Lust the Gunslinger II
There was nothing.
Then, there was fire.
All at once, every inch of his body came alight, seizing and convulsing violently, painfully. Eyes blew open and were filled with a void of blinding white. Not a single part of his body responded to command. None except one.
Breathe.
The Risen wished he hadn't. Choking, acrid smoke filled his lungs, his throat, so much that he could nearly feel it burning behind his eyes. The blinding white faded to dark as he hacked out as much of the foul air as he could.
The fire was leaving his body but somehow, it had spread everywhere else. Wherever he was, whatever place he was in, it was burning down around him. The walls splintered and cracked, the ceiling was crumbling and the exposed parts of his skin stung against the wooden floor. The Risen tried to move his arm and found resistance. He struggled and only found more. His head spun around, eyes darting, trying to find whatever was keeping him rooted to the ground, lungs still pulling in more ash than air.
He found it. Then he screamed. The burning smoke filled his lungs again. He only screamed louder. The Risen's struggling became thrashing as he tried to free himself from the body wrapped around him. It was that of another person, twice his size and twice as heavy, covered by smoldering debris that had fallen from above. The person's face was burned and scarred far beyond recognition. Red and blistered were the parts that hadn't been sloughed off entirely. Those that had revealed bright pink muscle and pale bone. The only things that could be recognized were the eyes. Dark and glowing, not with life or energy or emotion but only with firelight.
Finally, he managed to extract himself from the corpse's vice-like embrace, shooting up to his feet as soon as he was able. But his vision swam, his throat burned and his knees wobbled and bent. The Risen could feel his mind fogging up, the bright light of the blaze falling into a hazy dark background. Despite his terror, despite the clear and present danger he had woken to, all he could think about was how tired he suddenly was. How he shouldn't resist the sudden need to lay where he was standing. How there would be no harm if he was to just go back to sleep, right here, right now...
Something breaks through the fog and the encroaching darkness. A voice, he's sure of it. Against the chaos around him, it stood dim and quiet but still so close. Saying words, giving orders.
You need to stand up.
You need to move.
There, a door. Behind you.
We need to leave. We need to go. We can't stay here.
The Risen's mind could not muster the strength to create a response but his legs obeyed. Still shaking, they moved, one in front of the other; over burning debris, over even more burning bodies. There are more voices, further away and even quieter. The Risen could only bring himself to focus on the one.
He reaches the door indicated to him and shoves it open, falling through. The light gave way to blue darkness and choking smoke turned to something less painful to breathe. The Risen collapsed on what was now soft, cool ground and inhaled, drawing in deep lungfuls of air and coughing up all of whatever else remained in his chest.
Bright light catches his attention and startles him. The light comes more into focus and turns into...something. It was small, white and floated before his face as if gravity was more of a suggestion than a command. Then it spoke, and when it did, the voice was both distant in his mind and familiar. "Listen to me, I know you're hurt. I know you want to rest but we cannot stay here." A sound echoes from the distance, causing the object to spin around to face the direction of its source. It sounded like a voice, either cheering or crying out.
She turned back to him. "Follow me," she ordered, her voice dropped to a whisper, "There's a ship nearby. There's nothing…" she paused, her single bright eye lowering, "There's nothing we can do for anyone here." She didn't wait for the Risen to find his voice and respond. She flies off into the distance, turning back to ensure he was following.
So he did. Following her silent directions, the Risen darted between wooden buildings, some on fire, nearly all destroyed in some way or another. They stop only when she tells them to and they hide when she says they should. Through the gaps between houses, the Risen could see some distance beyond them, towards the center of whatever land they were in. What he saw were more fire and bodies. A lot of bodies. They were strewn across the ground, some his size and bigger, others much, much smaller. Some were burned like the very first one he saw and others not. The only similarity between the scatterings was that not one was moving. The few whose faces he could see were contorted and fixed in looks he recognized to be horror, desperation, and even grief. The bodies that clutched others in their arms as he had been clutched were the last most often. Those that clutched bodies much smaller than them were this even more so.
Still, the floating creature spurred him on, pulling his attention away from them by repeating her words from before. There is nothing we can do here.
There were other people, however. Not on the ground but walking, running, shouting. Some held strang, small objects that created deafening, ground-shaking booms when thrown. Most held objects the Risen knew to be weapons for no other reason than that he did. They would bring them up to eye-level, discharge them and each time they did was followed by an ear-splitting shriek and sometimes even a wail that would twist his heart and turn his stomach so severely, it threatened to upend.
These sounds never came from the people behind the weapons. As the Risen and his guide continued to hide and move through the shadows, he heard more and more of what he knew to be laughter. Laughter and cheering, mixing with the screaming and begging. Mirth and terror, the Risen really felt as if he was going to be sick.
Ever forward, his guide. "Focus, Guardian. Keep moving," she said, "We're almost there."
As she says, a shadow looms near the trees. The Risen's eyes run across it and a sense of agreement wash over him. That was their target. They were close. "I had passed it while trying to get into the village," she whispered to him, "Its onboard computer can be accessed wirelessly so it shouldn't be too hard to hack." Her voice dropped even lower, "Just give me a second…"
Footsteps interrupted their second. The Risen immediately pressed himself against the wall of the house he was using for cover. His Ghost blinked out of existence and the spiking panic he felt as his only guide disappeared from sight was soon quelled by force in his head he knew was not his own.
The steps were fast, the person making them running. Every muscle in the Risen's body locks up when the person suddenly passes his wall and comes to a halt at the mountain that bordered the back end of the village. But then he relaxes. It was a woman, young, clad in simple clothing that was torn, ash-streaked, and bloody. She was heaving, her orange eyes bulging and her bright blue skin shined with sweat. No weapon, no explosives; she wasn't one of the assailants. She lived here, just as he must have, even if he could not remember doing so.
She looked absolutely terrified, muffled sobs escaping with shallow, quieted breaths. Tears in her eyes, blown wide open as her head swung left and right, desperately trying to find some avenue of escape. The Risen did not see any wounds on her. His mind was already conjuring up images as to the source of the blood staining her clothing.
Against every part of his mind telling him not to, the Risen left the safety of the shadows and the wall. His steps against the grass had her twisting around and falling over, scrambling back while the sobs grew louder, mixing with pleas for him not to hurt her. The Risen stopped in his tracks, more concerned for her terror than he was for the killers finding them. But she stopped too. Her eyes widened and her mouth drew further open. Her breathing deepened and out with her exhales came breathy bouts of laughter that rang of elation and relief. "You're alive...you're really…" she scrambled to her feet and ran towards him. The Risen barely had time to take a step backwards before her arms were around him and her head was buried in his shoulders, wetting his clothing with her tears.
She pulled back. "We have to find a way to escape. They're going to kill-" she stopped, seeming to choke on her words, her face contorting in an expression of pain that he wondered how she managed to endure. Where did all that blood come from?
"We have to leave," she bit out through renewed tears, "We have to...we have to."
The Risen said nothing but turned his head in the direction of the ship. It was big enough for two, he was sure. The woman followed his eyes and let out another gasp once her eyes took it in, trying to accept that it was real. His guide told him the ship was ready. On cue, a plank lowered from its underside and slowly came to rest in the grass, providing them a walkway inside.
The Risen threw caution to the wind. He grabbed the young woman's hand and began to run, pulling her along in a mad dash for the ship and their ticket to safety. They both ducked behind a stack of metal bars, their only cover between the house and the ship and walked low within its shadow. They were close. So close. He didn't know where they would be going but anywhere had to be better than here.
He felt the wind of it passing over his head. He heard the soft click of the thing striking the stone wall behind them. He heard his guide yell to get down. He heard the young woman begin to scream sharply and scramble.
Both were cut short. A blast rocked the ground and sent them flying.
When he landed again, he landed hard. His head cracked audibly against the ground and he could feel parts of his back and legs exploding in sharp, agonizing pain. The pyramid of metal bars that had been their cover had been blown apart, scattering them across the grass and his body. His guide's still-yelling voice spurs him to open his eyes and cough up the dust and dirt that had gotten into his mouth. He looks for the young woman, reaching out blindly in the hopes of taking hold of her while his eyes try to reform a single image from the several dancing before him.
They do focus and he does find her. The woman had been thrown back out into the open clearing and was sprawled across the ground, her bloodied clothes now torn and caked in mud. She was face down on the ground, her left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. The Risen only breathed when he saw her move, her head turning on its own and her eyes fluttering behind closed lids.
The breath left him again when the sounds from before returned; cheering and raucous laughter coming closer and closer. Two figures stepped out of the black cloud of smoke born from the village blaze. Two men, one thin as a rail and the other broader than three of him. Clad in patchwork armor and carrying weapons, it was clear they had thrown the explosive. It was clear that the two of them hadn't been their first targets.
When the big one spoke, his voice rumbled like thunder. "Told you I could get her from there."
"Grenades don't count."
He gestured one broad hand to the woman's strewn body. "Clearly."
Suddenly, the woman's eyes popped open. Her breathing quickened again as soon as she laid eyes on the pair. She was screaming again, in pain and in panic, twisting on the ground and launching herself to her feet, desperately limping for the tree line that led into the dark forest.
The big man's size belied his speed. He crossed the distance in a few great bounds and threw his full weight into the young woman's back. His friend winced and cackled at the way she cracked against the ground.
He was standing over her now, legs caging her body as she tried to regain the breath knocked from her. The Risen struggled to his feet, knees still weak and just barely able to support his weight. He tries to take a step forward and drops. Her eyes locked with his, tears filling them as desperate sobs wracked her body.
Neither the man nor his friend had seen the Risen get to his feet. The killer standing over her bends down and grabs her by the hair, yanking her upwards, bodily off the ground and making her cry out. He put an arm around her torso and held her close, his mouth next to her ear. "And what are you doing out here so late? Don't you know it ain't safe? There's been talk of brigands as of late."
"Baseless rumors," his friend crows from a distance, letting the gun strapped around his chest fall to the side and pulling out a small stick from one of his pockets.
"Well, I believe them. You should too, miss." He let out a long content sigh and seemed to grip tighter against her trembling and whimpering. "Come on, let's find your family. I'm sure they're eager to have you join them."
The woman twisted in his grip, throwing the thin, sharp elbow of her unharmed arm back and catching her captor in the eye. Strength returned to the Risen as she used the killer's pain and distraction to wrestle out of his grip, running to meet him.
The Risen barely has time to move to meet and grab hold of her before the big man is moving too. He catches up to her again, grabs her arm and strikes her across the face with his fist so unnervingly hard, blood sprays into the moonlit sky. The woman drops limply to the ground, head lolling and nose weeping dark. Her eyes do regain their focus but only for a second and in that time, all they can do is widen in realization.
The boom that comes next rips whatever strength the Risen had managed to regain out from under him. The killer had ripped out the weapon attached to his hip, took aim and the result was a spray across the green grass, glistening and black. The Risen collapsed to his knees. His eyes remained fixed on her face, on her bright eye, still round with fear and the ragged hole where its second used to be.
Something, someone is demanding that he move. That he leave the spot he had been rooted to and find a better one. The Risen could not hear it or anything over the sharp ringing in his ears. She had been so afraid. Then she had been so hopeful at having seen him, so relieved. He held her hand, he had tried to save her…
Now she was covered in blood, mouth drawn open, eye and face conveying abject terror and desperation. Now she was just a body strewn across the ground, just like all the others.
His guide's warnings finally reach him but it is too late. The killer, still standing over her body in the puddle of blood spreading onto his boots, follows her gaze. The Risen tries to move, to scramble to his feet and run for the ship. Once again, the giant proved too fast for his size.
Horrific pain blooms in the Risen's stomach, his body shaking with the impact and doubling over. Another impact hits him, a dull thud in his chest that had warmth running down it. Then something small and fast flies into his neck and lodges itself right in the middle of his throat, preventing him from breathing or screaming.
He could feel himself falling back, limbs ignoring his commands, his pleas to stop himself. To get back onto his feet and flee. The fog returns, the darkness begins to overtake his vision and it does, no matter how much he wished it hadn't. He was so tired and this time, he could not bring himself to fight it.
The killer leaves the body of the woman and walks over to examine his freshest kill, kicking the scattered metal bars out of his way. He stops before the corpse and looks down, mouth tightening in an amused grimace. "Kinda wish I didn't kill this one. He's got a pretty face."
His companion pulls the cigarette from his mouth, his own smoke mixing into the night air, cooling with fires dying out. "You always did know how to pick your targets."
The killer brought up his gun again and fired, right at the center of the Risen's face. The resulting spout of blood striped the front of his sweat-heavy shirt, along with globs of gore and pieces of bone. His grin was wide and full of teeth. "There," he crowed morbidly, "Problem solved!" His friend's sharp laughter rang out into the distance. He holstered the pistol and squatted down over the body, searching for any valuables to sell or take as trophies. He doesn't feel the heartbeat. He doesn't see the chest begin to rise and fall again, nor does he hear breathing.
By the time he notices anything, the hand lying among a pile of thrown metal pipes wrapped around one. When the killer finally does, the Risen's arm is moving. It shoots upwards, ignoring any resistance or pushback. Smug amusement devolved into horrified outrage as the eyes ran over the expanse of the Risen's face. Dark, red warmth sprays from the wound, coating the Risen's vision. Even through the blackness, he could still see the young woman; eyes pleading for help one last time, the sound of half her skull being reduced to pieces.
He pushed the metal pipe even further into the murderer's throat, rising as the killer's body went limp and heavy, rivers of red sluggishly streaming down his heaving chest. Shouting filled the air again, this time, from only one person. The Risen reacts before the killer's partner can, springing to his feet and bringing the corpse with him. He puts it in front of him just in time for the bullets to let fly at him.
He grabs the weapon strapped over the corpse's shoulder, brings it up and fires without looking. The incoming spray stops, as does the yelling and the Risen lets the corpse drop, using his now free hand to wipe drying and stinking wetness from his eyes. He turns them over to the woman, still prone across the ground, almost as if he had expected her to stand again now that the danger had passed.
His eyes traveled up to her head and he retched at the sight. Doubling over, his empty stomach heaved up nothing but bile and stinging acid. His hand trembled violently and soft half-whimpers dripped from his lips. He took a step towards her. Then another. Then he stopped. The hand that was shaking, stained red, came up.
She was shot. He was shot. She wasn't standing again. He was.
His hand dropped to his throat, his chest, his stomach. Nothing there. He didn't even remember what had happened after the final hit. He felt his neck tear open, he felt himself fall backwards and then he was lashing out. His knees began to give out once again…
More shouting, from inside the village and from his guide. "They heard the shots. More are coming!"
The Risen runs for the first corpse, ripping the metal pipe out from its throat. But his companion stops him before he can turn to face the crowd. "The ship's ready! We can't take them all, not now." He keeps his eyes on the smoke, seeing the dark shadows of bodies coming closer.
She appears again, her eye lighting up his face. "Run. You need to turn around and run." A shot rings out and the Risen ducks as something flies by his head. The guide disappears again. "Run, Guardian! Run!"
The Risen turns to look behind him, taking in one last look at the young woman, at the still-growing puddle around her head, at eyes that shone in the night.
There was nothing he could do.
So he ran.
The ship started up, lifting off the ground even as he threw himself onto the ramp. He flinched as another shot ricocheted off the metal underbelly right beside his head. He caught only a moment's glimpse of the crowd coming after him, some breaking off to run for their dead companions while most others turned their weapons on him. Then the ramp lifted entirely and sealed itself shut. He could feel more shots striking the underside but the ship only grew louder.
The engine blasted. It sent the ship rocketing forward and up, making him slide across its metal floor when he tried to get back to his feet. The Risen reached for a ledged and used it as support to help himself up. His eyes crossed the ledge to look out the ship's window, at the plumes of smoke rising into the air. At the soft glow of dying flames. At the people, standing and staring at him or thrown across the ground.
At the scattering of metal bars and another body, a small distance away from them. Small and growing smaller. Even now, he felt wrong. He felt the need to turn around.
They did not. The Risen dropped from the window. He let the weapon and the bloodied pipe drop to the ground and slid down, curling into and keeping himself pressed against the wall, out of the light of the rising sun.
There were people here, where his guide, his Ghost, was taking him. She told him he wouldn't need his weapons. He only gripped them tighter.
The ship pulled into what must have been the largest building he had ever seen on his journey here. Before that, they passed by the Traveler, a structure even more impossibly massive. He had felt it before he had seen it in the parting clouds. Felt its presence strongly enough to leave the prone position he had been in for the entire trip and finally come up to the front.
Their ship lowered into massive open doors in the walls of the Tower, where the Risen could see other ships entering and leaving, taking off into the distance from where he had come. He saw the people, more little figures walking around, standing in groups. That was when he returned for his weapons. The ship lands and rocks, something grabbing hold of it and keeping it grounded in place.
Then the ramp opens, letting the smell of fresh air and grease into the ship. Steeling himself, the Risen takes his first step down, clutching the pipe and gun even tighter.
The atmosphere was starkly different from the village. People walked around, stood in groups but they were talking, laughing, smiling. All of that stopped as soon as their eyes landed on him. The Risen kept his muscles primed as the crowds began to grow quiet and tense. Some moved to back away from him, others slightly forward, putting themselves between him and others. Some were armed and armored, some were not, some had Ghosts hanging over their shoulders as he had. All stared as he walked through the area, following his Ghost's directions to go here and turn there.
His eyes remained wide and shifting, even as his neck remained stiff. He sees sharp blades and weapons of all sizes and refuses to take his gaze off any single one of them. His own deep, labored breathing is the loudest sound in his ears, almost overshadowed by the heartbeat pounding in his head.
The Ghost tells him to keep walking, that they are going to a "plaza". And to remain calm, that none of these people are going to hurt him.
But his fist remains tight around the pipe. His finger trembled on the gun's trigger, ready to squeeze with nothing but a thought. He didn't believe her for a second.
When the Risen stepped into the plaza, flinching at the bright sun, he froze, the air catching in his throat. Opposite of him and before a sparse crowd corralled into the far side of the plaza, stood a line of people. Clad in armor of various kinds, some long and flowing, some bulky and heavy. All had weapons and all of them were trained on him.
The one in his hand had torn holes in his stomach, his chest, his neck. Many of the ones now turned on him were bigger, clearly better made and better maintained. A few had long barrels that looked as if they could blow them in half. The people holding them seemed clearly ready to do so.
His arms began shaking again, equal parts adrenaline and terror. Sweat dripped in rivulets down his back and forehead, tinged red with the dried blood still coating his face and body. His eyes, blown wide, swung back and forth, jumping between each of them, trying to figure out how, against all reason, he could take them out before they did him and wondering if he would look like that young woman, by the time they were done with-
"Stand down!"
The loud voice startles him, which in turn, startles the people facing him. The voice was strong and clear, resounding across the plaza. Not that it had much competition. Everything seemed to have gone quiet at his approach, even the birds, even the wind. Then the unexpected happened. The armored moved to obey, their weapons dropping and their bodies relaxing, just slightly. The Risen doesn't follow suit.
Two in the middle step aside and a third who had been hidden behind their larger frames steps through the opening. A pale-skinned man, dark hair, sharp features, a lean, strong frame and a warm, brown cape flowing down broad shoulders. The Risen only had eyes for the gun at his hip.
The caped man's eyes follow his gaze. Then the pistol disappears. He looks back up at the Risen, still steeled and ready for a fight, covered in blood he could not be sure belonged to him entirely. Then he raises his hands, palms forward to show their emptiness. He leans back slightly to mutter words to the guards behind him, keeping his eyes on the Risen. The guards began to move, turning their backs on the Risen and towards the people behind them, shepherding them into doorways in the walls, tunnels leading deeper into the Tower and out of the plaza.
Alone now. The man, hands still raised, takes a step forward.
The Risen's gun is aimed at his head not even a breath later. He stops. Then he opens his mouth and speaks again, louder and to him this time. "Your Ghost contacted us. Called us to help."
The Risen says nothing so the caped man keeps talking. "I'm gonna need you to lower your gun," he says, "No one's gonna hurt you here. Not me, not anyone."
The Risen doesn't believe him either and when the stranger attempts another step forward, his entire body locks up, finger shaking on a half-squeezed trigger.
The caped man stops again, his brow low and his voice serious. "Look, kid. I don't want to hurt you. Last thing I want, honest. But you're gonna hurt someone here with that thing. I can't let that happen." He nods to the gun, eyes the pipe coated and stinking of dried lifeblood. "You know what those things can do. They've probably been done to you. Do you want them done to the people here? Do you want to do it?"
His shaking began to stop, his resolve began to weaken. The man's large, unblinking eyes stay on him, letting the question hang in the air.
He remembers the screaming. He remembers the wailing, the heart-bursting terror he could hear in the air, that he could see on the woman's face right before it was blown in half. And here he was, covered in blood and ash and dirt, weapons dirtied from use and aimed at people who were backing away from him.
What a sight he must have been.
His arms relaxed and fell. His Ghost floated into view and the caped man lowered his hands, offering the drone a small smile. "You could've told us he was armed."
"I tried to get him to leave them on the ship. He barely even responded." She turned to look at him, "I'm not even sure he can hear me all that well."
"Ear problems?"
"A frag blew them out but I repaired them. I meant inside his head."
"Lack of mental clarity will do that."
The Risen was so preoccupied with the din of voices and his own exhaustion, he hadn't been paying attention. By the time his focus returned, the caped stranger had already crossed the distance and gotten before him. His mind erupted in panic. The pipe came flying up.
In a way that looked almost effortless, the caped man caught his hand and kept it in place. His other hand went to the Risen's shoulder, keeping him from bringing up the gun next. He holds him there, green eyes boring into his own. The hand on his shoulder slips down his arm, wraps around his hand and waits for his reaction. The Risen just breaks his gaze, lowers his eyes to his feet but otherwise, does not move. The man's thumb presses gently into the muscle of the Risen's hand and when the grip relaxes, he slips the gun out from within it. The pipe follows closely behind.
Both disappear, leaving the caped man's hands free. Those hands go to the Risen's shoulders and he walks around the young man, stopping at his side. With the softest, most subtle of pushes, the Risen takes one halting step after another, the caped man helping him along.
He's led through hallways, white, clean and dimly lit, mainly by sunlight. Again, people stopped and stared, though they did not get a chance to do it for long. The caped man moved him along too quickly once they had found their stride.
The Risen is led to a door that slid open at their approach, granting them entry into a room that was dark, spacious and just as clean. The door closes again when they step inside and the caped man leaves him just long enough to duck into another doorway. The Risen remains rooted to the spot but watched and listened. He saw a light come on, illuminating the smaller room while the one he stood in stayed dark. Then he heard the sound of hissing, then rushing.
The caped man stepped out again and returned to him. Hands back at his shoulders, the Risen was led towards the light and the noise. "Your Ghost will help you here," he tells him, tone low and carefully calm. "Take your time. If you need anything, I'm right out here."
The man pulls back and lets the door close between them. As per his Ghost's instructions, the Risen pulled the deeply soiled shirt over his head and then pulled his pants down from his waist. He steps out of them and into the tub, water pooling around his ankles so hot, it burned, but only for a second. Then the warmth seemed to seep into him, sending deep shivers up his spine as he felt every single muscle in his body begin to sag and relax.
His Ghost leads his hand to a button and the water pouring from the fountain at his knees starts coming out of the spout above his head. The Risen staggers back in surprise when the stream strikes him in the face but with the steaming water now running through his hair, down his ears, his neck, his shoulders and back, he feels the need to lean further into it. Within the few hours of his life that he could recall, this was the best he had ever felt. A part of him thought he should find that sad. He couldn't.
His face was easier to move now, no longer caked in filth. The Ghost has him take up a cloth, wet it, squeeze some fragrant substance into it and then scrub it along every inch of his body that he could reach. His head was underneath the stream of water again when a knock on the door startled him out of his daze. "Got some fresh clothes out here when you're done, kid," the caped man's voice rings through, "A bit big but they should be close enough to your size."
His Ghost does the thanking on his behalf. The Risen doesn't respond, unsure how to. Though he can't see him, the caped man seems to understand. "Your Ghost has been telling us everything. We don't need to discuss what you saw today," he said, "We don't need to discuss it tomorrow or next week. Not until you're ready."
The Risen turns, letting the water cascade down his back. His eyes stare at the white on the walls, lost in his head. Still, he listens.
"You don't need to discuss it ever. You're well within your rights to put those memories behind you forever. But you should know that I'm sorry you had to go through it. It couldn't have been easy. I don't blame you for reacting as you did."
There's a pause as the caped man waits to see if he wanted to say something. He continues again after a few seconds of quiet. "You're safe here, kid. I promise you that." Something presses against the door and the voice sounds closer now, less muffled. "You got a name, kid? Rather not keep calling you, 'kid'."
"No," he answered as his Ghost told him to. The sound that left his mouth was weak, halting and entirely unfamiliar. Given that the only sounds he's heard from his throat were whimpers, cries and screams, he was surprised that he managed it.
"'Kid' for now, then. No trouble," the man replies, "Well, kid, my name is Jaren Ward. You can call me Jaren. And if you need anything, do indeed call me. I'll be glad to help."
The Risen swallowed, releasing tension in his shoulders and throat he hadn't known they were still holding. His voice comes out again and this time, with his body relaxed, it sounded stronger. It sounded, somehow, like him and for some reason, his heart fluttered at the thought.
"Thank you, Jaren."
The caped man, Jaren Ward, responds and the Risen can hear a change in his voice that he just knows to be a smile. "No problem, kid. I'll leave you to it."