#b&tsm-gilroy

[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Five (Epilogue)

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

Returning to Black Hill both a conquering hero and a failure of a hunter, Piper collected on Blondie’s bounty by tossing his severed head, which had long since cooled down to the appearance of a grisly, fur-covered amber statue, onto the desk of Penelope Hickory. Her achievement in taking out such a large liability earned her an audience with the board members, and subsequently a sizable raise. And though in that moment she was tempted to try and spark an all out war against the ten escapees, she simply couldn’t bring herself to admit to her superiors that the bounty was still technically active. Instead, through gritted teeth, she told a little white lie to save face— their quarry had fallen down into the old Gutter’s Glade Mine crevasse after they had fled into it. And, as it turns out, the way down had completely sunken in, rendering the bodies completely irretrievable. Unless they were to send a search and retrieve operation up into the equivalent of enemy territory, there was no chance in hell to bring those damned miners to corporate justice. And sure, this sentiment brings upon some disappointed sighs and annoyed grunts from her superiors, it’s nothing the money she makes didn’t almost immediately dampen. By that point, she earned equal to the amount of Blondie’s salary, which is enough to keep her and Janet afloat so long as she’s on the grind. So, in a way, she walked out of that board room with a little extra wisdom. Battles you can’t win now were battles you might as well not fight, especially if you could wrangle up some cash in the process.

Piper spends the rest of her days continuing Blondie’s deadly legacy. She worked directly for the board members of Shepherd Gemstone as their right hand (with her squad of mercenaries being their left, no matter how much she despised it), lived happily with Janet and her children, and generally speaking, made the most of her corporately-funded adventures. Even if it means becoming more familiar with death than she ever had been before.

Harry Gilroy, in a similar vein, moved up on the Shepherd Gemstone ladder for a period of time post-success of Blondie’s post-mortem execution, managing the operations of multiple mining outposts across a few square miles— Smokestone, of course, included. Thanks to a couple smart foreman hires and the corporate suppression of any and all magical incidents in his jurisdictions (his paper shredder was consistently the fullest “section” of his office), he kept profits high enough for long enough for his superiors to take notice. He even was held in higher esteem than Hickory at the peak of his internal glory, something he absolutely dragged her through the mud over. Eventually, however, Gilroy’s head becomes a bit too big for his shoulders. He’s fired directly from the Board after news of an unprecedented number of magical afflictions, alongside a sizable number of employee uprisings in his jurisdictions, breaks to the overhead. In a drunken stupor, he blames everyone but himself, storms out of the Shepherd Gemstone HQ and pisses on their front lawn, where he is then arrested for public indecency. He becomes a washed up, former high-roller in his neighborhood, rumoured to have taxidermied Blondie’s head and hung it up above a fireplace somewhere private. He spends his hoard of blood money on expensive booze, golfing trips, and renovating his home in an attempt to gather the attention of the single women in his community. Thus, he is cast out from the one thing he knows, rich and bitter.

Though Honeysett is idyllic as it is, everyones’ plans eventually send them out of the small town, with Pickman’s Hope being far and wide the most popular ending destination.

Azariah and Roxanne leave first, planning to aid with any reconstruction that needs doing (though there wouldn’t be much by the time they get there, seeing as how the town is known for its building expertise). They instead get involved with Samson’s doings around town, organizing the unions for work and acting as the occasional carrier of goodwill to neighboring towns. It ends up being a challenging occupation, especially since they have to compete diplomatically with corporations looking to take jobs from them and their people, but Azariah’s wit usually helps bring home the bacon, and Roxanne’s organizational skills helps make sure they can eat it, too. Pickman’s Hope sees a steady increase in cash flow, and it’s not long before the couple have their own home built, courtesy of the town, with their own garden and everything.

 When they’re not working, they spend their time together indulging in the few, but substantial pleasures around the town; and, as everyone else trickles in, with them as well, acting as the guides they always have whenever something goes wrong. It’s not uncommon to find them filling the same role that Samson does, being everyone’s uncle or aunt and helping them paint fences, weed gardens, or settle minor disputes in bars. And though Azariah initially was tested by some of the rowdier locals about his capabilities (everyone knows Samson’s got it in him to stop scuffles, but this new Hare? and at his age?), but folks quickly realized that there’s to be no funny business with him around. What’s more, the rumour began floating around that Azariah liked the fighting— there was something about his eyes during the days when drunks would challenge him that burned those events into the memories of the sober. And, of course, if Roxanne was around in the case of these events, she was wicked accurate with her cane when she had it (and if she didn’t, you’d best believe she was going to pick up anything around and bludgeon your sorry ass with it), able to knock the buzz out of the most uppity of union workers.

Judith and Leon are next to leave, having decided that the best thing for them to do is just jump into a new life, leaving the adventuring business they’d been drafted into completely behind them. That means pursuing new business, the kind that would be calm, peaceful, and hopefully complimentary toward the skills that they’ve been building up. After a day or two of thinking while on the road, they decide to open a flower shop. 

Judith runs the economic end of the store, taking back the person she once was from the grips of an angry, bitter, corporate version of herself, by indulging in the simple, sweet pleasures of accounting. And it doesn’t take long for her to take to the front desk as well, committing to memory prices and tax ratios, and developing pricing strategies for larger orders such as weddings, feasts, or public events. Every flower, down to the petal, she teaches herself how to price. As the days go by, she feels herself softening more naturally in the presence of customers. Sure, she has a very low tolerance for bullshit, and she’s none too happy when folks take a long time at the counter thanks to their own incompetence, but she absorbs that annoyance with ease, instead of letting it stew in her system. It’s amazing what not letting grudges overwhelm your emotional system can do for your mental well-being! At some point, she considers writing a book about her physical and emotional experiences having escaped from an exploitative mining company, but in a way, she figures that she should wait until she’s not busy with numbers before trying to work some words.

Leon ends up the gardener, and though he’s only blessed with a literally green thumb and not a metaphorical one, a little help from the locals helps him to blossom into quite the flower expert. Arranging, however, is where he ends up finding out his talent is. His touch with colours is subtle, yet when the final piece has been completed, results in patterns that seem to shine the same way a polished gemstone would. It doesn’t take long for him to experiment with complex fragrance combinations as well, though, it doesn’t take off the way that he’d hoped. Instead, he finds himself satisfied with the scent of a particular flower, known as the Cinnamon Cup Rose, as it lets him laugh without coughing up a lung.

Olive and Cherry move down simultaneously, and for a short period of time end up living together in a single-level on the outskirts of town. It doesn’t last long however, as Olive gets tired of the noise from his mechanical work at all hours of the day and moves closer into the town square, where she instead gets to listen to the sounds of the sidewalks.

Olive’s reasoning for leaving what is ostensibly a fangirl’s fantasy villa was that she felt as though the power she was given by the Mountain Thing wouldn’t quite get used to its fullest potential if all she did was sit around Honeysett, which was filled to the brim with folks who could more than handle themselves. The burning inside pushed her toward humanitarian work, and so, she decided to learn the art of field medic-work from Roxanne. She slowly worked her way through the skills presented to her, at first getting stuck on the hurdle of being covered with blood (as that sort of thing is terrible to get out of feathers), but working through anxiety after anxiety throughout the years. Roxanne wasn’t the easiest teacher to work with but she’s definitely a thorough one, and with the incredible diversity of Pickman’s Hope and beyond, there’s a lot for Olive to learn, all while keeping track of her own condition as best she could— with the occasional check-up on her old pals.

By the time she’s learned everything that Roxanne has to teach her, she’s already been working at the local emergency response team, and has more than a few encounters under her belt where her power, and her medical knowledge, has come in handy. There were more than a few times where she saved a life by means of skilled hands and focused eyes, be it removing a bullet or deflecting one, and in time she became well-known enough among such circles to be offered permanent positions in adventuring companies and collectives, parties of many sizes and skills asking if she’d become their in-house medic. The answer she gave them, of course, was a “no,” though she was more than happy to patch them up if she was nearby, and was more than eager to pass her knowledge onto others in the field.

Cherry, on the other hand, realized that it probably wouldn’t be good for him to stick around his dads’ place for much longer. Though they love him dearly, they don’t love the amount of noise that his work and main hobby brings, so he picks up a job at the local mechanics’ Union in Pickman’s Hope and gets his hands dirty. It doesn’t take long for him to be promoted from a shelf-stocker to someone who actually works on vehicles, and his propensity for understanding models that nobody else had seen before turns him into the “I don’t know, ask him” guy for anyone in the know about cars, a label he happily upholds. With the blessing of Samson, Cherry also gets to work on establishing a racing club there in town, working to create a new breed of backwood valley-folk racers that can compete with even the biggest sponsors further out west. It’s another feather in the town’s cap; it’s a new and fresh way for folks to compete among themselves, all while attracting eyes. Aside from that, it means yearly events, and that’s just plain good for local morale.

Brie, of course, leaves last, having to hitch a ride to Pickman’s Hope to pick up her car, to then drive back north of Honeysett to meet up with her girlfriend. After months of being gone and with hardly any money left to her name, she treats her to a fancy dinner to drop the news about how the quarry with Shepherd Gemstone fell through, that she’s realized things about the line of work she’s in that she doesn’t like, and that she’s nearly been killed multiple times over the time she’s been gone (and that she’d like to not repeat this experience ever again). And so, after much talk over a couple glasses of brandy, a sizeable bill for the pork chops they ordered, and a few days to mull everything over, they decide to move down to Pickman’s Hope, where Brie not only knows people, but also where she could get a job doing something less actively perilous. And a job she did get after a brief talk with Samson— she now works as a local detective slash investigator, helping to suss out corporate interests and potential moles from Shepherd from the town, as the discovery of Hieronymus T. Thistle’s treachery was something of a wake up call for the union head. Though it’s not entirely out of the line of fire, it puts her in a spot where she feels truly confident that the work she’s doing is for the greater good. And, of course, the constant reassurance from her peers helps quite a bit.

Jules, Lucille, and Meat all realize that there’s something binding the three of them together, and that thing is their lack of ability to settle down in the place they’ve come to be so fond of. Pickman’s Hope is a no-go for them, because as much as they’d like to go domestic, Jules and Meat are both being hunted by the Carnevale, and Lucille figures that someone like her would be better off sorting out her issues on the road, rather than cooped up in a house somewhere. So, they buy a car from Pickman’s Hope, say goodbye to everyone (with many tears being shed on behalf of Meat having to leave so soon from Brie and Roxanne), and they set out west for new horizons. 

And though they’re not the newest of horizons, they certainly did find a new-er climate to work in. The three of them, collectively, set out as another independent contractor group, doing odd jobs here and there and taking advantage of Meat’s Notus powers to get them done quickly and efficiently. Their plans are to make as much money as they can so that way they can retire early and maybe set something similar to Honeysett up (or find someplace like it that already exists, build a place in the neighborhood, and live the good life). The process of getting there however, has only just begun.

It’s getting into the evening hours, and the first flakes of winter are beginning to collect on the lawn of Piper’s residence. Tanner is crowing about how much snow he thinks they’re going to get, Madrone has dug her nose into a book to avoid the walking annoyance that is her kid brother, and Janet has found a cozy spot right up against Piper on the sofa, their fireplace crackling softly.

After taking a sip of her tea, Janet stands up from her spot, walks around the couch, picks up a wrapped box, and places it on Piper’s lap. “Go on. Open it,” she coos.

“Aw, honey. You shouldn’t have.” Piper replies, ripping into the paper.

It’s a box. A box from the Quilting Club with her name on it, to be precise. And whatever’s in the box is heavy, heavier than the heaviest dumbbell Janet works out with for her calisthenics, anyways.

And when she opens it, it’s as though she’s cracking open a treasure chest of sparkling gold doubloons. It’s a replica of Blondie’s old pistol, the hand cannon that turns peoples’ heads into leaky cans of soup. In the glow of her awe, she nearly forgets to shoo away the kids, who are crowding around the “cool gun that Piper got” (as her children are still getting acclimated to calling her “mom”). Its weight, its design, its finish, all of it is pristine and new and exactly how she remembers it. And now it's hers. The final piece is hers.

“My god. You really shouldn’t have.”

Blondie & The Smokestone March End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

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

Thank you for reading, and have a good night!

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-hickory #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.

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[ Table of Contents ]

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

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[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.   

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    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.

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[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Six

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

Brie jolts awake to the sound of ripping canvas, shouting, and sickening cracks— and so does Roxanne. The two look at one another, then at the empty space where Meat is supposed to be, and then they both exit the tent, the older woman brandishing her walking stick as best she can as Brie draws her pistol from her bag.

    Outside, there’s already a flurry of ash kicked up by the force of each of the combatants, the wind, and some actual nightly rain. However, while that does well to at least attempt to obscure the features of the fighters, those in the fray are unmistakable; that’s partially because Jules and Lucille, though not entirely strange to look upon if you don’t know them, are fairly easy to make out if you do, and Meat outright glows in the dark. The locals are up too, but a couple of them are already on the ground and the other two are hiding behind the tent, behind Meat, whose stance is rigid, unwavering.

    As the light drizzle touches their shoulders, their throat, and their head, steam drifts up. With their shoulders squared and their fists raised, they growl out a question. “Why?”

    “Good damn question,” says Lucille, standing side by side with Jules. “I’d like an answer as much as you, but how about you stay down first?”

“It’s a side gig,” is all Jules says. He makes a soft click with his fangs and the both of them launch across the campsite toward Meat, each taking one side around the bonfire in the dead center, which had yet to go out even beneath the rain.

    Lucille goes low, crossing close to the tent itself as Brie raises her pistol to fire. However, just as she’s squeezing the trigger the merc kicks particularly hard in her mad dash, tossing up a mix of wet and dry ash into the investigator’s face as she ducks the swing of Roxanne’s cane. With a throwing knife borne in each hand, the distance between her and Meat shrinks in the same span of time as Jules’ journey.

    The walking stick twirls between his hands en route like a circus performer’s baton until it comes to crash hard against Meat’s shoulder, the cudgel of a head used to crushing muscle and bone all the same— but tonight its foe doesn’t buckle in the slightest, even with the full brunt of Jules’ half-famished, desperate power behind it. It’s at the same time as this blow that Lucille shoves a knife into Meat’s side, tucking it below their arm and between their ribs, but the walking corpse no-sells the puncture wound entirely.

    A burning hand, blazing red with angry, disastrous light turns on Lucille, lashing out in a wild punch that in the moment, she wonders whether it would’ve exploded if it had contacted her head. But, she doesn’t have time to discover what that’d be like, as Jules takes the hit to the side instead, a localized burst of fire and force pushing Lucille far back through the ash, and shoving the Vampire into the mud. While reeling, she manages to throw a couple more knives into Meat’s center mass, but the result is much the same. She then opts to get an arm around Jules and kick them both away from the corpse, who takes a couple more wild, apocalyptic swings that fail to land.

    The two mercenaries tumble across the ground on the opposite side of the fire from the tent, on the path Jules had taken to get to Meat. At this point Brie and Roxanne are both out and half-running to Meat’s side, taking up a position on either flank of the glowing figure.

    This time, Brie does manage to get a shot off, though it doesn’t strike either of the mercenaries as they both stand and bolt away. It’s not more than a moment and a couple gunshots later before the two have disappeared between the dark trees, the both of them already dressed in dark clothing and the cloudy night sky offering no help with regards to light. Brie scowls.

    Meat sighs, then looks down at themselves. Glowing hands drift across the spots where they’d been hit, and when no blood came they shake their head. “This is weird,” Meat says.

    “Weird, but unsurprising.” Roxanne chuckles, turning to poke them herself. “I’d imagine that you don’t have much to bleed anymore, and it takes quite a lot to make somebody bleed magic. I’d offer to stitch you up, but you’d just burn the stitches out.”

    Brie clears her throat. “I think they were referring to being attacked so early in the morning.”

    “I didn’t.” Meat shakes their head. “Those two looked like scumbags from the moment I saw them. Wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but I guess I was wrong. I guess they’re going to be running for a while.”

    It’s at this point that Roxanne turns to the locals and moves to help the two men that had been tossed aside in the fight, leaving Brie and Meat alone for a brief, somewhat peaceful moment. The two sit down, and Brie puts her gun away again.

    “You didn’t hit either of them,” Meat points out.

    She nods. “I did not want to kill either of them, and if the fight actually escalated I fear I would not have been much help. Though, it didn’t seem like you needed much help anyhow.”

    Meat’s head tilts. “You did it to scare them off?”

    “Correct.” Brie nods. “The threat of you, alongside myself and Roxanne, was obviously enough to send them running.”

    Their jaw clacks as they shut it for a moment, then open again to ask, “Run where?”

    Brie considers that for a second, then turns her eyes in the direction they ran— and then to the locals currently being treated by Roxanne. “Ms. Roxanne,” she starts, “does he have his keys?”

    “Hmm?” The Fox’s head turns toward Brie. “Keys— ah.”

    The realization is sudden and abrupt in everyone but Meat, who has no clue what just about any of this means until Brie puts her head in her hands and says, simply, “The van.”

    The dots connect. Meat lets out an understanding sigh of realization too. “Well,” they say. “I guess we’re walking.”

    Brie nods, then raises her head. “Yes, we are.”

    Lucille shuts the driver’s side door of the van hard, slamming it and nearly snapping the key off in the ignition as Jules slumps into the passenger seat with a panting rasp. “You dumb son of a bitch,” she says, pulling back onto the road as the engine chugs to life. “We could’ve died back there fighting that thing and you still haven’t given me a fucking clear answer about why you started that fight.”

    Jules opens his mouth to deny the accusation, only to rasp and wheeze and clutch at his side. “Fuck,” he grumbles. “I think I’m gonna get blood on the seats. You’d think a punch from a magical fire corpse would at least seal the wound. Christ, that was like getting stabbed with brass knuckles…”

    “Answer me!” She growls, gripping the wheel tightly enough to begin bending it. “ANSWER ME.”

    “God, okay! Alright!” He looks down at his hand, then to Lucille, whose eyes are on the road but are glaring death. “It’s a side gig I got from a Carnevale higher up, delivered by Davey back in Kiln.”

    Lucille’s fury is tempered only slightly by her astonishment. “The mob? You’re doing work for the mob and you didn’t even tell me?”

    “It wasn’t important at the time, and this job was supposed to be easy! They were supposed to be dead! The job was to confirm their death!”

    “Well, they fucking weren’t, Jules, and we almost were. I don’t want to think about what that freak could’ve done to us if we didn’t get out of there because you didn’t want to bother telling me that apparently our main gig isn’t enough.”

    “Hey, I never said that. We were going to head toward Fusillade anyway and I thought it might net us a nice bonus. Ugh, when we get back to your car—”

    Lucille glares over at him, shutting the Vampire up. “We get back to my car, you explain yourself and I don’t finish the job myself, asshole. First we need to get back to the damn thing and get rid of this shitwagon.”

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

    As Piper walks through the halls of the Smokestone Location HQ (for what she hopes to be the last time, seeing how her performance has been recently), she finds herself overcome by the smell of freshly cooked meat pies. And not just any meat pie, oh no. It’s a particular kind of meat pie, the kind that she remembers having on the streets of Black Hill the last time she visited. Gilroy had said to try them out, she remembers. The scent wafts out from under every door, through every vent— and she hears the distinct sound of inebriated, on-the-clock celebration. Beer bottles clinking, drinking games being won and lost, and foundation-vibrating snoring coming from a particular few dormitories.

    On her way to Gilroy’s office, she grabs an unopened beer to drink. Usually, this kind of universal revelry isn’t tolerated in Shepherd Gemstone, even when a big deal is landed. Schedules aren’t designed to have room for parties, and if you don’t stick to the schedule, you usually get sacked. Usually, she wonders, ducking under a streamer of paper towel that’d been strung low across the hall.

    Not that she minds any of this. It’s a refreshing change from all the serious work she’s been doing recently. Watching people get hopelessly drunk on company time is always entertaining, and she figures that she might as well join them once her business is taken care of. If she closes her eyes and pretends real hard, she can almost see her name hung up in a balloon arch, with everyone congratulating her for intimidating a middle-aged dad in a suburb by threatening to turn his insides to soup. She laughs to herself. She could use a little REAL me-time. Not the kind that’s cut short by jobs.

    When she finally arrives at Gilroy’s office, she peers in through the wide-open door. There, she finds him ballroom dancing with what she assumes is a drunken apparition only he can see, to a waltz record not quite set all the way onto the player, causing it to hiccup every second beat (not unlike the dancer himself). He hums terribly to the tune, spinning and twirling his imaginary partner with sloppy finesse. It takes him a moment to notice Piper standing in the door, but when he does, he abandons the dance entirely, running over to his desk and whipping out a now-stained piece of paper, holding it up to the heavens.

    “It’s finally happened! Piper, it’s finally happened!” he gleefully shouts.

    “Gilroy, I think you’ve had a few too many.”

    “I know when I’m fucking drunk, thank you very much.” Gilroy sits on his desk, kicking his feet. “You’d be drunk too if you knew. He’s dead. He’s dead, Piper!”

    She steps into the room, trying hard to avoid what looks like a fresh spill on the hardwood. “Who’s dead?”

    “Blondie! Blondie’s dead, Blondie’s dead,” he repeats, nearly tipping over the backside of his desk. “Blondie’s fucking dead, Piper! He’s finally dead!”

    “What?”

    “Didn’t you fucking hear me?! He’s dead! Gone! Turned to ash and dust! When he went out on that fucking job for the company, his stupid ass decided that he’d fight— fight a goddamn Dragon! The Dragon up north! And it exploded, and he hasn’t been around since! Blondie fucking exploded with the Dragon, Piper! He’s finally dead, oh my God!”

    Alongside some ice, a cup of frozen fruit, and a cup of milk, her brain is put into a blender on high-speed and poured back into her skull. Blondie’s dead? There’s no way that’s true. It can’t be true. Guys like him don’t make decisions like that. That’s gotta be a cover-up of some kind. There’s just no way.

    But maybe it is true. Maybe he’s actually dead because he made a stupid decision. One wrong move can get you put in a body bag pretty swiftly in this line of work. It can happen to anyone. She had learned that quick on her first job. Even though he seemed invincible, maybe he slipped up somewhere. Maybe all it took to take down a mountain was one loose stone.

    And what does this mean for her, exactly? Wasn’t Blondie heading that program she wanted in on? No, she remembers, he was just recruiting for it, and if she recalls correctly, he was at this particular spot because he wanted to annoy Gilroy. With Blondie dead, what happens to her job?

    “Mr. Gilroy?” she asks, setting down her beer bottle. “What about my job?”

    Having manifested a meat pie from the deepest recess of his suit pocket, he takes a bite that sends flakes of pastry careening back down into the cushions of his armchair. “Ah! Ah, your money. I’ve got your money, Piper. It’s in my desk. Don’t worry about your money, I’ve got it.”

    “I’m talking about the program. What happens now that Blondie’s gone?”

    “Oh, that! That should be fine. You should get in quicker now, too, since their fucking golden boy is dead, dead, dead. I can’t think of anything else they’d do to replace him other than make the program go faster. Accelerate it, or something,” he replies. “Grab a beer, Piper! Have fun, for fuck’s sake! Stop talking about business! That’s an executive order!”

    But she doesn’t grab her beer at first. The feeling grows on her as she thinks, the feeling of glee in knowing that despite having just been broken the news about her mentor biting it in a frankly stupid incident, she’s still moving up in the world. In fact, she’s going to move up much quicker with him being gone. So, when she gets her hand on the bottle and moves to uncap it, she does so with a happy confidence in mind. She deserves this. It’s only a matter of time, anyway.

    “That’s the spirit!” Gilroy cheers, taking another bite of his pie. “When you were in Black Hill, you tried the pies, right? I got them custom ordered. Ordered for this very special occasion. And I’ve given everyone on staff PTO for the whole day. And— and I got everyone booze.”

    “I’ve never seen you this generous before, G,” she laughs. Even though it’s about the alcoholic equivalent of foamy piss, the beer goes down smoothly knowing that she didn’t have to pay for it.

    “Listen, girlie, if you had someone you fucking despised, and your whole company despised them too, and all of a sudden your boss gives you a call telling you they blew the fuck up? All of a sudden they were dead? You’d be howling at the goddamn moon,” he says, slurring his words together.

    “I guess I would be, huh.”

    “And don’t you fucking worry about me or anyone. Me? This shit’s all going on the company docket, I’ve already done all the paperwork before getting shitfaced. I have planned this party.”

    She had a feeling that was the case. “Did you plan for the hangover, though?”

    A look of realization flashes across his eyes. “I’ll take it off, everyone can take it off. No work tomorrow too. PTO,” he says, waving his hand. “And his family. Blondie’s family, oh my god, I fucking hate them. But I don’t have to deal with them. That’s fucking Penny’s job. Hickory. She’s going down in a few days to break the news.”

    His family. That’s right, Blondie has— had a family. And they live in Black Hill. Just the thought of it completely ruins any buzz she had been attempting to nurse. His family ought to know sooner. And they ought to be told by someone who isn’t a corporate bastard like Hickory or Gilroy. It’s not like he had any friends he mentioned, Piper thinks to herself. As far as she can tell, she’s the closest thing he had to an apprentice, even though it had only been a handful of weeks.

    But, that’s better than nothing. She’s the closest thing to a friend he had. So it would only be appropriate for her to go down and see them. Tell it to them straight, unlike what someone more formally from the company would do. Piper sets her beer back down, and walks over to Gilroy’s desk.

    “Can I have my paycheck? I’m gonna take a trip.”

    “Why the hell can’t you people ever relax properly,” Gilroy whines. “You’re gonna visit his fucking family.”

    “Yeah, I am,” she states.

    “Have fun. His wife’s got one of the biggest asses you’ve ever seen. Tell her I said “hi.”” He hands her the check, and waves her off. “Don’t do anything dumb, though. I don’t wanna hear about how you fucking crashed your car or something while driving down there.”

    Piper walks out of the room, back through the halls of the Smokestone Location, the scent of pie now undercut by the occasional sharp smell of vomit, out the front door and back to her company-issued vehicle. As she gets behind the wheel and grips it, she finds herself beginning to feel a little melancholy.

    Her emotions have been on a rollercoaster from the moment she got back to Smokestone. First she’s been sad, then she’s been glad, then she’s been uncertain, and now she’s fucking sad again. And now that she’s thought about it, all that feeling has got her annoyed.

    “What a fucking pig,” she hisses aloud. With a rev of the car’s engine, she takes off out of the parking lot and down the road for Black Hill never to return to Smokestone.

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

    It’s not that he’s worried about something going wrong, or that he’s got some ulterior motive of menacing origin. It’s just that Leon feels the need to cushion himself—  in the case they end up separated, they end up hurt, or they end up betrayed, he’d like to have something shiny and expensive to pave the way forward.  Is it a dark prospect? Absolutely, but nobody survives by thinking only on the bright side. He’s got a healthy amount of worry inside of him, just not as much as Olive does and far more than Cherry has ever had. His old crew would’ve called it a “pragmatic application of his anxiety,” which to him, is a compliment. No point in shitting his pants over bloodthirsty Monsters around every corner, but there’s truth to keeping a level and cautious head even in a place like Fusillade.

    This is the only span of time he can do this. Judith took his word for it when it came time to count out the number of gems in the stash, as it was his initially and she had no intention to spend a night counting rocks again. Even if she ends up finding out, she’d get over it soon enough. She understands. Hopefully. He silently pushes down the thought that she may have lied to him about having not counted the loot in the first place. 

    There’s more than enough in the bag to set a group of four or five up for a while, as even the unrefined, mine-fresh material is valuable around this neck of the woods. It could be transported to any number of places for more intricate cutting and weighing. Artisans, jewelers, collectors, even those crazy-ass magical scholars. Hell, that last case might even be the best case. If these stones have something those mages find useful in them, they’ll bid one another broke over who gets to touch them first.

The gemstones clink and clatter as he digs through the bag, selecting some smaller pieces to hide on himself. You know, he thinks to himself, the idea of being out on his own, at this stage of having escaped? That doesn’t taste so good. Even past his “pragmatic application of anxiety”.  Maybe at the start of the trip, the idea of leaving these folks behind would’ve gone down smoother. But at this given moment, he can’t help but feel that it’d haunt him. They’ve spent all their time making sure nothing shitty has happened to him so far, and he’s found himself doing the same. He even threw himself at that Monster so they’d all have a chance to live. Would he have done that the day they left? Even the second day?

His golden gaze drifts over the rocks again, counting a variety of hues below the dust still clinging to their rough, natural facets. What would he use the money for, anyways? Food? Shelter? Bribery? Food and shelter are cheap, and if he has to bribe someone then he’s already been caught. Would the cash be worth the pain, if he found himself choosing between that and his friends? Even while handling them, if he isn’t careful there’s a chance he’d cut himself on the occasional sharp edge. Rolling them over in his palm, a thought comes to mind— what good is the money if he isn’t making it work for everyone? This shit’s no better than a pocketful of broken glass. Shiny, expensive broken glass that he’d pawn off, so that he can have a fancy bed to lay in while wallowing in self-pity and regret.

His consideration on the nature of garbage that rich people obsess over is interrupted by footsteps approaching from around the corner of a dilapidated wall. Thankfully these empty buildings on the outskirts of Fusillade are about as tall as those back in Smokestone, and just as good at hiding things. Not quite as fortunately, that goes both ways; from around the corner walks Judith, arms crossed and features slack with boredom. The bag shuts tightly, the opening drawn taut by Leon’s free hand, and his other hand balls into a fist around the stones to cover them entirely with his dark green fingers. Leon smiles crookedly at her, and she returns the expression faintly, tiredly.

“Counting the stash again,” he says, moving to sit on a creaking bench outside of the prefab shack, settling the bag itself into his lap and keeping his fist against its side. “Whenever you’re ready, we can get some cash for it.”

Judith sighs as she comes to sit beside him. “Yeah, just give me a minute. We’ve been walking all day and I’d like to take a second to sit in peace without Azariah playing his mandolin or Olive and Cherry babbling my fucking head off with random trivia related to whatever their obsession is this hour. Just shut up and look pretty for a little bit, alright, Leon?”

That does earn a silent, assenting nod from the Orc, and a few minutes pass by without event between the both of them. The air’s as cool as ever, despite a nervous energy that pervades it. This is the most unnatural way to hold a bag in the world and he knows it; even worse, he knows that she probably knows that too, and in a moment or two she’s probably going to grill him on why it is that he’s for some reason holding this bag of rocks with one hand around the top and the other balled into a fist against its side. It looks stupid, that’s what it is. She’s going to see it and she’s going to prod him on it and they’re going to fight, and it’s going to be a problem. There’s got to be at least one car lot in this town, he can still get out on his own. No need to push himself, just play it cool.

“Leon?” Judith’s voice perks up, rising over the sound of the wind between the decaying shacks. “Your hand.”

He clears his throat. “Something wrong?” Oh, here it comes. Here comes the problem, the start, the issue. If he’s lucky she’ll just wolf out and eat him, he thinks. That’s the quickest option, getting his head lopped off by a massive lycanthropic claw.

She taps at his knuckles with a finger, then lifts his fist up. A barely noticeable trickle of blood is running to the heel of his palm and to his wrist, but it’s so insignificant that it isn’t even dripping. “You’ve got a cut, dumbass. Open up your hand. Is that why you’ve been keeping it closed like that? You know you shouldn’t hide crap, not now of all times.”

“Shit, I didn’t even notice,” he says, resignation bubbling up in his tone. He frowns and turns his head to the side before opening his hand, turning it to face his palm and its contents toward the sky. His eyes squeeze shut before his fingers spread open, preparing for a yell or a roar or even a punch, but nothing comes.

Judith stares at his hand for a long moment, seeing only a small cut, and says, “Oh, that’s not even worth a bandage.” She stands from the bench, letting go of his wrist and dusting herself off. “Don’t get any dirt in that and tell me if you use anything to clean or treat it, okay? I need to keep the supply log up to date, especially if we’re going to be getting anything in town. You should probably get that blood off before we head to the pawn. We want to put forward the image of proper citizens.”

“Good call.” Leon’s eyes snap open. The stones aren’t in his palm anymore, according to both his and Judith’s eyes. There’s a catch, though— he can definitely still feel them in his palm, as sharp as ever, sitting right where he had, apparently, cut himself from squeezing them inside his fist. “Uh, sure, I can get this cleaned up,” is all he says afterward and all that Judith hears before she’s off behind the corner of the shack again, disappearing to go hang out elsewhere while he gets his shit together.

His stare lingers on his palm for a minute longer before the gemstones flicker back into existence. Each one fades in as though a veil were pulled from them and Leon smiles again. So this is his power, holy shit.

It’s not some kind of strange telekinesis or becoming bullet-proof or super-speed or even teleportation, but invisibility is certainly a step in the right direction. With the right applications, it’s got loads of promise. What had been the catalyst for this? Olive discovered hers in the heat of battle, Azariah had done the same. Judith figured hers out through sheer stress, and Cherry’s wasn’t necessarily a battle sort of thing so much as it had been the natural progression of his horribly curious nature.

Switches. Azariah had compared it to a switch, hadn’t he? Something turned on and off. What had turned on? He didn’t want her to see the stones, he supposes. Is it really that simple? He doesn’t want somebody to see something, so it doesn’t let itself be seen?

His brow furrows and he focuses on that feeling, taking it between two great, mental hands and wringing it. It cannot be seen, nobody can know, nobody can know! The moment they start seeing that he’s keeping things from them is the moment they start questioning everything, and if they question everything then it might get out that he was the reason that stupid water-jet-thing blew up in their faces. If they see these rocks, they find out he fucked up. Judith finds out that he fucked up.

The stones disappear again, dematerializing before his very eyes though their weight was still plainly evident on his palm. In addition, the bag full of stolen product is also gone. A test is in order. So, he turns his hand over, still channeling the power and, the moment the stones lose contact with his hands and fall into the open air, they reappear. However, the bag is still invisible.

He lets go, allowing the bag to reappear and gathering the fallen stones up to tuck them into a pants pocket, fixing them in a position so as to avoid cutting himself or his dark jeans on the gems. So, it needs to stay in contact with him to be invisible, simple enough. He has to focus to make it happen, also simple, and apparently it can happen without him thinking so long as it’s something intense, so at least he can rely on his self preservation to kick in and make things go right. Just another additional tool to survive with.

“Hey, before you go, Leon, I wanna have a quick chat with you…” Comes the drawl of the old Hare as he turns the corner, idly plucking at his mandolin strings. “I was wonderin’ about your opinion on this shack; I know it ain’t the nicest but— ah, hell.” Azariah raises his head and turns around, searching for the shadow he had followed toward the bench to no avail. There’s a long, silent moment, the twitching of a lopped ear, and a sigh before he turns back around to walk back again. “Guess he must’ve gotten a head start.”

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-leon #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Thirteen

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

It’s been a day and a half, and after having scoured her notes while nursing a pint of now-foamless beer, Brie realizes that her interviewing efforts have been mostly in vain. 

Baker and his crew are an odd case to be sure, and one that if she weren’t already employed by a company that had her hooked with a huge paycheck, she’d be investigating on the side. Their stories all line up weirdly well with what she’d been told about her own quarry. Go into a hole, get knocked unconscious by something down there, wake up with seemingly nothing wrong. Until the gemstones started growing, that is. And while she can feel the sparks begin to fly in her brain when she considers applying the same cause and effect to her quarry, the occupational part has to shove the thought down, knowing better than to make connections where there realistically won’t be any.

Talking to Steiner and his crew was frustrating, and a considerable waste of her time. Beyond their connections to Baker and her last group of interviewees, they had little to nothing to do with just about anything, and seemed to only be there on passing business. Brie thinks that Steiner had mentioned something about needing boat repairs, but it was hard to decipher what he was saying most of the time; if something valuable was said, there’s a chance it was lost in translation. 

Of course, then she gets to the only lead she has-- Jules and Lucille, the last of her interviews. They were quite fruitful, compared to the other groups. The former admitted outright to them being bounty hunters, and the latter asked whether the bounty had been updated since they’d heard about it. Brazen and confident, Brie thinks to herself. Those are the words that best described them.

I shall now have to watch them as well, as any damages they procure are in pursuit of the bounty posted by the company, and thus, the company is responsible for them (even if they’re not on their payroll). She sighs, gathers her things, and heads toward that smithy’s shop that she last saw Roxanne at. Those are bills that will go straight to the heads of the company, she thinks as she walks. Miss Hickory will not be pleased to hear that we’ve already hit that point of the contract. 

Brie knocks firmly on the door of the smithy, hoping that this time, she won’t get nearly flattened by an incoming golem.

“The sign says closed,” Cobalt’s voice calls out from inside.

“I apologize, but I am not here for business! I’m here to see my friend, Roxanne?!” Brie calls back. “She is still here, yes?!”

A brief thumping occurs before the door is cracked open just enough for Cobalt’s vision and the barrel of a gun to stick out. “What do you want with her?”

“Oh!” Brie exclaims, immediately holding up her hands in surrender. “I was just looking to check in, as I have concluded my interviews and believe that we should get going to the next town? Please do not shoot, I’ve been traveling with her for a few days!”

The Draconid lowers her eyes. “You’re the one she’s mentioned? The Shepherd Gemstone lackey?”

“Well, I am not on their direct bankroll, I’m technically an independent contractor who happened to land a lucrative job, but yes, I am the one who is traveling with her.” She manages to muster an awkward smile. “May I come inside?”

The door is closed, a latch is undone, and a bar is slid backward before the door is opened once again, and Cobalt lets Brie enter. “She’s upstairs,” the Smith says, pointing to a door behind the counter.

“May I ask the reason for the, uh, firearm?”

“Just in case Blondie comes looking for a second round.”

“Ah.” Brie says, looking around the shop. “Perhaps I shall just go and visit her. We shall get acquainted later, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“That works well, also.”

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

By the time they approach Davey’s house, the sun has begun to turn the sky a delicate orange, with licks of yellow patterned throughout the clouds. They both can hear the mushroom farmer barking orders to their three friends in the back, and when they walk around the side, they find each of them bent over in the field, carefully extracting the fruit from the mycelium and placing them into pre-prepared buckets. Davey, leaning on his pitchfork, has turned into a bonafide foreman, keeping track of each of his workers with hound-like efficiency. As Azariah and Cherry approach him, he yells out to the others, “Ya’ friends’r back, you lot! Put down th’ mushrooms!”

Leon, who’s closest to the group, remarks, “Finally. This one wouldn’t come out.” He kicks a steel-coloured mushroom at his feet lightly, and it rings solid on his boot.

Davey gasps, and brandishes the pitchfork in a flourish. “Ya’d better not be smackin’ around my product, Orc! I’ll have ya’ head’n a jiffy!”

“It’s not going anywhere, Davey. Good luck getting it up yourself.” He walks past the farmer, patting him on the shoulder. “What’s the word from town?”

Azariah leans up against the side of the farmer’s home, and explains. “We’ve got only a few hours of daylight left, but I’ve managed to get somethin’ goin’ in there. There’s a supply store that we’ve got a contact in, and they’ll be willin’ to give us some replacement clothes. Get the company brandin’ off our back. If we’ve got enough cash left afterward, there’s a local joint we can go visit for some grub, too. A few of us will have to work at the store for a couple days to pay off the loaned Tilt, but once that’s done, we’re free to do as we please. Any questions?”

Olive and Judith had gathered around the site of the news as it was being given, and the latter raised her hand quickly. “Judith?” “We’re walking into town with our jumpsuits on?”

“Cherry and I did it earlier. It’s not like we’ll be put to the torch just for wearin’em in town. It’s if we linger with’em. That’s where the problem comes in. Just be prepared for some weird looks.”

“I’m not worried about the townies. I’m worried about the mercenaries, Azariah. I’m worried about the people who’ll think we fit a description, and start getting out their fucking guns and ropes.”

Olive raises her hand. “I’m, uhm, gonna agree with Judith here. If the word’s already gotten out about us, then, well, we probably shouldn’t wear our jumpsuits.”

Leon turns to Azariah and nods. “It’ll be safer.”

The Hare looks down at Cherry, who has already laid down his bandolier, and begun unzipping his jumpsuit. “What?” the Techie asks, cocking his head to the side. “I have clothes on. Everyone has clothes on under their jumpsuit, right?”

“I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t,” Azariah remarks, beginning to unzip himself as well. “Company mandated gear on everyone else as well?” He asks, pointing to his thin, white wifebeater and thick jean shorts.

“Too bad the civvies wouldn’t last a day out in the woods,” Olive mourns. “Even with the company brandin’, these jumpsuits ain’t gonna rip no matter what we walk through.”

A roll of “Yup,” “Yeah,” and “Sure”s come from the group, with the exception of Davey, who’s been investigating the quality of the crop that they had harvested for the day. Picking through mushrooms, a thought strikes him, and he stands from his squat. “Leave’em with me! Ya’ suits, leave’em here, I’ve got a mean closet in th’ back that’s nobody dares’ta open. They’ll stink like high hell when ya’ come back for’em, though.”

“Perfect,” Leon says, handing him the dirty, crumpled ball that he had turned his jumpsuit into. Everyone else does the same, and they stand there in the brisk autumnal air in nothing but what may as well have been their underwear by that point. Everyone begins to catch a shiver as they walk into town except Judith, as she unrolls the sleeves on her dress shirt. They wave goodbye to Davey, who silently thanks them for their free labour, even if they did drink a few vials of some of his primo Morel Liquor.

    Just as predicted, Judith’s edit to the plan works a treat. They walk without a hitch to the supply store, meet with the contact, have a quick conversation where they introduce themselves, and immediately get to shopping. There isn’t much to choose from— it’s a general store, with most of its stock coming from one or two large companies. Everyone naturally gravitates toward the heavy coat section, since it only gets colder as the light faded. Except for Olive, who taps Azariah on the shoulder and asks, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Of course, Olive. Is somethin’ wrong?”

“I’m really, really hungry. Could I go and, uh, maybe scope out that place you were talkin’ about earlier that had the food?”

“Sure, so long as you’re back in a bit. At this rate, I dunno if we’ll have enough cash leftover, so we’ll need some scavengin’ work done.” “Thanks! What was the place called again?”

“Superposition, or something along those lines. It’s an inn, so it’s bound to have somethin’ good cookin’ up around this time.”

 The idea of an inn makes Olive pep up significantly. “Perfect! I’ll be back in a jiffy!” She gives Azariah a wave goodbye as she nigh jogs down to the opposite end of the terrace, where she finds exactly what she’s looking for. The scent of roasting meats perfumes the air around the place, and doesn’t even glance at the sign to know she’s in good company. She opens the doors, walks over to the bar, takes a seat, and immediately asks the tender what’s on the agenda for dinner.

“Goat, slow-roasted with herbs and spices, and served with a side of hot dripping sauce. Cabbage optional, pepper grinder on the side,” a familiar voice says, tapping her on the shoulder. “How’ve you been, Olive?”

She turns her head to find Lucille taking a seat next to her, and a smile bursts forth onto her face. Nearly knocking the bar stool over, she leap-hugs her old friend. “Holy shit! I can’t believe it’s you! It’s been so long, my god, what’ve you been doing?! I’m doing really good, how’re you?! Where’s—” she pauses, as another hand taps her on the shoulder. “Jules! C’mere!” She shoots out an arm, wrapping it around the Vampire’s neck and pulling him close. “Y’all have no clue how nice it is to see you. I can’t believe it!”

“I can’t believe it either,” Jules says, shooting a look to Lucille. “Did you strike a vein of something back at the mine? You’re off your contract awfully early.”

“You could say somethin’ like that’s happened,” she smiles. “God, I’ve got so much to tell y’all. So much… so much has happened.”

“Start from the beginning, we’ve got all night. We’re here on a job, but it doesn’t start until tomorrow morning,” Lucille mentions, pulling away from the hug and leaning over the bar. “Like, with your contract. I thought that shit would’ve kept you there for years, Olive.”

“So did I! But then, well, somethin’ happened. I may have had an accident,” the Owl says, lowering her head to the two of them. She whispers, “My blood is orange now.”

“No…” the Vampire chuckles.

“Yeah. It’s ‘cause I’ve got some, uh,” she looks around, making sure nobody else is within earshot. “I’ve got some rocks in my bones now. Somethin’ happened when we went on a dive, and me and four other people ended up like this.”

“Huh. Weird how things work out. We just caught up with another friend who had something similar happen. Ended up with him and his crew missing eyes, with gems growing in the holes,” Jules says, pointing to his face with a gloved finger. “That sound familiar?”

“Well, no. It’s on the inside. And it’s turnin’ our blood funky colours, like I said.”

Lucille nudges Olive on the side, and stands up to walk to the door. “So, yours is orange, huh? What about the others, who’re they?”

She stands up as well, following behind. “You wouldn’t know some of’em, they’re pretty new. Like Judith and Cherry, they’re both pretty new hires. But Leon and Azariah? You knew them, right? You might’ve seen Azariah a couple times, with his bein’ an old timer, and I would assume security would’ve kept an eye on Leon. Azariah’s is darker than the rest of us, I think, but it’s been a while since we checked. The rest, I dunno. I don’t think they’ve bled at all in a bit.” They step outside into the brisk evening air, which hits Olive like a fist. “Why’re we outside? It’s chilly.”

Lucille turns back to the Owl, and plants a hand on her shoulder. “While it was nice catching up, it’d be even nicer if you were to lead us back to your friends.” She frowns underneath her scarf. “It wouldn’t be nice to see Jules take a bite out of you.”

“Especially not if your blood’s turning weird colours,” he mentions. Olive’s eyes widen. “Oh, it’s that kinda job.”

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

The worst that Piper has to deal with on the way back to Admin is that she’s still reeling from how it all went down. The adrenaline, the power, the suddenness of it! That sort of split second life-or-death danger is new after years of just ordering around miners, occasionally knocking some sense into one if they got really uppity. Hell, and even then none of the miners ever dared to shoot at her or attempt to get at her with anything more dangerous than a rock or a pick. She’s never been shot before.

According to the clinic, she took it like a champ, even though she came in looking like she’d just taken a bath in tomato sauce. The bullet had initially dug itself deep into her shoulder, nearly coming out the other end. But, thanks to her transformation, the muscle growth had pushed it back up toward the entrance wound. They didn’t bother with anesthetic when they pulled it out, and she didn’t flinch. When it came time to sew everything back together, she only felt pinpricks, the pain minimized by her continued reflections over the job. They sent her off with a few days of mandated rest, and told her that it’d take a week or so to make a full recovery. Possibly longer if she overworks it, which she considers a very real possibility.

 She doesn’t bother giving a heads up to the secretary as she passes, enters Gilroy’s office, and places the deed on his desk. “I got it,” is all she says before standing herself straight and smoothing out her still bloody jumpsuit. No spares at the clinic and no inclination to run around in a hospital gown means she’s been waltzing around looking like literal bloody murder.

Gilroy, settled quite comfortably in his chair and sipping a warm drink— some kind of cider by the smell of it— glances down at the deed. With his free hand he lifts it to his desk lamp, inspecting it slowly, meticulously, before setting it back down. “Looks real enough to fool anybody if it is a fake, but given I didn’t even tell you the man’s name before sending you out, I’d have to assume this is the real thing. And you didn’t get any blood on it, either. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to get this so soon, not when Jessup seemed to never manage it himself. Still, good work’s good work. Sit down.”

Piper nods and does as she’s told, slipping her tail up and over one of the arms of the chair across from her boss. “I don’t think Jessup had been doing a particularly good job of a lot of things for a while, if I can be candid.” She frowns. “The old man took a shot at me.”

“Unsurprising. He shot Jessup last time, but he walked it off. I’ll tell you what, though, this is a great relief, Piper. With this in hand we can really get the gears turning again, especially after I get those replacements hired.” He laughs, leaning back. A long, drawn out sip of cider is taken, then the mug’s left on the desk, beside an empty glass and a notepad that’s seen far, far better days. “I guess you’ll be wanting your payment. Hang on a second, I need to get my checkbook out.”

 With that, Gilroy leans down and withdraws a fine leather checkbook, with little, golden flourishes resembling the company logo in the vaguest abstraction possible. He picks up a pen off of his desk and, without any hesitation, writes out the full payment. After that it’s set in front of her, allowed to linger only for a moment before her gloved hands take it up.

Something gnaws at her, somewhere inside, however. “How’s that letter of recommendation coming along?” she asks, unable to stop herself.

He snickers at her, then nods and opens a drawer in his desk to pull out an envelope, already labeled and marked. “I’m a man of my word. You did this job, and for that much money and a single letter, I don’t mind the effort on my part. I wasn’t the one who got shot, after all.” His eyes narrow with his smile as he puts the letter down and lays both hands over it. “It’ll be mailed to Black Hill soon enough. I’d suggest you slow things down, though.”

“Why?” Piper frowns, leaning forward. “I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “No, Piper, you performed wonderfully. Not only did you get what I asked for, you didn’t even get any blood on it and based on what I can see, you decided against taking any trophies from some old has-been. However, the best of the best in your line of work know not to endanger their potential earnings by getting an injury that might put them out of a job. How’s it holding up?”

Piper scowls at the torn shoulder of her outfit where the crisp bandages peek out like a mischievous, off-white insult. “I’ll be back in a few days. Should be all sealed up by then. Not something I can’t shrug off. Lycan’s a lycan, whether it’s fur or scales.”

“All well and good, but I think it might be a smart idea for you to start worrying about that kind of thing. So, you take that pay and I’ll give you some time off. Go out and enjoy yourself, but I might have you called in for a job soon.”

If it isn’t after I get given my golden ticket to better work, she thinks. It’s easily read on her face, but Gilroy’s not insulted.

Instead, Gilroy raises the mug again and lets out a quiet laugh. “Go on, Piper, get going. I’m trying to relax here and so should you. You’re moving up in the world. Oh— and invest in something less absorbent. I hear you can get it off of leather with a sponge and some soap.”

Not another word is exchanged between them before Piper’s up and out of the office, putting the check away inside of her uniform. She still has the company car for the night, but there’s nothing to head out to. She’s not running the mining operations on site anymore, and she’s never been terribly close to anybody there anyhow, especially now that the two idiots that flanked her mines, Judith and Jessup, are gone.

Jules and Lucille are far away right now, she supposes. Can’t try and find them. Judith and Jessup weren’t even that good when it came to being coworkers, anyway. Jessup had just been around for a long time and admittedly Judith was cute but far too aggravating to be around.

She’s got more money in her pocket than she’s had in the past year and even a bunch of time off and nothing to do. Is this the kind of money that gets custom work like Blondie had, or even like the old man had? That revolver was mighty pretty, even if there’s no point to making it look nice.

Her lips purse as she settles into the driver’s seat of the company car again. What had it been that Gilroy had said? She didn’t take any trophies? No, of course she hadn’t. That wasn’t a part of the job description. There was no reason to take anything, even if it was tempting to get herself a shiny antique pistol. Is it often that they worry about trophies? Is it bad etiquette to take them?

There was nothing stopping her from taking anything that old man had. She took the deed, she could have taken his blanket, his couch, or that revolver. She could’ve taken that picture in the box and burned it and nobody anywhere would have known, and unless she elected to wear or drop anything she’d taken off in front of Gilroy before meeting with him he wouldn’t have known either.

In all honesty, the couch was good looking, better than her Admin apartment’s bed. Maybe she should’ve taken it?

Nobody’s going to give you what you want. You have to make it happen— you have to take it. Her jaw rolls. Her fingers curl around the steering wheel and her boot presses to the pedal. “Just have to take it,” she mumbles to herself.

First order of business, parking the car properly. Second, a shower and some good sleep. After that, a vacation in Black Hill.

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 #writeblr #original writing #original novel #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Nine

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

Brie goes silent on the final stretch toward Kiln, and only after parking in a small lot and paying the owner a fee for what was likely to be a couple days of investigation, she helps Roxanne toward the town’s steps and groans inwardly. It’s a long, long climb to the top. It wouldn’t bother her normally, but her newfound companion is still getting used to walking on her prosthetic, which means that staircases are entirely a doubles affair only.

“Ms. Brie, please take us to the middle terraces,” Roxanne says as she loops an arm over Brie’s shoulder. “I have a friend I would like to speak with. Since you’re on the job, I might recommend that in the meantime you set yourself up in one of the inns. There’ll be one at the other end of the terrace, if you’re interested.”

Brie doesn’t argue, just keeping her head down aiding in Roxanne’s upward climb. The Fox doesn’t bother looking at anything around her, but Brie can’t help herself. There’s a wide variety of businesses and artisans, some of which are part of the larger stone exporting effort and others working entirely on their own. Her gaze lingers on the various inhabitants, or at least those she considers likely to be citizens. She can see it on them; their bodies are on average either hardened from manual, artisanal labour, or adventure. Of course, she can see the difference between a passing smith, clad in a thick apron and clothing, built strong but smooth, healthy, and someone who’s likely a visitor to the town, a man in a suit with muscles in his neck she can define from a glance. The latter’s all show, the former’s all function.

Roxanne has to shake the woman’s shoulder to snap her out of her investigative tunnel vision, and in the process nearly makes Brie drop her with a start. Luckily neither fall, and all that happens is some dust is kicked up. “I’m sorry, you startled me. Is there something you need?”

The older woman rolls her eyes, then offers a smile and a pat on the shoulder before she simply starts walking away. Brie looks around with a furrowed brow before walking to take up a spot beside her, concern evident enough in her tone if not in her expression. Leaving an old woman to roam this terrace all alone would be the wrong thing to do, right?

“Would you mind telling me where you will be staying? And, who this person is? You mentioned they are your friend, but you can never be too--”

“Oh, don’t worry Ms. Brie. They’ll help me find you later. I have a hunch that it won’t be hard,” the Fox replies, affecting something akin to authentic carefreeness, and once again heads off on her own way as Brie’s pace slows. She’s walking rather well, given she’s still getting used to the prosthetic and the cane together, Brie realizes. She supposes, then, that being thick-skulled can occasionally be a help.

That said, she has no intention to lose a potential lead.

Roxanne, meanwhile, heads down the right turn toward what is, in essence, the town’s craftsman district. Toolmakers, ore smelters, weapon smiths, carpenters, all manner of homes and shops in one line the terrace on this side. To the opposite side are those more on the mixing side, apothecaries and planters and those more trained in the matter of animal husbandry, alongside a single pet shop. She follows the tings and twangs of metal on metal, the gentle thrumming hiss of steel through wood, and the occasional loud vulgarity as someone banged their thumb or lost a finger to an especially disagreeable tool.

She wasn’t ever the type to frequent this side of town often herself, save for trips to get her tools smacked back into shape. Her thoughts drift to the clinic, the small cadre of medical un-professionals who’d gathered together to set up opposite the inns and taverns a couple levels above, and she finds herself chuckling remembering the sheer amount of donations they raked in from guilty, post bar-fight mercenaries who needed medical attention.

She rubs at her face with a black paw, dragging her claws through her hair as she continues on her path. The ground is hard, and her feet are thankful that it’s smooth in its hostility, unlike the graveled ground of the mines. Ultimately, both are displeasing compared to her country home, but she can go back when this is all over. She can go back, and she can drink Painted Pumpkin Wine, and smoke in her kitchen, and maybe dance over the cracked tile when she gets tipsy.

Harnessing this frustration, she makes her way onto the porch of a two-story building and slams a fist against the door three times, shaking the heavy wood and metal on the hinges. It’s a home made of stone and wrought iron, with half-open, dirty windows whose panes she couldn’t see through and wood that looked ready to rot right out of the frame. She can feel the heat from inside, and the banging of metal on metal inside reverberates inside her, shaking her bones. Roxanne has no clue how anyone could keep doing this even after so long.

“Cobalt!” Roxanne yells, raising her voice high above the din and clamor. “YOU DEAF OLD LIZARD, OPEN UP—”

Before she can finish, the door opens and a head pokes out. It’s a large, surly man, a golem of some kind from the looks of it. His monolithic frame fills the doorway in a moment, moving with more speed than might be expected of someone so mountainous. The way he wears his boots and breeches says sailor, but the pistols on belts running in an “X” over his chest tells her adventurer, or perhaps buccaneer. Beneath an armored captain’s coat is a rocky chest, and where there might be hair on a man is a variety of quartz stone, and even on his blunted, stony face he bears a sort of crystalline beard, and beneath his cap there’s more of the same.

“I’ll tell ye to mind yerself when people are workin’,” he says, leaning down toward her as his voice bubbles up from deep below. “If ye keep bangin’ and screamin’, I’ll make sure that yer silverin’, slaverin’ muzzle doesn’t come up from the bottom of the—”

 “Captain, if you touch her, I’ll take that piece and shove it straight up your ass,” a voice interrupts from behind him. Roxanne smiles at the cool, authoritative tone, as well as the way the golem stands up straight immediately and bumps his head on the doorway. After he steps out of the way, Roxanne is brought face to face with a draconid just about her same height, albeit clad in a smith’s heavy apron, large gloves, and a good amount of muscle.

Roxanne sighs. “Coby. You are in dire need of a hearing aid.”

“Ms. Cobalt, I was just—” The captain starts, only to be hushed with a pat on the shoulder before the draconid turns and walks back inside, gesturing for them both to follow.

“I build shit for a livin’, you just aren’t loud enough. Where’s that hare? You seem to get awful loud when he’s around,” the Drake says, leading the two back into the smithing sections of the bottom floor. On the ground floor it’s four rooms in total, those being the waiting area, her smithing chamber directly across from it, and then connected to the smithy is a bathroom and, on the opposite side, a storeroom.

“Actually, that’s a part of why I’m coming to visit. At the moment, he’s… busy, but I know he’s headed this way, Coby. Even worse that he’s got something nasty on his tail.”

“So you came here hoping he’d come to hide out with his main squeeze’s old friend?” Cobalt raises a scaly brow. The captain shakes his head.

“Seen neither hide nor hair of anybody of the sort. No hare’s been through this here shop, Miss. It’s been closed the whole o’ the day on account of…”

Cobalt raises her hand, silencing him as she walks behind a large counter separating her working space from the waiting floor, and without skipping a beat she places a gun just about the size of Roxanne’s head and torso combined on top of it. It’s a blunderbuss with three large barrels and a crank on the side. “Since I’ve been busy repairing a custom job for this river-dog, I haven’t seen your bunny boy. Odds are he isn’t here yet or isn’t coming. Is that really all you came for?”

As the captain picks up the triple-barreled monstrosity, Roxanne shakes her head and then looks down at her foot. “Well, as it stands, I’ve got a score to settle and a dumb girl to keep safe, so I’m well in need of your help.”

 “What about that snub I made you?”

“Oh, you know me, Coby. I don’t remember where I hid it, and I’d rather not return to Smokestone now that I’ve unofficially quit my position there. Aside from that, I’m after someone a bit bigger than a pistol can handle.”

“Bigger?” The Drake asks, tilting her head to the side. “Define bigger, lil’ sis.”

“I am going to need something that can put down a hulk like your chiseled boyfriend over there,” Roxanne replies, turning to point toward the captain, who is testing the rotating barrels of his repaired weapon by turning the crank. 

“I can get behind revenge. If the fucker’s big like you say they’re big, then you need something to do it right. Get comfortable, Roxanne. Steiner, out.” Cobalt points toward the door, and immediately the stone bulk trots out with his gun.

When the door slams open and shut, Brie is knocked several feet back into the stone and loose dirt, and as she stands she worries the big golem might have seen her— but he’s trotting the opposite direction, back toward the docks down below, and she lets out a heavy sigh of relief as she swiftly jots down notes in her clue log. “Roxanne actually on revenge quest?” “Roxanne involved with Hare, Hare = Miner!! Azariah???”

“You lost, lady?” asks someone nearby. Spotting the source, Brie notes that she’s face to face with someone patently eccentric looking, at least when compared to the general notions of what Kiln’s townsfolk look like. An orc woman, clad in the gear of an adventurer or merc party. A visitor, probably either drifting into town for gear or for work, likely between larger jobs, like that Captain Steiner guy.

“Yes, I am lost, but only slightly. Could you point me in the direction of an inn for—” 

“Mercs? Yeah, a few guild members are up in the Superposition Inn, plus plenty of freelancers, so it’s a good spot to pick up work too. It’s a layer up and down the left turn,” the woman replies, turning and heading that way. Brie follows along, clearing her throat.

“So, are there other parties of adventurers in this inn? Or, that is, if you have a group you travel with. I do not mean to pry, I only mean to start up some smalltalk,” Brie lies, smiling.

The mercenary simply snorts before offering up a quick reply. “Several, most around three to five people, some with even more.”

“And how could you tell that I am a mercenary?”

“You’re not a construction worker, your clothes are mostly clear of dust, and I can tell you’re carrying a piece.”

Brie doesn’t have much else to ask after that. She supposes it’s hard not to look the part when the job requires that one make certain concessions for the sake of practicality, like keeping your gun where it’s easy to access. “I suppose that makes sense,” she mumbles, rubbing the back of her neck.

It’s not terribly long before they’re standing in front of the building, and before she can open her mouth to mutter a word of thanks, the orc opens up a hand, expectant. Brie sighs and, opening up her bag, pulls out some Tilt to hand over.

Thick green digits close around the money and an appreciative nod is offered in turn before the orc heads inside, whistling something sweet and low. Standing outside, Brie takes a moment to sketch a loose idea of the building’s exterior.

 When she moves to head inside, she’s knocked back into the dirt by two figures exiting.

“Oh shit! Sorry about that, I suppose I should’ve checked before opening it,” jokes a chuckling, almost jolly tone. 

“The door has no window, Jules, you can’t look where you’re going,” replies a muffled voice. The owner of it takes Brie’s hand and hauls her back up, and after the two dust the woman off the redheaded one starts walking off immediately.

“Excuse me, may I get a word from you two—”

“Sorry lady,” Jules says, tipping up his hat as he passes. “Try not to fall inside like that, they’ll charge you if you scuff the floorboards.”

Brie’s left standing, blinking, as the two ignore her and carry on their way at a meandering pace, each one throwing their gazes around like gawking tourists on a return trip. After the irritation sets in a bit deeper, Brie grumbles and heads inside the inn, heading directly for the bar. As much as a drink might be appreciated, she’s heading for loose-lipped mercs and adventurers. After all, if they hadn’t told her about hiring whoever nearly killed Roxanne, they probably wouldn’t tell her about any other hirees. If they’re anywhere, they’re here.

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

“You know. I’ve been thinking, Lucille,” starts the Vampire, running a pair of fingers along one side of his mustache.

“Dangerous pastime in our line of work.” Lucille lowers the pair of binoculars she’d been peering through, then sits down beside the man on a low stone wall. Behind them is the steady pounding and grinding of gravel and stone, the creation of a many-hued cement housed within a low mixing building, to be sold at low prices to locals and slight markup to outsiders. “Don’t do it too much. It’ll ruin your looks.”

Rubbing his own jaw, he offers a fanged smile and nods. “Oh, you’re just saying that. I do happen to boast rugged good looks, but beyond that, too, the mind of a philosophist.” He hesitates. “Philosophist?”

“Philosopher, Jules.”

“Philosopher,” he corrects himself, near immediately after Lucille’s mouth shuts beneath her scarf. “Point is, I’ve been thinking. About why the fuck we were put here the way we were. As people who have to eat other people.”

Lucille’s reaching into a small bag sitting between them when he speaks, and the end of his sentence nearly has her fingers crush clean through the sandwich she’d ordered for them. “Yeah, Jules?” She asks, her brows furrowing. She’s not looking at him, but the intensity’s directed his way. It makes his smile widen.

“We’ve gotta have a purpose.” “A purpose?”

“Yeah, a purpose. I mean, there has to be some reason behind it all. Something that needs to be done, and needs to be done by us. Or a lot of somethings over our lives. There’s gotta be some kind of celestial plan or some shit.”

Lucille finally turns her gaze to him as she pulls the sandwich out of the crinkled bag, and handing one triangular half to her companion she scoffs. “You’re trying to justify it again?”

“More like explain it. I don’t need to justify having to drink people to not feel like an empty blood bag. It feels great, and I feel great for days after doing it. I just would like an explanation as to why I have to do it in the first place. Why I was made that way, while everyone else can feel fine without sucking down someone’s life juice,” he corrects her, making a brief waving motion toward the sky as he accepts the sandwich with his offhand. “I mean, humans and their types are probably best off. Elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, even the horned guys, they don’t need someone else’s blood to make them feel better from the moment they start existing. Golems are built for longevity, the Anthros’ve got that natural survivalism to them, and I’ve heard that the plant-people got fucking photosynthesis. Can you imagine that? Feeling better from sitting out in the sun? Fuck, man.”

“Even some other vampires have it better than you,” Lucille said, before tugging down her scarf to stuff the sandwich half into her maw. As she tilts her head back to let it slip down her gullet, Jules nods.

“I’d kill to just eat a chunk of beef to not feel empty. Some vampires don’t even need something on a living being, they can get by on fucking colors. Fucking colors, hues, light.”

“I know, Jules.”

“I don’t even care that they’ve got it easier. I don’t care. You know I don’t care,” he stammers, his tone breaking for the briefest moment.

She’d grimace at the sound of it, but instead she returns to watching the terraces below with her binoculars. “I know you don’t care.”

He nods. “Exactly. Anyway, it’s not important that they’ve got it easier. It’s more important that I don’t know why they have it easier. So, I have to assume I— we— are like this for a purpose of some kind. Maybe the people we kill deserve it, or something. I mean, I like to believe that, most of the time, even when I know they don’t.”

“This is why you shouldn’t think. You never just think, it’s always either underthinking or overthinking, with no middle ground. This is the sort of bullshit that makes people get religious.”

Jules sighs, settling his elbows on his knees and, subsequently, his chin in his hands, hunching over to scan the lower terraces with his own, unmagnified gaze. The sandwich sits neglected in his lap, cooling between his elbows. It’s a long, quiet moment before he pipes back up. “Do you think we’ve got a reason, Lucille? Haven’t you ever wondered why you popped out needing to eat people?”

Lucille lowers the binoculars again, turning her head to focus her dark stare on his face. “Probably about the same reason that anything exists. It must be the same reason that the trees around here never bloom green and the reason that you drink blood. The reason a predator has to eat its prey, and why prey has to eat plants.”

“And that is?”

“No reason, Jules. There is no reason for all of that. It exists because it all exists, and I spawned having to use people to satisfy my hunger for no reason. Life is just like that. There are predators and there are prey, and I’m a predator.”

“What, you think we’re monsters?”

“No, I think we’re animals. We have to in order to survive. You have the unfortunate circumstance of being one that thinks too much about why it has to eat and not enough about the eating. Speaking of, eat the sandwich.”

He huffs and lowers his hands to pick it up again, giving it a look over. “Chicken club with… some kinda cream cheese. Didn’t think they’d grow greens out here in the mountains, either. Good chicken?”

“It’s alright chicken, and that’s goat cheese. I added something to your half after he handed me the order— thought you might appreciate it.” Following the end of her sentence, the man bites into the sandwich. A thoughtful hum of appreciation is offered up, and he shuts his eyes for the time. By the time he opens them again, Lucille has pulled her scarf back up and has balled up the bag.

“Wait, whose blood is this?” Jules asks, before taking another bite. Again there’s a silence, but it’s not tense. It’s less like the apprehensive aura from before, instead more thoughtful.

When Lucille answers, it’s laced with a chuckle. “Mine. Can’t go offing people too nonchalantly somewhere like this, but I need you at your best when this all goes down. A vampire in withdrawal can be dangerous, sure, but I need the bruiser. It’s two on five, maybe something like five on five or even six on five if Baker’s honest with us, but still.”

“Holy shit, Lucille. Your blood tastes great,” he says, the last part of his sandwich stuffed into his face right afterward. Once having swallowed, he laughs. “Especially with that goat cheese. Maybe once we finish up this bounty shit you can open a restaurant or something. Set up in Kiln, call it ‘Killer Bites.’”

Lucille laughs, pulling off the binoculars and handing them over before she claps her hands. “And you can be the stage comedian, Jules. You can kill people for my shitty cooking with your shittier jokes.”

Peering through the binoculars, Jules sweeps his view along the lower terraces. “I’m pretty sure the saying is ‘knock ‘em dead.’”

A gloved hand comes up and grabs him by his pointed beard, and his head is turned toward a building in the smithing district. Then the hand pats him on the shoulder, and Lucille laughs again.

“Isn’t that the field med from the Smokestone site? What a coincidence— why not tell me you saw her?”

“Because you were waxing philosophical, Jules. Also, there’s only two of them in there, and from what I know the other isn’t a member of the group, likely the owner of the place.” Lucille shrugs after speaking.

“Okay, so the doc is there. And the owner?”

“Draconid, blue, looks like a weapons manufacturer. Hard to tell if guns or anything more traditional.”

“Probably both, knowing this town.” Jules sets the binoculars in his lap and rolls his shoulders, but when he moves to grab his walking stick Lucille stops his hand.

She shakes her head and says, “Inopportune. No real sign of the quarry, but at least it’s someone tangentially connected.”

“Shit, right. We would’ve seen them all without the binoculars by now if they were all together. Plus, nobody’d shut up about a bunch of Shepherd cronies running around. Think we can do anything now?”

Jules receives another negative shake of her deep red hair as Lucille stands. “No, for now we watch and wait. We wait for a chance to draw them out, or to ambush them as a group. We do a job, we do the whole job, no half-assing.” He nods, then stands too before his companion speaks again. “And on the whole thing about philosophizing, Jules? Morality’s a luxury for people who can survive on dirt farming. A chicken doesn’t worry over why it eats worms, it just eats worms. The farmers don’t worry about why they eat chicken, they just eat chicken.”

She steps back from the wall, stretching her arms. Jules puts the binoculars away, chuckling. “I’ll shelve my career as a moral leader, then. Hey, where’d you get these anyway?”

“We’ll call it a posthumous gift from an anonymous source.” “What, you ate without me?”

“An opportunity presented itself. I said we can’t just off people nonchalantly, not that we can’t off people at all. I gave you some of my blood, don’t complain.” Lucille shrugs and walks down the wall to get a more effective angle on the smithy. “You wouldn’t have liked them much anyways. You never were big on bird.”

The Vampire trots along behind, binoculars in one hand and walking stick in the other. “I could go for rabbit, though.”

“Everything goes well, Jules, and maybe you’ll get some.”

“What’s this about gettin’ a bit o’ rabbit?” Asks a gravelly voice, and when the two turn around they’re face to face with the stony chest of a large man.

“Steiner?” Jules’ eyebrows raise in surprise.

Lucille laughs. “So many familiar faces recently. Sank any ships with your tantrums?”

“I only put the boot through the one and suddenly I’ve got a reputation for it. What the hell’re ye doin’ here?”

Jules waves the question. “Business, same as anybody. What’re you doing this far upstream?”

“Recruitment, mostly, but I admit to a bit o’ work gettin’ done on my pride and joy.”

Lucille snickers. “Still running around with that monster?”

“She’s a beauty, don’t tease. Loveliest weapon to ever grace the land or sea— now, let’s say we get ourselves somethin’ to drink and get to reminiscin’ back at the Superposition?”

Jules looks to Lucille, who sighs and nods. “Lucille’s in, so I’m in. Let’s get day-drinking.”

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

Okay, Piper thinks to herself, waiting outside Gilroy’s office door. This is going to be where she really casts out her line. She’d flipped over what Blondie had said to her before he left about a hundred times, and the only conclusion she came to was that she needed more work. She needed to show off to her superiors that she was worth taking on for this higher position, that she was worth their precious time and money.

And not just because Blondie said it was so. She knows (quite confidently) that she’s an independently minded person, it just so happens that his various philosophies and nuggets of wisdom were, in fact, wisdom to her. Things had made sense to her before he came around, since they were stable and easy and gave her everything she found she needed out of life. And sure, there were things she wanted, but she wasn’t quite sure how she’d get them. She wasn’t a planner, wasn’t someone who sat down and schemed about how to get ahead. Blondie opened her eyes to that world, and she hasn’t had a wink of sleep since he left.

She took good care to comb her hair, clean her jumpsuit, and look extra-presentable for this particular meeting-- she’s planning on suggesting her own promotion, after all. She can feel it in her bones that this is the first step. And so, when one of the lower-ranking foremen eventually leaves the office, jerking a thumb in the direction of her boss as if to say “warmed him up for ya, kid”, she strides in, takes a seat, and sits up straight.

“Evening, Mr. G.”

“Is there something you’d like to talk about, Piper? I’m a little busy these days.” He goes to pour himself another drink, but finds his bottle entirely empty. And by the smell of his breath from where she sits, he’s had a couple today already.

“Yes, actually. I’d like to take on some more work to fill the holes that Judith and Jessup left. I can handle their land alongside their workers, and I won’t ask for very much more pay, sir. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from them being gone, it’s that people seem to be far better at listening to me when I speak. So, yeah,” she says, feeling her heart skip a beat. Now, to wait for the bomb to hit.

Gilroy, putting his feet up on his desk, mulls over this for a couple of excruciating moments. She can see the booze-greased cogs in his head turning, creaking against the weight of a long day at the office. His face changes expression quickly and subtly, like he’s trying to discern the intricacies of a fine wine. And he even scans his eyes across a couple papers on his desk, as though they’d have the answer to her pitch somewhere within their texts. Eventually, he looks her dead in the eyes and simply states, “No.”

Shit. “Well, that’s—” she tries to start, only to get interrupted by him continuing his thought.

“While I admire your willingness to take one for the team in these trying times, I’ve actually been in the process of arranging their replacements. So, since I’d rather not rip out all that glorious corporate bullshit I had to catalogue earlier, the answer is no, plain and simple.” Before the rejection can hit her fully, he stands up from his chair. “You’re one of the foremen that Blondie scouted for his little program, right?”

“Yes, sir.” “And you’re eager to prove yourself so that you’ve got a better shot of getting into said program?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Gilroy, sir.”

“Then I’ll hire three foremen instead of two,” he states. Walking over to one of his cabinets, he begins rifling through files to find the necessary paperwork for his proposal.

Piper, on the other hand, is somewhere between oddly excited and deeply anxious about the vagueness of his statement. “I dunno if I’m followin’ you, sir. Am I getting fired?”

“Hardly.” He pulls a pen out of his breast pocket and starts scribbling rapidly inside a file, having gathered the necessary forms and papers to fill it with. “You’re being moved. Something a little different from what you’re used to as a lead foreman.”

That’s all she needs to hear. “I’m in. What’s the work?”

He chuckles, sliding the file across the desk and chucking her the pen. “Contract-based. You work for me as an independent contractor doing jobs as they’re needed, and I pay you the big bucks for doing exactly as you’re told.”

“So, like Blondie?” she asks, barely containing her excitement.

“Not exactly. He gets paid whether or not he does what he’s told,” Gilroy spits. “No, the catch here is that you’ll be on my leash. If you fuck something up, your contract is void and you’ll be responsible for the damages. If you do exactly what I tell you?” He shrugs his shoulders, offering her a smile. “You’ll make more money on a single job than a foreman does in a month.”

“So don’t fuck up,” she says back to him, beginning to fill out the forms. “Got it.”

Suddenly, Gilroy leans in close to her, clicking the pen shut in her hand. “And I don’t know what Blondie’s been feeding you these past couple weeks, but I don’t want to see ANY of his methods in what you do, Piper. If I tell you to walk, you walk. If I tell you to jump, you jump. None of his indiscriminate murder, none of his wanton destruction of property. Because if I get a bill from Hickory for something that I explicitly told you to avoid doing? It’s going straight up your fucking ass, girl. Do I make myself clear?”

Piper stares him back in the eyes. It isn’t just the booze that’s making him confident, he really believes that he can intimidate her like this. Invading personal space, growling while he talks about how much he’s in control. She finds herself struggling not to crack a smile. Of course, she’ll play nice for the time being-- this is a gig beyond what she initially imagined she’d get. This is tantamount to winning the lottery in her eyes, and if she’s learned nothing else from her parents, it’s not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If he wants her to run by his rules, she’ll do it. So long as she’s guaranteed her check. “Crystal, Mr. Gilroy, sir.”

“Great,” he says, slumping back down in his armchair. “I had a feeling you and I would see eye-to-eye on this. Blondie’s a real menace, but I had faith that you wouldn’t see him as some kind of role model. Jessup, on the other hand— I’m almost glad he died before Blondie left. I swear I could hear some of the punches he was throwing from my office. And Judith? She’d talk back to him or something and get herself turned to swiss cheese.”

Piper blocks out the rest of her boss’s ramblings while she focuses on finishing up the contract. Of course, there’s plenty of legal jargon, but it’s nothing she hasn’t agreed to in the past, and definitely isn’t anything she didn’t just hear from Gilroy himself. Besides, there’s no amount of legalese that’d stop her from starting her climb up the ladder right here, right now.

“Are you listening, Piper? You’ll want to know what your first job is,” Gilroy grumbles, interrupting her train of thought. “Yes, sir. Sorry, I was focusing.”

“Focus on this, instead.” He takes a moment to open his desk for a blank slip of paper, and begins to write. “Your first assignment is to collect the deed to some land from a squatter near the Smokestone Location.”

“A squatter, sir?” “Yes? You know, someone who’s on the land without permission.”

“I thought that there weren’t permissions to live out here? I thought that so long as you weren’t doing stuff like mining, you didn’t need a lawyer to build a house,” Piper says, a touch confused. “And how’re they a squatter if it’s their house?”

“Well, I use the term in a different context. You see, he’s going to be a squatter, since we’re about to come into ownership of that plot of land. We’ve recently tapped it for some ore, and signs point to it being particularly rich in tourmaline. And there’s nobody else there but him.” He punctuates his last sentence by sliding her the slip of paper, directions to the home scrawled in still-drying ink. “Because you’re going to be taking the deed from him, he’ll be a squatter once you’re done.”

She takes a moment to process this. Already, something a little less than legal. “Done and done.” She stuffs the slip into her pocket. “Anything else I should know?”

“Get it by any means necessary. Even if it means getting a little violent with him, Piper. We know he’s not one of us, otherwise we would’ve tapped him for a managerial position by now. We also know that he’s an older gentleman who lives alone, so there’s a good chance he won’t be wanting to part with his deed.”

“Any means necessary, huh,” she repeats.

“Any means necessary. Do what you must, but nothing else.” Gilroy leans back in his chair and yawns. “If you’ve completed your paperwork, you can get right on it. I’d recommend grabbing one of the company cars, since they’re paid for by administration back at Black Hill. And, if you have anything you might find…” He pauses for a moment. “Useful? For this kind of contract, don’t hesitate to bring it along with you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’m putting my faith in you, Piper. Make this happen, and you’ll earn yourself a nice letter of recommendation alongside your paycheck. That should send you nicely on your way to Blondie’s program.”

“You don’t need to butter me up, Mr. Gilroy. I’m on the case whether you do or don’t.”

He smiles. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Chapter End.

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

[[ Table of Contents ]]

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

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[empty-masks]

Book One, Chapter Seven

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

“You’re sure about this?” Asks Azariah, sitting in an old wooden chair. His gaze lingers on the back of a nearby figure as she sets a pot of water to boil on the stovetop. She’s shorter than him, but only by an inch or so, and these nights his posture’s got her standing taller than him; her pointed muzzle, as she turns her head toward him, shows strong, silvery graying in her red and white coat.

Her ears twitch slightly before she licks her teeth, a discomforting habit for those unused to more carnivorous types; she’s not hungry, it just feels natural for a Fox at rest. “Well, of course. I wouldn’t have said so if I weren’t sure, honey.” Her dark claws adjust the temperature of the boil before she faces Azariah entirely. A quiet second passes as the Hare lets his eyes follow the rose-patterned sundress from her shoulders to the tip of her tail, and until she lights a cigarette it feels as though he’s staring into a memory. When she blows a smoke ring into his face to catch his attention, he feels like he’s reliving one.

“You’ve got a foreman missing a hand and far as I can tell, she’s dealing with some kind of condition she did not have before your little trip. Something even the real doctors didn’t catch. You’ve also gone and blown up some brand-new company machinery,” she continues, taking another drag on her cigarette to puff another ring in the Hare’s face.

As Azariah stands, his back creaks and groans, which sends a grumble up his chest and out his mouth. “Didn’t mean to blow it up. We were fixin’ it— Cherry was fixin’ it— and then Judith up and slipped, then we fell and it blew up…”

“They’re not going to care, you know. They will blame him, you, Leon, and probably Olive too. Everyone gets the axe if this gets out, Azariah. Though, it’s not the most pressing thing you’ve got going on, surprisingly.”

His mouth opens as though he has something to reply with, but nothing comes and he just shuts his mouth again before the Fox continues, “If Judith proves my hunch, the company will have no choice. It’s never been their nature to let stuff like this get away from them, and it isn’t their nature to forget. So, I’ll tell you again, Azariah. You five should pack up your bags and run.”

He shakes his head, shifting from foot to foot on the cool, cracked tile floor. “Roxanne, I don’t know if we’re in any condition to be tryin’ to run out. Judith’s just lost a hand, Leon can barely keep up a good jog without coughin’ up a lung, Olive’s… Olive, and Cherry’s not exactly a runner. And I’m not the spittin’ image of youth at this point either.”

“I didn’t mean you should sprint through the woods, honey. You just have to walk and make sure nobody realizes it’s happening until it’s too late for them. Get out a day or more and you’ll have a sizable headstart. And if you end up with some kind of vehicle, well, you might as well be home free,” she replies, turning to the pot again.

Azariah watches her tail sway from side to side before stepping up closer, then beside her to look down into the pot. He then turns away, shaking his head. “I drew that blood you asked me for, Roxanne. It’s on the front table, made sure the others know not to mess with it. Thanks for lettin’ us move her from my place to yours. Didn’t have much space for operation.”

Putting out her cigarette, Roxanne laughs high and shrill as she points a grin his direction. “Azariah, what in the world are you saying? Good lord, you must think I’ve gone feral. I’m doing this for medical reasons— nobody’s eating it, and if I wanted a taste I would’ve just asked.”

The sight of it in the bubbling water still discomforts him, regardless, and rather than hazard an arm around her waist he returns to the table to settle down once more. “I just don’t think the others’d be up to try and run. Olive’s ex-security, so she’d know what them bastards the company’ll hire are like.”

There’s a click at the stove and then a thud on the table as the Fox sets the steaming pot in front of him. “You wanted my professional opinion and you got it. The best treatment for this is to run for the hills before someone far less caring comes to crack you open with a crowbar. At least when I jump your bones it’s the fun way.”

His ears twitch as she laughs again, her cackle sounding through the entire country home. Part of him wonders if any of the others hear that, but he doesn’t have a lot of time for it before she’s sitting beside him at the table with a fine mesh sieve, a fork, and a knife. Bile rises in his throat as surely as the laugh fades out in hers.

She starts shredding the meat from the bone with her kitchen utensils, keeping the sieve just dipped below the steaming water to wash out any excess blood. In the meanwhile, Azariah pipes up, asking, “Was I right?”

“You most certainly were. That high a dose of anesthetic would’ve killed her. It’s far and away better than her being awake through the procedure, though. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to see what would happen if she woke up while I was making sure the stump’d grow over proper.”

Azariah chuckles, shaking his head. “My nose knows! Never been wrong before, and it’ll not do me wrong ‘til the day I croak. Glad you didn’t under or overdose her because of a hunch of mine, I suppose, but more importantly—”

 A freshly bandaged head pokes into the kitchen then, and loudly proclaims, “She’s awake!”

“She is? Well, thank you for lettin’ us know, Cherry.”

“Thank you very much Cherry, now go and sit back with the others. Make sure everyone’s gathered around the table,” Roxanne says to the young man, sending him out on his task.

Azariah starts to stand, but one of Roxanne’s hands stops him, settling at his shoulder and forcing him back down with little effort; it’s not that she’s that much stronger, it’s that he doesn’t resist. His lips purse as she shakes her head, leaning in. “Azariah. Convince them to go. Especially that kid. Take him, at the very least.”

“He’s got parents to take care of him. Besides, he’s not that young. He’s a man.”

“They need to know something’s wrong to do that, though. We both know that isn’t going to happen if the company gets their hands on him. So, you do it. Doctor’s orders.” She stands, patting him on the shoulder and retrieving her work from the mesh sieve, setting it on a plate.

He heads out to make sure all were gathered around the table like she had asked, then sits down at it, back in the main room. The chairs they had pulled up to the long dining table are all mismatched, from different rooms in the house. Azariah and Cherry sit on one end, and beside Cherry is Olive, then Leon in a dying recliner, and finally Judith, whose right arm is bandaged from her stump to her elbow, her hair in disarray and her breathing mask off.

It’s a comfortable place meant for one person, maybe two to live in, a country home. It’s all old wood and fabric, rustic due to expense and not taste. Still, it’s as cared for as it can be. 

“Where’s that hacksaw?” Judith grumbles in question, looking toward Azariah from across the table, then to Cherry. “Why didn’t you bring me to a real doctor?”

“I’m about as real as you can get, Ms. Judith,” Roxanne says from the doorway, carrying a plate of seemingly random bones, small ones. She places that plate on the table between them all before she moves toward a window and opens it. In her other hand is a plate of the pulled meat, not boiled enough to lose its red and pink colors, just enough to help her separate it. And then she tosses the meat out the open window and heads back into the kitchen.

“Some doctor,” Judith grumbles again, “wasting perfectly good looking food. What was that, chicken?”

Cherry shakes his head, saying, “no, that didn’t look like chicken. I bet it was probably some kind of pork. Maybe one of those hogs from further south…?”

“I bet if we’d gotten a taste of it we could tell. Probably local livestock or somethin’,” Olive says, her tone settling into an easy, almost relaxed sound for the first time in what felt like days.

When Roxanne enters again she sets out a large meatloaf in a big pan, or at least something she calls meatloaf. It’s most certainly a loaf of meat. Then, before another word is spoken, a bowl of vegetables in the form of a rather slapdash salad is placed in front of Azariah, who does his best not to beam when presented with it.

“Ms. Olive, you’d have a better time just asking her if you really wanted a taste of Judith,” the Fox jokes with a fanged grin, settling into a seat on the other side of Azariah. Leon snickers while Azariah chuckles, before the two realize that Olive, Cherry, and Judith are all taken back. It’s at that point that Leon realizes what was just said, and begins coughing into his elbow in an effort to hide his surprise.

Once the disgust passed, Judith’s frown becomes an outright scowl as she asks, “So you went and you fucking ruined my hand? Are you some kind of lunatic?” She moves to stand, but the Orc beside her gets a hand on her shoulder, easing her back into her seat before he and the others move to get slices of the meatloaf on small plates. “First that stupid— first the gemcutter blows up, I lose my hand, and now the crazy bitch that works on miners fucks up my hand. Great. Phenomenal. Astounding!”

There’s a shuffle and a thud as Azariah then tries to stand, only to be stopped by both Roxanne and Cherry, and following there’s a low huff. Olive, despite her size, attempts to make herself small, shrinking in on herself as she picks at the meat. Leon, at her side, pats her on the back.

Afterward, Roxanne stands up and leaves the room, only returning once she’s got a couple glass flasks of varying shades of red and one large cleaver. Once back, she sets the flasks on the table and then begins cutting the small bones into separate pieces, attempting to get the cleanest cuts she could without busting out the bonesaw.

“I didn’t ruin anything, Ms. Judith. Your hand was a goner, and not even your ‘real’ doctor could’ve put it back on without it rotting back off again in a month. I did this to confirm what Azariah saw.” Her dark claws lift up a couple of the larger digits, now bisected lengthwise, to show their insides. “You’re listed on my records as a human. These bones should be filled with marrow, they should look like a spotty reddish-pink. Do these bones look like they’re filled with marrow, Ms. Judith?” After receiving no answer, the Fox continues, “It’s hecatolite, folks. Moonstone, just as Azariah said. And it’s definitely not just painted marrow. It’s solid stone. You’ve got rocks in your bones.”

Judith doesn’t talk, instead just opens her mouth and then shuts it, clenching her only hand into a fist on the table as she turns her hard, green eyes toward an untouched plate of meatloaf. Azariah has his head practically stuffed inside his salad bowl, and Cherry is working hard not to retch, keeping a hand over his own mouth.

Olive is the first to speak afterward, all the ease having drained from her seconds after the mention of Judith’s hand. “What’s that actually mean, ma’am? I don’t understand how she could be alive with rocks in her bones. She’s not an elemental or a golem, and she’s not showin’ any signs of other problems, right?”

“Well, Ms. Olive, that depends on what you mean by signs. If you mean symptoms, no, aside from preexisting conditions she’s not showing any signs of issues. The rest of you are in the same boat. Clean bill of health aside from the cuts and bruises.” The Fox smiles toward Olive, and the Owl blinks.

“And if Judith’s got it, we’ve got it.” Leon says, his brow furrowing.

“Yes sir. By the transitive property, you’ve all got rocks in your bones.” She points at all of them with the shiny, split finger bone, then sets it on the plate again.

“And there’s no way to prove it unless they cut us open.”

Roxanne laughs, and Azariah, still face down in his salad, sighs. “To the bone! They’d have to crack you open like a geode to be sure. Though, if they somehow found out, they could check the records on your blood test results. There’s certain minerals already in your bloodstream that they could look for. It’d put them on the right track...” She trails off. The only person focusing on her and not looking like they were just told that their grandparents drowned at the local swimming pool is Cherry, who still looks a good deal disgusted.

“Okay, I’ll try to tone down the macabre for you all. One of the things I looked at when I examined everyone, sans Miss Judith, was your blood. At the time I recognized you all had higher than normal concentrations of some odd minerals, and everyone had a slightly different variation of abnormalities. But, as this is a mining operation, I had assumed it was particulate getting into your cuts and such. The sort of thing I’m not legally required to follow up on, according to the guys who pay me over at the company. That being said, after looking at Ms. Judith’s blood as well, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say she’s got the same problem.

“So, I took the liberty of getting more from one of you,” she finishes up, raising the two glass flasks. One in her left hand is a vivid, bloody red, and the one in her right is a deep, dark maroon, nearly brown. “In my left is mine, for comparison. In my right—” she shakes the darker flask, “—is from Azariah.”

Leon’s, Cherry’s, and Judith’s eyes all widen as Olive drops her utensils with her beak wide open and Azariah lifts his head from his food to actually look, finally noticing just how dark his blood is compared to the woman’s. “Shit.”

Judith laughs, shaking her head. “We’ve got rocks in our bones?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And it’s gonna turn our blood funky colors?” Olive asks.

“Yes ma’am.”

“But we’re not going to die?” Chimes in Leon, tilting his head to the side.

“Yes sir,” Roxanne replies for the third time, rubbing at her muzzle. “You all’ve got rocks in your bones, your blood is going to turn odd colors, but it shouldn't kill you— probably. What’s more likely to kill you would be sticking around here.”

“I don’t understand, Ms. Roxanne,” Cherry then mumbles, setting his hand down on the table, uncovering his mouth. “How could we die if we stay here? This seems like the kind of thing that could be useful. Workers’ compensation, right?”

The Fox groans, and before she can say anything, Judith smiles, nods, and stands. “Yeah, yeah! This is— this is big. Rock in our bones? We could get serious workers’ comp for this sort of condition. This is so potentially disastrous for the company, we could be rich!”

The Orc smiles slightly, returning to his food. “I could pay off my contract. Olive could too. Those bastards would have to listen to us, we’d be five walking lawsuits.”

The Owl heaved a large sigh of relief, then adjusted her hard hat after a slow nod.

“You folks seem to have it in your head that the company’s inclined to give you a heap of shut-up money and let it all be done with,” Roxanne finally interjects. “Ms. Judith, you should know better than the rest of them that the company isn’t the type. Shepherd Gemstone deals in stone. They crack rocks open.”

“And we’re turnin’ into stone,” Azariah adds, solemnly. “They get their claws on us, the only worker’s comp we’re getting is on the business end of a scalpel, if not a pickaxe. Company policy doesn’t have any clause detailin’ just how well we’ll be treated if we turn into product. Company ain’t got a good track record for handlin’ magical diseases, either.”

Olive’s utensils are dropped as soon as she picks them up as her breathing quickens, the only thing keeping her from breaking into hyperventilation being Leon and Cherry’s hands on her shoulders. Judith is pacing slowly beside the table, grumbling to herself. Azariah stares deep into his bowl of leafy greens, ears drooping slightly.

Roxanne stands. “I’m going to give you my professional opinion. All of you need to get the hell out of this place before any company official gets a single whiff of what’s going on inside you. It shouldn’t matter much where, so long as it’s away. Otherwise, I don’t expect you to last longer than maybe a month, a year at the longest. If you’ve got friends or loved ones, it’d be best to go to them. The most dangerous part of this is that nobody else knows.”

Leon speaks again, his own voice low. “We could disappear here and they could pretend we never existed.”

The room goes quiet for a minute before Judith screams and stomps back into the treatment room, a modified guest room meant for operating. There’s a trail of thunder in her wake, nearly shaking the room with a force few expect out of her. Leon nods, then groans.

“I’m leaving. Fuck this place,” he spits, looking toward Olive, who nods after rubbing the back of her neck.

“I don’t want— I don’t like the idea of gettin’ cut open.”

Azariah and Roxanne both nod too, and the hare moves to stand beside Roxanne. “We ought to go, honest. I wasn’t sure about the idea, given the stories I’ve heard about runners, but I always thought most of that was bullhockey anyway. Cherry?”

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine them deciding to cut somebody open because of that. Even if we are full of product. Nobody’s that evil, right? And it’ll look like we ran because we broke the new equipment.” Cherry shakes his head, then looks toward Leon. Leon, who purses his lips and feels inside of his pocket. He still has the empty gem dust bag, now dry.

“Mr. Cherry. You’d rather risk getting disappeared? Never letting your dads know what happened to you?” Roxanne keeps her gaze square on Cherry as she finishes speaking. He turns his eyes down.

Leon and Olive both look at him with a new curiosity, though one they didn’t want to press at the given moment. Instead, the room goes silent, quiet enough that Judith’s stomping around the operating room and angered growls could be heard through the walls.

“God,” Cherry starts, standing up, “Ms. Roxanne, can I have a smoke? Mine got soggy.”

She nods, then walks over to get an arm around his shoulders and escort him toward the back door, through the kitchen. “Of course. Let’s go out on the back porch, so I can grab the pumpkin wine on the way out. Have you ever heard about the time that old man went toe to toe with a stag.”

“Don’t you “old man” me,” Azariah snaps in play, “we’re the same age!”

As Leon, Azariah, and Cherry laugh, Roxanne replies, “This isn’t your conversation, honey. Go get to talking with your foreman, I’m on break.”

And then the Hare, Orc, and Owl are left alone in the dining room, and after trying to hold a smile for far too long Olive lets out another sigh. “It’s gonna be hard to convince her, Azariah. You know how she is.”

“I know, I know. Don’t either of you worry about it. I can handle it.”

Leon and Olive both nod, then return to their meals as Azariah picks up the plate of bones and heads to return them to the kitchen. It’s going to be hell trying to convince her to leave, but he has to. He doesn’t like her, true, but he doesn’t hate her. Still, a matter to handle once she’s cooled off. They have time, maybe a day or so.

That’s what he guesses, anyway.

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

The sun’s halfway to setting and the cool air of the Eternal Autumn’s threatening to raise the hair on the back of her neck already. Odds are it’s going to be a cold night, Brie thinks as she stands beside her car, looking up at Shepherd Administration building. This is the one for the Smokestone Location. If she wasn’t hired on the pretense of something being wrong, she wouldn’t assume as much from the state of affairs outside. Nothing’s on fire, nothing’s broken, nothing’s going on. Then again, something so calm after what she read up on only seems more suspicious, all things considered. Whether or not these people are trying to hide things from her is a factor, and she has to assume, at any given moment, that the people inside have every intention to hide the truth.

It’s not that they’re untrustworthy; it’s that she wouldn’t have been sent if they were being entirely honest, and she doesn’t know how deep any of it might run. Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, she steps up the softly creaking steps and enters the building, steeling her features still. Her shoes tamp softly against hardwood, well cared for and occasionally adorned with a small rug here and there. Rugs on hardwood. A holdover from the building’s time as a lodge, most likely. Not exactly workplace regulation, maybe even some kind of violation. Only a few steps inside and she’s already writing down notes for her new boss, as assuredly this is something to put on record if it isn’t already.

It’s as she’s busy noting the dimensions and design of a deep red rug with small golden tassels at each corner, even going as far as to sketch out the embroidery patterning beside her scratches, that a woman in a grey jumpsuit bumps into her, nearly knocking the investigator into the wall.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” Piper says. She’s quick to grab Brie by both shoulders and make sure she’s standing straight again, tail rolling behind her. “Might I ask why you’re here, Miss… Brie? Fun name tag.”

Brie straightens out, takes a quick stock of the foreman standing in front of her, and then clears her throat. “I am here on official Damage Assessment business. Might I have your name and directions to your supervisor’s office?”

“Oh, you’re with them. Well, I’m Piper, but you’ve probably got some kind of folder on me inside that bag. If you want to get to Mr. Gilroy’s office just head down the hall behind you and find the nice doors. I know that’s vague, but you’ll see what I mean. I’d like to help you out but I’ve got paperwork to get to.” Offering a little wave, Piper turns and heads in the opposite direction. As she does, her tail greets Brie’s shins with a gentle brush before the blonde snake disappears around a corner.

Paperwork? Not exactly the tightest excuse to refrain from bringing her to her boss. Uncertain as to whether it reflects on Piper or if it’s more on the mysterious Gilroy’s end, however. This could be a case of a horrible boss that needs to be put in his place, for company and for the citizens beneath him, or that the foreman could be hiding something. Or, she’s just doing paperwork and this happens to be an especially hectic time for her, and this visit lines up perfectly with it. After a long moment of deliberation, Brie elects to believe her but still writes down the name and a basic description just in case.

And then comes the walk down the hall. “Nice doors?” She asks herself. The answer comes in the form of some admittedly high quality doors, at least one of which must lead to a similarly high quality office, given that in front of it sits a secretary with little to do but flip through pages in some book.

It takes several throat clearings before the woman finally glances up to Brie, but she doesn’t speak. What she does do is stare like Brie’s just stomped in her dinner, waiting several heavy seconds. If she’s done something wrong, it’s unclear what; just in time to stop her from asking, Gilroy’s head pokes out of his office and calls in a curt tone, “Come on in, Brie. I’ve been expecting you.”

It’s not long after she steps inside that she’s swiftly making notes on this man’s choice of furniture, attire, and desk baubles. Clearly a drinker, unafraid to use funds on a silly drinking bird toy and what appears to be a deployable office golf course that lacks both a flag and a hole. His suit seems to reflect the slimy qualities of the room, and it really pulls the whole place together. She expected lavish, but the man’s wearing something that just screams “I go to bars and glare at the homosexuals who dare to hold hands in public.” Cheap style, gaudy pattern, expensive material.

“Brie, you’ve been staring at me for a minute. I’d appreciate it if you could sit down while we talk. This is inconvenient, we both know that, but I don’t want you to think you’re unwelcome.” Gilroy’s frustration is barely, but elegantly, contained. “Here at Shepherd Gemstone, we’re all team players. If this were my team you wouldn’t be bothered to come all the way out here to inspect this little site. Contrary to popular belief, nothing actually happens here. It’s Smokestone; it’s less of a blip on the map than even Fusillade, and that’s a really low bar. Where are you from?”

Brie settles into the chair across from him as he pours two glasses of whiskey, sliding one carefully over to her. It’s not something she’d find out anytime soon, but only a few minutes ago the glass she’s picking up and sipping from was actually holding a golf ball. The thought of it puts a morsel of a smile on Gilroy’s face, which is equal parts confusing and disconcerting.

“I am certain that you have been informed of my purpose here, sir, but I prefer to make sure of such things myself. I am Brie, yes, and I am here to conduct an investigation into this site on contract with Ms. Hickory in Damage Assessment. I expect full cooperation and transparency.” Her head tilts back and forth for a second. The whiskey doesn’t go down well, burning her throat a little more than she’d like. It causes her to frown for a second before she says, “I will need a guide, I believe.”

Not getting his question answered is a bit of a kick in the shins, but Gilroy knows how to better deflect. “Oh, a guide? I can put my best on that. His operations run so smoothly he practically doesn’t need to be there, but you know how we are on Team Shepherd. His presence smooths out the kinks in the machinery. However, since we’re working together on this, I think I can justify letting my golden boy help you out, Brie. Consider it a favor to my good friend Penelope. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll have Jessup take you around the site.”

She sets the glass down with obvious intention not to pick it back up, replying, “That would be good, yes. I would prefer to head down that way tonight, though—”

“No need, no need. It’s dark and that’s dangerous, Brie. Now I know plenty of worse supervisors at worse companies might be so inclined to allow people wandering around heavy machinery at night, but around here we try not to violate any safety regulations. Like I said, nothing happens here in Smokestone. There’s no cockamamie magical nonsense to be cleaned up, no problematic monsters, and the worst thing that’s happened lately is that one of my foremen took a knock to the head and went out for a week. Even then, a clean bill of health from the doctors.” His mouth is moving faster than he’s thinking. With Jessup on the job, he’s certain she’ll find nothing. At this point it’s just running the clock to make sure she doesn’t head out there tonight as opposed to tomorrow morning, when he can be certain that Jessup’s on his best behavior rather than a big, snarling furball. “Normally I would have an important, interdepartmental guest stay in the guest suite here, meant for visiting bigwigs, but we’ve unfortunately already got somebody hogging it right now. There’s a slightly less luxurious option we’ve set up for you here, one of the empty foreman apartments. It’s not a lot, but it’s comfortable enough. We have plenty of empty space— plans for expansion, you see.”

As he finishes speaking, his eyes drift down to her hands. She hasn’t stopped writing since he started talking, and Brie only looks up at him again once he’s silent for a solid half minute. Awkwardly, he sips from his whiskey.

Brie nods. “And where is this extra apartment?”

“Down the way you came. Keep going and follow the outer wall of the building until you reach the apartments in the back.” He sets a key in front of her, smiling. “Number twelve. We had number twelve prepped. It’s flanked by some more empty ones! Thought you might prefer some peace and quiet going over the case. Now, if that’s all, it’s about time you rest up. We don’t like overwork around here, Brie, and right about this time everybody ought to start having dinner and turning in.”

“There’s still daylight,” she says, raising her brows. “Is curfew really this early?”

He holds a hand up. “I insist. After an obviously long trip, I’d never dare ask you to start wandering around a bunch of mines in the dark. It was a long trip, right? If Hickory’s hired you you’ve come here from Black Hill, and that’s a real drive.”

A lapse in her thoughts. “The drive from Black Hill to here was short in comparison to getting there in the first place, I feel.”

That’s what he wants. “Come from somewhere further out? Are you from Fusillade? I didn’t mean anything by it when I said it was small, you know. It’s a nice, scenic town.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I am from a town north of Honeysett, though I cannot see how it would be pertinent to my job.”

“Honeysett, wow.” He whistles to put a point on it. “You’ve come a long way, Brie, and all for us. Makes me feel very warm inside to know you’re already going the extra mile for this company. Hickory's going to love it. Now, how about you hop on over to your apartment and get settled in?”

She has no clue how he actually managed to get that out of her, but after he’s finished speaking does have the distinct feeling she’s somehow been ripped off, though there’s nothing he could’ve or hypothetically would’ve taken, she’s certain. With a single, simple, “Goodnight, sir,” she makes her exit and heads to the apartment number he mentioned.

It’s very nothing, remarkable in how unremarkable it is. It condensed “basic living space” to a point of near absurd uncanniness. Inside it, she realizes a few things. Firstly, she realizes she’s been given this specific apartment because it doesn’t connect via any walls to any taken apartment, meaning she won’t get to listen in to any of the foremen’s conversations through the connectors, as slim as a chance of that there might have been. Secondly, she realizes she is quite tired, actually.

It hadn’t factored into her driving, or she had been too focused on driving to realize how tired it made her. Whichever’s the case, she sits down on the basic bed and prepares to sleep, knowing full well it’s likely the best thing to do right now. Her girlfriend would kill her for traipsing around a mineshaft at night if the mine didn’t.

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

The crunch of gravel under his paws brings a sense of rhythm to his explanation, Azariah finds, as they walk side by side to his shack. It’s been a long, long evening. And a very revealing one at that, seeing as how his conversation with Judith about attempting to run ended up with her growing claws (somewhat) unexpectedly. Leon and Olive took the opportunity to talk strategy, though the former seemed terribly cynical about all the ideas the Owl was having, and the latter had to brace herself in an armchair to stop from shaking. By the time he stepped outside to grab Cherry, Azariah found him and Roxanne having quite the conversation about past wisdom, present problems, and future possibilities. All of which seemed to do nothing but make the poor Techie more worried.  

So now, he and Cherry walk back to their shack, quietly discussing whether their future held anything decent for them. Azariah could tell that his points seemed both familiar and moving to Cherry, but Cherry seemed as though he just needed a sounding board for his thoughts. Someone who would listen, rather than lecture. So, the Hare obliged, seeing as how everyone else had gone home to sleep on the topic of departure.

“Do you really think the company would.... would dissect us? Just like that, if they knew?” the Techie asks. “I don’t mean to be impolite to Ms. Roxanne, but… I just have a hard time believing it. There’s just, uh, a certain level of cruelty that’s… realistic, I guess? And I don’t see how…” he trails off, looking up to Azariah.

The Hare rubs his chin. “You can keep goin’. I won’t interrupt you.”

“Oh, ok. I was just going to say the same thing again, I guess. But, you get it, right?”

“I sure do. And I certainly don’t wanna make you feel misunderstood, Cherry.”

That statement having struck an odd nerve, Cherry stops in his tracks. And though it takes him a moment of sputtering to get out the words, he eventually says, “Thank you, Azariah. It means a lot, it really does.”

“Of course. You deserve better than all this, kid, and you should know it,” he responds.

At the response, Cherry seems to only bunch up his face some more. He goes silent again for another few moments, trying to process the information being stirred up in his skull. “Miss Roxanne said nearly the same thing about you.”

The Hare chuckles. “Did she, now?”

“She said you were one of the most misunderstood people she’d ever known. Said that if there’s anyone who knew cruelty, it was you. And that it made you dull to all the stuff you deal with in the meantime.” He looks Azariah in the face, on the verge of tears. “She didn’t pull any punches. I didn’t even finish the cigarette she gave me…”

“Aw,” Azariah starts, hugging the Techie tightly. “She told you all that? It’s alright, buddy.” He tucks Cherry’s head into his shoulder, but clenches his teeth as a burning memory flings itself through his frontal lobe. “Was there somethin’ else you wanted to know?”

After wiping away a few hot tears, Cherry nods. “Do you really know? What would happen to us if the company found out?”

The Hare pauses. He doesn’t know for certain, but that’s exactly what Cherry is asking for. Certainty. He wants a definite “yes” or “no, we are not going to be mauled by our employer.” That’s just not possible to define, you can never tell quite what the company is willing to do to anyone, regardless of the situation. He’s seen people get beaten for coughing during a meeting, and he’s seen people get let off the hook for stealing thousands. Their punishment feels random in all aspects; cruelty, intensity, time of day, point of impact. But, a part of him knows that almost all his data skews toward the cruel and unusual. It’s why he knows that Roxanne’s right, even if he doesn’t want to admit that such a drastic change in lifestyle scares him almost as much as dying. Starting over again at his age sounds damn near impossible. He pulls back from the hug, and looks Cherry in his eyes. Though the grey isn’t much discernable in the low light, the pink spots really do pop. He’s a man, and yet, his eyes sparkle with a distinct naivety. More now than ever, Azariah thinks to himself, he needs someone to tell him what to do, and with what Roxanne told him… he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of mystical truth-seeker. Azariah shuts his eyes tightly for a moment.

“Cherry?” “Yeah?”

“At the end of the day… I can’t really tell you for sure what’ll happen to us. All I know is that if Roxanne told me to jump ship, I’d do it with her in a heartbeat. She’s been nothin’ but sensible and good to me even when I didn’t reciprocate. I trust her judgement more than my own, even if she ain’t right all the time.” Azariah starts to walk toward his shack again. “I just don’t know but when she says jump, I jump. When she says run, I run. Don’t take it from me, kid. Still… I’d hate to leave you here with nothing but this.” He motions to the shanty town that surrounds them, that they live in. “This ain’t any way for a young person to live.”

“I—” Cherry starts, before being interrupted.

“Just let me know if you change your mind, alright?”

The Techie swallows his thoughts, and nods. “Uh huh.”

“Alrighty then. Good night, kid. If you’re stayin’ up some, have a safe walk back to bed.”

“Okay.” he deflates. “Good night, Azariah.”

Azariah opens the door to his shack, shambles over to his cot, and falls into it lightly. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie to him, because the sense of self-reflection he so adamantly tries to avoid took over. He hopes that the Techie didn’t get the wrong idea as he rolls over onto his side, and pulls up his single cover. The message was good, though, he thinks. An honest message is a good one. He clenches his eyes shut, and after a few minutes of relaxing, drifts off to sleep.

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 #writeblr #original writing #original novel #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-jessup #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne

[empty-masks]

Book One, Chapter Four

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

Though it’s just short of worrying and nowhere near alarming for Shepherd Gemstone’s Head of Damage Assessment, Penelope Hickory frowns deeply as she thumbs through her stack of report papers for the dozenth time that week. The morning sun beams through her top-floor office windows, one of which is open to let in the cool autumn breeze, as it’s very easy for a building to get stuffy when it’s full of lycanthropes. And yet, as her carmine eyes scan the text again and again, she feels herself getting warm with annoyance.

The Smokestone Location, in the time it’s been managed by Gilroy, has earned a reputation for workplace anomalies. Dust devils consisting of loose mineral near the workers’ homes (after investigation, stemming from a poorly-kept slag dump and a particularly windy piece of valley land). Material of semi-magical origin being brought up (which has caused many a bureaucratic problem, as the visits from the local branch of Arcane Cleanup Initiative have become bi-monthly). Miners taking more chances with stealing, fighting, running (though, Hickory does remember the chewing-out he got the last time the former happened).

Yet, she can’t get the newest report out of her head. It’s entirely mundane yet completely impenetrable by her current means of investigation. If she can’t figure out why one of Gilroy’s foremen, alongside four of his miners, were found completely unconscious at the bottom of the shaft they were drilling and didn’t wake up for roughly a week, that means that in her report to her superiors, she’ll have to give a rough ballpark for the price tag on the damages. And that’s not her style.

No. Her style is the style of the tightly-wound chestnut bun, square-framed glasses, dress shirt-pencil skirt combo. The style that reads “I’m a woman who gets shit done, and if my lycanthropy ruins my outfit, that’s both your fault and your problem.” She doesn’t give rough ballparks, she gives tight estimates that paint an accurate picture of the money needed to fix the problem. Reports like these should be telling her everything she needs to know to do her job effectively. This one isn’t, and she can feel that it’s hiding something from her.

With an annoyed sigh, she stacks all the loose papers together and stands up from her desk, stretching. There’s nothing to be done with it at the moment, but she knows that won’t stop her from checking again in a few hours from now. After rolling her shoulders until she feels them pop, she gently grabs and unwraps a peppermint that had been sitting near her pens all morning— the complimentary kind you get from old-fashioned breakfast joints. Maybe the cold will help her think more clearly.

Or, maybe the sound of someone knocking on her office door will. Quickly spitting out the mint into her trash can, she calls out, “Come in!”

A very plain person walks into the room, stopping just short of Hickory’s desk. She’s dressed in a white, unpatterned dress shirt. The brown slacks she’s got aren’t sharp, but more reminiscent of something an old man would wear out to Sunday brunch. Her belt has got a nice brass buckle, but the shoulder-bag she carries is an ugly canvas material, and at a glance doesn’t appear to be anything more than a sack with a rope drawn round the neck. Light blue eyes (verging on grey), a head with a dusty brown undercut, and a look on her face as though she’s just smelled something sour, Hickory finds this to be one of the most uncertain first impressions she’s ever been given.

“You must be Miss Brie,” she says, holding out her arm for a handshake.

“Yes ma’am. That’s me.” Her shake is solid, but it peters out toward the end as a thought assaults her brain. “Before we begin, may I ask about something odd I noticed on the way to your office, Miss Hickory?”

“Is it something I would need to write a check for?” Hickory fake-laughs.

“Perhaps. Do you have a program set in place for your employees to obtain grants for shampoo and body wash?” she muses.

Hickory’s fake smile turns into a real frown. “It’s floor three, isn’t it. Are they stinking up the place again?”

“I don’t have a point of reference, but I will say that it was quite strong when I was escorted through their floor. It made my eyes water.” Brie motions to one of the armchairs before Hickory’s desk, “May I?”

“Of course.”

Brie sits down, pulls open her bag, and whips out a notepad and a pen. “If all goes well on this contract, I could very well investigate them for you next, Miss Hickory. Personal hygiene is an important part of office culture, and it would be a shame to have it ruined by some particularly bad apples.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’ll get to handling that. You only worry about what you’ve been hired for, please,” Hickory responds. “Which is something we should be getting to as of current. So, as you remember, your contract lasts for the week, but in the case of an emergency situation, it will be extended to the appropriate length. Hopefully, in said week, you will be able to close this assignment out, so that I can get my end of the job done sooner, rather than later. And as your current objective, you are assigned to monitor everyone who has had a recorded check-in with medical personnel after the incident a week prior at the Smokestone Location. Do you have a list ready?”

Brie has already begun scribbling into her notebook like mad. At the prompt, she puts her pen in her mouth to flip a few sheets back. “Yes, I believe I do. Three miners, one of which was marked down on her profile as being previously employed as a freelance security officer. One technician, a recent hire from further up north. And a directing foreman, one of Mister Harold Gilroy’s major players. These five suspects, all involved in an incident where your various doctors could find quote, nothing wrong with them, unquote, after they had been found unconscious at the bottom of a mineshaft with broken equipment.” Brie looks up from her paper. “Does that sound sufficient?”

“Yes, actually,” Hickory responds, quite impressed. A random hire knowing their stuff is getting rarer by the day around here. “While I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I suspect coercion of the medical personnel on-site at worst, and an incubating illness at best. Regardless of the actual situation, are you prepared for either them, or any others that might come your way? This may be more dangerous than anticipated.”

“I have reasons to believe so, yes,” Brie says. “I carry a .45 in my bag, and I have recently taken a refresher course on how to use it.”

“Are you certain you understand the stakes?”

Brie raises an eyebrow, confused. “If I was not willing to participate, I would not have sent in my resume after seeing your post.”

At first, Hickory is unsure as to whether to take that as some kind of insubordination. After looking at the freelance detective’s face for a moment, she realizes that the woman’s being genuine. She smiles, holding up a hand in apology. “That’s what I was hoping to hear, Miss Brie. Your contract shall be publicized within the enterprise shortly, and your paycheck will gain top priority for our budgeting team. Thank you kindly for picking up this job for us.”

“Of course! I should be thanking you, as a matter of fact. The swiftness of your hiring process was much appreciated,” Brie beams. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Hickory.”

“The feeling is mutual, Miss Brie. Happy hunting!”

Brie shuts the door to Chief of Damage Assessment Hickory’s office and makes her way out of the building, which, despite the smell of werewolf that seemed to seep from the walls, hums with productivity. She finds herself standing out against the restrained lavishness of the office building by being only just somewhat restrained in fashion sense and personality, herself. Her boots click against the tile flooring, eyes quickly working their way from point of interest to point of interest as she descends the office building back to the parking lot. She notices that there are cubicles made bigger for those lycanthropes who turn during the day. And that said lycanthropes are more often than not all Werewolves. On occasion, she’d find there to be a few oddballs— she had never seen a Were-Raven before, and it is quite a terrifying experience to bump into one while deep in thought. She hastily walked through floor three, pinching her nose shut with her free hand. And as she exited the building, she found herself stopped by the security officer, who asked her where that smell was coming from. When she explained, the officer rolled his eyes, and pulled out his pocket radio to start organizing a detail, just in case another event happened. She chuckles to herself, finding the thought of confronting a couple smelly employees turning into a brawl funny in a dark kind of way.

She sits down on a bench outside the Shepherd Gemstone Enterprises HQ to take in the nice weather, and to go over what she had scribbled into her notebook again. She scrunches up her face in concern. After all the research she’s done, something is just not quite right about this assignment. The company is making money hand over fist, even at the Location she’s going to be investigating. But, they’re willing to pay a private investigator tens of thousands on extremely short notice, mind you, to get to the bottom of a happening that if they wanted to, could lie about very easily. She just met with the person in charge of Damage Assessment, which, for an investigation contract, is odd— and it wouldn’t be too presumptuous of her to think that this concern might run all the way up to Hickory. Brie spins a pen in her hand, bunching her eyebrows together in thought. If the Head of Damage Assessment is meeting with me personally, that means that this must be either big, or urgent, or both. And if it’s one of those two things, that means that there’s something about these miners having been knocked unconscious for a week that merits those adjectives. The paycheck also indicates this theory; twenty thousand Tilt for a single job. She jots down in her notebook, “Treat miner incident as major event. Something missing from employer’s perspective??? Job extension likely, if true. Big $$!!!”

She claps the notebook closed, throws it into her sack, and stands up from the bench. This is going to be an odd few days, she thinks to herself. But when have assignments like these ever been normal? She yawns, and rolls up the sleeves of her dress shirt. Perhaps she’ll qualify for a bonus if she uncovers information quickly? That would be icing on the cake, considering the state of her wallet after her last job bombed entirely. A little extra money to bring back to the girlfriend at the end of the day would really help things out.    

Brie leans backward, stretching out her hips. Her plan will be as follows— get to the site, investigate the scene of the incident, make sure there’s nothing that the workers there have missed. From there, consider whether interviews with the surviving five miners would be productive, and send back any relevant information directly to Hickory. It is a simple concept with a wide range of difficulty. And there is no time like the present to begin. She walks out into the parking lot, hops in her sedan, and heads off down the road into the forest, kicking up dirt as she drives.

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

In the mess hall of the Admin building, it’s about time for the foremen currently off shift to grab themselves lunch. Around some of the tables there are bundles of fur, feathers, and scales chomping and gnashing their fangs and what have you as they consume the latest in the mess’s offerings, those being admittedly good sandwiches made with fresh and local ingredients, a cup or two of mixed fruit, some added veggies from nearby, and then a small dessert. However, not everyone has one of those desserts. Piper, for instance, is getting back too late to get her hands on the simple pumpkin cookies. As she sets her platter down across from Blondie she notices that he doesn’t have one either and that his platter is largely untouched; he’s barely just sat down before she did, she assumes.

There’s nobody else at his table, tucked away in one of the corners of the hall. It’s the perfect opportunity. If people listen in it could be a damper, but all things considered, they’re probably all too caught up in whatever workplace gossip’s on the docket today to bother to eavesdrop as she speaks with Blondie. “I don’t mean to go and ruin your lunch, Mr. B, but I was wondering if I might be able to ask some more private questions about that initiative you’re hawking?”

“You’re the first to ask anything about it, so far. Go right ahead, so long as you don’t mind me having a bite to eat or talking with my mouth full.” His shoulders roll, his lips peel back to flaunt some immaculate fangs, and he picks up a small cup of water to sip at it. “Ask your piece, kid.”

“What does it have to do with your position? You’re real high up on the food chain, right?”

He scratches his scruffy chin for a moment, then nods. “Highest you can get without running the joint, all things considered. My position in an official capacity is something along the lines of “Chief Officer of Acquisitions,” but there’s a lot more to it. Technically the security initiative is a little similar, with the exception being that you won’t be paid nearly as much nor will you be sent on missions quite as high or low profile. You’d handle more local shit probably, but it’d have a similar theme to it.”

“You get paid a lot?” It’s not exactly good manners— that is to say, the bosses don’t like it— to ask how much someone on par with your boss is making, or even to discuss pay among their peers; luckily enough for Piper, Blondie’s response is to bust out his wallet rather than a pink slip, and after opening it up unclips a small latch to let out a lengthy accordion of fading pictures of the giant and several others. The most recurring faces in each one, each taken in some damnably domestic setting, a backyard here, a public park there, even a beach, are a couple of kids— an elder sister and a younger brother— and a human woman with shoulder length brown hair and a smile taken straight off of a cosmetics billboard.

“Whoa,” is all that Piper says.

“Yeah, whoa. It pays enough that I get to take these three out wherever, whenever. Far better vacation days, and the assignments are considered ‘dangerous’ enough that you get some good downtime. Like what you see, kid?”

Piper blinks, glances at him, and then back at the picture. His expression now is identical to his expression in each one, gloating, smug. “Yeah.”

“Good. My wife was a model, you know. They still use her pictures on the signs and posters for makeup and shit. Doesn’t need it to look like a million.”

“Yeah. You’ve got kids?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. It was just another day at the office,” Blondie chuckles. “You?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ve got parents.”

Blondie whistles. “Neat. Were both your parents like you, or are you one of those weird half-breeds like my kids?”

“Weresnakes, yeah. Pa’s a butcher and a hunter, Ma has this side business selling—”

He clears his throat. “That’s nice, kid. Hey, why didn’t I get handed one of those cookies when I grabbed my food earlier? There some nasty rumour about me or something?”

“No, desserts just tend to be in limited supply. Neither of us got here fast enough to get any of them, I guess. That’s just the way it is sometimes.” She sighs and deflates a bit into her seat, but then Blondie stands.

“A bit of advice from someone who’s been at this for longer than you have? If you want to do the shit that I do, there’s one rule you’ve gotta keep in mind always. No matter what happens, no matter what shit goes down on the job, and no matter who or what you’re up against, always keep it in your brain.”

“So what is it?” She turns in her seat, following him as he moves over to another table, where several foremen are still getting at their lunches, Jessup included.

Jessup is about five bites away from polishing off the sandwich when a large hand takes the back of his head and forces his face down onto the tray, smashing the sandwich, tossing the fruit, and crushing the vegetables. Another hand dips down beside his now food-splattered face to pick up the lone, uneaten pumpkin cookie. In his ear, he hears Blondie growl: “Thanks.”

The other foremen at the table all stare, but do not speak. They just watch as Blondie lets go of Jessup’s head and walks back over to his seat, where he makes a point to eat the cookie. Jessup himself doesn’t lift his head until a solid few seconds afterward, when he wipes his face clean of his now mushy lunch and slips into his mask again, mumbling, “Of course sir, always happy to be of help sir.”

It’s only after finishing his cookie that Blondie speaks to Piper, finishing his advice with a sweet and simple, “You take what you want.”

She blinks. “Take what you want? You slammed his head into the table over a cookie?”

“If you want to succeed,” He begins again, leaning back in his seat, “you have to take what you want. Nobody’s gonna give it to you and most people aren’t lucky enough to have it handed to them. Everything I’ve got, I got because I established myself. I took it. Of course, I have natural advantages. I spawned tall, strong, and mean, all on top of our mutual condition, the best possible option one could luck out and get. Guys like that nocturnal idiot Jessup don’t have my luck. And that means he’s easy pickings. You’re controlled, but you’re a snake. People like you need to work, even with your natural advantages.”

He waves a hand vaguely, and again she nods and says to him, “Okay.”

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

Judith silently judges her own appearance in the mirror of the bathroom in her administration suite, which is actually just one of the several foreman apartments stuffed in the backside of the Admin building offsite, far enough into the surrounding forest that the air isn’t equal parts mining particulate and vehicle smoke. Her scrutiny sparks the thought that her already pale skin is looking off just a tad, and for a moment she swears she’s looking whiter than typical, especially in comparison to her black hair, which she quietly runs a comb through to keep it from tangling. Then, it’s put in order with a faded, frayed green ribbon, tied so that she has a loose ponytail to toss over one shoulder.

Then comes the gray jumpsuit, pulled over her basic undershirt and work pants, and then boots and gloves to match— and finally, she slings her breathing mask around her neck and moves to head back into her apartment, prepared for the long day ahead. Through her mind plays a myriad of potentialities, from screaming matches over more fumbled dives to firing the Techie, Cherry. For a brief second it even brings her a sense of satisfaction, which surprises her more than it does when Jessup enters.

He’s taller than her by a full foot and a half, clad in the same gray jumpsuit— though it fits him far better, with the loose collar snug around his thick neck and the cuffs of both sleeves wrapping tight around hairy forearms— and his head is wrapped from back to front in a gray breathing mask, with the only visible feature beneath being intense, emerald eyes, near mirrors of her own. And his face is covered in lunch.

“Judith,” his deep voice rumbles, thundering in his rib cage. “Boss wants to see you.”

She shakes herself from her sudden trance at the sound of his voice, then nods. “Thanks, Jessup.”

Her nod is returned by Jessup, who then turns and makes his way out, ducking his head to avoid bumping it on the doorway. When the door shuts, she’s left grumbling to herself. After readjusting the ribbon she had tied her hair with, she heads out and down the hall, walking from the foreman apartments to the main administrative building. Along the way she had to pass the dining hall, with a few large wooden tables and the other foremen having lunches of various levels of structural integrity.

By the time she arrives in the main office, her grumbles of displeasure were outstripped by the growls of her stomach, though both fade out when she’s faced with the scowl and snarl of her superior. The secretary at the desk out front hardly needed to announce that Judith had arrived before the man’s calling her in. and once inside his personal office the door is shut from outside.

He is by no means a tall man, nor a particularly well built one; when he stands, he’s only a few inches taller than Judith and only slightly wider, being the sort of businessman that works out in front of a mirror less to track progress so much as to admire himself, despite being unremarkable in his fitness. It isn’t that he’s weak, he’s just not built enough nor frail enough to be of interest.

His features are sharp, and curled into a smile, though the upper half of his face lacks this welcoming quality his mouth and voice exuded. He’s polite, but only polite for polite’s sake, not with purpose. His entire office is similarly performative.

The walls are lined with corporate knick-knacks and trinkets, from Shepherd branded sheep bobbleheads to pictures of him and his peers, the heads of other mining operations and other major branches of Shepherd Enterprises. It’s all neatly organized in a long-forgotten way, all on dark, glossy wood, with the occasional red velvet furniture.

Judith’s green eyes are drawn to the man’s orange ones, more on the yellow side compared to Olive’s she’d noticed. They’re strongly colored, vivid and hard to ignore. Unlike the foremen under him he wears a suit, today’s being black with red pinstripes and a red tie.

“Mr. Gilly,” Judith said before pausing, stopping as the man’s hand raises to hold up one finger.

“Gil-roy,” he corrected. “Mr. Gilroy, Jude.”

She bites her tongue at the shortening of her name, and instead opts to nod her head again, looking down to Gilroy’s shoes. Unlike her dusty boots, his shoes are fine leather, a light brown, and flat-soled.

“Now, Jude, as you know, it’s your duty as a foreman to keep things running smoothly. As a foreman, you’ve been given your own section of the mining site to keep watch on, and handle everything from the dives to the safety of our assets.” He sits back behind his desk again, and with those cold eyes he looks to the soulless desk toys that sat there. Among them is the drinking bird trinket that bobbed its beak repeatedly in his glass of whisky which alone costs more than any bottle of wine Judith could get at the company store, without including the fine crystal glass itself.

“I wanted to talk to you about that, sir. I was thinking that, potentially, the new technician—”

“Is an invaluable addition to your team, and anything else said about the transfer can and will be dropped because I’m not getting you another one. The fact of the matter is, Jude, that you need him to work the machinery, including a pretty little number I’m sending your way for the next dive with the tech. I’m generous, I know.” His smile widens further, reaching uncomfortably toward his ears.

“Topic dropped, won’t argue about the tech, but sir if we want to be safe with our employees then—”

Again, Judith was stopped by the raising of his hand. “Then you shouldn’t fall asleep for a week straight, Jude. That’s on you, mind. And I’ll be the first to remind you that I didn’t say anything about safety of employees, I said safety of assets, which leads me to my second point, which feeds into why you need that tech. I’m sending over a gemcutter, the kind that won’t break down the entire wall and risk a cave in because of your incompetence.”

Her eyes widen as she unthinkingly slammed her hands on his desk, toppling the drinking bird. “It was that little shit’s fault! He wouldn’t stop mining because he thought he hit a vein!”

Before she could even realize what she’d said, the man stands from his chair and slams his own hands on the desk, shaking the room as he looms over her. In that moment, his teeth seem sharper and his hair wilder, and there’s a long, tense second of staring between them both before Judith nods her head and steps back, settling quietly into the chair across from him, wringing her hands.

His scowl fades back into a smile and he returns to a proper stance, adjusting his tie before setting his drinking bird back to wetting its beak with high quality spirits. “Jude, every miner on that dive was your responsibility, as they are now, and as they will be for the foreseeable future. The fact that he didn’t stop when told to is a sign that you aren’t asserting yourself with your workers, and that’s something that you need to get figured out before one of them ends up knocking out a wall and getting you killed.”

Her lips purse as she nods attentively, though her eyes are distant.

“You’re their guidance, Jude. You are the directing foreman of that section of the operation, and that means you need to be in control. You need to be dominant. You are their shepherd, and a shepherd does not get himself killed over sheep.” She could feel his eyes digging holes into her forehead, burrowing in search of something, anything.

“Thank you, Mr. Gilroy. What is it that you’re going to be sending over, again?” She asks, finally looking back up to him.

“A drill-gemcutter hybrid, top of the line. High powered, more precise than the drill we had the techs using over there and as such, more slow going, but it’s less likely to bust a hole in anything. Just be careful with it, Jude. The controls can be finicky.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between them, and then he pulls the glass of whisky out from under the bird and gently slides it over to Judith’s side of the desk. There’s a brief gesture toward the glass, and then he rests back into his velvet desk chair, hands perching themselves on the dark, wooden arms.

She accepts it with a small sigh, knocking back the whole glass quickly before setting it back on the desk and putting her mask on. “I promise you, sir, the incident with the tech won’t happen again. I’ll make sure he understands who’s in charge.”

“Good! That’s good, Jude, because I was worried that you might not be cut out for Shepherd. As much as we appreciate a willingness to bark orders, you have to know when to bite. If you want to move up in this company, you have to be willing to fight your way to the top of the pack. I trust that you understand this?”

Judith nods one last time, tucking her ponytail into her uniform collar.

“Good girl. I don’t want to have to hand your job over to someone new. I happen to like you.” His grin returns to its cold, unnatural width again before Mr. Gilroy waves her out, the door opening before she actually reaches for the doorknob.

After her swift and silent exit, she rushes back up the hall to the dining room, where she runs to the kitchen, already empty, to receive a sandwich pale in comparison to its already constructed and consumed brothers and sisters. The sandwich is placed into her lunch box, a grey steel affair with a lock and a hinge of a similar make to the toolboxes that were endemic to the worksite, alongside a thermos of clean water before she heads off to ride out to the mine with her coworkers.

Chapter End

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[[ 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-judith #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-hickory #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-jessup #b&tsm-brie

[empty-masks]

Book One, Chapter Two

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

Inside the Admin building, a short truck ride away from Smokestone itself, two men stare at one another. 

“An inspection, is it? You’re dressed rather casually for something as formal as an inspection.” An orange-haired man rubs his chin, pacing back and forth in the hall in front of his office. Sharp teeth are exposed as his lip curls downward into a scowl, pointed flagrantly and unashamedly at a tall shape across from him. “Blondie.”

Before Mr. Gilroy stands a white titan of a man, tall enough that even the high rafters of the admin building are veritably within the reach of his great arms. He’s like a slab of the palest muscle to ever be seen, topped with shoulder-length, disquietingly white hair that’s kept loose and flowing. His massive frame is wrapped in a short-sleeved dress shirt, upon which is a print pattern of pumpkins against a solid, obnoxious baby blue. Firm, chiseled features pull into a sharply toothed smile, boasting a hint of a blonde shadow across his jaw and upper lip. He shaved before the drive, Gilroy notes.

To top it off, he doesn’t know whether to be insulted by the near constant looming, given as Blondie’s several heads taller than him even like this, or if he should be more insulted that the giant’s wearing khaki cargo shorts with socks and sandals. “This isn’t a cookout, you moron. If you’re here on business, we don’t do business casual. We only do business.”

Blondie snorts, turning his cool, blue eyes down toward Gilroy’s suit— a black and red affair, one of several— as his white brows raise. “Look into a better tailor then, because that looks like the kinda shit a stripper would get with snap-off buttons. Got a bachelorette party you need to perform at later?”

Gilroy pinches the bridge of his nose before letting out a sigh tinged with the slightest of alcohol burns. When he had been told he would be receiving this visitor, half of a bottle of whiskey found itself disappearing into a series of mixed drinks. “I’m not taking any advice from a man who thinks it’s a good idea to wear shorts in this weather. I was told you were here for something and you show up like this— is this a joke? Did Penny put you up to this?”

“Nope, direct orders from on high. I’m here to get the wheels turning and drum up interest in that new initiative. Feel like a career switch?” “I like what I do, Blondie. I’ve no interest in doing dirty work. I like everything neat and tidy.” A facetious smile makes its way onto Gilroy’s face.

Down the hall from the two, figures in grey jumpsuits stop in their tracks and then elect to find an alternate route, opting not to bother crossing paths with their superior or his big, pale visitor. Blondie laughs as the series of shapes clad in grey disappear, then turns his attention back to Gilroy. “Don’t flatter yourself, it wasn’t a real offer. I’m not dumb enough to offer you a job that’ll get you killed in two hours flat. You’ve got a few interesting foremen, ripe raw material. The big heads want me to take a look at your folks and see if any of them have what it takes to go do a real job.”

“Because keeping the miners in line somehow isn’t as real as wandering around with a gun on your hip at all times, of course.” Saying this, Gilroy’s gaze drifts down to a holster at Blondie’s hip.

It’s such a natural part of his silhouette that at this point he’s actually forgotten the man carries it. The gun is large enough that with some glue and screws and a half hour you could make it a high ordnance rifle, but on Blondie, it looks about the right size, proportional in scope to the white-haired giant. Even in such casual clothing, it’s a part of him.

Fondly, Blondie places a hand on the handle of his gun and gives a nod. “Keeping people in line is important, sure, but you don’t need to be going into those holes with the crews to do it. If you had some real skill on the job, you would’ve seen a downtick in foreman hospitalization by now, Gilroy.”

“Real skill? All you do is break things and wave a gun around, but sure, go on about skill all you like. You don’t have to do any of the paperwork.”

“Neither do you, Penny’s the one stuck with that. You just get to sign your name on checks and daydrink in your office while underlings handle shit for you. Which is why I’m looking to make the offer to them and not to you, bitch.” A hearty laugh punctuates Blondie’s last statement before he turns and walks down the hall in the direction he saw the grey shapes shamble off to. “I’m gonna have a meeting with your folks, don’t fret too much about it. If we’re lucky, you’ve got some untapped talent on your hands that I’ll be sure to scoop up. Nobody you’d need down here, anyways.”

“Go bite your— just don’t waste their time. Unlike you, they have real jobs.” Gilroy snaps down the hall at him. Once the heavy, thudding footsteps are far enough away that there’s no trace of Blondie to be seen, he heads back inside, sits down, and returns to finishing off that bottle of whiskey, entirely neat.

Jessup and Piper sit on the back porch of the Admin building, the former busy whittling what looks to be a wooden dog figurine, settled right on the steps, as the latter simply lounges in the swinging chair which hangs by chains from the ceiling.

“You think they’re gonna fire her when she wakes up?” Piper prods, her tail poking Jessup on the shoulder.

His initial response is little more than a thick huff, but soon after real words do come as he says, “I think she’s gonna get chewed out but they ain’t firing her. I’d fire her if I were in his position, but I suppose that difference in thinking is why I’m wearing a jumpsuit and Mr. Gilroy’s wearing a business suit.”

“Hey, don’t be down on yourself about something like that. Just means we don’t need to hand out pink slips. Plus, I’m sure there’s somewhere to go from here. They did say there were opportunities for career advancement back in orientation…”

A new voice sounds out just behind them both, and in deep tones that make even Jessup seem runty, Blondie says, “I’ve got a fun little career opportunity for you two. Go get all of your friends, then head to the mess hall. Doubletime.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as the two foremen turn to look at him, but there’s no hesitance to obey once they realize how important the man must be. After all, if their boss had to tolerate his presence then they absolutely had to do whatever he said. The two scramble up from what they were doing, Jessup tucking away his whittling knife and the half-finished dog statuette as he and Piper both rush back inside.

Blondie, meanwhile, runs over the presentation points in his head once again before pulling a few small leaflets from one of his pockets. “Promising already.”

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

The mess hall is more of an elongated, windowless kitchen in the center of the Smokestone Location’s Shepherd Gemstone company building— one where a single fridge, double burner, microwave, and sink sit at the far end, and a single row of circular tables with cheap, plastic chairs runs to the opposite end. Now, this room design isn’t much of an issue for the day-to-day, as there usually isn’t an entire force of foremen attempting to squeeze themselves inside all at once. Usually, people come and go, leaving drearily empty space between one another as they sit tables apart.

Blondie has to hold back a snicker when he walks into the front of the room. They’re almost elbow to elbow in some places, and while some of them are more comfortable than others (more than likely because they’ve been working together for so long), it’s amusing to see such large people packed in like sardines.

To hide his smile, he goes over his presentation once more in his head. Talk about why freelance security got liquidated. Talk about why that’s a good thing. Talk about what’s gonna happen with that money. Talk about what he’s looking for. Easy peasy. Nothing to it. He’s just gotta get their attention, first. Blondie cups his hands over his mouth. “HEY!”

The hubbub in the room is instantly silenced. “Very nice. You know when to listen,” he smiles. “In case you folks didn’t know what you’re here for, I figure I might as well introduce myself first.”

He holds a massive hand over his heart as he addresses the room. “I’m Blondie. As of current, the only full-time repossession officer in all of the Shepherd Gemstone corporate network. And that,” he starts, smile getting toothy, “is for a reason. But, I’m sure some of you know why first-hand. After all, Gilroy and I are real close.”

“Now to get to the bit you’ve been waiting for, since I know you’re just itching to clock in and start punching down. As all of you may know, Shepherd Gemstone has officially ended their freelance security program for all Locations around the valley. That includes Smokestone, folks. I did that,” he states, matching the gaze of a few foremen around the room.

“And I did it because the company’s got some cracks in its armour. Hiring mercenaries is a coin toss as to whether they’ll be competent or an idiot, but I’m sure some of you are aware of this. It didn’t take much convincing of the higher-ups to get the program stripped. And though your little jurisdictions are now without official security, you folks seem to have been doing an okay-enough job at keeping the peace. That money is now being distributed elsewhere.”

“So, what am I here for, other than to break news you’re already familiar with?” Blondie folds his arms across his chest.

“You’re looking at the head of a new project, using that old security money, to establish a private force of peacekeepers and acquisitions-adjacent officers within the Shepherd Gemstone territory,” he says, grinning. “And I’m here, today, to prospect a little.”

Talk between the foremen bubbles up almost as soon as Blondie finishes his sentence. It’s both annoying and satisfying for the massive man, as part of him still has stuff he wants to say, but another part of him is pleased with himself that he was able to rouse them to such a degree. It’s good to see that there’s such interest. In fact…

He points to Piper (who is sitting in the front row with her hand patiently raised), saying “Young lady.”

Piper clears her throat before speaking. “What would it mean for us? If we were to sign up and all.”

“HEY! EVERYONE, LISTEN UP!” Blondie shouts, feeling this question to be important for everyone to hear. “Ask again, for your co-workers?”

 “I’m wondering what that means, sir. If we sign on, what’re we doing?” she repeats herself, a little louder for those in the back.

“You won’t be signing up,” Blondie scoffs. “I’ll be recruiting you, and that’s only if you’re interested and able. No exceptions. But you’ve still got a good question there. What the hell will you be doing, instead of helping manage Gilroy’s playground?”

Blondie throws up his arms. “You’ll do anything the company wants you to do, straight from the mouths of the higher-ups. You take care of contract-breakers, you help keep subsidiaries in check. You get paid to run around the valley and do the exciting shit you hear about me doing. And, of course,” he pauses for effect, “you live by your own rules, once you’re on the road.”

“Your way or no way,” he repeats. “So that’s why I’m here. To make sure, personally, that the folks who’re doing this shit aren’t gonna die on the first job, or take the money and run.” He leans in close to Piper’s face, who attempts to steel herself for the occasion. “You think you’ve got the balls, young lady?”

She matches Blondie’s gaze. It’s terrifying, it’s sending the flight response to every molecule in her body. Nothing, not even the times she’s gone toe-to-toe with some of the most intimidating miners around Smokestone has caused this kind of reaction in her gut. But, she bites her tongue to keep her stare steady on his impossibly blue eyes. The pain helps numb the feeling, and she has to lick up the blood off her teeth before responding, “Yeah. I bet I do, sir.”

Blondie smiles a little, tapping her on the cheek with his baseball mitt-sized hand.

“Now that’s a good first impression. If you jerks want any chance at a more interesting job than this, be more like her,” he announces to the rest of the room. He leans back down to her level. “What are you, miss?”

“Same as you,” Piper responds, finding it easier to meet his eyes the second time round.

“Don’t bullshit me. You don’t smell like a Werewolf. Lemme see those teeth of yours again.”

Piper opens her mouth, and Blondie peers inside. His features bunch up temporarily as he notices the traces of blood on her tongue. But, a thought strikes him, and he motions for her to close.

“You’re one of those Were-Snakes, aren’t you.” “Yes, sir.” “So why’d you lie to me?”

“I thought you were referring to us being Lycans,” she responds. “Shepherd Gemstone doesn’t hire anyone else to be their upper staff.”

“You’re damn right about that. But that was a stupid assumption, because it assumed I was stupid,” Blondie says, standing up straight again. “You’re lucky that I’ve got something to say on the topic anyways.”

The whole room goes silent once more as he begins to speak. “As this young lady here has stated, you’re all Lycanthropes. That means you’ve got a physical advantage over everyone else on this planet. And I mean everyone. I’ve seen scrawny motherfuckers turn a mugging around ‘cause they got angry and let loose. Seen old grandmas get away with disemboweling the guy stealing her purse. Gangs turned to abstract paintings on the walls of barber shops. You all know how the stories go. But, there’s a common thread throughout all of them, no matter who’s doing the retelling, and you know what it is. Lycanthropes who make the difference are able to control their shifting.” 

He points to the rest of the room, slightly within the vicinity of some Lycans who happened to be turned. “I feel sorry for you Diurnals and Nocturnals. That brute fucking strength you hold just goes to waste, since you don’t have a lick of control over when you can use it. It’s pitiable.”

“Compared to folks who can control it,” he laughs, “you’re crippled. Crippled from birth. And I can’t be having folks like that in this program. I need consistent strength. Controllable strength. Don’t bother approaching me about this job if you can’t control your shifting. Gilroy won’t like the answer you get.”

He lets that statement sink into the room for a moment. There has to be someone who’s willing to challenge him on that, right? Someone who’s ballsy enough to stand up and shout at him about how he’s being a disgusting bigot. Someone he can raise his gun at, and mention how he’s going to make them a cripple if they don’t sit back down and be a good little foreman.

But nobody does. Everyone keeps it under control. What an impressive display of submissiveness. Blondie frowns, and turns his gaze back to Piper, who is mumbling to Jessup to stay out of this. “So, I’ll ask again young lady. What are you?”

Piper takes a moment to respond, but does so by gritting her teeth, showing the white giant how her canines twist and warp into syringe-like fangs, and how her eyes transform into the image of an exploding green universe, torn in half by a black void.

“Thank god,” he sighs.

Piper spits out a glob of hissing venom, which sizzles as it lands on Jessup’s shoe. “What now?”

“What now?” Blondie repeats. “I’m gonna go and have my lunch. You folks need to get to work. If you’ve got any questions about this program of mine, ask Gilroy, I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to let you in on it. You know my terms.” He stuffs a hand into the pocket of his shorts, and walks into the halls of the building. “Have a good shift, now.”

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

MOONSTONE? SOMEONE HAS BROUGHT AN UNTRAINED CHISEL TO YOUR SURFACE. LET ME INSPECT THE DAMAGE.

Judith sat down opposite of her interviewer, a currently turned Werewolf who barely fit into his chair. A tie was loosely tied around his neck, and every inch of his torso threatened to explode out of his dress shirt as he carefully scribbled something into a manilla folder. His glasses rested perfectly on his snout, bottle-lensed and reinforced with heavy metal rims, and another set sat on the desk’s surface— smaller, less durable looking— a commonplace occurrence in sight-impaired Lycans. Five minutes passed and Judith became increasingly uncomfortable in her seat. At some point she had to cover her nose, as it was on fire from continually inhaling the close-range stinkbomb of a scent that was emanating from the Werewolf.

“Is it that bad?” he finally asked, leaning over his desk and pointing a pen towards her.

Having slightly left this plane of existence, she visibly snapped back into form, pulled her hands off of her nose and sat up in her chair. “Is what bad? Whatever it is you’re smelling.”

“Oh. You mean me covering my nose?” she says, as a bead of sweat drips down her neck. “I do that when I’m anxious. I’m really excited, you see. This is a big interview.”

A slight grin passes over the Werewolf’s face, and he jots something down in the folder. “Let’s get this show on the road, Judith. So, you’re an accountant?”

“Yes sir. I’ve had a job working with numbers since I spawned— not counting the years spent in school.”

“Twenty years of experience is quite impressive.” “Thank you, sir.” “Was there any reason in particular you were attracted to Shepherd Gemstone Enterprises?”

The money is absolutely through the roof and after years of working for small-scale business I feel as though I deserve a bit of a hoard to sit on, is what she wanted to say. “I’ve heard some good things through the grapevine about it, and with all the money going around, I figured you’d need more bodies to help manage it.” That works nicely. Not too dishonest.

“You figured right. We’ve had some big expansions lately. Can you tell me a little more about yourself so we can gauge how well you’d fit into our community?” “Community?” I thought I’d just be punching numbers into log books. “Uh, sure? I work well with groups, but I usually work better alone. I also tend to take charge if projects are in need. I’m good at talking to customers and collaborators alike—”

“Are you quick to anger?” Judith swallowed her tongue. “What?” “I asked if you get angry easily.” the Werewolf matched her gaze. “I… I don’t think so?”

The room shrunk and she was closer than ever before to her interviewer. His scent invaded her brain like a lobotomy hook, and she felt a hand begin to creep its way up to her nose. His eyes were a bright, canary yellow behind the thick lenses. Lycans tended to have brightly colored eyes, and she could tell that he was looking into hers for the same trait. Another troupe of sweat drops marched their way down the back of her neck and into the empire of her dress shirt collar.

“How well do you deal with co-workers who could be considered annoying or troublesome?” “I deal alright, I think? I have my limits, everyone does, but—” “And what’s your limit?” The question hit her full force to the dome. “I apologize, but is this really relevant to the interview, sir?”

“We want to gauge how well you might deal with disagreements, Ms. Judith. You see, due to the volatile profit margins of the gemstone business, workplace environments range anywhere from calm and pleasant to intensely stressful, sometimes within days of one another. You must be able to cope with this if you’re to have a place in our enterprise.”

“I see.” she said, digging into her thighs as she tried to keep her hands down.

“On that note, I feel as though we’ve gone over enough. Is there anything else you’d like to add before we end this interview?” the Werewolf asked, somewhat expectantly.

Yeah, why the hell couldn’t you have taken a shower before holding this interview? “No.”

He held out a massive paw. “Fantastic. It was great meeting you, Ms. Judith. We will get back to you as soon as we can about whether you’ve been hired.”

She stood up from her chair, and shook the Werewolf’s clawed hand. Something changed in his expression as she did so, and as soon as they separated he sat back down and immediately began scribbling in the folder.  Judith walked out of the cubicle and out of the office block, unaware of the tears she had made in her dress pants until she got back to her apartment. There, she screamed.

When Judith arrived on the dig site, she zipped up her grey jumpsuit, affixed her nametag, and locked her car. Waiting for her at the entrance was another grey jumpsuited person, who asked in a deep voice, “You the new Foreman, Miss… Judith?” Her eyes widened. “No, I’m an accountant.” “Uh, Miss, check your nametag.”

She looked down. Hi, My Name is Judith! DIRECTING FOREMAN.

“Oh, fuck.”

PERHAPS I WAS INCORRECT— THE CHISEL OF BUREAUCRACY IS TRAINED, BUT ACTS UNDER MALIGNANT PREMISE. YOU ARE CORRECT TO BE ANGRY, MOONSTONE. BE WARY OF BURNING FOR LONG, AS SMOULDERING WILL EAT AWAY YOUR SURFACE MORE QUICKLY THAN YOU MAY PREDICT.

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

Waking up feels like hell on a good day, and this particular awakening is among the worst of those she’s ever had the unfortunate displeasure to endure. In the past, at least her dreams were pleasant rather than half-baked recollections of irritating low points in her life. Her nose stings from the mere recollection of that bastard’s stench now and she ends up spending a long time rubbing at it with the heel of her palm in some desperate bid to get it out.

The few nurses at the clinic are concerned for her, but they don’t bother Judith as she trudges through the necessary paperwork and promptly leaves. It’s not necessarily the paperwork or the injury that has her aggravated; the problem’s the date. All the papers she had to sign were marked with a date set a week later than she last remembered being awake, not the next day, and this isn’t a place for practical jokes. It’s not a joke, though. It is a terrifyingly real fact: she’s been out for a full week, including weekends.

Another terrifyingly real fact is that this means any and all paid time off she might have had is now out the window, and that’s if they actually used it. For all she knows she hasn’t been paid at all, because unlike the folks who got better contracts in earlier years, she’s not a salaried employee— she’s paid by the hour. At least she woke up in the morning. That means she has the chance to make up for her lost time somewhat.

As soon as she steps foot inside of the Admin building, a tall, blonde shape stops her in her tracks. “Hey, J,” Piper says with a smile. “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible. Is breakfast over already?”

“Nope, but friend to friend, don’t bother. It’s not an amazing choice set today, plus I got you this.” From behind her back, Piper produces a platter with the best breakfast options offered that day. A hefty and entirely rubbery omelette, some slabs of fried meat, and a healthy dollop of some kind of pumpkin pudding. “The nurses called ahead to the boss to let him know you were on your way, and he told me to tell you that he wants to talk. So I thought it might be a good idea to get you something to eat.”

Judith’s eyes narrow. The tone says it all; they aren’t friends, but it pays to pretend. Regardless of actual friendship, showing a willingness to play nice looks good and it tends to cover your ass when everything goes sideways. An alliance of obligation and reciprocation is an uncaring one, but it is one nonetheless. If Piper actually cared, this would’ve been back at the clinic and she would’ve had a ride over.

“Thanks,” Judith says in a soft and non-hostile tone as she takes the platter. By no means is it friendly in any shape or term, but it isn’t harsh. “I’ll go see the boss when I’m done.”

That’s more than enough for Piper, of course. She turns and offers Judith a brief wave of a hand as she walks off, her tail brushing at Judith’s side in the process.

She’s in the middle of eating, sitting on one of the immaculately carved and distinctly uncomfortable benches in the main Admin hall when an orange haired man in a black suit stops to stand in front of her, arms crossed expectantly. She hasn’t even had the time to finish off the omelette or the second slab of fried meat and her boss is here.

“So, you’re making me wait so you can eat breakfast, Jenny?”

Judith swallows more egg before saying, in a small voice, “My name is Judith, sir?” The half-hearted and questioning tone is mostly damage mitigation, hoping to offset some of the anger that inevitably comes with being corrected by someone that is, as most would say, an underling.

Mr. Gilroy clears his throat and adjusts his tie. “Right, of course, Judith. In any case, I see that you’ve decided to sit and eat before coming to speak with me about your unfortunate incident. Not an amazing sign with regards to your upward momentum, June.”

His slip earns another soft correction in the form of just the name “Judith” exiting the woman’s mouth, but by the time she’s said it he’s already halfway through another sentence.

“You’re a good numbers foreman. I need a numbers foreman. Now, of course you’d ask, what’s a numbers foreman? It’s someone who’s good at handling the paperwork half of this job. Now, there are plenty of other teammates who aren’t quite there yet with regards to their skills with a pencil or pen, but you’ve got it. Which is why I need to make sure that you understand and can handle the hands-on part of this job. Do you know the main focus of your job?”

Judith straightens up somewhat, tilting her head up to look into the man’s eyes. “I run my diving team and the overall section of the site that I’ve been assigned to, sir.”

“Very good, you remember the contract. Truth is there’s a little more to it than that, and while I don’t want to think you’re dumb— I don’t hire stupid people, Jesse! Uneducated, maybe, but by no means are any of my hand-picked foremen stupid. Now, while I don’t want to think you’re dumb, I get the feeling you might not actually understand the fine nuances of operating the team. In any other situation I’d tell you to shadow Jessup for a while to see how he handles things, but given the unique makeup of your diving team I do have to make an exception to my usual peer-review style handling of this situation.” His teeth are sharp in his mouth as each word leaves him, fangs clicking against fangs, all as his fingers drum against his suit-clad biceps.

Though his tone doesn’t say it, the fact that she can hear his canines scraping against themselves as he speaks tells her plenty about his anger. A lead foreman’s been out for a week, that means plenty of problems. Plus her position as a recent hire and this incident being the worst of a series of smaller incidents, though to her it’s not so small, do not look very good. Adding on whatever it was that Piper just pulled— had she intended to actually offer the professional olive branch, or was that a move to make sure Gilroy was extra pissed?

“Here at Shepherd Gemstone, our foremen are our lifeline. You handle not only paperwork with regards to your part of the site but you are hands-on leaders amidst a sea of hard working and well cared for miners. And as a leader, that means any failure of your crew falls upon you.” His hands leave their opposite arms to instead settle at his hips, elbows out. With his shoulders squared, he’s taking on a pose one might expect was shown to him by a peer at a convention for businessmen who routinely need to go out of their way to appear bigger than they truly are, physically and emotionally. “Do you understand?”

“Sir, the crew— my crew— they’re a bunch of incompetent—”

“You, Judith, are a Shepherd Gemstone foreman. Your job is to see their incompetence and handle it. Jessup keeps his people in line fine, and so does Piper and every other foreman at every other site I run. Their incompetence does not reflect badly on them.” To punctuate the statement, he actually bends down, looming over her, lowering his voice as he begins speaking near directly into her ear saying, “These people are little more than tools, raw material to be ground up and used. Manpower is a resource, people are numbers, and these miners are idiots. If you do not keep them in line they will get you or themselves hurt, and that hurts our bottom line, and here at Shepherd Gemstone we do not like when something is hurting our wallets. Listen up, and listen good, because you were out for a week and so was that crew of yours. I don't care why, I care only that it happened. Don’t make excuses for your own incompetence.”

Her arms are wrapped around herself by this point, and rather than make any kind of eye contact with her superior she focuses her gaze into the pumpkin mush staring straight up at her. “I’m sorry, sir.”

There’s an identifiable sizzle of frustration and a slight deepening of his voice as he replies, “Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it. Do your job, and do it right. I don’t want to have to talk to you like this, but when you screw it badly enough that not only are you out for a full week of operation so’s the rest of your crew, meaning that if we don’t just leave your section unattended we would need to waste manpower from other crews to handle it, you messed up. It’s your job to keep them in line, so keep them in line. They’re idiots, and you’re not, so when they fail it’s your fault. They’re not your friends. I’m not your friend. This is work, Judith, and if I have to talk to you about another incident like this I swear—”

He stands suddenly, then looks at his watch. “We’re tabling this for now, but expect to talk again soon. I have to go.”

She doesn’t watch him leave, instead focusing her eyes squarely on the ground where his dress shoes once were instead. Biting at her lower lip, she stays seated on the bench for another ten minutes, fingers gripping the sleeves of her jumpsuit tightly, so tightly that when she finally releases the grip she expects to have torn into them. There are no tears, though. It's tough material.

Her cheeks feel wet, though. Has she been crying this whole time? Did she start at some point? Her lip feels different. A gloved hand pressing up against it and then back into her vision shows she’d bitten it hard enough to split it.

Judith shoves the tray and the still remaining food into the trash can before awkwardly and haphazardly pulling her mining mask over her face. After all, she does still have to work on site today.

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 #writeblr #original writing #original novel #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-jessup

[empty-masks]

Book One, Chapter Nine

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

Gilroy downs the rest of his glass when his main two foremen enter. It’s early evening, and if Jessup is taking the initiative to call forth a meeting, then something’s gone so terribly wrong that he’d rather numb his brain before processing the damage.

“Mr. Gilroy, I’m sorry for calling a meeting so late in the day, but the Damage Assessment officer you ordered me to guide... She’s found something,” Jessup says, making strong, but terribly guilty, eye contact with his boss.

“Yes, and?” Gilroy responds. He pours himself another drink. “Spit it out.” “Judith’s blown up the new equipment you ordered.” The drink is spilled. “What?” “And there’s blood on the site.” The booze floods off his table, and onto his carpet. “What?” “The blood doesn’t smell quite right, either. More like dust than blood. The kind of stuff you smell when you’re working with stone.” Scrambling to try and find something to sop up the booze, he knocks over the bottle entirely. “What?!” “And we can’t find Judith. Which is the reason she’s not here with us, at the moment.” He gets whiskey on his suit. “WHAT?!”

At this point, Jessup is shrinking beneath the fury of his boss, who is bursting through the seams of his expensive clothing, and threatening to scratch the surface of his hardwood desk with his claws. “What do I do, sir?”

“I want you to shut up for two goddamned seconds and let me fix this problem, Jessup!” Gilroy barks. Though it’s a long process of rooting through seemingly every cabinet in his office, he does eventually find some loose rags to clean everything up with.

While he’s cleaning, Piper leans over to Jessup and whispers, “Damn, J.” “He ain’t taking it well,” he responds. “I wouldn’t either. This’s been a rough week for him.” “Us, too.”

Piper gives him an odd look. “Us? You mean you, since you’ve been getting smacked around by Blondie.” “It doesn’t bother me much.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I figure it’s a learning experience. Learn from the best, ‘cause they’ll always point out where you’re lacking.”

“I’m learning plenty and I’m not getting bullied,” she chuckles.

“That’s ‘cause you’re good at it and he sees that. I must not be up to snuff.”

Piper remembers Blondie’s spiel about the Diurnals and the Nocturnals. “He also knows you’re a Nocturnal.”

“He’s right on that front too. I am weaker than him.” The statement comes out more like an admittance of wrongdoing than anything else. “During the day, he cleans the floors with me. The only time I match him is at night. And even then...”

She wants to say that she doesn’t agree with that part of him, but she also wants to remind herself of just how much better it makes her feel in the face of the rest of her co-workers to know that she has the tactical advantage at all times. It’s a dirty, but nice feeling. Like those mud-based face mask things.

“Okay, okay! Where the fuck were we?” Gilroy interrupts, having calmed down significantly. Though he’s still trying to dab up some of the liquor staining his suit, he’s sat back down in his chair. “Judith’s screwed something up bad again, has she?”

Jessup nods. “Yes sir.” “And you have no clue where she’s at?” “Yes sir.”

“Great.” What the fuck do I pay these idiots for, again, Gilroy wonders to himself. “You’ve looked all around her site?” “All around it, sir.” “You mentioned blood. Was there a trail?” “No, sir. The investigator from Ms. Hickory didn’t find one either.” “Well, that’s one bit of good news,” Gilroy huffs. “Wait, where is she now?”

Jessup scratches his chin. “I pointed her in the direction of medical personnel, sir. Our doctor here, sir, and the medic out in the field. Roxanne, I think.” “Which one is she visiting, Jessup? I need answers.”

“I’ll go check the doc here, Mr. Gilroy,” Piper chimes in, heading for the door. “Good girl. Don’t bother running back down the stairs, just call me on the line.” “Can-do, sir.” As she heads out, she gives Jessup a hearty pat on the back.

It doesn’t feel to him as though he’s being left alone with the consequences of a situation he had no control over, but it certainly looks that way to Piper, and she can’t help but laugh to herself as she leaves. He’s really in for it now, she thinks.

Gilroy rubs his hands against his scalp. This day is turning into an absolute nightmare. That goddamn foreman has already screwed up a brand-new, fairly pricey piece of equipment. Jessup’s lost track of that PI that Hickory sent. And Hickory— Hickory was right, he realizes. Something bad is happening. Something very bad, and if he doesn’t get it under control very, very soon, it’s only going to get worse. The worst part about it at the moment is that he doesn’t know the full extent of the damages, nor the potential damages.

“Is there something I can do?” Jessup asks. “You can let me think.” “Can-do, sir.”

That oaf. At least he’s loyal. If I were to tell him to shadow the one thing on-site that’s been kicking his ass regularly, he’d leap at the opportunity. Then, it hits Gilroy square in the face.

“Jessup, would you be so kind as to grab Blondie for me?” he says. “Blondie?”

“Yes. We need to have an emergency meeting. And when you’re done, go out on patrol. I want you out there looking for Judith tonight. And if you rip your clothes again, I’ll pay for them. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

Despite it taking upwards of ten minutes for Blondie to finally enter Gilroy’s office,

he’s still working on getting that alcohol stain out of his suit. The glass whiskey bottle has been placed on a towel, and he’s trying oh-so-hard to not down what little remains while he waits.

“An emergency meeting, huh?” Blondie sits hard into the chair opposite the desk, causing it to creak in agony. “I was just about to head off to bed.” “At six in the evening?” “You know the saying. Early to bed.”

Gilroy scoffs. “Whatever. I’ve got something to ask you.” “Really now? And if I refuse?” “You won’t want to because I’ll pay and it’ll only take tonight.” “Oho, this isn’t like you, Gilroy!” Blondie laughs. “You’re speaking my language now. What’s the matter, one of your foremen need their teeth rearranged?” “Not far off the mark, actually.”

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

 A knock at the door of Roxanne’s country home somewhat startles her. It’s late in the evening, and though she knows how investigators like to poke around as if they were sleepless beings, it’s still odd to hear her come back so soon in the same day. She creaks out of bed, and shuffles into a well-loved black evening robe as another knock hits the door, this time heavier.

“I’ll be there in a moment, Miss Brie! Hold your horses!” she shouts, quickly tying a simple knot around her waist. What an odd girl she was, Roxanne thinks to herself. Talked like her voice was in a self-made splint. Like she thought that way of speaking was somehow more official, more professional? Yet, it still seemed so alien on delivery. Very odd indeed. Roxanne yawns, and makes her way to the front of the country home.

“Haven’t you ever heard of beauty sleep, Miss Brie? It’s quite important, especially at my age. And I would definitely appreciate it if we made this check-in quick, as I would like to—” She opens the door and finds a massive figure, easily over six and a half feet tall, standing on her porch in the moonlight.

“You were expecting someone else?” the figure asks. Roxanne doesn’t even feel herself move as it brushes her aside and steps in, revealing its outfit under the lights of the foyer.

It wears black, head to toe. Recently cleaned combat boots, tied with black laces and steel-toed (both inside and out, as the top of the shoe appears to have a plate drilled into it). Tactical trousers, baggy around the waist and waist-banded around the ankles, but tucked into the boots. A thigh holster on its right side, which kept a massive black pistol held firmly in place. Its utility belt contains a balance of use between survival and destruction, with any sign of metal being unpolished, gunmetal steel. A bulletproof vest over a tight black utility shirt, and over that, a black duster coat that ran down to its shins. On its hands, thick black gloves, plated with the same gunmetal steel on the knuckles.

Its face is shrouded by a custom-fit gas mask with tinted glass eye-covers. Though she expects to hear some kind of exhalation from the mask, she simply doesn’t. And no matter how much she searches the thing’s body, she cannot find a single point of exposed skin. Her mouth hangs open as begins to rummage around her home, feet threatening to crush the floorboards with every step.

“Can I get an answer?” it curtly asks, throwing open a few cabinets in her kitchen.

“I… I, yes, I was expecting someone else. Are you also from the company?” It looks over one of its massive shoulders. “She’s already been here, then.”

“You…” Roxanne found herself approaching the figure out of some kind of morbid curiosity as it picked things up (and threw them around, causing her to jump as porcelain smashes on the floor), looked in cabinets, and peered behind ancient appliances. “You didn’t know?”

“I sure didn’t. Gilroy didn’t bother telling me.” Seeming unsatisfied, it walks past her, through the foyer, and into the sitting room. Chairs are lifted with a single hand, potted plants have small trenches dug into them, and floorboards are stomped on to check for looseness. Some shatter into splinters, some do not. “That means you should know why I’m here. Right?”

Roxanne shook her head, and tucked her arms into her robe. “I expect you’re here to see me about the incident.” “I am. And it’s not going great.” it states, kicking a chair across the floor. “Where’s your bedroom?” She points down the hall. “Are you looking for something in particular?” “Thanks.” 

It trods off down the hall, and she hears rummaging around in her bedroom. She can feel herself sweating under her robe. It’s as though a kind of ghost has entered her house, but she let it in herself— as if her body forced itself to keep her distance and be complacent, regardless of what her mind would usually say about an unknown intruder. It’s looking through her room, for shit’s sake, it’s looking through her room, and she gave it permission! In a moment of questionable clarity, she walks into the kitchen and tucks a knife into her robe. Something crashes in her bedroom, but she still can’t muster the control to follow it. So, she calls out, “Is everything okay in there?”

It doesn’t respond. Instead, it walks back down the hall, pulls up a chair with a single hand, and holds out the other hand to her, fist closed. “Sit down, lady. What’ve I got in my hand right now?”

She sits, as instructed. “I… my earrings?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. What’s in my hand? You know exactly what it is. It’s what I’ve been looking for.”

Roxanne stares into its mask, attempting to find any glimpse of humanity past the tinted glass. It stares back, tilting its head to the side slightly. She crosses her arms, and puts on a concerned face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is. I’m getting a little old you see, and you happened to wake me up in the middle of the night.”

It audibly sighs, and opens its fist. “You’re telling me you don’t know how you got a couple thousand Tilt worth of unrefined moonstone into your sock drawer, in an area of the company’s mines where moonstone was proven damn near impossible to find?”

“I’m afraid so.” She feels herself regaining control somewhat of her senses, and she stiffens up her posture. “You said you found it in my sock drawer? I’m not the first resident of this house, you know. Hasn’t the company had problems with thieves in the past?”

“I’ll kill you, lady.” It stands up from its seat, pocketing the moonstone finger bones. “If you lie to me, I’ll kill you. The company would bury you under these floorboards.”

A shockwave is sent through Roxanne’s brain. “I… I don’t doubt you could. But I’m not lying. Ask Ms. Brie. She’ll tell you everything… I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

It clicks the straps on its holster open, and pulls out the pistol. Its boxy, square outline braces the barrel it was formed around, which looked as though it fired rounds big enough to punch tunnels in stone. “I’ll give you one more fucking chance.”

The field doc panics, and lunges with the knife at its chest. It catches her with its free hand mid-stab, stuffs the gun in her maw, and says, “Blondie. The name is Blondie. I’m sure you’ve heard of me before. Now you’re gonna tell me everything you know about this situation, or I will hurt you in ways you won’t be able to fix with bandages and booze, sawbones. Being dead will be something to look forward to if you don’t just fucking answer my questions. Got it, bitch?”

Roxanne nods her head slowly, and is dropped by Blondie, who sits back down in the chair slowly. “Start from the top.” he demands, holding her at gunpoint.

 She looks as though she’s about to begin, but something stops her; some odd, powerful feeling that seeded itself in her when he mentioned his name. It grew and grew and grew until it bloomed into a beautiful flower in her mind. It made her look at Blondie again, look deep into the figure’s tinted glass eyes once more. She didn’t have to search hard to find what she was looking for. Last she searched, she found nothing but void. A choking haze of a person who worked like a machine and killed like a predator. A being that is so neutrally powerful that it could flip a coin, kill the world, and determine its intent post-destruction based on the result of said flip. But now? The person behind the mask was almost laughable. She knew his type, she knew his motivation, she knew his threats, she knew the consequences he threatened to bring.

“This will be a long conversation, how about I go and get the wine—”

There’s a contained thunderclap, and her left foot becomes a stain of shattered bone and gore on the floor. It doesn’t even hit her until seconds later, until the shock has already begun to set in. Within seconds, Blondie has procured a self-igniting flare, and presses it against the wound while tightly holding her thigh with his free hand, searing the wound shut but chemically burning the skin around it as well. A pained, raspy cry is let loose from her throat.

Perhaps she doesn’t know his type after all.

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

There’s a point outside where all agree to meet up after gathering their things and getting ready to head out. Anything that can’t be carried with them on their person or inside the backpacks Azariah had agreed to steal is left behind. It’s nearly midnight when they’re supposed to finally meet at a gate past the mineshafts, where the gravel meets forest. The gate’s often touted as the one thing separating the safety of the Shepherd Gemstone Property and the wild, inhospitable surroundings it’s nestled in, complete with a dark, ominous woodland.

Nobody local is all that afraid of it, of course. Azariah, for instance, isn’t afraid. He’s not afraid of this spot, but he’s from the general terrain it consists of, often called the Eternal Autumn since it sits in a perpetual brisk clime. He muses on this as he quietly slinks over the dirt and gravel road toward the gate, five heavy backpacks slung over his shoulder.

They’re not heavy on their own, but he’s carrying more than intended for a Hare his age and it’s not a good time. He’s keeping his ears down along the way, and with his mask on it’s not easy to breathe. He contemplated leaving a long time ago, but that ship sailed once he met Roxanne, and since then it’s seemed like an idiot’s move. Now he’s leaving at her request. An itch rises behind his eyes, one that he hasn’t felt in a very long time, and the glass of his mask starts to fog up.

It’s hard to follow the right path in the dark with a foggy mask; the cool air around him is soundless, wordless even with the hum of the few lights kept on for regulations’ sake. It doesn’t hurt to take a quick break in such a situation, and Leon was right earlier. Out of all of them, Azariah is the most easily overlooked when it comes to breaking the occasional rule, like being out near the equipment after dark. Half of the foremen think he’s senile, he knows, and the other half think he’s only fit to swing a pickaxe, if they even know who he is.

When the mask’s off he takes a deep breath, swallowing down the sweet, chill air as the itch behind his eyes becomes a cold sting at the corners; the autumn air makes his rare tears colder than before, and he realizes that they are tears, truly. He comes to a proper halt behind an equipment shed, and after setting the backpacks down he takes a seat on top of them, pulling out a faded, rose-patterned bandanna to wipe away the fog from the mask’s glass.

Considering he’s sitting behind a shed marked to be for foliage management, he supposes he’s still on Leon’ appointed path for him.

At the start of the operation, their routes to the meetup were established, that way they could pick up necessary items along the way, as well as avoid moving as a group until they were out. It’s tried and true, and aside from Cherry, nearly all of them knew their routes well. Cherry was a bit of a special case, he’s not too versed in navigating anywhere but his own workspaces, so Leon ended up giving him the simplest, most foolproof option he had.

Azariah grumbles to himself about that. The kid’s trying his best, but nobody ever lays off of him. Olive‘s the only one who doesn’t actively belittle the guy for everything that’s happened, and he’s certain that’s only because she’s more worried about dying than casting blame on anybody. He’d feel sorry for Olive if he had the space of mind, but at the moment he’s got too much to mull over.

Smoothing a paw over the top of his head, folding his ears back again, he dons his mask once more. Then his bandanna is tucked in his right pocket, and he picks up the backpacks to start on his way, keeping the other four stashed away inside of his own, alongside his mandolin, which is thankfully quiet. He manages about three steps before heavier ones steadily drift around the corner behind him, and he turns to see a gray uniform and green eyes.

“J—” He stutters near silently, his eyes widening behind the glass as his voice catches in his throat. “Jessup?” His toe claws, dull and dusty, shift gravel beneath him as he tenses up. He can’t muster up anything to say beyond the man’s name.

The foreman’s not wearing his mask, allowing the Hare a look at his proper, shifted maw in the painfully yellow light of the dying safety lamps above them both. “Should’ve known Judith was being easy on you. She don’t get how to properly handle insubordination,” comes a slow, crawling rumble, drawling out into the air and sinking into Azariah’s ears as the wolf steps closer into the light. Without the filter, his voice is clear in its deeper, bubbling tones.

Azariah takes a single step back, and he can feel his muscles bunching harder than before. Is it feasible to fight the man like this? Carrying five backpacks, with his own back aching worse than it has in years? Is it even possible?

Gritting his teeth, he straightens up his stance as much as he can before raising both fists. There’s no change on the other’s face, but a snarling chuckle bubbles out before more heavy words. “Nobody’s going to know you were even here, bunny.”

Behind the wolf’s right shoulder, in the darkness, is a pair of eyes that catch Azariah’s gaze. It’s nearly eye level with the hunching werewolf, just a bit lower, and he feels the pit of his stomach fall away, anxiety fading into despair. He might be able to take one, make time for the others to get away, but two’s out of the question. He’s going to be dogmeat.

“Can’t even look me in the eyes. Judith really does need to work on—” THWACK.

The grey form of the wolf crumples into the gravel, and a dull pair of talons step over the man to close the distance with Azariah.

“Olive?”

As soon as the masked owl steps into the light properly, she nods her head and offers a slightly shaken, but mostly exhilarated smile. On her belt hangs her hatchet, with the sharp edge perfectly keen but, just as well, spotless. “Don’t worry, I got him with the blunt side. Added a little heft to it a while ago to really give it a good swing, but I think my form was a little crappy.”

“Olive, you just coldcocked Jessup,” he says exasperatedly, before smiling and pulling out one of the backpacks for her to put on. Once it’s clipped and adjusted, she takes two of the remaining packs to stuff in her own, allowing Azariah to carry one in his for the time being.

When Jessup groans on the ground, the Owl kicks him in the side of the head and Azariah hops back like he expects there to be a splashzone. Clicking her tongue, Olive shakes her head. “My talons aren’t really sharp right now, and I’m not itchin’ to kill him. Besides, he’s durable.”

Azariah’s somewhat loathe to agree, but he does agree in the end. If anyone could endure a couple successive blows like that, it’d be one of the bulkier Lycans. He’s been around long enough to tell, no matter the form. He nods to her, and the two turn to continue on Azariah’s path before he speaks up one more time to ask, “How and why did you find me? We aren’t supposed to move as a group.”

“I was on my way down my own path when I spotted someone big headin’ along yours. So, I split off and started followin’ him, and it turns out he was followin’ you.”

“You’re bein’ remarkably cool given present circumstance, Ms. Olive,” Azariah mutters. “Should I be worried about that?”

“Oh. I’m actually really nervous right now, but I’ve trained for this sort of situation, mostly. I’m more trained to deal with monsters, stuff that attacks people, and huntin’. I can handle huntin’. Dealin’ with Jessup back there was basically goin’ huntin’.” She laughs under her breath, but it’s a bit nervous, excited. Azariah returns it, more sluggish than anything. “Ain’t like he can breathe fire. Might smell like it, sometimes.”

Without the threat of a wolf breathing down his neck, his mind is offered the space to wander again, rolling first over Roxanne, what life might be like for her once they all leave, and then over Cherry. The kid’s been given the easiest path, and all he actually has to do is take his gear and get to the gate to unlock it. It couldn’t go wrong.

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 #writeblr #original writing #original novel #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-jessup #b&tsm-roxanne

[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Three

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

“What took you so long? Why do you make me wait at a time like this? There’s no point to it. Why? Why?” Gilroy paces from one side of his desk to the other, hands folded behind his back. Today’s suit is a crisp black, lacking the pinstripes of his personal favorite in favor of small, intricate floral designs that are only barely visible to one if they were to lean in very closely and inspect the fabric, sewn into it, embroidered in black on black. “I thought you were the best? Blondie, I expect better of someone so up their own ass. I have a dead foreman, another foreman missing, one of Hickory’s blithering morons poking around and then there’s you. I need to know what’s going on, because at the end of the day while we don’t like each other, I like to think we’re at least beyond sabotaging one another.”

“We are, jackass. At least, I am. Here’s the thing; I don’t need to do any sabotaging. You’ve already got your hands full enough to start spilling shit without anyone slapping them. What do you want, some kind of formal report, Harry?” Blondie settles like a mountain of gravel into the seat across from Gilroy’s desk with a broad and inoffensive grin. “That’s below my pay grade and you know it. I’m open to talking about what I know, though. It isn’t much, but I can tell you’re real unhappy. I would be too. Your guy had promise.”

Gilroy stops pacing and turns to face Blondie. Even while sitting the giant is practically at eye level with him. “Promise? That man was my best foreman. He was dumb as a goddamned rock, certainly, but he was the single most loyal foreman anyone could ask for. I had that moron working for me since a little after the Gutter’s Site went belly-up. His miners always did as they were told and he always did as he was told. He followed orders perfectly.”

“How’d his dick taste? You make it sound like you found someone who could stand being around you.” Something offensive is slurred mirthfully under Blondie’s breath, prompting Gilroy to scowl. “I’m sorry for your loss, Harry. It’s always hard when it’s someone you love. Even if he was a nocturnal.”

Gilroy runs a hand through his hair, standing in front of his liquor cabinet. “My fucking God, shut up about the nocturnals you unbearable, snow-furred freak. Shut up. Shut up about nocturnals and diurnals and the fucking flowers you dumb piece of shit!” Turning, he stomps to his desk and slams a hand onto it, keeping his eyes focused on Blondie’s, staring deep into the chill, unwavering blue. “I need to know what you know, and I’m not interested in listening to you puff up your crap theories. You’ve been sleeping with a human for years, stop it for a damn minute.”

Blondie laughs in his face, leaning close enough that the hot scent of his breakfast is unmistakable as it burns up Gilroy’s nose. “Poor Harry can’t rely on anyone! Aren’t you a sad little man, lemme get my fucking violin. I get the picture, stop with the mourning wails for your pet. It’s just a runaway and a dead foreman, bitch on your own time.”

“Runaway? What do you mean?”

“Oh, that’s funny.” Blondie’s head tilts to the side as he reclines slightly in the chair, expression growing more and more smug by the second. It creaks beneath his weight, the muscle. It’s still not used to him. “You haven’t been told yet? Well, I guess it makes sense why you’ve been screaming at me. I thought one of your other lackeys would’ve told you by now. Your foreman, Jessup, was killed by the other foreman— Judith, right? I think that’s her name.”

Gilroy’s frown is only growing stronger by the second. “Judith killed Jessup? Are you crazy? That’s nonsense.”

“That’s the thing.” Blondie points toward the ceiling with one finger, then opens his hand to extend every single one. “You know those runaways? Judith included, of course. Well, she went and killed Jessup on the way out. It’s the talk of the town, or whatever you call a shitheap like this. There’s already a bounty out on the runners, and with a confirmed kill under their belt, that shows just how dangerous they really are.”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Gilroy admits. “I didn’t think she had it in her to be so ruthless. Seemed more like a case of some idiots kidnapping a foreman and making a break for it. After all, one of them’s ex-security, another’s a repeat offender, and to top them off that kid’s with them. A new tech, apparently butted heads with her a lot. I saw a lot of myself in her. She was like the daughter I never had.”

“God, I’m getting real tired of the sentimentality today, Harry. Take it from an actual father, no you didn’t. Next, let’s talk about how stupid that thought was. She’s armed, dangerous, and killed your boyfriend without a second thought.” Blondie’s arms cross, and not long after his fingers begin to drum a gentle beat on his bicep. “Just imagine what five dangerous fugitives might do if given the opportunity. You send anyone unprepared and they’ll end up like Jessup. And that’ll make you look real fucking stupid to Admin.”

Finally, Gilroy slumps into the seat behind his desk across from the other man. “I have no intention to send any of my remaining foremen to go get themselves killed by some assholes. If only Judith had shown this kind of ambition before. All of this could’ve been avoided if she’d just kept her crew in line.”

“Oh, she kept them in line alright. In fact, I’d consider her a damn fine leader now. Takes one to do what she did, instead of bagging that Techie she hated.”

“You’ve seen the body?” Gilroy perks up, raising his brows.

Blondie nods. “Of course. I helped the locals cordon off the place. Your folks not used to dealing with corpses?”

“Not murders. Used to bodies, but not murders.” Gilroy’s tone sinks and he rubs his chin. “I’ll have to raise the payout. A kidnapped foreman and some miners was one thing, but evidently this is a well-oiled anti-corporate bunch of killers. That sort of thing demands a higher contract. We want to attract the big rollers, potentially use it as a scouting opportunity…”

“You’re scheming again, Harry. I appreciate a good scheme, but I’d appreciate you more if you could do it when I’m not in the room. It makes me uncomfortable when you start breathing heavy and salivating like that.”

“My God, are you making dick jokes right now? Shut up. I’m raising the payout on the contract and I’m going to send out a memo. It’ll be interdepartmental, putting this on the map for everyone in the company.” His lips pull back. His frown before had been vigorous, but now they’re bare-fanged to boot. “Which means informing the higher ups about the escapees and the murder. The chairs aren’t going to be happy.”

“They’ll be thrilled it isn’t worse, since it’s coming from your jurisdiction.” Blondie snorts. “It’s just a few runners and a rogue foreman. This isn’t an ecological disaster or some kind of creeping illness that kills all the workers over fifty.”

“And now we have to spend upwards of thousands on those crap diving masks to make sure none of our miners inhale a little magical slag. If anybody cared about the fine print in their contracts they’d have known.” Gilroy slumps back. “Point taken. On the bright side, we at least don’t need to worry about some kind of magic being a problem again.”

Blondie laughs, but he doesn’t contradict him. There’s plenty of magic in the air, Gilroy just doesn’t want to see it— or smell it. “That’s great. Now you can get to digging for gold up your own ass again. I’ll get around to handling this whenever the chairmen get around to approving a second bounty raise.”

“I don’t think it merits your skills. I hate you, but even I know this is beneath you, Blondie. Don’t debase yourself. Let some new prospects handle it while the chairs decide what ecosystem they want you to wreck next. Maybe they’ll decide they want ape-hide for their chairs and send you to the Heartwoods.” He scoffs, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers, pouring them each a glass without ice.

Blondie accepts one of them and downs it in one swift gulp before setting the now empty glass back on the desk. “I doubt it. It’s a little under my pay grade right now, but you never know. When we’re on the case these things tend to have hidden bonuses.”

“What, like how you landed a wife off of a bodyguard job?” Blondie’s grin widens eerily, flaunting his sharp teeth as he replies, “Kinda.”

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

“Ms. Piper, thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to meet with me,” Brie says, flipping open her notebook. “I would assume that today’s been hard on the nerves.”

Piper isn’t sure whether to accept the Detective’s frankness or laugh at it. Especially since their meeting place happens to be on a bench outside the Administration building at Smokestone, where they have little to no privacy whatsoever. Would it be bad to tell her that she kinda didn’t care about Jessup to begin with? “Thanks. Upper management’s been in shambles, so I’ve had to run things my own way for a bit. Not that I mind.”

“Were you close with Jessup at all?”

“We were co-workers, and that’s about it.” Piper leans back on the bench. “Occasionally we’d help one another out. He had my back, sometimes.”

“In what ways?”

“Oh, stuff I shouldn’t mention to you,” she laughs. “Point is, we weren’t all that close. And I don’t think we were ever gonna get any closer.” She decides to give Brie’s ankle a little tickle with her tail. “I’m not torn up about him, if that’s what you’re wondering. He wasn’t all that interesting to me, B.”

“Holy--” She damn near jumps off the bench at the sensation on her leg. She then turns a bright red, flipping back open her notebook and scowling at the sidewalk. “I am so very sorry for the interruption! Something just tried to scare the pants off me while you were talking. There aren’t any species of, uh, large snake in this region of the Valley, correct?”

This makes Piper laugh even harder. “Some real big ones ‘round these parts, Miss Detective. Six feet tall and fangs like hypodermic needles. Real pretty things, though. Can’t miss ‘em.”

“Well,” she starts, “in spite of that, I believe we should get back to our interview. Hopefully whatever species startled me will leave me alone.” Brie checks the bench on all sides before sitting back down.

Amidst all of this innuendo, Piper notices that it’s all one-sided, and that Brie isn’t playing prey to her predator on purpose. It’s a bit disheartening, as even though the Detective’s got a job that could easily sack her own, she’s still cute. Maybe it’d be more worth her time to just be up front. “What else did you need to know?”

“Everything you can muster about the nature of Jessup’s death in particular, please.”

“He was killed by Judith, but most everyone on the Location knows that by now.”

“You are saying that this was a murder?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

Brie scribbles in her notebook. “Who is ‘they’?”

Piper raises an eyebrow. “Uh, everyone on the Location?” “So, miners, foremen, and all manner of other employment roles?” “Well, I think someone caught Blondie talking about it first.” “And who is she?”

Nearly choking on her own spit from laughing so hard, it takes Piper a few moments to cool down before she can properly respond. “HE, Miss Brie! He. And he had a conversation with a couple foremen this morning while helping secure the body. Some miners must’ve heard it too, and from there it might as well be wildfire.”

“Oh. I apologize, I believed the name to be diminutive of something feminine. Or a nickname.” “Make a note in your papers never to say that to his face,” Piper does a little squiggle motion with a finger. “You’d do well to never talk to him, either.”

After writing that down as well, punctuating the note with “do not interact”, Brie turns back to her interviewee. “Thank you for the advice. Would it be inappropriate to assume that he wanted the other miners to hear his conversation about the nature of Jessup’s death?”

“It isn’t like he had much choice. There isn’t much privacy once you walk onto the location, especially when you’re outside.”

“I see. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

Yeah, Piper thinks to herself, when are you free? No, let’s save that for later. Maybe getting on her good side with a little honesty will work. “Yeah, I’ve got a weird feeling about how Jessup was killed. You saw the body, right?”

“I wish I had not, for the sake of keeping my breakfast in my stomach,” she responds.

“A bullet to the brain, and a couple to the body. And, sure, there’s a chance she might’ve trained herself up while we weren’t looking, but last I checked she wasn’t the shooting type. Hell, she wasn’t a violent person at all. Not physically violent.” Piper taps the side of her head. “If she were pushed, I don’t think she’d reach for a gun. I think she’d just turn and tear someone’s throat out, like most Lycans. But that’s just me looking into things that I probably shouldn’t.”

The cogs in Brie’s mind begin to turn once again, and as she writes down the remainder of their conversation. One of the head foremen agrees with me that the killing was too clean for that of an emotionally charged werewolf, and she’s informed me that Judith is untrained with her firearm. That opens up quite a few new theories about what’s happened-- but, as she’s reminded by a friendly goal-oriented imp in the back of her mind, her job is to take note of damages. The best thing she’s gotten out of this is more anecdotal evidence that Jessup’s death was a murder, and should be audited as such.

“Thank you, Ms. Piper,” she says, flipping her notebook closed. “You’ve been a great help. Please excuse me, I’ve got a phonecall to make.” “Oh, calling the big wigs, huh?” “Reporting in to Ms. Hickory, yes.”

“Here, I’ll walk you there.” Piper gets up and offers the Detective a hand. “Wouldn’t want you getting lost.”

 “I know my way around the building, but I accept your offer.” Brie takes the Foreman’s hand to stand up herself, and finds it strangely cold. Colder than a person’s hand should normally be, seeing as how it’s only a cloudy day. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that Piper isn’t warm-blooded.

They then walk together toward Gilroy’s office, Piper occasionally asking questions about where Brie’s from, how long she’s been in Detective work for, the usual stock questions you ask someone when you’re trying to break the ice. Brie doesn’t return any of the questions, and by the time they’ve reached their destination, she’s got the feeling that something’s weird between them.

“Ms. Piper,” Brie says, cautiously. “Are you flirting with me?”

“A little,” Piper admits. “Why?”

“I am not comfortable with the idea. My girlfriend is waiting for me back home.”

Girlfriend. It’s not even that she’s a straightie, she’s got a girlfriend. Piper silently curses. “Good to know. I’ll ease up.”

“Thank you for your interview, Ms. Piper.” Brie says, as the Foreman begins to walk away. Of course, shortly after, she’s tickled once again on the ankle by something slithering, startling her out her shoes. She follows the feeling to Piper’s tail, which waves goodbye as she walks away. What a terrible thing to do to someone, she thinks to herself. Was the bit about snakes a lie? She has a bad feeling about it as she knocks on the door.

There, in Gilroy’s office, sits a white behemoth and the namesake governor of the Smokestone Location, the latter of which visibly upset with the former.

“Ms. Brie,” Gilroy says. “Is there something to report?”

“Yes, Mr. Gilroy. I would like to use your telephone, if you do not mind. Ms. Hickory requests that while I am here, I call her when there are a bulk of reports to make.”

“A bulk of reports,” he repeats, putting his head in his hands. “Great. Go ahead.”

Blondie chuckles at the response, and watches her as she walks over to the line, picks it up, and dials HQ back at Black Hill.

“Hello? Ms. Hickory. Yes, this is Brie, at the Smokestone Location. Yes, I wish to give you an update on the audits I’ve made regarding the situation here. Yes, it would be pertinent to get out your checkbook, just in case. Or perhaps a slip of paper and a pen,” Brie starts. “Where shall I start? The big stuff? By big do you mean expensive?” She looks over at Gilroy, who hears the faintest mention of his own name on the receiver and immediately pours himself another shot of whiskey. “Yes, he is in the room. I will be sure to alert him, yes.”

With her free hand, she begins flipping through her notebook. “To begin, a piece of mining equipment labeled the ‘Borehole Co. Waterjet Mark IV’ has reportedly exploded in a mineshaft.”

Gilroy’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head, and he chokes on his liquor. Blondie laughs, pointing at the red-haired man with a free hand. “And you JUST bought that thing, too,” he says, entirely uncaring as to whether Hickory hears his remarks on the other end.

“One Foreman Jessup had been found murdered on the premises last night, alongside a non-insignificant amount of various gear stolen from the Foreman’s lock-up,” she continues. “In addition, a non-insignificant number of formal complaints have been levied against one Blondie for repeated discrimination based on Body Type. Yes, according to my accounts, he has been calling people ‘flower children’ and ‘tree fuckers,’ alongside other various targeted slurs. I did not get any complaints about discrimination based in Lycanthropy, no.”

Meanwhile, Blondie has begun laughing so hard that he’s nearly tipped himself out of Gilroy’s guest chair, while Gilroy’s been lightly thumping his head against his desk.

“I have not found much information about those who you sent me to investigate, beyond that they have since escaped the premises of Smokestone. Yes, all five.”

Through his deep laughter, Blondie says, “Be sure to mention to her that Judith killed Jessup! She’ll love that!”

Brie frowns. “She heard you, do not worry.” She pauses for a moment, listening to the chatter coming from the receiver, before saying, “Thank you for the opportunity. I will do my best, you have my word. Best wishes, Mis. Hickory.” She hangs up the phone, and turns to Gilroy. “I will be leaving by tomorrow morning to chase the fugitives.”

“Wait, what? Really?” he asks, trying to mask his sudden delight. “So soon?”

“Yes. Ms. Hickory wishes for me to catalogue any potential damages that come to light as a result of their escaped status, as well as continue to investigate them to see whether you are hiding something about their medical status, as she put it.” She begins to walk out of the office, slipping her notebook back into her back. “Thank you for the hospitality, Mr. Gilroy. You have been a great help.”

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

By the time she’s walked out, Blondie’s just barely managed to catch his breath again. “By god, I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a while. You heard the voice she was using? She sounded like a total robot. No emotion at all, while telling her boss how I’ve been whipping your boys into shape. God damn.”

“You’re fucking foul, you know that?” Gilroy growls. “I bet Penny’s going to shoot a bill up my ass for how you’ve been treating my employees.”

“And you think she won’t send me one too? Get over yourself, Harry. Own up to your fuckups.”

“It’s not MY fuckup if YOU’RE the one perpetrating it! And you know better than to do this kind of stuff, you goddamn animal. You KNOW how happy she is to drain your bank account.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re always so fuckin’ worried about other peoples’ bank accounts, I know. Hey, listen,” he sits up in his chair, putting his head in a massive hand. “Maybe you could let me worry about my money, for a change. ‘Cause according to ME, it’s totally worth a paycheck to get a giggle here and there. Try laughing for once in your life, Harry.”

“Fuck you, Blondie.”

“You wish.” He stands up from the chair. “One of these days, though, I’m gonna be a rung above Penny on that totem pole. Then she won’t be able to dock me a single cent. And you’ll be stuck down where you are, watching your pawns play in the sandbox feeling like you hold all the keys. Maybe I’ll do a bit of hand-waving next time one of them kills a foreman of yours, take the bill on myself.”

“For a price. You don’t do charity,” Gilroy says, pouring himself his fifth shot of the morning. If his liver weren’t completely destroyed, he might feel a little day-drunk by now. “And what makes you think you’re gonna live long enough to see that day, huh? Hickory’s gonna send you out on a mission that’s just too goddamn big for you, and one day, you aren’t gonna come back. And that’s the day I’m gonna throw a fucking party, get drunk, get laid, and commemorate your death with a piss in my front lawn.”

“Jessup’s dead, Harry. You won’t get laid.”

“I fucking hate you.”

Chapter End.

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

[[ Table of Contents ]]

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[empty-masks]

Book One, Chapter Six

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

Inside of his office, Gilroy’s busy musing over which cup of several would make the best possible hole at the end of a floor golf green, the strip of thin fabric designed to replicate the lush and disgustingly well kept grass of a proper course. He has several lined up, settled onto their sides already so that he can inspect the qualities of their resting posture. His favorite wine glass, he notices, doesn’t rest flatly enough. It has to be a glass with sheer sides, perfect right angles and straight edges, not one of his many curved ones. In a moment of clarity, he realizes that a whiskey tumbler would be his best choice. It’s the only type of glass that works well in this regard, and he’s about to set one of his favorites onto the ground with a gentle, almost caring gingerness before something shrill rings in the back closet of his sizable office.

He sets the glass on his desk with a low huff; this had better be good, because if it isn’t it’s eating into his practice. If it’s another call from human resources about the way Blondie acts on the site, he thinks, somebody’s going to get sacked or be killed. With a swing of the closet door and a brief step inside, he takes the receiver off of its hook and places it against his ear, picking up the transmitter with his other hand to hold it beside his mouth, greeting his caller with a swift, unsubtle, “This better be worth the time.”

“Worth your time? That’s cute, Harry. I’m the one handling the checkbooks,” replies an amused voice. “It’s Penelope. I’m calling ahead to let you know that I’ve elected to send somebody down to help you out with that little incident of yours.”

Gilroy’s jaw sets. His shoulders roll, his body is tense. Don’t ask which one, Harry, that’d tell her there’s a lot on the plate and she’s obviously only heard about one of them. Bad enough she’s got some cretin coming around now of all times, Blondie’s presence is already a problem. It wouldn’t be Damage Assessment if it wasn’t something she thinks might be a monetary issue. What else has happened? Pick something. Pick one thing, just one thing, and it’s probably what she’s calling about. “Look, I talked it out with her, she’s fine. Nothing to worry about, Penny.”

“Call me Penny on the company line one more time and I’ll cut your bonus,” she snaps, “and I’m not calling about that. Is that something I should be calling about? What have you done now? Who do I need to send checks to this time?”

“If you’re not in the know on that then it means it’s handled, don’t freak out on me. We’re not sending out checks, nobody’s sending checks right now.” Nothing backfires quite as spectacularly as thinking you’re in control. “I have no idea why you’d need to send anyone down to a place like this. The Smokestone Location is fine. Nothing’s going on and there’s nothing you need to start writing reports on, Penelope.”

On the other side of the line, Gilroy can hear the incredulity in her sigh. It really isn’t appreciated at a time like this, all things considered. At least Blondie tends to stop being a problem when you can’t see him; Hickory’s all the way in Black Hill and she’s still going to cause some kind of trouble with this investigator. It’s always an Investigator. Never a great new hire for his sites, never anything of worth, just some idiot with a pen, paper, and occasionally a gun.

After a moment of disbelieving silence she says, “I’ll be frank with you, Harry, everything that I’ve been told points to there being something going on, and while you might not like it because it ruffles your stupid looking suits, I need to make sure there’s nothing dangerous to our bottom line going on down there. So, while sending a temp down there to snoop around might not be your favorite thing I’ve ever done, I want you to know that if there’s nothing wrong then you have nothing to worry about but an extra mouth to feed in your fun little backwoods fiefdom. Her name’s Brie, and she’s a perfectly normal human far as I can tell. A little on the blunt side. Play nice.”

“It isn’t the backwoods! What do you think this is? Gutters’ Glade?”

“You didn’t even deny the fiefdom bit, funny.” Hickory snorts, then lets out a wolfish whuff. Across the line, there’s the identifiable sound of a predator licking its chops. “If she turns up nothing, then that’s that. The chairs and chiefs don’t complain when they get a clean report, they complain I paid for a temp. If there’s something wrong she’ll find it, and regardless of how much you hate it, we’ll fix it as a team. And if there is something and you actually manage to hide it for once, Harry?”

He can hear her grin over the phone. It’s an insult. She’s toying with him because she’s got nothing else to do, maybe. Gilroy doesn’t answer.

“If you manage to hide it, then see example A. It’s not a personal thing. Damage Assessment isn’t just about occasional vandalism on the front of the HQ building and broken pickaxes. Feel free to tell me if there’s anything else going on down there that I need to pay for,though.”

He grumbles. “With this kind of treatment I’d swear you had it in for me. I’ve already got enough to deal with without one of your little friends coming by to make it harder for me.” If both hands weren’t busy handling the transmitter and receiver of this phone, he’d be putting his head in them.

A real, howling fit of laughter bursts out from the receiver, and Hickory caps it off with an incredulous snort of derision. “I’m sure right now you’re so very stressed out over what random object in your office to use as a fake fishing rod. Harry, you know the company picnic isn’t for months, right.”

“I am not. I’m seeing which of my glasses might make for a good golfing hole and before you say anything, the answer’s a whiskey tumbler. Not a snifter. They roll too much.”

“You’ve proven my point, but good luck with your indoor golf. I think after this phone call I might go hit up the actual course with Janet and a few friends. You know, because I live somewhere civilized.”

Gilroy scowls. “I do not live here! Everything just keeps happening down this way and I need to be here to handle it. I’ll be back in Black Hill soon, don’t act like I live in this shitpile— Janet, huh?”

“What about her?”

“Is that why Blondie’s down here right now? You feel like getting more BFFs time with his wife so you decide to point him in my direction? He’s here. He’s here and for the love of fucking God I really, really wish he wasn’t, Hickory. Is this your fault?” He snarls the question out, scratching the transmitter with a developing claw.

“Harry, good God, do you think I hate you? No, I didn’t send Blondie down that way. I knew he was out and about, but I had no clue he was down there.” Her tone dips into something almost genuine, though hidden behind a small sheet of intrigue and some many miles of autumnal woodland. “I’d known you’d already been dealing with him today I would’ve just given it to you straight about the temp hire. I wouldn’t point him in the direction of my worst enemy, Harry, and I don’t hate you. I don’t really like you all that much but I don’t hate you.”

“Oh, today? You think he just got here today? He’s been here for a few at least! I’ve lost track because the past week’s been nonsensical with some of the crap coming across my desk. People getting knocked out for a damn week, new machinery coming in, the security initiative, and now Blondie himself is bumming around my worksites racking up who knows how many HR complaints a day for everything from offhand comments about the diurnals and nocturnals to whatever’s his latest superiority complex involves, and that’s not even getting into the times he’s called some of the organics flower children or tree fuckers!” Gilroy’s shaking, he can feel his carefully combed hair coming undone as he trembles with scarcely contained fury. “He shoved one of my favorite foremen’s head into a table over a fucking cookie, Penny! A fucking cookie!”

“I guess I’ll be getting all of those HR complaints whenever they finally decide to send them. You need to calm down. I enjoy a good bit of melodrama but I can hear that you’re halfway to howling already and I’m not going to write you a check for a stress-out destruction of your suit or your office furniture.” She sighs again.

Gilroy is quieter when he speaks again, but only because he’s developed from nearly howling into low growls, saying, “I need this big white bastard out of here, Penelope. He is a time bomb, and if I don’t have this man out of my hair within the week I think I’m going to kill him.”

Penelope Hickory snorts. “He’d kill you, but I get the picture. I can’t make any promises, but I can talk with some people to get the wheels turning. It won’t be in the next week, since the chairs are busy. I’ll put in a meeting request asap, try to convince them that they need him on a job sooner or they’re wasting his pay.”

“So I’m stuck with him? Great, fine, amazing. I can live with this, I guess.”

“His timing’s weird, though. Right after your little incident with those miners, but before I’ve managed to send somebody down. You should start worrying, Gilroy.” She hums, and back in her office in Black Hill she leans back in her chair. “This is either one anxiety-inducing coincidence or something’s going to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s shown up, and these reports just happen reek of bullshit, then the universe is about to pull a prank on you. At this point I think he just has some kind of sixth sense for situations where his talent is needed. All good adventurers and mercs have that to them, like it’s inevitable something’s going to go wrong somewhere and they just appear out of thin air to capitalize on it.” Her pen clicks in her hand, and her red eyes drift toward a stack of contracts, bills, and other assorted paperwork placed distinctly separate from her normal fare, all with a heavy paperweight atop it labeled “BLONDIE.” “If he’s decided to show up now of all times, prepare. It’s one of the few pieces of wisdom you’ll get from me as someone who’s had to clean up after his type for this long.”

“Don’t be superstitious, Penelope, or you’ll start sounding like the hicks out here or those pricks with the Arcane Cleanup Initiative. Treehuggers…”

Hickory laughs one last time, then tells him, “Bye, Harry. Good luck with Blondie and have fun with whatever blows your way. See you sometime.”

“Goodbye, Penelope.” When the transmitter and receiver are both finally hung up, Harry Gilroy exits his walk-in office closet and shuts it once more. And then he returns to his lineup of glasses on his desk and, from them, once again picks out his preferred option.

It’s a simple whiskey tumbler of crystal glass, with twelve perfectly straight sides running up with hard corners. It’s the perfect size and shape, he thinks.

It rests gently against the green fabric on the floor when he places it on top, and when he retrieves a single, dimpled ball and a putter from one of the larger and more lavishly decorated shelves in his office, the feel of his hand around the golf ball and its opposite around the grip of the putter is enough to instill a sense of control. Placing the ball, lining up the shot, and then, finally, sinking it into the glass with a single, measured swing all serve to bring about further security.

When the ball can sail that smoothly, nothing can go wrong. Penelope’s crazy.

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

“You’re sure this is a smart idea? What if it blows up? Cherry— Cherry says that—”

“Olive, standing with me between you and the machine won’t do anything because you’re bigger than me and if it hits me, it’ll probably hit you. And no, it won’t blow up. Cherry is going to make sure it doesn’t blow up, because if it does blow up and he isn’t killed by it I’ll kill him myself,” says Judith to the Owl, who habitually tightened the band beneath her hardhat to make certain it was still holding on her feathery head. “This isn’t going to be like last time. IS IT, CHERRY?”

“No ma’am!” Replies the Techie, who at this point has one hand holding the manual open and the other hand continuing to twist a valve he had been adjusting for the last fifteen minutes. The sight of it makes Leon uneasy, as does the presence of their gray uniformed foreman, but she appears to be focused on other grudges at the moment. So, he slips in to settle into a standing position beside Azariah, who had been standing by Cherry while the machine was set up.

Judith tosses a small bag to Leon, who nearly fumbles the catch until the Hare beside him pushes up one of his arms, and there’s a derisive snort from beneath the foreman’s military grade breathing mask. “You’re getting slow. You two, help Cherry with the mixing.”

“Mixing?” Leon asks, stepping over to the gemcutter with the bag as Cherry plugs a heavy tube that runs outside of the mineshaft into the machine. It runs to a large generator sitting on the other side of the entrance.

“Mixing! You see, it takes in sandy gemstone bits leftover from the refining process, and streams them into high pressure water blasts to do its cutting! On the setting we’re using, anyways! Just make sure to be precise with the amount, we need exactly half or less of the bag for this, Leon,” replies Cherry, whose enthusiasm to work with this new model was only rivaled by his newfound fear of Judith, the latter of which being the reason he did not mention there’s a chance the thing might malfunction if there’s too much particulate in the water system.

At the mention of the particulate, Leon’ face twists into a deeper frown than his resting expression, though the change is only noticeable to Judith. Slag. Of course it had to be slag. It’s a small shift, usually following a moment like hearing that one’s contract had been adjusted for the fifth time. She makes a brief, waving gesture.

Opening the bag slightly, he stares down into the all too familiar dust before walking over toward the front end of the gemcutter, where there’s a small plate to open and dump the particulate in. He’s slow, careful about pouring it—

“HALF THE BAG!” Cherry shouts, unbridled anxiety and excitement seizing control of his volume.

Leon takes a heavy, sputtering breath and nearly coughs his lungs out before he realizes the bag’s inside the machine, and by the time he pulls the small sack back out all of the dust is in the water. “Yeah, half!” He replies, raising his voice slightly before shutting the plate and stuffing the bag into one of the deep pockets of his yellow jumpsuit, walking to take up a position beside Azariah once more.

He thinks it’s going to be fine, or at least mostly fine, with only a slight risk of jamming. Maybe it’d sputter or cough a few times like he does, but they didn’t fire him for it, so he didn’t expect them to toss out a machine over it. Besides, Cherry doesn’t look like the type to talk about what might have happened to it to their bosses. Though he’s the scapegoat type, he’s not dumb enough to make himself look incompetent over something he didn’t do. Hopefully.

He’s snapped out of his stupor when Judith steps forward and raises her own voice, saying, “Alright Cherry, don’t fuck this one up!” It’s followed by a cheerful exclamation from Azariah, who has to shout in order to make his voice heard over the steady revving of the machine.

“LET ‘ER RIP, CHERRY!” The Hare hollers, raising a hand to give the technician a thumbs up before the inaugural water blast strikes stone.

Against the wall, just below where Cherry had been tasked to mine, is a tub with a hose that led over to a small box with an engine of some kind on it, which was chugging away, and that small box has another hose on the opposite end that then leads to a larger vat of water, which had a hose that leads into the underside of the machine, completing a largely inefficient but vigorously attempted water recycling system. Cherry had constructed it mostly by himself, as the instructions on the matter are vaguely written with the exception that all materials used were supposed to be of the highest quality Borehole Co. stock, but around there it’s cheaper to make use of another subsidiary’s materials than the supplying company’s.

The machine purrs at first, striking Leon as a sort of beast, like the older gemcutters and some of the jackhammers, but there’s an unmistakable chill to the growls of a machine. It isn’t like an animal or a person; it’s like thunder, miniaturized. A force of nature, encapsulated inside of a steely tube with knobs and levers and all manner of twisted plumbing. It isn’t helping his ears any that the rumbling is contained within the walls of a mineshaft.

Then the purrs become a snarl, and with a hiss the particulate-mixed water blasts the wall, digging in slowly and steadily. All Leon, Azariah, and Olive have to do is keep the machine balanced. There are handles nearby Cherry’s spot that allow them to hold and steady it, but only Azariah does at first. When the machine threatens to tip down slightly, nearly grazing a part of the water recycling system, Leon steps in to help.

It’s grating work, keeping the beast steady. Cherry’s not enough to handle the pressure, and soon enough the heat’s irritating too. Only minutes into their mining and already it feels like they’re inches away from the meal shack’s griddle.

“It sounds like it’s dyin’, Judith!” Olive said to the foreman, the anxiety in her tone infectious. “It sounds like it’s gonna blow. It looks like it’s gonna blow. I think it’s gonna blow.”

“The other one sounded like it was going to die, Olive, but it didn’t. Cherry just punched a hole in a wall and put us in the fucking hospital, but the old machine’s still fine so it’s probably not broken— Cherry’s the one that needs a tune up.” Nothing like flagrant hostility to get fire under a worker’s ass.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be near it? I mean it’s— it’s startin’ to sputter.”

Leon’ and Judith’s lips purse at the same time, in response to the same, disconcerting sound; while the machine had sounded vigorous for that time, it had started just then to make a sound more akin to someone coughing up water, gasping for breath but only pushing out liquid. Then it becomes a thick, harsh clunking, as though some solid were bouncing around inside.

Then the blast stops but the internals do not, and everyone’s staring, wide-eyed, confused. 

 “That’s not supposed to happen,” Cherry says, pink-gray eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Really? Thanks for clarifying,” the Foreman’s cold voice drawls out from beneath her mask as she steps over to them.

“How do you fix it, Cherry?” Asks Azariah, as Leon steps back from the machine.

Cherry’s hands both leave the machine at once, opening up the manual and swiftly flipping through pages while Azariah holds the whole weight of it, eyes widening. “Cherry, we should— boy, turn it off!” He shouts, trying to get his voice over the sudden surge in the clanging.

“There’s an issue in the design— off switch, off button, maybe unplug it? It says not to unplug it while it’s running but shutting it off means reversing everything, turning all the adjustments back down to nil!”

“WHAT?” “I GOTTA DO THE STARTUP IN REVERSE!”

“Hurry up!” Shouted Judith, stomping over to them. A single second burst of water escapes the machine and nearly knocks it over, sending Azariah and Cherry scrambling for balance while Judith ducks and both Olive and Leon dash for the exit. “Shut down the generator, Olive! SHUT IT DOWN! CHERRY, TURN OFF THIS STUPID SHIT! DUMBASS!”

Cherry and Azariah both had been deftly keeping their feet dry in the mine, as Cherry’s shoes and Azariah’s paws weren’t exactly meant for wet, slippery spots, but all the jostling dislodged the tube from the recycling tub, sending a sizable torrent of used, dusty water across the floor while the gemcutter continues to clang and jerk, like an animal trying to escape a man’s embrace.

“Shut it off NOW, CHERRY! NOW! NOW!” Judith screams, grabbing at the handles Leon had vacated in an attempt to balance it.

“DON’T SHOUT AT THE GODDAMN KID, HE’S TRYIN’ HIS BEST!” Azariah cries in turn. 

The Hare and the Foreman are practically leaning their heads over the machine, their masks’ filters mere inches away as they scream and attempt to keep balance while Cherry, having tossed the manual aside, rapidly pulls and twists levers, knobs, and valves. The metal is hotter than it’s supposed to get, and the harness isn’t properly insulated like the handles. It’s hurting his chest, it’s hurting his hands, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe in the mask. No dust, just heat.

Judith moves to scream something in return, but one of them slips. Judith slips. Her boots are boots meant for working, but not in wet conditions. They’re meant for gravel, not water on stone.

Leon falls to his knees a yard from the generator, clutching at his chest, coughing and sputtering as Olive swiftly passes him, rushing for the power switch. Before she can throw it, before she can get her feathery fingers around it, there’s a crash inside of the mineshaft, a loud bang, and a shrill scream.

 When his breathing and his vision clears, Leon realizes Olive is panicking, shaking his shoulders. He can smell the inside of his mask, the sweat from the heat of the machine, some residual dust on his face, the worn plastic and cloth of the mask itself. Sound returns to him last, and the Owl’s voice is as panicked as her expression.

“It blew up! It blew up, it blew up, it BLEW UP—”

“Fuck,” Leon grumbles, grabbing at her shoulder to stand properly again. “We’ve got to see how bad it is. Don’t get anyone yet, Olive. If we call the doc out for Judith and she’s fine, we can get charged for a false call.”

Nodding, Olive takes one of the man’s large arms, her own just about the same bulk, and walks back into the mineshaft with him.

Inside, the floor is wet and hot, covered with the heated water from the machine, which now sits in a broken, blown out heap between the three miners, one in red, one in orange, and one in gray. Cherry sits up first, and despite the ringing in his ears and a stinging pain all over his body, he realizes he isn’t massively wounded. Cut on the forehead and his hands are going to develop blisters, but he’s in one piece.

Azariah, likewise, sits up. There’s scorched fur on his arms and legs, and his already damaged ear is bleeding a bit from a large cut, but it’s nothing life threatening.

 Judith, meanwhile, is clutching at her hand, her voice hoarse and hitching in her throat underneath the gas mask, rocking from one side to the other as she makes a repeated pressing movement, as if to put pressure on her wrist.

All gather around her, closing the distance and asking if she was okay, if she had a cut, if she were bleeding from a wound on her wrist until, finally, it slipped out from between her fingers. Her right hand lands on the ground, cut around a few inches below her wrist, taking some of her forearm with it.

The bleeding is sluggish, minimal; the wound is seared shut due to the heat of the metal that cut through her arm, though it’s not perfect, and it’s certainly not clean. Leon and Cherry both feel a sudden surge in their gut, and they both turn away.

Olive’s entirely silent, but the inside of her mask is fogging up from her own quickened breathing as she sits beside Judith and holds her close, repeating “We should’ve got the doctor,” in a high, frazzled tone.

Cherry speaks in a cringing voice as he looks to Leon, who’s already shaking his head. “Oh my god, we need to clean it out, that stuff’s really toxic! We can’t let it get into her blood, we need to… Azariah?”

Both the Techie and the Orc turn toward the Hare, who has already picked up the severed hand. “Do those particulates turn bone marrow into a kinda pearly color?” Azariah asks, and for once there’s genuine confusion in his voice. “If not, I think we’ve got bigger problems to worry about than Ms. Judith getting some bits of stone in her stump.”

“Azariah, that stuff’s a biohazard—”

The hand is tossed into the two’s arms, and they only just manage to catch it. There’s a slight glare in the low lantern light of the mine, and slowly, Cherry turns the hand to look at the wound. “What is Judith? Isn’t she human?”

“She hasn’t mentioned otherwise,” Leon replies to Cherry, quietly.

“Then it probably shouldn’t shine like… like…”

Azariah cuts in, grabbing the hand and dropping it into his own jumpsuit pocket. “Leon, Olive, Cherry, help Judith up and get her to my shack. I’ll go and get the field med, not the doc. Don’t go to any admins. Somethin’ tells me this is best kept on our level.”

The three nod and pick up the foreman, whose voice has gone silent and, though at first vigorously resisting, she has gone limp, breathing soft and shallow as she’s carried.

“And Cherry?” The old Hare asks, causing the Techie to turn and look at him as they walk toward the exit. “Moonstone. What you saw is called Moonstone.”

Chapter End

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