What a grueling week it's been. Running around the high and mighty administrative offices scattered around Lungmen, signing off mountains of papers here and there… Ah, best to just leave it in the back of one's mind.
Click,
Clack.
Door's a bit rusty, but other than that? Almost good as new.
Plop oneself down on the couch-like seat… Now THIS is comfort.
Tweak the mirrors, adjust the headrest…
Slide the key in, slam down on the clutch, twist the starter around.
Let the engine cough a bit… Come on, pretty please? Would you be so kind and start up for me, love?
…
…
You old piece of shit, star-... Ow! Sorry, Law.
Start up, you rust bucket! Come on, come on, come on, c- Oh, there we go.
.
Andy smiled to himself as the engine finally decided to roar pathetically at the end of its coughing fit. It was a good van, couldn't say it wasn't, just that it had some major mood swings on most days.
His fingers squeezed the shabby gear stick and threw the pile of scrap into reverse. The wheels slowly started rolling along the gray asphalt, bending under the weight stashed in the loading bay. Pulling out onto the empty road, Andy rolled down his window and took one last look at the array of concrete housing-blocks lined perfectly in unison. Goodbye, you pathetic excuse of an architectural wonder. Some brutalist's wet dream, that's what you are.
He flicked the concrete slabs a middle finger and drove off into the sunset.
Driving down the sun-soaked streets, passing by each familiar alley, Andy felt a sense of peace wash over him, a glimmer of self-worth sprouting its roots somewhere in his stomach. With an official slip signifying the legitimate existence of the Pacific Empire logistics company (all rights reserved, ltd.) lazily wallowing about one of his cargo's endless pockets, lady luck still seemed to have him in mind. Even after everything, after the grueling, past seven years, he still had someone looking out for him.
Twisting the radio's frequency knob, it came alive with a lively anthem to sweeten up the lengthy drive. A few drumrolls slid in, followed by a rapid screech of an electric guitar - the cacophony quickly filled the cabin, putting a wide grin on the little entrepreneur's face.
There he went, swimming past the images of industrial might, slithering along with the streams of asphalt spilling around the labyrinths of factories and warehouses, all locked behind massive walls with vines of barbed wire scaling them whole. Andy wholeheartedly disliked the industrial district. The late nights spent drinking, full of staring down at the dimming lights and ironworks pumping out Law-knows-whats made of cheap steel introduced a certain bleakness to his mind, caused it to die out with each sip taken, each new metal contraption pulled from the molds.
All the sounds of heavy machinery whirring and producing non-stop were effortlessly drowned out by some cunning rebel's raspy voice oozing from the radio. Andy tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, feeling the leather tearing here and there.
.
"If you're gonna scream, scream with me…
… Moments like these never last."
.
Stirring up dust behind, the van crossed the imaginary border between sections, shooting out onto one of the many elevated highways circling the entire city like a parasitic ivy. Pushing hard on the gas pedal, throwing the poor van into fifth gear, Andy leaned further into the couch, staring off at the waking skyline towering over everything.
Grandiose skyscrapers, buildings made of nothing but glass and neon, all covered up thoroughly with massive billboards displaying whatever the latest fad required them to. Flicking, switching, words hopping from board to board every few seconds, the lights shone their broadcasts right into the eyes of everyone driving by.
Someday, somehow, hopefully, the lowly Pacific Empire would find its way onto such a billboard as well. Andy giggled at the thought, still giddy with where his new life was headed.
.
"In hybrid moments…"
.
Speed down the highway, take a right, slide down the exit slope, let a new song buffer…
.
"He's the one, who likes all our pretty songs…"
.
Crawl onto the stuffy streets, cars densely parked on the sides…
.
"So gimme fuel, gimme fire, gimme that which I desire…"
.
Pass the nice residential blocks, the community hubs and markets…
.
"Well I'm a human fly, I-I spell F-L-Y…"
.
Take a turn left, slither into some shady neighborhood…
.
"Riding through dust clouds and barren wastes, galloping hard on the plains…"
.
Andy felt a hint of discomfort gliding up his spine as the van creeped through the tenement-house riddled area. He could feel a pair of eyes watching from behind each and every empty window or balcony door. Hedges of towering blocks on either side of the road, created a suffocating tunnel, with dark alleys in between, shadows slumped over lit dumpsters, black crystals shining in the occasional sun's glimmer…
.
"Hey, all right, it's Kip Kasper, LUNG Radio, Lungmen's infinite repeat. How're we feelin' out there? How's you drive-time commute? You know what I need? I need a saga. What's the saga? It's songs for the deaf! You can't ever hear 'em…!"
.
Andy stopped the van on the side of the road. Little to no cars riddled the pavement here, and the ones that did had most of their exterior removed, anyway. Broken windows, cut tires, stolen bumpers, mirrors, lights…
.
He shut the engine and slowly stepped out, sliding an old friend behind his belt. Nuffer murmured, having lost hope of being fired any time soon a long time ago.
There it was. Sticking out from in between two housing complexes made of cheap, red brick, it seemed even prettier than it did on the pictures he was shown.
Large, but not too large, with every window boarded up, the door barely hanging onto its hinges, dark, mysterious, grandiose, but not pretentious - a long forgotten library.
A piece of its roof fell by Andy's shoe, shattering into a hundred tiny pieces. No wonder it was so cheap.
The angel strolled over to the woodworm infested door, taking in the paint stripped surface, each intricate little detail long lost to time's unstoppable might.
Someone taped a note to the wood, which was barely even readable. Something about keeping it down after nine in the evening.
He tore it off and threw to the side.
Within his pocket, a bundle of keys popped up, rattling and jingling along as he raised it to the lock. Along with the ownership certificate came this loud-mouthed mess of metal on a ring, an absolute chore to operate.
"..."
In and out went the different keys, until one finally clicked and turned. With a loud, ominous creak, the door stepped aside, sending a few bats escaping from within. Andy flicked the assaulting breeze away, coughing up dust and pushing on through.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
His footsteps echoed through the massive interior. A few glimmers of sunlight managed to squeeze past the wooden barricades lining the windows, lighting up the storm of dust raging within. Clouds of filth and grime gathered almost everywhere, no corner was safe from the overbearing amount of dirt. Each little table, each massive bookcase, each enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling - they were all covered by a fine layer of gray.
Andy blinked a few times, feeling a few specks slithering into his nose.
He sneezed, stirring up even more smut-clouds to arise.
Once again, no wonder this place was so cheap.
He ventured past the door, fully submerging himself in the ever ruling darkness. His wings and halo lit the way onward, as he studied the interior close.
The photographs that were shown to him depicted quite a differently stylized establishment. No sign of the promised office areas, no armories to be found, not even a kitchen anywhere…
… Andy pushed aside a door, revealing a heavily cockroach infested pantry. An old, rusty gas stove lazily laid in the corner, falling apart just by looking at it. At least they didn't lie about that one.
A few soft footsteps passed by his back, sending his ears perking straight up.
With the reflexes of a hardened mercenary, the angel drew his pistol out and rushed towards the source of the commotion. The gun's muzzle kept jumping from point to point, ready to fill any potential threats with lead. The originium buzzing within each bullet loaded into the magazine felt familiar and warm, keeping his hands all toasty and comfy.
Passing by rows upon rows of towering bookcases, Andy kept following the noise, eager to forcefully kick the intruder off his newly bought property. A homeless junkie, maybe? Or an infected…
The intruder squealed a few rows away. Andy threw himself to the floor, Nuffer stuck far in front, finger on the trigger, mind on the bullets…
He found himself lying on the dirty, mold-covered carpet, locked in a stare-off with a rather confused little rat. It squealed again, biting a piece from a book next to it and scurrying off into the darkness.
"..."
The angel sighed, taking in a healthy dose of dust into his lungs. A coughing fit immediately followed.
.
…
.
Having thoroughly checked the first floor for any intruders, his feet led him upstairs. A few creaky stairwells stood by the main room's walls, disencouraging him from continuing his expedition with each squeak they produced.
He pushed on through, making it onto the hanging balcony section. Here, he could get a good look of the entire place from above - not too fancy, not too run-down, either.
"...!?"
A board shattered under his step, nearly sending him plummeting down the pit of bookcases. Andy held onto the railing, feeling his heartbeat speeding up.
Haven't felt like this in quite a while.
Gathered, free of the treacherous boardwalks, he made his way to a small, inconspicuous door.
Behind it, yet another staircase.
With a sigh, he scaled the wooden minefield, pleasantly surprised to find it more stable then the previous ones. It led him upwards, spiraling high up, to a short hallway. Andy pressed himself against the door at the end of the corridor, forcing it open.
A soft breeze grasped his hair, pulling at the curls and gently playing with the loose strands. He stood in the middle of a small apartment, filled with barely enough furniture to call it that. A bed, some ancient drawers, a desk…
… And an entrance to a balcony, which rattled gently with the wind, having been pushed wide open, Law knows how long ago.
Taking tiny, curious steps, Andy tiptoed towards the source of fresh air, stepping out onto the library's roof. His eyes were immediately drawn to the breathtaking view.
Sprawling out for miles on end, the Lungmen slums. From the rows of tenement buildings cut with concrete parks and plazas, to the actual slums oozing in the far distance. Dirt huts of corrugated metal sheets, tightly locked markets and shops, private communities, Lungmenites crawling around the entire place like ants over a cinnamon roll. Behind the pitiful sight, the city's grand skyline ruled undisputed. Neons, skyscrapers, summit-less mountains of glass and steel, all pointing down at the less fortunate and laughing…
Laughing, sneering, chuckling…
He was absolutely lost in it all. With the sun falling behind the horizon, bathing the world in its crimson light, amplified by each reflective surface, it was like a dream come true. Like standing atop the Tower of Revelations all over again, with a blue-haired angel by his side, gazing down at the bustling streets of Laterano…
A tear twirled in his eye. His finger caught it straight away, flicking away the painful memories.
Not now. There was still a lot of work to be done.
With a small sigh, he turned to look down at the street right below the library, at the pathetic pile of trash on wheels, that carried all his goods and chattels.
.
Time to unload.
.
.
…
.
.
Hours, eventually days had passed, as Andrew Ricketts, CEO executive of Pacific Empire, settled into his new, humble abode. The place had undergone a few renovations, having shoved most of the bookcases to the sides, to make room for the eventual cargo that would come and go, turning the it to an old, empty warehouse. In the very middle of the main hall, now stood a desk carved from an incredibly heavy stump of dark wood, with a few essentials on top. A lamp, a plastic plant (couldn't be bothered to look after a real one), and a whole heap of papers, to give the impression of business running hot.
In reality, however, it was not.
Andy laid across some old, torn office chair he pulled from upstairs, head swung over the armrest, staring at the empty ceiling. The hanging chandeliers now lit up the entire area, shedding light and revealing just how dirty it all was. Like a never ending ocean of dust…
He was tired. So inhumanely tired, so chewed through by the moving process, feeling each and every bone in his body screaming out in protest at the mere thought of going anywhere. Any customers had yet to come that day and he hoped none would, because this damn chair was just THAT cozy…
.
Knock, knock, knock.
.
"...?" Andy perked up, brushing a curtain of curls from his face. "Come in? I'm armed, in case you're here to steal or loiter…"
"Oh, no need for that!" A familiar voice cried out. Andy immediately attached it to the image of a short-haired Ursus in his head. "Can I come in?"
"Dani! The hell are you doing here?" His eyes bore into the youth's bright face as the dockworker entered. Carrying with him a sizable duffle bag, Dani strolled over to the desk and took a seat in front, unprompted.
"What am I doing here? I wanna see how my ex merc's doing in the logistics business!" His words flew out rapidly, like gunfire from an automatic rifle. Andy couldn't help but share some of his glow.
"How am I doing…? Could be better. Clients running low as of late."
"As if they were ever banging on the doors and windows." Dani snickered, dropping the bag atop the desk. "Heard you've been playing postman this past week."
"Oh, shuuush…" Andy groaned, crossing his arms and lazily glaring at the Ursus. "... It's not "playing postman", it's being a damn war messenger, in this part of town."
"Mmm. Lovely neighborhood. Almost got robbed on my way here."
"That's the typical slum welcome, you should feel honored."
Andy pulled himself up with a bit of effort and yawned, then stretched. Dani watched in mock awe.
"You sure do look busy." His voice took on a teasing tone, as his elbows laid against the desk's surface.
"Screw you, I'm doing my best… Just haven't really worked on advertising yet." His hand flicked towards a pile of hastily printed flyers off to the side. "I'll get on it soon."
"Yeah… about that. Mr Duflot sent me to give you something."
Andy perked up in curiosity. "Duflot?"
"Mr Duflot, Andy. C'mon."
The angel blew a raspberry. "Alright, MR Duflot, what does he want?"
Dani unzipped the bag and pulled a small notebook. "Weeeell…" He flipped through some pages, eagerly searching with his scabrous tongue out. "... There we are." He ripped the page off and lightly tapped it against the desk.
Andy raised an eyebrow. "... And that is?"
The Ursus youth scoffed, tapping the sheet of paper a few more times to drive the point home. "It's an order, Andy! Order for your logistic company, hello? Are you even awake under all those curls?"
He blinked a few times, staring at the scrap.
"Order? Like… A contract? A…"
"No, ex-moron, a job! Just a simple job, gods! How dense are you?" He chuckled, washing away the frustrations with laughter.
A job. From Lungmen's very own Motorized Harbor.
Good one.
Andy grasped the paper scraps and narrowed his eyes, focusing on the miniscule print. Words, words, corporate babbling, negotiable price, payment received upfront…
"Where does it say what they want me to deliver?" He asked, having troubles with locating this one, seemingly insignificant detail.
"Oh, I dunno. I'm just the messenger. You know what they say, right? Don't shoot the messenger, Mr Law-slinger." Dani grinned back, letting his teeth shine in the lamp's dim light.
"..."
The angel let out a long, tired sigh, crumpling the paper up and throwing it somewhere to the side.
"I mean, of course I'll take it. I owe Duflot, big time."
Dani shrugged. "I don't know. He told me to reassure you that you don't and that it's just business."
"Business, yeah…" He let the silence hang in the air for a few more moments, soaking in the muffled sounds of the street that seeped through the hole-filled door. "... Tell him I'll be there tomorrow for pickup. Oh and maybe mention that I drive a sh-... A crappy van, not a ten ton truck."
"Will do!" Dani nodded and stood up. "I'll leave you to your ventu-..."
Andy cut right in, confused by the sudden eagerness to leave. "Wait! Wait, you're leaving, already?"
"Mmm?" He tilted his head. "What's with the confused eyes?"
"You don't wanna stay over for coffee or something…? I got the kitchen cleaned out yesterday, it actually somewhat works… If you ignore the rats." There wasn't a hint of irony in his voice.
Dani chuckled a bit and flicked his hand to point at a digital watch resting on his wrist.
"I'm still on the clock, Andy, imagine or not. Can't be dawdling around Lungmen's slums on corporate time, c'mon."
He shot him a wink and gathered his bag.
"See-ya, ex-merc!"
And as the door closed behind the youth, Andy was left alone once more, staring at the stack of flyers piling up on his desk.
.
It was a problem for another day, for an Andy of the future. As of now, however…
.
… His weary head fell back onto the tough pillow of wood, face buried in his arms.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
…
.
.
.
.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The pendulum clock kept lazily counting out the passing seconds with each swing of its weight. Ticking away, filling the stuffy office with the annoying buzz of its cogs turning and twisting, broken only by the occasional scratching of a ball-point pen against paper.
Mr Duflot clicked his sharp signing tool a few times and put it down, sliding the document over to Andy. The sudden noise broke him from the clock-staring trance that's had him in its grasp since he entered.
"There you are, Andrew! All signed up and paid off." His overly sweet voice resonated throughout the tiny container, sinking into the soft rugs hanging about. "Now it's your turn, Mr Entrepreneur!"
The ex-merc blinked. His gray eyes fell downcast, gaze sliding along the fine print. Words, words… Payment, one and a half thousand blue Lungmen Dollars… Pacific Empire's first bigger delivery.
"Thank you, Mr Duflot." He gave a tiny nod and grabbed the papers, shoving them haphazardly into his cargos. "I'll just, uh… I'll get on it."
"Of course, Andrew! I took the liberty of having my men load your little van up, already." Duflot croaked, showcasing all his pristinely white teeth.
"You did…? And what exactly did they put in there?" A hint of hesitation mixed into the cocktail of suspiciousness and weariness that was his tired voice.
"Oh, Andrew, didn't you read the documents little Dani gave you?" Duflot reached into his desk and rummaged through a pile of rustling papers. "Beer, Andrew! The fuel of the blue collared man. An import from Kazimierz, to be delivered to the…"
"... To the warehouses in section 14, I know." Andy cut in, "If I may, uh… Why? I don't know if I should be asking questions like that, it seems rude, but…"
"Not at all, Andrew!" Duflot raised his massive arms to signal how insignificant his question was. "That's simply where the owner wants them to be. We're just a motorized harbor, and you're a delivery specialist, after all! If someone rich wants some Kazimierzan beer delivered to the opposite part of town, that's their business and something the union doesn't probe into."
Andy kept his eyes bored into the address printed on the document. A full hour drive, maybe an hour and a half… If the roads were empty, that is. If they weren't, who knows? The twin moons had long assumed their reign over the night sky at that point, sending their weak gleam down onto Terra. He made the grueling stroll back to his van, passing by a few unlucky workers running night shifts. A few head nods here, some Ursine phrases being thrown around. Andy kept to himself, strolling along the concrete, passing hangars lined with armies of trucks, towered over by a few landships standing still, awaiting to be set free into the Yanese wildlands that spread out beyond the borders of Lungmen.
"Oh, angel!" A voice resonated through the night. Standing by his van, a middle aged Caprinae awaited, enjoying a rolled cigarette. With a caring gesture, his hand pet the boot of the heap of trash on wheels, sliding along the tatty slogan on its side, a remnant of its previous purpose.
Andy gave a nod. "Yeah?"
"Loaded her up for you, bossman. Just be careful with it, yeah? It's glass, not cans." He explained, taking a puff from his coffin nail.
"Glass. Got it, "bossman." The words left his lips without a hint of emotion to them, just an overbearing soaking of weariness.
The man smirked, before giving the angel a pat on the shoulder and walking off into the night. Feeling awfully motivated by the lingering cigarette smoke, Andy quickly got into the cabin and shut the door behind, locking himself away from the foul smell. He checked the glove box, hoping that none of the dockworkers bothered to check the insides.
Nuffer, his nine millimeter friend was still lying inside, seemingly forgotten by the world.
His shoe pressed down on the clutch, fingers twisted the keys. The radio came alive, once more welcoming his ears with the screech of an electric cacophony.
And off to work he was.
.
"... The light in the window is a crack in the sky…"
.
"... A stairway to darkness in the blink of an eye…"
.
"... A levee of tears, to learn she'll never be coming back…"
.
"... The man in the dark will bring another attack…"
.
The van tore through the empty streets, passing intersections in the slums, led forward by a tiny screen hanging around on its dashboard. With a flip of the gear stick, the engine chortled and coughed out some more fumes, as the oceans of red brick and overbearing poverty slowly made way for the high-rise skyscrapers and fancy plazas of concrete.
Downtown. The land of opportunities and dreams.
Andy gazed out the windshield, taking in all the sights the business heaven provided - fancy cafes, restaurants hanging from columns far above anyone's reach, skyscrapers so tall he couldn't ever possibly see the rooftops, let alone stand on one, someday…
Despite that, the streets were mostly empty. It was two in the morning on a Tuesday, after all.
.
"... Rain keeps fallin'... Rain keeps fallin'..."
"... Down, down, down…"
"... Will you recognize me?"
"... Call my name, or walk on by?"
"... Rain keeps fallin'..."
.
Smooth sailing. With a coffee cup in one hand, he passed the high-rise hell and skidded off to the forest of warehouses growing in the distance. Lady Luck deserved a big "Thank you" for keeping the roads so empty, seemingly just for him.
.
"... Then the loud sound did seemed to fa-a-ade,"
.
"Came back like a slow voice on a wave of pha-a-ase,"
.
"That weren't no DJ, that was hazy cosmic jive…"
.
"You have arrived at your designated area."
.
The van rolled past a large gate, and onto some empty concrete lake, a few warehouses standing by in the near distance. It felt a tad bit too peaceful, with only the soft clicking of the cooling engine to accompany the angel. A group of shady, hoodie-wearing Lupo men rolled up to his window, all smiles and cheery greetings. With one of them reassuring the ex-merc and signing off on Duflot's document, the rest tore open the back and unloaded the clattering cargo boxes, scurrying off to fill the warehouses. Andy wanted to help them carry the beer, but the messy-haired Lupo by his window insisted, over and over again, that it was fine.
It was fine. All fine, bossman, no need to do anything. Your job here's done.
And he did not complain. With a van now empty, an unhealthy dose of caffeine surging through his body, Andy rolled out of the warehouse park and slid back onto the empty streets. He was really getting used to this new logistics life, especially after having lived here as nothing more than a dishwashing street-rat for the past two years.
"Bossman"
He did like the sound of that. Not comparable to the "Half a million shekel merc" he used to be, but still nice to hear.
It's not like it mattered much, anyway. It was all extra.
The real perks of the job were the busy nights. The loud radio blasting music, keeping his tired brain from falling asleep.
From turning back to the surges of memories seeping into the wide, open fields of his mind. In his dreams, he'd oftentimes find himself traversing the empty battlefield, surrounded by fog. Mud grasping at his ankles, becoming more and more aggressive with each step he took, violently trying to pull him down like a feral dog attempting to kill a giant twice its size.
Past the muddy fields laid the meadows of endless crosses.
Stretching out far beyond the horizon, rows of nameless graves riddled the ground. He'd walk in between them, eyes downcast, too ashamed to glance at even a single one. Too guilt-filled to admit that the mere idea of planting yet another field exactly like this one brought him a strange sense of excitement, not disgust and shame.
Somehow, someway, only here could he ever admit before himself that he actually missed Kazdel.
Sleeping in the mud, with the night sky blaring right above his weary head, surrounded by nothing but enemies or soon-to-be enemies disguised as friends. It all brought an overbearing sense of longing for something more, for a stroll down memory lane, the excitement of having to fight to witness the sun crawling behind the horizon, each sundown a prize for winning the daily lottery of life.
His feet would always lead him to the very middle of the yard. A place where both heaven and hell met.
A grand marble statue of two opposed forces locked in a beautiful dance of death. One of them, a horned devil on the floor, cowering and striking blindly with his knife, as a beacon of light, an angelic beauty towered over him, squashing him underneath her sole like the cockroach he was. W and Mostima, two idols of good and evil, who have long crawled off the merc's shoulders, only to remain frozen in marble, lost in the land of dreams within his head.
Beneath the sculpture laid a small object.
Tick.
A tiny, shiny noisemaker.
Tock.
With each step he took, its noise only grew louder.
Tick.
And louder.
Tock.
His hand would grasp the pocket watch. Some expensive, Siracusan brand.
Tick.
His sight would focus on the clock's face. Each numeral representing the hours of the day instead replaced with sevens.
Tock.
Only sevens.
Tick.
And he would fall to his knees.
Tock.
And the watch, from his hand.
Tick.
And he would think of a promise he gave.
Tock.
Only to send the one he promised to lead to a land completely unknown to both of them.
Tick.
And never follow through.
Tock.
The sky would dim. Dark clouds gathered above.
And as the first thunderous flashes would start tearing the sky apart, the earth on which he stood parted, swallowing everything, sparing nothing, sending him down a spiral of regret and guilt.
He'd find himself waking up in a warm hallway, the walls covered with crimson.
Not blood, however, but a familiar winscot.
Photographs lined the walls, pictures of a red-haired angel smiling to the passing lost soul. A hint of burnt wood spread in the air, muffled by the overwhelmingly sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie.
With each gaze they exchanged, he'd feel a certain warmth sprouting within, more and more potent the closer he got to a door at the very end of the hallway.
The door that's been with him for the past years, the one that truly kept him going all this time.
When everything else had failed, this door prevailed. It was always there, always waiting. Always eager to open just for him.
Andy grasped the handle. With a tiny click, it opened.
The room was completely empty, but for a single couch in the center.
And there she was.
Lying on her side, with her hands tucked between her thighs.
And a smile.
A smile just for him.
Slowly, he shuffled across the room. She gently tapped the empty space before her, beckoning him to lie down besides her.
He did.
Orange and gray, their eyes reflecting off their surfaces and mixing into one, gazing into the very depths of each other's souls. Her smile, her warm smile was everything Andy ever wanted to see.
Nothing else mattered at that moment. Nothing else existed.
Just her.
Just Lemuel. His Lemmy.
A hand crawled into the lush forest of his gray curls, brushing away the weariness, taking away years of pain. One, gentle move was all it took. One swipe of her fingers, one glimmer of her halo.
That's all it took for him to fall in love all over again.
That's exactly where he wanted to be. There, nowhere, with those soft hands running through his hair, their bodies close, enveloped in complete and total silence.
Lost, so utterly lost in her eyes, seeing nothing but the orange glow. There, it was his entire world. A copper glimmer peeking from behind a sea of saffron hair.
His hand lifted forward, wanting to grasp the loose strands, to touch the perfect image lying before him. It seemed so simple. A tiny touch. Just a hint of affection. A small twirl, just a brush, the slightest contact…
.
"PULL OVER!"
.
His eyes immediately shot open, as his fingers squeezed the steering wheel. The radio kept quietly blaring, his heart kept beating out a rhythm of a fast metal number, still in shock. He was still there, driving down the empty high-rise business area.
"Sh… Shit…"
Ow.
With every sound muffled out by the roaring of a few engines coming from behind, he rubbed the sleep off his eyes and quickly pulled to the side of the road, finding a spot between some fancy SUVs.
He fell asleep behind the wheel, again. Not even the coffee managed to help…
A few unmarked motorcycles passed by. Heavy, tough, with lead pipes spewing flames as they went. They stopped right before his hood, their drivers slowly stepping off.
LGD?
Didn't look like it. Just in case, Andy hesitantly popped open the glove box and slid Nuffer behind his belt, covering the grip with his sweater.
Clad in leather, metal spikes protruding from their heavy coats and reflective helmets, the bikers whistled, taking a good look at the van. One of them rolled by the driver's window, tapping it a few times with his gloved fingers.
Andy rolled it down, feeling a hint of worry creeping up his spine.
"Weeeell, well… Mister driver, in a hurry today, ain't we?" The masked biker spoke, lazily resting his elbows on the window frame. He lifted the visor to reveal a pair of heavily tinted sunglasses atop his Lupo snout. "Been speedin'. Considerably, may I add."
Andy blinked, watching the other bikers circling his van like a pack of hungry hyenas. "I… Am not sure? I don't think I was."
The Lupo chuckled, letting his long, sharp teeth show. "Yeah, yeah, that's what y'all always say." He sighed, "Anyhow, turn the engine off and step out, will ya?"
Andy hesitantly listened, flicking the keys and letting the engine rattling grow dim. He stepped out, legs still a bit wobbly from all the driving and sleeping…
"So… You're the Guard Department?" He asked, being led away from the car. Three other masked bikers rested lazily against the boot, seemingly with no intention of removing their helmets. The Lupo, now joined by another officer, nodded, keeping his paws inside his jacket.
"Yeah, LGD. Didn't think we'd be ridin' high at this hour, so you figured you'd slam the gas for fun, ah?" Once again, he cackled like a goose. "Naaaw, we're always watchin', We's a diligent bunch, hehe…"
They stopped a few meters away from the van. Both bikers crossed their arms.
"So? Where's you headed to, that requires you to go so damn fast, huh? You got an emergency at home?"
"Not really…"
"Then what's got you speedin' like that?" His hands rose to his hips, as his glare turned more accusatory than before. The officer next to him didn't speak, instead holding onto something in the pocket of his jacket. Andy noticed the bikers behind them taking a keen interest in his van's cargo bay. "Huh? You deaf?"
"No, just… What're they doing back there?"
"Inspecting. Lookin' for… Guns. Guns, you's a Sankta, after all."
Damn racial profiling. Andy sighed.
"Won't find anything. It's empty."
"Empty?" The Lupo cackled. "Good one. Now, c'mon, let's test whether you was drinkin' and drivin'."
"Oh? Sure, I'll blow the breathalyzer." He said, crossing his arms, eager to follow instructions and just get this over with. He hadn't had a drink in… Oh, Law knows how long.
"Naw, we check for alcohol in a different way." A grin slowly formed across the Lupo's muzzle.
"Oh?" Andy felt a strange warmth forming at the base of his cheeks.
"Yeah. Straight from the source." He nudged his accomplice in the ribs. "Clint?"
"Clint" pulled his fists out of the coat, both bearing copper knuckle dusters.
"..."
Andy stared at the two figures for a few more moments, completely frozen in disbelief. A second later, the mass of flesh and metal slammed against his cheek, sending him flying to the ground.
"F-... Fuuh…"
He felt a rough grasp by his neck, someone tightly gripping his collar. Another duster-clad fist flew into his mouth, drawing blood. He couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything but the burning sensation spreading all over his entire face. His blurry sight managed to pick out two completely black figures towering over him. His blood started boiling, his ears rang like never before…
… And yet another punch connected with his flesh.
"Aight, Clint, enough."
The other perp stepped in, crouching down by the angel.
"You's not even half as smart as you look. We look like LGD to you?"
He croaked like a frog and pushed "Clint" aside, taking on the role of the interrogator. His paws dug deep into his collar.
"Clint, pipe."
He handed him a lead pipe. Andy started violently shaking, trying to squirm out of the Lupo's grasp.
""W-Wait, you… You can't!"
"Shut your mouth, fucker, I can." His voice seeped into the angel's ears, permeated by some sick sense of pleasure. His grin only grew wider, baring more and more fangs. "I "can" whatever I damn want."
And as the executor raised his weapon into the air, a few groans arose from behind.
"Maaan… We got fucked! He ain't got shit in the trunk!"
The Lupo's grin immediately dropped. He stood up and turned to his comrades. "Fuck you mean "ain't got shit?" This was a solid tip, I told y'all…"
"Ripped! We got ripped, you fucking idiot!"
"Don't fucking call me an idiot! I'll spill your brains across the floor, call me an idiot one more time!"
"You ARE a naive dumbfuck, Laz! It's empty!"
"Or you're just fucking blind!"
"Laz's" companion kept staring at the heated exchange, leaving Andy breathing heavily on the concrete, dragging himself away with every last ounce of strength he had left. A metal object nudged against his stomach, as if to remind the angel of its existence.
"Come here. Come HERE, Wyatt, I'm not playing."
Andy could only hear the bikers screaming amongst themselves as his hands haphazardly reached for the hem of his sweater, pulling it up…
"Laz, I'm telling you, it's empty. There's nothing in that fucking trunk, absolutely nothing. Null."
Laz and Wyatt, followed by Clint and two more masked bikers stood in front of the trunk, staring at the empty space.
"..."
"..."
Laz scratched his furry chin.
"So what, we got ripped?"
"YES!" Raising his arms towards the heavens, Wyatt slammed the palm of his hand against his helmet. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU, YOU DENSE FUCK!"
"Oh, that's it." Laz rolled up his sleeves, revealing mounds of dark fur. "That's it, I ain't takin' no disrespect fr-..."
.
A gunshot pierced the night's peaceful silence. The bikers jumped, Laz fell to the ground with a fountain of blood spurting from his head.
"Fuck! F-..."
Another gunshot followed, biting Clint in the back of his helmet, sending a flurry of broken glass and blood flying towards the rest. His body dropped, completely limp.
Covered in pieces of their friend's helmet, skull and brain, the rest screamed out in panic. Wyatt pushed the two nameless forward, taking cover behind the van, himself. A small commotion followed as the bikers rushed the gunman, ending with a few gunshots cutting their feral battle cries short.
Out of time, out of options, Wyatt felt a river of sweat dripping down his face. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. With a swift move, he tore the limiting helmet off his head and threw it aside.
A bullet quickly pierced the escaping object, almost instantly as it left the safety of the van's cover. Wyatt yelped and peeked from behind the passenger's window.
At first, he could see nothing but the cabin's interior. Leaning out even further, a few of his friend's corpses came into view, lying face down in crimson pools of blood. His breathing hitched at the sight, as a heavy weight punctured his stomach and wrapped itself tightly around his intestines. With blood ringing in his ears, he peeked even further out of cover, cheek pressed to the window…
He caught just a tiny glimpse of a blood-covered angel standing amidst the empty street, the muzzle of a gun pointed right at him.
Another gunshot rang out, the glass shattered. Fragments dug into the biker's face, as he jerked away, hearing the radio inside the cabin growing louder due the bullet's sudden impact. Amidst the blaring of a few electric guitars and loud beating of drums, he nearly fell to the ground, as his mind ditched any rational thoughts, now operating solely on survival instinct.
.
"SO LET IT BE WRITTEN,"
"SO LET IT BE DONE."
"I'M SENT HERE BY THE CHOSEN ONE."
.
He threw himself forward, desperately trying to reach his bike, parked just a few meters away, just a couple hops, a lunge to grasp the gas lever…
.
"SO LET IT BE WRITTEN,"
"SO LET IT BE DONE."
"TO KILL THE FIRST-BORN PHARAOH'S SON."
.
The final crack of lightning came down upon him, sending an unimaginable pain digging into his back, somewhere around his spine. He fell to the ground, grasping his back, his glass-covered face, desperately clinging onto the feeble life essence seeping from his wounds, the river of blood flowing down his body…
.
"I'M CREEPING DEATH!"
.
He flipped to his back to face the reaper. To talk. To reason. To clear up. To explain.
"Wait! W-Wait, please just wait! Just…"
His pleas were drowned out by the sea of electric buzzing blaring from the van's radio.
"You can't! You… T-The Catastrophe Riders w-will find y-you! Y-You're… Y-You can't…"
His threats disappeared underneath the unwavering chorus of death.
.
"DIE!"
(DIE!)
.
His vision dimmed. He could see nothing but the blurry outline of the gunman standing before him, blinded by the van's headlights behind the reaper's back.
.
"BY MY HAND!"
(DIE!)
.
His ears became swollen. The loud screeching of electric guitars, the brutal massacring of drums, the earth-shaking bassline…
.
"I CREEP ACROSS THE LAND,"
(DIE!)
.
His hand desperately reached forward, one last prayer for mercy.
.
"KILLING FIRST-BORN MEN!"
(DIE!)
.
A gunshot echoed through the night, breaking through the feral choir. When it had finally died down, Andy let out a bated breath and let his gunning hand fall to his side.
.
"I RULE THE MIDNIGHT AIR,
THE DESTROYER!
BORN, I SHALL SOON BE THERE.
DEADLY MASS!"
.
He turned the radio off, the gunshots still blaring in his eardrums.
.
In,
.
Out.
.
Heavy breaths. Adrenaline pumping through his body.
.
His hands were shaking. He could barely start the car.
.
Red. Red was all he could see.
.
He drove straight back to the library.
.
Locked every door and window.
.
And begged no LGD officer would show up at his doorstep the following morning.