.
.
Sunny or not, the day had to come anyway.
.
Who's ever heard of a "day" not showing up to work? Anyone ever seen a "day" throw in a week's notice and quit? No? Maybe a day calling in sick, then? Still no?
No, because a new day always came. Through the thick and thin, the day never – not ONCE – decided to play a prank on the Terrans and left them waiting for a ne'er forecasted sunrise to spread across the horizon. It had to come. What else would there be, if not a new day? A repeat? The click of a reverse button, and a re-screening of yesterday? No, the "day" of "yesterday" wasn't the same as the "day" of "today" – and neither would the "day" of "tomorrow" be. They all had their own special days to clock into. They had their duty to fill and a purpose to serve. Wound about the never ending scatter that was the disorganized solar system, these days had to navigate their way over to Terra and somehow gather the entire planet into their heaving bellows – at least until another "day" came to switch roles.
And that day, there was noise in the burrowing hallways of the Rhodes Island (under the ownership of Babel, mind you) landship.
Noise couldn't have been an abnormality, not in a place like this. Here, however, the caliber of the noise itself had mattered most, not the quantity. Sure, there was a lot of buzz surrounding the bustling cafeteria, or a whole bunch of clinking and clanging spilling from the nearest training facility – but what really drew in the day's ears, was the strained grunting and a river of curses flowing freely from a certain "Sarkaz" mercenary's mouth.
"F-... Fuck's sake… Fuck's sake, a-almost…"
In a half-empty hallway, a half-witted, half-unnecessary gathering took place. Encircled from each side by three pairs of eyes (one of them – weary and tired, while the rest remained excitedly moronic), a violent tangle of limbs crawled about the floor, unable to come to any sort of sensible conclusion. The familiarity of an unnaturally agitated and desperately flustered Ines, sprawled over the cold metal, ended somewhere where the calm and collected coolness of a nameless Sarkaz woman, with venomously purple horns and hair, started. Her arms did nothing more but simply encircle the Caprinae's feral, bucking stature, yet it served as an inescapable prison that bound her flush to the floor, cheek mushed against the hard plate. The heels of her boots bit down Ines' ankles and effectively drilled them in place, leaving her almost utterly defenseless and helpless.
Keyword, almost.
"A-Almost…" She spat through gritted teeth, while her hands dug around the outsides of her veiling cloak in search of the familiar feel of a steel handle. In her assault, the other Sarkaz had forgotten about her grabby little hands.
"It's… isn't that enough already? Look, I don't want to… I don't want to be a burden, or otherwise an annoyance, but…" Watching from the sidelines, a slightly concerned Hedley raised a finger to propose some haphazardly thought-out idea. The hiss of both brawling cutthroats shushed any forms of conflict resolution clear from his head.
"Not now." Ines barked.
"Exactly. It's between us, not you." The other cut in, with little to no signs of physical exasperation in her voice. "... So keep it shut."
"Yeah, shut up, Hedley!" W chortled from the other side, excited beyond belief at the sight of Ines getting her shit rocked. "Let 'em fight!"
"Yeah, let them fight!" Andy, glued to her side, played into her tune with his own warble. To see a professional Babel operative at work, performing whatever battle sorcery their arsenal hid, and on one's own friend? Or, maybe "colleague", actually. Ines would probably use the word colleague. Or "nuisance", even. Andy shook his head at the thought, immediately dispersing the clouds of gloom that loomed over his mind. "... We won't get any other opportunity like this!"
"..." The redhead sighed at the sight of a fully fledged opposition being formed against his attempt at peacefully resolving the matter of Ines and some high-ranking Babel operator tumbling about the floor in a mock show of strength. "... I'm simply offering a key. I think you've had enough."
"I'll tell you when I've had enough!" Ines picked her head off the floor to glare at him. It earned her an elbow wrapped around the neck. "A-ACK–!?"
"Opportunities. Taken, not given out. Note it down when I'm done." The other woman hummed by her ear. "... Foul play? I thought we settled on no shanks?"
"N-Not foul play…" Ines felt her fingers enclosing around the cold handle of one of her throwing knives. She also felt the light slowly being drained from her pupils, as the other woman's arm cut her oxygen supply. "J-Just… Just an opportunity."
"Tch." She clicked her tongue. Without missing a beat, Ines sprung to action and pulled the blade off her cloak, then messily shot her hand back to hopefully stick the sharp end into the Sarkaz's crimson shirt. Before it could reach and pierce the fabric however, a clouding storm of purple had flown in through the closest air vent. It stirred a smoke-like whirlwind around Ines's wildly bucking hand, then dissipated into complete nothingness – taking the knife along with itself.
"W-Whuh…?" She gasped for air, mind blank with the sudden removal of her weapon.
"Wooaaaaaaah…" Andy and W both stared, wide eyed, at the usage of some A-tier combat arts. Their eyes, sparkly and dazed, soon returned to their normal size, and the two began chanting. "C'mon, do something back! C'mon! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes!"
With the newfound strength that came from hearing their battle-spirit beckoning mantra, she managed to hold onto the escaping many-frilled tail of consciousness for a few moments more. Her arms flopped left and right, attempting to catch and grasp both the thought of reality slipping from beneath her feet like a pulled rug, and the assailant calmly pressed against her back.
"I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes!"
Andy and W kept whistling and jumping atop one another. Ines could barely even make out the noise from the blood ringing in her ears.
"I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes!"
It all proved to be too much. Too little time, too much weight squeezing her throat. Too little oxygen in her brain, too much blood gliding down her gullet…
"I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes! I-nes–..."
She dropped her head to the floor with an empty thud. Hedley sighed. The two morons let out a shared "Awwww…" of disappointment.
.
"Mmm. No bite." The other woman seemed almost disappointed. Her limbs slowly unweaved themselves from the utter mess that was their not-so-intimate embrace. Ines lay discarded on the floor, a doll rag that had already played its part and bored its master to death.
"..." W and Andy watched the Sarkaz woman dust herself off. Clouds of dirt cascaded down her figure, as her gaze swept them all.
"... Satisfactory enough? Anyone else eager for a spar?" She asked, with a challenging smugness permeating each syllable. The morons shook their heads.
"... Thought so, mercs." Her lips twisted into the barest hint of a smirk. She nudged her feet back, then took a step over the unmoving body of Ines.
Like a graceful fowl of prey, leaving a crimson-painted battlefield bathed in the golden rays of victory, she made her exit. A bearer of the metaphorical laurel wreath that came with utterly massacring one weaker than oneself. A sense of accomplishment, quelling temporarily the drilling hole in one's soul. A hole bound to resurface an hour or two into the future, more potent and vacuuming than ever before. She sighed, then swung her other foot over the unconscious doll.
"...-?!"
… But it didn't quite reach the ground.
"...?" Both W and Andy perked up immediately, at the sight of Ines' sleeve-flaps dancing across the floor. With one, she encircled the other Sarkaz's ankle and held up, while the other – swept her foot clear off the floor.
The Sarkaz's salmon eyes widened to the size of dinner plates at the unprompted and (more importantly) most unexpected gesture.
Thud.
A second later, she was already on the ground. Cloaks were fluttering, flashing devices and clanging weaponry was cluttering, and the whole scene had turned to an overall state of chaos. The two morons gasped at the sight, both animated with a newfound purpose to scream their lungs out.
"I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! WOOOO!" They chanted, while jumping as if suddenly afflicted by third degree burns. Hedley tried staying mostly uninvolved, mostly quiet and stoic – simply waiting the brawl through – but at some point, his own stillness broke, and he was left quietly uttering "I-nes, I-nes, I-nes, I-nes…" beneath his breath, along to the moron's tune.
Ines, however, raised her upper half off the floor.
With a steady stream of blood pouring from her nose, she clambered atop the other Sarkaz's cloak. Eyes locked on the metaphorical prize, bursting with nothing but sheer determination and uncharacteristic amounts of sadistic hatred, she scaled the purple mountain and bit her elbow right into its bulging spine. The other woman coughed a portion of her lungs out – with a wet, slurping belch – and smeared a mixture of spit and blood over the floor. Before her lips could part, and before another waterfall of Sarkaz curses could be spilled, Ines managed to straddle her sides and throw a loose elbow around her neck.
"KHEE–..." She drew a sharp breath at the feeling of a bare knee invading her spinal area. Ines forced them both off the floor into a kneeling position, then slammed her back against the metal plates to lock her and her opponent in a death grip, with no way of escaping.
"I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! KICK HER ASS! KICK HER ASS!" Even W got lost in the cheers, momentarily placing aside all her accumulated hatred towards the Caprinae. The sight of the wide-eyed Babel operative flailing her meek arms around in search of a grip on her opponent brought them both an inexplicable surge of joy.
"I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! COME ON, DRAW HER OUT! FROM THE SIDE! FROM THE SIDE!" Hedley, now on all fours, and eagerly free of any attempts to keep face, yelled right into the stalemate. Having heard, Ines gritted her teeth even harder, and with a creaking, grinding sound, she unwrapped her arm from the other's neck and slammed a fist hard into her side. The Sarkaz let a choked-back gulp of pain through her lips.
"G-Give up. J-Just give up, you… What w-was it? Ass-something?" Ines seeped through ground teeth. "Stupid… codenames…"
"As-... As-calon…" Her voice belched from beneath, breathless and strained.
"Y-Yeah, that. Just give up. Merc superiority wins."
"T-Tch…" A quiet sound echoed.
"I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! I-NES! WOOO!" Andy and W kept rooting, emitting as much, if not more, noise than the actual brawl. The sight of their not-so-beloved being on top and actually winning brought warm palpitations to their little hearts. It all came crashing down in an instant, when that same, purplish hue of formless smoke exploded from beneath Ines, surrounding them all in its all encompassing embrace. "I-NES–... Keff!... keff, keff…"
Choking and coughing, the two of them fell to the floor to escape the buzzing cloud. It slid past the Caprinae, leaving her confused and holding onto nothing, sprawled across the floor. With a certain hiss to it, the smoke gathered into a vaguely Sarkaz-like shape a few meters away, then slowly took the form of this "Ascalon" person. From her heels, along the cloak, the smoke weaved her back into the mortal plane – inch by inch, knit by knit. Like a yarn doll being re-sewed before their very eyes, "Ascalon" stood proud once more, seemingly unscathed.
"... Foul p-play, my ass." Ines murmured, being helped off the floor by Hedley. She wiped a streak of blood running down her chin. "... What, is that it? Done?"
"Done, if you're gonna play dirty like that." Ascalon scoffed. "... Acting has no place on the field. You're either smart enough to win with no cheap tricks, or you end up tied to a pole. Or dead. No in-between's."
"Sure. Yap my ear off." Ines roughly shoved Hedley away, despite his attempts at gently dusting her off. "... Cheater."
"Actor." She threw back.
"Fraud."
"Con-girl."
"Black-leg."
"Swindler."
"Grifter."
"Scam."
"Fake."
"Fake?" Ascalon followed with a raised brow. "Says who? The one pretending to be Sarkaz?"
The words immediately duster Ines' cheeks a rosy pink. If one glanced hard enough, they'd see steam slowly seeping from her ears.
W nudged Andy in the ribs. "See? Told you. Anyone with half a brain cell can tell immediately."
"Y-You…" Seething, Ines was left growling and buzzing with anger, as Ascalon sauntered her way through the corridor and left without a proper goodbye. Traces of a pinkish-purple hue were left to waft about the air.
"... It's alright. You took the victorious blow, anyway." Hedley soothed her mind, a careful hand gently rubbing her shoulder. Not too rough, not too pushy – in fear of the girl turning to bite his fingers off.
"Yeah, you're not that much of a loser in our eyes!" W, a little less gently, swung her arm around her neck. Ines exhaled, exasperated. "... What? I'm trying to cheer you up for once, you ungrateful bitch."
"That's very helpful." She muttered. Andy soon joined the clown cavalcade by mushing his chin against her shoulder. "... Oh, you too. Spill your wisdom, what is it?"
"I was gonna say something smart, but forgot." He shrugged. "Just wanted to join in on the family fun."
"Family fun." Hedley let out a snort of laughter at the notion. "I wouldn't exactly call it that."
"Why not?"
"It'd have to be one of the most dysfunctional families Terra's ever seen." He summed up. "... Besides, it sounds silly. There isn't really much time for family affairs in Kazdel, anyway."
"Is there anywhere, really?" Andy asked.
"No." Hedley shook his head, then took a step back. "... But it still happens, anyway. Here, there – anywhere, really – as you said. Take the sovereign twins for example. It's just politics, isn't it? Politics and choices, apparently important enough to drive apart a somewhat functional family."
"I don't think it could ever be that simple." Ines murmured from beneath W's shoulder. "... There's more to it. Ideas, ideals, goals and ways to go about reaching them. We'd never know, though. They're not the kind of people to bare their hand before any common rat like us. No matter how much "fighting for a better future, for the people" spewage flings from either mouth, I still don't see it."
"..." W blinked. "... I dunno, I kinda like Her Majesty."
"Yeah, she's nice." Andy slithered under her other arm, and she wrapped it all nice and snug around his neck. "... Makes some banging tea, too."
"Mmm. Tessie's real nice, yeah." A pair of arms fell over them both – familiar, but foreign. "... So, since yer that much of a dysfunctionally practical family, want me to commemorate ya on digital? Got a camera, dunno how to use it, though."
.
"...?"
.
All eyes turned towards the sudden appearance of another creature.
With the buzz of a hulking alloy of iron located on his back, a scent of freshly and flowery wound washing detergents spilled from his person.
Hair, pristinely white, tumbled down the folds of his oversized jacket. A twitchy pair of Feline ears wiggled on top.
Beneath it all, a pair of emerald eyes returned their confused gazes, slowly overcome with a sense of surprise. His smile twisted to a straight line.
"... What? Why're you lookin' at me like 'at?" Newmaker asked.
.
"W-... whuh…?" Andy and W anxiously slid from beneath his embrace, shoulders slumped and slippery, as if suddenly coated in some oily sludge. They took a few steps back, until their backs hit a wall. "How? Just– just how, even, h-... What?"
"What?" He questioned right back, confused. With an asking glance, he turned to the rest. "... What's with 'em?"
Hedley shook his head. "Been asking the same for a while."
"Mmm." With a hand rubbing his chin, Anton approached the morons. They deflated and shrunk under his gaze. "... Ya two alright? Ya look like ya saw a ghost. Or a dead chap walkin'"
"U-Uh-huh." Andy nodded up, eyes wide open. "S-Something like that, I think."
W bit her nails deeper into his shoulder. The burning pain of their tails intertwining and tangling together into a tight knot didn't bother either one of them.
"... God, you two are tense." Anton summed up, a little worried, then snapped his fingers. "Uri, c'mon. Pick 'em up."
Promptly, the familiar grasp of two metal gauntlets enclosed tightly around their scruffs and gently lifted them up in the air. Behind Anton's back, they saw the questioning gazes of Ines and Hedley peeking from behind her shoulder.
"I'm gonna borrow these two for t'day, alright?" Newmaker threw to the rest, watching Andy and W being escorted along the hallway by his ghostly hand-helpers. "Seems like they need some loosey-loose-loosening work done. Nothing too tough."
"Uh-huh." Ines slowly nodded, still visibly thrown off by the morons' behavior. "... What is it that you actually even do? I don't think I ever caught your rank anywhere."
"Ines…" Hedley wanted to cut in, only to be shushed by her venomous glance.
"Oh, 'at's very simple actually." Anton smiled back into her stormy eyes. Something brewed behind. Something sinister – something violent. Something he couldn't read. Anton has never been able to properly distinguish social cues. "I'm an operator. I'm told to do things, and I do them."
There was a hint of pride in that statement. It left the two mercs scratching their heads and exchanging confused glances, as Anton took his leave.
.
That day, Rhodes Island took a deeper plunge into the ocean that was the "background." That day, the Kazdelian wilderness ruled supreme, and spilled onto Terra more and more with each kilometer tracked by the rubber gums of Anton's babel-appointed land-crawler. Some might've called it a car, but brand necessity required a fancier name.
W and Andy sat huddled up in the far end of the cabin, pressed against one another and the door. They stared silently at their driver.
"..." Smelling fresh and feeling bonita, Mr Anton Newmaker sat sprawled over the driver's seat in a very casual manner. Head on the headrest, an elbow out the window, one hand on the wheel, another fiddling with the radio's frequency knob, and a wide, bright smile on his face. Andy shuddered a little when the booming scream of an army of electric guitars and drums erupted from the nearest speaker. He burrowed his cheek further against W's shoulder.
"..." Whistling away along to the beating assault of distorted noise, Anton paid them little to no mind. The gray and empty battlefields of Kazdel were a sight to avoid, not behold, but with a familiar and beloved musical number tearing one's ears out, even the deepest and darkest bottom of an Iberian sea-horror-infested void would prove to not be so terrible as initially made out to be. Torn-down cabins and smoldering holes riddled the rover's eager gums, all to be climbed over with a deeper push of the throttle. W and Andy fell to their seats, as the vehicle roughly passed through another grenade hole.
"... There's this thing called a suspension." W began, taking on the role of the braver one between the two. "And I'm pretty sure it's screaming. Each hole we pass, it's wailing. It's begging."
"Beggin' for what?" Anton's right ear craned towards the two, eyes locked on the uneven "road."
"For you to leave the driver's seat, I guess." She sat back up, then pulled Andy along. "... Can you at least pretend to avoid the sinkholes?"
"Why would I do 'at? Car's handling the road perfectly fine." Anton narrowed his gaze at the disheartening comments. Driving's never been his strongest suit – but then again, whose was? The wheels bit into a mound of haphazardly piled bodies, left there presumably by some hunters' troupe. Flesh thudded against steel, and the car lost its front bumper. "..." Anton followed the rectangular loss through the rear view mirror, watching it shrink in the distance with each surge of throttle. "... 'At doesn't count."
"We should switch." She demanded. "Right now. Like, yesterday, actually."
"Yesterday, I was unavailable." He hummed, then threw Andy a flimsy wink. The boy held back a belch of vomit. "Ain't 'at right?"
"How did they even glue you back together? What was it? They got medics THIS good at Babel? With a cure for head-lead-poisoning?" W asked, patting Andy down to soothe his stomach somehow. "Or was it some bullshit sorcery?"
"Some 'a this, some 'a that." Anton shook his hand, a 50/50 gesture. "Hindsight ain't so 20/20, y'know. Not that I hold you responsible, mind ya. Gotta admit, my bad."
"O-Oh, yeah?" Andy gulped a ball of vomit. "... Wait, you're not pissed?"
"No?"
"Not a bit?"
"Why would I? Were you the one stickin' a shotgun barrel up my eye-hole? Or was I the one pushing my peeper up it?" Their eyes met, and Andy could see that there truly was no malice behind his emerald gems. Soon, the soothing glint turned teasing. "... Though, it doesn't change 'a fact ya were hearin' some inconspicuous "gun voice", or whatever."
"Oh, he's just schizophrenic like that." W grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed onward, as if displaying a plushie before the man. World's saddest and most adorable nutjob, Andy Reiff. "... Early onset stuff. We should put him down once it gets real bad."
"N-No, we shouldn't!" Andy got real defensive at her teases. He broke from her grasp and slid to the middle seat, away from her smug smirks. "... I was just talking out my ass. Don't bother."
"..." W's eyes softened near immediately at his words. A somewhat pensive hue stained her ever so apricot irises.
"Talking out yer ass? Do ya talk out yer ass to the gun as well?" Anton, however, remained as cheerful as ever. With a chuckle at his own terrible joke, he tapped the back wall of the cabin. A few cluttering sounds came from behind, before the slit separating them from the storage compartment came apart, and the glint of Uri's crimson eye-gem popped into vision. "Uri, you heard 'at? I'm not the only one who hears weaponry talkin' proper bollocks."
"..." Andy, a little disgruntled, sat and watched the blade roll its "eye." "It's not that funny."
"I'd say it's plenty funny. Makin' fun 'a loonies is always the right and moral choice, when yer a loony yerself. It's like poking fun at the Sarkaz's bleak history as a Sarkaz. Or jabbin' at the Victorian accent when yer a proper Vic lad, like me." Newmaker cackled some more. Andy wasn't really feeling it. He found himself staring at a pair of cystybeasts right outside the window, scurrying at the sound of their ori-guzzling land crawler. The gray sky teemed with sadness.
"... So when I say that yer a little pinched in the brain for talkin' to yer gun, I mean it. Trust me, I'd know!" More chuckles from his throat. Andy would really have preferred if the man had shut his mouth. "... Come on, ya two. It's just some light banter."
"... It's not funny, though." A voice from the right cut in – low and dry. W pierced Anton's eyes, as if trying to dig through his skull with her gaze. "Banter is supposed to be funny. If you're gonna make us fodder for your shitty jokes, at least try making them land."
"..." Anton blinked back at her, his smile slowly coming undone. He cleared his throat, before returning his eyes to the mess they'd call a "road". "Right."
Uri buzzed out a snortle of his own, then closed the slit. A loud clang followed from the back.
"... Right, right." He repeated. The comment seemed to have thrown him off balance. "... We should, uh… we should debrief."
"About time." W scoffed. "We've been driving for what, an hour? At this point I started wondering if you're just taking us out back. Y'know, to some shady forest to slash our heads off."
"As if he could." Andy perked up with a smirk. "I'm pretty good at removing heads, too."
"No shady forests, no." Both W and Andy saw Anton's ears perking high up – standing straight, as if on command – when his gaze locked onto a fuming billow of tar-black smoke that cut the dullness of the sky. It rose onward, built like a rapidly expanding anthill that spilled its void of innards to claim every last remnant of gray. The more crust their rover consumed, the steeper the anthill's walls coned – like a tree – from the bursting, blooming crown of black, down its shrinking spine, only to disappear and hide its grime roots in a newly discovered crater that burst with a volley of untamed flames. A chimney, of sorts – far larger than any heater Andy or W have ever seen, it charred the air around with a glowing heart of orange that beat out a steady tune. With each thump, a new wave of shapeless ink spilled from its bellowing innards and tainted the sky's ambient vapidity – fought some of the colorless boredom by pouring pure, unfeeling hatred into its soul.
Beneath the tower, a city lay in its waste. A city like no other.
It's been years since Andy has last seen the high-rise marble giants of Laterano. Years, since his legs carelessly cut the silk laden streets in a flimsy search of the next fountain to dive into, or a candy shop to gawk at. Thousands of days, since his gaze had last been laid on Lemuel's beaming smile, or Mostima's half lidded eyes. The thought of a "city" brought on the resurfacing of a recurring theme – an idea that his mind couldn't let go of. It all always circled back to Laterano. A city. What was a city, if not Laterano? What other cities even were there?
As it so happened, there was this one. This one–… this… this thing this,
…
This "construct," one might call it. A gigantic, rotting platform on legs buried beneath metric tons of rust. A mobile city. The mobile city.
It lay bare under the naked sky, only shielded by the umbrella of belched smoke. Sizable, even from that far away, with an epicenter of craning "skyscrapers" surrounding the "heater tower", the city seemed to be split into a few parts. There was the center, as previously mentioned – sure. In some further nook that clung to the presumably residential circle, a valley of dark and gloomy industrial fields grew from the rusted steel ground. Chimneys aimed at the sun, programmed to blot it completely with an assault of eye-scratching steam, stood on salute, each representing a different workforce. Steel mills, lumberyards, Originium processing facilities, forges – you name it. It was all there, all teeming with little Sarkaz ants that restlessly carried around metal beams and sad, bark-less trees. Entire trees. Sarkaz genes worked their magic.
A few sour-faced workers wiped their faces off sweat. A portable, ori-powered fridge rattled happily when one placed it between their legs. Their gazes turned right around at the sight of it being filled with "FACEMELTER", Kazdel's most popular alcoholic beverage. Stifled chuckles and muffled hisses of caps coming apart soon filled the mill, as the workers got lost in discretely emptying each bottle behind their foreman's back. So lost in avoiding being caught, they forgot to take into consideration that the amount of Originium crammed into the fridge's battery was enough to down a burdenbeast when exposed directly in close proximity. Indirectly, still would shave off a good ten or so years off one's lifespan. Definitely enough to contract Oripathy. Definitely not nearly lethal enough for any of them to care.
Bottles clinked together, held by arms riddled with rocks piercing the skin. The sound would carry all across the other districts of the city – eventually finishing in the outskirts, the lesser important area that housed the all-encompassing slums. Here, the useless, the dead, and the untrainable governed their pathetic little lives.
Here, Andy, W, and Anton found themselves scurrying along the gutter.
"..." The two morons barely managed to keep up with their "leader's" fluttering cloak, as he pushed on through the Sarkaz dominated crowds that cluttered the "street."
Street? Would anyone call this a street?
It was more like a tunnel. A passage dug between the spit-glued huts of hardened sand and clay that had otherwise consumed this area whole. Here and there, one could spot a roof of wavy metal. Here and there, one could spot a house completely torn to shreds, being taken apart by rag-clad dwellers or mercs.
"... Can you slow down?" Andy pushed past a group of sad-faced salesmen muttering between themselves over a rotting barrel of burdenmeat. "You're gonna sink into the crowd at this rate."
"Yeah, my bad mate." Anton switched the pace from a light jog to a hurried walk. "... Can't exactly be recognized 'ere, though. One of these Military Commission runts gets a proper gander at me face, n we're cooked."
"What?" W joined in, diligently glued to Andy's side. "What do you mean, "cooked?" The only thing left cooked will be their asses if they try something with me."
"Not with you , per se, sweetie." Anton readjusted the base of his overly face-covering hood. The streets began thinning a little, giving the three an opportunity to slow down and breathe. "With me, mostly. See, Babel's not really all 'at welcome in here."
"Why?"
"Why? 'Cause this place is ran by the Mil-comm? C'mon, it's Kazdel ." He scoffed.
"It's ALL Kazdel. We are Kazdel." W corrected. There was pride in that statement.
"We are, but this is Kazdel -Kazdel. The capital city of Kazdel, " Kazdel. " Completely overrun by these Mil-comm hounds." Anton gave his legs a bit of an encouragement at the sight of a few armored and equally hooded entities patrolling the square they had found themselves at. Their strangely out of place armor platings gleamed lazily in the freezing sun, and their masks shielded any secrets that stirred in their skulls. Cloaked up. Somewhat sleek. Dangerous.
Andy made sure to make a mental note of these "hounds."
"... And we're not exactly welcome, on behalf of Her Majesty's political endeavors." He finished. The sun had some access to light this piece of sanded metal, so it did. In the middle of the plaza, some buskers sat on a pile of old, rusted amplifiers and fiddled with their guitars – some electric, some bass, some somewhere in between. Their long, greasy hair and horns played perfectly into the whole "tough Sarkaz rock" stereotype. Andy remembered seeing these kinds of guys on the posters riddling his childhood room's walls.
Anton grabbed them both by the shoulders.
"... But we are more than welcome in there ."
"There", was a building he pointed them at. A small cantina huddled between a pair of two wonders of Kazdelian engineering – towering stalks of red brick huts stacked atop one another, bending under the shared weight.
Andy felt a tremor crawling through his body. It was a shared experience for him and the crumbling buildings.
"... That?"
"That, yeah." Anton somewhat enthusiastically summed up. "It's pretty nice inside. Plus, no need to fight anyone."
"Right." W drew out the last syllable. Before her eyes, the doors to the establishment burst wide open, spread apart by some poor bastard's head. Used as a battering ram, the Sarkaz got a few seconds of air time, before landing head first in a pile of shattered glass and sand. His temp buddies, two mean looking types, dusted off their hands and spat in his general direction, then stepped back in. "... You sure?"
"Absolutely sure. Wouldn't have left Uri in the car if it wa'ant the case." Anton said. It was true, the metal giant was nowhere to be seen. The sight of Mr Newmaker on his own came as a slight surprise to the two morons, who had only just now noticed. "... Ladies first?"
"Fuck you." Andy muttered his disgruntlement, yet still took the offer and waltzed inside first.
"Yeah, fuck you. One more bad day, I'll make a lady out of you, too." W followed suit, tongue sprung towards Anton. He returned the gesture with a cackle.
"Ah, kids, kids, kids…"
.
So eager to grow up.
.
So mellow when time comes round to bite them where the sun don't shine.
.
"..."
.
Inside the bar, there were four walls. Four walls, each one of them crafted meticulously from a different sort of fiber. One – wood.
Nice. Rose, or apple. Pear, maybe. Andy's never been much of a woodworker, so he didn't know. It was the front wall, the more "welcoming" side of the pub, so it had to elicit a sense of glamor. In any other place on Terra – be it Laterano, or Lungmen, as seen on postcards and book pictures – the same effect would need to be achieved by hooking the welcoming wallpaper with a myriad of blinking lights and caking whole in golden paste, all illuminated by the gleam of a forest of disco balls. In Kazdel, a somewhat warm, wooden wall was enough.
The side walls – sand and clay. The bread and butter of the capital. Sand and clay were what the Sarkaz were molded from, and sand and clay was what the Sarkaz turned into when the reaper took his toll. Exposed rib cages eroded and collapsed in on themselves, taking the body along on a trip down into the endless deserts of hardened sand and silky clay.
The back wall?
Bottles.
Whiskey bottles. Gin bottles. Vodka bottles. No tequila. Andy hasn't even realized, because he didn't know what tequila was.
Moonshine bottles. Liquor bottles. Beer bottles. Beer taps. Beer mugs. Beer boots. Beer-soaked rags. Beer kegs. Beer cans. Beer rivers.
Rivers of beer spilled from the tiny, round tables scattered all over. Lousy patrons sat and sunk their sorrows in gold, and their weary breaths served as a natural heating source for the place. It was warm. And stuffy. And dark as hell, too.
Andy almost tripped over a drunkard's still corpse when stepping inside, for his eyes needed a good minute or two to get used to lighting. The candlebars that dimly lit the interior weren't much to write home about. They were there, and they were lit. Hanging ominously from the ceiling. Like a hangman's victim. A bloated body.
"Aye, home, sweet home." Anton warbled past his shoulder. With a rough push, the man squeezed between the two morons and took the lead onward. W and Andy exchanged a grumbly glance and followed suit.
" 'Scuse me, 'scuse me… 'scuse me, mate." Anton delicately removed a rowdy obstacle from his path. Grabbed by the shoulders, the Sarkaz patron bore his bewildered eyes into the Feline. Bits of foam and beer-riddled drool poured down his chin.
"You're excused, "mate." He scoffed. "... Fucking Vics. Just you wait a few months. You'll be wiping my boots clear off Kazdelian shit, you fucking limey."
"That, we will, mate. That, we will…" A sly smile grew on his lips, as Anton passed the less than friendly patron. W and Andy crawled right behind, scowled at by the Sarkaz's drinking buddies.
.
When they got to the bar, it took a few good minutes of looking and elbowing through the sea of "Excuse me'ing" left and right. Anton found three blokes who've had more than enough at this point and gently excused them from their seats. The loud thud of their flesh against the dusty floor aroused no reaction from anyone around.
"Aaaalright." His tail twirled and fiddled around with his overly long ponytail, as he made himself snug and comfy on the barstool. "Now, before we start 'a debrief – crucial steps first. Super necessary, yeah? Gonna get yer knickers in a twist otherwise."
"Uh-huh." Andy blinked, but nodded. W did the same, leaning her chin on his shoulder for support. "... What're we doing in a pub, again?"
"Workin'." Anton leaned over the bar and caught eye contact with the drink-tender. "Aye? Som' service 'round 'ere?"
"Comin', comin'..." The dusted barman begrudgingly pulled himself away from rubbing the insides of a translucent mug with an equally dusty rag. Each stroke of the fabric brought more dirty residue into the glass than it took away. "... What's it gonna be?"
"A pint. The workin' man's size."
"Pint? Kazdel in flames, you're a Vic." His bushy brows twitched in amusement under his newsboy's cap shade. "Ain't you a bit far from home, "lad?"
"Ain't you an inquiring type." Anton leaned further on the bar. "... Yer not gonna serve me? Tell me to leave?"
Their eyes met. Emerald in tar, puddling away at the all encompassing darkness of the universe. What secrets lay beneath those saddened circles? Those circles of smoke. Countless flames lit and extinguished by what? By his own, scarred hands? Those calloused fingers that teem with burdens and bleed with worries? Kazdel took its toll. Took his hair, took his youth, took his heart and took his soul. Changed by the desert, molded and shaped by the billowing flames of the city. Did he even know what lay behind the grand walls? The untouchable gate? The barren wastes that surrounded the mobile fortress? There was life, there. There were forests, lush and rich. Bountiful in beauty, crawling with vigor, tended to by Mother Nature himself.
But he did not know.
All he knew was this dusty parcel. This decrepit hole he called "home."
That was life. Nothing more to it. Nothing less.
.
…
.
"Nah." The barman shook his head. "C'mon, I don't care enough 'bout race. A pint it is, "mate."
"Aye, proper lad." Him and Anton exchanged a good laugh. Booze flew from a nozzle, and a full mug of glistening, golden nectar soon sat in front, on the bar. The keep returned to his mug-wiping duties, and Anton took a sip.
"Mmmm… A-Ahh…" He savored the taste. It left him with a weirdly fitting, white mustache of foam. "... What a shit pour. Next time, I'm jumpin' over the bar and teachin' him proper pourin' etiquette."
"You're drinking on the clock." Andy pointed out. W narrowed her eyes and glanced over, preparing to call him a narc. "In broad daylight, too."
"Yeah, you could've bought us one too, at least." She murmured, disappointed.
"Kids don't drink." Anton explained calmly, already halfway done with the mug. "Not on the clock, not anywhere."
"Prude." W huffed. "... Lawdog, cig."
"Right up." Andy reached into his jacket and began groping around for the familiar feel of a soggy, paper pack. His tail wagged gently at the notion of lighting a succulent tobacco stick.
"Anywho. Fuck, it's good." Without much care for savoir-vivre, Anton wiped the foam and beer residue with a sleeve. "... Anywho, briefing. We're here to nab a chap."
"Mmmm? Weally, noww?" Andy mumbled through his lips enclosed around a rolled cigarette. W had one hanging limp from her mouth, impatiently watching the boy uncap a shotgun shell and spread its ori-dusted guts over his fingers. "What chap? Somm' important?"
"I dunno, actually." Anton shrugged. From the depths of his cloak came a rolled up piece of yellowish paper. W laid it out on the bar with her grabby hands. "... Kal told me the Mil-comm wants him. Even put out a bounty after 'im, dead or alive. But, y'know, generally they want him. And if the Mil-comm wants him, the Mil-comm can't 'ave him, ain't that right?"
"Uh-huh." Andy was actually more focused on lighting his cigarette. Agreement has always been his preferred choice of compliance, though. "So we're killing him, then?"
"Well, no, no…" Anton rubbed his chin, lost in thought. "... Naw, we can't kill him. Actually, no, we can't. Kal told me to bring 'im into Babel. I mean, Tessie told Kal… and Kal told me. No, wait. No, Tessie told the Doc… The Doc, uh… The Doc told Kal, I think? I think the Doc might've told Kal, and then Kal told me."
"..."
Andy and W stopped whatever they were doing to blink and look at the man. Ash languidly dripped from the smoldering tip, staining the boy's cargos.
"That's some chain of command." She quietly summed. Andy couldn't help but agree.
"Yeah, 's 'bout the gist of it. Anyway, here's the twerp." Anton tapped the unrolled bounty poster with his glass, immediately staining half the entire thing. Beer soaked each fiber, effectively riddling most of the info and scattered letters unreadable. "... Uh. Black hair. Weird hat, I guess. Intel says he's been goin' on som' proper bender this past week." He flicked a dismissive hand, nearly spilling more ambrosia onto the red-cloaked person behind himself. "... Not really a bender, just been poppin' into bars here 'n there. Lad must love the musk, I guess. Hasn't showed up to 'is one, so that's that. Cut me arm off 'n call me a freak, but I gotta hunch that he's gonna drop by inna few hours. Or minutes. OR days."
"Uh… huh…" Andy skimmed the document. Something about the Military Commission, something about a large prize… He couldn't see how large, exactly, because a war-band of sparkling foam had claimed that enclave of paper for itself. There was also a crude drawing attached. A young man, alright. Sarkaz, too. Horns, long, jet-black hair, some rags. A conical hat covering most of it. He'd keep looking, but W impatiently stuck her elbow into his ribcage. "What?"
"What? That's just rude, y'know." She gave him a rather unamused look, then directed his gaze towards the unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth. "You're forgetting something, again."
"Oh. Oh, right…" He turned on the stool to better face her, then reached into a pocket to gather some more ori-dust from the cig-lighting shell. The thought of burdening himself with unscrewing the cap and eyeing a dose came as a displeasure, though.
"..." W stared in grim anticipation.
"..." Andy did too, blankly lost in a daze. Her half-lidded eyes spelled impatience. "... Here."
Gently, he reached out to better get a grasp on the side of her head. His fingers started by the base of her horns, yet quickly changed their mind due to the overall awkwardness of the grip. He brushed through her surprisingly soft hair, each strand twirling and molding beneath his touch – until the palm of his hand rested snugly against her cheek. The gesture came almost naturally to them both. Like drying out laundry after dumping into a river, or using one another's toothbrushes to scrub the blood off their shoes.
W leaned into his touch, bored as ever. Her warm cheek mushed against his skin, magnetized to the feel of his tender touch. Andy took her face and carefully navigated, until their cigarettes met in a lethargic, a little shy, but most importantly – shared - kiss.
They both knew the deal. Andy took a deep inhale, and W followed suit. The tips ignited, burning with a passionate flame shared between shy intakes of air. The dimming chandeliers sparkled a bit more bright at the sight of two inexperienced morons sharing a little nicotine under their soft and warming glow. All was good in the world.
Andy smiled at the girl. With her cheeks puffed from the mouthful of smoke, she looked like a houndbeast that got stung by one of Hedley's ori-bees. He found it kind of cute.
"..." His hand lingered over her face for a few moments longer than necessary. Neither seemed to mind, though
"... You gonna inhale that?" He asked, then took a puff himself. The sensation came as a sweet release of nerves piling up since a few days back. The brain clasped its hands together and thanked him for the lungful.
W shook her head, then nodded at his raised eyebrow. With a bit of a grumpy look to her eyes, she inhaled deeply.
"..."
The smoke traveled down her windpipe.
"..."
It visited each nook and cranny.
"..."
Tickled and bit at the fleshy walls.
"..."
And finally reached the lungs.
"...-?!"
At the feel of its raspy tongue licking all over her insides, W belched out a strained cloud of white, overcome with yet another coughing fit.
"K-Khee–! Khe-! Khe, K-Khee-!" Her lungs loudly protested. "Kh–... Keff–!"
With a cigarette in one hand, the other covering her mouth, she leaned onward to seek solace in Andy's fuzzy sweater. The rest of her raspy hacks, now muffled by the fluff, kept coming strained – weakening by the minute. Andy sighed. He was sort of anticipating this turn of events. Anyhow, he let her cough into his chest for as long as she wanted, keeping a hand on the back of her head to pat away all that was wrong and bad and terrible in the world.
"... It's alright." He murmured.
"I-It's not alright, y-you dumb fuck." W, still muffled, wanted to argue, but a new surge of coughs came to tamper with her plan. "It's n-... K-Khee–! Khee-... Khee…"
"It's alright." Andy assured again. With no way to argue, W had to accept his reality. "... It's alright, moron. All good in the, uh… all good in the hood."
.
"..."
.
Watching from the side, Anton put down his empty mug on the bar. Kids and their ploys, huh? Anything for attention.
Time flowed differently in that little cantina. When outside, it sped like the wind, ran like some headless poultry-fowl on an endless chase towards a blurry goal barely outlined in the strings and straws of its half-eaten brain. Here? It crawled. A harpist plucking at the notes of time in itself, creating a gentle symphony that need not be hurried by anyone or anything. Life had its own pace. A slow pace. A drag-through-the-mud kinda pace. An Originium slug's wet dream – the pace to be. A pace at which everyone and everything should move. Anton thought the notion through, without even noticing the bartender filling his mug right up.
"...?" He blinked, broken from the daze. "... Listen, mate, I can pour one down me gullet, and that's that. Two onna job, that's some dangerous territory."
He shrugged.
"Not my problem. Got it paid for, so I gotta pour."
Paid for? Anton scratched his stubble.
"By who?"
Nudge-nudge. The bartender slung his eyes over to the red-cloaked menace sitting to his right. With a creak, Anton turned his head.
.
"... My, my, my. So I wasn't mistaken."
.
A raspy voice. One that, unlike W, couldn't go a day without downing a whole pack of cigs.
Anton ran his sight from the tip of their sunset-red prairie hat, down their lusciously gray hair, the mounds of messily "hidden" machinery poking from beneath the cloak, and tumults of pneumatic pipes bulging from beneath the fabric, lined along each limb. A massive blade, one of a size comparable to Uri, lazily leaned by her side.
His eyes widened, then met hers.
.
"... Whatcha gawkin' at, "lad?"
.
"Oh shit." Anton immediately straightened himself in place. Struck with a squirting source of realization pouring from his brain, his lips involuntarily twisted to form a smile. "Betty! Holy shit, Iron-Gut Betty!" He exclaimed, a little childishly excited. Soon, the notion turned teasing. "In some shithole pub, of course."
"Of course. Anton Newmaker, gettin' piss drunk on the cheapest shit they got." She returned a little bow, her lips equally eager to smirk. The barman frowned at the mention of his pub being reduced to a "shithole."
"Hell, yer payin'. Even vinegar tastes sweet when it's free."
"Of course it does, with ya." She sighed. "... Been a while."
"Mmm. It could. I'm not the best person to be askin' for time-ranges." Anton took a sip. "... Ya still runnin' wiff' 'at robotic exo-endo-shit under 'at cloak?"
"I paid top dolla' for it, ya know." A scoff burst past her lips. "Of course I am. And will be, 'til I die."
"That's a sad estimate."
"A realistic one, methinks." Her hum laid a tender blanket over the bar's rowdy air. The two sat shoulder to shoulder, wetting their lips in golden foam. "... What're ya here for?"
"Work."
"Ah, work. The kinda work that has ya drinkin' at two past noon."
"Som' like 'at, yeah." Anton rubbed his ear to rid himself of an annoying itch. "... You?"
"Work, too. Ya know it. Bounties, this, that." She took a deeper swig. The rattle and grinding of active machinery could be heard, even when dimmed by her leather garb. "... Been goin' round the wildlands for a while, figured I might try my luck in this shithole."
"Kazdel's a shithole in general, sis."
"Yeah, but this is Kazdel -Kazdel. The main shithole."
"Aye." Anton couldn't disagree. They clinked their mugs and stamped on it with a drink. "... What're huntin' nowadays, ah? Big game, small game? Weird fishes? Remnants of Leithanian bastards?"
"Oh, please." She let out an amused snort. "... Don't even remind me. Lost like half my war-band fellas in that… that mockery of a war. Still got enough to fill this pub, though."
"...?" Anton blinked, then took a better look around the place. Sarkaz. Sarkaz, everywhere. By the windows, by the door, supporting the walls, lying drunk under tables, comparing sword sizes with the ladies, juggling bottles, being an overall nuisance. They were all mercs. Just mercs. Mostly mercs. "... All of these? All 'em, yours?"
"Most. I mean, some. Some bastards ran off at the sight of the city, prolly got som' dirt with the Commission. Afraid General Theresis'll pop out from a corner 'n cut them a new breathing hole with 'at big, bad, sword of his." A scoff, again. Revulsion permeated the gesture. "... Got all these frankly head-fucked royalists here, now. Don't get me wrong, I ain't one to turn down a job, no matter what side commissions, but…" Another sip. "... Honestly, both can bite me at this point. Babel, 'n that Commission. Fuck 'em both."
"Truth." Anton flew through a patch of memories of Tessie's soft spoken monologues. Would be better not to bring them up right now, though. "... Naw, I only got these two morons with me."
He pointed behind himself. There, Andy sat and cradled a very disgruntled W in his arms, smirking to himself and mumbling reassurances, as she kept her face buried in his sweater. A smoldering cigarette butt hung from between her fingers.
"..." Betty gave them a thorough look-over. "... Kinda cute. What is that, a fallen?"
"Mmm."
"Fallen Sankta. Damn." She whistled along to the tune of her clacking exoskeleton. "... How'd you land that?"
"Just appeared on my doorstep one sunny day."
"He any good with a gun?"
"Decent. Can blow a head off, for sure." Anton tapped his skull.
Betty kept her eyes locked on the two, however. A sort of melancholic hue peppered her gaze, when staring at Andy gently rubbing the back of W's head. With each stroke of his fingers through the fluttering fluff of her hair, she seemed to fall deeper and deeper into the embrace. With each disgruntled huff, her pale cheek mushed further into his collar bone. The world might've been spinning – sure. Her lungs might've been screaming for a breath of fresh air – sure.
But did it matter?
No. No, because Andy felt nice.
.
"..." Betty drew a mellow sigh. "... Happy bunch."
"Oh, don't even start, ya sap." Anton nudged her in the ribs. "... Ya should see 'em argue sometime."
"Oh, pffft." She chuckled. "... Duh. Obviously. Used to argue with my half-witted half-piece, too. Then she got pulverized by a walkin' pile of scrap piloted by a toddler."
"Mmm." Anton hummed. "That's Kazdel."
"That's Kazdel." Betty repeated, then took a swig. "... And ya? Still arguin' with that pretty lady 'a yers?"
"Who, Kal?"
"Kal? That was her name?" Betty rased a brow. "... Shit, it really has been a while."
"Kal and I don't argue." Anton shrugged, albeit a bit proudly. "... She tells me to do this 'n that, and I do it. And then I annoy her. I'm a lil' punk like that. A rebel."
"A punk-ish rebel, yeah."
"Like a real Victorian. Ya big into the Victorian punk scene, maybe…?"
"I'm big into my current bounty, ya twat." Betty parodied his glaring accent with a smirk, then reached into her cloak. A fresh, ink-smelling piece of paper came from within. So fresh, that the stench of a printing plant managed to cut through the overbearing reek of alcohol and cigarettes. "... Check 'is out. 'N gimme that, I wanna see what yer workin on, too." She said, then pointed to the beer-soaked bounty poster Anton was using as a mug stand.
"Oh yeah? Ya wanna exchange job details, ya bore? Hell, sure, if you're up…" He chuckled right back and started unrolling Betty's bounty poster. "... Lemme guess, somm' big and ugly roadman, yeah? A proper crown jewel in yer headhuntin' collection? Tall, armed to high-teeth, muscly beyond all recognition, scarred to the seventh hell 'n back…"
"Yeah, yeah, somm' like 'at." Betty giggled, a little too girly for a woman of her stature and age. "... Wonder who you got, hm? What sorta' desperado got in yer sights to wrangle. … … …"
It took her a moment to realize that the document's been thoroughly soaked through with beer. Foam ruled a sovereign decade.
"... Gawd, ya got this shit all dirty 'n wet. Pffft… Hey? HEY! Bartender! Bartender, candle! Pronto!"
"..." The grim barhand nodded, then begrudgingly went out back to provide the service.
.
Anton, however, was left staring blankly at Betty's poster. Not a single word dared leave his mouth.
.
"... C'mon, candle-man? Where's 'at candle?"
.
His eyes ran over the top, over and over again.
.
Wanted, dead or alive.
.
"... Sheesh, the service. Makes ya think it's some cantina out in the wildlands, not a fine establishment in the motorized capital."
.
They climbed down. Slowly. Word by word. Syllable by syllable.
Letter by letter.
.
A contract on behalf of the Military Commi ssion of Kazdel.
.
"... Candle? Aw, there we are. Gimme 'at, ya lug. No tip for ya. No tip, I said! C'mon, git!"
.
Then, finally, they stopped on the picture.
A drawing, rather.
.
A confused pair of eyes returned his glance. Strands of jet-black hair shielded the innocence gleaming from within. A pair of spiky horns pointed forward, aiming towards the reader. All of it, nearly buried beneath a massive, conical hat.
.
DEAD: 250.000 KAZDELIAN SHEKELS.
.
ALIVE: 500.000 KAZDELIAN SHEKELS.
.
DANGEROUS CONVICT, DEATH ROW ESCAPEE. SKILLED ARTS USER. MENTALLY UNSTABLE.
.
"Alright, lemme see, here… Hope yer better informed 'bout yer guy than I am about mine. I mean, call it a hunch, but cut my arm off 'n call me a freak, but I bet he's gonna show here today, hehe..." Betty finally nudged the candle's flimsy flame towards Anton's poster. The fire made quick work of drying the paper somewhat. Just a bit.
Only a tid bit.
But enough to notice the drawing of the perp's blank stare.
.
Enough to notice the striking familiarity.
.
"..."
.
"..."
.
Slowly, their eyes met. Without a word, the two of them stared at one another, as if enveloped and veiled by some strange thought-devouring serpent. The creature wrapped its slithering body all around their ankles and waists, their legs and arms, heads and brains, coiling dangerously close to sinking its teeth deep into their bulging thought-matter. The pierced veneer of colleague-to-colleague abnormality could no longer be ignored.
.
Before either one could speak up, however, the door to the establishment silently creaked open. The sound, quieter than a mouse's mewl, boomed horrifically across the entire pub.
.
"..."
.
Silence took the reins. Each and every head turned to glare numbly at the intruder.
.
"...?"
.
An intruder of shorter stature. Meek and small. Petite, even. With his body covered by a poncho nearly twice his size, he tripped while waddling inside and nearly fell to the floor. He readjusted his oversized, conical hat.
.
"..."
.
A bottle's rattly clink rolled across the floor. The tiny intruder raised his head, his tiny eyes like a pair of thrown dice – rolling all over the place, snake-eyes scanning each piece of the room. Each face, each glinting sword and dagger, each bolt and crossbow.
.
His eyes fell on Anton's. Dull and empty. Emotionless, even. As if there was nothing on the other side, just an empty shell. The Feline swallowed.
.
"... Go." He nudged Andy with an elbow. "Grab him. Go."
"What?" Andy blinked, letting go of W. Confused, she fell back on her stool. "Grab who, wh–...?"
"GRAB 'IM, GO!"
.
Anton managed one last shout. A blooming hiss of steam blew from Betty's side, as her under-garment machinery came to life in pull power. With the pipes all retracting and releasing tension, she kicked herself from the stool and grabbed the massive blade by her leg. Anton just barely managed to duck, when his entire stool came split apart under the weight of the steel behemoth.
"Uri!" He snapped his fingers, hand aimed somewhere at the nearest wall. A booming buzz filled the streets of Kazdel.
His eyes found Betty's. A determined spark instigated the glinting fires of challenging rivalry that soon grew into a raging inferno that had completely blotted her vision. She saw nothing but a target and an obstacle – a paycheck, and Mr Newmaker standing in its way.
With a thud of pistons sliding into place, she ripped the sword from the ground and stepped back, preparing a long-winded swing. Anton, still holding out for his metal-clad hero, didn't even notice.
Whoosh!
THUD!
The blade crashed against his side, as she threw it in an arc, like a bat. A rattle shook the bar, when Mr Newmaker was sent flying into the nearest wall. On the outside, a sizable dent was left.
.
"..." W and Andy watched his flight with eyes wide open. Upon losing vision of their "leader", there wasn't much else to do but adhere to his command and go "grab the perp."
Betty didn't pay them the slightest bit of mind, as she jumped over a table to close in on the presumed location of Anton. They slithered past the crowd and reached the entrance in record time, only to see the tiny perp being already surrounded by a weapon-brandishing posse of mercs.
"Wait." Andy grabbed W by the waist, barely managing to stop her from throwing herself onto the surrounded kid like a hungry snake. At the sight of her confused, even maybe betrayed gaze, Andy pointed towards the kid's poncho.
The gleam of steel brewed lazily in the nearest candlebar. His eyes remained cool and collected, when the nearest merc decided to pounce, aiming for the kid's scruff.
A quintet of dirty, unwashed nails reflected in the kid's eyes.
.
Steel shone.
.
Tick.
.
An explosion of liquid-like blue smoke stained the air.
.
The hand fell to the floor with an empty thud. Before he knew it, the merc was left with a blood-squirting stub in place of his lower arm. The kid, however, stood on duty, a thin and elegant sword aimed high towards the air – stanced as if after countering a blow. Legs apart, head aimed low, two hands on the handle.
.
"...?"
.
Everyone present glanced at the arm-less merc. His own eyes couldn't quite believe the lack of a hand.
.
"..." His mouth parted. Vocal cords started rattling, but not a single note came. Not a decibel of his horrified screams could be heard.
.
Tock.
.
The kid shifted again, in the blink of an eye. This time, it was the merc's head that he took. The body fell to the floor with an empty thud.
.
Blood trickled down the blade, heaving with each strained breath the little twerp took. Hair fell over his eyes, a curtain applauding the finishing of a spectacle.
This spectacle, however, was still far from over. He knew it.
Andy knew it.
W knew it.
All the other mercs knew it.
.
They raised their blades.
.
Took a step forward.
.
And all joined together in a one-minded, collective screech.
.
.
"GET 'EM!"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Tick.