No time for introductions. They're a social disease, as W used to say.
"They're just so useless." He'd say, lying bare on a makeshift stretcher. With Ines in another tent, Hoederer and Andy plastered all over himself, W would really relish in those moments when they had no choice but to listen to his infallible wisdom. "Greetings, introductions, welcomes, all those "hi's" and "hey's", the whole lot. Life's not a Victorian cocktail party, there's shit to be done and people to be put in the soil."
"You'll be put in the soil if you don't stop gesticulating so much." Hedley would mutter, laser-precisely locked on the merc-king's arm. It'd squirt some blood from the open wound, soon tamed by his thread and needle. In and out, the toothpick would pierce and enclose his skin, ridding them of a need for a proper clinic. "... Andy? Done?"
"Almost…" The boy would respond, with a pair of tweezers buried deep into the moron's flesh. He'd feel the warm meat parting under his metal grasp, grinding and groping around for the sight of lead. They'd wrap their prey in a death grip, deaf to W's annoyed cries. "... Think I got it."
"You better have, you fucking moron." He'd throw through gritted teeth, looking a little more pale than usual. "... Law-man, I'd blast your head off for that kinda service, you know? I'd blast your head off, but then I'd lose a half-decent sniper."
"And a half-decent medic." Andy would murmur back, while plinking the warm bullet into a steel bucket. Blood-soaked rags would shuffle and fall from their bodies, thudding softly at the floor and laying out a foundation for their crimson-splattered boots. W would yell and shout, promise Andy and Hedley a quick death, then also curse out Ines from a distance. Their little dysfunctional family would spend the day at his deathbed, gauging whether or not the day had finally been his last – and the following morning, they would all somewhat rejoice at the fact that it indeed was not.
Standing by the sleeping moron, Andy and Hedley would chit-chat about this and that, the great whatevers and mindless if's. Sometimes, one would open up to the other about whatever topic lay at hand, and spill a little something that they'd later regret. For example, that's how Andy learned about the big man's tough upbringing, being raised in the mobile city of Kazdel, the disgustingly vile industrial areas. That's also how Hedley learned about the picture that used to bring Andy to tears nearly every night. He never told him the names "Lemuel" and "Mostima", though.
Little friendly exchanges, with little to no weight strung to the bottoms. Pleasant talks by the deathbed of a white-haired reaper, veiled by a nocturnal silence, heard of only in the most halcyon nooks of Kazdel, away from the raging battlefields and booming reaches of mercenary prowess. Something to metaphorically kill the time, before the corporeal killing took form the following day.
He'd stare at his face, sometimes. When the conversations had all died down, when Hedley got switched by Ines and Andy was too afraid to open up to her, he'd imagine himself a new conversation partner, found within W.
W.
Him.
That fucking moron.
That one moron, he couldn't see himself ever parting with.
That one moron he'd fight tooth and nail for, whether it be on or off the battlefield. In the barracks, with a needle in hand, tweezers crushed by his teeth. The field kitchen, avoiding a flinging of knives and throwing of curses, wiping the vegetables off Sarkaz blood, piling grenades on the counter. He'd fight for him.
For them.
For W, and W.
He'd drop his coat in an instant, tear his sleeve off and wrap it tight around his, or her stomach. He'd watch the blood flow, gauge its reaction to his creation, and readjust the compression when necessary. He'd crack open the highest percentage'd bottle of alcohol the mass-murdering conehead could find, and pour it all over her wound. To his utter dismay and fright, the spirits would simply phase clean through her body, spilling at the other side. A fluke, he thought.
.
"H-HAAA!"
.
A clatter of swords broke him from the mindless daze. With brownish explosions of wood erupting within the bar, the grand clash between Betty and Anton brewed to no extent. He stood and watched, his hands softly touching W's warm flesh, as their gigantic swords crashed against one another in unison, drawing sparks and explosive clangs to echo through not only the bar, but also the entire plaza outside. Anton was unrelenting in his assault, surprisingly agile and dexterous on his feet – carrying a blade this large, effortlessly dancing around Betty's steam-hissing slashes, it came absolutely natural to him. Every jab she'd throw, he'd return one with equal hatred. Equal need, an equal bloodlust. Despite that, despite his feral want for a blood-spill, his feet would gracefully always place him barely outside of Betty's effective range, always causing her steaming exoskeleton to choke on its own fumes, and grind annoyedly at this jester running flimsy circles around her. Here and there, poke and poke, Anton stuck the tip of Uri's length between the machinery's cogs, with seemingly no effect. Wherever he tried to poke, a metal plate would shift under her crimson cloak, bulging beneath the fabric and blocking his advance with a plume of apricot orange sparks.
.
Apricot orange.
.
Something tugged at Andy's sleeved arm. A conical pile of straw materialized before his eyes, and led them away from the circus of violence. The twerp pulled at his hand again.
"... Friend?" He asked, curiously.
"Wh-... What? Friend?" Andy firmly shook his head. "No. Forget what that moron said, we are NOT friends."
"Okay." He nodded in confirmation. Whether the notion had hurt him or not, Andy couldn't tell. "... How to address you?"
"What?" It made him a little red in the face, the fact that a glimmering show of swordsmanship and loud clangs was enough to draw his attention away from the single most important person in his life, bleeding out on a bar counter. Andy turned to the perp, pressing down on W's stomach. "What do you mean?"
"How to address you?" He repeated, determined to keep drilling. "... Guardian angel?"
"Guardian a-... What? Wh-... No! No, no "guardian angel", what are you, twelve?" Andy narrowed his brows at the nickname. There wasn't much "angel" left in him anymore, and the constantly wagging tail made sure to maintain a bleak reminder. The horns didn't help either. "Just–... Okay, just "Andy." Alright?"
He wasn't sure what made him give the name up. Something about the perp's puppy-dog eyes, maybe? Or the feeling of W's stomach twitching nervously beneath his touch?
"Shit…" He uttered, watching in horror as more and more blood started pouring from her wound. "You, uh… You're… I mean, you're, uh... Perp? I…" Mumbling, tumbling, stumbling over words… "... What're you? What's your name?"
"Seven Dash Three Dash Seventy Five." The boy recited without the slightest hint of hesitation, like the numbers were welded flush into his brian. It did make Andy a little stunned, he couldn't lie.
"What?"
"Seven Dash Three Dash Seventy Five."
"Wh-... What does that mean?"
"That's my name." The boy nodded. His hat tipped back and forth, falling to cover his eyes. "Seven Dash Three Dash Sev–..."
"Okay, yeah. I got it, thanks." Andy wiped back a waterfall of sweaty curls from his forehead, smearing W's blood all over. "... Is Seven okay?"
"Seven?" The pup tilted his little head. "Why?"
"Why? Wh-... 'Cause it's shorter?"
"Seven." Slowly, the kid nodded. "... Seven. I understand."
"Right. So, Seven?"
"Yes?" His tail wagged, animated by Andrew's polite way of addressing.
"Get me a rag, right? A rag, a sewing kit, a… a bandage? If you can find one, I mean? Was that…" The thought of what he was about to ask for terrified him a little. Andy pointed to the kid's scabbard, just barely sticking from beneath the ocean of piling fabrics. "... Is that thing clean? Was it, um… poisoned? Rubbed with Originium?"
The kid shook his head. "No. Only steel."
"Only steel, great…" An internal sigh cooled his burning brain. At least no major infection was spreading its blooming roots through W's frail body. Looking back, she might've not been so frail when wrestling for the better bed, or when threatening him with "death by W", but seeing her in such a deplorable state made Andy assume that she had always been nothing more but a delicate little flower that needed all the care and attention in the world. All the care and attention his shaking hands could provide at the moment, anyway. "... Seven?"
"Yes." Wag, wag. His tail shot right up at the numbered sigil of a name.
"Why are you still here?"
"Permission to leave. I don't see a bandage anywhere." The kid spun in place. "... And I do not know what a "sewing kit" is."
"..." Andy stared, deadpan. "You don't know what a sewing kit is?"
"No."
"Like… like- like just sewing? Threads and spools, and nee–...?"
"I apologize." He bowed, gracefully. "I'm not familiar."
"Oh, Law…" Andy quickly let go of the girl, leaving her open to whatever monstrosity awaited with its claws bared and eager to be sunk into her flesh. "Okay, look. Look." He gestured, sewing himself a made-up sleeve onto the not-so-made-up sweater. "Right? It's like a little prickly needle, that-... You know what a needle is?"
Seven twitched unnaturally. Something flew through his eyes, shadowed by a gleam of certain fear. He nodded, nonetheless. "Yes. I don't like needles."
"Right. Right, but it's a SEWING needle, right? You use it to fix clothes, or patch up… Oh, Law…" Andy felt the time literally sieving through his widespread fingers. W's body kept pumping blood, and the explosive clings and clangs coming from further into the bar only grew in intensity.
"GIVE IT UP, NEWMAKER!" One of the brawlers shouted. A flurry of sparks lit the nearest trail of hard liquor ablaze, and they were soon encircled by a hungry ring of crackling flames. "YA AIN'T GETTIN' THIS ONE OUTTA HERE!"
"Mate, it's a job thing!" Anton narrowly blocked an overhead jab, pushing with both hands on Uri's tough hide. " 'S my fuckin' job to get 'im back home! I'm not doin' 'is for fun, trust me!"
"Yada, yada, yada." Betty relished in the rumble of heavy plates falling into place under her crimson garment. "Job or not, ya comin' home empty handed today, cowboy! Empty handed and headless!"
Thrust!
Her blade shot high up into the air, accentuated by the skid of steam painting a milky way of momentum along its arch. Anton purposefully cut his own legs with his fluffy tail, and fell to the floor, right by the burning concoction. Before the woman could bring her judgment hammer down, he scooped and flicked her a little fireball of hard liquor into the face. A wild cacophony of screaming ensued.
"Y-YA FUCKING ANIMAL! N-NOT THE FACE! NOT THE-... NOT THE FUCKING FACE!"
"Hey, all's fair, cowgirl!" Anton sprung to his feet, prepping the blade for a deep thrust. " 'Ave at it! En garde!"
THRUST!
He cocked the sword back and swung its tip deep into her shoulder, breaking the plates with an echoing "CLANG!". His feet led them both onward, and the battleground had undergone a shift in scenery, pinned to the wall somewhere out of Andy's view.
Not like he was watching, anyway.
.
"And- and… Okay, spools. Spools, right?" He clutched desperately to his sweater, having sewn on a whole bunch of indivisible patches and sleeves by now. Seven sat politely in front, watching with his incredibly understanding eyes. "Spools, they're small, and they have threads rolled onto them. It's tiny lines of fabric, look." To demonstrate, Andy pulled the nearest loose thread of his sweater. It tightened the collar, messed up the fabric, and left him struggling to breathe. Seven seemed to have picked up on the reason, and gently tugged at the sweater's neck, alleviating the pressure. "... Thanks."
"Yes." He nodded, staring blankly into the angel's eyes. "... That is a thread. A spool, and needle. A sewing kit."
"Yes! Yes, yes, a sewing kit." Andy didn't even bother with his quirks, simply happy to have finally made the kid understand. "Now go find one!"
"I will." The kid stood up, blade rattling into place. "... Permission to leave the premises?"
"Permission? I–..." With a look over the shoulder, a glance at W's blood-soaked shirt, Andy felt a wave of grievous cold slithering down the ladder of his spine. "Y-Yeah, permission granted. Just go find me the stuff, please. Fast, okay?"
"Fast." A nod. "How fast?"
"What?"
"How fast? I am not sure where to find a "sewing kit."
"O-Oh, Law, just… Law, just look somewhere!" Andy burst into a messy blurt, unable to keep himself, and his hands, from W anymore. He clung back to the wound, trying desperately to somehow stop the flow of life-wine with his chattering hands – to absolutely no avail. "G-Go, find some… some shoemaker? A dressweaver, I don't know? Just start looking!"
"Start looking." Seven nodded. "I will go, start l–..."
.
"HEY!"
.
A shout. A loud one, at that.
A violent shout, it was. The kinda shout that rallied a warmongering band under its roaring tone. A shout of a ruthless king-slayer, a man of the people, and a man for the people. The shout of iron-fistedly imposed progress.
Andy and Seven turned their heads at once, tracking the noise all the way towards the ruins of what was once the establishment's entrance wall. Glimmers of dim sunlight battled the drunken flames ravaging the deeper insides, conjoined with an endless supply of sparks, continuously dusted up by Anton and Betty. A pair of shadows, dancing across the walls. One struck the other, and then they returned the favor. Neither of the boys could tell which one was which.
They could, however, trace the source of the shout.
Amidst the shattered floorboards and the clouds of sawdust spiraling through rays of sunlight, a quartet of shapeless beings slithered into view. A mostly colorless quartet, mind you. Their white cloaks blended with the blinding glow of outside, leaving Andy very little to work with here. Friend? Foe? Passerby? A demon from the depths of hell? Lem and Mostima? Lem and M– No, come on. Andy shook the thought out.
The shapes proceeded. Wood creaked beneath their feet, crunching louder than the flames managed to lick the establishment's insides clean. Bathed in hellfire, their figures materialized slowly in the boy's eyes. White cloaks, shiny armor, sharp swords.
Big, buff men. Strong. Sleek. Elegant. Masked. Faceless.
The Military Commission runts.
"Hey! You two! What in the seven hells' happening in here?!"
"Um." Andrew swallowed, hard. Thank Law, the rampaging inferno protected the sound, somewhat shielding it like a worried Lateran shields a wounded flightbeast, or a bleeding Sarkaz, having put aside their initial differences. "... Patrons got a little rowdy?"
"A little rowdy?" One stepped forward, his voice mostly amused. With a wide arch, his blade swept the entire area, taking in the sights of utter death and destruction. "And what, you two are what's left? The winning pair?"
Before Andy could answer, a very loud "FUCK YOU, ANTON!" flew from the deeper bellows and plinked off the Mil-comm helmets. Their eyes could've turned towards the sound. Maybe they didn't. He couldn't tell, with the masks in the way.
"Not really."
"Not really. Right." The grunt reached into his hood to scratch at the itch hidden beneath. "So what, should we wait for them to finish? Someone's getting fined, y'know."
"Oh, fined? Seriously?" Andrew sighed internally, relieved by their apparent lack of violent tendencies, and a more bureaucratic approach to life for once. "How much?"
"How much does this look like to you?"
"This hovel? Dunno. A thousand shekels? Two?" Andrew quickly molded together a rough estimate. He's never been much into the property markets of Kazdel, so it came as a genuine effort. The cogs and gears of the mathematical side of his mind haven't been oiled in a long time. "... Three?"
The emotionless mask seemed naturally unamused. W kept bleeding out. Seven was still there.
"Four? Five? Five, no? I- I don't know the market of- of properties in Kazdel, okay? I don't do economics." Andrew explained, one hand on W, the other gesticulating wildly. They kept shaking, those twiggy fingers of his. Chattering like teeth in the Northern snows. "... Six? I don't know!"
"Give or take, about half a mil." One of the accompanying guards summed the total, a crude abacus molded from bones and wood twirling between his fingers. Andy had no idea when or how he'd produced the tool. "That is, without the additional foreigner fees."
"Foreigner fees? Foreign-... Oh, come on…" His worry melted, washed by the heat of annoyed realization. They weren't here to actually tally any damages up, but just piling up on a Sankta, like the unspoken laws of Kazdel dictated. "... Look, I'm… I– I'm having a bit of an emergency here, alright? There's a girl bleeding out, and-..."
"Yeah, yeah." The third one, a much larger lad, drove a wedge into his rambles. Armor platings rattled, as he made his way over to the little mass murderer and Andrew, passing by his colleagues and sniffling about the air. Once by the bar, he took a glance at W and all the various bottles of hard liquor piled around her. "... This yours?"
"Yeah?" Andy blinked, coiling mentally in preparation. Beneath his coat, the gun had already started whispering sweet nothings of pure, bloody murder, pouring the most intricate ways of dismembering each of those Mil-comm dogs straight into his brain. Each one was more creative than the last, and Andrew found himself stunned in awe at the plethora of possibilities laid out before him. Right as the gun started getting into the ins and outs of lobbing a human head off with a tail as a handheld chain-saw, the runt's voice broke nudged him in the brain.
"Well, if it's yours, and you're in deep shit, then I guess we can start by tallying up some damange control no? That's five hundred silver off your debt. Rejoice, merc-twerp." He had one of the bottles in his hand already. Another of Andrew's signature blinks, and the hound had already drained it clean. That was W's life saving disinfectant, that one.
"Bloody good, this one." He rallied the rest, handing out bottles and popping corks. The raging flames were paid no mind, because they weren't a corporeal enough issue for them to fret over. Each passing second, the establishment was being eaten alive by a massive houndbeast from the depths of whatever laid down there – without a second and third head, but with an appetite of such. Rivulets of clear liquid wiped the soldiers' heads clean off worry, all three of them. There was also a fourth one, but he just stood in the back, near the entrance, awkwardly waiting for them to finish their business. "Lawie, you sure you paid for this?"
"I'm an ex-Lawie." Andrew corrected the big one, expecting a bite back. Suckling onto the bottle proved more lucrative than bullying an angel, it seemed like. "... And no, I didn't, actually."
"Great. Even better. This shit's coming onto your fine too, then. And a little, twenty thousand fee for lying to an officer of the state. Write it up buttercup. Write it yourself."
"I'd rather not." He said. "I'm really busy. Really, really busy."
"Really, really busy man, huh?" Retching laughter spread around their ranks. The one with an abacus had some grace to it, though. He was laughing and calculating at the same time, and it resorted in a sort of weird paradox of held back, blurted out chuckling that didn't really sound all that natural at all. The rest shot him a weird look, but soon aimed it towards Andy. "Sure, whatever. Name?"
"Uh… Vincent Droz." Andy grabbed the first one that came to mind. Poor Droz must've been happy his memory prevailed through the snows and colds of Kazdel. Andy would've loved to send him a prayer, but the Law wouldn't listen anyway, so what was the point.
"Vin-cent… Droz." The smartest of the three jotted in a notepad, held against the back of his trusty abacus. "Occupation?"
"Mercenary."
"Of course! Merc fodder, great. Merc fodder, always starting shit. What is it with you people? Factory work doesn't bite, you know."
"I like the taste of adventure." Andrew explained, as calmly as he could. Teeth were grinding, heart was speeding, and his nails were biting into W's soft shoulder. He let go as soon as a splattering of crimson had stained her sleeve, and apologized mentally to the girl. "And that. Yeah, adventure."
"Adventure, mhm." The abacus-man glugged a swig between writing letters. It seemed like he was the only one of the four who could actually write, and not that well on top of it all. "And the twerp?"
"Who?" Andy glanced at Seven. "Seven?"
"Seven? Bum has a name, that egotistical prick. Self centered as shit, that is."
"Proper self centered." The big one added, and their 'leader' nodded in disgust. Having a name in Kazdel left a bad aftertaste among some. Among others, it felt like a blessing. Andy didn't know what to think of that custom, no matter how many times W poked fun at his name. Or his ribs. Or his skull. Or his stomach. Or just anywhere, really.
"Occupation?"
Andy opened his mouth to follow with a casual, yet slightly rushed "Mercenary", but the kid had other plans. With his tail wagging rapids from left to right, Seven stomped the creaky floorboards and spoke.
"Newest recruit of organization "Babel", serving with two best friends in a three-man operation."
The men took a roundabout glance over each other. Even the quiet one, the fourth one. Their steel rattled, disorientated. It didn't know whether to be drawn or dropped.
"What did you say?" The big one asked, and Andrew was quick to answer. He clambered over the nearest pile of broken tables and stuck a muffling fist into the twerp's mouth.
"Nothing! He said nothing. Absolutely nothing, don't worry about it. He's a, uh… he's a little prankster, he likes playing tricks and shit. They're shit. They're all shit, he's never funny. They're all terrible jokes."
Seven seemed a little confused at the position they've found themselves in, but didn't wriggle or bite Andy's hand. He stood there like a good boy, drooling over his fingers.
"That true? You a prankster, cone-head?" The voice boomed from behind his mask. A stream of burning alcohol kept dripping from between the mouth slit. "... Put them fingers out his mouth, I need to hear him speak."
Filled with dread, Andy listened and let go of the twerp. Seven flicked his head around the three, curious in his passing study. He spoke.
"I can speak."
"We know." His bottle rattled against the counter. "Right-o, name and occupation. No bullshit jokes this time, or we'll start off by dragging your angel friend under the keel, and Kazdel's pretty fucking wide in diameter so it'll be a wild ride. Anyway, name, occupation, all that wham–..."
Seven cut in.
"Name; Seven, occupation: newest recruit of organization "Babel", working alongside recruit "Anton" and recruit "Andy." Current mission status, find "sewing kit" at "some shoemaker, or dressweaver." Effective imminent."
He stated, automatically. Without a single break for a breath. His tail wagged with pride. He was so joyous and pleased with himself. That rascal.
"..." Andrew could only stare in horror at the three Commission dogs, the fourth one still in the back. A glowing sense of realization had already started spawning over their masked facades – the lamplight of a blearing thought train, leaving passengers on their four consecutive stations.
The awkward silence was torn by Seven.
"Sewing kit." He stared at Andy with his puppy-dog peepers. "Effective imminent. Goodbye."
.
Tick!
.
And he was gone. Simply evaporated into a lingering mass of blue smoke.
.
"..."
.
Crackle, crackle. The forest still burned bright. The entire room had succumbed by now, actually. Rubble fell from the ceiling every now and then, and not a single other sound dared break its ambiance. The hum of battle had been really quiet and muffled for a while now. Andy would wonder how Mr Newmaker was doing if not for the forces of Kazdel staring him down like a treat. Alcohol dripped down their shiny armor platings. Flames danced around carelessly in the reflections. Time had stopped.
.
"..."
.
W kept bleeding out. Andy opened his mouth, voice shaky.
.
"L-Look. Look, I can explain."
.
And before anyone could refute, Seven returned.
.
Tock!
.
"A thread." A gust of wind blew the boy back in, leaving him standing right before Andrew. He deposited a large amount of coiled fabric in his arms, then stepped back. "... Needle, no. Needles are hard to find. Needles are bad."
.
Tick!
.
And there he went, again. Blue smoke, arms full of messy threads. Andy dropped it all to the floor, as the biggest and loudest one drew his sword, sparking up a storm of fiery plumes emerging from within the scabbard. The blade couldn't even fully leave its tomb, stopped in place by a shotgun blast from the hip. Andy frantically flicked the gun all over the place, in search of a faceless mask, but his twitchy fingers got a little too excited and sent the other blast into a nearby pillar. Already half-eaten by the rampaging inferno, the support simply gave out under the lead cloud and shattered. The "leader", so be it, flinched at the gunshot and recoiled back, startled both by the sound, and the sight of his second in command's guts zig-zagging out of his armor and cartwheeling across the bar. He fell right under the broken pillar, accompanied by a chorus of cracking and creaking, a flaming feast bending and bulging the ceiling above. The bloated mass kept advancing on and on, wailing in anger at the evident lack of its support beam, and finding only one person to blame – the Mil-comm dog. His arms reached for the heavens, as they all tumbled down onto him and severed the roof. Andy rushed away from the disaster site, losing sight of the rest in clouds of eye-prickling smoke that arose from within. W was his top priority. His only concern. One and only. Everything and all he's ever had.
With the thread dragging behind him, Andy jumped to her side as quickly as he could. His knees slammed into the bar, screaming with pain along to the wailing agony of the burning establishment. No time for damage control now. No point in worrying about himself, when her entire shirt had already all gone red.
"Fuck… F-Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" This vulgar mantra kept spilling from his lips, "Fuck… F-... No, n-no…"
Andrew let go of the threads. First, he grasped his head, then hers. Groped his way back to her pulse, and couldn't quite find it. Whether it was his own body that pulsated so violently that it muffled any other sensation of tender touch, or W actually having lost the pulse, he couldn't tell. He couldn't tell, but he begged the Law for the former.
"Come on… Come on, s-stay… Stay, p-please, stay… please stay, p-please stay…"
.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
.
Warm blood pooled in his ears, buzzing annoyedly and ringing loud. All the apocalyptic sights happening around, the catastrophic meteor shower of burning wood, plains of jet-black fire smoke, screams of agony and pain – they never existed in his current reality. They had their passes revoked at the entrance to his not-so-idyllic Eden, and weren't allowed inside. In this blood-sealed bubble, only W managed to take corporeal form. Only her body had any warmth to it, but it was seeping. Sieving through his fingers, like sand. Escaping more and more, slipping away with each second.
He didn't know what to do.
The gun kept clattering, vulgary demanding a fresh batch of ammunition, the world kept burning. His world kept falling apart.
An invader struck the gates of Heaven. Andy, as its only defender, took on the opening blow.
"Fuck, fuck, f-... AGH!"
He felt a hard object slam against his back, sending him plummeting onto W's still corpse. The girl didn't even bother to wake and check what it was. Slam after slam, the same, annoyingly hard, object kept bludgeoning him to a state of near unconsciousness. With the last grasp of reality, a sight of W's closed eyes, he managed to turn and grasp at the wrist that bit. He caught a handful of metal, and put all his leftover strength into twisting it away.
The would-be-killer missed. His weapon struck the bar, and left a sizable dent – an abacus-shaped wound.
Working purely on instinct, Andy saw a lot less than he'd like. There was no pub, no W or no bar.
There was only himself, the wrist he held, and a deep need for bloodshed.
First, Andy twisted the arm away from the abacus. Its beads clanked and rattled in sadness, distraught to see their owner being taken by surprise.
Then, he slammed his right horn into the devil's mask. As hard as he could, Andy just fucking socked the cunt in the head, and it bent the metal.
"Fuck…" He spat a mouthful of devil blood. Devil blood was cheap, and devil blood was worthless. Andy knew that the spilling of devil blood meant nothing, so he headbutted him again, and again, and again, until there was no mask anymore, and there was only a very confused, very bloodied devil. Andy grabbed that devil and shoved him into the side of the bar, face first.
"..." A meaty thwack was followed by the burst of crimson life-wine, all splurging across the counter and floor. He ripped the hood off his face and tangled a bundle of fingers in the fucker's hair, only to repeatedly pound down on the bar, until there was a dent in it. He couldn't quite cave his face in, 'cause there was a pair of horns in the way, so he dropped him to the floor and reached for his own tail.
Here, a glimmer of remembrance had managed to slip its way into Andy's brain. A memory emerged, and his gun whistled with pure, childish joy. The boy spooled his tail around the devil's neck, just two - three times. He tried grabbing it to untighten the deathly embrace – but to absolutely no avail, for the lumberjack had already started his work. Timber, some would say.
Andy pulled his tail, hard. First, in one direction, with the tug of a hand. Then the other, with a swing of his hips. The devil's face went pale, then purple, and then his tongue flew out, as the boy kept hand-sawing the tail back and forth, back and forth, chaining through the fibers of his neck and cleaving into the meat beneath. And what sort of meat it was, oh let me tell you! Juicy and bloated, bursting with glistening moisture of red – and the more he dug, the more he cut this unyielding log, the more pretty juices came spilling from his hand-saw. The deeper the chain went, the more work it required him to put in – the deeper the saw reached, the quieter would the devil's whimpers dim. Once he'd severed the vocal cords, there was nothing for the devil to whimper with, so he just shut up.
Meat, meat, meat. Red, red, red. Dance red river, dance! His hips swayed, swung wildly to the left and right, followed by violent tugs of both hands, as he axed his way through, sawed the excess brains off and finally split their final sweat in half, with the drop of a head, a meaty thud lost in the splashes of floor-blood.
The body dropped. Armor rattled.
Andy stepped back, red all over. The face, the hair, the halo, the tail (especially the tail!), the hands, anywhere you'd look.
.
Dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-dud-
.
His heart was a flutter. It beat too fast. It was too fast, way too fast. Rapids of tremors overtook his arm – left and right, and Andy couldn't think. He couldn't do anything, he couldn't look or think. He couldn't think at all, and he couldn't even move. Or think. He couldn't think. His heart was maladjusted, and it was about to pop from all the rapid-fire shrinks.
But there was W. There was W, that much his mind knew. There was W, and he needed to be by her side RIGHT this instant, or else. Or else what? Or else, Kazdel would implode. Kazdel would collapse in on itself, and it would all end with a fiery explosion of her smiley-face-tipped grenades, spelling out the letter "W" with a flaming devil's tail. It would all be over, provided he would not locate himself by her side, imminently.
Andy forgot how to breathe properly, so the way his breaths came in and out felt more akin to a heated houndbeast's pants. Rapid inhales, flying exhales. His body flew towards the bar, and he was left swimming on his elbows, topping the counter. W was there. She was still there, and that's all he wanted to see.
He reached to touch her face. Fingers curled around her cheek, and he dirtied her pale skin. It was all red now, bathed in the insignificantly useless devil blood. W's blood could never be insignificant, or useless. Or cheap. Or to be wasted. Her blood was priceless, and there was so much of it all over her stomach. Her heart couldn't even pump any more out.
"..." Andy slipped to her neck. His boiling hand had melted into her skin, and they were now one. Their flesh managed to melt into a burning concoction of ringing blood and ice-cold fibers, and Andy did not like what he was touching even a bit.
Not one bit.
She wasn't moving. He touched around, he grazed her neck all over, like a graceful doe frolics around a beautiful pure clearing, but he couldn't feel anything. His fingers slid into the crevice where her pulse should've been, but managed to find nothing. No thudding. No ringing. No tick-tocking of a stopwatch. Her heart wasn't beating.
"N-No…"
A quiet whisper left his lips, and something cold struck him in the spine. An icicle that melted and washed down his entire body.
"No… N-No, no, no… no, no, no, no, n-no, no, n-... no…"
His fingers kept seeking, both at the wrist and the neck. He explored her through and through, like he's never explored her before. Every inch of skin, clothed or not, thoroughly ghosted over. Every molecule of W, left checked, but he still couldn't hear the heart beating.
She was silent. Everything was silent. Everything hurt, but it was silent. Quiet, silent pain.
A bloated lump of purple hurt had formed on the back of his head, but Andy couldn't be bothered to notice. It hurt, but it was a lesser-pain. A lesser-important one in the hierarchy of pains, for the most burning and stabbing one came pouring directly from his heart. Gales of sweeping and stinging something were all his body could cling onto, and a gale appears as fast as it disappears, so Andy was left supported by nothing. He fell hard against the bar, and his knees hurt, but it was just another example of a lesser-pain.
.
"W…?"
.
A whimper arose from his lips. He wasn't sure whether it was his own voice, or someone else's, because he's never heard himself utter something so utterly soulless.
So empty. Dead and black, void of anything even barely resembling a glimmer of hope. Drained.
Utterly drained.
"D-Double… Y-You…?"
A fine line between human and wreck. He threaded it clumsily, a never-before seen endeavor.
"D-... D-Double Y-You…?"
And he would ask.
"Double-... D-... Doub-..."
And ask.
"... D-..."
And ask.
"..."
But she wouldn't respond.
.
She wouldn't respond.
.
Tick.
.
A soft click, woven from a matter of nothing in particular. Seven "tick-tocked" his way back, panting rapidly by Andy's side. Wordless, he cluttered a mess of sewing needles near the girl's blanket of hair.
"N-Needle. "Some shoemaker" had many, m-many sizes. I apologize for-... for making you wait."
"Needle." Andy mechanically latched onto the concept. Needle, and thread. There was thread in his other hand. A needle in one. There was also a hole in her stomach, and these two could help close it. They could help close it, and they could help W.
"... Thank you. T-Thank you, Seven." He mumbled, while shakily pushing the flimsy thread through the tiny hole at the larger tip. "... Y-You're a… a lifesaver, you know…? A real lifesaver…"
"I don't understand." He politely nodded. "... Lifesaver, I don't know that word."
'O-Of course you don't… o-... o-of course y-you d-don't…" Warm tears were spilling down the boy's face. They all tipped and tapped softly into the mess of frothy blood and alcohol at their feet. "S-Seven…?"
"Yes."
"T-Thread this f-for me…?"
"Of course."
Seven gracefully took over. He must've seen the motion before, because his fingers automatically found the hole and led the material through. His tail wagged, awaiting Andy's praise.
"T-Thank you." Was all he uttered. Turning back to W, the job seemed almost simple. Simple enough. Sew two flaps of lacerated skin together. Just connect them back into one.
Andy sunk the needle in her flesh.
It still felt soft. Soft as silk, a bit lukewarm. Under his touch, her stomach rippled and dragged, and he knew it must've hurt her a little. As an apology, he rubbed a hand along the base of her horn, and promised a proper one once she'd woken up. He could already picture it – some grand, candlelit dinner in their tiny room, shared by the lovely sights forecasted through the window. Maybe invite the moons as guests too? He never flicked the idea away, only kept it as a possible if. Ifs and Ifn'ts. What if she wanted to have that moment just for the two of them, without the lunar intrusion? What if she wanted a little privacy? Andy did not know.
He weaved the thread through his teeth, then ripped. The two ends, he quickly tied together. Seven watched his dress-weavery at work, diligent, but curious.
"Why are you doing that?" He asked, then poked the girl in the side. Andrew wanted to tear the knife from her ankle holster and rip his entire hand off.
"... Doing w-what?"
"Fixing her wound. She's cold."
"She's not cold. She's lukewarm."
"She's lukewarm." Seven nodded apologetically. "I am sorry."
"It's okay." Andy wiped a dragging line of snot from his nose. There wasn't even a sleeve to shield his skin, so it got smeared all over his arm. Not like it mattered. "..."
"She's not moving."
"She's not moving, because I'm not done yet." Andy corrected the boy, then reached for his pants. He produced a shotgun shell from within, then popped the cap. "She will move, when I'm done."
"Done." Seven pondered the idea. "Done with what?"
"Healing."
"Healing." He hummed. "... Are you a healer?"
"No." Andy shook his head, while gently sprinkling a fine dusting of Originium powder over her stitches. W was nice enough not to question his medical practices. "No, I've never done this before."
"I understand." Seven nodded again. He had an affinity for that head movement, it seemed. "Are you a good healer?"
"Not physically." Andy snapped his fingers by the powder. It all flared with a brightly crimson flame, then disappeared in the blink of an eye. W's wound was left scorched, but somewhat cauterized. Something between a mortal wound and a properly patched incision. "..."
There was something else.
Something was wrong.
Eyes.
Masks.
Movement in the fire-fog.
"..."
Both their heads turned, allured by a messy stepping. Crumbling and clambering over the debris, an armored, most confused and distraught, figure had managed to close in on their location. Coming from beneath the inhumanely black ocean of fumes, his black cloak had garnered a new, coal-gray hue – it went well with the rest of his surroundings. It was all sad and gray. And red, because the flames still haven't satiated their hunger quite yet.
"..." He stopped, staring at the two like a caught teenager. Caught in the act, caught in bad company. Neither could see or hear, but they knew he gulped hard. "... Look. Look, wait. I can explain."
"Seven, kill him." Andy politely requested. The boy nodded, then reached inside his poncho.
"WAIT! Wait, wait, please! Look, I didn't wanna come in here, okay?" The Mil-comm runt pleaded, then tore off his mask. There was a devil's face beneath, and Andy couldn't allocate any more resources in his brain to remember or register what he looked like. He seemed young. Young and bright enough. "The rest just dragged me in, okay? We were on patrol, and they just saw a quick buck to be made, and they–..."
And he kept talking. The fourth one, it had to be. The one who stood in the back and did nothing. The innocent and the worried, the lamb of a world filled to the brim with wolves and foxes. A rarity in Kazdel, the sight to behold.
Seven turned back to Andy, eyes searching and curious. He nodded back.
"... And I wanted to leave all this crumbling shizz alone, okay? I had no business with you, I don't even… Look, I don't even care that you're an angel, okay? I don't! I wouldn't have… Really, I wouldn't have ever come here. I wouldn't…"
.
Tick.
.
Seven flew off, carried with the wind.
The voice stopped in an instant, so Andy guessed he must've severed his vocal cords. Whatever. There were more pressing matters. Pressing, in the most literal sense. The only sense that mattered.
Andy remembered this and that. That and this, the white haired menace teaching him cardiopulmonary resuscitation once, on a minced meat Hedley-buffet. The big man, cleaved near in half by this or that, bleeding to death in their arms, had no one else to turn to but them. Ines was somewhere out there, fending off a flock of battlefield vultures, and Hedley had no caring arms to carry him home – only the moron's wide grin and Andy's rapidly twitching eyes.
"What do I do? What do I do, W?" He asked, and the devil chuckled. It was a grenade-made crater they were hiding in, Andy remembered it somewhat clearly. The details were escaping him. It was a tense few minutes.
"What you do," The devil took his hands and guided to Hedley's chest. "... is you press on his man-tits, Lawie. Get between those mountains, oh just like that. One hand over the other."
There, The King Of Mercenaries, W himself, loomed over the tiny Andy-pup and fixed his tiny shoulders to a more proper position. Arms outstretched, he said. Elbows unbent.
Hedley wasn't breathing, and they both knew it. Andy worried about Ines cutting their throats at the revelation, and W feared losing his sturdy right hand. There was mutual benefit in the revival, and an equilibrium needed to be reached. The market hungered for a kickstart, and Andy had to give it his all.
"Pump away, Lawboy." He said, with an eager pat to the back. "Pump away and don't look back. Up and down, to the beat of your heart. How fast is your heart beating?"
Andrew couldn't make it out. Blood was boiling, and the intensity was measured blind. He had his hands on her upper chest, and that's all he could remember. Place them there, find a nook and start pumping. How? He didn't know.
"Fast, W. Very fast." He whispered, to the cleaving noises of meat parting bone. Seven must've been having some fun with the Mil-comm twerp, and that was good. Good, good, the beat of a sword tearing through flesh. It was good.
Up and down, his tail went. It dictated the tempo, and dictated it good. A conductor rallying his opera, the twitchy worm kept spasming out in twitchy, controlled jerks that tugged at Andrew's strings and kept him in motion. Kept him in a steady tempo. An upbeat one – one that could rip the dead from their graves and line-force into an undying formation.
Seven kept butchering. Meat disintegrated. Fat melted and soaked the floor. Bile streamed in multitudes. An abundance of blood tipped the reddest points over the wood.
And Andy kept pumping. Hands joined into one, pressing repeatedly on her ribcage, breathing an air of life forcefully down her windpipe.
.
One-two.
One-two.
One-two.
Faster than that,
One-two-one-two.
One-two-one-two.
One-two-one-two.
.
.
His older W glanced over his shoulder to check the healing-work. It was there, and it was somewhat reminiscent of what he had taught the boy. Good student. Bit of a moron. Bit of an idiot. All traits inherited from his teacher, very well learned. Good boy.
Andy couldn't stop. He'd already started, and he had to keep going. He had to find a cord and keep pulling till he kickstarted W back into a state of her usual dissonant consciousness, til her blabbermouth went chattery and teeth spilled from inside. Up and down, the little handle went, each stroke eliciting a sort of strange murmur that rippled through his skin and blew apart any other thought. There were no thoughts, only the current moment. The flowiness of life proved real, and Andy had to thank some Minoan philosopher-egghead for explaining that to him, because otherwise he wouldn't have understood why exactly was it that nothing felt real. Because nothing existed to stay the same – nothing was coded to remain, and everything was meant to flow by and welcome a new "thing" to take its place. And here, everything kept flowing.
The blood around him – rivers escaping with a lazy current, curled around the feet of a newly welcomed guest. It was Seven, back from his slaughtering rampage, thoroughly soaked and most excited over the prospect of seeing Andrew so focused and determined.
"Seven?" He spoke between pulls of the invisible cord. Something was coming, something amidst the deep and cold ocean of utter nothingness that surrounded the lukewarm W. Something warm. "Seven?"
"Yes." Seven wagged his tail, that sweet pup. Wagged and wagged, awaiting more bones for his work and existence. "I'm here."
"Good." Andrew commended his feat. Having someone be there was quite the achievement, because it was usually him who'd be around people, not people who'd be around him. He glanced at the tiny mass murderer. "I need you to stay here. No matter what happens, no matter what goes on, or no matter who else comes, I need you to sit here and never move. Okay?"
And Seven nodded.
"Okay."
Good, Andrew thought. Very good.
The chest compressions were a deep plunge into the aforementioned ocean. A bowl of dark nothing, sludged with memories and residue of a time that would've been. Andrew navigated his way through the thick and the thin, and he reached into the deepest and darkest crevices. The caverns lurking beneath it all, the no-access points where no life dared bloom – that's where his eyes would betray him. No light from the surface, no battery in his Ori-powered diving lantern, for he, the holy diver, had to find it in himself to navigate the treacherous depths on his own. Each pull brought him closer, each yank of the cord worked as a propelling force to push him deeper towards the core.
She wasn't breathing.
Her heart wasn't beating.
But she was still there. Andy knew it, and that little thought kept him going. Far, far, far above he could hear the muffled crackling of logs succumbing to arson, and the bated breaths of Mr Newmaker, a lost cause reappearing on a whim. "I put that bitch in the ground", he said, and it sounded almost as if he was proud of that feat. Almost, because there was also a trepid blankness in his voice, the likes of which Andrew has never heard before. "I didn't want to, but she wouldn't let go of me collar."
And the collar was important. And the new voice of Mr Newmaker was important. The new image of a person already hated enough. It only pushed him further, it made him want to reach out and try something new as well.
His hands kept pumping into her ribcage, the cord has long been sent flying. Amidst the overbearing darkness and rocky tunnels, Andrew found the miniscule glimmer of warmth. A sliver of warm skin. A hand, reaching and yearning for his.
He grabbed it, and held it tight.
A kindling of kinship ignited his palms. As Andy pumped and compressed, blowing nothing but wishful thinking into her body, the buzz of a steady and mighty current filled his ears. It was a current that spread from the northern border of Kazdel and encircled Terra whole, then returned to the source. A rapid railway.
A community of Originium.
Rivers of that buzzing substance were held far beneath the crust that the mobile city of Kazdel had bitten into. Right this moment, Andy could feel all of it – connect with it and bask in the warmth. The crystals inhabited the unsearched and uncovered caverns of below, and they yearned for company. They had a voice, and the voice wanted him to know that they were lonely. That they had no one to turn to. It was cold and dark down there. It wasn't a life that needed to be led.
His mind severed the connection in an instant, bringing him back to more earthly manners. The manners of Kazdel and its burning fireball-pub.
Here, Originium worked more like a teeming anthill than anything. From each side, mounds of uncut and untamed crystals were spilling and burying Terran life like vultures, each taking a limb or two for growth and nutrition. For a semi-symbiotic, parasitic and unwanted bond between flesh and rock. What did the rocks hide? Andy didn't know, because these ones refused to whisper.
He felt his gun. He felt the Originium buzzing inside the shells, and to his surprise, he felt nothing inside the barrels, the body, or the stock itself. He felt the glow and surprisingly terrifying presence of Newmaker's sword-gem, but he did not feel anything washing off his own weapon of choice. Uri, though, kept Andy anchored and at bay. Uri did not speak, but he sure did have another way of communicating his orders. Andy listened, and focused on his hands.
His palms felt a flurry of shards beneath. A proper blizzard of tornado-ing crystals and spikes, an ecosystem built on a dying organism, a host slowly parting with its body and a newcomer eager to quickly take their place. W was standing at the door already, a comically cartoonish briefcase in one hand, a waving hat in the other, goodbye-ing her corporeal form in a proper classy manner. Andrew slapped her over the horns and wagged a finger, disciplining and warning about the discourteousness that came with pulling a Victorian goodbye.
He felt the shards respond. The Originium in her bloodstream, the spikes right beneath her skin. Entire nails of crystal, all itching to burst from beneath and say hi to their new conversationalist friend. Glowing with warmth, pulsing with a current of nerve-borrowed electricity, they flocked to his fingers like a kennel of puppies, all eager to lick his skin all over.
Andrew had no idea what he was doing.
Carefully, he guided his finger inside her ribcage. Warm and soft, it felt, and it was nice. The Originium puppies cuddled up to his skin and whined for affection, but he had little to spare. He led them further in, and they allowed him free access to W and her flesh. They let him worm right in.
There, he reached her heart with the tip. His nail rubbed gently against the surface, and it actually felt a lot warmer than he had initially assumed. Be it a few months ago, he'd find an icy fridge waiting for him with its walls unstocked and door messily left wide open, but now, in the current moment, he found a slightly warm oak, wrapped from head to toe in barbed wire. It was barbed wire, because it cut his skin. Andy poked her a little, and the oak bent. Its leaf crown ruffled gently and a flutter of wind tenderly ripped a few fronds from their slumber. The oak, as unmoving as it might've been, seemed lively enough, and that made him happy. Unreasonably so.
Unreasonably enough to poke it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again…
And again, until all of those stray Originium puppies had managed to drill their way inside. Until they were snugly in place, located within her core. A little gift.
.
A final push.
.
Andy gathered his hands and snuggly pushed them into her ribcage. Newmaker glanced over his shoulder, catching an asking glance from Seven. He had no idea what the little moron was doing, so he just shrugged him back an equally questioning frown.
But Andy didn't care.
He pushed on her ribcage.
Felt his brain overheating.
A genuine burst of warmth flaring within himself.
And a rapid current of electricity hurling through his fingers, reaching far into the marrow of her bones, then the dead flesh, and finally each Originium needle pricked into her heart.
In that dreamy forest clearing, where the oak stood, a vortex of blackened clouds swirled dangerously about the sky and devoured the bright blue meadow. Thundering roars of lightning feasted upon the ground.
The Originium puppies shuddered in fear, clinging to the mighty oak ever so tightly. Their hides attracted the electrical surge, and soon a chaotic thunderstorm had erupted above her heart.
Lightning struck.
The current bit.
Its gaping jaw enclosed around the still muscle and sank its teeth deep into the ventricles, again and again, for as long as the cuddly pups deemed necessary.
A wild spasm shook the heart awake.
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
It was lost and confused, and it didn't know what was happening.
Something had forced it back into a line of duty, but it didn't quite understand why. There was the promise of an eternal rest still lingering in its mind, but some cruel hand had gripped and crumpled that sweet thought away. It trashed its holiday plans, and shoved back into the eternal circle of repeating shrinks.
W's entire body twitched in a manner most uncontrolled. Her arms, legs, then her head, finally her tail and antennae – all went sideways, then backtracked around to a standstill. The antennae in particular, those flimsy bastards got bent in every way, shape, and form, yet still retained their motoric functions when her eyes shot wide, WIDE open.
.
"G-GAH!... A-... A-Ah… Ah…" A strained breath burst through her lips, chest heaving rapidly. Almost immediately, she lifted herself off the bar and backed off against it, confusedly running her sight over the remnants of the pub.
.
"..."
.
Andrew reacted with equal shock. He really wanted to meet her slit-pupils and confirm once and for all that he's managed to drag her from that deep, deep, unfeeling depth, but her gaze kept darting all over the place, everywhere – all at once.
Until it fell on Seven.
And fell off, in an instant.
"O-Wow! Lookie! Miss temp's back from Kharon's chilly arms! Welcome, welcome." Newmaker chirped and warbled behind the boys' shoulders. One second, he was looking at W, and another, it was Andy's back. "O-Oho! Real eager, I get it. Get 'em peepers all wet and soggy. We got time for a reunion, 's for sure. 'Til the buildin' burns down, at least."
Andy threw himself into the girl's arms, and wrapped her up in a tight, most desperate embrace. W shuddered at his touch, a cornered animal's first response to human kindness. She needed time to readjust, and to wring her brain clean of that high-depth, dark sludge. That substance, that muffler, that stench, and the general feel of death.
Slowly, glimmers of familiarity started coming back to her. The more he hugged her, the more she found herself enjoying and relishing in the feel of his shaky, lanky arms around her pain-permeated body. Everything hurt, not just that hole in her stomach. Each little part, from the brain all the way down to the tip of her tail. Everything still seemed so off. So bright, so foreign and distant.
Dangerous.
Her eyes found Seven. The boy, adhering to Andrew's words, stood his ground and watched back, curiously scanning her gaze.
His eyes were soft and inquisitive. The sight invited a natural-born response similar to the feeling of seeing a puppy being cute and doing adorable things.
.
But W felt threatened.
For the first time in her life, W felt very threatened. Not just for her own safety, that was the worst part. For the first time in her life, not only did she feel threatened, but she also felt the need to protect someone else. She felt a blooming and veining weed growing over her entire body, and somehow found herself compelled to let it fester there. Not only that, she also couldn't help but water and favor it over other weeds from time to time. She kind of loved that weed, actually. She'd kill for that weed without a question.
.
She also knew the weed would kill for her.
.
"L-Law… Law… T-Thank Law… T-Thank… Thank fuck…"
Andrew swam in a state of blissful elation. There were some other feelings attached to it, sure, but it was mostly elation. Past the trepid worry, the grave fear and utter shock, Andy was left with nothing but a deep and true sense of happiness at the turn of events. The feel of W in his arms, the gentleness of her hair flicking through his cheeks, her rapid breaths ghosting over his skin, the surges of warmth that came with each snuggle, each nuzzle of his head further into her chest.
She was there.
She was alive.
And she was with him.
Andy hugged her tight.
W hugged back.
Everything was good in the world.
Newmaker was chortling, throwing a witty, wildly out of place remark to Uri every few seconds, and the blade was buzzing softly. Splattered with red all over, he's seen enough bloodshed for today. So he thought, at least.
W hugged back.
Andy held her tight and promised himself quietly to never let go. A mantra of thankfulness spilled from his mouth, and he couldn't think of anything else but the gentle, but rapid beating of her heart. He could feel it now.
W hugged back.
He could feel her arms slithering around his body, slipping over the lumps of pain growing from the back of his head, all the way down to his thighs and knees, where they'd linger for a few seconds too long. Andy didn't know why she kept touching his pants so much, but he didn't bother asking. He needed to focus on holding back the tears, and it proved a little difficult.
W hugged back.
And she hugged tight. Andy felt the embrace growing in intensity, but he couldn't tell whether it was his or her arms that were doing most of the work. She's dug her fingers into his cargo pockets, but he didn't know why. It's not like he'd ask, anyway.
Tink-tink. W hugged back, but there was also the rattle of shotgun shells.
And her hand had left his back. Andy didn't know why, but he also did not want to act a leech. Hugging and being hugged felt nice, but he couldn't just focus someone to do something they wouldn't want. She kept shuddering so much, like a scared, wild animal. Maybe that's what it was. Maybe she just needed time. Maybe Andy should've just let her readjust to the world of the living before greedily taking so much.
Click-clack. W hugged back, but there was also the grind of metal and wood against the bar. A shotgun's chambers were fed in a blink.
Andy couldn't help but feel it sounded familiar. A confused yelp shot from both barrels.
.
BANG.
.
A wild gunshot tore the entire moment apart. He jumped away from W, and she dropped the gun.
"FUCK!" Newmaker yelled in disarray, eyes widening. A gloriously chaotic splatter of blood mixed with his already crimson-caked carapace, but this one was still warm. He wiped his eyes, painted all over with red and confusion. "... W-... What? Why?"
Thud.
Seven unceremoniously dropped to the floor. The blade rattled, lost somewhere in the ocean of endless poncho-folds. There wasn't even a hat to thud along to his tumble anymore.
W had shot his entire head off.
She had turned him into a cloud of red Sarkaz confetti.
Reduced to a form most primitive. Trimmed some off the top and accidentally cleaved his neck right off.
.
The gun fell to the floor, cursing softly on impact. Andy stared, utterly flabbergasted. Completely shook off any sort of guard.
"..." Newmaker had to double check, and his untamed mane flew wildly with each rapid head flick. No matter how he looked at it, their prized "bounty target" seemed to be lying dead on the floor, spurting a little, red river from his neck-stub. His gaze found W.
.
It took them all a moment to realize what had happened.
.
.
"... Why'd ya do 'im like 'at?" He asked, accusingly but not quite. There was more disappointment than anything housed within his voice. "Lad di'n't do ya any bad."
"He stabbed m-me." W blurted, unevenly. Her meek and tired stature broke against the bar, and Andy jumped to her side to serve a trusty pillar's duty. "... H-He stabbed me." She repeated, facing the boy, seeking his understanding defense.
Andrew had a proper look at her face, and found something entirely new. This W was different. This W was scared, and tiny, and little, and weak. Her eyes spilled an untold story of pitiable fear, and curled instinctively to spill into his.
So Andy sucked her into his arms, again.
Her face impulsively found and buried itself within the safe confinements of his collar bone, and her arms glued themselves snugly around his waist.
"He stabbed me." She whispered, and the words tickled the folds responsible for empathy in Andy's brain. He knew it wasn't her fault, and it never could be. "He s-stabbed me."
"I know… I know, I know." Softly, he shushed her down. The furious drumming of her heart had no end, and Andy's never felt someone's life-pump ticking so fast. All he could do was hold her tight, feel her warmth, and whisper quiet (but sweet) nothings into her hair.
Andy promised her a lot.
He promised her a lack of the conehead.
He promised her his presence.
He promised her a safe space.
And he promised her an unbreakable bond.
.
W kept shaking in his embrace, up until a point where she just couldn't anymore. Her tail swung around his leg and wrapped it up tight, with a pretty little bow on top. A heart shaped bow.
Andy cradled her weary head, eager to carry all those weighing worries like that one Minoan hero carried Terra on his back. He couldn't remember which one it was, so he resorted to simply hugging her tight and promising to never let go. Until her usual snark would return, at least.
He took handfuls of her hair, sieving through the soft fluff. She kept a steady stream of warmth shakily pouring from her lips, a levee of calming breaths brushing past his neck.
.
And so, they stood.
.
They stood and hugged.
.
Andy cried a little. He'd never admit it, though.
.
Not in front of her.
.
.
—
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
In another part of the bar, a man crouched by the side of a headless corpse. A twang of annoyed disappointment played in his eyes, when he ran his hand over the massive cluster of Ori-rocks sticking from the little mass murderer's chest. They were still warm, sure, but not warm enough. Anton sighed, soothed by the familiar clang of Uri by his left. Ten or twenty tons of metal bit into the floor.
"... Kal's gonna be properly pissed."
Buzz.
"Ya think she'll gut me up again? Lay me out on a metal tray like a frog 'n rip me stomach out for funsies?" He chuckled. A bittersweet memory slipped his mind. "... Nah, she's been through all 'at already. She's been inside of me more times than anyone else."
A sultry buzz.
Anton raised a brow.
"Yeah, no. Never. Stayin' loyal to me Susie, ya know how we roll. One lady's enough for seven millenia, don't ya think?"
A most amused buzz. Anton chuckled as well.
"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, ya old cunt. At least I can eat and sleep."
He elbowed the blade's glistening coating of red. Uri returned the favor, sticking him a pommel strike to the ribs. A proper kitty-cat fight would've arisen, if not for the faint hissing of steam coming from the smoldering remains resting somewhere behind all those clouds of biting smoke. A sad sound indeed.
"..."
Anton watched a crimson-clad lady drag her half-dead body over through the sizzling remains of an extinguishing fire. Her face was burnt, she was missing an arm, and had a sword in the other, sliding it along the uneven floor for God knows what reason. Without a word, Anton waved her over and she fell to her knees by his side.
"Betty." He said, a warm welcome. She nodded.
"Anton."
"You look terrible."
"It's been half an hour, I haven't changed 'at much."
"True." Anton offered her a shoulder to lean on, because he saw her exoskeleton's spine battery die on the spot. The entire mechanism slumped pathetically and coughed out a last serving of steam. "Thing's dead."
"Ya battered it all over the place. Clanged it 'round like a drum set. 'F course it's dead."
"You gonna get a new one?" He asked, but didn't really care about the answer. The dying stream of blood splurging from the little mass murderer's neck was just too fun to watch.
"Naw." She shook her head, and whooshed in pain. He must've severed a few nerves here and there, when poking her protective platings. "... Think I'm gonna give up the bounty game fer' a while. Not like ya left any 'a my guys alive, anyway."
Their eyes both swept the bar in unison.
Corpses, corpses, corpses.
Blood, blood, blood.
Cheap, dead devils.
A useless slaughter. Big death toll. Loss of Sarkaz blood.
"Yeah." Anton solemnly flicked himself over the nose. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."
" 'S fine. I'm too old fer' this shit anyway."
"You are, yeah. Barely got any hits in on me."
"Fuck you, Newmaker."
Betty laughed, and then coughed blood. Her arm-hole kept losing juice, too.
Anton offered a handkerchief, and she took it to wipe her chin clean. Then her coat, then her shirt, then she stuck it with a hiss, into the stub. The bleeding somewhat stopped.
"And what happened to the perp, anyway?" She asked, having got used to the sensation of an alien body having direct access to her bare flesh. " 'S dead."
"He is dead, yeah." Anton nodded. "My temp shot 'im."
"Nothin' to fight over now, I guess. Grand waste 'a life." Betty examined the lack of a head. It was as empty as ever. "... Unless 'at was yer plan, I guess. In which case, warmest congratulations."
"Bit of cheeky banter before death?" He nudged her side, and she smiled. "Glad yer goin' with a smile on your face, at least."
"Oh, shush. I'll be catchin' a cold at yer funeral soon enough, don't ya worry."
"Which funeral?"
"Huh?" She blinked. "... Yers, dimwit."
"No, I meant, which one?"
Anton mustered the cheekiest of grins he could. Betty couldn't help a half-amused huff.
"Comedian-man. I get the "clown" name calling now. Suits ya." She slapped him over the head, but affectionately. Both their eyes traveled away from the little swordsman's pitiful demise and instead found joy in the soft moment blooming between Andy and W. Far, but not too far, the two morons clung to each other desperately, like a pair of strays who found home in one another's arms. It was the case, to some extent. To all extents, actually. It was just the bare truth.
Betty sighed.
"At least these two are happy."
"At least." Anton murmured, watching happily. "... Reminds me of somethin'."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Of what? Ya old lady? Kal, was it?"
"Mmm." He had to dwell on it for a moment. A moment of resurfacing pictures and memories. A moment of brushing paintings and snuffed campfired. Kal's eyes swam in a little whirlpool, then fell into place on both sides of her face, and she looked at him without any amusement. Anton smiled silly, and she couldn't help but crack up as well. His fingers shyly reached out to curl around her palm, but that notion crossed one line too much. She slapped him over the hand and wagged a warning finger, the warmth waning instantly.
He sighed.
"Maybe. Not sure."
"..." Betty let him fester. It was a cowards' move, stabbing a pondering man. She had no quarrels with him now, anyway. Not over nothing.
"... Ya should try 'n figure it out someday, pard."
"I should."
Tap-tap. Anton stood, and his blade un-lodged from the floor. Uri eagerly hopped to his back.
"I should get these two back 'ome. Little miss temp's bloodstream's runnin' on fumes by now."
"Right."
Betty reached her only arm, and Anton helped her up. Their hands understood each other's touch wordlessly.
"... 'Til another bounty?"
" 'Til another meetin', ya insane broad." Anton chuckled. "I'll drop by when ya retire. Pick ya out som' proper Victorian char. Share a cuppa the good stuff."
"I can't understand a word 'a that mumbling ya people dare call an "accent." Betty said, and wobbled a bit on her feet. The lack of an arm rattled her balance, and her inner gyroscope had to take a moment for readjustments. "... That said, I'm waitin'."
.
.
They bowed to one another, a proper gentleman/woman's goodbye.
.
.
.
.
The lights burnt brightly that night, in Kazdel's towering Soul Furnace. Andy saw it through the window of their land crawler, and couldn't decide whether to keep staring at the bright explosion of flames disappearing under the rising horizon, or the blankets of stars covering the sky's void meadows. They both seemed beautiful.
Then W's horns nudged his shoulder, and he opted to instead stare into her sleepy eyes.
By force of habit, he hugged her tighter, and she didn't mind at all. The apricot orange of her irises disappeared beneath the eyelids, and soon her consciousness had also left to wander and herd the fluffy clouds of sheep grazing the sky meadow. Her snores were feather light.
.
Andy thanked the Law. He knew it had little to do with anything that had conspired that day, but he still whispered a tiny prayer into her hair.
He thanked the Originium puppies lodged into her heart, and he thanked the mighty oak for allowing him entrance past its barbed wire. He thanked it for not giving up on Terra just yet.
He thanked Hedley and Ines, for leasing out their services for only a week's cycle. Three more days, that was. Three more days, and this repeating nightmare would end.
He thanked Newmaker for keeping his mouth shut at the moment, and focusing solely on driving. The vehicle's hungry headlights licked and consumed each grenade-hole and unevenness of the road, giving the "leading" moron enough time to react.
Something must've told him not to spoil the moment with his rot.
What it was, Andy didn't know.
.
He could only thank the last person.
.
He thanked W.
.
He thanked W, for being there.
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His lips left a dusting of little kisses peppered all over her hair, and he thanked her for everything.
.
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For putting up with him.
.
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For allowing him to put up with her.
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For being with him.
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For allowing him to be with her.
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For trusting him.
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For allowing him to trust her.
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And for living.
.
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He thanked her for living.
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As he stared blankly at the plethora of lights that spread a glimmering show over the night sky, Andy allowed himself a brief exhale.
.
And it all fell into place.
.
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He loved her.
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He loved her so much.