The bright sun overhead promised another hot summer day. Naz missed the Mud District. The cobbled ground of the Buffer had a way of absorbing the sun's heat. It didn't bother him much, but by the end of every patrol shift the others would complain. They've been doing that more often of late. It was the boredom he knew. Boredom chipped away at everyone until there wasn't much else to do besides complain about things. Naz didn't doubt their loyalty. Such a thing wasn't possible. They were fierce in their commitment. It was only the method of retribution that he doubted.

Mudslingers. People used to whisper that name behind their backs. Now they've grown to accept the title. Its who they were. These men and women he called family weren't going to change. Not ever. They are thieves and thugs. Brutes and lowlifes. Like Naz they have willingly stepped onto this path of redemption, but there is no denying their nature. Only now, in a position of leadership, did Naz begin to understand. This family of his could not be controlled for long. Runt understood this. He kept them in check, but knew enough to let them indulge in their vices. On that short leash, they were tamed. Under his leadership, they were the best they could be. But then the collar came off and Sned let them run wild. That 'gift' of freedom blinded them to Sned's greed. But now they had a second chance and Naz was determined to make sure it didn't go to waste.

Not an easy task. Naz knew himself to be a shit leader. If anything, he was just a mouthpiece. An instrument for those who knew what they were doing and Naz was glad for it. Runt, Kiera, Buckets and even Clementine, they spoke through him and the others listened because with Sned gone he was the biggest and meanest of them all. Still, no amount of patrol duty could turn them into the royal guards the Mud District needed them to be. That attack on the trucks was enough to satiate them for a while. But it's only a matter of time before they start taking things into their own hands. Already Naz had to put an end to a few self-planned raids on the city. Foolish plans that would cause more harm than good.

Naz leaned against the barracks picking his nails clean. To his left a few Mudslingers on break were tossing dice. A betting game created that night Buckets humiliated Sned.

The sound of naked feet slapping against stone alerted Naz to Clementine's approach. The younger boy looked sickly as if he hadn't seen a bed in days. "Naz, how are things here?"

Naz waited until Clementine was close so he could speak softly, without the others hearing. "All quiet here. As usual."

"You sound bored." Observed Clementine.

"It's been more than a week since we took the Buffer. We're backed up, alright? All this watching and doing nothing. How long do we have to wait before this standoff ends?"

"Not much longer now. I've already set things in motion."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm sending Buckets and Kiera on a mission beyond the Spine. They're going to do what they need to do to cut off their supply lines for good."

"How come you didn't tell me about this?"

Clementine smirked, "I'm telling you now. Buckets and Kiera only found out this morning. They're making the climb as we speak."

"And what are we to do besides sit on our asses?"

"We can't just go on the offensive." Clementine stared off in the direction of the Craft District. "Refuge is too big. We punch through there and we will be scattered and surrounded. So, we will make them come to us. Kiera and Buckets will see to that."

"So, you're saying wait."

"And be ready, yes."

"Waiting…We gonna wait till they die of old age, is that it? Don't think you're the only one. I want those bastards who were pullin' Sned's strings just as much as you."

Clementine was slow and soft in response. "I know. I just wish I knew sooner."

Naz hated his pitiful tone. "You lost your sister. I lost my mother. There's not a single person in this district who didn't lose a friend or relative that night. We all had our own losses to grieve. There was no more room for anything else."

"I still should've realized."

"Wouldn't have changed anything."

"But you were right." Said Clementine, "Back when we were kids. I did have a secret way into the city. But I never told you. If only I knew why you were so desperate for more…"

The regretful tone of his voice made Naz uncomfortable. "I didn't make it easy. She didn't make it easy. Even in sickness she found a way to bitch about everything. Nothing I ever did was good enough. Then there was you. Smartest little shit at Greenberg's. Always so clever. Resourceful. I'd scrounge up a potato while you manage wheels of cheese. Felt as if you were rubbing it in my face."

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter now." Naz grunted a laugh, "Look at you. You're still a little shit."

Clementine shared his smile, "And you're still the angriest guy I know."

It hurt Naz's nose to smile but he did it anyway. He could see how Runt grew to respect someone like Clementine. For all his apparent weaknesses he was in his own way, strong. Strong enough to stand up to him, to Sned, and every fucker out there that supported the wannabe King of Mud. In a way Clementine was like Buckets, only simpler. Clementine's resolve came from something Naz recognized. Hate. Anger. Those emotions shaped him as they did Naz. Buckets on the other hand was more of mystery. He seemed to love life itself and it filled him with a joy so simple Naz couldn't comprehend it.

A sudden shout echoed over the Buffer warehouses before being silenced as quickly as it started. Naz was on his feet before anyone else, club in hand. What was that? The rattle of dice came to a halt as each of the Mudslingers followed Naz's lead.

"Where'd that come from?" grumbled Jules as he loaded his assault rifle.

Naz stepped out from the barrack's shade, "I don't know, but it sounded close."

Clementine pointed to the youngest Mudslinger present. A boy of twelve. "You, go find Runt. He should be at Old Gran's. Hurry!"

The boy was already sprinting before Clementine even finished his order. The others moved to join Naz in the middle of the street. Another cry cut short, this time closer.

Naz hefted his club, "The patrol. We're under attack."

"By who?" asked Leff, "Our lookouts would've seen a City Guard advance."

Down the lane, from an alley mouth appeared a stranger. The man had large round eyes behind gray tinted shades. Six swords were stored on his back. The handles of which poked over his shoulder blades and out to his sides. If he was City Guard then he was out of uniform. However, Naz's gut told him this stranger was much more than that. Those creepy browless eyes fell on Clementine and the stranger rushed forward. Four assault rifles blared to life, but that stranger was a blur. He reached Jules and with a single swing of the sword, sliced the rifle in half. The resulting explosion sent the Mudslinger reeling back. Naz hadn't even seen him unsheathe the thin blade. One second his hand was empty, the next it was there. That sword sliced through four of his friends before Naz could reach him.

"You bastard!" he shouted as his club met the stranger's steel. The sharp blade bit into the wood. Naz followed through with his heavy swing, pushing the stranger back several strides. He charged, ignoring the cries of pain from his friends and the incoherent warning shout behind him. Naz wouldn't give this man half a second to recover. He pressed him, swing after swing leading into the next.

Raw strength was Naz's only advantage so he exploited it. As stubborn and single-minded as an ox. He drove the stranger back down the cobbled street. The swings the stranger couldn't dodge he parried with his thin blade. With each contact Naz's club battered the sword aside. The stranger buckled beneath his blows, falling to one knee. Naz raised his club over his head and brought it straight down with all his might. The club connected with the skinny sword-

And jarred to a halt. The sudden stop sent a shiver up his arms. A cold presence ran through his body as sharp and precise a hornet's sting. Naz looked down just in time to see the stranger pull the slick steel out from his chest. The man's browless expression…bored.

All at once his bullish strength left him. The club grew too heavy in his hand so it slipped through his fingers. Naz stumbled back, confused. The world tilted before his eyes until he was looking straight up towards the sun. A shadow passed over him, or maybe he just blinked. He wasn't sure. A cold set into his bones. The pooling blood beneath him cooled the hot cobbled stones. An unexpected relief from the summer's heat. Then again, maybe it was winter after all, for it started snowing. His vision dissolved to white like wool being pulled over his eyes.

Mama, why did you have to die? It's not fair. I took care of you like I always did. No matter the burden on me. No matter if you never thanked me or not. I got you out of those flames you ungrateful hag. But you were sick and smoke was everywhere. All you had to do was breathe. It's not fair! None of it is…So quit your yelpin' Mama, I'm coming home.

Just as soon as the flat faced brute with the broken nose fell, the kid arrived, jumping over his friend's body. Windswept strawberry blonde hair, violet vest embroidered black at its edges, and royal purple eyes. The kid fit the description Ira gave him. Oren leapt into the air, landing back a good space. The Clementine kid stopped his advance and turned to check on his flat faced friend. Oren knew though, the brute was probably already dead. He pierced his heart through and through. Oren wiped his handkerchief down the length of the blade, soaking up the dead brute's blood. He stroked the tip of the needle sword with his bare fingers. The damned wooden club nicked the steel.

After checking his pulse, Clementine removed his hand from the brute's neck. "You killed him."

"Why does everyone feel the need to tell me what I can plainly see for myself? Yeah, I killed him. Got his blood all over my sword." Oren tossed the bloodied handkerchief away. "Now say what you will about the Grimm, but at least they have the decency to clean up after themselves when they die."

Clementine rushed him with all the ferocity and foolishness one might expect from an enraged teenager. He was faster than Oren expected. Barely had time to sheath his swords. The kid had a fighting style, striking with open palms or the tips of his fingers. His aura enhanced the attacks, making up for his lack of raw strength. Oren had seen such fighting before. It was a defensive style meant to counter attacks or shove an opponent back, yet Clementine played not to his stance's advantages and instead moved onto the offensive. They traded a few blows before Oren disengaged himself.

"She didn't tell me you could fight." He laughed, "You're well practiced." Oren caught Clementine's wrist and pulled him in close enough to kiss. "But ill experienced." A kick to the ribs sent Clementine tumbling back. A hit like that would've cracked some bones on a normal person. But the kid just brushed it off. "An aura too. It's no wonder you piqued Ira's interest. Too bad for you."

Clementine came again. His open palmed strikes were swift and precise, almost like a dance. The footwork was good, but Oren noticed a small hiccup in the kid's right leg. A childhood injury perhaps. They traded blows once more but this time Oren decided to teach the kid a lesson. A punch to the face, a sweep of the leg, and an elbow to the sternum. Powerful hits enhanced by Oren's own aura. Clementine rolled down the cobbled street of the Buffer, tearing up his clean suit. By the time the rattled kid could stand Oren was there.

"You still have a lot to learn." Oren targeted the kid's weakness, delivering a stomp that shattered both his aura and his leg.

Clementine cried out in agony before collapsing to the ground. He reached for his leg, his hands quavering just above the white bone that stuck out from the torn skin.

Oren winced, "Ouch. She's going to give me an earful for that." He wrapped his arm around Clementine's neck and squeezed. With enough pressure applied in the right position it only took seconds until they blackout. Seconds was all he had. Oren felt the vibrations in the stone almost like a ripple in a river and yet he heard nothing. Nothing at all. He turned just in time to see one large hand filling up his world. Oren reared back just barely escaping that vice of a grip.

Taken off guard, he disengaged himself back thirty paces. The newcomer pursued as quiet as the nonexistent wind. Oren dove out of the way as the giant's fists slammed down with a punch that put a miniature crater in the ground. As soon as Oren found his footing he jumped up onto a nearby warehouse roof. His enemy did not pursue this time. He stayed on the street, silhouetted in the kicked-up dust.

"I see, you're the giant with the ironic name." Oren unsheathed his swords, tossing four of them out across the Buffer street in random locations where they stuck up like pinned needles. The last two he dual wielded. "Let's see if you're worth the trip to this shit show of a city."

Oren leaped from the warehouse roof as chunks of cobbled debris tore through the spot he was just standing in as if it were paper. He landed in the street and was instantly pushed back by the giant named Runt. The fool fought bare handed, but Oren knew if Runt so much as got a grip on him then it was over. Oren danced backwards using the length of his swords to poke or slash at Runt. He continued to retreat, helpless before the giant's advance.

That is until he reached his third sword embedded into the ground. Oren kicked the blade up with the back of his ankle. The addition of the third sword completely changed his fighting style. Oren went on the offensive, juggling the swords with ease. The big man was clearly caught off guard. They always were. He tried to disengage, but Oren advanced, driving him back. Back towards the fourth blade jutting from the wall of the barracks. Oren caught it in the fold of his knee and added it into the rotation.

Four blades spun about, creating a shredding shield that delivered cut after cut. Runt's brown aura shimmered in vast diminishing. He couldn't break away, Oren wouldn't allow that. He directed the path of their fight directly into the fifth blade. Oren swept it up using his teeth. His body contorted to keep up with the use of five swords. The strain it required was taxing. Oren knew he needed to end things fast. So, he jumped in the air, his blades flowing around him. With a spin, he kicked the pommel of one and sent it flying out. It cut across Runt's cheek in a streak of red.

In both parts rage and desperation Runt made one last attempt to grab at him. Oren rolled away, catching a blade in each hand and stabbing them backwards. Each found its mark on Runt's chest, but even without his aura the giant was tough. Neither blade pierced all the way through. Oren tugged his blades free and pulled away, letting the giant topple. He caught the remainder of his swords, one in his mouth, one in his left knee, and one in his right elbow fold. He stood poised on one foot, waiting for Runt to stand, but he didn't.

Oren sighed. How disappointing.

A crowd had gathered during their fight. Some from the barracks, the rest coming from the Mud District. They kept their distance, horrified by what they saw. All except one. She came bounding after him on all fours like a beast, her face twisted in feral wrath. A young man cried out after her.

"Kiera don't!"

Too late. Oren sprung from where he stood, rapidly closing the distance between them.

His agility was unlike anything she encountered before. Kiera skidded to a halt, but his shadow was already upon her. The Killer's slashing blade met the metal tube of Buckets' baton. The resulting clash resounded with a low hum. Buckets angled and swerved the baton so that the sword tip screeched into one of the baton's many holes. With a twist, he wrenched the sword from the Killer's grip, snapping the blade in the process. Startled, the Killer bounced back towards his sixth and last sword lodged near Naz's corpse.

Naz's corpse…Somehow, she knew that was the case. He laid unmoving in a pool of crimson. The wounded Mudslingers crawled to the safety of the crowd cowering against the side of the street. Beside her, Runt was struggling to breathe. Alfie and Greenberg were at his side, thrusting bandages over his stab wounds. Clementine remained still, a bone sticking from his leg as clear as day. None rushed to his aid. He was too close to the Killer.

In front of her, Bucket's hand trembled. "Kiera, take care of ours friends."

The tone of his voice tugged on her soul. "Whatever you're thinking. Don't."

"Stay back, you'll just get in the way here."

"Listen to me, dammit! Don't do this."

He turned to face her. Fresh tears glistened his cheeks. "I'm sorry, but I have to. He killed my friend."

Kiera reached out to grab him, but her legs were numb with fear and he had already set out marching towards the Killer. No, you idiot. Run away with me. Run away!

Buckets spun the baton in his hand, which emitted a soft whistling sound as the air passed through the hole carved tube. He stopped ten feet in front of the Killer who stood waiting for him. Their words carried across the dead silent street.

"My name is Buckets. What's yours?"

Momentarily shocked by the question, the Killer straightened. "Oren."

Buckets pointed towards Naz's corpse, the act of raising his hand seemed a struggle to him. "His name was Naz. He was a friend of mine."

"What of it?"

"You shouldn't have done that. I can forgive so many things. So many…But not this."

"I wouldn't stress over it. I'm not looking for forgiveness!" Oren launched into his attack, all five blades twirling in a blur. They clashed in a flurry of strikes. All too fast for Kiera to keep track. Oren's fighting style was beyond absurd. He used every inch of his body, twisting and contorting himself to catch his swords. Moments passed when he was standing on his hands, using his legs to fight. Kiera had never seen anyone utilize swords in such a manner.

With the killer distracted, people rushed forward. They dragged Clementine away from the conflict. Armed Mudslingers that still stood shook off their shock and took aim with their rifles.

"No!" shouted Kiera, "You might hit Buckets."

They tentatively lowered their guns. Their bug eyes frightened and confused. They were children Kiera realized. Not even in their teens yet. All the senior Mudslingers such as Jules and Leff were wounded on the ground. One of the kids stared at the ensuing fight in open awe. "Is that really Buckets?"

Buckets and the killer named Oren were a moving cyclone that tore through the street. The low humming from Buckets' baton steadily grew into a whistling howl. A sound so terrible and raw with pain it cut straight to Kiera's heart. Oren twirled with his blades, wielding them in ways Kiera didn't think possible. They never left his range of reach as if they revolved around him. The eccentric swordplay made Oren's movements random and chaotic. As unpredictable as the toss of a die.

Oren's attacks were either dodged or parried by that damned wind chime baton. It cried out with every contact, pulsating. He had Buckets on the defensive, but the young man did not strain. His face was calm and his gaze focused. With every second Oren's muscles screamed in agony. They had been overused. He was reaching his physical limit and still he had yet to lay a scratch on him. It was as if Buckets could perceive every stroke and stab before they even came close. And that damn whistling! It was like he was fighting the wind itself.

Hissing in frustration, Oren broke away. "Who the fuck are you?!" he shouted.

Buckets closed the distance. Baton meeting several blade edges. In that instant of closeness Oren saw the seething veins of aura that streaked his face. They fed into his inflamed eyes like reversed tears. Those were the eyes of death staring at Oren for he knew death wept for them all.

A red mist glazed over his vision. Oren and his swords. The curves they made, like arcs through the air. Nothing is ever truly random. There is a pattern in all things. Buckets learned that when he was still small. He could see the direction they'd take. It was only a matter of adjusting to it. Nameless vibrated in his hand, sending tremors up his arm. Its keening song a reflection of his soul.

Using his semblance bled his aura rapidly. It was time to finish. Nameless clashed against one of Oren's swords once more. The thin blade couldn't handle the frequency. It cracked and shattered like cheap pottery. Oren was perhaps the most skilled swordsman Buckets had ever fought against. But his technique, much like his own was risky. All it took was one break to disrupt the flow of his movements. A hiccup.

Oren's form fell apart. He staggered to recover, but it was already too late. Buckets moved in, deftly sneaking past Oren's fumbling defenses. Nameless struck headfirst into the man's sternum, expelling all the force it had built up since the start of the fight. The resulting shock wave sent Oren flying backwards. He skipped across the street, finally coming to a stop about twenty feet away. Near the Craft District's border.

Buckets moved towards him, passing Naz's corpse along the way. He halted in front of Oren. The killer coughed up blood that drenched his hairless chin. Buckets punctured something with that last attack. Maybe even caved in the man's chest. His father's voice whispered in his head, an unburied memory. Finish it.

Buckets lifted Nameless, but before he could bring it down Oren raised a quivering blood soaked hand.

"Wait!" he begged, "Please don't!"

Buckets hesitated. Oren's smile oozed red and he clenched his hand into a fist.

The broken piece of blade from Oren's sword started to move on its own. It trembled at first as if caught in a heavy wind. Then it started scraping against the ground. Kiera leapt for it just as it shot up. She reached out, grabbing the flying tip with her bare hand. Razor sharp steel tore right through her grip, slicing to the bone. Kiera fell and watched helplessly as the flying sword tip flew right into Buckets' back.

The whole Buffer cried out. An explosion of tortured agony. The noise filled her head, deafening even the pain in her hand.

He didn't remember falling, yet there he laid on his side. Buckets wasn't even sure what happened. He was standing over Oren one second and the next something punched him in the back. Kiera screamed in pain. Alone. Shapes closed in from behind and in front. He was being dragged away. Nameless bounced in his hand against the cobbles. He still held on. The screams muffled as if he went underwater. By the time the stone road turned to Mud the noises had all faded.

Kiera cradled him in her arms. A strange expression of terror and sorrow filled her beautiful face. Ah, so I lost then. Foolish of me to even try. It's been so long, I've grown rusty. Her lips were moving but not a word reached his ears. He took her hand in his. Gashes lacerated her palm and fingers. That's no good. Buckets tried tearing off a piece of his shirt to bandage the cuts, but his hands wouldn't respond to him anymore. They fell to his sides despite his best efforts.

Gravity pulled on him, beckoning him downwards. It felt as if he were sinking into the mud. Inch by inch. Kiera held onto him, shouting for help at those passing shadows around them. But no matter how tightly she gripped, he was slipping. And she knew it too. He could see it in her sad eyes. Forgive me Kiera. I just couldn't-Ahhh, I wish I had more time.

Buckets' gaze moved over Kiera's shoulder to the blue sky above where two hawks circled each other. With the last bit of strength he had, Buckets smiled.