The desert, oh the mighty desert.
Unconquered, unbothered, stretching for thousands of miles.
…
Can you hear that?
That's right. Complete and utter silence.
Not even a gust of wind, not even the soft thumping of a curious mouse.
Peace and serenity, basking in the scorching sun…
…
… That was, until an intruder crossed their path.
Far, far away, they had already started gathering - the endless plumes of tainted, black fumes shooting into the air, polluting Mother Nature's lungs. The ground trembled, its might and pride muffled by the approaching doom.
Each little rock, each speck of sand, each lizard hiding in its hole, they were all enveloped in a wave of tremors from within, as the mighty machine approached from afar.
The roar of its ferocious engines, pumping fuel like there was no tomorrow - it struck fear into even the most stout hearted creatures of this Land of Old.
Arising from behind the copper horizon, a beast of rusty metal and steel - a giant being dragged across the desert with the help of four Bagger 288 originium powered engines. Quenching their thirst with nothing but pure, unfiltered ori gasoline, they roared in anticipation, pushing the mass of chrome forward.
And onward it went, the jumbled, twisted mess. Forests of rust riddled its exterior, clinging onto the many arms and towers of criss-crossed beams and crane masts that littered the structure. It was a sight both foreign and natural to its surrounding - a stain on the desert's tranquil beauty, yet also its integral part.
Flames shot towards the sky, each spat out from a tarnished steel pipe of its own, protruding from deep within the heart of the beast, spilling its discharge in a steady rhythm - it was breathing. With each breath came a new wave of fresh air, tickling each cylinder, each piston and gear, only to be thoroughly chewed and coughed out as a scorching mass of fire.
A moving mess of sharp, thick spades bit into the sand, one after another, grasping at the miniscule dust and pushing it aside. One by one, they slid along the surface, powered by the gargantuan engines. Tracks, caterpillar tracks as tall and wide as a tenement housing complex, ravaged the desert, clinging onto the sand, paddling away and desperately pushing it aside, making way for the giant of steel.
And on the very top of the cruel monster stood a kingdom of milk and honey. Of steel and lead. Of blood and flesh, of booze and chow, and anything else you could ever need or imagine.
The town of Taba.
The infamous Scar Market.
Every lowlife merc's wet dream, every pathetic swindler's homeland - clumped together in one, big omelette of crime and inflated prices.
Sure, there were fields of tents and cluttered, makeshift huts of corrugated metal sheets, but the main deal, the main attraction of the town was the grand market in itself.
So grand, so overbearing, so filled with life and anything your heart would ever desire - you could try and taste Kazdel itself, indulging in one of the many cuisine stands, watch the meatbeast crops being tossed around a giant pan, soaked in butter and an array of spices you've never heard of. You could forget about your miserable mercenary life for just a couple moments and enjoy the overpriced meal you just purchased, the spiked drink someone stuck in your hand or the beating you were just given behind some sketchy tent's linen walls.
Ah, the Scar Market. The embodiment of the land.
As treacherous as one can be, filled with sights and smells only the wildest of minds could ever come up with. Open air joy-dens? Sure thing. Yanese dragonfly buffets? Say no more. How about a weapon's market fitted with all the black market tech one would ever need? 50. AE handguns? Got it, boss. Heavy, automatic crossbows? Want a bundle of explosive, originum loaded bolts with that, sir? Or maybe a half ton ori warhead? Dig deep enough, you'll find yourself being shown stuff like this.
Amongst this bustling anthill of everything that's unholy and unLawful, two poor souls found themselves wandering off an armored bus, staple of the merc line's industry.
And into the crowd they went - led by the unnaturally tall one, covered thoroughly by a cloak as bright as the desert itself, nervously glancing around and taking careful steps.
Tap, tap, tap.
A pair of curious eyes followed the giant, barely noticeable under the might of their straw hat. Their curiosity was given away to anyone passing by by the uncontrolled tail wagging - this little creature had to be immensely interested by the sights and smells that flooded its tiny, yet sharp mind.
Two souls, lost among a crowd of wicked devils - Andy and Seven, Kazdel's most wanted.
"... And when you get off, you'd usually thank the driver."
"Why?"
The fiend tilted their head in confusion. Wasn't it the driver's job to drive around their passengers?
"Because. They're well respected. I dunno why, I just know you should thank them."
"But we didn't thank him."
"Seven, there's half a million shekels on my head, almost twice as that on yours. I seriously don't wanna take any risks."
"Right. Money."
It was such a foreign concept to the boy. Despite Andy's countless explanations, his rivers of passionate words, Seven could never grasp it. Just… Why?
"Mhm. Money. Speaking of, you ready?"
"Ready."
"Good, good. We're starting off with the essentials today, alright? Just potatoes and meat."
Seven gave a slight nod, narrowing his eyes to seek out a suitable vendor. Finding a stand full of fresh produce amongst the sea of fried goodness, silk and steel was quite the task, though. From each direction came the incredibly loud screeches and yells, beckoning the passers-by to stop and pass some coins over in exchange for a new rug or some deep fried grasshoppers. A group of skimpily dressed mercs passed by, mumbling something about the disastrous decline of the current pain monopoly. Andy shuddered at the mere thought and stepped out of the way.
Vinny and Nuffer have been silent for far too long, unable to spit out even a single piece of lead. Such was the life of an outlaw, making it daily by hiding in the shadows, not by taking grand bounties and nosediving your anonymity into the ground. Death had to find some replacement, a different lackey to spread its plague, as Andy's been done with killing for a while. Something about morality, something about the words his own brain struck deep into his heart, under the disguise of a person so dear. A certain blue haired gal, one he hasn't seen in a while. Wonder how she's doing…
"Found something."
The tiny swordsman stopped. As still as a rock, he pointed out towards a stall in the distance - surrounded by fires and steam protruding from the many deep, metal pans sprawled all around, a stall behind which stood an old man. A certain weariness painted his face as he glanced around his unsold wares, wiping the sweat off his glistening forehead. His horns, bruised, torn by the base, told a story of a once young and bright soul, defeated and thoroughly shattered by the meat grinder that was Kazdel.
Andy gave a small nod and froze in place. It was best not to drag any attention to oneself, especially not now.
"... Alright. Whenever you're ready, yeah?"
A small nod was the only sign of confirmation he needed. All standard procedures.
Tick.
Andy held his breath, as Seven simply evaporated from his sight, leaving behind a small trail of blue. Crossing his bruised fingers underneath the sea of dirty rags and dusty cloaks, he had to put up with an annoying sensation in the base of his spine. His halo, covered by the tall hood kept being squished against the assaulting fabric, like a rodent inside some starving snake's rubbery stomach. It felt quite unpleasant, like an annoying weight constantly grinding against every and each of his spinal cords. It was completely necessary, though - showing up with the halo uncovered was as good as walking around with your own bounty poster taped to your face.
Tock.
A soft breeze passed by, bringing along the tiny swordsman. Within just a second, he warped back and forth, leaving behind nothing but an optical illusion - a miniscule trail of bright, blue paint, lingering in the air for a moment or two before dissipating. A soft panting came from his mouth, something Andy's been noticing more and more as of late. Seems like these "jumps" of his were seriously physically draining for the poor guy.
The merc wrapped his hand around the dazed boy and dragged him off to the side, away from the confused old man's tantrum, just now noticing that a sizable portion of his stock simply stopped existing, then and there.
Breathing heavily, clutching his poncho tight, Seven took a few wobbly steps and leaned against a barrel filled with rotting peaches. The first few jumps of the day were always the worst.
"You alright? Seven?"
"A-... Alright. Thirteen potatoes."
Seven lifted his poncho to show his arms full of the bulbous produce. Andy let out a low whistle. Thirteen? Impressive.
"Greaaaat job, bud. Amazing…"
With a smile peeking from behind his thick face-scarf, Andy gave the boy a pat on the back. One down, a couple to go. How many, exactly? Let's see…
Papers rustled, his eyes focused on the tiny writings.
A certain fatale pair of ever so conflicted idols of good and evil gazed from behind the merc's shoulders, curiously watching as his fingers slid along the ink.
"Mmmm… Some meat, veggies, spices…"
"Eh. Water and salt's all I ever needed. You're a softie, Lawboy."
"And you're dead, W."
"Doesn't change the fact you used to gobble my salt soup right up."
"Not much of a choice, was it?"
The devil shrugged, allowing the waves of white curls to cover his face.
"Still, point stands."
On his other shoulder, Mostima gave a weary sigh and piped up, like the little protector of Law that she was.
"It really doesn't. I seriously don't know how you ever managed to get along with this guy, Drew, it's… It's something. Something I can't really be asked to do."
"Good question. Dunno, either."
With a flick of his hand, Andy sent the two back into the depths of his imagination, turning back to Seven, who managed to calm down a bit, staring off at the bright, empty sky.
"You okay, bud? Got a few more rounds to go."
"..."
"... Seven?"
As Andy turned to look for his absent minded companion, Seven found himself in an intense staring contest with a fatty, well fed domesticated fowl, sitting atop a makeshift roost in some iron cage. The two curious creatures kept staring at one another, completly lost in each other's eyes. Andy gave him a moment to himself.
"Seven?"
He turned away from the hen and gave a nod.
"A few rounds. Okay."
His right hand shot from inside the poncho to stick his thumb up. A light glimmer of blue appeared in between the folds.
They needed some fuel.
A stand filled with meat, quickly rotting in the scorching hot sun, driving away the competition left the fatass behind the stall quite the happy man - unbothered, casually dominating the Scar Market's beast flesh monopoly.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
His eyes ran all over his life's work as the most expensive of meatbeast chops and burdenbeast steaks disappeared from before them. That's what it was, at first - pure confusion and genuine disbelief. It quickly turned into the sinister need for justice - something he, himself could never provide for others, with his unfair prices that left even the most well versed in the language of the coin scratching their heads.
"Thief! Thief!" He yelled and yelled, trying to get his heavy body off the massive stool he sat upon, for days on end.
A pair of wandering rascals fled the scene, leaving behind a trail of blue and pink - sausages flying through the air, sticking from beneath the boy's poncho.
And they needed some fire.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
A few arms salesmen froze in place, as a mere gust of wind rushed past. Lead rattled, steel boxes moved on their own - haunted by some unknown presence. The ghost of some long lost ancient power from the sarkaz folklore, perhaps? Whatever it was, it had a refined palette and an inexplicable hunger for exclusively nine by thirty nine millimeter bullets.
Behind the safety of a few tents separating the confused death merchants and the two boys, Andy kneeled down to count the bullets. Three, sixteen, eighty five… A good few mags.
Seven, however, kept panting like a dog with no sense of self preservation, who's been let off a leash to run to their heart's content. His heartbeat, too, it kept beating out a symphony of doom, impending and inevitable. How fast could a heart beat, anyway? His was pretty damn quick.
"... Ah, damn, I forgot about nine mil. Mind getting me a box or two?"
Nuffer had to eat, too, after all.
"..."
Seven, unmoving and unbothered as ever, gave a solemn nod and took a deep breath.
Tick.
Ah, how awful these "trips" were. Always in some massive town filled with people, always on an empty stomach, usually with no alcohol to spare. Like a meatbeast scratching, sizzling and crackling in a pan, Andy felt the blazing heat through the many layers of his tattered disguise. Realistically, what else could they do? Hunt? As if. Only game out here were lizards and snakes. And fowl of prey, sometimes.
And a certain pair, worth over a million shekels.
Tock.
"Huff… Huff… I… I g-..."
"Oh, great! Great, Seven! Sit down, c'mon."
He fell to the floor, soaking in the metal tiles underneath. With skin as white as paper and his heart beating like a monkey drum connected to an electric drill, he was on the verge of passing out. A little pale, sure, but still good enough to jump a few more ropes, right?
Andy took the boxes filled with nine by nineteen millimeter goodness from his hands and stuck them somewhere into the endless abyss that were his cargo pants - a real socialist's housing dream, with enough living spaces to provide shelter for a whole engine factory's worth of workers.
"You alright? Seven?"
"..."
"Seven…?"
The boy tapped his chest a few times and nodded. Good as new.
"Yes."
"Can you do a few more skips? Just one or two"
"As many as you n-need, Andy."
"..."
His face twisted in pain, as he sat up and bore those empty holes of his into the merc. Andy felt his conscience being struck with a bucket of disgusting slop of guilt, thoroughly covering him deep within. No point in going back, now.
They already had the fuel, they had the fire, the only thing that remained was that which the merc desired - a new, flashy lead spitter.
It didn't help at all, the prospect of asking him to overexert himself just so the angel could get a new toy to play with. It made Andy gag, but he barely held it in.
"Okay. Just one, then, alright? Take your time and… And be careful."
"Okay."
As inconspicuous as they could be, they dragged themselves through the massive crowds of sinful flesh, paddling away to keep themselves afloat the deathly mass at all costs. Like a pair of puppies thrown into a lake, their tiny paws kept scratching at the surface, clinging onto one another so as not to get separated amongst the grand market bathed in heat and sand. Tall, short, wide, thin, anyone could become a merc. Anyone was welcome here, as long as they had a few coins in their pockets and a purpose to serve. They were just another drop in the ocean.
The boys stopped in the middle of the less densely populated gun-market area, where devils scattered, with eyes glued to the many life taking tools out of their reach, locked behind ridiculous prices. Glancing around the price tags on some of these tiny pistols was sometimes akin to hearing a good joke, causing salvos of laughter to erupt within the groups stopping by, tapping their foreheads and sneering at the unbothered salesmen and women. To them, it was just a daily occurrence at this point.
"Which one to pick…"
Steel, carbon, wood. Anywhere you looked, just mounds upon mounds of guns, all piled up atop one another. Andy forgot about the bounty on his head for a short moment and almost yanked his hood off to get a better look at the merch in front.
"... What do you think, Seven?"
"I don't like them."
That was weird. He usually never had any stronger opinions on… anything, pretty much. Andy turned to glance at the boy, who kept staring at a Lateran made nine millimeter pistol resting in a crate filled with dry straw.
"None? Not even one?"
He shook his head. A true gun reject, then.
"... Alright. I think I'm gonna go with…"
His gaze shifted back towards the piles of stands, all displaying matte black perfection. A tiny angel on his shoulder gave him a disapproving nudge to the neck, while the little devil sitting by her side pointed out a rifle sticking out from the rest. His eyes were wide with sparkles of pure glee and amazement.
"That one! Looks like the one I used to rock, no?"
Fair point. It kind of did, at a certain angle.
"No, we don't need to risk it, come on… He's already barely walking, Andy, give him a break…"
Wide eyed, she tried pleading with the boy but to no avail. He was with W on this one.
One hand flick later, they were both gone, both melted into the air like butter in a pan. Their sights were set on the shiny rifle.
"Right. That one, Seven. Take your time, alright?"
Another thumbs up. Carry on, soldier, follow your orders like the good pawn you are. A flood's worth of guilt crashed against the dam of his conscience as the boy disappeared once more, with a little "Tick!"
How low can one fall? Lower than this, that's for sure, but it was no justification for his actions. Andy gave a weary sigh and turned away, letting his eyes wander around the many other stalls… Lazily, like a fly covered in tar, desperately trying to take flight, yet held back by the sticky substance.
"Oh, careful there, mister!"
He bumped against some stall. Mr head-in-the-clouds, thinking of one thing, doing another.
"Sorry… Didn't mean to, it's the heat."
"Ah, yes! Terrible weather we're having today, no?"
The jolly merchant kept wiping the dust off some old Ursusian battle rifle, thoroughly cleaning the chamber. There was something familiar about the sight, something Andy couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Yeah, I've seen better. Sorry for the trouble, again."
"Oh, please!"
With a dismissive flick of the hand, they tried calming the boy's ever so anxious mind.
"It's no problem at all. I would get distracted, too, with all these beautiful sights on display. Say, wouldn't you be interested in…?"
A group of chattering mercs lazily strolled by, passing around a few bounty posters with a familiar face plastered all over. Andy froze in place and wrapped his face scarf just a tad bit more tightly around his head. What was taking Seven so long…?
"Not really…? I, uh… I already have a gun."
"That so? But just you listen, 'till you hear all about my wares, mister! Mister, right?"
"Yeah, not a miss…"
"Right! Well, say, ever heard of a certain young fella called Ricketts?"
His heart froze, then and there. The group of passing mercs stopped and turned towards the salesman.
"Ricketts? You said "Ricketts?"
"That's right! The Exorcist, the half a million shekel man! You know how he racked up that bounty of his? With a rifle I sold him! That's right! A nine by thirty nine custom from Ursus, one of my imports!"
Th-thump, Th-thump.
Cold sweat ran down his hooded face, falling into his eyes, soaking his hair through. Andy felt his heart beating out of his chest, a loud voice screaming for him to get out of there, as soon as he could. So that's why the salesman seemed so familiar. He was the one who traded him Vinny and Nuffer for a bunch of cash and his old Pontifica Cohors Lateran bolt action, back when he was young and slightly more stupid.
The bounty hunting group moved to the stall, their boots heavy against the sand covered metal sheets below. Carrying heavy iron on their backs, chains and houndbeast-traps slinged all over each one. Andy tried to quietly slip away, but a hand grasping his shoulder cut his attempt short.
"And you, tall guy, you ever seen this Lawie around?"
They shoved the poster in his face. Staring right into his very own eyes, Andy shook his head, quivering underneath the feeble armor of mismatched cloaks.
"You sure? Been looking for him all over the place…"
"Oh, please, gentlemen! Don't scare away my customers, will you?"
"We're not scaring anyone, pal, just asking around."
"Can't you ask around somewhere else? I doubt he'd show himself anywhere near a populated area… Let alone the Scar Market! Can't be that much of an idiot, think about it, gentlemen."
Andy gave a quick nod, as the poster slowly left his sight. He, in fact, could be that much of an idiot.
"Fair… Still, you never know."
"I, uh… I don't think he's here."
All eyes turned to lock onto the angel. A little devil on his shoulder slammed their hand, full force against their forehead.
"You don't think? How so? You got some insight on him, tall guy?"
"Just… Intuition?"
"Intuition? And where do you think he is? Last "Daily Board" reports have all pointed towards this area in particular. I mean, hell, even mercs out on the frontlines are lacking, 'cause every hotshot wants a piece of this guy and his buddy-bud psychopath."
The rest of the group nodded and murmured in unison, something about merc solidarity or fighting for a cause.
"And you stroll up and tell us "he's not here." Just who exactly are you, bud?"
Andy took a small step back, feeling a knife of anxiety digging into his stomach. His hand reached for Nuffer, resting in his holster underneath the fabrics…
The mercs marched onward, some reaching for the iron by their sides, some cracking their overgrown knuckles.
"Wait, wait, wait. Gentlemen! Come on! You seriously think this here man is THE Exorcist?"
The salesman piped up, most likely afraid of losing a potential customer. With his arms crossed, he shot the bounty hunting assembly a glare.
"Could be? I mean, why's he so covered up for?"
"Oh, think, you Goliath meatheads! Not everyone's just all muscle and no brain. Some of us are devoted to the worship of deities from far beyond our world, isn't that right? Did I guess right? You're a pilgrim, mister?"
Andy glanced at the salesman - the old man was smiling confidently, eager to see whether he hit the mark. The mask of Mr Ricketts quickly slipped right off his face, making way for a new one - a man of the pagan gods of Kazdel, a true vessel of some made up, ancient deity!
"I… Yeah? Yeah, I am. It's… It's a religious thing. Can't wear anything else, or I'll get, uh… A divine power will smite me down. Yeah, that."
"Of course! Besides, have you lot already forgotten? They keep saying, everywhere, that Ricketts travels with a companion. You see anyone here besides our pilgrim friend? I don't."
"Huh. Yeah, he's missing the black-haired kid…"
A bit baffled and embarrassed, the bounty hunters hid their weapons away, apologetically scratching their chins.
"Right. Sorry about that, then. Been a long week, is all."
Andy felt relief sprouting within him once more, soothing his mind like a cup of fresh water underneath the desert sun.
"That's alright. I get it, I'd probably be out, looking for him, too, if I ever, uh… Strayed from the holy path."
"Yeah? It's bad business for the most part. Wouldn't recommend."
The salesman clasped his hands together and cleared his throat rather audibly, gathering the attention of everyone present.
"Soooo… Gentlemen. For the most part, at least. Would you be possibly interested in browsing some of my wares? Hope you're not ones to reject the modern beauty of a well crafted firearm, are you?"
The mercs exchanged a few glances and murmurs, before stepping forward, happily examining the guns on display. Andy sighed in relief and joined in, completely forgetting about anything else.
"We usually don't use these fancy things… But why not? We could indulge from time to time, right?"
"Right."
"Right! Hell yeah!"
"Riiiight…"
The angel in disguise stood by their side, watching them pick out a few low caliber guns. He clicked his tongue.
"If I may… I'd pick something of a larger caliber."
"Oh?"
"Mhm. It gets dangerous out there, in the desert. I'd know, I hail all the way from the North! Been traveling non-stop for a month, planning on making it to the, uh… A cathedral some… Where. Anyway, a bigger gun's better."
He shot the shopkeep a wink, eager to pay back for covering his hide by helping with swindling some extra cash from these idiots.
"You say so? If that's what you say, gun expert - pilgrim."
They all chuckled, picking out some heavy hitters.
"Heh… A gun-slinging man of gods. If I seriously didn't know any better, I'd say you're our target, buddy."
"Right? Imagine how hilarious it would be, if you just popped my hood off and… Poof, The Exorcist waited underneath!"
Again, they all laughed in unison, paying for their respective firearms, the shopkeep's eyes glimmering in glee.
"Alright, pal, that oughta be it. Safe travels, out there."
At the sight of the mercs being all smiles and giggles, Andy gave a tiny nod, a sort of made up goodbye and smiled, himself.
"Safe travels. Oh, and do drop by here, sometime and tell me how your hunt went."
"Ah, right!"
They slinged their newly acquired rifles onto their backs, as the presumed leader of their group parroted Andy's holy nod.
"Will do! Andrew Ricketts, count your days, ha!"
And finally, they turned to leave.
A massive wave of relief washed over the angel, as his heart kept beating out a celebratory mid-solo breakdown.
But, unfortunately, a gentle gust of wind passed by the bounty hunters, forcing them to turn back towards the boy.
Tock.
Tripping over his sandals, a tiny swordsman materialized in front of them all, scuffling between the bounty hunters and panting like a wild dog. Underneath his poncho laid a massive rifle, sticking out like a sore thumb. Andy's eyes went wide.
"S-... S-Sorry it took so l-long, Andy."
He dropped to his knees, then onto his back, letting the straw hat fall off his head. A storm of jet black hair spilled out onto the sand, as Seven grasped his chest, clutching onto his tiny heart.
"... Really sorry, Andy. It won't…"
He took a deep breath, eyes closed, face pale as snow.
"... Happen again."
"..."
And he kept lying there, panting and on the verge of passing out. That wasn't their main issue, though.
Andy locked gazes with the bounty hunters, who were still staring at the two, a slow, yet steady stream of realization creeping onto their rough-sculpted faces. The shokpeep's eyes widened in shock, as he hid behind the counter, knowing what came next.
Staring into those empty pools that knew nothing but brutal justice, Andy felt his hand slithering over to Nuffer's grip by itself. The bounty hunters' "leader" reached behind his back, searching for his newly acquired tool.
A loud yell pierced the silence.
"GET 'EM!"
Andy clutched the gun, pulling it from beneath his cloak, before the devils could even grasp their own.
On his shoulder, a white haired fiend clung onto his neck, eyes wide with pure excitement. A tiny angel by his side whimpered in fear.
Cover blown. Hell let loose.
Sorry, Mosti, can't talk my way out of this one.