A familiar, new place spread its roots there.
.
Andy has never seen anything quite like it. The golden chandeliers that showered the large halls with warm and pristine radiance were unlike the ones his own library boasted. Each of them carried bunches and bundles of tiny, translucent gems that spread the light evenly across the rich plaza. Across each green table standing diligently in row, like a soldier waiting for orders. Across the dealers' sunglasses, which betrayed nothing and protected the identities of men and women laying devilish pranks on the hordes of well dressed customers, taking entire lives and giving away scraps on occasion. Entire bookshelves of slot machines lined the walls and pooled in the very middle of this sinful kingdom, all of them spinning and rattling, pulling and spitting. They ate more than they vomited, always making sure the customer stayed – lured with a tiny payout here and there, yet never enough to actually cheat the house. Andy stood on a fluffy carpet the color of wine, watching the golden masses filtering through card tables, one armed machines, gigantic screens filled with fruit and vegetables, closely followed by large sums of numbers – anything to keep the colorful monopoly going. All of it whirled around his eyes, and the colors took his brain for a wild spin. Much like the many roulette wheels down below, his gray matter kept circling and circling, stirring and boiling, aroused beyond belief by the clinking of coins, shuffling of cards, rattling of chips and singing of those who managed to win. A hand on his shoulder hastily dragged his head back down from the clouds.
"Isn't it all just swell, dear Andy?"
The worm-man slithered his way back into Andy's vision. His eyes took him in, but his brain somehow refused the command. It screamed for freedom, but the cashmere that plated his suit had somewhat reminded him of Duflot and Andy didn't know what to even think anymore. Something about the union, something about wanting out, something about Croissant, and finally something about just going home and sleeping the terrible day off.
"I don't think gambling counts as a business opportunity." He uttered. The worm-man took his words as a mere suggestion, rather than a statement. His lips smiled, baring shiny whites.
"Of course it doesn't, Andy. I'm not here to cast you into the wild world of coin-chasing and roulette-spinning, dear. You and I both know that's not what you're actually looking for, is it?"
"Why?" He blinked. "Why me? Why do you know my name? Why are you so focused on me? That guy from the alley, how–..." Andy tried voicing his concerns, but to no avail. His brain wouldn't cooperate, not with the sound of slot-machines singing and money spilling in wild tumult. Some part of it felt allured and buzzed by it all, and another just wanted the day to end. "... Why?"
"Andy, Andy, Andy…" The wormy voice poured into his ears like melted gold. Like a soothing balm to his burning worries… "Why? The real query you should be asking yourself is "Why do I care?" You're in a real pearl of the lower layers of the city, you know that. A golden palace amidst the half-eaten finball rottings, and wrappers of tutti frutti chewing gum. This is the place to be. Not out there, with the masses, but here, with the select few. The select few, like you, Andrew."
"I still don't understand. It's just…" His brain felt particularly warm. As if it was ready to melt and spill through his ears. "I'm… I'm having a really bad day. I know you don't care, but I'm just tired. I'm really tired. My head hurts, my legs hurt, my arms hurt, I… I don't even know where my papers are. The forecast papers."
"The forecast papers for your drive back home?" The worm-man chimed in. Of course he'd know. Andy wanted to take a mental note of his appearance, but his eyes refused.
"Of course. You know all about it."
"You're our esteemed customer, Andy-..."
"Yeah, you HAVE to know. I get it." His lungs filled with air, then slowly let go. "I'm really tired. I just want to go home. I wanna go home."
The last few words came out as more of a plea than anything else. The pathetic vulnerability usually reserved only for the closest of the close, now spilled out into the public, into the ears of the worm-man who relished in such instances of mentally battered people wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Andy slumped against the railing and felt his eyes beginning to well with tears. He did not even know where they were coming from. Most of them were reserved either only for drunk-Andy, or for nights spent under the vast sky-map of Kazdel, and neither of them were there. Just him, his lacerated heart and his ever-warming brain. He swallowed hard, bringing the ball of prickly hurt back down his throat.
"I just want to go home."
The worm-man sighed. Not a single pair of eyes in the casino could tell there was pity in the air he exhaled, but for Andy. It was a faint drop of blood in the ocean of chemically engineered wit and unfeeling confidence, but a drop nonetheless. A mere stain on the mask the worm-man wore. A glimmer of humanity poking through the dark clouds of whatever his intentions were.
"... You don't wanna go home." He uttered.
"..." Andy did not even protest. Momentarily encapsulated by the whirring of roulette wheels beneath, his eyes found solace in the sound and the flurry of colorful shapes. "Why not?"
"You're missing someone. Your head led you well, that I can actually commend. Truly, not just… just for show." The worm-man took a step forward to join the boy by the golden railing. "She's here, somewhere. I'm not sure whether she's still maimed by the mind altering arts or not, but she's definitely here. The third one you came with, the- the Kuranta, she ran."
"..." Andy took his words in without a word. Mind altering arts, that's what it was. A magic trick was enough for him to completely lose his head. "Why?"
"Why, what?"
"Why us? Why us, specifically?"
"Why you two?" The worm-man threw him a stern glance. "... Because you were weak enough to fall for it. Because your friend bent and caved under the prospect of riches beyond belief, because all she ever sought was material gain. It's easy to manipulate a greedy mind, like you wouldn't even believe." A small chuckle bubbled from his lips. "... How do you think we built this place? Off of working tirelessly and keeping a good workplace etiquette? An amazing code of conduct? No. Off of the virile, pathetic and lame, like you. And those who chase the coin like their life depends on it, like her. And only the selfless ones, like your Kuranta friend, are safe. How can you maim a mind that doesn't even want to think about itself? I don't know. You don't either. You're… you were a special case. Susceptible and vulnerable, unlike anyone I've ever seen. With you, it was…"
Another sigh.
"You're a special case. A very, very sad and special case."
"..." Andy chewed the words through. He couldn't even bring himself to disagree. "... Why are you telling me this?"
"Because." He shrugged. "Because I don't want you here, pardon my momentary honesty. I'm not doing this for myself, but for someone. When a band of roaming locusts comes and threatens, you obey, Andy. You can't win a war with just brains on your side, especially when the opponent has none. No brains, no morals." A pat of leather brushed against the boy's shoulder. "... And as you can see, too much brains sometimes likes to shift the morals of those who like to think. I don't care what you do next, but I advise you to go and find your friend."
"But-..."
But when Andy turned to ask the man a few more drilling questions, he came face to face with the back of a silked-up Lungmen native. Their fluffy hands and arms hid the skin beneath a thick layer of fur, much unlike the worm-man's endlessly black suit. He blinked.
He was alone. Solitude amidst a crowd, a black sheep amongst a herd. Andy took his nonexistent pride, his scattered thoughts, unfocused blurs of tiny plans of actions forming, and shoved it all into a bag that he then wrapped up tight and slung over his shoulder. Before he knew it, he was already down in the pit, making his way through the bleary eyed gamblers. Each of the suits had their minds focused on the table in front. If you were to drill their skull apart, you'd see nothing but a little rat clutching tight onto a steering wheel, dead set on making the roulette wheel spin, the dice rattle, and the cards be played. Andy absent-mindedly passed by a blackjack table. He didn't know what the people of Yan called the game, but his brain still remembered that the Sarkaz mercenaries who religiously indulged, used to affectionately call it a "Dealer Buster." The rules were a bit iffy, also. Instead of trying to reach the dreamed up number of twenty one, the mercenaries who sat at the table were all competing to make themselves look as unconventionally threatening as possible. Be it through the act of displaying their weapons right in the poor dealer's face, by beating other players to a bloody pulp, maybe smearing the guts of a card-partner across the dealer's face in an attempt to elicit some laughs from the rest, or maybe just simply by piling up on said dealer after a particularly unlucky draw. Card dealing in Kazdel was a profession with one of the highest fatal work injury rates amongst them all, right after mercenary work. Andy smiled affectionately at the mindless carders ogling their draws and the bravely half-naked waitresses passing by, before turning to glance at the forest of slot machines that suddenly grew before his eyes. Like mushrooms after a hefty, biting rain, they all just popped out of nowhere. With their colorful caps that displayed numbers his uneducated brain couldn't even comprehend, Andy couldn't quite get his eyes off the bright screens. Neither could the ghouls, glued utterly and completely to the flashing colors.
"..."
Andy stood and watched. A Perro sat in front of a machine, foaming at the mouth and letting his dress shirt catch the mounds of drool spilling from between his teeth. The words "JACKPOT", followed by "MEGA BIG WIN!" graced the screen. Poor mutt started salivating so hard he forgot to breathe. Andy stood and watched the dog choke on his own spit and die on the spot. No one else seemed to mind that there was a man gurgling to death on the floor. The numbers and colors proved more important.
"..."
Andy left the Perro be. If no one in the row of slots seemed to be the slightest bit worried, neither would he. Passing by the machines, he watched the fruits fall, the numbers rise, the heads lost in the digital worlds that allured all with riches beyond belief…
… A Lung, a Feline, three Durin in a row, another Lung, some species Andy couldn't quite gauge, more Lungs, some Lupos, black fur, white fur, red fur, blue fur, orange fur, yellow fur, orange hair, black hair, red hair–...
Orange hair.
Andy stopped to blink and refresh his dazed mind. He had to backtrack a little, but the image of a girl with an orange ponytail around her neck eventually came back. Plastered flush against the slot machine, rubbing and strangely enough, grinding against it, was none other than his very own lost cause.
"... Crossie?" He uttered, but his throat was too dry. Some spit soothed it back into working order. "Croissant?"
The girl did not even flinch. Andy tried to unclasp her hands from the damned machine, but she wouldn't let go, only growling and mumbling unintelligible nonsense at his quiet pleas.
"Crossie…"
"Mmmmm… Lemme roll a few… Yer so pretty with all 'ese colors…"
"Crossie, please."
"Creep. Don't touch me. Don't touch me, I'm busy… I'm the busy one now. Ya had yer chance…"
"Please, let's just leave. Please."
"Ya had yer chance, now I don't care. Now I just want a few more… a few more cherries… Just a bit more sweetness in my lil' life, bit 'a time away from it all…"
"..."
"I just want… just a few more. One more big win. One more, and I'm done… One more try, baws… Just one more try, that's all I'm willin' 'ta give ya.."
Click, clack. Her fingers affectionately caressed the machine's buttons. Coins rattled, as the spinning cogs sprung into action, and directed the screen to flip through an array of colorful numbers and images. Andy stood back and watched as all the tiny rows cut by neon lights fell into place, each displaying a completely different symbol. The girl groaned, then reached for her wallet.
"... One more try, baws… I can give ya just one more try. One last try, one last effort 'ta fix yerself, ya… ya stubborn machine, ya."
"I'm sorry." He mumbled. Both of his hands found their way onto her shoulders, but all he could ultimately do was to stand and stare, to watch the colorful images rolling and hold tightly onto her jacket. At this point he had no idea whether he was holding her, or holding himself, like a wounded soldier desperately clutching onto their abdomen to stop the guts from spilling like a waterfall of red. At this point in time, he was ready to let go of his crumbling body and hold the girl tight, do anything to get her to move. To promise anything she could ever want, to give her the false sky, the stars that riddled its unscathed plains, and then some more. He just wanted to leave. He desperately wanted to leave.
Andy bent under the weight of today. Her shoulders were there to catch him, but he chose to grip onto the stool to her side instead. It felt strange, the fluffy carpet against his burning knees. A hand reached out to softly close his warm eyelids, and there wasn't much else he could see. A plethora of colors, a true kaleidoscope of flashing splashes and a whirlwind built upon the principles of the RAL system – each of them different, yet all of them bright and forceful. They insisted upon themselves. A long, long while ago, Andy once spent a night cuddled between Mostima and Lem on a couch, excitedly staring at a cheap, "thought-inducing" action flick from Yan blaring on the screen of a box TV. Lem was the only one who could afford such a leisure, both materially and mentally, so she'd host movie nights from time to time. The two of them sat and watched with bated breaths, gasping and laughing along, when the heroine on screen required the audience to do so. It was all designed in a certain way that induced primal and unexplored emotions within the boring masses of the commercially well-off world of Terra, or the ones who dipped marginally below the average – and deliver a lesson in the end, which could very well be reduced down to "the world's a bad place." Lem and Andy talked about the movie afterwards, praising its innovative "coolness" and "explosiveness", mostly omitting the head-scratchers and morals of the story. But Mostima sat, quiet. They asked for her opinion, and that's when she said it. She said the movie "insisted upon itself." They asked for an explanation, but she wouldn't give one, so they just teased her about using big phrases she couldn't even understand. Andy felt the memory resurfacing – the burning vines of film-rolls wrapping around his brain and pouring the meaning spread between the lines straight into the core. He felt what it meant to insist upon oneself. To insist upon one's life. To insist upon standing tall and living large. To insist and insist, and never actually reveal or tell, or even just look past the selfish need of insisting, and bracing the acceptance of being nothing but a pretentious worm.
.
.
.
"... Two worms, one stone."
.
.
.
A voice echoed through his skull. Andy opened his eyes, then closed them again. A fist helped them close, actually.
.
"Two worms? Fuck are you talking about?"
.
Some incredulous annoyance split the fibers of another voice that chased the first. The game of voice-tag was just starting, Andy concluded.
.
"Two worms killed with one stone? The saying? Never heard that one? Really?"
.
"Two worm-... Kill two birds with one stone? That what you meant?" A sigh. "Law, you're dumb as a sole. Unbelievable…"
.
A third one joined the conversation. The angel's thorny crown gleamed a tad brighter at the mention of its beloved "Law." "Save me, Saints!" it wailed in agony, broadcasting for the wide pale yonder. To no avail, unfortunately. Hurt for the sake of hurting, that's what it was. "You got what you deserved," the Saints spat back from their loungy abode in the heavens high above. "Fuck you, Andy."
.
"No, that's not what I meant at all. It's not–"
"It is. The expression, it's "two BIRDS with one stone."
"Shut your trap. Shut your flea-d mug, I'm talking about a different saying."
"What saying? About killing two worms with a rock? Ain't no sayings like that, you fucking moron."
"There is! It's when there's two pathetic, like- uh… two pathetic people, and you nab them both. You can sack them with one metaphorical stone, that's why it's called "two worms with one stone."
"You're actually lacking. Your brain's leaking, seriously. Angie, can I pray to your Law for this fucking idiot? Or is it already too late for him?"
"Can you two just cut it? Cut it, stuff it somewhere. Fuh–... Hell, I don't know. Get over yourselves." The Lawful presence scolded their spirits and slapped their ears. Andy felt the growing aggravation, and he wasn't even sure whether he was alive or not. The anger transcended both life and death.
"But this moron–..."
"No, THIS moron–..."
"Shut up. Shut the fuck-... Ow. Shut it, both of you. I'm done. I swear, I'm done. One last job and I'm done with you two."
Puppy scowlings came from the back. Andy stifled a tiny, little chuckle at the noise, and the sound itself came as a surprise. His lips were there. His throat also had to be there. His brain as well, since some higher-power that ruled his body had to send the impulse circulating down the nerves. Despite everything, despite it all, he was still there. He was still himself.
"... Through here, gentlemen."
A fourth voice arose from the nothing pale yonder – this time, a familiar one. Slick and sticky with grease, the words had enough cunning nonchalance to only be associated with a single person Andy's ever met along his never-ending climb up a steep hill down in Tartarus. Worm-man.
"Owe you one, man."
"Please don't. I'd rather you gentlemen carry out your business and relocate yourselves from my establishment as soon as it is possible. There's been enough empty threatening and useless badmouthing happening today, and I'd rather not drag this little… this "favor" of yours, out for longer than it needs to be. In here. Please, put them in here. On the-... Mutts, on the chairs. I had two chairs prepped for the occasion, put them on the chairs. One-two."
"Fuck off, greaseball." One of the two tag-teamers arguing over sayings of the Victorian language threw the Worm-man a curveball. The other chortled like a strangled hyena.
"Yeah, shut it card-man. You played your role, you can leave. Not like we need you anymore, come to think of it."
"For the love of the Law, stop barking." Law-man sighed a breath of exasperated resignation. "... Please, please don't listen to them. Deal's done, though. We'll get these two gutted like a proper sweetwater fin on an easy Friday, and get out of your hair, yeah?"
"Allow yourselves to leave the premises after you're done." The Worm-man spared no wit, just dry brevity. "And for the love of all that lurks above, please clean up after yourselves. I don't have neither the time, nor the hands to be fixing this mess for you."
"Will do. Proper deep cleaning, Columbian style." One of the mutts retched a ball of laughter. The room responded with an unamused silence.
"... Anyhow. Get to it. Adieu."
A door slammed into place, waking herds of dust clouds and hurrying them to saunter mindlessly across the gleaming moonlight that seeped from a window – a window left untainted, uncovered by the veil of protection laid out over every single inch of the room. Andy woke, startled and dazed. His eyes threw themselves on a mindless rampage across the dim walls, only to be met with the sight of furniture lost beneath a plastic snake's shedded skin. Everywhere and anywhere he looked, there was plastic. Plastic under his feet, plastic above his head. Even the chair he sat on wasn't lucky enough to escape the plastic avalanche, and remained thoroughly coated. The despondent marvels of room-decor bared their sad eyes from beneath their plastic-wrap prisons and glanced back at Andy – it was heartbreaking for them to see him go.
His eyes just barely managed to blink before being met with a fuzzy fist. The notion hurled as many questions as the punch itself hurled pain – who and why? A hazed glance at his soon-to-be-executioner cast the questioning mist apart.
"Heh. Night-night, Ricketts. Not your best day, is it?"
The Lupo mutt stood at about six, maybe five and a half feet. Andy never really understood the Columbian height-ing chart, but he tried his best. His fur produced an oddly familiar stench that combined both alcohol and piss in some home-y blend of appalling flavors – flavors that had long permeated his leather jacket. Catastrophe Raiders struck once more, because lightning always hits twice in Mr. Reiff's life.
"... It's you again?" He uttered, but only after a little trouble with readjusting to breathing amidst the living. That, and getting used to the horrid smell. "Can't you people just take a hint and leave me be…?"
"Nope." Another Lupo, tired of playing voyeur, joined in on the conversation. "Sleeping beauty over there ain't wakin' up. You two got som' safe word that might break through to her? I dunno."
"What…?" Andy squirmed inside. All his life, he's been postponing the moment, and it eventually came – bound to a chair, unable to move, wrists snugly hugged by wire, pressed flush together. Some driving factor lit a flame in his motor functions and called them to act, but no matter how hard he shook the chair, the snare wouldn't let itself be split. A tuft of fluff fell into his clutched hands – a very familiar ponytail. "... Croissant? Cross-... Crossie? Croissant…?"
"Croissant? Fuck, what a dumb name." One of the mutts cackled. "You hear 'at, Jonny? Croissant. CROSS-ANT. Even yer old folks had more oil in their brains and picked something normal. Croissant…"
"Sorta idiotic, yeah." The other snuffed a retchy chuckle. Andy clawed and grasped at the waterfall of hair behind, but couldn't kick-start Croissant no matter how hard he yanked. "Croissant? Croissant?" He parroted, before forcibly shoving a fistful of fingers down the angel's throat. "Shut up, man. For once, shut the fuck up and let the adults do their job."
"Law, you're disgusting." A voice from before circled the three. A true, angelic warmbling. "I leave you with the guy for a minute and you're already trying to finger-fuck-... Ow. To finger-blast his mouth. Didn't know you swung that way, Nate."
A wet "splooching" sound flew from his lips, as Andy's mouth-hole came unclogged. Before his eyes stood the three harbingers of leather-clad death, uncomplete Riders of the apocalypse – two dogs and an angel. That wasn't exactly how he assumed the promised finish line of humanity to look like.
Sweat soaked his hair through, forcing the swirly strands to hug his face like cobwebs.
"... Where's the fourth one?" He asked. All his throat let him do at this point was let go of phlegm-like bursts of voice. A fist to the stomach generously helped him draw a long, winded yelp from the very bottom of his lungs.
"The fourth one got a proper concussion, dipshit. Slammed Angie's gun so clear into his mug, brother Terr-ay almost got them brains of his scrambled. You insane? He could've died." One of the mutts helped clarify. The other sent his furry fist into the boy's face, just for good measure.
"... A-And the fifth?" Andy wheezed through the pooling gathering of warmth forming in his mouth. He spat it out, but found it to be simply blood, and not his last breath, like he had assumed.
"The fifth? Skeet?" The angel, presumably Angie, perked up at his words. "Hell knows where Skeet ran off to. He's your only lifeline at the moment, y'know? Moron really wanted a piece of you to bite, so we're waitin' for him to stop… Hell, whatever he's doing. Probably drooling into some broad's mouth, I don't know." He sighed. Metal and ammunition rattled when his legs took a backstep. With each move of the leather demons, the plastic wrap laid out at their feet crunched and softly yelped, as if their rubber soles cracked its non-existent bones. "Which is a shame, mind ya. Big 'ol shame, 'cause I fuc-... Hell, I hate the slums. I don't wanna be here, but that's where you led us, so we're here. Just wanna off you and go."
"W-Why not just off me? Why do you care…?"
"Why do we care?" One of the mutts, Nate or Johnny, didn't matter, asked. He asked in a certainly mocking way and cocked his fist back, but as the question struck his peanut-sized brain, his knowing smirk fell. "... Yeah, why do we care? The hell are we waiting for, Angie?"
"Yeah, we got 'em. We got the two of 'em, we can just splatter the Lawie over the floor and have some fun with sleeping beauty back there, then ditch. Why're waitin' on Skeet?"
"..." The angel-in-charge pinched the bridge of his hooked nose. "... You two are a special case. I swear, Law, give me strength."
Andy felt his halo vibrating. The rusty nails clinked and rattled.
"People like you are the reason we get such a shit–... OW! Such a bad rep everywhere we go. They see us, they think "biker trash", and they marginalize us. They ignore the values 'n all 'at Columbian solidarity we preach, 'cause you morons have none of it! Showcase none, expect none back! Y'all just eager to drink 'n, smoke, 'n piss under yer seats, and y'all forget all about why we're here in the first place!"
The mutts blinked. Through their fluff-overgrown mugs, some glints of certain mixed emotions shone and lit their ever so mindless eyes.
"We're here, 'cause a buncha brothers of ours were murdered. We're not here because Ricketts stepped out of line, we're here because it's our business to avenge the wishes of the collective. The collective like you, and YOU, and me. And Skeet! And Skeet wants to bite this fucker's-... this guy's throat off, so we're letting Skeet bite his throat off. Simple as."
"..." Johnny or Nate quietly digested the words, then propped up a finger.
"Yes?"
"Wouldn't it be, uh… Wouldn't it be easier to just drop 'im and buy Skeet a pack of Astra Whites and a can of Copenhagen, as compensation? I mean, it's just that…"
"Good, loving Law…" Angie sighed.
"But c'mon! I got a point, no?" He sought the other mutt's eyes. Said eyes somewhat nodded, then flopped their tongue out.
"I mean, Nate's kinda right. Look, Angie, I know how it is with us and the whole, uh… The "unbound by race, joined by passion, hated by everyone, loved by ourselves" kinda slogan…"
"Not a slogan. A motto." The angel corrected, feigning patience.
"... Sure." Johnny slid the tongue along his jaw to wet those dry, chapped lips. "I know about the slogan and the communion bonds, but can we just… I mean, we got him right here?"
Andy felt those three pairs of eyes tumbling onto his shoulders. He glanced back, blankly staring past a river of blood and a curtain of wet, sticky curls. At this point, being sent upstairs to knock at the golden gates didn't even seem like such an awful idea. Not-Lemuel said that love did not exist, anyway. His vast soul turned out not quite so vast after all, and all he wanted to do was simply for the day to end and his mind to drift off to sleep – eternal or not, didn't matter.
"... Fuck you looking at?"
Andy shrugged. "Three morons?"
"He can't ever bite back properly, look at 'im. It's just damaged goods! The halo, too? The nails? Gods, just blast him here and there, and let's ditch." Johnny grew impatient. "The slums were fun at first, but now? With the whole riot bunk happening later? I just wanna drop him and go."
The shackles of Andrew Ricketts bound them to that tiny, dim room in a place forgotten by time. Grumbling and mumbling, a brainstorm of sorts lit their gray matter aflame – a meeting of the collective room temperature iq to fix a problem they've stirred themselves. Johnny, Nate, Angie, three horseless raiders of an apocalypse yet to come. They all exchanged a glance, then turned to face the boy. Angel on angel, Andy locked eyes with this Angie person.
"... What're you looking at me like that for?" The biker asked, but Andy only shrugged. Angie took it as a form of disrespect, so a second later Andrew had the two tips of a double barreled pellet rifle pressed snugly between his eyes. "I asked, what're you looking at me like that for?"
"You're gonna fall, man." He blabbered, suddenly not so sure of whether Death would be kind to him at all. A buckshot round certainly wouldn't. "You're gonna fall."
"Damn, they hit you hard. All those mind-fuckery… Ow. Those mind-messing arts did a proper number on you, yeah?" Angie pushed on the stock, and Andy's head flew backwards. "I don't give one. I don't care if I fall. Falling IS the preferred way for me, moron. Just that there ain't many Sankta in Columbia."
Staring at the plastic-wrapped ceiling came as a brief form of respite, especially when his bumped gently off a familiar set of horns. Croissant was there, at least. Dead or unconscious, but she was still there, still with him. Andy found his grip in that little statement, repeated over and over by the megaphone blaring inside his head, like a mantra at this point. "She's here." It sang. "She's still here, and you're too blind to notice."
"I'm not blind." He uttered.
"What?"
"I'm not blind, I said."
"And it matters, how?" Angie shot him a look. "I'm really startin' to reconsider just offing you at the spot. I mean, hell, don't get me wrong, I love Skeet like a brother, but he's so scatterbrained, it's gonna take him a while to crawl into this sh–... crap-hole."
Both of the mutts agreed, with a tentative wag of their tails.
"He's not crawling anywhere." Andy said, quiet as ever. As if not to disturb Croissant's beauty sleep.
"What?"
"He's not crawling here."
"Who? Skeet?"
"Yeah. He won't come."
Jonny and Nate bumped one another on the shoulder. "See? Told ya. Blast his head off, wipe up and go. Dibs on the girl."
"Wuh? Fuck no, I called dibs way earlier. First round's mine." The other growled. Andy heard them pounce at each other's throats, brawling over who gets to defile his employee first. The thought made him feel sad and unwanted, which were two emotions that frolicked hand in hand through the meadows of his vast soul quite frequently. There was nobody fighting over who gets to kill him.
"Shut up! Shut! Shh!" Angie hissed. The gun's muzzle only bore deeper into Andy's flesh. "... What do you mean? "He won't come", what the hell does that mean?"
"I dunno." Coming from the window, Andy felt a gale of soothing wind breezing past all the suffocating plastic. "I just think it might be difficult to go anywhere with lungs filled with water."
"What lungs? Hell are you talking about?" The gun spoke for him, nestling itself deeper and deeper. The boy's skull met the unfeeling metal in a firm handshake.
"Lungs. His lungs. Full of water." Andy chuckled, as loud as his battered face let him. "Toilet water, too. Imagine that."
"Hell are you talking about?!" Angie whirred a storm, racking his arm back as if to smack the angel across the head. Seeing his giggly chuckles made him reconsider. "What'd you do to him? You seen him?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I've seen him. Talked with him, too."
"About what? And when?"
"When…?" His mind reached as far as it could into the memory-folder laid out bare atop the table woven from gray matter and shards of his own skull. Only pictures of Not-Lemuel's worried smiles spilled from the file. "... I don't know. A while back."
"Listen to me." Angie unceremoniously yanked the lapels of his jacket. Andy felt unbridled joy at being thrown around like that, as if sent speeding down a roller coaster track. He's never ridden one. "And you listen to me good. You tell me what the FUCK you've done to Skeet, and you do it right now. Right FUCKING now, you subhuman."
"I didn't do much. I wasn't even trying to do anything, honest to the Law." He flicked the leather-demon a whimsy wink. "... But he sort of ran up on me. Showed up in the wrong place, at the wrong time, you know that tends to happen to people, right?"
"Yeah…" The mutts behind Angie's back agreed silently. The angel-raider shot them an incredulous look of pure contempt, immediately shutting their traps.
"Yeah. And I don't know if you've done your homework well enough, but I don't usually work alone. Anywhere I go, I take security."
"Bullshit." Angie broke from the daze. Whatever fervor rampaged the booming cells of his mind was thrown aside in favor of a need born from pure hatred. "Bullshit. Bullshit." He repeated, then forced the twin barrels down Andy's throat. The cold steel slid and ground past his teeth without much issue, fitting snugly at the entrance of his gullet. "What'd you do to him? Where is he?"
"Uhh… I'on w'eally-know whe-wwe he is. Sowwy." He mumbled, then shrugged. Angie understood the error of his ways and removed the gun from his mouth. "... I dunno where he is. Certain accomplices dropped the body off Law knows where when they were done with him."
"Stop talking like that. This isn't corporate talk, this is s-..."
"And they're probably on their way here, if I had to guess. Dunno. Did you run me under a metal detector? An x-ray?"
"What?" Angie took a step back. "Hell are you… mumbling…?"
"I'm chipped to all hell. Tracking, that sorta stuff. That's the bare minimum for a Penguin Logistics collaborator, y'know." The words came with pride. Wearing a mask of made up moxie and letting the usual "Mr Ricketts" slip actually suited him quite well, he thought. Pity it only came in life or death situations. And only sometimes. "They don't really take kindly to on-shift personnel being thrown around like sandbags. Hell, can you blame them? You two, can you blame them?"
Nate and Johnny shared a glance, then shook their heads. Angie couldn't share their confused obedience, not with his heart pounding. Andy could tell it was about to burst from his chest, just like that extraterrestrial monster from that one movie he saw last week with a drunk Lemuel by his side. Good times.
"I can't blame them, either." He shrugged. "But they can blame others. They can blame you lot. Just for the kidnapping of two employees, that's enough for them to strap you to a bunch of fireworks and send your skulls flying sky high. Yanese New Year style."
"... P.L." Angie whispered, keeping it covert. "... P.L. Rat bastard's legal branch."
"What?" One of the mutts tapped in. "Man, speak up. Ain't gotta go hushy like that."
"Real hushy. Need to be real hushy." The gun fell, and Andy drew a silent breath of trepid relief. "Take it. Take it, shoot him, clean it."
Angie's words came like a rapid burst of a submachine gun, making the mutts wide-eyed with confusion. Moreso, when the pellet rifle landed in Nate's hands.
"The fuck are you doing?" He asked, but Angie had already started gathering his things off the plastic-wrapped floor. "Angie-? Angie?! Law-man, what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm out. I'm out of here." He mumbled back, already gone from Andy's vision. "Already let the orange broad break my arm, I'm not messing with the rat. Not here, not on his turf. Not anywhere near here."
"What rat?"
"..." The question was left unanswered – only the rattle and clutter of a door opening and closing lingered in the still air. "... Hell's his problem?"
"I get him." Andy perked up. His muscles felt unnaturally loose at the moment, starkly contrasting the killing tension from before. "I would leave, too. You don't wanna shoot people in the slums."
"I think we do." Nate huffed. Metal rubberhosed the air, then met the boy's forehead. "One pussies out, but we got a job to do. You heard what he said about the uh… What was it?"
"Solidarity?" Johnny shot in the dark.
"Yeah, solidarity. People want you dead, so we gotta, like… we gotta deliver."
"Don't you wanna survive, though? You know that people won't ever stop looking for you, if you off me?"
"We move with the wind, we can manage." Nate kept babbling, instead of squeezing the trigger. "You know how many people we got on our backs? Lots. And you know how we managed to not get caught yet? By slipping into places they can't reach. Where your law… the actual law, not your fucking- stupid, fucking religion, where the actual law can't reach. And the slum-law, either."
"But you're in the slums." Andy blinked. "... You're in the slums right now. This isn't your turf."
"..." The mutt's fuzzy finger festered over the trigger.
"This is a graveyard. Your and mine, we die here tonight."
"Give me that." The other stepped in front, then tore the gun away from Nate's frozen hands. Andy watched him stuff the barrel into his sweater, feeling the hard steel nestling between his ribs. Without a single hint of hesitation, Johnny squeezed the trigger, sending the angel's heart rate skyrocketing. Only a soft click came from the gun's unfeeling bowels, not a sneeze of hot lead.
"... How the fuck do you use this thing?" He took a step back and ran his eyes over the shotgun. Small, sawed off, bit bruised, bit bloodied – all nice, but how does one use it? He broke it in two, checked the two crimson shells inside, spun them around his fingers, loaded them back up, glanced down the barrel. Andy silently asked the Law to make the cartridges go off then and there, but the Saints ignored his calls. "... Nate, take it. You're infected, you can manage this shit."
"... I don't think we should." He mumbled, drastically changing the trajectory of his mood. From eager anticipation of bloodlust, it fell into a constant stream of creeping terror. "We should just leave, man."
"Fucking hell, not you too?" Johnny spluttered a messy snort. Filled with a rising hurry, it wasn't a sound a man in control of his situation would make. "I mean, hell. Fine. We'll do it the ol' fashioned way. Pucker up, Law-man."
He flipped the gun around, holding onto the barrels like a true clobbering device.
"..." Andy gave his right cheek. At this point, he might as well try to make it hurt less.
Splurt. Splatter.
The stock knocked on the gates of his face and rattled his brain. Johnny hit hard, but not hard enough to crack his skull. Plastic rustled, the chair cluttered, and Andy fell to the floor, sort of hopeless, sort of expecting some sort of retribution for all the times the world has hurt him. A selfish thought, sure, but one that he allowed in the hour of his very own little demise. Johnny let out a ruffled breath at the sight of the chair falling over.
"Nate, get him up."
Nate took a step back.
"Nate, for fuck's sake. Can we cooperate on this one?"
"I really don't think we should. We should just leave, man."
"Suit yourself. Pussy."
Johnny spat on the floor, tearing apart any resemblance of respect for the other mutt. Nate sighed a breath of relief and reached for the handle.
"... Actually…"
The spit glistened in the blooming moonlight, a decomposing reminder of a bridge torn and burnt in favor of just one slip up. Nate stared and stared, sinking in the pool of drool for far longer than necessary.
"... 'Kay, fuck it. Let's just knock him and go."
"Knock him and go. And the orange broad." Johnny affirmed with a glinting smile. Andy saw the mutt's eyes overcome with a certain warmth that exuded even in the cold of night. "You go first. Knock his teeth."
"Taste my sole, Ricketts." He chuckled, then sauntered over. Andy stared deadpan ahead, silently accepting the generous offer. Hopefully the rubber wouldn't taste too bad.
"... Alright."
"Alright."
"... Phew."
"Phew?"
"Haven't beaten anyone in a while."
"How long?"
"A week, maybe. Not to death, anyway."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"... Let me get a wind-up."
"Sure, man. Wind all you want."
"Can you just get to it…?" Andy mumbled from the floor.
.
And as the two mutts tore the eyes from themselves to glare at the boy, someone decided it'd be the perfect moment to knock at the door. Knock-knock. It came as a gentle pitter-patter, like the starting phase of rain against a windowsill. The bikers froze.
"... Should I get it?" Nate gauged the possibilities of the knocker's identity. "It's probably just Angie."
"Angie wouldn't knock." Johnny sighed, then took a resigned step over the angel's body. "... It's the fucking worm-grease again. I bet you a fiver."
"Tell 'em we're getting on it, alright?" Nate threw past Andy's shoulder and placed his heavy sole on top of his head. The curls softly mewled in dissatisfaction as the dirty underside came to desecrate their holy sanctuary of cleanliness.
"Sure." Johnny threw back. Andy couldn't see much, but he heard the mutt fiddling with the lock. Click-clack, it took him two turns to get the thing defused and defenseless. As soon as the metal guardian was removed from his watchpost, a thunderous blast tore the entire thing off its hinges and sent it flying across the room.
It came like a flash of unanticipated lightning on a rainy day – when the clouds just barely cover the sky, yet a wanton dark sheep manages to squeeze its way between its pristinely fluffy brethren to ruin the days of Terran dwellers – Andy included, mostly targeted. The universe and his disfaced creator oftentimes marred his peace. Why? He didn't know. All he knew was the Johnny-shaped stain of fur and dripping blood on the wall, haphazardly covered by the remnants of the shattered door. His mind returned, boiling with eager anticipation, untainted by any mask.
"..." Nate's eyes followed his companion's graceful flight, tumbling through a field of emotional barbed wire. First, they stepped into a bed of spiked confusion, quickly crumbling beneath the ankle-wrapping vines and rumbling down into a minefield of shock. From there onward, it was only grim realization and the non-existent barking of terrifying gunfire. "F-Fuck…?"
Andy blinked. Along with the soothing breaths of the outside world, came a previously unacquainted gust of something uniquely warm and granular. It whizzed past his shoulders, slid like a snake over his bound body, and took his hair by storm, ruffling the unruly curls with its brittle tongue. Sand. It was sand. He could see the individual grains whirring about the air, rushing like a train down its designated metro line, crushing and tumbling, reaching and licking, touching and biting – headed straight for the wide-eyed, would-be executor of his. Nate yelled, first in utter shock, then in search of help, but none would come. The sand-worms sliced his body clean through, first piercing the stomach, then spilling all across his insides. From the bottom, a hurrying whirlwind had started to gather, enveloping him whole with its sandy might, cleaning the wretched mutt's bones clean of fat, meat and fibers – it stained the sand red, but not a single drop dared escape the grains' unending assault. His clothes, his legs and ribcage, fur and hair, all of it began slowly disappearing, dissipating into thin air like a wave sinking ashore, leaving behind nothing but a twisted skeleton. He yelled and yelled, thoroughly filling the room with his presence, until he couldn't anymore. Until the sand-worms and the growing sand-tornado had his vocal cords torn and pristinely clean, sanded into nothing.
Andy stared. Wide eyed, mouth gaping open, he watched the hungry sands swallow Nate alive and leave behind nothing but a slightly red-stained pile of bones. After the crunching plastic beneath went silent, the granular assault simply stopped existing – much like the mutt, disappeared in the blink of an eye. It took his body a good couple of seconds before it remembered how it functions, and how to push down the growing ball of spit down his throat. He swallowed.
.
"... Another day, another mutt down in the eternal hay. Perhaps an ashtray, even."
.
A raspy voice arose from behind. Andy couldn't pin it to any familiar face, it felt too old. Old people weren't his company. The shuffling of heavy fabrics and tapping of wood against plastic wrap soon joined the desecration of nightly peace.
.
"... Mmm. Would be rude not to say "sweet dreams." Sleep well, child."
.
The voice lingered somewhere behind his back. Somewhere where Croissant should've been. Andy wriggled a little, but whatever held his hands together wouldn't let go. His throat felt dry, cobbled together like a spider's web. It refused his plea to form any sort of noise.
.
"... And you? Awake, or thrown on a metaphorical stake?" The tip of some hard object prodded the boy's back. Nudge-nudge, it insisted upon being noticed. "... That was uncalled for. Lives were lost and the rhymes are weak. We either honor the dead with silence, or a serenade worthy of the heavens. That's for your little voice-recorder, Miss." Prod-prod. Andy felt the wood burrowing further in his spine. "I don't really hold any respect for these dirt-bags, though."
.
"That's, um… That's Mister Ricketts." A soft, girly warbling contrasted the old man's voice. Andy felt his cheeks growing warm, head bustling with something akin to an electric shock. "Oj, Pani Rogalik chyba śpi. Może jej nie budźmy lepiej…"
.
"Mister Ricketts, they say." A shadow cast by the moonlight arched its clawed leg over the boy. Andy glanced at the source of the aged rasping and found himself being thoroughly scanned by a pair of glazed-over Zalak pupils. They rested neatly in a very Zalak-shaped skull, covered by undoubtedly Zalak-like fur, coated in a Zalak-fit robe that rested beneath a Zalak-worn jacket. A very old one, too. A true fossil of a rat. "... Are you there, Mister Ricketts? Should I tap you with my cane some more?"
.
"I-I'm here." He mumbled, then wriggled a bunch. Hands wouldn't let go. "... Can you, uh… lend a hand?"
.
"A hand, he says." The rat-man gave the plea a thought. "For old time's sake, I may. A city dweller like you, you should feel indebted for the gesture. Put it on the rap-busker's tab, will you?"
.
"Who…?" Andy felt a familiar motion stirring behind his hands. The granular winds came once more, aimed at his very hands this time – they cut the tape holding his wrists together and let his hands breathe a lungful of relief. Unbound, he made an effort to sit up on the floor.
.
"Who? Oh, don't worry, I jest." The rat-man waved him off. "Straighten yourself. Strong and proud, that's how youth should be. Not like I'd know anything about it, though.."
.
"..." Andy blinked. He wasn't sure of much at the moment. Nothing in particular made sense. Just as his legs clambered for balance, the girly warbling from before made its grand reappearance.
.
"Mister Ricketts!"
.
Andy fell to his rear, pinned by the feeble weight of a certain ball of fluff. The fluffy ears of Lizzy's Kuranta heritage were most he could see, as they fluttered and wiggled, flicking him on the nose from time to time. She hugged him tight for whatever reason, before falling back to her knees to gauge his battered face.
"Are you alright? Did they… ah, złamali coś panu? Did they damage any bones?"
"Where'd you run off to?" He asked, dazed beyond belief. The plastic wrap, the moonlight glinting off its uneven edges, it was still all there. Croissant limped on her chair, biker blood ran down the wall. Two pairs of eyes were locked on his, and reality had finally started forming into something a bit more cohesive.
The rat-man cleared his throat, nonchalantly leaning forward on the prodding cane.
"Miss Lizawietta "ran off", as you so brutishly called it, to find me. I took full responsibility for her stay in the slums, as a form of assuring the inviolability of foreign press. Call that a favor for the old bastard in charge."
Andy blinked. Blinked, and blinked…
"... Who are you?"
"That's Mister Lin." Lizzy beamed a smile of elated excitement. "I told you about him. I told you, remember?"
"Mister Lin. That's sweet." Rat-man chuckled, then allowed his withered fingers to rest atop the girl's head for a moment. Her smile only widened. "You're lucky to have made her acquaintance, Mr Ricketts. I should write you a haiku about it someday."
"About what…?"
"About being this lucky. And dense, at it." His brows grew unamused. "... Forgive my language. Should I keep hinting, or will you move your arse and help the sleeping child to her feet?"
Andy once more scanned the room and realized his error. Croissant, Croissant, Croissant, Croissant… He felt so worried about her not so long ago, now he couldn't even remember she was in the room with them. A higher power smacked him over the head and asked to please get a grip.
Momentarily, the three found themselves staring at the unconscious girl, watching her soundly snoring and spilling drool all over. So unaware of anything, lost utterly in a quiet world dubbed the Never-Never land, where worries were put to rest and the mind flourished. A world free of stubborn donkey-employers and queasiness born from the never ending coin-chase.
"... Crossie?" Andy carefully whispered past her messy web of hair. "Crossie…? Crossie, you there?"
"..." Both Lizzy and the Rat-man stood by his sides, silently watching the half-assed attempt. Under the girl's glinting pools of excitement and the Zalak's harshly expectant eyes, Andy swallowed a nervous ball of spit and poked Croissant on the shoulder. "... Crossie…? You there?"
"Ahem." Rat-man nudged his side, then offered him the prodding-cane. "If you will."
"..." Andy took it with a glance at first, then carefully wrapped his hands around the handle. An awkward nod of thanks for the Rat, a shaky grip for the cane. "... Um."
Prod-prod. He stuck it between her ribs.
"... Bit harder, Mr Ricketts."
"You sure?"
"Sure as can be."
"Oj, czy aby na pewno…? Are you sure-sure?" Lizzy joined in, soon soothed by the Rat's fingers dancing over her hair.
"Sure as shit. Now give her a poke."
Andy nudged the girl once more. Without missing a beat, her lids abruptly lifted like a curtain, baring her muddly, confused eyes. Like a doe in the headlights, her irises were everywhere and nowhere all at once – on the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the broken door, the beaming girl in a wooly cardigan, the battered angel mere centimeters away from her face, the old Rat-man, a wooden cane in her ribs, her own lap, and once more, the blood-covered angel who stood with his eyes glued to hers. She blinked, getting used to the new reality.
"... Baws? Andy?" Her voice came strained, as if speaking was nothing short of a Herculean effort. "Where–... What…? Wh– What happened?"
"Um." The question remained unanswered for a good few seconds. "Complications. Stuff."
"Miss Croissant! Pani Rogalik!" Lizzy warbled in glee, before reaching out to hug the girl as well. Andy fell, pushed by her eager embrace, right into the Rat-man's overbearingly large silk cloak. They shared a look, the boy's apologetic terror met with the old man's casual amusement. "I was so worried! I got worried right when you two left! And I kept feeling worried, because… ah, stracili państwo świadomość, dziwnie się państwo zachowywali… Um… You were feeling strange. Acting strange, that's the word!"
"L-Liz, gawds…" Croissant involuntarily huffed all the air from her lungs at the tight hug, just barely managing to reciprocate. Her eyes sought help from Andy, but he only shrugged. "... Where even are we? I just… Gee, golly, I ain't remember a single thing…"
"We're in a rather unsavory spot." The Rat-man rasped, after a throat-clearing cough. "This part of the slums, it's… not a good place to be in. Not at all. I'd rather not be here at all, but Miss Lizawietta asked me to."
.
"..." Croissant stared at him deadpan for a hot moment. "... 'An who– I mean, who are ya?... Mister?" She added, after a fraction of a second.
.
"..." The old man sighed. "... Your guide for now, I suppose. Bit of an expensive trip you're taking here, but I'm sure your "employer" (the word made him crack a crooked smile.) can afford it. Mister Ricketts, feel free to add my further "services" to his tab as well."
.
"You're gonna guide us?" Andy's gloom only further deteriorated. "Like… Like, out of here?"
.
"Of course." The old man scoffed, more jokingly than anything. "... Miss Lizawietta needs to deliver her journalistic findings back home, does she not?"
.
"All of them!" She hopped off Croissant, proudly boasting the tape-recorder.
.
"See? There's things to do, and an agenda to tend to. Where there's things to do, there's someone to hurry others. And I'm gonna take on that role for now, whether you three like it or not."
.
A pause.
.
"... There's also the matter of a riot to quell. Or, well, at least make an appearance. But that's for me to consider, not for you to worry about."
.
The three of them blinked. Andy and Croissant exchanged a quick glance, silently acknowledging each other's presence.
.
"I bet you'd hate to keep me waiting."
.
They would. After just a moment to gather their guts and belongings, and check whether Andy still had his treacherous forecast-folders, they set off into the dead of night, bathed in the moons' glow and leaving the golden casino's wretched halls with a few sour farewells.
.
One last straight path.
.
A beeline for Laterano.