Mhaieiyu

  Arc 3, Chapter 13

  Rats Are Still a Creed

  It’d been a while too long now since the young Duke prowled his urban territories and nested in the dilapidated apartment complexes long abandoned that he called home. These quiet places were a treasure trove for sinful doings, and there where they hadn’t succumbed to violence or sex was to be found a special kind of quietness where one could contemplate just how life had turned to be this way, and how life was still aflame after it all. A head-stew, as Mumble called it.

  He rested his head on that spectacularly overgrown tuft of mane he’d been growing for years, and atop his oversized hoodie, and then on hard concrete. The howl of the wind blowing through the narrow alleys swept up and about him, which helped cool him off. Around him were cans of beer and soda, some so aged they’d lost colour, and to his right there was no wall or fence, just a drop four stories tall. The self-proclaimed Pride rested his arm on his stomach and inspected his weapon as he waited, listening in as the noise grew in the distance. It wasn’t the ruckus that unnerved him, quite the opposite. In his young age Mumble could hardly remember the last Galloping incident, and that was during his time at his childhood isle, far from most of the Crimsoneers’ active range. Now, accustomed to a city overrun by people or officials, the boy couldn’t deny that the silence, while pleasant, itched his skin something fierce.

  At the tock-tock of footsteps, Mumble turned his character grin toward the empty doorframe, watching as a very familiar rogue and snobbish tween walked in. “Been a bit,” Mumble hummed and said, “glad to see ya’ve pulled through it, even in this mess. What lot, eh?”

  “You twat, Mums!” an especially irritated Tez lobbed back and stuck a malnourished finger out toward him. “Ya vanished on us without word’r wisdom. Where in North’s Glacier did ya swim off to, brat?!”

  “North’s right,” Mumble nodded only because he had to contain his laughter otherwise. “I’ve settled with them Syndies.”

  “Ya did fucking what?! Mumble!” Luce, a pretty face torn with venom shouted out.

  “It’s fuckin’ ‘Pride’, fer fuck’s… Listen,” ‘Pride’ began, “I’ve got ‘em on a leash, aight? They’ve kept me around doin’ odd jobs n’ all, but nothin’ serious. Here’s the real squeeze.”

  Tez and Luce managed to calm down enough to hear their younger boss out, taking a good look at the pistol Mumble brandished. Luce barely caught eye, but Tez had a much more palpable reaction.

  “Industrial grade…” Tez gasped, taking a step closer to inspect the pristine firearm. “This is a forty-nine, can’t be older. You can tell just off the sheen on the metal — ya managed to snag that? And just one?”

  “For now, yeah. Interested?” Mumble charmed, wrestling the pistol from Luce’s grip as she tried in vain to take a ‘closer look’ herself.

  “Vicks and ‘er golden Gates… To crawl right into that boiler pot and bring us a sample n’ all. Ya’ve gone and outgrown ya roots, Mums.”

  The young lad sprung to his feet and struck him with the soft bottom of his fist, ripping off him a yelp. “It’s ‘Pride’, or are ya brain-dead?! And I ain’t outgrowin’ a motherfucker, I’ve just done us a service beyond our means for once, bu-bub. Who’s out sayin’ I ain’t a Duke worthy o’ name, eh?!”

  Luce, who had clambered onto the boy’s back to try and reach for the weapon, asked, “I don’t get it. This some sorta deal we gotta think on?”

  “Yes— and if you’d lax on me, I’ll go on!” Mumble faced Tez foremost, knowing him as the brains of his handfuls of scrubs. “We’ve gotta show ‘em we’re worth these streets.”

  Tez showed his brow and reached behind himself to produce a rusty flask of coffee. “They want us for a fry, Mums.”

  “Fuckin’...! Yes, yeah, ol’ management, sure! But figure this,” Mumble continued, tugging a finger on the razor wire connecting his knives just to feel the sting, “the ol’ geezer’s gone. It’s a new guy now, some twat from whatsit where. Case is, he’s givin’ the ol’ place an overhaul, an’ he’s gonna need a heap o’ hands his way, too.”

  Luce finally yanked the pistol from the Duke’s hands and aimed it out the gap that should’ve been a wall until the building was left to rot. Her lips curved, satisfied with the feel, imagining the force. “I’m down.”

  Tez stook another finger at her this time, “Don’t run off without ya fucking head, Luce!”

  “Eat me.”

  Mumble punched Tez’s side before continuing, “That’s why we gotta show the uppity twats we’re an ace in the sleeve an’ all. We got just the gig, too.”

  Tez was too short of breath to ask.

  “See, they’re cleanin’ up the last of the streets, aye? They got a shit-load o’ gun but no cleaver, and with them Northbeasts, that ain’t amountin’ to much. So say we give ‘em a chop for uh… leverage, eh?” That beastly grin of his widened to a monstrous length of teeth. “Heh, we’d be honoured as fuckin’ war heroes, and get easy pickin’s for now till tomorrow and years on.”

  Luce shrugged. “We oughta pick up the leftovers while we’re at it.”

  Tez took a long sip of air. “Right… because they ain’t getting us guns for that. They’d slap us with the ol’ political shit and leave us be ‘til they lost calmness, but…”

  “Aha, that’s where we got an ace for ours!” Mumble retorted, patting the front of Tez's chest hard enough to steal his breath again. “See, I happen to be in cahoots now with one o’ their VIPs. The Tsuki kid. Pigeon sh—— Tokken, that one.”

  Tez closed his eyes at the sound of that surname. Whereas Tokken’s name fell on deaf ears, it was the ring of the Tsuki moniker that bounced heavily and around in the caverns of his skull. The lanky Urchin’s hands slid down his sides to either of his thighs and he sighed.

  “Figured. Ya’re meddlin’ with powers well beyond us, Mums.”

  “It’s— huh?”

  Luce and Mumble both kept a keen eye on Tez, whose voice had lost much of its clarity and volume. He tried to look calm, but the wrinkles on his face, like calligraphy, betrayed his inner feelings. Right then, Mumble spotted it: that gaze into the abyss, or up the monolith of life’s greater things. Things so much larger than yourself that you become ant-like in comparison. Mumble’s teeth gnawed, the young lad standing up to bump hip with his older lackey.

  “Watch it, watch it, watch it! I ain’t finna dig us a pit, so don’t be gettin’ all sobby and shite, bu-bub. We’ve our own slot in this land, we fuckin’ earnt it I say. I’m ya Duke, so learn some fuckin’ perspective.” This aggressive tone only worsened at a lack of a response. Taking one of his corded daggers, he pointed the crescent’s tip toward Tez’s neck and barked some more. “Wanna feel like a pissant?! Stare at us, why don’t ya? Look ‘ere.”

  The lank opened his eyes and stared him down. The height discrepancy didn’t do the kid any favours.

  With the hissing licks of a snake, Mumble made his final remark. “You’s got one task. Keep me happy. And keep me happier… by goin’ to fetch Bruce.”

  A humoured huff was cast behind the lad, as Luce approached the quiet scuffle. “Finally, I wondered when ya’d ask ‘bout ‘im.”

  Mumble turned her way with a nasty smirk. “‘Course he’s fine. His meat’s all guarded up by Diamond Hide. Just gotta make sure his ops don’t figure it out ‘fore they do ‘im in proper, eh?”

  Luce crossed her arms. “Right, well he took a few fuckin’ nicks for ya, you shoulda known. Walkin’ off on us like that… At this rate, he’ll challenge ya for the position.”

  “Pfft, that lunk? I’ll do my prayers.”

  Right as the conversation gave close, the three paid attention to the opening in the room. The undeniable bang and crunch of many tons of concrete falling in on themselves signalled a rather frightful reality. An entire building had collapsed.

  “It’s time. Luce, help Tez ‘ere fetch Butch. I’ll gather the peons; let’s fuck up some cultists.”

  Luce sniggered as she made way. “Ya do be soundin’ way too excited ‘bout this, cinnamon.”

  That sinister smile of his only grew as he pondered the thought. He’d never met a Crimsoneer in his life, or so he believed. The idea of trampling over such a frightful creed chilled him with a perverse satisfaction. These horrid hounds would be cornered by his rancid rats. What beast would bear sharper fangs, he wondered? It was time to find out.

  “Oi, Wishmaker,” Mumble, ‘Pride’, spread his arms out to meet the whispers of the wind. “Lend us ya wishes, kindly. Let us rats feast this eve.”

  ? ? ? ?

  For all his newly found power, the boy had rather quickly returned to the older product of a squeamish, mewling recluse. His time training under the Syndicate had accustomed him to the huff and puff of overexertion, but he’d not been prepared for this. The cultist that not too long ago had felt his life was a teardrop from demise had changed his mind a fair bit, watching the quartz-hair teen dance around having to use his pulled leg.

  Vague immortality be damned, his every hop hurt like hell.

  “How much… further…?!” Tokken shouted between clenched teeth.

  “We’ve barely started moving,” the hooded figure replied, well ahead of the lad and with half a mind to just run off.

  “Right… Of course…”

  Those times back in the forest where he injured himself, Tokken would usually starve himself at home for a few days before daring to move again. The sooner you become idle, the quicker you’ll heal. Forcing his leg in motion was in pure defiance of anything his childhood instincts taught him. Tokken’s mind was on a tailspin. Just what exactly did he intend on doing with this man’s boss? Had he a silver tongue to smooth out this mess? Of course not. And why in the Twins was there so much moisture in the air when the factory fumes still lingered? It was like standing by a forge out here. That bastard sun…

  A sudden touch.

  Tokken snapped toward his shoulder, where a hand had clasped.

  “Relax,” the Crimson said, “I’d like to get to our destination sometime today. Steady on.” He’d graciously taken the weight off the teen’s leg, helping him to walk onwards. It took a moment to register, but this would prove much easier. Not wanting to keep the man busy, they picked up the pace. The heat was unbearable.

  Or maybe it was the anticipation.

  His vest itched the skin of his back and he felt disgustingly damp. No matter where he looked he could taste the saltiness of his sweat. His heartbeat was faster than usual. The nerves, the exhilaration. For the first time in his life he felt truly powerful. To be able to omit death itself felt otherworldly. How had he ended up with this power? How could it be that he would be chosen as the sole living candidate for Pride? It made no sense, when he thought of it. Perhaps such electoral powers were beyond human comprehension. It didn’t matter. The whispers in his ears were so pleasant, it helped him push his limits.

  They arrived before a building after a good while of writhe-walking. The cultman’s cloak had been thoroughly sweated in. Looking up, Tokken swore off like a sailor. Of course the overseer was on a rooftop, it only made sense.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  The newly vested Pride gave the cultist a look of concern and sighed. “I shouldn’t have cut you. That tail would have come in handy right about now.”

  “It’s not as dextrous as that, I’m afraid,” the cultist said in turn. Looking up at the height of the building, he asked, “are you sure about this? Never mind your pulled leg, Capricorn is far from the most reasonable of men.”

  “You said so already.”

  “Emphasis matters. It’s not stubbornness for a cause more so than it is foolhardiness on his end. He's righteously insufferable.”

  Tokken staggered into the building. “I have to. I’m useless if I just try to battle this out like the rest of them. My power may be great, but I’d spend aeons sorting this one by one. I need to reach the top, and not just figuratively it seems.”

  The cultist stepped inside with him, but kept behind. “If I go with you…”

  “You’ll be punished if my gamble doesn’t work.”

  “Are you going to make it all the way up?”

  “If there’s a stair railing, yes. Here’s to hoping.” He offered the sullen Crimson something of a smile before taking his leave, one hop at a time up the painfully long stairwell. He’d have plenty of time to wonder just how deep into the mess his life had fallen into since his lukewarm time in the forest.

  ? ? ? ?

  Slumped over the backseat, a body caked in dust and coagulated blood hopped at the beat of the bike’s suspension, stale air blowing his skin cool and rattling the damp, hard hair that clung to his head. Emris made some kind of effort to secure the living corpse, but still made it a point to keep an eye on him just in case. It had been a mile or two off his designated path before his communicator kicked back to life with more drivel.

  With a crackle, a voice came in. “Fifty-seven.”

  “Och…”

  Emris didn’t open his line, refusing a response.

  “Fifty-seven, you’re veering. Mission value is Epsilon. Desertion is treason.”

  All these voices… Their threats meant squat to the Guardian. They’d spent years cultivating good enough relations with the Celestials just for the privilege; their authority over him was a sponsorship if anything.

  Emris looked back again, and saw that Sven’s eyelids had cracked open. With no-one else to amuse himself with, the veteran faced forward and slowed the vehicle. “Where’s your platoon, Cadet?”

  The wounded soldier barely mustered the strength to move his eyes.

  The clarity in Emris’ voice didn’t fit his usual huskiness. He coughed. “Ye can’t be prancin’ on yer own, twat. Barely nabbed ye from that fuckin’ thing.”

  The bike hit a bump, which jostled the ruined body more as if to punish him for some misdeed.

  “But I’ll say, ye’re a different breed of man, standin’ up to a Grinner on yer lonesome. Figure yerself lucky I found ye.”

  The bike swivelled and squeaked to a standstill as the two arrived at what seemed to be a supply tent. Emris quickly peeled the broken man off the leathery adhesive and draped him over his shoulders with little effort. The prosperous Cadet, a few fingertips lesser than he woke, heaved dust at the shift in weight while muttering half the word ‘Guardian’. Emris shook his head.

  “I’m yer Brigadier, Cadet.”

  With an ounce of dignity restored, Emris dropped Sven on a bed to be attended, quickly swarmed by four or five medics. Watching as they treated the hero, the Guardian reached behind himself to choke the life out of a tendril that dared slip out his spine. A huff and a hop, and he ripped off on the road once more, all the more motivated to tear the heads off these worthless invaders.

  And ah, what a sight. Waltzing out a building, on an empty street, a lone Ordained dared to show itself to the light. Emris took a deep breath, cracked his neck, and brought himself to stand on the seat of his still-moving bike. His hands glew, and of them, two plates of ice raised right from his wrists. The whispers of the King needled in his ears, and the satisfaction he felt when what he heard sounded like a plea.

  ? ? ? ?

  Tokken spent a veritable lifetime bringing himself to the peak of this concrete mountain. It started with hops and ended with himself literally dragging himself up the stairs. His body, drenched in sweat, couldn’t bear it anymore. He had stripped himself down to the vest; not that it would make a lick of difference. Pieces of his garbs, ammunition, his two good boots, his holsters and pistols and his empty canteen were left behind on different levels, scattered down the winding staircase… Tokken knew better than to discard his rifle. Powerful as he felt, Vibarius still seemed a threat somehow.

  Pissing his life down the drain, Tokken approached the steel door that led to the roof’s exterior. He swore to have forgotten what all this was for. His leg, his useless fucking leg. Of course it couldn’t have been his arm that was pulled. He walked, or hobbled, or more so stumbled to the metal and lay flat against it. The cold of its dirty touch felt amazing to his sticky skin. Tokken’s hand wandered about until it flimsily found the knob, and he turned it. In an instant, his weight brought him outside and dropped him uselessly on the floor.

  The wind felt incredible.

  The one and only Manifestation of Pride lay there like a heap of filth on the concrete, enjoying the coolness of the powerful breeze. His bliss wasn’t interrupted when the pound and rubber of boots alongside the clinks of their metals came his way. The privilege of not having to move another muscle felt too kind to himself.

  But then it got hotter. So much hotter. Unbelievably so. Had the sun fallen off its harbour? Victus, had it? A hand clasped the grey-quartz-hair’s head and ripped him off the floor, but the teen dangled off the offender’s fabulous grip. Tokken’s eyes took a moment to remember they still existed, processing the fine jawbone off this highwayman’s rather charming face. That and his pestered snarl. In five seconds, he would lob the teen right off the rooftop, smashing his head dead against the edge — the spit on his hard work almost as offensive as the murder itself.

  With time too short, Tokken stammered out, “I’m is Pride! I have… I’m Pride…”

  The bulge in the man’s muscles as he prepared to throw the kid unstiffened. “Hah? What fookin’ non’ense. Shitty fit, too. Bad excuse.”

  Tokken opened his mouth to speak but his body succumbed to gravity once more when the unlikeable sod dropped him an inch off his feet. He only just saved himself from smashing his face. The cultist put a boot to the lad’s hair.

  “Haha, look. Pride’s a legend, yeah? Somethin’ well clad. Shite’s just good to look at, like damn!” the hoodless barbarian exclaimed,

  His speech, like his movements, were irregular and sluggish. His body teetered like a loose pendulum, drunk on the sovereignty he indulged in. Scanning his whereabouts, Tokken noticed a flattened box of tobacco near his cheek, and judged by its colours, which hadn’t been sunbleached yet, to be recently emptied. The jerk looked tired, kept awake by his indulgences, and judging by his boyish bravado, Tokken assumed this man had a taste for Pride specifically. A perfect candidate.

  “Hah, yeah… Yeah, so, I’m a busy-ass bloke. Burn,” the senseless man said, presenting his open palm albeit not invitingly. The sound of growing plasma beamed by Tokken’s ears as a blinding ball of fire collected in his hand. Seconds from his face being torn apart by the heat, Tokken realised that his other arm wasn’t hidden behind him as he first imagined; everything below the shoulder was absent, as was made clear by his flailing sleeve.

  The breeze felt nice after that.

  Revisiting the scene a handful of seconds earlier, Tokken first tried to push the hand in another direction, but the strength of the killer’s arm proved to outweigh that possibility. And so, for a second time, he was cooked alive.

  Then, he forced his soup muscles to roll out of the way, only his timing wasn’t quite right. It took four odd tries before he managed to avoid the worst of it, though it still seared his side. It was a wasted effort. With a humph, the cultist pointed his palm back at the boy and killed him with the product of a flamethrower. There would be no avoiding the violent spread of such a spell.

  “Capricorn!” Tokken managed to shout a moment before being devoured by the fire.

  The man reacted to that, undoing his spell for a moment. “Hah…?”

  “You’re Capricorn, right? You’re the Disciple?”

  That stern look of untrust developed a facefull of wrinkles, but Tokken was thankful to stay alive for longer than five seconds. “Aye,” he said quietly, keeping his first boot close to the Cadet’s groin, ready to crush his testicles if he deemed it worthwhile.

  Tokken’s arm muscles barely possessed the strength to gesticulate, but still he pleaded with the man. “My name is Tokken. Tokken Tsuki — my name has ties to your faith. Please, let me explain myself.”

  Capricorn looked the youngster up and down, his mouth hanging slightly agape like an idiot. A heavy footfall gave him a step backward, from which he stumbled. “Grey hair…”

  “It’s white, dick. No thanks to you,” Tokken spat, forcing himself to stand despite his exhaustion.

  The Disciple scratched his sweaty scalp and glanced at the lands below. “Ya ‘in’t too bright, mouthing me off. Frankly I barely give a shite whose you are. Got enough shite to live off as a religious man.”

  “Then you’ll do well…” Tokken caught his breath, “... to respect a Sin, right? Isn’t that how it works?”

  The man smiled at the boy’s ignorance. “We lot came about because twats like yous didn’t figure the work out ya’selves, know…”

  Tokken looked up at the scornful man with a scowl unbefitting his station. His ego, the ego that didn’t exist for years until an hour ago, grounded the boy into a position he didn’t rightfully earn. The look on his face, despite his pathetic predicament, gave Capricorn something to think about.

  “If we’re to judge history, and I can’t say I know much, your creed has had just about twelve thousand years to show something for yourselves, and here you still are, shambling about.”

  Capricorn returned the boy’s stare. His steely disposition, reminiscent of a gunslinger in the sands of old, allowed an appreciably imposing glare that challenged that insignificant boy’s own. His eyes, dumbed by an inadequate brain, actually gave credence to the possibility of this lad’s Pride. Above all else, how unbelievably reckless he was being.

  “Fook it. I’ll say it,” Capricorn coughed out a chuckle. “Ya’re a ballsy fookin’ liar at the least.”

  The teen could finally calm his nerves and rest his plans to fight when the one-armed cultist twirled around and approached a box vent where he had stashed some of his less pertinent belongings: specifically, a bottle of red wine. He poured some of the contents into a glass and raised it above his shoulders to let the teen see.

  “Fancy?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Tit.”

  The man took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit the end aflame with his magic. In the same hand, he took the wine glass and turned to face the impudent boy. He tilted his head down to puff from his cig, and then downed a mouthful of wine — a combination of impropriety and refinement that made little sense to class or commonfolk.

  After a while of observing this miserable man, Tokken cleared his throat to speak.

  “So, Disciple of——”

  “Meschae,” he interrupted, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “It’s Meschae.”

  “Meschae… I have questions regarding you, your following and your intentions here. Mostly the latter.”

  Capricorn wrinkled his forehead again. “We’re ‘ere to kill a heap o’ you fooks, then piss off.”

  “If you simplify war, it does really come down to that. I need details.”

  Meschae’s agitation paused when he shut his eyes forcefully, as if wracked by a migraine. He stammered some incoherent nonsense under his breath, for which Tokken was about to ask, but a hand shoved him aside as Meschae stepped toward another end of the rooftop, clasping the edge of the parapet.

  The boy’s skin itched at the sound of a great, condemning roar.

  “What’d ya mean ya can’t fookin’ take it ya droop-tit slag?!”

  The sudden tone shift, from a murmuring dope to a rancorous leader hellbent on being heard, twisted Tokken’s stomach into a knot. It was with the power of his voice that the Cadet remembered he wasn’t speaking to dregs anymore. If the likes of Xavier were a powerhouse for the Syndicate, the blazing nutter he now stood alone with could be compared as such for the Crimson faction. Tokken’s single asset, his Sin, served as the one thread keeping him from his abyssal plummet.

  “Who are you… talking to…?” Tokken asked in a whisper, realising the answer before it had to be given. Observing the man ramble profanities to himself, it was obvious he had some kind of unknown contact with his underlings. It made sense. In the absence of a radio, it would make no sense how he could commandeer his folks from up here.

  “Who in fook’s Amar? I don’t have two shites-worth for it, get ya pissin’ beasts in there! I ain’t takin’ a loss ‘ere, c’mon!”

  “That’ll be the Harvirillian.”

  “Sayin’ what is who?!” Meschae barked back at the boy, who had to compose himself before speaking again.

  “Amar Harvirillian, one of three military nobles of the Harvie dynasty.”

  The twisted look on Meschae's face spelled how little he cared for this noble family, but his concern for success kept him quiet.

  Tokken, smiling with misplaced pride, explained, “If they’re here, you’re pretty boned, man.” He couldn’t help extend his arms gloriously. It didn’t look right on him. “The Harvirillians are known to carry swords that defy reality. Amar’s in particular refuses to see its allies bleed.”

  “... Ain’t ya wise past yar own few years, brat.”

  “I did a fair bit of reading. Hasn’t come in as much use as I would’ve liked, but we ought to reap what little we sow. We were told a fair bit about them during our briefing as well, but we weren’t entirely confident on who of the three would pop in, if any,” Tokken explained, stepping up to the wall himself and taking a lungful of air. “This really gets on my nerves, you know. All this violence, is this the only way we can move forward? Really?”

  “Yappin’s too easy for ya,” Meschae hissed, finishing the last of his smoke. “Ain’t two ways for it. If I want something, I fookin’ take it, why dun’ I? We make concessions when ya gob’s ‘bout to be cut. That’s when aaall the prayers’re comin’ out, eh?” His knowing smile unnerved the boy. “Yeh, we all’re focused on stayin’ alive. Some of us are more honest-like, ‘s all.”

  Tokken took the knife from his belt and flipped it open. Its crimson veins glowed with excitement. It’s as if it hungered, tempting Pride to act. But Pride’s will was greater than any object, no matter how famished nor loud its beg.

  “So,” Tokken breathed, “to live violently is honesty to you?”

  Meschae looked at that knife and nodded, his doubts of the teen washed away. “Aye, that’s how I sees it. An’ now, I want ya to stick by, ‘less I live a lil’ more honest-like now.” His one hand opened again, unveiling a new ball of a white flame whose gusts boiled away the sweat on Tokken’s face.

  The eyes of Pride witnessed the chasm of destruction in Meschae’s frigid pupils. “That makes my next request a little easier.”

  Meschae ground his boot into his spent cigarette. “Pipe it out.”

  “I want to meet the impostor that subsumed Noire.”

  “Easy, he’s down ‘n that hick town southeast.”