled. "Dang it, Mills, ya brought me a city slicker again!"
"Ain't my fault! Told 'im he could walk it off!"
The barber squinted for a moment, the lips on his freckled face pursing as he applied a cloth soaked in a transparent, yellowish liquid against the wound. Moxxie let out a hiss as his body tensed up. The barber, in return, patted the marksman's shoulder. "Ey, no pain, no gain… relax, jus' disinfectin' ya…" The cloth went back in the bucket that had been set aside for it. "Ye, I can stitch that up, no problem." He looks over to Millie, offering his hand. "Man's gotta eat, though. Five bucks."
Millie winced a bit, leaning over to look at her husband, letting out a slight hiss in between her teeth. "…that's a lot. Ya sure ya wanna…?"
Moxxie let out a tiny smile. "It's alright, hun… at least this place has air conditioning."
The barber gave off a smarmy grin. "Ya, it's got AC! Only shop down 'ere that got it!" He grabbed a sewing kit out of a nearby drawer, opening it up, and threading the needle. "This place right here's my pride an' joy."
The man of the relationship looked nervously at the needle, then back to the barber. "…so uh… is there actually a Kriego or… is that just a company name?"
The barber got another box out. Inside were black nitrile gloves. He dipped his hands inside the yellowish mixture, drip-dried them, and then slipped the gloves on. "Wha', ya got a buncha fake barbershop names up in tha city? Mom an' Pop, except tha Pop's som' multimillionaire livin' in a fancy-schmancy mansion?" He scoffed, the needle and thread being dipped in the concoction. "My name's on tha shop an' I'm proud a' it… maybe I should get rid a' the O, though. Ain't supposed ta pronounce it anyway."
Moxxie chuckled, but it came out stifled. His nerves were clearly acting up. "Y-you know, it's funny, because, uh, our employer actually has that too…! Is that… common?"
The gloves, slightly cold, touched the area of the wound, and the smaller imp shivered. "…kiiinda. I know a few folks that had letters added to tha end o' their names. Somethin' 'bout genderin' 'em. Weren't meant ta be silent letters, but, uh… Kriego sounds like a damn clown name. So it's just Krieg ta y'all." He paused for a moment. "…oh, dang, fergot ta ask, do ya want any numbin'? City booooy?" The last words teasingly wavered, and there was considerable snark in his grin.
"…uh… y-yes please." He stuttered the words out, and the barber began shuffling through his individually packed syringes and his vials of juice. The marksman continued. "My employer was a clown too, so I can't say it wasn't fitting… if you get into the assassination business, though, with the name Blitzo, nobody takes you seriously. Blitz, though? What did your parents say again, hun?"
Millie's eyes lit up. "Made 'em think a' war! Perfect fer a guy like him!"
Kriego paused for a moment. His lungs ceased up, and he let out a shaky exhale. "…how's he doin'?" He hovered the syringe in the air, which was now filled with fluid, darting his eyes across both of the imps but not focusing on either.
Millie looked over to the barber. "…well, he's…" They met eyes. "Ya know him?"
"Hard not ta know a guy when y'all in tha womb together."
