(author's note - this is the start of something big and sad)
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It was a warm day. Decently warm. Could barely feel the chilly gales coming in from the north, somewhere from Higashi. A few catastrophes hit here and there, so Lungmen had to pack up and leave. Whole process took the higher up fancypants a good month or two to pull off, but it all eventually turned back to normal.
As normal as things could be, anyway.
There was some smoke. Rising like a vine, a craning stalk dressed in colorful petals, aimed towards the sun – much less pleasant in smell, much more hurtful and vomit inducing than an actual flower. Smoldering pieces of haphazardly stomped out cigarettes lazily lined the pavement path Andy found himself standing on. Lost somewhere between a towering, tenement giant scraped of most of its former glory in the form of jabbed off plaster, and a testament to the city's never ending greed – a glass tower. Feline bankers stood outside, all covered in sticky, greedy silks and wools, suits fitted perfectly to match their shameless outsides and shield the world from all the blasphemous rot that grew inside. Heads of hair, brains that grew the city, helped it expand like a set of hungry vines. Hunting vines, he thought. One of Kazdel's very own specialities, the roots that bit. The thoughts took him way back, all the way to the good old days of running around with a heavy rifle on his back and a group of misfits all around. Good old W. Andy missed her a little. She probably didn't even remember him at this point.
"Mornin'." Some voice chirped by his ear. Forcefully shoved out of his trance, he turned to look at the apricot haired girl who popped by his side, seemingly from nowhere. Having exchanged a quick round of pleasantries, she joined in on the game of staring at Feline workaholics.
"... Bit borin', no? I'd go insane in that kinda garment, baws. Much too packed. Too tight fer me." Croissant pointed out, before readjusting her loose jacket a little. There wasn't much beneath, just a slightly cropped tank top. Andy never really minded her unorthodox style of dressing up in clothes that quite liberally revealed whole patches of skin, but would never see himself pulling off anything similar. Then again, the chain smoking cat guys and cat gals that ruled the parking spaces before the glass giant really did push things to the other extreme with their perfectly identical suits. Navy blue, black tie, white collared shirt – boring as all hell. He blew a raspberry and kicked away a pile of wet cigarettes.
"Guess that's what it takes to make it big in this city. You gotta blend in so much they start mistaking you for the concrete foundation at some point." He said, before smiling at the silly mental image of a group of breakneck coffe-fetchers being treated like furniture. "No other way to climb up the corporate ladder."
"'S why we don't do corporate ladders at Penguin Logistics." Croissant shrugged and flicked her long ponytail around her neck, much like one would tie a scarf. "Feels to me like tha' big boss doesn't really care all 'at much 'bout no profits. Which's a shame!" Her voice took on a much more serious tone. It was a transformation Andy has witnessed many, many times before, whenever the subject of money slipped past her ears. "I keep tellin' 'im, I keep sayin' 'at if we nabbed som' of 'a costs down, we'd be makin' one helluva pile 'a cash by the end 'a each month, but NAAAAAAW, we just NEED to be buyin' all 'em fancy Yanese wines and, and Kazimierzian hard brews to stock up a bar 'at don't even serve nun' but employees most of 'a time! Hell, I'd be happier drinkin' cheap beer."
"... Uh-huh." Andy nodded at her little rant. His ears were somewhat on her, but his eyes kept grazing around the cat bankers. The image reminded him of the slave-trades happening around the Scar Market's grand and moving platform. Back then, he was way too young to truly understand what was happening, he thought those malnourished people with ribs sticking from their bare chests were paid to stand around in the sun and moan for food and drink. These people, however, were paid to stand around in the sun and smoke their lives away, while groaning commands into their telephones and dumping whatever stocks their clients had them play around with. Same deal, different masters.
"... What're we here for, anyway?" He asked, after an annoyingly vomit inducing stream of cigarette smoke wafted around in the air and hit his nostrils. It broke the spell with a deluge of unpleasant memories that his mind had somehow waved off.
"Here? Here's nothin'." Croissant shrugged. She pointed towards the other building, the one with walls that were losing plaster faster than Duflot lost most of his hair. "There, howeva', we got ourselves all we need 'ta get ya van prepped up for tha' journey!"
The journey, right. The grueling drive from Lungmen to Laterano. Andy's been dreading the day for the past couple of weeks, yet there was nothing that could put his mind to ease. He hasn't yet told Lem, didn't bother with the rest of PL. Only asked Duflot if it would be okay to disappear for a few days, which earned him a few pats on the shoulder and a reassuring smile that was followed with the words: "Lungmen won't collapse in on itself without you here for a day or two, Andy! But you better not be running away, hehe!" With that half-hearted threat, Andy's been seriously grasping at the second thoughts about the entire ordeal. The whole Duflot deal. He really wanted out, but didn't know how. Hell, the old man even gave him a phone…
"Aaaaandy? Woooho, baws, ya there?"
Andy blinked. Wherever his mind took him, Croissant always managed to drag him right back and anchor to the floor. They passed the old building – a tenement housing facility, with most windows shattered and nearly every wall covered in a thick layer of graffiti. Lungmenite slurs, swears, everywhere, that damn language. Was it a language? Or a dialect? Andy had no idea.
"I'm always here, yeah." He mumbled back, only to give his eyes a good rub. At Croissant's raised eyebrow, he presented his arms high up into the air in a stretch and let out a drawn-out yawn. "... What?"
"Ya haven't been sleepin'. Again." Her accusatory voice leaned far away from the usual chirpy tones she'd produce. "And don't gimme all 'at "been workin'" bullshit, I told ya work's only good in moderate a-..."
"I haven't been working, I haven't been sleeping." He threw back, very casually. "Haven't been doing anything but reading up on your wisdomful, little sticky notes you keep leaving all over the office."
"They're meant 'ta help ya, dummy." She scoffed, yet her tone betrayed a slight tinge of something softer. Andy knew she must've been glad he at least managed to acknowledge her efforts of keeping him from self destructing entirely. "Wiff how dense ya are, I gotta start leavin' more."
"Mmm. You should move from the usual "brush your teeth", "do your hair" reminders and start plastering shit like "fridge" and "microwave" over the appliances like a demented geezer. Would work wonders on me, I bet."
"Oh, yer such a comedian…" Her words were followed by a scoff and a light punch to his shoulder. "... If only ya put this amount of effort into runnin' tha' company."
"Good thing I got you here, no?"
"Good thing ya ain't livin' on tha' streets, ya lug." Another bump. Andy smiled at the contact and fixed his halo into place – All the rusty nails desecrating his little ring of light rattled in protest. He's gotten quite used to the new look, started listening to heavier music to accommodate for the change and fit the heavy metal (literally) image a little more. At the thought of music came a frown, as he was quickly reminded of a rather grim connection from the past.
"... By the way, did he call anytime yesterday?" He asked, with his voice seemingly bored. Tired of the bard's calls. That bastard as a whole. Lungmen's loudest man, whatever. What a fraud.
"Call? Who?" Croissant tilted her head like a pup. "Oh, 'at Nuffer big dog? Yaaaw, called 'a company twice, put 'em on voicemail, like ya asked."
"Good. Good, good…" They turned a corner into some shady alleyway. Andy shuddered at the sudden gloom that came over them, the shadows chased aways by neon signs popping up left and right, advertising some shady dens and promising all and everything one might want. Cheap drinks, cheap food, cheap sex, cheap drugs. Medical, that is. Lungmen was rather strict when it came to the illegal distribution of mind altering substances, especially when they came with a little ori-colored surprise. The fight for and against the infected brewed on, as the mighty, selfless bureaucratic heroes typed away furiously at their keyboards in defense of these poor slum dwellers, and the infected themselves rotted away in sewage drain tunnels and shady alleys. Much like this one. "... Is this the right path, seriously?"
"'S very right, baws. Gawds, ya really dunno Lungmen all that much, do ya? It gets better later on." Croissant nicked him one in the ribs, hands in her coat pockets. Seemingly unaffected by the overarching gloom and coldness of these valleys of concrete dug between towering dens of poverty and crime, she carried on, leading the way onward. "I know a catastrophe messenger in 'ere. Met 'im not so long ago, should have everythin' we could ever need for tha' drive down to yer lovely, lil' Laterano. Ya know, the weather forecast! So we don't, uh… don't drive ourselves into som' nasty ass storm. Like buying a tiny piece of peace, ya know? 'S why we need a messenger." A pause followed, as she milled the words over in her head, eventually deciding to correct herself a bit. "I mean… We got our very own catastrophe messenger back at P.L., but… Ya know. She ain't the most available."
"... You mean…?" Andy perked up, adding some energy to his steps to catch up.
"Uh-huh. Yer old pal, right? Mostima?" Her neck craned towards him, as they passed a particularly loud rave spilling from some nearby basement. Whether the party was just starting so early in the morning, or dragging so far into the night, they did not know. "Haven't heard from her in a hot while. No one has, to be fair. She just appeared one day, left us with a wide eyed Exusiai and poof." Her fingers simulated a little shower of smoke falling around after an explosion. "... Gone. Fa' good, 's far 's I know. I mean, I weren't 'ere when she popped up, haven't been workin' 'ere for 'AT long, but that's what the rest told me. What Texas told me one night, after one drink too many. Ya know how difficult it is to get anythin' outta that woman? Sheesh…"
"..." Andy has never actually heard the story. He knew Mostima would usually play the "stuck up, snarky bitch" in their Lateran trio, but to just up and leave Lem like that? Leave without a trace? Dump her here and ditch? There had to be something more to it. Had to, and he wouldn't let himself rest before his own hands bury that bit of uncertainty under a blanket of truth. "... We could… run into her in Laterano, right? That's where she went."
"Is it?" Croissant gave a lazy shrug. "Might've. I dunno. Never really got to know her all too well, just all 'at from hearin', maybe some loose phone calls. General stuff, ya know, long distance cawmpany meet-in's, quick check in's…"
"Yeah well…" Andy dimmed at her words, the mumbled beneath his breath. "... Wish I ever got the chance to check in, call her, even just tell her I'm alive…"
"Huh? What?" Croissant turned towards him, an asking expression on her face. "Didn't quite catch 'at, baws."
"No, nothing." He waved the thought away. "Just, uh… where's that messenger guy of yours, anyway?"
"My pal? Ah, right 'round the corner. Somewhere past…" She took his hand and led him through a shaded gate, where broken bottles left a spiky rug of glass, and where the stench of piss and cigarette smoke reigned supreme. "... Here."
Passing by the gate, Andy felt strangely mislocated. As if he had taken the wrong turn and accidentally ended up in an entirely different neighborhood on his way back home from a delivery. What he expected to be another maze of tightly packed corridors of pavement and glaring homeless, turned into a wide, open area, shielded from the rest of Lungmen by a stadium-like crown of high, poverty stricken blocks of flats. The sun shone brightly here, washing away the alleyway's freezing hands grasping at his ankles, and snuffing out the piles of burning trash inside rusty barrels, where groups of infected found themselves bent over the fire, trying desperately to warm their weary bones and the black crystals piercing their skin. Here, everything seemed strangely energetic. There, it was death. Here, it was life. Bathed in the orange sun, the entire area seemed to be brewing with lively worms all scurrying off to tend to their needs and wants. The main focus was a puzzling maze of curly, metal sheets and wood, all welded and hammered down into stands, all joined in one, big and messy organism that somewhat resembled the Scar Market, minus the human trafficking and under-the-counter gun deals. Andy had to take a step back to truly take in all the sights - the flying waves of rice being tossed over open fires, steady Lung fingers crafting meals for the hordes of ragtag infected and the poor, haggling and casting away their silky, blue Lungmen dollars in exchange for anything their hearts desired. Perro merchants with wagging tails, luring customers in to try their latest delicacies or hand-woven garments, Cautus buskers rocking away on acoustics that barely held their shape, some Sarkaz tails lazily swatting away flies, Ursus immigrants laid out on the floor, clutching onto their chests and breathing unevenly, even a few bright halos poking out from the buzzing crowd – a side of Lungmen Andy has never seen before. If the glass towers with smoking bankers were the cells building and expanding the city further, then this outskirt of humanity was definitely its cancer. A lively, yet blackened and rotten underbelly which governed itself by its own rules – took Yenwu's ideals and laws as mere suggestions, then gently laid them onto a pile with the LGD's empty threats and doused it in some high percentage, illegally brewed moonshine, before burning it all to the ground. It was beautiful, in a way. People were coughing, people were dying, but it was beautiful.
No one to pat them on the head, tell them they're doing just fabulous. Nothing waiting for them at the end of all the suffering, at the end of their tunnels. Black, violent tunnels, that's what these slums were. Empty, concrete pipes with rusted rail tracks leading the way onward. Each step, each careful maneuver led their feet through the steel, avoiding the rotten rat carcasses between each bar, avoiding a fate similar to the corpses scattered all around. The sweet smell of the slums, these tunnels, bit their noses, attacked their minds. A smell sweet, sweet with death, sweet with decomposing flesh and littered with dust. For what was a corpse? A flower long after blooming, waiting to wither and turn to originium. A meal for the disease to feast upon, to tear it apart and consume, then disappear as if it was nothing. Get swept away with the wind, fall into the sewers and into a trash treatment plant you go, you filthy slag. Someone will drink you. Their body will rot. The cycle will continue. The head of Lungmen will assure you that piling the infected into low income neighborhoods is the way to go, it keeps the wealthy ones safe, the normal ones safe. Was the disease they spoke about even Oripathy at this point? Or was the disease the whole underbelly? The sick, the dying, and the dead? The homeless rags, the beggars being swept up by the LGD and forced into overfilled shelters, where the law of the jungle reigned supreme? What a way to live. A ship sinking at bay, with no hands at deck to help. Andy heard a cough by his side and hugged a wall to let a caravan of a few Zalak men slither right past, with their short and fluffy ears just barely sticking from beneath a sleeve of dusty newsboy caps. The nylon of their ancient sports jackets shuffled in disapproval, as they pushed a cart filled with scrap and orange-covered metal past Andy and Croissant, throwing Lungmenite swears to shuffle the people in front aside.
"... Nice place." He summed it all up, much to the girl's approval.
"Told ya it gets better." She muttered past her shoulder, taking his hand and leading them both into the thick crowd of colorful personalities and stenches, each fighting for a place in the spotlight. Passing by the second hand clothes stands, Andy caught some weirded out glances by vendors and customers alike, seemingly surprised by his nailed through halo. As violent as the slum life was, not even the daily outrages of the streets could have prepared them for a Sankta parading around with a desecrated symbol of his religion dangling pathetically above his hair. Andy paid them no mind, eventually throwing back a few shoulder shrugs, or eyebrow bumps – not a single dweller prodded any further than that.
"... So where's this guy of yours? And how'd you even find him?" He asked, while the two shuffled between a few field kitchens, where flames shot towards the sky, wrangled by a few bored Liberi with woks and nerves of steel.
"Aw, ya know." Croissant casually threw back, eyes glued to the mounds of rice and vegetables being thrown around, alluringly turning the heads of all passers by with their drool provoking scents. "Used ta' work as a catastrophe gal myself. Ya remember my old van, mmm?"
"The one you drove me here in?"
"Yuh-uh! Exact same one. Well, I sold it to 'is fella. Said he was lookin' fer parts, or whateva'. Paid me a nice price, asked nun' 'bout the ranges, nun' 'bout the scratches or left papers…" She stopped for a moment to let a group of flanneled up Durin slip past their legs. "... Just ate it right up, got enuff' 'ta buy myself an apartment and settle for a while. Better 'an runnin' all ova' tha' world, methinks."
"Is it?" Andy furrowed his brows at the thought. "... I used to think that, actually. Not so sure nowadays, though."
"Oh, come on, baws." She scoffed, before leading him through a little shower of incense and dream catchers hanging from a makeshift ceiling, messily welded together from curly sheets. They all sang metalically with each brush of their shoulders and hair, annoying Andy with how clingy the hanging nightmare traps were, and how strong the burned herbs reeked. "... Yer all sulky all the time, I can't even think of 'a last time I saw yer face lit up like a grand piece of me own sunshine. Suck it up, yer goin' on holiday soon. Back home, ah? Ain't 'at a reason to keep ya head up?"
"Go back home to visit three… No, four graves? And a girl who probably doesn't even remember me?" Andy smirked at her eyeroll. "Sure as hell is a treat."
"Yer so impossible…" A heavy sigh poured from her lips, soon turned to a lighthearted huff, as she pulled him close by the hand and forcefully stopped in place. "Here we are. Vic's lil' shithole."
Andy sized the place up. Sticking out like a bulging bump on the skin, it nuzzled itself into the empty place between two blocks of flats that shielded this entire area from the rest of Lungmen. Right on top, a signboard proudly displaying the words "RATTLEBRAINS' STORM CHASING-Z'' surrounded by a little annotation correcting the muddy words by saying: "catastrophe messengerZ bureau, CHEAP." The windows were covered in a heavy coating of grease and sand, with a bit of shade being thrown onto them by a few, wobbly steel bars haphazardly welded into place. Andy whistled a little at the professional first impression.
"We're really leaving our safety on the road to the best of the best, yeah?" He chuckled, while still admiring the so-called bureau.
"Golly, baws, there's just no pleasin' you in no way, is there?" Croissant sighed in slight annoyance and shuffled behind, only to loosely throw her arms around his shoulders. Andy let no reaction taint his amused expression, even when she pressed herself up close to his back and rocked them both from left to right. "... I'm gonna break ya spine like this one day, just to stawp ya from bein' so gloomy. Can't be gloomy wiff' a broken spine, right?"
"Can't be much at all with a cracked spine." Andy snortled, much to her amusement. "... But I bet I'd still find a way to gloom. Gloomy me on a wheelchair, how's that sound? You wanna be my personal wheelchair pusher?"
"Think I'd rather finish tha' job and wring ya neck out like a dishrag, than drive ya around on a wheelie rocking chair." She purred back with a smirk, before strangling his neck with a tight hug. Despite the contemporary lack of breathing, Andy felt strangely nice and safe in her arms, having her all wrapped up all around himself – though, a little thought slipped his mind, acknowledging weakly that he'd much rather have Lem just like this, slung all over himself wherever he went. He pushed it all aside.
Giggling like a moron, he fought back with a couple elbow jabs to her stomach, which only further amplified her affectionate assault. Once she's thoroughly shook him around like a rag doll, Croissant loosened the grip and let him fall from her arms onto the concrete. Grasping at his own throat and avoiding the dirty needles by his knees, Andy shakingly stood to his feet and pushed her back with whatever strength he had left, most of it having evaporated alongside his contagious laughter.
"Aye, what for?" Croissant giggled with feigned offense. "Just sum' tough lovin', get used to it, baws."
"Oh, I'm used to it, alright." He snorted back and shook his head. Took him a good minute to regain his steady breathing – a minute to gather all he spilled and push the "bureau's" door aside. They stepped in, with a tiny bell hanging by the doorway announcing their arrival.
"Oh, side note, baws." Croissant said in a hushed tone, as their eyes welcomed an overly ran-down lobby. "... The guy's Sarkaz. Just so ya know."
Andy felt something warm building up in his throat, then spilling into his cheeks as well. Not because of the deplorable hut they just found themselves in, not because of the scratched, leather couches lining the walls, or the flickering light bulbs above their heads, hanging off loose cords. Most of his Sarkaz meeting experiences ended in one of two ways. People died, or someone got seriously hurt. "Sarkaz? Gree-eeeat…" His mood deflated further. "Love those guys. Shot more than I can even count."
"Shu-ush." Croissant put a finger to his lips and lightly dusted off the shoulders of his military coat to somehow make him a little more worthy of the title of CEO. A bit more presentable. "Full professionalism, baws, in and out. Try to fire up some 'a those charisma glands of yers and haggle us a nice discount while we're at it."
"Oh, I'll haggle, alright… shame I left my toys at home."
"Baws, for Lord's sake…"
"What? That's how you haggle with these devils, they're all either out to kill your or fu-..." His gaze shot upward, towards the ring of light above him head which shot a warning gleam of bright light into his eye. "... or SCREW you over. No in-between."
"This one ain't so bad." She reasoned, with her voice taking on the usual tone she'd present before customers when trying to sell them her amazingly versatile services. "He's got a knack for business, ya know! And 's very open minded, from what I gathered."
"Open minded?" Andy chuckled at the thought. "... He would've been REAAAL open mided, had I brought my guns along. Literally."
"..." Croissant shot him a rather unamused, half lidded look.
"... What? Open minded, as in, I'd blow his brains all over the wall…?"
"Yaw, baws, I caught 'at." She sighed, before pinching the bridge of her nose. "... Ya know, just let ME do the talking."
"Oh, boo-hoo, I can handle a devil, Crossie…"
"I know ya can, but yer so hot-headed fer no reason, it's honestly surprising!"
"I just don't like them, that's all."
"Andy, ya-... ya can't be sayin' 'at."
"Why not?"
"Why not?" She scoffed in awe at how daft he was being. "'Cause it's wrong 'ta dislike someone just 'cause their horns are a little different from yers! Or that you have none, and they do."
"Okay, Lord." He sighed, eyebrows fluttering. "... No racism today, okay?"
Just as Croissant was about to mumble back a few defeated words of agreement, a rather loud sound of clearing one's throat arose from their side. They turned eyes to glance at the source, only to find an imposing figure watching them silently from behind a counter at the very end of the room. Slick, black hair wrapped around most of his head and long horns, as the rest of his face was hidden beneath a pair of glossy aviators that betrayed nothing – leaving only his cocky smirk as a sign of any emotion or life at all. Seeing their eyes on his shades, he reached into his leather coat with a fuzzy, fur collar, and produced a cigarette from within. Andy frowned at the sight of him putting it between his lips and flicking from one end to the other with his tongue, as if playing with food before eventually his lungs would consume it whole and spit out the nostalgic stench of smoke.
"You two done already with your lovers' quarrel? Endearing, but I can give both of ya some space if you want." He said in a rather amused voice, before raising his hand at the sight of Andy going a little red in the cheeks and opening his mouth. "... And no worries, Law-man, I don't particularly like 'em devils either. My "sword-fighting for the cause" days are far over, so keep your hair on. Nice nails, by the way"
"Oh yeah?" He perked up, feigning collected calmness, and deciding to ignore the remark about his rusty nails. "Not gonna bother calling me a Lawie?"
"Nope." The messenger shrugged.
"Law-dog?"
"Nope."
"Pope's plaything?"
"No-... Oh, that's a good one." He admitted in awe.
"Barrel-slurper?" Andy continued, locked in an intense stare off with the black void of his shades.
"Nah."
"Bullet-eater? Gun-fucker? (ow!) Spaghetti hair? Law bootlick–..."
Croissant shushed him with a hand over the lips, before speaking up in a slightly annoyed tone.
"Naw, yer both ain't callin' no one none of 'at, yeah? We're 'ere to do biz, Vic."
"Biz." Vic's eyebrow shot beyond the blackened line of his sunglasses. "We can do biz, then. More than happy to. Croissant, right?"
"'As right." She nodded, seemingly happy he remembered. "And this hothead's Andy. Employer-friend. Sorta hybrid."
"Uh-huh." As they approached the counter, Andy reluctantly held out his hand for the devil. Vic sent him a smirk and spat his cigarette back into his coat, before locking hands in a death grip. Andy tried his best to squeeze harder, but there was simply no way for his meek Sankta arms to match a Goliath's, so he gave up halfway through and rubbed his palm with gritted teeth. "... Strong grip you got."
"Comes with the whole deal." He slid off his glasses, revealing a pair of fox-like, sharp eyes.
"Whole deal?"
"Uh-huh. Whole deal. You know, my…" He paused, waiting in anticipation for Andy's reaction. He raised a brow.
"Your…?"
"... Personality! You thought I was gonna say race or heritage, didn't you, Lawman? C'mon." Chuckling away, he slicked his hair back and watched as both Andy and Croissant shot him some rather unamused looks. "... Anyway. What can I do you for?"
"You can do me for free." Andy replied, confidently. Croissant turned her head and raised an eyebrow, which made him reconsider his phrasing. "... I mean, you can… you can, like, give me stuff for free, I meant."
"Uh-huh." Vic slowly nodded. "... Well, I can't really do that."
"Bummer." Andy hid the embarrassment under a layer of false disappointment, before Croissant stepped in.
"Lookie, Vic, we need a clear lil' route from here to Laterano. Naw originium roses, naw unexpected mountain shellings, naw paths where the sky cries, just a clean, open road." Pumped with confidence, she slammed her elbows on the counter. "... Got anythin'?"
"Weeeell…" He blurted under his nose and ducked beneath the counter. "... You two are in luck, I took His Majesty out for a spin around the general area not so long ago, drew a hefty map for the month… Can sell you some peace, but I can't really guarantee it. You know how it is, times change, clouds pass... One moment, you're on the road, another, you're off. Shit's flying around everywhere. And your car's burning. And you've got a pile of ori-stars burrowed in your stomach. Life's shit."
"His Majesty, huh?" Andy rolled his eyes at the name, ignoring the grim rest. "Real fine name for a car. Or whatever you're driving."
"Ain't a car, Law-man, it's a plane. A hand crafted plane, no less!" His voice shot from underneath the counter, offense clear and well hear-able in his words. Soon, a hand followed suit, as he pointed up at a wall of photographs on a wall behind. "See? Look at her… I mean, him. He's a beauty. Had a bit of a sex change after that whole coup fiasco in Kazdel, but still flies just as well as she used to! Hell, might be a bit banged up on the outside, but the inside…?" A long, gleeful sigh followed. "... Oh, she's beautiful. I mean, HE is."
Croissant chuckled, and Andy ignored most of his rant, instead focused on the photographs. There he was, a monochromatic, black and white Vic standing next to his pride and joy, a rather interesting looking flying machine. What most would call a piece of trash on wheels with wings glued onto it, Vic apparently cherished like his own child. Or his wife. Or husband, after that little re-naming thing. Andy bore his eyes deeply into the contours of the plane, watching each millimeter of its iron hide close, the line crossing out the word "HER" and the messily painted "HIS" assaulting his eyes, the scratched up wings that barely carried this pile of scrap into the sky, the tiny windows, the engines… "Aerojet LR1's", chimed the voice of a much younger Vic, the image of him lovingly patting the side of the plane suddenly fresh and glaring in his memory. His eyes shot wide open.
"Y-... IT'S YOU!" He yelled, making Croissant jump in place and squeak at the sudden noise. "VIC! VIC, IT'S YOU!"
Vic shot up from beneath the counter and hit his head on the way up. Massaging his hair, he grumbled and rose above the desk with a stack of papers and folders in his other hand. "What do you mean "it's me?" It is me, yeah. Vic Rattlebrains, catastrophe mess–..."
"I SAW YOU IN KAZDEL!" Andy exclaimed with something resembling both joy and worry. "You– You were at an airfield, remember? Hell, I don't… can't recall the name."
"... You mean, the Hepp Flightpark?" He popped one of his brows up. "It was as much of an airfield as this piece of shit hut is a bureau, but I guess you could call it that."
"YES!" Andy jumped in glee, causing Croissant and her confusedly widening eyes to take a small step back and let the two talk without interruption, or without accidentally being trampled by the excited angel. "You… We haggled, remember? You had the plane, I had a bunch of bullets…"
"I… don't actually remember that all too well? I mean, hell, it's been years since Hepp. Since Kazdel as a whole." He dropped the documents onto the desk with a soft thud, drawing clouds of dust from between each page. "Plus, I don't exactly remember you having a bunch of nails poked through that light ring. Looks sick as hell, though."
Andy glanced at his halo, then back at the man. "Yeah, it's… it's a long story. But you do remember me, right?" He added, excitedly.
Vic tilted his head. "Yeah, I kinda do. Why? Is it important? I mean, nice to see a returning customer, I guess, but…"
"No, it's…" Andy stopped himself for a moment, as a tightly tucked knot suddenly wrapped inside of him, using his stomach and guts as materials for its existence. The memory of a plane flying off into the dark of night, never to be seen again, a certain black-haired devil boy inside, sent off to a land foreign to both. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt dry, void of any words to let out. "It's… y-you flied a friend of mine to Siracusa, remember?" He gurgled through the dryness and spat out a few guilt filled words. He sought clearance in the eyes of Croissant, but all she returned was a confused shake of her head. He's never told her about this. Any of this. It was rare for Andy to talk openly about the war to her at all, let alone about one of the worst mistakes he's ever committed in his entire life.
"... A friend?" Vic stuck his tongue out and bit it gently. Cogs turned and spilled oil in his mind, yet eventually came up blank. "... Law-man, I used to fly tons of devils in and out. Don't really remember all of them. Most of them, anyway."
"Yeah, but… I've got a picture!" The revelation hit him like a truck. "I've got a pic, can you just… just dig in your memory and maybe remember whether you've seen him after you landed?"
"Pic? Eh… Sure, I guess." Vic shrugged and leaned further on his elbows, looming over the counter. "Show me that devil friend of yours. Might as well see if I remember his mug."
"Here…" Having dug into his endless cargo pockets, Andy slipped past the photograph of him, Mostima and Lemuel and grasped another. A fresher one, a bit more well preserved. There, him and a boy with long, black hair stood back to back, eagerly pointing their weapons of choice at the camera. Andy had Vinny out and shining in the well lit photography studio, whereas the boy stiffly stood on business with a long, slightly curved blade held by his shoulder, strictly professionally and visibly eager to tear the cameraman's head off at any given moment. Most of his face was obstructed by a large, conical straw hat, but the killing intent in his eyes glimmered past the bleak strands of dried stalks. Vic stared and stared, eventually fishing out his cigarette from the coat and snugly hugging it with his lips once more.
"Yeah, that quiet twerp. Sat him in the cockpit, 'cause all the other seats were taken, I remember him." He took a quick moment to actually light the cigarette up this time. A puff taken was a biting reminder for Andy, but he only scrunched his nose and kept holding the photograph out. "Had a funny hat. And a sword. I usually don't allow weapons on board, you know? Should've charged extra…"
"Okay, but…" Andy waved away the growing stalks of smoke and scoffed. "What do you mean "charged extra?" You had me pay an arm and a leg for his seat in ammunition."
"Yeah?" Vic smirked, then spoke in a lighthearted tone. "You paid in ammo, Law-man. There a margin on that, it just makes me the middleman between you and some seller in a far away land. Should be thankful I took him in at all."
"Whatever." Defeated, Andy decided to just let the matter go. He glanced to the side and saw Croissant sitting on one of the old couches by a barricaded window, just listening in on their conversation. She shot him a questioning look, as if asking if he needed any help, but he waved her off. "Do you remember what he did after he got off the plane? Where he went, what he did…?"
"Law-man, why in all seven hells would I care about what my customers do off board, much more so, REMEMBER it? He got off, I got paid. We were all happy to be out of that war-riddled shithole."
"..." Andy looked into his eyes to search for signs of anything more than simple disinterest, but saw nothing other than the wafting cigarette smoke. He hid the photograph back into a pocket, but Vic tilted his head. "... Actually, there might've been something."
"Something? What something?"
"Look, I'm telling you this only because you're a returning customer, m'kay?" He leaned in closer, then threw a look towards Croissant. "... So is she. Sold me a pretty damn good set of catastrophe-hunting tools."
She flashed them a wide, bright smile and rose both thumbs up, happy to be included in their little exchange.
"But. No word of this to anyone, okay? I don't need a word out on the street that 'ol Vic Rattlebrains babbles about his customers' private biz." He finished, then ashed his cigarette into a little tray by his elbow.
"No word, yeah. Of course, got it." Andy agreed immediately with a vigorous shake of his head. "Now, you were saying…?"
"As I said. That flight with your buddy? Was my last one back then. Late '91, was it? Last flight out of Kazdel!" He said, proudly. Andy felt a tinge of grim helplessness wash over him.
"I know. Trust me, I know." He murmured. Vic sensed none of the integral struggle and continued his merry tale.
"Anyway. Took a nice holiday in the land of noodle slurpers, rain and crime. 'Cause why not, right? I was already there, already in one of the bigger mobile cities, might as well stay for a while, ah? So I did. A week, or two… Saw that twerp of yours in a restaurant at some point. I mean, that's why I still remember him, mostly. Caused one HELL of a scene, let me tell you. Oh, and you should've told me your boy was infected to hell and back." He raised an accusatory finger up to Andy's nose, but he was too fixated on his words to even notice.
"Scene? What scene? What'd he…"
"Scene! A huge scene." Vic gesticulated with his hands, showing the grand scale of the scene Seven had apparently caused. "... Imagine this, I was sitting at some nice FAMILY restaurant in that shithole… Martin? Martino? Something like that. Weird ass waiters scrambled around like they had their shoes on fire, would just take your order and BOOK IT for the kitchen as fast as they could, yeah… Good pizza, though. Decent wine, I liked our Kazdel aged stuff better…" Seeing Andy's raised eyebrows, Vic cleared his throat and kept the story going, a little more on point now. "... Anyway. So get this, I'm sitting there, yeah? A nice pie before my face, a glass of wine by my side… Oh, stop scowling at me, I'm getting to the important part! And imagine, I see four of these fancypants Mister Importants barge in through the front door, all visibly off the red wine." He chopped his own neck to signal their inebriation levels were high. "And they approach the counter. And guess who's sitting there? Low and behold–..."
.
BEEP!
.
Andy jumped at the unexpected noise and gasped. Vic stopped his rant, Croissant rose from her comfy position of being snuggled all nice and warm into the couch, eyes blinking away her boredom. The sound kept repeating, ringing in all their ears and assaulting the eardrums. Andy fished out the phone Duflot gave him not so long ago from his pants and slid it open. A bit of brightness slipped into his eyes, as the words "BOSS/WORK" popped on screen.
"... 'S my boss, sorry." He muttered apologetically, then pressed a green key on his keyboard. It clicked loudly, as he mushed the phone against his ear. "... Hello? Mr. Duflot?"
.
"..."
.
Nothing. He tried hard to pick the slightest bit of noise from the other side, but all he got was a loud, static buzz.
"Mr Duflot…?" He repeated, hoping to hear the cashmere giant's jovial voice.
"..." Silence answered his call with its buzzing presence. Duflot's voice was nowhere to be found, and Andy wasn't too keen on looking for it anyway. He shrugged it off and hung up. Croissant raised her hands in a helpless display of impuissance "... Must've been a mistake, or- or something."
"... Your boyfriend's giving you the cold shoulder? Can I go on, then?" Vic took a long drag from his cigarette, and before Andy could start explaining himself, blew a hefty cloud of smoke into his face. "Anyway, as I was saying. Guess who was sitting at the counter? Don't actually guess, it's a rhetorical question. Low and behold, Mister sobby-goodbyes, your very own twerp-buddy. At first I didn't recognize him, he lost the ridiculous straw hat, so I just figured he was a homeless kid. Hence I paid him no mind, I mean. What? I'm getting to it, stop pestering me with your eyes, Law-man. And get this, these four fucking loonies barge in with their fancy suits, slinging their little Siracusan slurs and curses all over the place… I pay them no mind, obviously. Too occupied with my delicious pie and pint of red-... Okay, I get it. All the waiters scramble into the kitchen, the counter suddenly goes quiet… And they roll up to your twerp."
Andy kept up with the story and all of Vic's unnecessary mentions. Vivid images of Seven sitting all by himself at some stuffy Siracusan pizza joint flooded his mind and sent it spiraling down a hole properly labeled "self-sufficient-self-guilt-tripping."
"... And then what?" He asked, in a quiet voice. Vic took a long puff from his cigarette and ashed it to the side.
"Then what? Then they start pestering the little guy, obviously. Language barriers, you know that stuff doesn't really work in his favor… Their broken Victorian, too? Gods, these Siracusans and their innate inability to speak ANY other language but their own noodle-talk. Anyway. Push comes to shove, they start putting their elbows where they shouldn't, poking the little guy… Surprisingly, I watched him get up and leave. After I pried my eyes off my prized pie, I mean– Okay, I get it, Law-man. Off it. Anyway, twerp gets up and leaves. Or, well, TRIES to leave. See, the noodle buggers catch up to him and start getting handsy, grabbing at his shoulders, yelling something about the, uh… families? Family this, family that. "We're Sicilians (Sicilia?, Sicilie, I can't be asked to remember, Law-man.), do you know who you're disrespecting, cazzo?! Do you know who you're messing with?!", shit like that. Loud, annoying bunch, BUT also eager to break a few bones, it seemed. Pulled that poor boy back into the pizzeria, pushed him up against a wall…"
Andy felt the creeping hands of dread climbing up the ladder of his spine. "... And?"
"And?" Vic shrugged, then took a puff. "... It was like a flash. I mean, one second they were there, sticking knuckle dusters and knives up to his face, then another, they were all laid out on the floor. You should've seen it, it was like a flash of lightning! Flash before my eyes, poof, poof, poof…" He slashed the air to further prove his point. "... Dead, dead, dead! Lying in a pool of their own guts and blood, all red like that delicioso wine they poured me. It's really growing on me, the more I think of it… Okay, Law-man, I'm sorry. No more digressing, okay? Okay. Well, anyway. Twerp stood in the middle, hair all wild, holding that same sword you showed me. Dripping with red, panting and gurgling like a sick hound, really. I thought he was gonna pass out on the spot, but no."
Andy blinked. A little part of him was glad that Seven still seemingly had it. A major part was terrified of what could've possibly happened after.
"... And then?" He asked, voice meek and uneven.
"Then? Fuck, hell let loose, Law-man." Vic took a puff, then wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. "... People screaming, waiters running in amok, Siracusan wails all over the place… More suits rush in, yeah? No questions asked, the kid turns to them and just… just disappears and then reappears in the middle of them all, sword jabbed into some Lupo fuck's neck. The rest pile up on him… but he just passes out! Drops unconscious, right there, between all those tongue-polished ball kicks and stripey pants."
"... And what did they do?" Andy asked, quietly. Curiosity got the better of him, as the rest of his brain would've much rather not heard the answer.
"Oh, well. You know, first they gave him a good kicking, obviously." Vic nodded, as if the fact was something absolutely natural, an earthly order of things. "... Then, they slammed a bag over his head and dragged him out the front door. One stayed behind and apologized on behalf of that, uh… Sicilie? Sicilia? I said, I don't remember all those annoying family-names, or whatever. Anyway, threw each customer a fat stack of cash and bid his farewells. Hell, I'd be happy to dine at that establishment again if each meal ended in that sorta circus show."
Andy was left wondering. Staring at his own hands, the smell of smoke only amplified his dull thoughts and cast his conscience further down the pit of self wallowing guilt.
They could've killed him. From what Vic told him, they very much probably did. Wherever they took him, whatever they did, it was all his fault. All his selfish self's doing. The need to play hero once again got another person killed, and he wasn't even there to see it with his own eyes.
He was sitting here. Washing dishes. Crying and drinking himself to sleep.
A warm hand slipped onto his shoulder, and he immediately recognized it as Croissant's. She couldn't have had any idea of who the two were even talking about, but she knew he was hurting deep inside. Her touch was soft and soothing, comforting like honey poured all over his aching heart. Their eyes met for a moment, his gray pools of grim realization and guilty acceptance clashing against her worried twin moons of a color blend of both green and yellow, brown and something in-between. Andy gave a quick nod, then touched her hand. Their fingers fit together like puzzle pieces – his, cold and shy, bashfully asking for permission to touch – hers, warm and confident, eagerly interlocking with his and enveloping in a tight embrace. Vic yawned at the sight.
"... That all you wanted to know, Law-man? If so, gonna need about five thousand blue ones for those forecasts." He said, clearly bored of their shenanigans, still puffing on a cigarette. Andy let go of her hand almost immediately and froze in place.
"... Five K LMD?" He asked in utter disbelief. Croissant just shrugged, for once not bothered by the cost of something they had to pay for from their own wallets.
"... 'S how much these things are, baws. No other way to go about it."
"Yeah, what she said." Vic chimed in, eventually squashing the butt of his cig against the ashtray.
"But it's… That's a robbery! Five thousand for some dusty papers?" With indignation in his voice, he asked a little louder than he initially wanted to.
"Dusty papers with routes for all forecasted ori-storms for the next month, dipshit." Vic huffed back, protectively petting his documents. "This is like gold. I'm actually giving it up for cheap, you know? People pay top buck for peace, but you're just too stubborn and narrow minded to see it, aren't you?"
"This isn't peace, this is an actual robbery." Andy summed up, eyeing the papers a little skeptically. "I mean, it's… Five grand for this?"
"Baws, 's a good offer." Croissant pointed out, hanging loosely off his arm, her chin resting right on top of his shoulder. "I'd take 'at. And 'as comin' from me, okay? ME, Andy. Of all people."
"Yeah, what she said." Vic repeated. Andy let out a loud groan and slid a hand down his face, dragging his eye sockets along with each finger.
"... Fine. Fine, five grand. If it's ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY, then…" He started, reaching for his wallet.
"Oh, it's not NECESSARY, per se." Vic calmly explained, watching him card through stacks of blue, silky smooth fistfuls of cash. "It's peace. You can buy these routes and pass with no problem, or you can navigate your little car, or whatever through a bunch of ori fueled fuck-storms. Which one would you rather? Buy peace? Or end up a blooming originium rose?"
"Yeah, yeah, fuck you." Andy flinched at the unpleasant sensation that struck him the moment he swore, then handed Vic a thick slip of bills, held together by a rubber band. "Count it if you wanna. Cash this time, not bullets."
"Oh, no worries." With a smirk, he took the money and slid it beneath the counter. "I know you're a good guy, Law-man. Wouldn't swindle poor 'ol me, would you?"
"Shut up…" Andy mumbled under his nose, now laser focused on the documents in his arms. The pages coughed dust and were held together by cobwebs, yet the dates of entries seemed fresh enough. A loud, distinct ringing of the doorbell quickly shoved all his worries aside, however, at the thought of a different customer walking in to get finessed by the devil bastard. "... That's all. But don't expect me to ever be your customer, ever again. Alright? No third times, no charms. Hell, I'm gonna write you some shitty (OW!) review on Welp, you bet your sorry ass I will. Are you even on there? Do you guys even get any internet out there? I mean, I don't, I usually go to cafes to get my daily dose of scrolling in, but…"
Andy noticed that nobody seemed to be listening to him. Vic stared somewhere past his shoulder, Croissant turned away to look at the door. Andy's eyes jumped from one to the other, slightly annoyed and confused. "Hello? Guys? C–... Crossie?"
But she didn't reply. All her focus shifted from him, Vic, the forecasts, travelled far to the other end of the room – the front door. Andy spun on his heel, papers in hand.
.
"..."
.
His eyes were met with a peculiar sight. Five people, all blocking the door and windows, standing there like a living, breathing wall. Wearing heavy leather, lined with some strengthening undergarments and protectors on their vulnerable spots, they stared him down like a pest. A real array of personalities - two Lupos up front, arms crossed, with hair as greasy as Vic's pomaded up slick-back. A few pairs of aviators glimmered behind their shoulders, where equally leathered up enforcers took their place. A Caprinae, eagerly smirking and waiting for the moment to push his horns deep into Andy's chest, and a Perro just barely holding back the excitement of soon being able to sink his teeth into his warm, sublime flesh. Andy awkwardly returned their killing smiles, before his eyes landed on the last one. This one wasn't smiling. Far from it.
Frowning, eyes locked on the boy's pierced halo, a leather-clad Sankta sized him right up. Dirty blonde hair, spiraling down his head like half-cooked pasta, his leather jacket slid open, revealing a dirty wife beater and a few dog-tags hanging from his neck… Andy had a rough idea of who these people might've been. The same group that's been on his ass for the past year or so. With a double barreled pellet rifle in his arms, the muzzle and stock filed or sawed off clean, the unnamed Sankta kept bumping the very tip against his leg, impatiently ticking off seconds in his head, seconds that separated him from blasting Andy's face clean off.
Croissant took a small step back, eyes wide. Vic disappeared beneath his counter. A little plaque reading "SMOKE BREAK / UNAVAILABLE" soon appeared on his desk.
.
Andy ran his eyes all over the mismatched company of leather-clad maniacs one more time, before gulping rather loudly. His tongue quickly ran over his lips in an effort to wet them up a little, but the muscle was bone-dry.
.
"... Came for me, I assume?" He asked, his voice dripping with not only terror, but also a hint of hope that these people might just be here to get swindled by Vic.
"... Depends." The Sankta rasped out, his voice like sandpaper against a rock. "Ricketts, I assume?"
"..." Andy closed his eyes and sighed in genuine exasperation. It was getting annoying at his point. "Yeah. Of course it's me. It's always me."
The Sankta raised both eyebrows in sort of awed amusement, then turned to his comrades. "... Told ya? Another good tip. Phone man never lies, eh?"
.
And before Andy could cut in to ask for their intentions, the angel made himself very clear. With the barrel of his gun stuck right up to his face, his raspy voice sounded out through the entire room.
.
"Told ya not to fuck-..." He stopped, shuddering at the unpleasant sensation of the Law sending a little shock down his spine. Andy let out an internal snortle at the sight. At least SOMEONE knew how it felt. "... Not to mess with the Catastrophe Riders. I keep sayin', you never listen."
.
"You? I'm seeing you for the first time in my entire life, pal." He corrected his newly met angel friend. "... Doesn't matter, though. You know what happens if you shoot me, right?"
"Baws…?" Croissant hissed through the edge of her lips, arms held high up towards the sky. Andy shot her a wink.
"Oh, I know." The Sankta retorted with a chuckle. "Think I'm scared of it? Scared of a tail? Law ain't nothin' but a chain 'n ball at my leg, pissboy. Be glad to pass it away and get rid of you with the same trigger pull, y'know. Call it killin' two birds with one stone."
"Blah, blah." Andy felt a strangely unfamiliar mask slowly creeping over his face. A mask of someone pale and stupid, someone with bright, red horns and an annoying tail to poke and fight with. A pile of crap for a brain and a smirk just as unhinged as the one that slithered onto his lips at that very moment. "Your finger's off the trigger."
"...?" The Sankta narrowed his eyes. Caught up in the bluff, he didn't even bother slipping his digit through the trigger guard, nor did he bother to hug the metal. His eyes shot wide open, as Andy grasped both short barrels with one hand and shoved them high up into the air, then threw his coat wide open and reached behind his back.
.
He had this.
.
Smirking wide, he slid his hand into the back holster in his cargo pants. The one that always served him right. Leather and metal, a perfect combination. A guy's best friend.
.
It was empty.
.
"..."
.
"..."
.
"..."
.
"... Fuck." Andy thought to himself.
.
"...?"
.
The two angels locked in a stare off, as the world seemed to freeze, leaving just their eyes still lively and mobile. They sought any logic in their actions, yet failed to find even the slightest sliver. Andy kept holding the barrel away from his face and blindly groping away around his back holster, trying to materialize Nuffer with his very own thoughts, as the Sankta kept messily trying to slip his finger inside the trigger guard. Eventually, he gave up and turned to yell to the rest.
.
"DON'T JUST FUCKING (OW!) STAND THERE, DO SUM'! DO SUM-..."
.
His yells were cut short when Croissant joined in on the fun and simply broke his entire arm in two. A quick glance of confirmation with Andy later, she forcefully removed his fingers off the gun's handle and threw it to her employer. The world froze.
.
But just for a minute. Just a minute, before all hell broke loose – AGAIN.