Music.

Music has forever been quite the contradicting piece of art. "Contradicting, how?" one may ask, and that one would be correct in their assumption that the statement makes at least less than a fraction of the sense it should. See, dear children of light, music in itself cannot be contained into a simple graph or list, nor a bowl or cargo container. It is a phenomenon that persists in its unwillingness to be defined clearly or put under a category. For what is music? Is music just a few soundwaves traveling the air and into our happily strung out ears, eager to catch each and every bit? What is a note sheet then, if not music as well? The un-hearable noise our minds produce, the symphonies encased within our skulls? No one but us can hear them, yet they're as real as me OR You. Music is a spectrum. Music is, forever will be and almost always has been - from the very first days of the Teekaz tribes conquering the land's various land and air and sea beasts, their war-drums sounding aloud across Terra, to the modern days of Lungmen's underground hyperpop artists producing various noises that they insist upon being actual music. No matter what the scale, the tone, the notes - it is all to be poured into this one, endless ocean we call music, for this form of art, much alike all others, can be diagnosed with the terminal cancer that is "being subjective". Long gone are the days of telling someone to turn down their thrash metal racket, for it should not be considered musically attractive at all to the weary ears, no. These days, the one yelling would publicly be wronged out by the masses for disturbing the peaceful spirit of artistic expression and subjectiveness, no matter how loud or distasteful it might be. Whether it be noise created by the 30s' famed "Noisemaker", the wail of an endless guitar solo drawn out by the one they call "Newmaker" interrupting a Leithanian symphony of carefully strung together graceful sounds, a band of Sarkaz globetrotters carrying off with their war drums and flame-spewing instruments of misery towards glory and victory, it is all to be accepted and loved under the very same name -

Music. It is all music. Everything is music.

And music is beautiful.

…

W's never been much of a musician. Hell, find me one musically inclined soul in the deepest pits of the Scar Market's steel prison cells and I'll sew my mouth shut forever. Nothing ever came of the Lost Souls who were wrangled like cattle, maybe besides the one-off unusual rattle of a metal mug slid across the iron bars lining each cage, accompanied by the silent gaze of the twin moons shining high above. Misery stricken symphonies, the long nights spent staring up at the black, black sky, the desert heat, the cracking of whips and clanking of metal - overboiled rice and rotten water. Those are no conditions for an aspiring musician to thrive, not at all. No way for her to spread out her wings of creativity like she had always wanted to. No way for her dreamed up chorus of devilish imperfectionists to sound aloud - the "people" who wore masks with slits for eyes and leather wraps around their wrists. Who spoke in grunts and commands, who obeyed the one above or nothing at all. Did most of them even know who they were serving? No. Did they hurt the ones under their right to property? Of course. That's who these homeless musicians were. Property. Bones and meat, cogs in a machine, labor and energy - the cheapest of the cheap, may I add. The eldest, the youngest, the bright and dumb, the ones with black, greasy hair that rolled in waves of turmoil and draggled behind the devilish corpses with their every step towards a destination unknown, and the ones who sat at night and counted stars, for they simply had nothing else to do. There, our tiny musician sat, in her own little corner of the shared cell she's grown to once call home. Feeling claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in, crimson horns poked the rigid bodies lying at her feet, snow white hair fell over her eyes, and yet she gazed.

She gazed at the blurry lights high above, the cloudless wild prairies of astrological wonder, dark plains of utter nothingness she knew she'd never be able to reach, for there was nothing awaiting for her in the long run. There was no long run, just a quick trot from the womb down to the grave, hurried and subtly encouraged by the cracking of whips and shuffling of cash being exchanged for living flesh.

She gazed at the future written for her in kaleidoscopes of lights and glimmers spread out evenly, like a perfectly asymmetrical minefield across the darkness that ruled the sky, and dreamed of her own symphony of pain and hurt, vile violence and brutal, biased righteousness - with the main chorus consisting of every single puke-worthy pile of meat that's ever hurt her, and made her feel worth less than any living being ever should.

But what came of it? Nothing much. Not back then, anyway.

Nowadays, however…

First, a low, quiet hum of a few round metallic objects traversing the nightly silence, joined with the steady thumping of a pair of hairy burdenbeasts and the footsteps of all the insignificant devils that surrounded it all. Then, a few "clink-clinks", the ori-buzzing steel balls bouncing off the beast's horns, their thoughtless eyes widening in wild surprise.

The very beginning of her own number! Two massive explosions lit the night sky ablaze, coloring the entire area red with a thick shower of crimson blood, pinkishly salmon guts and whatever else the furry victims had stored inside their massive bellies.

The sled stopped at once, shaken by the blast. A few worried soldiers of the coin fell to their backs - both in fear and genuine awe that the explosions had somehow missed the man and woman sitting atop the wooden bench, the ones responsible for providing them their hard earned pay.

The runaways were grounded, with no way of moving forth. A poor, married couple exchanged glances of worry, quickly turning to pure determination, as the leather-clad man reached between his legs and tightened his grip over a wretched double barrel lead-spitter. His wife followed suit, turning back to the tent in order to hide what was their most precious living possession.

Devils gripped their blades and crossbows, their staves and anything else they had. Sweat dripping down their foreheads, invading their eyes like the blood-hungry mosquitos that ruled the warm, summer air, they stood in unison, eager to assure their sockets would witness the next sunrise by all means.

But the symphony shifted. Grew quieter.

In a little bush patch overlooking the newly drawn up ambush site, two morons sat closely together, their heavy breaths mingling and tickling the other's face in slow, warm waves.

"... Fuuuck, what a nice throw." One mumbled to herself, proud as all hell of her right hand's capabilities. The remaining toys hanging loose off her 'nading belt rattled with glee, as she twirled the leather strap around her fingers. Andy sat by, huffing and puffing, all read in the face due to the kilometer long run they had just gone through, courtesy of W's restless legs. Goliath genes were far more superior than anything any Sankta would ever have to offer, after all. "... What're you wheezing so much for? Can you stop huffing at my face?"

"F-... Fuck you." He muttered back and fell to his back. The weight of his horns made the fall a little too rough for his liking, but he had no one around to complain to. Eyes closed, letting the cool, night air filter his hot breaths, Andy took just a moment to let his burning lungs rest and the ringing of blood pooling in his ears die down. "... What now? You stopped them, hooray, but what now?"

"Now?" Her ever so present grin twisted into an image of addled curiosity, as her legs bent under her weight, letting her plummet softly onto the forest bed. Orange needles shuffled all around, as she landed right next to Andy's side, her cheek propped up lazily by her hand. "I dunno, Lawdog. What do YOU wanna do?"

"What do I wanna do? I'm not the one who fucked up my shot."

"Mhm. But you're the one who's stuck here with me, ain'tcha?" Smug as a cat, with her gaze half lidded, W flicked him on the forehead. Andy frowned and swatted her hand away. "So think something up."

"Like what?" He murmured back, massaging the spot where her finger struck.

"Oh, I dunno. Like how not to die, maybe? How to kill all these brainlets out there without having our guts spread all over the trees? Think a little?"

"But I don't even have a gun? What do you want me to do?"

"But I don't have a gun, I don't have a gun!" She parroted, falling to her back and waving her hands around like a cat thrown into a bathtub. "But you have a BRAIN, moron. Or, like half of one, I guess. Use it."

"..." Andy sighed back. Staring up at the night sky, it almost felt pleasant. Without all the muffled yelling and screaming coming from the near distance, one might've thought the two were simply having a nice night out, stargazing. Hell, even their tails kept swaying freely in the gentle wind without a single care in the world - a single thought to occupy their spotless minds. "... I dunno. Just come up with something! Something good, dunno…"

"Lawdog, I'm having A LOT of trouble coming up with a plan that doesn't involve you getting dismembered for a tactical advantage." After a moment of heavy thinking, she added, "... or just my amusement."

"... Okay, Law." He sighed, an arm slung over his eyes. "Just bombard them from the bushes, or- or stuff them with lead, or…"

"That's gonna be a bit difficult, y'know, without a rifle." She purred back, making herself all nice and comfy on the ground. Andy took a small glance at her unbothered figure, and her slow, deep breaths that made her chest rise and fall with grace every few seconds - and painted his cheeks with just the slightest hint of red.

"'Course you forgot to bring the gun."

"Yup." W shrugged. "Seems like I can't aim for shit, anyway. And you? Not like you'd get any use out of it."

"Tch..." A click of his tongue drew a smirk over her lips. "Shut up."

"Tell you what." Her weight shifted around, squishing and pushing against the ex-angel's shoulder. Before Andy could properly react or even shove her away, a nail along with the soft cushion of her finger bit into his cheek. "First of all, YOU shut up. Second, you seem to have a warped idea of the kind of deep shit we got ourselves into."

"WE? Who's "WE?"

Their eyes clashed, with fiery sparks shooting out each socket, the distance between their faces continued to shrink.

"Us! Me and you, dipshit."

"Why is it always "US" whenever you fuck anything up? Wh-..."

"'Cause you're here already! Were it anyone else, I'd have ditched them a while ago and slipped out without a goodbye, but it's YOU. What did you say back then? A few months back? "I didn't want you to die"? Yeah, Lawdog, I'm still holding onto that, so make yourself useful and prove how real those words of yours were."

"..." Andy blinked. The few sludge barrels of pure turmoil that have gathered inside his brain to cloud his judgment and pour their sticky content all over the cogs of the somewhat well oiled machine that was his mind spilled and covered the mechanism whole. "... Just because of that? 'Cause you think you can use me whenever you need to?"

"Duh? Why do you think I brought you along?"

"To help…?"

"Yeah, "help", "use you", whatever. Be my marionette for the night and just do what you're told, c'mon." With a weary sigh, she raised her head off his shoulder and sat up. W remained in a sitting position for a moment too long, leaving Andy staring at the back of her head. "... Okay, no. It's not like that. Okay? Don't think of it as me USING you."

"..." His tail whipped the air, swatting away a fly. Andy could only keep staring, watching the moons' bright glow bouncing off her horns. "Hard to think of it as anything else, now that you laid it out so plainly."

"Oh yeah?" Needles and dirt fell to the ground as she stood to her feet and reached out towards the boy. Reluctant as he might've been, he grabbed her hands and let himself be pulled up. "Then let me make it less plain. More muddy, a real head-scratcher for you, idiot." She added, letting her sharp smirk shimmer in the night's embrace.

"I need you here, 'cause you've got something neither of us do. Not me, not Hedley, definitely not his missy know-it-all."

"...?" He searched for her eyes, searched for the bright, glowing apricot circles made of the brightest paint his mind has ever had the pleasure of registering.

"..." She returned his gaze, hands still gripping onto his. Not loose, not half-assed, but a tight, warm embrace. She needed him to listen and her touch voiced that need more than any amount of yelling or ordering ever could. The air grew hot with their breaths, warmth crashing in waves against both their cheeks, making their tails involuntarily waggle with a sense of deep and unknown excitement…

"Lawdog." The girl spoke softly. Andy couldn't force himself not to listen, even if he tried.

"I need you here."

"I need you, 'cause you can make yourself look like a brainless moron with pure innocence dripping down your sweater like drool. Yeah, get it? Me, I look tough and scary. 'Cause I am, but that's beside the point. I'm a Sarkaz. You? Cover your horns a little, tuck your tail into your pants, we got a pretty angel girl-boy who got lost on his way home. You talk to these morons, act all scared, I'll just sneak 'round back and slip 'em a little something while they're busy fawning over you. Sound good? Of course it does, c'mere, we gotta get you all puppy-eyed and docile looking."

"..."

"Oh, c'mon, don't give me that pouty face. Brighten up, yeah? Biiiig smile. Lose some IQ, s-... Okay, not that much. Comes natural to you, doesn't it?"

"Can you just shut up and do my hair?"

"Mmm. Like this… Or do you want me to do pigtails? Ponytails? Or leave it fluffed up…? Or…"

"Just tie it."

"Sheesh, Lawdog, relax. Girls like us need to stick together, y'know? Girl power, all that-..."

"I swear…"

"Oh, swear all you want. Swearing's no good on the lips of a pretty lady like you, though. Should switch it up, brush up on your "Please" and "Thank you's"..."

"I'm poking your left eye out."

"Tch, tch, tch… Threats aren't very ladylike-... HEY! HEY, OKAY, I GET IT!"

"Dude, I warned you!"

"But that fucking hurt! Are you okay in the head? Tch, of course not. Now c'mere, I gotta get you all disheveled and scared-looking. Tell them some big bad devil maniac chased you 'cross the forest, mmm? Some big… Ugly…"

"Ow! Stop pulling so hard!"

"Ow, ow!" Shut up, I didn't even hurt you."

"You keep… doing that! Can you stop? Stop pulling on my hair… And watch that hand, what the hell are you doing?"

"I HAVE to hide your tail, moron. Give it."

"You gotta catch it, I don't control it."

"Wh-...? Oh, right. Riiiight, right. Get over here, you…"

"Dude, just grab it."

"Oh "Just grab it." Let's see you "just grab it."

"I could totally grab it."

"Bet you could."

"I'm sure I could grab yours, like ten times in the time it takes you to catch mine."

"..."

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, go ahead. By all means, I'm SURE we have the time to play tail-catch right now, Lawdog-... HEY! WHAT THE FUCK?"

"Told you? Told you!"

"LET GO!"

"Law, fine... But still, I got it."

"Yeah, yeah, you got it. Want a medal?"

"You got one?"

"..."

"... I'm kidding."

"Yeah, real comedian over here. Just give me that fucking tail."

"Pffft... Here."

"Thaaaaank you... Can you stop bucking it so much? C-... Why're you this excited for?!"

"I'm not! I don't control it, you-... Just- just shove it inside… No, actually, give it here. I'm not letting you anywhere near my pants."

"Tch. I won't even comment on that one. You're disgusting."

"Says who?"

"Me."

"Yeah, enough said…" Plap. "...Ow. Undeserved."

"Very much so deserved. Now, here. Take this, just in case they get on your ass. Not like I care much, but you may come in handy in the future, so..."

"Knife? W-... Oh, it's W's knife?"

"I'm W."

"No, I meant the real W."

"Lawdog, I'm gonna shove this thing down your throat, I swear to your beloved Law."

"Yeah, yeah. Give it."

"Ah-ah. Say "please."

"..."

"Say. Please."

"Fuck you."

"That doesn't sound like a "please" to me. Ah, well, guess you're going in unarmed. Alright, have fun-..."

"Okay, Law… Please?"

"..."

"Please? I said "please", can you…"

"Okay, now do it with your hands up like you're a cat begging for a treat. Oh, no, wait, like-... HEY! Don't just yoink it!"

"You're a leech. A human leech. Let's just- just get this over with. Fuck…"

"Uh-huh. Hand me the nades?"

"Mmm... Wish me luck?"

"... No?"

"Then no nades for you, fuck you."

"Likewise. Fuck you."

"..."

"..."

"... Here. Take 'em."

"Mmm. And good luck, Lawdog. Don't be stupid, yeah?"

"Mhm. And don't let me die, okay?"

"We'll see. 'Kay, go! Enough snotty partings, just go, out these damn bushes, out you go…"

Shuffle, shuffle. Leaves fell tenderly onto the dirt, crushed beneath a pretty boy's rubber sole. What were you missing, Andy? Some eyeliner and lipstick, that oughta seal the deal. Too bad he found himself in Kazdel, not Columbia, where cutesy Lupo girls would swarm him in waves and quite literally tear limb from limb, until there was nothing left but a motionless hull covered in pinkish-black kisses. What a cutie-patootie.

Tap, tap, tap. Shoes danced around the fallen twigs and various berries, the forgotten kingdom once ruling high above the needle crowns above, now nothing but a rotting reminder of time's true might. Thoughts. Thoughts filled his head, spun his brain around like a carousel. There was no "off" off this ride. No way to tell the conductor to stop, to finish this symphony of pain and misery, to make him shut it all off with the swing of his baton. Andy was here to stay.

Soak in the words. Listen to them all.

"I feel sick."

"I'm dead. I swear, I'm dead."

Are they yours?

"There is nothing beyond life. There is death and death is nothing."

"Death is a pair of scissors that cuts the film-tape short. No paradise, no additional scene after the end credits roll, just blank nothingness. Dad would know."

Or is it someone else speaking for you?

"I want to go home. I can't go home, I'm a freak. I don't belong back home."

"I want to die. No, I don't want to die. I cannot die. I don't even know what I want anymore, but I cannot die."

Why not escape?

"Where's the red hallway when you need it? Why is it gone?"

"Where's Lem?"

"Mosti?"

"Where IS everyone?"

Why disappoint them even further?

"Why don't they want to see me anymore?"

"Why does she hate me?"

Why think about it?

"..."

Why not focus on the real world?

"What the hell is she doing?"

"Is she-... Around? Has she ditched?"

Hands up, Andy. Make yourself look vulnerable.

"She hasn't. She couldn't have. She's here."

Positive thinking.

"She's here. She cares enough to be here."

Healthy thoughts, a healthy mind.

"If she didn't, I wouldn't be here."

Meet their gazes. Seem terrified, they're just as scared.

"She's not that terrible."

Face it.

"She's not terrible. She's not worse than him."

Believe it.

"She cares about me."

Admit it.

"I care about her."

"..."

Surrounded by steel wood and buzzing originium, the boy stood tall, head aimed high and raised against whatever troupe of puppets circled around. Tall, short, male, female - ghouls and brutes with their weapons drawn flocked to him like flies to a pile of dung, a rotten corpse of a person. Andy opened his eyes.

"..."

And immediately dropped to his knees in an overly dramatic gesture. For just a moment he's forgotten whatever the hell he was supposed to do.

"L-Law… Law, p-please help me… Please! Please, good people, please, PLEASE help m-me…"

At his pitiful mumbles and impressively real sounding choked-back sobs, the Sarkaz mercenaries lowered their weaponry, even if just for a moment. In the corner of his eye, Andy saw a few of them - a few distinct ones.

The first, a tall, towering man with a mane as white as snow, reaching somewhere for his shoes and enveloping them in a blanket of messily straightened curls eager to twist and frolic back to their natural state. He held a simple, straight sword in his hand, connected to a piece of machinery on his chest by a rubbery tube. He was also the one who spoke first.

"The fuck?" The rest exchanged shrugs, as he spun the sword around his hand and narrowed his gaze, allowing his feet to close some distance between him and the sobbing pile of gray sadness. "... Who the hell are you!?"

Despite clearly trying to sound intimidating and strike terror into the boy's heart, the merc clearly was just as weirded out and confused by the entire ordeal as his comrades, one of which stepped up to his side and murmured something into his ear, shooting Andy a glance every few words. She had a distinct battle-cloak draped over the shoulders of her jacket that rested underneath - outfitted with pockets that carried gods know what, and belts that pressed sleeves of glowing syringes to her chest. "A caster", he thought.

"I-... I'm j-just… I w-was trying to get home, but… but I got ambushed, I… There w-was a… " Who… Who could it have been… Ah, fuck it. "... A Wendigo! A W-... Wendigo… A-And it almost r-ripped me to pieces…!"

The group FROZE.

"Wendigo?"

"What'd she say? Wendigo?"

"She? Looks like a guy to me…"

"Shut up! Wendigo? They said Wendigo, right?"

"Fuck… But I thought they were a dying breed…?"

"That's a saying, Slinger, you fucking moron. Dying breed is a saying."

"Shut up, mungrels! Shut up!" The white-haired leader yelled over their hushed whispers, to the caster's gentle surprise. She shook her masked head in disapproval and took one of the glowing syringes, before emptying its contents straight into her vein. A shudder followed. "... All of you! If we really do have a Wendigo at hand, the first rule of thumb is to STAY. CALM. STAY FUCKING CALM, NOT PANIC LIKE A BAND OF KNEE-JERKING INBREDS!" With an accusatory finger outstretched, his hand shot towards TWO masked maniacs in closely matching similar pieces of leather armor sewn together with heavy chainmail. Their arms swung up in utter outrage and indignation.

"Excuse me?" Started the one on the left.

"Excuse ME?" The other chimed in.

"You're both excused!" Yelled back their leader. "So shut your traps and listen! We h-..."

"We're not INBRED, Vic! What the fuck?" Again, the masked chain-wearer cut in, taking a step out of the circle formed around Andy. Glancing over at the entire formation, he noticed a little glimmer of white and black passing behind their backs - barely noticeable to the naked eye, shrouded by the darkness and assisted by the night. Squinting, he could swear the shadow even sent him a little wink on its way around the gathered.

"Yeah, Vic, the hell is wrong with you?" The chain-man's sibling spoke up. Andy couldn't quite tell whether they were male or female or even human at all, not from their distinctly disfigured voice. Their "Vic" sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"... Fucking hell, not this again." He murmured underneath his breath, but Andy clearly caught the words. "... Fizz, what did we talk about a month ago?"

"..." One of the sibling-knights stopped to think. Their hand shot up to rub their chin a little and assist the brainstorming that was taking place, but it got nowhere, blocked by their mask. Their sibling sent them a hard, strong punch to the shoulder for the sheer stupidity, and metal rattled hard against steel. "F-Fuck, man… Ow…" Rub, rub. Chainmail groped around his metal plate that absorbed the strike, only for another one to follow. "Fuck! Okay, stop!... We talked about, uh… My family tree, yeah? Royalty. Pure blooded royalty, yeah…"

"Uh-huh." Vic crossed his arms. "... And how do you think your family stays so "pure blooded", Fizz?"

"Huh?" Even Fizz's sibling joined in on the (not so) fun talk, completely ignoring the hushed buzzing arising from the gathered rest, who took to whispering around between themselves. "How? We don't mix with the common scum, that's how. Pure Vampire genes, untainted by the likes of you, baby!" Chuckling, they spun Fizz around their armor plates and pulled them in for a chest-bump. Fizz giggled along and high fived their "brother." "Y-Yeah, fuck 'em dirt eaters!"

"..." Vic could only stare, his face betraying nothing but a bottomless pit filled to the brim with patience that would seemingly never run out, not when addressing these two. "... Fizz, Fazz, your parents are siblings."

"WHAT?"

"Just like you two." He added.

"WHAT!?'

"Yup."

"IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Then why are you two morons even here? Why aren't you sitting in a cushy ballroom overlooking the Royal Court's gatherings and sipping blood like there's no tomorrow? 'Cause you're both inbred freaks of nature, that's why. And your parents are ashamed of you."

"HEY!" The brothers stepped up, throwing off their chainmail sleeves and preparing to wring the white-haired around for everyone to see and prove their royal and rich ancestry. Both, however, stopped dead in their tracks, as a pair of pure black, ghostly hands rose from the ground, wrapping their fingers tight around the two. They could only wriggle around and yell in amok, as the caster woman by Vic's side lowered her hand, seemingly content with her abilities. The leader gave her a pat on the shoulder and cleared his throat, but Andy spotted a little shadow flickering past his shoulder and diving back behind his men's backs.

"... Now that that's over, I NEED YOU ALL TO LISTEN! I N-... Hey, Ziegler, get back on the sled! Get back, there's some shitstain lurking around."

His tirade got cut short even before it could fully begin, as a tiny man wrapped in leather waddled over from behind, clutching tightly onto an object that made Andy gasp a little. Two long barrels, a sinister gaze pointed to the night sky above, a light buzzing of pure originium slithered past the rest and struck his ears like a beloved melody, a reunion with something he loved dearly but lost touch with. The man Vic called "Ziegler" threw him a gaze, but it didn't seem the least threatening, given his constant huffing and puffing.

"What the hell is happening? Who's that girl… boy? That boy in the middle? Why-..."

"Who? That guy? That's… A good question, Ziegler." Vic nodded and turned his full attention back to Andy. "You." Footsteps danced in the air, closing in on his position. Andy lowered his gaze and blinked his eyes rapidly, hoping a forced tear or two would grace his cheek in a pitiful display of mockingly fake fear. Between each flutter of his lids, a contour of a rapidly flickering shadow just barely invaded his sight, as it passed all around the gathered circle, with its stretchy arms reaching for their hoods and pockets - depositing a little something. Finally, a waterfall of bone-pale hair spilled across his vision, as Vic crouched by his side.

"Who are you?"

Andy raised his gaze, allowing their eyes to meet. Scarred by the land, hurt by its moody vagaries, Vic's face remained dim, as the twin moons blew their light behind his back. "I'm… I'm j-just a merchant."

"A merchant, huh?" He stood up and waved "Ziegler" off, dismissively. "Get back to the sled. Go."

"But-..."

"Ziegler, get the fuck out of my sight, please. For your own good, and take the wife, too."

"..." Reluctantly, he obeyed, leaving the two of them surrounded by mercs and the caster's watchful gaze. Her ghastly hand-tricks have long disappeared, leaving the two chainmail vampire knights dazed and confused, but unwilling to step in and interrupt the exchange taking place.

"Merchant, get up." Vic ordered, forcefully grabbing the boy's attention.

"...?" With a few overly dramatic shakes, Andy rose to his feet, hugging himself tight. "... I s-swear. I w-was just looking for a w-way back home, a-and…"

"Yeah. And what, a Wendigo popped up? A Wendigo in the middle of Central Kazdel? Did you ask for his name? Her name? Was she hot?" A smirk crawled onto his lips, as his men murmured around themselves. Some coughed, some tightened their grips, fingers wrapped around their "tools."

"... Sir." Andy gathered himself. "It was a Wendigo. It chased me through half the forest, right here. I ran… ran fast, okay? I ran real fast, but…"

"Did your Wendigo also happen to carry grenades with him? A rifle? You lot ever heard of a grenade throwing Wendigo?!" He addressed the posse. None seemed to have an answer for him, as their buzzing whispers only grew louder. "No. So I thought. So tell me, merchant, why is it that our transport almost got blown to shit and then you came jumping from the bushes? You do realize how it makes you look?"

Hands of uncomfortable warmth cupped both his cheeks and enveloped them in their unwelcome embrace, along with a cold, freezing tongue of anxiety sliding all the way up his spine. From the get go, he knew his story didn't make much sense, but he was hoping for a stroke of luck. Or anything, really. Anything to make it work, somehow.

"... P-Please, sir." Andy pleaded, down on his knees. "I'm just a merchant."

"A Sankta merchant? Don't you find it a little weird?" Vic took a slow, tentative stroll around his trembling body. "First, we get shot at… VERY messily, may I add. And then a Sankta shows up! Now, if I know just one thing about you, traitors, it's that you LOVE your guns." His battle-ready combat boots stopped right in front of the boy's face. "And serving your made-up religion."

With those last few words spit out into Andy's face, Vic snapped his fingers, sending crackles of biting electricity jolting down the boy's body. Before anything, before any reaction could even slip past his weary mind, the very same pair of ghostly, absolutely black and bleak hands protruded from the very earth he stood on, sweeping him up into the air by an ankle. While one held his foot, the other forcefully tore the gray military jacket off his shoulders and carefully handed it to the caster woman, who stood and watched, clearly unimpressed. She threw the cloth to Vic, as if it was some disgusting rag (which, for the most part, it was.)

"... Lookie here. Pontifica Cohors Lateran… PCL, that's your little paramilitary, yeah? Even got the emblem and everything." He said more to himself than anyone else. "So you're our shitstain then, hm? What, you a real breadfan? Military payroll's not enough for you, gotta hit a merch delivery while you're at it?"

Vic discarded the jacket, then stepped over it on his way over to Andy. Dirt and mud stained the already unclean fabric, as the soles of his shoes left a brownish mark. The boy thought about protesting, but eventually said nothing, only staring at the ordeal taking place.

"... Oh, what?" Vic quirked both brows. "Don't like it when others disrespect the hard-working Law laborers? Oh, my bad, you honorable bastard."

With the words followed by a bravely proud chuckle, he reached for the sword resting on his back and drew Andy's attention back to the weird apparatus strapped to his chest. Its rubbery pipes hugged the sword's handle tightly and slithered their way into the handguard, all connected to what appeared to be a pipe that slid along the blade, up to the very tip. All blackened and rusty, with clear signs of usage, but what sort of usage? He could only stare in befuddled confusion, as Vic tapped the machinery a few times and aimed his sword at the poor military jacket, Andy's only memory of ever having served.

"... Trial by fire, warboy."

Flames erupted from the tip of the pipe, licking hungrily and enveloping all they could reach in a death grip of chaotic destruction. Red, orange and yellow lit the boy's eyes ablaze, as he watched the raging inferno consume his jacket whole, unable to do anything but wriggle pathetically, completely at the mercy of the caster's arts. Low cackles filled the air, along with a smell of burnt wood, grass and cloth, when the fire died down, leaving nothing but a charred corpse of what was once a veteran amongst clothes, a war hero the Law had long forgotten. Through the waves of forced tears slipping up his forehead, a few genuine droplets found their way rushing into his hair, as he watched the seeping memory dimming along with the charred ground surrounding it. Andy bit down on his tongue and swallowed the ball of hurt that started forming in his throat, watching Vic point his flame-spewing sword right at his forehead next. Beyond the blade, the burning tip of the pipe, something else glimmered far behind them all. Somewhere near the treeline, hiding in the dark - the bare glimmer of a pair of eyes as familiar as the memorabilia burning to nothing before him. Two apricot circles of light earnestly watched from afar, holding his gaze without fail. A wink soon followed.

"So, for killing not one, but TWO of our sled-beasts, I think it's fair to assume that giving you OUR martial court's dishonorable discharge seems fair. Y'know what that is?"

"..." Andy shook his head, emptily staring at the smoking pile of ashes.

"Death. Death by hanging, death by art-bolts, death by steel-tipped bolts, death by blade… Hell, you point me to the rifle you shot at us with, I'll grant you a death by firing squad. What caliber was that?"

"..." A shrug was all Andy could muster.

"No caliber? No caliber. I thought you angel-men would care for the sort of lead you stuff your toys with, but… Ah, whatever. What do I care. Mittens, put him on the floor."

Thud. Andy fell face-first to the ground, biting on a mouthful of softened needles. The putrid smell of burning linen wafted around the air and refused to leave, even as he stuffed his nose with the fuzzy sleeve of his sweater. "Mittens", was it? The caster lady? What a fitting name. The Sarkaz truly did let their witty side shine through the oceans of moronic stupidity from time to time. He rose to his feet and glanced at Vic - no sign of any orange eyes anywhere behind him.

Did she leave?

"So? Which is it?" Vic tilted his head in exaggerated annoyance. "We don't have all night, c'mon. Most would just cut your head off and call it a day, so be a little thankful and cooperate with me. Arts? Bolts? Steel? Bullets?"

"Maybe a grenade?" An almost squeaky, distinctively girly voice arose from above.

Of course she didn't leave. Andy closed his eyes and let out a bated breath.

Their conductor has arrived.

Through the swish in which her body gracefully fell from a sequoia's branch, one might've heard the shaky cackle of a singing saw being tugged at by a strange musician's finger. The soft thud her soles produced - akin to the opening drum fill to a piece growing in intensity with each stroke of the instruments' noise-producing apparatus. Strings, plates, stretched skin, metal pipes, mouthpieces… Anything. It was the calm before the storm.

Andy let his gaze fall upon the likely savior, her familiar "W particles" enveloping him in their entirety. Unwelcome, but ultimately ignored, his tail shot out from behind his pant's belt and tugged towards the sky, wagging excitedly for a reason unknown to all the empty mercenaries gathered and watching through the slits of their masks.

Vic took a startled step back.

"Who the hell-...?!"

"Don't bother." W threw back, feigning utter indifference, yet clearly deeply enjoying her little entrance from above. "... I got you all rigged to sing along to my tune, cheap-ass buskers."

And her hand flew high up into the air, a familiar object shining through her fingers - black around the edges, wine-red at the very middle. A detonator strung to a bundle of cables, which still hung high from the branch.

The world around them rumbled. Vic exchanged glances with his troops, Andy smirked like a moron, "Mittens" raised a hand towards her ori-syringes. Big mistake on her part.

"Whoops." W clicked her tongue, eyes aimed at the caster's skull. "Wrong move, girl-y."

And before they knew it, the circling troupe of death and misery found themselves tangled in about a good fifty meters of cheap, black cable. Black enough to remain unnoticeable in the midst of the night, far too light and thin to be spotted by their eyes.

Yet, their pockets felt heavy. Heavier than before, invaded by a previously unknown entity that had somehow slithered past their defenses and made their garbs a resting ground for whatever sick purpose it harbored. One such creature fell from its nest and rattled against the ground.

A scratched grenade wrapped up in cable.

The entire forest fell silent. Lights off for the previous stage-play, a red carpet for their newly arrived conductor. Her baton remained high in the air, as she caught the glimpse of ever-lasting fame, eager to lead her own orchestra of doom, fulfill a childhood dream or two.

Mittens and Vic averted their gazes from the explosive, sliding them back to the newly appeared's smirking face.

And W sent her puppets a little wink.

"Sing for me, hounds. Sing me a symphony of destruction~."

Click.