Chapter 3: What Then?
The streets were bustling, Sinners and Hellborn milling about as they shuffled off to wherever it was they were going. Some heading to work, some returning home, others still had come to that street in particular to patronize any one of the local establishments. A young imp with a close-cropped crew-cut wove through the crowd, clothed in a long, ratty coat that almost brushed the ground. He walked with confidence, despite the long cane tapping the ground ahead of him, his gait fast and sure as though the eyes behind those black teashades could see. Hellborn stepped around him, trying and succeeding to ignore the unfortunate creature, as they continued on their business. Sinners took little notice of the boy as well, though did not alter their course for his benefit, the blind little imp deftly stepping around them.
To the casual observer, the imp appeared hapless, bouncing around the stream of traffic, sidestepping and correcting his course, giving the impression of taking great pains to not touch and possibly offend the powerful demons around him. But a sharper eye would see this for the ploy it was. In fact, the blind imp moved and weaved about with such skill that not one of the other pedestrians so much as ruffled his coat, despite giving the impression of stumbling about. In the unlikely event one of these busy Hellions would spare a moment's notice to a blind, seemingly homeless imp boy, they would only see his stumbles and near-trips. They would not see his fleet, nimble hands darting in and out of pockets and purses, up sleeves and behind necks. They would not see the wallets, phones, jewelry, and watches those deft hands freed, nor the way his subtly procured fare vanished into the seemingly endless pockets and sleeves of his oversized coat.
After a scant five minutes of navigating the crowd, the boy had cleaned out no fewer than twelve demons with all of them none the wiser.
Another imp followed closely after, not taking his eyes off the boy as he followed after, careful to keep his distance but not lose sight. He was tall for an imp, rangy, practically bouncing around inside the large, filthy coat. His white hair was scruffy and greasy, his face bristly with snowy stubble. He bobbed and weaved through the crowd, keeping his gaze downcast, expression convincingly despondent but for the predatory sheen in his abnormal green eyes. The crowd parted around him, eyes sliding off the scruffy, malodorous hobo. Even Sinners, whose inclination would otherwise be to trample any ringscraper that failed to give way, stepped around him as one might do to avoid stepping in dog shit.
'Kabby was right,' Red mused, smirking. 'This is an excellent way to avoid being noticed. I should call him and tell him so. Fate delivered me a worthwhile henchman in that one. I should show him more appreciation.'
Just then, his Hellphone buzzed in his pocket. Red maintained his disguise, not wanting to look to all the world like a smelly derelict and then pull out a fancy Hellphone. That sort of thing would draw the wrong kind of attention. Instead, he looked into the future, into a timeline where he answered and, sure enough, several heads turned, expressions incredulous.
Oh.
The Vees were here.
Kabby would hand the phone off to Steppenwulf, of course. His Bosses no doubt sent him to apologize in person as part of the peace gesture. Not that he would admit that. No, instead he would bluster and stomp about, demanding Red return and meet with him in person, threatening Kabby's life should he fail to comply. Red gleaned from additional timelines that, no matter the provocation or encouragement, Steppenwulf would decline to follow through. This, of course, confirmed that he was there to deliver the Vees' peace terms and be on his merry way.
Excellent.
Red saw no need to answer the call in the first place, as Kabby was quite safe. Not to mention being forced to wait around would no doubt annoy Steppenwulf to no end, seasoning the Sinner in his own juices a bit. Besides, Red wanted to see the lout's face when delivering the terms, the acid taste of swallowed pride burning bitter in the back of his throat like bile. Red could not help but grin in the here and now.
Grinning, he shuffled by a trio of Hellions; a hellhound, a drake, and a tall, bullish imp. He noticed them noticing him, but paid them no mind. He had to catch up to his potential lieutenant, to watch the lad and access his worthiness. If he was to be successful, these first few in his organization had to be chosen very, very carefully.
"He's not answering," said Kabby, turning to the incensed gatorwolf. "Sorry, bud."
"Call him again!" Steppenwulf snarled, jabbing a taloned finger at the phone. "Do it!"
"Alright…" Kabby tried again, the ringtone droning in his ear for a few seconds before Red's chipper answering machine piped up yet again. "Hello! I'm sorry, it seems you've missed me. Please leave a name and number at the beep and I'll get back to you soon!"
"Nope." Kabby turned to Steppenwulf. "Boss is on the job. Dunno what to tell you."
"Give me that!" The Sinner's hand flashed out, grabbing the phone and redialing, holding the phone to his ear. "C'mon y'fuckin'..."
"Hello!–"
"Red! You miserable bastard, get your ass back here doubletime unless you want me to–"
"–issed me. Please leave a name and number at the beep and I'll get back to you soon!"
"Cocksucker!"
'~Beep~'
"Red Nightmare, this is Steppenwulf. I'm back here with your ringscraper and minions. Unless you wanna see their heads on sticks, you'll get back here right fuckin' now!"
He held up the phone and contemplated crushing it, but reconsidered: what if he called back? Instead, he handed it back to Kabby and stormed back over to his companions, grumbling. "He'd better get back soon, for your sake, imp."
Kabby eyed up the Sinners. Despite their outward-projecting vibe of 'badass gangsters' Kabby could see the leash around their necks. They'd been whupped twice, once by his boss, and again by theirs. If they were here to push for war, his head would be rolling across the pavement by now. Red was right, these guys were here to settle.
"Kee-hee-hee!" A shrill voice chattered over his head, perched on the roof of his boxtruck was a slim, diminutive imp in a bowler cap, his grin toothy and face vacant. "Back soon or krrch!"
The little imp drew a talon across his throat and winked at Kabby. Kabby sneered up at him, he'd been around the block long enough to know what this guy's deal was. "What're your Bosses up to, short-stuff?"
The little imp's vacuous expression shifted in an attempt at concentration. "Bosses wanna talk your boss. Talk-talk!"
"Can the act, faller-pet," said Kabby, rolling his eyes. "Who actually buys that minstrel show bullshit?"
The little imp blinked, mouth curling into a smirk as the light of his true, wicked intelligence seeped into his eyes. "You'd be surprised. Good money in it."
"Saving up to buy back your dignity, huh?" Kabby scoffed, shaking his head. "Lemme guess. You're the brains of this operation."
"I suppose you could call me the level head of this group. That and I'm observant," said the bowler-cap imp, shrugging. "Watch people, figure out their weaknesses, and tell the boys. People see a wallowing ringscraper crawling all over those guys, they don't think twice."
"You must take real pride in your work, bud."
"It's always nice to see the dominos fall, yes," said the imp, nodding. "The name's Puck, by the way."
"Kabby," he replied, getting to his feet and looking up at Puck. "Observant, huh? Well, then you gotta know that calling Red back for round two is a bad idea."
"Oh, indeed!" Puck chuckled, hopping down off the truck. "I don't even want to know where you found that one. In fact, I suspect he found you."
Kabby blinked, eyes darting away from the sharp little imp's gaze.
Puck smiled. "Ah, but I think you know why we're here. Don't you, Kabby?"
"Peace talks, yeah," said Kabby, nodding at the three Sinners as they talked amongst themselves. "But I wasn't askin' after them. I meant your Bosses, the Vees. What's their game?"
"Peace with your boss, a sort of cease-fire," said Puck, shrugging. "I haven't read the document, but I have my guesses."
"A neutral zone."
Puck tapped his nonexistent nose and pointed at Kabby. "You are sharp! They'll keep out of your business if you keep out of theirs. Lords Vox and Velvette have no quarrel with your operations, or no real overlap, anyway. But Lord Valentino…"
"The cathouse and walkin', yeah," said Kabby, crossing his arms across his narrow chest. "Yeah, we figured. We'll shutter that tout suite, we just needed your Bosses' terms to sell the idea to the Boss Lady."
Puck blinked at this, arching an eyebrow. "You mean… Red Nightmare is not the leader of the Orphanage?"
Shit.
Kabby said nothing.
Puck eyed him up for a moment before shaking his head. "No doubt there are plans to rectify that. I saw your Boss, saw him fight. Terrifying, that. But more importantly, I saw him handle the merchandise. He cares, doesn't he?"
Kabby said nothing, internally cursing himself for letting that slip.
"Heh. No need to answer," said Puck, turning to head back to his companions before glancing at Kabby over his shoulder. "That's going to get him into some serious trouble. And you. You know that, don't you?"
Kabby cast his gaze to the pavement. "Yeah."
With that, Puck scampered over to his increasingly impatient Sinners, crawling up the green one's back, perching on his shoulder like a parrot, inane expression back with force.
'Yeah, I know,' Kabby thought to himself. 'But does he?'
"Destination in thirty meters," the phone droned in his earbud.
Syx deactivated the locator and popped out the earbud, letting the sounds and smells of the street to filter in. He sampled the air, sniffing and tasting it with his long forked tongue. Musk, perfume, and the low odors they attempted to hide met him with every pedestrian. The exhaust of cars was sour and oily, but easily ignored. The smoke of both tobacco and drugs trailed in ribbons after their users. Baked goods mixed with… Wait. Axel grease. Sweat, fresh and old mingled in the dull-smelling cotton cover-alls.
Found them.
The car they were picking at was parked outside a bakery, or maybe a cafe. The smell of buttered scones and croissants wafted on the air.
He sifted through the gruff-voiced conversations of passersby, the rumble of traffic, and zeroed in on the familiar voices and cadence of the Shop Kids. He couldn't quite make out words or anything like that, not at this distance, but the pitches and valleys of youthful voices, the squeaks and chirps and cracks of those too young to think to moderate their tone, made sharper by their mild, powertool-induced deafness. He made his way over, cane tapping as he weaved through the crowd. He'd pick no pockets here, as any raised alarm could ruin the much more profitable venture of the Shop kids. He walked until he could make out their 'hushed' words. He sat down on the street, back to the wall, and reached into his pocket, tossing out a wide-brimmed hat and a crumpled cardboard sign on the ground. A handful of change from a cooing female Sinner jangled.
"Mute and blind? Poor dear."
"Klk."
He listened in on the Shop Kids.
"You sure about this?"
"Shut up."
Dew. Syx noted that Kabby clued into the abrasive incubus' nature almost immediately. He was sharper than most.
"The Staffer's waiting about five or so kliks away," said Dew, metal clicking on metal as he plied the lock. "Look at this rocket! You tellin' me you don't wanna take her for a spin?"
"Why not just drive it back to the 'Donna?" One of the younger kids, a newbie imp named Rolf, asked. "Why take 'em to a truck and then to the 'Donna?"
"Dumbass!" Sneered an older kid, a female hellhound named Paq. "Alla these got 'lectric trackers, even the hoopties. Boxes is shielded, they can't track it back!"
"S'why magic trackies're only fer big shots," said another, a female imp named Tolly. "But this 'un is awful nice. You sure the Hextech's zero, Dew?"
"Yes, I'm sure!" Dew snapped. "Now shaddup and get ready, I'm almost there!"
"That's what he said," said Paq, snickering.
A click. A clunk. The low wheeze of well-oiled piston-stops. Syx's eyebrow canted upwards; this was a new car. Kabby had been right to sicc him on Dew, the brash young incubus was picking fruit from the high branch.
"Got it." Dew presumably clambered into the car, as the door locks unlatched with a 'thunk'. "Everyone get in."
A familiar scent wafted by as the younger kids obeyed, one that set off alarm bells. Syx adroitly scooped up his hat and sign and ducked into a nearby alleyway. He could tell from the smell from the bakery or cafe or whatever emanating from the alleyway that there was a through-road that connected the two. Sure enough, he turned the corner, walked a ways, and turned another, at the end of the alley was Dew and his crew, their voices bouncing off the brick and concrete walls. He walked up the alleyway, careful to not make a sound.
"Hey kids~" Came a familiar voice. "Whatcha up to?"
There was a scuffle and cries of alarm as three interlopers set upon the crew. The smaller kids were trounced easily and cast aside into garbage bins, but Paq and Dew put up a respectable fight. The crunch of fingers as hellhound jaws snapped shut was followed by a shrill scream and a string of curses. Paq yelped as she was swung against something solid-sounding, a street lamp or traffic sign, her pained grunts and groans underscored by kicks and stomps on her prone body, two of the assailants wailing on her. A low metallic thud sounded, followed by a grunt, the clatter of disinterred teeth on the pavement, and a yowl of pain.
"FUCKERS!" Dew roared as he swung something heavy, likely a wrench or a tire iron, at his target. The unmistakable 'whunk' of tempered steel meeting skull came next. Syx could tell from the lack of give in the object struck that Dew had swung down right on top of someone's head. Someone dropped to the ground, hissing and cursing. Dew wound up again, moving on to the next target, but was slammed into the side of the car by the third attacker. A brief struggle ensued, longer than one would expect, given the heaviness of the attacker's footfalls. Young adults, older teens at the least. Dew was a big kid, work-strong and angry as a Wrathian landshark. But he was just 13, and his assailants were not.
"Fuckin' brat!"
Knuckles impacted ribs, solidly. Dew's breath exploded from his mouth in a grunt. Another fist caught him hard, across the face from the sound of it. But Dew did not fall, he braced against the side of the car and attempted to retaliate as blows rained down on him. He did not fall.
Syx reckoned Dew's lesson had been learned: never put a newbie on look-out.
The earthy stench of old, moldy bread told him there was a dumpster on his right, as smaller refuse bins didn't stay full long enough to get that rank. Syx rushed forward and leapt into the air, foot extended. True enough, it set down on the rim of the dumpster, allowing him to step up onto it and scale the brick wall, hands reaching up over his head. Metal clapped his hands as he grabbed onto the underside of a fire escape. It was common practice to put dumpsters under fire escapes in Imp City, as sometimes jumping into the piles of rubbish was safer than relying on the rusty, rickety things. With a grunt, Syx swung himself towards the commotion, some ten feet in the air and dropping fast. Their grunts and curses acting like beacons, Syx pulled his collapsed cane out and wound it back over his head. He calculated his speed and their location and swung down. 3lbs of spring steel connected satisfyingly with the back of an assailant's head, but where he had hoped for a low crunch, he was instead met with a thunk.
He'd hit a satyr, whose long caprine horns also meant a thick caprine skull.
Damn.
It still hurt him, though.
The satyr grunted and fell to his knees as Syx set down on the pavement, tail lashing out. He hoped he hadn't seen him falling and moved.
He hadn't.
Syx's tail wrapped around the imp's ankle and he pulled hard with his hips, toppling the older boy. Simultaneously he raised his cane up over his head, preparing to deploy it and swing it down right where he reckoned his head would be. Even if he missed, this cane would no doubt break the older imp's collarbone, which would do in a pinch.
"Oh no ya don't!" A familiar voice cried out as a calloused hand grabbed Syx's wrist mid-swing, twisting the heavy metal rod out of his grasp.
The one Dew had trounced had rallied his senses much faster than anticipated.
Damn!
Steely, wiry arms wove up under his arms and pulled him off the ground, a familiar voice crooning over his shoulder. "Heya Syx. Been a while."
Zak, an incubus, and a former member of the Belladonna's Street Kids. Time was, Syx considered him a mentor. Maybe even a friend.
Syx wound up to smash the back of his horned head into the incubus's face, only to catch a hard fist across the cheek, stars exploding behind his sightless eyes. Another fist followed up, slamming into his gut, winding him.
"Boss Lady's expanding her operation, eh?" The incubus hissed in his ear. "She grow a new pair a'balls or something? What gives?"
Another punch, this time to the ribs. Syx grunted, a shapeless sound of pain, the closest thing to words he could make. He tasted copper on the exhale.
"Not that you can really answer," said Zak, chuckling. "But we're gonna ask a few more questions anyway. Aren't we, Toba?"
The imp boy, Toba, chuckled and wound up. He alternated between his belly and ribs and face, growling obscenities all the while. He was a decent puncher, though Syx could tell that he was flubbing his follow-through. He was also hitting his face exactly as hard as he was hitting his ribs and gut. This took its toll, as he was now resting a few seconds more each time, his knuckles smarting, beginning to split. Neither of them noticed Syx's tail as it reached about, patting the ground for something
"You're a tough fucker, Syx!" Zak proclaimed. "Always were! But you gotta be more than tough to make it out here! You gotta be smart! And creeping around the Greebles' territory, boosting wheels? That ain't it, Hoss!"
Syx's tail settled on something smooth and heavy. Found it.
"You gonna hit him again today, Toba?"
"Fuck you!" Toba whined. "It's like punching a rock! My hands hurt!"
"Oh boo-hoo!" Zak sneered. "Want mommy to kiss it better, Big Shoots?"
"Fuck yo–hey, what's he doing?"
Syx flicked his tail, grabbing his cane and holding it up in front of his face. "Klk."
The button on the end clicked.
Syx tilted his head to the side just moments before the cane hissed, exposing Zak's face to the coming onslaught. Cold CO2 jetted from its seams as the cane instantly extended. The narrow point streaked out and caught Toba between the eyes with a crisp, boney 'thock', the space between his eyes denting inwards as he was sent toppling backwards. The wider, heftier handle steak back, smashing into Zak's face, crumpling the smooth, slitted bump he had instead of a nose with a gristly crunch. The older boy's head snapped back, fragrant black blood trailing through the air after him. His head slammed into the hard, unforgiving fiberglass (the car was made of fiberglass? Weird) of the car door. Dazed, the incubus slumped to the ground, groaning weakly as he pawed at his face. Syx snatched the cane out of the air and swung it out like a baseball bat, slamming its heavy narrow tip into the right side of the recovered satyr he had dazed before, now trying to sneak up behind him. The metal cane thumped into his side, just below the ribs, shocking his liver. The satyr made a low, donkey-sound and curled over onto his knees, trembling.
Syx turned back to Zak, who was still reeling from the impact. "Klk-klk."
"F-fuck…" Zak groaned, looking up.
Syx collapsed the cane and raised the compacted bar over his head, ready to bludgeon. Were this anyone else, he'd already be kicking his brains off his boots, but Zak was one of them, one of the 'Donna Kids. he deserved a chance to surrender, or at least a chance to defend himself. Syx waited.
And waited.
A full two seconds had passed. What was Zak waiting for?
"Please," Zak moaned. "Kill me."
Syx froze, a cold chill racing up his spine. Kill him? He was just going to rough him up some. Why'd Zak want him to kill him? What had happened to him? Gone was the smooth, confident swagger from before. No hint of the rage and righteous fury he'd come to expect from his former mentor. All he could hear in his voice now was desperation, defeat… relief?
"C'mon… what're you waiting for?" Zak said, his voice thick. "Do it. At least I know you'd do it quick."
Syx stood in place, arm raised, unmoving.
"At the 'Donna, I was cock of the walk. Now… Well, I've had to do things just to get by. Things I thought I'd never do. I can't do it anymore, Syx." Zak chuckled, though it sounded more like a sob. "There's no life out here for people like us. We got nothing, got no-one. We're just warm meat to chew. At the 'Donna, sure, you're the head kid, but out in the world? Heh. You'll just be a blind mute ringscraper. Live it up while you can, because it's all downhill from here."
Syx recalled the Zak he knew. He was brash, cocky, but undeniably good at his work. He'd managed to avoid the Carriage House with quick fingers and an eye for marks, making his money that way. Not that any of that stopped the Boss Lady from tossing him on his ear when he aged out. She kept him as long as she could, but the second he turned 18, that was that. What chance did Syx have? He was as good as Zak had been, better even, but was that enough? Two more years in that pit and then, what, he'd be where Zak is now? But then, Zak was a handsome, charming incubus. Syx was a plain, crippled imp. What then?
What then?
The sound of shifting rocks on concrete snapped him out of his train of thought. The sound of breathing behind him, high above his head. He spun around and swung with all his might, swinging at what he hoped was a head. 3lbs of hardened steel connected with what felt like a jaw, but the sound was not the gratifying crunch he was hoping for, praying for, rather a dull 'clank'. The figure did not so much as flinch, the jolt of hitting something too heavy, too hard, raced up Syx's arm, his hand tingling with the impact.
"Hey, not bad!" A deep, curdled voice announced, amused. "This one has pep!"
A huge, rock-hard hand curled around his smarting wrist as another fastened around his throat, hauling him some two feet off the ground. Syx grit his teeth, kicking out at what was no doubt a large Sinner, his boots connecting with what felt like a concrete pillar as his claws scraped uselessly against the hand holding him, his hide like aggregate stepping stones.
"Can we keep him, Boss?" The Sinner chuckled, his voice grinding like a dimwitted rockslide. "I'll walk and feed him every day! Promise!"
"Looks like he broke one of ours," said another voice, lilting and androgynous, their feet shuffling as they kicked the dazed or dead Toba on the ground. "Seems only fair."
"Fair would be skinning the lot of them and selling the leather," a gruff, feminine voice replied. "Little shits scratched the paint on my ride!"
"Aw, that'll buff right out, Boss!"
"Zak, you were supposed to be watching my wheels." The female voice followed a rapid series of footsteps. Zak squeaked and cried out as he was picked up and slammed back into the concrete. "What gives?"
"Th-they're 'Donna kids, Boss!" Zak coughed. "They were gonna take your ride and strip it down! We stopped 'em! P-please…"
"Are they now?" Boss said, voice icy with malice. "So, the Laughing Cow is moving into our turf? Well, that seals it. Polka, get your knives, we're skinning these little shits."
The satyr and Zak shuffled as though to get up, only to be kicked and stomped back into submission.
"All of 'em."
"Uh, you sure, Boss?" The big galoot holding Syx mumbled. "These ones're ours."
"We'll get more, Lalo," Boss replied. "Gotta send a message to that Barnyard Bitch: this is Greebles turf."
"Aww…" the Big One groaned, his voice turning to Syx. "Sorry, li'l fella. I'll brain you so you don't feel it, alright?"
"You'll do no such thing," said a deep, familiarly-accented voice. "You, Bargain-Bin Ben Grimm. Put that one down and step away."
Syx felt the oaf turn with the grinding sound of paving stones on pavement. "What?"
Syx's tongue darted out, tasting the fresh, briney flavor of a sea-breeze… and the greasy, thick taste of burning wires. Of ozone.
Red Nightmare was here.
