.
In the name of desperation.
.
Tick. A head splits into thirds. Blood drips into the keg. Beer's fucked, the whole batch.
.
In the name of wretched pain.
.
Tock. The blade dances through a crowd of carefully constructed fibers. Muscle fibers, that is. A splash of red splatters over the girl's face.
.
In the name of all creation.
.
Tick. Andrew grips her hand tight. He doesn't want to get his clothes dirty. He doesn't want her blood on himself. His brain is hardwired to prevent that from happening at all costs. From letting her bleed.
.
Gone insane.
.
Tock. It takes the tiny swordsman a fracture of a second to sheathe his blade. With each sheathe and unsheathe, another body drops to the soaked balks. Alcohol and blood, it's all the same at this point.
.
We're so fucked.
.
Tick. Andrew's a cornered animal. His brain's mush. The shit they serve in Babel? The artificial slushie they dare call "mashed potatoes?" That's the consistency of his body's control center. That's what's controlling the endoskeleton under his skin. Skin and bones, and meat and fat – fibers and nerves, bundles of cables and surges of electricity – all of it, functions wrong. Andrew sees the little swordsman finish another round of ballet routines. His performance garners no cheers or claps, just the grim thudding of flesh splurging on the floor. Weaponry clatters at his feet. A mercenary or two lay out a foundation for his sandals to dance on. W twitches in his hold, but the brain doesn't even allow the thought of letting go.
.
Shit outta luck.
.
Outta luck, they were. These poor, underpaid goons. With barely enough silk to cover the scars that mapped their adventures, these Sarkaz warriors had nowhere else to turn, other than their own graves. The city of Kazdel had no graveyards. The Soul Furnace it was, then.
.
Thud. Andrew, W, the tiny murderer and all the mercenaries who were still alive and, for some reason, eager to attack the mutt, turned towards the nearest wall. The remnants of a wall, now.
The familiar screech of an electric-fed beast creaked their ears inside out. For anyone else, it might've been just the prep-stage of the misery busker-troupe waiting outside, but for Andy and W, it was the welcoming "Hello" of Anton's oversized toy.
Soon, the source had bared its face. A hiss of pistons and steams zig-zaged through the air, as Iron-Gut Betty flew across the bar. Her hat got lost in translation of the constant buzzing, and her graying head of hair was sent as the frontliner to meet a wooden beam supporting the pub's second floor. A grind of machinery crashed into the pole and tore it clean from the ground.
On the other side of the bar, however – light ruled the empty world. Rolls of sunlight tumbled into the establishment, brought and encouraged by the sudden appearance of a bus-sized hole in its wall. Mr Newmaker stood on shaky legs, hair in disarray, with a cruel mockery of what was socially acceptable as a "sword" in his hands. His eyes spilled a waterfall of glaring confidence – or so had everyone thought. You couldn't tell much, with all the random strands of snowy hair in the way.
Only important factor was that he couldn't refuse a grin. Andrew felt himself regaining some shavings of human-like thinking at the sight. His hands tightened around W's, as the whishing hurl of a rapidly spinning blade passed their location and tore apart the nearest few tables, into nothing but a pile of shredded sawdust. Newmaker zoomed by the two and threw himself into the general location of Betty, sword first.
.
"..."
.
Andy and W exchanged a glance. Their faces warmed, annoyed by the intrusion of a third party. They caught the staring perp, and it just so happened to be the little mass murderer. The grim reality dawned on them once more.
.
"... Pacify?"
.
W lost all her cocky smugness. The question came as a genuine attempt at formulating a plan of action. An explosion of wood erupted from within the bar, a by-product of the two old-buddies clashing. Andy nodded, and drank in her eyes. Fear for her tiny antennae rubbed his heart.
"Pacify. We can't really do anything– anything else, right?" He blurted, a second too fast. W had already prepared herself a pacifying agent – the butt of her grenade launcher.
"Nope." She replied calmly, then ducked to avoid a sizable piece of the bar hurling at her head. A hiss of her tongue let Mr Newmaker know that his and Betty's actions came as a great nuisance to her doings. Andy took a glance around the circle.
There was no more daze. The brawl between Betty and Anton was old news. Stale. It was stale, and it was disgusting, and people wanted something new. People wanted the revival of an old forgotten front pager – people wanted the kid's bounty once more.
His puppy-like eyes stilled on the thud of a roaring gallop. From each different side, a money-hungry pair of Sarkaz peepers stared his tiny stature down. Arms, brandishing blades both corporeal and not – arts amalgamations and good ole' steel – reached for the boy and tried their luck. The goal was to pierce his throat, or face, or chest, or leg, or arm, or anything else that would produce a waterfall of blood when cut. A particularly eager Sarkaz mercenary jumped from his buddies' formation.
.
"..."
.
Andy stood and watched, as the kid sought the daredevil out within a mere shimmer of a second. His blade couldn't even fully leave the scabbard, yet the perp had already been dismembered and mutilated, turned from a smiling, happy-go-lucky opportunist to a smiling, still as a rock, floor-eating corpse. It was just that annoying ticking all the time. Tick, and tock. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…
It drove him insane. His mind had already started associating the feeling of pure dread with the chattering of a clock. How could it not? Each time a second passed, a new body would drop to decorate the floor. Each time, a lottery. A lottery of who would it be this time. A lottery of death. The prize? A stuffy coffin.
Andrew watched the kid make quick work of the first two challengers. First one had his innards dragged out with a few swift ticks of the blade, while the other's head had been halved during the blade's returning flight towards its scabbard. When it came time for the third one, though, something must've gone a little off the rails. Andy saw the kid twitch and latch onto his own chest with one hand, while the other dropped the scabbard. At the sudden stagger, the attacking Sarkaz burst into a wide, hopeful smile, and sunk his blade into the kid's stomach.
.
Tick…?
.
The air shifted. As if to reward the model citizen for pacifying such a lousy-disciplined murderer, Kazdel decided to allow the Sarkaz mercenary a few seconds of bottled time for himself. A little ribbon on top, his present came earlier than expected. His wide, bloodlusted grin has forever been engraved onto his mug. The sight of his sword inside the kid's abdomen truly was a blessing. An image to dwell on for eternity.
The ribbon unwrapped from his gift. Time began spilling from his glass. Its red, silk-smooth edges contorted in the air – coiled like a snake, and wrapped themselves around the man. Andrew stood and watched, again and again. This time, he watched a rapid trail of blood erupt from within the grinning man, his life-wine circulating around the air much like the ribbon. His limbs all flew in a different direction each, spreading evenly the coating of guts and worm-like cables across the entire pub. The kid reappeared, standing slumped in the middle of the once-body, a restless pant heaving his chest back and forth. Even beneath the poncho, Andy could see the bursting river of red pooling in the fabric.
With a soft click, his crimson-soaked sword returned to its scabbard. The man's body-less legs flopped clumsily to the floor.
.
"Now?" W whispered in his ear. Andrew met her eyes, equally lost and dazed. To nod would mean to send her onward. Andy didn't want to send her anywhere. Andy wanted to go back to their comfy little room in Babel and stare at the moons with her. Andy wanted to gaze at the stars and hug her tightly. He wanted to keep her away from all the dirts and bloods of Kazdel. He wanted her tiny, little antennae to stop nervously twitching.
.
"... Now." He nodded back. A smooth glide of leather slid through his palm, as it sought out his own shotgun. A little nod of recognition was the best goodbye the two could share at the moment.
"..." W understood her assignment. Her feet sprung to action, right as the perp had cleaved through some Sarkaz meat mountain. Its brainless brawns caught the kid's sword and refused to let go, wrapping its fleshy tendrils around the blade. Although the mercenary had almost immediately died from the rapid slash, his body refused to let the fight be resolved with failure. The kid was left twitching, messily trying to pull the needle from within.
W seized the opportunity and pounced atop the perp.
.
"GOT YA!"
.
Her eyes filled with feral glee, reflecting the kid's gentle surprise when their faces met. Holding onto the grenade spewer tight, her fingers went white.
.
Tick.
.
Then, her cheeks went white. She stopped in place, halted by a gentle prickle to her stomach. The tiny perp was nowhere to be seen.
.
Tock.
.
The sensation grew tenfold. It felt as if someone had grabbed all her guts at once and gave them a good ol' yank. Back and forth, her insides shifted along with the kid's sword.
.
"N-NO!"
.
A strange yell blew from behind, like the Kazdelian gales forecasting a sandstorm. W drew a sharp breath, and her mouth had accidentally filled with blood. It spilled from between her teeth, each trickling current a little waterfall of crimson, trampling down her freshly washed shirt. Like wine from a pellet-peppered barrel, it spilled and sunk into the floor.
.
Andrew's screeching had been drowned by the growing ringing in her ears, and her vision blurred. First, she saw the kid shifting from place to place in the blink of an eye. Then, she saw him with the sword in her belly. A millisecond later, he was heaving and panting, hands held up, clutching the sword.
And lastly, she saw the tip of his pommel. Rapidly approaching, it sure was there.
Thunk.
W fell to the floor, knocked out cold from the blow. Andy shuddered, physically repulsed by the amount of pure terror the sight had brought him. It felt as if each strand of his mind was slowly coming undone. Un-coiling from around the core of his brain, and flowing freely through the swimming river of thoughts that resided in his skull. Andrew felt himself slipping from the pub. From this blood and beer soaked floor, this beaten hovel and this teeming anthill of a city. Kazdel, entirely. Reality, as a whole. His feet soared far beyond the mortal world. They took a dip in the cold, unfeeling embrace of the deathly river leading onward, towards the afterlife. Many hands reached out to gnaw at his ankles, their nails long and scratchy.
Scratch-scratch.
Something scratched his brain. A strange notion.
.
A voice. A familiar one.
.
"... It's me.
I've reached the target destination. I have visual confirmation of the smoke signal's coordinates."
.
Ines, he immediately pinned it to a face. It was her, he knew it well. Bound to know it. He spent half his conscious life with her already. It wasn't true, but that's what it felt like, anyway.
.
"It's been a while since our last fight with the other mercenaries. We've taken some losses."
.
Some losses. Andrew remembered taking losses. Loss after loss, that's how his life went. Loss after loss.
Mom, at first. He couldn't even remember her face. He never really did.
Then, Lem and Mosti. They weren't dead. So he hoped, at least. They weren't dead, but Andy knew he'd never see them, ever again. He's already come to terms with it.
Dad. He couldn't say a single word about the man. Couldn't admit anything, not even here. Not even in the land of the dead.
Droz and Isaiah. He's lost them twice. First, when the Catastrophe had taken their bodies and wrapped in its ever-looming veil of thundering Originium clouds, and second, when he ditched the guns appropriately named after the memory of the two.
Ricketts. Fallen, just like him. Is it every Fallen's duty to die a horrible death? He should've asked him. He really should have, but instead he only robbed him of his name and dragged it across the mud of Kazdel.
And W.
The thought was unacceptable.
It couldn't fully materialize, because he knew it wasn't true. It was a hoax, or an arts mirage. A false image.
Yet, her voice carried on.
.
"... Right, there was an unexpected casualty.
W is dead."
.
.
In the time it took a spider to weave its web, Andrew returned to Terra. To that same ruined hovel, those three and a half walls. His boots mushed against the wet floor, and feeling surged through his skin. All senses remained, sharpened by the scorching fire of hatred.
W lay on the floor, motionless. The little mass murderer just barely managed to wipe his blade, before another mercenary jumped him from behind. His body bent and slumped from some great exhaustion, yet he still managed to lock swords with the Sarkaz.
Andrew groped out the trigger of his gun and pressed his cheek to the stock. A familiar murmur seeped from the barrels, but he couldn't make out what it said. Something about killing or drinking, but who cared? He definitely didn't.
His finger squeezed both triggers at once. A rapidly skidding ball of concentrated lead escaped the twin barres, aimed right at the cone-head's forehead. A confused "Tick?" broke the gunshot's echo.
His meek body disappeared from the pellets' flight path, leaving the blade-locked mercenary without a blade-locking partner. His eyes just barely managed to widen at the sight of the kid dissipating into a blue mist, before his head came split entirely apart, torn wide open by the lead.
Andy blinked. His eyes wanted nothing more but to seek the teleporting fucker out and blow his head off, while his fingers twiddled nervously with the ejected shells. A new pair entered the chamber, just as another "Tock." cut the air.
The flash of a blade shone in a lost glimmer, reflected off some bottle, and Andy caught the perp's blade approaching from above.
CLINK!
He gripped the shotgun, blocking the kid's sudden advance. The poncho came split apart, blown by the lack of wind. Something glimmered beneath – something bright and blue. Andy caught a glimpse of a massive cluster of rocks piling atop his chest.
Clank!
This time, the kid's sword attacked from the side. Andy put two metal barrels between himself and the blade, then pushed hard. The kid's knees bent under the collective weight of his burning rage, and just barely managed to creak. Before another dreadful "Tick" of the clock could come, however, the child just…
…
… gave out.
.
His body fell to the floor. Arms covered his chest and the exposed crystals. The flickering flashes of blue kept rapidly speeding up – blooming like heartbeats, thudding emptily against their rocky prison. He joined eyes with Andy.
Confusion struck the kid. Rage filled the boy. With a flick of the hand, Andy readied his shotgun and smushed it flat against the perp's cheek. His puppy-eyes followed the tip of the barrel, shaking with each violent tremor that wrestled his body, filled with an animalistic sense of fear.
Andrew felt numb. Uncomfortably numb, for once. The buzz of Originium was all he could hear, when his fingers found the triggers and gently tugged them towards himself.
.
"..."
.
The kid fell to the floor flat, seemingly accepting defeat, wordless. Andy would probably feel bad for blowing his head off, but not under these circumstances. Not after W.
.
Before both barrels could sing, however, a gentle whistle of a rapidly approaching projectile split the air apart. It sounded like a word, actually. Andy couldn't make it out.
.
"...oooooooommmMMIIIIIING!"
.
THUD!
.
Something large and hard crashed into his back, effectively blowing him clear off his feet. Andy fell forward, landing atop the kid, nearly imapled on the pile of chest-rocks.
.
"Aw, cunt. Bollocks, mate, clumsy me." A voice from upstairs murmured in disapproval of itself. Andrew felt the mass shifting, soon completely gone off of his back. "... Andy? Andy-boy, ya good? Properly knocked ya knickers off, huh? Had 'ta blow Betty apart, got hit in 'a process." He chuckled. "But we're good! Got 'er ass, hehe..."
"A-Anton, not now…" Andy coughed out from beneath. The second he spotted the kid's caved, conical hat, his eyes glinted with pure, mindless rage. He had him there, gaze latched onto his. A spit of jumbled words, mixing with pure venom spilled from his mouth. "Y-You fucker… you-... you… y-you…"
"Hm? Him? Who?" Anton raised to his feet, supported by Uri's metal hands. The second he spotted Andrew with his hands now wrapped snugly around the kid's throat, a wide grin broke out on his face. "OHO! You got 'im, great work! We're raidin' Tessie's ice cream fridge tonight!"
"H-He… He f-fuh… He…" Andy couldn't properly vocalize his feelings, let alone think of any ice cream fridges. At that moment, there was just one thought present in his head, and it was the need for choking this disgusting, slithery fuck to death. The little mass murderer's legs kept kicking and bucking, and his arms desperately tried prying Andy off of himself, but he couldn't. No words, no noises. No "Ticks" or "Tocks" came either – just the rapidly flashing light of his chest crystal. "H-He… He k-killed… He killed… H-He…"
"Ay, but don't choke the lad." Anton rubbed his chin and gently tapped the boy on the shoulder. Andy didn't even budge, blind and deaf to the outside world. "... Andy? Hey, Andy? We need 'is lil' guy alive. Andy...? Helloooo...? Hey, yer a little pale."
.
"H-HE F-FUCKING KILLED HER! H-HE– HE KILLED HER! HE KILLED- HE KILLED HER!"
.
"Huh?" He blinked at the sudden outburst. Nowhere in his job description did Kal'tsit mention dealing with the hormone-woven emotions of unstable teenagers, so it came as a bit of a surprise. He glanced first at Andrew, then at the little mass murderer, his face now a little purple from the constant lack of air. "Killed who?"
"W!"
"W? Our W? Our temp?" Anton seemed lost.
"O-Our… What?" Andy turned to glare at the man. "Temp? A-... TEMP? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, "TEMP?" SHE'S NOT A TEMP!"
"She was a temp." Anton snortled.
"Y-YOU, WH-... WHAT?" Andy found himself overcome with genuine confusion at the absolute lack of weight Anton's words carried. "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
"That she was a temp." Another chuckle. "... Y'know, since the gal had supposedly died."
"..." Andy was utterly at a loss. Beffudled beyond all reason, confused and dazed, astonished at this creature's absolute lack of empathy. "Y-You don't care?"
"Care? About what, a temp?" Anton asked, seemingly genuine. "... I mean, it's just a temp, right?"
"J-Just a temp...?" Andy asked, softly. There wasn't enough strength in himself to raise his voice. "... S-She's just a temp to you...?"
"I mean..." He paused, lost in thought. Uri buzzed by his side, the gem-eye flickering worriedly between Anton and Andy. "... She kinda is, yeah. Used to be, I mean."
"..." Andrew's entire world was falling apart right before his eyes, starting with the distorted mug of Newmaker's boredom, and finishing on his own, melting hands, that gripped the tiny mass murderer's throat. "... Y-You don't... You don't care...? Y-You actual sub-... subhuman, y-you don't care...?"
"Hey, uncalled for." Anton took a knee by the boy, thoroughly exploring the little swordsman's chest crystals with his gaze. "Phew, what've we got here…?"
"Are you serious…?" Andy let go of his neck. The kid drew a deep, bellowing gasp of air the second his windpipe stopped being squeezed to death. "You're just ignoring me? Y-You really don't care at all?"
"About what?" Anton glanced over, a confused puppy-stare on his face. "... What, yer merc-princess? I mean, it happens."
"What…?" Andy couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Not then. Not ever.
"Whaddya mean "what?" Anton raised a brow. "C'mon, Drewie, it's just a casualty. Like yer favorite tool breakin' at some point, ya know? Ya like 'em guns 'n stuff, so ya gotta know the feeling, right?" Gauging his disbelieving gaze, Anton gloomed. "... Okay, maybe ya don't. So… so put it this way. Ya know, uh… Ya sleep with any stuffed animals? Ya prolly do, don't ya? Yeah, so ya know how they just… they tear, 'n all 'at? Get 'em plush guts out? Yeah, this one's ran its course, too. Off to the trash can she goes."
"..." Andy stared. Anton stared back, but he couldn't understand why the boy's been stunned so hard by his words. By the loss of just a single operator.
"... Andrewie?" He asked, waving a hand before his eyes. "... What, yer sad that yer gonna have 'ta be workin' on yer own from now on? Hey, get yer mop up! It's a merc, we can get ya a new one!" He chuckled, happy with the reasoning. "They grow like mushrooms in Kazdel, bound to pick up another at som' point. Hell, we can go and pick ya out a teammate from Babel, the second we get back home, aye?"
Andy stared. He stared, wide eyed and befuddled beyond all reason. He stared, at the white hair that veiled around his gentle smile. The green eyes that radiated a cheery triumph. A job well done. He stared at the blood trickling down his face, the crimson stream that couldn't bother the man in any way, shape, or form.
"... Aye?" Anton nudged the boy. Andy felt something snap, and he cocked back a fist.
"Andy–...? OW!- ?"
.
Thud.
.
Andy socked him hard in the jaw. As hard as he could.
.
Anton fell to his back, chuckling. Each giggle equaled a mouthful of blood spilled down his chin, as Andy clambered on top of him. Another of the boy's fists had made its way onto his grinning facade, as he straddled his hips and started laying out strike after strike.
.
Thud.
.
After thud.
.
After thud.
.
After thud…
.
"O-Okay! I get i–... A-Aw, y-you cunt…" Anton spat to the side. His saliva mixed with the blood previously spilled by the tiny swordsman, who sat unmoving by the two, watching their brawl while trying to calm his rapidly thudding heart. "Andy! A-Andrewie, get off…"
"Y-You… you bastard…" The boy spat through the gritty grind of his teeth. He bit his tongue by accident, but the pain didn't even bother phasing him. Right that moment, there was only him and Anton, only his fists and the victorian cunt's face. Andy reached behind his back and slammed his knuckles as hard as he could into his "leader's" soft cheek. "You b-bastard. She's n-not… She's n-not a temp... SHE'S NOT A F-FUCKING TOOL."
Thud. Andy hit his face hard. Harder. So hard, that it hurt. Silver lining was that it had to at least dislocate Anton's jaw, though.
It made Andy want to cry. The pain. The physical pain, the mental pain. Both were there, but not equal. Not even close.
If someone were to compare both, one wouldn't even begin scratching the surface of the other.
Tears began leaking from behind his lids.
"SHE'S NOT A TEMP. SHE'S N-NOT A TEMP. SHE'S NOT A TEMP. SHE'S NOT A TEMP, SHE'S... SHE'S NOT A T-TOOL. SHE'S NOT A TOOL. SHE'S N-NOT… N-NOT A TOOL."
After every statement regarding W's factuality as a human, not a temp or a tool, Andy mushed his knuckles into Anton's face. Sometimes he hit a cheek, sometimes he hit an eye, sometimes he hit his teeth and it made him bleed.
Newmaker, though, kept cackling like a moron. Andy kept sobbing.
Both, to some extent, at least.
"SHE'S NOT A STUFFED… A STUFFED ANIMAL."
"A-Aw, fuck, Andrewie… F-... I get it, ehehe…"
"SHE'S N-NOT A TOOL."
"I get it! A-Alright, off! We n-need to get the kid–..."
"SHE'S NOT A TOOL, Y-YOU SUBHUMAN."
"Andy! The kid! Off–..."
"SHE'S N-NOT…"
Andy cocked his fist back.
Before he could finish with "NOT A TOOL", an elaborate amount of force had enclosed around his hand and stopped it from punching Newmaker. Anton's hand whipped and spun his elbow around, bringing waves of sudden pain into his body. Hurt lingered, and Andrew let go of the man at once.
"...?"
"Andy." Anton's voice turned stern. Dry, even. One that'd give a pissed Victorian general a run for his money. "... Stop. It's a direct order from a higher up. I'm telling you to stop."
"..." Breathing in and out hurt. Hurt his lungs, hurt his heart, hurt his head. The prickling reality coiled around him with its barbed wire of a body, but he refused it access to the softest and most tender part of his brain. He refused its teeth to seep venom into his skull. His chest heaved shakily with each tear that spilled and ran down his clothes. Andy stopped, suppressed beneath the man's grip.
"... Okay? Are we good?" Anton let go of his wrist, then slowly slithered from beneath the boy's straddling thighs, his frown uncharacteristically severe. "... Andrew? Temporary Operator Ricketts, I asked you a question."
"..." All covered with snot and tears, Andy slowly nodded. His gaze remained downcast, unable to look at that disapproving glare for even a second longer. All he could muster was a tiny, weak: "... B-But she's n-not a tool."
Anton took a deep sigh. Andy could hear him shuffling to his feet, soon pulling him along.
"Sure. Whatever ya wanna say, just say it once. I got it the first time, twat. Didn't need to nail it into my brain." Anton gave the boy a rough pat-down, starting by the shoulders. "Okay? Are you done sobbing?"
Seeing, or rather, not seeing an end to his tears, Anton glanced over the stunned cone-head, then scanned their makeshift battlefield.
"I guess not." He thought.
.
Bodies, bodies, bodies…
Liters of spilled alcohol. All gone down the drain, evaporated along with their purpose…
Dead Sarkaz hounds. Swine of war. Weaponry scattered between the broken tables and chairs. Chandeliers wooshing lowly by the ceiling, moved by the wind coming in through the broken wall. Nothing out of the ordinary.
And finally, their lost pup. A little pool of red had already started gathering beneath her back. A little pool…
A tiny puddle. Not too much.
That made him think.
.
"Uri?" Anton commanded the air. "... Get 'er here. Gently."
A distorted buzz sounded across the entire establishment. Andy noticed a pair of steel gauntlets working their magic on her unmoving body, scooping her into a flimsy hold. He turned away. Looking at her body hurt. Thinking about her hurt. Being there hurt. Everything hurt.
"... Okay, ya two." Anton cleared his throat, then brought himself and Andy down to the cone-headed perp's level. He reached towards the kid, tone growing much gentler "Heeey, lad. Ya alright? Ya are, I can tell. I'm Anton, okay? From Babel. Ya ever hear 'a Babel, chap?"
"..." Andy watched the perp quietly shake his head. It elicited a click of the tongue from Newmaker.
"... Ya haven't, and that's okay. But you will, don't worry yer lil' head. Babel are the good guys of Kazdel, dig?" He said, with a soft smile. "We wanna take ya somewhere safe, okay? Somewhere where ya won't have ta' drag yerself through pubs 'n chippies 'ta survive, none 'a that. We'll get ya a warm bed, three warm meals a day, 'n a whole lot of warm faces to gawk at, mmm...?"
The kid shifted. His body coiled, as if naturally preparing to pounce atop the man. Still, his blade lay unmoving by his twitching fingers.
"Hey. Hey, hey." Anton moved in, breaking the barrier of personal space. Andy saw the kid tensing up, like a cornered kitten being confronted by a predatory hound. "... Look. Yer scared of the Military Commission, right? These guys?"
He pointed behind himself, to all the dead bodies the little mass murderer had left behind. Somewhere, W was being lifted off the floor and carried by Uri's "hands."
"..." He stared, wide eyed, then eventually nodded. No word managed to leave his throat so far. Not even a sound, except for the rapid breaths. He nodded, quickly.
"Right. These terrible… awful… ugly… big, bad guys." He gesticulated vividly to further emphasize their terrible-ness. "These are our enemies, too. And yer also THEIR enemy, right? And ya know what they say about the enemy of my enemy?"
Anton reached out and picked the kid's blade. The rapid tempo of his breaths sped up even further, but soon returned to normal. And normal was quite fast, anyway. "Easy. Easy."
With these calming words, Anton inserted the blade into the discarded scabbard and gently put it atop the kid's chest. His wide, untrusting eyes slipped from the man's face to the sword. Something had to have been happening inside his head. Some strange processes for sure. Eventually, they resulted in his fingers wrapping around the blade and shuffling it into the endless folds of the poncho's bellows. Anton smiled.
"... The enemy of my enemy is my friend, pal. And we don't want 'em Mil-comm hounds getting their dirty paws on any of our friends. What we want…" He stopped, only to point at Andy. "... Me, and yer "guardian angel" here, we want ya to be safe and sound under Her Majesty's wings, alright? We wanna get ya a proper bundle 'a healthcare 'n opportunities for 'a future. We're lookin' out for the Sarkaz, not looking down on 'em. Poor bastards."
"..." The kid seemed unconvinced, up until the mention of his supposed "guardian angel." The moment those two words left Anton's mouth, his eyes had immediately latched onto Andy and refused to ever leave. The boy felt a strange, churning sensation that chewed his stomach with guilt and pure, burning hurt. Getting shot in the gut by W was nowhere near as painful as losing her.
The perp's eyes didn't exactly help.
"... Right? Yeah? Yer okay with 'at, lad?" Anton encouragingly grinned at the child. Without breaking eye contact with Andy, he nodded weakly.
"... Huh." Newmaker hummed. He seemed surprised by the apparent success. "Well, I mean… Yeah. That's done, yer part of Babel, now. Welcome aboard."
He forced his hand into the kid's and shook energetically. Without caring much about the beatdown tempo of his pulse, Anton pulled him to his feet and patted down with equal attention as Andy.
"Welcome aboard, again, in our lil' three man crew! Used ta' be two man and a woman, but y'know. Heh." He chuckled, then nudged Andy in the ribs. Only after the boy shot him an absolutely soulless look, had he realized that the joke was probably best left unsaid. "... Right. Right, anyhow. We're yer best friends from now on, dig? Nothing bad," He paused, and drew a straight line with his hand across the air. "... And I mean, NOTHING bad will ever happen when yer with us two, okay? 'Cause nothin' bad ever happens in the company of best friends."
"..." Andy filtered all the bullshit through one ear, and let it fly out the other. He heard the soft buzz of Uri's limbs approaching, but he couldn't bear to look. He couldn't accept.
"... Trust?" Anton asked the kid, and reached for another handshake. His conical hat shuffled and moved, as he glanced from the man's face, back to the extended hand he was offering. His lips parted.
"... Trust. I can trust." He said, blankly. The absolute lack of emotion in his words came as a surprise even to Mr Newmaker.
"..." After a few seconds of the kid blankly staring at his hand, Anton just gave up and let it fall. "Right. Right, well. We should probably get goin' then. Betty's dealt with, Drewie. Tough sunovabitch, but I'm tougher apparently, heh." Fate penciled a proud grin over his face. Andrew couldn't even find it in himself to actually look at it, though. "... Right, and-... and that's it. Uri? Uri…?"
Anton turned around to answer the buzzer. Distorted hums rang around the three. A ring of sounds and noises. Blood and misery. Severing the barrier between the nature of Terra and Kazdel in itself, the pub served as a grim reminder of the country's rules of conduct. Slaughter or have your throat slit.
"... Mmm. Nasty work." Anton murmured under his breath, while examining the girl's still body. Andy couldn't find it anywhere, the will to glance over. Not in himself, not anywhere, to look in that direction and hear a confirmation. The words he'd previously thrown around so carelessly.
He killed W.
He. This tiny, blooming idol of childish innocence. With those saucer sized eyes. Those eyes. The eyes of a restless and emotionless killer.
How could this puny picture of commiserable vulnerability ever hurt a fly? How could those eyes ever fill with anything else but a river of pitiful tears? Those eyes belonged to the likes of an endangered species, caged in fright, shot in cold blood with no chance to fight back. At that moment, as Andy stared deeply into those beacons of meek curiosity, there was nothing but pure innocence breaking through the messy curtain of black.
But he knew there was more to it. He knew there was way, way more.
When the blue paint had spilled. When he tainted the air with a metallic stench, and when his blade gripped him, a partner in a waltz, and brought to murder. When blood spilled, and when bodies were sent to rot at his feet, there was no innocence in that blank gaze.
There was no innocence inside, when he plunged the tip of his blade deep into W's innards. There was nothing even remotely resembling remorseful fear, when his pommel slammed into her skull and turned the brain to mush.
There were no feelings when he saw the light leaving her eyes.
.
It was Andrew's sight to witness. It should've been his. He should've been with her.
.
Andy took a wobbly step onward. His legs bent beneath the weight of today.
He lowered himself to his knees and sank to the floor, to meet the kid's curious gaze.
.
"..." Andy was at a complete loss. A loss for words, loss of faith, loss of the will to even bring his lips open. A loss of strength for his tongue to move and produce sound.
And yet, despite that, he spoke.
.
"... What were her eyes like, when she died?"
.
The question lingered. Be it the softness of his query, or the underlying shakiness that permeated its structure, something wouldn't let it die and leave Terra. He knew the kid must've heard. His slim tail crossed a languid arch from left to right, beckoning Andy's to do the same.
.
"... Surprised." The kid spoke softly, nearly mechanically. He understood his vague question perfectly. "They were surprised."
.
Surprised. W was surprised to die. Andy wanted to smile.
He wanted to laugh, and cry at the same time. W was surprised to die, and that's so her. That's so W. That was so, so W.
.
Instead, he nodded.
.
"Was she scared?"
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The kid shifted, only to shake his head.
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"No." The ruffle of fabric stilled, dim, but evident in the moment. "... She wasn't scared. I didn't scare her."
.
At least. At least she didn't die with a brain full of terror. There were worse fates on Terra, and Andy knew. He knew, but he still couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that she had even died in the first place. The picture just wouldn't spawn in his head. It was refused entrance.
.
"..." So he sat. Instead, he sat and contemplated.
.
"I apologize." The little mass murderer offered a soft-spoken solace.
Andy took his words and examined them close beneath the microscope of his brain. The apology seemed strange and weird, and all sorts of unnecessary. Why would he apologize, if W didn't actually die? She just got confused to death. That's not actual death. That's just a pause. It's like a deep slumber. A deeper sort of sleep. Yeah, it was just sleep. Sleep's like a break. That's a break from life. A break from Andy, too. He never really admitted, nor has he told her, but the two of them seriously needed a break from one another.
No, they didn't. He caught himself holding back tears at the thought of lying to himself. At the thought of W simply not being.
.
He glanced to gauge the kid's eyes, but found nothing. Just blank curiosity. He wanted to drop a quick "it's okay" and be done with it, but a sudden noise cut into his train of thought, derailing it completely.
.
"Huh? And ya haven't noticed?" Anton seemed to be quarreling with Uri a few meters away from the two, near the mutilated bar. A few defensive buzzes followed.
"W-... Whaddya mean? Ya can't feel through metal, sure, but that's not feel! Ya can clearly make out if something's movin'. No, it's movin' for sure. It's like a lil' cystybeast in 'ere. Like it crawled inside and now it's tickin' its lil' tail against the skin to have someone let it out…" Anton cackled, then started parroting the steady beating of some weak, dying rhythm. "Yeah? That's the pulse, ya dull."
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Andy turned. His stomach churned at the sight of W's limp arm hanging from the steel giant's embrace, but he carried on nonetheless.
"What?" He asked, and his voice broke. After a quick cough, he asked again. "... What're you talking about?"
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"Oh, nothin'." Anton waved a dismissive flick. "Just that this 'ere moron doesn't know 'a difference between dead 'n unconscious." He scoffed, then muttered. "... Lord of Fiends my ass, moron can't tell a chap from a pile 'a burden-shit…"
Uri'zen buzzed, mentally exhausted. Andrew, on the other hand, sprung to his feet in a millisecond.
"What? What? W-Whatdoyoumeanunconscious?" He blurted, a little too quick. His feet carried him towards the bar on their own. The excited wag of his tail started belying his sorrowful gaze, as he rushed through the pub. "... What?"
"What?" Anton glanced back, eyebrow quirked. "... Andy, mate, a little slower."
"... What's with her? How is she? She's… She's dead? Is she?" He pushed his "leader" away from the floating gauntlets and loomed over the supposed corpse. It really did look like she was simply sleeping, with her hands tucked neatly beneath her head, a tiny flesh pillow for leisure. Anton nearly lost his balance, surprised by how hard the boy could actually push.
"Dead? I mean, dunno. Don't think so." He joined Andy, leaning over her head as well. The boy's hands went straight for her face and cupped her cheek. He had to find an anchoring point, and this was the first idea that came to mind. The realization that he actually had no idea where the pulse should be soon struck him hard, like a rampaging burdenbeast. With one hand rubbing away at her wrist, and another groping blindly around her upper neck, Andy closed his eyes and began subconsciously praying to the Law for one last favor. He knew the pearly gates and all the Saints that resided within have long turned away from him and his hellish existence, but his brain still compelled him to try.
He began by muttering a quiet mantra. A few Lateran prayers, none of them in the actual Language of his homeland. Here and there, a word of Lateran might've slipped in and out, passed by his conscience and laid itself to rest, messily spat by his tongue.
There it was.
His tail stopped wagging at once, instead standing upright and freezing still. The heavens sent him a gift. A gift in the form of an entire bucket of pure adrenaline being injected into his brain. He felt the energizing concoction washing over each and every part of his body, omitting no little crevice and thoroughly distributing the twitchy need to act across his entire organism. His whole self.
His fingers picked up a soft ticking. There beneath her jaw, a little clock managed to find its way under her pale skin, and send Andy a tiny signal in the form of its clicks.
Tick, tock.
He couldn't believe it at first.
Tick, tock.
But it was there.
Tick, tock.
Her pulse.
Tick, tock.
Her heart was beating.
Tick, tock.
Fighting for life.
Tick, tock.
Clinging onto his touch.
Tick, tock.
Refusing to leave him alone.
.
"..." Andy felt his heart rate skyrocketing. His breaths turned rapid, all jumbled and shaky. Without much thought to it, he wrapped his arms around the girl's neck and knees from beneath, then lifted her from the steel claw's embrace. Uri buzzed, confused.
"Andy? Andy, mate?" Anton scratched his head, watching the boy stumble over to the bar and softly place her on top. Tufts of her snowy white hair tumbled down the side, as Andy ran around the place like a headless poultry-fowl.
"SHE'S ALIVE. SHE'S A-ALIVE, SHE'S ALIVE. SHE'S STILL ALIVE. SHE'S ALIVE. SHE'S ALIVE, SHE'S L-... SHE'S ALIVE." Neither loud or quiet, his mumbles invaded the unusual silence that flowed its course around the bar. Anton seemed to have finally picked up on the reason of the boy's eagerness.
"Oh. Oh, she is?" He approached her side, then stuck a thumb under her jaw. A second passed, before the familiarly weak thump of pulse had once more graced his skin. "... Oh. That's what it was…"
"SHE'S ALIVE!" Andy squealed in girly glee, producing a sound so high pitched that a few nearby bottles burst into a cloud of alcohol and shards in an instant. Anton chuckled.
"She is alive, yeah! Good call, Drewie, won't be needin' a new temp." He patted him on the back, as Andy stared at the girl's torn shirt. In the stomach area, a gaping hole squirted crimson liquid – a deeper shade – in moderate waves, for the cut happened to not be so deep. He rolled the fabric up and traced a circle around the wound with his shaky fingers.
"... H-How do we patch this? This is… It's…" Not knowing what else to do, he stuck a finger inside of her and wriggled around. An overbearing amount of warmth poured from the hollowed crater, in the form of blood rapidly encapsulating his fingertip and staining with red. The hemorrhage worsened, to his utter terror. "I-... I…"
"Not like 'at, for sure." Anton clicked his tongue and gently led the boy's hand away. He eyed the wound for a few seconds, tongue stuck out for a more fruitful thinking session. "Mmmmmm… Need to cauterize… No. No, first, disinfect. Find some high percentage liquor, pour it in a tassie, 'n bring it 'ere. Then, we, uh… we wrap 'er up, 'n carry home."
"O-Okay. Okay, okay…" Andy repeated the words, lost in a trance. The trance of feeling her pulse, of knowing she was still there. Just to confirm, he grabbed her hand with both of his and trailed his fingers downwards, until he could feel that beloved thumping of her weakened heart. "... She's still… she's still alive. Right? R-Right, Anton?"
"Yup." Anton stepped back, more than content with the current situation. "She is, STILL ALIVE!"
.
"I'M STILL ALIVE!"
.
The rumble of machinery clashed against the hiss of boiling steam. All heads turned towards the source, as a fallen mound of rubble shifted in the far end of the bar. A rotten pile of litter, teeming with movement of endless worms and grubs. They all crawled and shifted, dug and undug, emerging from within and sinking back into the shattered support beams. Andy felt his knees growing a little weaker at the sound, and the sight. The sound of determined humanity. A humanitarian call to arms, rallied beneath the banner of the taste of victory.
"...Ah, shite." Anton sensed his trepidation. With a hand brushed through the boy's shoulder, he stepped away from W. "... Gimme a sec. Wait here."
.
Click, clack. His fingers broke, then reassembled, with a few snaps.
"Oi, conehead." He threw towards the little mass murderer, who kept still throughout their little reunion with the dead. "... C'mere. Yer gonna fix a lil' mess 'a yers before we bring ya in, alright?"
The kid shuffled to his side without a word. A gentle nod was all he gave.
"Alright." Anton confirmed, with a pat to his back. "... Go, help yer guardian angel fix his mistress up. Sew her wound up, disinfect, and dress up all pretty, hm?"
"What?" Andy broke from the daze that W's warm pulse had caused. Seeing the kid who put her in such a state standing so close to her again, he couldn't help but feel a surge of reluctant disagreement bulging through his skull. "Why? Why him? I don't… I don't want him, so why… Why not you, what…?"
"Why?" Anton threw back, chuckling between pauses. "... 'Cause I got me a bigger fin 'ta fry, Andrewie. For the both 'a us, actually. Lookie there."
There was a finger. A finger of Mr Newmaker, pointing to the far end of the pub, or what was left of it anyway. There, from the tip of the earthy landhill, a toadstool burst and grew. Its cap, a faint crimson, now covered by blankets of sawdust, broke through the wooden ceiling and shed its dirt-for-skin. The hiss of steam erupted in the air, as billows of tainted smoke shot from beneath the mushroom's coat.
Mechanical pistons shifted. Thud-thud-thud, the steel pipes fell into place. Her hand exulted in glee, thrusting a steel gut-piercer towards the sky.
Betty stood on wobbly feet, just barely being held up by the remnants of her exoskeletal power. The buzzing of live Originium surged through her outside bones, when she pointed the tip of her sword at the trio.
.
"ANTON!" She yelled, loud enough to make a few chandeliers drop. "... YA MISSED THE HEART, YA FUCKIN' PISSANT! YER NOT NABBING MY PAYCHECK TODAY!"
.
.
"Ehh…" Newmaker sighed to himself, gripping Uri's handle tight. "... Yes, I am."
.
.
.
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For Kal, I am.
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