.
…
.
A red star illuminated the room.
From the way he was positioned, Anton couldn't really make out much of anything. There was a string of photographs hung across the nearest wall, I guess. It's not like he could even see their contents, though. Someone had puffed his cheeks up a little too much. They were bloated with purple, constantly teeming with pain. He felt an endless stream of ants crawling all over his own meat.
His own, vulnerable meat.
The nerves.
The sweat of melting fat. Soft juices bursting through his ribcage. Bones, digging through flesh and breathing in the stench of piss and vomit that had long permeated the room. A wide-open valley. The perfect family escape. Long, winding days spent at the office, left in a heartbeat to bask and sunbathe down in Anton's wide-spread bowels. Rays of sunlight felt no obligation to reach down there, actually. The con-man was a master of misleading letter pepperings and lawful loopholes. Years spent studying law, and many other useful (or not) knick knacks in the Kazimierzian intelligence epicenter that was the mobile city of Wrocław, had turned him into quite the moronic scholar. Of course, Anton had employed the true and tested tactic of learning to pass, not learning to remember, so at some point not even a sliver of knowledge had remained to stain his brain. Only the numerous PHDs and dusty doctorates, the useless titles and varying majors. All that – all those years of studying – just so that he could boast about being officially better educated than that gloomy ball of nerves that was Kal'tsit. All that, just so he could watch her frown, as she referred to him as "Doctor Newmaker."
That was the initial plan, yes.
But once he had actually returned from that backwards, neon-licked shithole, she didn't even seem to be mad at the impractical prank. With each master's thesis shoved into her face, a growing sense of warm pride spilled into her eyes, like soft ink to a glass ball of venom. Anton laughed a lot that night, buried in documents and many iterations of a few decades worth of graduation attire. He thought he had won. He thought he had finally one-upped her beyond any and all sensible reason. But did he, really?
All he did was bring a dumbass smile to her face. As her eyes scanned the countless papers, the years of sweat, blood and tears poured into words, Anton sat back and giggled. The giggles kept growing dim. More and more, until there was nothing left. In their private quarters, at a time between the rise and fifteenth fall of Kazdel, at some Victorian noble's country estate, Anton sat in a rocking chair, for once quiet and contemplative, as he understood that the past twenty or so years spent in Wrocław were completely pointless. The more she smiled, the more her eyes softened - the more Anton wanted her to sigh and tell him off for wasting so much time on a stupid prank.
But she didn't.
She kept smiling.
And he's never seen her smile like that.
He's never heard her speak with such gentleness to her words.
Such care to her actions, as they talked the night away.
Such attention to every part of him, when her tongue peppered him with questions about his academic doings.
.
And it all only lasted one night. The following day, this or that Sarkaz-peasant uprising had shook the nation awake, and the two had to go quell it themselves. Then, they were separated in one way or another, and a century flashed past in the blink of an eye. It felt like hours, however, for the two time-walkers.
.
Time had a funny, yet bothersome little twang to it. When in good company, it sieved through one's fingers like sand. But when sitting on a chair with one's chest ripped wide open, it dragged itself across the floor at a snail's pace.
.
Still, the memories of that one night never had quite left his head. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing. It was a grain – a thousand times smaller than a dirt molecule – of nothing. It meant nothing. Her words meant nothing, and her genuine smile was worth even less.
But to Anton, it was everything.
.
.
Such were the follies of a dying man. A senile, dementia-ridden corpse, admitted to a sweetly peaceful retirement housing plan. Anton's lips drew a smile at the fading memory of her being, back during that one warm night. Blood trickled down his chin.
His skin soaked it in. Red on red, invisible in the blaring, crimson light bulb. A gust of wind rattled the hanging photographs and played a tango rhythm over his exposed ribs. The steel machinery holding his chest and stomach wide open, creaked annoyingly with the incoming gale, the sound both familiar and so, so irritating. The claws dug deeper into his flesh, beckoned by the torrent of footsteps now flooding the room.
Anton searched, and eventually found it in himself to glance up at the intruders. His would-be grave-diggers, maybe. Possibly.
Feline, all of them. Every single one. From head to toe, garbed in an incredulously dull set of fabrics. Same coats, same hats, same haircuts, same ears, same shirts, same pants, and same shoes (though, soaked with blood to varying degrees.) Anton couldn't even remember who or what exactly they were. "Who did I piss off this time?" His brain asked, without actually expecting an answer. The joke was always on him – so he chuckled. A sad military-man raised a brow at the sound.
"Something funny, cleaver-man?"
His voice, rough and dull. As on the inside, same on the outside.
"I t-think you meant "clever-man." Anton was surprised that his vocal cords could still function properly. Better make the best of it, then. He chuckled at the terrible joke again, but no one else seemed to share his humor.
"Where's that cleaver of yours, anyway? Cleaver of the cleaver-man. What are you without a cleaver, cleaver-man?"
The voices came from the front and back. Anton couldn't focus on any of them in particular – not with the wind so carelessly freezing off bits of exposed flesh from his stomach. He's already gotten used to the scorching sensation of pain, so having Mother Nature now blow her lungs out into his bowels came as a bit of a thermal shock. His muscles involuntarily shuddered.
Anton really, really hated this particular step of "dying."
" 'S a lotta questions. O-One at a time?"
"People get one question at a time." The sad man politely replied. "You're not "People." You have long lost that privilege. Have you not, cleaver-man?"
"Have I? Did I miss something?"
"Did you miss something?" The sad man turned to his colleagues, eager to see their diagnosis. They all stared, faceless and motionless, at Anton's bare ribs and weakly beating heart. Not a word slipped their shared consciousness. "... I don't think you have, cleaver-man. I think the only thing you're missing is your cleaver."
"That seems to be the case."
"Where is it, cleaver-man? Where is your living tool?"
Anton did not know where Uri was. The captors must have somehow pacified the hunk of steel. How? Mystery. On Terra, there were certain capabilities that allowed its inhabitants to split even the sky apart and mold the world anew, so bringing down a rattling pile of scrap couldn't have been of much difficulty anyway. The most concerning part, though, was that he couldn't even hear the old man's raspy voice between the buzzing folds of his brain.
"I dunno."
"You don't know?"
"No." Anton shook his head, and immediately regretted the motion. The metal that held his ribcage open disapproved of the gesture and shifted to straddle his body even further, clawing its way through an ocean of exposed nerves.
"Does he also deem you less than worthy? Has his affinity for flesh finally run out?" The sad man went on. "Does the first entrusted king of the Sarkaz race categorize you as a lesser-human?"
"..." Anton took a moment to think. A thousand years' worth of Uri's careless buzzing flashed through his head in a millisecond. "Fret not, for a moron you might be," rasped Uri'zen's booming voice, "But a moron for the ages, that is. A moron for my ages."
"... I don't think he does. He's not 'at kinda lad."
"Yet I don't see his steel garb anywhere." Their sad, Feline eyes went on to scan the crimson coated room. "That's curious. The photographs for the trial should be just about ready by now."
"Bollocks. Fabricated." Anton scoffed. The photographs, however, remained as unmoving and crimson as ever, not very eager to deter his claims. "You uniform-fuckers never do fair trials. That's why I hate the military types so much."
"The military types?" They all raised their brows and fluffy ears. "We're no military types."
"Of course!" Anton spat out a fair share of phlegm. "Yer all below the good, honest to God workin' military-man! Yer the ones who sit back and do fuck-all, as we slave away down 'ere." He wanted to reach down and stuff a bulging pile of guts back into his stomach, but something held his hands back. More coughs followed "Fuck, 'at hurt."
"Don't exert yourself."
"I'm not exerting myself, thank you. Thank you for checkin', though."
"Anytime." The sad man offered a nod. "Should we start?"
"Haven't yer butcher friends already started?" Anton cast his gaze to the contraption on his chest. His blood-flooded lungs, barely beating heart, torn-apart stomach and shattered ribs offered quite the pitiful sight. "I'd say 'at was a darn good start."
"We apologize." All the sad men nodded. "But when dealing with someone such as yourself, you cannot simply retrieve crucial information under the threat of death. We had to get a little more creative."
"I'm not even mad, to be frank. The fact 'at I'm still kickin' is kinda impressive." A chuckle brought forth a flood of crimson belching down his chin. "... I mean, look at this. Ya can see me heart, 'n all."
"Very colorful. I assume you're fairly acquainted with this magnitude of pain at this point?"
"You could say that, yeah."
"Then, I suppose, we have no other way to go about it."
"Uh-huh." Anton blinked. That silent form of communication caused no pain. Mostly, at least. "... Yer gonna let me go? Set me off with a pint, 'n some much needed apologies?"
"Of course." The sad men all nodded in agreement. "How should we trial you?"
"..." He groaned in annoyance. "What do you mean, "how should you trial me?" Normal, me best guess."
"We can't do normal."
"Why not?"
"See," One of them stepped forth, a volley of photographs stuck between each finger. They all scattered and formed like puzzle pieces, into one, bigger window that offered an outlook into the world of Mr Newmaker's usual doings. One day, he was pictured with his guitar, violently instigating a crowd of Oripathy-ridden peasants to start an uprising. Another, Anton got caught with his sword midway through some noble's stomach. A few others offered glances of more menial killings and acts of senseless destruction. Boring, monday fun. "... As shown here, you've been indulging in some of the more decrepit festivities in life."
"So?"
"So?" The sad man tilted his head. He seemed to have taken offense. "So that when you kill a man, you're a murderer. Kill many? You're a conqueror."
"That fits." Anton smirked in his face. The man, however, ignored him and continued.
"And when you macabre your way through as much meat as you have? I'm not sure what you are, anymore. Not a god. Not a human, either."
"So?" He repeated, seemingly unbothered at the severance of his humanity in the jury's eyes.
"So?" Once more, the sad man tilted his head. To the other side this time. "... Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"
"Yes, we have, Your Honour." They all spoke in unison, their voices strangely melodic. "We find the defendant guilty on all counts for crimes against ALL of Victoria."
"Mmm." The self appointed vindicator clicked his tongue, as Anton was left staring blankly at their little spectacle. "By virtue of the jury's decision and the power vested in me by the crown, I hereby sentence you to be incarcerated with no possibility of parole for life."
.
"..."
.
"Life?! Whaddya mean, life? I ain't got a life!" – the words, as if animated by their own sense of self, launched themselves onto Anton's lips. Unfortunately, his somewhat intact brain prevented them from leaving its thinking chamber, instead softly pacifying the urge.
"Load 'a gaff, that is, mate." He uttered. The lads from the jury didn't seem even the slightest bit bothered. They've already made up their minds, and Anton knew there was no way of tearing those sad, stupid thoughts from their sad, stupid heads. Still, he had to hand it to them. No one's ever tried true imprisonment with him. No one has ever bothered to lock him in a room and do their best to keep him alive in there. It was a fate truly far worse than death. In death, at least, there was a sliver of salvation. There was the certain hint of excitement that came with being woken up a day, or a year after the body had gone cold, naked and alone, lost in a daze so severe that most would fall right back into a set of post mortem tremors. Being, but also starting anew. Making new. Newmaking. The name really did stick, huh. He couldn't even disagree, despite the initial distaste. Kal really did hit the nail on the head with that one.
"Bollocks or not, it's what we've conjured." One of the jury shrugged their boringly plain shoulders. "Since we can't put you down like a rabid dog, we're going to make sure you spend the rest of your days wishing we did. And when we're done, a new set of a younger generation will come and do the same. And when they're done, yadda yadda. You know the drill, "mate."
"No one's coming after you." Anton stated, rather plainly.
"Excuse us?" They finally took offense.
"No one's coming." He calmly repeated. "... The way I see it, yer biting more than ya can chew as is. Fifty more years, give or take, and the Victorian empire crumbles. Poof." A reddish bubble of snot and blood formed and popped by his nostril. "... Like that. Gone. Simple as."
A great rumble tore the serenity of the grim moment apart. Something rattled with a sense of urgency behind the door. Something big, and something in a great hurry. The judge and his jury took a shared glance around one another.
"... Is that your cleaver, cleaver-man?" One of the more perceptive ones asked. Anton shook his head.
"Naw. Can't hear him. He'd be all up in my ear, growling 'n all 'at."
"Bollocks, as you said." The same sad-man calmly called out his non-existent bluff. Not a single brain present in the room had even a hint of an idea what the rumbling might've been. Like a burdenbeast in a porcelain store, the sound kept clattering through the many steel-clad hallways that awaited behind the vault door, slowly but surely closing in on the self righteous troupe.
Anton scoffed, albeit a little amused. "Sure. Bollocks, mate. Go check it out, then. I'm telling you lot, it's not Uri."
"..." Two braver sad-men out of them all exchanged an uneasy look. Amidst the entire group, they stuck out to Anton as the executors of the higher court's mortal will and judgment. Their cloaks were also more stuffed and bloated than the rest, most likely housing some sorta battle-ready spring mechanism, or an array of casting units. He couldn't really tell. He's seen both before, but he couldn't really tell. "We can suppress and prevent. Like an organism."
"We could suppress and prevent, yes. No one wants to catch a cold. Do you want to catch a cold, cleaver-man?"
Anton shook his head. The motion once again prompted the steel cage between the mounds of his exposed flesh to bite him hard in retaliation. He drew a sharp breath of air.
"... I don't wanna catch a cold."
"Good." The judge returned a nod, as if directly taunting the mutilated corpse. "Look at me, guess what I can do! I can move my head! You can't." the motion said. His lips, however, remained completely straight. Motionless. Sad, hence the nickname. With another flicked of his overly well-built neck, he addressed the executioners and non verbally excused them out of the room. They silently nodded and thudded away to unshackle the door.
"If it is your cleaver, however, we'll make sure the two of you never see one another ever again." The judge poked Anton's exposed heart. The organ itself shrunk in pain, but Anton couldn't feel a thing. "... You'll be directly responsible for your "friend's" suffering."
"Deal." He was too busy watching the man's perfectly cut nails exploring his own innards to listen. "... You get off to 'at? Some kinda kink?"
"Excuse you." He withdrew, an image of disgust spread over his face. "Maybe we should think of somehow ridding you of your tongue. Jury, please add blasphemy onto the charge count."
"Blasphemy, loss of speech." They all murmured in unison. "... Effective immediately."
"Effective immediately." The judge loomed over Anton like the thought of Death never could. With one hand, he reached into his mouth and forcefully pulled the tongue, while the other was busy looking for a sharp object inside the bellows of his sad, sad coat. "... I hope you won't mind if I take the role."
"Mmm, n-naw, gaww ahwwead, mate." He mumbled, albeit with a bit of trouble due to the unfortunate, most awkward circumstances. "Pwwease, indulge."
"Right." The judge produced a short, shapeless pocket knife. It had no distinguishable feats. No colorful handles, no flimsy writings or engravings, no funky shapes cut into the blade – nothing. It fit the judge well. "... How long does it take you to get the muscle to grow back?" He asked, measuring a line along Anton's twitching tongue.
"... 'As not how it works, mate." He spat back, his eyes studying the sheer dullness of the weapon.
"Is it not?"
"Nuh."
"Perfect."
The judge smiled for the first time since the beginning of their little exchange. Anton saw a glimmer of some sadistic glee inside the man's eyes, and it made him feel happy. The thought of bringing even a sliver of joy into his otherwise dull and boring life managed to tug at the innate jester-spirit of his heart. The roots. The basis and fundamentals of his own existence, time and time again hammered into his head. First, it was Susie, then it was Uri. After that? He couldn't remember, for the love of him.
The ground rattled, hard. Everything inside the room cranked and thudded, as if pulled to the floor by a sky-frying magnet. The photographs all lost their restraints and whooshed to the floor in a myriad of flimsy arcs – back and forth, along the trampled balance of the jury. Sad cloaks lay scattered over the floor, puppets dropped by a crew hastily abandoning ship. Just the judge remained, a captain unwilling to leave his sinking vessel.
His eyes met Anton's. The sparks of joy were nowhere to be seen, put out by a sizzling waterfall of cold dread. Anton, however, as always, remained mostly unphased.
"... I thwwink 'at might've been yeww fwwont guawwd." He did his best to vocalize the concern, but the judge's flesh tweezers kept gripping his tongue hard. It was mostly futile, anyway.
"Can't be. Best schooled casters in the corps. Top grads from the academy." The judge whispered, more to himself than to Anton. "... Suppressing arts. Preventing arts. Like an organism."
"Must be a wweally shitty academy then, mate."
Anton couldn't help but snortle. The pain had already stopped phasing him a while back, so the metal cage's disgruntlement was left unnoticed.
"... Get up." The judge ordered his jury. "... In the name of Victoria, get up. Get up, pile up on the door. Build me a wall of flesh if you have to. Pile up and don't let go. Whoever dares break formation gets fed to the hounds tonight. Limb by limb, piece by piece."
"Melodramatic, aren't ya." Anton chuckled.
"Shut." He snapped back, now visibly worried. Causing others minor inconveniences came as naturally as causing them joy. "Get off the floor. All of you, get…"
Klang.
Something heavy and rapid crashed against the door at a high velocity. Anton might've had an idea of what it could've been, but praising a day before sundown had led him astray many times before, so he stayed silent, eagerly anticipating the climax. None of the other dazed combatants shared his excitement, however. Under the judge's restless eyes, they grumbled to their feet and piled up against the door, with their cloaks overcome wide apart, glinting with steam and originium – the sight of a sharp array of piledriver spears all loaded and aimed at the exit brought Anton some mental conundrums to solve. Maybe that would be enough to stop whatever it was that wanted to break through? A piledriver spear, after all, WAS a pretty big deal. How many times has his own blade buzzed in confusion when parried masterfully by one of those explosive giants? Many times, that's how many. Too many to count. You'd think Uri would get used to it after a while and ask Anton to reconsider their approach when dealing with Victorian elites, but apparently not. Centuries of being stuck in that moron's head must've dimmed his own once great, albeit always slightly lacking, intellect.
That day, however, the spears proved to be no match for what lurked beneath the barricade.
First, came a light push. A creak of the door, the embezzlement of the metal carapace for one's use. The hinges squeaked in protest, drawing the sad men to take action and step back. Locked and loaded, their spears awaited the breakthrough.
Next, came the silent anticipation. The air, flaming with an oil of pure terror and expectancy of the worst, bit and burned the ears of everyone present. Blood rang in their skulls. Thoughts were a cluttered mess of feverishly repeated high stake drill formulas and scattered bits and pieces of training manuals. Some fiddled with their behemoth-weapons, others feigned complete stillness and didn't even bother wiping the ice-cold sweat trickling from their fuzzy ears, down their clean-shaven mugs. Anton sat and watched, tongue still trapped.
"... Any moment now." He hummed.
"Shut it–..."
.
And finally, the cathartic release.
The door let out its last yelp of pain, before being utterly torn apart by a bursting blast of greenishly bright and overbearing light. Steam flooded the chamber, immediately blowing away all instances of attempted defense and feigned bravery. Piledrivers went off, spewing 40 millimeter shells around the room's red hue, and quickly dimming after a muffled explosion each. The distorted buzzes and screams that soon took reign over the unclaimed, Feline ethnostate all assaulted Anton's overly exposed (skinned) ears and made them curl. The pain came back. Breathing hurt. Existence was purely based on one singular source resource, and that resource was the amount of boiling warmth surging through his nervous system. Pain was fuel, and Anton was nothing more but an inside-out flesh automaton.
"..."
He stared and watched, as a presence far grander than anticipated had made short work of the front guard. Feline body parts burst in each direction. Blood coated the walls, mixing nicely with the blaring red star that glimmered brightly from above. A flurry of limbs – black, crystalized, sharp as a knife and dexterous beyond all reason – cleaved and minced its way through the sad men up front. With a torrent of jabs and pokes, the four blade-like clusters of black crystals tore the entire room apart – from the falsified (or not) photographs that stained the walls, to the Feline batter that now caked every other surface. Anton felt a belch of something wet hitting his bare innards, and he sighed at the sight of Feline fondue-scrapings pouring from the ceiling straight into his ripped stomach.
A flash of red cleared the bellowing steam.
Like a tower, or otherwise any other massive structure, before Anton stood a gigantic mass of maliciously rattling crystal. Black as the night, dripping with blood, its snake-like body, complete with a sharpened tail and a full-teethed grin, coiled in place amidst the Victorian flesh massacre – barely even fitting inside the room.
The judge's breathing was unsteady. Anton felt each shock of terror being flung across his brain, with the way his fingers tightened and loosened around his tongue. At this point, he didn't even mind, so he let the wide-eyed man hold onto the slimy worm for some sort of sick reassurance.
His other hand still held the knife. The crystal-beast sized the judge's trembling stature, yet remained absolutely still. Nothing, absolutely nothing seemed alive behind its unfeeling eyes. They were just as mortified as the judges, but for two completely separate reasons.
One seemed very much alive, while the other appeared completely dead.
.
"..."
.
The judge's breaths trembled. Uneven and fragile, like a fisherman's line flung carelessly into a raging depth, they kept being tugged at by the claws of primal, animalistic terror. Every single part of him screamed "LEAVE." and "RUN." and otherwise similar commands, but the judge remained still.
Unmoving.
Lost in a daze.
Holding Anton's tongue.
.
…
.
Tap, tap, tap.
.
Heeled footsteps cut the silence with grace.
.
With an almost robotic-like elegance.
.
As if animated by something akin to an artificial intelligence's will to truly be human.
.
They stopped right in front of the crystal creature, slowly baring the one they belonged to, with the dissipation of the reddened steam.
"..."
The judge stared at the newly appeared woman. His eyes couldn't widen any further.
"... T-Time walker?" He whispered.
She sized the man from head to toe. No discernment to be seen in his actions, nor his garb. The knife inside Anton's mouth didn't help much either.
"Mon3tr." She commanded – both soft and sharp. "... Bite."
"..." The creature behind her back rumbled in compliance. Without the slightest hint of hesitation, it flung its massive jaws wide open and threw the coils of its uneven mountainside of a body onto the man. He couldn't even shout. At least the barest hints of honor were kept and dragged along to his crystal grave.
"..." Anton watched quietly, as the creature bit its sharp forehead into the floor, right between its legs. It cleaved the judge's arms clean off, leaving the hands still dangling from his mouth. He spat them out, then turned to the rather familiar looking woman and her lazily chewing companion.
.
"... Kal." He nodded gently, as much as his flared pain receptors would let him. "Been a while."
"Anton." She reciprocated the gesture, her voice utterly emotionless.
For a moment or two, silence veiled the room, but for the bits and pieces of noise that came along with the pitter-patter of blood trickling down the walls and falling in annoying bursts from the ceiling. Anton blinked, taking in the sight of Kal'tsit as a whole. Mon3tr could wait a moment.
"..." His brain rested, finally at ease. "... You look nice today."
"You look terrible." She commented plainly on his less-than-ideal appearance. Anton couldn't help but agree. "... Don't give me that face. The fact that you allowed yourself to be put into such a state deserves no sympathy."
"I'm not makin' a face, I'm just agreeing. That's my agreeing face."
"Your "agreeing face" suggests you're in a great amount of physical pain."
"I mean…" He glanced down at the device that separated his ribs. "... Not with you here, I'm not. You know, yer a real sight for sore eyes, actually."
"Mhm." She tapped her heels over to examine him closer. "... Brain damage, then? How severe?"
"I'm not–..." He tried to slap her hand away from his forehead, but the metal chair still held his limbs tight. "... I'm just bein' nice. Can't I be nice?"
"Lobotomized? Brain matter missing? Severed linkage at the base? Numbing originium implant?" Her diligent fingers kept digging through his mess of blood-soaked hair, as he could only sit and exhale, grumble and audibly protest.
"I ain't braindead! I'm not!" He joined eyes with the creature, Mon3tr. "Big guy! Tell her I'm fine!"
"..." The creature shifted, as if shrugging its four massive blade-limbs. A soft buzz arose from its mouth, along with the fleshy drippings of the late judge.
"Stop twitching." She commanded softly, keeping his head pressed flush against the backrest with an elbow. Anton immediately stopped moving, instead staring deeply into her constantly wound-searching, greenish eyes. "... Don't stare, either."
"I'm not."
"You are." As if by accident, her fingers wandered a little too far into the exposed flesh poking from behind a missing patch of hair, right behind one of his mutilated ears. Anton drew a sharp breath of air and flickered his Feline kitty-cat ears, and she immediately retracted. "... Apologies."
"Yer good." He mumbled, now focused on assessing the damage carelessly brought in by Mon3tr. The perp sat on a bed of warm corpses, rolled into a pokey, sharp, cat-like ball. "... Kal?"
"... Extensive head trauma. Blunt?" She asked, focused almost completely on carding through Anton's sticky hair. His call remained unanswered.
"Blunt, I guess. Not exactly a veg-out we had 'ere, y'know." Memories of the surprisingly surgical-like butchers that massacred his poor body still simmered in his mind. "... Kal?"
"Pierced skin. Skull intact, though. Unsurprising." She kept muttering to herself. "... Thick as ever."
"Ha-ha." The thought of saying "You're thick as ever" did cross his mind, but it was rightfully followed by an image of his own brain being ripped out by her bare hands, so he held it in. "... And you're dry as ever."
"Mostly with you. Nothing to be excited about here." Her fingers carefully tended to each crevice and hole poked into the snowy tundra of his endlessly white hair. "... So called "eternal butcher", can't even manage himself properly. Caught lighting up chicken coops in some has-been's manor."
"... Ballrooms. Ballrooms, not chicken coops." He corrected her, though it didn't really matter to either of them. Anton knew there was little he could ever do to nudge her towards a more eye to eye point of view. "... Kal?"
"And then you allowed yourself to be mutilated to this degree." Her voice left a sour aftertaste. Anton could feel the disapproving frustration bursting from her fingers and pouring right into his brain. "... Where's Uri'zen?"
"Not sure."
"Not sure. Of course." She finally let go. Mon3tr hummed a confused tune at the sight of its master displaying such mildly strong emotions. Kal'tsit took a step back to assess the damage in its entirety. Her eyes met Anton's, and the two of them exchanged a silent stare of complete and utter understanding. Only after a few moments did she speak again. "... What do you want me to do with you? What is it this time?"
"..." Anton glanced at his bare innards. "... You could try takin' care 'a this."
"For what? What purpose would that serve?" She scoffed. A little sass was not something he'd expect. "For you to pack up and do one of your "Victorian exits" again? Leave without a trace?"
"D'ya really care about me that much? You never conveyed it properly, y'know."
"I will not be answering that." Her eyes said everything her words had left out. Disappointment and a little bit of revulsion. "... You can prove to be a valuable asset sometimes. Keyword, sometimes."
"Like right now?"
"..." Her lids fell. The internal struggle of whether or not to agree, spilled even into the outside world. "... Like right now, yes."
"A job?"
"Long term. You're expected to stay for more than just a few weeks. It's a professional working environment, too. Not your usual ragtag, renegade band."
"Professional…" The word felt strangely alien on his tongue. "... How professional? You-sort? Or just normal-person-sort?"
"..." She gave him a very disappointed look. Anton could only fight her gaze for so long. "... Sorry."
"Professional enough for me to warn you beforehand. A proper organization. Something I've personally worked for – that means none of your jarring antics. None of your usual nonchalance. None destruction of company property, and most importantly…" She paused, as if to let him brace himself. "... No casualties."
No casualties? He perked up at the sound.
"No? None?"
"None, Anton. No casualties, not even a single slip up." Her voice sounded even more stern than usual. Things must've been on the highest level of seriousness.
"Not even a teeny tiny bit?"
"Anton." Her eyes fled to that sweet, familiar, half-lidded position. "I'm not repeating myself."
"I'm just wafflin', 'cause you know "no casualties" ain't ever the case wiff' me."
"I know. That's why I'm warning you beforehand." Calm as ever, she approached him from the front. Her delicate fingers ran over the metal mechanism between his ribs. "... Hurts?"
"Like hell."
"Good." A glimmer of a smile graced her ever so emotionless face. "... I'll be keeping this machinery, then. As a contingency plan, lest you start acting in an undignified manner."
"You gonna stick this crap between me ribs if I let my hair down? Really?" He watched her hands tightly grip the edges of the cage. It let out a confused creak, before protectively digging itself a little deeper into his flesh. "... Ow."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Is anything ever certain when you're a present variable?" She hummed, then pulled hard.
"N-NOT–. NOT R-REALLY…" Anton gasped at the feeling of surging relief and a splitting shock of pain coursing through his system, all at once. The cage flew from between his ribs, along with the metal restraints holding him down to the chair, all caked in blood and guts. Kal'tsit gave it a disgusted once over and threw it onto the nearest corpse. "... N-Not really. Ow. Some warning next time?"
"I'm hoping there won't be a next time." Her hand found its way near his face, extended in a willing manner. Rubbing his bloodied wrists, Anton glanced over her dirtied nails and crimson-soaked lab coat, then took it. She pulled him to his feet, albeit with a little trouble. "... Can you walk?"
"Can I lean on you?"
"No." She replied calmly, yet let him rest his mangled stature against her side. She still reeked of that god-awful candy scented perfume, just as he remembered her. At that moment, it felt like the sweetest smell he's ever had the pleasure of breathing in by the lungful. "... Mon3tr."
The creature growled, before slithering off its corpse-pile and assisting Anton by sinking its crystalized teeth in his scruff, holding him up like a cat would carry a kitten. Anton relaxed into the cold, unfeeling embrace. "H-Hey, big guy, missed ya…"
Mon3tr purred at the familiar nickname. How gentle the bite felt…
Kal'tsit stared blankly at the two of them, presumably scheming a way to keep him in check, or (less likely) waiting for Anton to say that he had missed her as well. He caught her gaze.
"... What're we even doing this time? Splattering some chap over concrete? Fixing up the sky? Starpod biz again? I still got me space-captain hat somewhere." He pointed in the general direction behind himself. "... Or is it just sodding enforcer work again?"
"More of the latter."
"Really…?"
"Mmm. Not a fan, I know."
"It just starts drivin' you round the bend after some time. At least there's variety with yer other breakneck endeavors." He started counting out on his fingers. "... Deep diving in Seaborn infested waters, mapping out that one mountain chain in Kjerag, oh, my favorite, instigating peasant uprisings, infiltrating the royal Ursian court, decade long vacation in Leithanien…"
"Cut short." She added, now on their way out of the room. The concrete hallways outside kept being assaulted by a blaring noise of a far-away siren, complete with the bright flashes of red warning lights. Blood replaced the wall paint.
"Cut short, yeah." Anton sighed at the thought. Leithanien used to be nice. To a certain degree. Turning classical and overly respected pieces of music into fifteen minute long guitar solos that one might call a "senseless shredfest" wasn't the brightest of ideas, after all. "... And this one? What're we doing now?"
"A civil war in Kazdel. Two sides are trying to gorge each other's throats. We're fighting the good fight, by the rightful ruler's side. That should be enough information for you."
"Plenty enough, yeah." Anton dangled from Mon3tr's mouth with each slithery step the creature took – or rather, with each glide. "... Any details…?"
"Are you trying to appease me?"
"How?"
"Asking for details? Acting like you actually care?"
"Maybe?" He shrugged. "I don't wanna go in blind."
"..." For a moment, only the sound of her heels could be heard. It mixed and clashed with the unrefined grinding of crystal against concrete. "... When we get there, I'll give you a debrief. Get you acquainted with your new colleagues. I know you've an acquired taste for social lives anywhere you go."
"Uh-huh…" Anton racked his brain. "... And you?"
"And me?" She glanced over her shoulder to get a better look at his leaking guts. "... I'll be your superior."
"An actual superior?"
"Actual superior. From now on, it's Doctor Kal'tsit to you."
Her gaze carried a concealed hint of challenging pride. Anton caught onto it in an instant and couldn't stop himself from bursting into a silly grin.
"Of course, doc. Consider yerself far superior than me, for now."
She exhaled a breath of air through her nostrils, which couldn't have been anything else but a sign of genuine amusement. Shaking her head, she took in another lungful and slowly exhaled.
"... You're getting written up already. Written up for misbehaving, and you haven't even officially started yet."
"Oh, am I? My bad." Anton blew a spit-bubble. Though, in his case, it was more of a blood and snot bubble.
"It is your bad." Kal had to fight the urge to scoff. "... I should add this entire incident into the form, as a general failure to adhere to stone-set performance requirements. Knock you down a peg, right at the start."
"Mmm." Anton let out a snort. "Just fuckin' fire me while we're at it. Right off the bat."
This time, it was a fully fledged (albeit very short) chuckle that managed to escape her lips. Anton hasn't heard that sound in a hot while, but experiencing it at that moment filled him with an overbearing sense of a duty to fill. What duty? Any, really. Just a spring to action. A flame of nice warmth. Like a shared campfire on a cold, cold, Kjeragian night. One of those nights. Those nights, up in the mountains, forced to snuggle together by a dying flame, pressing those fuzzy fabrics flush. "Aren't you cold?" He'd ask her. "No. You know it doesn't work like that for me. Opportunism won't work for you, either. It never does." She would reply, as she tightened the veil of a fuzzy shawl over her blush-stricken face. In the cold, cold bellows of a great mountain's shadow was the only place he'd ever see that longed-for red hue. Nowhere else.
Or maybe he just couldn't remember. Either one of the two.
"... Kal?" He asked, far more quiet than before. There was no need to strain her hearing.
"...?" Her ears perked up, craning in his direction.
Anton smiled at the sight. Was the buildup of warmth in his stomach caused by the fact that he knew he was now put into good hands? Was it due to the familiar presence carrying him in its platoon-row of razor sharp teeth? Was it her smile? Her laugh? The fact that his intestines were now messily dragging behind them, with a particularly wet orchestra playing a harmony of concentrated slobs, slurps, squeaks and other onomatopoeic sounds a hunk of sloppy meat would otherwise make?
Or was it simply because he was happy to see her?
.
"I missed you." He said, softly.
.
No malice or sarcasm – no irony, not even the slightest whiff of derision could be found in the statement. He truly meant it.
And Kal'tsit knew.
.
She always knew.
.
He's always been an open book to her.
.
"..."
.
Amidst the gently spaced taps of her heels, and Mon3tr's jarring grind, the sound of a gentle, yet warm-hearted sigh could be heard. Her pace faltered, for just the slightest bit.
.
"... Noted." She murmured. "We operate in a landship now, Anton. On entrance, I will have a specialized crew run a thorough mental examination."
.
She paused. He could tell she was smiling – even if just a little.
.
"... There just has to be something wrong with you today."
...
.
.
.
.
...
.
Just as Mr Newmaker's greenish eyes would stare at the back of Kal'tsit's head back then, so did they in the more recent and present times. A lone eyeball, paddling carelessly in a pool of cooling blood, stared ahead mindlessly, positioned in a way that reflected each and every bit of bloodshed off its emerald iris. The silent commander and her restlessly violent soldier, now busy sinking its four razor sharp crystal-arms into the screaming and wriggling, armless half-corpse of the terrified beastman.
.
"H-HELP!" He yelled, with each identity contained within that head finally agreeing together on a message to send through the lips. "HEEEEEEELP! HEEELP, FOR F-FUCK'S SAKE! HELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!"
.
"..."
.
Andrew stared.
Wide eyed, utterly wordless, he let go of any boundaries that kept him shackled to the barest minimums of social forms he still remembered, instead overcome with a massive, bloated surge of terrified shock. The face of Mr Newmaker, seen between the three dots of his shotgun's iron sights, still sat fresh in his memory, and didn't help even the slightest bit in steadying his shaking hands.
Or overly twitchy tail.
Or trembling legs.
Or crumbling bottom lip.
W was there, though. W was there to help.
He hasn't even noticed when her hand had captured his own. His left, her right – two opposites, two minuses that molded into a plus when conjoined. Two heralds of cold, transformed into beacons of warmth when tightly hugged together, fingers interlaced between the slits and curled hard against the pale skin. She held his hand tight, wordlessly staring ahead at the messy painting that this so called "Mon3tr" creature was engaged in creating. Its four limbs served as brushes, and the canvas were the hall's surgically white walls. It dipped into the endless storage of crimson paint, making the living paint-can scream once more.
"MONSTEEERS! MONSTERS! YOU'RE THE REAL MONSTERS! YOU'RE THE R-REAL TRAITORS! THE THRONE! THE THRONE BELONGS! IT BELONGS, AND NOT TO YOU!"
Phew, fluff.
The feathers of its brushes flew and cut the air, applying a few fair lines to the masterpiece-work-in-progress. A beautifully wine-red sunset soon graced the empty walls.
"A–AAAAAAAAH, Y-YOU… YOU DISGUSTING… Y-YOU… SWINE… TRAITORS… COCK-... -ROACHES… P-PLEASE…"
Fluff, fluff. Phew.
A deeper shade of crimson soon joined the mix, serving as the bleeding sky that always accompanied a proper departure of the sun. Mon3tr proved to be a rather amazing artist. An even better butcher, too.
"..." The beastman seemed to have spoken his last woes. He lay motionless, armless and voiceless. Mon3tr kept digging, however.
Phew, phew. Fluff.
To finish off, a cute mountainside of bile swam through the picturesque sunset. Little villages collected from bits and pieces of torn guts made an appearance beneath the greenish mountains, basking in their shadows and enjoying the wonders of the Kazdelian countryside. Mon3tr was finished.
Soaked from its spiky head, to the very tip of the sharp, lizard-like tail – in blood. And bile.
.
"..."
.
Silence.
.
"..."
.
On their end.
.
"..."
.
On Doctor Kal'tsit's end.
.
"..."
.
And on Mon3tr's end. Except for a quiet purr. It seemed really proud of the painting.
.
Slowly, the silent buzz of today's events started washing away from the air that stood still and refused to flow in and out of the refugee hall. The poor and tattered Sarkaz souls were coming down from their emotional highs and lows, now buzzing with hushed conversations and breakneck speculations about what had just transpired. Voices gradually grew louder and louder, until not even Mon3tr's soft growls could be heard.
Kal'tsit kneeled by the headless corpse of Mr Newmaker.
Her eyes lingered on the hole in his neck, right where the upper side of his face should be. The bottom jaw was still there, still eager to yap her ear off, and be a general nuisance. In a way, even in death, Anton proved to be as much of an annoyance as he was when still breathing. She let out a quiet sigh, then murmured a quick "Mon3tr" to order the creature. It slid from across the hall, and picked the body up by its scruff. Andy and W, unconsciously unwilling to let go of one another's hand, stared blankly, as their "leader" was transported out of the hall.
Kal'tsit turned her gaze to them. Andy could feel W's fingers tightening hard around his somewhat warm flesh, and for a good reason, too. Under the Doctor's stern glare, he couldn't help but cling to her hand as well.
.
"... An accident." She commented. Quick and to the point. No time to be wasted. Andy wouldn't be surprised if she counted each millisecond spent on the clock. "An acceptable performance on your part, however. No casualties amidst the refugees, which is quite commendable. I'm sure Her Majesty would be thrilled."
"..." W gulped, softly. Only Andy could hear. "... You know it, Doctor-lady."
The comment flew past her ears. Kal'tsit glanced around the room once more, before flicking off some Newmaker residue off her clothes. "... You will be left to it, then. Carry on with whatever duties you had planned for today."
With that comment, she sent them off with a nod. The sound of her heels echoed through the hall, when she made her way towards the door.
"... One last thing." She stopped by the exit, catching the two morons off guard. They turned towards her, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. "... Next time, don't indulge in his antics and whims. If need be, you have my permission to say "No."
.
"..." They both nodded. They had no idea what she meant, but they still nodded.
.
Kal'tsit nodded.
.
The Sarkaz eyes and heads, all locked in on their little exchange, also nodded.
.
Thud. The door fell closed, marking her exit.
.
A wave of rumbling conversation shook the room, as the refugees all burst into a retching vomit-fest of word deluges. Every single one of them wanted to rush past the meek Medic Operators, who tried desperately to somewhat secure the gigantic corpse of the beastman behind a flimsy line of Babel branded duct tape. Eventually, they gave up and let the crowd have their little souvenir scavenge-run – the Sarkaz made quick work of weeding out the beastman's many, many limp arms and unmoving eyeballs, all eager to take a piece of the monster for themselves.
Andy and W, however, remained in a blank daze – staring at the door. Slowly, they turned to one another.
Hands interlocked, they blinked.
"Dude…" W uttered.
"... Dude." Andy finished.
.
"..."
.
"..."
.
"... What the fuck."
"Right? What the FUCK was all that?" W let go of his hand, instead swinging her arms around his shoulders to try and shake some answers out of him. "Did you see that kitty-cat bitch? That thing? That came outta her spine? The hell was that?"
"I d-don't know, stop… stop shaking me!" Andy tried fighting back, but couldn't really do anything against an overly excited Sarkaz who weighed nearly twice as much as he did. "... I'm gonna puke."
"Right." She stopped at once, but kept her arms wrapped around his neck. "... Better?"
"Yeah…"
"Yeah, good. 'Cause you fucked up big time, Lawdog. Huge time, even." A devilish smirk slipped onto her lips, and her antennae reached out to twist around in his curls.
"What? How?"
"How?" She narrowed her gaze, then nudged her head towards the pile of Newmaker residue staining the floor. "... Y'know. Friendly fire? No? I mean, I'm all for it, but y'know."
"Okay, HOW," He began, a little louder than anticipated. "... HOW is it my fault? How?"
"Lawdog, I'm just saying, that the fact–...'
"But he told me to shoot! He literally poked his eye up the barrel and told me to fucking squeeze the trigger!"
"Yeah, and you squeezed it alright..."
"I squeezed it 'cause he fucking told me to!"
"Yeah, but there's this thing called self-consciousness and free will-..."
"Oh, don't even start with that..."
"But it's true! Theresa taught me, hehe-..."
"Yeah okay, but look. I'm just saying- I'm saying that he-, he..."
"Lawdog…"
"Look, he– he–... he said that…"
"Lawdog, I'm not saying that he did or did not say what he did, but–..."
"And he just held that thing up to his skull and told me to shoot! What was I gonna do, NOT shoot…?"
"And I get that, but–..."
"And how he made fun of me? Oh, " The gun told you something? Oh you must be a fucking loon, amazing!"
"Okay, yeah, fair point to him, I guess…"
"What do you mean "fair point"? What do you m–..."
"Lawdog, the fact that you're schizophrenic is officially widely known, congratulations. We should throw you a party. Yeah, a party! You can invite all your little imaginary friends there, share your little stories…"
She fell into a chortling fit of rough cackles, but Andy wasn't having any of it. As pissed as he was already, her giggles just added more oil to the already rampaging wildfire. He cocked back a fist and punched her in the side.
"O-Ow!... O-Ohoho-ow… Oh f-fuck, that hurt, hehe…" W whined between chuckles. "... A-Alright, I get it, I get it. Touchy subject, sheesh…" She uttered quietly, before tightening her grip a little. As if to soothe his burning head, her hands reached onward to cradle his unkempt mess of curls and gently lead it all towards her shoulder. With her arms around his neck, their bodies pressed flush together, Andy felt strangely at peace – as if the events of today were nothing but a nightmare that her somewhat genuine embrace had managed to rip him out of. He sighed into the bloodied fabric of her jacket, before closing his eyes and hugging back, his arms clumsily snaking and wrapping around her waist. It hadn't really crossed his mind at that point, but it could've been the very first time she's ever dared go as far as to actually hug him.
He didn't really mind, though.
How could he?
.
"..." Andy hugged her tight. Arms buried in her jacket, cheek tended to carefully by her shoulder, he held her close. His fuzzy sweater to her cotton shirt, her lightly ripped tights to his endlessly roomy, and a size too large cargo pants – they were sandwiched together without even a sliver of breathing room between.
.
And it felt nice.
.
It felt like he really, really needed it.
.
"... Asshole." He uttered. W responded by chuckling softly.
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever lets you sleep at night, twerp."
"Like your stupid moon obsession." Andy retorted with a grumbly murmur. W shifted to lightly tap him on the top of the head.
"Hey. Insults, I can take, but leave the moons out of this." She threatened playfully by his ear. "... You leave the moons, I leave the part of you that's a paranoid schizophrenic. Deal?"
Her unnaturally soft voice flowed quietly into his ear.
"... Deal." He repeated, quietly.
"Deal, then. Deal's a deal."
"Deal's a deal."
"... And you're still a schizophrenic."
"Dude." Andy raised his head. "Dude, fuck you."
W stuck her tongue out, a picture of pure mischief painted over her mug. Before Andy could stick his fist up her ass, however, a tiny force managed to tug at both their sleeves, breaking them both from the quiet daze, and from their strangely out of place embrace. At the thought of someone seeing them like that, they immediately pushed one another away.
"...?"
Their eyes turned to the perp. It was some little Sarkaz boy – with eyes that spelled a story of nothing else but pure, overbearing pity. Sorta familiar. Sorta not.
.
"E-Excuse me?" He mumbled. With his finger pointing towards a guard-less pile of MRE rations, currently being taken apart by the more cunning of refugees. "... Um… I t-talked to the, um… To the nice F-Feline man before, and… and h-he told me that he'd get me food once the b-big man was put down. By you, I mean. That's what he said."
.
"..."
.
W and Andy exchanged a weary glance. One more look towards the pile, one more sight of a group of Sarkaz hoarding more than five family-sized food packs under each cloak. With a smirk, the girl leaned down to the floor and haphazardly wiped Andy's pellet rifle off Newmaker's brain matter. She stuck it into his arms.
.
"No worries, we'll get you some chow."
.
Her tail slapped Andy's behind. He threw her a bewildered look.
.
"What?" She threw from behind a continuously widening smirk. "... Soldier on, Contemporary Operator Ricketts. There are mouths to feed, and misery to quell."
"We should start with quelling you, honestly. One less mouth to feed, and A LOT of misery avoided in the long run."
"Oh, shush…" She clicked her tongue and readied her own grenade launcher. "... C'mon, Lawdog. Be a good boy and listen to what that bitch Kal'tsit said."
.
Smirks and knowing looks on full display, they carried on to tend to their rightful duties. Like two professionals should. Like two professionals could.
.
Like a domesticated pair of blue collared workers.
.
Portioning the rations, wrangling the crowd.
.
W realized she could really, really get used to this sort of life.
.
While Andy was left begging the Law, now deaf to his cries, for the Babel-contracted week to end already.
.
.