#b&tsm-blondie

[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Two

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Azariah and Meat both stand a little straighter as a glowing claw knuckles its way through what stray rubble dared to stand in Blondie’s now much, much more open path; without skipping a beat the beast has stepped over the still collapsed android, and Meat barely processes the way that the other claw is moving before their own hand darts up to block a flaming rock before it can strike the Hare dead in the chest.

The fire dissipates with a low whine like a dog at heel, but the rock itself still stings Meat’s palm, causing them to drop it and direct their gaze again to Blondie, who’s closing the distance in hefty, thudding bounds.

“Runnin’ might be a pretty good idea, actually,” Azariah mumbles as he raises his arms, breath steadying in his throat. “Leave it to a friend of hers to talk me into somethin’ sensible when it’s too late.”

Meat swings low, ducking and moving in half-squatted to strike Blondie’s abdomen with both hands, and like back in Fusillade at the moment of contact there’s a small concussive blast— strong enough to blow Meat’s hands back and to halt Blondie’s advance for that brief second.

“That supposed to stop me?” Blondie grins all fire and brimstone until over Meat’s shoulder comes Azariah, striking him in the muzzle with a hard elbow.

The Hare practically flies through the air, moving just a smidge faster than Blondie’s eyes can follow, leading the Werewolf to spin and swing his arms in an attempt to grab him. What he grabs instead is a metal man, as Azariah had actually ducked between the now standing Jack’s legs and rolled to the side.

Meat turns their own attention to the tumbling ball of speed nearby and immediately sets to join them in what looks like a retreat, as Azariah hops back onto his own two feet, so by the time Blondie’s getting ready to deal with his new dance partner the other two are already hoofing it down the tunnel and away from the lot.

“You son of a bitch,” Blondie snarls before tensing his shoulders and headbutting Jack— receiving a solid thump to his own head in turn, a resounding sound of skull to steel, and nothing less than what might constitute several concussions’ worth of blunt force trauma right between the eyes.

Jack, however, blinks. “Huh, usually people knock themselves out when they try that.” Thick metal fingers dig into the burnt and glowing arms of the werewolf, and with a mechanical twist and the growl of some form of internal engine, Jack shoves Blondie hard against the nearby wall. There the two break, just in time for Jack to get into form, raising his arms with his fists up, tucking his head down and beginning to step closer, though he’s not stepping lightly. Jack’s not a dodger, he’s a blocker, a pulverizer. “Ready to get your bell rung, sir?”

“I’m gonna to melt your sorry metal ass to slag,” Blondie snarls back. Above and around them the ground shakes as Blondie tenses and then darts forward, slamming Jack with his forearm and dragging the robot with him as he powers through the tunnel, each step an earthquake, each bound of each leg a tremble in the ceiling.

Jack’s got weight and power but unfortunately he’s a bit top-heavy, and while his stance is grounded as it can get short of just lying on the floor his opponent’s able to half-lift him with velocity. The densely muscled forearm, brimming with heat and power, thrums and glows against the tin man’s throat. Above him, the glow grows more intense— as it begins growing inside of Blondie’s mouth.

Down the cave hall, down the tunnel, Azariah’s had to stop for another breather as Meat paces. “Don’t be so hasty,” he mumbles. “I’m sure that pup’s got his hands full for a minute.”

“We have to get going, now, or we might not be able to catch up.”

“You kids these days, always doin’ somethin’. Take a minute to breathe, if you have to. That count as offensive? Pardon if it is, didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Even if they get out before us, I’m sure we can—”

From the bend the two had just gone around some moments before bursts Blondie, one arm holding up Jack and the other batting at the robot’s arms, which were flailing in an attempt to close the now near blindingly bright glow lingering in his maw. Azariah doesn’t finish his sentence as he stands to move in, but Meat stops him short there too.

The two only barely manage to toss themselves out of the way and behind a rocky outcropping as Blondie and Jack fly like a missile into the wall where they had been standing just that second previous, sending a sickening crack up to the ceiling from where the android was slammed. It winds its way like a snake up from the point of contact and spider-webs from the rounded corner where wall becomes ceiling, tossing down rubble as the scuffle of their feet tosses up dust.

To their right, Meat and Azariah both see a dark shape hiding behind a similar set of jutting rocks, rapidly loading a weapon and mumbling to herself.

Nancy’s swapped between flechettes and buckshot and God knows what by this point but she’s more than half certain none of them are going to punch a hole in the beast’s hide, not when she’s been unable to even smell a drop of blood or exposed flesh that isn’t charred. “Lacking sufficient ordinance to handle larger quarry— should’ve requisitioned something back in town. Stupid backwater, lacks a proper armory. Need something bigger, stronger, can only knock him around with this…”

Unable to shake Blondie off again, Jack’s been staring down the steadily increasing glow that now threatens to blind him, a vivid red light so searing that it burns his mechanical retinas, but he can’t look away. His fingers can’t find purchase wherever they ply and his kicks are doing nothing; before him lies death, and it’s brighter than he ever imagined. Inside his body his mechanical organs scream past their proper limits, pushing harder, harder, heating up, even Blondie can hear them now.

He blinks, but it’s not enough of an opening for Jack. This is it; this is the part where he overclocks himself to critical just to make sure he isn’t going out alone. It’s going to be bright, furious, glorious—

A dark shape flies from behind the rocks and screams down between the two’s legs, and before either of them process what it is, a shotgun’s shadow blocks the intense red light bathing Jack as the barrel of Lieutenant Nancy’s weapon is wedged up against the lower jaw of the werewolf. Two combustions follow, the firing of her shotgun directly into Blondie’s lower jaw, shutting it hard, and then Blondie’s slow-build pressure cooker of pain popping like a highly explosive bubble inside of his mouth. From between his fangs and through his nostrils a monstrous blossom of red flame and black smoke bursts, knocking him backwards and onto his ass as it tosses Jack the opposite way— all while it punches Nancy into the ground, all the force coming vertically.

Azariah and Meat are a good way down the tunnel again, this time avoiding any stops so that they won’t be caught up to, when there’s a loud explosion down the way behind them.

“Poor guy,” Azariah mumbles. “Robot never stood a chance.”

Meat’s head tilts as they jog just beside him. “Why assume he lost? That could’ve been a… I don’t know, a second death explosion.”

“Then the poor guy’s still dead even if he won. Too bad, I’m sure he would’ve been fun to run from too.” A wheezy, raspy laugh escapes him to punctuate the joke, and though he’s keeping pace it’s becoming very evident to Meat that his bones are creaking and his voice is hoarse.

“We might not be able to catch up,” Meat says, rubbing the back of their neck. “Roxanne’s going to kill us if that robot doesn’t.”

Azariah cracks his knuckles, then his neck for good measure. “Don’t you worry about us catchin’ up. Much as I would like to turn back and finish up my round three, even with these powers I’m no spring coney. Ain’t that just a stick in the craw?”

“I can’t believe you both talk like this,” Meat mumbles. “Alright, so how’re we— hey— no!” It’s too late. Azariah’s already swept the Notus off their feet and into his arms, though he struggles to stay standing proper straight with the weight.

“Nowdon’tyouworrynoneaboutthisit’sgonnabefine,” is the near unintelligible string of words that hits Meat, right as it feels like the world starts vibrating and, despite the weight, Azariah’s blitzing down the tunnel.

Jack’s the first back up and he can feel some of his clothes have started burning, at least whatever’s not melting to his metal hide. “Nancy? Status report, Nancy, talk to me— I can’t see Blondie.” He rubs his eyes, then from his pocket withdraws a small glass cleaning rag to clear them off properly. When his vision sharpens, he spots her, a dark spot on the ground, crumpled and curled up.

Crouching beside her he moves to get at her helmet, but first he receives a smack on the wrist as she attempts to get up on her own, the arm beneath her still cradling the shotgun. Secondly, he takes a wolfy claw to the side of the head and he gets kicked out of the way by Blondie, who by this point has been covered in soot so black that the only vestiges of his formerly white fur are lingering around his legs and shoulders. A quick wipe with Jack’s rag cleans off a bit of his maw and face, but for the most part it’s like he’s been dunked in ink and then manhandled by a washcloth.

Blondie’s wide chest rises and falls as he takes breaths of his own volition, clearing out more smoke and ash from his throat before saying, “Still think this is a fine fight, copper cock? Where’s your boss, huh? What’re you getting paid?”

“Not enough, I’ll tell you that much.” Jack stands again, getting his fists ready and beginning to circle, taking an opposite direction to Blondie, who’s walking in a slow arc around. On the ground, Nancy’s coughing up smoke through her mask, and now that she’s raising her head, half of the helmet’s been blown clear off and the eye beneath looks partially blind. Jack continues, “But as much as I’d like to talk rates with you, I know it’s still better than what I’d get on a dead man’s payroll.”

Calling him a dead man earns nothing but fury from Blondie, garnering a loud and unenthusiastic growl before he tosses himself at Jack again, but this time the robot’s prepared. As The first big, furry arm lands a swinging blow, Jack shoots out both hands to snatch. The first clamps hard on Blondie’s wrist swinging toward him, the other darts to Blondie’s throat to preempt any would-be fireballs while he can still reach it. In the meanwhile, Blondie’s other, still free claw has begun its arc toward Jack's head— when another gunshot rings out and Blondie screams, half-choked, over a newfound pain in his elbow.

Suddenly, something else is against his throat too. Against his shoulder blades are knees, pressing hard as the pipe barrel of Nancy’s shotgun is being pulled back the opposite way; Nancy, glaring like a devil, is panting and snarling over the wolf’s head. “I am not dying to some backwoods forest hick fuck!” She screams, and as Blondie digs his claws into her back with an awkward twist of his body she bites clear through her mask, revealing her snaggled fangs just before she sinks them into the side of his head, thrashing like a wild animal.

She’s screaming, her wound is cauterizing as soon as it’s made, Jack’s trying to shake Blondie’s throat hard enough to snap the werewolf’s spine if he can, and here’s Blondie halfway having a test of strength with the robot and trying to pull the vampire off of his head. All are screaming, thrashing, a mass of hateful limbs and weaponry, torn and burnt and bleeding, and they’re moving, tumbling, they begin twirling and then start spinning and now they’re a ball of hate on the floor.

A particularly forceful kick from Blondie brings them back to the wall he’d slammed Jack into, hoping to bust him against it so he can get out of the hold and get at Nancy, but the robot doesn’t give— the wall, however, does, sending the three into a freefall.

Luckily for Nancy and not so luckily for Jack, they land on top of Jack, with Nancy still on top of Blondie. Especially lucky for Blondie, Jack loses his grip with the fall and in that moment of weakness, the Wolf breaks the embrace and hucks Jack against the far wall of the chamber, a good several meters, before doing the same to Nancy with a screaming roar.

The two Mercs stand and exchange quick glances, eyes darting to the walls, the ceiling, the strangely smooth and untested environment, before Nancy growls. “Let’s get this done, soldier.”

“One of those kitschy military types. You must be from a real shithole.” Blondie narrows his eyes at them, his glow growing more intense as he gathers a fireball in each hand.

Jack, out of all of them, hasn’t made any attempt to intimidate or even assert himself. Instead of some one-liner hoping to end the fight before it starts, he just points behind Blondie and asks, “Is he supposed to have two shadows? Why’s the other one a lot bigger than him?”

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Though it’s taken him a while to get the position right, what with the driving skills of Piper being akin to that of a joy-riding teenager and Sundae’s revolver ringing off rounds loud enough to punch holes in his ear drums, Kranner has managed to wedge himself comfortably onto both the pseudo-middle seat, as well as the floor of the back half of the sedan. His rifle rests comfortably in his shoulder and pokes out between the two front seats, with his arms punched against the side cushions to keep himself stable as he lines up his first shot. And there’s plenty of targets to choose from in the bed of the truck they’re following.

There’s that black haired woman and an Orc. There’s that odd-looking lady with the scarf around her mouth. There’s a mousy-looking woman, one who keeps getting particularly nasty looks from Piper. And then, there’s the Owl, who is the only person standing up in the bed. She’s got a terribly anxious look on her face, and to be frank, Kranner thinks that it’d be lovely to try and hit someone behind her for effect. So, he lines up a lovely headshot on the one that his boss doesn’t seem to like. All it takes now is a light trigger pull—

“Kranner, would you take the fucking shot already? You’re burning time!” Piper yells, turning to face him briefly with a grimace.

“Gettin’ comfortable’s hard to do when you’re stuffed into a dead man’s vehicle!” he replies, setting his finger against the trigger guard. “You want them dead, Boss?! I’ve gotta take my damn time!”

“Yeah, sure. Sundae’s been shooting this entire goddamn time, old man. You better get your ass into gear.”

Sundae empties the revolver’s chamber, and sticks her body back in through the window. “I haven’t hit anything yet,” she comments. “But who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky in another six.” Piper’s hands audibly squeak with sweat as she grips the steering wheel. “Where the FUCK have you been aiming?”

“At them, boss. I’ve never shot out the side of a car before. It’s taken some getting used to. I think I got close a couple times, though.”

“Are you telling me that NEITHER of you fucking imbeciles have done a SINGLE THING since Jack’s split off from us?!” she screams. Both of them notice the venom begin to sputter from the top of her mouth onto the padded car seat. It steams lightly as it corrodes the material. “FINE! Fine. Take your fucking time, just make sure that your shots count. We are not going back. I’ve come too fucking far.”

“Good idea, boss,” Sundae responds. She quickly reloads her revolver, sticks her body back out the car window, and continues to fire at almost absolutely nothing— albeit, with longer intervals between the shots.

Her lackadaisical ass had better be decent in a fight, ‘cause I don’t have the patience for a fucking slacker on my team right now, Piper thinks to herself. Rolling down her own window, she spits out a small mouthful of venom. And that old man had better take a shot soon, or I’m gonna be shoving his rifle down that fucked up eye socket of his.

Cherry’s focus is nigh unbreakable, even with the presence of consistent gunshots from behind him. There has never been a moment in his life where his driving has meant more to everyone else than it has to him, and so, not even the threat of being hit is deterring him from keeping his posture upright with both hands on the wheel.

Roxanne and Jules, on the other hand, have slumped down into their seats in the cabin, and are attempting to give rally-style navigation directions to Cherry from a map that’s about as long as the cabin, floor to ceiling. Roxanne has tasked herself with keeping an approximation of where they are on the map by tracing her finger along the route, while Jules has taken to calling out the upcoming corners and turns whenever appropriate. And, of course, this is all being done in the dimly lit cab of the truck, whose overhead lights have not been replaced in years.

“Medium right,” the Vampire says, jerking his thumb in that direction. “Then, light left. I think.”

“Got it,” Cherry responds, beginning to brake the take the turn, as told, before the shine from his headlights can even illuminate the back wall of the junction.

“Jules, could you tell me what that is on the map?” Roxanne asks, pointing at what looks to be an absolutely massive depression relatively far down the road.

He widens his eyes. “Kinda looks like a pit. Maybe. Why?” And though there’s plenty of other landmarks on the map of similarly massive size, this one puzzles him for but a moment before he solves it. He traces the path back to where Roxanne has kept track of their location, and realizes that the area in question cuts between where they are now, and where they want to head, which is an exit marked in red ink “Near Honeysett”. “Holy shit,” he says.

“What’s next?” Cherry asks, having clearly been too focused to realize what’s going on.

“Hard right, and a ravine crossing in the next twenty turns.”

“Wait, what?”

In the bed of the car, everyone is slightly surprised that the person leaning out the side window hasn’t hit anything, or anyone, other than the cavern walls yet. Even Olive, who has taken to standing up to make herself a target (for the sake of blocking it with her power, though there’s a massive doubt in her mind that she’ll be fast enough (again) to react to a bullet), is a little perplexed by this.

Though, as she gets bored of watching the Elf shoot everywhere but the truck, Olive turns to the cabin, where she sees an awfully mean looking blonde woman who seems to keep having to spit out the window (why would she be packing a lip at a time like this?), and, in the backseat, a glass man with a rifle.

Now, again, something strikes Olive as odd. She traces the sight of the woman driving, and finds it to bounce between the truck bed itself, her, and everyone else, but primarily Brie, who stares right back. This isn’t too odd, as having heard Brie’s story about getting brained by the woman, it would make sense that she’d have a vendetta. And that Brie would be rightfully afraid of her.

But, the glass man with the rifle. Why would he be aiming out the front windshield? And more importantly, where are his sightlines aimed? She peers at the front of the barrel, and realizes that it couldn’t be at herself. It’d be much more clear, then. No, he’s aiming at someone else. And it’s nobody behind her (Lucille), and nobody to the left (Judith and Leon).

The front windshield of the following car shatters inward with the thundercrack of the sniper’s rifle, and in a flash, there’s a metallic “tink”, followed by the crumble of rock. Olive opens her eyes to find that she’s got a feathered hand in front of Brie’s head. And her hand is unharmed, albeit a little sore.

==============================================================

That damned bird. That shot had been perfect. It would have been the cleanest kill this place would have ever seen. It’s an insult to the profession that something as absolutely absurd as a bullet-proof Owl would decide to poke her forsaken beak into the path of this art.

Kranner’s fuming. A series of complications flash through his mind as Olive in the truck bed far ahead continues to move and thrust out limbs, having taken up Meat’s former position near the edge so as to swat munitions fire from the air with overanxious precision. Kranner’s eyes focus a bit more, and he drinks in the details. There’s always a hole in the armor, assuredly. Everyone makes a mistake at a time like this, even the ones who live for it.

Each of Sundae’s bullets get blocked if they dare to soar nearby any of them, but there’s something particular about the way Olive’s moving. The glassy bristle of his jaw rubs up against the mask as it comes to him in small bits and pieces, as though every blocked bullet itself is a part of a puzzle: she’s blocking killshots, whether she intends to entirely or not. Tracing their trajectories might be difficult for someone of a lesser caliber, but Kranner’s on top of his game.

That’s it, then. Can’t shoot to kill or she’ll manage to take the bullet, no matter who it’s aimed at. It’s a laudable performance but ultimately Kranner’s not interested in giving applause to competition or quarry, so her award is going to be something very special indeed as, ignoring the sounds of Piper and Sundae hissing like serpents at one another, he lines up his shot through the windshield, focusing on the bird’s leg.

Olive’s managed to puff out her feathers and swing her arms with a combination of protective knowledge of any vaguely humanoid anatomy and pure instinct, owlish eyesight providing her with a near perfect passive tracking of each gun barrel in the car behind them. Behind her, Judith and Leon are huddled together, the Orc’s arms wrapped around the werewolf, and off to either side she’s flanked by Brie and Lucille— the former’s been shooting, but none of her shots have landed anywhere but the plating, and the latter’s already run out of throwing knives.

Another heavy revolver round bounces off of her arm, and for the briefest second she turns her head without turning her body to face Judith and Leon, saying, “I don’t think I can keep this up for much longer! I’m runnin’ out of steam, somebody think—”

CRACK. Olive tumbles to the floor of the truck bed, half slumping and flailing, only avoiding death by cave floor and car tires as Brie and Lucille both immediately grab her and pull her back toward themselves, right into Judith and Leon, whose eyes widen.

“Okay! Thinking of something, thinking, uh, Brie give me your gun,” Judith babbles out, retreating from Leon’s arms only to be handed the semi-automatic. Well, she snatches it from out of Brie’s hand after the woman reloads, but once she has it she hands it to Leon, whom she presses up against. “This is going to be rough.”

One hand holding the gun, the other arm around Judith again, Leon glances between his girlfriend and the two others in the bed of the truck with a sigh. “Azariah’s been a bad influence. What is this, Plan D? I know it’s low on the list.”

“Would you care to explain to the rest of us?” Brie’s eyes narrow, but she’s plenty busy trying to keep Olive steady as she struggles with the pain. Down by her leg, Lucille’s already bandaging up the wound, repeating small battlefield platitudes about strength and pain.

“Don’t need to,” he says. “If it fails, maybe the truck’ll start going faster with less weight. Jump.”

Kranner’s in the midst of getting a second shot lined up— he’s taking aim at that Orc’s shoulder, hoping to put a round right in the muscle, compromise the whole damned thing— when the target and his little friend disappear into thin air. It’s as much a surprise to the two women still up in the truck bed as it is to him, and his ears tell him that while Piper’s still getting mad and Sundae’s still having a time, neither actually notice it due to their focuses being primarily on the disabling of the truck itself.

The backseat bumps awkwardly and the car sinks a solid chunk, almost enough to scrape the undercarriage against the stone floor of the tunnel, and though it’s already a bumpy ride Kranner knows that such a sound isn’t supposed to come with the sound of the upholstery getting rubbed on by denim or skin. To most the proposition’s absurd, but he’s been in this business for far too long to take chances. His experience isn’t enough to make up for sheer, unaccounted for surprise, that secret weapon of many a victor.

He swivels and takes aim, but there’s nothing there except a depression in the seat, like somebody is there but they just can’t be seen. These briefest of seconds of searching are just long enough. A series of muzzle flares and gunshots go off, a full semi-automatic pistol magazine’s worth of bullets are sent through the air and straight into his face, neck, and chest, without any of his professional finesse or precision. Each bullet finds a home somewhere inside Kranner, singing through glass and blood, spraying this mysterious wraith— wraiths, the blood paints two figures— and revealing them in the back of the car.

Judith, a bout of anxiety and fear taking hold after having to just mentally calculate the trajectory of a jump like that going from a moving vehicle to another, far more enclosed moving vehicle, and having watched her boyfriend just pump something like eight to ten rounds into a man she’d never met, kicks a leg out and strikes Kranner hard in the head with wolfish strength, cracking the helmet and the man’s head. This also has the effect of busting the backdoor open, sending the corpse tumbling out behind the lot of them, rifle having fallen into the floorboards.

Leon lets out a rasping cough, before, bloodied and invisible, he awkwardly kisses the side of her head.

This is right about the time when Sundae’s turned her attention back from the quarry ahead and realizes Kranner’s gone, and that those gunshots were not, in fact, the man going wild with his rifle. It had all the wrong timbre for a sniper, and the wrong rhythm for a trained professional.

When she finds two bloody half-shapes in the back of the car she wastes not even a second leveling her revolver and attempting to empty the full set. However, by the time she’s pulled the hammer back twice the two shapes are gone again, with no sign of truly being there anymore. She almost puts a third into the seat for good measure before Piper raises one arm from the steering wheel to punch Sundae in the side of her head, screaming, “Get back to shooting those freaks you fucking idiot.”

Judith and Leon are back in the truck bed again, splattered with blood but, for the most part, almost entirely unharmed. All that said, Judith is halfway to transforming with the intensity of it all, fangs starting to get a little big for her mouth and eyes getting a bit greener than Leon knows them to be on a good night, so the semiauto is passed back to its owner to be reloaded and returned to proper, trained firing as Leon focuses on calming the werewolf back down, strong arms squeezing around her, lips to her temple.

Lucille and Olive would each be amused, as might be Brie in a less forthright fashion, but the other three are swiftly refocused. Olive isn’t on her feet anymore, but she is up on her knees, with Lucille acting as a support behind her, the two attempting to go back to a sort of less immediately effective version of the Owl’s methods moments ago now that the Sniper’s gone.

“Turning invisible and teleporting were not in the files,” Brie says simply, leveling a shot at Piper, though it banks off of the frame of the car. “I think I am very, very glad to be on your side now.”

“You should’ve seen her wolf out back in Kiln, knocked some former friends of mine clear to the horizon,” Lucille teases. “That rock stuff’s really doing a number on you guys, huh? At least it’s useful.”

Olive lets out something shrill like a battlecry, but the enthusiasm’s too pleasant for that. It’s more like an exclamation of happy surprise, the sort one might make when presented with that oft-requested puppy after coming home from school, or, in this instance, spotting something very, very good.

Leon lifts his head from the tangle of Judith’s hair to ask, in unison with her, “What is it?”

To which the response is, “Azariah! It’s Azariah!”

Chapter Two End.

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[ Table of Contents ] Blondie & The Smokestone March is   © 2020-2023 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

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[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter One

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

The sound of the fuel depot exploding is absolutely deafening, and it sends shrapnel of all sizes like a shower of knives into everything in the blast radius. The biofuel that the entire western world runs on, while highly efficient and mostly clean-burning when processed by modern, western engines, is incredibly volatile when combusted while exposed to air. A smoke stack begins to reach high above the treeline, and as the fires begin to spread, Blondie stands for a moment to admire his work. The burning, tickling feeling in the back of his brain feeds him a steady stream of serotonin for every second he takes with his eyes on the fireball. The scene isn’t even particularly beautiful to him— it’s an explosion, and nobody he knows is even in it. Sunsets look better on the regular than this. That magnetizing, intoxicating feeling is the important bit, and the only way he’d be pulled away from it is if the fire brigade showed up unexpectedly, hooked up their hose, and shocked him out of it with a blast of water to the small of his back.

Of course, in that instance, his first instinct is to half-howl and begin sprinting away, the water sizzling to steam as he runs. It takes him a moment to readjust his brain out of feral-creature mode to remember his modus operandi. Find those fucking miners, drag them back to HQ, collect his reward, and get his job and shit back.

An explosion of THAT size has to draw them out, he thinks to himself, as he runs along the now-panicking streets of Pickman’s Hope. They’re like ducks. They think they’re safe on the river until a thunderclap hits their ears, and then they take off real slow, so you can take your time shooting. Just like hunting ducks.

For good measure, Blondie sets a few more buildings in the downtown area of Pickman’s Hope alight. Indiscriminate chaos should help to keep that fire brigade off his back, even if they aren’t actively chasing him. But, as he runs through the streets, he realizes that on occasion, the sound of gunshots follow him closely. And when he stops along a more suburban road to take a small breather (which he finds odd, as he’s recently gotten used to not breathing naturally), he finds himself picking small caliber rounds, only a half an inch or so deep, out of his charred hide. He feels a small amount of respect well up for the people of the town, mostly out of pity.

It’s like throwing rocks at a steamroller, he thinks, turning the bullets to liquid in his palm. It’s stupid, but not about the direct effect, is it. It’s about the psychological effect. Strength in the face of futility. Maybe I’ll go and show them what that really means, then, if they want to get uppity with me. Fusillade was much bigger than this, and he’d heard that they’d lost quite a few city streets as a result of him testing his powers. Imagine what he could do now, after having practiced some on wildlife during the trip up.

He doesn’t get to imagine for quite so long, as, preceded by the sound of a roaring pickup engine, a knife is planted firmly into the square of his back, nearly knocking him off his feet. He looks up at the truck, full of what he assumes to be passing-by refugees— and finds everyone he ever hated, either sitting in the bed of it or assumedly sitting in the cab. The horn is honked a few times for good measure, and even though Blondie’s human brain tells him that it’s bait, his burning-creature brain forces him into a sprint after the vehicle, the fire inside billowing up in licks of flame from his nose.

I can take my time with this, so long as I keep pace, he thinks. Just like ducks.

The force of the explosion causes Samson’s back porch light to flicker, and in a moment’s notice, he sets down dinner onto the picnic table, throws off his hot-gloves, and runs inside to get himself dressed.

“Sorry folks, looks like yer’ friend’s here now, gotta get to work!” he says, sprinting inside.

All ten people, either sitting in the designated seats or leaning up against the deck’s railing, look at one another in a moment of silence. Brie, of course, is the first to stand up and say something. “May I suggest that we try our plan?”

“What plan?” Meat asks, sitting on the railing and letting their flaming feet dangle.

“The plan to use the local system of mining tunnels to escape our chasers?”

“We have a plan?”

Azariah holds up a hand. “I apologize, I was supposed to take the initiative on that. The old mines actually let out pretty close to Honeysett, since it was quicker to cut through the mountains to get back on the roads. Figure we could try to lose ‘em in there, since hardly anyone knows their way anymore.”

“This is the plan,” Brie responds. “Are there any objections?”

“Yeah,” Judith starts, “those mines are abandoned for a reason. Cave-ins, structural integrity failures, monsters— what happens if the route’s blocked?”

“Do you know where we’d be going, Azariah?” Meat chimes in, turning toward Azariah.

This, in turn, causes Brie to frown, and turn to the Hare herself. “You did not mention anything about cave-ins.”

“And the Devils. You know, those things that tend to turn up in old caves?” Judith says, frowning deeply.

“This is looking like a bad plan. Azariah—”

“Hold your horses,” he responds, holding up his hands. “Sam’s got a survey map from the last time the mines were scoped out. He’ll let us borrow it, and if anythin’ gets in our way, well, we’re ten strong, aren’t we? And we’ve got a Notus with us,” he points to Meat. “Nothin’ down there is fond of fire.”

“And it wouldn’t be better to stay here?” Leon asks, raising a hand.

“You think it’d be good to lead Blondie, and whoever else’s chasin’ us, to Sam’s place? Personally, I think it’d be a little disrespectful, seeing as how we’re already benefitin’ off his hospitality and effectively burning down his town.” “He does seem to like the action, though.” Roxanne chimes in.

Azariah snorts. “As true as that is, it wouldn’t feel right to just hole up. I’m of the opinion that we should lure them outta this place, and use the mines to our advantage. Who’s in?”

Cherry, Olive, Roxanne, Azariah, Jules, and Lucille all raise their hands.

Brie holds up a finger instead, “May I ask one more question before I agree?”

“Of course, Ms. Brie.”

“Are we certain that Blondie will be the only one chasing us? I have been having a recurring nightmare about Piper smashing my head like a watermelon, and I cannot help but feel as though my brain is trying to tell me something.”

“There’s no guarantee.” His fuzzy maw twists, threatening a smirk. “You want back at her?”

“Not particularly.”

“You wouldn’t mind her gettin’ hopelessly lost in an abandoned mine, where she might get eaten by a cave creature?”

Brie ponders this for a moment. “I am in.”

“And how about you three?” Azariah asks, motioning to Judith, Leon, and Meat.

“I’m in,” Meat says. “I think our host was getting tired of me anyways.”

“That leaves you two.”

Judith and Leon look at one another, then at those around them. Judith sighs, and Leon offers a thumbs up as she says, “We’re outnumbered.”

“Perfect. Now, that leaves the matter of getting the dog’s attention.” Jules clears his throat, standing up from his seat at the table. “Leave that to us, gramps.” He turns to look at Lucille, who though she seems disappointed that Jules just volun-told her, is equally eager to get back at that burning wolf. “Anyone down for a drive-by?”

Piper, bored and agitated, drums her fingers on the sedan’s dash. They weren’t able to procure any weapons in the past five days that would fit on their vehicles, and people were starting to get suspicious with the amount of money they were throwing around, combined with their conspicuously “civilian” outfits and their very in-a-hurry attitudes. Hell, even the armour plating that they got their cars outfitted with wasn’t all that great. You probably couldn’t bust down a single wall without totalling the car, and in that case, why the hell would you have gotten the plating in the first place? At least their wheels were all-terrain now, instead of the civilian gravel-and-pavement type.

In the passenger seat, Sundae absentmindedly fiddles with her revolver, spinning the barrel every now and then just to hear the sound it makes. In the back seat, Kranner is trying terribly hard to not take a siesta on company time. And in the other car? Jack and Nancy were talking about something, at least as far as she could tell, as they were parked off the side of the road in some brush. 

There is nothing more absolutely boring than a stakeout. Absolutely nothing. Sitting around and waiting for something to happen is a great way to waste your goddamn life. If you can make shit happen, you should do it. Otherwise, you shouldn’t wait for something to happen to you— you should be doing other shit in the meantime. But, what could she be doing, exactly? It’s not like these idiots have anything else to do. And it’s not like she’s been bored these past five days. She’s been annoyed, sure, but not bored.

When she’s fully in charge of her next quarry, Piper thinks, she’s going to make sure there’s no waiting around. Downtime is for fucking clowns.

Right as she’s about to snap at Sundae for clicking the cylinder of her revolver, the rumbling of a truck engine suddenly passes them by, alongside what looked to be a flaming dog keeping a cool forty-five miles per hour jog. Both cars peel out from their hiding places, with Jack and Nancy in the front and Piper’s car in the back.

Now, the fun part starts.

==============================================================

The cave system itself was nothing to take lightly even before the arrival of independent prospectors began turning the natural maze of its interior into a strange and tangled labyrinth. But, after the Shepherd Gemstone takeover and subsequent removal, it’s become one that runs dangerously deep. There are gorges and smaller sub-caverns which swallow any and all light, any wall might be far thinner than it actually appears to be, and that says nothing of the local fauna, much of which decided to move back in after the mine’s abandonment so long ago.

There’s a primary tunnel system that runs the length of the mine, sizable enough for large transport vehicles to pass through, developed when the digging got deep enough that it seemed sensible to just turn the level closest to the actual surface into a spaghetti-string roundabout for trucks carrying hefty loads of rock out. Subsequently, multiple entrances and exits had been carved too, allowing for Shepherd’s attempt to squeeze this stone bloodless to be on a larger scale.

A lot of external supports had to be erected to supplement the slowly eroding natural infrastructure of the caverns, however, and luckily enough the map in Roxanne’s hands has such things marked out, along with a great many various smaller details, such as where what had been mined and how bad it had been hit by the original takeover.

All that said, there is some level of hesitation to trust the map between Cherry and Jules, and most certainly Roxanne, as despite being the most up to date version it can be, they can see that it is, at minimum, more than five years old. Cherry’s a little too focused on making their truck go fast and avoiding potholes to really worry about it, but Jules and Roxanne lack a steering wheel and pedals to fret over so aside from the flaming beast following after their tails the next best thing to fuss about is this map— and the caves, specifically.

“Sure hope none of the exits have caved in since the last survey,” Jules says with an awkward laugh, shooting a fanged grin toward Roxanne. “It’d be just our luck to get away from this bastard and end up slamming into the rocks instead.”

“Jules, quit your jawing. Help with this damned thing, some of it’s getting on the floor,” she replies, trying her best to keep the paper settled in her lap.

An additional point to be made: the map itself sprawls out of their combined grip and into the floor, off to their side enough that Cherry needn’t worry about jamming the paper underneath the pedals. This is because the tunnel system itself runs far and wide beneath the valley itself, not every crack and crevice beneath the dirt’s been mapped out, but a great much of it has. Some think it might even reach all the way back to other Shepherd mining sites, but the tunnels that would connect them in that case would run so long and deep that nobody’s likely to survive, which is to say, anyone stupid enough to think that’s the case and try to run down those seemingly endless tunnels to get somewhere else far away are usually never seen again, and if they are it’s usually between something’s teeth.

So it is that after getting Blondie’s attention and, just as well, getting that of Piper and her crew, Cherry drives the truck hard across the stretch of abandoned road and straight into the wide, waiting mouth of derelict Shepherd Gemstone mining site five, otherwise known as the original Gutter’s Glade Claim, a winding, treacherous labyrinth that acts as the shallow end of a pool so dark, deep, and inhospitable to these surface dwellers that even the fiercest among them might have second thoughts when their minds drift to what lurks down below.

The drive there is tense but not particularly eventful compared to the initial arrival of their pursuer; he’s able to fire off a few shots from his mouth, sending screaming balls of fire toward the vehicle, but with Meat standing guard at the edge of the truck bed none are able to find any solid landing, knocked aside by their bare hands if not outright dissipated like so many embers against wet palms. It’s frustrating, even more so than the constant pelting of small arms fire slamming into his back from the two recently armored cars following hot in his wake.

Each one’s a pinprick of pain at the most, barely noticeable, probably someone trying to take potshots with something low accuracy. It’s a fair assessment; Nancy’s got herself halfway out of the second car’s passenger side window and has been pumping her shotgun nonstop, putting load after load of flechette shot into the werewolf’s hide to no avail.

The gunshots ring out, brief and thunderous amidst the already rolling rumble of the three vehicles and the constant, rhythmic thuds of Blondie’s feet pounding the dirt, gravel, and long uncared for asphalt into a loose, superheated sludge. By this point he’s gone on all fours to pick his pace up, dragging himself forward with each massive, clawed hand like he’s swimming, and by the point where the lot of them can see the entrance to the caverns he’s almost close enough to get a mouthful of Meat’s hand the next time they block his fireball.

In the truck bed, behind Meat, several folks try their own hands at attempting to slow him down as Brie and Lucille both begin pelting him, the former drawing her semiautomatic pistol and unloading a full magazine into Blondie’s face as Lucille greets him with a few cutlery sets’ worth of throwing knives and then a few of Samson’s actual kitchen knives, including but not limited to a chef’s knife he received only last year, a very unsatisfactory paring knife, and a cleaver that actually sticks in Blondie’s shoulder and causes him to lose pace for a brief, but welcome moment.

With that, and some huffing and panting, the lot of them are plunged into darkness— they’ve entered the caves.

Up above are long broken artificial lights which offer nothing, either broken or entirely unpowered; the only light of manufactured origin exists in the headlights of the truck and the two pursuing cars. As natural light goes, it’s impossible to not notice the glow coming off of both Meat and Blondie, a vivid red in contrast to the off-white yellow hue of the vehicular lamps and the soft, but unrelenting light emanating from mushrooms growing out of the corners, floors, and ceilings in small patches wherever a warm, moist corner might have been a prime bit of real estate for something to die in.

Such as it is, though it’s not sunlight, there’s enough of the various unnatural white, magical red, and residual blue to mix into some kind of ambient lavender, which paints Azariah’s features in the softest of violet as he turns toward the cab and knocks on the window. Once it’s opened by Jules, who’s still chuckling like a fool with minutes to live, the Hare pokes his head in.

“Roxanne,” he starts, “I’ve got an idea. It’s a great idea.” A grin crosses his muzzle, poking between the Fox and Cherry.

“If you’re thinking of doing something stupid, you had better stop now. Don’t you dare—”

“All ears here, old-timer.” Jules grins in turn.

Cherry shakes his head. “I don’t like the tone he just used. Roxanne, I can’t look, but is he—?”

“Jumpin’ out. Roxanne, you take good care of these kids for me. I got a tiebreaker to win.” Before another word comes there’s a steady vibration, a whirling, whistling sound, and Azariah’s already soaring through the air in a flying bound.

Blondie’s eyes go wide as from over Meat’s shoulder comes a screaming, stiff-eared bolt from the blue. The next thing that registers is pain in the form of Azariah’s knee getting deeply and intimately acquainted with his forehead, only barely missing the slavering jaws waiting to seize on anything. There’s a pinch too, as the old man digs his fingers into the burnt and broken fur atop Blondie’s head.

The two animals don’t lose much speed between them, even when Blondie’s been kneed in the face. Still running, now blinded by a face full of Hare, the werewolf attempts to keep pace with his legs and one arm as the other claws and swipes in an awkward, clumsy arc to seize at Azariah, who refuses to keep still and keeps shifting position like a jittering wind-up toy between fresh knees to the face.

In the cab Roxanne is raising hell so harshly that it’s overpowering the sound of the engine’s roar and causing everyone to look toward her. “You stupid old man, you get back here now! I did not walk weeks on a goddamn missing foot to lose you like this! Get back in this truck right now, or so help me!”

By the end of her sentence, Blondie’s got his claws in Azariah’s clothes and tosses him like a lump of garbage hurled up by a forceful drop in the trash can. Fortunately, the Hare rolls into the fall and immediately begins sprinting, darting to the right on the wide tunnel floor and actually holding pace with the truck itself, much to the surprise of those who’d only joined their group in Pickman’s Hope and to the fury of Blondie.

Up ahead, there’s a fork in the road; Azariah glances into the truck cab, locks eyes with Roxanne, and then darts down the path on the right with whooping mountain holler as Jules says, without thinking, “Exit’s to the left, kid.”

Cherry, of course, takes the left. It’s the pre-planned path, but now it’s also a good way to get both himself and Jules smacked in the backs of their heads by a wailing Roxanne. “Damn it!” She screams. “Damn it! Meat, do something!”

As Blondie peels off to follow the hooting Azariah, Meat takes a running start to jump after the both of them, heading diagonally across the truck bed from the back toward the front to keep pace with the wolf, saying only “I’ll bring him back,” to Roxanne before the three of them disappear down the actual split in the tunnel.

Jack and Nancy glance at one another before their car, Thistle’s old one with some shiny new armor plating, screams down the right path as well, picking up speed and blazing after the small contingency, leaving Piper, Sundae, and Kranner to follow after the main truck and leaving them in the dust.

“I hope those idiots know what they’re doing,” Piper snarls as Kranner starts lining up his rifle in the backseat, placing it right between the two women up front. Her eyes narrow and lock with Brie’s for a moment long, and she grins. “Leaves the fun bit to us.”

==============================================================

After the initial shock of sending his legs into overdrive has worn off (and his bones had creaked a little, causing him to regret not having stretched before enacting his plan of distraction), Azariah falls into a groove familiar to him from years of dancing in the ring with larger opponents. Fake-outs and false stops send Blondie skidding past him into walls, slow downs earn him a couple cheeky back elbows to the jaw, and sudden speed-ups help him avoid attacks that would otherwise send him off his feet. It’s a complicated dance of trying annoy the flaming dog into doing something radically stupid, while simultaneously trying to keep it behind him.

Meat, on the other hand, is finding themselves concerned by the presence of the car trailing the three of them. While it takes concentration to keep steady pace, as Blondie’s sheer size gives him a speed advantage over their non-lycanthropic body, it keeps getting temporarily broken by the ringing snaps and chugging pumps of Nancy’s shotgun. At the pace they’re moving, the shot is doing little more than shredding their clothing, something they’re certain that Roxanne will be upset by. But, after picking a few stray pellets out from behind their ears, they realize something. Azariah’s idea was better than the old man had probably intended, as now, they have two scapegoats to take the heat from Blondie off the two of them.

While there was an alright chance that they could lose the flaming dog in the tunnels, there was a less-than-alright chance of them actually beating him in a two versus one fight. They’d get tired before he did, and then that’d be the end of both them and Azariah. Now that there’s these two mercenaries, however. That means that if they can get Blondie to be preoccupied with shaking them off, they can book it down a side-tunnel and leave. Putting aside the mental planning for a moment, they look ahead to Blondie, who has taken to launching fireballs toward Azariah.

The hard part is going to be getting that old fart to listen to me, they think to themselves, throwing off what remains of the poncho as they run.

In the car, Jack has plugged up one of his ear-holes in an attempt to dampen the sound of Nancy’s combined war cries and semi-manic shotgun firing. And though driving with one hand isn’t something unfamiliar to him, driving with one hand while trying to follow a string of flaming individuals through tunnels where the clearance between his car seat and a cave wall is nigh unknown? It almost makes him a little annoyed. Which isn’t something he feels often, and it’s something that feels terrible. At the first opportunity he gets, he taps Nancy on the shoulder while she’s reloading.

“Nancy?”

“Not now, soldier! I’m getting my shells in!”

“Nancy, listen to me for a second.” She’s about to lean out the window again, when Jack takes his hand off his head to grab her by the shoulder and pull her back into her seat. “Nancy!”

“What in the WORLD is this insubordination?” she yells, slamming her shotgun into her lap. “Explain yourself!”

“Nancy, I think you’re being a little loud. I’m having a hard time concentrating.”

“It’s an intimidation tactic, soldier! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of those before!”

“I don’t think anyone but us can hear you.”

“Then I’ll scream louder!” she says, starting to lean out the window again, only to be pulled back to her seat by Jack. “You had better drop the act, or as your superior, I’ll—”

“You’re not even hurting them! You’re using a shotgun, Nancy!”

“Do I need to repeat myself on the matter of war-time tactics, son?!”

The Android frowns. “I’m older than you.”

“And I’m your superior!”

“Listen,” he says, holding out his hand. “Save the rest of your ammo for later, when we’re out of the car. That way, you can guarantee that you’ll hit them. Okay?”

“And what if I don’t?!”

“You’ll be forced to fight two opponents with fire magic with nothing but your knife. And you’ll look like an idiot in front of your subordinate.”

That last line seemed to penetrate her battle-crazed skull. “Agreed. I shall stop screaming and shooting to conserve breath and bullets. Great idea, soldier.”

Jack sighs, and leans back into the seat of the old sedan. “Thank you, god.”

But, something makes him quickly lean forward again, peering into the darkness of the caves. The big flaming guy has stopped in his tracks, and distant thudding can be heard— the kind of thudding that can only occur when something hollow is being hit, banged, or punched.

Jack turns to Nancy and says, “Tuck and roll, soldier,” before flooring it.

Having just lost the Hare and the Skeleton through a thin crack in the wall, Blondie figures that the only way he’s going to catch up is to follow them through it one way or another. Gathering up flame from his belly, he belches fire into the stone in front of him, blackening it and turning it nice and loose for him to pick away at with his hands. Though, he hardly has time to actually do any of this, as quite soon after he’s finished heating up the rock, he hears the rev of an engine. Not a strong engine, mind you, but an engine that’s being pushed to its limit for the sake of one thing only. Even Blondie’s scorched mind can realize what that thing is.

He whips around from his position, watching as the passenger door is opened and a figure tumbles out onto the tunnel floor. He runs forward slightly, braces himself, and gets hit by the car.

Well, that’s a generous statement. As his feet dig trenches into the floor, and his hands sink into the plate that had been sautered onto the chassis of the vehicle quite recently, it’s far more like Blondie catches the car, causing it to skid with him back toward the crack. Once it’s come to a full stop, he looks up, finding himself face to face with a tin man, who is terribly surprised by the prospect that a car doing 75+ would be able to be stopped, bare-handed, by something like Blondie. In response, he smiles, and climbs onto the hood.

“Pick your battles better next time,” he growls, punching through the windshield and directly into the flat of the Android’s chest. Though, surprisingly, he doesn’t feel the crunch of bone. Hell, he doesn’t even feel the metal dent. What’s this guy made of, exactly?

“I think I’ve picked this one pretty—” Jack starts with his witty retort, before Blondie’s claws wrap around his torso, ripping him from his seat and through the cracked wall in a shower of stone.

“Azariah, listen to me.”

The Hare leans up against a pillar of stone, having brought the two of them into one of the natural caves that’d been checked for ore decades prior. “We’ve got time,” he pants. “What’s the need?”

“We need to keep running.”

“Lemme catch my breath first.”

“No, I mean—” Meat attempts to start, before a tin man comes crashing through the wall they had just entered, landing in a pile of his own rubble. “We’ll talk in a second.”

Chapter 1 End.

==============================================================

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is   © 2020-2023 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.  

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[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Four

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Honeysett isn’t the largest or most notable town in the world, far from it; if anything it’s something of a nowhere patch of suburb that just happens to exist on everyone’s map, nestled between the politically polarizing Pickman’s Hope and a more financially prolific series of towns that dot the Eternal Autumn up and out of the perpetual season’s territory. It exists, but it doesn’t necessarily exist in the same capacity as a place like Smokestone, Kiln, or Fusillade. It doesn’t have any great or notable exports, and by all means is something that Cherry has very recently started to appreciate— calm and uneventful, save for that lingering memory so long ago.

Its most prominent features are academic and domestic in nature; it has quite the library and a sizable museum, the latter of which in most towns in this day and age would roughly translate to “a great big box full of shiny things people are going to steal,” but nothing really goes missing from the Honeysett Museum for the same reason that Cherry knows it’s safest if they head straight there rather than stop for anything.

It takes a very particular set of characteristics to take up a line of work where your starting equipment, entirely self-funded, tends to be something like how Samson had described it, that being weaponry which was obviously in its second life, having abandoned something kind and clean like acting as a fencepost to take up the dirty, underappreciated but wildly overpaying process of fighting Monsters. Not that every adventurer in the world makes their name by punching up, of course, but that’s usually where they start. Someone, somewhere, has a bad night or a bad day and ends up smashing something creepy or crawly that had intended to eat them and it’s all history from there. In a night they’ve either solidified their need for the normal or a hunger for that dreadful master known as adventure.

Some go the extra mile and sign up with a larger association, such as the guild school, or simply tag along with other freelancers in a party, as Samson did, as Steiner and Baker did. Not all of this work trends toward the humanitarian, as inevitably a burgeoning class of warrior drifters willing to fight for cash tends to lend itself well to clandestine operations, especially in the corporate world and its sister, the criminal underworld, as Lucille and Jules each show. Being good with a gun and willing to use it for whoever pays best, that sort of work has two ways out— early retirement or death.

There aren’t a lot of adventurers who die of natural causes; those that do die in Honeysett, in a specific set of suburbs where those looking to ride out their days coasting on small fortunes from a few hard jobs make their place. Typically these people have a large stash of whatever loot they’ve gathered from trips into dangerous and mysterious climes, often strange and esoteric, beyond that of the normal person’s day-to-day life. Even the very sewers beneath the bustling cities could hold all kinds of creatures, all kinds of treasures, if one is noble, stupid, or desperate enough to pick up a sword and take them.

In Cherry’s neighborhood in Honeysett are the folks who made sure a place like Honeysett can exist, who every night toss themselves into the depths of cave systems like that beneath Pickman’s Hope to take on Cave Shadows and Skitterbears of their own volition, if not to protect others then to earn something to make the world just that much more bearable for those around them— if not to rid the world of something as dangerous and consuming as living, hungering entropy and its kin. Now tired and living out some sense of peace, they were the noble, stupid, and desperate, brave enough to walk into the darkest, most dangerous places in the world with little more to protect them than some sheet metal on their chests, a fencepost in one hand, and some good friends at their back.

If it doesn’t kill them, if they make it to retirement and have stuck it out, they’re like Samson— wavemakers in their own right, the movers and shakers whose names might cause shudders of starstruck awe or muted terror, depending upon the listener, and Samson’s just one.

Another man like this, another product of the bad day, wandering slayer of Monster and man alike, is unable to move his body. The heat fueling it is dying, along with the glow inside. Blondie is getting cold.

Piper, by this point, has run the corpse over six times, give or take a few where she just parked the car with its tire right on the damned thing’s neck. Still, despite her best efforts, it’s done little but turn the body and twist it, though it has managed to get it to stop moving. It almost looks dead for a solid minute as she gets out and grabs her recently acquired best friend, the Doorman crowbar, before he’s working his jaws trying to gurgle something out between globs of what she assumes must be some kind of life fluid. She’d call it blood, but it’s thicker, like dense bile or magma.

Sundae’s got both Jack and Nancy shoved into the back of the car, and that’s at least a slight improvement. It’s not great to think about, given as Jack’s joints are halfway to melted together where they aren’t just busted to hell and back, but he’s an Android, that can be fixed. Nancy might almost be in a state comparable, but all the same, a Vampire’s a Vampire. A few good cuts from a butcher shop or from some random civilian on the way and Piper’ll have her healing up in no time.

“He’s still not dead?” Sundae asks, walking over to stand side by side with Piper, a knife the length of her forearm in hand. “Nancy handed me this. Said you asked for it?”

Piper snatches the knife from the Elf, then looks down at the still gurgling, faintly glowing body of Blondie. “Still not dead. You’d think such a professional would at least do his replacement the courtesy of vacating the fucking premises,” she snarls, striking him in the neck with the heel of her boot, forcing the heavy form onto its back proper.

Sundae pulls the shotgun out of Blondie’s chest cavity, getting one hand on the gun itself and her boot against the bulk of burned muscle. Once it’s out, for good measure, she pulls out her revolver and pumps a few shots into the head. More glowing fluid oozes from the wounds, but the gurgling and the frothing doesn’t stop.

“I ever tell you what my daddy does for a living?” Piper asks, crouching beside Blondie’s head, eyes fixated on the slow, thick trickle running along his broken maw. Slowly, she runs the hook of her crowbar along the crisp, fractured, bony jaw.

Sundae shrugs. “I didn’t know you had parents. I guess it checks out, you seem about messed up enough…”

“Cute.” Piper rolls her eyes before tapping the top of Blondie’s head, earning a soft thudding sound. “He’s a butcher. He likes hunting and fishing in his personal time, but professionally he’s got a butcher shop. For a while he wanted me to take it over, then he let me get that job at Shepherd Gemstone to get some wanderlust out of my system. Now look at me…”

“Are you monologuing at me or at the dead guy?”

“Not… dead,” coughs and sputters Blondie. Each roll of his jaw and tilt of his head is twisting, wretched, and erratic. He can feel the muscles hardening as the flames go out, as the embers smoulder and the smoke begins to fade. “I’ll kill you. I’ll- kill- you- all.”

Sundae nearly doubles over as she laughs, but her cackling finds its end as a bronze tail slams into the back of her head, sending her to the stone floor in a small heap. When she’s back up, she locks eyes with Piper, whose jaw is tense, shut, and threatening to put a snarling set of fangs out from between her lips any second. “Humorless bitch,” is all she gets out before a hiss sends her straight back to the car, lightly wiping a bloody nose and a split lip.

Once alone, Piper turns to Blondie again, staying crouched, white-knuckling her fists around the handle of the hefty knife, the crowbar clattering to the rocks beneath them both. “You’ve got some nerve,” she says. “In the end, it wasn’t enough. Just die already, just die. I’m not going to let some flaming piece of shit get in the way of what I want. Nobody’s getting in my way, not those idiots in the car, not those miner fucks, and not you. I’m finally doing it, just like you told me back in Smokestone, remember? Take what you want, right?”

His dull, glowing eyes linger on her for a time, jaw still and voice silent, before he says, “Who… are you?”

Piper clenches her teeth and stabs Blondie in the throat, driving as far as she can and pressing on the deer antler handle until it threatens to snap under her lycanthropic power. Once it’s in too deep to handle, she picks up her crowbar and begins smashing the blade even further, like someone trying to split a log with an iron wedge.

Half-hearted and vain attempts to bite her as she did this came, but are all the same ignored as she continues to ram the knife deeper and deeper, only stopping once she hears the awkward scrape of knife point against bone, which tells her it’s about time to get to the good part.

Though she has to reach into the wound, she grips the handle tight in one hand and hooks his head with the crowbar using the opposite. Then, she rips them in opposite directions. The charred hide cracks and gives way, and as she slashes the knife free from its prison, she removes the head from the body, severing the spine.

Without a body to give it the strength of a voice, the werewolf’s jaws work themselves without any noise save for the wet sizzle of glowing, magically infused corpse-fluid on stone and jaw on jaw. She tosses the knife away, the blade ruined from the heat and warped beyond belief, before picking the head up with her gloved hands to look into his eyes.

She can see the glow fading, leaving him. The thing in her hands stopped being Blondie a long time ago, but it’s only just begun to stop moving. “Shepherd’s got a crap taste in officers,” she says with a sigh. “I should get Janet some flowers on the way back.”

Sundae flinches in the passenger seat when Piper finally sits in front of the wheel again, the head of the werewolf getting tossed into her lap during the process. A scowl crosses her elfin features, but not a word is uttered until Piper initiates the conversation, her voice rising with the struggling rev of the engine. “Have one of the others bag it on the way if either of them can use their fingers. We’re going to go pickup my car and then we’re heading for Honeysett— and keep your mouth shut, Sundae, or I’ll break it.”

==============================================================

There’s a moment of silence when Cherry finally parks the truck, dusty and covered in bulletholes, out in front of a quaint, red-sided two-level at the edge of the surrounding forest. Nobody but him gets out of the car (leaving the keys inside the ignition, mostly out of sheer exhaustion but also in case they needed to get going again), and nobody but him approaches the house. The front door is left open, with a screen door helping to keep the bugs out, and the smell of sugary, roasting vegetables wafts into his headspace before he even rings the doorbell.

“You’re always on time, Celica,” a burly voice calls out from inside. “You brought the wine this time, right?”

A large, bearded man sticks his head around the corner of the kitchen, working with something hot on the other side of the wall. His hair, a few weeks post-shaving, looks like it could’ve been a deep, rich crimson earlier in his life— it has since turned lighter, more gray-toned, with his long, well-kept beard reflecting this even more so. It helps to hide the wicked, messy claw scar wrapping up and around his right ear and ending at the edge of his right cheek. The glasses, thick-rimmed and square on his head, are fogged up from the hot kitchen work, and it takes him a couple tries of identifying the face at his door to realize who it is. “Cherry?” he asks, rubbing the condensation from his lenses. “Or am I scrambled from stickin’ my head in the oven all mornin’?”

Though he nearly passes out as he pushes the screen door open, Cherry finds himself grinning like an idiot at the sound of his dad’s voice. “I think it could be a little bit of both.”

The sound of a pan being set down on the table is heard, and his dad comes walking around the corner, apron still messy and standing only a few inches taller than his son, to give him a hug that lifts him clear off the hardwood floors of the foyer.

“My god, it’s so good to see you,” he starts. “You got some time off from the ol’ job? Actually, don’t answer that, I’ve gotta call your father inside. He’ll wanna hear.”

Cherry puts his hands over his ears temporarily, as the threat of losing his eardrums to the sound of “ASH! GET YOUR MUDDY BUTT INSIDE, CHERRY’S HOME!”, alongside the response of “WHAT IN THE HELL IS HE DOIN’ HOME ALREADY?! RED, THIS IS THE THIRD SURPRISE VISIT THIS WEEK, YOU GOTTA WARN ME WHEN YOU’RE DOIN THIS STUFF!” from the back of the house, presumably through an open window nearest the kitchen.

“Hey, dad?” he asks, voice muffled on Red’s shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“I’m not on leave. I quit, actually.”

“What?! Why?” “And I’ve got a couple friends to introduce you to.”

“Don’t tell me you’re—” Red begins, before looking over Cherry’s shoulder and into the front yard. There stands everyone from the truck, unwashed and tired beyond belief, some waving hello to him, some leaning up against one another for various reasons, and some working on adjusting the bandages on the others.

“Yup,” Cherry mumbles, passing out onto the floor of the foyer, leaving his Dad to reckon with the nine strangers that now stand in front of him.

“Uh,” he stammers. “I’ll break out the drinks.”

There’s nothing quite like trying to pack twelve people into a relatively small living room and kitchen combo. Though couples like Azariah and Roxanne are more than willing to sit on one anothers’ laps, there’s still a lack of seating / standing room in a house where two large, old men consistently bump into one another when preparing dinner. Cherry, having been wafted back into consciousness by a mug of tea, sits on the back counter in the kitchen (definitely in the way of his parents, but at the moment they’d feel bad making him get down). Red and Ash, the latter of which dons a mane / beard combo of long, curly, grey hair and who stands a few inches taller than his husband, busy themselves settling everyone in, learning everyone’s names, and making room in the kitchen for the surprise party that’s just now beginning.

A cask of Painted Pumpkin wine is brought up from the cellar, and things begin to smooth themselves out. Azariah, Olive, and Cherry’s Dads get themselves into a conversation about adventuring. Jules, Lucille, and Meat hang back from the rest of the crowd, simply taking in the good vibes (and the third of which having to stand near the stone-lined fireplace, as Ash recognizes what sort of affliction they have and knew what it does to wooden flooring). Brie, Judith, Leon, and Cherry all have themselves a few sips of alcohol to reflect on the happenings of the day, and to unwind a little, seeing as how high tensions have been recently.

Olive fangirls out over the fact that Cherry’s parents are somewhat legendary in the area for their adventuring accomplishments, from their Dragon-slaying to their town defending, going so far as to say that they were part of the reason why she took up the axe to begin with. And when Cherry mentions that the whole neighborhood is filled with people just like them, and when Celica Dahlstad, the unkillable robin-hood repossession artist who’s wanted in thirty cities, walks through the front door with a pricey bottle of local bourbon? She looks as though she might explode with excitement.

Meat is eventually approached by Ash, who points them in the direction of a couple only a block away who are similarly undead, but who work with extremely fireproof material, and could, theoretically, get them some proper gear. As the conversation continues, they bond over their experiences on the road, and Ash sympathizes with the feeling of never feeling at peace with the way things are, and always feeling on edge. The only thing that helped him, as he puts it, was falling in love and wanting to keep it that way.

In an awkward, but extensive conversation about the state of Pickman’s Hope started between Brie, Azariah, and Roxanne, Brie asks about when it would be a good time to head back down, since she’d very much like to pick up her car so that she can visit her girlfriend up north, let her know what had happened and that they’re more than likely broke as a joke. Roxanne informs her that if she needs a place to stay, she’s more than welcome down at the old mining town, since there had been talk between her and Azariah about moving there later in the year, since Smokestone is no longer an option (and because they realized that they had missed Samson more than they remembered).

And eventually, things quiet down. Hours turn into days, and those days are spent on recovery, alongside familiarizing themselves with the neighborhood. Many folks drop by to say hello (and almost everyone being recognized by Olive, though she hardly ever mentioned it), each one wanting to talk, meet the new folks, check up on Cherry, or drop off some extra food. It becomes incredibly apparent to the runaways that most folks in this place, regardless of their general demeanor, are willing to help with anything and everything. Everyone grows their own food, everyone helps out with one anothers’ upkeep, everyone looks out for one anothers’ backs. There’s nothing like knowing just how awful the world can be to straighten out one’s sense of community. And there’s nothing like the strength gained from adventuring that turns these sorts of communities into some of the most well-protected on this side of the Dividends.

==============================================================

Damn the calm and the quiet. Every minute since Blondie stopped making noise has been so silent that Piper’s largely left with her own thoughts for company, as even her own underlings have been hesitating to speak unless spoken to— a preferred change over Sundae blurting out whatever she pleases or Nancy giving her a migraine, but the sheer amount of nothing that goes on during information collection and paperwork processing is detestable.

When the three remaining of her squad are patched up, Jack’s joints are all fixed and moving again and Nancy’s up and about, Piper’s found the important stuff. Old admin records of addresses and letters of recommendation, all sent from a nice little suburb in Honeysett. She knew it had to be in Honeysett already, but Pickman’s Hope and Fusillade were each much easier to find anything in. Honeysett has this odd corporate-blackout to it that she doesn’t get, but that’s not as important anymore. If those fucks aren’t hanging around with Cherry’s family, then she can use them as bait.

Nobody’s gone anywhere yet. For all the talk of places to go and work to be done, they’ve spent a lot of time just recovering and discussing their plans without actually acting on them. Cherry’s dads are a fountain of hospitality, and the neighbors are all willing to give their own two cents every once in a while too, especially now that the neighborhood’s nephew, Cherry himself, has returned— even if it means there might be a lot more engine revving in the near future.

When the big, faded luxury vehicle comes to a halt just behind the truck in front of the house, most of the folks, if not all of them, are out on the front porch enjoying something or other. Some are locked in conversation, as Judith and Lucille are, over the tenable nature of a possible flower shop in Pickman’s Hope, with Leon and Jules offering small comments here or there as Lucille runs through some basics of entrepreneurial startups having at one point technically run a small mercenary band during her stint with Shepherd Gemstone. Others are a bit busy enjoying their time with their partners— needless to say Azariah and Roxanne are practically attached at the hip and half-dancing to nonexistent music in the yard, Leon’s practically spent the whole time acting as a glorified lawn chair for Judith (and he wouldn’t have it any other way), and Red and Ash themselves have been exchanging the occasional kiss between shifts handling the grill out front, much to the chagrin of their son Cherry.

Olive and Cherry were each the first to notice the driver, with Brie and Meat being close behind only because the two only just walked around the house to head out front again with arms full of disposable plates, paper cups, and some bottles of drinks both soft and hard.

Piper steps out, grinning near ear to ear, and offers a brief wave before stepping around the car itself to walk onto the lawn. Behind her, the three still living members of the unit exit as well. The general underlying hum of enjoyment halts altogether as the four step onto the grass, and the silence grabs more attention than the throng of life had; neighbors poke their heads out of their windows and stand in their doorways, suspicious looks on their faces, hesitation in their movements only due to a lack of understanding. Were Red and Ash expecting more?

Everyone drops what’s in their hands and puts them up not in surrender but in preparation as Sundae, Nancy, and Piper each draw their weapons.

“Y’all really are stupid, going and hiding here like we wouldn’t have this address on record.” Piper grows taller, meaner looking as her fangs poke out from between her lips and venom drips to the ground, sizzling in the grass as her tail rolls and coils behind her. “At least you’re all in one place. It’ll be hard to fit everybody into the one car, but I’m sure you can handle the luggage stacking, right, Jack?”

A soft, “Yes, ma’am,” exits the bot as he steps forward, raising his fists.

Azariah sighs. “Survived Blondie, got this far, and now…”

“And now nothing.” Red says bluntly, walking out from around the grill, a “Kiss the Cook” apron on and a very, very warm spatula in one heavy hand. “You put your weapons down or you’ll regret it.”

Piper laughs, but Jack complies, immediately setting his hands to his sides and stepping back. This, of course, causes Piper to go from laughing to hissing at him. “What are you doing? It’s an old man, beat the shit out of him.”

Sundae clears her throat and puts her gun away. “Boss, taking on miners is one thing. Care to look around?”

“Why? It’s just some fucking suburb—”

She stops when she actually does glance around, and behind her little group, on the sidewalk and on the street, a throng of neighbors have cropped up.

Cherry’s known just about all of these people his whole life, and a few for a little over half. He knows them as friends of the family, honorary aunts and uncles, but Olive, who’s having a hard time keeping it together beside him, knows them all from newspaper clippings and bar stories passed around in her old traveling merc circles.

In a wide semicircle around the back of the unit stand Cherry’s neighbors, including but not limited to, as Olive hastily describes to Brie, Meat, and anyone else willing to listen as her whispers rise and fall with her enthusiasm, the following: Celica Dahlstad, whose reputation for being nigh unkillable is only really beaten by the near fantastical knife gripped in one of her hands; the Hunter Brothers, a set of middle-aged men with pointed ears, graying slicked back hair, and revolvers that make even Sundae’s seem pale in comparison, with multiple barrels and other odd additions; Mountain Road, a craggled, rocky Golem taller than even Jack with a rifle that actually looks more like somebody put a stock on a medieval cannon, whose appearance is close to a statue of a lumberjack come to life; and of course the couple that Meat had gotten a pair of fireproof shoes from, a tall, strong looking, stern woman with white hair, grey skin, and electric blue eyes. A similar glow creeps up her arms and legs, her pointed ears and icy fangs snaggling slightly out from her cracked, mirthless smile. Beside her is a grinning skeleton in a polo and khaki shorts who only makes it up to her shoulder; they’re Bill and Renee Crawl.

Behind the lot of them is Ash, in whose hands is held something massive, like a log of wood made out of some kind of stone; Cherry knows it as “that damned piece of shit,” from what Red had called it once or twice due to it falling over and wrecking some of their nicer furniture in Cherry’s youth. Olive knows that to be a weapon of literally Dragon slaying proportions, a log of the same stuff Jules’ old stick had been made out of with holes bored into one end for easier gripping. To put it simply, Ash was swinging around about half a tree’s worth of wood strong enough to, even in walking-stick form, force a hard left turn from a careening, out-of-control motor vehicle.

And here he is, eyes blazing with unfiltered rage from under gray eyebrows, stepping from between his neighbors to lean in toward Piper and her cronies to say, “Get off my fucking lawn,” in a voice barely above a whisper.

Every neighbor there is clad in something casual, from jeans to shorts to polos to short sleeve dress shirts, the sort with floral patterns and exotic fruit plastered all over, but everyone is holding something that makes Sundae, Nancy, and Jack stand down. It all makes Piper angry, but more so, she’s deadly jealous of it all. The blatant, casual display of power— everyone here could whoop her ass one-on-one and make it back in time for a beer. It’s equal parts terrifying and maddening, seeing just how much further she has to go before she’s one of them.

She holds eye contact with Ash, having turned around, until behind her head there’s a soft click. She blinks; Brie has placed a semiautomatic pistol to the back of Piper’s head. With a surprising lack of malice, Brie says simply to her, “Leave.”

The set of four make their way back to the car without any pleasantries or goodbyes, tucking themselves inside with their proverbial tails between their legs, save for Piper. She’s marched to the car, personally, by Brie and Ash, the latter of whom has set his Dragon-smashing log down because, as Red shouts from across the yard, “I don’t want to have to pay the town for cleanup, you messy bastard,” with the phrase “messy bastard” somehow coming out very sweetly.

It’s only after getting in the driver’s seat that Piper rolls down the window and eyes Brie, scowling. “This isn’t over,” she hisses.

Brie lifts the gun again, “I would say it is.” The car takes off down the road again as everyone watches.

Ash raises a brow and asks, “I thought you ran out of bullets?”

“I did,” she replies. “But she did not know that.”

A smile presses its way out from beneath Ash’s beard, and as he lifts his club to go stash it away again, he gestures toward the yard. “Alright everyone, stick around! Red’s cooking ribs.”

The neighbors all walk in to mingle too, though most leave after a minute or so to pop back over to their own houses for a moment— it’s rude to not bring at least a side, after all.

Chapter Four End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is   © 2020-2023 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Four

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Between a board of incredibly ungrateful directors and a flaming wolf monster sits a lone woman, perched in the latest of ergonomic office seating and clothed in the finest of business casual fashions. Though the beast is drooling some horrid mix of foam, charcoal, and embers, her cool, grey eyes do not waver from the glowing red gaze that weighs down upon her. Perhaps she clicks her pen a little harshly, giving away a hint of her nerves and cutting a small slice from the spring’s lifespan, but far as Blondie’s concerned this woman is as stoic as stone— a hard feat to pull off in a field filled with people made of literal rock.

    A lot of people prefer to hire golemnic sorts for this exact reason. When a problem, like a hulking creature dripping with fire and hate comes to call at the doors of people in suits, they usually have to rely on outside physical, and mental muscle to help stop the fire. Golems are great for that. And yet this secretary does not budge no matter how loud he screams, no matter how many holes he punches in the office’s drywalls, now matter how far he tosses the pair of rent-a-cop guys who continue to urge him to leave as he’s continually denied entrance by one Ms. Bleu.

“Listen to me, goddamnit! I am ALIVE! Look at me and tell me I’m not ALIVE!” Blondie shouts, stomping back and forth in the unfamiliar reception room. After all, he used to be the top dog— why should he have to spend any time sitting around here with Ms. Bleu, the lady literally hired to shut out impromptu visitors with the aid of security. Such security, at this very moment, are picking themselves up off the floor again and thanking whatever backwater deities watching over that they’re in a little something called “civilization,” otherwise known as Black Hill. Being in a place like this, even with him in this state, has his hands tied.

“You most certainly are, Mister… “Blondie.” Unfortunately, we already have it on record that you’re dead, which voids your contracts, including your security clearance.” Bleu’s lips— painted purple to pop against her blue-slate skin, matching the dark off-black hues of her hair— pull into a small and insultingly courteous smile. “I am most certain you are most definitely alive. Most definitely. Of course.”

He claws at his upper jaw as more hateful froth drips from between his teeth, finally coming to a halt in front of the desk. It’s fine, grey wood, smooth enough to run a hand over and feel like one had actually touched incredibly refined glass. On it is no less than Ms. Bleu’s nameplate, her average day-to-day paperwork, and a single framed picture of the woman and a few others, dressed in preparation for what might be a day out on the green, or perhaps a day playing tennis.

Blondie picks up this picture frame, turns it around, and waves it in the secretary’s face. “Don’t fuck with me, lady, don’t fuck with me! I’ll fucking destroy this. I’ll destroy everything you’ve ever known! I can burn this whole fucking building down if I wanted!”

To his surprise, she yanks it from his hand and sets it back into its place on her desk, all before folding her hands over her paperwork to keep his dreadful molten flecks from falling onto them. “You have no identification, you stormed up several now near ruined flights of stairs to get to this floor, and you’ve even taken the time to give almost every security guard in the building nothing less than a heart attack. Not to mention, again, you’re claiming to be a dead man whom I have seen very often before, and while you most certainly act like him, you really, really don’t look like him. Like, for instance, the dead man you’re arguing that you are tends to wear clothes when coming to meet with his superiors and isn’t constantly on fire. All that said… I believe you, Blondie.”

He blinks, tone losing its edge for a second as he asks, “Huh? You do?”

“I do,” she replies. “I believe you because to be quite frank, if you were some insane monster you would have killed those guards and probably myself as well, but you haven’t. And this is because as big and scary as you are, you don’t bite the hand that feeds.” Her head tilts.

Blondie snarls, returning to his sour mood as he slams a fist against her desk, denting the perfect wood and warping the area around the contact with heat. “You’d better take that shit back. Don’t you fucking accuse me of being some kinda bitch, just—”

“Sir, even if I do believe you, even if you had identification, even if you didn’t leave a molten pile of trash in the VIP parking and didn’t beat up all of our security, I would not be allowed to let you in.” Her smile widens. “You died, or you didn’t, whichever! All that said, your contract was voided upon your reported death. Again, this means you have none of the security clearance or resources afforded to a Shepherd Acquisitions Officer. This is above my pay grade to fix, and as much as I do so want to help you, I need you to understand that I’m just doing my job.” Venom drips sweetly from each word as they leave her mouth, and Blondie can barely contain himself.

He wants to use her spine as kindling, burn the entire building down with everyone in it just to pick their bones from the ashes, but he can’t. It’s enough to make him roar and punch a nearby pillar jutting up from the floor, an entirely decorative affair meant to put forth the image of power and affluence despite being nowhere near an actual load bearing position or on the ground floor, where most pillars are more snugly placed. “Fuck! Off! Just let me in, you blue wh—”

“If you were to be reinstated by someone above me, of course, I would have to respect that,” Ms. Bleu interjects. “But nothing less than an administrative miracle can help you now. You’d need someone on par with Ms. Hickory or Mr. Gilroy to walk in and wave their hand, and then I’d be more than happy to let you walk on back to Acquisitions. Or you can go through our several week issue logging process…” A grin on her face now, she turns her head toward a box against the far wall, where some papers barely poke out of a small slot in the dead center of its face; across it is a thin layer of dust, conspicuously left despite immaculate cleaning as an administrative warning. “You’d just need to sign all the necessary paperwork to prove you’re you, offer up compelling evidence and several witnesses, plus letters of recommendation, and then give or take some business weeks for us to have somebody in admin look over your claim.”

It knocks the flame out of him. He slumps onto the floor with his head in his hands, groaning rather than growling. “Fuck it! Fine! FINE! Make some calls, damn it!”

“I can do you that courtesy at least.” She clears her throat and, from inside a larger desk drawer she hauls out and sets onto the desk a sizable telephone, a bit larger than her torso and connected by a wire than runs into the desk and down into the building’s overall system, whose writhing mass of horrid wiring is comparable to a pasta dish that’s somehow older than it actually is and also far, far more flammable than it ought to be. “Whom would you like to call?”

“Gimme Penny— no, Penelope Hickory, if I call her Penny she won’t fucking help me.” He’s back up and pacing, burning his prints into the ruined, fractured tiles, sending up the smell of something that somebody’s going to discover is probably very toxic in about three more years.

“Ms. Hickory is unavailable, sir,” Ms. Bleu says. “She’s out.”

“Damn it. Fine, give me Gilroy. Shit.” Now that he’s calmed down, he scratches the back of his neck and growls at the security, who have by this point huddled by the door on the far end of the room, prepared to dart down the stairs if need be.

“Mhmm, as you wish sir.” The digits long memorized, she enters Gilroy’s office number. Not his office back at the main site, but his HQ Office, one of the few given to those of his corporate rank or higher, which more or less acts as a small extension of his horrid realm inside the lair of his superiors. Blondie has a similarly disused and ignored office somewhere on a floor above. Still, with all the latest happenings, Gilroy had been spending an awful lot of time back in the city.

The phone rings, rings, and rings, but there’s no answer. She hangs up. “Would you like me to try his house number, sir?”

Blondie’s rage is starting to boil again. He’s foaming from the corners of his mouth and his eyes are threatening to roll so far up that they’ll do a backflip. “YES.”

She nods and enters this number also, again memorized from an inordinate amount of time playing paper jockey and message courier between the several higher ranked members of the corporation. This time, however, the phone picks up. “Mr. Gilroy? Yes, sir, this is the office. No, sir, we know you’re using your PTO. We wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important. Mr. Blondie is here— oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“He hung up.”

Smoke plumes escape both his nostrils in unison before a tense, uncertain silence enters the room. Then everyone inside with him realizes that he’s starting to shake, and it’s rising in intensity, rising in its own strange, violent way before he raises both fists and is screaming bloody murder at the ceiling as he rises too, hefting himself up only to start stomping against the floor like a frenzied animal. The security guards, then, start running down the stairs and slam the door shut behind themselves.

Ms. Bleu watches as Blondie takes her telephone, rips it off the wire, and then tosses it at top speed through a nearby window before he begins pounding his fists against the already ruined floor. Each throbbing pulse warps the wood and steel underneath the destroyed tiles crack by crack, sending creaks and shudders throughout the room. Bleu sighs, leans back into her chair, and pulls out a small magazine catalogue out from her purse to begin reading. “Sir, do be careful. At this rate you might go straight through the floor.”

“SHUT UP, DAMNIT! FUCK!” He screams, before his fists go clear through a particularly weak section of metal and already burnt wood, taking Blondie to the level below. The force carries him through that one too, but he’s stopped by the sizable, almost comparable bulk of a golemnic office worker on the floor after that. That said, that office worker goes through the floor in his stead while Blondie storms off, but only halfway, so on his path through down to the ground floor the wolf passes what he thinks is some kind of tacky art installation, but is in truth the bleeding, groaning tangle of a stone accountant halfway punched through a spaghetti of metal, wood, and wiring.

At least Blondie knows Gilroy’s home. He knows where that is. When you hate someone this much, it’s hard to forget. The fire likes it when he thinks about what he wants to do to Gilroy. When the fire likes something, Blondie likes it too. It’s warm, comforting in a painful way.

Unfortunately the car is a literal pile of molten metal in the parking lot, so it’ll have to be a jog.

==============================================================

    Brie pokes at her poutine, attempting to keep her train of thought straight while Roxanne teases Meat over their current outfit, and how they would’ve looked so cute in those flowery patterns with the glorious weather they’re having. It’s difficult to keep out, but once she blocks it by focusing on fiddling with her gravy-covered, fried potatoes, it’s out for good, and nothing interferes with her internal monologue.

That woman, Piper. She was a Shepherd Gemstone foreman, not an auditor or whatever the formal title is for that particular breed of corporate muscle. She had the dress and the gait of one though, and that’s very concerning. Her attempts at bossing Brie around were somewhat lacking, due to a number of potential reasons. Lack of experience? Lack of willingness? Insecurity due to either or both of these options? It’s hard to say, but she conducted herself as someone on the up-and-up rather than someone who was already on top.

And she asked about the quarry. Those five escapees that Brie is supposed to be tailing. As a part of her job. The job she had been hired to do. Right.

Setting that thought aside, she considers the possibility that Ms. Hickory had replaced her. Piper had no notebook, and certainly seemed unconcerned with the task of keeping track of all the damages. And in her years as a PI, Brie had yet to meet someone who could produce an accurate model of destruction for a city-wide disaster with nothing but their head. Hell, she had hardly met anyone who had lived through such an event in the first place, but here she is, trying to decipher the odd situation in front of her.

The squeak of a cheese curd in her mouth gives her an idea. “Roxanne, how much do you remember about Shepherd Gemstone’s administrative workings, and would you have any understanding as to their protocol when an outside private investigator catalogues an entire city’s worth of damage expenses?” Brie asks, mouth still full of food.

The Medic laughs in amused disgust. “Ms. Brie, please, remember what I said about asking questions with your mouth full.”

“Yes,” she pauses to swallow. “I recall, but this is urgent. How much do you remember—”

“I wasn’t much involved with admin, not even when I was younger. What’s the urgency, dear?”

“I would like to know if I am getting sacked, and whether it will be violent or not,” she says, sticking her fork into her fries. “I have been thinking on the matter, and it is making me concerned for my safety.”   

“The city nearly burning down didn’t?” Meat asks.

“Contextually, yes. But currently and specifically, it is making me concerned that my safety is being breached by my own employer, rather than a burning wolf-man.”

Roxanne takes the moment to sip on her iced tea, so spiked with mint that it wafts into the air around her when she lifts the cup to drink it. “Did Piper hit a nerve?”

“Absolutely,” Brie nods, “she was acting as though she was some kind of mercenary. Which, if I recall the definition of the word, is not inclusive to those on the payroll of a company not run by themselves. And the word, in and of itself, tends to have connotations of overconfidence and bravado, both of which she had quite a lot of. I am a technical mercenary, and she is not. And yet...”

“And yet,” Roxanne replies.

“And yet.” Brie pulls another forkful of potato-goop into her mouth to think.

“If she’s after you, that’s a problem,” Meat says, scratching their skull.

“Not a big problem, though.”

“She is many problems. She could, potentially, be my replacement, making her a monetary problem, as it would mean by contract has been voided without my knowledge or consent.”

“And if that’s the case, there’s a good chance she’s also playing hitman,” Roxanne chimes in.

“But there’s no way of telling. Either way, she is most certainly after the same runaways as we are, which makes her competition, and I do not think she will be the friendly kind if push comes to shove.”

Meat leans back in their chair. “What’s the deal?”

“There is no deal to be made,” Brie replies, frowning, “unless there has been a deal made behind my back.”

“That’s not what I meant. What are you thinking?”

“Oh. I recommend we leave Fusillade tomorrow for Pickman’s Hope.”

“Good idea,” they nod. “I think Leslie has his guys looking for me.”

Roxanne raises her eyebrows. “You’re the hero of Fusillade, Meat. Wouldn’t that be bad press for the family?”

“They have ways of making it happen. I vaguely remember something about making people disappear.”

“That’s dirty.”

“Leslie’s a dirty guy, I think.”

“And if you are to be pursuing your quest of stopping Blondie from further destruction, it would be good for you to tag along with us, yes?” Brie asks.

“I thought that was the plan from the start.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, it was,” Roxanne says, patting Meat on the shoulder. “We weren’t gonna leave you here, honey. Don’t you worry.” “I’m not worried. I thought it had been decided.”

“I had not decided on anything,” Brie starts, before realizing that the semantics were not the focus of the conversation. “However, you can assume that I would be okay with it, as you are my friend.”

“That’s sweet, Ms. Brie,” the Medic says, “but before we get sentimental, perhaps we should discuss what to expect while we’re there.”

“What to expect?”

“Do you know what kind of town Pickman’s Hope is?”

“It is a union town, yes?”

“And do you know what kind of employer you’re under contract with?” Brie scrunches her face. “I see.”

“Indeed. We’re going to have to find some mode of hiding it, Ms. Brie, unless you want all three of us barred from town permanently.”

“Hm,” she hums. “I shall take tonight to think of something. It’s not as though I am a known figure or face amongst the corporation, yes? I’m a contractor, and the most I’ve done is collect data on the damages.”

“Your nametag,” Meat points. “It says Shepherd Gemstone. Take it off.”

She raises both eyebrows, and looks down at her lapel. Of course it’s still there. She puts it on every morning, like clockwork. Taking it off would break the pattern she had built, but if it meant not getting herself forcibly removed from the town, she would have to do it. So, she unclips it and sticks it in her breast pocket. After a moment of silence she says, “This feels odd.”

“Not having your nametag on?” Roxanne asks.

“Yes.”

“You’d also better get used to not mentioning the company, unless it’s to trash it. No contrarian talk on that matter, you hear?”

She takes a while to process this. Eventually, she replies, “I do have a few grievances to air.”

“Perfect. Save them for the locals, then,” Roxanne says, standing up from her seat and downing the rest of her mint tea.

==============================================================

When Harry Gilroy opens his front door with a frown, the only surprise that registers in his brain is over the matter of Blondie’s nudity, with a slight bit being from the inexplicable fire crackling away beneath the man’s skin, setting his heavy claws, feet, and bright eyes to glowing a menacing, but aesthetically pleasing red. As a fan of the color himself he almost considers it an upgrade to the old fool he’d become unfortunately used to spending so much time with, though after another brief and silent second thought he realizes he’s still not very enthused to see the man. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I walked it off. Let me in.”

“No, go away. I’m taking the rest of the week off. I don’t talk to dead men or hallucinations. Either way, you’re bringing the property value down just by standing on my front porch.” Gilroy sneers, baring fangs as he moves to close his door, which he had opened only as far as the door chain inside would allow. 

Before it closes, however, Blondie’s glowing claws grip the lip of the door and slowly pull it open, even pulling the chain taut and tearing it from the inside of the wall. Harry Gilroy stands there, doorless, in a wine red lounge robe and a pair of cherry colored house slippers. Blondie laughs at him, then shoulders his way inside with his typical swagger as the owner of the house shuffles out of the way of the flaming bulk of condescension and fur.

“Man, I forgot how nice this place is. I’m surprised you can afford this shit on your pay, buddy.” Blondie teases, taking heavy, heated footsteps into the living room, which of course is decorated in a similarly red and and woody fashion to Harry’s office back in Smokestone, which is to say rather tackily and vaguely resembling a middle to high end sports bar someone’s elected to live in. “All this crap and you still can’t score a point on the board.”

“Lovely, sex advice from the dead.” Harry’s face is already pulled into a frown, so it can’t get any worse, but then again his default expression is almost always a frown anyway, so at this point it’s just par for the course. This might as well happen! He might as well be visited by the disgusting, fetid soul of his departed coworker post-draconic barbecue. It’s about on par with all the rest of the irritating nonsense he’s had to deal with thus far. A little further out there, maybe, but nothing outrageously beyond the average irritation. At least the tree-hugging dumbasses whining about magical this and magical that won’t be on his case for this one. Everything from the smallest inconvenience to potentially cataclysmic events in his life earn the exact same reaction: a frown, expensive whiskey in a glass nearly as, if not more, expensive than the drink it holds, and a low, discomforted sigh that trails into a frustrated growl. “I don’t need to be told how to score by someone who appears to have been cleanly handled by somebody’s overzealous barbecue.”

The front door is propped shut amidst grumbles about payment and this and that, which Blondie ignores entirely as he makes after the bar inside Gilroy’s living room, off to the far side of it. Once there, Blondie uncorks a remarkably pricey and obviously imported bottle with a claw, and empties the entirety of its contents into his gullet. In a moment he’s struck by a series of informational bursts of thought which unlock hidden recesses of his mind, as though the simple and outrageously overpriced flavor is familiar enough to tease out knowledge nestled deep inside the ever consuming, mental and metaphysical fire and ash. First and foremost, he recalls that he’s never been a fan of wine.

Secondarily, he’s reminded that it might actually be a good thing he decided to bother Gilroy over this rather than Hickory, because unlike the damage control enthusiast, Gilroy’s the sort of sniveling little bastard he can wring for all he’s worth. Hickory’s a great many things, but manipulable is not one of them, even under threat of violence. After all, she’s a half-decent lycan herself. Not like Gilroy.

“You’re staring into my liquor collection like an idiot, Blondie. If you’re not a hallucination, which this bullshit with my good wine is beginning to make clear, you’re actually here, which means you actually have to talk to me about why the hell you’re barging into my house on my day off and guzzling my drinks.” Harry slams his hands on the countertop to punctuate his statement, and that does manage to get Blondie’s heft to swivel around and face him.

“Right, right. Got a lot on the mind, my sincerest apologies.”

“You don’t think, you just break things.”

“And I’ll break you if you keep this smarmy shit up. Lemme cut to the chase— Harry, I’ve gotta have you or Hickory reinstate me at HQ so I can get my job and my shit back.” Blondie sets his hands on the counter too, making certain they were on either side of Harry’s hands so as to remind the smaller man of the remarkably gulf of power between them. The anticipated reaction to this is something akin to watching a mangy scavenger hiss and back off from a carcass, in the more literal sense Blondie expects Harry to agree wholeheartedly, if begrudgingly, and this would lead into a ride back to HQ and the restoration of his position.

In actuality, Harry Gilroy, the man unremarkable among the remarkable, the simple businessman and lackluster werewolf, laughs in Blondie’s face as though he’s just been told a joke so funny that it demands a smile which pulls his sharp features into a twisted, mirthful grimace and sets his whole body to shaking as he pounds the counter with his fist. It’s a high, peeling laugh like the squeal of a dying pig, Blondie thinks. That’s the sound he thinks of when he hears Harry laugh, dying pigs.

It takes a moment for the dumbstruck Blondie and the near incapacitated Harry to both return to their more typical postures, but it does happen, and after the shorter man wipes a legitimate tear from the corner of one of his eyes, he clears his throat and actually settles into something very strange: a genuine smile. And then he tells Blondie, “No.”

“Excuse me?” Escapes the charred jaws of the dead man. “No?”

“No, Blondie, I’m not going to get your “job and shit back.” I celebrated your death by taking paid time off just to make sure I could drink without worrying over the headache that is replacing you— beyond the paperwork I already helped approve alongside Penny, that is.” Harry’s fingers drum against the countertop as the fearsome, ever dangerous Blondie stares in mounting fury and utter confusion. “Yeah, that’s right, we’ve already got a prospective replacement lined up. Well, the bosses did, not us, but she is one of mine. Unfortunate, but that’s just the way of things, isn’t it?”

“Ex-fucking-cuse you,” Blondie growls, “What you meant to say was “yes, Blondie, of course. Let’s go, we’ll take my car.” Now shut the fuck up and get your keys you little—”

“Bitch.” Harry’s smile widens disquietingly. “No, I said “no” and you’re going to have to respect that, dead man. We aren’t out in the sticks where you can just go and murder people all willy-fucking-nilly, because around here we aren’t a bunch of useless bums pretending we’re worth anything more than the dirt we can haul out of a bunch of sub-standard mines. This is civilization. If you could solve this problem by killing me, or hurting me, you would’ve busted down that door and beat me within an inch of my life, but you can’t. You can’t do that here.”

Gilroy’s grinning as he backs up, turns, and finds himself a place to sit in a large and remarkably cozy looking red velvet and dark wood recliner. “You can’t touch me, especially if you really do want your job back, because this is the one actual place where the only backstabbings that get to happen have to be through red tape and subterfuge unless you’re very, very subtle, and that’s not what you are. You’re not subtle. You’re sudden and unpredictable, yes, but not subtle.”

“So, you’re hiding behind that, huh. Don’t be fucking stupid, Harry. I’m a publicly dead man. The law around here won’t think a dead man killed you.”

    As Blondie rounds the counter to close the distance, Harry clears his throat. “That’s true, any crime can be gotten away with if you prepare to cover your tracks. Why, if nobody could see us in here I think you could probably kill me and walk out in broad damned daylight and not get caught because nobody’d accuse the dead guy of killing someone who’s ostensibly his friend. Too bad there are people who can see us right now. You see, Blondie, your main problem is you’re not a team player. More than that, you’re so stuck in your own head you’re too dense to realize the issues with the way you operate, the way you tick. I’ve been waiting a while for this.”

The blazing red eyes narrow at Gilroy, then snap to the windows, where the blinds are down but open to allow in the sunshine. Across the street, just with a quick turn of his head, he spots two glares.

The first is the scope of a rifle, behind which is an unidentifiable humanoid covered head to toe in tactical gear, about average height. The rifle itself, as Blondie identifies with a lightning flash of his synapses, is high quality and the sort of grade used to punch holes in animals like those skitterbears in the wild, comparable to the custom job he’d been carrying around as a pistol for the past many years. It’s not hard to trace the aim, somewhere around his left pectoral, probably hoping for a heart shot or a lung rather than go for the head. This operator wants it to be a killer, but slower than a perforated skull and faster than a bullet through the bowels. Optimized suffering to fatality ratio.

He huffs out smoke. The second glare is from a scoped revolver big enough to crack the wrist of any lesser being that might fire it. Again, something almost on par with his custom job, but just like the rifle he can tell it’s assembly line crap, even if high end. The person with the revolver is neatly hidden inside of a neighbor’s privacy hedge, peering just out between the branches and small leaves, barely visible in identical tactical gear.

The rifleman is settled neatly on top of a house across the street, and Blondie’s certain whoever lives there has no clue there’s a trained killer on top of it. “So. Roof, hedge…”

“There are another two, and you’re not likely to find them.”

“They’re in the house with us.”

Harry chuckles. It’s a strange sound.

Blondie’s eyes feel drawn downward and back behind him, and he realizes there’s a shape where there ought not to be one. Another vaguely humanoid figure, hidden head to toe, near impossible to make out in the shade of a doorway toward what is Gilroy’s walk-in kitchen, the lights out behind them. This one’s holding a shotgun, simple and efficient, another all-black mass production. As if to formally announce its presence, or perhaps just to assert itself as a threat, the figure takes that moment of staring, hidden behind the gear to pump the shotgun.

That means the fourth he can’t even tell the whereabouts of. He counts three, and they’re all easily visible, readily available, but he can’t find the last. One’s at close range, and while a shotgun might not do jack or shit to his flaming hide it’s got stopping power on him, not counting the high caliber ordinance he’s likely to take from the revolver and rifle outside.

He could kill Harry, but he’d have to deal with them too, and by the time he’s managed to kill them he’s certain someone in the neighborhood will have gone screaming for the law, which would only cause him more problems. He lives in this town, after all. He can’t go home if he’s burned it all down.

“What, all those years I spent busting my hump to bring you fucks a comfy, cushy, cowardly life means nothing now?! You owe me, Harry, you all owe me fucking everything.”

Harry Gilroy clears his throat and points toward the exit. “You’re dead, Blondie, and we at Shepherd Gemstone don’t really like bothering with dead weight. You must understand, nobody in this company has any reason to help you. You’re a freak. A burning, monstrous freak, and if I were a worse man I’d have you brought in just like your quarry to be cut open so we can find if there’s anything valuable inside. I’d tell you to go home to your wife and kids, but… You’d just burn them, wouldn’t you?”

The immeasurable rage inside of Blondie in this moment is hotter than even the explosion that put him in this state, but the point is made. Only dignifying Harry with a snarl, the wolf exits the building and begins jogging down the street, trailing half-melted asphalt with each step. Gilroy’s a problem now. Hickory’s one too, if she did approve of whatever replacement they have out and about, and he can’t go back to Janet like this. He has nothing anymore. He’d be out on the street, kicked out by some stupid ex-model. It’s not as though dead people can claim ownership of a building, let alone burning, naked dead people.

Those weaselly little hicks are his only way back in. He drags them in, drops them at the feet of his bosses, he gets a promotion and all his shit back, and then he takes Gilroy and Hickory and all those other disgusting vermin and reminds them who’re the wolves and who’re the sheep.

    Inside his house, Harry Gilroy is smiling pleasantly. It’s even more unsettling than the smiles he wore during that conversation, but not one of the three humanoids in full gear would ever admit it to his face or to themselves. They make their way inside, congregating around him as he settles back into a near perpetual frown, a huff escaping him.

“Where’s the fourth?” He asks, roughly. “You told me he’d be here on the phone. We’re lucky he was stupid enough to believe you to be competent enough that the fourth was still in here somewhere.”

“I am,” a voice, muffled by a mask, offers. He’s in the same tactical gear as his companions, and altogether they’re two men and two women, faceless, covered head to toe in the finest available from the Sulfur Solutions urban warfare line, “COBRA.” It’s high quality, available only to the real competent operators, but still factory produced. It lacks the artisanal, homey quality of even the most dangerous, personally made weaponry.

In his hands is a take-out drink tray, in which are set four paper coffee cups with open tops, steaming. Each of his companions take a cup and pull their masks down to begin sipping as he turns toward Gilroy. “I got some coffee on the way.”

“...Of course you did, Jack, of course you did.” Scowling, Harry takes the last cup and takes a few heavy gulps of the steaming, almost entirely black liquid as beneath his mask the man opens his mouth to protest, but elects to instead keep quiet. “You didn’t even make it the way I like. Cute. Whatever. You four know your job?”

“Anything Ms. Piper tells us to do, sir,” one woman says, standing at attention and barking the words hard. Slung on her back is the shotgun. “Acquisition of the five runaways and elimination of loose ends, sir!”

“Yeah, yeah, cool it. Fuck, you’re a loud one.”

The sniper clears his throat then speaks with a low, gravelly voice, asking, “We clear to head up north yet?”

“Yes, you are.” Gilroy sighs as he leans back into his seat. “Make sure to take an unmarked vehicle, not a company car. Those backwater morons don’t like us up there. Oh, and let Piper know there’s soon to be an in-house bounty on that walking corpse.”

“Sir, yes sir!” The shotgunner says harshly, her boots knocking together as she again practically barks it out.

Beside them all, the revolver toting one, the other woman, has been simply spinning the cylinder of her gun while drinking her coffee, and only now does she speak up in a soft voice to ask, “And what’s our protocol on civilian altercations during this job?”

“Why’s that matter?” Gilroy asks in turn, raising a brow.

“In case of unforeseen circumstances.”

His eyes roll. “Don’t tell anyone you work for us and don’t get caught.”

The sniper laughs. So does the woman with her revolver, and the shotgunner. Jack’s slow and nervous to join in, but does so after a moment of realizing this is supposed to be a group thing, one that even Harry partakes in.

Chapter End.

==============================================================

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat

[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Twelve

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

For a little while everything had been remarkably quiet out front, as Fusillade is sorely lacking in what Lucille considers excitement; in the same vein, anything she considers exciting tends not to be enjoyable if she isn’t going to be paid to deal with it. As far as she can tell, there’s no reason to worry herself over the spreading fires a good way down the street. Even a town this far out of the way has its dedicated fire brigade or what have you, so there’s no point to someone like her jumping to action, even as the flames march closer and closer to the building behind her.

Something else does get her attention, however, as it sounds like something busting down a wall. She doesn’t see where it’s coming from, though, and by all means it could be the fire brigade making their own entrances into the buildings to help whoever’s inside. No reason to worry unless the noise gets closer to her, which after the last one, it’s stopped. If the fire reaches the building, anyway, she’s sure Jules can get out quickly enough and they can get back to the car.

Speaking of, as her thoughts begin drifting to what turns the conversation must be taking inside, the Vampire comes barreling out at full tilt, slamming the front door open as he hotfoots it over to Lucille, to whom he says, “Hey, we need to go. Now.”

“Why? It’s just a fire. We can stick around and pick some valuables out of the ashes later,” she replies, slowly standing from her seat on a bench, brushing off her knees. “Unless it’s some kind of trouble with the Carnevale?”

“Nope, we’re all good with them— this problem is different. We need to leave Fusillade right now. Like, now right now, we need to get on our way to Pickman’s Hope, let’s go.” Jules turns and takes several quick steps toward the car, Lucille walking just behind him with her hands in her pockets.

“It’s not like we need to rush, we’re the only ones—”

Lucille doesn’t get to finish her sentence as a blur of a glowing corpse flies past them and into the passenger side door of the car, right between the two mercenaries. She’s dumbfounded for a moment, and both of them spin around to see that there’s a hole in the brick wall, right beside one of the windows, where before she had known it to be entirely and unwaveringly solid. Behind it there’s a big, white shape holding something, a shirtless man.

“Who the hell is that? He looks like—” Lucille starts.

“Yeah, I know,” Jules slides across the hood of the car, followed by Lucille, “we need to go, now! We can talk on the road!”

“Let me get off your car first,” groans Meat against the door, before standing themselves straight and cracking their neck with their hands. “Sorry about that. It’ll buff out, probably.”

Blondie shoulders his way through what remains of the wall surrounding the window, his fist closing firmly around one of the gangsters’ throats with a sizzle and a squelch before an intense crackling. Not a cracking, but crackling, like the sound of still burning wood giving way beneath some greater force. Burnt and torn lips pull into a wolfish grin to reveal a series of jagged fangs, all a patchwork of burnt black and glowing red.

The head of the man stays just above Blondie’s fist as he exits, igniting with deep red flame which swirls and licks at the whole of it, slowly burning away the flesh until little but blackened bone remains. The body falls to the ground behind him, the top of the headless neck burned shut. There’s no bleeding, it’s just a corpse.

“Wow. Didn’t expect you to stand back up after that, hah. You got rocks in your bones or something?” the Werewolf says with a hearty chuckle, gently tossing the skull up and down in one hand. “And don’t you run yet either, vampy. I need to thank you personally for helping me find my way back here. You bat-fucks always were great bleeders.”

“Duck, now.” Jules hits the dirt with Lucille, hauling her along with him as he rolls.

Meat’s late on the draw; their mind’s preoccupied with a flurry of information coming their way in the name of self-preservation, an unwillingness to part with their second life condensing into a solid ball of refusal. Problem is, actually deciphering all of it takes them a millisecond too long, and by the point they’re processing the real world there’s a skull hot enough to burn through steel hurtling toward their own skeletal features.

Two glowing red hands shoot up from beneath the dragonscale pattern poncho, making contact with the projectile. Fingers find purchase inside the eyeholes, and the thumbs hook right below the top row of teeth.

The sheer force of the pitch doesn’t stop on the catch however, and Meat is sent slamming back into the car again, jamming the passenger side door to the point of fusion with the frame before they’re sent tumbling over the top of it and into the dirt a few yards beyond Jules and Lucille, where they finally come to a stop.

For the briefest moment the instinctual fear of fire seizes hold and the miniscule animal inside every soul screeches in terror— the fireball is in their hands! And then, like magic— because it is— the vibrant flames sink inside the red glow of their hands, leaving Meat with a smoking, fire-blackened skull.

“Oh,” they mumble. “Sorry Tommy. I’m sure you were a fun guy.” Their eyes dart up. The hulking shape is approaching the other side of the car and the two mercs are still on the ground just beside it.

In a swift and elastic bound Meat’s back up, over the car, and the skull in their hand is smashing into the side of Blondie’s head with enough force that once it cracks and practically explodes from the contact, the heel of Meat’s palm slams harder against the wolf’s head than the makeshift weapon ever did. In the quarter of a second after the two finally make contact there’s a sizzle and a spark— and then a bang.

It’s not an explosion the way explosions are meant to be understood; it’s more flame than concussive, but there’s enough of a pop that they both separate again. Meat flies back once more, this time slamming their bare heels against the roof of the car, which would’ve put them in a great deal of pain if they weren’t more focused on the ringing sound in their ears or the insane and dizzying spin that the car just put on their trajectory through the air, which culminates in their going through the window of a business across the street.

Blondie’s sent face first into the dirt because that explosion was localized right around his left ear, a bit above his temple and subsequently meant all that momentum was pointed down. As Meat crashes through the display glass of a sandwich shop, Blondie’s got his own crispy snout halfway to six feet under and his actual feet up in the air.

The sound was comparable to thunder, but it fades quickly enough, giving way to a more typical tense silence as the both of them stand back up.

Meat shakes off a rack of discounted turkey sandwiches and several exploded display salads before they haul themselves through the window again and start on an immediate beeline back across the street.

By this point Blondie’s back up, laughing, and swaggering toward them. “Phew, you’ve really got an arm. Too bad I’m gonna pull it off.”

“Bring it.” Meat’s teeth clack as they shut their mouth, arms flexing as they close the distance. This guy deserves it, they think. What he did to Tommy, what he’d do to anybody else, what he tried to do to Roxanne or Brie, oh he deserves it. Head down, jaw clenched, shoulders squared, Meat’s ready for another round and they haven’t felt this good since they woke up. Protecting themselves from that idiot vampire was all business, but this got personal about five punches ago and by God there’s no feeling on this forsaken hunk of rock that even compares to the righteous fury boiling in the back of their skull. There is no high that compares to the living flame of just hate.

Jules and Lucille scramble from the ground and into the driver’s seat as the two fiery combatants start getting closer and closer, but it’s impossible to start driving. Lucille can get her hands on the wheel and the key in the ignition, but the near ruination of the passenger side and Jules’ intense fear had him just about upside-down in the car like a bungling fool, arms down in the way of the pedals. They’re both grunting and cursing like a pair of panicking morons as, from the flower shop Carnevale HQ, there’s a whistle.

“Hey, big guy,” drawls the limping Roxanne, one arm raising a crossbow.

Blondie’s distracted, he doesn’t see it in time. The crossbow fires, and as he blinks, he sees a sharpened section of rebar, threaded to drill deeply on impact, having skewered his palm. As he’s in the process of recognizing the feeling, as he’s walking past the car Jules and Lucille are still desperately attempting to drive, there are two more successive chunk-chunks from the crossbow. It barely gives him enough time to register that he’s been pinned to the side of the car’s chassis.

When he pulls and hardly makes progress on unsticking himself, he roars in frustration just in time for his jaws to be forced shut by a flaming haymaker, capped off by another localized explosion. It’s not enough to send him tumbling this time, though— his head snaps back to focus his glare on Meat again not more than a second afterward, and when his jaws open again it’s not a scream or roar that escapes his mouth but white hot fire.

It’s a straight, focused line of flame, it sounds like the wolf’s got a jet engine in his gut, and despite their own immunity to flame it still feels like they’re going to be tossed away by the force alone. They’re pushed back no more than a few inches, however, and deliver another quick punch to shut him up.

A dog-like yelp escapes Blondie as his jaws were forced shut again, and with his free hand he lands a blow on Meat— sending them tumbling back another time— and starts to superheat himself, the bolts, the car, everything. He hardly manages to unpin his arm before more bolts stick themselves into his back alongside an entire magazine of pistol fire and several full volleys of high-caliber revolver ammo.

Inside the flower shop, Brie, Roxanne, and the remaining Carnevale goons have just fired off their entire salvo into Blondie’s center of mass. With her final shot, Roxanne pins Blondie’s hand to the car again.

In the car, Jules has just decided that he really, really wants to get out of there, and before Lucille can inform him that the flaming wolf monster that has it in for him is currently half-melted into the backend of their car, he jams the gas pedal down with his elbow, flooring it. “DRIVE!” He kicks awkwardly. “GET US OUT OF HERE!”

Lucille’s still grappling with the fact that they’re moving when they’re already halfway down the street rocketing past several gawking bystanders and a notable number of already burning buildings and they are still gaining speed. In the rearview mirror she sees a white gnarl of fur and glowing eyes, as well as the snarling teeth of the beast. “He’s still stuck to the back of the car,” she says, the shock of it all pushing her into serenity.

“What do you MEAN he’s still stuck?”

“I mean we’re about to hit seventy on a residential road and if we don’t crash and die he’s going to kill us,” she replies. This is how it all ends, is it? It’s not the worst way to go out, she considers. Better than being another faceless raider or gang grunt facedown in the muck. Going over seventy, surrounded by flames, probably going out killed by a monstrous fire beast—  at least a few of the idiots back home would’ve considered that a pretty good death. It’d become a bar story if anyone would hear of it. Did you hear about Lucille? The freak with the belly-mouth? Went down in flames with her best friend and a wolf monster that could lift cars. Fucking beautiful, that.

And then they begin to rapidly lose speed. This pulls her back from the high-speed death serenity that had washed over her, and sound returned. Jules is sobbing on the floor beneath her, babbling about how sorry he is, about how things had come to this. In front of her, beyond the Vampire’s legs, the engine’s screaming to keep going— and behind her she hears the creaking of metal and its liquid form slopping to the ground in heavy, sizzling globs alongside the molten drool of the snarling Blondie.

The first moments after the car had taken off, Blondie was surprised. He hadn’t expected it to get up to that speed so quickly and, additionally, he had been a little more focused on his hand being stuck to the damned thing and the corpse-looking asshole who’d been punching him for the past couple minutes. After what was likely about ten to twenty seconds of having his body dragged against the road like a bad bumper ornament, the novelty of the maneuver wore off. So now he’s solving the problem.

Having gotten himself chest to the ground, he raised his free hand to the other side of the car from that which his other hand was stuck to, and then with more might than even the wolf knew he had he shoved his feet against the ground. This has rapidly decelerated the car— and put a long, black trail following each of his feet where the bright, burning claws had shoved themselves through rudimentary gravel and dirt straight into moister earth.

Now the car’s stopped and even Jules can tell because above him none of the buildings are moving beyond the windows.

“We’re going to die,” Lucille says, staring ahead.

==============================================================

Meat’s rubbing their skull and watching as the car peels off down the road when they’re smacked on the shoulder. Leslie, a good amount of his suit burned along with one hand, smiles awkwardly.

“Hey, Mack.”

“Don’t start, Leslie. Only thing keeping me from finishing what he started is that I’m a bit busy right now.”

Leslie nods and raises both hands. “I get it, don’t worry. I’d feel the same if I were in your position. Any of us would. But right now, we’ve got a problem. That bastard needs to go. More than you do. He killed poor old Tommy— ”

“We both know that’s a lie and I’m an amnesiac. Don’t pull that on me.”

As Roxanne and Brie close the distance with the two, Mickey and the remaining still living congregate.

“Fine, I’ll cut to the chase. Guns aren’t gonna do jack to that nudist dog freak— no offense, lady—” Leslie nods toward Roxanne, “—and I ain’t about to send my boys after him when everything’s up in flames. You deal with this problem, you save my boy Jules, that being the Vampire who tried to kill you a bit ago, and we let you go. His life for yours, how’s that sound?”

Meat looks toward Brie and Roxanne, then toward Blondie, who by this point is just getting his free hand onto the car. Their jaw sets and their head tilts. “Fuck.”

“Please be careful,” Roxanne pokes with a laugh. “And don’t forget to save the last shot for me, Meat.”

After a long sigh, Meat turns to the street and starts running after the car.

==============================================================

Jules has decided it might be best to no longer be in this position if he’s going to die, and after taking his elbow off the gas he’s awkwardly making his way up, and with the lack of a passenger seat and the backseats being doused with molten metal, he’s left to straddle Lucille’s lap, facing her, and put his head over her shoulder to stare back at Blondie, who has by this point called them both every humanoid-based slur one can dream up and a veritable dictionary’s worth of ones solely regarding vampires.

Lucille, the moment he was out of her way, puts her foot on the gas again in the hopes of moving them with the jolt, but Blondie holds them tight.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry for how all this shit went down,” he says, picking his walking stick out of the backseat to prepare for the inevitable fight. “I never thought it’d turn out like this, I swear.”

“What, you didn’t think we’d be dying at the hands of a naked, flaming wolfman?”

“No, I thought that might be the end of a casual weekend party, not my death.”

“Is he your type? You really go for somebody like this?” Lucille’s brows arch.

“No! Fuck, no. I mean he’s big enough, but he obviously doesn’t even care about his hair.”

The two laugh, and the laughs become strained, and then the laughs aren’t laughs, they’re sobs. Lucille doesn’t quite cry so much as Jules, who’s back to bawling his eyes out as Blondie’s growls begin developing into barking, choking laughs. The sky’s exposed above them as the roof of the car is peeled back, pulled off by the wolf’s free hand and tossed aside. Heavy tears roll down the vampire’s gray face and into his mustache, down his chin. Lucille’s soak straight into the scarf around her face, with little distance to travel along her skin.

That is, until a new noise enters the soundscape. Jules’ sobs fade, his eyes blink the tears out. There’s something beyond the wolf, something fast and red and it’s screaming— they’re screaming.

==============================================================

Meat has made an incredible underestimation of their own ability before. After all, if someone’s able to stand up after dying they have to be another breed altogether, but despite this the old business habit of erring on the side of caution is kicking in. That is, however, a problem when while you’re estimating you’re a damned fast runner and have little time, a form of post-death adrenaline combined with justified fury and a healthy dose of incredible magical power all coalesces and after a certain point you’re running, your footprints are flaming, every step has the power of a small incendiary explosive, and the world around you’s rapidly becoming a blur. This is not the sort of speed that comes with actually being fast or being meant to be fast, because by no means are they meant to be fast. There are no stories about flaming skeletons running beyond the speed of sound, outpacing Wyrms and perceiving the world in slow motion.

The world around Meat is a blur because even now they aren’t terribly fast about processing anything and they’re going brutishly fast, the sort of fast that is uncontrollable and entirely about force; the will in each step to go further sooner, to put flaming holes in the earth beneath them and gain, gain, gain, like someone’s suburban van being supercharged with an illegal jetbooster. The framework that is Meat is not meant for this speed even after having died and come back. Meat is experiencing a form of speed most would only know if they were to strap themselves to the tip of a missile and let it rip.

So it is that when they’ve closed the distance and the shape of the car and the two idiots and the monster become firm and real, there’s no chance of them slowing down. Behind them the street’s on fire and around the last ten feet or so the ground has stopped being a thing. Now all there is is momentum, and the street feels about as far away for them as the clouds, and whether or not they intend it they’re burning, burning, burning through the air like a corpse-shaped missile, screaming.

Such as it is, Lucille’s not expecting that the car’s suddenly jolting to a breakneck pace with the added force of Meat’s journey to their destination as a guided projectile made of fire and muscle and rage, and that means they’ve moved another twenty feet before she’s aware that this vehicle is under her control. She’s white-knuckling the wheel to keep it from jerking either direction, which is slightly helped by her arms being under Jules’, thus meaning she couldn’t actually turn the wheel all that much even if she wanted to.

Meat’s collision with Blondie is enough not only to lift the wolf’s feet from the ground, but in the process the both of them are dragged into the backseats of the car, where the two immediately begin screaming and punching, clawing and biting like wild animals, all while a similarly screaming Jules is hitting either one of them on whatever parts he could strike with the knobbled clubbing end of his walking stick, coating it in burnt muck and some embers.

“Fucking shit! New problem, Lucille! Two new problems!”

“Care to tell me what they are? The rearview’s out.”

Meat’s head turns as their fist collides with Blondie’s jaws, pressing it between to block a burst of flame with their fingers. “One, assholes, I’m here to help.”

“The corpse is here?” Lucille asks. She’s trying to discern a way out, a path to safety, and unfortunately this long street’s practically all businesses and a hard left turn at the end. That’s hard news to break.

“Yeah, they’re here. To help, apparently, but they also put the other guy in the car with them, so maybe not?”

Blondie coughs out Meat’s fist, then snaps his jaws at it as his hands come up to clap on either side of Meat’s head. “After I’m done with barbecue face, I’m gonna skullfuck you both, mark my fucking words!”

“Shut up!” Meat screams, the glow between them both growing brighter as they slam their fists hard against Blondie, who laughs after each blow.

Jules has stopped trying to intervene in the fight by this point, and turns his head to speak only to Lucille. “We should just leave, right? They’re going to be busy with each other, let’s just go!”

“That’d be the smart thing to do, yes,” she nods. “Unfortunately not in the cards right now.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been trying the breaks for the last few seconds and it hasn’t worked. I also think the gas pedal fused to the floor, because it’s getting really, really hot and my foot isn’t on it anymore and we’re still going.”

Jules hums. “Shit. That’s what I get for hoping, I guess.”

Meat, in the midst of having their head engulfed by a clawed hand as the other continues to strike their side, screams. The back of the car is more molten metal than vehicle by this point save for the seats, which are burning up.

Blondie is growling viciously. One of Meat’s hands has managed to nearly bury itself into his ribs and it’s the sharpest pain he’s felt since waking up. He makes sure to return it in full, roaring, mouth frothing with hate.

Lucille can make out a small crew of men and women in fire-resistant gear wielding an old, basic hose and putting water on fires down the road. However, what she also notices is that the hose runs around the corner. The fire brigade, as she had assumed earlier, were quick to act in the case of fires. Through the already ruined remains of a remarkably small shop she can see their truck and, of course, the massive tank of water they draw from, one of several large reserve tanks filled with water from the nearby river.

“Jules,” she starts, her tone rising, “we’re gonna crash into a water tank.”

“Uh.” He glances behind himself, spotting the tank as well as the hard left turn needed to reach it, which is approaching very, very soon, but there’s still some distance. “Maybe we should just jump?”

“Jules, we either crash into the water tank or we jump and the two assholes behind us just survive the crash and come to kick our ass. Work smart, not hard.”

“You’re really stretching the meaning of ‘smart,’ Lucille, but whatever works, right? Jump right before we hit the tank?”

“Of course, don’t be stupid. Okay, turning left now—” Snap.

She blinks and withdraws her arms, and in one of her hands is the steering wheel, whose connector to the main body of the vehicle is molten orange. It drips between the two of them, and with a sharp, pained whine she tosses the wheel without a thought.

“Fuck, we needed that,” the Vampire says, eyes widening. He turns his head to look over his shoulder again, considers, and then looks to Lucille. “New plan. Really stupid plan. Trust me?”

Her eyes narrow. The seat’s kicked roughly by a writhing wolf monster and a screaming corpse, both of which are on fire. She nods, sighing. “Always, Jules.”

“Good, because this is either going to save us or kill us both. Arm!”

Lucille raises her left arm and pulls back her coat sleeve to reveal the skin, and with a flourish of his walking stick, sharp end pointing out of the car, he bites down into her wrist and starts drinking. Blood, strange blood, coats his lips and chin and mustache as he bulks up rapidly, eyes brightening and muscles tensing. He turns the stick in his hand and then wraps his newly pumped up fist around the club end of it, pointing the sharp end straight down. His fangs leave her arm. He’s planning to flip the car with his arm, she realizes.

“Your shit’s gonna break, Jules!” Lucille screams.

“I know!”

“This is gonna hurt a lot!”

“I know!”

“The turn’s just about to—”

“I KNOW!” Jules screams, and with one arm around Lucille— that hand digging its fingers straight into the seat itself, pressing into the heat weakened metal— his other arm slams downward, driving the point of the stick into the ground.

==============================================================

The vehicle is glowing hot. The back half looks like it’s well on its way to having melted in an oven, the two screaming and clawing at each other in the backseats looking like figurines behind a drawn curtain of light. The two sitting in the front are in a strange way also, one clutching desperately to the other as said other has a wooden walking stick, treated with various methods to make resistant even to the finest and strongest of axes, stuck into the ground. The fire brigade, frankly, has no clue what they’re looking at. It’s a massive ball of mayhem, and it wheels right past them and then around the corner and straight at their water tank. It’s a bolt of flame, blazing an orange-white among the deep and shadowed glow of the daylight fires surrounding, engine, tires, and metal frame screeching in near perfect tune with the writhing dead.

There’s a window of approximately five seconds after the turn’s completed where there’s several sickening snaps, one of wood and several of bone, and there’s an opening. Jules seizes on it, the blood in his system supercharging him. Unlike Meat, in this condition, this speed is his element. He’s bigger than it all, better than he is, better than he ever thinks himself to be. Lucille is pressed hard against him, the arm holding onto the seat going rigid around her, under her arms, as his legs tense and spring.

He jumps, keeping Lucille close, in the opposite direction the car’s going. They’re airborne for an unsettlingly long time. However, those on the ground see Jules’ opposite arm, the one that had been gripping the now broken stick, sagging limply beside him and bent in a direction an arm is not meant to go. He’s wrapped around her like a giant ball of grey, buckskin clad muscle, hat having flown off and his wild black hair whipping in the wind.

And then the two slam into the ground at top speed and go rolling for several meters. Meanwhile, the car slams into the truck and the water tank, which results in the strangest of sequences: first, the car and the firetruck both blow up. The impact’s more than enough to set off the truck’s bio tank and the car is already on its last legs, barely holding out under the heat, not to mention that the melting metal had finally reached the extra bio tank in the trunk.

Blondie and Meat are making no headway during any of this fight, with Blondie unable to properly land a killing blow or get any real effect out of his fire as Meat’s unable to do little to affect the wolf in the slightest, as even their strongest strikes did little but bruise the already dead muscle.

And then the two are slapping, clawing each other when the car strikes the truck and the explosions occur. Neither are affected by the heat, the flame. No, what affects them is the force of it, which sends the smaller Meat flying diagonally up and out of the car, away from Blondie and into the burning building that the fire brigade were trying desperately to put out until the next moment in the play by play.

Blondie, being much larger, does not get tossed far, and since there’s more force coming from the car than the truck’s bio reserve, plus the already extant momentum, Blondie’s trajectory points him like a huge, man-wolf shaped cannonball straight into the water tank, whose metal siding he punches through and into entirely.

It’s a second after that when the water tank explodes not with water but with steam. Everything is white for several moments, the water ceases to flow to the hose, Jules and Lucille are silent on the ground and Meat’s nowhere to be seen. During the whiteout, a few of the fire brigade’s volunteer members swear they could hear panting and stamping in the mist, but by the time that the steam clears Blondie is gone.

Another few moments later, the fires seem to begin to simply disappear, as though called away by something inside. When Meat exits the building, clothes heavily burnt save for their poncho, they walk up to the fire brigade. When neither hide nor hair of Blondie turn up, they head toward other buildings, raising their hands to the flames to begin calling them in. It’s a slow and awkward process, unrefined as of yet, but the locals are awestruck, sticking around to see before one of them runs off to go get another truck and another tank of water.

As this has all gone on, the two mercenaries are also nowhere to be seen. Lucille hoofs it back up the street toward where it all started, the very big and very unconscious Jules on her back, one of his arms still bent the wrong way and one of his legs similarly mangled after their landing. “Dumb son of a bitch,” she mumbles. “Dumb motherfucker. Stupid. Stupid. Fuck.”

==============================================================

An hour or so later, Blondie leans heavily against a building, basking in the shade of the Jim’s Trafficular Jam sign, panting like a dog. His glow is low but returning as he trudges over toward the lot itself. His claws run over his face, dragging long, sooty lines along his maw. It was supposed to be fun, it was supposed to be easy. That was neither of those things. That was shit.

Each step he takes is heavier, angrier than the last, and by the time he gets close to a decently sized van he’s frothing again. Taking both hands he grabs at the roof of the van and peels it back so that he can sit in the driver’s seat without his head brushing up against it. He opens the glove compartment by simply removing the hatch, from inside of which he withdraws the key and starts it. He just needs to go and restock, resupply, gear back up. He needs the best stuff, though. The fire and the muscles aren’t enough, he needs swords, he needs guns, he needs men.

The engine refuses to start, whining like an injured animal as he twists the ignition over and over. He could get it all down south, something tells him, deep in the back of his head. Shepherd. An armory, his bosses, they had it all. With all that and all this, he could wipe this place off the map along with every little insignificant piece of shit that calls it home, and then he’d keep on the warpath until he finds his quarry again. Names float in his head. Hickory. Gilroy. Penny can go fuck herself, he’ll break as much as he wants and Harry’s going to look like the stupidest brown-noser in the universe when Blondie shows back up, alive and well, ready to keep working.

When the engine continues to refuse him, he punches through the dashboard and into the engine block screaming in rage as the other hand squeezes the wheel tight enough to bend it. And then it roars to life, screaming into reality like it’s just woken from one nightmare into a whole new one, so much worse than the last. His foot puts the pedal to the floor and it lurches forward, Blondie beginning on his way south, away from Fusillade and back, back to the start of this shitty, shitty mission.

==============================================================

It’s evening now, and Meat, Brie, and Roxanne sit around a singed table at the sandwich shop across the street from the Carnevale flower front. Brie’s just finished a sub that had been smashed inside its wrapping, while Roxanne’s still in the process of finishing a chicken salad sandwich, and Meat hasn’t bothered touching their “thank you for helping the town not burn down” grilled cheese.

“And you’re certain you lost him?” Asks Roxanne, just having swallowed. “I suppose we’re back to square one, then. And, I’m out of those fun bolts I got back in Kiln. What a shame.”

Brie clears her throat. “I have a feeling that if we continue on this mission as we should, we will be seeing him again. Unfortunately.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Meat’s head tilts.

Roxanne sighs. “Meat, lift your head. It isn’t becoming of a town hero to mope.”

“I’m not moping. This is just thinking.”

“It doesn’t matter what you might be thinking, it’s moping if you look like a kicked puppy while you’re doing it. You’ve just saved a town, Meat. You should enjoy yourself a little.”

Brie shifts in her seat. “I would not think that is the source of their worries.”

“Nah. Just thinking about that asshole. What’d you call him? Blondie? I mean, he’s like…” Meat gestures vaguely toward themselves.

Roxanne laughs. “Oh no, don’t you start with this. You aren’t even a lick alike, don’t even consider it. I might be a Fox, but that doesn’t make me the same as whatever rabid little bastard eats people’s pets around here. Those stories never specify whether it’s the good or the bad that get back up.”

“Actually, if I recall correctly, more than a few state just those sorts of claims though without—” Brie’s cut off by an elbow in her side, followed by a small hiss from Roxanne.

“Don’t you worry your head, Meat. It’s not important to think about right now. Right now, you should just be basking in the good graces of a town well-saved while we handle the heavy thinking. We gotta plot a good route to Pickman’s Hope.”

==============================================================

“Jules, you’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You’re the dumbest person I think I’ve ever worked with.”

“I know, Lucille.”

“And I have no idea how, but you have saved my life more times than I can count.”

“I kno— oh, that one was actually kinda nice.”

Lucille’s pacing in a backroom surgeon’s office, hands clasped behind her back. Jules is lying back on a couch with one massive arm all tied up into a position where it might heal well and one of his legs in a splint, all awkwardly done with tightly wound, nearly elastic bandages to anticipate the lessening of his muscle mass as the recent feeding eventually wears off.

Lucille rubs what little of her face is exposed with one hand. The other arm, meanwhile, had been wrapped up tightly when they got there sometime earlier and still stings like hell. “We’re going to need backup. You heal fast, I know, but with that bastard still on the loose we need to have all the prep we can get, we’re out a car and you’re all fucked up.”

“That’s okay, we can work around that. It’ll take a little more time, but we’ve got this. You trust me?”

“Don’t do this again, Jules, don’t, this isn’t the time or place. I was— look, I was all fucked up about that in the car, don’t.”

“Okay! Still, just know that you’re my best friend. I’m not going to let you die on a job like this if I can help it. Plus, we can just try and contact someone who does have a car. Piper’s got one, right?” Jules smiles, his mustache rising with the corners of his lips.

Lucille, sighing again, walks over to him and gets her arms around his broad shoulders. “You’re a bastard. You’re a real bastard.”

“I know. Watch— watch the shoulder, jeez! I just had that popped back in!”

She squeezed him tighter, earning a grunt. “No.”

Book 3 End.

============================================================== 

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

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[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Three

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

After getting himself aboard and slumping over against one of the truck bed’s walls, Azariah opens his mouth to try and quip about the situation, but the words come out three times fastforwarded, like what happens when you skip through a song to find a funny lyric you’d noticed. “Iwould’vebeenhereearlierbutadogchasedmeontheway back— oopsholdononesecond,” he says. He cracks his neck, runs his fingers along his lips, smacks them a couple times, then finally, turns back to the other folks in the truck bed. “Did someone fall out? Me an’ Meat nearly tripped over somebody’s body on the way past.”

Brie points to the happy couple in the corner adjacent. “They had taken care of someone particularly frightening behind us. I believe they shot him.”

“Looked like someone’d thrown him through a couple sheets of glass.”

“He was glass, Azariah,” Judith rolls her eyes.

“That’d explain it,” he says, yawning. “Now, if y’all excuse me, I need to pass out. My legs feel like they’re ‘bout to disconnect from my hips, and my heart feels like an overfilled water balloon.”

He attempts to put his feet up on Meat’s lap, as a little joke, but they have none of it, pushing him away and standing up behind Olive, who is still in the process of blocking bullets from her knees, albeit slowly, as though Sundae’s firing pattern hasn’t gotten any more accurate, it’s certainly gotten more cautious about the random angles she chooses to fire at.

“Do you need help?” they ask, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“That’d be nice, but I ain’t sure what you’d be able to do,” Olive starts, but upon seeing Meat’s hand conjuring a magical fireball like a toilet flushing in reverse, she decides to just say, “Okay, that looks like it’ll do the trick.”

Piper, half-transformed and having to keep her frustration at a simmer, lest she go berserk and crash the car, grows increasingly worried at the prospect of being hit back by their targets, especially since the flaming corpse and the Hare had passed them in the tunnels, hopped on to the back of the truck, and the former decided to set their hands on fire.

Sundae, on the other hand, is still having a time just firing off her revolver. She’s having such a time, in fact, that her hammer-pulling thumb has gotten quite tired, and she’s physically slowing down, even though her heart tells her to keep firing.

Or, it might not be her heart at all— there’s a part of her that knew instinctively that when she met Piper, it was going to be in her best interest to do the things she says, but only to the degree of a lackey. From the way that she addressed the four of them, to the way that she kicked an old man while he was down, instead of finishing the job then and there. She’s cruel, overconfident, and most importantly, cowardly. The last of which meaning she’ll take any opportunity to put herself over others to ensure they can’t hurt her.

So, the plan had been simple. The others can bust their asses for the jobs, but Sundae was going to have her cake and eat it too. She was going to do her job to the minimum, so that she could revel in the presence of someone like Piper getting absolutely livid beside her. And boy, is Sundae feeling the revelry at this point in time. What’s the bet that Piper ends up getting her pay docked for all this? Ends up getting chewed out by one of her superiors? The last guy didn’t think he had any superiors, but at least he had the balls to act the way he thought. Maybe she’ll even get demoted. Getting her fired would be bad, but having her as a lackey? Sundae’s very own evil, cynical, violent, and insecure lackey? A couple hits every now and then would be worth the trouble in the end.

As she reloads her revolver, grinning from the state of her headspace, she takes another punch to the shoulder, causing her to spill a full handful of revolver slugs onto the floor.

Piper slams the dashboard in frustration, causing it to shatter like the windshield did earlier. “Fuck! Fuck, god damnit, shit,” she says, her defilement of the car’s interior taking the wind out of whatever she was going to berate Sundae for.

“Pick it up, quick. Get back to shooting, idiot.”

“Of course, boss,” Sundae responds, leaning over in her chair. She takes her time sorting out shards of the windshield from the bits of brittle dashboard from the shiny brass casings of her rounds, and time is exactly what she needed to take, as a hand-sized fireball hits her car seat headrest, showering the cabin with flaming dust and cushioning.

She has to muffle a snicker as Piper hiss-screams in surprise, rapidly trying to staunch the setting fires with a free hand. Quickly, she gathers up the rest of her bullets (she knew where they were all along, the effect was to keep the pressure up on the snake) and helps her boss put out all the fire, even if it means leaning up against a seat that’s missing its headrest.

“It looks like you made somethin’ explode in there, Meat,” Olive comments, still bracing herself for any stray shots that their chasers could muster. “But I don’t think you hit the person who was shootin’ us.”

“Fine by me,” they say. With a glance, they notice that the Owl’s leg has been bandaged with one of Lucille’s sleeves. “You should take a break. I’ve got it from here.”

She looks up at them, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not movin’ until we’ve lost’em.”

“Couldn’t Brie just shoot them?”

“My last magazine was spent on Judith and Leon’s plan, Meat,” she comments, holding her semi-auto out for them to see. “And it’s quite difficult to hit anything when the platform we’re on is moving at such a speed, much less in the dark, and of course, when you’re afraid for your life.”

“And nobody else can help?”

Everyone else in the truck bed shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” they sigh. “I’m gonna end this, then.”

They take their position behind Olive, and begin to charge up a fireball with the intent of hitting the driver square in the jaw. If the one that had missed had caused so much pandemonium in the passenger seat, then who can tell what one in the driver seat can do.

But, the plan is interrupted by Roxanne knocking on the sliding glass door between the bed and the cab, opening it quickly, and calling out, “Everyone grab onto the hand-holds, please. Cherry’s about to speed up, and we don’t want anyone falling out. This includes you, Meat,” she says before sticking her head back in the cab, after seeing that the Notus hadn’t done what she had asked.

==============================================================

It’s a hectic moment inside of the truck’s cab, somehow more hectic than the mess outside with bullets still flying by between Sundae’s reloads and the number of people having to get good handholds in the wood and metal bed of the vehicle. Meat, for added measure out there, has to make sure they’re holding metal, and only the thick parts they can find, avoiding anything delicate as though the truck itself might have some parts mysteriously made from tissue paper.

In front, Cherry’s hands are gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make his forearms ache and both Jules and Roxanne are staring straight ahead of them. On the map’s a chasm crossing, one of the largest in the tunnels and one of the most efficient vehicular shortcuts made during the heyday of the Shepherd operation here; in its original construction it ramped up to a higher ledge on the other side and should lead right outside, which while it means the chase would then be on open road, a place where Cherry assures himself he could definitely beat the car behind him, there’s a new problem. Whatever bridge was there prior had collapsed.

There is, however, a solid meter or so of bridge jutting up and out from their side of the chasm, terminating there in ragged, jagged edges as though ruined by great claws— or perhaps just time, but that’s something Cherry doesn’t have to waste on something frivolous like the why or how of an old, old bridge having fallen in the past five years. What he has to worry about is the logistical danger of trying to make that jump.

As Jules searches Cherry’s features, a fear pools in the hollow of his stomach, right on top of the lackluster meal he’d had of the last of Davey’s mushrooms. “You’re actually going to jump it? Kid. Look, we’re beat, sometimes that’s that.”

“We are not beat,” Roxanne snarls back at the Vampire, but when she sees the ramp getting closer she frowns and glances toward the driver also. “Perhaps we could just stop and overpower them with the truck?”

Cherry shakes his head. It’s hard to feel their voices in the thrum and thrill of the metal around him, the way the frame’s rattling and the engine’s roaring, the give and take of the wheel his fingers are curled around. His eyes don’t leave the ramp, but his mouth moves to offer, “We might lose people that way. We can do this.”

“We’re gonna lose all of us this way.” Jules’ frown grows deeper set in his face. “And here I go dying. I should—”

“We can do this,” Cherry cuts him off. “Everyone’s holding on. I was going to save this for any open road chase we might have, but we’ve got this. Besides, it’s like everyone’s forgot I’ve got magic.”

“Magic that allows you to take things apart, Cherry,” Roxanne points out, but pats his shoulder anyway with a resigned sigh. “You aren’t going to take the car apart, are you?”

Cherry’s right hand leaves the steering wheel to pick an object up off the dashboard; in his hand and against the wheel he holds a simple switch wired into the truck, which he rigged himself during the installation of that little gift he’d gotten in Pickman’s Hope. It’s a handle with a button on top, and from the bottom runs a simple wire into the machine, connected to the payload, the can of Pounder Nitrous.

He’s direly hoping that after all the checks and re-checks, after all the mechanical considerations, alterations, and nights spent poring over this engine like a surgeon, that he hasn’t forgotten something. Every single inch of this truck is rendered perfectly inside of his skull, vibrant and beautiful in its dirty, rust-bait junkheap way. The pedal beneath him is pressed near flat to the metal floor and the truck’s screaming to its top speed, setting the vehicle to rattle and screech between its joints, scraping metal on metal with the speed and shrill tones of a vengeful spirit.

Jules and Roxanne hold onto their seats in a literal sense. In the back everyone else does the same, but it’s only once an overly cautious Lucille looks ahead of the truck that she realizes what’s going to happen. “Hold on even tighter,” she says to the rest of them. “I think we’re about to jump the gap.”

Azariah’s still half-wheezing when he holds up a hand and tries to shout, “Kick it, Cherry!” And it does get out, at least a little, though he’s left sputtering and clutching not only the side of the truck bed but also his literal side.

As the truck beneath them accelerates to its top speed, they’re all shaking hard and watching as Piper’s car is losing ground, falling behind.

Sundae scowls and takes a few shots lower, attempting to hit the truck’s tires before she’s smacked with a bronze tail. “What the fuck was that for?” She screams. “I’m trying to win!”

“And have that truck kill us at the same time? Wreck while we’re both gunning it inside a cave?” One of Piper’s hands slams against the dashboard, balled into a fist. “Fucking useless trash— the plating’s slowing us down!”

“Do you expect me to do something about it? Crap, they’re still speeding up, they’re gonna crash in the gorge ahead at this rate.”

Piper scoffs. “Let ‘em. Anything worth keeping’ll survive the crash.”

“But that’s gonna kill them—”

“We can dig their bones out of the wreckage afterward. We can go find Jack and Nancy, those morons.”

Cherry’s thumb rubs the button, a nice, shiny red one, as his fingers curl around both the right side of the steering wheel and the switch handle. His brain feeds him images of straightaways and tight corners, an open road and a cloudy sky, somewhere to go, to drive, to fly. The world is silent around him as even the rattling and roaring of the truck goes quiet and all he can hear is his own heartbeat and the soft click as he pushes his thumb down on the switch.

A click and a soft hiss, something new being fed into the beast’s organs, life itself. Nothing so pure has touched this engine in a long, long time and it’s almost forgotten the taste of this special flame, burning bright and furious in the dark, longing to abandon the road and chase the sky. The old monster gives its all as it powers beyond itself, rumbling like thunder and speeding like lightning toward the ramp and then off of it, sending itself upward, angling like a shark breaching the water, pointing its blocky nose and roaring maw toward the higher peak.

The animal’s done its part, now comes the driver’s. Cherry hasn’t done it for something this big before, and all his practice hasn’t explicitly been about lifting, mostly figuring and reconfiguring and, even more so, deconstruction. His brow furrows and every muscle in his body tenses at once as, in his mind, he focuses on the whole of the truck, grasping with his mind at every dip and curve of the metal, more familiar to him now than even his own fathers’ faces, because it has to be. If it isn’t the most detailed thing in his mind he’ll lose his grip and they’ll fly into the chasm below.

His body wants to rip apart inch by inch, bone by bone and muscle by muscle. Every tendon wants to snap and his brain itself wants to become a ball of lightning. Luckily enough, his bones are made of rock now. They couldn’t come apart now even if he wanted them to. It’s an anchor of sorts as he feels, physically, like the amount of force he’s exerting is going to make him explode.

His mind is undergoing a similar duress as he takes it upon himself to perform a telekinetic deadlift, doing his best to make sure that the truck goes beyond the peak of the typical arc, having to essentially cancel out the factor gravity plays in this vehicle’s movement. In a single instance it’s like he’s trying to drag the car up with his bare hands, at the same time pressing his shoulders against a ceiling he cannot see pushing him down.

Gravity, wind resistance, friction, these are all just hands attempting to push the truck away from the further ledge. They’re arms of enemies, locking with him as he raises it, canceling them out. He’s taking the hits and suffering their forces as the truck does not.

Piper’s car screeches to a fast stop a meter or so away from the bridge-ramp itself and the two women inside stare, wide eyed and infuriated, confused, as they watch a Stallion Q “Mountain Screamer” model truck, half a step from the grave, fly. Every person in the truck bed is holding on for their lives, screaming, some laughing, some crying. The two watch as it flies in a perfect upward arc up to the higher ledge and over it, where it lands and continues on a beeline for the exit.

Roxanne and Jules are laughing wildly inside the cab, everyone is in the back too save for Brie, Meat, and Judith, the first two simply glad they're alive and the third halfway to transforming in Leon’s arms from the stress while he goes straight from laughing into a coughing fit.

The Fox slaps Cherry on the shoulder and grins over at him, shouting, “You’re incredible, Cherry. Even if you did quite nearly kill us all.” Her smile doesn’t last long, though, as they make their way down the tunnels and toward what appears to be natural light.

Cherry, glancing at her, smiles. Both of his eyes are bloodshot, and when he opens his mouth to speak he has to clear his nose, from which discolored blood punches out. “You really think so?”

Jules blinks. “Just to let you know, Rox, I don’t know how to drive. Just saying.”

“I’m fine, I’ve still got it. Why? Something wrong?”

Jules and Roxanne both shake their heads before she says, softly, “Eyes on the road, Cherry. We’ll worry about you when we’re safe.”

Brie looks down behind the truck behind them, then sighs. “Do you think we really escaped?”

“We didn’t escape, we’re lucky. They screwed up.” Meat’s settled beside her, rubbing their neck to crack it. “Not sure if we’ve seen the last of that asshole, though.”

Brie shrugs. “All things considered, I am sure that we at least have some time, or a head start. Besides, I am out of bullets.”

“Miffed you don’t get to put one between Piper’s eyes?”

“No. I do not like her, but I am not inclined to mourn not getting to shoot her. I am nervous about something else entirely.”

“Blondie somehow coming back again?” Meat’s head tilts.

Brie shakes her head. “We left my car in Pickman’s Hope.”

“Oh.”

==============================================================

So many eyes. So many arms, so many claws, all reaching and ripping and clawing. And they go where they please, too— Blondie would rip one of them off, only for them to reappear somewhere on the Cave Shadow’s body a few seconds later, fending off one of the other two idiots who’re chasing him. It was all far too much to focus on. After getting pummeled and clawed and scraped from every angle imaginable, turning his brain into mush as he waited for his turn to fight back, he realized that he just had to muscle through the pain to hit it while it’s hitting him. And so, that’s what he did.

But as he fought, he began to feel a pulling. As though the thing was sinking hooks into his mind and slowly but surely tugging them in different directions. It would get worse with every slice taken out of him, and every time he’d try to conjure up some kind of flame to make some space, the fire in brain would start to get stomped out. And it was tiring. More tiring than anything he had ever imagined a fight could be. He was fighting infinitely regenerating sawblades, a box of mental fishhooks, and a magic-quelling, fire-retardant boot at once, and it wore him down better than his coat ever did, back when he wore it.

And the thing looked at him. Though the Cave Shadow isn’t a Monster known for its relative intelligence, this one, towering in comparison to even Blondie, had a devilish focus to its eyes that made him want to tuck his tail between his legs (the burnt stub it is), and hunker down into an emotional cage. It would look at the three of them simultaneously, sliding its eyes up and down its body instead of moving its pupils, collecting them and scattering them where appropriate. They were nearly impossible to hit, but when Blondie managed to get a hold of one, it simply closed a shadowy lid, and dissipated back into the black cloud that the Monster calls a body.

But, it had a weakness. Everything has a weakness, and Blondie knew that he’d find it eventually. Even though the assault the thing was harboring on him was brutal and aggressive, he saw that it only ever liked to keep a certain distance, pressuring its prey into corners to be chopped apart. And out of him, the tin man, and the crazy person with the shotgun, he was the one it focused on the most. So, in a half-enraged effort to stop himself from being sliced to pieces, he leaped forward into its body.

It was as though he had entered a dimension of death. The floor underneath him was a swirling shadowy purple, and in the center of the room, there was a spine running up the length of the Monster. And though he didn’t have much time to take in the scenery, as he could feel it writhing and screeching and turning its eyes and claws inward to locate the infection, he knew that as he began to tear chalky chunks out of its one internal weakness, that it was too familiar for comfort.

Cave Shadows do not stop growing in their lifetime, and they do not die of old age. The Magic that holds them together is unknowable to most, and entirely foreign to those Monster Folk who understand their own magical attunements. They chop and they slice and they will kill entire groups of unprepared adventurers without remorse, but they have never once been observed as feeding, as their eyes are capable of uncovering even the most well-hidden of investigations. 

But, the bodies always go missing. Only shredded rags (that were once clothing or armour), chipped, bent, or cracked weapons, and ruined equipment remain at the sites of attack. And of course, the Cave Shadow is always lurking right around the corner from these sites, as they appear to understand their prey’s natural curiosity.

They get bigger with every kill, the bodies go missing, and there’s no telling what Magic makes them whole.

As Blondie ripped another chunk out of the Cave Shadow’s spine, he crushed it in his paws, noting the presence of a Humanoid Skull. Another chunk, this time he noted a handful of ribs, leg-bones and arm-bones and hints of finger-bones, all calcified together into a grisly, limestone-like substance. He didn’t have time to classify everything he saw, or really even consider it— he saw a structure that he could grasp, that he could work at, and so, he did.

But the Monster fought back from the inside. As it screeched in pain from Blondie’s efforts to survive, it pulled more and more of its limbs into its body to hack at him. It shrieked and shook with every corpse liberated from its structure, and its attempts to stop him grew more frantic, more desperate.

He could feel the hooks in his mind begin to loosen, he could feel the fire begin to scorch the boot that stomped it. Even though he was certain it wasn’t the same, he felt something like a burning adrenaline surge through his body. It was hurting. The same way that the Wyrm, the one who was so confident, so sure of itself up until the moment where he had found a gap in its armour, hurt. It was crying in pain, screaming for the pain to stop as it flailed at him while he ripped its support out from under it, chunk by dusty chunk.

But it didn’t beg. And it didn’t ask for forgiveness. It was more like an animal, by the time he had torn through the bone and reached its sight-warping core. He could feel it wanting to run as he wrapped his claws around the center of the spine, wanting to hide from him as he began to pull at its abyssal power source. And in its dying moments, Blondie heard it release one last shriek of intense pain before he felt its core explode in his hands, and the spine that reached so tall into the darkness began to fall, like a beautiful, twisted house of cards.

And in that moment, he began to laugh. The veil of darkness dissipated around him, the hooks released his mind, and back in the real world, he was left in the blue brightness of the grotto, standing in a pile of stony death and wispy, purple remnants of his prey floating through the air. He laughed at the world’s attempt to put him down again, he laughed at the pain that the Monster felt before having lost its pitiful life. He laughed because he was stronger, because he was tougher than anything else in this world. No Dragon, no abomination, nobody could stop him.

His high was interrupted by buckshot hitting the back of his head. The other two were still alive. And they wanted him dead. And when he began to walk towards them, corpses cracking and turning to dust beneath his feet, he realizes that his arm, the one that had dealt the killing blow to the Cave Shadow, had been turned to a blackened, purplish twig from the shoulder down— and that it was nothing but a stump from the elbow down. In its last stand, it had taken one of Blondie’s tools for itself, understanding its power.

It was like being spit on by someone you were holding at gunpoint. And that made him angry. It made him very, very angry.

It takes them a while of frustrated driving through the silence that hangs in the cave system, but when they find the grotto, it’s not hard to tell that it’s the right spot. There’s only one thing left standing in the bioluminescence, and when Sundae is ordered out of the sedan to investigate, she wonders whether it’s going to be something that kills her. After all, the things that lurk in these caves are known to be vicious.

But, she bumps into something on the floor. And when she takes a closer look, she finds it to be Nancy. Scorched, bleeding, broken, and unconscious, but still breathing. She’s missing her shotgun, her clothes have been torn to shreds, and it looks as though she’s knocking on death’s door.

“What’s the holdup, Sundae?!” Piper calls out from the car.

“Can you see Jack?” she asks, hoisting the mercenary up onto her shoulder and working her way back toward the vehicle.

“What are you talking about? I want you to shoot that thing,” Piper yells, motioning violently toward the shape in the center of the room, “so we can go home already!” “Boss, these two aren’t going to live if we don’t—”

Piper blares the horn of the sedan, causing the thing to rear what appears to be its head toward the two of them. “Get on it, you fucking idiot!”

In a moment of horror, Sundae is forced to set Nancy’s body down on the stone, pull out her revolver, and begin firing at the beast, who though is attempting to make its way toward them, appears to be limping, using one of its arms to keep itself from falling over. The bullets don’t seem to do too much, only causing it to flinch here and there where they manage to hit. And Sundae herself is actually a crack shot with her cannon, it was taking effort back when they were actively chasing the fugitives to miss as much as she did.

But it didn’t stop. And as it got closer, the two of them began to realize what a state it was in. 

Starting from the top, its face brings to mind what happens when someone gets their skin peeled off, but what’s left underneath is a bright orange mass of glowing, pulsating magic. Even its maw, missing teeth and slightly broken in one direction, remind the onlookers of looking into a miniature sun, contained within the beast’s mouth.

Its body, if one could call it that, is disfigured beyond use. Deep cuts crisscross its chest, legs, and remaining arm, revealing more of the glowing, oozing orange substance to open air. The twig that’s left of its right arm seems still able to be moved, and the purple shadows that consumed it have begun to work its way up its shoulder, intent with taking over the entire torso. 

Except, of course, for the shotgun in its chest. A hole has been carved out where its breastbone should be, by unknown means, and Nancy’s shotgun, barrel angled up toward the thing’s spine, is wedged firmly into the cavity. That wound instead drips slowly with the same bright orange substance found elsewhere, leaving a trail of glowing material as it drags itself toward Piper and Sundae.

It looks dangerous, sure. Monsters always look dangerous, even when they’re hurt. The fact that it looks like it has a sun inside its body contributes heavily to that feeling. It also looks like it can’t feel a thing with the way it’s determined to cross the room, no matter how long it takes to drag itself. But, Piper knows better. It’s been beaten. It just doesn’t know it yet.

And in the cab of the car, Piper considers to herself what to do. Those miners escaped, but she can catch them later (hopefully without the intervention of these absolutely useless mercenaries). And speaking of the mercenaries, one of them died. At which point she decides that she’s going to leave the old fucker’s corpse where it lies, since heading back home with a body in the trunk would not be a fun thing to report. Especially since it’d have to be HER car, too. But, showing up at HQ empty-handed would be horrible for business. No bounty to claim, no bodies to show, no updates but “They escaped again Boss, so sorry Boss, I’ll have them to you by next week, Boss.” Nothing but a dead Sniper and a fucked up trio of mercenaries, assuming Jack’s still alive.

There’s the bounty on this thing, though. That’d keep Janet and her afloat for a long, long time, since Gilroy’s put out quite the sum on its head. So, that’s what she decides to do. She’s going to take its head, and claim what’s hers.

“What a waste of talent,” Piper says, before flooring it into what remains of Blondie.

Chapter Three End.

==============================================================

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is   © 2020-2023 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#empty-mask #b&tsm #oc #writing #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Eleven

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

The Corpse, the Medic, and the Detective shoot their hands into the air as the gangsters’ pistols are pulled and the barrels are leveled their way. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ back here, huh? This is a private area, you fuckin’ idiots!” one of them says, shirtless, pushing the master clothier behind him with his free hand. “Get the fuck out!”

    Meat looks around the room. This is it. This is what they remember, a back room full of expensive suit-making fabric, pre-made three-pieces hanging from ceiling to floor, a full body mirror, and private appointments with the local master anytime they wanted. The gang pays for everything, but you couldn’t have more than a couple suits if you were a lackey. Meat remembers having more than a couple in their time.

    The floodgates are closing. The memories are settling in their mind, quickly sinking below to act as silt in a river of flame. In a desperate attempt to keep them flowing, Meat asks, “Wait, who’s the capo?”

    They look at one another, then at the Clothier, who looks as though he could put a stain in his pants at any given moment. The shirtless one cocks his head to the side. Not in a way that implied disbelief in the confidence of his victims, but rather genuine confusion that a talking skull would ask such a question of him. “The fuck did you just ask me?”

    “I asked who the capo was,” Meat repeats.

    “Why’s it matter?”

    “Doesn’t it?”

    The gangster’s face contorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “My memory’s gone. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember this,” Meat says, gesturing to the room. “Can you tell me who the capo is?”

    The gangster and his cohort look at one another again. Still holding their guns to the group, they convene for a few moments to discuss. In hushed conversation, they assess the situation in-depth, or at least as in-depth as a couple of ground-level pawns in organized crime can get. Eventually, the shirtless one responds, “It’s Leslie Carnevale, still. Hasn’t changed for years.”

    Another spark sends Meat’s memory into overdrive. Leslie Carnevale, the capo of the surrounding area, the guy in charge of keeping Shepherd Gemstone out of their northern territories. Rumoured former union worker who didn’t like the post-capitalist environment and abandoned it to do things his way. Both overly ambitious and overly familiar with anyone he thinks has promise.

    “The boss,” Meat says. “He’s still the boss.”

    Again, the gangster’s face contorts in confusion. So much so that he drops his gun arm in disbelief. “Who are you, anyways?”

    The Corpse shakes their head. “I don’t know. Leslie was my boss, though.”

    “Shit, man,” he says, tucking the gun back into his waistband. “You were one of us? What the fuck happened to you?” He approaches Meat carefully, looking to put a hand on their shoulder for comfort. “And who are these clowns you’re saddled with?” he quietly asks, motioning to Brie and Roxanne, who remain silent.

    “Friends.” Meat looks the gangster in the eye, and he quickly takes his hand off their shoulder. “Can you take us to Leslie?”

    “Hey, hold on a freakin’ minute,” the other gangster interjects, raising his gun again. “You’re that guy. You remember what the boss said, Tommy? About the Dragon thing, about how we was sackin’ that buster for good?”

    Tommy’s eyes widen and he jumps back a few steps. His gun is quickly swiped from his waistband and aimed at the group again. “Ho-ly shit. Nearly got chummy there for a sec! Thanks, Mickey,” he says. “Yeah, we can take you to see the boss.”

“There a problem?” Meat asks.

“He’s out for your head, buddy. And that means you’re comin’ with us whether you like it or not.”     Meat sighs. Though it’s better than nothing, being dragged to their former boss— that they just remembered they had— against their will isn’t what they would’ve preferred when attempting to remember their personal history. They turn to look at Brie and Roxanne. Brie looks surprisingly calm, inquisitive, and Roxanne seems similarly annoyed at the circumstances. At least there are no objections.

Back at one of the Carnevale’s HQ offices, the back room of a local florist’s shop, Jules finds himself before the desk of the capo, Leslie Carnevale, who has leaned back quite far in his cheap, faux-leather office chair. As Leslie takes a puff from a cigar, he motions for the Vampire to sit down opposite, in a far less comfortable plastic chair.

Jules does as he’s told and says, “So, as I was saying, there’s been a problem.”

    “I can see that,” Leslie responds. “I can also see that you’ve been runnin’ with some lady I’ve never met until now.” The Capo’s tone turns ice-cold. “Let’s talk about that first, Jules.”

    “Well, uh,” he starts. “We met on a security job. Before I was in the family. And we fell in love. And now she’s my fiance?” His voice peaks at that word, “fiance,” and it struggles to leave his throat. Lying outright is a difficulty; things are so much easier when you can cover something up by simply not saying anything. As if to add some sugar to the dreadfully told lie, he smiles, raising the tips of his carefully groomed mustache in the process and baring his fangs sweetly.     “C’mon now, Jules. You think that line’s gonna work on me? We all know you’re gayer than a fuckin’ fruitcake. I know, all the boys know, I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the northern territory knows,” the Capo responds, leaning forward in his seat. “There’s no way you’d fall for a chick, and I know she hasn’t been in the picture since before us, so don’t feed me that bullshit. Tell me what’s been happenin’ between you two. Be straight with me— and I ain’t tryin’ to joke around, here.” Leslie chuckles, his dour expression tilting up at the corners.

    Jules’ smile fades and he clenches his jaw, rocking his head from one side to the next like a child caught in a lie before he spills, “We’re partners. Met when I was working that job for Shepherd Gemstone. We do bounty work now, usually outside family territory. But, our current quarrel led us here. And so, here we are.”

    Leslie frowns. “I see. And you like her?”

    “I thought you just said you knew I was gay, boss?” The corners of Jules’ mouth pull down further, mirroring the boss’s frown.

    The Capo chuckles. “I ain’t talkin’ about that. I’m talkin’ partner-wise. ‘Cause we could get you a new partner, Jules. You’re worth a lot to me, and if she’s givin’ you trouble, we could do a lot to solve that problem.” he says, moving to open a cabinet.

    Jules’ eyes widen, and he holds up his hands in protest. “No, no! She’s my best goddamn friend! I wouldn’t swap her out for the world.”

    “Just checkin’, Jules,” Leslie leans back in his seat again. “‘Cause we saw how she was lookin’ at you, and I figured that you might be trapped with her or somethin’.”

    Jules thought about this for a moment. “No, sir, I think right now she’s trapped with me. If you wanna put it that way.”

    “How so?”

    “Well…” he starts, before there’s a series of knocks on the door behind them.

    The Capo holds up a finger, and calls out, “Hey, what the fuck’s the deal? I’m havin’ a meeting here!”

    From the other side of the door, a muffled voice says, “We’ve got’em, boss! That guy you wanted!”

      Jules now stands behind the Capo and Meat stands on the opposite side of the desk, their hands bound with rope and with Tommy and his pal, Mickey, sticking their guns into their back.

    “Are you Leslie?” Meat asks.

    “I sure am,” he responds. “And you’re supposed to be dead.”

    “I’m just as confused as you are.”

    “Confused isn’t the word. I’m absolutely fuckin’ baffled. We sent you to fuckin’ die, Mack. You shouldn’t have come back.”

    “Mack?” A tickle of a memory begins to burrow into the base of Meat’s skull.

    “Your name. It’s Mackenzie,” the Capo raises an eyebrow. “You know, somethin’ just hit me. You’ve obviously been turned to a piece of charcoal by that fuckin’ Wyrm. There’s no doubt about that, but what I’m wonderin’ is, did you actually die? Is the person I’m seein’ now the same person I knew?” He takes a deep puff of his cigar. 

“I’ve got a hunch. Grab their medic friend, I wanna hear her opinion,” he says, motioning toward the guards.

    Mickey and Tommy look to one another, then to Leslie as Tommy asks, “What about the nerdy looking one?”

    “What’s she gonna do, take you both down? Ain’t like there are cops to run to. Just get the fox broad.”

    Soon after, Roxanne is brought into the room. She shoots a nasty look at Jules, who shrugs, before she turns to answer the Capo’s question. “Yes, they’re quite dead. Their heart isn’t beating, and their lungs only work for show. That’s as far as my field diagnostic went.”

    “So they’re a Notus?” asks Leslie.     Both Mickey and Tommy lean around Meat to stare at Leslie with dumb looks, partially out of a sudden feeling that they’re out of the loop and partially because the word drives them to bear an expression akin to that little kids wear when they can tell someone’s swearing in another language, if only by tone. The ignorant but curious looks make Jules chuckle, and neither Meat nor Roxanne take the sound lightly, glaring at the Vampire.     Leslie rubs his brow with a ringed hand. “It’s an old legend. If someone with unfinished business dies in a fire, there’s a chance they’ll sit back up. Sometimes they’ll keep their memory, sometimes they’ll only remember enough to keep the lights on. And they always come back with enough firepower to wipe places off the map. Literally.”

    “I knew that,” Mickey says.

    Tommy’s curious expression shifts to a glare, pointed directly at his peer beside him as he growls, “No, you didn’t.”

“Both of you shut up,” snaps Leslie. The Capo points to Meat. “You’re one of those things now, aren’t you?”

    Meat doesn’t respond. Their mind has been put in the metaphorical meat grinder. Leslie clearly isn’t a spring chicken, and by the way he’s looking at Meat, they can tell that there’s some quiet fear in his eyes over what they could do. He’s looking at them and seeing a burning city. And that terrifies Meat, too.

    “The dead are meant to stay dead,” Leslie says. “Ain’t supposed to be an issue for livin’ people, and on top of bein’ a monster, you’re a liability. It’s a shame, ‘cause you really were good. Boys?”

    The gunshots don’t sound out. Both Tommy and Mickey are staring at something, something behind Jules and their boss, and the shirtless man asks with a hint of trepidation in his voice, “What the hell’s that?”

Behind Leslie, a bright light slowly begins tracing its way up the wall, forming a right angle, moving horizontally, then turning again as it moves back down the wall. Everyone in the room notices as well, as a result of the loud hissing, alongside the smoke that comes with melting mud-brick, the interloper carving along like a hot knife through room temperature butter. Before long, the cutout has been kicked down by a monstrous, clawed foot.

    Blondie trods inside, leaving burning prints in the stone behind the florist’s shop. “Am I interrupting something?”

==============================================================

    “Okay, but her? You literally just met.”

    “Penny, I don’t know what isn’t clicking.” Janet smiles over at the werewolf, brown hair pressed back out of her face by a delightfully kitsch red hairband with white polka dots. “Connect the dots, then get a swimsuit on and join me. It’s boring to swim alone.”

    Hickory lets out a huff and sits herself down in one of the deck chairs beside the pool, a drink in one hand. “I don’t feel like swimming and I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” she replies, her red eyes watching the human drift in the water. “What dots are there to connect, Jan? You— you—”

    “I ensured the financial stability of my children’s future and maybe landed a new partner, not a big deal.” She shrugs, adjusting the big, round sunglasses that covered just about most of her upper face. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you felt jilted.”

    A heaving shrug is given in response before Hickory takes a long sip from her glass, which is filled mostly with some kind of frosty slush cut by a sour, acidic fruit and no small amount of alcohol. “I’m not jilted. You know I don’t swing that way. I was just surprised to see that you swung that way, Janet. I half expected you to go for someone like…  like Gilroy or—”

    “I wouldn’t sleep with Harry if he were the last man on the continent,” Janet points out, resting her arms on the cement border around the pool, “And I’m glad to hear you aren’t upset. It’s funny you mention assumptions, since I had assumed you were about as straight as a circle. Well, that’s neither here nor there. It’s not as though I don’t like her, Penny. She’s really nice.”

    “Is she?” Penelope’s lips pull into a half-frown, eyes narrowing down at her drink. “Seems like another crazy adventuring type to me.”

    Janet laughs, and it’s a soft, confident sound. “I had two kids and a decent marriage with one before, so I don’t see how it’s all that different to pick up another when the old one kicks it.” She lifts her glasses to try and make eye contact with Hickory from the poolside, and it takes a moment or so to stick but in time the suited werewolf is stuck looking her in the eyes properly, rather than staring into her drink. “It’s what I’m into, Penny. You can’t go wrong with a lycan who likes to get their hands dirty, especially the ones willing to do high paying work. Don’t act like this is all her doing. She fits the bill and is willing to help— and those shoulders are to die for.”

    “I guess being a killer has some benefits to the physique. Come on, though. Is it really that easy to replace Blondie?”

    Janet brings a hand to her own collarbone, feigning offense. “I guess I should be insulted that you think it’s just replacement? You know I cared for Blondie, but we were friends. The whole marriage thing’s mostly been transactional, you know? I thought we’d have some cute kids, and with our combined incomes we’d live like suburban royalty. With Blondie gone, there’s a space there, one best filled by someone like him. Someone interested in that sort of thing, Penny.”

    The point lands, and Hickory chuckles. “You know, I wonder if it’s accurate to call you bisexual, then. Is there a word for attraction toward moneyed, aggressive lycanthropes?”

    “I’m not interested in such specific labels, Penny.” Finally, Janet pulls herself up and out of the pool, sitting with her feet still gently disturbing the water. “My relationship with him was like living a dream. If you were living your dream, would you want to wake up?”

    Hickory’s eyebrows raise. “No, I don’t think I would.”

    “Exactly. We understood each other and when he was here, he tossed money at us until he had nothing else to toss, and took us on stupidly expensive vacations. He prepared funds for the kids’ education, he gave them toys, he got me shiny new things and sometimes we might’ve hung out for a little while to enjoy our time, but it was nothing more than that. Blondie and I were friends with rings who fucked. That was my dream, and in a moment,” Janet snaps her fingers, “it seemed to be over. But, when I lost a friend, I was gifted the opportunity to make a new one. My boy’s going to be an adventurer and my daughter’s going to go to one of the best colleges in the world.” Her lips part in a grin. “If Piper goes where I think she’s going, she can do that for me, for my family.”

    Hickory considers this, taking a sip of her slushy drink. She has to at least get some of it in her system before it melts, as philosophizing with a housewife takes time. As she does so, Janet rises again, steps her way over to stand beside the reclining Hickory, and undoes the werewolf’s bun to let her darker, coarser brown hair fall in wild curls, and Janet says, “Please treat her right, Penny. For me? Though I’m confident, I can tell that she’s got— what’s the word, a little more pride and a little less skill, than Blondie? Bluster. She’s an investment at the moment, and I would like to see it realized.”

    A long moment of consideration passes, as does a carefully manicured hand through Hickory’s hair as Janet pats her atop her head. “You’re asking me to give her a boost.” Hickory states, flatly. “You know that’s not allowed.”

    “Aw, don’t be like that. Did you see the way she jumped at the chance to get into his old gear? She’s got the chops for it, but I have a feeling that she’s a little low on experience. I’m not asking you to promote her,” Another unerringly pleasing laugh exits Janet, and Hickory lets out a sigh. “I’m just asking you to make sure she doesn’t bite it before things become stable down here. Pretty please?”

    The Werewolf looks to her drink, then to the woman, and finally to the pool. “I’ll see how long of a leash I’ve got. Hey, let’s talk about this later. If you’ve got any of that bastard’s swim trunks, I can cop one of his shirts to go swimming. None of yours will fit me.”

    “I’m not short, Penny,” Janet says as she leans in to prod one of Hickory’s cheeks. “You’re just tall. And once we’re done and the kids are asleep, how about we go out and see a show? Plenty’s going on.”

    Finally, Hickory’s prodded enough that she gets up, hands on her hips and her drink abandoned on a small table beside her chair. “You know what? I’d like that. I’ll think about all this shit later. It’s not like anything important’s happening.”

Chapter End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-hickory #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules

[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Ten

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

He wore a collared shirt, a polo. It was a fine sky blue, in contrast to the tan cargo shorts he wore and the white, knee-high socks and black sandals. In one hand he held a spatula, in the other, a mixed drink from more tropical climes blended with ice. The sky was deep orange with evening, and his backyard was bustling with activity.

    He was standing on the back patio of his two story house (three bed and two bath) contemplating the viability of building a new garage. The old one was a bit small for his latest purchase, a rather large and aggressively powerful pickup truck that threatened to shake the structure to its foundations every time he parked. He figured he needed a domestic vehicle, something obnoxious and loud so folks would stop ogling over his work car. But, as it stood, there was only room for one in the garage. As he considered this he flipped a steak over and ran his eyes over the woman lying on her belly beside the pool, admiring the way the sunset peeked just over the top of their picket fence to paint her tan skin a vivid orange, shining slick with chlorinated water.

    Interrupting his thought process, someone cleared their throat. Glancing to the side, his gaze locked with the golden eyes of a business associate, one of several mulling about with their partners and children.

    “Did you hear anything I said?” Asked Gilroy, rolling his shoulders and craning his head back to look up at the man.

    “Sorry, I got distracted—”

    “By staring at your wife’s ass, yeah,” he interrupted again. “Blondie, for these little shindigs of yours to work, we need to actually talk. I’m not going to be driven all the way up here to your wonderful patch of suburbia to watch you salivate over an ex-model while you burn the food.”

    As if to retort, Blondie flicked the spatula toward Gilroy, staining his vivid crimson dress shirt with small, black smatterings of what was often called ‘flavor.’ “Don’t be a bitch, Harry, it adds character to the meat. And, it’s a good ass to stare at, don’t pretend like you can’t appreciate.”

    “Janet made a career out of it, after all!” Came from Blondie’s left, opposite Gilroy. Hickory. “You’re a lucky man. Adventuring types get all of the good stuff, a pity.” She was a tall, grinning woman. Unlike Gilroy, a tiny, hairy boozer, she was something proper. Strong, sharp.

    “First come, first serve, Penny. Maybe if you did something more interesting than damage assessment you could get in the good graces of a model,” Blondie said with a laugh. “How’s that office treating you?”

    “Better than you’re treating the steaks.” Gilroy interjects, attempting to blot out the newly-forming grease marks with a wet napkin.

    “Can it, Harry. It all goes to the same place anyways.” He scraped the meat off of the grill, dropping it onto a nearby set of plates. As if on cue, the redhead yelped and swung around to be greeted with a knee-high bundle of energy, all fangs and light brown fur.

    Blondie laughed again, this time with the backing of Hickory and the child. Gilroy huffed, crossed his arms, and glared at the pup with a frown, saying, “what a vigorous little scamp you have.”

    “Hah! He takes after his old man! Tanner, go get your mom to whip up some more drinks, dinner’s almost ready.” When the order wasn’t immediately obeyed, Blondie cleared his throat and tapped the spatula against the grill twice, just loud enough to discomfort anybody nearby. Tanner was quick to move and jostle his mother instead after that.

    Janet stood and smiled over at the group, offering them a gentle wave before wandering past in her swimsuit to go pull out more of those blended drinks while her husband distributed steaks, along with good silverware.

    It was an award winning smile. More realistically, a poster smile for all manner of cosmetics. Her ever so slightly tanned face, faint blue eyes, and uncomfortably domestic charms were plastered all over advertisements, though her name wasn’t.

    Blondie was the last to sit down in a white plastic chair on the wood patio, his plate on one crossed leg as he cut into his steak. The tables were mostly used to keep drinks steady, rather than actually eat on.

    “Acquisitions, huh?” Asked Hickory. “Interesting title, but does it actually change what you do?”

    Blondie shook his head and took a thick sip from his glass. “Nope, not a single thing. Just means I’m not on as short a leash anymore. You’re not getting off that easy.”

    Janet returned, and everyone received a glass of a faint green, mostly slush drink, save for the children, such as Tanner or Blondie’s daughter, who finally exited the house only to receive her dinner, complain about her parents having a party with a bunch of cogs in the machine, and then hide in her room again. They got to see her for a grand total of thirty seconds, and only learned her name via Blondie, who bragged that his daughter Madrone was also just like her old man, with almost the exact, practiced intonation that he had said so about Tanner.

    Hickory finished her steak quickly, and Gilroy opted to try to cut around the burnt portions, so he finished fast also, though that was largely because there wasn’t a lot of the steak left over that wasn’t charred to a crisp. Blondie took his time, cutting in and taking it piece by piece between statements.

    “What the position of Chief Acquisitions Officer means, if I’m being more specific, is that I’m getting a raise, more work, and like I said, less restrictions on my methods. Otherwise, just about the same kind of work. Gonna be grabbing myself some better equipment too, since I can afford it now.” Blondie mumbled through a small mouthful of steak, before receiving a kiss on the cheek as Janet pulled up a seat between him and Hickory.

    “Is this what this whole party’s about?” His wife asked, tilting her head. “You’re announcing your promotion? For a second I thought you just wanted your friends over for some kind of team building exercise.”

    “I like to believe I’m rather fortunate that I don’t need to ever be on any team your husband’s on, Janet,” Gilroy said plainly, leaning back in his plastic chair. “He’s not much of a team player. Besides, his work is messy.”

    Hickory scoffed. “You’re not the one that’s had to clean up after him, so don’t complain.”

    “That’s fair, but I’ve seen it. In my professional opinion he’s a sloppy, sloppy operator.”

    “Hey, he cleans up nice,” Janet interjected. Blondie didn’t bother, just chuckling as he continued to chew through thick pieces of burnt meat.

    Penelope glanced from the woman—a basic human and a bit short—to the husband, who grinned with sharp teeth and eyes so blue they made Janet’s look grey. “Of course he does, he’s a professional.”

    Janet’s typical smile shifted to something of a wider, almost smug grin. “Yeah.”

    Harry, bored, glanced around the patio. The other couple tables are taken up by business associates in similar casual and business casual attire, their partners— some part of the business, some mere hangers-on— and their children, whom Tanner had taken to chasing around the yard once their dinner was finished, if not into the pool, to the ire of several guests whom he could see actively resisting the urge to walk up to a seven feet tall monster and demand he keep his child on some kind of leash. On one of the nearby tables, one of the newer models of radio was fizzingly belching some kind of easy listening acoustic song about alcohol, sandy beaches, and bikini babes.

    “So this is all this is about?” Gilroy asked. “You’re waving a higher paycheck in our faces, ogling your wife, and letting your kid run around like an animal. This is what this party is. It’s you rubbing our noses in your upward momentum, Blondie?”

    “Never minces words,” Hickory mumbled with a roll of her eyes.

    “Shove it, Penny. Blondie, speak up.”

    Blondie, still smiling, shrugged and set an empty glass on the table, along with an empty plate. “You know me best, Harry. Yeah, you’re right. I dragged you all the way out here to my humble slice of paradise just to make you feel like an inadequate little pussy. Bitch any harder and I might mistake you for being my wife.”

    As he laughed once more, Janet rolled her eyes and relaxed into her seat, her own glass having gone from very full to very empty over the course of the conversation. Nobody around bothered to argue the point further, though the man beside Blondie scowled the entire time.

    And Blondie laughed. He laughed and he drank and he talked. But mostly, he laughed.

==============================================================

    The blood in the ash is warm and fresh and smells like death and won’t get out of his head, it won’t, nothing can get it out. At first there was just the eternal, piercing fire in the back of his skull, but now the blood’s making it worse, like slowly pouring cooking grease into the flames.

    His tongue drags against the ground, steaming and crackling against the earth it passes over. But in comparison to the heat he’s putting off, it’s cold, so very cold. The temperature sensation stings sweetly, like sucking on a sour candy with a mouth sore. He’d enjoy it more if it weren’t for a metallic scent that refuses to exit his nose, no matter how much smoke he pushes out from his nostrils. It’s not a dead man he tastes and smells, but something close to it. Injured, necrotic, tasting of death in that spectacularly contradictory way vampires have. There are other smells, other flavours, though.

    Buckskin. Burnt meat. Fox fur. Leather boots. Hate.

    His jaw still aches from having to pry it open with his hands, having to force his clawed fingers through small gaps in melted flesh to cut at them, tear at them, open his mouth again. His head raises and he sniffs the sky.

    The southern wind’s blowing just the right direction. More of the vampire strikes him in his mind, more of the burned meat and old leather fuels the fire in his mind. His brain’s boiling, but the pain’s beginning to focus.

    His muscles shudder before he takes the first bound forward, running on all fours and scraping great slashes into the white ash to reveal the cracked dirt beneath. The process is familiar and comforting in its intensity as it carries him between the trees and after the trail, the scent, which soon adds car exhaust to its bouquet. This is a natural process.

    Ash, in time, gives way to dirt and gravel roads. They want to mislead him, to direct him away from the smell, but he’s not stupid. He’s not thinking, not beyond the pain and the hunger, but he isn’t stupid. Instinct isn’t and will never be unintelligent—  it’s simply fast, efficient. When a line must be drawn from Point A to Point B and the only thing that matters is self-preservation, instinct is more than reliable, it’s the safest bet.

    And it acts like a hook, dragging his body at top speed down one of the dirt roads and into some kind of lot, the exhaust having overwhelmed all other scents.

    A sign rises above it all in the midday sun. His eyes narrow, but the glare’s too much even then. Clawing awkwardly at his own face, something peels off and onto his fingers as his vision clears. It’s not skin, but it smells burnt. Soot, ash, possibly melted hair, probably coagulated with some of his own eye fluid. He can see, though. Oh, he can see.

    There’s a middle-aged elf with slicked back hair sitting on the hood of a trash heap Stallion Q Armor Mule, and today he’s wearing a purple suit. At a conference he’d gone to a month back, a peer of his told him about the power of a purple suit. At first one must assume there’s no power in the colors you wear but, oh, they knew different in the Used Civilian Vehicle Summit, Regional #32. Spiffs Sanders had told him about the power of this particular purple suit, which Spiffs sold to him at a steep discount as a friend.

    The power of purple. It’s flashy, but not bright, so it doesn’t hurt the eyes. It speaks to richness, and to a certain variety of incredibly expensive shellfish or mollusc from east of the Dividends having been used, which thus implies some level of affluence, and the small gold thread pinstripes made the mind think, even if it was just yellow thread— man, this guy’s got it made. Thus, he must be smart, and most people listen to smart folks when it comes to big purchases like motor vehicles. Not to mention its more mystical properties, namely being that if one simply believes it will attract customers, it will. This is of course because of a small and totally intentionally melted symbol of some esoteric small-town luck deity burned into the inside of the breast over the heart, which definitely wasn’t an incredibly large cigar burn from a bad night with a worse partner in Primary. Buy the suit, wear it, and believe.

    Jim Jamble is a believer in the power of positive thought, no matter how bad sales are. After all, he hadn’t gone under yet, so he’s got to be doing something right, and if he wasn’t doing anything wrong then the purchase of the suit had to be right too. Yet the only business he’d had in the past couple weeks were some obviously on the run pricks who hornswoggled him out of one of his best vehicles because he’d overplayed his hand, not to mention the two drifting mercenaries— one of which was injured, mind you— who bought some of the complimentary bio he normally only gave out to fresh purchases. It’s been a rough couple weeks for Jim.

    A long and uncomfortable sigh later and he’s looking over toward the main body of the town of Fusillade in all its homely glory, longing for a place with more than five-story buildings again. The sky, the trees, the ground, even around here it’s far too clear for his tastes. Why, it’s so bad around here, so backwoods, that when he turns his head to see some giant bundle of fur trying to claw into one of his trucks he even reacts like the locals, leaning back to reach his hand inside of the vehicle he’s sitting on and honking its horn. “Git! Git! There’s no food in there for you!”

    He’s shouting, he’s honking, but the thing’s not leaving. No, after a moment of continuing to fumble with the handle of the door, it simply stops trying and instead directs its attention toward the elf.   

 ==============================================================

    There are times to be formal and professional, to be poignant and simple of speech. When you’re discussing future trade deals with business partners, when you’re presenting new corporate ventures to your administration, when you’re addressing a large group of your peers at a conference about how security and damage assessment are intrinsically intertwined. When you’re speaking to your server at a fancy restaurant, and you don’t want to seem like you’re from out of town.

    These are the times to be these things— and as Hickory stands on the front porch of the suburban home, black suit-clad and holding a bouquet of apology roses, she considers that it might be a little inappropriate for her to act as though this is a professional visit. Though she’s on the clock for it, and though she had most definitely been chosen for this assignment thanks to her “closeness” with Blondie, it just doesn’t feel right to walk into Blondie’s home like he was any other employee. If not for him, for Janet.

    Hickory sighs, ringing the doorbell with her free hand. It’s going to be quite the talk. How the hell is she going to tell her that her husband blew up fighting a fucking Dragon? How do you tell anyone that? It’s easy to tell someone that their family or friend has died operating heavy machinery. That’s a workplace accident, those are a tragic reality of working on a mining operation. Hah. She shakes her head. In a sense, the world was his workplace. I guess this kind of thing could be considered a tragic reality, also. But by god if it doesn’t sour her mood to think of it like that (as if her mood couldn’t get any more sour under the current circumstances).

    After nobody answers the door, she rings the doorbell again. Swiftly, the door is opened, and Hickory starts the spiel she’d practiced on the road there. “Hi, Janet. I’ve got some bad news.”

    “Wow, you’re early,” Piper yawns.

    Something in Hickory’s head cracks like a dropped glass. Who the hell is this, standing before her in a red evening robe and palming a cup of still-steaming coffee? She can’t place her face at all, even though she seems to be getting recognized anyways.

    “Ms. Hickory, right?” Piper asks. “Gilroy said you were coming down.”

Oh, Hickory thinks. It’s one of Harry’s goons. “Yes. Did he send you here?”

    “Nope. Figured I could break the news as a family friend, instead of,” she motions with her mug toward the suit and flowers, “this. It’s a little too formal for something this delicate, y’know?”

    Hickory wants to say “goddamnit, that’s what I was thinking”, but refrains from doing so. Instead, she straightens her posture, and responds, “So, you’ve already broken the news to her?”

    “Sure have. Not sure what I was expecting, but she took it pretty well.” Janet walks past the front door, now fully open, holding an assorted, but modest, tray of breakfast accoutrement. In a matching embroidered bathrobe, of course. Piper whistles as she passes by. “Very well, now that I think about it.”

    The housewife doubles back around to the front door, poking her head out from the background to smile and call out, “Penny! Come in, we’ve got pastries this morning.”

    Piper steps out of the way, and Hickory steps inside. “Spare me the details,” the Officer mumbles. “So, you didn’t schedule this visit?”

    “No ma’am. I sure didn’t.”

    “And from what I can gather—”

    “The kids are home, just write it down,” Piper chuckles.

    “And your name is…”

    “Piper.”

    It all comes together now. Piper’s that foreman that Gilroy’s been sending off on various odd-jobs, trying to turn her into the next Damage Assessment Darling that the Administration so loves to flaunt. He hasn’t formally removed her from his docket either, which means he’s been collecting her foreman pay but probably not giving it to her. Probably pocketing it for himself, she thinks, frowning.

    It makes sense that she’d be here, now. An acolyte of the late Blondie, looking for ways to move up in the world. Even if it means inheriting your late master’s possessions, property, and wife. It’s a bit of a nasty thought, Hickory admits to herself. Janet’s always been a friend, and it’s always been bothersome how much Blondie treated her like a championship belt. Though, as she walks past again and gives Piper a quick peck on the cheek, it’s not as though she ever minded it.

    Either way, this is Blondie’s next in line. And that means that she’s got what it takes. So, let’s give her what she wants, since she’s so keen on going out and getting it, Hickory thinks to herself.

    “Great to finally meet you,” she says, holding out a hand for Piper to shake. “I’ve heard a lot. You’ve been working with Gilroy on some acquisitions jobs, right?”

    “I most certainly have. It’s a couple steps up from the work I was doing, that’s for sure.”

    “With Blondie out of the way, you must be looking to take his place,” Hickory prods. “There’s a particular vacancy I think you’d fit into just great.”

    It takes Piper a moment to respond to this. She doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, but at the same time, when a shark smells blood in the water, they don’t just wait to see if the dead sharks show up before her. “What do you have in mind?”

    Janet shoos the two of them toward the dining room, where they sit at a semi-intricately carved hardwood table. Hickory has a cup of coffee and a pastry placed in front of her, and she thanks the Housewife before continuing. “The miners. Their bounty is still active. You could be Shepherd’s Chief Acquisitions Officer on this assignment, if you so choose. You’re the only internal employee capable, at the moment.”

    Piper shoots a look over to Janet, who smiles and nods. “What were you paying him?”

    “His pay grade per day, alongside whatever the bounty’s worth once the job is finished,” Hickory responds, taking a bite of her pastry. “If you want the most you can get, you’d better get going soon.”

    “What, you kicking me out?” Piper laughs. “You might as well come with me. I’ve told her everything there is to know.” She motions to Janet with her free hand.

    Janet’s hand is laid on Piper’s shoulder. “The money would come in handy, don’t you think?”

    “And so would the benefits,” Hickory adds. She pulls a key out of her pocket, tossing it over to Piper. “I was going to give this to the family, since he didn’t have one at home.”

    Piper only raises her eyebrows in response. The Officer continues, “His gear is kept under lock and key. Both here, and at the Black Hill building. All that stuff you saw him in, he’s got racks of. Tucked away here and there. You take the job, you get the key, you get the gear.” And you get the girl, Hickory found herself wanting to add. Hopefully that should sweeten the deal enough for someone like her.

    “Oh,” is the only response Hickory gets.

    “Are you in?”

    “Are you kidding? Of course I’m in. Where’d he keep his stuff?” Piper stands up quickly, nearly knocking over her chair in the process as her tail twisted with excitement.

    Janet points up the stairs to the second floor. “In the bedroom, first cabinet. Put the key in the lock and give it a good twist.”

    She races away, leaving the Housewife and the Officer alone downstairs. Hickory’s the first to speak between them. “Her? Really?”

    “It’s nice to see you too, Penny.”

==============================================================

There’s a loud noise coming from a vague combination of metal shapes and some dandy looking middle-aged jerk whose words refuse to form real meanings in his head. His mind had been boiled in its own blood, though, so by all means he’s allowed to have a moment where he doesn’t understand what a man in a purple suit is saying. It’s almost as gaudy as those flamboyant red ones that bitch Gilroy would wear.

    A name. A name finally pops into his head in the midst of his pursuit and it’s attached to a face he wants to shove his hand through. Harry’ll get what’s coming to him, don’t worry about that. Worry about the thing in the suit now. That’s important to worry about. Worry about it and what it might have, what it might be trying to say.

    The anger on its face fades quickly into something far more palatable, fear, as he approaches. The tone shifts.

    “Well hello sir,” it chimes, nervously. “Well hello, hello, hello, pardon me, you’re in such a bad way that I’d assumed you might be one of the critters wandering in from the woods, not that you’re in too bad a state. I assure you that by no means do I mean it in a bad way, you’ve got the look of a survivor on you, yes indeed, yes indeed you do, now sir please stop coming closer to me, you’re— uh— remarkably warm and musty.”

    It shifts to lean away, distress etched into the lines on its brow.

His jaw rolls and his tongue lolls. Smells like oil. Smells like a bit of blood. Words want to form. Demands want to form, questions, and his hand moves toward a familiar spot on his hip in pursuit of something he can’t find. The reaction that ensues is about on par with seeing your hand’s gone, though he’s got every limb far as he knows. Something else is missing. Something dear. Box-shaped. His thunder maker. It’s not there. It’s not there, it’s not there, it’s not there. Why isn’t it there anymore? It’s always there.

The purple suited thing backtracks away from him as he begins to shake and shudder, hands patting awkwardly at his own body as though, in all the matted white fur, burnt flesh, and blackened, melted mishmash he might find this missing, nonexistent limb. It slips to the other side of the metal shape and then inside of another, nicer one.

It was bad enough when Jim thought that thing was a freaked out white bear. Now he realizes it’s either somebody with a very severe problem or some very incompetent monster, because it’s making gurgling sounds like a panicking toddler and patting itself down in front of him. So it’s about time he gets out of there and looks into taking his business elsewhere before something like this eats him.

Despite the severity of the situation, he does put on his belt and check his mirrors before starting the car. With the amount of trees nearby and all of these lovely freaks wandering out of the woods he’s liable to hit one and he has no intention of dying because of it. However, by the time he’s starting to pull out the thing’s following again, this time moving fast, fast enough to get a glowing hand under his bumper and keep the wheels burning out rather than actually moving.

It’s a tall thing, all white save for the blackened spots where it looked like it’d been put on a grill for a few hours too long and some fewer bits that look like they’re glowing. Slowly, as the car continues revving, he reaches a hand into his glove compartment. Inside is a pistol, a revolver meant to punch holes in any would-be assailant of his fine establishment, which he’d never used before. It had come recommended by the man that sold him this lot.

“Let’s not do anything we’ll both regret,” he says tremblingly, a shaky smile on his face. “Come on big guy, let go and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

It’s already loaded, he keeps it loaded, just in case. Plenty of people want cars. He’s just a single guy running an entire small used car enterprise, someone could kill him and take his tiny, tiny empire. Not before he gets them, though. So it’s always loaded, prepared for any situation, ready to kill. Jim is not so ready, but he’s trying real hard to be.

The thing holding his car lets out another gurgle that fades immediately into a growl at its tail end, and with that Jambles raises the revolver and fires straight through his windshield into its head. This tosses its skull, topped with pointy ears, back for a moment.

And then it looks down at him again, recollection in its red eyes.

He doesn’t understand. He took it to the face. If it was anything like his own, why was he still standing if it got him in the face? He can even feel the metal lingering just under his charred skin, beneath his fur, right between his eyebrows. With an awkward chuff from him, one of his claws presses into the wound and scrapes out the bullet alongside a bit of burnt viscera, some faintly glowing blood. It isn’t necessarily glowing so much as it looks like something inside of it might be, like embers trapped inside of a ketchup bottle.

“What kind of fucking monster are you?” The shape inside the shape asks. The gun’s still pointed at him. It’s smoking. What a smell. Gun smoke.

Something overtakes him. A deep inhale filters through his nostrils, filling his lungs with the scents of fire and blood— his own this time— before it circles through up to his throat, into his mouth, and out between his jaws in a straight line. A small bolt of flame, almost as white as his fur, disappears into the barrel of the gun.

There’s a moment of silence before the gun itself explodes in its hand, causing it to scream in pain and jerk as busted metal buries itself deep in its face, arm, hand, shoulder, and the delicately cared for leather upholstery of its car. It’s screaming. It’s not dead but it’s hurting, and that’s good. It’s wonderful.

He starts laughing, and bringing his arms up to begin clawing at his own chest allows the car, having been unable to run away, to skid out of the lot and down the road as he keeps making that horrid choking sound. It’s like a cough and a bark rolled into one and dipped in chewing tobacco. The noises won’t stop coming out of him.

Jim’s screaming down the road, both literally and figuratively. He’s more than certain the hand he’d been holding the gun in is permanently ruined along with at least a good chunk of his moneymaker, because from the way his jaw stings he’s pretty sure talking’s going to be a bitch for the next year at least with what they have to call medical treatment in this backwater hole. He’s alive, though, and that’s what matters to him in the end. He’s alive, worse for wear, but that hasn’t stopped him before. He’s outta this place.

It’s just a quick ride through Fusillade and on to Pickman’s Hope. Let someone else deal with the fire freak. He’s not a fighter, not in the slightest. No, he’s not going to even stop and warn them. He’s just going to drive until the tank’s empty. No stops. And then after that he can hitchhike if he needs to, he’s got more than enough fuel.

It’s only after the little remaining contents of his stomach vacate that the noises stop and he’s able to bring his hands away from his throat, instead looking at the molten, glowing pile of refuse he’d just vomited. What is he, now?

The sound of the car’s engine was starting to gain distance and lose volume. Something else takes him by surprise. No witnesses. No survivors.

His hand shoves through steel and scrapes up a hunk of an engine block like a child preparing a snowball as he walks onto the road, the long and straight road back to town. In the distance, he sees it, the shape is escaping. Growling to himself, he continues packing the metal with his hands until it’s a white hot, nearly perfect sphere. His eyes narrow.

He winds up. Everything is superheated, his body is elastic, all energy, coiling and bundling. Then comes the release, an overhand throw that could make even the fastest pitchers jealous.

Leaving his hand, a tongue of flame licks around the ball, engulfing it as it soars at more than twice the speed of the elf’s car. He watches as that beautiful ball of melted metal punches straight through the back windshield, but it’s far enough away that when the car jerks and crashes into the trees on the side of the road he doesn’t see his own handiwork. That is, until the entire area of impact explodes into a miniature mushroom cloud.

There’s little time to revel in it, though. He’s too focused on something beyond the treeline. Buildings, more than a few of them, all stone and brick. It’s a little familiar, like someplace you visited once on a road trip, but no more than that. His jaw tenses, shooting sparks as his fangs clash.

It’s starting to come back to him in pieces. He’s hunting, he knows that, and he knows he likes it, no, loves it. There’s something in that town he wants, and he’s realizing that it’s something that’d be left over if he burns it to the ground.

And he’s suddenly very aware he knows many more ways to burn it all down than he thought he did.

First thing’s first, though— he needs to find a proper, full-body mirror.

Chapter End.

============================================================== 

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-hickory #b&tsm-piper

[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Eighteen

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

“Dragon hunting has been a terrible necessity for homesteads and upstart towns for decades, and it’s hard to not see why. Dragons, as a species, are twice as intelligent as Humanoids and five times as clever. The smallest of their species is as big as a single-story house, with hardened scales running the entire length of their body. Their claws and teeth are enormous and terribly sharp, and their wings are powerful enough to blow people off their feet. And, they’re dangerously biologically versatile.

“There are four different body types, and five (technically six, though much of High Dragon society does not consider Sonic a true “element,” rather a mutation) different “elements” that Dragons can appear to be. Each combination of these aspects causes every encounter with a dragon to be potentially unfamiliar, even for veterans of the hunt. A Fire-element Wyvern has the potential to bathe the landscape in flame, thanks to their anatomy allowing them to easily lean forward while flying. An Electric-element Wyrm can wrap itself around a grounded object while it arcs destructive lightning from its mouth. A Rock-element Drake will be the closest thing to nigh-indestructible you can encounter; the only viable solution being to tear it apart from the inside. 

“Though these aspects alone make the Dragon a fearsome foe, the environment around the beast should be taken seriously as well. Their home is more than just the place they sleep, it’s miles of land carefully tailored to the needs of its master. Does the Dragon feel threatened by its Humanoid neighbors, and wishes to shore up its defenses for the potential storm? Then expect to gain no quarter from the journey to its bed. Expect species of predators, specially cultivated for their ferocity, to stalk and attack you with every step you take. Expect grand traps to be built, pitfalls and spikes and boulders and poison. Expect to feel nothing but pain until you reach its inner sanctum, where you will instead find bountiful prey animals, bred for the purpose of being each individually delectable to the Dragon’s palette. They will landscape the area closest to their bed to be nigh paradise for them, and whether that means only their mountaintop is boulder-free, or their field is full of flowers and happily grazing herds of cattle, is specific to the Dragon at hand.

“If there is one thing to note about these natural fortresses they build, it’s that they are, most of the time, for the express purpose of keeping Humanoids out, and achieving it in a way that’s obvious even to the simplest animal. Dragons have accumulated enough shared knowledge through the years the Humanoids have been on the planet to understand that, even if they manage to fry a posse of rowdy hunters, there will be hundreds, if not thousands more to come after. Fighting Humanoids is a death wish thanks to our tenacity, technological ingenuity, and sheer strength in numbers, and most Dragons understand this keenly. Their kind does not reproduce quickly, and the mortality rate for young Dragons has increased significantly thanks to poachers, so most Dragons feel the need to keep their head down to ensure the safety of their species. 

“Some Dragons, however, do not believe in such a life of quiet solitude. Some Dragons believe that it is their place to use their power as they see fit, to shape the landscape in their image, rather than the Humanoids’. They take great offense to the notion that they should be idle and invisible in their existence, and they will go out of their way to destroy everything that you know for the sake of making their point. Enraged Dragons of this ideological bend have the potential to turn dozens of miles of civilization to rubble when motivated. They build their territory from the ruins of the Humanoid towns, dotting the land with macabre trophies of their former conquests. They decorate their beds with the armour of heroes and adventurers, and they line their walls with their weapons. These Dragons are nightmarishly efficient in acting on their cleverness, and will not hesitate to turn you and your party into mincemeat without sufficient preparation in advance.

“Though, when encountering a Dragon, do not initially assume the worst. Their culture is one of hospitality and respect, and if you are willing to converse on their terms, they are more than likely to refrain from attacking. Their kind has a natural form of telepathy, and they are able to speak the Humanoid language directly to the mind of the recipient, as their tongue is mostly unknown to even those studying it. Again, so long as you are submissive and willing to listen, you will be rewarded for your patience with conversation unlike any you might get with a Humanoid. Dragons have been known to trust us even as far as aiding towns against attacks from other Dragons, as recorded in a select few backwater towns’ mythos. Thanks to the power of diplomacy and understanding, the relationship between our two species had turned into a noble symbiosis.”

    — An aside on Dragons from The Eternal Autumn’s Definitive Bestiary, Vol. IV, pg. 237.

 ==============================================================

And as the last bout of flames dies out, charred bodies still clinging to the weapons they had dug into the Wyrm’s hide with, the last survivor of the Dragon hunting party realizes that any amount of reading they could’ve done would not have prepared them for this very moment. The heat is real, nigh unbearable and unlike anything they have ever felt before. They had read that Dragons were not magical creatures, but rather their internal biology was advanced enough to create chemicals needed for their breath weapon. There was nothing magical about the fire that scorched their armour, which intensified the pain all the more for them.

In fact, as the beast roars in pain, trying to undo the barbed spearheads, armour-piercing bullets, and blood-slick daggers from its body, they find that the only appropriate action left is to lay down their arms in the ash and beg it for forgiveness. Fusillade be damned, the fools had built their livelihood next to a living, angry volcano. There is nothing left to do but hope that it may see their pitiful form, blackened with a paste of soot and sweat and blood and dirt, and spare their life for as long as it may wish.

    Exasperated, the Wyrm searches the landscape. There must be one more, it had only taken out seven— and there they are, hands clasped together like the insect they are. What a display, spear stuck in the dirt and his helmet by their side, groveling as though they were a peon who had failed to meet their quota of grain. Even though the pain is great, the Wyrm finds it dulled by the presence of such submission from the creatures that just made an attempt on its life. It speaks to the Humanoid, burrowing through its mind and soul, commanding them to remove the weapons from its body unless they wish to join their friends. They do as they are told, and the Wyrm is left coiled, out of breath, with nothing but its own mind to contemplate the events that had just unfolded.

It has been long since the nearby town has sent warriors against it. Perhaps the last straw was the shipment it had destroyed weeks prior (even though their cargo consisted of ash it had created, mixed with foul smelling chemicals, to create an odd, oily substance). That must be it, yes. And if the force they sent was this large… the Wyrm again scans the landscape. There must be more. Eight is too small for the weapons they wielded, and for the notoriety that the Wyrm had accumulated. If the Humanoids found a famous Dragon’s ash to be desirable for trade, then there must be two, if not three more forces of similar size waiting somewhere in its territory. This, it knows for sure. There is never just one head to the hydra.

It tells the survivor to halt its activity. Lowering its head, the Wyrm asks them where their friends are. They respond after a pause, feigning ignorance about the coming force of soldiers the Dragon can so clearly feel. The Wyrm rephrases the question, asking them from which direction they’ll be coming from next. They again pause, an expression of confusion passing over their face. Patience rewards the Wyrm however, as it gets its answer. The west. They’re coming from the west, and as they say this, they take a step back from the Dragon, holding up their arms in surrender. It frowns. The Humanoid thinks it is going to be merciful, and let them go on account of their sense of duty to it? If life had been so simple, then it would not have had to incinerate seven other soldiers. The Wyrm tells the survivor to find hope in their continued existence, as it will be continuing no longer. In one motion, it swallows them whole. No need to chew something so insignificant.

There is nothing left on this side of the territory. The Wyrm takes off, heading westward.

==============================================================

Leon finds himself elbow-deep in dirt, and uncertain of whether he remembers the exact spot for his stash. Azariah is cooling off underneath a nearby tree, conversing with Olive about how she didn’t think the Hare would have super speed, but it’s really cool that he does, and that how they can’t wait to hear what it’s called by the weird thing that visited them in their dreams. Cherry, on the other hand, is leaned up against a nearby tree, holding his head in his hands and trying to keep himself from sobbing. The Orc groans, continuing his digging. Judith nervously peers over every now and then to check on the progress, given that they had seen smoke in the distance when they’d first broken into the territory’s fields. Eventually, he hits something soft. As he does, a massive, blonde werewolf breaks from the forest and into the field adjacent, snarling and panting from the sprint it must’ve just made. Simultaneously, the shadow of a winged serpent passes overhead, the wind rushing through the trees and grass as it lands opposite. The two figures stare one another down, and everyone in the party stops what they’re doing to turn and witness the standoff.

The physical exertion of transforming on its own burns a lot of energy, and often this is taken almost directly from body fat. Gaining enough muscle to become a living tank, a mountain of bundled power in the form of a stark white beast, comes at the cost of feeling very, very sore and very, very hungry. And the Wyrm can see it in his big, blue eyes, the furrow of his brow, and the thick, dripping saliva that falls to the ground in heavy globs like foul-scented syrup. Though he isn’t the first lycan of any kind the serpent had encountered, he’s most certainly the biggest.

Where he had already stood several heads taller than most in his more mundane form, his lycanthropic form makes Judith’s look like a puppy in comparison. The sheer bulk puts him on par with most lycans whose forms are bigger animals, like bears, and his general ferocity often outstripped them on combat prowess. He’s a mean bastard with a size to match his cruelty, but to a Wyrm he seems no more dangerous than the average humanoid. After all, aside from his dripping jaws and thick, gnarled claws, he’s unarmed.

The two slowly circle, keeping their gazes razor-focused on one another the whole while, sizing one another up. It isn’t hard to understand who this scaly nuisance is, after having heard so much hearsay, and being offered the occasional contract to go and catch it for business purposes. From snout to tail tip the damn thing’s longer than most of the trees around there are tall, and worse are its wings. Blondie’s a big man, but his arms don’t extend wide enough to even come close to its wingspan. And the general shape of the beast— most dragons look odd or unique even among their own kinds, similar to how even two werewolves, take Judith and Blondie for instance, can look so wildly different— is menacing by nature. It’s a long, slender creature with a wide and cobra-esque crest running along either side of its neck and head. Its wings are like a bat’s, designed instead for speed and power.

Its underbelly is a soft beige, and the color runs up to the bottom jaw. Said jaw is part of a thin, serpentine head that’s mostly flat, with a wedge shape. From the side it generally resembles that of a snake, specifically the sort found on sea snakes, built for aerodynamic potentiality. The eyes are largely forward facing, like a bird of prey, resulting in a look that could almost be considered goofy, were it not for the cold, piercing stare they bore. With the addition of a scaly, permanently furrowed brow, it has a general air of condescension in its slithering, hostile voice that injects itself into Blondie’s skull, telling him what he ought to do, what he was meant to do, what his kind was meant for.

The wolf ignores the snide and frankly disgusting remarks in favor of admiring its scales and crest. Vivid, ruby red scales with the occasional black or orange gave it a fiery appearance in accordance to its nature, with the red largely dominating its flanks and the black presented in a long stripe running essentially opposite its underbelly coloration; the black does, however, find itself swirling down under the eyes, back across the cheek and onto the crest, following along the far edge until they meet the wings at the shoulders, or what could be considered its shoulders. The wings, he notices, are entirely black.

At the moment, the crests are still rising to their full extension, a vastly different structure than that of a typical cobra’s hood due to a Wyrm’s most natural structures being built for speed. The crest in this case is actually a complex system of bone, skin, and blood; it closes when it needs to reach top speed, and extends in a threat display, or perhaps to dissipate heat. He bets someone would give him a pretty penny for the thing, but his thoughts are interrupted by a sudden pang.

The Dragon can see it in his eyes, a hunger. Not a lust for power, not something easily manipulated with treasure and baubles covered in gold and jewels, but the deep, primitive emotion that drives the animals around its home— real, actual hunger. Its crest extends to its full size as the blood fills the beige underbelly on its front, turning the entire thing into a swirling mess of red and black. He’s eying it up not like a hunter its prey or a warrior his enemy but a hound before a food bowl, absent and unable to think of anything but the deep belly pains coming before a long awaited meal. The crest does not appear as a fearful mask of destruction, hellfire beneath scales, but as the sweet, softer portions of moving meat.

The Wyrm knows hunger, knows how to appeal to it. And it tries, it tries very hard, with its dripping, honeyed words and hastily veiled loathing, but it gets no response. There’s no ground to be gained through intimidation in Blondie’s mind, no deeper reasoning to connect to. He’s not the small army it expected to come to take its place, its treasures. Its reputation. Blondie’s not there to fight it, he’s there for something else, but before it can inquire further to press the mental questioning and get an answer out of the dull-headed dog man, the white heap of fur, claws, and teeth launches across the field with a speed the Dragon thought unattainable by hand or foot.

It screams shrill and hateful as yellowing claws snatch at the scales of its tail, digging in deep and drawing blood as it beats its wings once, flattening the grass surrounding and lifting into the air with a great clap of thunder— only to be throttled back to the hard, unforgiving earth like a living hammer, striking its head against the ground in a great arc and snapping one of its wing’s fingers. It screams again because of that, then begins to scrabble and crawl away with both wings despite the broken finger in an attempt to put distance between it and the blank-stared werewolf.

It has enough slack in its tail to turn around at a safe distance and build up a fiery blast. He lets go of the tail to prepare to move, all while he watches the creature carefully. The reaction becomes apparent in the throat as it bubbles up quickly; at first there’s a soft glow at the base of the neck, where the crest meets the shoulders the wings attach to. It travels, in a half-second, up most of the way through the throat, where it shifts to an intense red glow through the beige underbelly, and when finally the glow disappears up into the mouth, there’s a bright, orange light in its nostrils. Then, with a shudder of its crest, it swings its head forward and spits like a cobra, launching its fire in a great spray.

He launches himself to the side, getting hit only by the lesser flecks at the edge which stick to his black coat, and rushes forward on all fours. His claws gouge the earth as though he’s pulling the entire world behind him, and before the Wyrm’s mouth shuts it’s struck in the throat by a gigantic forearm. It feels as though struck with a steel beam wrapped in a thin, meaningless cushion that only adds to the weight of the strike.

“I could use a new pair of boots, snake,” he growls out. It’s tumbled back more than a meter, and by the point he realizes it’s been charging another blast, the light is already in its nostrils. He’s not as lucky this time, and the fiery spray catches not only much of the grass around him on fire— the earlier blast of which had set a large patch alight, and that is still spreading behind him— but much of his coat, both the leather and his fur. He’s quick to try and shake it off, but most of it doesn’t want to detach. It clings to him like fleas, deep, burning fleas. Burning his lush fur, scorching his skin, driving him mad.

There’s a sickening laugh in his mind as Wyrm begins on a slow crawl toward him, using not its wings but the serpentine movement of its body, still upright, to close the distance. How easy it was to subdue lesser creatures with its blessings of fire, how delicious he will be, how he’d be eaten alive and subjected to a slow, painful death, as all of his kind would be in time, these are what it poured into his mind, acidic and bitter.

He can see it further down its tail, the slight shape of something still alive, still moving, in pain. He can’t die here. He has a rabbit to skin, he has a task to finish, he has a paycheck to collect. It’s that rabbit’s fault, it’s that entire party’s fault that he’s going through this pain, and once he’s through with the flying soon-to-be-boots in front of him, he’s going to debone each and every shitheel miner in that group alive while the others watch.

The fire spreads fast, despite the generally wet nature of the Eternal Autumn, and it takes up much of the field soon. Blondie hurts, his muscles burn from the extended shift, no food, and little sleep, and everything around him burns. Fire, it’s all fire. And a laughing, hateful voice in his mind, its repugnant, condescending tones reverberating between the walls of his skull like a discordant hiss. He screams, then tosses himself forward, a ball of white fur and flame, his claws and fangs sinking deep into the crest of the dragon before it can attempt to lift off again.

Its whole body thrashes wildly as it attempts to shake him off, a skin-peeling screech  mingling in the open air with the wild cries of the burning werewolf.

A deeper glow begins in its throat, at first a simple hue as it had been before, though it turns white and vivid still deep in its craw. The light is stronger than earlier ones, and it bulges the throat of the Wyrm as it creeps up, steadily enlarging and intensifying until it wavers between a distinctive blue, an eerie green, and the original white.

The bulge in its wildly varying colors takes time reaching the top of its throat, but before it can transfer to the beast’s mouth a flaming arm locks around the creature’s neck, and then another does the same on the opposite side, and like a vice grip they both rush toward one another, crushing the dragon’s crest and shutting its windpipe alongside its fire-pipe.

Blondie can feel the entire creature’s thrashings turn from fear of injury to fear for its life, fear of him, and he relishes in it. The voice behind his eyes goes from shrill commands of the self-designated superior to fearful requests, and he hears the tone falter.

He hears it whimper like a child. A weak, sobbing, broken and beaten child, being punished for something it didn’t do.

It doesn’t want to die.

He doesn’t care.

==============================================================

The party’s about thirty minutes of rushed walking away from a lose-lose situation when they’re bathed in a vivid white light, which fades into seafoam blue-green as a sound that dwarfs thunderstorms rushes through them. Every rock-filled bone in their bodies shake, and when they turn their head to glance toward the path they had just tread, through the trees is that strangely colored light. Above the canopy is a massive, roiling plume of similarly colored fire and dark black smoke.

Leon pulls on his mask and the rest of the party does the same before they continue moving.

“What do you suppose that is? Never seen anythin’ like it,” Olive mumbles through her mask.

“Nothing good,” both Leon and Judith say.

Azariah sighs, shaking his head. “Alright then, if you two ain’t gonna be helpful, a better question— where to next?”

Book 2 End.

============================================================== 

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#b&tsm #empty-mask #writing #original content #oc #fantasy #adventure #creative writing #writeblr #original writing #original novel #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-blondie

[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Seventeen

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Olive and Cherry are the first to wake up in the morning, sitting up in their makeshift beds. The Owl sits up, but the Techie covers his face. “Did… did you…?” Olive starts. “Yup.” “And you saw…” “Exactly what you saw.” “Our “gifts,”” she says, brushing some of the dead leaves out of her feathers. “They have names? And they’re real.” “Why can’t I shake the feeling that I’ve seen that thing before…” “What, those other people?” “No, the big… thing, that was talking to us. Didn’t you see it? With the tentacles made of glass? And that massive crystal skull?” Olive frowns. “I definitely saw the tentacles. I don’t think I could’ve not seen the tentacles. But I didn’t see any skull, Cherry.”

“I swear,” he mumbles. “I swear it was a skull. It was like looking up a mountain, and it rotated when it spoke…” “Like a clock?” “No, like… well, maybe like a clock. It rotated out one of its faces for a new one. Like it was a ticker switching numbers. So, kinda like a clock. But, it was just so… big, and its mouth never moved when it talked. Its voice was coming from its tentacles, or somewhere else, I don’t know.”

Olive yawns, and stands up. “I wonder if anyone else had the same dream.” She looks to the three still sleeping, then smiles. “Nope. Probably not, huh? Dang. You wanna help me scrounge up some breakfast?”

By the time the two get back, everyone else has either gotten up or is in the process of getting up. Judith is a bit of a wreck, as wolfing-out, fighting, and running in the woods would drain even the most persistent of managerial staff. Leon is in the process of stoking the campfire back into its original state, and Azariah has gotten out his mandolin to pluck a few strings, given the downtime. Leon is the first to greet them as they return with a few pocketfuls of wild berries, greens, and a couple choice mushrooms that would do well over a fire (and not produce toxic smoke in the process). Olive gets to spearing the shrooms for roasting, and Cherry sits down to process the bounty. Leon leans over, shines one of the berries on his shirt, then pops it in his mouth.

“We need bigger water bottles,” he remarks. “I’m thirsty as hell.”

“Yeah. That would be a good idea.” Cherry pauses for a moment. “Hey, do you recall seeing a large, skull-faced, mountain-sized, tentacled being talking to you,” he attempts to mimic the voice, but ends up sounding more like a young teen trying out his first bout of dirty vocals, “like this in your dreams?”

Leon blinks. “No, Cherry. I haven’t. Why?”

“Well, Olive and I had the same dream last night. And that thing was in it. It told us that we had discovered our gifts, told us the names of the gifts, and then we woke up, since there were some other people there who weren’t supposed to be there.”

“Weren’t supposed to be there?”

“Yeah. Three people with gems in their eyes. The thing sounded like it wasn’t expecting them. And that it wasn’t pleased to see them, either.”

The Orc frowns, and thinks back to the encounter in Kiln. Didn’t a couple of those thugs have that going on? He swears they did. Never did learn their names. Hell, he thinks to himself, he doesn’t even know if they survived the concrete spill. What a massive shit show that was.

“What a massive shit show that was, huh?” He says, popping another handful of berries into his mouth. “Olive, you think your pals are on us now? The ones who held you hostage?”

“Huh?” She sticks the last mushroom skewer into the dirt, and sits down beside it. “Jules and Lucille? Yeah, they’re on us for sure now. Can’t see any reason they wouldn’t be.” She frowns. “Kinda sucks, they’re real cool too. Were really nice to me back in the day.”

“They aren’t nice anymore. You should kill that attitude before it ends up killing you.” Leon points a finger at her. “That vampire looked like he could rip someone in half.”

“I’d bet he’s done it before,” she comments.

Cherry peers his head around to Judith, who has silently joined the conversation. He offers her a couple berries, which she cautiously takes, and begins to chew on.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks her.

“Like I was dead,” she responds. “I haven’t done that in a while. Really puts you out of it. Are we having mushrooms?” Olive gives her a thumbs up from across the fire, and she grimaces. “I think my appreciation for them has gone down significantly since we met Davey.”

“Hey, do you have much control over your lycanthropy?” Cherry didn’t seem to mind the mushroom comment, much more interested in the fact that she could turn into a big, giant, scary wolf monster.

“Not really. You need more practice than I’ve bothered to put in. I prefer pushing pencils to pushing people’s shit in.”

“We knew that.” Leon snorts in the background, but it doesn’t deter Cherry from continuing to pry. “How come?”

“Would you want to have to repress the urge to turn into a big, slobbering, snarling dog-thing every time someone gets on your nerves?”

“Not really. Well, that blows. Guess it’s more cool in concept.”

“It’s not cool. It’s a curse. I don’t know why people can turn out this way, but they can, and I’m fucking unlucky enough to be one of them.” She runs her hand through her hair, undoing knots as she finds them. “No more questions, Cherry. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Cherry agrees, looking down at the forest floor. “Do you wanna hear about what happened to me and Olive?”

She motions for Leon to hand her one of the done mushroom skewers. “No.”

“It’s related to why she didn’t get shot earlier, we think.”

“My power’s called The Nerve!” Olive comments, mouth full of roasted mushroom.

Judith shakes her head. “That’s very cool, Olive. Can I just eat breakfast in peace, please? Shit.”

Cherry and Olive look at one another, realizing that they probably aren’t going to get much more out of her without making her angry. Well, more angry than she is now, which is still not fun to talk to. They look at Leon, who is busy attempting to roast some of the greens they gathered. Then, they turn to Azariah. The Hare looks up from his instrument and yawns loudly.

“Figured out more about your superpowers, I reckon?”

“I still don’t know what mine is, really, but I know its name!” Olive says.

“I heard. You two think that skull-thing will give me a visit sometime soon? I’d rather like to get it over and done with.”

“Well, have you figured out yours yet?” Cherry asks, getting a little excited at the prospect. In his head, he runs through a bunch of different options for the old miner— super strength, super vision (the heat-seeing kind, not the “see for miles kind”, but both would work), telekinesis… there’s just so many options, and all of them would work great for him.

“Nope,” he replies, plucking a few notes. “Don’t think so. Didn’t feel anything particularly super power-y when we were in that scuffle back in Kiln. Just kinda felt like I was panickin’, to be frank with you.”

Olive hums, and rubs her chin. “Well, if you weren’t there with me and Cherry, that’s a sure sign you haven’t found it out yet. Do you wanna start tryin’ some stuff?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“While we’re walking, you mean,” Judith pipes in.

“Naturally. Wouldn’t wanna slow us down.”

Leon stands up, and starts stomping out the fire. “Speaking of that, we should keep moving. You’ll have to eat on the road, Azariah.”

The Hare sighs, and slings the mandolin back over his shoulder. “I’ll make do,” he says.

The group follows the dirt road to Fusillade, deep enough into the forest to not be seen, but not far enough in to not see the road. The breeze is at their backs, and it rustles the leaves of the trees every now and then.

“What do you wanna try first?” Cherry asks.

“Well, let’s see here,” Azariah says, tapping his cheek. “You said yours was pretty specific, and it seems like Olive’s is too, so I really couldn’t tell ya. I’m stumped.”

“But, it doesn’t have to be specific,” Olive chimes in. “I think? Mine doesn’t feel super specific. I can deflect bullets, I know that much, and that’s hardly like Cherry’s.”

Cherry raises his hand. “I just take things apart with my head. And I don’t even know if that’s all I can do. That’s not very specific.”

“Cherry, you happen to be the techie of the group, and you end up gettin’ the mechanically-relevant power,” the Hare laughs. “I’d call that pretty specific. So’s Olive’s, given all events and previous occupations.”

“When you put it that way,” he grumbles.

As the three talk behind them, Leon and Judith lead the group forward silently. Occasionally, they’ll look at one another, frown, then turn away— but, somewhere along the path, a black two-door zips by them on the road. She cocks her head to the side, and finds herself listening closely. Leon raises an eyebrow, and looks behind them. They hear the screech of brakes over the sound of conversation, and when they meet eyes once again, the panic is clear in both of their expressions.

“Into the woods right now,” Judith orders. “Someone just stopped on the road, and I’m not waiting to find out which of the three groups it is that’s on us.” She picks up her pace to a jog as she dives into the thicker wood. The rest of the group follows.

As Leon manages to catch up with her, he asks, “You know we’re going east now, right?”

“Shut up,” she retorts. “Just run, smartass.”

The Orc shrugs. A wheeze catches him, but he manages to keep it down as he and the rest of the group break towards the Fusillade Wyrm’s territory.

==============================================================

Blondie scoffs inside of his mask. The car’s stopped, and he’s shut off the engine to try and kill any sounds outside of the telltale rustle and shifting of frightened feet against underbrush. There are five, he notes; as he makes his way out of the car and between the trees, he counts the silhouettes, the way they move, their sizes. His long legs and thick boots make it easy to gain on them even through the forest, especially when his ears are washed with the sweet sound of medical troubles. The closer he gets, the more evident the orc’s breathing problem is becoming to him, the thick, but harsh breaths, like each one drags claws along the target’s throat.

Or how one of them is hunched, practically limping from what appears to be some kind of back pain. The shapes in the morning light make him think it’s a hare, or some other assorted type of rabbit-person he damn well doesn’t care to quantify beyond the profile. It’s plain to him as he continues his trek that the only one actually suited to escape him is a bird in blue, but based on the way she falls back to keep the distance between her and the ex-foreman short, her morals aren’t going to let her.

It’d be more interesting if she’d decided to ditch them, he muses as he retrieves his piece from its holster. At least then he’d have a real chase, but admittedly it isn’t the chase he’s after. A bit of fun on the job is all it takes to turn a job into an activity, a sport.

With his arm straight as a steel bar, he levels the gun toward the four silhouettes.

Four.

Bushes shift to his left and he spins on his heel, kicking up a menagerie of leaves as he fires off a shot. The thunderclap echoes, but the lightning doesn’t strike; the kid in the red jumpsuit isn’t even grazed by the bullet, and before he can question just how he could miss the pistol’s loader jams, and something heavy strikes his wrist. It only stings, but the force is enough to toss the Technician and the gun into a bush behind him.

Again he spins, this time to catch the haft of an axe mid-swing. A semi-professional swing too, he notes, and the blue jumpsuit corroborates. Security, or at least former security, an avian— an owl anthro. “You must be Olive,” he comments, and as her beak opens to yell, he cuts her off with a straight punch to her rib cage, dead in the center of mass. All of the air rushes out of her chest and it kills the sound, only to replace it with the creak of bone and, subsequently, the crash of a well-built warrior against a tree trunk.

When she stands back up, bleary eyed and trembling, he laughs. He drops the axe, then shakes his head. “Ho-ly shit. It’s true, then. You idiots really do have rocks in your bones. Normally that’d go through someone.”

As the axe hits the dirt, a gold and green blur of fury launches from between two trees to his left, and with a wild swing Leon digs his boot knife as deep as he can get it into the officer’s shoulder. Then he pulls it out in a wide arc and retreats to a low-stance, prepared as he could be for any incoming attacks.

Blondie hasn’t moved in the entire time, even as the owl runs past to pick her axe back up and then dart back into the bushes. He knows the strategy. It’s not hard to decipher. A couple of durable distractions while the others prepare something for him, and he supposes they might have it in their collective pea-brain to use his own piece against him. The prospect makes him chuckle again before he swings his hips and strikes the squatted orc with a heavy boot to the upper chest, right against his collarbone. His other foot stays stone still against the ground as though he’s punting a ball, and it sends Leon spiraling into the base of a nearby tree. Raising a gloved hand to check how bad his shoulder is bleeding, Blondie speaks in a low, amused tone. He’s fighting hard to keep himself from outright laughing as he says, “This is usually much, much quicker. I hope having stone-bones also dampens your sense of pain, too.”

His gaze runs coolly over the crumpled heap of an orc and the fearful shapes of the owl and whom he assumed to be the foreman in the shadows, only to settle on a very sorry shape. The hunched one, the dusty brown rabbit, all scarred up and obviously in pain. It’s easy to see in the watery shade of his dark eyes, the way his muscles all clench as though lifting far more weight than just a simple backpack. Beneath the mask, Blondie smiles as Azariah drops his backpack and attempts to stand straight.

It’s even more amusing when he sees the old bastard can’t even manage that, stuck in a half-slouch even when straining. “Alright, you big, ornery son of a bitch, I’ve been waitin’ for a long time to give you a taste of me,” Azariah rasps out, hands clenching into fists and raising up as he begins to slowly rock from one foot to the other, swaying not out of exhaustion but purpose. “For what you’ve done to my pals, for what you’ve done to every other worker you’ve squashed, for what you did to my lady!”

Blondie scoffs. “I don’t even know who you are.”

It’s not two less than swift elbow strikes to the body later that the officer sighs exasperatedly, unable to contain his own disappointment. With the typical revenge spiel one would expect a more vigorous fight from some runaway, but the dull sting of body blows offer nothing to him. The kicks offer more stimulation, striking him in the calves and thighs, unable to reach his torso partially due to height, but much more due to a certain lack of flexibility in the old fighter’s frame.

    It’s hard to move, and even harder to crouch low enough to duck a right hook from the beast he faces. He can’t stand tall enough to even reach his damned ribs with a good elbow, much less a kick. Azariah hurts. Joint pains are a given for a man like him, even more so back pains, but it feels like his body doesn’t want to move. When he’s punched in the side of the head and kisses the dirt harder than any of his awkward, stolen moments with Roxanne, every muscle in his body doesn’t want to pick him back up.

They don’t scream. The pain is too much to scream, but not loud enough; the hurt is intense, but it’s not as loud as his own body’s apathy. It wants to stay down. Every bone wants to settle into the soil beneath him. As the world swims around in his vision, the beautiful warmth of the leaves rolls to the forefront of his mind, and his skeleton longs for the earth and rock below.

Sound and sight return as his legs finally find the ground beneath themselves and his head finds the sky above it, returning to his slowly swaying stance. In his heyday, he recalls, he was much faster. He was so much faster. And no wolf gave him any gab in the ring, he made sure of that. 

As the muffled insult of a derisive snort reaches his ears, he spits nearly-black blood onto the leaves beneath them both. He doesn’t even know what the man said, or if he had said anything. He doesn’t know where anyone else is, doesn’t even know where he’s going to go if he wins. When he wins, he corrects himself.

“C’mon you big, blonde bitch, I got more in me than you can hand—”

 A big, blonde haymaker to the side of his head is what he gets before the words can finish leaving his mouth, and he spins hard enough to do a full cartwheel before he returns to his status as a pile of aging rabbit meat on the ground. As his bones start up the aching call to simply stop and let the monster win, leather-clad fingers grip his throat, a single mighty hand closing around his entire neck as its opposite grips tight on his hip to lift him high.

Cherry steps forward out of the bush, attempting to aim the cannon the acquisitions officer masquerades as a pistol, but the sheer weight makes his arms tremble. Well, the weight and the sight of Blondie holding the battered form of Azariah so high the tree branches threaten to skewer the old hare. His soft, pink eyes widen as he looks between his companions— the still crumpled form of the coughing, hacking Leon, Olive hiding behind the trees, and beside her the panting, panicked shape of Judith, a hand dug into her own hair threatening to burst into claws and tear her own scalp— and the officer.

“Let him— let him down or I shoot you. I don’t want to have to shoot you. Please, just set him back down,” he chokes out. He has to use both fingers for the trigger just to press it even a little, it’s going to take everything he has to try and fire it if he doesn’t listen. “I don’t want to shoot you, I don’t want to shoot anyone. Please.”

Azariah’s crooked body is yanked down into a raised knee, pressed down on two ends like the man’s splitting a log over his thigh. The crack that rings out is sickening, not because the breaking of a spine is loud, but because it isn’t supposed to be. Where there should be a pop, perhaps the muted, liquid snap of a strong series of bones, the movement elicits the harsh, shrill crunch of the wind tearing a branch from a tree during a storm.

    Blondie holds eye contact with Cherry as the young man screams, and he realizes it’s the only real sound there. Leon’ attempts at breathing are little more than the patter of leaves in the wind and he knows both Olive and Judith are trying to keep themselves silent, as though he couldn’t hear the mumbling murmurs of an anxious mess, as though he could not smell another wolf even beneath his mask. Cherry’s scream is very, very real, because it isn’t afraid, and it’s not pained. It’s angry.

He wonders if it’s anger over the Hare’s split spine or the flagrant, unfazed disregard for a plea to his humanity. Aiming to figure out which, he tosses the garbage body to the side, sending the limp form tumbling among the leaves and earning another raging yell from the Techie. The gun shakes even more between his fingers now, he sees. He supposes he was right on both accounts.

“Why?! You let us go before, you let me go before! You could’ve stopped us before, why—”

“You wouldn’t get it, kid.” Blondie stands up straighter, towering, unmoving in his spot. “Now gimme my gun, and I’ll make it quick.”

The response he gets is expected. He’s gotten it before. The twist of a youthful face into a hateful scowl, a grimace made up almost entirely of rage and sorrow. The gentle glint of betrayal in soft eyes. The pure, unadulterated offense taken when people’s lives are trivialized as no more than a matter of business. And the scream?

Cherry does scream, belting out a loud, “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU,” before he grips hard with both hands and manages to pull the heavy trigger back far enough to actually fire. It’s surprising, especially since it had jammed before it went into the bush with him. It makes sense that the kid would get it to work, though. The smart types always do pull out the dumbest shit in the worst situations.

It misses Blondie by a country mile, and the recoil slams the boxy form of the gun into Cherry’s nose, sending him back to the ground as the gun pirouettes back out of sight. It’s hard not to laugh as the man slowly walks over, heading not toward his weapon but the idiot that had tried to use it against him, passing by the orc, the panicking owl and the frankly repulsive display of a lycan.

Standing above Cherry, the officer lets out a sigh. “That bullet’s coming out of your paycheck. Actually, scratch that, I’ll send the bill to your loved ones,” he says, listless. “I can’t believe you idiots really wasted that five day head start. Makes sense that you’d also waste the opportunity to die peacefully.”

He bows his head to avoid the arc of a hand axe, twisting to rock Olive’s whole body with a solid hook to the shoulder, tossing her away again. It’s followed by a quick turn, and Leon receives a similar punch to his gut, putting him back down too. He only offers a glance to Judith. She hasn’t moved an inch. If she still has her gun, which he doubts, she hasn’t tried to pull it out. It’d make him laugh if it didn’t make him sad.

His cool, blue stare trails back to Cherry, who hasn’t stopped scowling, but the strike made it harder to focus on Blondie. Slowly, he raises a foot above the red uniform.

“You know, I bet it’ll be easy to clean your skull now that it’s product.”

“Best stop bein’ certain of much of anything, son,” another says, and before the officer can turn his head he’s greeted with the sanguine sting of someone’s shin connecting with the base of his skull, sending him headfirst into a nearby tree trunk. When the shadows creep at the edges of his vision and the warm colors of the world refuse to stop swirling, he uses the warm feel of his own blood to ground himself, and soon manages to stand back up.

Turning to face his enemy, he raises his hand to try and block the morning sun, now directly assaulting his vision through his mask. He rolls his shoulders, finding that uppity rabbit standing straighter than the trees around them. The bloodied smile on his face and a black fire in his eyes triggers a hateful glare from Blondie. “Don’t you go startin’ fights you can’t finish, puppy-dog,” he croons, narrowing his gaze.

Blondie turns to grab his gun from the bush nearby, but it’s not there. Looking around, he just barely manages to spot multicolored uniforms slinking away into the shadows of the deeper forest. When he takes a quick step to follow after and ignore that damned rabbit, Azariah doesn’t let him.

First comes a blisteringly fast kick to the back of his calf, seizing up the muscle and forcing him down onto one leg. An elbow strike crashes against the side of his head, smashing the glass eye-port on one side to give the Hare a good look at the intense, icy blue gaze beneath. Azariah’s too pumped to really care about the memories that face forces him to relive, too embroiled in his own adrenaline, the pure, unbridled rush.

With every strike landed, Blondie gets slower. His swinging punches look sluggish in his vision, and after Azariah manages to grab the back of his neck and pull him into a knee to the forehead, everything his opponent tries just whiffs without a sound. It’s just like he remembers back in the ring, back in the dusty, dirty, grimy fights with his pals. Big, lumbering fuckers with fangs and claws, thinking he’s easy pickings because he’s a hare.

As his mind returns to the fight at hand, he’s greeted with just that— a fist, in his face. The force sends him spinning back into the dirt again, and Blondie stands up with a panting huff, trying to recover some semblance of balance. He doesn’t have time to even shake his head before the Hare is back in his face, digging into his ribs, belly, head, and legs with devilishly precise kicks, elbows, and knees.   

When Blondie finally manages to dodge to the side in time to not be struck in the belly again, the hare’s knee collides with a tree trunk. It shatters the bark and splinters some of the wood, but Azariah bounces back fast, gripping his knee and hissing, belting out curses so fast that they spill together in the Acquisition Officer’s ears. His brow furrows beneath his mask, silently sizing Azariah up a second time. It’s not that he’s getting slow, because despite his lack of breath a few times, Blondie’s nowhere near winded. That damned rabbit just seems to get faster and faster.

If he was getting slower, then everything around them would be faster. The wind, the leaves, all of it would be getting faster and faster as he slows down, but that’s not happening.

Only that old fuck, that decrepit miner, is getting faster.

As he snuffles underneath his mask to ignore the smell of his own blood, the old man stretches and offers yet another incorrigible smile while saying, “I’m gonna make sure you remember me this time.” And then he surges forward, launched by one leg.

The sight of it reaches Blondie before the sound of the kick-off. The earth-clapping thump of Azariah’s foot against the ground only manages to work its way into his ears just before an orange-clad shin blasts the side of his jaw, and everything falls away.

When his eyes open again, the sun’s in a different spot. It’s higher than before, but not too high, maybe a couple hours’ difference at best. It’s enough to earn a gloved fist against the ground as Blondie stands to see nothing around him, aside from the sweet, rustic hues of the Eternal Autumn. Not even the Hare’s backpack is still there. His gun is gone. The others are gone.

Only in looking down does he realize there’s a hastily scrawled note stuck in his jacket’s breast pocket, tucked there to be hard to miss. In a low, monotone voice, he reads it aloud saying, “‘Y’all ain’t my kill,’ signed…”

Something deep and hot seizes him. He crushes the note between his fingers before he screams and punches a tree, sending cracks out in a wide spider web of destruction along the wooden trunk. He punches it again, and again, and again, and he keeps screaming until the sound deepens and his mask splits the metal and plastic ruined by the formation of a long, sharp maw covered in white fur and filled with pearly fangs. His punches become clawed swipes, and soon the tree has fallen in front of him.

When his breathing evens out again, he doesn’t bother shifting back. He doesn’t care that the sleeves of his coat only just barely wrap around muscles practically carved from the mountain rock, or that his boots were destroyed by the sudden development of claws sharp enough to gut pigs. Instead, Blondie turns his slavering muzzle toward a familiar, yet odd scent. It’s blood, but it’s not his blood, and it’s not the blood on the rag from before.

He knows this. Falling onto all fours he follows it to the source, a now dried glob of saliva, rock, and blood.

Hare blood.

Chapter End.

============================================================== 

[ Table of Contents ]

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[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Sixteen

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

In the dead of morning, some occupants of the infirmary are woken up by the clicking of heavy boots against stone flooring. Baker, the lightest sleeper in his group, sits up in his bed, groggy and barely lucid from his pain medication, and groans loudly. He peers out into the blackness, and finds it peering back at him through the lens of a heavy-duty gas mask. At least, it appears to, before it strides down the length of the clinic, seemingly looking for something. The Elf grunts.

“Aren’t we supposed to be sleeping? I thought it was too early for another dose.”

“Doctor’s orders,” the darkness responds, as it quietly rummages around on a few of the shelves. Baker cocks his head to the side. Wait, is that the voice of one of the nurses? Or am I too high for this shit. Hallucinating, maybe? God, this sucks.

“Are you real?” he asks. He rubs his eyes in an attempt to get his vision to stop swimming. In the corner of the room, the darkness seems to have gotten its hands on a large candle. A soft orange light now emanates from it, and the darkness walks back over to Baker’s bed. The candle is held in front of his face, which makes him softly recoil.

The darkness chuckles lightly. “What kinda question is that to ask?” Before the Elf can react, there’s a black-clad hand gripping his throat firmly. “Where’s my quarry headed? Tell me.”

“Quarry?” Baker manages to get his hands around the darkness’s massive wrist, finding it to be made of some kind of leather. This is definitely not a dream, but if it’s a hallucination, it’s a pretty damn vivid one. Maybe he should invest in some of this painkiller later down the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

The hand tightens around his throat slightly. “I know you know. Tell me where they’re going.” “Who?” The hand tightens again. “Think a little harder, before the blood stops heading to your brain.” “Well, that’s a little mean,” Baker responds, adjusting his neck in the darkness’s grip.

“You really don’t wanna fuck with me right now.” The hand pulls the Elf forward, and moves the light between their faces, revealing that it is, indeed, a gas mask that the darkness wears. “Last chance. Tell me, or I’m killing you.”

Baker frowns, and takes a gulp of air. “Wait, what did I do?” A sudden burst of lucidity hits him, and he holds out an arm as he’s lifted from his bed. “Wait wait wait! You’re here because… because of the bounty we just lost, right? You want in on it?”

“Bingo.”

“They headed out the northern entrance, I think. Closest town that way is Fusillade. I think Jules and Lucille are already on the case, though. Don’t tell’em I told you, please.”

The darkness lets Baker go, and sets the candle down on a bedpost. “Who else knows?”

“Everyone here,” he says, rubbing his neck. “They put us all in the hospital. All fucking six of us. What makes you think you’ll do better?”

“Hah! That just means I won’t feel bad about what comes next.” A belt is audibly unbuckled somewhere on the darkness’s person. It’s followed by a click, and a deafening explosion.

    When Baker finally opens his eyes again, he’s standing in a massive dark room, where tendrils of prismatic, kaleidoscopic gemstones wind like twisting liquid barely out of sight. Soon after, Killian and Jamie pop in beside him. They open their mouths to speak, but try as they might, they can’t seem to vocalize any sound whatsoever. All they can hear is the low sloshing of the tendrils, and the distant, booming voice of someone they all find familiar. Since they have nothing better to do, they decide to go and investigate.

CONGRATULATIONS CITRINE, YOU HAVE UNCOVERED MY GIFT TO YOU. ITS NAME IS “THE WORK,” AND IT SHALL SERVE YOU WELL ON YOUR JOURNEY.

Baker and company creep closer, two other figures shortly coming into view at the edge of the dark room. They stand motionless, looking up at the wall of black mist in front of them. One of them wears red, the other wears blue. To Baker and company, they look familiar, but it’s as though a hole has been punched through their memories. Like a picture being burned from the center out, almost. They can’t even place why they’re here, much less who they are.

SUNSTONE, YOU HAVE ALSO UNCOVERED YOUR GIFT. ITS NAME IS “THE NERVE”. MAY ITS POWER PROTECT YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS.

The group of three decides to get closer. Before they can get within a few yards of the figures in red and blue, the air sucks itself out from their lungs all at once. They all fall to the ground, clutching at their throats in vain, hoping to get some semblance of breath back.

YOU THREE? The booming voice says. It sounds a little put off by their presence, as though it wasn’t on the books for this encounter. YOU HAVE BEEN RETURNED TO ME SO QUICKLY. THOUGH I CANNOT SAY I EXPECTED LESS, I CERTAINLY EXPECTED MORE. Tendrils shoot out from the wall of mist, wrapping each one of their choking figures up and lifting them a dozen feet into the air. Baker desperately looks to his friends-- or, who are they, again? They’ve both got something shiny growing out of an eyesocket, and in some vague way, he feels like he might too. He swears he recognizes them from somewhere. But, in his attempts to try and catch the memories as they float away like ash from a campfire, he realizes that he’s stopped breathing entirely. The air had stopped coming, so at some point he must’ve stopped trying to catch his breath. All that’s left is him, the other people being grabbed, and the wall of mist before him.

I WOULD ASK YOU TO REFRAIN FROM INTERRUPTING MEETINGS WITH OTHERS, BUT IT SEEMS AS THOUGH IT COULD NOT BE HELPED. NO MATTER. The one furthest to the left (what was her name?) begins to visibly panic as a tendril rises out of the darkness and approaches her face. YOUR GIFTS SHALL BE REDISTRIBUTED FOR LATER USE. Its tip morphs and twists into a claw, ripping the stone that had engulfed half her head from her face. A shower of blood fountains from the wound and into the mist, but her body doesn’t struggle, nor does it cry out. It simply dissolves, from the feet upward, into a green, fuzzy mist. 

Baker, or, was that his name? He can’t seem to remember. Another similarly sized tendril approaches the Android beside him. THOUGH THEY WERE NOT REALIZED, THEIR POTENTIAL WAS NOT LOST ON YOU. It again, morphs into a claw before ripping out the stone in his eye. His body goes limp, dissolves, and both tendrils retract back into the darkness.

WHEN WE FIRST MET, I BELIEVED YOU NOBLE. I GIFTED YOU MY BLESSING AND REVIVED YOU. I SEE NOW, AFTER THE SHORT TIME WE HAVE KNOWN ONE ANOTHER, THAT THIS WAS A MISTAKE. The last one, realizing on a basic level what is about to be done to him, struggles to break the tendril’s grip. He moves his head back and forth in a futile attempt to avoid the smaller tendril from getting too close to his face. He knows what it does, but he doesn’t know where it sends him. There’s something in the mist that matches his panicked gaze, something incomprehensibly large and writhing around the edges, but solid in the center— until it turns inward, counterclockwise into the mass of wriggling matter, like a massive rotating machine. A new, harder set of eyes meets his.

I MISTOOK YOU FOR VISITORS WHEN YOU WERE MERELY TRESPASSERS. LET MY CONFLATION OF THE TWO CONCEPTS DIE WITH YOU. In one swift motion, another tendril steadies his head as the smaller one rips the gemstone from his eye socket. He feels as though he’s had a cork pulled on his body, and everything is draining at an alarming rate. Nothing hurts, though. In fact, it’s getting hard to tell if anything’s happening at all. It’s surprisingly peaceful, in its absence of feeling. He fizzles away, up and up through the rock and out the bowels of the earth.

Blondie, after having rubbed the gore off the eyeball-sized gemstones, stuffs them into a side pocket for later inspection. The Elf, the Android, and the Human, all limp in their beds, all containing a vicious, messy puncture wound and a missing eye from their head, seem peaceful in death. He wonders whether he should’ve made it a little messier, really send a message to the town. Then, Blondie looks behind him at the Golem, face-down on the ground but with a hole bored through his skull, alongside the other two bodies in their beds, and decides that the scene is gruesome enough. He steps over a growing pool of blood near the infirmary’s floor, making his way out the building. The night air greets him well, and though he wishes he could stick around to enjoy it (and his bonus), the sound of whistles, a sure sign that the local authority would make some kind of attempt to catch him, gives him enough spring in his step to hop back into his car, and speed out of town.

The moonlight catches the stones as he holds them above his head in his roofless two-door. He roars down the road, brisk wind whipping against his mask. Another easy couple bonuses, he thinks to himself. There’s maybe a couple thousand between the three of these. Another thought hits him, and he chuckles. Pin the deaths of those adventurers on them too, the bounty goes up again. All that’s left to do is find them, somewhere between here and that town. Blondie pockets the three blood gems, and returns his off-hand to the steering wheel. There’s nothing quite like a good hunt.

==============================================================

“I never expected you to be the type for shrooms, Jules.”

“God, I wish I was. These aren’t hallucinogenic though, according to Davey. They’re just supposed to taste like people. Or blood, or something. They taste a bit more like pork in my opinion, but my palate’s not quite as refined as some of my other brethren.” The Vampire smiles, popping another red mushroom into his mouth, and reclining the passenger seat of Lucille’s beater.

“Still surprised there’s a Mushroom Farmer’s Guild, and more surprised you knew about it before I did. You told me that working with Shepherd was the first time you worked with any above board organization? Seems like an oversight.” Lucille scoffs as she pulls off her shawl and scarf, bundling them both up behind her head. She’s lying down in the back of the car, across the flat, but somewhat soft back seats. “Anything else I ought to be told about while we’re talking about crap we’ve decided to hide? Are you going to tell me your favorite color isn’t actually red?”

Jules lets out a hardy guffaw, letting his partner see what blood-mushroom looks like chewed up in his mouth. After swallowing his mouthful and twirling his mustache, he says, “The Shroomers’ Guild aren’t “above board” by any stretch, if the one alumnus we met tells you anything. And while I have been on more than a few jobs for some of their members a bit further south, I’ll let you know, Lucille, that I didn’t level with him over mushroom farming.”

She nods, brushing her hair back behind her head with one hand. “You mentioned something about a symbol. I didn’t see any symbol.” The other nods in turn.

“The symbol,” he begins, “was the Carnevale Family’s. He had a pin lying on his countertop. You never got into city work all that much, did you?”

“No. Work in cities tends to be rigid. I prefer my jobs flexible. Too many options off-limits when you have to worry about local police. They only ever do their damned jobs when it’s inconvenient for anyone but them.”

“The difference between a powerful gang and a local government is political, and I mean that seriously. An animal can’t see the difference in those words, and the structure’s about the same. Got someone running the show, a bunch of people under them handling dirty work, and then the people beneath them handling the dirty workers’ dirtiest work. City’s got the police, gang’s got enforcers—” 

“And Shepherd had security. Has? Had.”

“Bingo. Organized crime. Technically, I was an associate for a while.” Jules laughs after he finishes speaking, then turns to look at Lucille, who’s sat up to carefully count her throwing knives in the meanwhile.

Hearing only the faintest sound of gloved hand touching against cool steel, he decides to continue as he ties up the mushroom bag. “Davey’s an associate too, like I used to be.” Again, no answer from Lucille. “Associates are people not actually a part of the family but still in on the business, by the way. Helpers, or something like that. If they do well enough for long enough, sometimes they get the offer to sign on. Davey’s been an associate for a while, though. Usually, it’s the kind of associate that doesn’t mind a bit of blood that gets given a way up. I mean, you ran with a gang once.”

“Jules, the kind of gang I ran with didn’t have “associates.” You join or you’re meat.”

“Shit, right. Forgot.”

“They offered you the chance to join up, I assume. Anybody would stab their lieutenant just to make an opening for you to settle in their place,” she states. As she does, she glances over at him. “If they’re willing to offer associate positions to a stoner like that then you’re a shoo-in for something higher up.”

“They did. I preferred being an associate.” He clears his throat and corrects his mustache in the passenger side mirror. “After that, I joined the Shepherd Gemstone job as your second. I liked the flexibility more. Taking orders from weirdos in masks who threaten you with bodily harm if you fuck something up wasn’t my cup of tea. Even if corporations are about the same with a slower reaction time.”

“So, it’s like a company, but just mostly illegal rather than mostly illegal and pretending not to be?” She asks.

The Vampire nods, and Lucille finally puts away her remaining throwing knives. That fight ate a little less than a quarter of what she kept in total, and about half of what she kept on her person. When he speaks he’s bringing his tone down, and there’s half a yawn attached to the beginning of his sentences. “Basically. And they’re both like a government, which is just a bunch of people saying that they make the rules and kicking the shit out of anyone who says otherwise. Flagrancy is another key word here. Governments won’t care if you see it being nasty, while gangs tend to keep their nastiness to their underworld. I’ve found that companies like to dance between the two. Once you get that figured out, your merc resume is better off. Helps you know where to look for jobs, helps you understand how to duck through the red tape and get shit done in cities.”

As Lucille looks out the window into the deep, purple-black shadows of night in the Eternal Autumn, she sets her jaw. There’s an orange pinprick peeking from between the trees, distant enough to be little more than a speck in her vision, but she can see it. A courtesy torch on the road to Fusillade, far as she knows. Every so often there’s a lit one, set up by the closest living local, more often than not some poor idiot that got conned into setting up a cabin in bat country. The kindness is sickening.

“Whatcha staring at, Lucille?”

Lucille lies back down and shrugs, then answers him, “Nothing Jules, just thinking to myself.”

“Dangerous, as you say.”

“Damn right it is, thanks for pulling me out of it. So… Who do you think those Carnevale types are gonna send? Odds are if they’re half as shady as you say then they’ve probably got someone pretty intimidating to send out. If they don’t send an associate.”

Jules tilts his head. “I was an associate, so don’t underestimate those guys. That said, if I had to guess? They’ll probably send a real member of the family. Probably some lieutenant’s number two, if not someone they keep in their back pocket just for bounty situations like this. If I was given the chance to hope?”

“Hope?”

“If they’re being sent after our quarry, we’ll probably have to fight them. Probably even kill them. Either way, I’m hoping they send someone who can throw a punch. The orc hit me more than a few good times back in town, but I’d bet my ass that she won’t be hitting anyone after what we did.”

“You want actual competition. Masochist.”

“Better than being a sadist! I just want a fun fight. I want something realer than whatever the hell we’re gonna get out of our targets.”

Lucille laughs, loud and harsh. It grates on Jules’ ears, but it’s the kind of sharp a person gets used to. It’s the trill of the bird outside one’s window in the evening, distracting and irritating, but ultimately better to hear than its absence. And with a sigh, he turns onto his side to shut off the light.

“Seeya in the morning. Betcha a fiver that parking this piece of shit in the woods is gonna cost us our head start on that acquisitions guy Baker was rambling about.”

“And if we get them before him, you owe me ten. Night, Jules.”

Jules is an easy sleeper, despite his occupation. He’s had his fill of blood recently and things are quiet, save for the general sounds of the forest, slightly muffled by the doors, the cushion and metal between them and the woodland. The soft rippling of warmly colored leaves underneath the moonlight and the sounds of small animals crawling about the underbrush fills Lucille’s ears with a kind of music she never hears in towns like Kiln or Fusillade. It’s the song of the world moving under her head, the wind against the trees and through grass, the feel of bone between her fingers. It’s the sweet melody of an owl sinking its talons into yet another field mouse that got unlucky, or the flapping leathery wings in the lightless spaces between the Moon and the stars.

She can hear Jules breathing deep and easy while he sleeps, and she can hear something small and insignificant using the undercarriage of the scrapheap she calls a car for protection from the elements. It’s the sweetest kind of downer that works on her.

Lucille falls asleep in the back of her car, pulled into her dreams by a wordless lullaby.

Beside that speck of orange light far in the distance, a pair of bright, golden headlights appear for a moment, then fade out as they turn on the road toward Fusillade.

==============================================================

Brie vomits into a nearby trash bin, unable to keep her breakfast sandwich and goat’s milk down. The infirmary had been kept locked until the local law enforcement had given it a look over. When the sheriff, a large, red draconid man, exits the room while wiping his hands, Roxanne sighs loudly.

“Roxanne, you tell my sister her best customer’s dead. I ain’t botherin’ to wrangle her when she gets mad,” he says bluntly before sighing, scratching the side of his head. “No local did this. That’s just about six dead mercs and three missing eyes.”

“Irons, this is downright sickening.” Roxanne replies, walking in with the aid of her cane, followed by Brie, who still has the trash bin on hand. “And it fits all of what I know about that bastard, Blondie. You mentioned a local saw someone coming in last night, but they didn’t think to report it until they started hearing gunshots?”

“To be specific it was an out-of-towner that described it as ‘a motherfuckin’ cannon blast in that shitty hospice,’ so I have every reason to believe they had no clue who were or weren’t official medical staff here. I am glad to hear you know just who the hell did this, but if it’s as bad as this and done as quickly as it was by one man, then odds are he’s one mean son of a bitch. I tip my hat to you and I wish the best of luck, but you’re on your own ‘less he comes back around here. At which point we’ll give him a proper Kiln welcome.” The sheriff pats a large revolver at his hip, then turns and exits as his tail whips behind him.

Brie nearly pukes again as Roxanne looks over the carnage from the previous night. With the moderate warmth of the town and the open window, it wasn’t long before local carrion birds had attempted to get in and get a few pecks in, based on the way Baker’s face bore marks that obviously weren’t from when the rock was pulled from his skull. The sight of Steiner’s slumped body pushes her over the edge.

“Ms. Brie, swear to me that when we find Blondie, you’ll allow me to take a shot at him. I understand that he’s your associate, but this is absolutely horrid. You can lie on your report so that you don’t get your pay docked, or something to that effect. Please.” Her tone is a low, growling sound, followed by a harsh coughing. Brie walks over and takes her by the shoulders, then points her back out of the room.

“I understand to some extent, but I am not certain that it is a good idea for you. You are still recovering, and he is, as far as I know, quite likely one of the most dangerous things wandering around these territories.”

“Take a look at what he did to Baker, to Killian. You talked to them the day prior.” The older woman demands, turning her gaze to lock with Brie’s. “There used to be a stone there, girl, in their eyes. He took them as trophies. He maims, kills, and loots, and he’ll do the same to the people I care about if I sit around like a languid old hag. And as much as I dislike the prospect of you hauling them in for wanting to live their lives, I prefer that outcome to the alternative. You won’t skin and debone them like farm animals for your job. I know you won’t.”

The human’s mouth opens for a brief moment, then shuts again as she walks the Fox out, heading back toward Cobalt’s smithy. “I do not know what to say to that,” Brie admits, leaving the trash can behind as a couple of the local enforcement filter in after them. “Normally I would not assume a coworker would be willing to do these things. After what he has done to you and what he has done to these people, I can safely believe that this man is some kind of monster. While I will continue to fulfill my contract, I feel that this is something I should help you with. His methods are morally red, and someone needs to make sure his bosses are aware.”

“I would assume,” Roxanne starts, frowning, “that Jessup was his doing, as well. I want to believe that, anyway. I don’t think Judith has it in her to murder. At least, when I last met her. Additionally, she’s missing her dominant hand, and nobody’s a good aim with their off-hand unless they shoot in their spare time.”

Brie blinks, and nearly drops Roxanne in the process of pulling out her clue log to jot down what she’d just heard, brow furrowing. ‘JUDITH LOST GOOD HAND, JESSUP MURDER TOO CLEAN!!!’ She writes, before her older companion clears her throat and, with a sheepish purse of her lips, Brie returns to escorting Roxanne toward Cobalt’s place.

“So, where do you think they will go now?” She asks.

“Ms. Brie, there’s one town close to Kiln and it’s Fusillade. They’re more than likely heading there, unless something bad happens.”

Chapter End.

============================================================== 

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

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[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Fifteen

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

“Ya’ might wanna cover ya’ ears. This’s gonna hurt’er like the devil,” Davey says, motioning to the rest of the crowd as he uncorks a thin vial of marbled liquid. Only Cherry and Olive bother, and Judith, still wolfed out but lying on a long couch, hardly notices what’s going on until a drop is deftly poured on each of her bullet wounds. Something like a shrill shriek laid over a beastly howl rings out from the depths of her throat— and once the fizzing stops, the rounds have pushed themselves up from their shallow holes in her body, disappearing like peanut shells and pocket change into the ecosystem of the couch cushions below. Judith finds herself quickly turned back into her normal form, where she wipes a few tears from her cheeks and takes a deep breath.

“Well. Surprise, everyone!” she says, grimacing.

Azariah smiles a little. “I always knew you had it in there somewhere.”

“Was it that obvious or are you just being a dick?”

“You worked for Shepherd, Judith,” Leon agrees.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She rolls her eyes as Davey stands up to go and get some clean bandages, leaving the group alone in his house. “So, what were we talking about?”

“Leavin’,” the Hare says, rubbing the small of his back with a paw. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, I can guess that. But where?” “Well, considerin’ that our chasers are pretty numerous now, I’d say it’d be best to run back to the hills.”

Leon puts a hand on his head. “Don’t be so sure about that.” He looks to the group and says, “Anyone who’s even visited the Dividends before, raise their hand.”

It takes not a moment for everyone to keep their hand lowered. “Exactly. With what I’ve heard about that place, it’ll eat us up without a second thought. We’ll die before they could pick up our scent.”

“Okay, that’s cool, but why the hell should we be scared of it?” Judith grunts. Davey wraps the bandages carefully around her leg, but it doesn’t stop the wounds from being tender to the touch. “A few nights ago, we were nearly eaten by a massive bat-thing. What makes you think the mountains will be worse?”

“I know they’re worse. Haven’t you read a bestiary before? That’s where all the shit that wants to flay you alive lives. Even the animals are terrifying up there.”

“Uh huh. I can think of three things in this place that’re— hey, that fucking hurts, Davey!” she yells, jerking her leg away from the mushroom farmer. He had gotten out a glass jar of what looked to be pale-ish paste, and was rubbing a few fingers worth of it on the spots where the bullets had come up. Until she had moved her leg, in which case he reels back and yells,

“Ya’ bleedin’ fool! It’ll help keep th’ bugs outta ya’ holes, quit ya’ squirmin’!”

“Warn me next time, then! It burns.” Judith sighs, and continues. “I can think of, what, three things that’re more terrifying than anything you’re saying here? And they all live right here, in the Eternal Autumn. I say we keep moving north.”

Azariah nods. “Nothin’ but forest for a long, long time.”

“Go long enough, you’ll hit the Heartwoods,” Olive comments, finding her way into the conversation. “Heard they’re far worse than the mountains, ‘cause at least with them, you’ll see the thing tryin’ to kill you comin’. It’s a big jungle, and it’s right in the center of the continent.”

Judith throws up her hands. “Fuck, let’s throw out my plan right now, then.” She turns to Leon again, who has scrunched up his face in thought. “You wanna run to the hills? Sure, why the hell not?”

The Orc nods, but doesn’t respond verbally. There’s a situation he continues to play on repeat in his head, working through variation after variation… that fucking Wyrm. If they’re followed, he might be able to convince it to work with him, like he did last time. If they’re not followed, they might be able to stay low and pass through, but the risk of being turned to charcoal is enormous. The payoff is guaranteed to be huge though, since there’s still the cash stashed there… he pulls up his head, and asks the group, “Where’s the closest town west of here? Still Fusillade?”

Davey responds from the kitchen, “Fusillade. A lil’ bit northwest, probably a few dozen miles. Small place, think it started out as a merc’ outpost’r somethin’. Notoriously close t’ a popular spot for fire dragons t’ roost,” he smiles, and looks over his shoulder. “Guess how it got its name.”

“Perfect. We’ll grab the goods on the way.” Leon folds his arms. “Goods?” Judith asks, before she realizes what he means. Her eyes widen. “Leon, we’re not going into that dragon’s territory to get your stash.”

“If we get in quiet, anyone following will get turned to char. That money will come in handy.” “We’ll get turned to char, dumbass! We’ll be the ones getting burnt! Not them!”

“You don’t know this dragon. Not all of them are balls of rage and fire.” Something in the back of his head tells him that this argument isn’t valid for the context, but he pushes that something down, and mentally stomps on it. “If we get in, we can get a surplus of Tilt, and if we get out, we’re good to go for the rest of our run.”

Azariah raises a hand. “Leon, we turned away once from this thing. Why the hell are you thinkin’ it’d be good idea now?”

“Because now we’ve got bait. If those two try to follow us in, they’ll fill its Human-killing quota for the day. We get to grab my shit and leave.”

Cherry also raises his hand. “Aren’t Wyrms supposed to be more aggressive compared to the other Dragons? I’m kinda concerned.”

“Yeah, but--.”

“But nothing, Leon,” Judith interjects without raising her hand. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“No, I’m trying to get us ahead. If we don’t do anything drastic, we’re dead either way.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“You just don’t see a good plan when it’s sitting right in front of your face,” Leon replies, locking eyes with her.

Azariah lets out a deep sigh. “Let’s vote on it, then. Whoever thinks Leon’s idea is better, raise your hand. Whoever thinks Judith’s idea is better, keep your hand down. We don’t have time to be screwin’ around with this kinda argument and if you two raise your voices any higher I swear only dogs’re gonna be able to hear you bicker.”

“Fine,” Judith says, pulling her hand back down to her side. “Fine,” Leon responds, shooting his hand up into the air.

Cherry, Olive, and Azariah all keep their hands down, while Davey raises a dripping wooden spoon up, fresh out of a boiling pot of something fungal. He laughs, “I figured ya’ could use some more support, Orc. Wouldn’t wanna see a hard worker get shut out by’is friends.”

Leon opens his mouth to say something, but only a frustrated groan comes out. Judith capitalizes on this by saying, “We’ll leave for Fusillade in a bit. Lemme see if I can put weight on this thing yet.” She stands up from her seat on the couch, and to her surprise, she’s able to keep herself balanced on both legs. The pressure does make her wounds burn a little, but Davey wheezes again in the background, and mentions,

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, wolfy! Ya’ friend’s gotcha all patched up, just make sure ya’ keep it covered, so that nasties don’t get caught in th’ paste I put on ya’.”

She smiles with narrowed eyes, tilting her head. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Judith turns back to the group, and folds her arms. “Are we going to leave or what?”

Cherry, having left the conversation for a brief moment, comes back with his jumpsuit on. After gaining the attention of everyone else, he looks around. “What? It’s going to get cold.”

==============================================================

Everyone looks at one another briefly before deciding it’d be wise to do the same. Sure, all of their jumpsuits were balled together in Davey’s side closet, which is, for some reason, where he keeps a few of his actively fermenting projects. But, besides the smell, they’re exactly as they were left. Except now, they’ve got some fresh clothing to wear underneath. The suits might be a problem somewhere civilized, but out in the brush and briar there’s little as valuable as a warm, albeit horrendously smelly, suit of some durable fabric. 

After everyone has zipped up, they exit out the back door of Davey’s shack and wave goodbye. The jovial mushroom farmer returns the wave, and as the group disappears into the forest twilight, he breathes easy, and re-enters his home. Though they weren’t much help in the fields, they were a pretty big drain on some valuable materials, and he wasn’t quite sure if any of them understood what he was saying half the time, he thinks to himself-- it sure was nice to have guests again. He returns to his stove for some tuneless humming and the stirring of a mushroom reduction he’d been working on. 

Before he knows it, the sun’s gone down. He’d lost track of time entirely while working, and though the reduction was close to perfect, he feels the need to take a break, perhaps catch up on some of the latest mushroom-based news from the valley’s locally-published Mycelium Magazine. He sets down his wooden spoon on the countertop, but all of a sudden, he gets a knock on his front door. Odd time for visitors, but he opens it, and is immediately greeted with a massive Vampire.

“Hullo there. There somethin’ ya need?” he asks politely.

“Yeah, can you answer a few questions for--” Jules starts. He practically double-takes when he gets a good look at the face in front of him. And as the back door to the shack opens as well, he calls out to his partner, “Woah, wait a second Lucille! I know this guy!”

Davey grins wildly, and holds out a hand for Jules to shake. “I can hardly believe my own two eyes. Jules, how’ve ya’ been holdin’ up these days?”

“Oh, you know. Busy and hungry,” he responds, shaking his hand vigorously. “In fact, we’re on a job right now. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a handful of runaways passing through Kiln, would you?”

“Yer’ not gonna believe me when I tell ya’ that I just let five of’em go just an hour or so ago.”

Jules frowns. “Shit. Well, that gives us some time to chat, then.”

“I’ll break out th’ licker.”

==============================================================

It’s cool and calm in the clinic’s infirmary-- a loosely organized but well-cleaned room that eats up the bottom floor of the building by squeezing in ten thin hospital beds, of which six are taken up by injured mercenaries. Steiner, Diana, and Leland are lying down in beds against the left wall, while Baker, Killian, and Jamie are settled into those opposite, against the right wall. Nobody working there expects them not to try and strangle one another in their sleep, so it only made sense to separate them. There’s a light breeze coming in through a half-opened window just above Baker’s left shoulder, and it brushes a few strands of his brunette hair to land in the glass of water he’s clutching. Roxanne lets out a long, winding sigh as she pulls off a pair of disposable gloves, which she tosses in a nearby garbage bin. 

“Later tonight, someone will come around with your second doses. Count on a nice, quiet, long recovery.” She says, grabbing her cane and walking to the center of the room, looking over both Steiner’s crew and Baker’s. “Ms. Brie will be in soon to question you again. I should hope after that escapade that you plan to be a little more cooperative with the girl. The alternative would be to turn you over to those cement-mixers and let them go a second round. Just a thought.”

On cue, Brie enters with her book open and a pen out, her expression a firm and unwavering frown. Only Steiner, Baker, and Jamie are awake still, but three’s more than enough, especially when all of them were there. Roxanne nudges over a chair with her cane, and sits down as Brie looks between the two merc leaders.

“Not long before this,” she starts, keeping her voice smooth and level, “Captain Steiner and crew faced off with Baker and company, over the matter of the five-person Shepherd Gemstone Bounty that I had spoken with both of you and your employees about, which leads me to believe that not only was I lied to during said investigation, but that you actively used it as reason to engage with them. Of course, you could not have been able to tell the true nature of the bounty in question unless you had supplementary information. I would like to know just who it was that tipped you off.”

Steiner scoffs, then slurs something lazily from his bed. It’s indecipherable, and for a moment Brie’s not certain if it’s just more slang and lingo she doesn’t understand or if the meds he’s been pumped full of have made him higher than the clouds. Baker clears his throat, drawing her attention instead.

“It was so obvious, god. People start drifting into town that we hadn’t seen in months, you showed up. There’s always something going on when they-- uh, those someones’ show up.”

“You mentioned this ‘someone’ before, Baker. I would appreciate it if you could please let me know just who it is. Based on what I gathered from the scene itself, and the fact that all of you are mostly alive, I know it cannot be the person I asked about during the investigation,” Brie interrupts before Baker can finish, leading to the elf huffing and having a sip of his water, deftly whipping his head to get his hair out of the glass. This leads to a grunt and a wince afterward, as he tweaks his neck in the process.

“Who was that someone you talked about, though? If we’re thinking about the same someone, then they’re on their way outta town at the moment. But it doesn’t sound like we’re on the same wavelength here.”

“Please stop avoiding the question.”

He’s unsure how to dodge the truth any longer and Brie can see it in how he takes a long sip of his water. Steiner again attempts something akin to human speech but fails miserably, slumping into his pillow. When Brie turns to look at Jamie, Baker does too, and before either could say a thing she laughs wildly before stopping, suddenly silent. Not going to get anything out of her, Brie realizes, before she’s looking at Baker again.

“Alright, fine, but if they hear about this? You didn’t get it out of anybody here right now, you hear me? Bad enough we tried to take their bounty, I don’t need them holding a personal grudge against me,” the elf says, making a vague gesture with the glass in hand.

“They will not hear anything about this.”

“A vampire and a— well I don’t really know much about what she is, but Lucille’s scary. Jules and Lucille, a vampire and a something. From what I know, they used to work head security for Shepherd a while back.”

Roxanne hobbles as quickly as she can over to Baker’s side, a grim expression crossing her features. “Jules alone is a threat, even if he does make for entertaining conversation. But, Lucille as well? The two of them together is concerning. Baker, when did they get here?” She asks, narrowing her eyes on him. When he shrugs, she lifts her cane and strikes him on the shoulder.

Brie lunges forward and grabs it before she can bring it down on the elf again, and the man speaks. “What the fuck, lady?! A day or two ago, sometime before you guys pulled in! Don’t hit me!”

The Fox huffs and steps slowly back to the middle aisle of the room, where she rolls her shoulders. “Don’t be such a baby. A hit or two from an old woman while you’re on pain medication is the least of your troubles. Ms. Brie, this is not good for our quarry. It’s bad enough that we’ve already got Blondie coming, but now two of the best bounty hunters in the entire territory are gunning for them. And, to some extent, you as well.”

“Wait, why would they come after me? That could void the bounty.”

“If you were to disappear on the job, it wouldn’t be assumed those collecting the bounty would be the same that killed you. That would bring in several small territories’ law enforcements, and no big company wants that sort of attention. You’re a competitor to them, and they don’t take kindly to competitors. Isn’t that right, Baker?”

The elf nods. “If you want an example of their work, just look at Diana over there. The uh— the orc in Steiner’s crew.”

Pursing her lips, Brie walks over to Diana’s side alongside Roxanne, who sighs and pats the unconscious orc’s shoulder before the Medic says, “She’ll have quite the time attempting to walk normally again.”

Steiner growls as Baker speaks up again, saying, “And that was them just toying with her. If they had taken her seriously she’d probably need to be stitched back together— if she survived, which was already a low chance given she went after them alone.”

Brie and Roxanne look at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment before heading to the exit, where the Fox turns to speak to the sleeping and near-sleeping forms one last time, saying, “As I had mentioned, someone’ll be around later tonight to give you another dose of painkillers. You had best thank them when they do, or they’ll charge extra.”

Grumbling, they settle into their beds a bit more, and the last three turn over and sleep.

Brie and Roxanne leave, heading toward Cobalt’s shop to do the same and check on how the fixing of her roof has progressed.

Chapter End.

==============================================================

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

#b&tsm #empty-mask #writing #original content #oc #fantasy #adventure #creative writing #original novel #original writing #writeblr #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Remastered B&TSM PDFs, and Update 1/8/24!!

Weird to be posting again within another six months of the last one, but hey, here's to a new year, right? Since the original Blondie & The Smokestone March PDFs were made back during the stone age when we had no idea what we were doing, we decided that we'd put our experience to use and remaster them! Additionally, BOOK 5 IS FINALLY ON ITCH!!! Links, details, and a small update below!

[ BOOK 1 ] [ BOOK 2 ] [ BOOK 3 ] [ BOOK 4 ] [ BOOK 5 ] Funny thing, the remasters didn't take that much time to do. Just was a matter of pulling away from other projects to get it done, haha. Update time. Uh. We're going to be continuing how we've been operating, but we're also going to be prioritizing connecting with our local community here IRL. I (pardy) don't think this blog'll really be for anything but thoughts, updates, and announcements, so don't expect it to be anything more. Thanks for being understanding. -P

#empty-mask #writing #update #ttrpg #the-granary #gamedev #fantasy #b&tsm

[empty-masks]

Update, 2/12/23

Hey! It’s pardy, giving y’all an update as to where Empty Mask is headed next.

As you might’ve heard, we’ve posted the last Chapter of Blondie & The Smokestone March. That means, well, no more weekly posts of our funny story! It also means that once everything’s up on Itch, we’ll probably bundle it together and sell it for a discount or something. Either way, this is the end of an era for the blog / creative situation as a whole, and that’s both a point of immense satisfaction and sadness for us. Posting B&TSM has given us crucial time to work on other things, though. We’ve mainly been focusing our efforts on TTRPG development, and The Granary V2 is the very recent fruit of those labours. Developing expansions for it and expanding the world of Tar Teratornis is where our interest currently is, so that’s what we’re gonna do! Check it out if you’re interested, we’re just getting started! So, what can you expect out of this blog in the meantime? Well, we had a think about it, and we’ve decided that we’re doing biweekly blog posts just kinda updating y’all about progress. Screenshots, funny summaries, maybe a couple teasers here and there-- it’ll be like a more frequent, extended update! Kinda. The blog’s mainly going to serve a promotional / update purpose for here into the foreseeable future. Unless, of course, we write another novel we wanna release. In which case, you can expect more frequent updates in that realm again :). We hope your weekend’s been alright, y’all! Things are going to be ramping up for us here @ Empty Mask in the near future, so be on the lookout!! Thanks for reading, pardy

#empty-mask #update #writing #ttrpg #gamedev #b&tsm #the-granary

[empty-masks]

Blondie & The Smokestone March Book 3, Now Available!!

Goodness me, it’s been a long time coming. Book 3 of Blondie & The Smokestone March is now available for purchase on Itch.io!! [[ RIGHT HERE!! ]] As before, it’ll have an extra coat of polish compared to the Tumblr posts. Grammar fixes, certain sections might have tweaks, etc. And also as before, there are some formatting problems that arise when exporting this kinda crap using free programs. Please ignore the page number and header on the title page!! Thanks again for supporting us, we’ll be getting back to our regularly scheduled posts of B&TSM after this break-week!! Oh, and one more thing... we haven’t stopped working on The Granary. V2 is on its way, and it’s not showing up alone.... Stay tuned, you lovely people.

#b&tsm #serialized-fiction #update #fantasy #fiction #writeblr

[empty-masks]

Blondie & The Smokestone March Book 2, Now Available!

Hey y’all, would you look @ that! Book 2 of Blondie & The Smokestone March is now available for purchase on itch.io [[ RIGHT HERE !!! ]]

It’ll have some minor edits compared to all the posts hosted here on the Tumblr, so expect things to be a little more polished, or perhaps even a little different from time to time.

Oh, and ignore the weird bar at the bottom margin from Page 76 onward-- we have no clue what happened there. Things get weird when you’re rendering PDFs, we guess.

Thanks for supporting us, and we’ll be back to uploading our regularly scheduled continuation of B&TSM next week!!

#b&tsm #empty-mask #update #fiction #fantasy #serialized fiction #adventure #creative writing #writeblr